The Silver Bowl (4 page)

Chapter 7

A Little Spot of Madness

NEVER IN MY LIFE
had I taken to my bed because I was feeling ill. Father had no patience with sickness. We were expected to carry on, no matter what.

All except Mother, of course. But none of us wanted to be like her.

I remember once when I was very small there was something wrong with my ears: they pained me something awful, and my cheeks were hot with fever. But I never mentioned it, and for sure I didn't linger at home. I went instead to the tanner's house, which seemed a very grand place to me then. Certainly it was large and had a wall around it, and inside that wall there was a garden.

That's what I was after: the shade from the trees.

I sat at the edge of the street on a clump of raggedy grass, leaning against the tanner's wall. My feet rested in the gutter—never mind that it had rained that morning and water was running over my shoes, carrying its usual burden of filth. The water was cool and the shade a comfort. I slept there for hours and did not wake till almost dark. Only then did I make my way home, where I got a lashing for spoiling my shoes.

I didn't cry. Even then I was tough as old leather.

And so it astonished me how alarmed I'd been by what I'd seen in that vision—me, the girl who never took fright. But then this was murder I'd witnessed, and a plot against a royal prince, not some street fight or a whipping from Father.

I hurried through the kitchen as though Thomas had sent me on an urgent errand, then raced down the side stairs and through the hallway into the storeroom where I slept at night. I shut the door behind me, and got into my bed, and covered myself with the blanket.

I don't know how long I lay there curled in a ball weeping myself out, but it felt like hours. At some point I grew too exhausted to cry, and for a time I actually slept. When I woke I felt a little better, but my eyes itched and my head was throbbing. I sat up, wrapping the blanket around me, and leaned against the wall trying to concentrate, determined to make some sense of what had happened.

Infant curses,
I thought.
That's what he'd said: stub-a-toe curses.
Only it wasn't true. People in the royal family were dying, not losing their toys or hitting their funny bones. Oh, you could explain away Agnes and Mortimer's queens. Lots of people died of the plague. Lots of women died in childbirth. But what about Mortimer and that snake in winter? What about Matthias and the nooselike vine?

I began to feel overwhelmed again. I had to get up and move. And so I went over to the pile of undressed wool in the corner—large bales of it, bound in canvas and strapped with ropes, one stacked on top of the other. I gave it a hard kick, then did it again and again. Finally, worn-out and panting, I sat back on the bed, laid a hand to my heart, and took a great, deep breath.

I felt my mother's necklace, hiding under the bodice of my gown. I fished it out and held the disk in my hand. It warmed to my touch, as the bowl had done—only instead of seeing horrible visions, I felt a thrill run through my body. It was like a cold drink on a sultry day, unexpected laughter, sweet music, a gentle touch on the cheek. . . .

My mind cleared. I could think.

All right: the voice in the bowl had spoken to me—the Guardian, it must be—but not so far as I knew to anyone else. Thomas had seemed so puzzled when I'd smiled unaccountably and then when I'd been so troubled. If it had happened to him, even once—if the metal had grown warm, and tingled and hummed to his touch; if a voice had commanded him to listen
,
then showed him a vision—he'd have known what was wrong with me. He'd have said, “So it happened to you as well?” or sommat like that.

No, the Guardian had fixed on
me
—wanting to tell me about the curse and how it all began. What's more, it apparently thought I could do something about it.

Me, of all people!

I went back in my mind to Winifred's story, the sad history of the royal family; and as I considered it carefully, it appeared to me that the Guardian had been doing his job, at least for a while. After the nursemaid had dropped the baby—which the silversmith said was none of his doing—nothing more had happened for years. True, the queen died; but as I said, death after childbirth was common. Little Godfrey grew up, lame but healthy. Then the winter-snake bit old Mortimer. Godfrey was near grown by then. So from the time the bowl arrived at the castle till the first unnatural death—what was it, thirteen, fourteen years? After that, another great span of time went by. Godfrey grew up, married, and fathered five children. Then they grew up too. How many more years was it—fifteen, twenty—before Prince Matthias died?

