“Or mayhap he has connections in court,” Enoch mused. “Aye, ’tis possible. But let me speak a few words, for I’ve taken no vow—and list to me good. If by chancit this uncle turns out not to be able to help, or—and this be worse—if by chancit I learn that ye’ve told me another lie, then ye and me be gang to settle in our own way. Do ye ken?”
I understood his hot blue eyes all right, but not that word “settle.”
“Not exactly. Only I’m not lying.”
“I mean twa things: yif ye’re lying, yell be whipped; yif the uncle cannot help, then ye still owe me half yer estate and we’ll work out another way to get it. Now am I clear?”
“Aye,” I whispered.
He backed out the hole and left me to my thoughts.
Mistress Stump had prepared to take us over all of London that Saturday. Enoch accepted her invitation but I declined, for I was too fearful of being seen to enjoy a holiday. In fact I would have preferred that Enoch stay inside also, for Roncechaux would follow the Scot as quickly as he would me, but there were greater advantages in letting him go. I could have escaped in his absence except that as yet I had nowhere to go that was nearly as safe. As it was, I sent for some hot water and washed both my person and my clothes in the wooden tub put in Enoch’s chamber. The hot sun dried my clothes and hair quickly at the window and I then sauntered downstairs to seek Jasper Peterfee.
The crippled host proved most helpful. Westminster was close to our inn in the hamlet of Charing. He didn’t know if King Henry was in London, but the chancellor listened to grievances every day except Saturday and Sunday and I could learn from the courtiers what the king’s schedule was. For a silver livre, Peterfee agreed to remain silent about my activities.
On Sunday Fortunes Wheel turned against me, for Mistress Stump postponed her homecoming another day. Enoch insisted I attend Mass at St. Paul’s in order to meet Gladys’s friend, the priest from Oxenford. I balked and argued against it for I feared Sir Roland would go to St. Paul’s if he went anywhere, but in the end I lost because Enoch claimed that if I refused ’twould mean I’d been lying.
Gladys led us directly to a confession box after Mass and called for Father Lucas. The holy father was a lusty-looking man who seemed disappointed that Gladys wasn’t alone. When she told him our problem, however, he was most sympathetic. He turned soft lickerous eyes down on me and clucked his tongue.
“The Carthusian Order. Frankly ’tis not a popular order and I’m not sure they still have quarters in London. If you’ll let me speak with some of my superiors, I’m sure I could give you directions this time tomorrow.”
“That will be fine,” Enoch answered for me, and we left.
Dame Gladys and Enoch escorted me back to the inn and left me there alone again. This day was less pleasant than yesterday, however, partly because I’d made what arrangements I could, thought of every conceivable variation on what might happen, and had naught to do now except worry. Gradually my gloom centered on Enoch. If he was as late returning this night as last, I’d already said goodbye to him. I couldn’t wait to be free of him, yet he’d saved my life. Aye, more than once, for I pictured Sir Roland searching for me in the inn, the chase through the forest. I didn’t want him to think me a deceitful, ungrateful boy who took what I list but would not honor my word.
I dined alone in the salle, peering all the while from the window for sight of the Scot and his dame but they didn’t come. Finally I crawled into my hole and made ready to sleep, for I must be up well before dawn to make my escape. Enoch would just have to hate me if that’s what he wanted. I twisted and turned in the mildewed room, vaguely disturbed by scratching inside the walls.
Curfew bells woke me and I heard Enoch moving in his quarters. Good, I could still say goodbye—without doing so openly of course—and let him remember me sympathetically after I’d gone. Happily I crawled through the passage toward a flickering candle at the other end.
Enoch was naked on his pad when I arrived and I stood uncertainly a moment, for he was twisting so that I thought him in pain. His buttocks rose and fell as he groaned and grunted.
“Enoch?” I said softly. “Are you all right?”
“Aye, now, now, oh, careful …”
With disbelief I heard the voice of Gladys Stump coming from under Enoch and by leaning close I saw that she was there indeed, held by her wrists and crying out …
And I was seized by a manic disposition—head pounded—eyes saw red—I lost all reason! Horror o’erwhelmed me and I once again heard my own voice screaming over the inert body of my mother as my throat tore:
“No! No! No! No!”
