The Seeing Stone (4 page)

I
LIKE MY NAIN'S STORIES. EVERYONE DOES. AND AFTER
supper last night she told us a new one.

“About the dragon,” she announced.

The dragon was her husband and a Welsh warlord, but he died so long ago my grandmother can only just remember him.

“No,” said Sian. “A story about our mother.”

“Or,” suggested Nain, “a story about the Sleeping King.”

“The worstest thing our mother did when she was a girl,” insisted Sian.

“The Sleeping King, Nain,” I said. “You've never told us that story before.”

There was a knocking at the door: then the latch lifted.

“Merlin!” my father called out. “Nain's beginning a story.”

“How did I know?” said Merlin.

I don't know how he did. But he often does.

“I'll sit with my friend here,” said Merlin. And he promptly sat down beside me.

My father was in his chair, and Luke was in his cradle, asleep; the pair of hounds were under the table; and Tanwen and Sian were sitting on the little wall-bench with Serle wedged between them. So only my mother was not there, and if she had been, Nain's story would probably have been spoilt because she and my mother always argue.

For the last three nights, Luke has woken up and started to wail, and my mother is tired out with trying to feed and comfort him. At supper she kept yawning and, as soon as it was over, she greeted us all and withdrew to the chamber.

“Where was I?” asked Nain.

“At the beginning!” my father replied. “Sit on the floor, Sian. There's not enough room on that bench for you as well as Serle and Tanwen.”

So Sian slipped down on to the rushes, and at once Spitfire miaowed, and came over and sat on her lap.

“Before I was born,” said Nain, “a boy living here on the March went scrambling.”

“Where?” I asked.

“Some say Weston or Panpunton Hill. I say Caer Caradoc. This boy found a cave he had never seen before, and inside the cave there was a dark passageway. It led right into the hill.”

“But how could he see if it was dark?” demanded Sian.

My father cleared his throat. “Who is telling this story?” he asked.

“He lit a brand, didn't he,” said Nain, “and walked right in under the hill. Halfway down the passage, the boy saw a bell, a huge one hanging and blocking the passage. He had to get down on his hands and knees, and he squirmed under it.

“Then he went on down the passage, it was damp and chill, and it grew wider and wider.” Nain spread her black arms and flapped them like a crow. “The passage became draughty and the boy came to a flight of stone steps leading down into a grotto.”

“What's a grotto?” asked Sian.

“A stone hall,” said Nain. “And you know what? First he saw the
grotto was full of shining candles, and then below him he saw men in armor. One hundred warriors, sleeping. They were lying in a great ring, all surrounding one man. And this man was dressed in scarlet and gold, and holding a naked sword.”

“The king!” cried Sian.

“He was asleep,” said Nain.

“Who was he?” asked Sian.

“The boy didn't know,” Nain replied. “And even now no one knows. Some people call him the Sleeping King, some say the King Without a Name.

“The boy laid down his brand and crept down the steps. He picked his way between the sleeping warriors. He stared right down at the Sleeping King…his wrinkled eyelids, his generous mouth, almost smiling…his great sword with serpentine patterning on the blade.

“Then the boy saw a heap of gold coins lying beside the king. He bent down.
Just one,
see. Then quickly he passed through the ring of sleeping warriors, back up the stone steps. But the boy's flaming brand had gone out, and he couldn't see his way down the dark passage. First he scraped his knuckles on the walls, and then he bumped into the bell. Its tongue wagged. It boomed and shivered.

“At once all the warriors in the grotto woke up. They leaped to their feet. They ran up the stone steps and along the passageway. They chased after the boy, whooping and yelling.

“‘Is it the day?' they called out.” Nain stood up and flapped her black wings again. “‘Is it the day?'”

“What about the king?” Sian demanded. “What did he do?”

“I don't know,” Nain said. “He went on sleeping. But the
warriors' whoops and yells echoed all the way down the passage. How the boy wished he could stop them, but he didn't know the old words, see. He didn't know the magic words that swallow every sound. He knew what to do, though. He could see the light at the end of that passage—a needle of hope—and he ran as fast as he could towards it.

