The Widow and the King (36 page)

He had seen her in the crowd. He had willed her to look across at him, to see that he was there. And she had. Then she had followed the rest of them into the hall.

He told himself that she would be making her way around inside the house, through the hall and the corridors to the back of the chapel, to emerge on the steps behind him. He began to rehearse, again, the phrases that he might use to convince her.

There's something hidden in this house. I heard Chawlin talking to you about it at Ferroux. I don't know if he told you what it was. I'll tell you. It's a cup, and it's hidden because it is witchcraft. It doesn't matter how I know – just ask your mother if it is true.

That's what they want. One of the King's counsellors wants it. He wants it because …
No, better not try to explain all that.
That's what they want. They sacked Bay because they thought it was there. Don't trust them.

The courtyard was quiet now. The horses of the King's troop were stabled. The crowd had gone in. One or two scholars sauntered around on the far side. Some castle folk were clearing out the lean-to next to the forge. No doubt they would need all the space they could make. They would need to put up tents around the walls too, just as the Widow's party had done when camping at the smaller manors on the winter tour. It was lucky the weather was warm and dry.

Was she coming?

What if she didn't come? She had not wanted to talk to him yesterday, but she had been in a hurry then. So he had given her time to think. If she still did not want to speak with him, he would have to find a place and time where he could make her listen. Or … no, he'd have to
talk to Chawlin. He was supposed to meet Chawlin for a practice-bout that evening, by the river. If he could make Chawlin listen, then together they might persuade the Lynx. Then she could go to her mother.

It would take time. He did not know how much time they had.

Or he could go to the Widow himself. But how could he persuade her? How could he even approach her? He could not imagine himself explaining what he knew, and how he knew it, to the Widow.

He needed the Lynx to come, and come now.

The minutes seeped by. The sun was past noon. Shadows were beginning to creep outwards from the wall across the courtyard. The house was quiet. They must all be at the midday meal. Still he waited, because he could think of nothing else to do.

Someone was coming down the steps behind him.

He looked around. The Lynx was not there.

But there
was
someone on the stair.

‘She will not come to you,’ said a dry voice.

‘She is mine, and she was the last. All this house is mine, now,’ said the Heron Man.

mbrose scrambled to his feet.

‘Call out,’ the Heron Man said. ‘No one will hear you.’

He can't touch me, thought Ambrose, clutching his pouch with the stones. I can run.

But he did not run. He felt running would be very difficult.

‘And where would you run to?’ said the Heron Man.

Never listen to him, never speak with him
, she had said.

‘You cannot hide from me,’ said the Heron Man. ‘I could have taken you the day you dropped your pouch on the stair. I could have taken you the day you placed them on the bench beside you as you ate. I did not, because I did not wish to. I have something to show you. Walk with me.’

Still thinking that he could run, run if he really had to, Ambrose turned. He walked down the steps and crossed the courtyard, and the monster went with him.

He did not look at the Heron Man. He looked fixedly ahead. Yet he could see him, from the corner of his eye, stalking beside him. Around the grey figure, and beyond him, Ambrose sensed another landscape – the place of
brown rocks and boulders, stretching away far beyond the walls of Develin. The creature walked through it, within a pace of Ambrose's shoulder. Ambrose felt his feet trip and stub against things, as though the beaten upper courtyard were uneven and scattered with rough brown stones.

By the Wool Tower door stood two masters of the school, Pantethon and Father Grismonde, talking. They looked up as Ambrose approached, and looked away with an embarrassed air as if they knew they should be giving lessons, but would not do so that afternoon. They made no sign of seeing his companion.

‘They despaired, one after another,’ murmured the Heron Man in his ear. ‘You saw it. What did you do?’

Pace, pace.

‘The stronger they were, the more they suffered. And they have all come to the same in the end. What could you do?’

Never speak with him.

Ambrose clutched the stones in his pouch, but it made no difference. The step of the Heron Man forced him onwards. A scullion passed, panting, with a pail of scraps swept from the tables after the midday meal. He glanced at Ambrose and stumbled on.

‘They see you, and you only.’

Ambrose walked – or was led – up the steps of the hall and through the pointed arch of the doorway. The long room was busy with people. The tables were being cleared after the midday meal and stacked against the wall. Scullions were sweeping the boards. Others were bringing fresh-cut branches to adorn the walls – for the coming of the King, Ambrose thought. It was strange that they could
be doing such a thing when the horror walked among them.

In the middle of the crowds was the Widow, with her counsellors around her. They were talking earnestly, as if strolling in some palace garden with not a soul to hear.

‘I cannot promise you a sure outcome,’ one of them was saying. He was a bald priest in a brown robe whom Ambrose half-remembered. ‘Nothing is sure with this King. But I believe that what you do is best for all in your charge, even for the Lady Sophia.’

‘Hah. She does not think so. But if the King will have peace, then I must help him build it.’

‘In all truth my lady, I have worn my soul thin through talking peace with this man.’

‘It shall be worth your
soul
, so that you
heal
him at the same time,’ said the Widow. Some of her counsellors chuckled, dutifully.

‘The wheezing of courtiers,’ murmured the Heron Man. ‘Their laughter died long ago.’

Ambrose saw the bald priest look his way and frown, as if with recognition. His face was familiar. He did not see who stood at Ambrose's shoulder.

‘Indeed, my lady,’ said the bald priest. ‘Would that I could. But I fear he endures me only because it makes others of his advisers less sure of themselves.’

‘I would that you take care, Martin. I shall not forgive myself if your good words are repaid with his sword.’

