The Orphan King (16 page)

Isabelle caught up to Thomas. He remembered what Sarah had taught him about manners and quickly moved so that he walked on the outside, ensuring Isabelle stayed nearer the houses. Thus, if a housewife emptied a jug of water or a chamber pot onto the street from the upper stories, Thomas would suffer, not Isabelle. She seemed content to stay beside him, glancing over to smile whenever Thomas stared at her for too long.

In contrast, Tiny John burned with energy and scampered in circles around them. First back to William, then ahead to Thomas and the girl.

“Check his pockets,” William said without breaking stride. “If that little rogue so much as picks a hair from a villager, all of us are threatened.”

Tiny John stuck out his tongue at the knight but quickly pulled his pockets open to show he’d managed to remain honest.

More walking.

Thomas sniffed the air with distaste. They were approaching the far edge of the town—the traditional location of the tannery. Thomas knew the procedure too well. How many times had one of the monks at the abbey ordered him to scrape hair and skin from the hide of a freshly killed sheep? As many times as they had then ordered him to rub it endlessly with cold chicken dung. That ingredient, plus the fermented bran and water used to soak the hides, made it an awful job.

They walked by the tannery quickly. Thomas felt sympathy as he watched one of the apprentices scraping flesh, mouth open to keep his nostrils as useless as possible.

The street turned sharply, and within a few hundred more paces, they were back within earshot of the market. Just before reaching the market area, William held up his hand.

“Thomas,” he said with low urgency. “Look around. What strikes you?”

Thomas had a ready reply. “The crippled beggars. The men with mutilated faces. Far more than one would expect.”

The knight’s eyes opened wide. “My mind was on military matters. I had not noticed. Surely the lord of Magnus hasn’t …”

Thomas shrugged. “I have been told many stories of the evil here.” In his mind, he heard Sarah singing gently:
“Delivered on the wings of an angel, he shall free us from oppression.”

William said, “Scan the shop signs. Tell me what’s missing.”

“Missing?”

The knight only frowned in thought. Thomas began to study the busy scene ahead.

Finally he answered. “I see no blacksmith.”

“You speak truth. Why is that significant?”

Thomas had a flash of comprehension. “Horseshoes and hoes are not the only items a blacksmith makes. Blacksmiths also forge swords. Without a blacksmith, there are no weapons. No armor. Whoever controls Magnus takes few chances.”

“Well spoken.”

Before William could comment further, a small man broke toward them from the fringes of the crowd. His shoulders were so insignificant they were nearly invisible under his brown full-length cloak. A tight
black hat emphasized the smallness of his head. His wrinkled cheeks bunched like large walnuts as he smiled.

“Strangers!” he cackled. “So brave to visit Magnus, you are! No doubt you’ll need a guide. No doubt at all!” He rubbed his hands briskly. “And I’m your man. That’s the spoken truth. No doubt. The spoken truth.”

Thomas made a move to step around him, but William shook his head at Thomas, then addressed the small man.

“What might be your name, kind man?”

“Ho, ho. Flattery. Always wise. Indeed, you are fortunate. I am a kind man.” The small man paused for breath, winded by his rapid-fire words. “And I am called Geoffrey.”

“Hmm. Geoffrey. You are a merchant?”

“Indeed I am. But strangers are wise to engage a guide in Magnus. And I make a fine guide. A fine guide indeed.”

“Any man can see that.” William smiled. “What is it you sell when you are not a guide?”

“Candles. Big ones. Little ones. Thick ones. Skinny ones. The finest in the land. Why, the smoke from these candles will wipe from a window with hardly any—”

“Sold.” William jammed his single word into the pause that Geoffrey was forced to take for breath.

“Sold?” Geoffrey’s confidence wavered at this unexpected surrender. “I’ve not shown a one. How can you say—”

“Sold,” William repeated firmly. He pulled a coin from his pouch. “Maybe even as many as we can carry.” He peered past Geoffrey’s shoulders. “Where might your shop be?”

Geoffrey opened and closed his mouth like a fish gasping for air. He did not take his eyes from the coin in William’s palm. “My … my
shop is away from the market. I only bring enough candles for the morning’s sales. I …”

“Lead on, good man,” William said cheerfully. “It’s a pitiable guide who cannot find his own shop.”

Geoffrey turned and excitedly led the way through the market crowd. Every five steps or so, he rudely pushed people aside despite his runtlike size. The resulting arguments proved to be a humorous distraction. Thomas took advantage of the noise to address the knight.

“He’s a blathering fool,” Thomas whispered to William. “What do you want from him?”

“Certainly not candles,” William whispered from the side of his mouth. “I want a safe location to ask questions.”

Thomas could not fault the knight for his strategy. Yet must the information come from an empty-headed babbler?

A
s the others followed the candle merchant through the crowd, Isabelle drifted away to stand in the shadows of a doorway. A hunched beggar approached her. His face was obscured by dirt, and he held out a filthy hand, as if begging.

His words, however, did not match his actions. “Sacrifices must be made beneath a full moon.”

“And a full moon shines upon us with favor,” she answered.

The beggar grunted satisfaction that she had not shown any surprise.

“Does Thomas suspect you are anything but what you appear to be?” he asked.

“He suspects nothing.” Isabelle fumbled with a pocket, searching for a coin. “I even pretended great fear upon learning this was his destination.”

“What have you learned?” the beggar asked.

