The Tavern in the Morning (7 page)

A piece of sheepskin.

Smelly it might be, but it was beautifully warm. Josse wriggled his toes. They were warm, too. Bliss! From somewhere nearby, he could hear the soft hiss and crackle of a fire. Fire. Sheepskin. Warmth. Ah! This was
good.
Better than standing in the cold below Tonbridge Castle, trying to keep Horace from pacing in circles and giving them away …

Horace!

Josse sat up.

His head seemed to explode and, all thoughts of Horace flying from his brain, he groaned aloud.

A voice said urgently, ‘Lie back!’

For a moment, Josse thought he was back with Helewise and that, by some strange mirror-imagery, she was now nursing him, persuading him to rest. Had he taken on her head pain? Not that he’d mind, not really, only it did seem weird …

No. He couldn’t be in Helewise’s little bed. Helewise would not lie beneath a cover that smelt like this one did.

Gathering himself for a huge effort, Josse opened his eyes.

By the greyish light of morning, he could see that he was lying in a shack, crudely made of wooden posts tied together with woven willow withies. Cold air was coming in through the many gaps in the walls. He seemed to be in a bed of bracken, and the stinking cover was indeed a sheepskin, not very well cured.

A movement caught his attention. Turning his head – very carefully – he saw a figure standing in the low doorway.

A small figure, this one. By his dress, a boy. Eight? Nine? Josse, despite being uncle to several young nephews, was not very good with children’s ages. As he watched, the boy came into the shack and knelt beside Josse. He held a cup and, raising Josse’s head with a gentle hand that was careful to avoid the wound, he held the rim of the cup to Josse’s lips.

Some sort of warm liquid, flavoured with something reminiscent of onions, trickled into Josse’s mouth.

Mmm. Not bad.

‘Mmm. Not bad,’ Josse said aloud.

‘It’s onion broth,’ the light voice said. ‘Anyway, it’s meant to be. I don’t do very much cooking. Still, it tasted all right to me.’

‘Possibly a tad more salt,’ Josse remarked.

‘Yes! But, actually, I haven’t got any salt.’

‘Oh.’

There was a silence. The lad settled himself on the floor of the shack, close by Josse, and then said, ‘I’m Ninian. Ninian de Lehon. I’m not supposed to tell people, but you won’t say I did, will you?’

Josse twisted round so that he could look up into the boy’s innocent eyes. They were bright blue. Rare, he thought, to see such an intensity of colour. Recalling the trusting question, he said, ‘Of course I won’t.’

‘I’m seven years and five months old,’ Ninian went on, ‘I like riding and I like making camps – this is my camp. It’s my latest one and my best one. I like hounds – I’m going to have a hound of my own when I’m ten – and I don’t like lessons.’

‘Nor do I,’ Josse agreed.

The boy giggled. ‘You’re too old for lessons.’

‘Aye. But I remember well enough I didn’t like them.’

‘My pony’s called Minstrel,’ the boy said, ‘and—’

Pony. Horse. Horace! The memory came back again. ‘Where’s Horace?’ Josse demanded.

‘Is he your horse? He’s fine,’ Ninian said. ‘I’ve put him in the shelter with Minstrel. I took off his saddle and put Minstrel’s spare cover on him, only it’s a bit small. I would have taken off his bridle, but I didn’t know how to tether him if I did, the shelter’s not very strong and he might have pushed his way out. So I didn’t.’

‘Thank you for looking after him,’ Josse said gravely.

‘That’s all right.’

Silence fell again. With the fingernail of one forefinger – a filthy nail, Josse observed, on an equally filthy hand – Ninian picked at a scab on the back of his opposite wrist. The scab came away, leaving behind a drop of blood, which the boy sucked up. Then he ate the scab.

‘Nice?’ enquired Josse.

Ninian put his head on one side. ‘It could do with a tad more salt.’ He laughed. ‘You didn’t go, eugh!’ he said. ‘My mother always does. She—’

Suddenly his expression changed. Leaping up, he said, ‘Got to go. I’ll come back, I promise.’ He bent down over Josse, and, spitting into his right hand, held it out. ‘But
you’ve
got to promise not to follow me,’ he said, anxiety in his voice.

Josse pulled his own right hand out from the sheepskin, spat in the palm and smacked it into Ninian’s in a firm clasp. ‘You have my word.’

Ninian nodded. Then he rushed out through the doorway and was gone.

*   *   *

Some time later – early afternoon, to judge from the light; Josse, who had been asleep, hadn’t been aware of the progression of the hours – Ninian came back.

