Tales of the Old World (49 page)

Lost in such thoughts, Tomas broke free of the woods and began the climb up
the slope above the village. Sheep and goats picked among the scree for the
meagre spring grasses, having only recently made the trek from their winter
quarters themselves. Tomas headed toward the shepherd’s hut, made from dark pine
logs lashed with the innards of stock unfortunate enough to be chosen for the
table.

Tomas knew that, after last night’s drinking episode, Luc would still be
sleeping while his sheep strayed where they chose, unprotected from wolves,
bears or rustlers.

The brandy had hit Luc a little harder than it had Tomas and besides, Luc
loathed to leave his bed without the strongest provocation. He was just like any
other villager, Tomas reflected as he chose a large stone with which to announce
his arrival: happier sleeping, but waiting for the right signal to rouse him.
Tomas heaved the stone overarm and watched with satisfaction as it bounced from
the side of the hut with a loud thump. He sat on a rock to wait.

Luc stumbled out soon enough and, having realised how seriously he had
overslept, looked about frantically for the source of the danger. Tomas sent
another, smaller rock sailing in a graceful arc toward the younger boy. It
struck him on the hip and he spun to discover his laughing assailant. His relief
was clear to see and it occurred to Tomas that Luc was more worried that he
might have to confront one of the owners of the sheep, come to check the flock,
than a wolf come to eat it.

Luc was a simple enough lad as far as Tomas was concerned though there was
something about him the older boy could never quite grasp. The two breakfasted
together among the stones and picked up their conversation of the previous
evening. The plans they had made seemed less practical in the grey light of
morning than they had by the lively dance of the fire the night before.

“Firelight makes all things seem possible, Tomas.”

“But did we not agree that all that is needed to begin this thing is for the
right spark to be set to the tinder?”

“Tomas we did, but we had the confidence of the brandy then,” Luc paused to
consume a piece of bread, “and besides we do not know how to set that fire,
where to place the spark.”

“I hear you, I hear you,” Tomas gestured, stabbing the air twice with his
piece of bread, “but what if I told you I had discovered where the spark should
be set, what if I told you I will not wait any longer?”

“I would not believe you, and I would say you were still drunk.”

“But we do nothing! Even when my brother is killed my father does nothing. He
accepts the blows of fate with the meekness of one of your sheep, in the jaws of
a wolf.”

“Tomas, your brother killed a sergeant…”

“Who killed his lover…”

“Who poured wine over his head and threw him from the tavern…”

“This is senseless Luc, what matters is that nobody here does anything but
work, eat and sleep. And I will be different.”

“Well that is what I want too Tomas, but…”

“Good, then bring your flint.”

“Now?”

Luc stopped chewing as the conversation which he had had many times with
Tomas became something else altogether. “Now.”

“But my sheep—”

“The sheep can see to themselves, we have a more important flock to tend.”

Tomas leading, Luc following, the pair descended from the mountainside down
the path to Montreuil. The view afforded by the summer pastures mapped out the
tiny village, clustered around a green common from which a tree-lined avenue led
to the manor. The large house, more in some ways a small castle, was surrounded
by a thick hedge of briar and roses, thus “The Roserie”. The hedge was more
decorative than defensive, although it would take a determined attacker to hack
through its thorns, and in spring, as it now was, it bore a crop of white and
pink roses of notable beauty.

It was forbidden for any villager to pick a rose with which to adorn their
own dwelling, or to make a cutting from the ancient tangle. Occasionally the
Marquis would make a gift of a small bunch of the blooms to some young woman of
the district he had chosen for his amusement, but otherwise he enjoyed his
exclusive hold on beauty. It was towards this hedge, and the dwelling it
concealed, that Tomas led an increasingly dubious Luc.

Although there would be no guard set at this time of day, Luc pulled Tomas up
behind the last copse of trees before the rose hedge. Luc said nothing but
looked hard at Tomas, perhaps willing him to reconsider, perhaps something else.
Tomas returned the stare, expecting to find uncertainty, and saw instead a
testing glance, questioning, whatever the truth of it, Luc solemnly handed over
his flint and tinder and climbed up into the oak to observe the crime.

