The Seeing Stone (20 page)

M
Y WOUND IS STILL OOZING BLOOD AND WATER, AND
so my mother has decided I should not travel to Wenlock Priory until the new year. Oliver is very cross about this, and when he came to sit with me in the hall, he kept tutting that it might be several months before we can arrange another visit, and that to light candles at the shrine of Saint Milburga and hear the monks sing would have illuminated this Advent-tide, and that our visit would have been a stepping-stone in my life.

This is exactly what I fear, and so I hid my own impatience to see the monks writing and illuminating their manuscripts.

I still don't know what my father and mother and Sir William and Lady Alice talked about, and Serle doesn't know either. Sian told me she heard Serle ask my mother, but my mother said it had absolutely nothing to do with him. I hope that is true.

I want to ask my father about my life. I want to ask him about Joan and whether he agrees with what she said at the manor court. And I want to ask him whether Will has carved little Luke's tombstone yet. But this wound has taken away half my energy and half my appetite.

“Sir William fought foul, you know,” I told my father.

“Disgraceful!” said my father, and he stared angrily into the gloom on the far side of the hall.

“I was faster than he was.”

“I've never heard of such a thing,” snapped my father.

“I can't use this arm,” I said. “Not for writing or anything.”

“I've talked to Oliver about that,” my father replied. “When you start your lessons again, for the time being you can write with your left hand.”

“You said it's not natural.”

“It's necessary,” said my father.

A messenger from Lord Stephen rode in this afternoon, but I don't know what he and my father talked about either. Maybe the new crusade. Or the manor court.

Poor Lankin. At least Sir William didn't cut off my right hand.

S
IAN AND I PICKED MISTY SLOES IN SEPTEMBER. AS
soon as we touched them, their mist disappeared, and they gleamed purple and darkest crimson, like congealed blood.

That's how my seeing stone looked when I unwrapped it this morning. I still can't close my right fist although it's six days since Sir William hurt me, so I just laid the stone on my open palm. After a while it began to grow warm, and then its mist lifted.

It is early, and bright, and very frosty. Arthur-in-the-stone is standing on the first reach of Tumber Hill looking down onto our manor house. The yellowy stone is glowing in the winter sunlight and the thatch is glistening, except that bit which is green and rotten and needs replacing. To my right the churned earth in the pigsty is glinting and, beyond the house, Nine Elms and Great Oak and Pikeside stretch their shining limbs. Everything is very still.

Then I see a messenger ride in from the east, but I can't make out who it is because I'm looking almost straight into the sun. I run down the reach of the hill, past the silent copper beech, past the icy pond, and by the time the messenger rides over the bridge, I am at the door to meet him, panting. The messenger's panting as well, and so is his horse. The three of us are wreathed in mist; we're like ghosts of ourselves.

The messenger is wearing a surcoat with the archbishop of Canterbury's gold staff and double silver cross embroidered on it, so I lead him at once into our hall. Sir Ector and Kay are sitting beside the smoky fire.

“God's bones!” says the messenger. “It's cold outside, but even colder inside. You people on the March are made of iron.”

“We are,” says my father.

“I come at the bidding of the archbishop of Canterbury.”

At once Sir Ector makes the sign of the cross on his forehead.

“Our country needs a king,” the messenger says. “Without a king, it's like a boat without a rudder, tossing on the winter sea.”

“King Uther has a son,” Sir Ector replies. “He said so before he died.”

“But his priest denied it,” says Kay. “He said Uther was delirious.”

“And the king affirmed it,” my father insists. “He gave his son God's blessing, and the hooded man told all the earls and lords and knights he would help him.”

“The archbishop is aware of all this,” the messenger replies.

“So what is your message?” my father asks calmly.

“The archbishop is sending messengers to every earl, lord and knight in this country. He bids you come to London in time for Christmas, without fail.”

“So soon!” exclaims Sir Ector.

“To kneel down together in the church of Saint Paul,” the messenger says, “and pray to baby Jesus on the night of his birth. Every earl, lord and knight in this kingdom must beg Jesus to perform a miracle, and show us all who should be crowned king of Britain.”

Sir Ector nods and directs the messenger to the kitchen. “Drink as much milk or ale as you wish,” he says, “and eat as much bread as you can before you ride on.” Then he turns towards the chamber, and signals Kay and Arthur-in-the-stone to follow him.

“It's true,” Sir Ector says, “Britain needs its king. I will go to London.” He pushes out his lower lip, and then puts his right hand on Kay's shoulder. “Kay,” he says, “you came with me before, to kneel to King Uther, and you must come with me now.”

Kay inclines his head. “Thank you, sir,” he says.

“I haven't forgotten what King Uther said,” Sir Ector says. “It's time you were knighted. I will knight you myself in the Church of Saint Paul.”