“The warriors followed the boy, he could hear their footsteps and their loud breathing. But he got out before they could catch him, and not one of them came out into the light. Not so much as a footstep.

“So the boy, panting and trembling, he escaped. And he still had the gold coin in his right hand.

“Who was the king?” cried Nain. “And who were the warriors? Were they men of the March? Were they the British warriors who fought long ago against the Saxons?”

Nain paused and fixed each of us with her dark stare. “And when will the day come? When will the warriors wake and march out of the hill?

“The boy took his coin home, and of course he told people what he'd seen, and all the men and boys living on his manor went up on to the hillside with flaming brands.

“But you know what? They couldn't find the passage at the back of the cave. Not then, and never since. They searched and searched. It was there and it was not there.”

Nain sighed and then she suddenly reached out and pointed through the darkness. “You,” she called out.

“Who?” said Serle.

“Me?” asked Sian.

“You, girl! What's your name?”

“Tanwen.”

“What does it mean?”

“I am white fire,” said Tanwen in a low voice.

“Speak up!”

“White fire.”

“That's what it means,” said Nain. “Yes, and it's dangerous to play with white fire.”

“What are you talking about?” my father asked.

“Names,” said Merlin. “Names have power.”

“Is that the end of the story, Nain?” asked Sian.

“Until the Sleeping King wakes,” said Nain.

“Holy smoke!” exclaimed Sian, and everyone laughed.

W
HAT MERLIN SAYS MUST BE TRUE. NAMES DO
have power.

Last night, I couldn't get to sleep for thinking about Nain's story, and wondering who the Sleeping King is and when he will march out of the hill, and which hill it is, and what the magic words are that will swallow sound. I did try to count the clouds crossing the sky inside my head, but the more I counted, the more awake I was. And it was just the same with sheep coming out of a pen.…

Then I began to think about the word Jack, and all the Jackwords I know.

There's Jack Frost, who scrawls and scribbles all over the hornwindows, and sometimes on the outsides of walls as well. There's Jack-Daw, and he's no friend of ours: He helps his friend Crow eat our green wheat. Jack-Straw! That's what Sian and I play. Her fingers are more quick and delicate than mine, and she usually beats me. And what about Jack who killed a giant? I wish I had a cap like his. As soon as he put it on, he knew the answers to everything.

Then there's Jack-o'-Lantern, glowing and scowling on Hallowe'en, scaring away warlocks and witches. Jack-o'-Lantern. His white face on fire…

I think this is when I fell asleep.

S
IR WILLIAM'S MESSENGER, THOMAS, RODE IN AGAIN
today—the same man who told us King Richard had been shot by one of his own crossbowmen. I thought he must be bringing us more news of King Richard, but he had come to say that Lady Alice and my cousins Tom and Grace will not be able to stay with us next week because they are ill.

My aunt says they all have a hot, dry fever and it is three days since they ate a mouthful, but they are drinking milk and lots of willow-bark soup.

When he heard the news, my father said, “Well, I can't say I mind. We're planning to shear the sheep next week, so Hum and I will be very busy.”

I mind, though. I was looking forward to seeing Grace. We both think that our parents mean us to be betrothed, and I promised to take her up Tumber Hill, and show her my secret climbingtree. It's best at this time of year, when all the new beech leaves have opened their hands, because then you can look out but no one can see in.

When Grace and Tom stay with us, my father doesn't make me study or practice. But we all go to the Yard anyway. Each of us can choose one skill, and Grace is the judge. Sian is her assistant.

Serle always makes us tilt at the quintain, and that's what I'm
worst at. The sandbag has hit me on the head so often I'm surprised it hasn't knocked out my brains. Tom likes swordplay best, and I choose archery because it's the one skill I know I can win at. Then it's Grace's turn to choose, and last time she made us balance our lances, and aim their points, and run at the ring.

