The Seeing Stone (21 page)

T
HERE ARE ONLY SIXTEEN MORE DAYS THIS CENTURY,
and scarcely a day goes by without something happening. Yesterday in the armory, Gatty and I discovered Tanwen's secret, and today another king's messenger rode in, but he wasn't the same man who came before—the one who cursed all the time and souped up our latrine.

This messenger told us that all over the country, King John's earls, lords and knights are allowing their tenants to commit offenses against forest animals, and against the trees and under-growth. The king's new laws instruct my father to prevent anyone on his manor from axing living oak trees or ashes, or even cutting their branches. Not only that, the laws say each villager must pay his wood-penny to my father twice each year if he wants to pick up deadwood, and that in any case he can only bring home five loads—one for spring, summer and autumn, and two for the winter.

Five loads! How will people in the village be able to cook pottage and stay warm? Does King John want his people to freeze? And where can Will get true wood now to make our tables and stools and shelves?

“Our new king seems very eager to be liked,” said my father sarcastically. “These new restrictions are not just.”

“They're just according to the king's forest laws,” the messenger replied.

“Exactly,” said my father. “The king does just as he pleases, and now it pleases him to call unjust rules laws.”

Then the messenger told my father that King John intends to appoint a warden for each of his forests.

“But I am the warden of Pike Forest,” said my father angrily.

“You will be answerable to him,” the messenger said. “From now on, you will pay him all the king's dues you've collected, and he will inspect Pike Forest each month. He and the chief forester will hear cases concerning offenses against the king's animals and trees.”

My father is angry not only because the king's new laws reduce his authority, but also because they will cause suffering and everyone will think that he made them. My father may be firm but he's also fair.

The messenger raised his document with the king's red wax disk depending from it. “This is King John's word,” he announced. “His loyal earls, lords and knights are the strength and health of his kingdom, and the king requires them to enforce his laws.”

My father nodded but he didn't even offer the messenger rye bread and cheese and ale. He simply walked away into the chamber.

My mother looked at the man. “You're welcome to eat and drink before you ride on,” she said.

“I could eat a horse,” the messenger said.

“The way things are going,” said my mother, “our people here will have to eat grass. They'll have to eat the hens that lay for them. These new laws are very harsh.”

“I didn't draw them up,” the messenger said.

“I know,” said my mother.

“I'm only their voice,” the messenger said.

At supper, my father was still angry. “I said the worst was to come,” he complained. “A warden for Pike Forest! And dues no one can pay.” My father drank a draught of ale. “Well,” he said, “I'm not going to stop anyone. They can all collect as much deadwood as they can find.”

“But what about the warden?” asked my mother.

“Hang the warden!” said my father coldly. “And hang King John's Christmas present to all his English people.”

I
HAVE BEEN THINKING ABOUT TANWEN AND HER BABY, AND
what will happen to her and Serle. And I've been thinking about King John and his new laws, and how all the freezing fieldstones hunch their shoulders and grit their teeth and say nothing. I've been thinking about how the night stars are sometimes so clear they seem to be trilling.

And then this morning Oliver and I talked about how Mary's cousin, Elizabeth, became pregnant, even though she was more than fifty years old, and about the meaning of the gifts that the three wise men of the East brought to baby Jesus.

So I have decided to bring gifts to Jesus as well, nine of them because my number is nine, and this is what I've written:

I bring you my body, darling dear:

My ripening song, my jubilant ear.

That's what Mary sings.

Alleluia!

Well! I bring surprise—this sweet fragrance
Made with love and hope in patience.

That's what Elizabeth says.

Wonder!

I come with a trill and a blue light
And followers stumbling through the night.

That's what the star sings.

Rrrrr!

Well, my lamb, I've got you this fleece
So your old mother can get some peace.

That's what Tom the shepherd says.

Yan! Tan!

I bring not a word, the sound that's silent,
And I'm the broken tooth of a giant.

That's what the stone seems to say.

(        )

I bring you guffaws and loops of mist,
A band of brown hair for your right wrist.

That's what the donkey says.

Eeyore!

I bring you my crown and an uneasy dream
Of new laws and honor, duty and scheme.

That's what King John says.

Heigh-ho!

Open your hand for this glove:
The name of the song in my throat is love.

That's what the ringdove says.

Coo-oo!

But what can I bring you? I bring me.
Whatever I am and all I will be.

That's what each child sings.

Little Jesus!

I
HAVE SEEN BRIGHTNESSES, BUT NEVER A BRIGHTNESS
like this.

The sun silvering the backs of the shaking alder leaves, and our orchard mounds of newly picked apples, and the man at Ludlow Fair with a yellow and red and green hat and jingling golden bells: All these things are dancing bright, but they are not deep and lasting, and neither was our fallowfield this summer, thick with poppies and cornflowers and trembling fritillaries. This brightness was different.

