Blind Man's Buff

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  The picture swung a little over the main courtyard across the bailey away from the Main Keep, to another smaller building beyond the royal quarters. There was a tiny unglazed window, and figures could be seen inside.

  The picture followed the figures within, now showing the small room and what was happening inside.

  The room was one of two. The other room, seen through a high arch, held a large bed, a chamber pot beneath, and a small wooden chest. There were pegs on the wall, but no window. A brazier of hot coals stood beside the bed, which was well heaped with blankets. The other room was similar. The walls were plastered but unpainted, and both rooms were draughty and very bleak. Two men were quarrelling. Both the baron and his brother were cramped up in these cells, living together in absolute confusion since they had no idea how they could possibly have travelled into the future and ended up in prison.

  “Don’t you say it’s my fault,” roared the baron, hitting his brother over the head with one of his shoes. “This is witchcraft and I’m not a witch.”

  “You were rude to that terrifying woman in the furry cape,” complained Edmund, rubbing his head. “She was the witch.”

  The baron hit him again and Edmund fell backwards against the edge of the archway. “I wasn’t rude,” said the baron, yelling his head off. “I’m never rude to anyone. It’s you who caused all this trouble. You’re just an idiot.”

  Edmund, yelping in pain, picked up one of the stools and threw it at the baron. It was a good shot and hit the baron full in the middle. He staggered and toppled over, clutching his stomach. Both men were now whimpering and hurt. Edmund cried out, “You – you’re a brute, just like these guards. I don’t understand why we’re here or what’s happened. But I can’t be dreaming. I’m too cold and too hungry and I hurt all over.”

  “We’re locked up in the Tower,” said his brother. “For living under false pretences and claiming to be lords when we aren’t. Well – how do you explain that? Because we are lords. Or at least, I am. I’m a proper baron and how dare they say I’m not.”

  “Because it’s a different king,” whimpered Edmund.

  “That’s ridiculous,” shouted the baron. “The old one hasn’t died yet.”

  At this point the door to the outside passage was thrust open, and the two gaolers pushed in, each holding a stout wooden stick. One whopped Edmund around the head with his stick, while the other poked his stick into the baron’s stomach. Both gaolers were shouting, and now Edmund and Hugh Darling were both sobbing.

  “That’s enough o’ yer stoopid quarrels,” shouted one of the guards. “You’ll be here fer a couple o’ weeks. So settle down and stop fightin’.”

  And the pictures began to fade. Gradually the white mist covered the vision and all that remained was an echo of the baron saying he was hungry.

  Everyone around the dinner table smiled at each other.

  “Well,” said Alfie, “that tells us, don’t it. We knows them Darlings ain’t coming back any time soon.”

  “I feel rather sorry for them,” said Peter.

  “No way,” said Poppy at once. “They were mean and cruel. “We were only children and they were big men with swords, yet they attacked us and tried to kill us. And they meant to kill Alice after they had got her married to the baron, and stolen all her money and property. They deserve everything they get. They should be executed.”

  Alice looked away, blushing slightly. “I never want to be responsible for anyone’s death,” she said softly. “Even when they deserve it.”

  “They ought to be chopped up into little pieces and fed to the lions,” said Poppy with a scowl.

  “Well, now they’re in the dungeons in the Tower of London,” said Nathan. “And I don’t care what happens to them next. They’ll be released one day but they’ll have to beg on the streets or something. Maybe get locked up in Bedlam, and their old house in London will belong to someone else by then.”

  “I’s quite sure,” said Alfie, “we ain’t never gonna see them again. Not ever.”

  “Then I shall stay in my pyjamas, like Granny,” said Alice with a sudden smile. “Eat chocolate and read a book.”

  It was a peaceful day, and although the increasingly bewildered steward gave very strange looks towards the motley collection of odd pyjamas, there were no problems at all, and the snow continued to fall like a dazzling curtain of freezing beauty.

