"Adam, Kennel Master's apprentice, my lord," he said. "Master's compliments, and where do you want the bitch?"
"Put her down here on the blanket with her pups!" Angie snapped.
"—And tell your Master not to dump pups into a sack like so many rocks to carry them!" Angie went on.
"They'll be dead by the time they get where they're going," Jim said as the boy put the dog down. "Tell him that from me. He's to find some other way of getting them where they're being taken." The pups scrambled to their mother with eager whimperings, and a second later they were all either nursing or fighting for a teat.
"Yes, m'lord. He's still talking to Sir Brian. It's your man-at-arms—just said you wanted the bitch."
"All right," said Jim. "On your way, then!"—For Adam was showing signs of wanting to stay around and find what this was all about.
The Room Mistress showed up with another woman laden with what turned out to be ten blankets.
"Put them in the corner," said Angie. "Where're the soft cloths?" The other woman produced them. They had been stuck into her girdle in the small of her back.
"That's fine," said Angie. "You can go, now." They went.
The pups' little bellies were bulging out. Their mother was lying on her side with them all around and on top of her, using her tongue to clean those closest to her, but looking relieved, as well she might if she had been overloaded with milk and with no pups to take it from her.
Angie put the milk pitcher and cloths on the table.
"That's that, then," she said, unwrapping the blanket from around her. "Now I can get out of this robe."
The scratching at the door was repeated.
"Hold it!" shouted Jim at the door. "Wait!"
Angie hurriedly started to change.
"There!" she said after a minute. "The other robe will really need cleaning." She picked up the cloths. "We won't need these now, after all. I was going to dip their corners into the milk and let the pups suck it up that way until we got the mother. You can let whoever's there in now."
"Come!" shouted Jim, and the Master Carpenter came in.
He looked like a Master Carpenter—old, bent, creaky, and sour-faced—a relief to Jim after all these odd, if however efficient, other Tiverton servants.
"You wanted me, my lord?" he asked Jim.
"Yes," said Angie before Jim could answer. "We want a pen."
"Yes, my lady." The Master Carpenter turned and headed toward the door.
"Wait a minute!" snapped Angie. "You don't even know what size pen, let alone what kind."
"No, my lady. What size and kind of pen would my lady like?" Jim felt a twinge of disappointment. The carpenter was turning out to be a far cry from their own at Malencontri.
"I'll tell you!" said Angie energetically. "I want it four feet square with a solid wood bottom, and an edge high enough so those pups can't climb out, but not so high their mother can't get out easily."
"Their mother, my lady?"
"The—" Angie found the word distasteful, "bitch lying there with them right now. What did you think I meant by 'mother'?"
"Crave pardon, my lady. I wasn't sure."
"Well, now you know. I want a pen to hold the pups but leave the mother free."
"And we want it now!" said Jim.
"Yes, my lord."
"Go and make it, then."
"Yes, my lord." The carpenter turned and shuffled out.
"Thank heaven," said Angie. "That's over—oh, this floor will need some cleaning." She raised her voice. "Servant, here!"
A servant came in from the hall.
"Clean up this mess the pups made of the floor," Angie said. "Has the Room Mistress got soap?"
"Soap, my lady?"
"You must know what soap is!" She got a blank look.
"Something you clean with," Angie continued patiently. "If the Room Mistress hasn't got it, go ask in the castle washroom. They'll know what it is there. Get soap and water and wash the floor."
Angie dropped into a chair and reached for the wine jug to pour a dollop into a mazer. She reached for the water jug, then checked and started to get up before she remembered who she was and where she was.
"Wait!" she called to the servant, just disappearing out the door. "Do you see that roll of blankets on the floor at the foot of the bed? It's got a flask in it. And I always put a little holy water in my wine. Get the flask for me, will you?"
The servant froze.
"What is it?" asked Angie. "What's bothering you!"
