Will Sparrow's Road (11 page)

Tidball, under the wagon, awoke and bellowed in pain. Will helped him to slide out. "'Swounds,” he said, "but this ankle of mine troubles me no end. Belike 'tis due to last night's merriment. Today I ride inside the wagon. You, boy, take the wild cat.”

Muttering, "I am ne'er a cat,” the girl jumped out of the wagon and climbed onto the seat. She was wrapped in her blue cloak and had pulled the hood forward, hiding her face.

Will bade farewell to Benjamin, who would walk with Fitz again, and strode to the wagon. He stared at the creature. Never had he been so close to it—to her. She was not so very big or dangerous-looking, huddled there in her cloak. When he climbed onto the seat, she looked away. He picked up the reins, and they traveled an hour or two in silence.

Will was unsure and ill at ease, but it had been a long, lonely ride, and there was much farther to go yet. He sought diversion. Mayhap, he thought, 'twould be possible to talk to her now that he could not see her face for her cloak. He might pretend she was a person and not an oddity at all.

He cleared his throat several times and squeaked, "What means the name
Greymalkin?”

She said nothing.

"Did your mother give you that name?”

Still she said nothing.

They rode a mile or more before Will said, "Will you not speak to me at all?”

There was more silence, broken only by the lonesome sound of frogs croaking in the fog.

Will grew bored, restless, and eager for company—even hers. Finally he said, "'Tis right dreary and wearying to be riding here as if alone. And so, both to occupy myself and ensure your attention, I shall sing in a loud voice every rude tavern song I learned at the inn.” He sang, "I pray now attend to this ditty, a merry and frolicsome say” and "Come drink to me and I shall drink to you.” He bellowed, "Pinch him, pinch him, black and blue,” "What hap had I to marry a shrew,” and "A soldier's a man, life's but a span, why, then, let a soldier drink!” finishing with a chorus of belches. Still the girl said nothing, and the silence grew as heavy as a sodden coat about Will's shoulders.

As the day grew older, the mist cleared, revealing the road that stretched on and on, held back from the pools and marshes by willow-banked dikes. In the distance a hill rose from the flat land, topped by towers taller than Will had ever seen or imagined.

"Think you, Greymalkin,” asked Will, "that those towers reach nigh unto heaven?”

She made no answer.

The nearer they rode to Ely, the taller the towers grew. The wagon climbed the hill to arrive in the town itself. Will stood at the base of the towers, looking up, and he could not see the tops. 'Twas Ely Cathedral. "Fie upon it,” Will muttered. "God himself must have added the topmost stones, for no mortal man could climb so high.”

"Aye,” the girl said, and Will was pleased that he had finally moved her to say something, even if it were only
aye.

The town was full of the fair, with booths and stalls all around the walls, at the gateway, in the streets, and on the wharves on the river. The place was bustling with merchants setting up. Stilt walkers and tumblers and dancers with bells on their shoes cavorted past to the sounds of tents flapping, merchants calling, lute players and flute players and little boys with tin whistles. Some folks had to make do with cloth laid on the ground to display their wares, but Will found a space next to the ale stall at the edge of the market square where they could erect their booth and park their wagon behind instead of leaving it in the field outside the fair.

Soon Fitz and Benjamin arrived. Benjamin bade them farewell, saying he would ply his trade at the east end of the fair but would return ere the fair was over if he chose to travel with them further. Fitz and Will carried boxes and barrels from the wagon to the booth. Tidball sat on a box and directed them with his walking stick until he fell asleep, whereupon Fitz, looking up at the late-day sky, said, "I must away. Finish unpacking, and I will return as soon as I ... anon. I will return anon.” He scuttled away.

A soft voice came from inside the wagon. "Hist, who be out there?”

"Ah, Greymalkin, I knew you could speak when you wished to,” Will said.

She looked out. "Oh, 'tis you, rude boy,” she said as she jumped down. "Know this: I shall not speak to you so long as you call me Greymalkin. 'Tis a name for a cat.”

"What then?”

"You may call me Grace Wyse, for such I have now named myself. I have long been thinking of a fitting name. I had considered calling myself Wynefred or Millicent or Thomasine, but cats might be called such, might they not? I have met nary a cat with a name like Grace Wyse.” She sighed. In contentment? Will wondered. In sorrow? In resignation? How could he know the thoughts of such a creature? She peered at him. "Grace Wyse,” she said. "Do you not think it a fine name for a person?”

