Wynter's Thief, page 19
Lord Rathborne says, very quiet, but with his voice carrying up to me from that great, solemn hall, “You’ll not be punished, Simon, at least not more than a fine for telling a lie. The greater wrong is Fox’s, for starting a fight. The greatest wrong is Tom’s, for goading him to it. Tom is facing the highest judge of all, as we speak. But Fox must be brought here, to me. I will see that he is judged fairly, in my court, seeing as he was working in my domain. Which way did Master Fox go when he left the village?”
“Out along Cotter’s Lane, lord,” says one of the other masons. “And up that little track to the woodsman’s hut, what isn’t used no more. He’s been living in it.”
Lord Rathborne nods. “Thank you. Now back to work, all of you. I will send my sheriff after Fox. If you see Fox, give him no refuge, else you’ll share his blame, but bring him to me. I’ll hold him till a king’s judge arrives.”
They bow their heads and go out, putting on their hats and stirring more dust into the sunbeams as they go. I sink onto the stair, my head in my arms. Summer stays with me, her arm still about my shoulders.
“You knew it was Fox who was hurt, didn’t you?” she asks softly.
I do not answer in case she is afraid, thinking it witchcraft, but the calm blues and violets of her colours never waver. She says, her voice lower still, “Are you a soothsayer, Wynter? As well as a diviner?”
I turn my head and look at her. Her face is very close to mine, and her brown eyes shimmer with something akin to admiration. Her openness is rare and beautiful to me. Most people are blind, right through to the bones.
“Aye, I suppose I am a soothsayer,” I admit. “I can read people the way I read the earth, and see what lies within. I taste rain afore it comes, and know if the earth is going to quake. I see the life-vapour rising in the air when something dies, even a plant or animal, or a human soul. And I know, with all of my being, when something dire is going to happen. I knew this day was big with fate. I knew, as soon as they shouted about murder, that it was Fox. I felt his pains.”
“God’s precious heart!” she says. “You’re a marvel, Wynter! What a gift you have. I had a grandmother with a gift much the same. She couldn’t divine, but she was so deep in love with Grandpapa that she knew if he was hurt, or when he needed her, even if he was far across the fields, minding the sheep. They could hear each other’s thoughts. She always said it was love that wiped out all distance between their two hearts, love that bound them. You must love Fox exceeding much.”
We hear people coming into the hall below, and I see a handsome man all in blue, with a fine coat edged in fox fur. He wears a sword.
“Sir Walter Pyke, Sheriff of Ocken Underwood,” whispers Summer.
Lord Rathborne talks to his sheriff awhile, and then to four other men as they come in. Their voices are low, and I cannot hear the words. The sheriff and the four men leave, and my lord starts coming up the stairs. Seeing Summer and me, he stops. “You heard it all, Wynter?” he asks.
I stand and look down on him, for he is a few stairs below me.
“Not what you said to the sheriff, sir. But I heard all that Simon Jackson told.”
“I am sorry,” he says. “It were a bad game Tom started, and it will end in court, and in Fox being judged for a serious crime. But I know one of the king’s itinerant justices, a man called Godfrey de Berneval. He is a lawyer and a judge, beloved by the poor and disadvantaged, for he judges all by the same law, be they lord or beggar. Also, he knows when to exercise mercy. I will send a letter to him today.”
“You are so sure they will find Fox?” I ask. I can hardly speak. It is all too much, too awful for me to comprehend. Summer takes my arm, supports me. Lord Rathborne’s face looms out of a swirling dark, and I see the kindness there, and hold on to it, for it is all my hope.
“Without doubt,” he replies. “Word will go out to all of Buckinghamshire, and to the shires round about. He won’t get far, not if his wounds are as bad as I am told. Now go back to your mistress’s chamber and try not to fear. You have allies in this house, Wynter. As has Fox. You are well loved by my wife, and I know you to be true-hearted and pious. I do not believe you would have wed a man who does not have a goodly heart. I’ll do all I can for Fox, you have my word on it.”
“Thank you, lord.” I bend my head, and he goes past me, on up to his wife.
“Do you want me to stay, Wynter?” asks Summer.
