The Widow and the King (26 page)

‘My pipe is in my cell. But …’ The man scratched his head. ‘There is a story to it, about the gods of the hill people. I might tell it, perhaps.’

‘Yes please.’

‘It is a sad one.’

‘I know.’

Ambrose knew the story. He knew it very well.

‘So,’ said Chawlin.

‘Thank you,’ said Ambrose, hoarsely. Tears were still coming, but he wanted them to come. It was the same story that she had told him, so many times.

‘It is a strange thing, the Lament,’ said Chawlin, after a while. ‘I have talked with the masters of it. We think it must be about the sorrow of the hillmen who were driven from the Kingdom when Wulfram came …’

Chawlin had said the murder had been done by the sea-men. Mother had said that it was done by giants, and had reminded him how much taller than the hillmen the people of the Kingdom were.

‘… They had cities then; but the cities burned. They were driven from the rich lands. They died in thousands. The survivors fled to live in pockets in the mountains. They could not return. Maybe, in the story, the goddess would stand for their grief. The world had turned its back on its children. But they also talk of the dragon Capuu – a strength that lasts. He is like what the masters here call Faithfulness. For the most part, of course, the masters mean faithfulness to the Angels. But the hillmen do not know the Angels, and yet they too show faithfulness. So it is something near that, perhaps.’

Capuu does not loose his hold for pain
, she had said.
Or all the world would die.

‘Did you live in the hills?’ asked Chawlin.

Ambrose nodded, but said nothing. He did want to talk – about his mother, and maybe the father he hadn't
known, and all those things. But the Widow had forbidden it. And he did not think he could form the words without weeping again. And that would hurt.

‘So,’ said Chawlin, after a short wait. ‘How did you come here?’

‘I walked out of the mountains,’ Ambrose said dully. ‘Then a man found me. He brought me to the Widow. She tested me, and said that I could become a scholar.’

‘What man was this?’

‘The Widow knew him. They had been friends, but she did not talk to him as if he was still a friend. She called him – I can't remember what she called him.’

‘A knight?’

‘Yes. A baron, I think.’

‘Ho. Would you remember his badge?’

‘He had a blue-and-white shield, with a wolf and a staff painted on it.’

‘Lackmere!’ Chawlin was startled.

‘Yes.’

Yes, that was what the Widow had called him. The name meant little to Ambrose. His strongest memory of him was of riding in the mist – the clink-clink of mail, the enemy close, the hands on the rein that would not change their course. That had been purpose, in a world where all purpose seemed lost. Maybe it had been faithfulness, too.

‘Michael's Wings! And I fought under Lackmere once. And yes, so – so …’ He pulled at his chin, thinking. ‘So he was here, and I never knew. I wonder what he's doing now.’

‘I think he is with Septimus.’

‘Is he? So …’

Chawlin was looking at him, closely.

‘So. Your name is Luke, is it?’

‘I'm called Luke.’

Chawlin was still looking at him. Ambrose shook his head, trying to clear the reek of his memories. He remembered how Wastelands had made him stand in the moonlight when they had first met. Perhaps people could guess who he was just from his face. He must not let Chawlin guess. He kept his eyes on the floor. A cold tear edged down the line of his cheek and ran to the tip of his nose.

‘Well, Luke. I think I have a few things to say to you. Will you listen?’

‘Yes.’

‘First is this. Not long ago someone spoke to me about you. As it happens they came when I was feeling grey and lonely, and even a bit scared – like you, perhaps. We talked, and that was good. There is a little of the Angels in everyone, I think. Sometimes you see it.

‘But one of the things they said was that I might look out for you. So people care for you. I do too now. You hear me?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. Second, Luke, is this. This is a good place. Food, warmth, people who care: if you've crossed the wilderness, you'll know how much that means. But more than that, this is a place where people are looking for hope. That's what the school is trying to do – find meanings, find ways to better the world. And it's true what they say. There's almost nowhere else left that's doing this. It's the last place in which you can really learn. That matters, too. It's a good place. It could be good for you.’

Ambrose nodded.

‘And my third, Luke, is that you have learning to do. Do you understand me? You can do it here if you are willing. You must not fight the school. You must learn from it.’

‘I know,’ said Ambrose.

Food, warmth, people, hope. Yes.

But there was also the Heron Man.

‘Can I learn to fight as well?’

Chawlin frowned. ‘What do you mean? What kind of fighting?’

Ambrose shrugged. ‘Any.’

Anything was better than sitting helpless inside the diminishing ring of stones. Only five now: too few, certainly, to wall the Heron Man back into his pool, supposing he could ever get there. Could five be enough to protect him, even? Perhaps they could, if he slept curled up. But that wasn't what he wanted. He wanted to hit back. Learning how would be a purpose of sorts.

Chawlin was still frowning.

‘Well, first we must see you past this matter of the knife. If we can put that behind us … I could show you a little war-skill, perhaps. Not during lessons, or we'd both lose our places. And not in the house either. It would be better if we could meet down by the riverbank. There's a shelter there I use. The Widow may forbid it, if she hears of it. But she may not hear of it and she may not forbid it if she does. Have you used a sword before?’

‘Once. It was too heavy.’

‘Only once? When was that?’

He was trying to find out about Ambrose again. Ambrose just shrugged.

‘It was on the way here.’

Chawlin was about to ask something else, but the sound of voices in the little courtyard interrupted him. He crossed to the inner parapet, peered down, and sighed.

‘I thought so. They have come to look for you. And since they are here, we had better go down.’

