The Seeing Stone (6 page)

I
T'S NOT MEANT TO BE EASY,” SAID MY FATHER.

“It's impossible,” I said.

“Your cousin Tom can do it, can't he?”

“Yes, father.”

“Well! He's only a year older than you.”

“I could do it left-handed,” I said.

“No boy in this manor will do anything left-handed. It's not natural. You know that.”

“I could, though.”

“I'll show you again,” my father said. “Nothing worthwhile is ever easy.” Then he set off for the marker, polishing the shaft of his lance against his right thigh. Before he turned, he rubbed the palm of his right hand on his tunic, and scraped the ground with his right foot. Then he raised and bent his right arm, balanced the lance and ran up to the ring. At the last moment, he raised his left arm to steady himself, and then he thrust the lance forward to catch the ring.

“God's teeth!” exclaimed my father, releasing the ring from under his left shoulder.

“Nearly!” I said.

“Nearly is never good enough,” said my father. “Do as I say, not as I do! Don't run up to the ring too fast, otherwise you'll never balance your lance. But don't be too careful either; don't let your feet stutter. Do you understand that?”

“Yes, father,” I said. “Why did you rub your hand on your tunic?”

“To wipe off the sweat. You can't grip a lance with a damp hand. Now before you thrust the lance, bring your left shoulder right round, so that you're running almost sideways to the ring, with your eyes looking along the line of your left shoulder.”

“Yes, father.”

“Go on, then!”

Six times I ran in from the marker where my father was standing, and then another six times from the marker on the other side of the ring, but it was no good. I couldn't catch the ring, though I did once graze the outside of it with the tip of my lance, so that it rang and danced on its silken string.

“You're not using your left arm,” my father said. “Raise it to steady yourself as you take aim with your right arm. And arch your back a little.”

“Yes, father.”

My father pursed his lips and sighed. “I don't know whether we'll ever make a squire of you,” he said.

“I'll practice,” I said. “I promise.”

“All right,” said my father. “Let's see you shoot now. You're better at that. Though if you can see straight enough to shoot, I don't know why you can't catch the ring.”

“If I could use my left hand…” I began.

“Arthur!”

“Yes, father.”

“Right! We'll shoot three ends of three. That will be enough
for me to see how you're coming on. Then I must talk to Hum. Grey's gone lame again, and Hum thinks she may need a splint.”

“That's the third time,” I said.

“And the last time I buy from Llewellyn. Bloody Welshman!”

“Longbows came from Wales, though,” I said. “The first ones.”

“Who told you that?”

“You did!”

My father sniffed. “In that case,” he said, “you had better watch out. Your bow may soon go lame.”

My father is better at talking than listening, and when he says we've discussed something, he means that he has made up his mind, and there's no point my trying to change it. But when we're alone, he really does listen to me. And laughs. He tells me all kinds of things about the life of a knight, wonderful things that no one else tells me.

I laughed. “No, not lame!” I said. “But Serle says it's too small for me.”

“Let me have a look.”

When I planted one end of the stave on the ground in front of me, I could easily see over it. In fact, I could almost tuck the top end under my chin.

“It's much too small,” exclaimed my father. “Have you grown that much this year?”

“Can I have one made of yew?”

“You knew that's against the law. When you're seventeen…”

“Serle's only sixteen.”

My father sighed. “He's in his seventeenth year, and when you
are in your seventeenth year, you shall have a yew bow too. Anyhow,” he said, “I'll ask Will to measure you up and cut you a new one. And some new shafts as well—with fine flights! How about that?”

“Thank you, father,” I said.

“These butts,” said my father. “How far apart are they?”

“Two hundred and twenty paces,” I said.

“That's it! So what would happen if you were shooting at a much closer target?”

I have tried doing this. Gatty and I both tried, except she wasn't strong enough to pull the string right back, and she was amazed when I shot one arrow right through the barn door.

“Yes,” continued my father. “I've heard some Welsh bowmen cornered twelve of King Henry's horsemen inside a churchyard. They shot at them there, and some of their shafts stuck into the plaster of the church walls, and one shaft went right through an Englishman's mail-shirt, right through his mail-shirt and through his thigh. Then the shaft pierced his saddle and wounded his horse.”

