Wynter's Thief, page 26
He asks me for further details of my life with Meredith, but I find the words difficult, for he cannot possibly understand poverty or starvation. He realises that, I think, and talks instead of how my life will be from now on. He has not figured out yet that I cannot read, and has no idea that when he talks of Wynter and me riding out tomorrow, he fills me with trepidation because I have never been on a horse before. We are from different worlds, he and I, and while he is eager for me to embrace his world, he cannot comprehend how foreign and frightening it is. I am dizzy from trying to take everything in: the smells of the many dishes, the noise, the richness of people’s garments, the grand immensity of the hall we feast in, the music, the expectation that I must be overjoyed to be home, restored to my father and brother again.
And there – there is the crux of it, the awful irony. I am not overjoyed. For days I have been trapped in pain, in the anguish of the belief that I am about to die. The enormity of those feelings is not cut off quickly, like the dropping of a heavy load, or the flinging off of a garment. I am in a numb, confused, in-between place, where my mind cannot fully comprehend that the horror is over, and neither can it grasp the reality of prosperity and comfort and safety. And there is another thing that disturbs me, and that most deeply of all: despite the vagrancies of my sorry life, I have cherished one thing – that I was free, beholden to no one. Now I have a father with grand notions of what I will become, and this weighs heavy on me, marks me like another kind of brand. I am feeling sorely trapped, and guilty for it.
Wynter understands, with her gentle looks and quiet smiles. She talks to me often; silly, meaningless prattle, just so I can laugh and at least make a pretence of joy. How well she understands me, this friend and wife of mine!
And mayhap my father does understand a little, because at the long feast’s end, when we are about to go upstairs to our bedchambers, he says to me, with his hands on my shoulders, “You will get used to this life, my son. I understand it is strange to you. And Richard – he will be a steadfast friend when you know him. I do not mean to hurry you into your new role, but we have only this night, and an hour or two in the morning, to make up for sixteen lost years. As for the rest of it – becoming Everard Rathborne – you will find your way, in your own time. And whatever you decide to do, I will support you with everything I have and all that I am. Know that, and take courage from it.”
I thank him and he kisses my brow again, lingeringly, as if it is a precious thing he has imagined a thousand times before this day.
Before we go upstairs, Richard calls to me, asking for a quiet word. We go into the alcove under the stairs, and in the dimness I see he is uneasy. I notice his leg has been amputated just above the knee, and hope he can still ride, for he talked much of horses during the feast. Though he leans heavily on his crutches, he is of the same height as me, and he stands close to speak quietly, his black eyes level with mine, intense and uncertain. “I’ve not welcomed you properly, as my brother,” he says. “I’m sorry. To be true, this is hard for me.”
“I’ve not come to take your place,” I say, “or to take away anything that is yours. I mean to be no threat to you. We both have been through hard times, both wear scars that will not disappear, and I do not want us to be enemies.”
“True, we do both wear mighty scars,” he says, looking at my brand. “And we’ve both fought battles, of a kind. Only I fought with comrades, while you fought alone, against a different enemy. It may be that we have much in common.”
At the same instant we both smile, laugh a little, as if the solemnity is too much. And it is then that I know it – the bond betwixt us, more than the secret world we shared before we were born, more than the father we share. It is something other, a kinship deep and unbreakable, inwrought in our bones and blood.
Richard says, still smiling, and glancing about swiftly, to make sure we are alone, “If you want me to, Everard, I will leave with you and Wynter in the morning. I guess you’ve got much to get used to, including riding. I’ve ridden all my life, though I may need help now, to mount. I could assist you with the horses and practical things. I would like to go on another journey; one that doesn’t involve soldiers or war. I am stifled here – by love, I know – but also by overanxiety for my health and well-being. I crave freedom, something other than the walls of this house. But this is only an offer, and I need stay with you only for a month or two. Think on it, and give me your answer in the morning.”
“I will talk it over with Wynter. I’m thinking it would be good to have your company. Besides, I need someone to read the letters of introduction my father plans to give me and hand them out to the correct people.”
