Jay understood not one word, and Callan laughed at his puzzlement. ‘You’re going to have to disguise your ignorance better, young man. Remember: scholars know everything, even when they know nothing. Merchants are honest, even when they are crooks, and domain holders are just, even when they are total bastards.’
‘What about foresters?’
‘Splendid fellows all,’ he said. ‘Come on. Grit your teeth, calm your nerves and follow me.’
Jay did as instructed, and the next day began his new life.
8
Henary’s negotiations with Jay’s parents had been easy enough; not only were they proud at the idea of having a student in the family, his father in particular was quite glad to see the back of him. Henary was doing everyone a favour; the lad was the sort who could get himself into trouble without a suitable outlet, and this Henary could provide. He would spend the next few years of his life working harder than he ever dreamt possible.
Once he had packed the boy off with the soldiers and the wagon, he and the Visitor mounted their horses and left. Both were exhausted. Henary wished his companion didn’t feel the need to converse all the way. The young man, one of his students, had been a Visitor for the first time. He had been nervous, and Henary had decided to hold his hand, guide him through. Now he was exhilarated from relief that it had passed off without disaster. He had a tendency to be over-eager, to show off. Henary had been there to calm him. ‘Easy, my boy. What do they care about precedents? They will trust you. You don’t have to give them a lecture as well. Their lives are quite hard enough as it is.’
He’d done well, grown into his role. After only three weeks, he was already much more confident, much less likely to glance at Henary to seek advice or take refuge in pomposity. He’d proved himself to be judicious and generous as well. Henary was pleased.
‘I have space for a student, and he tickled my fancy,’ Henary said when the young man asked about Jay. ‘If he’s no good, then I will know before the six months’ probation is up, and I’ll send him home again.’
Eventually, the talk petered out. Henary didn’t really want to explain and further possibility of discussion was ended by a small delegation standing in the middle of the road as they came round a sharp bend. Henary groaned. ‘Oh, no. Please, no!’ he said. ‘I’ve had enough.’
Duties were duties. The pair stopped to hear what they had to say. They were worried. A hermit named Jaqui had turned up some months back. He had been delirious, raving, and they had nursed him back to health. He had retreated a mile or so out of the village, where he had taken over an old hut. A few children had assisted him and he had paid them by telling wonderful stories. He had helped with the harvest and had some skill in healing. When someone was ill he would visit and his presence could fend off the demons which cluster around the seriously sick. He would attend births and his touch was helpful.
‘So what do you want from us?’
Because Jaqui could read and write, the villagers knew he had to have been a scholar or student, and they wanted to be certain they were not harbouring an outcast.
Henary sighed. ‘I’ll go,’ his student offered.
‘No, no. I’ll do it. You’ve worked hard enough these few weeks. You go on. I’ll have a look, stay the night and then branch off to Willdon.’
Very grumpily, he turned his horse and wearily allowed the villagers to lead him to the east. When he arrived at the village of Hooke he was welcomed, then given directions over the fields.
‘Ho there!’ he called when he came to the hut. ‘I seek Jaqui, hermit.’
‘You are looking in the wrong place,’ came a voice from behind him.
Henary turned and saw a man standing a few feet away, leaning on a stick. He was unkempt, with long, greasy hair; his eyes were strangely formed and wild. He looked as though he could be dangerous.
‘I have been asked to talk to you. I am a Storyteller from Ossenfud.’
‘I have done no harm.’ He spoke with a strange accent.
‘The villagers are concerned, that is all. They mean you no trouble, and nor do I.’
Jaqui was an unusual hermit. He was strong, for a start. Not too old, either, nor did he have the extravagant speech which many of his ilk affected. An odd face, though, which Henary found himself examining closely.
‘Where are you from? Your place and family?’
‘I have no place and no family.’
‘I am told you can read and write.’
‘I have nothing to read, except what I write. Perhaps they are just scribbles on a page.’
‘Show me and I will tell you.’
‘Ah, no, Storyteller. That I cannot do. Perhaps you will find they are meaningless, and disappoint me. Why don’t you go away? I do not trespass on your stories. I have no interest in them, and you have no interest in mine. I know that already.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘I talked to a scholar once, one like you. He asked me questions. I told him things, what I knew and thought, but he wasn’t interested.’
‘What was the name of this man?’
‘Etheran. You know him?’
‘He was my teacher. The man I revered above all others. He died a month ago.’
Jaqui nodded slowly. ‘I am sorry for that. He was a good man. I had hopes for him.’
‘You are insolent.’
Jaqui laughed.
‘I think we have talked enough,’ Henary went on. ‘You do not seem very dangerous to me. But I counsel you to be careful about what you say.’
‘Who are you, scholar? You know my name, I do not know yours.’
‘My name is Henary, son of Henary.’
‘What are you doing here? Am I now so famous that a Storyteller comes all the way from Ossenfud to visit? Did Etheran talk of me to you?’
‘Hardly,’ Henary said. ‘I am on my way to Willdon for the festivity.’
‘What is that?’
‘A celebration of the seventh year of Thenald’s rule. I am a friend to his wife.’
‘I am flattered you spend your time with me, then. I’m sure the lord and lady would not.’
‘Probably Thenald would not,’ Henary said, ‘although if I know Lady Catherine, she might well welcome you. You judge too easily.’
He considered this as though it was some weighty, important statement. ‘Well, perhaps I do. But as I am a hermit in a hut, I can do as I please. Now, will you leave me be?’
That expedition was the last time Henary ventured out of Ossenfud on a formal Visitation for many years. He had his studies and his teaching, and when Thenald died, shortly after he had met Jay, he found himself travelling to Willdon far more often to give advice to his widow. He liked his life, apart from the interruptions. His new student was introduced into Ossenfud and learned enough to pass through the probation period without too many difficulties.
Eventually, Henary also began writing the story of Etheran, dutiful student that he was, doing what his master never had time for, setting down his memorial to be lodged in the Story Hall of Ossenfud along with that of every other scholar. Etheran’s death had shaken everyone; the most brilliant man he had ever known. An austere teacher, who never drank alcohol, never ate too much, slept on a straw pallet like the least student. Who rose at dawn and read until night had fallen, without a break. He had been the most generous man as well, able to turn the dullest passage into magic through his enthusiasm and skill.
Then he died. Quietly, one night, he went out of his little house and was found the next morning, dead in a field. There were enquiries, but not too many, as people were afraid to know, lest his memory be tarnished. Henary’s own wife had examined his body. ‘Let us just say that he had a broken heart,’ she said. ‘There is no more to it than that...’