"Oh, my lady! I couldn't think of touching anything so precious!" The servant burst into tears. Angie stared at her. But she and Jim were used to encountering strange ideas, customs and and beliefs among people of this century.
"Never mind, never mind now!" she said. "It's all right. You go ahead and get that soap and water."
The weeping servant nipped out the door, shutting it behind her.
"Well, well," said Angie, settling back in the chair after watering her wine with the safe water carried in her flask. "What next? Come to think of it, I haven't seen Hob since we got here. Where is he?"
"He went to find this castle's hob," said Jim. "Come to think of it, I'd have expected him back before this."
He got up and went to the fireplace, which had a seasonal-sized blaze crackling merrily in it, and shouted up its chimney.
"Hob! Wherever you are, come on back for a minute! I want to talk to you." The chimney of this fireplace might or might not connect to other chimneys, but the smoke from the fire in their room would carry the message to Hob wherever he was in the castle.
He and Angie sat, comfortably drinking wine for perhaps five or six minutes. Then Hob stepped out of the fireplace—but not alone.
He was carrying another hob in his arms like a child. Even familiar as Jim was with the fact that hobs were featherweights, he was a little startled to see the small Natural had the strength to carry someone his own size and kind in this way, which must put all the burden on his arms and shoulders.
The other hob's eyes were closed. He hung limply, and his body—noticeably paler than Hob's—was a mass of cuts and bruises.
Hob's face was tragic.
"They were very cruel to him!" he burst out to Jim and Angie. "As cruel—as cruel as you humans! Always so cruel—" He broke off suddenly.
"Oh, my lord! I did not mean you and m'lady and those like you! Pray forgive—"
"That's all right, Hob," said Jim. "You're dead right. We humans can be cruel—deliberately, or just because we don't stop or bother to think. You don't need any forgiveness. We can be just as cruel to each other as to any other living things. Is this the Tiverton hob?"
"Yes, m'lord. Can you help him? He is like one dead, except I know he isn't!"
"I think so," Jim said, bending forward to peer intently at the little creature still being held in Hob's arms. "I ought to be able to. I just haven't tried it on a Natural before—these are wounds and contusions, after all, not sicknesses… Let's see…"
He tried doing away with the wounds and their effects first. The bruises also vanished at his magic order. But the eyes of the tortured hob stayed closed, and he still hung as limply in Hob's arms as before. Mentally crossing his fingers, Jim ordered all invisible injuries like concussions to disappear.
Nothing happened for a long moment, then the Tiverton hob's eyes fluttered and opened. He looked around himself, wonderingly—and at the sight of Jim, he made a weak, spasmodic effort to climb around Hob and cower behind him.
"It's all right, hob," said Malencontri's hob, still holding the other gently, but tightly, in his arms. "These are real humans. Friends, and one is a mighty Magickian who just healed you all up. Are you all right now?"
"Yes, I think so…" said the Tiverton hob after a short moment. His voice was husky and a little more highly pitched than Hob's. "Could the good Magickian do something so I forget the—"
Jim shook his head.
"That, I'm afraid," he said, "is beyond my powe
rs."
"Anyway, thank you, Mage—let me up, hob!" Malencontri hob, a little reluctantly, set him on his feet, but he seemed to be standing alone quite steadily.
"He is my Lord Sir James de Malencontri," Malencontri hob told the Tiverton hob. "And in the chair is the good Lady Angela whom he has to wife. They are both good, kind, real humans."
"Then you must be the Magickian all hobs talk about!"
Malencontri hob cast a guilty look at Jim.
"No, that's probably the Mage Carolinus," Jim said. "I've done nothing but follow his example."
"No, m'lord. All know the Mage, of course. But it is of you I speak, I'm sure. None have been into such adventures as yours!" The Tiverton hob turned around and hugged Hob. "How fortunate I am to have been saved by such a hob and such famous humans as my lord and my lady! When I think of what would have happened—"
He had turned back to face Jim and Angie, his face radiant—but even as he did so, he stumbled and began to fall. Hob caught him before he could touch the floor.
