Death to Palaeography IV...

More mishaps from the inept heroine...

After several tense minutes had passed, when she felt sure that the Professor had resisted throttling her at least three times, she murmured tentatively,

“Perhaps we ought to call the police.”

“No!” His violent outburst startled her, the vehemence of his answer unequal even to the anxiety of this particular situation. He must have seen the confusion that creased her brow, for he ran a hand through his hair and said more quietly, “No. It’s a bad idea to involve the authorities. Besides, what do you suggest I call them with? Both of us have misplaced our mobile devices.”

“But still we -” He cut her off. If he had surprised her before with his exclamation, she was completely thrown by his next comment.

“I’m going to go back to the house.” He unfolded his long body from the stool on which he had perched as sudden decisiveness infused his movements.

“But we just left the house. Why would you go back? I thought it was unsafe? What about those men?” With each question her hysteria levels, and the pitch of her voice, rose higher. Yet she manfully contained the need to grab hold of his leg to stop him leaving.

“I need to go back and get your bag. I need to get a look at that piece of paper. I need to know what that manuscript said.” The desperation in his voice was alarming and she flinched as he turned and gripped her shoulders. “Wait here. Do not move an inch until I come back for you. Do you understand?” There was something wrong with what he was asking of her, but she nodded her head obediently, too bewildered to offer any resistance.

Wordlessly she volunteered the gun that had been up to that point cradled close to her body. His hand gripped hers over the barrel and as he gazed down at her she noticed the frantic look that had been present before when she had mentioned the manuscript. Their eyes held for a second too long before he turned away. “Thanks.” He shoved it casually behind his back revealing that he had read one too many spy capers as a boy. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Try to stay out of trouble.” He did not look at her again but she watched him until finally his tall upright figure was swallowed up by the night.

Closing the ill-fitting metal door behind her she turned her focus to the cramped confines of what could be at best described as an outbuilding and at worst as a shack. Several old candles lit the space, the flames contorting like gymnasts with every wheezy breath of wind which punched through any gaps in the structure of the building. A nearby tree brushed finger-like twigs across the corrugated frame and she released a shaky breath. Sinking to the floor she rested her head on her knees, recollecting how a yoga teacher had once walked out of the class in exasperation when she had failed to master the simple act of breathing.

“Right.” She said with a burst of false cheerfulness, looking across at her canine companion, in an attempt to not relive every horror movie she’d ever sat through. “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. Do you know it? It’s got to be one of the longest poems I’ve had the misfortune to suffer through in school. So I imagine it’ll take me so long to recite it the Professor will be back before we know it.” The dog wagged its tail in an unhelpful reply. “Erm okay, let me think. How does it go? Water, water, everywhere, Nor any drop to drink.” She screwed up her eyes hoping to rekindle her memory, but unfortunately nothing more was forthcoming. “Damn. I thought I knew more of it than that. Well so much for that well thought out plan.”

She lapsed into a deadening silence which was broken only by the over loud ticking of her wristwatch. Time inched ever slower around its circumference and she felt herself going cross-eyed as she willed the hands to move faster. She closed her eyes and restrained herself from peeking down at the face more than twice a minute.

The pitiful moaning of her stomach eventually reminded her that whilst the mariner might have been thirsty she was quite hungry. She had noticed earlier what looked promisingly to be like camping equipment. If luck was on her side then there might be some left over tinned spam or something that was as equally appetising to only those who were starving.

Lurching to her feet she began to search through the odds and ends that were stacked on the bowing shelves. She shuddered when a thick cobweb brushed across her hand but hunger made her soldier onwards. After a thorough search she drew out a couple of tins and moved into a better light so that she could read their labels. Cracking open the least offending item that was a mere two years out of date, she scooped out the contents with her finger and nibbled gingerly. The dog at her feet growled. She wrinkled her nose at the taste but scoffed the rest regardless. Outdated food was less likely to kill her than men with guns.