I saw Maisry bleeding, saw my own blood dripping after my first night with Enoch and knew the truth at last! He was a demon-killer! Did have a serpentine tool to murder by night! I flung myself on his bare back snarling and scratching to slay him dead!
Up and down I rode, as I had on Maud’s swelling stomach, only this was to the death instead of the birth and nothing would stop me till I had the Scot’s blood!
“Don’t worry, Gladys, I’ll save you!” I shouted.
“What? What the—”
“My God, ’tis a bogle on my back!” cried Enoch, rolling over suddenly and throwing me on the floor. I was on my feet again when he rose and I saw my enemy clear by candle glow, a writhing, rising snake glistening purple. I lunged at the monster to twist its head off!
“Eeeeoooo! He’s attackin’ my terse! Quhat ails ye? Hae ye gan woodly?”
Whereupon his fist struck my jaw like a Lochinvar ax and I fell hard against the wall!
“Yow! Eeow! Oh, I’m gelded sure! I’ll kill ye, ye blitherin’ toad! Eeeeeoooow!”
“What happened? Oh Lordy be ye sliced off? Who did the deed?” cried Gladys Stump as she leaned to look at Enoch where he clutched himself
“Alex, that heilie fiend that I befriended! He’s the Devil hisself!”
I’d tied Lance before I came, but now the wolf dashed from the hole and leaped on Enoch knocking him to the floor. I heard the beast growl and heard the Scot cry out as his hand groped for his dagger.
“Let me at the beast! I’ll kill him. Ow, he’s after my hurdies!”
Aching in every joint, I fell upon Lance and stopped him by taking his jaws. “Stop, boy, no. It’s all right.” For the Scot would slay him sure.
“Help! Help! Wolf!” Gladys flung the door open and rushed naked into the corridor.
Soon Jasper Peterfee was there, without his wooden leg, followed by servants and gaping guests.
“Let me at him!” a voice bellowed drunkenly. “I’ve killed many a wolf in my day, aye and fox too.”
“What happened?” Peterfee asked the groaning Scot. “Are you bad bit?”
“Go to,” Enoch grunted. “I’m all richt. The wolf went woodly.”
Peterfee closed the door leaving Gladys, Enoch and me alone.
“I’d whup the lad till he couldn’t walk, brother or no,” said Gladys. “Are ye all right, dear?”
“Aye, by mornin’ I’ll prove it, only first I mun deal with this wallydrag.” The Scot managed to stand straight and I noted with satisfaction that I’d gotten rid of the incubus monster. “Now, ye, Alex, ye mun have tint yer reason to carry on so, but that be no excuse. Because of our bargain, I’ll let ye off easy this time, but ye mun apologize to Gladys here.”
Outraged, I stared at the naked doxy. “I saved your life,” I mumbled through a mouthful of blood. “You should thank me.”
“Have ye gone daft? If this be dyin’, then give me death say I. I invited him to my party. Aye, ye must be toty or mayhap a Bulgar. Saved my life!” And the lady hooted with laughter. “Caaaa! Caaaa!”
“He was killing you!” I shouted. “I can prove it. Didn’t I see the same thing happen twice before?”
“Quhat a ligging scoundrel!” Enoch bellowed. “Let me at ye! Easy did I say? I’ll beft ye to schit! Tie ye up in jackis and stryppis fer the wild beast that ye air!”
He lunged
at me with his fist raised, but was held round the waist by his naked dame. “Oh no ye don’t! Well do I know men’s tricks, for ye’d punch him into a stupor so he couldn’t tell me the truth! Killed other women, have ye? Blathered with honey, cracked boast ’bout your bodkin when all the time ye’re full of hoker and pissmar for the fair sex! Take that! And that!”
And she too went for the monster as Enoch screamed like a Scottish banshee!
“Thank ye, Alex. I misjudged ye true!” And the naked lady flounced out trailing her tunic behind her.
“Gladys, wait!” Enoch started after her, then turned and hissed. “Ye stay here. When I finish wi’ thee, yer buck’s horn will ne’er make a toot. I swear ye’ll kick a new moon before ye swonk any dame’s hole!” And he was gone.
