Doctor Mirabilis (7 page)

‘Aye, that be what us was doing, Meister, an thee’ll let us. Meister Christopher that was thy father was a gentry-man, could
read and cypher, and yonder King’s men be gentry, too, as mote be said. Wold Wulf ud not want his hands snipped off for thieving
– or drawn and quartered like a common traitor, they being King’s men. Us thought better to leave summat in they holes, an
they King’s men find some writing of Meister Christopher to riddle where they holes be duggen. So us put matter into ’em from
thy boy’s holes, that thee made when thee was a-writing precious little, Meister Roger. All the rest us has here.’

The old man looked filmily at him with a mixture of hope and senile cunning, slightly tinged with reproach.

‘All?’ Roger said.

‘Nay, not all, Meister,’ Wulf said. ‘Thee knows a poor serf’s let into no inn free, nay, nor wears new shoes neither – us
be not so blind us can still see thee a-looking at oor poor feet. But us be eating of naught but millet porridge and a mite
of dredge-corn; thilke ale thee did buy us, and the first wold Wulf’s tasted since us runned away. But all the rest, us has,
Meister.’

‘I thank God thou didst not run clean away,’ Roger said grudgingly.

‘Where ud us rinnen, Meister? Us be full of pain in the bones and good for naught, as mote be said. Here’s a safe enough cozy
for wold Wulf that’s as near to his Maker as may be, and knew thee’d nowt but leave us silver penny to buy a herring with
till us be called.’

‘Show me what thou hast.’

‘This way.’ The old man got up stiffly and led the way toward the kitchen. On the other side, he admitted Roger into a narrow
room so hot, airless and foul even in this weather that Roger could hardly drive himself further once the door was opened.
The door itself was fastened with nothing but a staple.

‘Thine host bath doubtless stolen it all in thine absence,’ he muttered, trying to hold his breath and breathe at the same
time.

Nay, Meister,’ Wulf said absently. ‘He’s wold Wulf’s nephew-in-law – no slyer ever put green vitriol in vinegar, but won’t
steal from us till us be dead. Here, now—’

He rummaged in a heap of filthy straw while Roger accustomed his eyesight to the dimness. There was literally nothing else
in the room but a low, broad three-legged stool and an anonymous heap of rags.

Then, grunting, the old man had hauled from the straw a purse of rawhide almost twice as big as his head. ‘Here it be,’ he
said, setting it on the stool. ‘Us saved it all for thee, Meister Roger.’

Roger pulled open the mouth of the bag and plunged a hand in, his fingers closing convulsively in the cold, liquid mass of
coins. He carried the handful to the door, which he opened slightly to let in a little more light.

The coins were in little the hoard of well more than a lifetime. Anyone looking at them could have told at once that the Bacons
were wool-sellers, for nearly every coin of commerce rested in Roger’s fist: English pennies and ryalls, new and old shields
of France (the old worth something in exchange if they were real, the new clipped even if genuine),
the golden Lewe of France, the Hettinus groat of Westphalia (debased), the Limburg groat (debased), the Milan groat (debased),
the Nimueguen groat (debased), the gulden of Gueldres (much debased), the postlates, davids, florins and falewes of the bishoprics
of half of latin Christendom (debased beyond all reason). Obviously Wulf ‘s host (and nephew) had much depleted the real value
of the hoard by taking from the serf nothing but English money, but this handful of dubious riches could not be blamed on
Wulf and the innkeeper alone: Christopher Bacon should have had better sense than to bury foreign coins, or for that matter,
to have taken them in payment from William Busshe or anyone else. Probably he had never had any reason to suspect even the
existence of the intricacies of foreign exchange, being naught but a farmer all his life long; to him these clipped and adulterated
coins with their exotic designs and legends must have seemed mysteriously more valuable than the mere pennies paid him year
after year by his tenants – why else would he have gone to the trouble of burying them?

Yet Roger was little inclined to absolve his father for that, let alone Wulf and his nephew. What he held in his hand was
all that remained of his patrimony – that and the rest of the trash in the purse – and though it would be impossible to judge
what it all amounted to until he had a chance to count it through somewhere in safety, it was clearly far from any sum sufficient
for his needs. And for this, this ignorant, smelly old man had buried Roger’s rhombs and his glass and his time-costly measuring
tools for the discovery of a pack of raiders!