"I'll have to take him back to Malencontri," Hob said, softly. "To where he can be in friendly, safe chimneys and where everybody likes a hob, and he can slowly become all well again. Have I my lord's permission to do that?"
"Certainly," said Jim.
"Oh, Hob," said Angie. "Could you take that dog and her pups too, while you're riding the smoke with this other hob?"
Hob looked at the bitch, covered and surrounded by her puppies, some now sleeping, others fighting with each other—or perhaps playing, they made the same sorts of noises either way.
"I am so sorry, m'lady, but I don't think I can. Tiverton hob or the dogs, but not both. It isn't that they'd weigh too much, but—"
"That's all right. I understand," said Angie. "Get your hob friend there first. We'll handle the dogs."
"Thank you, m'lady. I'll be back as soon as I can leave Tiverton hob safely. If he wakes up in a strange chimney without me there, he may do something foolish."
"Of course. Go ahead," she said.
Hob turned with Tiverton hob in his arms, leaped into the fireplace and vanished upward on the smoke.
"Now I've got to get cleaned up. I wish we had a bathtub here, as we have at home—and hot water."
"You can send for that," said Jim.
"I'm going to. But there's no use asking for a tubful, even if they could heat that much in a hurry. Then I've got to dress for dinner. So do you."
"I'm already dressed for dinner."
"Not if at the last moment we're invited to dine with the King. Put on your cote-hardie." She raised her voice to carry through the door. "Servant here!"
The same servant who had been sent for the soap and water came in.
"You haven't cleaned the floor yet," said Angie.
"Forgive me, my lady!" the servant wrung her hands. "Those wicked people in the washroom are still hunting for a soap fit for Your Ladyship."
"Never mind that," said Angie. "I've got my own soap for myself. What I sent you for was soap to clean the floor here. Their ordinary, everyday soap will do."
"I'll fetch it right away, my lady—" The servant whirled about and started to run for the door.
"Wait a minute!" The servant skidded to a stop, almost falling. "There's something I want you to do first. Go to the Serving Room, or whatever you have here to keep the dishes from the kitchen hot until they're served, and have them start heating a pitcher full of water—as fast as they can. Then go to the washroom, get everyday soap, come back to the Serving Room, pick up the pitcher of hot water—and this time I mean hot, and also one of cool water and a basin I can wash in. If you need help to carry it all, tell them I said they were to send somebody along with you to help. You've got all that?"
"Oh, yes, my lady. Go to the Serving Room—"
"Never mind repeating it all. I trust you. Go!"
And the servant was on her way with the last word.
"I didn't manage to ask Hob who treated the local hob like that, before they left," said Jim, vexed with himself.
"I wonder if it was these local servants," Angie said. "They're an odd bunch here!" She looked at the closed door.
Buttoned into the tight, form-fitting jacket that was the cote-hardie, Jim remembered too late there was a spot halfway between his wrist and elbow that had been itching, which he had not had time to scratch. He tried now to reach the annoyance through his left sleeve, but the stout, thick wool fabric and the narrow sleeve protected the itch as well as if it had been under armor.
He gave up. He was gradually sliding into the medieval idea that if nothing could be done about something, there was no point in considering it—the equivalent of the supposed cure for a headache in ancient Greece.
"Oh, that reminds me," he said, "I haven't told you about Brian."
Chapter Twenty
"What about Brian?" Angie had unrolled her bedroll and was busily examining the extra clothes she had rolled into its center.
"He and Sir Mortimer are supposed to fight tomorrow to entertain the King—with blunted weapons," Jim added hastily.
Angie abandoned her clothes suddenly and sat down hard in a chair.
"Why didn't you tell me this before?"
"I haven't had a chance!"
"It's a lot more important than a load of puppies!"
