The Seeing Stone (17 page)

N
O, OLIVER,” I PROTESTED. “I CAN'T REMEMBER.”

“Can't,” said Oliver. “There's no such word.”

“There is,” I said, “and I can't. I know you told me what Sheba's father was called…”

“I didn't tell you,” said Oliver. “The Book of Samuel did.”

“All right!” I said. “The Book of Samuel.”

“Several times,” said Oliver.

“But I can't remember,” I said.

Oliver crossed his pudgy arms and sighed. He's quite easy to trick and I think he believed me.

“Anyhow,” I added. “What does it matter?”

“I see,” said Oliver. “The names of our fathers don't matter.”

“Of course they do,” I said, raising my voice a little.

“What's wrong with you today?” demanded Oliver. “Can you even remember the name of your own father?”

“You always think I know more than I know,” I complained. “I can't remember everything.”

“You've never forgotten a name before,” said Oliver, frowning.

“My head's full up with names,” I said. “I can't fit anymore in.”

“Shall I tell you what our brains are like?” asked Oliver, and for a while he looked up at the vestry roof. But instead of receiving divine guidance, Oliver was hit on the forehead by a little piece of
plaster. I laughed, and Oliver stood up, and rubbed his eyes and dusted his shoulders, and sat down again. Then our lesson continued.

“Our brains,” said Oliver, “are like pigs' bladders. The more we fill them, the larger they grow.”

“In that case,” I said, “some of us would have much bigger heads than others.”

“You know what I mean,” said Oliver. “Brains are like… wombs.”

“Or like climbing Tumber Hill,” I said. “The higher I climb, the more I can see.”

“You could say that,” said Oliver. “But why were we talking about brains? Can you remember?”

I pretended not to remember.

“Bichri!” said Oliver triumphantly, waving both hands in the air. “Sheba was the son of Bichri.”

U
P HERE IN MY WRITING-ROOM, I SOMETIMES HEAR
squeaking through the storeroom wall: impatient mice attacking the barrels of wheat and barley. But after Terce this morning I heard something else.

Instead of going straight to my lesson with Oliver I came up here, and after a while I heard two voices. A man and a woman. They were speaking very quietly so I couldn't hear what they were saying, but I know she kept telling him something, the same thing, and then asking something hot and important. She was begging him.

Then I heard the storeroom door groan. Like thin ice. Quickly I stood up, and when I peered through my broken door panel, I was just in time to see Serle and Tanwen standing in the gallery, and they were in each other's arms.

T
HIS IS NOT THE BEST WAY TO DIE,” SAYS KING
Uther. He is lying on his bed, in the middle of his hall. His face is blotched, and his hands are joined over his stomach.

“Is there a best way?” the hooded man asks.

“Some ways are worse than others,” Uther replies. “To die at a time chosen by your enemies.” The king clutches his stomach. Then, feebly, he coughs. “To die in pain,” he says. “I am cold and burning.”

“Your enemies,” says the king's priest, “will be pitched into hell for poisoning you. But you die in peace. You have made your confession; you've received the last rites. The gates of paradise are opening for you.”

Ygerna is there; Anna is there. They sit on either side of the king and gently stroke his shoulders and forearms.

And I can see Sir Ector and Kay as well. After a while, King Uther turns his head towards them.

“Where is your second son?” asks the king.

“He's learning,” says Sir Ector.

“I need every boy and man in this kingdom,” the king says.

“We'll avenge you, sire,” says Kay. “We'll drive the Saxons back into the sea.”

“What's his name?” asks the king.

“Arthur,” says Sir Ector.

“I had a son,” King Uther says dreamily.

“He is delirious,” the priest says. “A daughter, sire. You have a daughter.”

Uther rises to the surface. “I had a son,” he says again, and he sounds as if he is talking of another world, or another time, very long ago.

Then Ygerna shudders and begins to sob, and the priest asks the hooded man something, and the hooded man nods, and Sir Ector and Kay stand up and start whispering to the knights and squires nearest to them, and before long the whole hall is a sea of whispers.

King Uther opens his blurred eyes, and the sea slowly subsides, it becomes calm again. “I was dreaming a dream,” he says.

“A dream?” asks the hooded man.

King Uther almost smiles. “I will have a son,” he says.

