“I mean, I know I’m too old to start now in a traditional sense. You have to be eight to be a page? And then squire at fourteen? But if I can find a hedge knight to apprentice with, I thought I still have a chance. And with a hedge knight at least I’d get to go travelling, meet all kinds of people, get out of the court.” He paused to prod the fire a little, watched the water begin to simmer. “Don’t get me wrong,” he whispered to the fire nook, “the court has fed and clothed me, but it’s not where I belong, where I can be me.”
“I think a lot of people would agree with you there.” Lacerta sprinkled a pinch of salt into the mush of herbs and oil, mixed it in with her little finger before tasting the air with her tongue. Perhaps a touch too much oil but it would do the job. She looked at Ali and sighed.
“Let’s get your wounds tended, otherwise your face will drop off. Come and sit here where I can get at you. This will sting but it just means that the healing is started, okay?” She dabbed spots of the mulch around Ali’s eye to mark out the boundary before spreading them in a wide curve. Being as gentle as possible she covered the whole left half of Ali’s face in the bitter smelling concoction. Ali bit down on his lip against the nettle-like sting and took deep breaths.
“This hurts more than their beating,” he whispered, but he smiled a little.
“Open your mouth, I want to check your teeth, make sure they’re not loose. Stick your tongue out. No, your teeth look fine.”
There was a scrabbling from outside, shouting. A village boy poked his head into the cave.
“Quick! They’ve taken Sasha! Come quickly!”
“Who’s taken Sasha?”
“The king’s men!”
“I’ll be along.” The boy fled and Lacerta took a precious moment to meet Ali’s eye.
“You can stay here,” she said.
“No, I’m coming with you.” He unhooked the water pot from its hook and left it on a brick. Lacerta scraped the last of the mush from the mortar and capped it in a clay jar. She tucked it into her healer’s bag and topped it up with more herbs for cuts, bruises and to stem blood flow.
“Will Sasha be okay?”
“He’s a hot-headed impulsive fool, but he’s tougher than most. Any idea where they will have taken him?”
“There’s a little cell kept near the latrine.”
“Quick, then, Ser Knight, lead on.”
Sasha had not gone quietly. He had broken one guardsman’s nose with his fist, another guardswoman’s with his head. He had taken a chair, one of the precious few in his possession, and had slammed it over another head, thrashed and bitten and punched as the king’s guard had attempted to lay hands on him. It was only when the sword was placed against his throat that he had stopped, heaving for breath. They had forced his neck and wrists into irons and dragged him into the street like a mongrel. At first he had shouted and resisted, demanding to know his crime, but they beat him until he was silent. The village people watched from their doorways, from around corners. Pinched lips and frowns followed the guards through the village and the silence of the watchers was absolute. Soon the villagers were following Sasha and the guards, in little groups of twos and threes, peeling off the sides of the low buildings. The guards kept their eyes front and centre on their prisoner and tried to keep their breathing easy.
They reached the edge of the camp without incident, the guards bolder now they were back amongst their own people, but their bluster disappeared when they glanced back to see the villagers still following them, the group getting larger and larger. The camp people stopped their mending and cooking to watch the oncoming tide. Nobody spoke until the guards stopped by the jail cell lashed to the bed of a wagon. The captain took the manacles from Sasha and he was pushed into the cell, the door clanged shut and locked.
“What are you doing with Sasha?” This from a woman in the crowd, but the guards couldn’t see who had spoken. The captain cleared his throat and found his voice from somewhere.
“This man was caught attempting to start a fire,” he told the crowd. They glanced at one another, unimpressed.
“How else you supposed to boil water for breakfast?”
“No, I mean, start a fire here in camp. The blaze would have destroyed everything.” Captain Jardin had held his position as captain of the guard for twenty-three years and had seen near-revolution but never had he been so unnerved by a crowd of people.
“But he didn’t, so no harm done. Why don’t you let Sasha go now, and we’ll see to him, yeah?” The woman stepped to the front of the crowd, bald and dressed in a motley of colours. Jardin shook his head.