“Blood of Sebastian!” I cried.

“Yes,” said my father. “That's how fierce these longbows are.”

“Did the English get away?”

“Not that time. The shafts killed seven of them, and wounded the other five. Then the Welshmen closed in and finished off the wounded men with their knives. Now! Come on, Arthur!”

I shot the first end quite well, and the second end as well as I am able.

“You,” said my father, as we pulled my three shafts out of the
target, and picked up his from the grass, “you could shoot an apple off a king's head.”

“Father,” I began, “you know I asked if I could go into service with Sir William?”

My father looked at me.

“And you said he's sixty-four and away from home half the time.”

“Well?”

“That's what I want to do.”

“What someone wants and what is right are not always the same thing,” my father said.

“Couldn't I begin with Sir William?” I asked. “And if that doesn't work, I could go to Lord Stephen. Serle did.”

“I think one of my sons is quite enough for Lord Stephen.”

“But…”

“Arthur,” said my father. “We've already discussed this. I've said that in good time, and before long, I'll tell you my plans for you.”

At this moment, a misty rain began to fall—rain so fine I could scarcely see it—and then Hum came striding out into the Yard.

“I'm sorry, Sir John,” he said. “A messenger's come in.”

“What does he want?”

“You, Sir John. Says no one else will do.”

“We'll come in,” said my father. “You're shooting well, Arthur. I'll ask Will about a new bow.”

“Thank you, father,” I said.

“And you did say…” added Hum.

“Yes, Hum,” said my father briskly.

“Grey's hobbling, Sir John.”

“As soon as I've heard this messenger, I'll come over to the stables. Wait for me there!”

If my father doesn't want me to go away into service, why won't he say so? Perhaps he doesn't want me to be a knight.

T
HE MESSENGER WAS WAITING IN THE HALL WITH
my mother.

“Sir John de Caldicot?” he inquired.

“I am.”

The messenger raised his right hand, and I saw he was holding a red wax disk. It was stamped with a knight riding a trotting warhorse, and brandishing a sword.

“The king is dead! Long live the king!” proclaimed the messenger.

My father got down on his left knee. “Long live the king!” he repeated in a loud voice.

My mother bowed her head. “Long live the king!” she murmured.

Then my father gestured to me, and nodded.

“Long live the king!” I said.

“Who sends you?” my father asked.

“King John sends me,” the messenger replied, and he raised the disk again. “The king has sent out seven messengers to the lords of the March, and this is his message: The king is dead! Long live the king! King John bids the earls, barons and knights of England pray for him; and the king's archbishop, Hubert, bids the priest of each parish in England to say seven masses for King Richard's soul. King
John ordains that all the church bells in his kingdom must be muffled until noon on Sunday next, and in the afternoon swung again.”

“Is that all?” asked my father.

“King John,” said the messenger, “greets his loyal earls, lords and knights, who are the strength and health of his kingdom, and he will send a second messenger within a month to report on the revenue of England, and to bring news of new forest laws. Long live the king!”

“Ah!” said my father. “So the worst is still to come.” Then he looked at me and his eyebrows bristled. “You'll see,” he said. “First the new king has overridden the claims of Prince Arthur, his young nephew, and now he's turning his attention to his loyal subjects.”

“Where have you come from?” asked my mother.

“London,” said the messenger. “I rode for three days to Lord Stephen. And Sir Stephen instructed me to ride out to you and nine other knights. He said you would direct me to Sir Josquin des Bois.”

“You won't get there tonight,” my mother said. “It's half-dark.”

“You can stay here,” said my father. “Anyone who comes in peace is welcome here. Even King John's messenger!”

“Thank you, sir,” said the messenger.

“Where's Serle?” my father asked.

“I thought he was with you,” my mother replied. “With his new falcon, I expect. He can't keep away from her.”

My father grunted.

“Tanwen too,” said my mother. “Where is she? I haven't seen her all afternoon.”

“Serle's hunting rather too much these days,” my father said darkly.

