the oak. I was strung up in very filthy rags and in the terror of being hanged I fear I befouled them even further.”
“That,” said Duncan, “is a question I cannot answer.”
“At least you accord me the courtesy of an honest reply,” said Ghost. “You did not growl or snarl at me.”
“There might be someone who has made a study of such matters who could give you an answer. Someone of the Church, perhaps.”
“Well, since I’m not likely soon to meet someone of the Church, methinks I can then do little about it. It is not too important, but it is something that has bothered me. I have mulled upon it.”
“I am sorry,” Duncan said.
“I have yet another question.”
“Ask it if you feel you must. An answer I’ll not promise.”
“My question,” said Ghost, “is why me? Not all people who die, not even all whose lives are ended violently or in shame, assume a ghostly guise. If all did, the world would be filled with ghosts. They’d be treading upon one another’s sheets. There’d be no room for the living.”
“Neither can I answer that one.”
“Actually,” said Ghost, “I was not a really sinful person. Rather, I was despicable and no one has ever told me that despicability is a sin. I had my sins, of course, as has everyone, but unless my understanding of sins is faulty, they were very small ones.”
“You really have your troubles, don’t you. You were complaining when we first met that you had no proper place to haunt.”
“I think if I had,” said Ghost, “I might be happier, although perhaps it is not intended that a ghost should be happy. Contented, perhaps. It might be proper for a ghost to feel contentment. Contentment, certainly, cannot be proscribed. If I had a place to haunt, then I’d have a task to do and could be about it. Although if it included the jangling of chains and making whooing noises, I would not like it much. If it was just slinking around and letting people catch small glimpses of me that might not be bad. Do you suppose that not having a place to haunt, not having a job to do, may be in the way of retribution for the way I lived? I don’t mind telling you, although I would not tell everyone and would not want you to bruit it about, that if I had wanted to I could have done some work, making an honest living instead of begging at the church. Light work, of course. I was never very strong; I was sickly as a child. I recall that it was the wonder of my parents” life that they managed to raise me.”
“You raise too many questions of philosophy,” said Duncan. “I cannot cope with them.”
“You say that you are going to Oxenford,” said Ghost. “Perhaps to confer with some great scholar there.
Otherwise, why would one go to Oxenford? I have heard that there are many great doctors of the Church gathered there and that among themselves they hold much learned discourse.”
“When we arrive,” said Duncan, “we undoubtedly will see some of the learned doctors.”
“Do you suppose some of them might have answers to my questions?”
“I cannot say for sure.”
“Would it be too forward to ask if I might travel with you?”
“Look,” said Duncan, becoming exasperated, “if you want to go to Oxenford you can easily and safely travel there yourself. You’re a free spirit. You are bound to no place that you must haunt. And in the shape you’re in, no one could lay a hand on you.”
Ghost shuddered. “By myself,” he said, “I’d be scared to death.”
“You’re already dead. No man can die a second time.”
“That is true,” said Ghost. “I had not thought of that. Lonesome, then. How about my loneliness. I know I’d be very lonesome if I tried to travel alone.”
“If you want to go with us,” said Duncan, “I can’t think of a thing we can do to stop you. But you’ll get no invitation.”
“If that’s the case,” said Ghost, “I shall go along with you.”
5
They had great slabs of ham for breakfast, with oaten cakes and honey. Conrad came in from outside to report that Daniel and Beauty had found good grazing in the corner of a nearby hay field and that Tiny had provided his own food by capturing a rabbit.
“In such a case,” said Duncan, “we can be on our way with good conscience. The bellies of all are full.”
“If you’re not in too much of a hurry,” said Andrew, the hermit, “there is one service you could do for me, which I would greatly appreciate.”
“If it did not take too much time,” said Duncan. “We owe you something. You furnished us shelter from the night and good company.”
“It should not take too long,” said Andrew. “It is but a small task for many hands and the strong back of a burro. It has to do with the harvesting of cabbages.”
“What is this talk of cabbages?” asked Conrad.
“Someone made an early garden,” said Andrew, “before the Harriers came. Neglected through the summer, it had grown until I discovered it. It is located not too far from the church, just a skip and jump from here. There is a mystery, however…”
“A mystery with cabbages?” Duncan asked, amused.
“Not with the cabbages. Not entirely with the cabbages, that is. But with other vegetables. The carrots and the rutabagas, the peas and beans. Someone has been stealing them.”
“And I suppose,” said Duncan, “that you have not been stealing them.”
“I found the garden,” Andrew said stiffly. “I have looked for this other person, but not too bravely, you understand, for I am not a warrior type and would scarce know what to do if I came upon him. Although I ofttimes have told myself that if he were not pugnacious, it would be comforting to have another person with whom to pass the time of day. But there are many fine cabbages, and it would be a pity should they go to waste, or should all be taken by this garden thief. I could harvest them myself, but it would take many trips.”
“We can spare the time,” Duncan told him, “in the name of Christian charity.”
“M’lord,” warned Conrad, “leagues we have to go.”
“Quit calling me my lord,” said Duncan. “If we do this chore of neighborliness we’ll undoubtedly travel with lighter hearts.”
“If you insist,” said Conrad. “I’ll catch up Beauty.”
The garden, which lay a stone’s throw back of the church, displayed a splendid array of vegetables growing among rampant weeds that in places reached waist high.
“You certainly did not break your back to keep the garden clean,” Duncan observed to Andrew.
“Too late when I discovered it,” protested Andrew. “The weeds had too good a start.”
There were three long rows of cabbages and they were splendid heads, large and firm. Conrad spread out a packsack cloth, and all of them got busy pulling up the cabbages, shaking off the dirt that clung to their roots before tossing them onto the cloth.
A voice spoke behind them. “Gentlemen,” it said. There was a sharp note of disapproval in the word.
The three of them turned swiftly. Tiny, spinning around to face the threat, growled deeply in his throat.
First Duncan saw the griffin and then he saw the woman who rode it and for a long moment he stood rooted to the ground.
The woman was dressed in leather breeches and a leather jacket, wore a white stock at her throat. In her right hand she carried a battle axe, its blade glistening in the sun.
“For weeks,” she said, in a calm and even voice, “I have been watching this scabby hermit stealing from the garden and did not begrudge him what he took, for skin and bones as he is, it seemed that he might need it. But I had never expected to find a gentleman of the realm joining him in theft.”
Duncan bowed. “My lady, we were simply assisting our friend in harvesting the cabbages. We had no knowledge that you, or anyone, might have better claim to this garden plot.”
