Sophia frowned. ‘What was the old toad thinking of ?’ she complained. ‘That was sedition – or very nearly! If I had gone to the Widow …’
‘Please do not.’
Chawlin was looking at her earnestly. He seemed to think she meant it.
‘He let his ideas run away with him,’ he said. ‘That was all. There are queer places in any head. And the more you think, the more queer they may be. Grismonde's been worried for some months now. But so have other masters and counsellors. He was ashamed of himself afterwards. I doubt he will trip himself up like that again.’
‘Don't worry yourself. I'd never tell her anything.’ She was cross that he even thought she might.
And he must have sensed her anger, because he fell silent. That depressed her more. She would much prefer to talk: either to convert him to her view, or be converted to his, it didn't matter. What mattered was that there shouldn't be this silence between them, in these very few moments when they could be together. It made her wonder again what kind of man he really was.
‘What's the matter with them – the masters?’ she asked.
Chawlin sighed. ‘They're worried, as I said. There are some ugly thoughts running around. I've heard them ask – among themselves – why we believe the things we do. Like Grismonde today: why should we believe in justice? Most of all they ask: what's the point?’
‘What's the point of what?’
Chawlin shrugged. ‘What we are doing. The school, and if it does any good.’
‘I've wanted to know that for a long time.’
Chawlin sighed again.
Sophia was impatient. Moments alone with him were so precious! She had come wanting to steal a kiss from him, as she had done last month on the stair after Council. She had wanted to laugh secretly with him at Grismonde and Luke, and maybe even hold him and feel the strength of his arm and chest. Yet here he was all sombre and grey, and talking only of depressing things. She couldn't kiss him when he was like this. It would be like kissing a tree stump.
She sat beside him, resenting the moments that passed so silently between them.
‘I did not think to hear it in a class, like that,’ Chawlin said. ‘But maybe it was only a matter of time. And sooner or later it'll get said in front of the whole house. Then it'll be too late, whatever the Widow does. I think …’
He paused. Sophia glanced at him.
‘I think we should have gone to help Septimus,’ he said.
‘It's too late to say that now, isn't it?’
‘Now that it's too late we may see it and say it. I've never been able to find out who swayed the Widow against it. Someone must have done. And maybe it would have been a disaster, but maybe not. At least we would still all know why we do what we do. Now … well, there may be a bad time coming …’
Sophia had had enough.
‘I must find Dapea,’ she said.
‘You're angry with me,’ said Chawlin.
She stopped halfway to her feet. Because he was asking her not to leave.
For three heartbeats she looked at him. Then she sat down again, slowly.
‘I want to know what you want,’ she said.
‘What I want?’ he repeated.
She waited for him, tingling with the suddenness of the moment.
You know what I mean, she thought. Why are we together? What do you think will happen? What are you: spy, fortune-seeker or …
… Or lover?
So many words, and all impossible – for both of them!
‘I could get you Thale,’ she said slowly. ‘Had you thought of that?’
He looked away, abruptly. ‘No!’ he grunted. ‘And no, you couldn't, I think.’
‘I could get you a manor. Maybe more than one.’
She was not sure what she was trying to do. Maybe she just wanted to pull him out of his torpor. Maybe she was trying to find out if he was a fortune-hunter.
Or maybe she meant it.
But if so, how could she persuade the Widow to honour it? Unless she meant he should wait until the day when the manors all finally came to her.
‘I do not want it!’
‘Then what do you want?' she hissed.
‘What do I want?’ he repeated. ‘What do I want?’
He was staring in front of himself, unseeing.
‘I want what I am most afraid of,’ he said.
‘Michael's Knees! What does that mean?’
He sighed.
‘If I tell you, you must understand that I'm not asking for your help.’
If he told her, she thought, then yes, he did want her help – even if he did not want to want it.
‘Tell me,’ she said.
‘I said I had seen what came to kill Tarceny. I did not say, I think, that I fought them. There were three of us there – myself, and Brother Martin who has now left us, and Tarceny's woman …’
‘You met her? I had no idea!’
‘She was there. And then they came for him – the monsters he himself had conjured. They were terrible. If I dream … Aagh – the cockerel!' He broke off, staring ahead of him.
It was a moment before he began again.
‘I wonder if you can imagine what it was like, years later, when I was given Tarceny's cup. Every hour I carried it, I thought of those things. I was very, very afraid.
‘And yet all the while I knew there was something more within it – something very deep. Maybe it was deep enough to – to let me understand the whole world, so much that I would no longer be so afraid of what I'd seen. I don't know. I just don't know. Because I Never. Dared. Touch it.’
He sighed.
‘When I met your mother I was almost glad to give it to her. Now – well, dreams do not go away. Or if they do, they come back worse than before. Things remind me. Those riders we saw – and other things. I wish now that I'd taken the chance when I had it, but I hadn't the nerve. And maybe I wish I could have left Develin after I'd given it up, but I hadn't the strength …
‘I don't want manors, Sophia. Manors mean nothing. And peace and warmth and food mean very little now. I want to know.’
