“Gallia est omnis divisa in partes tres,” I bleated.
Magnus Barefoot rose and faced Enoch. “Common Scots don’t have wolves as pets,” he said coldly.
“Namore do we,” Enoch agreed. “This beast war a gift from the laird where I be steward. The wolf bit his young daughter. Now pardee, we mun take our water.”
Balked, Magnus stepped away as I stared at the Scot, astonished at his fast wit. He pulled me to the edge of the stream where we stood with our backs to Magnus Barefoot. I dared not look at the Scot, grateful as I was, for I was also fearful. What was his motive?
When we turned to leave, we faced the squire again. He now smiled unctuously at Enoch.
“Forgive me, Scot, for my former harsh words. Wanthwaite Castle was sacked by Scots two days ago and all of Northumberland’s men be alerted to suspicious characters.”
“Scots doona attack across the border and ride south,” Enoch replied.
I waited for my doom to fall at the word Wanthwaite, for soothly the treacherous wight meant to confront me now.
“I admire you Scottish wizards,” Magnus continued in that same oily wheeze, “and especially in your art of physic.”
Enoch raised his brows and waited. I, too, was much perplexed.
“You must have noted how my poor coz suffers from every sickness known to the Infidel, a heavy price for Crusading. I’ve often heard that the piss of a young boy can cure blisters. Do you think your brother would oblige by giving his water?”
“No, I won’t!” I cried, seeing his purpose. He might not want to fight Enoch in direct combat but if he could expose me, I was lost.
Both men looked down on me, Magnus with triumph.
“That’s no’ Christian, bairn,” Enoch scolded. “Take us to the sick man, Squire Barefoot.”
The Scot’s heavy hand led me back to the clerk. The poor fellow looked so grateful and beseeching together that for one wild moment I wondered if I could be wrong.
Enoch leaned close to the patient. “Ah, the worms hae delved deep. ’Twill take careful application, but may do.”
“Strip off your habit,” Magnus ordered Brother Walter.
The clerk obliged and soon knelt at my feet, his rump covered with angry whelks.
Magnus grinned fiendishly. “Go on, Tom, pull out your cock and do God’s work.”
My breath grew shallow, the scene pooled in my eyes, my heart raced. Then, as from a great distance, I heard the Scot’s voice.
“Nay, Squire Barefoot, I sayed careful application, quhich means in two stages. Yif the boy spurts, we waste precious elixir. Here, Tom, use this bowl and see ye doona drip.”
And I saw a possible reprieve. Smiling brazenly at Magnus Barefoot, I took the dish and lifted it up under my tunic to my crotch, using great care that my linen still dangled in front of the operation and concealed all. I spraddled my legs, bent a bit, and let go through the breach in my braies. I then lowered the brimming bowl to the grass close to the clerk, stood again, reached back to my crotch, took a thumb between the other thumb and forefinger, gave my invisible “member” a brisk shake as I’d seen Enoch do.
Squire Barefoot stared with narrow eyes, not totally convinced but not totally suspicious either. In any case, there was naught more he could ask.
“Yer bladder be big as a horse’s, Tom,” Enoch said admiringly. “Now, Squire, watch how I pour the ferst half.”
We all watched my clear liquid spread over the angry whelks.
“There, let it soak in, so, fer an hour. Then rub it with a rough stone and give the second ministration.”
“An hour?” Magnus protested, suspicious again.
“Either that or ye mun use goat dung and honey, and three days later ox piss.”
“An hour, Magnus,” Walter pleaded. “We’re in no hurry.”
Magnus smiled grudgingly at the wretch. “Nowhere that I can’t make up the time. Be at ease, coz.”
By now we were mounted again. “God’s grace!” Enoch called in farewell.
The Scot slapped Twixt with a thong to make him trot up the rising road and I clung to the mule’s mane again to stay astride. I didn’t dare ask questions, nor did the Scot volunteer his intentions. At the sound of the next distant bell, he slowed our pace and without warning turned off the street, climbed up a shallow bank and sought cover in a rough thicket.
“Hssst!”
I heard a beat of hooves and saw a flash of purple and steel briefly through the brush. Magnus Barefoot riding alone.