“Sire,” says the hooded man in his deep voice. “Remember!”

Then King Uther turns to look at Ygerna, and she looks at him, and she is as she was. Her eyes are violet. Her shoulders and arms are rounded and pale and slender, like stripped willow, curving.

“Sire,” asks the hooded man, “who will be king when you die?”

“Many men here would be king,” says King Uther, “but I have a son who was and will be.”

“Do you hear that?” the hooded man calls out, and there is complete silence in the hall.

“You promised me,” Uther says to the hooded man.

“I will help him as I have helped you,” the hooded man replies,
looking into Uther's eyes, “and three kings of Britain before you. I will come for him when his time comes.”

Uther tries to sit up. “I give my son God's blessing,” he cries out in a loud voice. “I give him my blessing. Let him claim my crown.”

“What is his name?” one earl calls out.

“Where is he, then?”

“Who is his mother?”

And then the sea swells again.

King Uther raises both his arms. Wild and unseeing, he looks around the room, and then he reaches out towards Ygerna. He shudders, his teeth chatter. Then he falls back onto his pillow and lies still.

In the silent hall, the priest leans over King Uther's body. With his right forefinger he closes the king's eyes.

I
WENT TO SLEEP LAST NIGHT WONDERING WHETHER KING
Uther's son will claim the crown, and how the hooded man will be able to help him if all the jealous earls and lords are against him.

And this morning I woke up with new words for Luke's tombstone already waiting in my head. All I had to do was arrange them in the right order, and sharpen my quill, and write them down:

Call him son. Call him brother.

Fifth son of his loving mother,

Born with bubbles in his blood.

Call him bone, and tombstone name.

But if you read this, call him home.

Call Little Luke a son in God.

“It's very fine, Arthur,” my father said. “Say it again.”

So I did.

“This song should be at the bottom of the tombstone,” I said, “and at the top, the words should say:
LITTLE LUKE
, son of Sir John and Lady Helen de Caldicot. Born and died 1199.”

“I'll ask Will to carve them,” said my father. “He'll need your help.”

“Father,” I said. “Have you heard of King Uther?”

“No.”

“Have you, mother?”

“No.”

“Who is he?” my father asked.

“I don't know exactly. I thought you might.”

“You didn't make him up?” my mother asked me.

“No,” I said. “I don't think so.”

“By the way, Arthur,” said my father, “your mother tells me that Gatty saved Sian.”

“She did. She risked her life.”

“What about you?”

“I couldn't have done it without her.”

“I see,” said my father. “Well, I suppose we should be grateful.”

“Really, John!” my mother exclaimed.

Y
GERNA AND THE HOODED MAN WERE WAITING FOR ME
in my stone; they were standing beneath a lime tree.

“Half his earls and lords want to wear his crown,” Ygerna says.

“Of course they do,” the hooded man replies. “They're men, aren't they?”

Ygerna shakes her head unhappily.

“So how can a boy of thirteen claim the crown?” asks the hooded man. “That's what you're thinking.”

“Yes.”

“And how can I help him?”

“Yes.”

“You live in this world but you cannot see it clearly,” the hooded man says. “You can see no more of it than you see of me. But I can see what you cannot see.”

“I don't even know his name,” Ygerna wails. “Who are his foster parents? Where does he live?”

“Where England ends and Wales begins,” the hooded man replies. “He is your son of the crossing-places.”

That's strange. That's what Merlin called me—that day when we met at the mill ford: Arthur of the crossing-places.

“You doubt me, Ygerna,” says the hooded man. And then he raises his voice. “When Vortigern wanted to build a castle, it was I
who told him to drain the pool under its foundations, and then he saw them with his own eyes: the red dragon and the white dragon, fighting to the death. It was I who spirited the Giants' Ring from Ireland to England, after a whole army of Britons were unable to move it, for all their ropes and hawsers and scaling ladders. It was I who brought Uther to you, and you thought he was your own husband.”

“I know!” cried Ygerna. “And maybe it was you who killed Gorlois.”

“No,” says the hooded man in a cold voice. “I did not do that. I give; I do not take away.”

“Giving to one person,” Ygerna replies, “sometimes means taking away from another.”

“Everything has its own time,” says the hooded man. “No sooner does this lime tree drop its leaves than it begins to dream of the spring. Be patient, Ygerna. Your son who was will be.”

