by Robert Low
John the Wanne had been irritated by the business of his own folk stealing a royal babe and not fazed in the slightest by the fearsome tally of men hunting Batty. He simply counted the coin Batty gave him, winked and went off, calling out to people in the hazed woodsmoke dark. Later, he had kicked Batty awake and signalled him to follow into the snow-whirling dawn.
Batty remembered the smell at first, like a forge where hot iron has been just quenched. He had smelled it before, but not as strong and did not need John’s warning hand to stop, crouch and fetch out his sword. It was blood, lots of it and not yet so frozen it would not reek.
The blood belonged to eight Armstrongs, throat cut and belly slit in a grue of their own entrails.The snow whirled, and Batty, squinting, saw a woman on her hunkers, dress carelessly ruched back to her thighs and the dark mystery of her naked fork all exposed.
He had not felt a twitch at it. Not the way she was gralloching a man, to make sure he had not swallowed his wealth before dying. She was singing, soft and dreamy while the flakes swirled and it was as if she did nothing more than stir the makings of a blood pudding in a bowl.
There was a maid this other day and she would needs go forth to play; and as she walked she sighed and said, I am afraid to die a maid.
And she sliced and cut and Batty became aware of other women, heard their added sibilance of sinister chorus.
For I will, without fail, maiden, give you Watkins ale; Watkins ale, good sir, quoth she, what is that I pray tell me? Tis sweeter far then sugar fine and pleasanter than muscadine.
‘Aye, aye,’ a voice had said in Batty’s ear and the grinning horror of King John the Wanne slid to his shoulder, all admiring. ‘Don’t they sing nice? They do, though, don’t they? I thought you’d like to know that them lads will be no trouble to your sleep now.’
Them lads were not, for them lads were all dead. It had done little for Batty’s sleep, all the same, for he heard the soft voices all night and was not sure if they were in his dreams or just beyond the canvas he slept under.
He took this maiden then aside and led her where she was not spyde and told her many a pretty tale and gave her well of Watkins ale.
He thought of it all now, wavering like a whitened dandelion waiting for the wind to puff. He was not right still and the hard run with Fiskie had left him dulled and dazed, with the arrow-wound in his calf still offering up a stab or two to remind him what had happened – but he was woken to the bit at last when he arrived in the King’s camp.
It was a the same Fair Batty had marvelled at before, so it came as no surprise to find a man with the skin of a serpent leading a bear on a rope, herald of the wonders yet to come.
The Serpent Man was called Nino and was afflicted with a disease – not transmittable – which made his skin appear scaled in a half-light. With the addition of paint and a fake fish-like tail, he joined the Two-Headed Man and Lucia the Sybil, who told fortunes with cards.
Nino was bear-keeper when he was not serpent, looking after three or four beasts the size of large dogs, all chained to a cartwheel and seemingly contented with their lot, even when they held paws and danced in a ring like bairns.
There were sixteen or seventeen such carts, surrounded by a mushroom cluster of curve-pole tents where folk worked at various tasks from making baskets out of wet withy to hornware, the burned-hair reek fighting woodsmoke for possession of the place.
The children, half-naked ragarses, all begged from the ‘kind gentleman’ until scattered by cursing women dark as Moors and clinking with cheap brass and silver ornaments. There were ponies, panniers full of babies, cabbages, empty strawberry baskets, horn cups and spoons and, when Batty climbed off Fiskie, he tied it up next to a ring of cheering, betting men watching two others who were stripped to the waist and trading bare-knuckled blows with bloody intensity.
John the Wanne wore a Turkish turban and a kaftan a Turk would scorn, embroidered all over with plants and flowers. He was naked to the waist underneath it and wore only linen underdrawers below that, while he stuck his fists in alternate bowls of pungent liquid.
‘Vinegar,’ he explained, grinning from out of the stubble of his face. It was a battlefield that face, with a nose broken so many times it had lost even the memory of bone and ears little more than lumps of gristle; it made it timeless like some ruin that might have been Roman or a recent folly.
‘For the toughening. You took your time getting here, Batty.’
