Awakening (23 page)

‘Injured,’ he explained, ‘nearly killed, my fellow brothers were cruelly ambushed on the way to Brum. No, we were looking for bed and board and I can think of no other way than to knock on doors and hope against hope that some gentle heart will take pity on us and . . .’

Cluckett eyed him and liked him.

Dark, strong, modest, possibly masterful.

‘Do you know someone here who might help?’ he said, looming closer, bold with his gaze upon her.

‘Well I . . . not here of course . . .’

He looked past her into Stort’s humble. Neat as two pins, even the books far down the corridor ranged like a platoon of Fyrd on parade.

‘I am sorry, I could not help being impressed . . .’

That was a step too far yet not a mistake.

She narrowed the door only slightly, intrigued by what he said.

‘Impressed by what?’

‘The books, their order. I like order, many do not.’

‘Ah,’ said Cluckett softly, not quite knowing why, ‘well I am thinking, sir . . .’

‘Brother,’ he purred. ‘What were you thinking, Goodwife?’

‘Cluckett will do nicely, sir, no need for the Goodwife. I was thinking that my neighbour next door, who lives alone and is elderly, might be willing . . . perhaps . . . if . . . how many of you are there?’

‘Too many I fear. Six in all. Four males, including myself and two females.’

‘Willing to share?’

‘Of course.’

‘I could, I suppose, talk with her . . . her home used to be a workshop and it is bigger than it seems from the outside. She has taken groups of pilgrims before and could do with the money.’

‘We shall be generous, and no trouble,’ he said, large and solid before her.

Her bosom heaved.

‘Come back later,’ she said.

‘I will, Goodwife Cluckett, and thank you.’

So it was that Slew inveigled his way into the humble next to Stort’s, the group of which he was now de facto leader, moving in with all the courtesy and tact they could, money in advance. Stort’s neighbour was both flustered and thrilled and Cluckett inclined to pop in and out to see how things were progressing and if there was anything she could do.

Only two evenings later, by way of thanks, the women in the group, at Slew’s prompting, laid on a celebration feast at their own expense and to say thanks for their safe journey, more or less, to Brum; to Cluckett and the hostess; to Slew and to life in general. They had made the trek, seen where Beornamund’s forge had been from beneath which Mister Stort was said to have extracted the gem. All was well and the mead flowed.

Slew sat next to Cluckett, serving her food, pouring her drink, impressed by her discretion where Stort was concerned. Even so, Slew found out enough for his dark purpose.

He learned that after Stort got back to Brum he had made but one visit before an important meeting with the High Ealdor and others and after that single visit ‘his mind seemed easier’.

‘And where was that visit to?’

‘The Library,’ she answered, ‘just as you would expect. Then soon after that he was gone again on his travels.’

‘Where to this time?’ said Slew jocularly.

‘He didn’t say,’ she replied, but Slew didn’t care.

He now had, he believed, what he needed most of all, a clue to the whereabouts of the gem. Not a good one, but a possibility. Stort would not arrive in Brum with the gem, cause a great deal of fuss and bother, have it nearly taken off him by the city hierarchy (as the rumours probably correctly had it) and then leave again carrying it in his pocket.

No, Stort might be an innocent, as by all accounts he was, but he was no fool. He would have hidden the gem somewhere in the city while he went away, and all Slew needed to do was work out where in Brum a
scholar
would hide a gem.

Not difficult.

That much sorted out, Slew enjoyed the rest of the celebration, and having as usual avoided all intoxicating liquor because of his supposed vows but in fact because he needed no such stimulus, retired to bed, alone.

In the morning he abluted and dressed carefully, donning the robe he had stolen from the monk he murdered, now cleaned and ironed to his satisfaction, and touching up his dyed hair.

Machtild had commented on the fact.

Evelien had not dared.

‘What are you trying to hide?’ Machtild had asked.

She was indeed the clever one.

Neat, tidy, cleansed, and without his stave, looking intelligent and scholarly and suitably modest and in awe of the establishment, he presented himself at Brum’s Great Library.

A lie is all the better for being very near the truth, and the question that had preoccupied Slew was which truth would make it easiest for him to get past Master Brief without suspicion.

Brief was, perhaps, the greatest scholar in the Hyddenworld, certainly the most famous. It was well known that in recent years he had travelled only reluctantly, his journeying now being done, he said, inside his mind with the help of his books. But – and for Slew it was a dangerous ‘but’ – his range of scholarly contacts was vast and unknowable to any but himself.

Therefore, a scholar presenting himself at the Library was likely, very likely, to have worked for or with someone Brief already knew; or in an institution whose reputation and personnel were familiar to the great scrivener.

‘Ah! Master Monk! Slew, I believe.’

Slew fell to his knees before Brief, which he hoped would embarrass him. He attempted to kiss his red velvet robe which, to his relief, Brief pulled away. Close-to it was grubby and ragged and Slew was particular about such things.

‘Please, Brother Slew, there’s no need for any of this . . . I am but a scholar like any other . . .’

‘But a great one, Master, indeed a very great one.’

‘Well, well . . .’ said Brief, ‘and what may we do for you?’

‘I come, Master Brief, in all humility while I am on pilgrimage in Brum to pursue a small, private study of my own . . . nothing much, a field I am sure, many have visited before . . .’

‘The subject being?’ said Brief, a mite impatiently.

Slew’s garb was clean, that was certain. His sandals, too. But he looked all brushed up for the occasion, too much so, not like a serious scholar from one of the great Continental Schools or Libraries.

‘The Seasons,’ said Slew.

