VIII

two out of the packed straw, I say, “So, was it a knife, then?”
    She lets out a quick breath. “Can you stop asking about it?”
    “I just want to know.” I watch as my mother tugs out her arrows and puts them back into her quiver. Two patches of pink are showing high up on her pale cheeks. I say, “If you don’t tell me I’ll ask the servants.”
    The waiting-woman has followed us at a distance; as she steps forward to hand over my mother’s bow, I see her dart a look at me.
    My mother, weighing the bow in her hand, says, almost in a whisper, “No one knows for sure. No bodies were ever found.”
    Then, briskly, she takes up her stance and shoots again. The arrow hits the target, but way off the mark.
    My brain is fizzing. I’m thinking of ropes slung over walls, of daring escapes. “Does that mean… maybe they weren’t killed at all? Maybe they got away?”
    “I don’t think so.”
    “But it’s possible?”
    “It’s possible.” She says it reluctantly.
    “So… if the Pretender says he’s your brother and calls himself Duke of York—”
    My mother releases another arrow. “You’re the true Duke of York.”
    “Yes, but you told me that one of your brothers was Duke of York. So – that brother could have escaped. And the Pretender could really be him, all grown up…”
    She looks at me, fresh arrow in hand. “I don’t believe it.”
    “But he could be.”
    She takes aim and shoots. From here it looks as if she’s hit the very centre of the mark, but as she turns to me her expression is grim. She comes to stand close, and says in an urgent whisper, “Listen to me, Hal. Don’t let anyone hear you talking like this. It’s dangerous – do you understand? Your father is king – the true king. There’ve been imposters before, and your father’s enemies are always behind them, using them to stir up trouble. The last one was a baker’s son, who’d been trained specially for years to pretend he was a cousin of mine. When your father caught him, he set him to work in the kitchens. This man now, who calls himself York – he belongs in the kitchens too. He’s not my brother.”
    Her eyes look fierce, almost frightened. I think: How do you know for sure? But I don’t dare say it.

 
♦  ♦  ♦  VII   ♦  ♦  ♦
     
     
    Compton disappears around the corner and my smile fades. It’s exhausting, hiding how scared I am, but how can I explain? What would I say?
    I saw a body in a trunk and then it disappeared. Oh, and I’ve found out my uncles were murdered here when they were boys. Probably. Although they might have escaped. So – is one of them abroad now, waiting to invade? Or is his body hidden somewhere in this building? And if he is buried here, was it his ghost that I saw – was it his corpse, in the trunk?
    Only two hours have gone by since dinner. I can’t concentrate on reading and I’ve had to stop playing cards with Compton because I’m losing too much money. If my grandmother catches me scuffing about, she’ll hiss something about idle hands and give me a chunk of Latin to learn by heart. So I’ve sent Compton to ask if I’m allowed to visit the Tower’s collection of animals: the menagerie. It’s somewhere near the outer gates, and I think it has lions and leopards, kept in wooden cages. Compton says there used to be an elephant too, but it died.
    I hope he’ll be quick. I’m nervous on my own. It’s sunny outside but the rooms and passageways of the Tower are cold. I think maybe they don’t ever get warm. The shadows seem to collect in odd places, too, black as deep wells, and there is a worrying kind of pull when I walk near them, as if they could suck me in. When I’m alone, like now, I move from one room to the next, not with a princely stride but with a scuttle.
    Despite my fears, though, I’m exploring – padding up and down staircases and along dim passageways, trying every door that I pass. Most are locked. What am I looking for? In my head there’s a silly idea that this is an enchanted castle, and that something horrible is behind one of these doors, waiting for me to find it. I don’t know whether it’s more frightening to search for the horrible thing, or to hide in my room, imagining it.
    It’s odd, but I feel right now there are two ‘me’s. One me is being grown-up and sensible, and opening doors to prove to myself there’s nothing there. The other me has a horrid fascination: that me is opening doors hoping to see