Fair Blows the Wind (1978) (8 page)

A low wall loomed before me and I took it on the run, ducked behind a haycock and then a barn. There a dog saw me and began barking furiously but I kept on, knowing they'd be after me now. I'd no doubt the tavern keeper had put them on me.

Small though I was, I'd had practice in running these past months, and in dodging and hiding as well. I came out on another, smaller lane, and ran along it, holding to my own direction.

There was a village somewhere ahead, but I knew not whether that be good or bad, simply that it was there and I must consider it.

Then the village was before me but I went around a haycock along the back side of a barn and down a wild bit of hillside away from the village. Now I ran no longer, but moved from cover to cover, keeping an eye out for them.

I'd lost them, or so it looked. I came to another lane and followed it away from the village. But the lane suddenly betrayed me, taking a turn around a low hill within sight of the village. For there they were, the two of them, and no chance for me to get away.

They spread out a little and came at me.

To flee from them was impossible, for their legs were longer than mine. It was a sunken lane with stone walls on either side, and as they closed in toward me, I suddenly bolted between them.

One grasped wildly at my shoulder and my shirt tore under his hand. Yet I was briefly free of them and I went up the bank and swung over the wall, sprawling on the earth beyond. My hands closed over dirt and I came up quickly, frightened. They came over the wall at me and I flung the dust into their eyes.

One man let a fearful yowl out of himself and both men grabbed for their eyes. At that moment I saw a stout stick, a twisted branch broken from the hedge nearby. Catching it up, I swung hard on the nearest man and caught him alongside the jaw, and he went down. Then I closed in on the second, whose eyes were busy blinking the dust away. He threw up a hand as I swung my cudgel but I brought it down, striking him on the kneecap.

Then I ran.

Across the pasture into which I'd fallen, past a barnyard and into the lane beyond. On I ran until I thought my lungs would burst, when suddenly before me there loomed a patch of woods bordered by a wall. I went over that wall and into the woods, pausing, my breath tearing at my lungs, to look back. There was no one in sight.

I plodded on into the forest. I was sick of running and desperately worried, for in all this broad land there was no friend to whom I could turn. Nor had I a place to go. It was lonely and tired I was when at last I seated myself on a fallen tree and began to cry.

Shamed am I to confess it, but so it was. Lonely and sick with the fear of all that was about me, with enemies all on every hand, I cried. My dear father was on my mind, and my lost home, and the knowledge that I'd no place to go nor anybody to go to anywhere that was friend to me.

"Are you hurt?"

It was a girl's voice, and I sprang to my feet, putting a hand across my eyes to wipe the tears.

She was standing there, not a dozen feet away, with a great dog beside her, a huge bull mastiff with great jowls.

"I said, are you hurt? There you sit, crying like a great booby. What sort of boy are you, anyway?"

"I was not crying!" I protested. "I was tired."

"What are you doing here in my forest?"

"Yourforest?"

"Yes, mine it is, and I did not invite you here. You are nobody I have ever seen. Are you a gypsy?"

"I amnot! "

"Well, do not be so proud. I think it not a bad thing to be a gypsy. I have often thought it would be a great thing to go riding about in a red and gold wagon, eating beside the road. I would have white horses, four of them, and I'd have Tiger with me, and--"

"Who is Tiger?"

"My dog. Tiger is his name."

"It is a cat's name. Tigers are cats," I said scornfully.

"It is not! Tiger can be a dog's name, also! My father said it could, and my father knows. Anyway," she added, "Tiger does not know it is a cat's name."

"He's a large dog," I said. And then more politely, "I am sorry I am in your wood. I--I wanted to rest."

"You are not poaching? If you were and the gamekeeper found you--"

"I do not poach," I replied proudly. "I am sorry I disturbed you. I will go now."

Yet I did not go. I did not want to go. I had talked with no child of my years in many months.

She was a pretty child, with large dark eyes and soft lips.

"Have you come far?" she asked.

"From very far away," I said.

"Your shirt is torn," she said, "and you have skinned your knee."

Looking down, I saw that my stocking was torn and my knee bloody. "I fell," I said.

"Are you hungry?" she asked.

"I--I have just--" I stopped in time. If I admitted to eating at the tavern all would come out, and for all I knew the tavern keeper was her friend. The tavern could not be that far away. Suddenly I realized they might still be searching for me. "I must go," I said.

"It will be night soon," she said. "Where will you sleep?" She looked at me curiously. "Will you sleep in a haycock? Or beside a hedge?"

"It does not matter." I edged away. "I must go."

I turned and took a step, then stopped. "It is a nice wood," I said. "I did not mean it harm."

"I know you did not." She stared at me. "I think you are frightened of something, and I think you should talk to my father. He is very brave." And she added, "He was a soldier."

"I must be going."

I started away and then stopped, for there was a man standing there. He was a tall, slender man with fine features and brown eyes.

"I do not know that I am very brave, my dear," he said, "but I always hoped to be. Who are you, lad?" My eyes went down the way through the trees by which I had come. I needed to be away from here. I did not want to answer questions, nor to have them discover there had been trouble at the tavern, even if it was none of my doing.

"I was just passing by," I said, "and wished to rest. It seemed better off the road than on it."

He was regarding me very seriously. The girl came up and stood beside him, taking his hand. My father had held mine just that way, sometimes. The thought made tears come to my eyes and I brushed them away quickly and turned to go.