Setting down the tin she began to pull absentmindedly at the unravelling edge of the tatty scarf. She twiddled the length around and around her finger. Wallowing in the events of the past day she unwound the thread and glanced down at the spiralling length of wool. It was then that she noted the brownish-red stain. Her gaze tracked slowly in wide-eyed horror to her hands. Blood welled from a small cut where a jagged metal edge must have snared her skin as she had attempted to open the Fort-Knox that was the ancient tin lid. Yet her heart lurched uncomfortably in her chest as the sight vividly recalled the blood which had only a few hours earlier swathed her skin.

Abruptly did she realise what had felt so wrong about the Professor’s exit. Suddenly did she know what had provoked her attention about the photograph back in his house. Rapidly did she begin to feel less than safe at the prospect of his return. It had been so overwhelmingly obvious she felt a fool for overlooking it. The man, whose arm had been slung so familiarly around the Professor’s shoulders as they leant on the union bar, was familiar to her also. It was his blood after all that had been encrusted in her nails. Panic seized her as frenzied unanswerable questions presented themselves. Was the Professor in on it all along? Had he lured her to this deserted outbuilding? Was he bringing back those men to kill her?

The dog growled again and suddenly she realised that it wasn’t in jealously of some unpalatable and undeterminable tinned paste but presumably at some noise from outside. Grabbing a solid looking travelling frying pan from the shelf she crept to the door. There was most definitely someone outside. And that someone was most definitely entering the building as the door gave its tell-tale scrape of admission. A tall figure stood unidentifiable in the darkness, but she registered the glimpse of light shining off the barrel of a gun. With a frightened squeak she mustered all her strength and clobbered the man about the head with the frying pan.

Clank!

“Bloody hell!”

Meis Amicis

Nihil cum amicitia possum comparare; di hominibus nihil melius dant. Pecuniam alii malunt; alii, corpora sana; alii, famam gloriamque; alii, voluptates – sed hi viri nimium errant, quoniam illa sunt incerta et ex fortuna veniunt, non ex sapientia. Amicitia enim ex sapientia et amore et moribus bonis et virtute venit; sine virtute amicitia non potest esse. Si nullos amicos habes, habes vitam tyranni; si invenies amicum verum, vita tua erit beata. - Cicero, De Amicitia, excerpts.

I am able to compare nothing with friendship; the gods give to men nothing better. Some prefer money; others healthy bodies; some fame and glory; others pleasures – but these men err excessively, since those things are uncertain and come from fortune, not from wisdom. Truly friendship comes from wisdom and love and good morals and virtue; without virtue friendship is not able to be. If you have no friends, you have the life a tyrant; if you will find a true friend, your life will be blessed.

York In Pictures

This week involved a brief excursion to lovely York, where I managed to squeeze in some sightseeing amongst train cancellations and a pat-myself-on-the-back slice of cake. York is an amazing city and my photographs do not really do the place justice, but as they say that a picture is worth a thousand words, here are a few of the marvellous things that can be found in York.

A view of York from the city wall.

One of the city bars (or gates) that punctuated the wall.

York’s castle, otherwise known as Clifford’s Tower.

The Shambles is one of the old streets of York and still retains some medieval timber-framed buildings.

It is thought that near this place Constantine the Great was declared Roman Emperor.

The West Front of York Minster.

The nave is one of the most substantial parts of St Mary’s Abbey still standing.

A monstrous capital from St Mary’s Abbey.

This little face was apparently meant to discourage monks from spending too much time in the Warming Room!

And finally no trip would be complete without finding at least a few medieval tiles.

Death to Palaeography III...

In which our heroine gets into yet another hairy situation...

She gawped at the gun hanging ineffectively off her little finger. She couldn’t have been more surprised if the Professor had handed her an essay with glowing praise nestled within its margins.

“Wait - ” She mumbled incoherently to his retreating back. Left alone fear gripped her hard and fast, squeezing at her bladder until she began to fidget, hopping from foot to foot like a toddler. Did he ever tell her where the bathroom was? It was not something the situation called for, she was hardly a guest. And intrepid heroines of bestselling thrillers never felt the call of nature. But she was far from intrepid, a hopeless heroine, and in rather desperate need of the bathroom.