“My head hears you,” Ygerna replies, “but my heart does not. I wish your words comforted me.”

“Doubt is like rust which corrodes metal,” the hooded man says. “It travels from your brain into your body, and eats you away.”

“I haven't seen him since the day he was born,” says Ygerna. “He is my son, and I know nothing about him.”

“Nothing comes of doubt,” says the hooded man, “except inaction and more doubt.”

Ygerna grasps the hooded man's right wrist.

“Will you not understand?” she says in a low voice. “I have lost a husband, and I do not have a son.”

I
WILL NEVER BE ABLE TO SLEEP TONIGHT.

I'll sit up here, wrapped in this skin. All night. This candle burning.

I'll write words. They can't change anything but with them I can say my thoughts; I can understand. They're better than fury, aren't they?

But if only words could help Lankin.

Down there in the dark.

If only they could help him, and Jankin and Gatty too. If only Jankin's mother hadn't died in childbirth last winter, and her baby with her…

Let me begin again.

Today was the first day of December, the day of the manor court—and it was the worst day of the year. The worst for Jankin's father, and the worst for our manor. How will Jankin and his sister survive the wolf of winter now? And how will Jankin be able to marry Gatty? Hum will never agree to it. How could Hum and Wat Harelip and Howell and Ruth and Slim have sworn those oaths when they knew they were not true? How can there ever be peace in our manor again…

Words! Words! My fears keep going round and round. Let me begin again.

Today was the day of the first manor court since my thirteenth birthday, and everyone living in this manor has to attend as soon as they're thirteen.

Lord Stephen rode in last night because he always presides over the court, and he brought with him his scribe Miles and two servants.

Lord Stephen greeted us all very warmly, and especially Serle. Serle says that he liked serving Lord Stephen as a squire, because Lord Stephen talked to him like a man, and often praised him.

“Other people won't always like what you do,” Lord Stephen said. “They don't always like what I do. So we need to be sure of ourselves.”

I shouldn't think Lord Stephen likes looking in a mirror, though. I'm taller than he is, and he's a whole head shorter than my father. His eyesight is bad too. He says he can count the leaves on a tree a mile away, but when he's looking at someone or something close to him, he keeps blinking and screwing up his eyes and drawing away. Lord Stephen is quite stout too—in fact, he looks rather like a speckled egg. But he has a very merry smile, and a definite way of speaking that makes people listen to him.

“He's a fox,” my father told me once. “He pretends to be less clever than he is.”

Very early this morning, the whole household went to church, and then Oliver and Merlin came back to breakfast with us. Hum and Gatty arrived before we'd finished, although Gatty's not allowed to vote because she's only twelve. And by the time the table
had been cleared, and Lord Stephen had ensconced himself in the middle, with my father on his right and Hum on his left and his scribe sitting opposite him, there were as many people in the hall as risked the Black Sow and came guising on Hallowe'en. My father told me then that sixty people live in his manor, but little Luke has died since then. So that's fifty-nine, and of them, fifteen are under age and seven cannot walk.

“Where's Cleg?” my father asked Hum.

“Not here, sir.”

“I can see that. Well, where is he?”

“The miller's away, sir.”

“And Martha. Where's she?”

“She's away too, sir.”

“Where?”

“They must speak for themselves,” said Hum.

“They can't if they're not here,” my father said.

“A fine of twopence each,” said Lord Stephen, “unless they can show good reason.”

“Cleg the miller can always show good reason,” my father remarked drily, and there was a murmur of agreement in the hall. “He thinks that rules are like his weights and measures: made to be cheated.”

“Next!” said Lord Stephen.

Next was the collection of egg-fees from each household that runs hens, and of course all of them do; and then came the collection of a betrothal fee from Ruth's and Howell's fathers.

“When will you marry?” Lord Stephen asked Ruth.

“April, sir,” said Ruth.

“No,” said Howell in a loud voice. “March!”

That made everyone laugh.

“A good start!” said Lord Stephen, smiling. “Next!”

Once Hum had passed all the fees across the table to Lord Stephen's scribe, the court tried several charges brought by my father against villagers who had broken the king's laws. Brian and Macsen were charged with snaring pheasant and partridge in Pike Forest, and Joan was charged with taking too much deadwood, and Giles was charged with cutting wood from a living tree.

