"No," said Innes quietly."All you want is the gold."
"Bales and bales of it," answered the Grip.
With a leer on his face and gold in his eyes, the King's Grip loomed over me. And yet he seemed much smaller. Before, he had carried the weight of the king's will. Now he was only a greedy traitor who wanted to know the secret of spinning straw into gold.
But it hardly mattered. We had failed to answer the riddle. Whether the King's Grip took me, or whether we were both caught by Lord Beryn's Guard, the ending would be the same. Four days from now, the riddle unanswered, the rebels would be hanged at the castle. And all the riddles in the world would no longer matter to them. That world suddenly seemed too large for me. A terrible longing seized me for Da and for my old quiet home that had disappeared in such a very short time. I shivered with the loss.
"So now," the Grip said to Innes,"I leave you with more riddles than you began with. Fly away and solve them—that is, if the good people of Twickenham do not hand you over to Lord Beryn's Guard for the reward beyond imagining. See if they will take pity on someone the King's Grip has blinded." And he turned me to the ladder.
That was when Innes said the one thing that neither the Grip nor I could ever have expected. He said it quietly and evenly, standing with his hands held open. He said it like a benediction: "I've forgiven the blinding." And as he stood, his arm held a bit crooked, his body covered with the dust and sweat of the last days, I thought with a start how much he looked like the golden king.
The Grip stopped, his hand still tight. He did not turn around. When I looked at his face, I saw it curling into a snarl. But I also saw what it curled from: amazement.
"As if I had need of your forgiveness," the King's Grip whispered.
"Perhaps not. The need to forgive was my own," answered Innes.
Now the King's Grip did turn to him, and the snarl had vanished. "Do you know who you are, boy?"
"Innes, the blind fool."
A long time passed, the mill dust twirling in the sunlight, the sounds of the village going on. The Grip watched Innes, and for a wild moment I thought he might weep. He opened his mouth as if to speak but paused again. He almost seemed to want to touch him. Then, finally, he spoke, slowly and even sadly. "The day might have been when I would have bowed my knee to such a blind fool. And bowed it gladly. But that day is gone forever." He gathered himself and pushed me toward the ladder. "As for me"—he waved his free hand in the air—"forgive someone who wants forgiveness."
Innes said nothing more.
Instead, he lowered his shoulder and sprinted headlong into our backs, battering me down and the Grip through the ladder's opening. With a shout the Grip flailed at the frame, then half slid, half rolled down, crashing from step to step until he struck with a squashy thud against the stone floor.
Innes, breathing heavily, whispered, "Tousle?"
I looked down the ladder and tried to focus my eyes."No need to whisper. He won't be hearing us." I looked down again. He was not moving. "Now he has something to forgive."
"Is he dead?"
"Just a little bit more than me. Couldn't you have told me what you were about to do?"
"I didn't suppose he would give us a private moment to plan our escape."
I stood up, running my fingers along my ribs to see if they were hurting only because they were bruised. "He shouldn't be after us again."
"There are still Lord Beryn's Guard," Innes pointed out.
"Innes," I said,"you needn't always leap to point out the difficulties."
"Then here's one happy leap: You were right. The king wants us to solve the riddle."
The ribs seemed bruised only.
"But now there's the other riddle," Innes continued. "The king must know that Lord Beryn wants us to fail, or he wouldn't have sent the Grip to guard us. So why should Lord Beryn oppose the king?"
My head was starting to throb, and when I rubbed the back of it, I was hardly surprised to find the bump, could almost feel it swelling under my fingers. "Innes, we'll answer the king's riddle first. The Grip must have left his horse outside."
Innes paused a long moment. "And if he has?"
"Then we'll ride it to Saint Eynsham Abbey, Innes." I sighed.
"Are you remembering that horses are afraid of me?"
"Yes, terrified."
We clambered down the ladder and stepped over the Grip. Still no movement from him. I peered outside the mill: The Grip's black horse waited, tied to a post. As soon as he saw me, he began pawing at the ground.
"I'll stay quiet," said Innes.
I held my palms out and, one slow step at a time, moved toward the horse, clucking my tongue.
