‘It seems I have a journey to make,’ Polly replied.
‘Where?’
The girl did not know, could not know, and the watcher pitied her.
Polly said to Mellor, ‘I don’t know yet, but I do know that when I assist Berthold tonight it will be for the one and only time. Then I will be moving on.’
‘Oh.’ The old man appeared genuinely disappointed. The unseen observer supposed he had been relishing the new-found prospect of a life of ease and pheasant pies. Then scanning forward to evening, as nothing of note seemed to be happening, this watcher observed the King’s hunting party return: all those richly clad men on their richly caparisoned horses, a chaos of hounds milling about below mud-spattered hooves, and servants trotting along behind with cut larch poles bearing the blood-dripping kills. The womenfolk came out of the house to greet the returning hunters and to congratulate them shrilly on their successful venture. The scene was bright and gay and appropriate to its time, and hopefully appreciated by Polly, what with all she would suffer soon enough. Smiling then, enclosed in living glass, the watcher observed Polly giggling on seeing Berthold dressed up in his diamond-patterned suit, silver bells and ridiculous footwear with turned-up toes. It wasn’t enough, could never be enough. It was like seeing a child walk smiling into a bear pit.
After sunrise the moeritherium departed the lake to graze their way through the thick surrounding vegetation, mooing and grumbling as they went. They passed close by, but their only reaction to the three humans was to pause while they chewed and peered up with close-set eyes, before snorting and moving on. Seeing these creatures’ continual munching reminded Tack of his own hunger, and he wondered if Coptic would ever bother to feed his prisoner.
‘There is food in the pack,’ said Coptic later, but only when the sun was high. All morning the man had been sitting utterly still and silent in a lotus position, next to Meelan. ‘And I would appreciate coffee now. If there is anything there you do not know how to use, you are permitted to ask me how it functions.’
Being already familiar with the contents of Traveller’s pack, Tack found himself some food and the makings of coffee, and had only a little trouble setting up the small electric stove. Taking up a collapsible water container, he folded it open and stood dutifully waiting until Coptic looked his way.
‘Proceed.’ Coptic gestured irritably towards the lake.
From their outcrop Tack walked back along the trail crushed by the moeritherium herd. As he stooped down by the water’s edge, he became aware that if he wanted to escape now was the time, since Coptic, though possessed of superhuman speed, might not be prepared to leave Meelan’s side. But what would he be escaping to—a lonely, possibly all too brief life in a prehistoric wilderness? For he had no idea how to summon a mantisal. After filling the container, he returned to the outcrop, where Meelan was now sitting up and looking much healthier.
Ignoring the muttered conversation of the other two, Tack filled a kettle and set it on the stove, and while watching it, sought to untangle his confusion. Though Traveller had reset Tack’s loyalty, the man had left him greater free will than he had previously experienced. Working for U-gov, Tack never had the time or inclination to consider his life as a whole. He had been nothing but an organic machine, but now he had acquired a wider compass. Now he genuinely wanted to know more about the workings of his surrounding world, to participate fully, to experience and to truly feel. To fulfil this hazy aspiration he must be free; freedom from programming and the will of others must now be his ultimate goal.
The three of them drank coffee and ate some of the supplies in the pack, while cautiously observing the nearby wending progress of three large bovids. These strange creatures bore a resemblance to both oxen and deer, but could not be firmly identified as either. Tack knew that with Traveller he could have satisfied his curiosity, but not with his present companions. Their repast finished, Coptic instructed Tack to put all the implements away and take up the pack. As with Traveller before them, Tack must act the beast of burden, though he suspected Traveller regarded him as somewhat less of a beast than did Coptic and Meelan. At the lake’s shore the mantisal again folded into existence in response to some inaudible instruction. They embarked, Coptic once again piloting the bioconstruct, and instantly fell into achromatic void.
Upon entering the hot and noisy banqueting hall, Polly reeled at the wave of human stench that hit her, and gazing round decided she had never seen so much bad skin gathered in one place. This was something all the historical dramas and interactives had never been accurate about.
‘God, they’re ugly!’
Poxed, the lot of them. There’s no vaccinations in this period. What you are seeing here are the few who have survived to maturity. It’s probably why Berthold thinks you’re such an asset—you’re a rare unmarked beauty. But then Berthold doesn’t know you like I do.
‘Bring on the juggler!’ bellowed the King.
‘Let us begin,’ whispered Berthold, turning to Polly with the bells on his jester’s hat jingling. He then cartwheeled onto the empty floor between the tables, finishing upright after a somersault. The King threw a chicken leg that bounced off Berthold’s face. To a tumultuous roar, other food was hurled at him from every direction. He sinuously dodged these items, then held up his hands.
‘Enough! Enough I say, good sirs! Would you bury me in your generosity?’
To much hilarity, the rain of food finally halted. Berthold stepped to a table and gathered up a goblet, half a loaf of bread and a chicken leg.
‘Good crowd tonight,’ said Mellor from behind Polly. She turned and stared at him, wondering if he was quite mad. Suddenly she felt the overpowering urge for a cigarette—elsewhere.
‘Now, let me introduce to you my beautiful assistant: that Far Eastern Princess, the lady Poliasta!’
Polly walked out to catcalls and shouts of, ‘Get yer dumplin’s out!’—and not all of them from the men. Following Berthold’s earlier instruction, she bowed elaborately towards each table, holding out to one side a sack containing the various items Berthold would use in his act, and into which she must secrete any coins tossed onto the floor.
‘Let me begin with a simple demonstration of the juggling art!’
Berthold set the three items he already held into motion. His competence was quite evident and even caused the surrounding uproar to quieten a little.
‘But such skill is not easily acquired. I had to travel to the far realms of the East, where I found my lovely Princess here, and there I learnt this craft under my wizardly master, the Great Profundo!’
With that Berthold stepped on a stray pheasant carcass and slipped onto his backside—the chicken leg bouncing off his head, the loaf of bread rolling away, but the goblet dropping neatly into his hand. He pretended to drink from it.
‘My master, Profundo, always used to say “Watch your footing.”‘ This comment was almost drowned by the howls of laughter. A few coins tinkled on the floor and, as instructed, Polly set about collecting them. And so it went. The crowd particularly loved Berthold’s obscene juggling act with the painted wooden phalluses, especially when he caught one in his mouth. His knife act he curtailed because this crowd stopped laughing and began to watch him warily. The performance closed with him juggling seven wildly different items, including a codpiece that somehow ended up stuck over his face, before the other props rained down on his head. Finally Berthold and Polly were summoned before the King.
Henry VIII was red-faced, and obviously too pissed to see or talk straight, so it was Thomas Cromwell, leaning in close to him, who began relaying his words.