I slumped against the wall, completely worn out. Then I felt my jaw and wiggled it tentatively: not broken. The blood came from my bitten tongue and I ran that injured member over my teeth to be sure they were all there. Even if they hadn’t been ’twould have been worth it to have thwarted the murderous Scot. And yet—she’d claimed she’d wanted him. The pounding subsided in my head as reason returned. Perhaps I should leave before Enoch returned … just in case I’d erred a bit. I crept to my annex and gathered my goatskin and bundle, then took Lance to spend the night in the stable with Twixt.
Snuggled in the dry straw, I thought on my farewell to Enoch. What a gullible fool I’d been to think I should try to ease the wrench from such a criminal oaf. For he was greedy and lickerous, no matter what. I hated him, hated him.
’TWAS A BLUSTERY NIGHT OF WIND AND RAIN, BUT the straw was sweet and dry. As my shock wore off, I became more and more aware of my injuries: a badly bruised shoulder, a sprained neck, and a head that ached in every bone. I tried to remember every dreadful curse I’d ever heard to lay on the Scot and might he hang by his beloved killer-organ for striking me.
The rain and dark abated around Matins to be replaced by such a fog as I’d never seen. ’Twas dense silvery swirls of some stuff such as damp dandelion fluff, insubstantial yet engulfing as a shroud, for when I stretched my arm forth my hand disappeared, likewise my body from the waist down. When I was ready to leave, I hardly knew which way to step for all was without center, sounds which might be fore or aft or far or near, shapes which might be real or illusion. At least the mist gave me the cover I needed.
Walking my fingers like a crab along the wall, I turned left at the corner of the inn to go to the Strand. Once there, I again turned left toward Westminster. I could hear the wash of barges slapping against the shore on my river side while more and more hurrying shapes loomed in the street. After a long, slow meander, I reached out blindly and caught the garment of one.
“Please, sir, be this the way to the hamlet of Charing?”
“Let go your manhandling,” snarled a woman’s voice.
“You’re entering Charing now,” said someone else.
Jasper Peterfee had said it was half an hour’s walk from the inn to the north gate of Westminster, but I felt I’d been on the road a week by the time I arrived. The swirls of fog were now separated by clear spots and I stood before a high stone wall with a double-doored wooden gate which was open to traffic but carefully guarded by four sergeants-at-arms who checked every person at entry. I leaned against a tree and watched for a time to discover a strategy. Fortunately ’twas easy, for one kind of person came and went without question, young boys carrying pies and ale. When two came out together who’d been frequent porters I followed them down the street. They led me to a large kitchen on the Strand crowded with merchants and sailors. Taking their lead, I stood in line for fresh capon pies and bought three. Quickly I gulped down one for strength, then carried the others aloft as I ran after my guides back through the gates.
Inside, all was confusion and I lost them. At first I thought some catastrophe had befallen to judge by the bustle and stir of the place. Valets were polishing spears and armor, grooms were brushing magnificent coursers royally caparisoned, huntsmen were exercising wolfhounds, coursing dogs and vulperets while serious soldiers hurried til and fro on urgent business. The court was big as a large park and I had no notion of which way to turn until an angry clerk pushed me to the right.
“Don’t clutter the entry, boy. Make your delivery on the east and be gone.”
I followed after him in what I supposed was an easterly direction through a second gate leading to a smaller court, then another gate beyond that and found myself in a spacious garden. The clerk’s black robes were just disappearing down a graveled path and I ran after him. He went amazingly fast for a portly man and had already crossed the bridge over a rapid stream when I arrived on the near side, but after that there seemed only one way to go and I joined several others who were entering the portal of a square tower abutting a palace.
Inside, the vestibule was small and dark, the floors besmottered with muddy footprints, and the only way led up a steep stairs. I clung to a stone balustrade and followed hurrying men whose deep voices echoed hollowly. Once on the upper floor, I continued with the mob through a series of chambers that functioned as a hall leading after a great time into the very last, where once again I took a long winding stair into a chamber crowded with people.