“If you are not back in half an hour I will come looking.”

Tomas nodded, watched him climb in silence, and then turned toward his
objective. A large brown arm descended from the tree and signalled to Tomas.
Sufficiently comforted, Tomas sprang into a low run. There was a part of the
hedge at the back corner of the manor which was particularly wild and Tomas
headed for that now. It concealed the beginning of a tunnel which led through
the vicious thicket and which was a dangerous children’s challenge in Montreuil.
Tomas had made the run many times as a youth, winning ale, sweets or merely
admiration. The punishment if caught depended on which of the sergeants found
you, and how drunk they were on that particular day. Having never been caught,
Tomas had become something of a village champion at the game and in his later
years had taken to making the trip around the hedge for his own sake, seeking no
accolades. Today those journeys of childish rebellion seemed like the memories
of another boy.

He found the entrance to the tunnel with little difficulty though it had been
some years since he had last been here. Indeed the architecture of the place had
changed as does the shape of any childhood haunt when revisited. The dimensions
shift, not just because the viewer is taller, but also because of the years
spent away from the place. Certain things were more important to Tomas now than
when last he had navigated the spine-wrought passageway and these things changed
the very shape of the tunnel through the hedge.

He crawled in and lay still. The sounds of the manor drifted across the lawns
which lay in between. Marquis Gilbert would still be asleep, but the maids and
gardeners were at work. The sergeants slept in a long, low barracks on the other
side of the house and Tomas wasn’t sure how many of them would be awake. A few
maintained notions of martial excellence and practised drills regularly with his
father’s swords upon the well-cut lawns which ringed the manor like a bright,
green moat. Tomas listened hard for the sound of metal on metal, one the smith’s
son knew very well, but heard nothing. He began his work.

The driest fuel in the hedge was high in the branches but the best place to
set a fire is low to the ground so Tomas set himself the task of fetching some
down.

Climbing up through the hedge was a process best undertaken slowly and
carefully, and ensured a certain amount of scratching nonetheless. After four
trips up and back and about a half an hour’s work, Tomas had a pile of kindling
which reached his waist, topped by an old bird’s nest.

At this point he paused and sat, sucking his arm where a thorn like a
doornail had dug deep. With his other hand he took out the sheepskin pouch which
contained Luc’s flint and laid it on the mat of thorns and leaves which formed
the floor of the rose-hedge.

Certain actions, certain distances are, when it is you that must travel them,
very much greater than they appear. Such was the tiny fall which the sparks made
to the tinder as Tomas struck steel against grey stone. He had set many fires in
his time, every night before bed until the age of fifteen, but none so hot as
this.

At first he thought it wasn’t going to catch. The fuel was dew-laden and in
some cases had been lying for a long time, but it did begin to burn. Tomas
nursed his fire to the fulcrum point, beyond which it could take care of itself,
coaxing it with small twigs and grass from the nest. In a final poetic gesture
he pulled a hair from his head and added it to the blaze, watching it curl and
snarl, the acrid smell lost in the sweet aroma of burning rosewood. Tomas
accepted several deep scratches on his arms and cheeks as he made his way
forcefully from the hedge, already breathing smoke, his eyes seeping tears. The
final part of the plan was simply to run, low and quick, and climb the hill to
watch the drama unfold.

Tomas began his ran, flat and hard, toward the tree where he had left Luc. He
heard his name called. Luc’s voice, not from in front but from behind. Tomas
spun and fell, rolled and regained his feet. Looking back he was first struck by
how quickly his work was taking effect. The fire had moved quickly upward and
fifteen foot high flames now claimed the top reaches of the hedge. Rose blooms
dropped to the ground in a burning rain as the upper limbs of the hedge bent,
snapped and plunged backwards into the hungry blaze. Then Tomas saw Luc.

It is often something totally simple and yet totally unpredictable which
undoes a great plan, or even a modest one and Tomas watched in horror as Luc
stood as near as he could to the base of the blaze and called “Tomas!”.