“Ye might thank me fer giving us an hour’s start on the varlet,” Enoch said dryly.
I gazed on him fearfully, not knowing how to answer. “Er—thank you. Only why is he following us?”
“Ye, bairn, he’s following anely ye.” He gave an evil smirk. “Ye can tell me why later.”
I stared into those blue-pool eyes. He urged Twixt forth once more as I bumped on the neckbone in a daze. Aye, I would have to think up some plausible reason why I was being pursued, but my fantastick cells seemed in a trance. What could I say?
THE DAY GREW BITTER AND CHILL, our road became steep as we started over the Pennine mountains, and my powers of invention dulled. Never had I dreamed of such outlandish country, naught but rocks, parched fern and straggly gnarled trees. Twixt’s neckbone fair cut me in two at each step, my stomach howled interminably, but most of all I was marrow weary. More than fear, my exhaustion o’erwhelmed me. With weariness came woe as I sank in a stupor of pain and grief. O’er and o’er my head jerked back, sinking against Enoch in spite of my efforts, then visions rose to make me sob, my own sobs woke me and the cycle began again.
I was wakened thoroughly only once through the long afternoon, when Lance attacked some sheep on the road before us. The shepherd waxed furious and we had to dismount and help him gather his flock.
“When are we going to eat?” I whined, beyond shame.
“We mun find a shepherd’s croft first, for it promises a foul night.”
But the higher we climbed, the more the wind howled and the fewer the chances for shelter. At last the Scot gave up searching and followed a twisty ridge downhill above a rushing stream. Occasionally I could glimpse valleys far below and thought the moon must ride at eye level tonight. Round and round we wound in the thicket, till at last Enoch dismounted and continued on foot, leaving me shivering alone under the shrill sough of a northerly wind.
“Cum, bairn, I’ve found as good as I can.” He pulled Twixt forward. “Knarry knotty trees give little shelter, but ’twill do.”
His camp was a narrow dry area under a rock ledge with two strong pines before it. Sleet now hit our faces and I huddled as close as I could to the wall.
The Scot regarded me with unfriendly eyes. “What do ye think ye’re doin’?”
“I’m cold and hungry,” I whimpered, “and tired.”
“Ye’ll be a good deal worse off if ye don’t help, fer I’m not feeding no sluggards. If ye want to eat or sleep with shelter, ye’ll move yer arse. Gather firewood in the wald by the gorge, and take the animals for water.”
Gruffly he handed me the mule’s bridle and I stumbled down a bank of hideous stubs to the raging water. When I returned, I had to rub the beasts, find fodder, then help tie furs to the trees for windbreaks. The skin on my hands broke into blisters.
“Ye’re muckle soft for a steward’s son,” Enoch observed, “or did yer foster mother make a milksop of ye?”
I looked the murder I dared not express, for I’d never worked so hard. He didn’t even notice.
Kneeling by the pile of wood I’d collected, he fanned twigs with a pan of charred tow and started a blaze. He arranged several pans of food on top, plus a kettle of water with birds in it, then liberally salted the lot.
“Cum, let’s wash.”
He dragged me to the stream again where we splashed our faces and hands. By the time we sat by the fire, I hardly cared whether I ate or not. He poured a horn of hot ale.
“Here’s yer methier,�
� he said. “Wassail.”
I savored the warm drink and quickly took another. The food that followed was passing strange, but food nonetheless: we ate raw pressed venison, cocky-leeky, eel porridge, red cole-wart and cabbage and finally our last course, haggis. Haggis was the worst of the lot, being a sheep’s stomach filled with oatmeal, liver and lights, but I choked down every crumb. I knew Enoch had a speculative look, but I didn’t care.
At last I settled back, groggy with warmth and the hot food in my stomach, secure behind our fur curtain from the driven drench of fine sleet.
“Now what do ye think it would be worth for Magnus Barefoot to know yer whereabouts?” Enoch asked softly.
And I turned chill as a corpse. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“I think ye do, Tom. Mayhap there’s a reward on yer head, mayhap ye’ve run away from yer rightful owner. Suppose ye tell me sooth why a lad called Alexander what speaks Latin pretends to be plain Tom, the steward’s son.”