None of them denied the charges, but when she was fined, Joan asked Lord Stephen: “Who are your parents, sir?”

“My parents!” exclaimed Lord Stephen.

“Your first ones,” said Joan.

“Joan,” said my father, “Lord Stephen asks the questions.”

“Let her speak,” said Lord Stephen. “Adam and Eve. They were my first parents.”

“Yes,” said Joan, “and they're mine too.”

“So?” asked Lord Stephen.

“I'm poor and you're rich. Why's that, when we got the same parents? Why are you sitting high and mighty over me?”

“Joan!” said my father sternly.

“You and Sir John there and Lady Helen, you got more than enough to eat. I got nothing. I can't even pick up deadwood and I get fined for it.”

“Pike Forest belongs to the king, Joan,” said Lord Stephen. “His laws may be gentle or they may be harsh, that's not for me to judge. But you and I have no choice: We have to obey them.”

“Adam and Eve,” screeched Joan.

“One penny,” said Lord Stephen. “Next!”

“Who judges the king, then?” Joan asked.

“God judges the king,” Lord Stephen replied. “He judges us all.”

“You wouldn't live so rich except for us,” said Joan.

Lord Stephen sighed. “Stand down!” he ordered Joan.

To begin with, the mood in the hall had been quite good-humored. But Joan's outburst was like the first dark cloud sailing ahead of a storm and, after it, everyone grew quieter, more watchful and more resentful.

When he tried Macsen, Lord Stephen asked him how to snare a pheasant, and Macsen offered to take him out into Pike there and then and show him how, but even that didn't lift our spirits for long.

“I'm fining you one clipped penny,” Lord Stephen said. “I suppose you'll do it again, Macsen.”

“I suppose I will, sir,” said Macsen.

When Lord Stephen had finished with the offenses against the king's laws, he heard a plea from my father against Joan for letting her cow stray into my father's meadow.

“A second charge, Joan,” said Lord Stephen. “This is a bad morning for you.”

“Every morning's bad,” said Joan.

“Well, what have you to say?”

“Nothing,” said Joan, and she glared at my father.

“That's something,” said Lord Stephen.

“If I can't feed my cow, she won't milk, and if she don't milk, we can't drink.”

“I see,” said Lord Stephen, and then he turned and whispered
to my father. “Right, Joan,” he said crisply. “One day's extra work on Sir John's land before Christmas and another before Easter. Next!”

“Bah!” said Joan, and Lord Stephen's two servants led her back to her place in the hall.

So what would happen if my father ignored Joan's cow eating his hay? Would everyone think they could do the same? Would Dutton let his pig trespass on my father's meadow, and would Cleg the miller try to move some of the land markers, and would Eanbald complain he couldn't afford to pay his tax? I suppose they would. And then law and order in our manor would soon break down.

But Joan's right. My father's quite rich. We're all dressed in linen and there are barrels of corn in our storeroom, and our barn is filled with hay.

So isn't there some way in which my father could help everyone living here, in his care, so that no one will starve this winter? And no one will freeze because there's not enough wood to put on the fire? My father is not unkind.

“Next!” said Lord Stephen.

My father looked at Hum and Hum, slowly, looked up at my father. “Lankin,” he mumbled.

“Lankin,” repeated Lord Stephen. “Come forward!”

If Lankin stood up straight, he'd be a tall man; but he stoops and shambles along on flat feet. His black hair is short and ragged, as though it has been nibbled by a rat, and he has small dark eyes. When he smiles, his mouth is tight and twisted.

Jankin isn't the same as his father at all. He's always hopeful
and laughing, and everyone likes him. But no one likes Lankin much, and a number of people hate him because they say he pilfers their firewood and turf during the night, and steals their bracken to bed his cow, and things like that. They can't prove it, though.

Martha, the miller's daughter, says that Lankin's a peeper. She told me that when he was doing day-work at the mill, Lankin looked through the keyhole into her room, and then came in and tried to fondle her breasts. But I don't know whether she was telling the truth. And if she was, why didn't she tell her father Cleg, and why didn't he bring a charge against Lankin?

