The abbot gazed at the coin, and at Secundus. His eyes traveled over the badges on Secundus’s hat. “Please. I can’t offer wine, I’m afraid. . . .”
“Wine is for pleasant afternoons. I am here on business. You are, I believe, in need of a relic.”
A relic my master carries, thought I, though I tried to keep this thought from my face. A relic that men now fight for in the town below.
The abbot slapped the table. “The townsfolk say they rescued it, but no, they stole it as we tended our dying brothers. If we yet had the shoe, pilgrims would come. . . .”
“Ah.” Secundus smiled his smile. “That happens to be why I am here. Some time ago—many years—I heard a most extraordinary story about a monk. A monk who served in the Mother of All the Churches in Rome, wherein rests the head of Saint Peter.”
The abbot’s expression slid toward unease.
“Ah. I believe you know of what I speak. For this monk—so the story went—had no decency within him. One night whilst guarding the altar, he decided to see the relic for himself. He looked upon it . . . and he stole a tooth.”
The abbot watched Secundus with hard eyes.
“A tooth from the head of Saint Peter. This scoundrel, as you seem to know, fled Rome, and at length arrived in France, at a monastery atop a mountain. A monastery dedicated to Saint Peter, which, the scoundrel believed, would in some way ease his sin. The monastery accepted the relic—the tooth—and the man then leading the monastery promised to return it to Rome.”
“Cannot possibly . . . No one knows. . . .”
“But that abbot never did.”
“This happened—if this happened—long ago. They are all of them dead.”
“Ah. Death.” Secundus smiled. “You and I know that such a relic is worth gold enough to pave this mountain. But if you were to announce its existence, the pope would deny it, for Saint Peter belongs only in the pope’s holy city. If a humble monastery were to claim a piece of the first pope—to imply that pilgrims need not trek to Rome . . . Imagine the response of the churchmen. Of the innkeepers. You might be put before the Inquisition. Theft, falsehood . . .”
“Not theft! I mean—’twas not stolen. The tooth leaped into the poor monk’s hand.”
“Ah. That is a better version. I am not sure who would believe it.”
“Saint Peter wanted us to have it.”
“That may well be. But it is of faint benefit to you now. You have in your possession a treasure you cannot in any way use.” Secundus reached into his purse. “I am asking to exchange it for a treasure you can.” He set Saint Peter’s shoe on the table.
The abbot gasped. He gaped at the shoe, and at Secundus, and even at me, a hundred thoughts on his face. . . . He set his jaw, picked up the coin, and swept from the room.
We waited, my master and I. Secundus wiped his forehead. His cheeks glowed, and his eyes. “Do you know how to fight, Boy?”
“No, milord. . . . I can run, though,” I added, for pride’s sake.
“Prepare to run. The abbot will either bring what I want, or he will claim this shoe by force. . . . They have sold the tapestries, it seems.”
Now I noticed the hooks in the stonework, and the emptiness of the walls. This room would be lovely hung with tapestries, and candles burning, and a fire.
Footsteps. The abbot returned. Alone.
Secundus’s shoulders relaxed.
The abbot set a box on the table—a wee gold box bearing the image of a curly-bearded man with a key: Saint Peter.
“Open it,” Secundus murmured.
The abbot scowled but complied. Inside lay a yellow tooth, a tooth worn and old and quite unappealing.
“Take it, Boy,” said Secundus. “Leave the box.”
I picked up the tooth. It felt warm . . . though anything would feel warm in that cold room.
With a glance at Secundus, the abbot snatched up the shoe—the dusty cracked shoe that was named for Saint Peter—and clutched it.
Secundus stood. “An excellent trade. May the shoe bring you all the blessings you deserve.” He headed for the door. I trotted behind as a servant ought, and though my neck prickled, I did not look back.
We exited, the gatekeeper nowhere in sight.
We are safe, thought I—
A great noise, more deafening than thunder, assaulted us. I screamed.
“Those are bells, Boy.” Secundus laughed. “Have you never heard church bells?”
Of course I knew church bells. But I had never heard them so close.
“A wonderful sound, is it not?” he shouted over the racket.
