The Book Without Words_ A Fable of Medieval Magic - Avi [13]
Sybil went to the window and peered out. No one was in the courtyard. With another yawn she crept to the back room and lay down on her pallet. Her thoughts drifted back to her home, the tiny, mud-encrusted village where her parents worked endlessly in sodden fields. To the food they ate—never much. To their death from illness—common enough. To her relations’ refusal to take her in—ordinary. To how, alone, she tramped to Fulworth in search of food and work. The hungry days. The lonely days. How grateful she’d been when Thorston plucked her off the street to be his servant! Yet her days were empty, isolated. Have I ever really lived? she asked herself. I might as well be dead.
The monk’s words—I need you—came back to her. She tried to remember if anyone had ever said such a thing to her before. She could not.
Why would a perfect stranger say such a thing?
12
In another part of Fulworth, along the polluted, weed-infested, slick and slimy waters of the River Scrogg, was the tavern known as the Pure Hart. Its solitary room reeked of stale ale and sour sweat: its sagging floor creaked and groaned with the river’s heaving flow. Upon its roof drummed a monotony of rain.
Inside, a solitary oil lamp, affixed to a rough-hewn wall, cast as much shadow as light. A lump of peat in a rusty iron brazier threw off more smoke than heat. The man who owned the tavern, a scarred old soldier, sat by the creaking doorway, leaning against the wall, his grizzled mouth agape, snoring like a winded ox. And at the other end of the room, upon one of three low, plank tables, sat Ambrose Bashcroft. Standing opposite him was the boy: Alfric.
“Now, then, Alfric,” said Bashcroft, “you are aware, are you not, that God put children on earth to serve their adult masters?”
Alfric nodded.
“Who was that monk I bought you from?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“It doesn’t matter. As Fulworth’s city reeve, I am your sole master now. Those who disobey me, I hang high—and often.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Dura lex, sed lex. The law is hard, but it is the law. Since I am the law, I must be hard.” The reeve adjusted his bulging bulk as he leaned forward. “But, Alfric”—the reeve jabbed a hard, fat forefinger upon the boy’s pigeon chest—“if you do what I say—though I paid two whole pennies for you—you’ll soon be free to starve at your own convenience. There’s always heaven.”
“I pray so,” whispered the boy. Listening to the rain beat upon the roof, he reminded himself he was better off inside.
“Then we understand each other,” said the reeve. He peered around to make sure the innkeeper remained asleep before continuing, in a lower voice. “Now, then, Alfric, pay close heed: there’s a man in town—a very old man—who goes by the name of Thorston. He’s an alchemist. Which is to say, he makes—gold.”
“Please, sir, how does he do that?”
“That, Alfric, is something you must discover.”
“Me, sir?”
“Since gold making is illegal, only I—who am the law—should know of it, so as to protect the public from its misuse. Now, then, as I say, this Master Thorston is old and dying. But, Alfric, hearken, he’s in need of … a green-eyed boy.”
Alfric lowered his eyes.
“Indeed,” pronounced Bashcroft, “I never would have purchased such a worthless boy as you unless you had green eyes.”
“My eyes can read, sir.”
“Who taught you?” snapped the reeve.
“My father, sir.”
“Where is he?”
“Dead, sir.”
“Then reading didn’t profit him much, did it?”
Alfric gave a dismal nod.
“And your mother?”
“Dead, too.”
“I can assure you,” said Bashcroft, “they’re better off. Now then, tomorrow morning, I shall bring you to this Master Thorston’s house. You will insinuate yourself into his household, discover the man’s gold-making method, and deliver it to me—only to me.”
“What will this man do with me, sir?”
“I neither know nor care. I merely warn you that if you fail to learn his secret, I’ll thrash you—mercilessly. Do you understand?”
Alfric nodded.
“Moreover, I shall always be close, watching. You’ll not escape me, Alfric, not until you’ve provided me—only