He swung away from the door in a fury of frustration and hurled the coins at the wall. Wulf dodged clumsily away from the
sudden motion, but in a moment he was standing again as straight as his old man’s back could stiffen.

‘Thee must be more quiet, Meister,’ he said. ‘Else thee will properly lose all.’

‘Thinkest thou I have aught to lose, old man?’ Roger said between his teeth. He strode to the stool and jerked the drawstring
of the purse tight savagely. ‘Nevertheless, I
thank thee for thy cunning stupid drudge though thou be’st. Dost think Will of Howlake will never hear of thee, dwelling here
like a freeman after eight decades as a serf? Thinkest thou he’ll not dispatch his men to seek thee out, and ask thee whence
thy sudden riches came? Thou shouldst have run till thy bones broke with thy weight, wold Wulf; for traitor they will adjudge
thee, and draw out thy bowels, and pull the rest of thy curse asunder ‘twixt four horses!’

‘Aye, us thought it mote be so,’ Wulf said, ‘And thee wilt leave us nothing Meister, but they orts there that thee flung away?’

Roger opened the door and turned back to stare at the serf for the last time. Certes, I’ll leave thee more,’ he said savagely.
‘Dig thou for that boy’s trash that thou stol’st, and give that to thy nephew-in-law for thy meat!’

But the old man no longer seemed to be listening, as though he had known what the answer must be. He was on his knees, patiently
picking over the filthy straw for the discarded, debased, fugitively glittering coins.

It had been no part of Roger’s intention to strike out for Oxford again without so much as a night’s rest, nor with the same
horse, either, but the dead weight of the knobby purse impelled him to triple caution; now, surely he dared not risk search,
let alone recognition. He risked only a long meal for himself and John Blund and then struck out during the afternoon sleep,
not daring to hurry while he was still anywhere in the valley, but thereafter driving the horse at a merciless gallop until
it began to sob and heave.

In a small, forest-bordered meadow, which did not look tended enough to belong to any farm, he dismounted and tethered the
horse after watering it from a tiny stream, little more than a runnel. Here he risked a fitful nap, standing with his back
against a tree and with his hand on his sword. He had intended no more than an hour, but somehow he fell asleep even in this
position and dreamed that a ring of bowmen with the heads of foxes had tied him there and were stuffing eleven pounds three
and a half shillings Fleming into his mouth one red-hot penny at a time.

He awoke with a start which nearly toppled him – for his knees, which had bent somewhat, ached horribly, and he was stiff
throughout his body with cold – to find the sun almost touching the hills to the south-west, and someone on horseback sitting
above him hardly more than ten paces away.

He had the sword only half out, with a creakingly ugly motion which would not have been fast enough to discourage a boy with
a quarter-staff, when the fox-head dissolved back into the nullity of dream and he saw that, in fact, the rider was a girl.
Furthermore she was smirking at him with an infuriating disrespect.

‘Well then,’ she said, ‘tha be well overtook, by Goddes bones. Art going to run a poor maid clean through the butter-milk?
Tha’ll first needs be friendlier with thy girt feet, boy.’

Roger ground his teeth in exasperation and forced his aching muscles to pull him into a more human stance. He looked about
for John Blund and found him, munching brittle grass with his eyes half closed, which made him look at once maidenly and vacuous
– an expression which, for some reason, infuriated Roger all the more. ‘

‘And who beest thou, lip-kin?’ he said, glaring up at the girl. She was, he saw now, probably about fifteen: a good, bouncing
year for a peasant girl, though she did not talk quite like a serf’s daughter, despite her West Midlands dialect. The horse,
a small sturdy cob, was not any serf’s draft animal either. Her hair was cut short – which was good sense for peasant girls
looking to provide as few handholds for rapists as possible – but the stray curls of it that came out from under her black
woollen wimple were little flames of dull gold. He felt his glare dimming a little, entirely against his intention.

‘Tha can call me Tibb, an I let thee,’ she said. ‘Tha’lt better clamber on thy bulgy-eyed dray there, afore some coney kicks
tha in thy ribs. An tha’rt faring somewheres, at least I know the roads.’

This sounded like the best advice, unpalatably though
the spoon was being proffered. He picked his way cautiously to John Blund and untied him from his stump.

‘Whither farest thou, then?’

‘Nowheres that that’d know, by the looks of the,’ she said, swinging her own horse around. ‘I’m to my uncle’s inn, with whey
and buttermilk – didst think I was jesting? Well, certes I was then – from Northover parish. An tha past money, tha canst
find lodging there; otherwise, tha’lt find it a cold night outside our very door.’