Each knight wears an oatmeal linen coat over his tunic and breeches, and on the front and back of each coat there has been stitched the shape of a large shield. One shield is flying with five crimson eagles and one is roaring with a purple lion and one is barking with three greyhounds and one is swimming with a swarm of tiddlers—and they're all silver and rose. One shield is midnight blue, with seven stars shining out of it, and one is quartered gold and white, with a black anvil in the middle, so it may be the shield of the Knight of the Black Anvil. Burnt orange stripes and damson squares, pewter circles and triangles yellow as oak leaves are yellow before they turn green; thundercloud ravens and summer-sky-blue keys, bright blood-red crosses and a saffron griffin and a foxy redbrown …I've never seen such a panoply of colors and designs as illuminate these shields.

Oliver says that this is what some of the manuscripts at Wenlock Priory are like: borders and whole pages decorated with forever colors, as rich as the colors in early evening sunlight before dusk fades them.

The knights are all standing at the eastern end of a churchyard, staring at something: and behind them there's an enormous pigeongrey church. I know what it is: the church of Saint Paul.

Now I can see what the knights are staring at. A sword! A naked sword stuck into an anvil, which is sitting on a huge block of dressed stone. The stone is marble, and there's gold lettering cut into it:

The archbishop of Canterbury, dove-white and scarlet and gold, walks slowly out of the church, and at once some of the knights hurry towards him, and lead him up to the sword in the stone.

“It was not here and it is here,” the archbishop says. “Let it be the same with our king. Let him who was, come to be.”

Many knights press round the great slab of marble, eager to be the first to try to draw the sword from the stone.

The archbishop raises his golden staff, and then the chill north wind claps its hands, and slaps everyone in the churchyard. The archbishop's vestments tug and ripple, and all the linen surcoats of the knights jump and dance.

The churchyard's in uproar! Oyster and garnet, gold and beechgreen and flames. Waves of color! A wind-walloped sea!

“I command you all,” the archbishop says, raising his voice above the rising wind. “Come into this church. No man here is to touch this sword until we have all got down on our kneebones. We must pray to baby Jesus to perform a miracle, and beg Him to show us all the trueborn king.”

Y
ES,” SAID MY FATHER. “WOODCOCKS AND LARKS AND
a swan.”

“Swan,” I cried. “We haven't eaten swan since last Christmas.”

“And boar's head,” said my father. “You haven't forgotten that.”

I cried out in excitement and started to sing, and my voice reverberated around the chamber:

“Welcome to you gathered here!
You will have good talk, good cheer
And you'll eat the best of fare
And sing before you go.

Bring on the first dish of meat!
A boar's head. That's what you'll eat
With spicy mustard, subtle, wet,
And sing before you go.”

“Very good,” said my father, smiling. “But this isn't a singing lesson.”

“I know, sir. I do know some of the right words for carving.”

“How do you carve a partridge?” my father asked.

“You wing it,” I said.

“You do wing it. That's right. And how do you carve a pigeon?”

“You thigh it, sir.”

“That's right, Arthur. And a hen?”

“You spoil it.”

“Very good. What about a capon?”

“You…you unbrace it.”

“No, you don't. That's a duck. You unbrace a duck but you sauce a capon. A rabbit?”

“I don't know, sir.”

“No, well, you unlace it. Because it's got so many tendons and sinews inside it. Birds and four-legged beasts and fish: We carve each of them with a different word.”

“I love words,” I said. But then I wished I hadn't. “But Oliver says I'm slow at reading and even slower at writing,” I added.

“How do you carve a pike, then?” my father asked.

At this moment, my mother threw open the door. “John!” she cried. “Please come out here!” And she walked quickly over to us.

“You splat it,” said my father, and he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “What is it, Helen?” he asked.

“Arthur,” said my mother, “you go into the hall. I need to talk to your father.”

“Splat!” said my father.

I stood up and bowed. “Thank you, father,” I said.

There was no one in the hall except for Sian, who had taken a piece of charcoal out of the fire and was busy blackening her fingernails with it.

“Then I'll be like the witch,” she said.

“Black Annis, you mean?”

“Yes, and I'll eat you.”

“Where is everyone?” I asked.

“When I came in from out,” said Sian, “Tanwen was lying down by the fire and sobbing. When I asked her what was wrong, she ran out.”

“Where's Serle?”

“He and mother were arguing—up in the gallery.”

“What about?”

“Serle shouted at her! Then he came leaping down the staircase, and mother was calling after him.”

“What about Nain?” I asked.