"Horse," I whispered, "you may be our way to Saint Eynsham Abbey. You'll save our feet. And who knows how many you'll save in Wolverham."
The horse looked up again. He seemed to understand.
"If you get us there, we'll sing about you in songs, call our best colts by your name, and tell your story on a cold winter's night."
Slowly, slowly I unwound his reins from about the post.
"The Glory of the Black Steed,' we'll call it. It will be a story told for a hundred generations."
Half cooing, half whistling to the horse, slowly, slowly I started to gather the reins in one hand.
And slowly, slowly the horse rolled his head, pulled the reins from my hands, and ambled away.
I broke into a run. He broke into a slow canter. I went into a full sprint, and he went into a light, prancing gallop and waggled his fat hind end just as he disappeared into the woods. I flung a rock, but it missed his last waggle.
Innes was waiting patiently when I came back, winded. "I don't think he likes that noise you make with your tongue," he said.
"We need to cross the village and find the road on the far side. I can see it easily enough from here. It borders five, six, seven fields and then finds the woods."
"Is there anyone at work in the fields?"
"No one."
"And between us and the fields?"
"I see a long barn, the church, another barn beside a round barn, the manor house, the commons, then a row of houses, maybe ten or twelve."
"Perhaps if we waited till dark."
"And I see Lord Beryn's Guard just coming out of the woods."
"Anything else?"
"Nothing but the miller, who is hurrying off to meet them."
"Perhaps he is off to sell them some bread."
"Not bread," I said. "You know, Innes, I've spent whole days in my life when nothing ever happened to me."
"See what you've missed by not being blind. Maybe we should try to hide in the church."
Crouching, we ran toward the village. I was surprised at how suddenly the day seemed very, very bright, and how the light sharpened everything. Every branch was glinting with last night's hard frost. The stubble that stood in the fields stuck brusquely up and caught the light full. The air was perfectly blue, so blue that it startled the black trees to attention.
And even as my breath came shorter and shorter, I realized that deep inside, in a place touched only rarely, I was gladdened by the world, and gladdened by Innes. Even with Lord Beryn's Guard coming into the village behind us.
We crossed to the barn and creaked the door open. Rows of cows raised their heavy heads to us, then returned to their slow chewing. Fresh hay lay on the flooring, and a pitchfork was propped against one stall.
"Someone will be coming back soon, so let's be quick. Don't step there, Innes."
Through another door at the far end of the barn, then across to the church, a pause under the stone archway, then a push through the door, and we were in. The heavily spiced darkness of the place came around us. It might as well have been night outside, for all the light that shone here. Tiers of thick white candles lit the far end where the altar stood, their waxy smell spreading through the church, but their light huddled under the darkness sinking from the roof. It was all as quiet and as still as could be.
"I think we're alone," I whispered.
"No," said Innes, shaking his head.
"Who is ever alone in a church, children?" said another voice, and I saw someone rising from his knees in the center aisle, his robe blending so perfectly with the darkness that I had not seen him. He stood as quiet and as still as the church around him. His robe was belted tight—he looked as though he fasted regularly—and the low light of the candles set a halo around his head. In that holy place he seemed more spirit than body.
"Those who flee are safe here," he said slowly.
"Even two hiding from Lord Beryn's Guard?" asked Innes.
"Most especially two hiding from Lord Beryn's Guard. But most houses in Twickenham would have been a safe place. Not all—some are tempted beyond their mortal will—but most. Have the Guard returned?"
"They have," I said.
He asked nothing more, but beckoning, he led us deeper into the church, behind the altar and into the apse, where he set us crouching behind an altar screen. He motioned with his hands that we were to stay, and we waited, breathing heavily, but somehow never doubting that he had the mortal will to resist the temptation of a reward beyond imagining. When he came back, he brought bread and cheese, and milk still warm from the udder."It pleases me to think that ours might be the richest, creamiest milk in Twickenham, though I am often warned against boasting," the sexton admitted.
"Do you know the way to the abbey at Saint Eynsham?" asked Innes.
"I do. You are only a few hours away from it. I have traveled to Saint Eynsham Abbey myself."
