The Book Without Words (4 page)

In another part of town, Ambrose Bashcroft, the city reeve of Fulworth—the man in charge of the city’s law and order—lay in his quilted bed propped up by a dozen goose-down pillows. The bed, curtained round with heavy wool, provided him with an effective cocoon of self-importance.

A big man, Bashcroft was broad as a barrel and not much taller, his bulky body much given to jigs and jounces. His head was rooted upon a short, wide neck, and was beetle browed with bristling eyebrows, one slightly lower than the other. With pendulant jowls and enough chins to serve as palace steps, Bashcroft looked more bullish than most bulls.

“Dura lex, sed lex”
was the sole Latin legal phrase Bashcroft knew, but, liking its meaning—The
law
is hard
,
but it is the law
—he used it as both the anvil and hammer of his office. For to this phrase he always added, “And since I am the law, it therefore follows, I must be hard.”

As far as the reeve was concerned, it was his duty, his obligation, to keep Fulworth beneath his outsized thumb. And in the exercise of this power, his silent partner was Mistress Weebly.

Mistress Weebly was the town apothecary, a profession that enabled her to gather information about town inhabitants. Not only did she provide physic for the sick and dying, she offered potions, tonics, and charms to those suffering from other kinds of afflictions, real or imagined. That’s to say, broken arms or broken hearts were all one to Mistress Weebly. A woman of insatiable curiosity, she traded in rumor, gossip, and scandal the way a merchant trades in goods. And
everything
she gleaned by way of personal information was of the greatest interest to the reeve.

Their arrangement was this: she told him what she learned; he protected her from the occasional questions raised about the advice she offered and the odd things she sold.

So it was that Mistress Weebly had informed Bashcroft about the girl who had recently come to town, the one who appeared in her shop with a raven on her shoulder. And when this girl began to buy such things as spider’s legs, white clay, and fire-lizard’s tail, the reeve and Mistress Weebly were even more interested. But other than the girl’s name—Sybil—they knew very little.

Bashcroft had ordered Mistress Weebly to learn more about the girl. For whom did she work? Where did she live? And, most of all, what was the purpose of such odd purchases?

As the reeve shifted his corpulent bulk to find a tad of comfort on his bed, he made up his mind he would speak to the apothecary on the morrow.

CHAPTER TWO

1

T
HE EARLY
morning was cold and damp when a shivering Sybil stepped from Thorston’s house into the muddy, ice-encrusted courtyard. Odo, hunched on her shoulder, gripped her shawl so tightly his talons pricked her skin.

“Sybil,” he croaked into her ear as the girl walked toward the city center, “must I say it again: Master insisted no one must learn of his existence, much less enter the house.”

“Master is all but dead,” said Sybil. “If we’re to get the gold-making secret we have to do
something.”

“But you said the apothecary has been asking questions,” said the bird. “And what of the reeve? You claimed he was watching you. You may be a fool, but those people aren’t.”

“I’m not a fool,” Sybil protested.

Odo shook his head in dismay. “A fool is the first to think himself wise but last to know it isn’t so. Oh, I do wish I could fly away.'’

“Where would you go?”

“Master once told me about a land called Italy. He said the sky was always blue and warm. Flowers are beautiful. Bright colors are on walls. People sing while they work. Even the drying laundry looks like flags of celebration.”

“Could I go with you?”

“Can worms sing?”

Stung, Sybil said, “You think only of yourself.”

“I don’t like to waste my—”

“Shhh!” Sybil whispered. “People are ahead. It will prove a disaster if you’re heard talking.”

They made their silent way through the narrow, crowded streets of Fulworth, passing merchants with sickly faces, empty hands, and even emptier purses; passing porters and traders hauling meager goods on backs or in broken barrows; passing an old ox pulling a cart of steaming dung, making his laborious, slipping, sliding way. Black-robed priests and nuns crept along the high street, clutching rosary beads and wooden crosses in chilled hands as cold lips whispered pensive prayers; goodwives, few with parcels, hastened past street-level shops, whose lowered shutters offered more icicles than goods. Troves of foot-stamping, teeth-chattering paupers were already begging and were already being ignored. And among the throng was Brother Wilfrid.

As Sybil and Odo went by, the old monk, catching a whiff of Thorston’s goat reek, whirled about. He spotted Odo first, then Sybil. His stink is on that raven, he reasoned. That must be the girl I detected. The one I need to help me. The one in peril.

He began to follow.

Sybil, unaware she was being pursued, reached the apothecary, a small shop wedged between a potter’s store and a scrivener. She paused beneath its painted symbol, a unicorn horn, to recall the speech she had prepared.

“Sybil…” whispered the bird in warning.

“Shhh,” said the girl as she opened the door and stepped inside.

2

The apothecary’s shop was a small, crowded room walled with shelves that bore bottles and jars containing roots, like ginger; herbs, like mandragora; spices, like cloves; powdered minerals, like lead; ointments like spikenard.

Opposite the doorway was a low trestle table upon which had been placed a mortar and pestle plus a copper balance scale. An oil lamp provided meager light. A little mirror hung on one wall. Behind the table stood Mistress Weebly, the apothecary.