There was that face, ginger haired, with pointed chin and green eyes, right before him. And he could not help but ask, "Why is your face as it is? Was your mam frightened by a cat? Or is it mayhap a witch's curse?”

The girl's shoulders slumped. "I find I do not wish to speak to you after all, rude boy.” She hopped back into the wagon and closed the door.

To Will's mind she was a creature—a fairly tame and harmless creature, but a creature nonetheless. However, she spoke like a person and acted like a person and thought herself a person, and he had reminded her that she was, well, different. Very different. An oddity. He was surprised to find he was sorry for what he had said, but he was reluctant to say so.

Lying came easily to Will, and thieving. To humble himself and apologize was more difficult, but he would not leave it this way. He cleared his throat loudly and with a croak began to sing "Greensleeves,” a song he knew well, but with his own words:

Alas, Grace Wyse, you do me wrong
To cast me off discourteously,
For I have labored oh so long
Delighting in your company.

Grace Wyse is all my joy,
Grace Wyse is my delight,
Grace Wyse is my heart of gold,
Who but my lady Grace Wyse.

Will had sung loudly enough to be heard within the wagon, but Grace did not return. Well, no matter, he thought, he did not truly want to speak with her anyway, oddity that she was. He finished the unpacking and setting up and then sat to watch Tidball sleep, imitating his snorts, puffs, and whistles to pass the time.

Evening had come before Fitz returned. His clothes were disarranged, his hair dusty and tousled, and his right eye bruised and beginning to darken. He let out a soft moan as he dropped to the ground and wiped blood from his lip with the hem of his shirt.

Tidball snorted himself awake. "Have you been brawling again, Lancelot, you little fool? Can you not control your temper?” To Will he said, "He is a most violent and disagreeable little person, is he not? Beware his moods and fits of ill feeling.”

"My wages?” Will whispered to Master Tidball. "You said you would attend to it.”

"Fitzgeoffrey, this lad would have his pennies,” said Master Tidball. "And supper, I imagine. See to it.”

Fitz scowled, but he took a purse from his belt and tossed it to Will. "Go, infant. Bring us supper.”

Coins. Many coins. Should he buy supper for them all or take the coins as his wages and run? How far would this many coins take him? At the thought of leaving, he felt a strange clenching in his belly. Mayhap it was but hunger, he thought. Only hunger. Certes he could not run on an empty belly. So it would be supper, and off he set to find foodstuffs both tasty and warm.

This fair was considerably larger than the last. He sauntered slowly through the grassy fields, past silversmiths, pewter crafters, makers of boots and saddles and swords, sellers of cloth and candles and ale. Here was a field of horses, there stalls of hemp and hops and fragrant herbs. He followed the aromas of roasting pork, currant buns, cinnamon and cloves, deliberating what to buy for supper.

A familiar scent from a perfumer's booth lured him in. Lavender water it was, and it smelled, he realized, like his mother. He closed his eyes and recalled her sweet fragrance and her soft lap. Was it true, as his father said, that she left because of Will? He had been hardly more than a babe. He rubbed his nose to get rid of the smell of her and shook his head to blow the memories away.

Will spent every coin in the purse and returned with pears and cheese, juicy beef ribs, a jug of ale, and the promise of an apple tart when it had done baking. He heard the sounds of laughter and quarrels and music as the other merchants and performers gathered by their fires, sharing food and company. The oddities as usual kept to themselves, knowing themselves not welcome at anyone's fire. Will found it easier to stay and eat with them than to seek other company, especially given the beef ribs. Master Tidball waved the food away, but the rest ate in tired silence.

"I have someut to say,” the girl said in a small voice, after the apple tart arrived and had been eaten. She cleared her throat and continued a bit louder. "I did not mind so much being Greymalkin the cat when I was young. It seemed a game to act the cat. But now I be Grace Wyse, person, not cat, and wish to be called such. Grace Wyse, an it please you.”

Tidball grunted and said, "Call yourself Greymalkin or Grace or Godiva—we know what you are, would you just accept it.”