‘Good to see you, too, King John,’ Batty replied laconically and sat where the King waved, a long seat round the pit fire. A hand thrust a horn cup at him and he followed it up past the brass and copper bracelets to the heart-shaped face framed with red hair; one of the brilliant blue eyes winked lewdly at him and Batty took the cup gingerly from Merrilee Meg. Same hand she uses on the Ape, he thought and lost the thought by burying his nose in the pungent smokiness of uisge beatha, the ‘lively water’ – illegally made, of course, like almost everything in the Randie King’s Court of Wonders.
‘You have grown a new arm,’ the King said matter-of-factly and then laughed and nodded to Meg. ‘That’s a spell you must teach.’
‘A confection,’ Batty replied, ‘to fool watchers. It should have been the face I altered.’
‘Aye, well, we can do that, too,’ the King answered mildly, ‘though it will cost you and not only in coin.’
‘No, you are not needed there,’ Batty said, feeling as if he stood on a steep edge and was sliding. ‘I am fine as the sun on shiny watter with the one I have, thanks all the same.’
The King nodded. ‘I had a dream you were on your way,’ he said casually, wiping his hands clean – the knuckles needed no vinegar, Batty knew, for he had seen the man casually smack bark off a tree with the hugely calloused affairs. ‘You were in a wee bastel house out on the far moors, surrounded by a wheen of armed men. Are they the ones on your trail?’
Batty stared, feeling the flesh creeping on his good arm and the back of his neck. ‘John Wallis of Twa Corbies,’ he said dully. ‘He is not the one chasing me, but he is swaddled up in it.’
The King nodded, took a cup from Meg and grinned more gap than teeth back at her.
‘Aye, well, there it is. I set Meg to finding out more and guiding you and here you are.’
Batty looked at him, then at the smiling Meg; he felt a shiver take him and put it down to the ague not being completely shifted.
‘Guiding me?’
The King waved one hand, slopping drink on his knuckles. ‘Aye, aye, we’ll come to that. Who are the chiels efter you? I saw men armed like Landsknechts and dressed like hoors.’
‘Where?’ Batty demanded and the King soothed him.
‘In the smoke, Batty. In the smoke Meg makes in water.’
‘You were with nuns,’ Meg said in her soft flute of voice, which repelled and ripped lust through Batty in equal measure; he glanced sourly at them both, trying to quell the rise of panic and unease.
‘Your smokey watter tells a rare tale.’
The King waved one dismissive hand, trailing vinegar reek behind it.
‘Och, well – you are safe enow here. There are all sorts stravaigin’ across the Cheviot, but they are more feared of the Cheviot than it is of them. Some horse bought a keg from us a few days since.’
‘Horse?’
‘Dinna fash. They number thirty or so, dress like the worst Mahomet houris I have seen and call themselves Men of the Sable Rose – ah, I see by your look that those are the ones who want you. Dinna seem much to me. Never seen a battle that didn’t involve drink and a meat-pie and a hoor.’
Batty shook his head, feeling the fire of the drink and lifted by it. ‘You should not dismiss them so lightly. They are well tempered in vicious across many lands.’
‘As well we smoked them from you and brought you here, then,’ the King said, smiling. Batty scowled. Here we are again, he thought savagely. If it is not nuns with God it is the Egyptiani with Satan, or worse if such exists.
<
br /> ‘I was not brought. I came.’
Meg appeared, smiled knowingly at Batty and handed the King a small box; Batty eyed it suspiciously as John the Wanne handed it to him.
‘As you say, Batty Coalhouse,’ he said. ‘Of course, if you dinna believe in it, then this is of no concern.’
He leaned forward. ‘But you spent time at Powrieburn and those Faerie speak well of you. Those Silent-Moving Folk and we Cipre have a pact.’
Batty opened the box and drew back at the pungent reek from it. A man-shaped doll lay within, carved from a root. There was hair in it and Batty’s hackles rose.
‘Mandrake, your hair and seed,’ the King explained. ‘A simple Calling, which is why you are here. Now you place it in the flames and destroy it, so no one else can harm you. If someone else drops it in the fire, you will suffer, but if cast from your own hand it will simply burn to ash and nothing.’
