Читать книгу The Black Rose - Thomas B. Costain - Страница 12

And now Rauf of Bulaire, Earl of Lessford, was dead.

Walter sat still on the side of the bed, his shoulders hunched over, his mind filled with conflicting emotions. He was thinking mostly of what his father had said the day of their second meeting. “I have not done the things I wanted to do for you, my son” and, “When you are older, perhaps, you will understand better and not feel too hardly about me.” He understood this much: that what people said was true, his father had been under the thumb of his Norman wife. He was trying to sort it all out in his mind, sure only of one thing: now that his father was dead, he would never again think hardly of him. He turned with a start when Giles touched his shoulder from behind.

“Some-’un to see ye, Master Walter,” said the manciple. “He comes to back door, and he says he can’t come in. A chamber-deacon, I thinks, Master Walter.”

Walter threw his bundle hurriedly over his shoulder. An uproar had risen suddenly in the vestibule below which warned him that some of the fellows had returned from their classes; although it sounded in full truth as if a gaggle of geese had invaded the premises. He heard someone say, “By St. Winwaloe, it is a filthy day!” It was a fad of the moment for each clerk to select one of the lesser-known saints for use in emphatic speech, but no one at the Hall had picked this pious abbot of the sixth century, so it was clear there were outsiders in the party. It would not do for Tristram to be seen.

As he turned toward the stairs, he said to Giles, “See that the messenger from Bulaire has something to put in his belly and then send him on his way.”

The roke had returned in full earnest, and Tristram, standing patiently at the rear door, was already thoroughly soaked.

“I am leaving at once,” he said. “Perhaps it was foolish to take the time to come here. But I wanted you to know the truth.” He was breathing hard, as though from a long run. “I have had a fight with my landlord, and I am afraid he is badly hurt. This is the last of Oxford for me.”

“Then you went back to the house on Sheydyard Street.”

Tristram nodded apologetically. “I know it was agreed I would keep away and find other quarters. But I kept thinking about the poor badger. There would be no one to feed her, so I picked up a few scraps and took them with me, enough to last her for several days. When I got there”—he gulped before going on—“she was dead! He had taken it out on the crippled little beast. Her head was crushed in, and there was a bloodstained rule from the shop beside the body.” His eyes, usually so mild, burned with a deep anger. “I went downstairs after him. He saw me coming and picked up a bucket of paste. I had him down before he could raise it to his shoulder. His wife beat me from behind with a fire-iron, and her screeching brought the neighbors in. I had to run for it then.” He looked at Walter ruefully before concluding, “I hope he’s not too badly hurt.”

“I am leaving too,” said Walter. “I’m glad you took it out of the fellow’s hide, Tris. Now we can go together.”