I was looking forward to seeing Lady Alice as well. I want to be sure she hasn't told my father our secret. If he does know, there's no point my asking him again whether I can serve Sir William. He'll never agree.

Tom and I worked out something strange. Serle is double Sian's age, because he's sixteen, and Lady Alice, who is Sir William's second wife and Grace and Tom's stepmother, is double Serle's age, but her skin's still as soft as a peach and she doesn't look as old as that. And then Sir William is exactly double Lady Alice's age.

Thomas told us Sir William is away from home. No one knows where. He is meant to be visiting his estate in Champagne but, for all my aunt knows, he may be fighting at the siege where King Richard has been wounded.

“The man's never at home for one month on end,” said my father. And he gave my mother a long look, and then cracked his fingers.

“Ask Slim to give you something to eat before you go,” my mother told Thomas.

“Quite right!” said my father. “And drink as much ale as you like.”

I can see my father likes and trusts Thomas, and I think he wished Thomas worked at this manor and not at Gortanore.

T
HE VERSES OF THE BIBLE THAT I READ WITH
Oliver are often tedious, and so is the way he talks. He uses twice as many words as anyone else, and pretends to know everything. But all the same, I quite enjoy my lessons with him.

Our church is like the cave at the back of Tumber Hill. When it's hot outside, it stays cool. And when it's bitter outside, it's not quite so cold inside the building. All the same, my toes grow numb when I have to sit for hours in the vestry. One of Oliver's lessons was so terribly long that I made my head twitch and my teeth chatter. Oliver was worried then. He shut the Book and sent me straight home.

Today, I brought Oliver a rabbit—the second one Storm has caught, and this time it was a buck—but he told me to leave it on the porch.

“The crows will get it,” I said.

“How are rabbits wise?” Oliver asked me.

“Their bodies are weak but they make their burrows among the rocks.”

“How are ants wise?”

“They are weak, too, but each summer they lay in stores for the winter.”

“And how are spiders wise?”

“Because they know how to use their hands, and some of them are courtiers, and live in kings' palaces.”

“Who says so?” asked Oliver.

“The Book of Proverbs says so.”

“What are proverbs?”

“Sayings to teach a young man knowledge and understanding.”

“Exactly,” said Oliver. “And the two are not the same, are they. First we learn a fact, then we learn what that fact means.”

“Serle is my brother,” I said.

“That is a fact.”

“And my brother means different things: unkind as well as kind; enemy and friend.”

“And that is an understanding,” said Oliver.

“Serle says second sons matter less than firstborn,” I continued.

“That is not true,” said Oliver, and he puffed himself up, as a cock robin does after his dust bath. “No, that's not true at all. Some of us are men and some are women. Some of us are firstborn and some of us are not. In fact, most of us are not! But it doesn't matter. Men or women, firstborn or not, we are all equal in God's eyes.”

“You've told me that before,” I said, “but it can't be true. A few people in this manor are rich but most are poor. A few have plenty to eat, but most have almost nothing. That's not equal.”

“Remember the Book,” said Oliver. “‘The poor are with you always.' Yes, Arthur, they always have been and they always will be. That's how things are. Poverty is part of God's will.”

“How can it be?”

“We need a king, don't we: to rule over us?”

“Not King John, my father says.”

“The country needs a king to rule over it, and the king needs Lord Stephen and his other earls and lords. Lord Stephen needs your father, Sir John, and all his other knights. And your father needs the men and women in this manor to plow and sow and reap. It is God's will.”

“But it is not equal,” I repeated.

“Arthur,” said Oliver, “one boy may have more talents than another, but a good father should not love him more because of that. He should love all his children equally. That is how it is with God. We are all equal in God's eyes. Now! All this chatter! It's time you started your reading.”

Then Oliver lurched across the vestry, pulling his greasy keythong over his head. No! He never has to worry where his next meal is coming from; he always has plenty to eat, even if it is mainly oatmeal porridge and pease pottage; and he has his own land, and everyone has to give him a tenth of their crops and their chicks and lambs.