“This man is under arrest for attempted arson and attempting to harm the king and until he is cleared of these charges he will remain here. Now, I suggest you leave.”
There was a rustle in the crowd, murmurs sweeping through it, making it sway and rock like a choppy sea. Jardin turned back to his squad, beckoned them closer and lowered his voice, “keep an eye on them. If they try anything.” He drew his thumb across his neck and the guards nodded, took up positions either side of the cell. Those who’d been broken in the fracas slipped off to find a physician, grateful for an excuse to be anywhere but here. Jardin turned to face the crowd one more time before marching off to the jousting field to find the acting authority.
Lacerta found the crowd tucked into the camp, muttering amongst themselves. She tapped Peter Mal’s shoulder.
“What’s happened?”
“They’ve arrested Sasha for attempted arson. Says he won’t be released until he’s cleared. These soft people waltz in like they own the place, take our food and materials without any useful compensation and then beat Sasha and drag him out of his own home. Honestly, Lacerta, they need to leave. Is there anything you can do?”
“I’ll see what can be done to release Sasha and get them moved on, Peter. Just keep an eye on this lot. The last thing we need is panic.” She patted him on the shoulder and began to slip through the crowd, people parting for her and the boy. Ali looked into people’s faces, watched their expressions as they noticed his face, his split lip and swelling eye. Lacerta made it to the front of the crowd and pulled Ali close.
“Are these the knights who attacked you?” she whispered.
“No, these are the king’s guard, Katherine, the other Paul. They’re okay, I guess.”
“Stay here and watch the crowd, I’m going to try and see Sasha, make sure he’s okay.” She straightened her blouse and carried her hessian bag of herbs and heals in front of her as if it were a shield. She bobbed a small curtsey.
“Please, let me see him and tend his wounds.”
“Nobody is to see the prisoner until after the hearing.”
“Katherine, listen to me and look at this crowd. You have taken one of their own by force, locked him a cell and now you won’t let a healer see to him? Please, be reasonable.”
“We are being reasonable, witch. Now get back or I will have you removed.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me.” Katherine lowered her halberd and stepped forward one pace. Paul swallowed and followed suit. For a moment, the crowd held its breath and then it exploded into noise and movement. It surged forward, shouting, making demands, pressing up against Lacerta’s back, pushing her forward. She spread her arms wide and pushed back, shouted at them to stop, but they weren’t listening. All of their frustrations and fears collected over the last days were spilling over. Ali was by her side and she drew him close, wrapped an arm about him. He turned to Paul and shouted, “Paul, please. Let us see to Sasha and they’ll calm down”
“What happened to your face?”
“Ser Jasper happened. Paul, listen to me. Let us see to Sasha.” The guard shook his head, licked his lips, stamped his feet back and forth like a skittish horse.
“What are we going to do?” Ali looked up at Lacerta and she gave him a small smile.
“We will be patient and wait,” she said and looked at Katherine, letting the growing anger of the crow
d infect her a little, the noise filling her ears and mind.
It wasn’t long before Captain Jardin came back with a tall, broad white man who was wearing full plate armour. He wore a longsword at his hip. Moving between Katherine and Paul he raised his hands, appealing for calm.
“Peace! Let us have peace! I am Ser Jasper, king’s champion and protector of the innocent. What is the meaning of this?”
“You have arrested this man on flimsy pretences and won’t let me see to his injuries.” Lacerta approached Ser Jasper with her hands held up in a gesture of peace, the swell of the crowd at her back. She was nearly standing on the knight’s sabatons.
“The captain tells me he has made himself quite clear on the matter. You can see this man when he has been cleared by the king for attempted arson.”
“And how long will that take? The king is sick and needs his rest, needs sleep. You cannot expect Sasha to stay locked up like this.” A roll of agreement from the crowd and the slightest rise of an eyebrow from the knight. His hand rested on the pommel of his sword.
