by Max Gilbert
'Well Gilbert, speak up,' said John cheerfully. 'Cat got your tongue, has it?' He put a handful of grapes in his mouth and began chewing.
'Yes, My Lord, I mean no, My Lord.'
A royal-liveried man appearing in the doorway caught the king's eye, was beckoned forward, and whispered for a few moments into the royal ear. John nodded, his bright eyes on Sir Gilbert. When the messenger had done, the king snapped his fingers, and a servant popped out of the crowd to give the man a few coins.
'Now,' said John. 'Sir Gilbert. About this business of yours. Do you still maintain that the wreck of the Sleipnir is yours to use as you please?'
'I was badly advised, My Lord.'
'God's teeth, I'll say you were!' The king spat a mouthful of grape seeds. 'Oh, sorry, did they land on your sleeve? Never mind, it's a bit behind the fashion, don't you think? You can visit a good tailor while you're here. Now then, you've had the wreck, the crew and the entire bloody cargo, and you thought I'd either not find out or couldn't be bothered to do anything about it, what with all my other troubles, that right? Nice try, Gilbert, but that's my money you've been spending; and that's naughty. Oh, don't look so worried! I'm a reasonable man. You can choose.'
'Choose, Sire?'
'Yes. Whether to have my goodwill or not. Up to you.'
'Sire.' Sir Gilbert ran a nervous finger round the sweat-wilted neck of his fine shirt. 'My Lord, it would grieve me to lose your goodwill.' To say nothing of being the end of me, he thought miserably. He'd been a fool to try and keep the wretched wreck a secret. Everyone said there was nothing the king didn't know, and it was true.
The king hummed a snatch of tune and scratched his backside.
'So if you'll just have the cargo sent here as soon as you get home.'
'Of course, Sire.'
'Oh, and I understand there was a passenger, now enjoying your hospitality?'
Oh God, thought Gilbert, he even knows about the woman!
'There were two passengers aboard, Sire: a man and his wife, but he drowned.'
'With a bit of help, was it? Good of you to care for his widow; charity begins at home, that's what I always say. But you can send her along as well, together with her belongings, of course. Clothes, trinkets ...' His voice crunched on 'trinkets' and Sir Gilbert winced and failed to meet the hard gooseberry stare. The king knew about the jewellery too. What Gilbert's wife would say when she had to give up that magnificent set of Byzantine bracelets and the rubies, God only knew. Gilbert thought a small pilgrimage would probably be a good idea, to get himself safely away from her tongue for a few months. Not that she'd have run out of things to say even then. Or ever.
'So, Gilbert.' John beamed. 'You admit your fault humbly and wish to make it up to me.'
'Oh yes, Sire.' Fervently.
'After all, just who is king of the English, Gilbert? You, or me?'
'You, Sire.' Squirming.
'Oh good,' said John. 'I'm glad that's settled. No need for any of these little misunderstandings at all, really, if you'd all'—his stare swept everyone in the room—‘just bear that in mind. And shall we say five hundred marks, Gilbert? As an indication of your remorse? That sound about right?'
'Yes, My Lord.'
'And you might throw in a little sweetener,' the king suggested brightly.
'Sweetener, Sire?'
'Ye-es. To have my goodwill in full measure. No point in half measures, really, is there, when you think about it? What about that big bay horse your son was slopping about on when you arrived?'
'The horse, Sire? Certainly, Sire.'
'Oh thank you, how kind!' The king turned to Straccan. 'Well, there you are, Sir Richard.'
'Pardon, My Lord?'
'Don't say I never did anything for you. The horse, man.' He grinned, seeing Straccan's blank face. 'The horse! You can pick it up when you leave. See to it!' He snapped his fingers in the general direction of the gaggle of underlings. Two boys detached themselves from the cluster and rushed to the door together, where one blocked the other's way, kicking him sharply on the shin. The loser let out a yip of pain, yielded the errand to his rival and limped back, scowling.
'Thank you, Sire.' Straccan was truly grateful. He missed Zingiber sadly, and such an animal was a princely gift.
'Quite an adventure you had,' said the king. 'Interesting. What became of the icon, after all? Lose it, did you, in the heat of things?'
'No, Sire,' said Straccan with an inner sigh. He hadn't expected to get away with it, not really. 'In fact, I have it here, My Lord.' He took the icon, in its new wooden case, from his pouch and offered it to the king.
John unrolled the picture and stared at it for some time. Then he rolled it up and slid it back in the case. 'Remarkable,' he said.
'Thank you, Sir Richard.' He pulled on his gloves and made for the door.
'Are you going straight to Durham, Sire?' quavered Sir Gilbert.
'I might,' said the king.
'Only the bridge--'
'Is washed out. I know.'
'There is a back way ...'
