At the Crossing Places (10 page)

I
KNOW A REMEDY FOR A BLOATED COW,” I TOLD TOM.
“Gatty taught it to me. When a cow's lying on her side, you get up onto her ribs, just above her udders. You leap up and down on her as hard as you can.”

Tom smiled happily.

“And it's even better if two people do it at the same time,” I said. “The cow's stomach is bursting with air that needs to come out. But she's too weak to force it out herself.”

“Disgusting!” said Tom. “I thought you had to stick a knife between her left hipbone and her first rib.”

“What's disgusting is the smell down here in this cellar,” I said. “Worse than our latrines.”

“Fulcold should never have asked us to carry up this barrel,” Tom replied. “It's his job, not ours.”

“I don't mind,” I said. “Sometimes I did yardwork and fieldwork at Caldicot.”

Tom shook his head.

“With Gatty,” I added.

“You shouldn't,” Tom said seriously. Then he put both his hands around his neck and let his tongue loll out of his mouth and bulged his bright blue eyes.

“You could murder a man down here,” he said. “These walls are so thick that no one up in the kitchen would hear a sound.”

T
OM HAS ALWAYS BEATEN ME AT SWORDPLAY, AND HE
can beat Serle too. But when we fought in the Yard this morning, I scored five hits before Tom reached seven. We had to count for ourselves, though. Grace said she had better things to do.

“It's because of me,” I said. “I think she's avoiding me.”

“You can't help being her half brother,” Tom replied.

After our swordplay, Tom and I tilted at the ring with our lances, but I've never been much good at that, and he beat me easily. And after that, we wrestled.

“You're different,” said Tom, frowning.

“What do you mean?”

“Stronger.”

“I don't know,” I said. “I'm practicing hard because Lord Stephen says I'll need all the strength I can build up, but Alan, the armorer, keeps picking on me. He says I'm nothing like strong enough. Not to join the crusade.”

“He's probably jealous,” said Tom.

“Once, he pinioned me and almost choked me.”

“Did you tell Lord Stephen?”

“I don't want him to think that I can't look after myself.”

Tom grinned. “I wish I were you,” he said. “Have you got your new armor?”

“Not yet,” I said. “And I think that's why Alan is angry: My father has chosen Turold, the Ludlow armorer, to make it.”

“Is he knitting you a mail-shirt?”

“Yes, and I'm going to have a flat-topped helmet.”

“My father says armor costs its own weight in silver.”

“It doesn't!” I replied. “He only said that because he's paying for it.”

“Who?”

“Sir William.”

“He's paying for your armor,” said Tom slowly.

“Well! Yes, that's what Lord Stephen told me.”

I could see Tom was taken aback. “I'm sorry,” I said.

“It's his duty,” Tom said thoughtfully. “And your right. But I do wish I were you. I wish my father and I were joining the crusade.”

“Why can't you?”

“He says he's too old. He's sixty-five, you know, and almost blind in his left eye. All his bones ache.”

“But when he came to see us before Christmas, he was all for going, and stopping the bloody infidels from trampling all over Europe. That's what he said.”

“That's him,” said Tom. “He's always changing his mind. He's all contradictions. He curses the Saracens and yet he believes they're equal with Christians in the eyes of God. He won't learn to read and write but respects learning. He shouts at Lady Alice and sometimes he thrashes her, but he also worships her.”

“Well,” I said, “she's loyal and very beautiful.”

As soon as Tom and I walked in from the Yard, we all ate dinner together, and Lady Alice told us Sir William sent a message to
say he wouldn't be coming back from Catmole until tomorrow. Then she quickly excused herself and left Grace and Tom and me alone.

“I think she means for us to talk,” I said.

“What about?” asked Tom.

“There's nothing to talk about,” said Grace.

Tom stared down at the crumbs and spots on the table, and Grace kept licking the back of her spoon. And then Tom and I both opened our mouths at the same moment…

“You first!” I said.

“All I know,” Tom began, “is what Sir William told us. You're his son. His second son. And then what Lady Alice said this morning: Lady Tilda is our mother, but not yours.”

“Which is what I know,” I replied.

But of course that's not the whole truth. I know about my mother already being married, and about the murder. And I know Sir William has named me and not Tom as the heir to his manor at Catmole, because Sir John told me so.

“Who is your mother, then?” Grace demanded.

“Don't blame Arthur,” said Tom.

“Is it Lady Alice?” Grace asked, and her blue eyes were shining.

“Of course not!” Tom said. “Our father didn't even know her then.”

“Then…a countess or someone?” Grace asked breathlessly. “You must find out.”

“Why?” I asked.

“You must! You would, wouldn't you, Tom?”

Tom scratched his head.

“I'll help you,” Grace said.

“He may not want you to,” said Tom.

“You do, don't you, Arthur?” Grace asked, and she laid a hand on my arm, then just as quickly took it away again.