It is loud is what it is, I wanted to say.
“He is announcing a miracle!”
The din shook the ground, the distant hilltops hurling back echoes.
We hurried down the rough stone staircase. In the silence between the bells, I could hear voices—men climbing toward us, singing. The monks!
We reached the rock that was shaped like a resting cow, and ducked behind it. Not a moment too soon, for a company of monks appeared on the stairs. Other men walked with them—fighters, they looked like, with swords and bloodied staffs, and bloodied bandages, too; the monks bore the injured. Monks cannot fight, and so must use others to wage their battles. But even the fighters sang as they trudged up the steps.
I held my breath, praying to the rib on my back and the tooth in my hand that Secundus and I wouldn’t be found—not by monks, nor by fighters! Beside me, Secundus put his fist to his lips.
One by one the men passed us, singing. Not one looked behind the cow-shaped rock. . . .
They were gone.
I exhaled in relief.
Secundus exhaled, and straightened. “Hurry,” he whispered, setting off along a trail. A trail away from monks. Away from the town. Quickly we walked, and never did I relax my grip on the treasure in my fist.
He stopped, finally. “Show me.”
I opened my hand: a relic old and yellow but most clearly toothlike.
He handed me a scrap of silk the color of the sun. “Store it in the pack. Carefully.”
I wrapped the relic in the glorious color, and by twisting and straining opened the pack’s mouth. Secundus watched, not helping. At last I slipped in the tooth.
“Good.” He wiped his forehead and walked on.
“’Tis good your monk friend did not see us,” I added. How fine it felt to be clever.
He frowned. “Who?”
“The monk who told you about the attack on the church. Six months ago . . .” Did he not remember?
Secundus barked a laugh. “Ah. Him. That monk died of old age. Now hurry.”
Onward we walked. Mist settled around us, and drizzle. My goatskin grew heavy with wet. At last we came to a road, and a cottage—a cottage lately used by sheep, but I did not care. Secundus kicked away the mess and spread his cloak on the floor. “Here, Boy.”
“Thank you, milord, but I do not need—”
“Lie down,” he ordered. “You need to rest.”
I collapsed on the cloak, for everyone prefers wool to cold dirt. Oh, was I tired.
Secundus secured the door and settled himself in a corner. He lit a small candle retrieved from one of his pockets, and studied his book with bright eyes. From another pocket he pulled out a quill, and a wee bottle plugged with a cork.
I watched with wide eyes. “Milord—you can write, too?”
“Remarkable: I can read and write both.” He dipped the quill into the bottle of ink, and with a smile crossed out a word. He flourished the book so I could see writing that looked like this:
Tooth.
“So now I have the tooth and the rib. My informants have served me well.”
“Informants?”
“People who give me information. Every soul has information. Like that monk. My task is to gather the bits.” He blew on the ink. “Now I need only thumb shin dust skull tomb.”
“Thumb shin dust skull home,” I repeated.
“No, Boy—to
mb, not home. A tomb that gets me to paradise.”
10 A Bath
Thunder—a soft rumbling . . .
I awoke to a tomcat on my chest. He was orange and striped, both ears ragged, and he sat like a warlord at rest. Mmm, said he. You make a marvelous bed.
“I wonder”—Secundus’s voice reached me from across the cottage—“if we should wager on which animal I will find on you each morn. . . . Now my cloak is covered in hair.”
The tomcat yawned, not sorry at all. His ears pricked. He stiffened, and bolted through a hole in the wall.
Now I could hear: jingling. A hubbub of rough male song.
“Quick, Boy!” Secundus grabbed his staff and dashed outside. Like a rabbit I followed him into the hedge.
Around a bend came a company of knights, and squires with banners, and stout men leading an oxcart. Oh, they looked glorious, their armor glittering. Well could I remember Sir Jacques adorned thus, prepared for a day full of sport.
But Secundus bit his lip. “Do not see us,” he whispered. “I cannot die. Not now . . .” He gripped his staff so hard that his knuckles were white.