Brief sighed, it was just the kind of vague subject scholars like this would pursue.

‘Fine, excellent, a worthy study!’ said Brief rather tetchily. ‘And your Library . . . I mean the one where you normally study or to which you are in some way attached?’

Slew sighed and shrugged and said in a heavy kind of way, with a hint of despair and hopefulness, ‘I am a wandering scholar, Master Brief, in search wherever I may find it of truth, of insight, of a greater understanding of the meaning of things and, naturally, but you would understand this, I feel that—’

Brief sighed inwardly still more.

A
wandering
scholar, the very worst kind: unattached because no one wants them, pursuing dubious theses and wild propositions that cannot be tested, incapable of studying a subject in any depth because hard work might be involved.

‘Splendid,’ said Brief, cutting him short, ‘we welcome you to Brum and to this Library and look forward to the contribution which, I am quite sure, in time, you will make to the world of scholarship on the subject of . . . of . . . what did you say you were studying?’

‘The Seasons,’ said Slew.

Brief snapped his fingers.

An assistant came running.

‘Any particular one, or all of them?’ asked Brief, a touch acidly.

‘Spring and Summer,’ said Slew.

‘Show Brother Slew to the stacks in the lower reading room,’ Brief commanded his assistant, ‘and ask Librarian Thwart to give him what help and guidance he might need.’

Slew looked eager and ingenuous.

‘Are the books in the lower reading room younger or older?’ he asked.

‘Older,’ said Brief shortly.

‘Ah, to sit where other scholars greater than myself have sat, perhaps even that wonder of our age Master Stort!’

‘
Wonder?
’ repeated Brief doubtfully. ‘Whether he is that or not I may tell you he never sits, he is nearly incapable of doing so. But I must . . .’

He left Slew to it, glad to have no need at his time of life to listen to the blathering of a third-rate wandering scholar.

Slew watched him go, pretended awe in his eyes, dislike in his heart.

In fact the awe was not so hard to masquerade, because the moment Brief was gone and Slew knew he was accepted, the great, ancient, dusty, murky, many-cornered sense of history of the place bore in on him.

He arrived at the lower level and found himself faced with a long high room whose walls were of dressed stone. To one side was a desk at which a wan, thin librarian sat, his spectacles propped on his forehead as he examined a document.

On the room’s other side was a series of arches leading into corridors and chambers of various kinds in which books and manuscripts were stored on shelves. Some of the arches were open, others closed with barred gates, heavily padlocked.

‘Yers?’

‘Librarian Thwart?’

‘Yers.’

‘Master Brief sent me.’

‘Yers?’

‘He said you would show me the way things work down here.’

‘Subject?’

‘The Seasons.’

‘Be specific.’

‘Summer.’

‘Be more specific.’

‘Well—’

‘Days? Dates? Fauna? Flora? History ancient, history modern? Climatological records? Meaning of?’

‘History, ancient.’

‘English or Estrange?’

‘Estrange?’

‘Old hydden for foreign.’

‘English and perhaps Estrange. I have some titles . . .’

‘I am listening.’

Throughout this terse exchange Librarian Thwart continued to read his document. He now stopped and eyed Slew.

‘You are monkish,’ he said.

‘I am. A pilgrim, a modest wandering scholar.’

‘Ah, yes, taking the high road and the low in search of truth and wisdom. Which titles?’

Slew decided to be clear-cut. ‘I need to look at Pluvar’s
Phases
of course, and Hindrick’s
Lencten
and
The Boke of the Abundant Sumor
. . .’

‘Well sir – ’

Slew rattled off a few more titles kenned in the Bochum Library on the basis of the research Stort was known to have done. He was aware that some were a good deal rarer than others.

The assistant was at once impressed and stressed, trying to stop Slew’s expert flow, to explain that . . . well, access was . . . and the fact that Master Brief had . . . yes . . . it didn’t mean . . . no . . . but . . . well . . . he supposed . . .

‘I’ll start with The Meister’s
Monologue on the Earthly Seasons
,’ he began firmly.

‘We have copies,’ suggested Thwart.

‘The original has notes in the margins by Skurt.’

‘But—’

‘You have gloves I take it?’

‘Yes indeed we have.’

They descended a spiral medieval stone staircase, past bolted gates, on down to an open vault where, in a cool, dry, perfect temperature, the greatest collection in the Hyddenworld of material on the four seasons sat on shelves, hid itself away in boxes, or curled in ancient script-rolls, all in arched corridors, also gated and padlocked and very secure.

‘These are the open shelves of what might be called the main collection. There is always an assistant hereabout to help.’

‘You . . . ?’

‘I’m one of them.’

‘And these special collections?’ said Slew.

‘Depends. Best to ask what you want.’

‘How do I ask for what I don’t know you have?’

‘That’s scholarship I suppose!’

‘I suppose it is,’ laughed Slew icily.

No matter, he was here and here was where, somewhere, Stort would probably have hidden the gem.

‘I would rather not sit where Master Scrivener Stort works, out of respect.’

‘He generally stands,’ said Thwart, ‘but that’s his desk. He prefers it not to be disturbed.’

He pointed to an untidy desk which, to Slew, looked like a treasure trove of clues as to where the gem might be.

‘Thank you,’ said Slew, ‘I’ll be careful not to sit where that great scholar stands!’

Thwart smiled appreciatively. ‘Let me show you how things work around here,’ he said.

23

O
N THE
H
ILL

T
hree days after Judith’s early morning exploration of the garden, which Jack had not felt it necessary to mention to anyone else, he and Katherine, with Arthur too, took her up White Horse Hill.