The Seeing Stone by Kevin Crossley-Holland Page B

archbishop, Hubert, bids the priest of each parish in England to say seven masses for King Richard’s soul. KingJohn ordains that all the church bells in his kingdom must be muffled until noon on Sunday next, and in the afternoon swung again.”
    â€œIs that all?” asked my father.
    â€œKing John,” said the messenger, “greets his loyal earls, lords and knights, who are the strength and health of his kingdom, and he will send a second messenger within a month to report on the revenue of England, and to bring news of new forest laws. Long live the king!”
    â€œAh!” said my father. “So the worst is still to come.” Then he looked at me and his eyebrows bristled. “You’ll see,” he said. “First the new king has overridden the claims of Prince Arthur, his young nephew, and now he’s turning his attention to his loyal subjects.”
    â€œWhere have you come from?” asked my mother.
    â€œLondon,” said the messenger. “I rode for three days to Lord Stephen. And Sir Stephen instructed me to ride out to you and nine other knights. He said you would direct me to Sir Josquin des Bois.”
    â€œYou won’t get there tonight,” my mother said. “It’s half-dark.”
    â€œYou can stay here,” said my father. “Anyone who comes in peace is welcome here. Even King John’s messenger!”
    â€œThank you, sir,” said the messenger.
    â€œWhere’s Serle?” my father asked.
    â€œI thought he was with you,” my mother replied. “With his new falcon, I expect. He can’t keep away from her.”
    My father grunted.
    â€œTanwen too,” said my mother. “Where is she? I haven’t seen her all afternoon.”
    â€œSerle’s hunting rather too much these days,” my father said darkly.
    At this, my mother reached out and threaded both her hands round my father’s right arm. “Well, then,” she said, “he’s his father’s son, isn’t he.”
    My father sniffed. “Serle’s only sixteen,” he said.
    â€œNain!” said my mother suddenly. “We must tell her.”
    â€œWhat’s the point?” my father asked. “How many kings has she seen come and go? Stephen. Then Henry, and Richard. Now John! One king more or less won’t matter to her.”
    â€œSir John…” the messenger began.
    â€œI’m going over to the stables,” said my father. He glanced at the messenger under his eyebrows. “Yes,” he said in a steel-cold voice. “I do know, messenger. I’ll ensure every man and woman in my manor hears the king’s message.”

23
THE MESSENGER’S COMPLAINT
    K ING JOHN’S MESSENGER WON’T FORGET HIS VISIT TO us.
    During the night, he had to go out to the latrine five times, though I only heard him when he cursed and woke little Luke, and then cursed again.
    â€œUgh!” he exclaimed. “God’s guts!”
    In the morning, his face was as grey as ash. “What do you eat out here?” he said. “In the Marches.”
    â€œAre you all right?” I asked him. “Slim could boil you some eggs, and mix the yolks with vinegar.”
    The messenger groaned. “You know how it is,” he said. “The first time was so sudden I didn’t think I’d get there—in the dark and all. These candles of yours, they’re rotten, too. And the second time doubled me right up with cramp. I didn’t know which end it was going to come out of. The third time was worst, though. I thought it was turning me inside out.”
    â€œLike Lip!” I exclaimed.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œLip, the Welsh warrior. He used to pull his upper lip over his head and his lower lip down to his navel. Like armor. To protect himself.”
    â€œDisgusting!” said the messenger. “The fourth time felt like Iwas burning. Burning! It took my breath away. The