by AM Kirkby
***
Tobias woke early the next morning; he always did, in a new house. It was light already, but quiet, in that hollow way that early mornings are. A walk, he thought, might stretch his tired muscles; he dressed, without calling for a servant, and slipped out of the house.
The air was heavy and damp, the light misty, blurring the outlines of the trees as if the landscape had been drawn in ink, and someone had upset a glass of wine over it. A blackbird's fluting call sounded from the direction of the house, and from time to time a raucous rook skriked or laughed in the copse across the fields. The sun was still no more than a sliver of pale gold behind the hill.
A path led along the stream, where nettles had been crushed into the mud, and willow leaves heavy with dew splashed him as he passed. It was hard going; as soon as he saw a better, wider track forking uphill he took it, through a gap in a hawthorn hedge and into a scatter of beech trees, dead leaves and the sharp quatrefoils of beech mast rustling beneath his feet as he climbed. His breath came hard, misted in the still air; his nostrils ached with the coldness of it. He could feel sweat prickling on his skin, hot inside, cold outside. It wasn't unpleasant. He could feel the backs of his thighs tensing, cramping, but he felt alive. He'd got nearly to the top of the slope when he had to stop, holding on to a broken tree; he noticed, too late, that it was half rotten, damp in the way dead things often are, but it didn't break, though when he moved again the trunk rocked suddenly under his hand.
As he breasted the rise he was aware of the sky opening up, as the land dipped away from him. He had a sense of blue, of biting cold; at the same time he saw he wasn't alone. A russet-coated man was striding towards him, two dead rabbits hanging limply from one hand. It took Tobias a moment to recognise him; it was Jamie. (Things look different at night, in the shifting, wind-fluttered light of a candle or the tigerish blur of firelight, than they do in the morning; staircases that seemed cavernous are smaller once the sun is up, the trees that seemed to crowd in towards the lamp are seen to keep a discreet distance. And Jamie too seemed changed; shyer, slighter somehow, or perhaps it was just some embarrassment at the way he'd taken charge the night before, or being caught with the fruits of his snares.)
One rabbit's nose dripped blood on the ground. The beasts hung longer and thinner than they'd ever been in life. Tobias squeezed his eyes half shut, looked away from them, but not before he'd seen the soft fur ruffled up round Jamie's fingers, which held the back legs hard.
"You don't like to look at them, my lord?"
He shook his head. Didn't really want to talk about it.
"You eat them, though."
"I do. When I see them, though, I rather wish I didn't."
Jamie looked up sharply at that, then sniffed, and twitched a faint smile. "I feel sorry to kill them, sometimes. I watch them playing, in the evenings. Seems a pity."
"Yes."
They walked on a little in silence. As if sensing Tobias' discomfort, Jamie moved the rabbits into the hand furthest away from his companion; he shortened his stride a little, not to outpace the shorter man.
"I'll be here for a month or so," Tobias said. "My doctor's told me to live a healthier life."
"We'd better make you a good fire, then. Felstead's a damp place this time of year."
"And a good walk every day."
"Plenty of good walks hereabouts. But I wouldn't go too far along the river. It's apt to flood."
Tobias looked at Jamie's face; frank eyes, long eyelashes, like a girl's. An open face; trusting.
"I'd be glad of your company, if you don't object."
"Well, I can hardly object, can I?"
Tobias flushed. Of course; he was the master, it was his to command. But that wasn't what he wanted; and he felt ungracious now, as if he'd tried to sugar over the brusqueness of command with a thin frosting of geniality. He wondered if Jamie had perceived a falseness in him that wasn't there.
"But I wouldn't object, anyway. If I'm not working. I mean" – and now it was Jamie's turn to feel some confusion – "if I'm not hunting, or laying snares, or seeing to the hounds or the hawks or the horses. That still has to be done, you know. Sir. Your grace."
That, Tobias thought, was a lot for this quiet man to say all at once.
They walked on further. Below, the mists slowly cleared.