He was carrying a cloth bag, out of which he took bread, a piece of hard yellow cheese, a flask of water (‘I wanted to get you some wine, but they would’ve seen me so I didn’t’), a somewhat overripe apple and a small cake with a nut on the top. Josse, who hadn’t been aware he was hungry, ate the lot and instantly began to feel better.

‘I brought this, too.’ The boy undid a length of rope from around his waist. ‘I thought we could make Horace a head collar, then we could take his bridle off.’

‘How very considerate,’ Josse said. He took the rope from the boy and quickly knotted it. ‘There. This length over his ears, then tighten this loop a little, and the loose end to tie him up by.’

Ninian stared down at the improvised halter. ‘Oh.’

Oh indeed, Josse thought. Horace was a very big horse and Ninian a rather small boy. ‘Would you like me to see to it?’ he offered.

Ninian’s blue eyes shot to Josse’s. ‘No, you must go on lying down, you’ve had a severe blow to the head.’ He sounded, Josse thought, amused, as if he were quoting some overheard remark. ‘I’ll manage.’

He was on his feet before his courage failed. In the doorway, he turned round and said ‘Er – he doesn’t
bite,
does he?’

‘Never.’

Josse waited. Horace was, despite his size, a well-mannered horse, especially towards those trying to help him.

In a very short time, he heard Ninian’s racing footsteps returning.

‘I did it! I did it!’ the boy yelled, doing a little dance, no easy feat in the limited space of the hut. ‘He almost said thank you when I took off his bridle! The halter went on fine, I didn’t make it too tight, and now good old Horace can have a rest, too!’

‘That was bravely done,’ Josse said. ‘Thank you, Ninian de Lehon.’

Ninian grinned. ‘That’s all right – I don’t know your name, so I can’t be formal back.’

‘Josse d’Acquin,’ Josse said.

‘Acquin,’ the boy repeated. ‘Is that in France too?’

‘Aye.’ In France
too.
Yes, he’d have laid money on Lehon being a French name.

‘You remember you promised not to tell, don’t you?’ Ninian said warily. ‘About my name, I mean.’

‘Of course.’

‘I won’t tell anyone yours either, if you like,’ he offered. ‘That’ll make it fair. Won’t it?’

‘Aye, it would.’

Josse, who had drunk most of the flask of water, was beginning to feel an urgent need to relieve himself. But he wasn’t sure if he could stand unaided. Staring up at Ninian, he said, ‘I believe I need your help over something else. As well as the food, I mean, and taking care of Horace.’

‘Anything!’ the boy said generously.

Josse grinned, feeling awkward. ‘I need to –’ what phrase would a child use? He had no idea – ‘I need to make water,’ he finished lamely. ‘Is that how you’d say it?’

‘I’d
say, I need to do
pipi,
’ Ninian said.
Pipi,
Josse thought, transported back to the nursery at Acquin,
faire pipi.
Well, the lad does have a French name, even if he speaks fairly accentless English. ‘But that doesn’t matter,’ Ninian went on. ‘Because I don’t, anyway, and you do, so I’d better help you up…’

It took quite a long time to get Josse outside, relieved – he made Ninian go away while he urinated, leaning against a tree – and back on his bracken bed again. The effort made Josse feel terrible. Ninian, with the tact of a much older person, made no comment but tucked him up under the sheepskin, put a full water flask beside him together with the last crust of the bread, then made himself scarce.

Daylight faded and Josse’s second night in the shack loomed. Ninian managed another visit before full darkness fell, thoughtfully bringing a lantern with him, and then Josse was left alone.

In the morning, Josse woke early. He felt better and the improvement increased as he drank from the flask and consumed the bread. He managed to crawl outside to his tree by himself this time.

He was back in bed, running a thumbnail over two days’ growth of beard, when he heard footsteps outside.

‘Good morning, Ninian!’ he called out. ‘I hope you’ve brought me some more bread, I’m ravenous! And I’m—’

The footsteps had reached the door of the shack, and Josse broke off.

Because the figure standing in the doorway wasn’t Ninian. It was a woman.

Chapter Five

A very beautiful woman.

In her early twenties, at a guess, of medium height, with a generous, womanly figure which yet, possibly because of her air of tension, gave an impression of strength. She was wearing a plain costume of some brown fabric, over it a man’s cloak. At her waist hung a small satchel made of soft leather.