‘I take what care I may. He does not like to be asked to trust. And trust is what I must forever ask him, if he is to forge peace.’

‘Faithfulness? Forgiveness?’

‘Birdsong to him, my lady. He knows only Force.’

‘Yet you do him a service, and greater than he can imagine.’

‘And useless, of course. Useless,’ whispered the Heron Man as they passed.

The bald monk was glancing back at Ambrose, again with a frown on his face.

‘He is a fearful man, my lady. If he has cause, or even thinks he has cause, to believe someone plots against him …’

‘The same thought had come to me,’ said the Widow, firmly looking in another direction. ‘We shall be careful.’

With a jerk of his chin, the Heron Man directed Ambrose away.

‘They fear death,’ he said.

‘They fear you may be the cause of their death. And yet they have already died. Their bodies will only follow.’ They were all his. All the people of this thronging house belonged to the Heron Man. He moved among them, unseen, whispering thoughts, and they would never suspect that he had been there. They did not see him. They would never help the boy they had taken in. They would do as the Heron Man told them. One day, at the whim of the Heron Man, they would again move to take Ambrose's stones from him. One day they might simply kill him. And he knew now that he could not run. His mind could not make his own legs do it.

Ambrose's left hand gripped the white stones through the canvas of his pouch. He clutched them so hard that they ground into his palm. Don't speak with him, the pain said. Fight, but don't speak.

‘The stronger you are, the more you will suffer,’ murmured the dry voice in his ear. ‘This is the truth. There is no one who knows it better than I.’

Still Ambrose gripped the stones, hard enough to hurt himself, so that he could be sure they were still there.

‘How long do you wish to live like this?’ said the Heron Man. ‘It would be better to surrender them now.’

Pace, pace, pace through the hall, and he could barely feel the floor beneath his feet. Beside him the Heron Man walked in his country of dead stones.

‘There she is,’ said the voice, like a thought in his mind. ‘Do you want to call her now?’

The Lynx stood in the minstrel's gallery, looking down at the long hall. She must have gone up there after lunch was over. If she had thought of the boy sitting on the chapel steps, she had ignored him. He was directly underneath her, now. She had seen him. She looked down into his eyes.

‘Call her.’

Ambrose opened his mouth, knowing it was hopeless. Even as he drew breath, the Lynx turned and walked down the gallery to the dark little doorway that led out above the barracks. She walked slowly, to let him see that she had seen him, and that she did not care.

She was gone.

‘You brought me here,’ said the low, dry voice. ‘You did this to them.’

Again the thought broke into Ambrose's clouding mind:
Never speak with him.
The enemy wanted him to speak. If he spoke, he could be tricked, trapped, persuaded …

‘You looked for me, and so I came,’ said the Heron Man.

Never speak with him.

A second thought came in answer to the first:
Never speak. Better, easier to despair.

And whose thought was that?

He was dumb. He could not answer if he wanted to. He could not think if he wanted to. He could not tell which thoughts were his and which were not his. They were all his, as they warred in his mind, and he could not tell the right from wrong. When you do not speak you will despair.

Fight, he thought.

Fight, though it was hopeless, like a rabbit fighting the snare that tightens on its neck.

He stood there, and his mind was a fog. And he could no longer feel the stones beneath the canvas of the pouch. The strong ones suffered most.

His fingers held the long string of the pouch. The hand of the Heron Man was open, waiting for Ambrose to put the string into it. It was something he
could
do. His hand had already begun to move.

‘You!’

The Heron Man jerked round. All at once a weight lifted in Ambrose's mind. He raised his head.

The hall was still. People had stopped in their tracks. They stood gaping, with their pails, rushes, trestles in their arms. They were looking at him.

Up the hall, the group around the Widow had turned and was staring at him. In their midst was the bald monk. It was he who had shouted. He stood with his arm raised, pointing: at Ambrose.

Not at Ambrose, but at the man beside him.

He had seen the Heron Man.

‘Hold that man! Seize him – seize him!’

People nearby stirred. One or two took a step towards Ambrose, looking doubtfully up the hall as if they did not quite know who it was they were being ordered to seize and had no idea why.

‘Hold him!’ cried the bald monk, urgently.

Ambrose felt the Heron Man step back from his shoulder. He twisted and reached out – through into the other place. His fingers grabbed at his enemy's cloak, and he pulled. The Heron Man stumbled forward in his grasp, into the hall. He seemed to have very little strength. Ambrose backed as his enemy came, still holding the cloth.

‘There!’ cried a voice. Feet were running towards him.

Ambrose looked up into the face of his enemy. The eyes were bent on him in fury – bright as a snake's and deep as the rage of the pit. His knees sagged. He felt the robe slip from his grasp, and he fell forwards. Others were close.

Get him! he begged in his mind. Get him! But he knew that the enemy was gone, stepping away into the brown land where the fingers of Develin could not touch him. He grovelled on the floor, and there were people around him. Hands were on his shoulders: warm hands.

‘Has he had a fit?’ asked someone at the back of the crowd.

‘Didn't you see … ?’

‘Here, Luke boy. We'll get you some water …’

Pushing through the crowd came the bald monk. He knelt beside Ambrose.

‘Did you see him?’ Ambrose gasped. ‘Did you see him?’

‘I heard your mother's voice,’ said the man softly. ‘And then I saw him. Are you hurt?’ ‘… I don't think so.’

The crowd gave back around the Widow. She looked down at them both.

‘Who was that with you, Luke? Where did he come from? Where is he, now?’

‘He's been here all the time. I don't know where he went.’

‘All the time?’

‘Who was it?’ asked someone.

‘I didn't see …’