At this, my mother reached out and threaded both her hands round my father's right arm. “Well, then,” she said, “he's his father's son, isn't he.”

My father sniffed. “Serle's only sixteen,” he said.

“Nain!” said my mother suddenly. “We must tell her.”

“What's the point?” my father asked. “How many kings has she seen come and go? Stephen. Then Henry, and Richard. Now John! One king more or less won't matter to her.”

“Sir John…” the messenger began.

“I'm going over to the stables,” said my father. He glanced at the messenger under his eyebrows. “Yes,” he said in a steel-cold voice. “I do know, messenger. I'll ensure every man and woman in my manor hears the king's message.”

K
ING JOHN'S MESSENGER WON'T FORGET HIS VISIT TO
us.

During the night, he had to go out to the latrine five times, though I only heard him when he cursed and woke little Luke, and then cursed again.

“Ugh!” he exclaimed. “God's guts!”

In the morning, his face was as grey as ash. “What do you eat out here?” he said. “In the Marches.”

“Are you all right?” I asked him. “Slim could boil you some eggs, and mix the yolks with vinegar.”

The messenger groaned. “You know how it is,” he said. “The first time was so sudden I didn't think I'd get there—in the dark and all. These candles of yours, they're rotten, too. And the second time doubled me right up with cramp. I didn't know which end it was going to come out of. The third time was worst, though. I thought it was turning me inside out.”

“Like Lip!” I exclaimed.

“What?”

“Lip, the Welsh warrior. He used to pull his upper lip over his head and his lower lip down to his navel. Like armor. To protect himself.”

“Disgusting!” said the messenger. “The fourth time felt like I
was burning. Burning! It took my breath away. The fifth time was just curds and whey. After that, I couldn't stop shivering.”

The messenger looked at me strangely, and then he gasped and clutched his stomach. “God's guts!” he exclaimed, and he turned and half-walked, half-ran out of the hall.

U
GH!” SAID MY FATHER. “THAT MESSENGER! WORSE THAN
a dung beetle.”

I held out the bowl, and my father dipped his hands into the water, then watched as the clear beads dripped back into it from the ends of his fingers.

“No wonder King Richard said he'd be glad to sell London—the buildings, the river, and all the scum who live there. He said he'd sell the lot if that would raise the money to pay for another crusade.”

My father took the cloth hanging over my right forearm and thoughtfully dried his hands. “Did you hear how he spoke to us? As if we were March blockheads? And did you hear him try to teach me my duty?”

“John…” my mother began.

“And then he spends the whole night souping up our latrine,” said my father.

“John!” my mother said again.

Then my father looked round and saw that everyone was standing at their places, so he replaced the cloth on my forearm. “Thank you, Arthur,” he said. “Right!
Benedictus benedicat. Per Jesum Christum dominum nostrum.
Amen.”

We sat down and Slim at once brought over a large covered dish from the side table, and planted it in front of my father. “Herbolace!” he announced.

“Herbolace! Really!” exclaimed my father. “You mean to say we eat delicacies like this out in the March? I thought we only ate… only…Well, Sian? What's the worst thing to eat?”

“Squirms!” said Sian. “I did once. No! Toads!” And she bunched up her right hand and hopped it off her trencher.

“That's what he was,” said my father. “One of King John's toads. Yes, Helen. I know. I'm keeping you all waiting.” Then my father lifted the dish lid, and helped himself to a large dollop of scrambled eggs and cheese and herbs, while Slim brought over another dish from the side table.

“Collops, Sir John,” he announced.

“Very good, Slim,” said my father. “Fit for a king! And too good for King John.”

As soon as my father had finished eating, and we had just begun, he exclaimed, “It was insulting! That message! It insulted King Richard. Not one word of praise, not one word of sorrow. And not one lean word about King John's own plans. Just—ring bells! And more bells! Does he think we're all fools?”

“Surely,” said Serle, “the new king wants to please his earls and lords and knights. He wants them to like him.”

“If that's what he wants,” replied my father, “he would do best to tell us what's what. To be fair and to be straight. I don't need covering with a coating of slime.”

