Alys was surefooted as she led the way, and closer to the ground it was easier to see the footprints. They were no longer going straight onwards, rather meandering through the woods.
After a while she called Ed’s name into the swirling fog of snow. The sound was muffled to my ears, but in desperation I shouted too, as loud as I could. Too often the wind whipped my voice back into my face. From time to time Alys would hush me and we would listen for any answering sound. For a long time there was nothing.
Then —
A faint whinny from ahead.
How far I couldn’t tell.
But Alys cried, ‘We’re coming, Ed! Hold on!’ and clutched at my hand to pull me on.
Together we pushed our feet faster through the snow clogging our every step. Bess stumbled, limped, nudged me with her muzzle, but I ignored her. We were so nearly there. I could tend to her once we’d found Ed.
Our eyes blinded by stinging snowflakes, neither of us saw the drop before it was too late. The ground gave way beneath us and we tumbled down, arms outflung, into a deep drift. Above us, the ponies snorted in surprise as their reins tugged, torn from our grasp.
I surfaced, dazed and spluttering.
As ever, Alys was quicker. One glance back to check on the ponies, then she was floundering on through the thigh-deep snow. Across the hollow to where Ed lay.
His pony was sprawled in the snow, shivering, showing the whites of its eyes as it lifted its head and whickered at us. Blood from a gashed leg was reddening the snow. But any concern for it was thrust aside at the sight of Ed.
Alys dragged him to sit up, propped against her, and was shrugging off her fur mantle. I helped her, though she would freeze without it, for I knew it would take too much time to unbutton my own doublet – time we didn’t have.
Ed’s face was ashy-white, his eyes mere shadows beneath the veil of snow. Despite the cold, beads of sweat stood on his forehead. From his open mouth his breath rasped, as loud as the gasps of the blustering wind, and his chest heaved with a fast, unearthly rhythm. As we wrapped Alys’s mantle about him, my hand brushed his. Flopped upon the snow, it was clammy to the touch.
Alys flung me a glance, terror in her eyes.
‘It’s like he was in the spring, Matt. But then the physician was there. We can’t get him back in this state – not through the snow. Matt, what should we do?’
For a moment panic surged inside me too.
Then, drawing in one long, slow breath of frosty air – feeling the cool trace of its path down into my chest, ice crystals pricking my lips and nostrils, closing my eyes against the storm – slowly, slowly my head cleared, and slowly so did my inner sight.
As I forced my eyes open and gazed at Ed labouring there before me, it was no longer his face, but that of my younger brother, Peter – tinged with blue, his eyes starting from his head as he too gasped for breath. And the face of my mother, not seen in almost two years, swam into view.
I blinked away the smarting tears, lowering my eyelids again.
Alys’s desperate voice called again, ‘Matt, what shall we do?’
But above it I heard my mother’s soft words, her crooning.
I opened my eyes again, took Ed’s face gently in my hands.
‘Ed,’ I soothed, ‘Edward. Look at me, Ed. Open your eyes. Look at me.’
His eyelids fluttered, then parted a little.
Just a crack, but it was a start. Though his breath still rasped, his chest still heaved.
‘Look at me, Ed. Listen to me. Open your eyes some more.’
As I gazed at him, the slit of blue widened.
‘That’s great, Ed. Look at me. Listen to me.’
Now they were fully open, fear was scrawled across his eyes too. He choked, and panted, and clutched at my arm.
I must stay calm, must not let him see the knot of terror in my own chest.
‘Well done, Ed. Well done. Now listen to me, listen well. Listen to my voice. Listen to my words. Look into my eyes. Into my eyes.’
My mother’s voice was deep inside my head, telling me the words to say. The words she’d said to Peter.
I fought to keep my voice as steady, as gentle as hers.
‘Look into my eyes, Ed. What do you see? Do you see a river? A deep, calm, slow-flowing river? Do you see it, Ed?’
His eyes were fixed on mine now. He blinked twice. A strange hiccup slipped out between his gulping breaths.