The room must have been cheerful when unoccupied, for the ceilings were low and turret windows admitted much light (as well as rain), which illuminated red canvas wall hangings emblazoned with the royal arms. There were no furnishings, however, no benches for sitting except in the deep recesses of the windows, and the rushes which looked fresh laid were nonetheless already soggy with water and animal messes, for dogs abounded underfoot and there must have been two falcons for every man there. I sought a window corner where I could observe and survey the area, and finally squeezed beside an ancient man in the habit of a canon who was gazing at the wherries and barges now visible on the river below.
At first the babbling crowd was a single blur, but gradually some distinctions became possible. Aside from such differences as those who belonged to religious orders from those who were nobles or knights, there seemed two groups: those who were fixtures in the place and had set up small folding tables for chess or bones, and those who were constantly entering and leaving a small door on the opposite side for what was clearly immediate business. After a long period of waiting, a clerk emerged from the door and called a name. One of the regular fixtures detached himself from a game and answered the call.
“Did you bring those pies for Master Walter Map, boy?” the canon asked suddenly. “For I heard him order capon.”
I gazed into piercing brown eyes under furrowed brows. “Aye, that I did, but I don’t see him now.”
“Nay, perhaps not from your low angle but you can surely hear him well enough, for that bitter voice is the most venomous in the court. Hear how he argues with my lord of Ely whom he hates worse than a Jew or Cistercian.”
I listened but heard only blithering. “Would you like a pie? I have two, you see.”
“Thank you.” He accepted it gratefully but didn’t offer to pay. “I’m known as Richard de Monte and work in the Treasury.”
“Alexander Wanthwaite,” I said. “You must know much about the court and its proceedings. Could you tell me, please, if—”
“Hush.” He put up his hand as two courtiers dressed for travel brushed by, talking rapidly.
“Count Richard and King Philip are even now laying siege—”
“But the fog lies low there as well. Surely the king …” And they were gone.
The old man seemed despondent. “Count Richard. Henry mixes him too much with the Young King, but the men have different temperaments entirely. Richard cannot be manipulated by evasion.”
“Aye,” I said to give him comfort, for he was sore perplexed.
Another old man, but this one wiry and small with a lean face, came from the king’s inner chamber and immediately men clustered around him nervously. Richard de Monte and I strained to hear what was said but could
catch only a few words.
“—will burn all in his path.”
“Count Richard is a traitor …”
“King of England—”
“Barons are departing, especially those of Maine …”
“Tours! They wouldn’t dare.”
If the conversation was unclear, the anxiety wasn’t, for it swirled thick as the morning’s fog. All the men looked near breaking, their eyes sleepless.
“That was Ranulf de Glanville,” my companion said when the lean man went back inside the chamber. “All the news must come to him.”
“Why not the king?” I asked.
Before he could answer, one dog in the center of the room attacked another and soon the courtiers crushed back to allow a wide circle, for the curs meant to kill. The growls and barks, blood and bone-crunching made such a distraction that ’twas impossible to think. As I watched the owners try to control their beasts, I happened to raise my eyes to the door just as Magnus Barefoot walked in!
Magnus Barefoot? He must be a vision made from one part fog and one part my own obsessive dread! But no, neither fog nor fear nor the Devil’s dead could be as real as this. As I moved behind Richard de Monte and peered at my enemy round the old man’s sleeve, I saw that he was followed by Sir Roland de Roncechaux.
My skin became damp and my bones went to rope so that I thought I might faint. Roncechaux was no longer in his rusty mail, but elegantly turned out to meet the king. He wore a deep cherry robe edged in vair and dashing green boots, but nothing could change his saturnine face with its heavy hooded eyes and cynical mouth. Confidently he strode to the door of the antechamber and spoke with the sergeant. Benedicite, I must see the king before him or I would find that my estate had already been given away.
Desperately I turned to the old man. “Excuse me, Sire, do you know any way I might see King Henry right away?”
His lips spread over his yellow snag teeth. “Aye, lad, if you’re a good swimmer.” And he laughed at his own wit.
Alix of Wanthwaite 01 - Shield of Three Lions Page 10