Resignedly she crept to the doorway and tentatively stuck her head around the corner. Nothing. It was utterly black so really she was unable to tell if there was something, but fervently she hoped that there was nothing. Attempting to engage the logical part of her brain she rationalised that such an old and big house was bound to have a downstairs cloakroom. Feeling a smidgen braver with every shuffling socked step she took, she edged towards the back of the house.

Feeling around in the gloom her hand grasped the first door knob she came across. She pushed. Nothing happened. Frowning to herself she pushed again. The door opened with a less than silent click that seemed to echo forever in the darkness. Edging around the door she stepped into the newly discovered room. It wasn’t a bathroom, but the thought of having to continue her search in the dark and the men waiting outside, made her rapidly decide that perhaps after all she wasn’t quite so desperate for that cloakroom.

Her gaze wandered in interest from one framed photograph to the next which hung neatly across the walls. It was the Professor. But a young Professor. Well not a professor at all back then, but just another young student in the union bar with aspirations of changing the world. Yet there was something in the photographs which caught her eye, something which she couldn’t explain, yet was akin to the niggling of the memory when asked a particularly challenging but also quite obvious pub quiz question.

Her perusal of these photographs was so consuming that she almost didn’t hear the noise. The breathing, or was it snuffling? And was that a shifting of weight on the old floorboards? Eyes wide with fear she backed away into the corner of the room clutching the gun to her chest like a beloved rag-doll. And then she was falling, the floorboards spiralling, and her chin catching the corner cabinet. She grunted with pain and as she felt something brush past her legs she let out a scream.

Two eyes looked at her dolefully in the gloom and as the adrenalin dispersed through her body she felt herself tremble with laughter. It was a dog. A rather cute bundle of white fur that continued to study her as if thinking to itself – what on earth is that crazy woman doing? The crazy woman rubbed her bashed chin and then held out a hand as if in greeting. Perhaps a foolish gesture but seemingly the dog proffered its own small paw and was very soon settled contentedly in her lap.

Stroking the soft fur and feeling its warm presence she began to feel steadier. The whole day had left her reeling and she wondered perhaps if she had imagined it all. She thought she had read somewhere about people who didn’t have breakfast and then began to hallucinate by lunchtime. And she had skipped breakfast in a last ditch attempt to banish the few extra pounds she had gained over an indulgent Christmas. It was much more likely that the lack of nourishment had induced some half-crazed daydreams rather than that there was a half-crazed murderer after her.

Suddenly an all too-real-and-not-at-all-imagined hand brushed her shoulder and as she gulped in the breath to scream it clamped over her mouth.

“Quiet you fool.” Hissed the familiar deep voice of the Professor. “Now I’m going to remove my hand and I want you to remain silent for once in your life. Can you do that at least?” She gave a swift jerky nod and took a loud breath once he had released her. She could feel, if not see in the dim light, the sharp look that he gave her. “There are three men at the door. And from the look of them I don’t think they’re here to collect for charity. It’s dark and if we can stay quiet,” he paused for emphasis, “they might think we’re out. But just in case they decide to come and take an uninvited look around, I say that we should leave from the back of the house and wait it out elsewhere.” In the face of such organised and practical instruction she felt it unnecessary to do anything except to continue nodding her agreement. “I see you met my dog. Well he better come too I suppose. Damn nuisance.” She was not quite certain whether he was referring to herself or the dog, but as she had no intention of letting go off the comforting bundle of fur she decided it wasn’t the best time to question him.