‘Thou dost not sound so cold in the heart,’ Roger said.

‘Softly there, boy. I’ve a needle in my girdle, shouldst tha need stitching.’ She looked back at him, still smiling. ‘The
mast not draw before me; that tha’s shown every owlet in Rowan Wood already.’

‘I molest no one,’ Roger said stiffly, ‘tie childer nor animals.’

‘There’s a light oath,’ Tibb said. ‘Naytheless, ride closer then, and work the cement out of thy sword-elbow. I was fond to
stop for thee, this is a bad hour; canst tha strike if we be beset?’

‘Fast enough,’ Roger said. ‘No man becomes a master by his wits alone.’

This outrageous lie passed between his teeth before he was quite aware of it; yet he was disinclined to correct it. The day,
in particular, and the journey, in general, had cast a false air around everything, and around his own bitterness, a tatterdemalion
motley.

‘I guessed tha clad too fair to be but clerk,’ Tibb said. They were riding abreast now. ‘Art tha a Grey Friar?’

‘Nay, that’s to come, an God willeth.’ Was that the indirigible self again? He had never thought of such a thing before. But
what else could have spoken this? It was hardly possible that any mood inspired by a dirty blonde peasant girl should suggest
his becoming a mendicant.

‘What dost tha teach?

The lie was becoming exceedingly complicated, but it was too old now to bury. ‘Logic,’ he said. ‘Have we a long ride further?’

Nay, not in full day. But these shadows are mischancy; ‘ware sink-holes.’ Almost on the word, the cob stumbled and righted
itself with a muted nicker of alarm, and Roger grasped the girl’s hand.

‘’Twas nothing,’ Tibb said; but she made no move to free herself. They rode side by side for a silent while. The sun was almost
gone, though the sky was still half bright.

‘Tha’rt a strange twosome, as crossed as herring-bones,’ Tibb said. ‘A ninny scholar, a sleepy swordsman, a well-clad clerk.
And a boy man.’

‘I am indebted to thee,’ Roger said shortly. ‘Mock on.’

‘I may, an it pleaseth me. Ali, go up I’

The sharp change in her voice made Roger sit bolt upright in the saddle.

‘Here – what’s amiss?’

‘I shan’t tell tha. Yes, I shall, it’ll give tha thy turn for mockery. My garter’s fallen untied, ne more, and I’ll lose it
ere we see home.’

Roger looked away at the deepening twilight until he got his breath back. ‘Small ills, small remedies,’ he said. ‘I’ll take
it up for thee.’

‘Not here,’ Tibb said tranquilly. ‘The Plain’s just ahead. I’d not see myself surprised out of these gullies – there are knives
abroad here. Tin shouldst know that much.’

She was not content until they were on the flat top of a rise some five minutes’ ride on to the Plain, and it was almost dark.
Then, without a word, she slid rather ungracefully off the cob and sat down on the hard earth.

She was most matter of fact in allowing her garter to be tied; and in allowing him to find deeper in her skirt a fold which
needed some stitching beyond the repair of any needle she might have had with her (nor did he detect any such bodkin as she
had threatened him with; only a button which gave but would never fasten). By the time all the repairs were made – it was
far from the first time she had employed such a tailor, that was plain – the night was pitch black and Roger was as sweating
cold as he had ever been in his life.

Tibb tucked one leg under the other and stood up, helping
him to his feet. ‘Theft a wolf cub,’ she said. ‘A fierce beginner. Tha hadst best kiss me afore I kick thee.’

He took her around the waist, which was surprisingly small for so broad a belly and bosom, and kissed her, but this only made
her laugh. ‘I thank thee,’ she said. ‘Let’s mount; there’s still another ride to take.’

He groped his way on to John Blund and followed the sound of the cob’s hooves, not sure whether to be alarmed or assuaged,
and too sleepy to be sure he should care.

Thou’rt no beginner, Tibb,’ he said. Thou’st churned thy buttermilk to whey before this nightfall.’

‘T’ha’rt being over-nice for a lover,’ Tibb’s voice drifted back to him. Tha meanest maidenhead, tha shouldst say so. ‘Twas
only a trouble to me in the bed; waxed cold, waxed hot; and in smalwe stead it stood me. That which will away is very hard
to hold.

And then, eerily in the cold night, she began to sing in a piping, clear, sweetly tuneful voice: