The Widow and the King

by John Dickinson

  And here they were – well, one of them, anyway. It was the clicking boy, peering around her arm at the quire before her. Without thinking, she drew her hand across the page to hide the words on it.

  ‘What are you looking at?’ he asked.

  (‘Nothing’ would be a stupid answer. It would also be stupid to try to hide what she was reading. He would have to be told enough to make him lose interest.)

  ‘It's just a set of heraldic records,’ she said, and lifted her arm for him to see. ‘In order of precedence, and listing the badge of each house.’

  ‘Let me see.’

  She made room for him, keeping her impatience locked in the secret places inside her mind. He looked down the long list of entries. At length he put his finger beside one. She glanced at it, and the word Moon leaped from the page at her.

  He had found it – almost at once. He had found what she had been looking for.

  She peered at the entry, spelling out the words in her mind.

  Tarceny. Sable, a Full Moon Argent defaced, commonly named the Doubting Moon. Motto, The Under-Craft Prevaileth.

  Hairs prickled on the back of her neck. She had halfguessed that this would be the answer. Chawlin had looked at those pale badges that the horsemen had worn, and had said they came from a distant house that had been broken. What house could that be? The scroll told her that it was Tarceny.

  Those men had been Father's killers. They had passed by her so close she could have touched them.

  ‘Why are you looking at this?’ said the boy.

  The Widow had spoken with them from the walls. She hadn't charged them, routed them, hanged them. She had spoken with Father's killers!

  She cleared her throat. ‘I'm under private tuition,’ she managed to say. Her voice sounded weak in her ears.

  ‘That's not true. Not any more.’

  She gripped the edge of the desk and willed herself not to shout at him. She knew that an argument in the library would do her no good. Everyone in the house knew she was still in disgrace, and being treated like any other scholar. Scholars were expected to share texts. She would only draw people's attention to the piece she had been looking at. In any case, it wasn't really the boy's fault if he knew no better than to speak to her like an equal.

  ‘A group of riders appeared at the gate a week ago,’ she said carefully. (Truth, she found, was often the best way of keeping the whole truth secret.) ‘They wore that badge. I wanted to know who they were, that was all. What is your name?’

  He took a moment to answer. Then he said: ‘I'm called Luke.’

  ‘Are you here for a book? Can I help you find it?’

  ‘I want to look at this with you.’

  She frowned, puzzled. Her mouth was open to frame a question when another movement in the room caught her eye. Padry, the Master of Astrology, and also the scholars' Master of House, was peering round the corner of the press at their backs, like an old dog with nothing to do.

  Sophia's heart sank. Now he would want to come over and see what they were looking at, and then he would want to talk about it, and maybe even ask questions. And she had already told this boy about the company of horsemen, so the boy would think it strange if she gave different answers to Padry. But the last thing she wanted was to remind the Widow's masters that she had been missing at the time those men had appeared at the gate.

  Sure enough, here he came, sidling his bulk along between the bench and the press behind them in his idle curiosity. And she could not brush the quire aside or even shift it to show a less incriminating passage, because this idiot boy was leaning his elbows on it, caught in something he was reading. His finger had moved down to the last lines on that page. Padry stopped just behind him. She could only hope that the master did not see the entry about Tarceny, which lay open to the eye before them.

  Padry peered over their shoulders. She saw him begin to read. She saw his face change. Her heart sank again.

  Suddenly his hand gripped the boy by the shoulder.

  ‘Who set you to this? Who?’

  To that moment Luke could not have been aware that Padry was in the room. He jerked, and turned pale. Something like a shriek escaped from him.

  ‘Who said you were to study this?’ said Padry again, shaking him by the shoulder.

  Luke seemed to stop struggling when he realized who it was that had seized on him. But his breath was coming in gasps.

  ‘N-no one, master.’

  ‘No one indeed! Come with me. You will be taught to attend to your studies.’ Ignoring Sophia, he marched the boy out of the room, still gripping him by the elbow. Sophia watched them go, with her mouth open and her heart thankful that Padry had pounced so swiftly upon the wrong offender. The sounds faded down the stairway. Dapea, her maid, was sitting bolt upright on her bench, looking dumbfounded.

  ‘Angels!’ she said. ‘Is he going to beat the poor boy? And what for?’

  He almost certainly would, thought Sophia. For some reason he had looked as though he had caught Luke tearing up a page to make paper. She wondered if Padry was actually going to start punishing the boy immediately, outside the school hall. But a door slammed, and all sounds were cut off. The silence swelled in behind it, troubled only by the sounds and calls of the household gathering in the courtyard.

  Poor boy, yes.

  ‘That's my fault,’ she said grimly. ‘Although I don't know why it mattered.’

  There was nothing she could do. She returned to the table where the quire lay with its long list of badges and names of infamy.

  Tarceny. The Under-Craft Prevaileth. (What was undercraft?) Sable, a Full Moon Argent defaced.

  The Doubting Moon!

  The Widow had spoken with them – spoken with them and let them go. Did she not even care about Father any more? She wore black every day, summer and winter; she spoke his name and cited his memory over and over. But she didn't care enough to do anything for him.

