At the Crossing Places (14 page)

W
HO ARE YOU?” I ASKED.

She looked very frail, like a leaf skeleton. With one puff, I thought, I could have blown her away.

“What's your name?”

“Miriam.”

“Where do you live, then?”

“Ludlow.”

“Ludlow!” I cried. “How did you get here?”

She had to tilt back her head to look up at me. Her eyes were enormous, liquid, dark moons.

“You seen him,” she said.

“Who?”

“Our father.”

“Your father?”

“Jacob.”

“Jacob!” I exclaimed.

Miriam searched my face. “Dead,” she said solemnly. “Is he?”

“Yes,” I said very quietly.

Miriam looked at the ground. She scraped it with her left foot.

“Who told you?” I asked.

“No one,” said Miriam. She squatted down and crouched into a little scruffy bundle.

“Come with me,” I said gently.

I led Miriam down towards the churchyard. The only person there was old Wilf, sitting on his parents' grave, talking to them.

“Over here,” I said, and I took Miriam's little hand and walked along the outside of the north wall.

“A madman attacked him. Our armorer, Alan. Just one blow. He felt no pain.”

Miriam's whole face was quivering like a flimsy poppy petal. “But…” she began, “…his prayer shawl.”

“What do you mean?”

“At home…You can't bury him!”

Then Miriam gave one terrible piercing scream and fell over her father's grave. “
Abba,
” she sobbed. “Our father!”

The hot sun heard her and blinked. The cold stars heard her, and their knuckles cracked.

Miriam stretched herself out over the grave; she dug her fingertips into the loose earth. Then I saw Haket walking up across the glebe land and I knew I had to protect this little creature from ever knowing how people here hated her father. I bent down and scooped her up: a light, damp bundle in my arms.

“Arthur!” shouted Haket. “What's going on?”

I walked as fast as I could—out of the churchyard, up the steep path, and into the castle yard.

“You've been searching for him,” I said.

Miriam gazed up at me. “He'll never go away,” she said.

“No, he won't,” I said.

“I searched everywhere,” said Miriam, and she closed her eyes.

“I'm searching too,” I whispered. “I'm the same as you.”

I carried Miriam straight through the storeroom, past Anian's and Catrin's twitching noses, and up two flights of steps to the solar.

Lord Stephen was very practical. He told Miriam that her father would have been proud of her. He sent me down to Gubert to get some milk and bread. Then he said it was high time Miriam got back to Ludlow.

“How old are you?” he asked.

“Eight, please,” said Miriam.

“And your mother gave you permission?”

Miriam opened her dark eyes wide and slowly shook her head.

Lord Stephen has instructed Simon to ride Miriam all the way back to Ludlow tomorrow and to tell her mother that she can have Jacob's body back, if she wishes.

“Christians and Jews and Muslims all bury their dead in different ways,” he told me. “We should respect that.” Then Lord Stephen looked at me, gave an extremely long sigh, and gently shook his head.

If you didn't know him, you might think Lord Stephen didn't have strong feelings. He does, though. And he cares for other people's feelings as well.

“I think Miriam should sleep up here tonight,” he said. “Isn't that a good idea?”

“Oh yes, sir. In case…”

“Exactly!” said Lord Stephen. “And why don't you keep her company?”

One candle on the tabletop. One candle, burning. I have been writing those words for a long time, and Miriam hasn't moved or made a single sound.

Her right arm lying across my leg is weightless as thistledown.

E
IGHT, PLEASE.”

Miriam is the same age as Sian. I remember that when little Luke died, Sian threw her game of knucklebones into his grave.

“He may need them.” That's what she said. “He's not dead for me.”

After Miriam had left for Ludlow with Simon, I felt lonely, so I unwrapped my obsidian…

“Here in Caerleon,” says Arthur-in-the-stone, “where England ends and Wales begins. Between worlds. This is where nothing is impossible.”

Through the hall door crowd three young men. The one in the middle is supported by the other two. He has his arms around their shoulders. His own shoulders are broad and he has large, handsome features.

And look at his hands! They're large, too, and beautifully cared for. No cracks, no callouses. They're pink and perfect.

And yet this man's wearing a filthy smock and hairy breeches. Who is he?

Once he's standing in front of the king, the young man removes his arms from round his friends' shoulders and stands upright quite easily.

“May God bless you and your fair fellowship, sire,” he says.

“What do you want?” Arthur asks.

“Three wishes,” the young man replies. “One now and the others in a year's time. My first wish is for you to give me food and drink for the next year.”