Tomas hesitated. The sergeants, were any awake, would be at the fire any
moment and Luc would be seen. He ran back, driving the ground with his legs, and
felt the intense heat of the fire. He dared not call Luc’s name in case the
sergeants heard. That Luc had called his could not now be helped, both of them
need not be revealed.

The younger boy was almost blinded by the fire and would not see Tomas until
he was close. Coughing out the smoke which invaded his lungs with each breath,
Tomas watched the manor gate as he reached Luc. Two sergeants ran out, buckling
their belts and fanning smoke away in order to better gauge the extent of the
blaze.

Tomas shouldered Luc in the back and both hit the ground hard. The two rolled
away from the fire Luc following Tomas, and rounded the corner of the hedge.
There they stood and sprinted for the relative safety of the woods which backed
the manor. Reaching the trees they crouched and Tomas wiped black tears from his
eyes while striving to regain his breath.

Luc lay in the bracken and looked up at Tomas. “I’m sorry. I was scared.
There were men in the grounds. I came to warn you.”

Tomas did not look at Luc when he spoke but instead kept his gaze fixed on
the fire, which now consumed the entire east corner of the hedge and was almost
at the gate. He bit down hard on his lip and said nothing.

Above the gate, a span of almost twenty feet, there was a thin archway of
hedge fronds and thorn-bush. The fire snaked out one end of the span while one
of the sergeants tried to hack it down with his sword. The work was too much and
the heat too great and as he fell back the fire made the journey across the
bridge and the entire hedge was doomed.

Tomas had seen enough and took Luc’s hand to lead him away. He was surprised
to hear himself accuse, “Luc, you said my name.”

By the time the two parted company the news was all through the village. So
was the smoke. Tomas joined the steady stream of spectators walking cautiously
up to the manor to see the fire and soon most of the inhabitants of Montreuil
stood by as the rose-hedge collapsed inwards into a pile of coals and ash. At
one point the blaze threatened the manor itself but a few of the younger
sergeants managed to keep it at bay, filling buckets from the stream. Noon came,
grey and dull; the show was over and the talk had begun.

Tomas mingled and listened with satisfaction to the rumours as they evolved.
Some said it was out-of-towners, others that it was one the many lovers Gilbert
had jilted and a third tale conjured enemies from the Marquis’ past. Tomas
joined some of the conversations enthusiastically, encouraging whatever theory
held sway. He was relieved to hear no mention of his own name on anybody’s lips.

As the crowd dispersed Tomas turned to leave—and walked directly into the
leather apron which his father wore, dawn until sleep, at work or abroad. He did
not know how long Pierro had stood there, his face golden in the glow from the
hedge. Tomas’ name was on his father’s lips and Pierro’s hand was firmly on the
boy’s shoulder. “Tomas, come with me. Now.”

His father propelled Tomas away from the crowd which had begun to disperse
and marched him back to the smithy. Tomas felt no fear from what was about to
happen. He had more serious concerns than familiar discipline, and besides, the
actions of the early morning had hardened him to the point where his father’s
leather belt was no more than a light switch of rush grasses. Pierro pulled the
hide across the door of the smithy and turned around. Tomas cocked his head to
one side and planted his hands on his hips. He waited for his father to unbuckle
his belt and administer the punishment. Instead Pierro looked at his son, long
and deep. Tomas found himself able to meet the gaze but the beginnings of
confusion stirred in his stomach. His father had not looked at him in such a way
before.

When Pierro finally spoke it was not with the tone, nor indeed the words,
that Tomas expected. “Go and say farewell to your mother.”

“My mother?”

“Did you not hear me, Tomas?” Normally his father called him “boy”. “She is
mourning your loss already.”

“What loss?”

“They will be here soon.”

“How do you know? How could you know that?” Tomas’ anger came from fear but
also from losing control of the conversation.

“I have friends among the sergeants.” His father’s calm certainty frightened
Tomas even more. He hit back.

“Because you are their friend, because you help them to hurt all who live in
Montreuil, because you are a traitor even to your own family!”