I shake my head but grasp her hand before she goes, to thank her. “You’re a rare person, and a good friend,” I say.
“I will pray for you and Fox,” she replies.
I sit alone on the stair, looking down at the hall. The fire in the long firepit has died since last night’s feast, but I smell the ash, and the lingering fragrances of roasted venison and herbs. The sun from the arched windows falls in smoky beams across the long tables with their candlesticks and polished wood. Between the windows the tapestries glimmer. It is all smoky dimness and shadows, and I am put in mind of sunlight through misty trees, and the dark of woods. The bars of sunlight shift and shimmer, and thin shadows flash by my face, making me flinch and blink. I smell earth and scents of oak and hazel trees. I hear breathing torn by pain. Fox fills my mind, my heart. And a sudden thought, daring and marvellous, transfixes me.
I have divined for things that are lost, divined for waters deep in the earth. Could I divine to find my Fox? To find him first and help him to escape?
• • •
I have not long been back with my lady when a message comes for me to meet with Sir Walter Pyke, the sheriff, in the great hall. He asks me if I know where Fox might have gone; but I reply, in truth, that I do not know.
I wait for him and his men to leave, clattering across the manor courtyard, swords and daggers flashing in the afternoon sun. They do not take hounds, and for that I am grateful; perhaps they think that because he is injured, Fox will not be difficult to find.
As soon as they are gone, I go to my lady and tell her that I am going to find my husband, to help him if I can.
“That is not wise, Wynter,” she says. “Sir Walter will bring him back within the hour, of that I am certain. They will ride fast, and the men with him are skilled trackers. Fox is badly wounded, by all accounts; he cannot get far before they find him. It is better that you wait. Fox will need you when he arrives. It will not help him if you go now, and they return with him while you are gone, and you do not know.”
I am torn between my instinct and her good sense.
“Do not look so troubled, sweeting,” she says. “We will keep busy, you and I, and I am sure that within the hour we will hear the men return. Open the casements a little, so we can hear what goes on in the courtyard below.”
I obey, and we busy ourselves with sewing and talking, but sunset comes and still there is no word, no shout in the courtyard to let us know that Fox has been brought back. By evening I am in anguish.
“I have to go, lady,” I say, in tears.
“It will be night soon,” she says. “I promise that in the morning I will let you go if they have not returned.”
That night my dreams are torn by pain and images of Fox lying wounded under trees, lost. I wake in the small hours, pull on my dress without waking my lady and creep downstairs. But I cannot leave; a man stands guard at the great door to the courtyard, so I tiptoe back to my bed, my heart heavy with longing and fear.
Lady Adelaide is true to her word, and in the morning gives me permission to go. She looks sad as she asks me to bring her purse from a chest and pays me money that is owed. “I pray that you will come back to me, Wynter, whatever happens,” she says, “for I am passing fond of you.” I kiss her hand in farewell then leave the manor and run all the way to the cottage that is our home.
The door is hanging open and there are footsteps in the dirt floor, booted feet smudging out the lighter imprints of Fox’s feet. I sit here in the quiet and think of my love.
Divining needs a quiet mind, but I am full of pain, and breathing hurts. Also, I deeply regret that I did not come here yesterday, and too much time is lost. It is hard to put myself aside, to free my thoughts so they stream out like smoke into what I cannot see – things gone by, or things deep, or things beyond ordinary knowing. But at last I am there, and fly my thoughts through the woods, between the ghostly trees, to where he is.
There is that ragged breathing again, and shadows like trees rushing past. All is darkness and pain. The ground is hard beneath my feet, the way ahead wide and paved with ancient stones. A Roman road. Then comes a misty dawn. I see a shadowy town surrounded by harvested fields. The town is walled, and a castle tower rises above the rooftops, gleaming as the sun peeps over the far hills. I see a bridge, and hear a river rushing by. Darkness again, and pain, feverish and consuming. Hours pass. Or moments; I cannot tell. A light pierces the dark, the sun through leaves. Or is it glinting on water? Something weighs on me from above. The roof of a cave? No – it is stone. An arch of stone.
