At this remark he seemed to relax, and turned from me to resume his practice. But his aim seemed less sure than before, and two of his throws would have drawn blood from under the arm of the girl had it been her at the planks rather than a tracing.
I remained at the mark as Walter retrieved his blades. As I watched him tug his knives loose from the plank, it struck me, so that my hand sought my forehead: Walter Tanner wore a pale green cotehardie.
I recovered from the shock of this discovery before Walter turned to resume his place at the mark. He scuffed the line deeper in the mud and began his third practice round.
“Was your sister the object of your blades before she ran off?”
“Aye,” he replied, without turning from his occupation.
“You did not fear to wound your own sister with a misplaced throw?”
“I know my competence.”
“But did not a thought of what a slip of your hand might do never shake your aim before a throw?” I asked.
“Oh, I thought of it,” he admitted, “but such musing never displaced my aim.”
“Your work must take great courage,” I complimented him, “to perform with the life of another in peril.”
“There is no peril,” Walter scoffed. “I have said, I do not miss my mark.” He hesitated briefly, and I knew a disquiet thought had crossed his mind.
“And courage for the lass who faces your blades as they whirl toward her.”
Aye. Some we’ve tried who cannot do it. They scream and run when I launch the first dagger.”
“But not the maid you have now?”
“Nay. She’s not fearful, now she sees what I can do; she will even keep her eyes open and smile to the throng.”
“Others…your sister…would shut their eyes?” I asked.
“Aye. ’Twas the cause of her only wound.”
“Oh?”
“Aye. She took her place at the boards, an’ as I released the first dagger she moved her hand — her eyes bein’ fastened shut, she saw not the blade on its way.”
“It struck her, then?” I asked.
“Aye,” he admitted, pursing his lips. “The blade pierced her hand and pinned it to the plank. But when we released her and bandaged the wound she wished to continue the performance. What applause she gained, and coin also, when I had done.”
“Was she much injured?”
“Aye. Could not carry on her act for the pain in her hand. Not able to do handstands or such for a month and more. But she was sound again, an’ could do all after three months. She never again moved when she’d got in place, so such a thing never happened again.”
“The knife may have shattered a bone in her hand as it passed through,” I mused.
“I thought so,” Walter agreed. “Else she would have been whole the sooner.”
As we spoke I noted a seam in Walter’s cotehardie where a tear had been repaired. It was much like the unmended cut in Sir Robert’s blue cotehardie found in the coppiced woods. But torn and mended garments are common enough among the poor. I wear such myself.
“I will disturb your training no longer,” I promised. “I look forward to your performance this day.”
Walter Tanner went back to his practice and I sauntered off between the tents, seeking some other member of the troupe. I found one. One of the jugglers was stretching and scratching himself, standing between his tent and a fire on which a kettle of pottage was steaming.
“Breakfast?” I asked.
“And supper,” he replied.
“Well…Lord Gilbert will feed you well at dinner for your performance again this day.”
“I trust so. He did so yesterday. It is well to dine at a lord’s table rather than on fare one must catch out of hand.”
I sniffed the vapor rising from the pottage and the juggler laughed. “Pork; rare enough in our pot. A bit o’ the boar Lord Gilbert’s kitchen gave us yestere’en.”
“This life you lead is a hard one, then?”
“Life is hard for all, ’cept lords an’ ladies, I suppose. An’ even them, sometimes. ’Tis better, what I do, than livin’ as villein at some lord’s pleasure an’ owin’ work week an’ all.”
“You will be another day here, then off to Gloucester and perhaps Bristol, I am told.”
“Aye,” he replied, holding his hands to the fire. “Might be some warmer there…closer to t’sea.”
I agreed that might be so, as the juggler moved even closer to the fire and turned his hands to the flames.
“’Tis hard to do what I do an’ my hands be cold. I’m not so young; my fingers grow stiff when winter comes.”
“Lord Gilbert’s hall will be warm.”
“Aye,” he agreed. “It would be well to toss the balls an’ knives there ’til sun returns,” he grinned ruefully, “’specially t’knives.”
“Have you ever caught a knife wrong?” I asked. In answer he drew his hands from the fire and lifted his palms to me. I saw the scars of several wounds across his hands — one fairly new, and yet red.
“Ah, I see. And this is more likely to happen when ’tis cold?” I asked.
“It is,” he nodded in agreement.
“Then I shall ask Lord Gilbert to provide a warm blaze in the great hall,” I smiled. “I am Hugh de Singleton, surgeon in Lord Gilbert’s service on his lands in Bampton.”
“Oh…I remember Bampton. We did well there.”
“But for losing your contortionist and her lad,” I finished his remark for him.
“Aye, we did so,” he muttered.
“She was Hamo’s daughter, I heard.”
“She was. A pert lass.”
“She was, you say. But surely she is living yet…somewhere?”
I watched closely for the juggler’s reaction to my assertion. He shrugged and looked away. “’Twas but a manner of speakin’. Hamo says she’ll come round when she thinks time an’ enough has passed an’ he won’t throttle the lad.”
“Will that time come soon?”
“Aye. It has already,” the juggler sighed.
“Hamo misses his daughter greatly, then?”
“He does. I’ve heard ’im call her name in the night…when he thinks all asleep.”
“How old was the girl?”
“Ah…seventeen, perhaps.”
“And the lad?” I asked.
“They were of an age. Grew up together,” he replied.
“The boy was part of your company when a child?”
“Aye. Father juggled, like me, an’ ’is ma was acrobat ’til he come ’long. But she stood for the knife-thrower we had then ’til she perished of t’black death when first it came on t’land.” He crossed himself as memory of that time rolled across him.
“The lad’s father perished then, also?”
“Nay. Took to his bed six, seven years ago just after Candlemas an’ never rose from it. He was older, like.”
“So Hamo let the boy stay on? What did he do to earn his keep?”
“’Bout anything Hamo’d ask; he was right willin’ to please. Saw to t’horses and carts, mostly. He was learnin’ to juggle; maybe take my place when I lose my competence.”
“Will that be soon?” I asked.
“Nay,” he chuckled. “So long as I keep me hands warm.”
“Was Hamo surprised,” I asked, “when they left the troupe together?”