‘Don’t speak, Ed, just look, just listen. You see the river, don’t you? Deep, calm, slow-flowing? Gently rolling along, slowly rolling along. The sun gleams in its depths, the gentle summer sky, the slow-moving clouds, mirrored in its depths.’
I spoke calmly, slowly, staring deep into his eyes, and they began to relax. I carried on, intoning the words, slowly, calmly, the same words, over and over again, rolling the long, gentle sounds calmly around my mouth, holding his eyes with mine, holding his face with my hands. I continued to murmur, my voice soft, to croon like my mother.
Slowly, but slowly, his wheezing quietened. I could feel his heaving chest soften. Slowly, slowly, gradually, his breathing eased. His eyelids drooped and closed again, slowly, gently this time. As my voice faded away, I saw at last he was sleeping.
My hands released his head, resting it against Alys’s shoulder.
I straightened up and stepped back, closing my own eyes once more. I drew in another long deep breath. It was as though I had been fighting for breath inside just like Ed.
In the silence of my head, I thanked my mother – but I could no longer see her face.
I forced my eyes wide, fleeing from the memory, and became aware once more where I was.
Snow flurried around me still, but could not hide the shock dashed across Alys’s face.
‘Matt! How – how did you…?’
A sharp bark behind us and the sound of someone blundering down through deep snow.
I swung round.
On the far side of the hollow was Duke Richard. His fine blue hunting garb was soaked through, crusted with snow, smeared with blood. His hand was on Florette’s collar as she strained forwards.
Surprise was in his eyes too.
‘Matthew… Ed?’
He waded through the soft white drifts and knelt beside his son.
Sir Francis Lovell was clambering down the bank after him, while several men, both knights and huntsmen, stayed with our ponies at the top. They stared down at the scene, horror etched on their faces. Someone, somewhere, hissed the single word ‘Witchcraft!’
I turned away, my face burning.
The Duke was busy taking off his thick fur cloak and easing it around Alys’s quaking shoulders.
He muttered, ‘Well done, both of you,’ before gathering up his son with a gentleness that brought more stinging tears to my eyes. A corner of Alys’s fur mantle slipped away from Ed as he lifted him, and I leaned over to tuck it round him again.
‘He needs a physician urgently, Your Grace.’
The Duke nodded at my quiet words, with that ghost of a smile I had seen before. He muttered something to Sir Francis, then stepped forward to face his men, his precious load held before him.
‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘there has been no witchcraft here today. My son was taken ill. Master Wansford has calmed him. That is all. I saw everything.’
I didn’t understand how this could be true. If he had seen Ed struggling for breath, would he not have thrown himself forward to comfort his son? Not leave him to the care of an inexperienced, hardly known boy? And yet, as I cast my mind back, did I remember a single bark mixed in with the terrifying noise of Ed’s gasps?
Whatever the truth, I thanked the Lord that what I had done had worked and that the Duke had spoken for me, otherwise perhaps… But no, no one could have accused me of causing harm to Ed. After all, Alys had been there the whole time, long before the Duke had reached us.
Bundled up in the Duke’s furs, Alys stood with me as Sir Francis directed preparations for the return jour
ney. Two saplings were felled to fashion a rough litter to carry Ed and a huntsman bound his pony’s leg so it could walk with some encouragement. Within minutes, somehow, we were all ready to leave.
Alys and I gathered our ponies’ reins and set off with the others back through the forest. After a few minutes, she said almost under her breath,
‘Was it witchcraft?’
‘What? Alys, no! How could you think —?’
Her cheeks tinged with pink and she lowered her eyes.
‘No, of course not. I’m sorry. It’s just that – well, it’s just that I’ve never seen anything like that. What you did. How did you know what to do?’
I moistened my lips before answering. I recalled witches being accused of evil deeds, even in a modern city like York.
‘My brother, my youngest brother, Peter. He has an illness, ever since he was little. When it’s very cold, when he’s been running too hard, when someone’s angry at him, sometimes he struggles to breathe just like Ed. And in the winter, if he catches a chill… It’s frightening, we’ve thought that he’ll die. Then my mother spoke to a wise woman and she taught my mother what to do, to calm him until he could see the herbalist. I saw her do it many times before… before she died.’