Snatching her hand he escorted her out of the room and into the kitchen in as much time as it had taken her to search the first room in the long hall. Clearly the Professor ate his carrots for he did not stumble or curse once on the weaving journey. Without further ado he shoved her feet into an old pair of wellingtons and meekly she allowed him to wrap a badly knitted scarf about her neck just as he wrapped a collar and lead around the dog. Pulling back the bolts he lead the way out and as the back door clattered behind her she jumped guiltily as the Professor turned back,

“Good God girl can’t you do anything!?” He would have exploded if only he hadn’t needed to be quiet.

“Actually I’m rather a good harpist.” She said with wounded pride. His stern mouth twitched at the corners with amusement and when he took her hand again there was less tension in his grasp. Though he did not show it as readily as she did, the Professor was scared, and that thought was a rather peculiar reassurance.

When she saw where the Professor was leading her she dug her heels into the boggy ground like a stubborn mule. She loathed walking up hills, especially muddy hills, and most especially muddy hills in the immense darkness that enveloped the countryside. However she was given little choice as she was soon dragged unceremoniously across the treacherously slippery ground, her free hand frantically trying to catch the tangled ribbons of hair that were blown across her face.

It seemed to her a long time before they entered an old outbuilding which sat on the outlying reaches of the grounds surrounding the Professor’s sprawling home. Hands reddened by the biting wind the Professor turned to her and asked solemnly,

“I suppose you better tell me now what it said.”

“I cannot remember,” she said apologetically, “it was written in Latin you see.” He leaned his head against the wall tiredly. “I did write down though.” He looked up in new interest.

“Well when were you going to show it to me?” She held out her empty hands and was almost in tears when she eventually replied,

“I can’t. I left it in my handbag. And that’s back in your car.”

The Juggler’s Son...

Sybil de Walter was not what you would consider to be much of a heroine for a story. For two and twenty years she had led a perfectly amiable and uneventful life. She had suffered no childhood calamities, neither of her parents had died from horrific pestilences and she had not been married off to some dreadful old man with creepy hands. Life was never particularly easy, but yet it was never particularly hard either.

Her self-confessed best feature was the ability to stamp and twist her feet in intricate ways to ring the tiny bells that were tied about her ankles. You see Sybil was a dancer, the offspring of a minstrel father and a musical mother. And in that family which so prided itself on its romantic and fantastical abilities Sybil was found sadly wanting. Not that her family would tell her such, for she was a good daughter and a hard worker, but they could not deny the fact that hers was certainly not the face which would inspire any great chivalric feats of arms.

She was a simple, good-humoured and sturdy sort of girl, not prone to screaming or fainting-fits or peculiar flights of fancy. That was until she fell in love. For Sybil suffered from the particular misfortune of falling in love with her best friend. To her knowledge this was possibly one of the most ignoble forms of love to find oneself in. Courtly love, as sung by her father, was full of tales of burning passions for wandering troubadours or of dashing knights who slowly win the admiration of a fine lady. There was something altogether disappointing with falling in love with the familiar features of a friend who would never dream of directing heated glances your way, let alone composing a poetic verse to your beauty.

It was the kind of love that subtly crept upon you, slowly, silently, until when finally you are aware of its presence it feels as if it has always been there. It was the kind of love that developed from a friendly pat on the back and careless offer of a bandage in times of injury, to anxious hovering by a candlelit bedside and shrieking shrilly for more hot water. It was the kind of love that could simultaneously make you flush with tongue-tied embarrassment and gabble on about mindless nonsense.

But the worst hardship for Sybil was that it was the kind of love of which could never ever be spoken about. It was a secret and she was not a secret-keeping kind of girl. For to tell a stranger you love them you lose nothing except perhaps a little pride. But to tell a friend you love them you risk losing everything that was there before that sneaky and contrary emotion called love reared its head. So she held her tongue and would always hold her tongue. Yet still she would think to herself as she listened with chin cupped in hand to the tales sung in her father’s clear voice, that he could not be compared to those heroes of courtly love. He was no hero for a story, he was infinitely better than all of them.

And so who was this friend who had captured her plain and honest heart? Who was this paragon of virtue and beauty? Well he was naught but the juggler’s son. But he was everything to Sybil de Walter.