“My master—er—William by name, was the oldest of three brothers,” I said feverishly, then stopped.
“Aye, gae on,” the Scot prodded. “I want no invention.”
“And he had a son named Tom who was milk-brother to me; our nurse was that same Dame Margery you saw with me today. And our kind master, William that is—”
“I can remember a name fer two heartbeats. Get on wi’ yer tale.”
“… educated us as if we were real brothers. Then when my own father died—of the pox, as I told you—Master William adopted me. Then his own son Tom caught the pox as well and I was made heir by the father, William. Then William himself was struck down.” I paused, wondering if so many people would die of the pox.
“How big an estate? Where?”
I became confused. “Well, I believe it has—er—twenty good fields.”
“Fiefdoms?”
“Aye, yes, that’s what you call them.”
“A good halding. Where?”
I racked my brain. “Close to—Newcastle.” I had no notion where Newcastle might be, but Father Michael had gone there once so I knew it existed.
Enoch pursed pleased lips. “Newcastle. That be rich lond, on the right side of the oatline.”
“Yes but—you recall that Master William has two brothers?”
“Do ye think I be an ass? Of course.”
“The one in York, where I’m headed now, and his name be George and he’s the youngest, well, he wants to support me in my inheritance. But the middle one whose name be George—”
“Ye just sayed the youngest was George.”
“Aye, you’re making me befuddled. The middle one is Gregory. Gregory is challenging my claim and wants me dead.”
“I see. And where do Magnus Barefoot fit this muddle?”
“Magnus Barefoot?” I’d forgotten him entirely.
“Aye, ye mun know the squire since he’s giving chase. He claims he serves a knight called Roland.”
“I know naught of any Roland, but I’ve heard of Magnus,” I prattled. “He works for George.”
“George?”
“I mean, Gregory. Aye, for Gregory. He’s a—a—I’m not sure what you call such wights, but he’s been offered reward to kill me.”
There was a long silence as Enoch stirred the coals.
He laughed then, a harsh dry hack. “I, too, be the youngest of three brothers. And I war steward at one time.”
I didn’t comment, not certain whether that meant he believed me or no.
“Tell me true, Alex-Tom-Want, how much do ye think Magnus would pay fer yer hide in one piece? Mar or less than George?”
I was shocked out of my wits by his black crass soul, though it confirmed what I knew of Scots. I sought desperately to find good reason he should spare me. “George—is—has—money, methinks. He’s something to do with York Cathedral. Also—he says we can win in Assize.”
“Assize?” There was an unexpected interest here.
“Aye, that’s what he said.” I couldn’t recall exactly where I’d heard the word Assize, but my father’s spirit must have supplied it to me.
“A decision by court. Aye, that’s where the future points, mind me, Alex.”
“Aye.”
“And Gregory?”
I thought of my fathers description of Roland de Roncechaux. “He claims to be a knight but is a common brigand. He has no money, I know.”
“Wal, Alex, ye hae struck a dale. I’ll git ye to George in York, and ye’ll git me reward, or the Devil take thee.”
A log broke on the fire, shooting sparks upward so that the Scot’s eyes glinted red.
“Aye,” I whispered.
He squeezed my shoulder hard. “Swear.”
“I swear.”
At last I was permitted to squirm deep in furs with my wolf’s warm body next to mine. One day and a night since my parents had died and I was in the clutches of a thieving, murdering Scot, but he was dense as well, Deo gratias.
And I was still alive.
Before I could think of my situation more, I fell asleep.
I WAS WAKENED BY A RUDE SHOVE FROM A BOOT.
“Get up, dawdle-bones, before the craws pick at ye.”
At first I knew not where I was but then it came back, how he’d been willing to trade my life for gold. Bile rose in my mouth, which I swallowed: he was a giant, I was a dwarf. Sulkily I staggered to my feet. An iron-gray lid hugged the earth tight and ’twas hard to say if the sun had risen or no.
“Take the animals to drink,” the Scot ordered, “and see ye make haste. Ye’ve held us up long enow as it is.”
Stop grucching, I thought, as I dragged the animals with me, for we’ll part this day as soon as possible and you can fly straight as a warlock to Hell. I bent over the stream and splashed the sleep from my face.
