her concentration. She looked up, annoyed, but it was only the night porter.
‘I tried to ring, but your phone was off,’ he apologised. ‘There’s a man downstairs to see you. Says you were supposed to meet him an hour ago.’
Doug
. Ellie swore under her breath. She’d completely forgotten. ‘Tell him I’ll be right down.’
She gathered up the files and put them in her bag. She’d have to do more work after dinner, though she knew Doug would be cross. She passed Blanchard’s office and saw his light was still on, though when she tried the door it was locked.
Doug was waiting in the lobby. Ellie took one look at his face and knew he was furious.
‘I’m so sorry.’ She threw her arms around him and kissed him on the lips to show she meant it. ‘Big project.’
‘No problem.’ He was trying to be gracious, though he couldn’t hide the scowl on his face. He looked her up and down, trying to work something out. ‘You look nice.’
‘I bought a new outfit.’ It was already beginning to feel like hers, though she wouldn’t tell him how much it had cost. ‘Let’s go.’
She put her arm in his and squeezed against him. They didn’t speak much. Doug was still angry; Ellie’s mind was still deep in the books of the Rosenberg Automation Company.
They’d just reached the main road when she realised she’d left the steaks in the fridge on the fifth floor.
‘I’ve got to go back. I’ve left our supper at the office.’
‘We’ll get something on the way.’
‘No.’
A thousand pounds on a suit and I’m worried about thirty quid’s worth of beef.
‘It’s supposed to be special. Just wait here.’
She hurried back, her heels clicking on the pavement. An unmarked white van had pulled up outside the bank; she just glimpsed two men in black jeans and black coats manhandling a large box, as big as a coffin, through the doors. She hesitated. For a moment she imagined it was a bank robbery in progress. But people didn’t rob investment banks, and when she reached the lobby the night porter was safe behind his desk.
‘What was that that just arrived?’ she asked while she waited for the lift.
The porter studied his crossword and didn’t meet her eye. ‘Delivery for Mr Blanchard.’
But when she looked at the old-fashioned dial above the lift to see where it had gone, the needle was pointing at the sixth floor.
VIII
Wales, 1129
My home is a castle. Not like the ones in Pembroke or Caernarvon, with their stone walls and high donjons. Our castle is mostly mud: an earth rampart topped with a palisade, ringing the compound of mud-and-wood buildings inside. There is a thatched barn and a thatched hall, and it is hard to tell them apart. In winter the grassy banks trap the rain and turn our courtyard into a swamp. My father calls it our moat; my mother tells us the story of a knight who grew up in a lake.
That spring, my father hires a Flemish engineer to build a watchtower. He sharpens the stakes in the palisade, and fills the gaps where the livestock have knocked them down in the winter. There have been disturbances again: a man was killed in Brandennog. Nobody believes that will be the end of it. The Welsh love their honour and they love fighting. Ralph says we’ll be safe in our castle, but my father looks grim. He says that when you keep behind castle walls, your enemies know where to find you.
I think: if our sheep can break through the palisades, what would the Welsh do?
It often rains in Wales, but in my memory it is always the last day of spring. My father and Ralph were away last night and haven’t returned; Brother Oswald has been called away to his monastery, and I have taken my horse into the forest. I think I might visit the fields by the chapel, where the harrowers are working, but I am in no hurry. The trees are in flower and the shrubs in leaf; a gentle sun dapples the lush meadows. I get down from my horse and walk barefoot through the grass, which is green and velvet
‘I tried to ring, but your phone was off,’ he apologised. ‘There’s a man downstairs to see you. Says you were supposed to meet him an hour ago.’
Doug
. Ellie swore under her breath. She’d completely forgotten. ‘Tell him I’ll be right down.’
She gathered up the files and put them in her bag. She’d have to do more work after dinner, though she knew Doug would be cross. She passed Blanchard’s office and saw his light was still on, though when she tried the door it was locked.
Doug was waiting in the lobby. Ellie took one look at his face and knew he was furious.
‘I’m so sorry.’ She threw her arms around him and kissed him on the lips to show she meant it. ‘Big project.’
‘No problem.’ He was trying to be gracious, though he couldn’t hide the scowl on his face. He looked her up and down, trying to work something out. ‘You look nice.’
‘I bought a new outfit.’ It was already beginning to feel like hers, though she wouldn’t tell him how much it had cost. ‘Let’s go.’
She put her arm in his and squeezed against him. They didn’t speak much. Doug was still angry; Ellie’s mind was still deep in the books of the Rosenberg Automation Company.
They’d just reached the main road when she realised she’d left the steaks in the fridge on the fifth floor.
‘I’ve got to go back. I’ve left our supper at the office.’
‘We’ll get something on the way.’
‘No.’
A thousand pounds on a suit and I’m worried about thirty quid’s worth of beef.
‘It’s supposed to be special. Just wait here.’
She hurried back, her heels clicking on the pavement. An unmarked white van had pulled up outside the bank; she just glimpsed two men in black jeans and black coats manhandling a large box, as big as a coffin, through the doors. She hesitated. For a moment she imagined it was a bank robbery in progress. But people didn’t rob investment banks, and when she reached the lobby the night porter was safe behind his desk.
‘What was that that just arrived?’ she asked while she waited for the lift.
The porter studied his crossword and didn’t meet her eye. ‘Delivery for Mr Blanchard.’
But when she looked at the old-fashioned dial above the lift to see where it had gone, the needle was pointing at the sixth floor.
VIII
Wales, 1129
My home is a castle. Not like the ones in Pembroke or Caernarvon, with their stone walls and high donjons. Our castle is mostly mud: an earth rampart topped with a palisade, ringing the compound of mud-and-wood buildings inside. There is a thatched barn and a thatched hall, and it is hard to tell them apart. In winter the grassy banks trap the rain and turn our courtyard into a swamp. My father calls it our moat; my mother tells us the story of a knight who grew up in a lake.
That spring, my father hires a Flemish engineer to build a watchtower. He sharpens the stakes in the palisade, and fills the gaps where the livestock have knocked them down in the winter. There have been disturbances again: a man was killed in Brandennog. Nobody believes that will be the end of it. The Welsh love their honour and they love fighting. Ralph says we’ll be safe in our castle, but my father looks grim. He says that when you keep behind castle walls, your enemies know where to find you.
I think: if our sheep can break through the palisades, what would the Welsh do?
It often rains in Wales, but in my memory it is always the last day of spring. My father and Ralph were away last night and haven’t returned; Brother Oswald has been called away to his monastery, and I have taken my horse into the forest. I think I might visit the fields by the chapel, where the harrowers are working, but I am in no hurry. The trees are in flower and the shrubs in leaf; a gentle sun dapples the lush meadows. I get down from my horse and walk barefoot through the grass, which is green and velvet
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