Part 43 (1/2)
”I know who you are, but you must be patient. Say nothing, just take my hand when you are free, and I will lead you to safety.”
The bailiff took keys from his pocket and I led my knight down from the platform and through a clearly discontented crowd, already armed with sticks and stones to drive him out of town. These expulsions often meant the death of the victim, I knew that; I also knew that the bailiff believed little, if any, of my story. Still, he had the coins in his pockets and it was too late to send a horseman to the village to check tonight. Tomorrow I determined to be away at dawn.
I led Sir Gilman through darkening streets to the stables behind the inn, lucky to be unfollowed.
”What the 'ell's that?” said Growch.
But Mistral recognized him and crowded back in her stall. ”He brings danger!
He led the others-”
”Rubbis.h.!.+ He's in need of care and attention. He's no threat to anyone. Just stay quiet while I see to him.”
I went to the inn and begged a bucket of was.h.i.+ng water, but had to part with another small coin. I gave my knight a strip wash, even taking off his braies to rinse them out, and he stood quiet as a felled ox, even when I rinsed his private parts, which I noted were ample. But Mama had always said that the criterion was less in inches than in the performance.
Apart from his trousers he wore a pair of tattered boots, and that was all. I should have to make him something to wear, but in the interim I put my father's green cloak over his s.h.i.+vers and went to fetch the promised stew and a helping of bread. It was tasteless and stringy, but I added salt and a sprinkle of dried parsley and thyme to make it edible. I fed him with soaked bread until he pushed aside my hand and said: ”Enough.”
That was the first word he had spoken since his release, but as if a dam had been broken he now started with how's and why's and when's until I shushed him. ”Enough for now. It's night and you should sleep. Rest easy. Does your head still hurt?”
”Very much. What happened to it?”
”I told you: in the morning. Lie still, and I'll put salve on it and give you a sleeping draught,” remembering of a sudden the vial of poppy juice I had brought with me.
I led him out to p.i.s.s against the wall, but two minutes later, after I had tucked him up in the straw, he was snoring happily. I fended off questions from the others, merely asking the more reliable of them to wake me at false dawn.
That done, the rest of the stew shared between Growch and myself and a few strands more of hay scrounged for Mistral, I lit my lantern and settled down with scissors, needle and thread to turn the better of the two blankets into a tunic for my knight.
A round cut-out for the neck, plus a strip cut down the front for ease of donning; seams sewn down the sides, with plenty of room for arms; laces threaded through holes in the neckline and rope bound into an eye at one end, knotted and frayed at the other for a belt . . .
I opened my eyes, lantern guttered, stiff and sore, to find Mistral nudging me.
”An hour before dawning . . .”
We crept through the outskirts of the village till we found the road south and once out of sight of the village I cut an ash-plant stave from the roadside, thrust it into my knight's right hand, put his left on Mistral's crupper, and determined to put as many miles as I could between us and possible questions or pursuit.
We made about four miles before a growling stomach, the proximity of a nearby stream and the knight's questions decided me it was time to break our fast. As the thin flames flared beneath the cooking pot and the gruel thickened around my spoon, I answered Sir Gilman's questions as best I could. His name and station, the ambush, his blow on the head, that was all I really knew. And he knew no more. Even what I told him raised his eyebrows.
”You are sure?”
I rea.s.sured him, but did not remind him of our meeting in the forest the day before, lest he remember a hideous fat girl he had courteously called ”pretty.”
. . . Indeed, I was careful to avoid any physical contact except by hand or arm, so that he wouldn't guess at my bulk.
After I had explained twice all that I knew of his circ.u.mstances he was silent for a moment or two, spooning down his gruel which I had sweetened with a little honey.
”So I am a knight. But of what use is my knighthood without sight or memory?
Where can I go? What can I do? How can I manage without my horse, my sword and armor, money? How do I even know which road to take?” He flung the bowl and spoon away and buried his face in his arms. I longed to put my arms about him, to thrill to the feel of his helplessness, but I knew better than to try. Instead I went over to Mistral and talked quietly to her.
”All I know is this,” she said slowly in answer to my questions. ”I was hired as a packhorse to carry his armor-and heavy it was. This was in a town many miles north of here. In winter it was very cold in that town, and the people's talk was heavy and thick, not like yours or his. When he set off he said farewell with much of your human embraces and tears with a young woman who seemed reluctant to let him go. Since then we have traveled south by west, and I gather there were many more miles to go. That is all I know.”
”Who are you talking to?”
”No one, Sir Knight,” I said hurriedly. ”I was thinking aloud.”
”And what conclusion have you come to?” he said sarcastically. ”I for one am tired of walking in this stupid manner and eating food for pigs. I demand you take me to someone in authority and see that I am escorted-taken . . . That I am properly cared for till I regain my memory, and can return to my home.
Wherever that is . . .”
He was being rather tiresome. After his experiences of the last few days, how on earth did he think that anyone would believe his story, even with my word as well? Folk would think we were trying it on. If he could have remembered where he came from, even, it would have been a simple matter of sending a messenger to his home, requesting a.s.sistance, and then waiting a week or so for grateful parents or family to rescue him. As it was, he was lucky to be still alive. Patiently I tried to explain this to him, but he was not in a receptive mood.
”Still,” he said magnanimously, ”I am grateful for your help, girl. You know my name: what's yours? And why are you here? Where is your home?”
What a wonderful tale I told! The only really true fact was my name. He learned of loving parents dying of fever, leaving their only child with a huge dowry, traveling south to find her betrothed- ”But why did you not wait till he could send for you?” he asked reasonably.
”Ah,” I said, thinking rapidly. ”The fact is, my parents did not entirely trust his family, although they paid over the dowry. They said, before they died-” I crossed myself for the lie: he could not see me. ”-that it were better I arrive unannounced. Then they could not turn me away.”
”Sounds chancy to me. Which way do you go?”
”I was just coming to that,” thinking again as fast as light. ”I am not in any hurry to reach my new home, so I thought we might try and find where you live first. You were traveling south, so why don't we both go that way and hope you recover your memory on the journey? I have very little money, but we'll manage-if you don't expect too many comforts. As for walking-it will do you good, help you recover. What do you say?”
”It seems I have little choice.” He still sounded resentful. ”But you will promise to speed my return when I regain my memory?” He sounded so sure.
”Of course! But in the meantime . . .” I could see so many problems ahead if we continued as we were. ”It would seem strange if we travel together and I address you as a knight and no relation. We may have to share accommodation, so I think it best-until you regain your memory-if we pretended we were brother and sister, traveling south to seek a cure for your blindness. If you didn't mind I could call you Gill and you can call me Summer. . . . No disrespect intended, of course.”
He sighed heavily. ”Again I see no help for it. All right-Summer,” and he suddenly smiled that heart-catching smile that had me emotionally groveling immediately. ”Any more pig food? A drop more honey this time, please. . . .”
That night we were dry and cozy enough in a small copse off the road, with the slices of ham fried with an onion and oatcakes, but in the morning as I prepared gruel again, I had an argument with Growch. This precipitated another confrontation with Sir Gilman-Gill, as I must remember to call him.
It still seemed disrespectful.
Growch:-”Is that all, then?”
Me:-”You've had as much as anyone else.”
Growch:-”Gruel don't go far. . . .”
Me:-”We've all had the same.”
Growch:-”'E's 'ad more'n me. . . .”
Me:-”He's a man. He needs more.”
Growch:-”You gave 'im some o' yours; I saw you.”
Me:-”So what? I wasn't very hungry.”