“I don't know. Arthur, do witches have black toenails too?”

For a while I waited in the hall, but my father and mother stayed behind their silent chamber door. So after Sian had blackened her toenails, and gobbled me up, I put on my heavy cloak and rabbitskin cap and came up here to my writing-room.

I wanted to see which knights tried to pull the sword out of the stone, and as soon as my obsidian had grown warm, it showed me.

There's a green gloom in the churchyard, and the ivy covering the gravestones is wet and shining.

“All right!” booms one knight with a face as flat as a spade and a surcoat with two scarlet stripes on it. “I've got the strength of two men. I'll give it a try.”

He steps up onto the plinth and grabs the sword and three times he tries to wrench it out of the stone.

“I can't move the damned thing,” he snorts.

“Go on, then,” says a knight with a copper
face and copper hair, and a surcoat shield with three castles on it. And he steps up onto the plinth.

“Get out of the way!” shouts the Knight of the Black Anvil. “I'm the man to be king.”

The archbishop watches as twelve earls, lords and knights try to pull the sword from the stone. But none of them succeeds.

“None of you is the trueborn king,” says the archbishop. “The one we're looking for is not here.”

“Where did this stone come from, anyhow?” asks the spadefaced knight.

“It was not here and it is here,” the archbishop replies. “It is a marvel; and when the sword is pulled from the stone, it will be a miracle. Baby Jesus will show us our new king in his own time.”

“I doubt it,” says a knight whose surcoat shield is white with pink spots all over it, and looks as if it has caught some disease.

“You men are the first to reach London, but hundreds more are on their way,” says the archbishop. “Ten of you must stand guard here by night and day. Let everyone know about the sword in the stone, and let anyone who wishes try to pull it out. This is my advice.”

“Amen,” the knights reply.

“And let no man here return home,” says the archbishop. “Let us hold a joust and tournament on New Year's Day. By then, I believe we'll know our trueborn king.”

Then the archbishop and the knights faded into my dark stone as sharp-edged stars fade into lightening sky.

For a while I sat in my window seat and hugged my poor right arm and shoulder. I think it must have been the hooded man who spirited the block of marble and the sword and the anvil into Saint
Paul's churchyard, because it was he who advised the archbishop to summon all the earls and lords and knights in the country to London. But where has he gone? He wasn't in the churchyard.

I know the hooded man promised to help King Uther's son and come for him when his time came; but even if he rides to London, he won't be allowed to try to pull the sword from the stone, will he? He's not old enough to be a knight. He may not even be a squire.

When I came down to the hall again, Nain was there alone, and she told me why my mother interrupted my carving lessons with my father. “Tanwen fainted in front of us,” she said. “And when she opened her eyes again, she began to sob. And in the end, she told us she was having a baby, and four months gone.”

I didn't tell Nain about what happened in the armory. Sometimes it's better not to let on how much you already know.

Nain sniffed and hawked and spat on the rushes. “Ugh!” she said. “My mouth keeps filling up. Remember when Serle sat up against Tanwen on the beach? ‘Tanwen's white fire,' that's what I told him, ‘and it's dangerous to play with white fire.' I knew what was going on.”

“What will happen?” I asked Nain.

“What weapon?” said Nain.

“Not weapon, Nain,” I said. “Happen! What will happen?”

“Speak properly, boy,” said Nain. “Tanwen will leave your mother's service. The slut!”

“She's not,” I protested.

“And Helen says she'll ask Ruth to serve her in the chamber.”

“But it's not just her fault. My father will have to help her.”

Nain grunted.

“What about Serle?” I asked.

Nain sucked in her cheeks. “He'll do penance.”

“And that's all?”

Nain sighed. “How can your father knight him?” she said. “He can't now. Not yet. And he was going to knight him on Christmas Day.”

“I didn't know that,” I cried.

“The fool!” said Nain. “Still, he's not the first. And you,” she said sharply, “you make sure you're not the next. Where was I?”

“Serle's punishment.”

“Your father will take away his hawk…I don't know what. I told Helen she's never been strict enough. Your father should have beaten Serle much more often.”

“Poor Serle,” I said.

Nain sniffed. “No good will come of this,” she said. “When I'm dead and buried and food for the worms, there'll still be trouble in this manor because of this. You'll see.”

Serle did laugh a lot on Hallowe'en, and he was quite gentle when little Luke died; but during the last few weeks he has seemed to be angry with everyone, and sometimes he has been unkind to me—he told Tom and Grace I'm only a fair-weather friend, and he called me a cuckoo and said my father doesn't want me to be a squire.

He said he hated me then.

But now I think I understand why. Since Serle found out Tanwen was having his baby, he must have felt very worried and upset. He could have talked to me.