By Sylvian Hamilton (37 page)

'Now,'
said John. 'Sir Gilbert. About this business of yours. Do you still
maintain that the wreck of the Sleipnir is yours to use as you
please?'

'I
was badly advised, My Lord.'

'God's
teeth, I'll say you were!' The king spat a mouthful of grape seeds.
'Oh, sorry, did they land on your sleeve? Never mind, it's a bit
behind the fashion, don't you think? You can visit a good tailor
while you're here. Now then, you've had the wreck, the crew and the
entire bloody cargo, and you thought I'd either not find out or
couldn't be bothered to do anything about it, what with all my other
troubles, that right? Nice try, Gilbert, but that's my money you've
been spending; and that's naughty. Oh, don't look so worried! I'm a
reasonable man. You can choose.'

'Choose,
Sire?'

'Yes.
Whether to have my goodwill or not. Up to you.'

'Sire.'
Sir Gilbert ran a nervous finger round the sweat-wilted neck of his
fine shirt. 'My Lord, it would grieve me to lose your goodwill.' To
say nothing of being the end of me, he thought miserably. He'd been a
fool to try and keep the wretched wreck a secret. Everyone said there
was nothing the king didn't know, and it was true.

The
king hummed a snatch of tune and scratched his backside.

'So
if you'll just have the cargo sent here as soon as you get home.'

'Of
course, Sire.'

'Oh,
and I understand there was a passenger, now enjoying your
hospitality?'

Oh
God, thought Gilbert, he even knows about the woman!

'There
were two passengers aboard, Sire: a man and his wife, but he
drowned.'

'With
a bit of help, was it? Good of you to care for his widow; charity
begins at home, that's what I always say. But you can send her along
as well, together with her belongings, of course. Clothes, trinkets
...' His voice crunched on 'trinkets' and Sir Gilbert winced and
failed to meet the hard gooseberry stare. The king knew about the
jewellery too. What Gilbert's wife would say when she had to give up
that magnificent set of Byzantine bracelets and the rubies, God only
knew. Gilbert thought a small pilgrimage would probably be a good
idea, to get himself safely away from her tongue for a few months.
Not that she'd have run out of things to say even then. Or ever.

'So,
Gilbert.' John beamed. 'You admit your fault humbly and wish to make
it up to me.'

'Oh
yes, Sire.' Fervently.

'After
all, just who is king of the English, Gilbert? You, or me?'

'You,
Sire.' Squirming.

'Oh
good,' said John. 'I'm glad that's settled. No need for any of these
little misunderstandings at all, really, if you'd all'—his
stare swept everyone in the room—‘just bear that in mind.
And shall we say five hundred marks, Gilbert? As an indication of
your remorse? That sound about right?'

'Yes,
My Lord.'

'And
you might throw in a little sweetener,' the king suggested brightly.

'Sweetener,
Sire?'

'Ye-es.
To have my goodwill in full measure. No point in half measures,
really, is there, when you think about it? What about that big bay
horse your son was slopping about on when you arrived?'

'The
horse, Sire? Certainly, Sire.'

'Oh
thank you, how kind!' The king turned to Straccan. 'Well, there you
are, Sir Richard.'

'Pardon,
My Lord?'

'Don't
say I never did anything for you. The horse, man.' He grinned, seeing
Straccan's blank face. 'The horse! You can pick it up when you leave.
See to it!' He snapped his fingers in the general direction of the
gaggle of underlings. Two boys detached themselves from the cluster
and rushed to the door together, where one blocked the other's way,
kicking him sharply on the shin. The loser let out a yip of pain,
yielded the errand to his rival and limped back, scowling.

'Thank
you, Sire.' Straccan was truly grateful. He missed Zingiber sadly,
and such an animal was a princely gift.

'Quite
an adventure you had,' said the king. 'Interesting. What became of
the icon, after all? Lose it, did you, in the heat of things?'

'No,
Sire,' said Straccan with an inner sigh. He hadn't expected to get
away with it, not really. 'In fact, I have it here, My Lord.' He took
the icon, in its new wooden case, from his pouch and offered it to
the king.

John
unrolled the picture and stared at it for some time. Then he rolled
it up and slid it back in the case. 'Remarkable,' he said.

'Thank
you, Sir Richard.' He pulled on his gloves and made for the door.

'Are
you going straight to Durham, Sire?' quavered Sir Gilbert.

'I
might,' said the king.

'Only
the bridge--'

'Is
washed out. I know.'

'There
is a back way ...'

'I
know,' said John. 'I know the back way to every town in my kingdom.'
The door banged behind him.

'I
just bet he does,' hissed Sir Gilbert, sinking heavily on to the
nearest stool. 'Five hundred marks, oh God, and the horse too! And
the bloody jewellery! My wife will kill me!'

The
king put his head round the door. 'Oh, and Gilbert!'

'Oh
Jesus! Yes, Sire?'

'The
saddle goes with the horse, naturally.'

'Oh,
naturally, Lord King!'

Chapter
42

The
stallion was a splendid animal, three years old and well trained, and
after toying with several possible names Straccan fell back on
Zingiber, which really seemed to him the only name for a ginger
horse. It was a joy to ride, and the fine saddle fitted man and beast
perfectly. Poor Sir Gilbert!

He
saw from a long way off the lookout on the watchtower at Stirrup, and
heard the warning tocsin begin its familiar cracked clanking. His
people were milling about in the open gateway: Adeliza in her best
gown, his clerk Peter, Cammo his steward, and the rest. Home! His
loving eye noted the crops doing well, the vegetables looking fresh
and well tended; his sheep, newly-shorn and skinny-looking, with new
lambs at heel—surely that one had twins? Yes! His cattle, heads
down and tearing at the grass. Everything in good order.

