The Widow and the King by John Dickinson Read Free Book Online Page B

water? Thanks.’ He took the bottle, and drank.
    Ambrose waited, puzzled but pleased at the same time. He wasn't sure why the man had put away the book, or what he had meant about fathers. But the man was glad to get the water, and didn't seem to mind that Ambrose had inadvertently half-shut the door on him.
    The brown face of a goat peered through the doorway. Ambrose shooed it back inside. In a moment he would invite the man in anyway.
    ‘Thanks,’ said the man again. He seemed to have drunk the bottle dry. But he was in no hurry to get up. ‘So … you've lived here all your life, have you? Seems to me I've been travelling for half of mine. Tell me now. Is there anywhere around here I might bathe?’
    Ambrose thought. ‘I could draw a pail …’
    ‘All over, I meant,’ the man said.
    Ambrose stared at him. The man grinned again.
    ‘I'm just a
bit
dusty, you see,’ he said.
    ‘There's the stream back down at the bottom of the valley,’ Ambrose said. ‘You must have crossed it. On your way here …’
    He hesitated. He could tell from the man's look that that was not what was wanted.
    ‘Or …’
    ‘Or?’
    Ambrose hesitated again. You
couldn't
go up to the pool. Not to bathe, surely. That would be …
    On the other hand, he had been about to go there himself, hadn't he?
    Why shouldn't they go – the two of them? It would be a real adventure.
    But that would mean going
inside
the ring … ‘Or?’ said the man again.
    ‘I think …’ said Ambrose.
    ‘Aun!’ cried Mother. ‘Is it really you?’
    They both started at the sound of her voice. The man scrambled to his feet. She was standing in the gateway. For a moment she was smiling with delight. Then, as the man stood, her smile faded. She frowned.
    ‘Your pardon, sir. I mistook you for an old friend.’
    ‘I … grieve to disappoint you, madam. I am not he.’
    The man finished with a movement that bent his body at the waist. Ambrose knew what it was, because she had taught him how to do it himself. It was a bow. It had always seemed silly to have to practise it when there was no one to bow to. This was the first proper bow he had ever seen anyone do.
    ‘You must come in, sir,’ she said. ‘Ambrose, the goats …’
    ‘I was keeping an eye on them,’ said Ambrose, surly because he was being rebuked in front of the stranger.
    They entered the gate-tunnel together, and Ambrose closed the gate firmly behind him. She led them across the outer yard to the second arch and unfastened the goatbarrier there. Again Ambrose fastened it behind them.
    In the inner yard the stranger stared curiously around him – at the throne, the buildings, the fountain. Mother looked at him closely.
    ‘Do you know the house of the Baron Lackmere, sir?’ she asked.
    ‘Your face recalls him to me.’
    The man hesitated. Then he said, ‘Your eyes do not deceive you, madam. My name is Raymonde diLackmere.’ He bowed once more. Ambrose bowed, too.
    She smiled again, broadly.
    ‘Then sir, you are most welcome, for your father's sake and your own. And I give thanks to Michael, that he has guarded you on your journey, and to Raphael, for you are safe come.’
    ‘Thank them indeed,’ said the man. ‘If I may know … ?’
    ‘Your father knew me first as Phaedra, daughter of the Warden of Trant, and later as the Countess of Tarceny.’
    ‘O-oh,’ said the man slowly, as if he had suddenly understood something. He bowed again. Ambrose bowed again, too, and wondered when either of them would notice. At the moment they seemed to have eyes only for each other. Now the man was looking at her narrowly. Maybe he was trying to decide what sort of woman she was – what she knew, why she was here. And she wassmiling again, smiling broadly, as if she had just been given a wonderful and unexpected present.
    ‘Is your father well?’ she asked. ‘Has he sent you to me?’
    ‘He is in good health,’ the man said. ‘And no, I am here by chance. My horse died and I was lost. I