We were silent for most of the journey back. I was exhausted, and Alys perhaps still disturbed by all that had happened.
When we reached the abbey, Ed was carried straight to the monks’ infirmary while the rest of us were ushered into the guesthouse. At its crackling fireside we found Roger among a gaggle of other members of the hunting party. The abbey’s servants were running to and fro with steaming food and drink for their unexpected guests.
Roger greeted us cheerily, but I’m sorry to say he was soon disappointed in us. He hoped to regale us with his own adventures, but we didn’t make a good audience.
‘So when Giles and I brought the grooms and horses, and the Duke bound Lord Scrope’s wound – lucky for him it wasn’t too deep, but, by the Virgin, it was a good hand’s span across – are you listening?’
Alys, still enveloped in the Duke’s cloak, nodded across the brim of a cup of hot mead.
‘Yes, of course. A hand’s span.’
I was too busy spooning broth into my mouth to say anything.
‘Well, when they’d finished tending to his lordship, everyone who wasn’t needed to bring him back here set off to follow the boar. Of course, there was quite a blizzard by then. But Florette and the sight-hounds that were still on their leashes soon found the rest of the hunt. They’d just flushed the boar out of the covert. It was at bay with its back to a fallen tree trunk. It must have been an ancient beast, its muzzle was quite grey – unless that was the snow. Anyway, the alaunts were baiting it. It was a magnificent sight, the hounds darting in and snapping, it brushing them away with its tusks as if they were just flies.’
He waited for a response.
‘Mmmm,’ said I, chewing on a piece of bread I’d dipped in the soup.
‘Just flies,’ echoed Alys.
‘Well, the Duke realized that Hugh and Lionel were there at the sport, but there was no sign of you two and Ed. I’d never seen him in such a rage before. He pulled them both out of the hunt circle – can you believe, they’d got the huntsmen to give them each a spear? He actually dragged them out with his own hands, shouted that he’d deal with them later, and sent them back through the forest with Master Fleete. Serve them right. Anyway, Hugh was very nearly as green as his new doublet when I told him that I’d been there to see the boar killed.’
‘Oh.’ I dunked more bread into the broth. Any enthusiasm I’d had for boar hunting had long since fled.
‘How did the Duke find us?’ asked Alys.
‘Oh, while he was shouting at Hugh – away from the circle, of course, he didn’t want to distract the dogs – well, he sent Sir Francis with Florette to cast about for Ed’s scent. Sir Francis said the snow had mostly covered the tracks, but fortunately Florette has the best nose in the business. It didn’t take her long to find the trail and – well, I suppose she led them to you. The Duke wouldn’t let me go with them, said it was too dangerous, and… well… I would have missed the kill, so… What happened to you three?’
Alys told him in as few words as possible, only sketching what had happened in the snowy hollow and mentioning witchcraft not at all. I was grateful to her. Roger didn’t ask any more about it. He seemed happy enough that we had all survived – and happier still that his first boar hunt had been such a success.
Master Fleete came to check that we had all warmed up and were fit to travel back to the castle. Lord Scrope would stay as the abbot’s guest until well enough to return home, but Ed had been given some physic by the monks and would journey back with us.
Shortly before the early winter darkness fell, our procession set off along the road to Middleham, far more subdued than in the morning. Edward slept most of the journey in a covered carriage borrowed from the abbot. He was hot and shivery, but his breath, though a little fast, was no longer a desperate struggle.
The Duke had sent a messenger ahead and when we turned in through the inner gateway, the Duchess was standing at the steps of the keep, once more shrouded in thick furs and attended by serving men with flaming torches. The rest of the party had taken horses and hounds back to the stableyard, but the Duke had allowed Alys and me to ride in the carriage with Ed.
The Duchess flew to open the door and, after checking on her son, directed a servant to lift him from the carriage. Then she rounded on her husband.