I see an ancient oak, a hanged man swinging from a high branch. Suddenly there is overwhelming terror. I smell smoke, see a fire, feel strong hands about me. I am small, helpless, screaming with outrage and fear. I am held down, crushed, and out of the smoke a white-hot iron, so close I feel its heat even before –
My eyes fly open, and I cry out. I am facing the cottage door, and the day outside is bright, the shadows short. Have I been here all morning, locked into Fox’s thoughts? Angry at my delay, I go outside and peer along the path he would have taken. Why can I not see his journey? Why his childhood pain, his memories? Then it strikes me – he has gone full circle. Somehow he has arrived back at the place where Meredith was hanged, and he was branded. He is by that town, under a bridge.
Quickly I run into the cottage and pick up the blanket from the bed, for autumn’s chill has breathed suddenly across the world, and the last two nights were cold. There is a piece of bread wrapped in a cloth on the hearth, and I eat it for strength before I go. As I leave, I feel the soft pressure of my purse against my hip – four shillings and two pennies that I earned at the manor. I will need money in the town, to help Fox and tend to his injuries. And we will need money when we flee.
I have no idea where to find the town of Bryn, but I do know that Fox has followed an old Roman road. If I can find that, I will find the town, the bridge, and him.
• • •
Rain spills from the leaden sky, trickles down the inside of my sodden clothes, runs down my face so I can hardly see. The blanket about my shoulders is sodden, my shoes are heavy with mud. All of me is heavy with the rain, and I am hungry and cold. Usually I love the rain, but this day it hinders my journey, and I am cross with it.
Sometimes the road is intersected by another road, and I stop and think again of Fox, sending my thoughts into the shadowy woods to seek out the way he has gone. I find it and go on, knowing with all my being that I am on the right path. It is the same certainty I have when I find water underground; a quiet, deep inner knowing. Fox is at my road’s end.
At sunset, I come out of the woods and see a town before me, veiled in the teeming rain. The road gleams under the downpour, and between me and the town is the bridge. Weary though I am, I run to it, slither down the muddy bank to the shelter under the arching stones. There is no one there, though the air is filled with the sense of him. I call his name, but all I hear is the hiss of the rain and the river’s roar. I look across the rushing waters and see, indistinct through the torrent, a little hollow on the other side, shaded and dark, but with a pale yellow glimmering. It is the colour of his shirt. Half sobbing with joy, I scramble up and run across the bridge and down the bank on the other side to the shelter underneath.
And it is him. My Fox, lying curled up in a wet hollow with his arms about his head, his body wracked with tremors. I fall half over him and speak his name. He makes no response. Taking the blanket from my shoulders, I wring as much water from it as I can, and tuck it around him. I am crying now, full of fear, for his soul-fire is dark grey swirling into black. He is deadly wounded and battling to survive. Gently, I turn him onto his back, and he leaves his arms clutched across his chest. His face shocks me. Both his eyes are swollen, the lids red against the pallor of his wet skin. His lip is cut and bruised, his nose buckled. He is washed clean by the rain. I try to move his arms so I can see if he has other wounds, but he closes tight about himself. I kiss his bruised brow, his swollen lips, mourning that he has waited here so long, alone.
“Fox! Fox, my love! It is me. I’m sorry, so sorry I did not come sooner.”
He groans and his eyelids flicker. Only one eye opens a slit, and he cries out and shakes his head. He says something I do not understand.
“It is me. Wynter,” I say, and he opens his eye again.
“Are you a ghost?” he asks, shivering. “Many ghosts.”
“Nay, it is me. Here – let me warm you.”
I help him move higher on the riverbank, out of the way of the trickling waters, and we prop ourselves up against the stones under the arch. I put the wet blanket about us both and cradle him in my arms. Although he shivers with cold, his skin is hot. I rest my head against his, and he moans like a child broken by a beating. At last he is silent, and I still hold him, wondering what I can do. I am sure he cannot walk. But neither can he stay here. Remembering the coins I have, I make a plan. It will have to wait till morning; it is near night, and the city gates will soon close.
“Fox? Sleep well for now,” I say. “I’m here with you; you are not alone. In the morning, as soon as the gates open, I’ll go into the town and find a room for us. But for now, rest.”
