Straw Into Gold (6 page)

The taste of it was spring sunshine, summer dew, fall frost. It was hard not to slosh it all down at once.

"You'll both be wanting some bread, would you, with sweet butter?" the woman asked.

"We'll be wanting it," Innes whispered.

"With some honey seeped in?"

"With honey seeped in," I answered.

When she handed half a loaf to me, I ate it all with hardly a breath between bites, the honey running down my cheeks and stickying my hands. Innes too ate quickly, his face always to the woman, as though he could watch her.

When we finished, she went outside with a bowl and returned with steaming water. She took a cloth and washed Innes's hands, then laid her own hand aside his head and guided it down onto the cot. Gently, gently she washed the wound across his forehead, dabbing at the dirt and dried blood until it shone pink and clean. Then she drew the burlap back, drew the rags of his shirt away, and washed the wounds across his chest, pulling away when he winced, returning even more gently.

And all the while she sang, a low, soft, swaying melody that set even the beating of my heart to its slow rhythm. I lay down on the floor beside the cot, the woman balled more burlap for a pillow, and I was asleep.

When I woke, Innes was still asleep. He had drawn his legs up almost to his chin and looked as if he could sleep through the Apocalypse. Still, the woman put her finger to her lips so I should not wake him, even if I could have. She sat at the back of the cart, stirring something in the crockery she held in her lap. It was a lap large enough for three, even four children to climb into.

I almost climbed in myself, wondering what it might be like.

She poured whatever she was stirring into a wooden bowl. "Here, then, eat this," she said, handing it to me. "It's hot," she warned,"just in from the kettle," but I spooned it steaming into my mouth. Oatmeal. It was oatmeal. And it was spiced with cinnamon. It burned at my tongue, but there was a pleasure in feeling the heat of it pour down into my chest.

The woman smiled broadly. "It's a joy watching you eat," she said. "A joy such as I haven't had for this many a year. By Saint Julian himself, it does me good."

"Has he left any for me?"—this from Innes, who hadn't been so deeply asleep that the smell of food would not wake him.

She poured some into another bowl and handed it to him."It's quite—"but he had already taken a heap into his mouth.

He yelped, took in a great breath, and yelped again. "Hot," he said.

The woman reared back; I watched the laughter bubble and churn in her belly, flow upward to set the broad shoulders shaking, quiver into her neck, blow out her cheeks, and then spill out from her lips in a great cascade that filled the cart and set it rocking on its wheels.

"A burned tongue is hardly something to laugh at,"complained Innes, blowing at his bowl.

"No," she answered when she could stop the cascade."A burned tongue is hardly something to laugh at. But as Saint John of Saxony says—bless his holy name—when we laugh, we escape the Devil. And you'll notice that there's no Devil in here, though God knows there is more than one devil out and about in Wolverham this day."

"If there are devils about, they haven't brought their heat with them. We had a cold enough night of it."

"But this one had a warm enough afternoon yesterday, from what I hear tell," she said, pointing at me. "Is it true? Did you stand before the king and defy him?"

"I stood before the king, true enough."

"Well, then, you have the heart of Saint Catherine, and you shame us all who will not stand there with you. By the look of the welt across your face, the king did not take your boldness kindly."

"I don't believe he struck me because of that."

"Why, then?"

"Maybe he was afraid."

"Afraid of you?"

"Not of me."

She nodded knowingly. "Well, there is still the welt to care for anyway." From the pocket hanging at her belt she plucked a finger of herbs, their purple pale with drying. She crushed them in a bowl and poured in a thimble of water, and their scent filled the cart. "Would you flinch if I told you this will sting?"

"No."

"So." And gently, softly, she rubbed at the bruise, washing away the dry clots until clean blood showed, then stopping it with a cloth. Gently, softly, she rubbed the herb lotion into the wound. It did sting, and I did not flinch.

Then she sat on the cot beside Innes, drew me to her, held us both, and sang a sweet song to us, a song about the moon, about a faraway kingdom, about the sea. The words were waves that washed against us warmly.

