Gratefully I grabbed Lance’s scruff and pulled him along with our animals to the stable behind the inn. Once inside, I lost no time. I dropped my braies, removed my rags and held them up in the dim light. They were dry! Baffled, I turned them this way and that, able to discern only a few rusted spots from this morning. I touched myself and verified that I had no injury. Before I could think more, Enoch bawled my name from outside.
“Coming!”
“Magnus and George be nocht here yet,” Enoch informed me.
“George?” I caught his sharp look. “Oh, yes, George.”
We followed Jimmy into a tiny, dark room. There were a host and hostess, two nuns huddled like blackbirds around the firepit, and these few people took all the space. Smoldering embers under a pot gave forth billows of acrid smoke but little heat or light; two rush lamps in the far corners completed our illumination. Meantime the gale was hardly impeded by the crude log walls. Animal pelts had been hung for warmth and now swayed til and fro as if the whole structure were breathing.
Enoch stepped to the center and took a menacing stance.
“Yif ye do exactly as I say, ye have nothing to fear.” But his low threatening voice said otherwise and I could sense the panic around us.
“Jesus, help us!” screamed the older nun.
The sickly host reached a trembling hand. “Please, Sire, take whatever you like and leave us in peace. We have no valuables here.”
“I be no brigand!” His blue eyes blazed. “I need to hide my wee brother. Now ye show me whar he’ll be safe.”
Everyone looked at me uncertainly while Enoch quickly searched the room. There wasn’t even a fur large enough to cover me and my case looked hopeless. Just as the Scot turned back to the quaking host, he stopped suddenly.
“Quhat’s that?”
We all followed his pointing finger upward.
“A shelf where I store a few personals,” our hostess said.
“Would it take Tom’s weight?”
“I don’t know. No one’s ever …”
Enoch was already lifting down bundles of rags to reveal a shaky perch made of a few rough boards laid across portruding logs. It had nothing to recommend it except that it was hard to see: it jutted just above a man’s eye level in the very darkest part of the room.
“Well, Tom, looks like an unblythe bird hae found his nest. Up ye go.”
He swung me so high that my head hit the thatch and knocked several chunks of dirt to the floor; then he eased me cautiously onto the shelf, releasing his hold slowly as the boards took my weight.
“There.” He removed his hands. “Lay yerself as flat as ye can.”
Hardly daring to draw breath, I extended first one leg, then another, and stretched out on my stomach. I squinted my eyes against the acrid layers of smoke and looked down at the folk below, their chins lit by the fire and their eyes in blackness.
“Waesucks, he’s as wisible as a peacock on a thornbush.”
“Put this over him,” the younger nun suggested, offering her black cape.
Enoch took the garment and tucked it around me, even over my head. Apparently the effect was satisfactory, for there was a general sigh of relief. The cape didn’t impede my own vision, however; I could see everything through the spaces between the boards.
Once I was hidden, an uneasy silence fell upon the group. Again Enoch took his threatening position, and now his thwitel was in his hand.
“Everyone, list to me guid. Thar be no time to explain our situation, but one, mayhap two, scoundrels want my brother’s life. I canna tell when they’ll cum—boot I think ’twill be soon—and when they do, ye’re to lat me do the talkin’ and agree wi’ whate’er I say. Yif anyone spakes otherwise, ’twill be his last word on this earth.”
He tossed his gleaming dagger so that it twirled three times and fell on his open palm. All eyes followed the blade.
The hostess rubbed her hands on her hips. “We might as well be good fellows while we wait. I be Betty, Scot, and this be Bibs, my husband, and our boy Jimmy. Our guests are—er—”
“Sister Petronilla,” said the younger in low dulcet tones, “novice in St. Anne’s Abbey to the north. And this is my mentor, Sister Ursula.”
“Herbalist at St. Anne’s,” added the toothless older nun in a quavering voice.
Before Enoch could say his name, a horse whinnied outside. The company froze. I panicked so that the whole room swayed and I thought that I would surely fall.
“Remember, nocht a worrrrrd,” Enoch said. “Gae take their horses, Jimmy.” And he whispered into the boy’s ear.
