The Invention of Fire. Bruce Holsinger

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      ‘Mar— Elizabeth? Now, Elizabeth?’

      The woman sighed. She could almost smell his dread, hear it in his tentative voice. Fear repulsed her. ‘Yes, Antony. Now.’

      The false name came easily to her, and it seemed to give him some measure of confidence. He stood slowly, brushed at his too-tight doublet with those giant hands, and went to see the keeper in the front room. She heard the soft tink of coins, a satisfied ‘Very well, good sir’ from the keeper’s wife, then he reappeared in the low doorway.

      She looked at his feet. Stop shuffling, said her frown. He lifted them, straightened that labourer’s spine. She gave him an approving smile as he sat.

      ‘And the horses?’ she said, tightening her plait and tucking it back in place beneath her hood. A strand still teased her cheek. She pushed it to and caught him watching her. She felt herself blush.

      He nodded stiffly, oblivious to her discomfort, his own neck reddened from the restriction of the high collar. ‘A few moments. ‘Nother company’s just arrived, so stablers’re quite busy at the moment.’

      She stifled another sigh. Much work to accomplish here, though the long journey north to Durham would give them plenteous time. St Cuthbert’s bones were hardly planning to get up and walk away.

      She coughed into a balled hand. The back chamber was stuffy, close, full of smoke. Gentlefolks’ room, the keeper proudly called it, though she had stolen more than one envious look at the airy common hall up front, where a dozen or so lower travellers in their company, man and woman alike, relaxed and drank from the inn’s stock of dark, river-cooled ale. She sipped at warm wine, washing down the pigeon pies and greens, wondering if she would ever truly satisfy her hunger after such long privation. She closed her eyes, felt herself shudder in the stiff chair, let the images take her for a moment, as they daily would do. The filth, the fire, the smoke and death. A clearing in the woods, the strange crack of the guns.

      When she looked up she saw him staring down at his food. She was happy to see him eating slowly, as she had instructed, but as she watched his bearded jaw work at the supper other considerations afflicted her. Where would their next meal come from? Should they stay the night here, with this new company of pilgrims, or push on along toward the next town, trusting their luck to find another inn before nightfall? On this main road, just three days north of London, there should be many choices. Yet not any inn would do, not for a couple in their situation. They – she – had to choose carefully, with a mind to appearances. The appearance of appearances.

      She was preparing to push her chair out and find the privy when a clamour sounded from out front. Calls from the yardboys, loud neighs from a struggling horse. Another few shouts, then the inn’s street door slammed open. Their view from the back was blocked by a half-wall, but they could hear men’s businesslike voices from up front.

      She grasped his arm, fixed him with a stare. Was it over already? ‘Steady now, Antony.’

      ‘Aye,’ he said, barely a whisper. He placed a hand on hers. She didn’t flinch at his touch, as she had at first. I am your wife, she silently assured him, and herself.

      The alewife appeared in the doorway. ‘A nuncius, from down Westminster,’ she said, a finger aside her nose. She bent slightly toward them. ‘They pull in here, smelling like a wet dog, demanding our best, but then they’re always off eft soon. We’ll have him off your ear quicker’n a pig eats a corn.’

      Her shoulders tightened as the alewife left, and her gut flipped. A royal messenger. Westminster, London, soldiers, and she saw it all again, heard and smelled the death.

      In the front room the nuncius exchanged low words with the keeper, who sounded concerned, though about what she could not discern. She heard the muffled slap of a purse changing hands. The keeper approached their table, his face showing distaste.

      ‘With your pardon, mistress, and yours, gentle sir, this king’s man would like a word,’ he said. He ducked out, visibly relieved his part of the business was done. The messenger replaced him in the doorway. A short, hard man, his skin swarthy with the sun. There was a scar beneath his chin, a thin line of whitened flesh that disappeared into a loose shirt of dun wool, stained and flattened by the narrow saddlebags flung over his shoulders. These were affixed with the badge of King Richard, the white hart on a field of faded СКАЧАТЬ