Shield of Three Lions by Pamela Kaufman Page B

woke with a start. “No. Yes. That is, it will be from now on.”
    “Why do ye gang there?”
    I breathed deep, tried to recall my tale. “I’m going to ’prentice with my uncle, my mother’s brother. Aye, that’s the plan.”
    “’Prentice in what trade?”
    Trade? Something of which I had knowledge in case he pursued his questioning. “I’m going to ’prentice in Latin.”
    “In
Latin
?”
    “
Aye
, the Latin tongue.” Such an ignorant barbarian might not understand. “’Tis the language of the Romans spoke in Julius Caesar’s day, now the tongue of the Holy Church.”
    “Thank ye fair informing,” he said dryly and I flushed, remembering belatedly that he’d claimed he was good in tongues, which must include Latin. “Yer wolf seems a friendly beast. How did ye come by such a strange pet?”
    I grew wary, remembering Maisry’s warning that common boys don’t keep wolves. “Actually he’s not mine. He belonged to a little girl at the manor where my father was steward, and she lent him to me.”
    “Yer father
was
steward. Be he dead then?”
    My breath grew short. “Yes, he died of the pox some months ago.”
    “And now ye air gang to York to ’prentice in Latin.”
    He began whistling again and I went over our conversation, satisfied that I’d done well. If he didn’t already know my identity, he’d not guess from my words. Meantime, the relief I’d felt to be off my feet was offset by the agony of straddling that hard neckbone.
    As if he read my thought, Enoch pulled the mule to a halt and dismounted.
    “Come, bairn, let’s piss.” He lifted me down.
    “I don’t have to.” I fought to keep from crossing my legs.
    “Come now, force a drap if ye can, for it may be some time afore we stop again.”
    He reached casually under his plaid as I went stiff. I didn’t think I could bear to see another pink tusk, the likes of which killed Maisry and my mother. Sweating hard and with pounding heart, I leaned against the mule.
    Releasing a hard stream from a perfectly ordinary organ such as the villeins at Wanthwaite had, the Scot watched me curiously.
    “Ye act like ye’ve ne’er seen a Scottish terse before.” He gazed at his member. “I admit it mun put English parts to shame, for I’ve heard as how ye Englishmen dinna have pricks nor balls. Be it sooth then?”
    “Nonsense,” I snapped. “Every Englishman has one prick and six balls.”
    He tossed his head and bellowed to rent the sky. “Well bespoke, bairn—do what ye can for yer sorry race. But if ye’re thralled with my horn now, wait till ye see it stretch to pull a finch.”
    He shook his organ dry and we climbed back onto the mule to continue our miserable ride. Enoch chatted on about his animals, how the mule was Twixt because it was neither male nor female, how the ass was Tippet because he carried so much. Meanwhile the pains of my bladder abated only to be replaced by the roiling and grucching of my stomach, for I was weak with hunger. At last I heard a faraway chapel ring Haute Tierce.
    “There be a likely spot to dine,” Enoch said, “with water for the beasts.”
    He headed to a flat vale where a stream shone under the trees. Too late we saw the rumps of horses and two men leaning over a pot of stew. Instantly my hunger was replaced by panic.
    Enoch continued straight toward the water, but he slowed Twixt’s gait and I felt his hand reach toward the thwitel in his sock. Now the wights heard us and looked upward. One was a pocked skeleton with a red cross sewn on his clerk’s habit, but ’twas the other that had me in thrall: ’twas Sir Roland’s squire. Aye, I’d seen him only from a distance but there could be no mistaking his thatch of red hair, his sunburnt freckled face. As we drew closer, I could make out the telltale
N
on his purple tunic. I swayed and had to grasp Twixt’s mane to stay steady.
    The squire lumbered to his feet. His mouth hung open in the midst of chewing; his small green eyes gleamed