Batty looked from one to the other. He wanted to ask how they had come by the seed, but thought he knew from the knowing curve of Meg’s smile; it had been months since he had lain with her and he made a vow not to go there again if this was what she was up to. Then he dropped the box in the fire and shivered as it caught and burned, trying not to believe that the sudden flush of heat, like a flare of sunlight on his skin, was anything other than coincidence.
‘I was not called,’ he said sullenly. ‘I came here of my own will.’
‘Aye, aye, so you say,’ the King replied and sipped drink. ‘Have ye ever thought, Master Coalhouse, why it is that the woman is credited as the weaker sex, when ye can nivver pull the blanket back to your side of the bed? Now that’s Faerie, sure.’
He laughed lightly. ‘You need me,’ he added.
Batty blinked a bit at that. ‘I need to get in to Norham. I need to see the Dacre without getting myself seized for it.’
‘I saw some of it,’ the King answered, pursing his lips with thinking. ‘I saw a man with a rare cote. He is coming from Berwick and will be at the River Howf tomorrow’s morn.’
Batty glowered at him, though the hackles on him were up and bristling. ‘Dinna cozen me with your magickals, king or no king…’
King John The Wanne simply smiled and called out to Meg, who came swaying into the tent, smile bright and red hair brighter still.
‘Master Coalhouse needs rest and then we will talk matters out,’ he said.
Batty followed Meg into a tent which, for all he did not wish it, was as comfortable a nest as any he had seen; he thought he vaguely remembered it. She helped him with the doublet and, when it was off, laid one soft hand on his stump and laughed.
‘Now you are the Batty I recall.’
‘Nice to be remembranced – is that a truckle? I will try it.’
‘These cushions are better.’
Batty did not want to know the cushions, but her smile was big and sweet and her hair was red and fine.
* * *
He came awake with the kick on his foot and mumbled up into the grin of the King.
‘Up and away,’ he said and Meg pouted her way out, wrapped in a blanket that failed to cover her ample rear. The King watched her and shook his head admiringly.
‘A fine wummin,’ he admitted, ‘though her bun is no doubt a little too buttered at present.’
Batty had no answer to it and was struggling with the doublet until the King lashed him into it.
‘You are keeping that, then?’ he said, slapping the straw arm. ‘Next you will have a fa’se heid o’ hair.’
‘I have reasons,’ Batty growled back truculently. The King shrugged.
‘Then you will go to the Howff with Meg and a couple of good men and find the one you seek.’
‘With a rare cote,’ Batty answered. The King nodded, grinning and flourishing his kaftan. ‘I fancied it more than this,’ he said, ‘but the owner will cling to it for dear life.’
He paused, then smiled that crinkled smile that never went further north than his lips.
‘I wouldna carp and hang on the edge of the ring,’ he said. ‘Riders are coming and you will need to dance or die.’
Batty thought of the strangeness, the circling unseen magicks, the madness gibbering at the fringes. Witches and war, he thought, are both best avoided. And nuns.
Then he did what always did when he’d been badly dealt and his purse was out for rent – he bent his card in the middle to show he was doubling his wager and went for broke.
‘Lead on,’ he said and, in that moment, had a flash of her as he had first seen her, a face peering out of the tower. He felt a sick lurch at the thought of it being some sort of omen, that Sister Faith had just died.
The ride drove that anxiety away in a long streak of wet misery. Fiskie stumbled as often as he walked while Meg seemed unaffected, riding solid as a meal-sack on the back of a spavined mare. Two men came with them, loping like hunting dogs on foot and armed with bollock knives and long matchlock muskets slung across their backs.
‘This is Michael and this is Baptiste,’ the King said. ‘They will make sure no harm comes to you.’
They looked the part, too, being grim as dark reefs against the bright flame of Meg, but nothing but weather crowded them all the way to the Howff, which was a spit from the Tweed; on the other side of that was Scotland.
It was night before they halted, dragged to a stop by Baptiste appearing from the dim like a wraith. He spoke soft and in a tongue Batty knew was the Egyptiani’s own, he and Meg sibilating softly while the last of the rain fell to drips.