  Chapter Ten

  They had all packed away their Tudor finery and the cosy modern pyjamas, so were now back in simple medieval clothes while Granny had reverted to her modern dress and apron as she prepared to return to her own home.

  There was a large heap of Christmas presents by her feet which she meant to take to safety, and Hermes intended to accompany her too. “In this manner, my illustrious lord,” he informed Nathan, “I shall be able to bring you messages from both Lashtang and modern London, should it be necessary.”

  “Take your baby Gosling with you,” called Poppy.

  “No, don’t,” said Sam at once.

  But Gosling was already sitting on Hermes’ neck, clinging on with all four paws, ready to go anywhere with what she firmly believed was her mother.

  The neatly stacked pile of modern presents was sent off to Hammersmith with a click and a whoosh, but they kept their warm pyjamas and a few other things, and Peter kept the lute given to him by Queen Anne Boleyn. Granny then climbed on Hermes’ back behind Gosling, clutched her own special Tudor mementoes, like an embroidered cape with a silver buckle at the neck, her fancy red velvet shoes, and a small ruby broach which had been a gift from the queen, nestled into Hermes’ feathers, and off they went. Hermes flew to the front door, which they had opened in preparation, and soared out and up into the wind and snow. Nathan and Poppy laughed as they saw Granny was already wearing a lump of ice on her nose, but soon she was quite out of sight, and they shut the front door in a hurry to block the wind.

  Alice dressed very carefully again for her visit to the palace, and Alfie, ready to accompany her, looked his best. John strode off to his father’s house, taking a fancy Tudor wine cup with him for his father’s Epiphany gift, and Sam once again settled down with Flop for a restful day in front of the fire.

  “We’ll do a special day together,” decided Poppy. “I shall read Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone aloud, and Peter can play music in the background, and Sam can listen, and don’t you dare fall asleep, and we can make a play of it.”

  “In that case,” decided Nathan, “I’m going off for a walk on my own. I’ll be back for dinner.”

  “Wrap up warm.”

  “I should have kept Granny’s polar bear cloak,” Nathan grinned. “But I’ve got a good fur-lined cape of my own.”

  He wandered down from Bishopsgate to the junction with the Cornhill, and into Gracechurch Street, and finally to Fish Street which led directly to the Bridge. He didn’t hurry. Although it was cold, the crunch of snow beneath his feet pleased him. It was better than the usual slippery gutters, and the soft white remained clean. Although it turned to slush with every Londoner’s footprints, it was snowing so heavily that the snow was repeatedly remade pristine. Nor did it ice over, for the gusting and whistling wind kept it blowing, but Nathan hoped the river might have frozen and from the Bridge he could watch people skating. That was something that had never happened in his own modern city, and he thought it would be great to see.

  None of the narrow roads were as busy as usual and many shops were closed. People stayed at home beside their fires like Sam, Peter and Poppy. It was too cold, windy and frosty for open market stalls, although one or two had opened along Cheapside, their owners constantly wiping the snow from their leeks, onions and cabbages, and trying to stop it collecting on the awnings which would inevitably then collapse on their heads.

  With his cape collar turned up to his nose, and his warm black hat pulled down to his eyes, Nathan was not as cold as he’d feared, and he liked to look up and see the snowflakes come flying down at him
. Under the obligatory tight black hose he was wearing thick long johns made in modern London for skiing, and also his own woolly socks inside the medieval boots. It made him look a bit lumpy but he didn’t care.

  The Bridge was busier than most of the streets, but it was still half empty compared to the usual bustling traffic. A shivering young housewife was chasing her little boy who wanted to throw snowballs, and three mounted men came galloping past, heading for the Tower. A few people clustered into the open shop selling gloves and muffs, but most of the others were pushing into the tavern on the city side, where smoke was puffing out of the chimney, and singing could be heard behind the tight shut doors.

  Nathan remembered when he was a lot younger and loved to jump in the snow banks, and slide downs the slopes to the river. Sometimes the snow piled up beside the river in Hammersmith, but he could never remember the river freezing. Now this was the same River Thames, but it was quite solid and very white.