“Sir,” says Kay quietly, and he bows his head for a second time.

Now Sir Ector turns to me. He lays his left hand on my shoulder. “And you, Arthur,” he says.

“Sir?”

“You're my page. Isn't it right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you're old enough to be my squire now.”

“I am, sir.”

Sir Ector smiles. “Well, then! I want you, too, to come with me to London.”

No sooner had my father said these wonderful words than my obsidian began to sparkle. It became cold in my right hand, and looked as though it had been touched by the hand of Jack Frost, like the manor and the frozen fields inside it.

Arthur-in-the-stone is not me. We look and talk like each
other. But he can do magic, and I cannot. He has killed Sir William, but I have not. It was my uncle who nearly killed me!

Sir Ector and Kay are not exactly the same as my father and Serle, either. They may live here at Caldicot, but they have also been to the court of old King Uther, who no one's ever heard of, and who may never have existed.

And now, all three of us are going to ride to London at the bidding of the archbishop of Canterbury; but actually, I've been wounded and can't even ride as far as Wenlock.

E
ARLY THIS MORNING MY STONE MADE ME LAUGH. IT
made me want to punch the air with both fists, but I can't do that because my right forearm is extremely sore.

The court is packed out with knights and ladies. Some are waiting for an audience with Queen Ygerna, some are sitting at long tables and drinking, some are playing chess, and there's one squire walking up and down and around on his own. It's Kay!

Now there's quite a rumpus at the hall door, and then a fully armed knight rides into the court, holding up a woman's dress. It's dusty yellow, the color of ripe greengages, and I see it's decorated across the breast and at the sleeves with hundreds of tiny pearls.

Now this knight dismounts and, still holding the dress, stalks up to the queen. “There's a knight in this court called Laurin,” the knight says in a low voice. “Laurin fought with me, and threw me, so he has sent me here to you to do with me as you wish.”

“What about that dress?” Queen Ygerna asks. “What are you carrying it around for? Who does it belong to?”

“Me,” replies the knight.

“You?” says the queen.

“It's mine,” says the knight.

“You wear women's clothes then?” the queen asks.

“I do,” the knight replies.

At this, some of the knights and ladies in the court shake their heads, and some laugh.

“What's so strange about that?” the knight asks. “It would be stranger if I didn't.”

“Are you a knight?” asks Ygerna.

“When I wear this dress,” the knight replies, “I am a woman. But when I'm dressed in this armor, anyone who comes up against me will find I'm a knight.”

Hearing this, everyone in court begins to laugh again.

Now Kay pushes his way through the crowd, and puts his nose in the knight's face. “So Laurin threw you, did he?” he says rudely, and he looks the young knight up and down. “A good night's work!”

“Kay,” says the queen. “That's most unworthy of you.”

“Laurin flattened you, did he?” Kay goes on. “Well! That can't have been too difficult.”

Now the court grows restless and uncomfortable with Kay's rudeness. Some of the knights start to call out, and the ladies groan.

“Kay,” says the queen, “why can't you hold your tongue?”

“Because it tells the truth.”

“It's far too sharp. You have no grounds at all for insulting this woman.”

“Thank you, ma'am,” the knight says to the queen, and then she rounds on Kay. “I'll stop your mouth,” she says.

“What with?” says Kay. “Kisses?”

“I'll drop you in the river. I'll make you drink so much water you're awash inside.”

“Just you try,” says Kay. “If anyone's going to get wet, it's you,
my lady. Wet from head to toe with your own stinking sweat before you lay a single finger on me.”

“On your own head be it,” the knight replies.

“You're your own worst enemy, Kay,” says Queen Ygerna. “There's a devil inside you.” And then she turns to the young woman. “Kay has insulted you,” she says, “and I give you permission to joust with him.”

The knight bows to the queen, and then she clanks across the court, and mounts her horse.

“Are you well mounted, lady?” Kay jeers. “Are you sitting comfortably?” Then he strides past her and outside the court, he pulls on his fustian tunic and his coat of mail, his helmet and gauntlets, and mounts his horse.

When they ride the first end, neither Kay nor the young woman are able to balance their lances; they both miss, and gallop down to the opposite ends of the tilting yard. But when they gallop against each other again, separated only by a wooden railing, Kay hits the young woman right on the base of her breastbone—exactly where Sir William hit me, before he wounded me. But the young woman's as tough as a stone pillar. She sits upright in her saddle, and trots down to the far end of the yard.

As they gallop towards each other for the third time, Kay bawls at the young woman. But that doesn't stop her! She drives her lance right into Kay's shield and he's unable to keep his balance. His mount pulls up, and he topples over sideways, and clatters to the ground.