"To the queen?" I said. "Do you know her?"
He spread his hands wide. "I was serving the abbey when she first arrived, but I am only a sexton. The small offices I have done her she would hardly remember. And she was none too eager to meet anyone then. She had just been banished to the abbey, you see, and that without her child."
"She was banished to the abbey," repeated Innes slowly.
"By the king himself. I am told he does not forgive easily. Finish the cheese now. You'll not be disturbed here. Even Lord Beryn's Guard would not desecrate the altar—though there's one who would, if he knew you were here. At nightfall you'll come to my house. You'll eat again and grow warm."
But it wasn't eating and warming that first met us that night. The sexton came back for us late, carrying two cloaks the color of gray night. We scurried through the dark and moonless night, so dark that even the stars seemed to shine no light. We followed his sure steps to a whitewashed cottage, the door opened to a gleam of yellow light, and he shoved us in."Wife,"he whispered. There was a moment of utter quiet, then a high squeal of such pitch that piglets could hardly have matched it. "By Saint Julian himself, it can hardly be true. Can it be true? It cannot, yet it is," and by the time she had finished, we were encased in the nurse's arms and drawn into her, and she was murmuring at us and crying and laughing, as if we had been her long-lost babes, returned to her arms at last and ready to remember her own dear lullaby.
Then there was more food—mutton and cold ham and eggs whipped to a froth—and all the while she was heating buckets of water for us, and we ate to the hot splashing of it into a copper tub. "A sight," she said, drying her hands on her apron. "You're as black as if you'd rolled with hogs. And there's other things I could say about you that would hardly be proper to say to folks so lately met." She reached above her, pulled a handful of purple herbs dangling from the beam, and threw them into the water. "You first," she said to me. "And you'll be next. Give me those smelly things you've got on. No, I'll have none of that. I've raised more than my share, and there's nothing new under the sun for me to see. So be quick about it and in you go."
I had forgotten how delicious it was to be so warm. But even more, I was surprised at how pleasing it was to have someone fuss over me. She lathered me up, wiped me down with a coarse towel, and clothed me in carefully patched clothes, all the while crooning her lovely lullaby.
And afterward there was hot cider, the tale of the Grip at the two mills, the tale of her own escape in the cart—"Saint Leoba herself must have sent her blessed bees"—and then wonder at the king and his riddling. "And the king sent the Grip to guard you?" exclaimed the nurse. "Another riddle only the queen herself might answer," she said.
But as to Lord Beryn, she knew well enough why he might set his Guard in search. "By Saint Sebastian, he is a man who hates for no reason other than to hate. Why, he hated even the queen, that gentle soul, only because she was a miller's daughter. 'I'll not be bowing my knee to a peasant,' he said aloud, and even in her presence if the king had no ear nearby. He would have killed her and the child both, if the baby hadn't disappeared first. Then he turned the king against her, and that's why she sits alone in Saint Eynsham Abbey, the dear, with never a word of those she loved."
"Can a man hate so much that he would kill a baby?" I asked.
"Yes," murmured Innes,"and worse."
The sexton rose and stood behind Innes, his hands on his shoulders. "Who knows how the hate of Lord Beryn fits into the design of all things in this world, and whether even that hatred—yes, wife, even that hatred—will take its right place. But for now, sleep."
The nurse led us to their loft and laid us down between heavy rugs, pulling them over and around us so that their fur lay thick and warm against our chests, and the sweet, heavy smell of the leather came up against our faces. She tucked the heavy comfort of it tight around us. The sexton sat by the door—he would stay there till morning—and I watched the nurse stand over him and touch her hand against his cheek.
I lay back, caught between waking and sleep, then fell gently into dreamlessness.
When I woke up, it was full dark. The wind outside whined as it searched for chinks in the walls, then whistled shrilly when it found one and stuck its nose through. It was a cold whistling, and I was not ready to leave the huddle of the rugs when the sexton's hand shook my shoulder.
"I'll take you to the abbey now. It's best to go soon, while it is still dark and we can see the watch fires of Lord Beryn's Guard."