  Walking over the Bridge, Nathan kicked at the icy edges, which people were avoiding in case they slipped and fell. He looked up again, his mouth open, catching the crystals like cold water on his tongue.

  And then he suddenly stopped, as frozen as the river. There was something sailing far up in the sky, tossing backwards and forwards in the strong winds, but still visible as it flew a little lower.

  It was a large balloon, brightly striped in many colours, and a little flame puffed up from underneath where a square wicker basket hung, buffeted backwards and forwards like a leaf in a gale.

  Three heads appeared in the basket. At first it was too far away to recognise anyone, especially when moving. But gradually it bounced lower and lower and Nathan saw that one of the figures was a Hazlett twin. He didn’t know which one at first, but then he realised the tall skinny man was wearing a top hat. Brewster had lost his top hat, so either he had bought another one, or this was Wagster. That was bad news. Nathan hated Wagster. But he stayed, worried about what might happen next, and watched keenly.

  Still as far away as a church steeple, with the three occupants staring down and Nathan staring up, he suddenly recognised the other two. One was the traitor Braxton, Zakmeister’s brother. And the other was Grandpa Octobr, the smith who had gone blind in the fire which destroyed his shop.

  Nathan stopped breathing.

  And then, with a shout and a scream, Braxton and Wagster upended the smith, and toppled him head first out of the balloon’s basket.

  The poor man crashed straight onto the river ice below with a reverberating thud. He yelled for help, waving his arms desperately, and at once the ice began to crack. Within moments it had cracked into long splinters. Now there was a large hole in the middle where the old blind man dropped heavily into the water with a splash and another loud scream.

  Chortling and waving, Wagster and Braxton sailed upwards again in the balloon, up into the spiralling snow, twisting again in the wind.

  “Old man Bumble-Bee-Head ain’t no stripy top not no more,” Wagster was singing. “White as snow and here he is, bleached and wet.”

  “Nice to see you again, young man,” grinned Braxton as they disappeared into the white flurries and clouds.

  But Nathan could still hear Wagster. “Diddle diddle whumping, in the water dumping, drowning and bumping, give another thumping, humping, pumping. And off with his head.”

  Nathan stood by the edge of the Bridge, staring in horror at what had happened. He knew the water beneath the ice would be impossible to bear. But without thinking any further, he threw off his cape and jumped over the little wall and into the river.

  He landed with a smack. And then he slid.

  Having landed lying flat on the ice, and since his weight was less than the old emperor’s, Nathan did not fall into the water but he heard the ice crack beneath him, and then, since the surface was not entirely flat, he slipped, gaining speed, towards the southern bank.

  Managing to still himself, both woolly gloved hands flat and firm to the ice, he looked around. The jagged hole where the old man had fallen in was not far from him, and he could hear the muffled panic to his left. For a moment Grandpa Octobr was able to grab the sides of the hole, and bob upwards, streaming dirty river water, and yell for help. But his grip on the edges of the ice was too slippery, and within minutes he was back under water.

  Nathan, appalled, wondered how he managed to survive the bitter conditions, and simply hoped he could survive for a little longer. He rolled over, pulled himself onto his hands and knees, and began to crawl across the snow encrusted freeze. It continued to snow, and this helped for it stopped him sliding, but he had to move very slowly. He felt the ice shaking and crumbling, and he felt the leaking ooze of the river soak up through the cracks. One lurch, and Nathan guessed he would be falling down and down, with the ice breaking into a thousand pieces.

  The soles of his boots were solid enough, his gloved hands gave a good grip, and even his knees, well covered, managed to stay still as they sank into the snow. So, inch by inch, he came closer to the old blind man. He kept his face down too, not wanting the wind to blur his sight, nor the freeze to make him squint. But he looked up every now and again to make sure he was heading directly for the hole where he was aiming.

  And then he was there. His hands and knees were soaked, but he had made it. He managed to grasp the sharp uneven cracks at the edge of the hole, and shouted, “Come up if you can, Grandpa. I’m here.”

