Fair Weather

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  Tilda found these fascinating insights most interesting but I found them hysterical. I must have snorted, almost as contemptuously as Gerald had once taught me. Vespasian lifted one eyebrow, turned away and ignored me.

  “When invited to dine in company, remove your hat when spoken to and do not shuffle or avert your eyes when asked a question. You’ll look either stupid or guilty, whether you are or not. If you are, it’s even more important not to look it. As a guest in the home of a social superior, which with you means everyone, you first leave your weapons with the steward, and then bend your knee to your host.” Stephen and Hugh had particular trouble with some of these orders, but it was the other more general etiquette that delighted me most.

  “Spitting directly in front of your companions, picking your nose and pissing in public,” said Vespasian, “are considered especially heinous. Shitting in public is the worst, whether or not you turn your back. Find a quiet place behind a wall or a tree, if you have no access to a chamber pot. And if you do come across someone in the act of pissing, do not address them directly until they’ve finished.

  Nor are you to search inside your clothes for fleas or lice, especially under your tunics and in your braies, and belching or farting in public is far better avoided. What you have indulged in all your lives, will stop completely and at once.” His eyes, switching suddenly to me as I stood behind the others, danced with genuine and spontaneous humour. I had been trying not to laugh myself. “This is not necessary for Tilda, I think,” he said, dismissing me with a grin. “Only for my disreputable boys.”

  In fact, I believe it was only meant for Gerald, but perhaps Vespasian decided not to single out his step son and so included everyone.

  The increased skill in hunting benefited us all. Vespasian killed a wild boar, which was strictly illegal in the king’s forest. I had not been with him but Gerald, Stephen and Walter had, and they came rushing back full of glory to tell of the creature’s fierce charges and red piggy eyes. Its tusks were long and curved, dirty white from an ugly wide mouth. Poor thing, defending its life, killed for meat, though little enough flesh for it was bony and tough. We boiled it for hours and made jelly from its trotters.

  Vespasian had stopped wearing all his grand clothes and he seemed like the man Tilda had always known, the quiet, scruffy man with the hidden menace, hair a little too long, face a little unshaven, clothes too worn and too old. He did not remove me from his comfortable bed and instead he slept on my straw pallet amongst all the boys. Usually I avoided him. I wanted to ask him so much that I knew he would refuse to explain, so instead I kept away. Sometimes I felt him watching me. Most of the time it was as if nothing had ever happened between us, or in any other way. Gradually my body eased and the aching paled. Energetic youth made healing quick. Being Tilda, I began to accept everything without question. I could bring back Sammie’s face only in my dreams. I remained Tilda while Molly’s memories began to fade but her consciousness was still mine, and mine was hers. We shared our opinions, but when Tilda’s wishes and mine contradicted, she won and my knowledge was quickly stifled beneath her innocence. It was her language I spoke and her thoughts that took precedence. Just sometimes, when I could slip through her naivety, I could order her actions. I still meant to kill Vespasian and I knew I could make her do it. I practised with bow, and sword, and knife. I imagined an attack in the quiet of night, but I also remembered how, even asleep and drunk, Vespasian had nearly broken Hugh’s arm. Then I reminded myself of my own broken wrist and the evil done to me and that reinforced my determination.

  But life became calm. There was no threat. No dark strangers came riding through the forest to our doors. No bands of highway robbers, no foresters on the king’s business, no outlaws. Gerald had said the old man’s name was Arthur and his wife, Gerald’s grandmother, was Joanna. I knew them both. Arthur was the devil who had murdered my friends in two worlds. But Arthur had not acted alone. I needed to know how much Vespasian was involved and how deep his hands dabbled in blood.

  Except for the dragon brand, I soon felt wonderfully healed and exercise gave Tilda new strength. As a teacher, Vespasian was strict and assured. He did not know he was training me to kill him.

  Chapter Twenty Three

  It was late summer and nearly autumn. The forest was a great fantasy of trees in burning colour. The winds blew cold but the colours were hot and the sun kept shining. There were squirrels collecting for approaching winter, the weasels were growing their thicker coats and the deer were rutting. The boys and I wandered into the forest collecting herbs, apples and wild fennel. “Keep together,” Vespasian repeated each time. “There is to be no moment when any one of you is alone.”