Jimmy nodded and darted into the dark when the door opened and Magnus Barefoot entered.
“He’s here!” he shouted exultantly over his shoulder.
“Where?”
Sir Roland de Roncechaux! My senses went tinty as the Norman knight stood there in a circle of light. All other figures receded into whirling darkness.
“Where’s the boy?” he asked in that deep accented voice I remembered so well.
“Be ye referrin’ to my brother Tom?” Enoch asked. “How be the spotted clerk, Master Barefoot?”
Neither man answered. Instead they began a grim search of the inn, much as Enoch had done but in ruder manner. They kicked at the frail walls, ripped furs from their hooks, opened Sister Ursula’s traveling chest and spilled her contents onto the floor. Sister Petronilla knelt to replace them. Then Sir Roland looked upward.
“Tom be an angel boot he canna fly yet,” Enoch said sarcastically.
His words had little effect, but a chunk of dirt did: it fell from where my head had touched and made Sir Roland dig at his eyes.
“The boy be nocht here,” Enoch added. “He’s laid up wi’ a bad leg wi’ a shepherd a half day’s ride back.”
“Search the stable,” Roland ordered Magnus curtly.
Magnus pushed Betty aside to go out the door. Sir Roland stood slouched on one leg and regarded the company, each in turn; he settled on Bibs.
“I’m Lord Roland de Roncechaux, baron in your county,” he said loftily to the host. “You know your duty and you know the punishment if you disobey your lord. I seek a runaway boy and am willing to offer ample reward for any knowledge of his whereabouts.”
He lifted a bag of coins from his pocket and jingled them.
Bibs reacted to the title and money in equal parts, I trowe. His mouth began to work and he made little stuttering gasps.
“My brother be no runaway,” Enoch interjected strongly. He too reached to his belt; very deliberately he removed his thwitel and began picking his teeth.
Magnus returned. “The boy’s not in the stable.”
Roland looked at Enoch. “You say he’s at a shepherd’s croft?”
“Aye, George.” Enoch waited for a response from Roland, then continued. “My mule stepped into a hole on the street and threw Tom. His leg is broken, mayhap his hip as well. I found a shepherd to leave him with while I rode on to find help. Bibs here be gang with me ferst thing in the morning.”
“We’ll ride with you as well,” Roland said grimly, as he removed his sword. “Hostess, serve us some flesh.”
As the company took places to eat, I thought on Roland’s title: Lord Roland, a baron, and realized that he referred to Wanthwaite. Only my precarious life stood between him and the reality. How long could I live? I tried to breathe evenly and keep my wits.
It seemed to take an eternity for the company to finish the mutton stew. Everyone imbibed mightily of ale, especially Magnus, and the host brought a pail of brew to supply an evening’s drinking. Only Enoch didn’t partake; the Scot stretched casually across the door and watched Roland. The Norman knight sat close to Sister Petronilla; his predatory eyes made me realize that the young nun was soothly a beautiful damsel. Her dark eyes flashed and she had full sultry lips.
“Begging your pardon, Sister,” he ventured politely, “but I’d like to hear how you came by your new vocation. You must be very happy.”
> The sister spoke in low distinct words. “I feel like a prisoner condemned to Hell.”
Everyone gasped and Sister Ursula wiggled forward to Roland.
“You must forgive her, sir. She’s much distraught, but will be happy once she reaches St. Anne’s. Our abbey is a paradise.”
“Paradise comes with a hefty price,” added Petronilla.
“Paradise!” echoed Magnus Barefoot in a drunken rasp. “I can find paradise right here this very night. What say you, harlot?”
He lurched against our hostess and knocked her to the ground. Bibs stood close, but could do naught; he looked on helplessly as Betty rolled her eyes toward him. Magnus buried his head in her ample lap and bawled out a song:
“I put my pole in Eve’s deep hole
And that was Paradise, Sir;
I dug all day, we both were gay
At labor oh so nice, Sir;
And a ding, dong, bell
Merry dong
Long dong
Ding!”
He forgot to add that he murdered Eve with his long pole, I thought. Aye, that was Roland and Magnus’s view of paradise: to slaughter innocent maids as they walked along the paths, to kill my mother who never hurt anyone. I pressed my lips to hold back tears.