  The water within the hole was churning, and it was clear that someone was in there and trying not to drown. But there was no hand nor arm nor even a collar that Nathan could grab onto. He thrust in his own arm, and felt around within the freezing water. He could feel his fingers going numb. Then something closed like a vice around his hand, and bubbles began to burst on the surface of the water.

  Heaving and gasping, Nathan tried to haul up the person on the other end of his arm, and with a huge splash and a flooding wave that hurtled up into the air and over Nathan, the old man appeared, his head emerging and his hair stuck in soaked wisps to his head, water streaming away to both sides.

  “I thank you,” he spluttered through chattering teeth, “whoever you are.”

  Nathan clung on. “It’s me,” he muttered, now nearly as wet as the old man. “But you’re heavy. Where’s your ---- magic?” but at that moment, the balance was impossible to hold. The old man, his weight doubled by river water, was too large for Nathan, his knees began to slip alarmingly, he tried desperately to hold on to anything with his other hand, but slid further, and within seconds he tumbled sideways into the ice hole.

  They both sank, at first together and then separately as Grandpa Octobr let go of Nathan’s fingers. They were under water.

  Nathan twisted. He knew how to swim, but the water was colder than any he had ever known. It was also dark and dirty. Even worse, he was now weighted down by his own lovely warm clothes which were drenched, and his big leather boots. He tried to pull his hat off, because, soaked, it was falling over his eyes and blinding him. The other man, being already blind, was sinking fast, arms upraised, having no idea where to aim. Nor could he swim. Nathan gulped, and spat out muddy water. His own swimming skills were not wonderful, but at least he knew how. He managed to grab tight to Grandpa’s shirt collar. The old man wheezed, half strangled, but did not pull away.

  Floundering, legs kicking desperately, Nathan wondered how on earth he was ever going to manage to save both himself and Grandpa Octobr. Getting himself out of the water and back onto the ice might be almost impossible, but managing them both would surely be completely beyond him.

  Once again Nathan felt himself sinking. He was surprised he was still able to hold his breath for so long, and hoped the Knife of Clarr was helping him, even though he hadn’t asked. But he was sinking again, and once more he had lost his grip on the old man. It all seemed to be taking so long, he thought both of them should probably be quite dead by now. But he kicked against the river, and managed to force himself up. The river was not so
deep where they were, but it was certainly a lot deeper than he was tall, and there was no way he could walk it.

  He stared around, searching for the ice hole above. But what he saw was quite different. There were a hundred fish, weaving and gliding past him. There were dead leaves, floating pieces of rubbish, rags, a dead eel that looked like black slimy seaweed, algae covered stones, a bent and broken saucepan, and a large crab, scuttling away into the muddy bed. The old blind man was now lying out on his back, his milky eyes closed, his long fingers waving aimlessly, caught in the underwater current.

  Nathan felt like crying. He thought the old man was surely past help.

  And then he saw something else.

  A large black shape was zooming towards them through the murk. It seemed many armed at first, like some vast octopus or squid, some dangerous creature that lived in the swamp of the polluted river.

  Believing his end was imminent, he simply hoped he would drown before being eaten. It seemed a cleaner way of dying, and a kinder end.

  He looked behind. The blind man floated midstream, perhaps already dead, or unconscious. His mantle swept around him, his hair spun like weeds and he drifted. Looking ahead once more, Nathan saw the black shape swooping closer. It loomed, too lost in shadow to see clearly. Too many legs for a shark. Too close now to care what it was.

  Then human hands on his neck. Pulling. A clasp so close it hurt, then hauling and water sweeping past his face.

  Someone else bumping into him. The blind man, pulled along beside him like flotsam in a storm. But not discarded. Saved. Suddenly out of the water with a gush of cascading waves, and coming back into the cold air with a mighty gasp. Coughing, spluttering, freezing air rushing down the windpipe like ice in a drain. But breathing. Living. Saved.