Everything about Mistress Weebly was small: small body; small face; small, gimlet eyes; small nose. Her smallness was emphasized by her being dressed in an overlarge, soiled gown of green that reached her ankles—sleeves pinched at her wrists, apron over all, wimple on her head. It was as if she had been dropped into a dirty sack and was spying out from it. Indeed, the woman’s only largeness was her curiosity.

Standing next to her was Damian Perbeck, her apprentice. He was plucking rosemary leaves from stems and chopping them into tiny pieces with a small knife. The boy was fourteen years old. He was somewhat plump; his fair hair had been clipped round his head like an inverted bowl. His red, splotchy face bore sleepy eyes, turned-up nose, and turned-down lips, all of which he marshaled to provide a mask of indifference.

“Good morrow, Mistress Weebly,” said Sybil, closing the door and cutting a curtsy. She noticed the boy, but she made no greeting.

“Ah, Maid Sybil,” returned the little woman, her voice squeaky and shrill. “How fare you this cold morning?”

“Chilly, Mistress,” said Sybil, her eyes cast down as befit her station.

“And how,” said the woman, “does your master’s health bode this morning?” She brought her small hands together as if in prayer.

“Mistress Weebly,” began Sybil in a low voice as she embarked upon the speech she had prepared, “I fear my master is gravely ill. And—”

“God grant him a speedy recovery,” interrupted the apothecary.

She turned to Damian. “You, now,” she said, abruptly boxing him on the ear. “Get away from here. Continue your work in the back room. Go!” She all but pushed the boy out the door at the back of the shop. Only then did she turn back to Sybil.

“Now, then, my dear maid, I should like to pray for your master’s good health. But it’s difficult to do so without knowing his name. Would you be kind enough to share it with me?”

Sybil, taken by surprise, stammered, “It’s … Master Thorston. But-”

“I’ve never heard of him, I fear. Has he been in town long?”

“I don’t know. But-”

“These things you purchase for him, Maid Sybil, they’re most unusual. Just between us what
does
he do with them?”

Odo moved uneasily on Sybil’s shoulder, his talons digging into her.

“I know nothing of such matters, Mistress Weebly,” returned Sybil in haste. “I’m but Master’s house drudge, there to moil his filth and cook his swill.”

“Are you his only servant?”

“I am, Mistress.”

“And is your Master Thorston young or old?”

Sybil, feeling she was losing control of the conversation, whispered, “Very old.”

“Alas,” said the apothecary, “advanced age and illness oft step the dance of death. Is he near his end?”

“Oh … no … I assure you—”

“But you did say he was sick. Perhaps I can provide useful physic.”

Sybil hardly knew what to say.

“Maid Sybil,” pressed the apothecary, “I must say this: within my little head lingers a lengthy list of your master’s requests: fire-lizard’s tail, hairs from a Manx cat’s tail, unicorn tears—among other such oddments. Pray now,” said the little woman, leaning forward in conspiratorial fashion, “could he be dabbling in the alchemic arts—making gold?”

“Please, Mistress,” whispered Sybil in great alarm, “I assure you, I know nothing of such things.”

Mistress Weebly, enjoying Sybil’s discomfort, smiled. “But if your master should die,” she said, “hasten here. I’ll provide real coin for those secrets of his you’ve managed to glean.”

“Mistress Weebly,” said Sybil, “I promise you, I know of no such secrets. But if you please,” she said, desperate to speak what she had planned to say, “only yesterday a child came to our door and—”

“And where pray,
is
that door?”

“Clutterbuck Lane,” Sybil blurted out and raced on: “The child was asking for my master. I had to send it away, for as I told you, Master Thorston is ill. Alas, the child went so quickly I neglected to ask a name. But I did notice green eyes. Know you, Mistress, of any such child in town? One with … green eyes?”

The apothecary’s small eyes narrowed: “Boy or girl?” she asked.

“In faith, Mistress, I know not. The child was bundled so against the chill.”

“But,” the woman said, “all the same—you noticed
green
eyes?”

Sybil, feeling panicky, nodded and moved toward the door, only to pause: “Pray, Mistress Weebly; please send any such green-eyed child you know to my master’s house. He’d be much obliged.”

“To Master Thorston of Clutterbuck Lane,” said the apothecary, “a green-eyed child. I shall surely try.'’

Sybil stepped out upon the street as quickly as she could.

“You are a fool,” rasped Odo the moment they left the shop. “You gave everything away.”

“I didn’t expect so many questions,” Sybil admitted.

“You even told her about his alchemy.”

“Odo,” gasped Sybil. “The reeve is approaching.”

Master Bashcroft was marching down the narrow street toward them. Two steel-helmeted soldiers, pointed pikes in hand, trailed behind.

Sybil, eyes averted, hastily stepped aside and dropped a curtsy as the reeve passed by. Bashcroft did not so much as glance at her.

“By Saint Modoc,” the girl whispered as soon as he had passed, “I swear that man has been spying on me.”

“Then take us home,” snapped Odo. “Where it’s safe. And no more talk of green-eyed children.”

“What about master’s gold-making secret?” said Sybil.

“All we can do is pray he regains his speech,” said the bird.

“I doubt he will,” muttered a disappointed Sybil. She set off, paying no attention to Brother Wilfrid, who was observing her closely as she hurried through the muddy streets back toward Clutterbuck Lane.

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