“You're judging the king by his messenger,” said my mother.

“I am not,” said my father. “I am judging him by his words. And his words were all fat.”

“Erk!” exclaimed Sian. “There's a squirm in this cheese!”

“Put it on the floor!” my mother said.

“Another one!” wailed Sian. “Look!”

“Just give it to the dogs,” said my mother. “Don't fuss so!”

“There's the difference,” said my father. “Two men. Two brothers from the same pod, but as unalike as you can imagine. Do you know why his men followed King Richard to the kingdom of Jerusalem? Because he was open with them. Tough? He was very tough! But he never asked them to do anything he would not do himself.”

“Sir William told me,” I said, “that the leader of the Saracens…”

“Saladin,” said my father.

“…Saladin sent King Richard a basket of fresh fruit when he heard Richard caught the red fever.”

“There you are!” said my father. “His soldiers loved him and his enemy admired him. Saladin sent King Richard pomegranates and grapes, lemons, cucumbers: rare fruits almost as costly as jewels.”

“Oliver says the Saracens worship a false prophet,” I said.

“They do,” replied my father.

“And he says Hell's mouth is waiting for Saladin.”

“I doubt it,” said my father. “Saladin and Coeur-de-Lion! They were both fighting a holy war. One called it a jihad, the other a crusade. From all I've heard, Saladin was a noble man. Far better than King Richard's own brother.”

My father looked at Serle and picked his teeth. “This is not the first time our new king has told his earls and lords and knights what he thinks they want to hear,” he said. “Not so long ago he made us all false promises in the hope of stealing his brother's crown, and that was while Coeur-de-Lion was fighting for Jerusalem. You understand that, Serle?”

“Yes, father.”

“King John does not always mean what he says. And he says one thing and does another.”

“Fickle!” said my mother.

“When a man gives his word,” my father said, “you should be able to rely on it. You can't rely on King John's word. Our Welsh friends will soon smell this out.”

“Will they attack us?” I asked.

“Listen!” said my father. “If the Welsh can find a way to capture the lands held by the Marcher lords, you can be quite certain they'll do it.”

“Capture?” said my mother. “No! Recapture! These lands are Welsh lands.”

“What if King John promises the Earl of Hereford he will support him with soldiers,” my father asked, “but then fails to do so? It won't take us long to hear about it, and it won't take the Welsh long either. Then we'll all be at risk. Hereford, Shrewsbury, even Chester, let alone the little castles and manors like our own.”

“However!” said my mother, half-smiling.

“However,” my father said, “your mother is Welsh. Nain is Welsh. And your grandfather, the dragon, he was a warlord.”

“Red!” said Nain unexpectedly. “Red to the roots of his hair.”

“The reason why your mother and I married…” my father began, “the main reason why our fathers arranged our marriage was to make peace in this part of the March.”

“Must I be betrothed?” asked Sian.

“Ssshhh!” said my mother. “Your father's talking.”

“When?” demanded Sian.

“I don't know. Eleven. Or twelve. I was twelve.”

“Erk!” said Sian. “Do I have to?”

“That's enough, Sian,” said my father.

“I used to think half the English were drunkards and the other half robbers,” my mother said. “That's what I used to think.” Then she smiled at my father and put an arm around his shoulders and kissed him on the cheek.

“The Welsh have strange notions,” said my father. “But not as strange as the people who live in Greece and Sicily.”

“Why?” asked Serle.

“Sir William was there with Coeur-de-Lion,” my father said, “and he helped King Richard rescue his sister, Joan. In Sicily, they took a number of hostages, and do you know what some of them asked Sir William? They asked him what he had done with his tail.” My father pushed back his chair and threw back his head, and laughed. “Can you believe it? They thought every Englishman had a tail. And the Greeks! They thought the same. Well!” said my father, “the English have their weaknesses, but they haven't got tails. The only people with tails are those the devil has chosen. He enters their heads and hearts and deforms their bodies.”

“What happens to them?” I asked. “Those people.”

“They try to hide it,” my father said. “They know that if anyone finds out, they'll be tried and burned at the stake.”