I walked ten miles the first day, no more. My legs were strong enough for more, but I was frightened and dread is tiring. That night I hardly slept, and the next day I set off as soon as there was a smear of light in the east. Fear spurred me thirty miles before the light failed at last. The third day I did not do so well. Weariness, remorse, hunger, and blisters plagued me. That day I had hardly gone eight limping miles before the long summer evening began to close in. When it did, I sat down under a barberry bush, put my face in my hands, and wailed like a two-year-old. Before I was finished weeping, exhaustion caught up with me. I curled up under my bush and slept.
Sunlight woke me the fourth morning. I watched the river while I soaked the last of my bread in water until it was soft enough to eat. The sun was well up before I set out stiffly, with no food left, and with the nagging worry that the raft had passed by while I slept the dawn away. I cursed myself for a laggard, a sluggard, ten sorts of a fool. Oh, but I was in a sour mood. So of course it was that day, about noon, by which time I had gone scarcely twelve miles, that it began to rain.
It is wonderful what fear can overcome. It is wonderful what hope can bring to pass. But there is nothing in the least wonderful about what walking in even a summer rain can do to a hungry person with blisters. By late afternoon I had come as far as the bridge at Folliard. There, under the bridge, at the water’s edge, where I could be out of the rain and still see the river, I halted. Fear of pursuit, fear of arrest, fear of execution—all these paled before my hunger, my blisters, and the constant, unyielding, relentless fall of rain.
The seven-arched bridge at Folliard is a very old one, Roman stonework upheld only by the perfection of its design. Such arts are long lost to our modern stone craft. The river must have run wider or deeper in the Romans’ day; even after all our rain, there was still a gravel bank between the first pier of the bridge and the river. There was no food for miles, of course, or any cure for blisters. But the stonework kept the rain off, and when I reached it, that was enough for me. I stopped.
I thought at first glance that a large bundle of old clothes had washed up at the river’s edge. When I realized there was a person in them, I was startled and afraid. It is all very well to plan to venture forth as a pilgrim. To be alone, without even the symbols of staff and cockleshell to keep the world at bay, is quite different. It would be folly not to be wary when one finds oneself alone with a stranger, far from any help.
He was on his stomach, one arm in the water all the way to the shoulder. His face was turned away. He might have been sleeping. He lay so still, he might have been a drowned man, washed up there on the riverbank. He was wet enough for it.
I remembered how still Gabriel had lain where he fell. Fear twisted my stomach. If this man were dead too, perhaps he hadn’t drowned. Perhaps he’d been killed by someone hiding nearby. My fright made everything around me into a threat.
While I was still fumbling for some kind of defense, a stone—Lord, even a bent candlestick—he stirred. On one smooth movement, he rose and pulled free of the river—and threw a fish at me.
It was a mudskip, all whiskers and fins. I am ashamed to admit I screamed as it fell on the gravel at my feet. I don’t think the man had even noticed me until then. He lunged at me, a knife in his hand. I sprang away. He fell upon the fish and gutted it before I had drawn breath for a second scream. With a few precise cuts, he sliced the fish and began to eat.
Instead of screaming again, I said, “You shouldn’t do that. Mudskip tastes bad enough cooked.”
He paid no attention.
After a while, I said, “You must be hungry.”
He looked up at last. “Do you have anything to eat?” He laughed at my expression and added, “Spare a crust for a poor beggar, mistress?”
He was dirty but he was no beggar. His eyes were terrible, red rimmed with exhaustion. Weariness marked him as plain as the mud did. The concentration he brought to the simple act of putting food in his mouth said his remaining strength was small. But he was strongly made, well able to work for his keep. Nor were his clothes those of a beggar. They were fouled with mud, but the fabric was rich and from what I could see, the garments well made, though wildly out of fashion. He even wore a chain of office, heavy S-links, like a king on a playing card. Had he been clean, he would have seemed as out-of-date as a figure in a stained-glass window.
For all that he’d scared me, I studied him closely. I couldn’t rid myself of the notion that I knew him. From Aravis? From home? Or had he been one of Madame Carriera’s subjects, met only on canvas or vellum? Was he a player, costumed for a masque?
I was frowning with the effort of memory. My scowl seemed to amuse him.
“What do you have in that pack of yours? A parcel of bread and cheese? Some apples? A sturdy lass like you never set off without packing nuncheon.”
“I ate it all.”
“Of course you did. You look like a good eater. Want some fish? Sorry—there’s not much left but bones and whiskers.”
“No. Thank you. My name is Hail Rosamer. Who are you?”
“What I am, mistress, is a stranger. You are forbidden to speak with strangers, I’ll warrant.”
I looked upstream—no sign of any river craft. He followed my gaze. In the instant when I’d turned back and he still looked upstream, I recognized him. It was the profile, of course. Madame Carriera taught us that the profile makes the best portrait, the finest likeness caught in the fewest lines. This stranger’s profile was the same as that on Maspero’s siege medal. My voice was half strangled by my surprise. “Who are you?”
He frowned at me. There was a silence between us, but I was sure my thoughts could be read on my face. Finally he said, “Who do you think I am?”