Quickly the young woman dismounts and pounces on Kay. Then she picks him up, and the knights and ladies cheer and shout.

Kay tries to jab the young woman with his metal elbows and scratch her with his gauntlets. He thrashes with his feet. But the lady won't let go of him.

“Kay!” she says. “I've swept you off your feet!”

The young woman carries Kay across the tilting yard and down to the river, and all the knights and ladies surge after them. Kay yells, but it makes no difference. The young woman swings Kay and throws him in headfirst. She stops his loud mouth, and the swift currents at once sweep him out and downstream.

Kay has a difficult time of it wading back to the riverbank. But when he reaches it, there are plenty of strong arms outstretched to welcome him.

Kay coughs and spits the river out of his throat and lungs, while the young woman looks at him and smiles an inward smile. Her eyes are bright, and I see one of them is fierce, and the other very tender.

“That's for your insolence, Kay,” she says in her low, husky voice.

If only Serle could be taught a lesson like this, it might stop him from strutting round Caldicot, and throwing his weight about. It might stop the insults in his mouth.

G
ATTY AND I HAVE FOUND OUT SOMETHING. IT'S A SECRET
that can't be hidden for much longer, because it's growing, and when my father and mother find out about it, they will be very angry, and there will be a great deal of trouble.

This year the winter has shown its white fist so early that our cattle and sheep are already going hungry.

“I'm hungry myself half the time,” Gatty told me. “It gnaws at my insides, and cramps me up. Hunger's like a toothache—you keep thinking about it.”

After he had talked with Hum this morning, my father told me we have more hay in our barn than for several years and that he's allowing each family to take as much hay as one person can carry.

“One load each,” my father said. “It won't harm us, and it will help them. You remember what Joan said in court? If she can't feed her cow, the cow won't milk, and if the cow doesn't milk, she won't have anything to drink.” My father shook his head. “The last thing I want is to lose any villagers,” he said. “We're short-handed enough as it is.”

“And hunger hurts,” I said with some feeling.

“In this manor, Arthur,” my father replied, “children do not give their opinions unless they're asked for them. How's your arm?”

“Getting better,” I said.

“Good. You've been cooped up here for too long. Why don't you go out to the barn and help Hum?”

“Fieldwork,” said Serle.

“No, Serle,” said my father. “Not fieldwork. Hum's in charge, and Arthur will assist him. You know that.”

“Reeve-work then,” said Serle.

The barn was packed with people and the air was thick with dust and chaff; it was sweet with the scents of summer.

Gatty was tying hay into small, tight bundles; Brian stood up on the top of a hill of hay, throwing forkfuls down to Macsen; Will was bundling and Giles was stacking and Dutton kept trying to lift an enormous load onto his head and shoulders—his face was as red as a coxcomb; Johanna was choking; and I saw Howell trip up Martha so that she fell headfirst into a bed of hay, and then he fell on top of her, laughing; Ruth kept sniffing and spitting; and Slim was sneezing. Everyone was! Then Wat Harelip headed for the door, dragging an enormous bundle of hay behind him, but Hum at once ran after him.

“Carry!” he bawled. “As much as you can carry, not as much as you can haul.”

Wat grinned sheepishly.

“Cabbage ears!” shouted Hum.

“Hum!” I called out. “I can help you.”

Hum glared at me. “You know what your father said.”

“He's given me permission,” I said.

“Are you making that up?”

“No!” I said indignantly. “Ask him if you like.”

“Right!” said Hum. “You can oversee them. One load for each person, and no more than that.”

“All right,” I said.

“And me and Gatty will carry our loads,” Hum said.

“Not two loads.”

“Says who?” demanded Hum, and he thrust his face too close to mine.”

“I'm sure my father didn't mean that,” I said uncomfortably.

“I'm the reeve, aren't I?” demanded Hum. “I'll do as I want. Anyhow, there's enough hay in here.”

“I know,” I said unhappily.

“You're as bad as the rest,” Hum said angrily. “You don't care nothing except for yourself.”

“That's not true,” I said, raising my voice.

Now Joan joined in. “You seen my Matty?” she said.

“Who's Matty?” I asked.

“My sheep! She's down on her knees, begging for food. Hasn't got the strength left to stand up.”

“That's terrible,” I said.

“He's good with words, that one,” said Hum, “but he's as bad as the rest.”

“Let him be,” shouted Gatty.

“Why's that, then?” said Joan. “You soft on him?”

“Not!” said Gatty indignantly, swiping wisps of hay out of her hair. “Arthur's all right.”

“That's enough of that,” said Hum. “Come on, Gatty! I'll load you up.”

By the time Hum had bundled and carted off his own load of hay, the barn had grown quite quiet again. It shook its old, creaking shoulders, and breathed deeply, and I knew that, before nightfall, all the mice and rats would be out and about, eating their fill and gossiping.