She had a woollen shawl over her head, beneath which was a plain white headdress, loosely worn. Quite a lot of smooth, brown hair emerged from underneath it, braided in a long plait which came forward over her right shoulder. Her face had high cheekbones, a straight nose and a wide mouth, the lips well shaped.

Her eyes, large under the high forehead, were dark.

Whoever Ninian had inherited his blue eyes from, Josse thought absently, it wasn’t his mother.

For that she must surely be: nobody else could have had that same combination of curiosity, indignation and protective fierceness as this woman when, with no preliminaries whatsoever, she demanded, ‘What do you want with Ninian?’

‘He has been looking after me,’ Josse said quietly. ‘I was attacked, in the forest. He must have found me and dragged me here.’ A strong boy, he reflected. Strong and determined. ‘I want nothing of him, lady. That I promise you.’

She took a step closer, the dark eyes intent on Josse. He met her stare.

‘Looking after you,’ she repeated, half under her breath. ‘You are injured?’

He sat up carefully, leaned forward and pointed to the back of his head.

She looked. ‘Ouch!’ she said sympathetically. Then, as if remembering her defensive attitude, ‘What were you doing in the forest? Who attacked you? You must have been up to no good!’

He smiled faintly. ‘I was in the forest because I was following someone, a man whom I want to speak to concerning a matter in the tavern, at Tonbridge. I thought I was a skilful pursuer, but clearly not – I surmise that it was he who doubled back behind me and struck me, presumably because he didn’t want to be followed. As to my being up to no good, well, lady, you must judge that for yourself.’

He lay back. For some reason, he was feeling exhausted suddenly. It was probably, he reflected, not without small amusement, having to endure the intensity of that dark-eyed glare.

She was still staring fixedly at him, as if she feared that taking her eyes off him for an instant would enable him to leap up, attack her and make off. Probably with Ninian over his saddle bow.

‘Truly, I mean you no harm, you or your son,’ he said quietly.

The dark eyes widened. ‘He’s not my son! He’s … he’s…’

‘Madam, I have had more practise than you in the art of deception.’ He smiled at her, hoping to remove any offence from his words. ‘A piece of advice: if you’re going to tell a lie, prepare it thoroughly beforehand,’

‘But he’s not my son!’ she insisted. ‘He’s – a boy in my household!’

‘Very well. It remains as true, however, that I intend no harm to either of you.’

She went ‘Huh!’, but he thought he detected a slight softening in her ferocious expression. ‘Let me look at your wound,’ she said, kneeling down beside him. ‘Turn round – no, not that way! Yes, that’s better. Hmm. A deal of swelling –’ her fingers gently probed the bump, and he winced – ‘and the skin has been broken in a couple of places.’ She lowered his head down again and sat back on her heels. ‘I’ll warm some water and apply a poultice. It will sting, but it will draw out any dirt and allow the cuts to heal. Ninian!’

From somewhere outside, the boy called back, ‘Here!’

‘Put some water on to boil!’

‘There already is some.’

‘Good, good,’ she muttered, getting up and sweeping out of the shack in one swift movement.

Presently she came back, bearing in her hands what looked like a lump of green mud. A strong smell accompanied her into the shack; a pleasant smell, which, as he breathed it deeply into his lungs, gave him the impression of being slightly lightheaded …

‘Don’t breathe it in too deeply,’ she warned belatedly.

‘Why?’ He leaned forward and she bent over his head. ‘What’s in it?’

‘Primarily comfrey and lavender.’ He felt a sudden heat as she put the poultice to his wounds. ‘Plus one or two secret ingredients of my own.’

‘Where did you find comfrey and lavender in February?’

‘I brought them with me. In my satchel. They’re dried, of course, not fresh, but even dried, they retain some of their goodness. There.’ She had secured the poultice with a strip of linen, which she was tying off. ‘How does that feel?’

He thought about it. ‘Better,’ he said eventually. ‘The whole of the back of my head feels warm, the stinging sensation has eased off and in fact … yes. It’s going nicely numb.’

For the first time she smiled. The effect was considerable; he couldn’t resist smiling back. ‘Excellent!’ she said. She held out a small mug. ‘Drink this. You ought to drink plenty, it’s bad if you get thirsty.’

He thought at first that it was plain water. But there was some sort of aftertaste to it, a slight bitterness. He wondered why he wasn’t instantly on his guard. Why he appeared to have put his trust in her so unreservedly.

He watched her as she packed up her leather satchel. She was humming quietly; a soothing, soporific sound. He gave a great yawn. ‘Sorry.’