The Book of Boy

  The steward leaned forward. “First show us—show my lady—the veil.”

  But Secundus only smiled.

  The wife scowled, tapping her fingernails against her rings. She turned to the steward: “Get it.”

  The steward took her arm. “My lady, you are a woman, and women can be weak of mind. Do you appreciate the hilt’s priceless value? At the very least—”

  The wife shook off his hand. “You are my servant, and the hilt is my dowry. Bring it to me this instant, and address me only with respect.”

  The steward bowed his head, but his lips were tight, and slowly did he remove a box from beneath the altar, and slowly unlock it. Within the box lay the hilt of a shattered sword. Scraps of leather yet clung to its grip.

  Secundus reached for the hilt—and jerked back. He smiled, and nodded to me.

  I knelt before the wife—knelt as I had been taught—and pulled the tear-soaked veil from beneath my tunic. I proffered it as respectfully as I could manage.

  “Where is the chest?” the steward demanded. “The crystal chest?”

  Secundus spoke to the wife: “Is it a chest you want? Or a baby?”

  The steward flushed. “But—my lady—how can we even know this rag is the veil?”

  “Of course it’s the veil, you clod head.” She lifted it: “I will have a child! This year!”

  “Take the thumb, Boy,” murmured Secundus.

  The steward glared as I reached for the hilt. ’Twas so heavy that I grunted—strong men indeed had wielded this sword. Imagine a knight pounding into battle, protected by the thumb of Saint Peter!

  “The thumb,” Secundus repeated. Now I saw a wee door in the hilt, a door to a compartment holding a thumb’s knuckle bone.

  “My lady—” the steward tried, his voice hard . . . But he stopped when she flashed him a look, the veil clutched to her heart.

  The hilt I left in its fine carved box, but the thumb bone I grasped in my fist as we left.

  Oh, did the sharp-faced steward glower at us from the battlements as we strode down the hill, away from the castle. Secundus gripped his staff as he strode, but his other hand, I noticed, was shaking.

  Hurriedly we made our way, changing direction often. Soon as I could, I slipped the thumb into the pack on my back. How pleased Saint Peter must be to find so much of himself in one place!

  At last Secundus drew to a halt, both of us wheezing. He took out his quill and ink and book so sour. He flipped through to the list: “Rib tooth thumb shin dust skull tomb,” he murmured. With a flourish he crossed off the next word: “Thumb.” He showed me the page:

  Thumb.

  14 A Little Boy with a Cold

  We walked the rest of that day, past orchards tangled with weeds, and huts sagging with vines, and wheat fields turning to forest. The air breathed spring, and I wondered how soon ’twould be before I could give up my boots that by now were more holes than leather, and walk as God intended, with His earth between my toes.

  A noise reached my ears: a quiet but persistent quacking. I peered about but saw neither duck pond nor ducks. Secundus marched with a straight face. Too straight.

  “Milord, were you . . .” Such an odd question! “Were you making duck sounds?”

  “Me? Never.” But he could not help smiling.

  Soon we were exchanging all sorts of animal noises—cows and doves and pigs and goats, horses and swallows and cats, larks and geese and hawks. When ’twas my turn again, I could think of no animal, so I moved my mouth but said naught and declared I was a butterfly, which made me laugh and Secundus smile.

  Secundus pressed his lower lip over his upper, and blew into his nostrils.

  “What are you doing, milord?”

  “I am an animal. Guess.”

  “That is not an animal, begging your pardon.”

  “Ah, but it is. ’Tis an elephant.”

  “What is an ephelant?”

  “An elephant is a beast the size of three horses with a gray hide and a nose longer than you are tall.”

  This was too ridiculous even to laugh at, so I did not.

  “’Tis true. They come from the East and are useful in battle. Were useful.”

  I tried to picture a giant dark horse with a Boy-shaped nose . . . but I could not. So I said, “Click bukka-bukka doo.”

  “And what is that?”

  “That is . . .” I thought. “A peekybush.”

  “And what is a peekybush?”

  “’Tis . . . ’tis an otter with the head of a snake, and it climbs roses to sing for its supper.”

