turns the key, which is already in the lock, and reaches inside for a candle, which he lights from one of the torches on the staircase.
The room is tiny, narrow, though it does not seem so to the boy, for he has known only a single-roomed cottage crammed with a press of children and animals. A narrow bed occupies most of the room, with just enough space for a rough wooden table. The white rider sets the candle on a spike on the wall above it. A flat disc of brass stands on the table, engraved with concentric circles and letters, though to the boy they look like the casts of worms or the trails of a snail.
The man shows Regulus two pots set side by side on the floor.
‘This glass one is for pissing into. This clay one is for shitting into. You must not shit into the glass piss pot. You will be punished if you forget. Do you understand?’
The boy understands nothing. At home he simply wanders outside to a hole his father digs, which the whole family uses. Everything that is to be thrown away goes into the hole, piss and shit, withered apple cores and bloody pigeon guts. When it is full, his father simply digs another.
The white rider makes him point to the glass pot and the clay pot in turn, reciting which each is to be used for over and over until he is sure the boy has memorised it.
‘I will come again in the morning with food.’
He makes to snuff out the candle, then looks at the hunched, shivering little figure and smiles gently. ‘I will leave the light for you. Sleep now.’
But the boy, all alone in the locked room, cannot sleep. He has never slept by himself in a bed before. He has never slept without hearing the sound of the wind in the trees and the murmur of his parents’ voices or the snorts and snuffles of his brothers and sisters. He lies on the bed and pulls the blanket over his head. He is cold. He is afraid and now, at last, he desperately wants to piss, but is too afraid of that pot.
Chapter 7
Purify the lead by special washing, extract the blackness and the darkness from it and its whiteness will appear.
At first I couldn’t tell if the sound was real or part of my dream. I forced my eyes open. Thin blades of silvery morning light pierced the narrow slit windows. I heard the sound again and realised it was the ancient one, tip-tapping towards the door on his staff. His beard was freshly combed and he had a book clamped under one arm. As he shifted it to lift the latch, I glimpsed the winged ox on the cover and knew it was the one I had leafed through the night before.
On any other day, as soon as Gaspard was awake, he’d have thrown something at my head to rouse me and set about issuing orders before I’d had a chance to untangle myself from my blanket. But that morning he was moving quietly, as if anxious not to waken me at all. I knew the old crow better than to believe he’d suddenly decided I should be allowed to rest after all my work. So what was he sneaking out to do?
I quickly shut my eyes, giving what I fancy was a pretty convincing snore. It fooled him anyway, for I heard the latch drop back into place as he closed the door behind him. As his stick clacked away down the stone steps, I sprang up and rushed to the slit window directly above the door where I knew he’d emerge from the turret.
I had to wait for so long I began to fear he’d changed his mind and was coming back up, but at last I saw the figure limp from the door and vanish into the early-morning mist. He was heading not towards the Great Hall or the gate, but towards Philippe’s private solar in the tower that stood alone, separate from the main building. I waited at the window, my stomach growling ever more fiercely. I considered whether to go down to the kitchens in search of food, but they lay in the opposite direction to the solar and I feared I might miss Gaspard’s return. In the end I scrabbled in the basket containing the remains of last night’s supper and found a pork bone with some meat left
The room is tiny, narrow, though it does not seem so to the boy, for he has known only a single-roomed cottage crammed with a press of children and animals. A narrow bed occupies most of the room, with just enough space for a rough wooden table. The white rider sets the candle on a spike on the wall above it. A flat disc of brass stands on the table, engraved with concentric circles and letters, though to the boy they look like the casts of worms or the trails of a snail.
The man shows Regulus two pots set side by side on the floor.
‘This glass one is for pissing into. This clay one is for shitting into. You must not shit into the glass piss pot. You will be punished if you forget. Do you understand?’
The boy understands nothing. At home he simply wanders outside to a hole his father digs, which the whole family uses. Everything that is to be thrown away goes into the hole, piss and shit, withered apple cores and bloody pigeon guts. When it is full, his father simply digs another.
The white rider makes him point to the glass pot and the clay pot in turn, reciting which each is to be used for over and over until he is sure the boy has memorised it.
‘I will come again in the morning with food.’
He makes to snuff out the candle, then looks at the hunched, shivering little figure and smiles gently. ‘I will leave the light for you. Sleep now.’
But the boy, all alone in the locked room, cannot sleep. He has never slept by himself in a bed before. He has never slept without hearing the sound of the wind in the trees and the murmur of his parents’ voices or the snorts and snuffles of his brothers and sisters. He lies on the bed and pulls the blanket over his head. He is cold. He is afraid and now, at last, he desperately wants to piss, but is too afraid of that pot.
Chapter 7
Purify the lead by special washing, extract the blackness and the darkness from it and its whiteness will appear.
At first I couldn’t tell if the sound was real or part of my dream. I forced my eyes open. Thin blades of silvery morning light pierced the narrow slit windows. I heard the sound again and realised it was the ancient one, tip-tapping towards the door on his staff. His beard was freshly combed and he had a book clamped under one arm. As he shifted it to lift the latch, I glimpsed the winged ox on the cover and knew it was the one I had leafed through the night before.
On any other day, as soon as Gaspard was awake, he’d have thrown something at my head to rouse me and set about issuing orders before I’d had a chance to untangle myself from my blanket. But that morning he was moving quietly, as if anxious not to waken me at all. I knew the old crow better than to believe he’d suddenly decided I should be allowed to rest after all my work. So what was he sneaking out to do?
I quickly shut my eyes, giving what I fancy was a pretty convincing snore. It fooled him anyway, for I heard the latch drop back into place as he closed the door behind him. As his stick clacked away down the stone steps, I sprang up and rushed to the slit window directly above the door where I knew he’d emerge from the turret.
I had to wait for so long I began to fear he’d changed his mind and was coming back up, but at last I saw the figure limp from the door and vanish into the early-morning mist. He was heading not towards the Great Hall or the gate, but towards Philippe’s private solar in the tower that stood alone, separate from the main building. I waited at the window, my stomach growling ever more fiercely. I considered whether to go down to the kitchens in search of food, but they lay in the opposite direction to the solar and I feared I might miss Gaspard’s return. In the end I scrabbled in the basket containing the remains of last night’s supper and found a pork bone with some meat left
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