He laughs – we both do – and suddenly we are embracing hard, and it is joy to me. We bid each other a good night, and I go to where Wynter waits for me at the top of the stairs, and together we go to our bedchamber.
It is a beautiful room, with dark wood panels and glassed moonlit casements. There is also a tapestry depicting a castle with pointed towers, reflected in a lake. It is the room I remember, with the women’s laughter, a comfortable happiness, and that tapestry. I suppose it was a nursery when I was small and played in here. Now it is my bedchamber.
Before the feast, Wynter and I shared a bath in here; a big wooden tub lined with cloth and half filled with steaming water brought up the stairs by a troop of servants. It was fun, that bath, and a lot of soapy water and rose petals got sloshed over the rim during our shenanigans; but now the bath is gone, the floor mopped dry and the great brown-curtained bed awaits, shadowy and strange in the candlelight, under the carved roof beams.
A late summer rose lies in the middle of the goose-feather pillows, and the covers have been turned back ready for us. We have snowy sheets and a cover of quilted crimson silk. The bed smells of lavender and musk. A nightshirt is laid out ready for me, and a long gown for Wynter. Both are white as morning milk. We do not put on the bedclothes, but undress and lay our finery across the large, carved chest at the foot of the bed. We climb naked under the covers, and I take Wynter in my arms and breathe a rare prayer of gratitude to God.
“I did not think I would ever hold you like this again,” I say. “Especially not in a bed so soft it near drowns me, and with pillows stuffed with feathers. This is a strange way to end this day, my love. To lie with you in this room I had dim memories of. It has been a strange day altogether.”
To ease the pains in my ribs, I lie on my back, and she nestles into my right side, her head on my shoulder, her fingers moving gently across my arm, my bandaged chest. She is tranquil tonight. After our trial I saw her saying a fond farewell to her father, and am glad she has made peace with him. I know she loved him well, despite his wrongs. As for Father Villicus, I think he slithered away before the trial’s end, leaving us to our liberty, such as it is.
“I talked with Richard just now,” I say. “He offered to come with us on our banishment, just for a month or so, to help us. What think you?”
“I think it would be good for you both. He is used to war and a soldierly life, and finds the quietness here hard to bear. And you have even greater changes to get used to.”
“Not so great as the change I expected,” I reply, thinking of the swing from life to death. “We both face great change, Wynter. What will you do? Will you still divine? Use the gifts you were given?”
She waits a goodish while before replying. “For a long time, a dream has been unfolding in my heart,” she says. “It is something I want to do, with all my being. Mayhap now is the time for it.”
“Tell on,” I say, curious.
“I have decided to give up divining. I want to work with the sick, to help them the way I helped my lady and you. I want to heal memories, wipe out fear and ease pain.”
I pull her close to me and kiss her. “That is surely the finest work in the world,” I say.
She asks, “What will you do with your life now?”
“I don’t know. Lord Rath – my father – said to forget the wasted years. That’s what he calls my life: the wasted years. But they’re not wasted. They’re worked into my bones, steeped in my blood, burned into my face. Those years will never be wasted, though I live to be a hundred. If I say they were a waste, I have to say my whole life until now has been meaningless.”
“Of course those years are not a waste,” she says, kissing my cheek, my brand. “They made you who you are.”
I sigh. “Aye. A thief and an almost-murderer, suddenly playing at being a gentleman. I didn’t feel comfortable at table tonight, Wynter. I was an impostor. I wasn’t worthy of it.”
“You’ve always been worthy, Fox. I’ve always seen the heart of you, your beauty and strength and goodness, always loved you for those things – and for much else besides. Nothing changes your heart, unless you want it to.”
Her words comfort me and I kiss her forehead, but still the doubts gnaw at me.