Meantime Roland still pursued Sister Petronilla.
“You intrigue me, Sister. Surely you’re fulfilled by being the Bride of Christ. Or aren’t you?”
She understood his insinuation.
“Better Him than you,” spoke the wimple. “At least He’s dead and will leave me alone.”
Roland leered at the challenge and deliberately touched her full lips with his finger. “Of course we’ve never met, but I’m willing to covet you, if that’s what you expect.”
She slapped his hand away.
“You or someone like you, what does it matter? In any case, a landless knight picked by King Henry.”
Sir Roland rubbed his offended hand. “I’m far from landless, and let’s not hear treason against King Henry.”
“Is the bare truth treason? He wed me to a brute!”
“With your disposition, Sister, I think you should give thanks that he married you to anyone.”
“I give thanks,” she blazed, “right up King Henry’s haunch-bones.”
Magnus yexxed loudly and tugged at Betty’s skirts.
“I give thanks up Betty’s haunchbones!”
“At Vesper’s chime we still beat time
And worked hard all the night, Sir;
The moon did climb, we heard the Prime
And fucked till it were light, Sir;
And a ding, dong, bell
Merry dong
Long dong
Ding!”
I could hardly wait for him to finish his obscene verse, for I must hear more about King Henry. I prayed that Sister Petronilla continue.
Sister Ursula again interceded.
“Please pardon her, Lord Roland, and be not offended. She’s still in mourning for her departed husband and in no mood to marry so soon, that’s all.”
“My first husband was almost dead when I married him,” Sister Petronilla said with heat. “At least he was kindly and left me a rich woman. That’s when my difficulties with your Norman king began. First Henry wanted me to turn over my hard-won estate to the Saladin Tithe so he could reap glory in Jerusalem. When I demurred, he took his share anyway and awarded me and mine to a charming brute called Sir Denys. Sir Denys promptly beat me about the face and cast me into the dungeon because I refused to give up my treasure.”
Her mellow voice had risen to a shout by the finish, and I was horrified by her words. King Henry had stolen her estate? Had assigned a husband who beat her? Could my father have been wrong?
Sir Roland answered me to some degree. He pulled away from the Sister angrily.
“By law King Henry could have confiscated your lands outright and thrust you directly into a nunnery. By law a husband has a perfect right to beat his wife unto unconsciousness. Only then must he stop lest her body give out a great fart and she die.”
Sister Petronilla laughed nastily. “Would that I’d farted straight in his face.”
The nun rose and walked to Enoch, a wise move. His thwitel was again in sight as he picked once more at his teeth.
Betty too was struggling and I hoped Enoch would rescue her as well by his presence.
“No, Sire, no more ale. We must to bed …”
“To bed,” Magnus agreed as he pushed her roughly onto the floor.
Bibs cast an imploring glance at Enoch who shook his head almost imperceptibly.
Betty rose to her elbow, her sleeve pulled from her shoulder. She tried to crawl away and her skin shone like ruddy cream; the fire picked up small creatures moving in her mat of hair.
“No, I can’t. You see …” She said something into Magnus’s ear.
“That be wunnerful,” he replied thickly. “I have a taste for doxies in their bleeding time. Aye, that slickery four days every month be best: sticky and soft as eels.
“I spilled my seed, Eve ’gan to bleed,
Her queinte I longed to lick, Sir;
It flowed much worse, for ’twas God’s curse,
And strengthened up my prick, Sir;
And a ding, dong, bell
Merry dong
Long dong
Ding!”
The drama below blurred before my eyes as the meaning of his awful words penetrated my mind. Women bled four days every month! Then the Scot hadn’t attacked me after all! Didn’t know I was female. My relief was quickly followed by dismay Every month? How could I conceal my sex then? And wait, Maisry had said I would grow breasts when I became a woman in a different way. Benedicite! Without thinking, I reached toward my chest and thereby released a rain of dust. It sounded like hail to my sensitive ears and I realized that conversation had ceased.