“I suggest you watch your tone, herbwoman. This man is subject to the laws of the land, the laws of the king,” he muttered to her.
“Don’t you dare speak to her like that!” Sasha’s voice rang out strong and clear, despite his bloodied face and hands. “You blow through this valley, unannounced, uninvited and you take our food without giving anything in return except for useless coin. What use have we for coin so far from your precious capital? Coin won’t fill hungry bellies or keep us warm in the depths of winter. I was starting that fire so you’d leave!”
There was a lull in the noise as the people listened to Sasha, nodding in agreement because all of their hard work since the ground had thawed had been for nothing. The first stone was cast and struck Ser Jasper on the chest; it did nothing, didn’t hurt, but the floodgates holding back the crowd opened and they overran the guards, throwing stones and anything else that came to hand. Lacerta pulled Ali from the crush, barged her way through the mass towards a gap between tents, out into the open, hoping to get away but the crowd was dispersing through the camp, pulling down tents, kicking over fires, all to a background of screaming and shouting. Somewhere a bell began to ring and there was thunder in the air. Lacerta heard the snorting of horses and fear dropped into her belly like ice. The knights were charging from their jousting practice to the aid of their champion who had been swept under when the crowd surged. She watched as, with lances lowered, the knights breezed through the people, striking them, trampling them, watched as they came towards her, the lance tip a clenched fist. Ali tugged on her sleeve, forced her to roll between tents.
“Ali, I have to help the people, my people. We need to stop this before any more life is wasted.”
“No! They’ll kill you.”
Thunder passed down the avenue on the other side of the tent, rolled away and stopped. Over the noise of battle came a high whistle. Lacerta peered through the gap to see the knights rounded up, their horses panting and snorting. The king had a silver whistle in his mouth, and he was counting those gathered around him. Ser Jasper limped towards his people, holding his arm where it had been crushed beneath the villagers’ stampede. Lacerta crossed the space between them and, not thinking, drew herself up to her full height and turned on Darius.
“Is this how you treat those you are sworn to protect? With violence and death?” she snapped.
“Watch your tongue, witch, or I’ll cut it out of your mouth and feed it to my dogs.” Ser Jasper drew his eating knife from his belt and brandished its point at her.
“No! I will not be silenced. You beat up small boys and run down helpless villagers and have the audacity to speak to me in such a way? How dare you? I demand that this whole Progress clears out.”
“You demand? Hark at you, a herbwoman skulking in a stinking cave.”
Lacerta heaved in a breath, resisting the urge to punch the knight full in the face.
“I am not just a herbwoman. I am the one who has put his majesty on his path to health. I am the one who saw to your wounded after brawling at our tavern. Do not try me, Ser Jasper.” Her cheeks were flushed, but she met Ser Jasper’s eye and held it.
“With your permission, I would like to remove the dead and injured to where I can treat them, including Sasha.” She turned her gaze on Darius, pale with a sheen of sweat across his brow from where he was still sick. He sighed and Lacerta noticed for the first time the lines etched into his face from the weight of ruling so many people, of having to keep touch with so many elements like Ser Jasper. He nodded his head at her as Ser Jasper began to shout and rage against Lacerta’s attitude. She walked away a few steps, head held high, before pausing and turning back towards Darius.
“Also, I think you need to look for a new page. Ali will be staying with me for a little while until I can get him settled.”
Ashes to Ashes
It was eleven AM on Tuesday morning and all was peace in Ginger Tabby Books. A restful peace of quiet reflection as the rain pattered down the window and Amelina’s one customer shifted his weight from one foot to the other; a small, soft gesture that may have not been entirely conscious.
Amelina was loathe to break the tranquil world of the shop, but it was Tuesday and the orders from the weekend were now stacked neatly under the counter ready for collection. She would wait for her customer to leave before picking up the phone.