Then I sought a private bush and squatted. Much refreshed after a time, I reached for a handful of soft young oak leaves to wipe. When I tossed them aside, I noticed that their green had turned red. I’d stood and begun pulling up my tights before the meaning struck me!
Again I squatted and wiped; again I saw red. Red blood? Holy Mother of Christ, I’m bleeding! From my crotch, aye, where Maisry got it, aye, and my mother, too, though she didn’t bleed. O Deus, juva me! Am I going to die then?
Almost quelling terror was a rage as big and black as the glowering heaven, for the Scot had done this to me. Yes, in the night when I’d been heavy with sleep. No, more than sleep, drugged! No wonder that haggis had tasted so foul. Come at me with the serpent under his plaid, out in the dark to attack while I slept, pricked at my crotch to kill!
But why wasn’t I dead?
I touched my wound tentatively and it didn’t even hurt. Was it possible he’d missed his aim somewhat? Or was his power less than Sir Roland’s? Or maybe it was a slow spell that would drag my life from me drop by drop so I hardly noticed, so that he could deliver me to Northumberland or, worse, marry me himself! That must be it, for he could have sliced my throat with his organ in the manner Maisry suffered.
“Alex, what’s holding ye?” he bawled from above.
“I’m coming!”
Hastily I took the stuffing from my toes and placed the rags inside my harness to catch the dripping. Reward, he’d asked for. Aye, I’d reward him, and I clutched the handful of hemlock hidden with my treasure.
Keeping my eyes averted, I helped him break camp. When it came time to mount, however, I looked at him with all the gall I could muster and said with heavy significance: “I can’t ride on that bone, tender as I am. You’ll have to give me a pelt.”
“Dynts yer balls, do it? Sure, lad, that be better now,” and with brazen smiles, he piled on a sheepskin.
We didn’t speak again till we stopped to dine on the edge of a bleak moor.
“Tell me, Alex, when did yer mother die?”
“Three days ago.” I was so intent on keeping my tone cold that I forgot I’d said naught about my mother’s being dead.
“And
ye’re how old?”
“Eight.” At least I got that right.
“That’s what I thought, a wee babe of a bairn. No wonder that ye called me mother in the nicht and huddled close.”
“Yes, and I remember what you did,” I said with the same heavy significance, but he merely leaned over and patted my knee. I threw my gruel into the fire to show my disgust, but the gesture was wasted on such a monster.
All day long the countryside grew ever more desolate as one gray heathery curve gave way to another and it looked as if I’d be with Enoch Angus Boggs forever. My only ray of hope was that far from feeling weaker, I seemed to wax stronger as the afternoon wore on. I might survive this yet.
We muddled ahead for long aching hours until we were in deep twilight and the wind rose to a harsh freezing gale, blinding our eyes and chilling our very marrow. Our situation looked hopeless, for the Roman Street stretched to eternity without so much as an ant hill to protect us. Then suddenly Enoch pointed and shouted: “We’re in muckle luck, Alex. On the horizon there, an inn.”
He urged our weary beasts to hurry but it was near dark when we halted before a rude leaning timber hut with half its thatch missing and a banging shingle with the legend: Inn of the Gray Falcon. The Scot hesitated.
“Ye knaw, bairn, that the chancit be that Magnus Barefoot is here. We havena passed him.”
“Let’s go on,” I begged.
Enoch shook his shaggy head. “Nay, e’en the clattering streams will freeze this nicht. Best have shelter, come what may.”
Soothly the wind stung my face like nettles and brought tears to my eyes. Yet I was so o’ercome by fear that my knees collapsed and I fell to the ground when I dismounted.
“Ho there, take heart. I’ll protect my investment.”
He knocked and the inn door flew open; a scrawny boy staggered toward our beasts. To my horror, Lance growled ferociously and would have sprung if I hadn’t clutched his neck.
“I’m Jimmy,” the boy piped weakly, “come to help ye with yer horses.”
“Looks like our wolf prefers my brother Tom,” Enoch said as he stepped between Jimmy and Lance. “Tom, ye see to Tippet and Twixt whilst I talk to Jimmy aboot his other guests.”
Alix of Wanthwaite 01 - Shield of Three Lions Page 6