The knights sang, and one knight beat a tune on the hilt of his sword. Sir Jacques had a sword like that, so heavy I could not lift it. . . . They passed a jug betwixt them, drinking deeply. Where had they acquired such a homey item?
I glanced at Secundus, who seemed to be holding his breath. My heart pounded inside me. If he was feared, then I should fear doubly.
A knight brandishing a torch bellowed that the jug was empty. A squire rushed to fill it from a wine cask on the oxcart. The cart held a mattress, and a carved chest, and a hoof . . . no, a goat. Two goats. Two dead goats.
I tried my best not to scream.
The knight with the torch paused at the cottage that Secundus and I had just fled. His fellows laughed and clapped as he tossed the torch inside.
No one bothered to check if the cottage was empty.
I twitched in horror. But the wicked knights applauded.
Flames clawed through the thatch, the smoke puking upward, as the knights called for even more wine.
A knight’s horse—a chestnut stallion with a scarred nose—turned toward the hedge. His ears pricked forward. Ha . . . I smell creatures.
My heart stopped. No, good charger, I whispered. Pay us no notice. Please.
The knight frowned, following his horse’s gaze. Flames leaped, snapping.
Beside me, Secundus sucked his teeth.
The charger’s nostrils flared, and he huffed the sound that a fierce creature makes when it hungers to lunge. Ha! I will fight you.
Please, fine stallion, I begged. We mean you no harm. You will have battles soon enough, and grain, and beer—for his rider seemed one who would feast his horse whilst starving his bride.
Peering into the hedge, the rider drew his sword.
The roof collapsed in a flurry of sparks.
Grain, horse! Beer. But please look elsewhere. . . .
The great charger met my gaze through the leaves of the hedge . . . and shook his head with a jangle of tack, his lips blowing a noise more expressive than speech. He turned away. Ha. I’ve better creatures to fight.
Scowling, the rider, too, turned away, sheathing his weapon.
With a toss of his handsome cruel head, the charger trotted off. The other knights followed, their squires behind them. Away rolled the cart of riches and death.
The walls of the cottage fell with a crash.
Secundus wiped his forehead. “In my day such barbarians would be strung up like flags.”
I worked air into my chest. “Are they brigands?”
“Worse.”
What could be worse than brigands? Brigands are wicked outlaws who ambush honest travelers, and rob them, and sometimes even take their lives. “Are they . . . wolves?”
He snorted. “Almost. They’re English. Soldiers . . . they used to be soldiers. The English king sent them to France to make war, but he no longer pays them and will not bring them home.” He eased his way out of the hedge to the road churned to mud.
I shuddered to think of our fate if we’d yet been in the cottage. Please, Saint Peter, keep me safe from the English. And please protect the manor. . . .
Secundus brushed leaves from his robe. His robe—
“Milord, your cloak!” I turned to the burning ruin. On the floor, his cloak had been . . .
He set out walking. “Do not worry yourself. ’Tis ash now. Perhaps it’s gone to hell.” He snorted.
“Milord?” I did not care for talk of hell.
“’Tis an old joke of mine; don’t worry yourself. The cloak will be awaiting those soldiers when they arrive. . . . Ah, a crossroad.” He pulled out his book, tapping the pages as he read.
The sun climbed and the day warmed, and with time my terror faded. Often we looked back, and cocked our heads to listen, but the English knights were elsewhere. “Barbarians,” Secundus muttered. I prayed for the souls the English would meet.
We came to a crossroads marked with a finely carved cross, and as usual Secundus consulted his book. He flipped forward. . . . He stared at me. “I have a boy with me now. A boy who can climb. Who can serve . . . You can serve, yes?”
“Oh, yes. I poured Sir Jacques’s wine, and brought washbasins, and carried his platters—”
“How long have you worn those clothes?”
“Since they were given to me.” Never reveal yourself, and never I had. The tunic had not left my body for a year at least.
“You smell like a goat.” He sniffed his armpit and made a face. “We both need a bath.”
All the day we walked. We passed barley fields two years gone, fierce young trees sprouting between the dead stalks, turning the field back into forest. We passed empty villages, their residents moved to town or paradise—villages empty, but at least not burned by the English.