  Sophia did not know. When it came to the Widow, she could not trust even her own feelings. That was something else the Widow had done to her.

  Who could she trust? She wanted to talk to someone. But if she told anyone that she had seen these riders pass, she would risk another beating.

  The scholar Chawlin. He knew, of course.

  Well, why not? She had been looking forward to seeing him again. Here was a reason to seek him out. He would be at the Dispute tonight, with everyone else. She might catch his eye then. It would be very soon now. In fact she should be on her way already.

  She reached to gather up the incriminating quire, and paused once more. Her eye skipped down the page. It surprised her how many families must have been destroyed since the scroll was written. She found the Leaves of Bay – they were strong, still. She found the Eagle of Baldwin, which must now survive only on the shield of Velis. At the bottom of the page she came to the entry that Luke had been reading.

  Trant. Vert, an Oak Tree Vert upon a Sun Royal Or. Motto, Watch For Who Comes.

  Green and gold. Another vanished family, with its arms preserved on this scroll long after they had lost their meaning. She had heard the name before, but could not remember where. Luke would have done well to take the motto's advice. He had neither seen Padry nor heard him approach.

  She could have warned him, she thought. She should have realized that Padry's appearance might mean trouble for him as well as for her. But she hadn't been thinking about him at all.

  She rolled the quire up briskly, as if the noise it made could drown the little worm of guilt inside her. There was nothing she could do.

  XI

  Cellar and Stair

  he great hall of Develin was in uproar. The tables hammered with knife-butts, bowls, dishes and the fists of feasters. The high-timbered roof was filled with wispy smoke. Cressets burned all down both sides of the hall, set between the great red-and-white banners that dropped to the floor. Music flowed from the small minstrels' gallery, barely heard in the noise of supper.

  Padry was
in his place at the high table, some way to Sophia's right. But scan the lower tables as she might, she could see no sign of the boy Luke. So they almost certainly had beaten him, and had left him lying in agony on his pallet. She pursed her lips.

  Chawlin did not seem to be among the scholars either. Now why not? No one at the school could miss the Dispute supper without the very best of reasons. Nearly everyone else seemed to be there. Why wasn't he? She had been hoping for a chance to signal to him – a lift of an eye, the quick gesture of a hand – that she wanted to talk. And he was not there.

  She was surprised how disappointed she felt.

  ‘Now say, Master Wisgrave,’ called the chamberlain Hervan on her right. ‘Why is a man of wit the better of a man of word?’

  On Sophia's left, the Widow turned to listen. Sophia kept her eyes on her food.

  ‘I suppose that the man of wit—’ began Wisgrave.

  ‘Knows better than to answer!’ cried someone, to laughter.

  ‘And yet this man of wit takes not his own counsel!’

  Every evening the counsellors paraded their cleverness before the Widow. Hervan and the other officers loved to show they were the equal of the masters, and the masters loved to show they were not. And the Widow would best all of them – partly, Sophia thought, because she was the Widow, and they had to let her. For sure, no other woman would be allowed to – or would want to. Sophia just endured it. Hestie, a plain knights' lady, hated it. She had begged and pleaded and grovelled to the Widow to be released, because she could not bear sitting tongue-tied while everyone around her took turns to show how clever they were. So she too was absent tonight, eating alone in her chamber, as she did whenever she could.

  And because of that, Sophia knew, she would be without an escort after the supper broke up. In theory she was to follow the Widow and her counsellors as they went from the hall to the living quarters. But no one at high table would make it their business to see that she did. There would be a chance, then, to go where she wished and do as she wished – even to go running after a lone scholar in some dark corner of the house if she chose. It was, of course, exactly the sort of thing that Hestie was trying to prevent. So it would serve her right (and the Widow as well) if that was exactly what Sophia did.

  She would too – if only she could work out where he was. And she could. He must be on cellar guard.

  There had been a bungled attempt to break into the cellar and steal wine from the butts. The culprits, a group of scullions, were now completing their third day with their ankles fast in the castle's stocks, but still the repair of the cellar lock had not found its way to the top of the blacksmith's pile of jobs to be done. And as long as the men-at-arms kept breaking buckles and riding their horses until the shoes dropped off, there was no saying when the repair could be made. So a cellar guard had been set up – a pool of reliable men to take turns watching over the barrels until the door could be made fast again. Scholars were not usually given castle duties (especially not ones that tempted the throat); but Chawlin had been in the house a long time, and must be known and liked beyond the school. He was just the sort of man who would be called on to take his turn. He might well be there now.

  And if he was, he would be on his own.

  The corridors would be dark. She might even have to feel her way in places. And of course it would be forbidden. It would mean another beating, if she was caught.

  And she was still going to do it. She really was.

  At last the high table rose. All the masters and officers gathered to attend their mistress on their way to the council chamber. Sophia dropped quietly to the back of the group and stepped away into a side corridor. It would be a while at least before anyone shifted themselves to find her.

