Fool’s Quest

“Holder Badgerlock! Sir! Please!” A shrill young voice full of anxiety. Out in the corridor, another outraged voice shouted, “You, boy, come back here! Don’t you dare go in there!”

I turned my head away just as Dixon collapsed to the floor. He twitched and shuddered. A fit. I’d had many in my lifetime. My conscience squirmed but I kicked it aside and left him jerking as I turned to see who had interrupted me.

It was Tallerman’s son. The stable boy with the unlikely name. His face was white and strained, and he carried one arm curled protectively against his chest. He darted toward me as the study door was snatched wide open by an outraged Bulen. Lant’s manservant had obviously dressed hurriedly, for his shirt was half-buttoned. “Your pardon, Holder Badgerlock. This boy is ill and half-mad, and this is how he repays our care of him! Young sir, come with me immediately, or risk being turned out in the morning.”

“Holder Badgerlock! Say you know me! Please, say you know me!” The boy’s voice had gone shrill and broken as Bulen advanced on him. He leaned away from Bulen’s grasping hand as he made his plea.

“Of course I know you. You’re Tallerman’s son, from the stables.” I turned to Bulen and spoke severely. “And it is not your place to turn out any of my people, Bulen!”

Bulen halted where he stood. He had not been long employed at Withywoods. I had assigned him to be Lant’s manservant. He was still learning his duties. And his place. He looked at me uncertainly as he protested, “Sir, the boy is a beggar, found injured and taken in. He insisted on speaking with Scribe FitzVigilant when we found him, and the scribe summoned a healer and has allowed him to stay in the classroom during his recovery. But he speaks wild and fearsome and . . .”

“Leave, Bulen. Take Dixon with you and put him in his bed. I’ll deal with the boy. Perseverance. That’s it, that’s your name, isn’t it?”

“Oh, thank the gods, you know me, I’m not mad! I’m not a beggar! Sir, sir, they came and they killed and burned, and I tried to get away with her, I got her on a horse and we rode, but they shot me and I fell. And I didn’t know any more until they were leaving and they went past me in a sleigh drawn by white horses and I saw Bee, all wrapped in white furs, in the sleigh. They took her, sir, and they left the stables afire, and no one here but me even tried to put out the flames. Some of the horses got out and some were stolen, I think, and some burned in their stalls. With my pa and grandpa’s bodies, sir! I saw them dead there! And my own ma does not know me and says she never had such a son as me! Oh, sir, they took Bee, they took her and no one knows me. No one!”

“I know you,” I said in a trembling voice. “I know you, boy. Oh, my Bee! Was she hurt? Who were they? Where did they go?”

But the lad had begun to shake as if he had an ague, and when I put my arms around him to steady him, he fell toward me, crying like a much younger child. I gathered him to my chest and held him, my thoughts racing. He spoke against my chest. “They shot me. I felt the arrow go right through me. Through my shoulder,” he sobbed. “I woke up under a cloak. Her cloak. She hid me with it, I think. I kept it. So fine and light. I was trying to save Bee and she saved me.”

My mind leapt. “A butterfly cloak.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Come over by the fire. Sit down.” I looked around. Bulen still stood in the doorway, eyes wide. Dixon lay on the floor, no longer jerking, but lying half-curled on his side, staring at nothing. “Bulen!” I snapped and the young man jumped. “See to Dixon. Take him to his bed. Then ask Scribe FitzVigilant to give me bandages and some of the salves Lord Chade gave him, if he has any left. Go quickly.”

“I can fetch the salves for you, if you wish.” That was Lant, holding on to the door frame with one hand. He looked pale and as his gaze took in Dixon on the floor, he demanded, “What is going on here? Is this boy bothering you with his wild tales?”

“Lant. Just the salves and bandages, please. Let Bulen deal with Dixon. He’s had some sort of fit.” Then I ignored all of them as I steered the stable lad toward the fire. I hooked a chair with one foot and dragged it close to the hearth. “Sit here, Perseverance. And let me see your injury.”

The boy sat down as soddenly as an armful of wet laundry. He hunched there, staring at the fire. I left him and went to the brandy. I poured a jot, tossed it down, then poured another and took it to the boy. “Drink this,” I told him. He didn’t respond. I leaned down to look in his face. He shifted his eyes to meet mine. I put the glass in his hand.

“They said I was a beggar. And crazy. My own ma wouldn’t let me in the door. I was all blood and she sent me up to the manor and wouldn’t take me in.” His voice rose higher and higher on each word until it ended in a strangled squeak.