He heaved the trapdoor open and led the way down the turret stair.

In the courtyard stood Father Grismonde, a stocky priest with a white beard whose normal duties were the teaching of Grammar and Dogma, and leading the Widow's house in prayer. There were two men-at-arms with him. Ambrose could tell by the stony way Father Grismonde looked at him that he had heard about the fight.

Chawlin's hand was on his shoulder.

‘It'll be all right,’ he murmured. ‘At least, it should not be too bad. No one was hurt.’

Father Grismonde said nothing as they came up. One of the men-at-arms took Ambrose by the elbow and led him towards the arch out of the courtyard. The other walked at his side. Behind, Chawlin fell in step with the white-bearded priest, speaking softly. Ambrose could not hear what was said. Chawlin was not being rebuked for missing lessons, anyway. He was asking a question. Father Grismonde answered him shortly.

‘Good luck, Luke.’ said Chawlin. ‘I'll come to see you at sundown, if they let me.’

Ambrose turned to reply. He meant to thank Chawlin for staying with him.

But beyond Chawlin, for a moment in a doorway, there was someone else.

Who was that? A man in a robe?

Someone else had been in the courtyard! Who?

The man-at-arms was moving him on. Chawlin had smiled and turned away. Father Grismonde was frowning.

Who had it been? Padry?

Padry was away from the castle. He knew that.

Denke, the Law-master? Or one of the masters that Ambrose did not yet know?

Of course not, he thought wearily. Of course not.

He had been there, all the time. And Ambrose hadn't seen him.

The archway threw its shadow around him. The short tunnel echoed with the scraping of the men's feet upon stone. Ambrose's hand stole to the pebbles in his pouch.

He had only five of them now.

Sophia sat at her mother's feet, in the council chamber of Develin. Her dress weighed on her. Her hair was pulled tightly into place and heavy with jewels. She had made Dapea take special care over it that morning. She thought that all the counsellors were eyeing her secretly, wondering why she was there.

Yes, why? Why am I doing this?

Her throat was tight with nerves.

The room was full. Most of the officers of the house were present. So were Father Grismonde, Pantethon the Master of Histories, and Denke the Master of Law. Only Sophia and the Widow were seated. The Widow's chair had no footstool, so they had dragged out the low wooden chest that normally rested against the wall to act as one. Sophia had tried the lid before she had sat down on it,
because she had been afraid of pinching herself. It was locked. It always was. She knew the key lay in the hidden drawer in her mother's writing desk. She felt awkward, to be sitting there in the middle of the room, perched upon the secrets of Develin.

Why was she doing this?

On most council days she found something else to occupy her, just in case the Widow thought it time that she learned more about the business of the house. But that morning she had gone to her mother and asked permission to attend, saying (with some truth) that she was interested in the winter progress around the manors, which she had heard was to be discussed today.

‘Come and be welcome,’ the Widow had said shortly. ‘Speak if you have something to say. Otherwise listen, and learn what you can.’

Sophia listened, and learned little. There was an hour of gloomy talk about the war between King Septimus and Velis. Everyone thought the news was very bad. Looking around, she guessed that quite a number of the counsellors still wanted the Widow to take sides against Velis, but none of them dared say so. Others seemed to think it was already too late.

Then there was an interminable discussion about the progress: which of her manors the Widow and her followers would visit; the numbers of horses and guards that should come with them; and above all, which of the party would be able to sleep under a roof, and when – for no house in the Widow's lands but Develin itself could shelter all the cavalcade. The men talked round and round on very little things and never seemed to finish. Sophia
wondered why her mother did not simply decide matters one way or the other, as she did at other times. But the Widow seemed listless today. She did not force herself upon the debate.

Then someone re-opened the question of who would be in the party. From there, they began to discuss the scholars. Then someone else mentioned Luke.

The direction of the talk changed at once, and the mood of the Council with it.

‘My lady, I regret it, but he is not fit to be at the school.’

Sophia could feel her mouth going dry. They were coming to the moment.

‘How is he not fit?’ asked the Widow.

She will not want to turn him out of the house, I think
, Chawlin had said.
She will look for a reason to keep him. If you can give her one, she may take it.

‘His attention is fitful,’ sighed Pantethon. ‘And it is plain that he likes not his masters …’

‘So different from my other scholars,’ the Widow murmured.

‘But it is Father Grismonde whom you must hear on this, my lady. There is a matter …’

‘Grismonde?’

‘My lady,’ said the white-bearded priest. ‘I own to being disappointed. When I first saw the boy, I thought he had an air of the unearthly, and indeed I wondered if we might have the seeds of one who would in time talk with Angels …’

‘Do you recruit still, sir? I thought our monasteries already over-full.’

‘
However
, my lady, it is now plain that his uncommonness is a plain corruption of the mind, and that it brings dangers to those near him.’

‘What! Then you should exorcize him, my friend.’

‘My lady jests. I have seen too many cases of madness in men to suppose that they are all the work of ill spirits …’

Father Grismonde stood in the middle of the floor, with his white beard jutting and eye fixed on his mistress's eye. He knew that the Widow was trying to put him off. And plainly he was not going to let it happen …
Not the sharpest wit
, Chawlin had said.
But a stickler for what he thinks is the truth … I doubt he will let it drop.

Sophia's heart sank. She would have to say something for Luke.

And what could she say?

She looked helplessly around the room. She saw Hervan the chamberlain. He was watching Grismonde closely, as though the old priest was going to say something dangerous without realizing it.