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.“Voss sent me.To stand watch.” He swallows hard as he reaches the door, and he cannot stop himself from looking in at Hedrann.“Good fellow,” says Mect, the words coming more readily to him than to me.“We will be back soon, with the Guard.”“The Saints be thanked,” says the scullion; he steps into my place as I move aside to permit the lad to take up his post.There is a look of gratitude on the youngster’s face.* * *“Another jester killed!” Hamlet marvels in distaste when I finally manage to get a few minutes of his time as he hurries between the Council and his Reception Chamber.“Hedrann is dead, you say?”“Yes.He is lying in the Refectory now.The Guard has put a watch over him.” I did not see this for myself, but Mect swore to arrange it, and enough time has gone by that I was sure it was so.“The monks have been sent for,” I add, having done it myself.“You are certain his death was no accident,” says Hamlet, lowering his voice as we hasten through the gallery toward his Reception Chamber, the press of his schedule showing on his face.“Unless Tollo’s was an accident as well, no, it was not,” I say, surprised at my strong feelings on the matter.“They died the same way, from all I can tell, and that makes me doubt that either death was accidental.”Hamlet nods.“Since none others at Elsinor have had such sickness, I am forced to concur; both men were killed, probably by the same hand.”“And for the same reason,” I add, wishing I knew what the reason might be, for I am beginning to think that I am not as safe as I had hoped.Hamlet asks, “What were they doing, that they should be killed?”“I don’t know,” I admit, trusting that it was not true.We have almost reached the door to the Reception Chamber; Hamlet turns back to me.Hamlet pauses and says rapidly, “I must tend to court matters now, but when I am done, I want to know everything you can tell me about how Hedrann died.Come to me before we eat.”I bow to him, wanting to find comfort in his concern, and yet not succeeding.My shoulder aches, and I tell myself that it is the bitter weather that weighs on me, and not my grief, or my fears.As I leave the King to his audiences, I find my spirits lowering into gloom.Try as I will, I have no way to jest or mock the darkness away, and that causes me grave concern as I make my way back toward the Refectory where Mect and the Guard must be waiting.But as I let my thoughts wander, I discover that they continue to return to the problem of the reason for the murders.No matter how I try, I am not able to put the questions behind me for long.Who would want two jesters dead? And are the rest of us going to have to suffer the same fate as Tollo and Hedrann? I shiver in spite of my own stern inner warning not to.There is danger in showing fear, I remind myself as I walk, and do what I can to amble as if I had little to occupy my thoughts—certainly not death by poison, or the unhappy speculations of a man who feels himself a target.I implore the Male Goddess to give me warning of enemies; for once I think of the kitchen cat as more than a pleasant and friendly companion.She will lend me her protection, I am certain of it; not because of devotion to me, but because she will keep her den safe at all costs.Mect greets me as I near the corridor leading to the Refectory.“The monks have come,” he tells me in a calm way, but with a cautioning gesture to indicate we might be overheard.“They will tend to the body and will learn the poison used before they put him in the blessed earth.”“Well enough,” I say, and having nothing else to add, I start back toward the kitchen.“Oduvit has come, as well,” says Mect, his words stopping me.“He has talked Voss into giving him a tankard of mead, to assuage his sorrows, or so he claims.”I cannot keep myself from saying, “He must grieve constantly, for all the mead he drinks.”Mect smiles sourly.“True enough.He is one who must have his mead every day.” He cocks his head.“The monks are coming.We had better move aside for them.” I hear them as well, and I move quickly, for it is true that to impede the monks at their serving the dead can bring misfortune.“When will they bury him? Did they say?”“No; nothing of that,” whispers Mect as the first of the Capuchins come into view.There are eight of them, one marching at the head, his hood drawn down to conceal his face, then six of them bearing a covered pallet where Hedrann must surely lie.The last of their number brings up the rear.All of them chant as they walk, the steady rhythm of the Latin verses making a marching pace for them.As they pass, Mect crosses himself, and I do the same, knowing that the Male Goddess will understand that I intend Him-in-Her no disrespect.“I would like to know where he is buried,” I tell Mect when the monks are gone.“I would like to leave a token for him.”“Jester to jester?” Mect ventures.“I will ask the Abbot if it is possible to do this when he sends word of what poison was used.” He frowns, showing concern at last.“We must all be on our guard now, I fear.”“And I,” I say, as the stone corridor carries back echoes of the monks’ prayers for the dead.* * *“So I rely on you to protect me,” I tell the kitchen cat, only half in jest, that evening as I lie back in my bed and she kneads my side in contented determination; her eyes are half-closed and she purrs steadily.“Wake me if anything untoward happens, or there are suspicious fellows lurking about.”The cat continues to knead without any sign of having heard me, let alone comprehended what I said to her.“I know your language is not mine, but I hope the Male Goddess lends you understanding, for both our sakes,” I tell her as I attempt to pull my blankets higher, for the night is cold and sere, and at this bitterest part of the year this small room gets little warmth from the fires in the kitchen.The glowing banked coals of the big hearths lend a ruddy splash of light near the door, but the warmth does not carry so far.Gracefully the kitchen cat reaches out and puts one paw on my bare arm, extending her claws enough to inform me she will not tolerate being interrupted.Then she mews plaintively and looks at me with steady, somnolent eyes as she once again resumes her kneading; her purr is louder.Only when she is through and curled in the crook of my elbow do I dare to pull the blanket up over my shoulder [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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