'I know,' said John. 'I know the back way to every town in my kingdom.' The door banged behind him.
'I just bet he does,' hissed Sir Gilbert, sinking heavily on to the nearest stool. 'Five hundred marks, oh God, and the horse too! And the bloody jewellery! My wife will kill me!'
The king put his head round the door. 'Oh, and Gilbert!'
'Oh Jesus! Yes, Sire?'
'The saddle goes with the horse, naturally.'
'Oh, naturally, Lord King!'
Chapter 42
The stallion was a splendid animal, three years old and well trained, and after toying with several possible names Straccan fell back on Zingiber, which really seemed to him the only name for a ginger horse. It was a joy to ride, and the fine saddle fitted man and beast perfectly. Poor Sir Gilbert!
He saw from a long way off the lookout on the watchtower at Stirrup, and heard the warning tocsin begin its familiar cracked clanking. His people were milling about in the open gateway: Adeliza in her best gown, his clerk Peter, Cammo his steward, and the rest. Home! His loving eye noted the crops doing well, the vegetables looking fresh and well tended; his sheep, newly-shorn and skinny-looking, with new lambs at heel—surely that one had twins? Yes! His cattle, heads down and tearing at the grass. Everything in good order.
For the next few days he was fully occupied. There was a backlog of business for him and Peter to deal with, as well as the farm. Cammo managed well, but the master's decision was necessary in some matters: whether or not to buy a bull, whether to sell this year's clip to Walter Durnford as usual or perhaps take it to Lincoln or Nottingham for a better price, whether or not to sell the colt foal born at the new year.
Several times a day he climbed the ladder to the watchtower and spent some time staring at the road where it met the northern horizon, hoping to see three riders. His heart beat faster whenever a cloud of dust appeared and sank when it resolved itself into merchants, pedlars and other travellers. He kept reckoning up the days: the least and most it should take Bane to reach Christchurch and return to Shawl, and then the time to travel from there to here. He was too impatient; they could hardly be looked for yet. Another week, at least ...
But that evening and next morning he was on the watchtower again.
The clanking of the tocsin brought him from the stable at a run but it was only a delivery of wine. Later in the day it clanked again to announce the arrival of a pedlar with his gossip and rubbishy goods. Next day when it clanked to herald yet another nonentity, he lost his temper and bellowed up at the startled watchman.
'Don't ring that bloody thing again! Not until Gilla's coming!' Then he went into his office and worried Peter until he made a mistake in his subtraction and a blot on his page. He wandered into the kitchen where he pried into the cook-pots, picked at a piecrust, knocked over a pitcher of milk and trod on the cat, until a harried Adeliza shooed him out.
Eventually he took an axe and be
gan splitting logs, keeping at it for hours while swallows flicked around him, in and out of the woodshed where they'd built their nests. 'Messy things, shall I clear em out?' Cammo had said years ago. 'Let them be,' Straccan replied. 'I wouldn't like to do all that work for nothing, would you?'
So many days to the south coast, to Christchurch, barring accident or incident; so many days back to Shawl; so many days from Shawl to-- And what the hell was that noise? The tocsin was clanking. He dropped the axe, leaped over the logs and ran.
'You look as if you've seen a ghost,' Straccan said. Bane followed him into the office. On the table was the prior's thank-you letter and a bottle of wine. Gilla and Janiva were happily occupied watching the new lambs.
'I have,' said Bane. 'And so have you, so did all of us. We all saw them.' His eyes seemed to gaze through Straccan into the distance. 'What is it? Are you all right?'
'Listen. Sit down and listen,' Bane said. He paced back and forth as he talked. 'I went to the priory. I gave the money to Prior Ranulf. I told him how I'd met Brother Celestius at Altarwell, and how he turned up again in Scotland and healed me when I was dying. I was dying, wasn't I?'
'Oh yes.'
'He asked me, the prior did, when it happened, what day I was healed. The sixth day of June, I told him. Were there witnesses? Oh yes, I said. Were they reliable people? Three knights, I said, and one spy. Can't get much more reliable than that.'
'There have to be witnesses if they want to prove a miracle.'
'I know. He asked me, was I certain of the day? A little scribe chap was writing it all down, and the sub-prior and the sacristan were there, staring at me as if I had two heads. I said yes, it was the sixth day of June without any doubt, Saint Gudwal's day. And then they told me.' Bane picked up his cup; it was empty. He put it down and Straccan refilled it.
'Brother Celestius,' Bane said, 'and all his poor dear loonies were killed in a fire at a hospice near York, on the eve of Saint Pamphilus, seven days before the sixth of June.'
'I don't understand,' said Straccan after a while.