When Winifred told her story, it had sounded like a string of cursed events; but really there were only two over a long, long span of time.

Suddenly I felt much better. Something had gone awry, that's all—perhaps the Guardian had fallen asleep and the curses had just slipped out. Or maybe the silversmith made a mistake: one or two of the curses turned out to be stronger than he'd intended. You could hardly blame him. A hundred curses was a lot to keep track of.

But if everything was under control, why was the Guardian sending me those urgent messages?

I slipped Mother's necklace back under my gown, then washed my face, and dried it on the coverlet, and went in search of Bertha. Maybe she had some pots I could scrub.

I would not go in search of trouble. If it wanted me, it knew where I was to be found.

Chapter 8

More Calamity

THE HALL WAS ABLAZE
with torches and candles. By the time we arrived, a crowd had already gathered there. Many were gentlemen, knights and priests and such. But there were common folk from the village, too, and servants such as us. Some were whispering among themselves, but mostly they stood in silence, facing the king's chair of estate with its canopy of cloth-of-gold. But no one was sitting there. Nothing had happened yet.

We'd been roused in the dark of night, just as before, when Prince Matthias died. Only this time we were told to dress in our best and come posthaste to the hall. Having rushed, we then waited for more than an hour. Now and again more people would arrive, and the crowd would press ever more tightly together in order to make room for them. I kept looking around for Tobias; but there was such a crush, and I was so hemmed in by others who blocked my view, I could not find him anywhere.

Then I felt a hand on my shoulder and saw that he was behind me. He was always doing that, appearing out of nowhere.

“This way,” he whispered, taking my arm and guiding me through the crowd to a spot near the wall. We could see better from there.

“Have you heard anything?” I asked. Working as he did in the stable yard, he was likely to know. For anyone important who came in or went out of the castle would of necessity pass his way to fetch a horse or to leave one.

“An outrider came in a few hours ago and roused the stable lads. Said there was a great contingent of court gentlemen on the way, and we must be on hand to see to their mounts. That's all he said. When the gentlemen arrived, they had somebody in a wagon. Ill or wounded. But he was all wrapped up, and they wouldn't let us near the wagon.”

“You couldn't see who it was?”

“No. They told us to get out of the way and attend to the horses. Then they carried the man inside.”

“It has to be someone important. Why else would they make such a fuss and call us here in the middle of the night?”

“Yes. Someone in the royal family. . . .” He looked down thoughtfully.

“What, Tobias?”

“Only two of them are away from the castle right now. The king, who is hunting, and Alaric, who's living in Austlind.”

I felt a stab of grief at the mention of Alaric. I couldn't imagine why, as I had not liked him that day in the hall. But only he, of all the royal family, had I actually seen face-to-face. He'd spoken directly to me, though unkindly, and I'd listened as he sparred with his mother the queen, and he had seemed so unhappy. It was as if I knew him just a little.

“Look,” Tobias whispered, squeezing my arm.

The door to the royal chambers opened, and the queen came forth, followed by six gentlemen. They were carrying a litter.

“It's the
king
!” came whispers all around us.

They set down the litter on a trestle table and propped up King Godfrey with pillows. He looked very ill.

“My people,” the king said. His voice was weak, and all in the room strained to hear what he would say. “I have called you here to say my farewell, for I am sore wounded, and there is no hope that I shall recover.”

The crowd groaned, though they could not have guessed it was anything less.

“So that there shall be no loose talk, I wish you to know that it was no man who dealt me this mortal blow but a wild beast.”

Later we would all get to see that terrible creature; its body was hung from a pole on the ramparts till the birds and the bugs had picked it clean, down to its misshapen bones. And I can tell you for a fact that it was a monster, not like anything in nature.

“Hear me say this yet again:
no man did me harm
. Indeed, those who were with me came instantly to my aid and killed the beast, and bound up my wounds, and brought me here so I might die as I wished, cared for by my good wife and shrived by my lord archbishop.