For
the next few days he was fully occupied. There was a backlog of
business for him and Peter to deal with, as well as the farm. Cammo
managed well, but the master's decision was necessary in some
matters: whether or not to buy a bull, whether to sell this year's
clip to Walter Durnford as usual or perhaps take it to Lincoln or
Nottingham for a better price, whether or not to sell the colt foal
born at the new year.

Several
times a day he climbed the ladder to the watchtower and spent some
time staring at the road where it met the northern horizon, hoping to
see three riders. His heart beat faster whenever a cloud of dust
appeared and sank when it resolved itself into merchants, pedlars and
other travellers. He kept reckoning up the days: the least and most
it should take Bane to reach Christchurch and return to Shawl, and
then the time to travel from there to here. He was too impatient;
they could hardly be looked for yet. Another week, at least ...

But
that evening and next morning he was on the watchtower again.

The
clanking of the tocsin brought him from the stable at a run but it
was only a delivery of wine. Later in the day it clanked again to
announce the arrival of a pedlar with his gossip and rubbishy goods.
Next day when it clanked to herald yet another nonentity, he lost his
temper and bellowed up at the startled watchman.

'Don't
ring that bloody thing again! Not until Gilla's coming!' Then he went
into his office and worried Peter until he made a mistake in his
subtraction and a blot on his page. He wandered into the kitchen
where he pried into the cook-pots, picked at a piecrust, knocked over
a pitcher of milk and trod on the cat, until a harried Adeliza shooed
him out.

Eventually
he took an axe and began splitting logs, keeping at it for hours
while swallows flicked around him, in and out of the woodshed where
they'd built their nests. 'Messy things, shall I clear em out?' Cammo
had said years ago. 'Let them be,' Straccan replied. 'I wouldn't like
to do all that work for nothing, would you?'

So
many days to the south coast, to Christchurch, barring accident or
incident; so many days back to Shawl; so many days from Shawl to--
And what the hell was that noise? The tocsin was clanking. He dropped
the axe, leaped over the logs and ran.

'You
look as if you've seen a ghost,' Straccan said. Bane followed him
into the office. On the table was the prior's thank-you letter and a
bottle of wine. Gilla and Janiva were happily occupied watching the
new lambs.

'I
have,' said Bane. 'And so have you, so did all of us. We all saw
them.' His eyes seemed to gaze through Straccan into the distance.
'What is it? Are you all right?'

'Listen.
Sit down and listen,' Bane said. He paced back and forth as he
talked. 'I went to the priory. I gave the money to Prior Ranulf. I
told him how I'd met Brother Celestius at Altarwell, and how he
turned up again in Scotland and healed me when I was dying. I was
dying, wasn't I?'

'Oh
yes.'

'He
asked me, the prior did, when it happened, what day I was healed. The
sixth day of June, I told him. Were there witnesses? Oh yes, I said.
Were they reliable people? Three knights, I said, and one spy. Can't
get much more reliable than that.'

'There
have to be witnesses if they want to prove a miracle.'

'I
know. He asked me, was I certain of the day? A little scribe chap was
writing it all down, and the sub-prior and the sacristan were there,
staring at me as if I had two heads. I said yes, it was the sixth day
of June without any doubt, Saint Gudwal's day. And then they told
me.' Bane picked up his cup; it was empty. He put it down and
Straccan refilled it.

'Brother
Celestius,' Bane said, 'and all his poor dear loonies were killed in
a fire at a hospice near York, on the eve of Saint Pamphilus, seven
days before the sixth of June.'

'I
don't understand,' said Straccan after a while.

'It
was an old wooden building. The pilgrims slept upstairs, and there
were fleeces stored below. Somehow they caught fire and went up like
thistle down. All the pilgrims were asleep and none of them got out.
Fourteen bodies, they found.'

Straccan
was silent for some time and then said, 'When you were dying, Blaise
and I, and Miles, we wondered ... We thought he might be a saint.
Christ, Hawkan, he was a bloody vision!'

'That
prior is going to get him canonised no matter what it costs. He's
already mortgaged most of the priory's lands and sold what he can.
They'll be famous. Rich.'

'He
wouldn't take any money,' Straccan recalled. 'After he healed you,
when he was leaving, we tried to give him some money and he wouldn't
take it. Funny ... He took your raisins.'

'I
wonder what happened to them? Visions can't eat, can they?' Bane
yawned hugely. 'I've got to get to bed for a while. I've never been
so tired in my life. How'd you get on with the king?'

'He
was very affable,' said Straccan. 'He gave me a horse.'

'Watch
out he don't send you the bill for it.' On the bottom step up to the
bedchamber, Bane paused. 'Remember the dice that spy gave me?'

'Yes.'

'I
got them out, just for a friendly game with a couple of lay brothers
at the priory. I opened the box and tipped it on to the board. They
leaped up and started yelling. Know what? That little sod had given
me his bloody box of maggots instead!'

Straccan
laughed. 'I expect it was a mistake,' he said, wiping his eyes.

'Mistake
my arse! I hope we meet again, I'll give him bloody maggots!'

The
tocsin was clanking. Straccan, about to farewell a knightly client
who'd taken the unusual step of coming in person to pay his account,
thought—not for the first time—that he really ought to
get a decent little bell. He could hear Gilla calling excitedly from
the watchtower. 'Father! Father! It's Sir Miles!'

'Excuse
me, Sir Walter. A friend is arriving. Won't you stay and meet him?'