It was quite unfortunate when her solo customer replaced one book - a book Amelina still thought about weeks after having finished it - and selected the chunky volume beside it. She paused, hands on the counter, counting backwards from five and, sure enough, her customer began to sneeze. Huge explosive sneezes that had a large white (stained) handkerchief to match. It was impressive watching him continue sneezing - nine times in a row, ten - while fumbling the book back into its place on the shelf. He waved a hand apologetically and burst out into the rain. His sneezes faded into the distance, leaving Amelina alone.
“Twelve is your new record,” she said. Now that the peaceful air was shattered, she booted up the playlist compiled for quiet browsing, a compilation of classic composers that Amelina had only vaguely heard about from University Challenge.
“I don’t know why you stock that rubbish. It’d rot his brain.”
The music dipped and swirled as a cold breath cooled the back of Amelina’s neck. She shuddered and took a moment to compose herself before turning around.
Mx. Smith was in their middle thirties, grey and drawn, wearing a frilly shirt and skinny jeans with steel-toed boots. The brightest spot was the white streak in their slicked-back fringe which, when Amelina had been brave enough to ask, apparently happened when they fell out of a tree.
“Listen, people read different things and if we want the shop to stay afloat, we need to stock the kind of thing they’ll pay for.”
“But-”
“No! This is, first and foremost, a business. It needs to pay the bills same as anybody else.” Mx. Smith mumbled at that, settled onto the counter. The music dipped again, slowed and stopped.
“I didn’t mean to snap. I, just, it’s been stressful lately and it wasn’t fair to take it out on you.”
“S’alright. I forgive you. I’ll try harder in future. Who knows what’ll happen if this place closes?”
“Probably be turned into flats.”
“Then I would have the pleasure of spoiling milk and seeing naked bodies in the shower.” They both grimaced at the thought. Mx. Smith let out a sigh and drifted to the stacks, selecting a volume at random before disappearing through the ceiling to the reading nook. Amelina took a deep breath, leant the heels of her hands against the edge of the counter and stretched out her back.
“We’ll get there,” she whispered and picked up the phone to begin the round of customer calls.
Amelina had only been temping at the shop for exactly one week when Mx. Smith’s ashes were delivered. It was the most peculiar parcel she had been handed and wasn’
t sure of the correct procedure to follow. The solicitor had removed a small sheaf of paper from her briefcase and reminded a flabbergasted Mr. Isaacs that he had indeed signed permission for her client’s ashes to be scattered on the property.
“Well, er, of course. If that’s the letter of the law. Might I suggest the rooftop garden?”
So, it was Amelina, Mr. Isaacs and the solicitor to witness Mx. Smith’s send-off on a cloudy Wednesday morning. The wind picked up as the lid came off the urn and the ashes rose in a cloud. Amelina licked the ash from her lips, an unconscious action that she didn’t register until later when looking at her reflection in the staff toilet mirror, washing the film of Mx. Smith from her face to swirl and gurgle down the plughole.
Amelina had never given any conscious thought to her own brief existence: was this it? Scrape together enough money for rent each month, only to end up partly washed down a plughole? She’d beaten that particular line of thinking off by drinking her flatmate’s bargain vodka that night, until she passed out on the sofa, playing dead.
Wednesday was bleak, overcast with a growl of thunder in the air. Amelina would either have a full shop, or a dead shop. There would be no in-between. Whichever way it went, she would still need to prepare for the day ahead. She decided on the medium set of gold hoops, braided her hair but couldn’t find the energy to apply any make-up. Picking up the limp salad out of the fridge on the way out, she wondered where she was supposed to find the energy to finish it later. It was when she was unlocking the shop door that the first drop of rain fell, straight onto her nose. The deluge opened as she was putting out the sign, the thunder snapping and the lightning freezing everything for a blink. Amelina settled in over a cup of peppermint tea, leaning against the counter and watching the waterfall stream down the window. Her carefully selected display would be reduced to blurs of bold colours, but it would still hopefully attract the occasional lonely, drowning soul.
“Amelina, do we have the next book in this series?” Mx. Smith popped their head through the floor, by Amelina’s boots and held the book up over their head.
The Duck Pond Incident Page 7