  “Ah. Well, do you know twee-baat-baat-baat? That is a giant swallow with feet like a man’s, and it tries to land on branches but always falls off.”

  “Because of the feet!”

  “Yes,” he answered solemnly. “Because of the feet.”

  We continued in this fashion till my belly ached from laughing.

  Secundus glanced at me. “You sound like my son.”

  At once my giggling stopped. Secundus has a son? “You—you have a son, milord?”

  “Yes. Though I try not to think of him, because it hurts. He . . . left, many years ago. As did his mother. My wife.”

  Secundus has a wife? Although he would have to, would he not? For it takes two souls to make a child. And sometimes also a tear-soaked veil. “You have a wife?”

  “Yes. Flavia. Lucius . . . I have not spoken those names in an eternity.”

  “Oh, milord.”

  “He ran everywhere. I don’t think he ever walked. Till one day he got a cold. A little boy, a cold . . . We sent for physicians. Learned men—not like today. But he died.”

  So much sorrow in those three words.

  He stared into the distance. “We mourned him. We buried him. And then I buried her. But they did not go to hell.”

  “I . . . I am so sorry. I am glad they did not go to hell.”

  “Yes. So am I. They were not sinners.”

  “You are not a sinner, milord.”

  “’Tis kind of you to say. But I committed many sins. I protected the strong instead of the weak. I defended the rich from the honest claims of the poor.”

  “You defend me, and I am the weakest person I know.”

  Secundus did not answer, however, for his eyes were far away.

  We came to a wet spot in the road, and had to pick our way. Songbirds trilled from their nests in the reeds, and far overhead kestrels cried. But I paid little notice to all this, for my head was aswirl. Secundus had a son! A son and a wife whom he missed very much. How awful to lose a child and a wife. . . . I thought of Sir Jacques. Poor Sir Jacques. He, too, had lost his family. I must pray he finds peace.

  That night we camped in an empty barn—what a funny life I had. One night in a bed all to myself, the next beside coffins, and now this shed with gaping roof.

  I said my prayers as always, adding extra prayers for Sir Jacques and for Secundus’s family. Secundus studied his book, his pilgrim badges catching the light of his cook fire.

  A rustling.

  Secundus reached for his staff. I stiffened.

  Through a gap in the wall waddled a quartet of geese. They glared at Secundus with yellow eyes and snapped at him as they passed. They stood before me, nipping each other.

  Secundus began to laugh.

  Hush, hush, the geese snapped at him. We all of us think you’re too loud. And at me: We all of us think you need to make room.

  What choice did I have but to lie down?

  Two geese settled on my chest, and two on my legs. We all of us think you’re too skinny, they complained, their heads already under their wings.

  “I have heard of goose-feather blankets,” said Secundus, “but I have never heard of a blanket of geese. How do you do it?”

  “I don’t know. They simply show up.”

  Hush, hush, ordered the geese. We all of us think you’re disturbing our sleep.

  “Good night, milord,” I whispered.

  “Good night. You ar
e something, Boy. You climb altars and serve ladies and now you sleep beneath fowl.”

  “Thank you, milord.” And thank you, milord, for telling me of your son.

  15 Trouble

  The steward was standing over me—the terrible sharp-faced steward from the Castle of Gold. “You’re a hunchback,” he taunted. He held up his hand in the sign of protection, and his hand, I could see, was made out of gold. “I am watching you,” he whispered, and he kept his eyes on me whilst biting off his hard gold fingers. His eyes, too, were fashioned from gold. . . .

  The geese were gone when we awoke, and I lay shivering at this image of the steward, willing myself to get up. The wind blew chill as we left the barn, and the clouds hung low and gray. I heard no birdsong but only last year’s oak leaves yet on the branch, rattling like bones.

  A trouble-filled day, this would be.

  As we walked, we passed men struggling to move a cart loaded with a single great cheese, and women doing their best with a flock of pigheaded ducks, and a shepherd dragging a sheep into a town.

  ’Twas a market day, though poorly attended—so cold that even beggars were absent—and housewives had a good trade in hot wine. The few peddlers huddled around a fire. The wind cut through my tunic. I rubbed my arms, missing my goatskin, however much it stank, and wishing that the pack of Saint Peter could warm the rest of me.