Only Tanwen and I were left in the barn, and then Gatty walked back in again.

“Come on,” I said. “Let's try and get some milk from the kitchen.”

“I haven't done my load yet,” Tanwen said.

“Do it after,” said Gatty.

Slim was back in the kitchen beating batter, and he wanted to get rid of us, so he let us take a whole pan of creamy milk, and some collops too.

“I know where we can go,” I said, and I led Tanwen and Gatty out of the kitchen and into the little stone building just behind it.

“I've never been in here,” said Gatty.

The armory is quiet and still. The two windows are barred so that if the Welsh raiders do come again, they won't be able to steal our armor.

In the space between the windows, my father's armor hangs on the shouldered stand Will made for it, with his new flat-topped helmet perched above it. Doublets and coifs hang from nails hammered along one wall, and so does my father's old coat of mail. It's quite rusty now. His new one only comes down to his knees, split to the waist, so that he can ride in it.

“Look at it all!” marveled Gatty, and she rippled her fingers over the chain mail and slid them across the plate metal. Then she
picked up a pair of fustian breeches from the wooden shelf and disturbed a whole family of wood lice. Some rolled into balls, and some headed for the pile of woolen pads, and some scurried along the shelf and disappeared down a cobwebby crack.

“What's this made of, then?” asked Gatty, rubbing the breeches between her right thumb and forefinger.

“I don't know,” I said, “but it's very tough. The crusaders brought it home from El-Fustat in Egypt. That's why it's called fustian.”

“What's Egypt?” asked Gatty.

Before I could reply, Gatty swung shut the heavy oak door and saw all the weapons behind it: my father's sword in its scabbard, and his lance which is ten foot long, and his shield, and all the weapons Serle and I use when we practice in the Yard.

“Look at this!” gasped Gatty.

It was my father's skull-splitter.

“That's for if his sword snaps,” I said.

“It's that thick in here I can't breathe,” Tanwen said.

“Do you want to try some armor on?” I asked Gatty.

“Yes,” said Gatty eagerly.

I looked at Tanwen and narrowed my eyes.

“Who do you think I am?” she said.

So then I shook out a fustian tunic for Gatty, and she pulled it over her head, and put her arms through the holes.

“Really,” I said, “you should begin at the bottom and work up. Otherwise, you get top-heavy and fall over sideways.”

“Come on!” said Tanwen. “It's hot in here.”

“This next,” I said, and I unhooked the old coat of mail from the wall.

“I can't wear that,” laughed Gatty.

“And I can't carry it,” I said. “Not with this arm.”

So Tanwen held up the coat of mail and Gatty reached back with her left arm, then her right arm, and slipped it on.

“God's bones!” she shouted in excitement.

“Sshh!” I said.

“It's not as heavy as I thought,” said Gatty. “Not in one place, I mean. It's heavy all around.”

“It's much too long for you,” I said. “It's dragging on the ground.”

“It's so thick in here,” said Tanwen. “I'm feeling…”

And then Tanwen collapsed. Her eyes were closed, and her face was very white.

“Tanwen!” I exclaimed. “Are you all right?”

But she didn't answer.

“She's out,” said Gatty. “Reckon I know what that is.”

“What?”

“She's pregnant,” said Gatty.

“Pregnant?”

“She was sick as a cat last week.”

Tanwen's eyelids began to flutter. Then she opened her eyes, and stared at us.

“What happened?” she asked.

“You fainted,” I replied.

Tanwen sat up. “First time I done that,” she said, and then she shivered. “It's cold in here.”

“You're pregnant,” Gatty said.

“No,” said Tanwen.

“You are and all.”

Tanwen said nothing.

“How many months?” said Gatty.

Tanwen put her head between her knees.

“Four, I reckon,” said Gatty knowledgeably. “Can't go much further than that without it showing.”

Gatty sometimes surprises me with how much she knows. I don't think Grace would know anything like that.

Tanwen got to her feet, rather unsteadily. “Take that off!” she told Gatty. “We shouldn't be in here. I can't stand this place, anyhow.”

Gatty slipped off the coat of mail. It clinked and chinked and fell in a soft heap at her feet.

“Come on, then,” Gatty said to Tanwen, and she took her arm.

“Let me be,” said Tanwen. “I'm not, anyhow.”

“You are and all,” said Gatty.

“Nothing to do with you,” Tanwen said very fiercely. She glared at us both. Then she picked up one of my father's gauntlets, flung it down on the floor and stormed out through the armory door.

“Who's the father, then?” Gatty asked me. “You tell me that.”

“I don't know,” I said.

But I do know, and I wish I didn't.