“Something is going to have to change,” I say. “I have to build a new life. That’s what my father told me to do, while I’m away on this five-year banishment. ‘Build a new life,’ he said. But what with? A stuffed purse, velvet coats and fancy rings? They don’t build a life. They’re coverings, frills, that’s all. He said he’d give me papers to prove my identity. But what identity? How can ink and parchment tell who I am, when I don’t even know it myself any more? How do I find that new identity he talks of, remake myself, become someone new? How? By calling myself Everard and prancing about on a fine horse? God’s bones – I’ve never ridden in my life! At least Richard understood that – he said if he came with us he could help us with the horses.
“My father expects me to enjoy myself, to find my new self while I ride around London and strut about cathedrals, flashing my wealth in front of pilgrims and beggars. I’m going to feel like a thief and a pretender, even spending a gold coin. I’ve never touched a gold coin in my life. This wealth weighs heavy on me, Wynter. It’s a burden, an awful obligation, a millstone around my neck. This person I’m suddenly supposed to be, this Everard, this rich son of a manor lord, it’s not me. I’m Fox! Fox!”
My ribs ache as I breathe hard, afraid of a future that is meaningless to me, and crammed with a hundred ways that are alien and contrary to everything I am. Wynter strokes my face gently, and I go on. “I want us to be free, Wynter, beholden to no one. But now I have to live to please my father. This affluent life he wants for me – it’s generous and kind, but it would strangle the soul out of me. I don’t want to be a lord, a slugabed, a gawking sightseer, tripping from one rich relative to another, admiring their fine houses and feasts and accomplishments. All my life I’ve had to fight just to survive. I’ve lived by my wits, on the knife-edge of danger. How can I just pull on a velvet tunic and pretend I’m someone else, settled and prosperous? I can’t do it, Wynter! Even for him. For my father. I can’t do it!”
She says nothing, waiting until my breathing is calm again. Then she says, “Then don’t do it, Fox. Your father said he would support you, whatever you decided, so take him at his word. Think of your wealth not as a burden, but as a tool, a key that can open any door. You told me once you wanted to do something fine with your life, something to help others. You said then it was a dream, impossible. Now it is possible. You can do anything. So make your choice. Your choice. Be true to your heart.”
Her words strike me hard, for they were Meredith’s last words to me. I say, near despair, and hardly knowing what I mean, “I want to be free to be myself.”
“Then be yourself. Be Fox, the best Fox that you can be.”
“I don’t know who the best Fox is. He’s always been a madcap and a thief.”
“I saw a fine Fox today,” she says. “The very best Fox, standing tall and brave in a law-court, finding his voice, saying all those things that were in his heart, making the speech of his life. Ah – he was a grand Fox!”
I smile, remembering. “It did feel good, speaking my heart. It was good to have a voice. To speak out at last against all the wrongs, all the things I hated – and to be heard.”
“Then that is my true Fox,” she says. “And his true work.”
Her words strike me like a thunderbolt. She is right – and yet I cannot see how my voice could ever become my work. And yet … Is it what the judge meant when he said nothing in the world is ever lost? Can everything – even the pain of the past – be used for something good?
I lie very still, my heart thumping in my ribs, my imagination soaring, grasping after something I can’t quite reach. I am on the edge of something stupendous and transfiguring, the vast shore of a new destiny, an undiscovered land, but I cannot recognise its name.
A long time I lie here thinking, and after a while I hear Wynter snoring softly. It is a sweet trait of hers that I adore. I turn my head and kiss her brow, but she does not wake. Slowly, I ease my arm from under her and slip out of bed. I pull on the nightshirt, for the air is touched with autumn chill, and go over to the window, fold back the wooden shutters and look out.
The manor courtyard lies dark below. Above the eastern hills, night’s inky darkness is draining from the sky, and the world is silver-grey. The stars are still visible. The birds are not yet awake, but in the courtyard below a stable door creaks open, and a boy emerges, leading two horses. He carries a burning torch, and I see the horses are saddled, loaded with provisions, ready for a journey. It is like a sign. Below my window the door of the manor hall opens. I hear men’s voices speaking quietly, then the door closes and two men stride quickly across the dim courtyard towards the horses. One is Sir Godfrey, the other his clerk.