We came to a town, a busy town with only some of its houses vacant. Secundus found an inn with a fire, and left me there, and at once I fell asleep in a pile of dogs.
I awoke sometime later to his gentle prod: “Boy, I’ve something for you.”
Oh, did he look different. His face was polished and shiny, and his robe was brushed clean, and he smelled not of sweat nor sourness, but lavender.
He led me to a room with a tub of gray water. “That is a bath. You will get in it.”
“But I’ll get wet.”
He smiled. “That’s the point. You will remove my pack and your clothes and scrub yourself with soap.” He pointed to a whitish lump. “Most particularly your hair. Then dress yourself”—he nodded to a fresh pile of clothes—“leaving off your goatskin. Do you understand?”
“Yes, milord.” Soap in one’s hair: whosoever heard of that?
He left, whistling. Fancy my master cheerful.
I glared at the bath. Yes, I had seen folk washing. But not me. Never reveal yourself. I never took my clothes off at all.
But I must obey. I blocked the door with a trunk so no one could enter, and untied the pack with a prayer, and removed my goatskin so stinky but warm, and tugged off my boots and my hose. Shyly I peeled off my tunic. But I left on my hood.
With great caution I tested the water. Hot it must have been for Secundus, but warm enough for me. I eased in, watching the gray water darken . . . perhaps I was a bit grimy. I leaned back, marveling because I had never before sat in water so deep, and then set to work scrubbing. Fingers, toes, between my toes, armpits and elbows and knees . . . I even scraped under my nails with a stick. At last with great reluctance I removed my hood and poured water over my head as milady did with Sir Jacques, and I did not drown but almost.
I scrubbed with soap as my master bade, and scrubbed again because the first soap did not lather, and scrubbed my ears and my neck, but I did not soap my hump because that I must never touch. Making quite sure no one could see, I climbed out of the tub like a dog, and dried myself whilst the room filled with the smell of chickens. Quick I turned t
o the clothes.
Oh, the tunic! ’Twas blue, well-worn so as to be tremendously soft, and big enough to cover my hump and to allow me to grow. The pack felt quite fine atop the blue cloth. “Can you see, Saint Peter?” I asked. “Can you see how grand we look?” The hose were the brown of a nut, equally worn and soft.
Footsteps. “Are you clean?” Secundus called.
“Yes, milord. Thank you, milord, for these clothes—”
“What have you done to the door?”
I dashed to move the trunk.
“Let us see you. . . . Is your hair always like that?”
I blushed, Ox’s taunts in my ears, and reached for the hood. Princess, he had called me.
“No, leave it. It’s fine.” Secundus smiled, his eyes bright, his cheeks rosy.
At dinner he asked many questions of the other diners, and was quick to buy them wine, and he wrote down their words in his book. The men grinned at my curls but did not call me princess or monster, for which I was grateful. A girl with long braids refilled their cups, and she shot me a look as I sat with the dogs. I scowled, and scowled more when she reached for my hair. “Please don’t touch it,” I asked—
But ’twas my sleeve she wanted, not my curls. “This was my brother’s,” she whispered. “And the hose. Before he passed.”
Oh. “I’m so sorry”—’twas the least I could say. I repeated words I’d learned from Father Petrus. “We lose those we love. Such is the nature of life.”
She nodded, her gaze far away. “But we don’t lose their memories, do we? And his clothes have found a good home. . . . Wine for you? Some bread?”
I shook my head because bread I don’t care for, and thanked her for her kindness, and I snuggled down with the dogs because dogs always love me and because they, too, might want to touch the tunic of a boy they had lost.
And then—I shall tell you where Secundus and I went after dinner. To a bedroom! A bedroom with a bed, with pillows and mostly clean sheets.
I stared so hard that Secundus laughed. “Have you never seen a bed before?”
“Never to sleep in.”
“Well, sleep now; you’ve earned it.”
So I climbed in without undressing because never reveal yourself. Had the boy slept in this bed? I added him to my prayers, promising to care for his tunic and hose. So much had happened this day: the awful English knights, our walking, the bath, my new clothes. . . .
The Book of Boy Page 5