He leans against me, moaning. The fever shakes him as a hound shakes a hare, and I am fearful for his life. Enfolding him in my arms, I try to divine for the source of his pain, to ease him from it. But when I close my eyes and seek out the heart of him, such a cataclysm of terror and torment pours over me, it is hard to be calm and to speak peace. I don’t know how long I hold him, standing in his inner storm, struggling against his agonies; but after a time I realise that the chaos in him has abated a little, and his pain is eased. At last he sleeps, and so do I.
Birdsong awakens me. The rain has stopped, and the early sun sparkles on the waters and in a thousand drops on grasses and trees. My arms are still locked about Fox, and he shivers less. I wake him with kisses.
“Fox? I must go and find an inn, and take you to shelter.”
He opens one eye, tries to speak. His lips crack and bleed.
“Hush, love,” I say. “Save your strength. I have made a plan. I have money and will find us a room at an inn. I’ll pay two men to come and carry you there, and I’ll get medicines and something to make a poultice for your bruises and cuts. The innkeeper will know who can help. You need to be dry and warm. I’ll go and get everything ready for you, then I’ll come back.”
“Good inn,” he says, his teeth chattering. “The King’s Hind. In main street.”
“I’ll be quick as I can,” I promise. “I will come back soon. Do you understand?”
He nods and closes his eyes again, head resting back against the stones. A pulse throbs in his throat, erratic and wild. Suddenly he puts out his hand, grips my wrist.
He tries to speak, looks at me out of the slit of one eye.
“Go back, live your life,” he says.
“Aye, I will. But only with you. We’ll live somewhere, together.”
He struggles to sit up straighter, groans and presses an arm across his ribs. He is deathly pale, winces in pain as he shakes his head. Yet his grip about my wrist is surprisingly strong.
“Live alone,” he says, and I feel the huge effort it is for him to speak. “I will hang here. Same tree Meredith died on. My fate. Yours … You are free. Live. Forget me. I am … not worth your love.”
I kneel in front of him, take his poor wounded face between my hands, make him look at me.
“Listen, Fox. There is no life for me, apart from you. Every breath is for you. I will not go without you.”
Tears slip from his swollen eyelids, slide down his skin. Softly I kiss his mouth, his broken nose, his bruised eyes.
“Dearest heart,” I say, “I’ll be but an hour, to make a room ready. Then I’ll come back for you.”
I am about to go when he says, quite clearly, “If I hang, Wynter, I will die happy. Because I loved you. And you me.”
“You’ll not hang, my love.” Bending, I kiss him again then clamber up to the road.
Inside the town gates a marketplace is already busy with stalls selling apples, pies and loaves of bread. Under bright awnings, other vendors are setting up rolls of cloth, clothes old and new, pottery plates and bowls, and things carved of wood. People call to one another, cheerful now the rain has gone.
Hurrying through the marketplace, I search the signs hanging over the street, looking for the inn Fox mentioned. I see it at last, across a cobbled square. I cannot read, but the sign creaking over its door is painted with a gold crown and a deer leaping through, so I suppose it is The King’s Hind.
I enter and find myself in a large room with a central firepit and a long trestle table still wet with ale and sodden bits of trencher bread from last night’s supper. Cracked dishes hold candles standing in melted tallow, hard now, and the air is blue-hazed with smoke. A woman sweeps up rushes from the floor.
“Have you a room to spare, mistress?” I ask.
Looking up, she smiles, gap-toothed and friendly. Yet there is something about the changefulness of her colours that unnerves me. If I had time, I would look for another inn, but I am sorely aware of Fox’s sufferings and must make haste.
“Aye, we’ve room for one more,” she says, and props the straw broom against the table. “But you’re not travelling all alone, surely. No chaperone with you? No husband?” Frowning at my filthy clothes and tangled hair, she asks suspiciously, “You’re not a runaway wife, are you? I want no rampant husband a-bursting in here, bellowing for his stray wife. Had one of those last week, disturbing all with their ruction and rumpus. Yelled like fiends in hell, they did, afore he dragged her off.”
