This would be where the Beast Fair was held; in fact at the end there were cattle still on show and men bidding for them. But there were also stalls selling food and drink—sweet cakes and toddies poured into small pewter pots from steaming tureens—and toys and trinkets and fir trees for the Christmas Feast; and others where one played games to win prizes. Or hoped to win: the odds were very much against the player. There were a couple of tents with men waiting outside for admission. In one, it seemed, there would be wrestling matches, and in the other girls dancing to music and minstrels and jugglers.
I had no money in my pocket and so could not buy anything, but I did not mind. It was enough to listen to the cries of the hucksters, the hum and laughter of the crowd, the thin hiss of the naphtha lamps. At one stall a man had puppies for sale. They whined when he picked them up and a woman upbraided him for his clumsiness. So he lifted another, a ball of golden-brown fur, and it howled louder than the rest, and I watched him sell it to her for five shillings, which was much more than was reasonable.
After the months of confinement everything was interesting. I reached another tent and, peering in at the entrance, saw that it had been set up as a tavern. Potmen served drinks from behind trestle tables and there were benches at which men sat. Braziers glowed red with coals. The men were talking and laughing, their faces crimson like the stoves. They would be singing soon.
I was about to move away when a hand clamped on my arm from behind. I turned quickly to see a man in sheepskin coat, square black hat and shining gaiters: a farmer, probably, and one who looked prosperous. He said:
“If you’re seeking a pot of ale, lad, enter and get it. Don’t block the road for thirstier men.”
I said: “I was just going, sir.”
“A draft of mulled ale will warm your heart on a night like this.” I shook my head. “Then in that case what were you up to, Tom-peeping in?”
I was anxious to get away from him and even more anxious not to raise suspicions. I said:
“I was looking for my father, but he is not there.”
“Have you looked properly?” I nodded. “Then come inside and wait. You are as likely to find him by staying as by wandering around. A drink will do you good.”
I tried to pull away but he had me fast. I said:
“I came without money . . .”
“Then you are lucky that I am in a different case! I’ve sold five cows today and for once I have no complaint about the price.” With his free hand he jingled coins in his pocket. “You will drink with me till your father comes, and then if he wishes he can buy me a pot in return. And if not, no matter. The Spirits would not look with favor on any man who showed a hard heart on the eve of the Christmas Feast.”
I said: “Thank you, sir. But I must . . .”
He pushed me ahead of him through the entrance to the tent and steered me to a table at the center. I realized that this was not the first tavern he had visited since he sold his cows. He shouted for mulled ale—a pint for him and a gill for me. There were others round us and he was between me and the entrance. For the moment there was nothing I could do.
I expected questions: who I was, where I lived, all natural enough but things to which I might find difficulty in making safe answer. To my relief, after he had seen me take my first sip of the hot spiced ale, he turned his attention to other men sitting at the table. They were talking of some scandal involving a Captain of the Prince’s guard, and my farmer had much to say and loudly. I sat quiet beside him. When I had finished my gill, I would slip away. He was so engrossed that he perhaps would not notice my going.
Concerned with this and not much interested in local gossip, I did not at first realize that the conversation had changed. I was made aware of it when my companion declared, loudly enough to make me sit up despite the wool over my ears:
“That I don’t believe! No one can cross the Burning Lands. Whoever says so is a liar.”
“But he that told me saw the man himself.”
It was a thin, leathery old fellow who spoke, a veteran judging by the scar that ran down one cheek. The farmer said:
“And knew it was so, I warrant, by the flames that came out of his boots and the cinders in his beard!”
The veteran said stubbornly: “There is a pass. It lies due north of Marlborough.” This was a town in Oxford’s territory and lying nearest to the Burning Lands. “He had to go through hot ash, he said, and he did indeed singe his boots with it. But he came through. His city lies far to the north, beyond savage places.”
“He tells a good tale,” the farmer said. “But there have always been liars and the world will never run short of fools to believe them.”
He laughed and so did others. The thin man said:
“The one who told me fought at my side through a score of campaigns. No liar and no fool.” He rose to his feet and stared at the farmer. “Do you say he is, friend?”
At our table there was sudden quiet. The veteran might be fifteen years older than the farmer and scarcely more than half his size, but his voice had a honed edge of menace. The farmer laughed again but with less ease.
“I say it is time we had another drink! All of us. You too, old soldier.” He waved to the potman. “And I will pay the round. And one for your comrade, if he comes in, and one for the traveler from beyond the Burning Lands!”
He was doing his best to pass it off as a joke but I knew, as all there did, that he was backing down from fear of an older and smaller man. The veteran said nothing but kept his cold gaze on him. The farmer said:
“By the Great, it’s hot in here!” He undid his coat. “I am sweating like a pig. And look at this lad!” He wished, I realized, to turn attention from himself. “Sitting there stewing in a balaclava. Take it off, boy, and be at your ease.”
“No, sir,” I said. “I do not—”
“I say you shall!” He had found someone he could safely bully and was not to be thwarted. His hand tugged open my tunic top and grasped the bottom of the balaclava. I tried to prevent him but he did not want for strength nor against a boy off the streets, courage. He ripped the woolen helmet roughly up over my face and head.
I heard a shocked murmur as my shaved head was exposed. The farmer said:
“What have we here?” Disgust and triumph were both present in his voice. “This is a fine sight—an Acolyte in an ale tent on the eve of the Feast! We will see what the Seer says to it.”
• • •
The stocks were in the open square in front of the Prince’s palace. I was fastened in, legs and arms through holes in the wood, and the planks locked down. There had been a heavy frost in the night which lingered in a dank white mist. But I did not have much time to brood on being cold. A crowd had collected even before I arrived under escort, and wasted scant time in showing what it thought of an Acolyte who went from the Seer’s House in disguise and supped in ale tents.
There was no shortage of rotting vegetables and similar refuse, and one would think the hens of Salisbury were trained to lay month-old eggs for this very purpose. A Sergeant stood by to make sure no stones were thrown, but a roll of stale bread, as I learned, can be hard enough. Several rapped my skull and one drew blood from my face when I did not duck fast enough.
But pain and discomfort were nothing compared with humiliation, and humiliation was overridden by hatred—not so much against the throwers as against the High Seers for allowing me to suffer such a punishment. I felt so bitter, so betrayed, that I had a mind to shout out the whole truth about them and the Sanctuary—to tell these people who mocked me that they themselves were mocked, that the Spirits were a lie and the Seances webs of trickery.
It would have done no good, of course. They would merely have thought me mad as well as wicked. There was nothing for it but to endure the jeers and the filth in silence.