  The sounds and lights faded behind her. With a hollow tingling in her chest she passed as quickly and quietly as she could along an empty passage. If anyone had asked her, she would have said she was going to the chapel. But ten yards short of the chapel door she came to the cellar stair. No one was around. She slipped like a cat into the shelter of its darkness.

  At the foot of the stair was another passage, barely lit. At the far end the cellar door blocked her way, bigtimbered and strengthened with iron. It had a forbidding look. But the lock was broken. That was the point. From under the door filtered the light of a lamp. The man she was looking for might be in there.

  Now, Sophia.

  The door swung under her hand, and he was.

  He was alone, sitting in the quiet with a lamp and food by him. He must have finished eating a few moments before. His eyes were wide.

  ‘It's only me,’ she said.

  She had made him jump. That wasn't surprising. Sophia didn't like it when things came suddenly out of the dark either.

  His hand was holding a long pipe. He had been in the act of lifting it to his mouth to play.

  ‘Don't stop,’ she said. ‘I'll listen.’

  After a moment he shook his head.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ he said.

  She walked down the short flight of steps and sat on the last one, as though it were the most natural thing in the world that she should have sought him out at this hour.

  ‘Those men we saw. They were from Tarceny,’ she said.

  Tarceny. She saw the impact of the word on his face. He sighed.

  ‘I did think so.’

  ‘My mother should have had them killed,’ she said, putting her chin in her hands.

  She was watching him intently, trying to read what he thought of her sudden arrival. For a moment she thought he was going to send her away. But he said nothing, and did nothing except go on frowning. His face looked drawn. He was looking at a patch of the floor by her ankle. He must be thinking about something. Or …

  ‘Are you unwell?’ she asked.

  He shook his head again. ‘The name's a bad memory, that's all. And I've not slept so well since seeing those fellows on the road. It'll pass, I think.’

  ‘They were evil, those people.’

  Now he smiled tightly to himself, as if thinking, Poor child, what could she possibly know? And still he did not answer. Still he was looking away, as if he wished the darkness were not so close. She could see he did not want to talk about this.

  ‘Tell me a story then,’ she said.

  Once more she had surprised him. And it was her turn to smile, now. ‘I've been finding out about you, you see,’ she said.

  ‘Well – yes, I do tell stories, if people want to listen. Is that what you came for?’

  ‘Tell me about meeting my mother.’

  ‘So. But that's not one of my usual ones.’

  ‘You can tell it to me.’

  He looked at her again. He would be guessing at the impulses that had brought her down her at this hour. To hear stories? Unlikely. Disobedience, for sure. And what else?

  ‘You said you would,’ she insisted.

  Well he had, hadn't he? Another time, he had said – back there by the road after the men from Tarceny had passed. Let him think what he liked. His tale would tell her more about him in any event. That was what she wanted.

  At last he smiled again, more broadly this time, and his head shook slightly as if he could see no harm in it.

  ‘Well,’ he said.

  ‘You've brought me the gift of your company, and I'm glad. Guard duty is lonely duty. Yes, I'll tell you, if you like. It was in Baldwin's rising – five, six years ago. You'd be too young to remember why it started, I guess …’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Well.’ He drew breath.

  ‘Now Baldwin was a proud man, and headstrong, and his family had suffered in Tarceny's rising. The King had given him wardenship of the whole of Tarceny's lands west of the lake, but it was not enough. For what the King gives in wardenship, the King may take away if he pleases …’

  Sophia listened. There was a funny, fluttery, bouncy feeling inside her as she watched him. She saw how his head turned, following his thoughts, with his hair
and little bristles glowing in the lamplight like the lining of a cloud that hid the sun. She hadn't been sure if he was handsome, but now she was. Yes, definitely. The light and memory played on his face, and his eyes looked steadily into the shadows of the cellar.

  And she had succeeded. She was with him on her own, with time – a little time – to stay.

  As for Poor child and You'd be too young – she'd show him soon enough. She was not too young to know what she was doing, anyway.

  ‘… War is a habit for the great houses – one they find hard to forget. And so Baldwin came to blows with his king.

  ‘I was one of Baldwin's squires – warden of a small keep in the very north of the March of Tarceny, under the mountains. When the rising began I sent Baldwin soldiers, but otherwise I was not troubled until the King Septimus and his allies – including your mother – drove Baldwin across the lake and besieged him in Tarceny. Then he sent me his treasure to safeguard, and a few other squires whom he thought would keep watch over me and it until he escaped to join us.

  ‘Of course, he did not escape.

  ‘Soon we received summons from the King to surrender, and to hand over Baldwin's gold. We sent back defiance, because at that time we did not know which way the fight would go, and we knew that no one could come after us in strength until it was settled. We waited to hear whether the King or Baldwin would prevail.

  ‘So the next message we received came from neither of them, but from your mother.’

  He shook his head, ruefully, like some chess player remembering defeat at the hands of a master.

  ‘She offered gold if we would surrender. The messenger had it with him. That did not matter. If we had wanted it we could simply have taken it. But your mother knows what moves men. She also offered land.

  ‘She offered a manor, for each of us, in Develin and around. The gold only served to show that the promise of land was real. It was our first year's harvest, her message said.