“Edmund,” he called. The prince stepped forward and knelt before his father, bowing his head. He was near as handsome as Alaric, I thought. And indeed, when he later became king, he was known as Edmund the Fair. But that night he just looked pathetically young, his shoulders too narrow for the burden that was being laid upon them.

“Hear, all of you, and know my last desires: that Edmund shall rule after me, as is proper, he being my oldest living son.” As he said this, the king laid his hand on Edmund's head, like a blessing.

Then Godfrey made a gesture and the archbishop came forward, flanked by two priests, each holding a holy relic in a beautiful case made of crystal and gold. They glittered in the torchlight. I could not see what was in them, but it was surely something important—the toenail of a saint, perhaps, or a vial of the blood of Christ, or a fragment of the holy shroud.

“I ask all my knights to step forward,” said the king.

He waited. It took some time. There were many in attendance, and those who'd arrived last and were in the back had to make their way through the crowd. At last they all stood before him, their heads bowed.

“In the presence of these holy relics”—here the priests held the golden cases high, as they do with the host during Mass—“I ask you, every one, to swear the oath of peace. Put away your grievances toward one another, whatever they may be, for civil war is a despicable thing.”

He coughed feebly and gasped for breath, but was determined to go on.

“We suffered under it before, when Mortimer died and left me to rule—a boy, and a cripple, too. There were those who thought me unfit to be king and wished to take my place. And many here lost fathers and brothers in the fighting. It was needless, and wrong, and it must not happen again. Edmund is my lawful heir, according to tradition and the laws of this land. You must pledge to protect him, and support him in all things when I am gone.”

The knights dropped to their knees and most solemnly swore to do so. Then they returned to their places, and all grew quiet again.

“As Edmund will have the kingdom and all that goes with it, I give to my youngest son, Alaric, the title of Earl of Browen, with the great estate and lands that go with it, and the furnishings and livestock, as well as the village and its peasants, free or bound, and all they pay in rents and taxes so that he may live as is seemly for the son and brother of kings.”

“To my daughter, Elinor, I give that which is in her dower chest, as well as her dower lands, and another box of jewels and gold coins that her mother has in her keeping, for her own use after she is married.”

Elinor curtsied. As her face was covered by a veil, we could not see her expression; but I thought I saw her hands trembling.

The king now turned to Edmund again and asked him to protect his mother, to allow her to stay on at Dethemere and not send her away to her dower estate alone and far from those she loved. In a loud voice, Edmund promised to do so.

Then the king bid the queen to come to him so that he might kiss her good-bye. She went over to the litter, and fell to her knees, and most pitifully begged him to forgive her for any wrongs she might have done him in their life together; and he likewise did the same. Then they embraced and exchanged the kiss.

After that, Godfrey laid his head back on the pillow, and closed his eyes, and shuddered with pain. The queen gave a sign, and the litter was lifted and carried back into the chamber.

“He won't last long” came a voice from behind us. “They say he was sliced from groin to armpit.” I turned and saw it was an old man who spoke. He crossed himself and turned away.

I walked with my roommates back to the storeroom, where we undressed and returned to our beds. We'd be needed in the kitchen before daybreak, but while the king still lived, we were allowed a few hours' rest.

I lay there, my back against Winifred's, glad of her comfortable warmth. I wondered if Godfrey would die that night and whether the coronation of the new king or the funeral of the old one came first.

Shortly before dawn the room grew colder. I felt a gust of wind, then heard a
whoosh
, as when a raven flies close by. I knew what it was: the spirit of Godfrey the Lame leaving his crippled body and rising untethered to his heavenly rest, where he would feel no pain anymore and could walk as well as any man.

Perhaps, like the angels, he could fly.

Though I am not much inclined to praying, I put in a word for Edmund—that he might go on to be a worthy king and bear his sorrows well.

I'm sorry to say that it did him no good.