When the hing comes home. I managed not to say the words aloud. Instead I fumbled in my pack and found the medal I had made. Gingerly, I put my hand out, as if I were offering a biscuit to a strange dog, possibly a dangerous dog.
With wariness to match his weariness, he craned forward to see what I held. I saw the recognition strike him. He drew back, as if I’d offered him a blow. “Put it away.”
I obeyed him, as much because of the pain in his voice as because of the note of command.
We looked at each other then, really looked. Our eyes were level, for he was still hunched over the ruins of the mudskip, and I’d dropped down to crouch on my heels before him.
“Tell me your name again.”
“Hail Rosamer. From Neven. Upriver.”
“I know Neven. Good sheep country.”
I nodded. “What shall I call you? Your majesty?”
He rejected the words with a shake of his head. “Nothing. I’m no one.”
“Julian?”
“No. I’m not him.”
“Well, are you related to him?”
If something that sounded that tired could be called a laugh, he laughed. “No.”
Here was more reticence than I could overcome. I chose another tack “You were fishing just now. I’ll call you Fisher. If I may?”
“If it pleases you. You’re far from Neven, surely?”
“I’ve lived in Aravis for years. I’m apprenticed to Madame Angelica Carriera.”
“You’re not too near Aravis either. Funny place to choose for a walk in the rain.”
“It wasn’t raining when I started. I’m going home.”
“On foot? From Aravis to Neven?”
“Unless our raft comes. Then I’ll signal them and they will pick me up.”
“And take you back—to where? Neven? This river flows the wrong direction for you, doesn’t it?”
“I have to signal them. It’s very important.”
“Better start, then.”
I looked where he was looking, far upstream. It was easy to miss in the rain, but a raft was coming, just a smear of gray against the paler gray of the river. I leaped up, I and my heart together.
My father saw me wave from the bridge. I watched them pull the swe
eps to steer toward shore. It was like a dream, the slow kind, while I turned over so many things in my mind, so many greetings, so much to say, that it seemed time scarcely moved at all. It seemed the raft would never touch the shore.
I came back to wait with Fisher under the bridge. “I’ll make them give us something to eat,” I told him.
He’d been meaning to leave—I could tell by the line of his shoulders and back—but the thought of food tempted him. He relaxed a little, just enough to let me see the moment of temptation clearly. Then he braced himself again and said, “No need.” His tone was flat, as if he had a lot of experience in resisting temptation and had become so good at it, he no longer needed to give it much thought.
“You recognized the medal. That deserves some sort of reward. Where did you see it before?”
“I don’t remember.” I had a feeling he remembered all too well and didn’t wish to tell me. After a pause, he added, “He was from Ardres, wasn’t he? Perhaps I saw it there.”
“Who?”
“The craftsman who made it, your precious medal.”
Maspero was from Ardres?” It was the first I’d heard of it. It was a revelation for me to imagine Maspero being from anywhere. Easier to think of the Archangel Michael coming from Ardres.
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. My memory’s faulty.”
“But you know about Maspero. You know he was a great artist.”
“He was?”
“You’d be surprised how many people have never even heard of him. What else do you know about Maspero? How did you learn of him?”
For some reason, my enthusiasm seemed to discourage Fisher. He fell silent. We watched as the raft came slowly in to shore some hundred yards downstream from the bridge. I thought Fisher would stay under the arch, but he walked with me down to join my father and brother. I was glad. I wanted to know a lot more about him and if he knew anything more I didn’t about Maspero.
“Hail, what’s amiss?” Father called. “What’s wrong?”
I didn’t even try to answer until I was safe in his arms. Then the whole story came out, punctuated by my sobs.
My father did not behave at all the way I’d thought he would at the news that I was either a murderer or a counterfeiter. He lectured me—no other word for it—for deserting my obligations in Aravis, and he ordered me out of the way among the baggage. “We’ll settle matters as soon as we have you back safe in Giltspur Street.”
“But the magistrate…”
“I’ll speak to the magistrate. An articled apprentice has every right to pursue her craft without being molested in the street by rivals jealous of her ability.”
“Gabriel wasn’t jealous of my ability. He didn’t think I had any.”
“That’s more proof he was unbalanced. Let me handle this. Don’t make a nuisance of yourself there. Just sit down and be still.” Father then thanked Fisher courteously for his care of me, just as if there had been any reason whatsoever to do so. From the angle of Father’s gaze as he inspected him, I could tell he was trying to decide if it would insult the stranger to offer him money. The circumstances allowed it, but the quality of his bedraggled costume argued that it might be rude to patronize him.
Nothing in Father’s manner suggested that he saw the likeness to Good King Julian. I wondered if I were the only one who noticed it. Would it take study of the siege medal to teach one the resemblance?
“There’s a smoked chicken here,” I announced. The chief reason I’d retreated obediently to the baggage was to investigate the supplies. “Won’t you join me?”
“I thought you’d prove a good eater.”
“Where are you headed?” Father asked.
“I need a priest.”
Father looked intrigued but said only, “We are traveling to Aravis. Would it serve your purpose to accompany us?”