Magnus lay in a drunken stupor; Roland was curled on his side in the choice position close to the fire; the two nuns now huddled as one; the host and his family must be directly under me as I couldn’t see them; Enoch still sat with his back to the door, quiet but with open eyes. The fire slowly turned to gray ash; the rush lamps went out altogether. Now the wind filled the void, a mean icy breath blowing viciously. I knew not what to do. Did Enoch mean to lead Sir Roland away in the morn so that I might escape alone?
Then the Scot slowly rose. He crossed the room like a black cat, reached toward me. First, though, he must take away the sister’s cape. He lifted. It was caught under my body. He gave a few short sharp tugs and dirt rattled ominously. He made a gesture that I should try to rise slightly. Cautiously, I put my elbows into position and tried. A board groaned, creaked, splintered! The whole shelf crashed in a deafening explosion!
Everyone woke!
“The child! Stop!” Roland cried.
Enoch leaped like a bull with me on his shoulder. I saw Petronilla throw her cape over Roland’s head as we ran headlong out into the wind. Enoch opened the stable doors and slapped Roland and Magnus’s horses on the rumps to make them move.
“Hayt there! Go! Go!”
The startled beasts neighed and galloped across the wastes. We mounted the mule and rode toward the street, but Roland was waiting. Enoch raised his pike and thrust into the knights chest-spoon. Roland gasped and fell, though I didn’t think he was dead.
We rode as fast as we could by the side of the street to avoid its holes as the shouts grew fainter behind us. Into a black howl we rode, saying nothing, feeling nothing except exultation to be alive. At dawn, Enoch veered off Dere Street into the welcome forests on the far side of the Pennines. We followed the path of a raging stream for many miles before we halted by a quiet back eddy, under a grove of ash. Enoch lifted me to the ground.
“Oh, Enoch, you saved my life!” I cried. “How can I ever thank you?”
“I’m aboot to tell ye how ye can thank me.” He leered, his teeth red in the rising sun. “Alix Wanthwaite.”
I GAZE
D UP AT HIS SAVAGE FACE COVERED WITH wild bronze elflocks, into those shrewd hard-sky eyes, those square grinning teeth that sensed a victory.
“Aye, Alexander Wanthwaite, new baron of Wanthwaite. Ye’re a crafty lad, I’ll give ye that.”
And I took heart—I’d misheard that “Alix”; my secret was safe.
“How did you find out?”
“Magnus Barefoot couldna keep it to hisself, but would be ever blatherin’ in a loud whisper to that Sir Roland. Alex Wanthwaite,’ he sayed, and it didna take long to see that Alex Want and Alex Wanthwaite had a passin’ acquaintance.”
“Very shrewd,” I said.
“Aye, but I need to know more. What be their interest in ye? Why do they want ye dead?”
“Because they sacked my castle,” I answered in an even hollow voice. “Sir Roland personally slew my own mother.”
The words echoed in the sylvan glade, mocking its beauty. Even Enoch sensed their horror. He put his hand roughly on my shoulder.
“I’m sorry, bairn. No wonder ye cry for her.”
I said nothing about the Scottish accomplices.
After a pause he continued. “And I take it they fear ye’ll find means of gettin’ Wanthwaite back, so they’re out to kill ye fast.”
I nodded. “I’m sole heir, but too young to claim it alone. My Uncle Frank who lives in London is my guardian. When I reach him, he’ll take the legal moves to reinstate me. If you help me, I can assure you he’ll give you proper reward.”
He whistled his bagpipe tune and watched me with unseeing eyes as he thought. “Look ye, Alex, what will ye give to be delivered safe in London-town to yer uncle? Think now, for as I see it ye canna git there without my help.”
“You’ll have to talk to him, but I’m sure he’ll be generous.”
“No,” he said sharply, “with ye, richt now. Ye be the Baron of Wanthwaite, the richest wight in Northumberland except for yer earl. Ye tell me, and think what it means.”
I considered. I probably couldn’t get to London without him, for I dare not return to Dere Street with an army at my heels.
“I personally will guarantee that when I take possession of Wanthwaite again, I’ll give you one hundred silver livres.”
Alix of Wanthwaite 01 - Shield of Three Lions Page 7