At this moment, Tom clutched his stomach. “God's gizzards!” he panted. And without another word, he pushed back the bench and ran out of the hall.

“As usual!” said Grace. And she picked up something and pushed it into her right nostril.

“What's that?” I asked.

“You know! My jasper olive to dissolve the phlegm.”

After this, Grace began to comb her hair with her fingers, and I could feel the silence building up between us like a cold wall.

“I know what you're thinking,” I said.

“You don't.”

“I do,” I said, “just as you knew where to find me when we played hide-and-seek. Remember?”

Grace hunched her delicate shoulders.

“We always know,” I said.

“What, then?”

“You think I don't care. About us.”

Grace said nothing.

“But I do,” I said hoarsely.

Grace wouldn't look at me. “You're just saying that,” she said.

“No.”

“Lady Alice told you to.”

“No, Grace,” I said. “I just keep thinking.”

“What?”

“About everything. How I hoped we'd be betrothed. Lady Alice did, too, because she never realized I was Sir William's son.”

Grace stared at me wide-eyed.

“No, she didn't,” I said. “Not until last Christmas.” And then I reached out and lightly touched Grace's snub nose.

“Don't!” Grace said fiercely. She tried to smack my hand away but I caught her by the wrist.

“Don't!” cried Grace again, struggling and helpless as a fawn.

And then all at once she burst into tears. She threw herself against me and pummeled my chest. She sobbed, and I held her to me, and my face was wet with her tears.

T
HIS EVENING, GRACE WAS PRICKLY AGAIN.

First she told me I didn't really mean what I'd said when we talked earlier, and then she told me I'm much better at saying than doing. And then she announced that boys are unfeeling and accused me of already thinking about being betrothed to someone else.

“I'm not!” I said indignantly.

Grace was right, though, and she knew it. I do sometimes think about that, and it would be very strange if I didn't.

“Cecily Quaritch,” Grace said unhappily. “Or April de Pavord. Or Hawisa des Bois. Winnie de Verdon…”

I gave a start when Grace mentioned Winnie, but I don't think she noticed.

“Yes, Winnie de Verdon,” Grace repeated. “It's bound to be one of those.”

“What about you?” I asked. “To whom will you be betrothed?”

“No one,” Grace replied.

“You'll have to be.”

“No,” said Grace.

“Not Serle, anyhow,” I said slowly.

“Never Serle,” Grace said fiercely. “I've told you that before. He's mean. His mouth stinks.” Grace grabbed my right arm and shook it. “Please, Arthur! Please talk to Sir John. Tell him bad things about me. You can set him against me, can't you?”

S
IR WILLIAM SCRUBBED HIS STONY LEFT EYE.

“Blasted itch!” he muttered, more to himself than to me.

Then he sniffed loudly and spat on the rushes.

With his good eye, Sir William inspected me. “I suppose you've been looking forward to this,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” I said in a small voice.

“So have I,” Sir William said. Then he cleared his throat fiercely and raised his mace of a fist. “You liar!” he roared. “Nothing of the kind! You've been dreading it.”

I didn't know what to say.

“Tell the truth!” Sir William said, baring his black teeth. “Always tell the truth. That's what I expect of a son.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now, then! My brother's told you that you're my son.” Sir William paused. “Well? Has he?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you know he and Helen have brought you up since you were a baby.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you thought you were their son…What else did John tell you?”

I didn't know whether or not to refer to the manor at Catmole. “I'm not…I don't know, sir.”

“Don't know?”

“I can't remember.”

“There you are!” Sir William bellowed. “Too much reading and writing. They swallow memory. Right! John has honored his part of the bargain, and now I'm honoring mine. How's that arm of yours?”

“Healed, sir,” I said.

“Good lad!” Sir William said loudly.

What I wanted to tell Sir William was that he had fought foul and even his brother called it disgraceful. I wanted to hear him apologize. I wanted to hear him tell me he knew how hurtful our meeting must be. But I didn't say anything, and he thumped me on the top of my head. “My part of the bargain,” he boomed. “Do you want to know what it is?”

“Yes, sir.”

“To talk to you as soon as you were fourteen, in this new century. To recognize you. As my son.”

Sir William paused. I knew he was staring at me, and slowly I raised my eyes and tried to look steadily at him. This old man with white bristles sticking out of his nostrils and a ferocious temper and a booming voice. Who shoveled me out of sight to suit himself. This murderer. My own father.

“Do you know what that means?” Sir William asked me.

“I…well…not really, sir.”

“You're my heir. You and Tom. That's what it means. And that's why this is the best day of your life.”

With the back of his sleeve, Sir William fiercely toweled his left eye. “Blast it! I'll tear it out!”

“It must be alive,” I said. “There's bright blood in it.”

Sir William glared at me. “Thank you very much,” he said coldly. “If I need a healer, I know where to find one. Where was I, boy?”

“My life,” I said miserably. “The best day.”