My nerves are taut, like a bow at full draw. The undiscovered land – destiny – calls to me, urgent and full of hope, and suddenly I know its name.
“Sir Godfrey!” I call softly, my voice carrying in the still dawn air. “Sir Godfrey! I would have a word with you!”
He looks up and beckons, and I run, just as I am, in my nightshirt, down the stairs in the hall, almost collide with the bailiff coming back inside, and rush out the front door.
Sir Godfrey waits by the horse, and thanks the boy and tells him to go back to his bed in the stables. He nods to his clerk, who mounts his horse and rides towards the gate across the courtyard, giving the judge and me privacy to talk.
Smiling, Sir Godfrey turns to me. His face is gaunt in the dawn shadows, but kindly. “Good morning, Everard,” he says. “What can I do for you?”
“I know what I want to do, sir,” I say, and can hardly speak for the feelings that leap and soar in me, for the astonishment and awe and joy. “I have a purpose for my life. But I need your advice.”
Narrative 16: Afterword, Wynter
It is near noon when we finally leave the manor. A cheerful occasion for Fox and me, more like setting out on a great adventure than a punishment. Everyone in the manor comes to wish us well, even the bailiff and servants. The morning has passed quickly, packing the things Fox and I are taking with us, and a swift riding lesson from one of the grooms at the stables. Lord Rathborne has been exceeding generous, and we have two extra horses just to carry all our belongings. Fox and I have more clothes and shoes than we will wear in our lifetimes, and stuffed purses hidden deep within the saddlebags. There are the promised letters too, backed by Richard’s presence and affirmation, and gifts for me from Summer, Elfrida and Linnet, given during our tearful goodbyes.
As last-moment things are packed into the saddlebags, Lord Rathborne says farewell to his sons. He holds each of them a long time before he lets go, and promises to come and visit us often, since we will be only two or three days’ journey away. Lady Adelaide has come downstairs to see us off. As she kisses me, she says, “You and Everard will have a new brother or sister when you return.”
“Aye, we will,” I say, and it is a knowing. Her colours are clear, and the babe floats serenely in the salty waters within her. I do not say she will have a little girl, though I am glad of it, for I miss my sisters still. And thinking of them puts me in mind of my father, and I say to her – though it is not a knowing, but a hope – “If my father should come looking for me, will you tell him where we are?”
“Of course,” she says. “If he comes, we will bring him to you. My lord husband and I will come every month or so to see you, once the babe is born.” Again she kisses me fondly and embraces me, as if I am her daughter.
As he farewells me, Lord Rathborne says, low so no one else will hear, “Look after Everard well, Wynter. He will need your support. Learning to read and write will be difficult for him. And the study he wants to do – it will take many years.”
“Twelve years,” I say. “Sir Godfrey told Fox that. He also said he is writing letters to go to the university ahead of us, introducing us. Fox’s place as a student is already assured, and he will be given all the help and support he needs. Including mine.”
“Aye, I know that,” says Lord Rathborne. “Even so, it will not be easy. So much of his life has been wasted.”
“Not a moment of it has been wasted, my lord,” I say, with feeling. “All Fox’s sufferings, all his battles, have become the passion that drives him now, and will drive him through the years to come. He will help people who suffer as he did, unfairly and helplessly, because he’s walked in their shoes. He will turn his past pain into good. It may not be easy, but it will be right.”
Lord Rathborne smiles and kisses my cheek. “That, too, I know,” he says. “You are wise beyond your years, Wynter, and you are good for him. You have my blessing in this, both of you.”
All too soon it is near noon and time to go.
A groom helps Fox and me into our saddles, and I am glad of the lesson earlier, for it is a frightening thing to be in charge of so large a beast. I lean forward and whisper against my mare’s white neck, making a pact betwixt my heart and hers, that we shall be patient and calm with one another. Fox watches, looking amused, for he knows what I am doing. His horse is a black stallion, and I marvel that he looks so settled in the saddle already.