Her words were quiet so that Ed and the servant couldn’t hear, but my ears caught them. She seemed to have forgotten the talk with her husband that I had overheard those many days before.
‘You should not have let him go, Richard, for all his pleading. I knew something like this would happen.’
The Duke handed his horse’s reins to a waiting servant and turned back to her with a smile.
‘Calm yourself, my love. As you see, he will soon be well.’
‘But he could have died out there, all alone in the snow.’
‘But he did not. And we have our young friends here to thank for that.’
To my surprise, he swept us a deep bow, before offering his hand to Alys to help her step down from the carriage.
‘My lady Langdown, Master Wansford. Supper, then bed, I think, after your exertions. You are excused lessons tomorrow – although, Matthew, I would have you sing at a Mass of thanksgiving in the morning if you are up to it.’
‘Of course, Your Grace.’
‘And then I would see you both in my chamber after breakfast.’
A brief nod to us and he enfolded his wife’s arm within his, before following the serving man carrying Edward up the keep steps towards their private chambers. I did not see them again that day.
Chapter 12
The Runt of the Litter
More snow fell overnight and another bitter morning greeted me as I crept from under my blanket. I had to break ice in the basin to wash, and even before I left the pages’ chamber the plumes of my breath unfurled in the pre-dawn air.
A swift trudge across the snowy courtyard and I was soon pulling on my surplice beside the small fire now lit each morning in the vestry. Today Sir William also handed each of us choir members a cup of scalding spiced wine.
‘It will warm your voices for the service,’ he said in his rich tones, which needed no such medicine. ‘And, Master Wansford, His Grace asks that you sing a Te Deum this morning, to thank God for preserving his son.’
Happy to sing the beautiful song of praise, I was also glad when Mass was over. The chapel was freezing despite the fire below.
Duke Richard alone of his family was there. Even he did not appear at breakfast.
I caught Alys as she passed the pages’ table before the meal.
‘How’s Ed?’ I asked.
‘A little better, I think. I was allowed in to see him for a minute this morning. He recognized me and managed a s
mile, but his nurse would not let him talk.’
After breakfast, we met again and went together to knock at the door of the Duke’s private chamber.
He opened it himself, his great furred mantle and a small wooden box in his hands. Giving us good morning, he swung the cloak about his shoulders and bade us follow him. He strode off across the great hall and down the steps, as usual forcing us almost to run to keep up.
He said not a word more to us as we crossed the outer courtyard. Everywhere the snow, though thick, had been turned into slush by the passage of dozens of feet.
At the door to the kennels, he stood aside to let Alys enter first, then I followed him into the low dark building.
Master Gygges was waiting. After bowing to the Duke, he led us to a large pen where the newly weaned pups lived. I peered over the door. To my surprise, the tumble of young dogs of all shapes and colours – sight-hounds, alaunts, fox harriers, water spaniels – had been joined by Florette’s six puppies.
‘Matthew,’ the Duke began, ‘I wish to make you a gift to thank you for your service to my son yesterday. Master Gygges tells me you’ve been spending a great deal of time with the hounds these past weeks. I thought perhaps you might like to have a pup of your own – although you must tell me if you would prefer a different reward.’
‘Th – thank you, Your Grace,’ I stammered. ‘I would like that very much.’
‘You may choose any that you wish from those that have been weaned. Master Gygges is here for advice, if you need it.’
I needed no advice. I had never dreamed I would have a hound of my own, but I already knew which I wanted.
I pointed.
‘Your Grace, if I may, that one there.’
‘The red one?’ said Master Gygges, amazement on his face. ‘Florette’s runt? Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but even a royal hound can whelp a runt.’
Ignoring his words, the Duke narrowed his eyes.
‘Why that one?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘It’s just that – well, it may be small, but it seems loyal and brave.’
‘Indeed?’
‘When we came here first, it stuck close to its mother. As though it wanted to defend her. Then it realized I meant no harm, and it began to trust me. It comes to me even when I have no tidbit.’
The Order of the White Boar Page 10