  I was with Walter and we had taken the path to the pool. I stopped there as always and put herbs on Richard’s grave. “Was it really like you said,” asked Walter suddenly, “or were you making it up? About Richard? About who killed him?”

  I was kneeling on the mossy stone, my hands smelling of thyme, tiny white flowers on my palm where the old burn still looked angry and distorted. I stared up at Walter and nodded and he came and sat next to me on the ground.

  “If it’s true Gerald’s grandfather killed Richard, what about Isabel?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Her too. But it’s no good asking me anything else, because I don’t know.”

  “But you were there,” insisted Walter, his dark eyebrows furrowed. “You said you met these people. You said it was like being there for weeks. I’ve seen what your hand looks like, all twisted up in the middle. I know what makes those marks, it’s fire. You were burned very badly. It was never like that before we went to that house. So when you say you were tortured, you’re telling the truth.”

  I stared back down at Richard’s grave mound and remembered his small decapitated head with the eyes glazed and the gaping mouth full of dried blood. “I always tell the truth,” I said, which was a lie, so I amended it. “At least, about things that matter I do.”

  “So why?” demanded Walter. “What were the killings for? Why in God’s name would anyone want to do that?”

  “Well, not in God’s name,” I said. “Perhaps in the devil’s name. I don’t know. But there’s powerful dark magic. I don’t know much about evil. Perhaps they worship Satan.”

  “That’s silly. Vespasian would never have got mixed up with anything like that,” decided Walter. “I don’t believe it.”

  “Look,” I said, “so Vespasian saved me in the end. He brought me out of the house so you could bring me home. Maybe he even saved my life. But he was there, all through everything and nobody hurt him. He was free to leave, because he carried me out. But then he went back in.”

  “Vespasian saved every one of us,” persisted Walter. “In London, he rescued us when we were beggars and orphans. We’re only alive because of him.”

  I got up, wiping my tunic down, brushing the remains of the herbs from my hands into the pool’s water, the scent of them remaining with me. “So,” I said, with a deep breath, “it doesn’t matter. Think what you like. But what about Gerald?”

  Walter looked cross. “Gerald has nothing to do with it. He’s my friend. He’s your friend. It’s not his fault if he was dragged into all this mess and mystery.”

  “But think,” I said softly, “just think a bit, and you’ll see none of it makes any sense at all. So Gerald is heir to a long dead baron. His grandmother’s still alive and she’s rich with that huge house and land and jewels and a title. Gerald ought to be Baron Tennaton now, oughtn’t he? So why is he back here with Vespasian living like an outlaw and a pauper in the forest?”

  “Well, there’s no shame in that,” said Walter. “After all, Vespasian is his guardian and now we know Vespasian is a baron too.”

  “Who has always used an assumed name ever since we’ve known him and doesn’t claim his title? Think, Walter, he was a thief when he first took us in. Just a thief and he taught us how to steal too.”

  “So you don’t believe any
thing he says?” Walter wasn’t prepared to give up that easily.

  “Oh, I think what he says is probably perfectly true,” I told him. “It’s what he doesn’t say that worries me. There’s just a whole world of terrible secrets he never tells us about at all.”

  “Why should he?” demanded Walter. We had started walking again, back down the track into the forest under the wild profusion of autumn coloured leaf. “We don’t belong to him and he doesn’t really have any responsibility for us, even though he’s looked after us for years. He doesn’t have to explain himself to us. Who he is, is his own business.”

  “Didn’t Gerald have a right to know?” I said. “And now he has to tell me. He owes it to me, if not to you. He’s done too much to tell me nothing now.”

  Above us the sun spangled through the trees’ canopy. Walter reached out and took my hand. He turned it over and looked at the ugly red deformity. Then, quite unexpectedly, he leaned down and gently kissed it. “I’ll marry you, if you want, Tilda,” he said suddenly. “If Vespasian lets us, I’ll marry you and look after you.”