“Yes!” barked Sir William. “I own three manors. Did you know that? Gortanore here, and my manor in Champagne, and then there's Catmole, east from Knighton. One foot in England and one foot in Wales, right on the bank of the Teme. Well, Arthur! I've named you as the heir to Catmole.”

“Sir,” I said quietly, and I inclined my head.

“Well? What do you think of that?”

“Does Tom know?”

“I'm telling you first,” Sir William replied.

“It may upset him,” I said.

“For God's sake, boy. What's wrong with you? I tell you you're my heir and you start to fret. Three months ago, you thought you were the second son of a second son. You feared you might never be a squire and never inherit any land. Isn't that so?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And now look at you! You're the second son of a first son. Squire to Lord Stephen! On your way to Jerusalem! All this, and then my manor at Catmole to look forward to.”

Sir William stuck his left forefinger into one of his nostrils and twisted it.

“Today and tomorrow, Arthur,” he said gruffly. “They're what
count.” He inspected his forefinger and then wiped it on his sleeve. “Troublesome questions that rise like black bubbles in the middle of the night…turn your back on them! Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

Sir William's right eye glittered. “When people start digging,” he said, “they may find their own bones.”

B
LACK BUBBLES, RISING…

Is Sir William glad that I'm his son? Or am I only a problem, part of a bargain, a maddening barb? Did he care at all for my mother, or just use her and throw her away? And why couldn't I have stayed with her? Who is she? Where is she?

Lying beside the fire, I thought for a long time about all the questions I couldn't ask Sir William, all the questions our meeting didn't even begin to answer. I felt so sad and lonely. Then I reached for my seeing stone.

A lady is standing in front of King Arthur. She's wearing a dress that falls to her feet in loose folds. It must be made of expensive silk, because—although it's black—it flares crimson and flashes freezing blue.

“Of course you are welcome here at Caerleon,” Arthur-in-the-stone tells her. “But who are you?”

“I am not at liberty to tell you,” the lady replies.

“Then what shall I call you?”

“You may call me Lady Anna.”

Her perfume, orange-blossom—the way she moves, her dress and mantle and their sweet sway—Arthur-in-the-stone cannot look at this woman without beginning to long for her. He
knows that she's twice as old as he is, and that he's married to Guinevere…but he leads her to his chamber.

For some while, my seeing stone turns sky-blue as Lady Anna's mantle, and the sky is bright with one hundred moons and one thousand stars, bowing and dipping and very gently shaking.

Now I can see King Arthur again. Sitting alone.

A boy enters the hall and walks straight up to him. “Why are you looking so thoughtful?” he asks.

“I have much to think about,” the king replies.

“I know your thoughts as well as you do,” the boy says.

“What do you mean?”

“I knew your father, King Uther. Yes, and I know exactly how he tricked your mother when she conceived you. I know how he entrusted you, wrapped in gold cloth, to the hooded man on the day you were born.”

“How can you know?” the king asks. “You're not old enough.”

“I know more than anyone else about you,” says the boy.

“Go away!” the king orders him. “You're wasting my time.”

So the boy bows and leaves the hall, and almost at once an extremely old man limps in. He must be almost eighty.

“I'm very glad to see you,” says Arthur-in-the-stone. “Just now a younger boy was here, telling me things…”

“As you well know,” the old man says, “he was telling you the truth. And he would have told you more, had you allowed him.”

“Who are you?” the king asks.

The old man jabs his stick into the rushes. “God is angry with
you,” he says. “Do you know who Lady Anna really is? You have made love to your own half sister, Morgause.”

“Morgause!” cries the king.

“You could not have known,” the old man croaks, “but Morgause knew. She's spitting jealous of you, and her husband, King Lot, sent her here to Caerleon to spy on you…and make love with you. There's nothing they would not do to ruin you.”

“What shall I do?” Arthur asks.

“Morgause will bear you a son. She will call him Mordred. And Mordred will destroy you and your dream, your Round Table.”

“Never!” shouts the king, leaping to his feet. “Who are you?”

“Who do you think?” the old man asks. “I am Merlin. And I was that young boy. You have made love to your own half sister, and God will punish you.”

“Is there nothing I can do?” Arthur asks.

“You will do much,” says Merlin. “When you hear that Morgause has given birth to a boy on May Day and has gone into hiding, you'll send out messengers and have every May-Day child in your kingdom carried to court. You'll set them all adrift in one boat. A cargo of babies! And they'll all be drowned—all except Mordred.

“A fisherman will find him on the foreshore, half-dead, swaddled in seaweed. He and his wife will foster your son until he's fourteen years old, then they'll bring him to your court. Oh yes, Arthur!” says Merlin. “You will do much. But it will all count for nothing.”

My Arthur! My namesake whose dream is one fair fellowship.
One ring of trust. Who told all the great men of Britain, “I will root out evil wherever I see it…”

Morgause has tricked you and you have been unfaithful. But can Merlin be right? Is there no forgiveness? And if a son is born in sin, must he be evil?

I never thought you would fail yourself.