"I do not know what I be—mayhap only God knows—but I know what I am not: I am in no part cat. I will tell no more lies and never again act the cat. Or the beast.” She stood proudly and climbed into the wagon.

Tidball grunted again and then rose. "I be meeting an important personage in town. Lancelot Fitzgeoffrey, hie you into the booth to guard my treasures. And you, boy, stay here with the wagon.” He hobbled away.

Fitz stood and scratched his head sleepily. "The important personage likely is an innkeeper with brandywine and a soft bed. You will not often find our Master Tidball sleeping on the cold ground.”

Will could not stay silent at such slander. "Why must you ever find fault with the man? He employs us and feeds us, and we owe him gratitude, not—”

"You, boy,” said Fitz with a lift of an eyebrow, "have no more brains than a wood louse.” He spat, stretched again, and left.

CONCERNING SAMUEL'S DISTRESS,
WILL'S NEW CHARGE, AND
THOUGHTS ABOUT HAM

"P
LAGUE! THE
plague is here!” Will heard the cries from behind the spice merchant's stall the next morning. They were picked up by the stall holders and then the visitors. "Plague!”

People began to push and shove away. Will pushed against them, toward the sounds. He feared the sores and buboes, cramping belly, and death that the plague was said to bring, but he was right curious.

"Nay! Nay!” called a man coming from the scene. "'Tis but a fever. Not the plague.” He grabbed people by their sleeves to stop their running off in panic and shouted louder. "The apothecary has come! He says 'tis but a fever!”

Will crept around behind the stall where the uproar had begun, and there was Samuel Knobby's cart! The Duchess, squealing like, well, a pig, was tied to one of the wheels. Will stuck his head over the side of the cart and looked down. Samuel, his face red and shiny with sweat, thrashed about. Samuel!

"A putrid fever, I say,” said a man in black leaning over the cart. "He must be bled regularly and dosed with mustard, garlic, and St. John's wort. And he should be kept warm and still for nigh onto a seven-night if he is to recover. Is there somewhere within doors where he might shelter?”

No one answered. Finally the apothecary sighed and said, "I have an attic where he might stay, but someone must pay my fee and a bit extra for his board.”

There was much discussion and consternation, but finally someone passed a cap around and coins were thrown in with many a clink and a clank. Why did these folk care enough to turn over their pennies? Will wondered. Mayhap it was but a trick, and Samuel would take the money and run off. That was belike what the villainous tooth puller would do. But to the boy's surprise, the money was given to the apothecary, who counted it and nodded.

Samuel Knobby began wriggling. He mumbled words no one could understand. When his eyes alighted on Will, he grabbed the boy's arm and pointed to the ground.

"I believe,” said Will, "that he is asking about the Duchess. Can she go with him?”

"Where might this Duchess be?” the apothecary asked, smoothing his hair and straightening his robe.

"The Duchess is his pig,” Will answered, "the smartest pig in the world, he says, and clean, and—”

"A pig!” the apothecary growled. "No pig. I will have trouble enough explaining the man himself to my wife.”

Samuel thrashed harder.

"But the Duchess goes everywhere with Samuel. How will she fare without him? Who will feed her? And play with her? Splash her with water and practice her tricks and...”

Everyone looked at Will, and he knew why. They expected him to do it. But he cared for no one but himself and nothing but his belly.

Samuel grabbed Will's hand. The boy looked about for someone, anyone, who would take the pig, but all eyes—blue eyes and green eyes and brown, candid eyes and hooded eyes, sad eyes and laughing eyes, young eyes and old—were on him. Fie upon it, Will Sparrow would have to do it, take on the care and feeding of the Duchess while Samuel Knobby recovered. From Samuel he had learned something of caring for a pig. He supposed he could do it. He had, after all, been taking fine care of Solomon these many days. The boy sighed a mighty sigh. Although he liked it not, he would have to do it. And the Duchess nuzzled his ankle, as if she knew. Samuel and the cart were trundled to the apothecary shop, and Will led the Duchess away.

As they neared the wagon, Will heard Master Tidball shouting, "You will, you impudent wench! Stubborn as a goat you are, but you will! Folk pay to see the wild girl, half cat, and see her they will, or you will stay in here until your bones turn to dust!” He slammed and barred the wagon door as the Duchess snorted over to sniff at his clothing—looking for treats, Will knew.