"I may have heard that song once," Innes said quietly.

"No, no. You haven't. It's my own dear song, and I've sung it only to my babies."

"Where are your babies now?" asked Innes.

"Out into the wide world, who knows where, who knows how. If Saint Caedmon himself were to sing that song to them, there's not one of them who would remember. Well, perhaps one. But he has been gone this many a year, and there's no bringing him back."

"Which one?" asked Innes.

"Time was when I was the nurse living in the castle in the days of the old king, when the king that is now was ever so much smaller than you both. Before gold meant more to him than sunshine. I dandled him on my knee for a year, I did. And when the time came for him to marry and have his own son, I dandled that one as well. There was a baby who was a pleasure to tend. His laughter could cheer the whole of the castle. But it was a castle that no longer wanted cheering."

"I'm sorry," Innes said, but she was not looking at us anymore. She was looking out beyond the canvas of the cart, into another place. Then she shook her head as if to clear it.

"But that is all over now. No pining over that. And if I hadn't left the castle, then I never would have met my husband, would I? And him a sexton, no less."

"Mother," I asked, "if you were the king's own nurse, perhaps you could answer the riddle he set."

"Mother," whispered Innes. She turned to him. "Mother," he whispered again. She placed her hand against his cheek. It covered most of his face.

"I was never the clever one to answer riddles," she said. "And it's been too, too long, eleven years, since I was in his service. And he is not the child he was when I knew him."

"If we cannot answer the riddle," said Innes, "everyone who was arrested will die."

She stared at Innes, stared at him as the king had the day before. Then she waved her hand in the air, as if to brush aside sadness. "If it's the king's riddle you want answered, you might try the queen. But then you'd need to ride yourself to Eynsham and the abbey. Now there's a journey."

"Would you come with us to see her?" I asked, and the woman's face turned into a smile.

"To see the queen again. It's something I had never hoped to do. Poor dear, it's not the life she would have chosen. And as Saint Ethelred himself would say—"

But we did not discover what Saint Ethelred himself would say. Three soft raps struck the side of the cart. "You are discovered!" came a loud whisper. Immediately she quieted, put her finger to her lips, and moved forward to peer out. The sounds of the square had stilled, and when I saw her shoulders stiffen, I knew that there was a reason.

Until that moment I had never really known the kind of fear that freezes in the gut. Da had never let there be a moment when I could have been afraid. If I even whimpered in a dream, the lanterns in my room would spurt into a bright glow and the dying embers in the fireplace flare into brilliance. As for the battering thunder that came off the mountains, Da could call it out of a clear sky with a wave of a finger, and set folks down below us looking wonderingly at the blue sky. There had never been anything to fear.

But I was afraid now. My stomach tightened and my legs weakened. I hoped I wouldn't heave up the oatmeal.

"We did not laugh enough," the woman said. "Come see."

I peered out from the edge of the canvas. At first it seemed that nothing was unusual. Geese still squawked as buyers held them upside down, and pigs squealed in blood terror. But all the hawkers were still, almost every face in the square downturned. Except one. Half hidden behind a black hood, one face was moving around the square, looking behind barrels, under carts. He strode his brawny self cockily, and no one stood in his way. His mailed hand held the hilt of a short, stabbing sword tethered to his side.

The nurse pulled me back under the cover of the cart."If there's laughter in you, now is the time to use it—but very quietly." Innes asked no questions. He sat still, waiting for the nurse to tell him—to tell us—what to do. She took Innes by the shoulder and stooped him beneath the cot, draping the burlap over the side so that it might cover him. Then she looked around to see what to do with me.

"Old woman," came a voice loud and sudden from the back of the cart. "Old woman, I am told that you entertain guests."

With a great shove of her hand she pushed me forward. I slipped out from the front canvas and across the seat, and leapt down between the harnessed horses, rubbing their sides to keep them from whinnying.

"Is it a law then that guests are not to be entertained?" she called.

The cart tilted back suddenly. "You. Nurse, you should not have returned to Wolverham."

"I am come to the market only."