“He dreams of conquering Magnus,” she answered.

“That much is obvious,” the beggar said. “I want to know how he intends to attempt this.”

“He has said nothing to the knight within my hearing.”

“And to you? Surely you’ve found opportunity to tempt him. He’s as hot-blooded as any man. If you can’t turn his heart, then his heart doesn’t exist. Has he confided anything to you?”

“He keeps his distance,” she answered. “When I try to spend time alone with him, he moves away. As if he is afraid of allowing himself to be close to me and that I will be too much of a distraction as he pursues the conquest of Magnus.”

“So you do have power over him?”

“Given time, yes, his heart will be mine. But he says nothing. He is secretive.”

“We don’t have time. He has what we want, and it gives him too much power. We cannot lose Magnus. Visit him in the prison.”

“Prison!”

“He will be there soon. Speak to him and offer him comfort.”

Isabelle drew a breath. “Do I reveal who I am, then?”

The beggar said, “Hint that you have a secret to protect. A great secret. That you have protected yourself by trying to remain invisible. Hint that you have enemies and that you need his protection. A man such as he will move heaven and earth for a beautiful woman who appeals for help. If you can, let him know that you desire him.”

“To what end?”

“You have been raised as one of us, but you are also a woman. Could you see yourself with him? No, let me answer that. I can see in your eyes how you feel about him. Someday, perhaps, he too will be one of us. If you can lead him to our side, he would be yours. And the two of you could rule Magnus together. Is that enough of an end for you?”

She didn’t answer. She gave the beggar a small coin.

“Go then,” the beggar said, bobbing his head in pretended gratitude. “I need not tell you how to win a man. But be careful of your own heart. If he won’t come to our side, the trust you gain will be necessary for us to end his life.”

Just as Thomas began to make out the jumble of vats and clay pots in the dimness of the candle maker’s shop, a ghostlike bundle of dirty white cloth rose from a corner and moved toward him.

Thomas brought up his fists in protection, then relaxed as he noticed that the worn shoes at the base of the ghost had very human toes poking through the leather.

He backed away to make room, and the bundle of cloth scurried past, bumping him with a solidness that no ghost possessed. Moments later, it squeezed past Tiny John.

Isabelle stepped into the shop, making Thomas realize she’d slipped away for a few moments, but he didn’t give her short absence any more thought.

“That’s Katherine,” Geoffrey said to Thomas. “Daughter of the previous candle maker. Ignore her. She’s surprised because I’ve returned early from the market, and she’s afraid of people.”

Thomas watched her shuffle past a curtain and out of sight into the back of the cramped house.

“The bandages around her head?” William asked.

“It’s to keep people from screaming at the sight of
her
. When she was little—I am told—she reached up and grabbed a pot of hot wax. No mind that she’d been warned a hundred times. No mind at all. She learned the lesson, she did. The foolish child jumped blind into the flame warming the pot. As bright as a torch she became. The business that was lost because of her screaming.” The candle maker waved his hands, dismissing the girl’s pain. “It’s a curse she did not die. I was stuck with her as part of the arrangement to take over this shop on the
owner’s death. Who might marry her now?” The candle maker shrugged. “The will of the Lord, I suppose.”

Year after year at the abbey compressed into a single moment for Thomas. He turned on the candle maker with a bitterness he did not know he possessed. “How can you say there is a God who permits this? How can you give that girl less pity than a dog?”

“Thomas.” William’s calm rebuke drew Thomas from his sudden emotion.

“I give her a home,” the candle maker said in a hurried voice. “It’s much more than any dog gets.”

Thomas told himself he had no right to interfere. “I ask your forgiveness,” he said coldly and without a trace of apology. “For a moment, her situation reminded me of someone I once knew.”

Thomas’s heart cried for the pain he knew the candle maker’s daughter had suffered; yet moments later, his brain sadly told him there was no use in caring. In this town alone, there were dozens of beggars and cripples who had less than Katherine.

I guess
, Thomas added silently to himself,
that evidence of pain is all the more reason to be angry at this God those false monks so often proclaimed
.

Thomas changed the subject. “We came for candles.”

Relief brightened the candle maker’s face. “Yes. I’ll bring my finest.”

He clapped his hands twice. Immediately Katherine appeared with a wooden box.

“She must earn her keep,” Geoffrey said defensively as he glanced at Thomas.

Thomas said nothing. He looked away from the bundle of cloth with outstretched arms. The wrap around Katherine’s head was stained
with age, almost caked black around the hole slashed open for her mouth.

“These are my best candles,” Geoffrey said.

“Perhaps these are the best candles you have. But compared to London …” William shook his head.

“I’ve not been to London,” Geoffrey said, wistfulness apparent in his voice. “Few of us ever leave Magnus.” He coughed quickly to hide embarrassment at his ignorance, then grabbed the box from Katherine and shook his head as she cowered and waited for instructions.

Thomas felt a hand on his shoulder, even as he winced to see Katherine’s fear. Isabelle had moved close to him. Tiny John seemed subdued at the horror of Katherine’s primitive mask and clung to the edges of Isabelle’s dress. The three of them stood in a tight cluster, and Thomas felt a great sadness to know their instinctive joining resulted from their shared status of outcast. At the same time, he felt warmth to be part of this makeshift family.

“I apprenticed with the best master for miles around,” Geoffrey said. “I don’t need to see London candles to know these burn as bright as any in the land.”