He broke off. Someone was coming. They both froze. A man, walking by, paused by the wagon tail. Craning from her place Sophia caught a glimpse of a gold-rimmed cloak and knew that it was Denke, the Law Master. She thought there was someone else with him, too.
Denke did not look their side of the wagon. He stood, head bowed and arms hugged round himself, as though he were listening or deep in thought. Sophia held her breath.
And in the long moments that followed, with her eyes on the corner of the master's cloak, she thought about what Chawlin had said to her.
It was as if he had lifted his shirt and shown her a great, shocking disease upon his skin. A stain of Tarceny – so close, on the man beside her! The man she …
He had used her name. Sophia. He hadn't done that before. It sounded so different when he said it.
Chawlin. Witchcraft. Tarceny. She needed to think.
Suddenly Denke groaned aloud – a hopeless, aching sound – and walked slowly on. Sophia watched him diminish in the sinking light. She saw, with some surprise, that he was alone after all.
Somewhere among the huts a voice was calling. It would be Dapea, out looking for her.
She had to think.
She looked at Chawlin, and saw that he had heard Dapea, too.
She cleared her throat. ‘I've got to go. But … but I want to talk to you about this again. I promise I will.’
He nodded slowly and said nothing. She did not know if he believed her. She did not know if she believed herself either. She gathered her skirts and left.
In the dusk of the village buildings there was no sign of Dapea, who must have gone searching in another direction. Sophia slowed her pace, walking with her head high as if she had all the time she needed.
I don't want manors, Sophia.
All right, she thought crossly. He doesn't. And what does he want? Nightmares from Tarceny! Aagh – th
e cockerel! What did that mean? Behind the sureness and the smile there was another Chawlin – someone who huddled and quivered and jumped at shadows. No wonder he was drawn to the boy Luke. And twice now, when he had been closest to the centre of his thoughts, he had talked about that thing, that cup from Tarceny. He must be fascinated by it. And frightened, too.
Chawlin. Did Tarceny taint everything it touched?
If he didn't want manors, then he didn't want her. Without land he could never be accepted as a suitor.
But he did want her. Or at least, he hadn't wanted her to leave. He talked to her about things he would never dare mention to anyone else. That mattered.
And, she thought (with her jaw set); and if he was afraid, was it not brave of him to want to confront his fear?
Or was he just wishing that he was brave enough? She did not know. But she had promised she was going to hear him again. Yes, she had. So?
So she was going to. It was risky, but it always had been risky. She could manage it.
She could manage it, because he made her better than she was. She felt herself to be braver, cleverer, and more loving, just because of the moments he spent with her. She could never have turned the Council for the boy Luke if he had not encouraged her. She must remember that. And now that she had given her word she must be true to it, Tarceny or no Tarceny. It was the faithful thing to do.
It lightened her heart a little, to think that. And she wouldn't forget about the manors either. It was too good a plan to be wasted.
She paused in the shadow of a hut, and peered into the big yard before the Widow's lodge. From inside the lodge came the sounds and smells of supper preparing. The yard appeared to be deserted. Dapea was not there.
So much the better, thought Sophia. She could be standing by the door when her maid returned, and scold her for being tardy.
She stepped forward confidently. As she did so, a shadow moved in the yard. But it was only Denke, still pacing aimlessly about with his head bowed. She called a greeting, but he was lost in thought and did not look her way.
And he did seem to be alone.
XIV
The Light at Ferroux
he house of Ferroux was the oldest in all the south. Rolfe, a son of Wulfram, had raised his roof there in the conquests hundreds of years before. Its name was in a hundred songs.
Little remained of his building. The manor that stood in its place was a small one – barely able to support the Widow's company for two nights. There was no township or settlement, no keep or even a lodge in that place. Not a third of the Widow's following could camp within the stockade. Yet it pleased the Widow and her masters to pass Midwinter there.
At dusk trestle-tables were set in a horseshoe pattern in the meadow outside the stockade. Braziers stood at intervals behind the benches. They gave light and warmth, and their fire marked the feast of Midwinter when, the story went, Gabriel, Messenger of Heaven, had brought the Flame to the wandering peoples in the lost times before ever Wulfram and his sons took ship across the seas. Before the high table the manor knight bowed and welcomed his lady to that ancient house where, he said, the memory of the King-fathers ran deep in the stone – even if the meat and the wine were no better than their children could make.
‘Both true,’ said the Widow, not unkindly, and her people laughed.
Then the Widow raised her hand, and a tall candle was set in front of her. On it she cut, as she did every month in her home, three lines, one below the other near the tip. A lighted taper was brought, the candle lit, and a screen of thinnest horn placed about it to shield it from the breeze. The light shone dully through and played upon her face. Around her the Household of Develin settled to hear its ritual of Dispute.
Ambrose was late coming to the tables, because he had been practising in secret some strokes with a staff that Chawlin had shown him. He knew that arriving after the Dispute had begun might earn him a beating. But he felt that the Heron Man was very close now. He did not think that his unseen enemy would let him answer back again. Perhaps next time he would attack. Whatever he did, Ambrose wanted to be ready.