"You are come to meddle, as you always did. Your meddling banished you from the castle. And almost worse, at my word."

"I have never doubted that it was at your word. But I am alone here, as you see."

"Those in the square say you were not alone."

"Those in the square are eager for rewards."

"And you are not."

"I am not." I heard the scraping of things moved about. "By Saint Ciaran himself, I tell you that you will find no one here with me."

"A saint whose name I have never heard."

"The wonder of it is that there is any saint whose name you have heard."

"Nurse," and here the voice came low. "Do not meddle again. Remember what I am called now." A jolting down the back steps of the cart. I hunched lower between the horses until I saw the nurse wave to me.

"Quickly," she whispered. I leapt inside and knelt by Innes beneath the cot. "That will be enough marketing for today." She clambered down the steps, then began to throw pots, tongs, and piles of turnips into the cart, finishing by swinging the steps up and tying them to. Then she climbed up the front and sat down heavily.

"Nurse," asked Innes,"what is his name?"

She bowed her head. "The King's Grip. He has no other name now. But by Saint Catherine he'll have no blood on his sword today."

"The king promised us seven days," I said. "Seven whole days."

"'The king promised,'" she snorted angrily. "'The king promised.' What this king promises and what he gives are fish and fowl. He must believe that you can solve the riddle and so sends his Grip to stop you." She turned back and looked at me, a smile pushing up her cheeks. "Tell me, are you always this offensive to royalty?"

"But I saw his eyes when he gave us the riddle. I don't believe that he does want to stop us."

"I have seen the results of the tasks he sets," she answered.

A sharp slap of reins, and we felt the first reluctant turn of the wheels, jerking over the cobblestones. I willed them to roll faster, faster, though I knew their clatter might attract the eye of the King's Grip.

More cobblestones rolled past, and more, the cart swaying back and forth, the wheels slipping some on the rounded stones. I thought of the soft pine-needle path that stretched through the woods, the sure steps of the Dapple. And then the wagon lurched to a halt, both horses whinnying. "By Saint Alban's eyes," the nurse bellowed, "you'd do well to lay your hand aside from that bridle."

"All carts leaving the square are to be searched, in the king's name."

"For criminal turnips?"

"For two young rebels. Step down."

"I'll not. I've been searched already once this morning, and I'll not stop for it again."

I heard the scraping of a sword being pulled from its scabbard. "This search is in the king's name, and there will be no asking again."

The nurse gave a long, long sigh. "So you'd see my turnips. Then come around back and I'll lower the steps." I shoved Innes beneath the cot again and scooted beside him; a burlap blanket was all that hid us, and capture meant ... What capture meant was not to be thought of. We pushed farther beneath the cot, back into the shadows.

But there was no need. With a sudden cry the nurse struck the horses to a gallop, and the wagon reeled back and forth, rolling us both from under the bunk. What with the battering of the cobblestones, the clanking of pans, and the overturning of a barrel of turnips, it seemed that Chaos itself had erupted all about us. A sudden iron clang, and four arrows puncturing through the canvas told us the guards at the city gates were not glad of our leave-taking.

"That last arrow," I yelled,"came just past your ear."

"They aim well," Innes shouted back. "Perhaps it would be best to keep low."

It would have been impossible to stand in any case. The cart was running smoother now that it had come out of the square and off the cobblestones, but the careening speed kept us both on the floor so that we would not be tossed through the canvas.

A sudden
thunk
as another arrow came through and bit into the wooden frame. Out the back flaps I saw three horsemen, two with bows. Another arrow came in, just over our heads.

"Those horsemen are holding on with just their legs," I called back to Innes.

"They must have horses that are not afraid of them. Do you think you could knock them off?"

"If I had something to throw."

He groped around, found a turnip, and handed it to me. "Throw it at the horses' heads," Innes said.

I took it from him and paused, weighing it in my hand. "I hardly want to throw one at a horse."

"Tousle," he said patiently,"those are not turnips coming our way."

I rose to my knees, steadied myself against the roll, and threw the first one. It smashed against the back frame of the cart.