Once, Lankin got into really serious trouble. He swung his right fist, and hit Hum on the side of his jaw. That's something a lot of the villagers would like to do but, all the same, they didn't speak up for Lankin when Hum brought a charge against him. Lord Stephen ordered him to be lashed twenty times with a knotted rope. That was the winter before last, and Lankin nearly died.

Lord Stephen blinked and looked at Lankin. “What is the charge?” he asked.

The charge was brought by Slim. He said Lankin had entered the manor kitchen, and stolen a leg of mutton.

“You hear the charge?” Lord Stephen asked Lankin.

“Never!” said Lankin. “And he knows it.” Then he narrowed his eyes at Slim. “I was down at the mill. All day I was, doing my day-work.”

“Who will swear oaths?” asked Lord Stephen.

Ruth and Wat Harelip and Howell immediately stood up.

“I was coming out of the church,” said Wat, “and he was going down the headland, carrying the leg inside his jerkin. I swear it.”

“He's got light fingers,” said Howell. “Everyone knows that.”

“What do you swear, Howell?” Lord Stephen asked.

“My dog turned the mutton up, didn't he? Down the headland. I swear it.”

“And you, Ruth?” asked Lord Stephen.

“Lankin stinks,” she said.

“So?”

“The kitchen smelt of him.”

“You smelt Lankin?”

“In the kitchen, when I came back,” said Ruth.

“You swear that?”

“I swear it.”

“Anyhow,” said Slim. “I never heard of a sheep with three legs. When me and Ruth went out into the hall, there was four legs, and when we came back there was three.”

“You swear that?” asked Lord Stephen.

“I swear it,” said Slim.

“I see,” said Lord Stephen slowly.

“What about you, Hum?” my father asked.

Hum shrugged.

“Well?”

Hum took in a deep breath and then shook his head.

“Spit it out, man!” said my father. “You're my reeve.”

“The truth is,” said Hum, “I saw Lankin going into the kitchen…”

“That's a lie!” Lankin yelled. “I'll smash your face in.”

“Go on, Hum,” said Lord Stephen in a level voice.

“…and I didn't think twice about it, did I? What with all the coming and going around the manor each day.”

“You saw Lankin going into the kitchen?” said Lord Stephen.

Hum pursed his lips and nodded.

“Swear it,” said Lord Stephen.

“I did,” said Hum. “I was on my way to the hay barn.”

“Swear it, then,” repeated Lord Stephen.

“Yes, well then!” said Hum. “I do. I swear it.”

Everyone in the hall caught their breath, and then there was silence.

“You filthy liar!” said Lankin in a cold, flat voice.

“Five doomsmen in this hall swear against Lankin,” Lord Stephen said. “Now who will swear for him?”

No one moved. I looked round the hall and all I could see were pairs of eyes.

“I was down at the mill,” said Lankin. “All day I was. Ask Cleg.”

“He's not here,” said my father.

“He knows I was,” said Lankin. “You ask Martha.”

“She's not here either ,” said my father.

Lankin rounded on Hum. “You kept them away,” he said, and his voice was rising. “That's what you done.”

Hum shook his head.

“I know you. You've set me up.”

“No, Lankin,” said Hum.

“Where are they, then? You tell me that.”

“That's enough, Lankin,” said Lord Stephen.

Lankin looked at Hum. “You scum!” he said.

Lord Stephen quietly raised his right hand. “Doomsmen,” he began, in that meaningful voice that makes everyone listen to him. “Slim brings the charge but Lankin denies it. As you've heard, five oath-swearers swear against Lankin but no oath-swearers swear for him.” Lord Stephen looked around the hall. “Each of you has one vote. Cast it wisely. Cast it before God. Stand up now if you vote that Lankin's guilty.”

I didn't dare look, but I looked: More than half the villagers had got to their feet, and while Miles the scribe counted them, they began to whisper.

“Quiet!” called Lord Stephen. “Sit down! All of you. Now then, who votes for Lankin? Stand up if you vote he's innocent.”

“What if we're not sure?” I heard myself asking.

“You stand up,” said Lord Stephen. “A man is innocent until he's proven guilty.”

I stood up. Jankin stood up. Then my mother stood up. Then Dutton slowly got to his feet, and glared at Giles, and Giles stood up as well.

“Is that all?” asked Lord Stephen. He looked at his scribe and raised his eyebrows.