"Wait." He did not speak loudly but there was command in his tone. Involuntarily, I stopped. "I asked who you are."

"I am nobody," I said. "I was just passing. I--I must go."

"Where is it you go to?" he asked. "My daughter is concerned."

"To London," I said, desperately, wishing to be away.

"I do not think you will reach London tonight," he said quietly. "You had better come along with us."

"I cannot."

He waited, just waited, saying nothing. At last I said, "Some men at the tavern are looking for me. They will rob me."

"Robyou?" He smiled. "Are you rich, then?"

"No. I do not think it matters if one has much. They would take whatever I had."

"Who were these men?" he persisted. Reluctantly, I explained what had happened, and how the man with the white hair had stopped the tavern keeper from overcharging me.

He frowned thoughtfully. "A young man, with white hair? Was it a wig, perhaps?"

"It was his own hair. His face was white, too. Like polished marble. Only his eyes seemed alive."

"Andhe spoke for you?"

"Do you know him then?"

"I do not. I think I know who he might have been, but why he is here, in this place, I do not know. That he even was moved to speak to you, or act in your favor is amazing."

"He did not actually speak to me."

The man changed the subject. "Come with us, lad. At least you can have some supper before you go. And we have a good woman here who might do something for that knee."

"But if they find me--"

"Do you think they would come to my house? Lad, do not mistake them. Thieves they may be; cowards, also. Fools they are not ... at least not so foolish as that."

He turned and started back, his daughter beside him, and I walked along with them. A bird suddenly flew up.

"What was that?" the maid said.

"A goldcrest," I replied, not thinking.

"Do they have them in Ireland then?" Her father spoke so casually that I replied quickly:

"Yes ..." then realizing what I had said, "and in Scotland as well."

He was amused, and it angered me. "The goldcrest likes a place where there are evergreens. He chooses to nest among them."

"Are you a Scot, then?"

I did not wish to lie, and suddenly I realized I did not have to, for long ago were the Irish not called Scots?

"It is a loose term," I said, quoting my father. "For some Scots were Pictish and some were Gaelic, and some--" I stopped suddenly, and was silent.

We had come to the path's end in an open place covered with gravel where horses could gather for the hunt.

The manor before us was old, but gracefully built, and I liked it much. Great old oaks and beeches stood about, and there were stables to one side. They started toward the great steps but I hung back. The man turned and beckoned me on, but I shook my head. "I cannot," I said, "my boots are muddy and I am not dressed--"

"It is my house," the man replied quietly. "Do you come then. You are my guest."

"I am obliged," I replied.

He turned and glanced at me. "Now that you are here, will you dine with us?"

"My clothes--" I continued to protest.

"That can be arranged," he replied. "If you will permit me. I have some clothes here that would fit you, I'm sure. You are a strong-looking lad. Yes, I believe they would fit."

To accept charity was not my way. I started to protest, and then realized this was no time for such false pride. He was not offering charity; it was courtesy, and I would do well to accept it as such. "Very well. If it is no inconvenience." He led the way himself. Up a wide, winding stair to a hall above and to a room with yellow walls, a blue bed with blue bed-hangings, and much blue-and-white porcelain about.

He opened a chest and took from it some clothes, a shirt, breeches, hose, and a coat. There were boots also.

"Water will be sent you," he said, "and the clothes, I think, will fit." He paused just a moment. "They were my son's."

The question came to my lips, but I did not speak, not knowing what to say.

"He went off to sea," he said quietly, "and was lost there ... we think."

"You do not know?"

"Does one ever, when sons are lost at sea? His ship may have been taken. He may be a prisoner. We know not. He may be a slave now, in Africa, where many of our sons have ended."

"I am sorry."

"Do you bathe now, and dress. In an hour we will dine ... and talk." He turned away, and then paused. "I do not know who you are, or where you come from, and I have no need to know, yet I know what you are. And if my son came to another man, I should wish him cared for."

He left me then, and soon after a maidservant, a brown-haired lass who shot me quick glances, brought hot water and linens.

I made shift to bathe then, and relished the doing of it. Then I donned the clothes they brought me, and when I was fully clad I glanced at myself in the mirror and was pleased with what I saw. And surprised, too, for it had been many months since I had a mirror at hand.

The boy I saw there was me, but a changed me. I was darkened by the sun, leaner somehow, and I looked older. I glanced at myself once again, then went out and closed the door behind me.

It was a quiet meal we had, the father, the daughter, and I, the homeless boy.

Her name was Evelina, but she was called Eve most of the time. His name was Robert Vypont. The house in which they lived was an old manor, built strongly and well some hundred years before, yet a house with much grace and style within.

We talked lightly, of this and that, and then toward the close of the meal, he said, "What do you now propose to do?"

"I shall go to London-town. It is a large place, and there I might find some way to live."

Vypont shook his head. "There are many boys of your age there, good lads some of them, rascals most. You would find it hard, I think."

"I must earn my way. I have no fortune, nor hope of any but what I can make of my own wit and strength."

He studied me gravely, shaking his head. "You are young for that. The apprentices of London are rough lads themselves, and apprenticeships must be purchased."

He watched while the maidservant refilled our glasses with ale. Then he said, "You have traveled much and are no doubt tired. Would you do us the honor to be our guest for a few days?"

I hesitated, dearly wanting to agree, yet wary of it. I didn't know this man, and although he seemed generous, I was not sure of his motive. Moreover, I was now accustomed to the rough way of living and growing daily more so. Might not living here make me soft again?