  “Relics for pilgrims!” cried a relic dealer. He pointed to Secundus’s hat. “I’ve a badge for you, I’m sure.”

  Secundus cast his eye across the man’s table.

  I wanted the warmth of that fire, I did. But I waited as a servant must.

  “I’ve the blood of Saint Thomas that will cure any wound. Dust from the king’s private chapel. Water from the River Jordan.” The dealer waved a gold-flecked feather. “I’ve an angel wing!” The quill was dark with dried blood.

  “You’ve wasted your gilt on a goose feather.” Secundus coughed as he scanned the table.

  “I’ve a saint to help with your cough, I’m sure—”

  “I am fine,” Secundus snapped. “I’m unused to cold air, that is all.”

  My eyes played over badges from two dozen shrines, palm leaves from the Holy Land, fragments of bone beneath glass. Oh, would Father Petrus delight in this. He taught me all about saints and relics and symbols. A small box glowed—a brass box half the size of my fist.

  I peered closer. I longed to hold it, for the box seemed to warm the chill from the air. A pig was scratched on its lid. Curious: I did not know pigs had saints.

  Secundus strode away. “Come, Boy.”

  “Yes, milord.” I could not take my eyes from the box. “That is a very fine pig. . . .”

  “Pig!” scoffed the relic dealer. “’Tis a drawing of a key. Within rests a relic of Saint Peter.”

  Secundus stepped back to the table. “What did you say?”

  “Centuries ago wicked Saracens attacked the city of Rome, looting even the tomb of Saint Peter. One infidel stole a fragment of the saint’s toe. His family preserved it, thinking that someday it might make their fortune. A monk on pilgrimage to the Holy Land heard of this toe—”

  “And begged to see it, and kissed it, and carried it off in his mouth.” Secundus yawned.

  “What? How did you know this?”

  “Half the relics in Europe have this selfsame history. If I had a coin for every monk who bit off a piece of saint, I’d be rich as a king.” Secundus reached for the box—and jerked away.

  The relic dealer pursed his lips. “You blaspheme, sir.”

  “Come, Boy. I am weary of haggling.” But Secundus did not move.

  “You may have that box for three florins,” offered the relic dealer.

  Three florins? A florin is the price of a sheep! He wants three sheep for a wee brass box?

  “Three florins for that?” Secundus raised an eyebrow. “I liked it better when it was a pig.”

  “Two florins.”

  “Fine.” Secundus tossed the dealer two thin gold coins. “Take it, Boy.”

  I picked up the box, and I am sorry to report that the scratched image looked very much like a pig and not at all like a key. I bobbed thanks to the dealer and followed Secundus, the box warming my hands. A relic worth the price of two sheep!

  Secundus wove his way through the crowd, dodging peddlers and chickens and puddles, and soon enough we were back on the road, the cold wind in our faces. “Put that in the pack,” he ordered, glaring at the brass box. He snatched out his book. “How did I miss it?”

  “Miss what, milord? ’Tis grand, is it not? We just found the toe of Saint Peter.”

  He spun at me, his eyes fierce.

  “I do not need the toe! ‘Rib tooth thumb shin dust skull tomb.’ No toe! Seven. That is the perfect number. Not eight. Where have I gone wrong?”

  He marched, nose in his book, so I was left to my own thoughts. Again and again I dwelled on the image of Secundus tossing the relic dealer the coins. My master had two florins in his purse. Two florins, when honest men toiled all their lives without ever laying eyes on such wealth. ’Twas not proper for a pilgrim to carry gold. It made me right uncomfortable.

  The air warmed as dusk fell, and in the east the clouds broke to reveal a glorious full moon. We came upon an abandoned church. The doors were gone and much of the roof, but still, it was shelter, and the dark corners did not frighten me so much, for church shadow is different from shadow outside.

  “What have I missed?” he murmured for the thousandth time, shutting his book. He settled against a wall. “Let me see at least what is in that pack, Boy.”

  With some effort I untied the knots on my chest. Ever so carefully I laid out the relics:

  A fragment of rib, wrapped in black velvet marked with the lily of the king of France.