The mother of those puppies looked out at them and licked the air in their direction, to signal that she was really appreciating being a house dog. She liked them both and hoped they would soon be friends again.
"You spoke up about the puppies in the sack before I could get started."
"What if Brian gets hurt and is laid up here for days—maybe weeks? What about the wedding?"
"It's just sport, Angie!"
"You know what kind of sport that is. So do I for that matter!"
"Angie, this is ridiculous. Brian's not going to get hurt. He's too wise an old swordsman—even if he is younger than I am."
"How much younger?" asked Angie, suddenly curious.
"Two or three years. I don't remember which."
"He looks older."
"I know. But that's because he started living as an adult years before I did."
"Anyway, even if he is a wise old swordsman, accidents can happen!"
"You don't get to be a wise old swordsman unless you come to know how not to let accidents happen to you."
"You, yourself, ran a spear into him once."
"That was in a melee. We were both on horseback and got crowded into each other, still, the only reason I speared him was because he raised his spear so as not to run me through."
"See there? Just as I said. Accidents happen."
"But Brian's not going to be raising his sword so as not to hit Verweather."
Temporarily stopped, Angie took a deep breath.
"All that's probably so," she said. "But Geronde's not going to be very happy about this, and the fact Brian's a wise old swordsman's not going to keep her from worrying—anyway, I've got to get back to getting dressed."
She returned to the contents of the bedroll. The terrier licked out her tongue at both of them again, and Jim thought about taking off his cote-hardie so he could scratch his itch, then abandoned the idea again. He would forget it as soon as they started moving. "The fight'll be held just after breakfast, almost certainly," he said. "Before the King's too deep in his day's wine."
It was. Tiverton had a small interior courtyard, the buildings around it cut off the wind. With the sun out to warm the air, it was not exactly balmy, but more than bearable for this time of year. Besides, none of the people belonging to this place, in their layers of clothing worn indoors and out, paid any attention to the temperature.
A padded chair had been set up for the King.
"Hah!" said the ruler of England to the Prince and Jim, both of whom were standing beside his dais. "A fine day for a trial of arms—even if in sport." His two bystanders hastened to agree.
The warriors came forth, through doors at opposit
e ends of the courtyard. It was evident this was not the first time this space had been used for such exercises—and probably the majority of them had been with sharpened weapons, Jim suspected.
Verweather bulked surprisingly large and capable-looking in his armor. Brian was light-footed and businesslike, but looked small compared to his opponent. Jim noticed, with a small twinge of worry, that the scabbard holding Verweather's sword looked half as long again as Brian's—probably a bastard sword, as they were called, halfway in length between the usual one-handed broadsword and a sword designed to be held and used in two hands. If Verweather was adept at taking advantage of that extra stretch of blade, it could even the odds between him and Brian.
"Sir Verweather's sword has considerable extra length," Jim said to the Prince.
The two of them had pulled back and to one side of the King's chair, so as not to seem to have an official part in the proceedings.
"Hah! Yes! Longer even than mine," said the Prince. There was little doubt of which gladiator young Edward was backing. Jim gave up the notion of getting any more useful information from him.
The two combatants walked forward until they met, then turned and, side by side, approached the King, halting in front of him without a word.
"Fight well!" said the King, waving one hand without lifting its elbow from the arm of his chair—the other hand was occupied by his postprandial mazer, half-full of wine. And with that informal command, the two facing him backed away the short distance to the courtyard's center, slung their shields on their left arms, and drew swords with their right hands. They stood for a moment facing each other wordlessly—and then they were at it.
The first action was a flurry of sword blows from both men—so rapid that Jim, who still had not had enough experience, nor profited enough from Brian's teaching to follow the fine points, could not see an advantage on the part of either fighter.
Brian was continually in movement. He could strike faster with his shorter sword than Verweather could with his longer one. On the other hand, Verweather could strike blows that were heavier. But Jim was able to see that Brian was catching nearly all of the force of these on his shield, or using the shield to glance them aside.