'It was an old wooden building. The pilgrims slept upstairs, and there were fleeces stored below. Somehow they caught fire and went up like thistle down. All the pilgrims were asleep and none of them got out. Fourteen bodies, they found.'
Straccan was silent for some time and then said, 'When you were dying, Blaise and I, and Miles, we wondered ... We thought he might be a saint. Christ, Hawkan, he was a bloody vision!'
'That prior is going to get him canonised no matter what it costs. He's already mortgaged most of the priory's lands and sold what he can. They'll be famous. Rich.'
'He wouldn't take any money,' Straccan recalled. 'After he healed you, when he was leaving, we tried to give him some money and he wouldn't take it. Funny ... He took your raisins.'
'I wonder what happened to them? Visions can't eat, can they?' Bane yawned hugely. 'I've got to get to bed for a while. I've never been so tired in my life. How'd you get on with the king?'
'He was very affable,' said Straccan. 'He gave me a horse.'
'Watch out he don't send you the bill for it.' On the bottom step up to the bedchamber, Bane paused. 'Remember the dice that spy gave me?'
'Yes.'
'I got them out, just for a friendly game with a couple of lay brothers at the priory. I opened the box and tipped it on to the board. They leaped up and started yelling. Know what? That little sod had given me his bloody box of maggots instead!'
Straccan laughed. 'I expect it was a mistake,' he said, wiping his eyes.
'Mistake my arse! I hope we meet again, I'll give him bloody maggots!'
The tocsin was clanking. Straccan, about to farewell a knightly client who'd taken the unusual step of coming in person to pay his account, thought—not for the first time—that he really ought to get a decent little bell. He could hear Gilla calling excitedly from the watchtower. 'Father! Father! It's Sir Miles!'
'Excuse me, Sir Walter. A friend is arriving. Won't you stay and meet him?'
'Well, just to say hallo, you know,' said the client, eyes .alight with curiosity. 'Must be off soon, though. Promised to pick up the wife from her cousin's; she gets ratty if I'm late.'
Straccan and Miles hugged each other, beaming and both talking at once, as if it was a year since they'd parted and not just a few weeks.
'Nice little place you've got here,' said Miles, admiring in one sweeping glance the lambs, the cabbages, the steaming dung heap, the kitchen cat and Gilla's new blue dress. 'Thank you,' to Adeliza as she offered him a cup of ale. 'That's just what I need, I'm full of dust. Gilla, you've grown. Master Bane, I am glad to see you well. Your servant, Lady,' with an elegant bow to Janiva. 'Richard, I have a message from my uncle.'
'Come into the office,' said Straccan. 'Sir Walter Covelin is there, but he's just leaving. Let me see him off, then we can talk.' Sir Walter was nosy. He knew Miles's uncle, and assumed the young knight was either coming from, or going to, some tournament or petty war. What else were knights for, after all?
'No,' said Miles. 'I'm on my way to Scotland, to take service with a friend.' Sir Walter wanted to know who. 'He is old and lives in retirement,' said Miles, not choosing to tell him. 'I shall take care of things for him for a while.'
'Humph.' Sir Walter disapproved. 'Young fella like you should be fightin, not lookin after elderly friends! There's a nice little war comin up in Poitou. That's where I'm goin. Action, that's the stuff! A good fight, and then all the customary rewards of victory. Eh?' He nudged Miles with a bony elbow.
'Rape and pillage,' said Miles.
Sir Walter looked shocked. 'Oh, come now! Nothin like that! We're gentlemen, ain't we?'
'What, then?'
'Well, bit of leg-over, souvenir or two. Not a lot of point otherwise. Eh?'
'See what I mean?' Miles banged his cup down, splashing Sir Walter, who presently took a rather frosty leave of them.
'Come to the bathhouse,' said Straccan. 'We can talk while you bathe and have a change of clothes.'
Miles was in the tub, squeezing the soap bag over his head and shoulders, when Straccan came in with a tunic and hose and house-gown. 'I hope these won't be too tight; you're a bit wider across the back than me, I think. When are you off to Scotland?' 'When I leave here. Uncle William asked me to come. He put the word round to Templars everywhere, asking for news of Julitta and her husband. Arlen was caught trying to find a boat to carry him to Normandy. He had a satchel full of those queer gold coins. The king ordered him put to death.'
Straccan shrugged. That was the price of treason. 'So he's dead.'
'They took the coins and put them in a crucible,' said Miles grimly. 'They tied him down while they melted. Then they poured his Judas gold down his throat.'
Straccan took a deep breath. 'Quite an object lesson.'
'Yes. As for Julitta, she got to France. King Philip is paying her charges but he won't receive her at his court, in case his noble image gets tarnished. The Holy Father's blue-eyed boy can't afford to have his name linked with a witch.'
'And the Arab; what news of him?'