  I stared at him but I didn’t pull my hand away. I tried to smile. His little snub nose was all wrinkled up with worry and the frown was so deep that it clasped his eyebrows across its bridge. He didn’t look as though his offer was causing him any optimistic delight. Tilda was uncomfortable and looked at her feet as she continued to walk through the shadows. Personally I wondered if Walter was just about young enough to be my son. But of course it wasn’t me he had asked to marry, it was Tilda.

  “Thank you,” I muttered. “I don’t know. Do you really want to? And why should we have to get Vespasian’s permission?”

  “Because we live in his house and he looks after us,” said Walter. “He’s our sort of father, isn’t he! And yes, I do want to. I’ve wanted to for ages.”

  We walked back very slowly to the house, still holding hands. Osbert gave us a strange look when we arrived, but no one said very much. Vespasian was in the stables, scrubbing down the horse. Stephen was sitting on the doorstep, skinning a hare. There was blood all over his lap and the fur came off in wet tufts.

  “You’re spoiling that,” said Walter. “That pelt could have lined winter shoes, or a hood.”

  “Why are you holding hands with Tilda?” demanded Stephen, looking up with a challenge. Then I was aware that Vespasian was standing behind us. I could smell him. He was musky with sweat. Walter had not heard him come.

  “Because I’ve asked for Tilda in marriage,” said Walter.

  I turned around. I knew what Vespasian would say before he said it. The pause made me angry. “Yes, I thought you might,” he smiled. “But you see, I’m afraid that I cannot give my permission.”

  Walter blushed and hung his head. “We’re old enough to decide,” he said. “She’s eighteen already. I’m eighteen too and I’ll be nineteen soon I think. I’m strong enough to look after her.”

  I glared at Vespasian. He said, “It is out of the question. I am not interested in arguments.”

  Stephen scurried indoors with the half skinned hare. Walter stared at his boots. “I’m sorry,” he said after a moment. “I’ll wait then. I’ll ask her again another time, after all this difficulty is sorted. I mean, when we can go back to London. Then I’ll find work or set up a shop. I’ve done some cobbling. Old Wat can teach me more and put me up for the guild.”

  I had thought Vespasian was angry but suddenly he smiled, a wide genuine grin that crinkled up his eyes. “Then Tilda is lucky,” he said without looking at me. “I wish you both happiness. But you must wait. You will make no promise or contract until all risk has passed.”

  “Risk of what?” I said.

  Still he didn’t look at me. “Risk of death,” he said.

  For the rest of the day I avoided Walter as well as Vespasian. Tilda had never intended to accept his proposal. She had no wish to marry him at all. I curled in bed at night and Walter’s young, crumpled face never entered my thoughts at all. Nothing sweet ever entered my thoughts, only flame and blood and pain.

  But Walter continued to stay close to me, found me the warmest cushion next to the fire each evening, ladled out the best portion of meat onto my trencher and held my hand crossing the yard when I let him. If I carried a basket of apples, he would take it from me. “Don’t worry,” he whispered to me one morning. “The contract is made, whether the others know it or not. We’ll be married in the spring. We’ll marry at a church, if you like.”

  “There isn’t any contract,” I answered at once. “Don’t say there is and don’t think there is. I never answered you when you asked me. Vespasian told you no, but I never got to tell you anything at all.”

  “It wouldn’t be such a bad match,” said Walter, with a sniff.

  I weakened. “Perhaps. But sudden death, that’s what Vespasian said, isn’t it? Please, Walter, don’t let’s talk about this again at least until we understand what’s going on.”

  We were in the kitchen. The largest cauldron was hanging over the low fire, the pottage thick and highly scented, simmering in little creamy bubbles. To avoid him, I went over to stir it but Walter pulled me back. He pushed me against the far wall and held me by the shoulders. He was only slightly taller than me. His eyes were narrow and always seemed a little startled under those strong brows. He leaned down and kissed me hard. His mouth was shut tight and very dry. When he came up for air and let me go, I could see Vespasian’s cold eyes watching us from the doorway.