“Is that all?”

“That's enough.”

“I'd never refuse that to friend or enemy,” says Arthur. “What is your name?”

“I cannot tell you,” the young man replies.

“Cannot or will not?” Arthur asks. “It would be a strange thing if a man didn't know his own name.”

Now the king turns to his brother and steward, Sir Kay, and asks him to ensure the young man gets well fed. “Treat him as though he's the son of a knight.”

“Certainly not!” Kay replies. “I'm not wasting money. A knight's son should have asked for armor and a warhorse.”

“You heard me,” Arthur says.

“No name?” says Kay. “All right, I'll give him one. Beaumains! Pretty hands!”

“That's enough,” says Arthur.

“Pretty hands,” Kay repeats. “Not after he's worked for his keep in the kitchen. He can have a bowl of greasy broth each day, and by the end of the year he'll be as fat as a hog.”

At this, Sir Lancelot and several other knights start to protest.

“Foul mouth!”

“Let him be.”

“Bite your tongue, Kay.”

“He'll prove a better man than you think,” Lancelot says. “I'm certain of it.”

Kay's mouth curls. Just like Serle. He's never charitable. “You fools!” he exclaims. “You can always judge a man by what he asks for. Come on, you scullion! Where have you been with your pretty pink hands? Praying in a monastery? It's high time you did a proper day's work.”

My stone seethes with freezing sparks, as many as the Milky Way. Then it grows warm again, and I can see King Arthur sitting in a second hall. He is surrounded by many knights and ladies, and a pretty young woman is standing in front of him…

“I need your help,” she says. “My sister's a prisoner in her own castle. The Knight of the Red Lands is holding her captive.”

“I've never heard of him,” says Arthur-in-the-stone.

“I have,” says Sir Gawain. “I crossed swords with him and scarcely got away with my life.”

“Who is she,” the king asks, “your sister?”

The young woman half-smiles and puts her fingers to her lips.

“Lady,” the king says, “there are plenty of knights here who would do their utmost to rescue your sister. But not if you refuse to tell me who she is.”

“In that case,” the young woman says, “I will have to go elsewhere.”

“Sire,” booms Beaumains in his loud voice from the far end of the hall, where he is standing with the other kitchen boys. “I've worked in your kitchen for twelve months.”

“What do you want, Beaumains?”

“My second wish. Allow me to help this young woman.”

“As you wish,” replies the king.

“And my third wish,” say Beaumains “is to be knighted. By Sir Lancelot.”

“Pismire!” the young woman cries. “Is this the best you can offer? Your greasy kitchen scullion?”

She turns her back on King Arthur and marches out of the hall, straight past the dwarf who has just staggered in, carrying shining armor.

“Beaumains's armor,” the dwarf shouts.

“Who are you?” the king asks.

“His servant, Huon,” the dwarf replies. “Wherever he goes in this wide world, Beaumains can count on me.”

At once Beaumains bows to King Arthur and leaves the hall with the dwarf, and as he does so, he asks Sir Lancelot to joust with him.

“I thought you wanted me to knight you,” Lancelot replies.

“I do,” says Beaumains, “but only if you think I'm worthy of it.”

Outside the walls of Caerleon, the two men gallop toward each other and clash so fiercely that each unseats the other. Lancelot falls clear of his horse, but Beaumains is unable to release one foot from the stirrup. His horse drags him round, bumping his head and shoulders against the ground, until Lancelot is able to grab the reins.

“Are you hurt?” Beaumains asks.

Lancelot smiles. “It's you who are hurt,” he replies.

“I'll fight you on foot, then,” Beaumains says, and at once he draws his sword.

Beaumains keeps lunging forward, thrusting and thwacking, and
Lancelot can only parry and wait for an opening. Now Beaumains gives Lancelot's helmet a terrible smack with the flat of his blade, and Lancelot reels away as if he were drunk.

“Enough!” he shouts. “Isn't that enough?”

“No!” yells Beaumains. And then he remembers whom he is fighting, and sticks his sword into the turf. “Yes,” he says.

“We've no quarrel,” says Lancelot.

“But I haven't shown you—”

“You've shown me quite enough,” says Lancelot. “It was all I could do to keep you at arm's length.”

“Will you knight me, then?” asks Beaumains.

“Only if you tell me your real name.”

“I will,” says Beaumains, “providing you tell no one else. I am Gareth, Gawain's younger brother. The son of King Lot and Morgause, King Arthur's half sister.”

Lancelot smiles and shakes his head. “Just as I thought,” he says.