Oliver turned the key in the creaking chest, and took out the Bible. “In the name of King Richard,” he said, “your reading is the twentieth psalm. The twentieth psalm and then the twenty-first psalm.”

“‘We will wave our banners,'” I began to read in Latin, and then to translate, “‘in the name of God. Some men trust their horses and some their chariots: but we will remember the name of the Lord our God. We trample our enemies: They lie in the dust, but we rise and stand upright.'”

“You see?” said Oliver. “If you're going to fight, horses and chariots are all very well. Horses and chariots are necessary, but they're not enough. King Richard knows that. That's why he defeated Saladin at Arsuf. That's why he has saved for us the kingdom of Jerusalem.”

“But doesn't Saladin worship God too?” I asked. “Don't Saracens worship God?”

“They worship a false prophet,” said Oliver. “They're not true believers. Saracens are infidels.”

“Sir William says that's what Saracens call Christians,” I replied. “Infidels!”

Oliver snorted. “They don't understand the Book. They don't even read it.”

“Aren't Saracens and Christians equal in the eyes of God then?”

“They are not!” said Oliver. “Of course they're not! In the eyes of God, all Christian people are equal. But you can be sure hell's mouth is wide and waiting for heathens and heretics and infidels.”

“Sir William fought in Jerusalem,” I said, “and he doesn't believe that. He thinks…”

“Sir William is a knight. He is not a priest,” Oliver replied.

One reason why I quite like my lessons with Oliver is that I am allowed to argue with him, and find out new things. It's like climbing Tumber Hill inside my own head: The further I go, the more I see; and the more I see, the more I want to see.

“How many books are there?” I asked Oliver.

“Where?”

“In the world. Altogether.”

“My dear boy! You expect me to know everything! Well, now! Each church in England has its Bible…”

“I don't mean copies of the same words,” I said. “I mean different words.”

Oliver pressed the palms of his hands over his stomach and gave a long, gentle sigh. “It is impossible to say,” he replied. “There are books in Latin and in French, and a few in Hebrew and in Greek. I don't know! Twenty books, or even thirty, have been translated into English, and I have heard that one or two have even been written in English.”

“Sir William says there are Saracen books too. About the stars, and medicines…”

Oliver shook his head. “You see?” he said. “If only they were Christian! No, Arthur. It's impossible to say. But I know you. You won't be content with that.” Oliver paused and slowly nodded. “I think…I think there must be more than one hundred books altogether.”

Another reason I like my lessons is that no one else in my family can read properly. My father can only read very slowly, and my mother can't read at all. Serle had lessons while he was in service with Lord Stephen, but he can't read as well as I can, and he doesn't know how to write.

Nain thinks there is no reason whatsoever for a page to learn to read and write. “Your father didn't learn much,” she said. “And the dragon certainly didn't. Think what will happen if you start to depend on writing. Your memory will soon weaken. If something's worth knowing,” she said, “it's worth remembering.”

When people are as old as my grandmother, they don't like new ways of doing things. They soon start talking about their own childhood, and say that wise people leave the world as it is.

I would like to see how books are made: how the hide is scraped and dried and pumiced and chalked. I'd like to find out which plants make the different-colored inks.

Oliver says he will talk to my father about taking me to visit the priory at Wenlock. He says there is a writing-room there, and two monks and two novices work in it each day, making copies of the Bible and other books.

“It is hard work,” he said. “Very hard.”

“Sometimes my writing hand aches,” I said.

“Then pray for scribes,” replied Oliver. “Aching wrists and aching elbows; aching necks; aching backs. Their eyes water and grow dim. But make no mistake: each word written to the glory of God is like a hammer blow on the devil's head. That's what the blessed Bernard said.”

What I cannot work out is why my father wants me to read and write so well. I like reading. I like writing. And I would like to see the scribes in their writing-room. But not instead of serving as a squire. A squire, like Serle, and then a knight: That is what I want to be.