‘The Howff is just ahead,’ Meg said. ‘Packman ponies in the garth and one finer mount, shod and well accoutred – that will be your man.’
Batty thought about it. The man would have got here at dusk and for all it was a short push – an hour, maybe two – on to Norham Castle, he had not dared the dark. That revealed much, but he kept it to himself.
‘How will I ken this man to look at?’ he demanded. ‘Did your smokey vision show you that?’
‘You will know him,’ she said and then kissed his cheek. ‘We will be gone now. Three Egyptianis appearing in the place will excite more interest than yourself alone.’
Folk would almanac the day over it, Batty thought – and, besides, the Egyptianis would not be welcome.
‘Tell the King he has my thanks,’ Batty said and Meg laughed.
‘There is a price to be paid, Batty Coalhouse. Not now – but the King has your note for it, be sure.’
Aye, Batty thought bitterly, watching the figures fade into the dark, leaving only a last memory of Meg’s flame head, I did not think Johnnie the Wanne would forget a bill.
He rode Fiskie into the garth, where the mewl of goat and sheep gave him as much guidance as the wriggling, pallid worm of light from the lantern. He had to thump on the outbuilding door like a ram before it was opened by a tousle-haired boy, all plooks and sleep-eye.
‘Rub him down, feed him,’ Batty commanded and if the boy had a smart reply he kept it behind his teeth; Batty gave Fiskie a wet slap and plootered into the tavern proper.
There was a moment when the place paused, all heads turned to the door and the newcomer bringing in the rain-wind and the night. Then Batty was in on the plank floor, shaking his cloak free of drip and the inn’s customers turned back to their talk and drink.
There weren’t many of them and all were packmen, working their way from coast to coast; this was a night that kept local folk in their own homes, but this was home to Batty and the smell of beer, the vinegar staleness of sweat and the savoury of food reeled him in like a gaffed salmon. He tasted the warm fug, saw the bright fire – and heard the rough voice of the innkeep.
‘What want ye?’
‘Food and lodging. A mug of something wet.’
‘All available – if you have coin.’
Batty brought out his purse with a one-handed flourish, which allowed him to shrug off the wet cloak; the doublet sparkled, its tawdry gilt made true gold by firelight and dim. The innkeep was a big m
an with a doughy face and a beard badly barbered, but he had eyes that missed little.
He counted the coin scrupulously, asked a question with his sheep-dropping eyes and had the nod from Batty, who swept the purse and its remnants back into the doublet.
‘Pie, a good mutton in it,’ the innkeep said. ‘All rooms are taken, but you can have a place on the bench near the fire if you dinna mind the packmen’s feet.’
‘I have had worse,’ Batty said, which was no lie. The innkeep turned to go and Batty stopped him with a quiet hand.
‘There is a gentleman here,’ he said, making it a statement. The innkeep frowned.
‘There is.’
‘Point me at him.’
The innkeep shook his head. ‘The gentleman is in his own chamber, paid for it too. Has eaten there and clearly does not wish disturbed.’
‘Send him a message, then,’ Batty said and the innkeep’s face brightened.
‘You must be the one he is expecting, then. From Norham, is it?’
Batty said nothing and the innkeep nodded furiously. ‘Aye, aye, he said to keep an eye open for ye.’
‘Upstairs, is he?’
The innkeep nodded and pointed to the solid slab of stairway leading to the only room besides his own. A gallery ran all round but the doors in it were painted fakes, to make the place look grander than it was.
‘Bring my pie and a decent jack to the room,’ Batty said, feeling less confident than he sounded. He hitched his doublet and went up the stair, stood for a moment, then rapped on the door once, hard.
‘Who’s there?’
The voice was suspicious; Batty backed a little and took a step sideways, for he had an idea that the voice came from over a hand full of readied dagg.
‘A friend.’
‘That remains to be discovered.’
‘From Norham.’
He heard the door unlatch and it creaked a little way, so he pushed and ducked inside to a room glowed with tallow; he smelled the pungent reek of it and was looking round when he felt the hard stab of something in his side.