  The tooth from the abbey of Saint-Peter’s-Mount, wrapped in silk the color of sun.

  The thumb bone from the Castle of Gold.

  A yellow toe bone in its brass box marked with a key (or a pig).

  “Rib,” Secundus spoke. “Rib, tooth, thumb, shin . . . That should be a shin, that one. Not a toe.”

  “Rib tooth thumb shin,” I whispered, “dust skull home.”

  “Why can you never remember? ’Tis not home; it is tomb.” He glared at the box. “I do not like this at all. Put them away, Boy. This does not bode well.”

  I returned the four relics to the pack, settling the toe bone in its wee brass box, and wrapping the thumb in the sun-colored silk with the tooth. How fine the velvet was that cushioned the rib. The lily of the king of France. However had Secundus—

  The truth hit me like a blow.

  Overwhelmed, I curled up in a corner to think.

  Secundus’s voice drifted across the floor. “I ought to have made further inquiries. . . . No, that source couldn’t be trusted. . . . Perhaps the greedy fool in Avignon will know. . . .”

  I should comfort Secundus—tell him that finding the toe of Saint Peter meant his quest was blessed. That Saint Peter wanted us to find it.

  But I could not, because I was too busy pondering his florins.

  Too busy pondering the rib from the chapel of the king of France—wrapped in velvet marked with the king’s own seal.

  The key to hell picks all locks—so Secundus had told me, and so I had witnessed. He used the key to hide us in the nuns’ church, and to unlock the chapel of the tear-stained veil, and to escape from the convent. He had stolen the shoe in Saint-Peter’s-Step, to trade it for the tooth in the monastery.

  How had Secundus acquired the rib of Saint Peter? There was only one explanation. He must have stolen it in Paris, using the key to hell.

  He stole those florins.

  However in the world did my master acquire this key—a key that verily stank of brimstone?

  Perhaps, my mind whispered, perhaps Secundus is a demon.

  Stop, I ordered. Do not even think this. And I squeezed my eyes shut and clutched the pack of Saint Peter, and whispered every pray
er I knew to make that thought go away.

  16 Angelus

  Ox was chasing me. He was chasing me with hounds.

  Dogs love me, I tried to explain, but somehow I could not, and instead ran in panic, crashing through bushes as hounds bayed on my trail. Hunt, hunt! they cried. Bloodlust filled their barking and their words. We smell him!

  Wake up, I ordered myself. ’Tis only a dream. Wake up, Boy. Awaken—

  I woke to a nightmare worse than a dream.

  Moonlight flooded the ruined church in which we’d taken shelter. Outside, hounds barked madly. Horses whinnied, and steel clinked against steel.

  I leaped up, clutching the pack of Saint Peter—I must flee! But the church had no other exit, and the walls were too high to climb.

  Secundus faced the doorway, gripping his staff.

  How I wished for shadows. But the clouds had cleared, and the moon had moved, so the dark church was lit bright as day.

  The hounds burst into the church: Hunt, hunt! they cried. Kill!—for hounds on scent go somewhat mad. They leaped at me—

  I pressed into the corner as the hounds, desperate to attack, bayed round me.

  “Back,” cried a huntsman striding in, whip in hand. A hunting horn hung from his belt, and a knife. He cracked his whip. “Back!”

  The hounds flinched at the sound. Hunt! they cried, quivering to lunge.

  A second man entered, wielding a sword. He stepped forward—and he was upon Secundus, his sword at Secundus’s throat.

  Secundus did not flinch and his grip on his staff never wavered, but neither did he move.

  The hounds leaped. We found him, whip man! We followed the scent on the veil!

  Do not hurt me, hounds, I pleaded.

  The hounds looked at the huntsman, confused. He speaks, whip man. Hunt?

  A third man entered the church. This man I knew. I had seen him not two days past—the sharp-faced steward from the Castle of Gold. The man who in my dreams snapped his fingers for gold. He approached Secundus. “You,” said he. “The relic thief.”

  Secundus regarded him. “I did not steal your lady’s relic. She gave it to me in trade.”

  Whip man, whip man, what do we do? cried the hounds.