Now Beaumains kneels. He swears oaths to protect people who cannot protect themselves. In turn, Lancelot undertakes to protect him.

Now Sir Lancelot knights Beaumains. He belts on his sword, and the two men embrace.

“With your permission,” Beaumains says, “I'll ride after that young woman at once—otherwise I'll never catch her.”

Beaumains and Huon chase along a windy ridge. They canter down below the spring line, and all around them are clumps of purple-eyed pansies and rashes of scarlet poppies. There at last they catch up with the young woman.

“You!” she exclaims. “Stained with grease and spotted with wax! Stinking of stale food! I thought I'd seen the last of you.”

“Lady…” begins Beaumains.

“You ladle-washer!”

“You can say what you like,” Beaumains replies.

“You glutinous glob! Who do you think you are?”

“I've promised King Arthur that I'll rescue your sister.”

“Pismire!” shouts the young lady. “You won't live long enough for that. The man you're about to meet—you won't even dare look him in the face, not for all the greasy broth in the world!”

W
HEN I CHOSE BONAMY, LORD STEPHEN TOLD ME
that a warhorse is not only a piece of equipment but a friend. That's true, I know. When I go across to the stables, Bonamy always welcomes me now. He doesn't know how strong he is when he nuzzles me and sometimes almost knocks me off my feet. But he does know I'll look after him. And I know that when we go crusading, and I really need him, he'll be loyal to me.

I think new armor is more than equipment as well. It's battle dress, and tells you as much about the knight wearing it as the cut, color, and trimmings of a lady's finest dress tells about her.

As Turold spread out my glistening armor on the table in the armory, I thought how Gubert and I laid Jacob there just before Easter…

“Yes,” said Turold, “I've made your helmet flat-topped.” He smiled, and the wrinkles in his cheeks bunched and deepened. “Very effective and very fashionable. But as I told you, you'll have to wear a leather skullcap with it. Otherwise your young brains will get buffeted and beaten.”

I inspected the insides of the thigh-pieces. “When I was arming Lord Stephen,” I said, “the head of one of these nail-bolts came off. I spiked him.”

“You must always look after your armor,” Turold said.

“I do. I graze it. In a bag of wet sand.”

“Exactly. Piece by piece. And then polish it, oil it, and grease it. Even then, metal can fracture. That's why a knight needs a good armorer.”

“Not Alan,” I said.

“And it can snap,” said Turold. “Now! Try this on. It may pinch in one place and be too loose in another. We'll need to make small adjustments.”

First my leather ankle boots and my mail-leggings, clicking and clinking. Then the bolster around my waist, and a new aketon with well-padded shoulders; and over that a wonderful mail-shirt, with leather mittens stitched to it.

“Have you ever seen rivets like these?” Turold asked.

“Never!” I gasped.

Each one has a high head—ridged and pointed—and since there are thousands of them, my whole mail-shirt bristles.

“They look like barleycorn,” I said.

Turold clapped his hands, and his sunken eyes gleamed. “Exactly! You're wearing a whole field of it. Sir William's orders!”

“Sir William?”

“He's paying, isn't he? He said welded links weren't good enough. He wanted them all fastened, and these barley-heads are the new design.”

I've quite often helped Sir John and Lord Stephen to put on their armor, but wearing my own felt completely different. By the time I'd fitted on my skullcap and my helmet, my armor was so heavy that I couldn't swing my arms or quicken my pace, let alone run. I was in my own tight, hot world, and could only hear half of
what Turold was saying. If I were buried alive, I suppose a coffin would feel like that.

“Go on!” shouted Turold. “Walk around the Yard. Find out how it fits.”

As soon as Rowena and Izzie saw me, they screamed and came running up. First they pressed their soft fingertips into the barley-heads. Then they looked at their own reflections in the back of my helmet, all bulging and misshapen. And when I took it off, Rowena pointed out the row of tiny stars and crosses engraved around the neck guard.

“I hadn't even noticed them,” I said. “What are they for, Turold?”

“You're taking the Cross,” said Turold.

“What about the stars, then?”

“Just an armorer's fancy,” Turold replied.

“These three in a row,” Izzie said, “they look like Orion's belt.”

Turold pressed his lips. “As they were meant to,” he said.

“Why?” I asked.

“May Orion protect you,” Turold said, “and bring you safe home.”

After supper this evening, Lord Stephen said, “I've some news, Arthur, and I hope it will please you: I've asked Turold to be my new armorer, and he has accepted. He'll be coming with us when we join the crusade.”