He slipped quietly up to the scholars' benches, clutching a white pebble in each fist. There seemed to be no space left for him. As he hesitated, the last scholar turned and saw him. It was Lex, the leader of the gang in the courtyard of Develin. He frowned. For a moment Ambrose thought he would call out and give him away. But to his surprise the scholar shifted inwards along the bench, leaving a space beside him.
‘Come on,’ he muttered. ‘For once, this should be worth hearing.’
Ambrose crept in beside him. ‘Why? What's happened?’ he whispered.
Lex looked at him in astonishment. ‘Where've you been? It's been all around the camp since sundown.’
‘What?’
‘Septimus. He fought Velis and was broken. His head's on a spike on Tuscolo's walls.’
Septimus. The King. The man who had defeated his father. So he too was dead.
It seemed to Ambrose that an unnatural stillness had fallen among the people. He felt the back of his neck creep, as if some cold throat had breathed upon it. A damp wind flustered the braziers. The night was cool and echoless.
The King was dead.
And what had happened to Wastelands?
‘Master Denke,’ called the Widow.
A little along the high table, the Master of Law rose to his feet. He wore his heavy red gown and a cap with a long peak. In the half-light he looked like a great, misshapen hawk. His voice was deep and powerful in the open air.
‘You know, my lady, that Father Grismonde and I had already chosen that our dispute should once more address Kingship. With the news that has been brought to us this night, we think it doubly right to do. For in the past we have allowed ourselves to consider only single merits or strategies that may benefit a king, like single jewels upon a crown. Tonight it is the whole crown that I will speak of. I ask only that I may be heard to the end.
‘Let me begin with a tale you all know, of the king of ancient times who sent to a wise man asking how he might keep his kingdom. And the wise man, without saying a word, turned away from the messenger and began to cut down all the tallest grass stems in the field around him. The messenger carried this sign back to the king, who took it to mean that if he would keep his kingdom he must slay and put down all the greatest men around him, for it was they who might threaten his rule.
‘Now I have debated before with my colleagues the division of guilt between the wise man and the king for the crimes that then followed. Remember, each snick of a grass stem was taken as a sign that a family must perish, down to the youngest child and least of their servants. That is not our purpose tonight. But this fable carries in it a truth about Kingship that we all know in our hearts, and yet dare not speak …’
Because only a third of the full house was present, Ambrose and his fellows were closer to the high table than ever they were at Develin. Because the tables were set out in the open field, and not in the long hall of the Widow's castle, he had a clear view. He looked along the faces, to left and right of the Widow, and he knew every one of them – the Lynx, a counsellor, Denke, another counsellor, and Padry. On the left, Father Grismonde, Master Pantethon … The face he always looked for was not there.
The light and shadows wavered as the words rolled from Denke's mouth.
‘There has never been a king who has not won, or held, or lost his crown without the use of iron to draw blood. There has never been a king who has not purchased the iron of his followers with land he has stolen from others. There has never been a king who has not called this theft justice. To do anything in his kingdom, a king must have power. To gain power, he must do evil.
‘To keep power, he must do evil. And the evil that any king does to maintain power is greater than any good that power might do …’
Murmurs stole along the benches. Denke was indeed addressing the crown itself ! Without Kingship there could be no hope. And yet there were heads on
the high table that nodded as he spoke. The Widow looked inscrutable, and the shadows of the candle were stains upon her face. Had she known he would do this? Surely she would not have allowed it!
The candle reached the first mark; the Widow raised her hand. Denke finished and sat down. Father Grismonde rose to oppose him.
‘It is a dismal vision that my friend Denke has drawn for us,’ Father Grismonde began. ‘Yet it is better that we should now confront such thoughts together than struggle with them each alone. And my friend has gone too far.’
Someone near Ambrose sighed, as if with relief.
‘No, no. Such thoughts are lulling. They deceive. Think of the fable that Denke has told us. Think how much we assume from the image of the grasses. A grass stem causes harm to no one. It bears seed, even flowers perhaps, or has a graceful beauty as it waves in the wind. Had our wise man stood among a pack of wolves and slain or chained the fiercest among them, would we fault him for the message he sent? The wolf is savage. Man is savage. The wolf is treacherous. So is man. The wolf …’
‘The Wolf,’ murmured a voice in Ambrose's ear, ‘is child of the Wasteland.’
Ambrose took a moment to understand. Then he gaped.
‘What?’
It was Lex who had spoken. In the light of the braziers he was looking at Ambrose under low brows. Ambrose stared at him.
Silently Lex turned back to watch the high table.
‘… and man is hungry,’ Grismonde was saying.
‘Who then shall chain the man that is wolf ?’
Wolf ? Wasteland? Why had Lex said that? How had he known?
What was happening?
The last paleness of evening was gone from the sky. The braziers ruled now, yellowing the tables and the heads of the people who sat at them. Before the Widow the candle flickered. Her face was close to it, watching it intently as it burned towards the second mark, when Father Grismonde would cease. Even in the flare of the braziers Ambrose could see the light that it cast upon her, and the darker pits that it threw beneath her chin, above her nose, and in her eyes: light and shadows together as the candle trembled.
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