Temptation again, in every line of him, and I could see he was going to resist it. I swear that’s the only reason I started on the smoked chicken.
“Is there any mustard?” I asked Amyas. He passed me the little stoneware crock. As I opened it, Fisher accepted my father’s invitation with a nod and stepped lightly aboard the raft. I made room for him beside me. Amyas passed him the oatcakes.
Father called to the men at the sweeps. They and my brother set to work poling us out into deeper water. The current took us and we moved steadily downstream. As we drew away, I looked back and saw the Folliard Bridge from mid-river. From there it seemed to me the arches met their reflections, and despite the steady rain on the surface of the water, the mass of the bridge and the darkness of the reflections made half circles whole against the pale river. I admired the sight as I ate, until the view was lost around the next bend of the river.
I finished my drumstick and one oatcake in the time it took Fisher to consume six oatcakes and the rest of the smoked chicken. Before I’d cleaned up the bones and put the mustard away, he was asleep.
I stretched my legs before me, winced once more at my blisters, and settled myself to watch Fisher sleep and plan what questions I would ask him about Maspero when he woke. We had not gone a mile downstream before I was asleep myself.
I grudged every mile I’d walked, even as I watched them pass from the simple comfort of the raft. Every blister on me, I blamed on Gabriel. If I’d killed him, and at times I hoped I had, he’d had his revenge of me. Only once I was safe with Amyas and my father did I realize how frightened I’d been, how far from clear my thoughts had been.
“What possessed you to disobey Madame Carriera?” Amyas demanded. “If you hadn’t spent so much time mooning over the siege medal, you’d never have found yourself in such trouble.”
“I was studying it. I mean to study all I can of Maspero’s work.”
“That won’t take long,” said Fisher quietly. “He only worked when he had to. The rest of the time he spent scribbling in his notebooks.”
“How do you know that?” asked Amyas. “Have you studied this Maspero too?”
Fisher gave a snort of scorn. “I’m no student.” He made no reply to Amyas’s questions, nor to mine.
Eventually I gave up asking questions about Maspero. Instead, I devoted myself to my notebook. In addition to recording any reference Fisher had made to Maspero, I sketched Fisher. If I had Good King Julian there in front of me, I didn’t mean to waste a moment of my time.
On his usual visits, my father spent much of his time in Aravis at the guild hall conducting business. His acquaintance, as I had always assumed, was largely drawn from the wool merchants of the city. But I now learned that my father did more in Aravis than just conduct business and that his acquaintance was not exclusively among those who practiced his own trade.
True, he knew no magistrates of the Court of the King’s Bench, but he knew several members of the Chancery Court, and they were glad to provide introductions to clerks, attorneys, chancellors, and all. He was not as familiar with the proceedings of the King’s Bench as he was with the civil suits of Chancery, where matters of the wool trade usually ended up, but he knew who to ask and how.
By the time we were tied up at Shene Wharf, my father had planned his campaign to clear me and the Rosamer family name. My presence in Aravis formed only a small part of his strategy, fortunately, and so I was bidden to stay with the woolpack, safely out of the way until summoned, with my brother Amyas to guard me. My father thanked Fisher again, then left to start work on clearing my name.
Fisher clambered from our raft to the quay and made a vague gesture of farewell to Amyas and me. “I thank you for your help.”
I joined him on the quay side. “Wait, where are you going?”
“Hail, get back here,” Amyas called.
“I need a priest,” Fisher said, turned on his heel, and left.
“Hail!” I heard Amyas scolding behind me but paid no attention. He was welcome to follow me if he wanted to.
Fisher paused and looked around as he left the wharf, as if getting his bearings. But he didn’t ask d
irections from anyone, just walked from there to the old church of St. Peter the Fisherman. Amyas caught up with me as I followed him in.
Once inside (and a nice little interior it was too, simple but well proportioned), he wasted no time. He interrupted the priest’s conversation with the verger.
“Your pardon, Father. I beg of you, help drive me out of this man. I am a damned spirit, brought back to possess the hapless body before you. The rite of exorcism, I beseech you.”
The priest and the verger goggled at him. After an astonished moment, the priest said, “My son, this is no matter for joking.” Something in Fisher’s expression made him think better of that answer, for almost at once he added, “Nor a matter that can be hastened, even if I wished to. I cannot simply sit you down in a chair and perform the rite of exorcism here and now.”
“Why not?”
“I am not qualified, not prepared, and frankly, not inclined. Is there some other way in which I might help you?”
Fisher was absolutely still for a moment, a stillness that hinted at despair. Finally, he sighed and asked, “Will you hear my confession?”
“Will you be able to make one, damned spirit that you are?” The mockery was very gentle, and Fisher didn’t even seem to notice it. He let the priest lead him away.
Amyas looked at me. The verger stared at us both. I turned my attention to the church interior.
Amyas whispered in my ear. “Don’t you have ears? Father told you to stay with the woolpack.”
“I’ll go straight back there as soon as I can.”
“You’ll go back there now. I can’t protect you from the whole city, you know.”
When the King Comes Home Page 7