  I stared back at Walter and when I looked up again, Vespasian had gone. “Don’t,” I told Walter. “I’m not ready.”

  “That was the first time I ever kissed anyone,” said Walter. “That ought to mean something.”

  “It was the first time for me too,” said Tilda. “But I don’t want to do it again.”

  It had meant very little to me. Such an inexperienced child’s kiss. I felt guilty but Tilda remained unimpressed. Walter, like all the boys and like me too, was grimy and unwashed. He smelled of the horse and manure, the wild garlic and the thick dark earth in the vegetable garden. He smelled like a boy who worked very hard and hadn’t had a bath in months. His kiss had been rough and he hadn’t known how to do anything except press hard. I could feel the desperation of his desire and Tilda didn’t like it. But Walter expected girls to be difficult. “I can wait,” he said, walking off.

  The next time I went down to Richard’s grave at the silver pool, I went alone.

  Chapter Twenty Four

  I slipped out of the house at first dawn. There was no breeze and it was a mild night of soft air and a full moon without aura. Pure silver, the moon’s only blemishes were a tracery of valleys on a thoughtful face. I took my short sword, leather sheathed. The baldric came to my waist and joined my belt, but the sword hung heavy. I wrapped it in my skirts to stifle any noise. No one woke. The boys cuddled tight, a foot or an elbow thrust from the straw, noses wheezing beneath the coverlets. In my old bed, Vespasian slept on his back, eyes closed and dark lashes long against the golden tanned planes of his face. His hands were clasped behind his head and he breathed so silently that he seemed not to breathe at all. No one moved as I crept past into the big hall and its still smouldering fire, and unlocked the front door. I stepped over the long dried herbs still scattered across the step, and hurried across to the first trees.

  I felt the night chill like a sudden warning, but scurried on into the blackthorn cover, pulling my hood over my hair to disappear completely into the shadows. It was only a few minutes, ten perhaps if I ran, to the cold pool I loved. I sat beside Richard’s grave mound and played my fingers in the wild dew trapped violets clambering up its shallow sides. I wondered if he would have been jealous had Walter asked for me in marriage while he was still alive. But Tilda would have taken neither of them. It had been more comfortable when they had treated me like one of the boys. It was only Vespasian that had ever peopled Tilda’s muddled dreams of making love and chivalrous adventure. Now she had pledged to kill
Vespasian, whether she still loved him or not.

  The sun tipped the moonlight from its pinnacles and drenched the dewy grass with gold. Quickly I pulled my clothes over my head, tumbled them into a heap on the bank with my sword on top, and walked into the water. Sudden cold made me gasp but I sank to my knees and flung my head down until all my long hair floated like water weed on the surface. It was warm then. I began to swim.

  Tilda had never known how to swim but I did and I took her underwater, breaking up through sun kissed bubbles, and beneath again past the little darting fishes and the surprise of the water snails. I had brought soap. A sluggish froth caught the first long rays of refraction and splintered into rainbows.

  Shaking the water from me, I clambered back up the banks and stretched on the springing green, rolling onto my stomach and closing my eyes against the march of the ants and the wild mint tickling my nose. The rising sun slanted through the clearing and glazed my back in warmth. I felt the energy of it up my spine. It was a long time since being free of grease and sweat and grime, with my body trapped in the same outworn clothes and my hair bedraggled. Cleanliness and naked freedom now felt deliciously exciting. I rested my head on Tilda’s crossed wrists, stretched my toes, flexed the muscles of my thighs and buttocks, laid my cheek on violets and smelled loam.

  “Did you expect that I would come, or did you hope that I would not?” said Vespasian.

  Panicked, I wriggled around, worm like, trying to hook one toe under my tunic lying nearby. I tried to manoeuvre it up over my back but it didn’t budge. So I gave up, stuck my chin up, folded my arms beneath me and gazed up at him with dislike. I felt more naked than ever before. I said, “You were asleep.”

  “I am apt to wake when my orders are disobeyed,” he said. “Have you any idea how dangerous it could be going alone into the forest? You cannot have forgotten what might happen. Is a simple bath worth risking your life?’