Drowned Ammet (11 page)

The news was a great blow to Ynen. He had looked forward to the Festival for months. He had
counted
on hitting Hadd with a rattle. He had dreamed of himself whirling the rattle round and round under Hadd's great pointed beak, closer and closer, and at last,
bash
. But now… It did not console Ynen in the least that he was allowed to come to the feast afterward. And it was the last straw to learn that his father was to be in the procession. Harl was quite content to stay in the safety of the Palace. Harchad, of course, would be busy supervising the soldiers and spies posted to keep Hadd safe. But someone in Hadd's family had to carry Libby Beer, and Hadd chose Navis. Navis was his most expendable son. Besides, Hadd did not like Navis much.

“It's not fair!” Ynen said to Hildy out of his disappointment. “Why is Father allowed in the procession, and not me?”

“Now you know how I feel,” Hildy said unsympathetically. Girls were never allowed in the procession at all.

When this news filtered down through devious ways to the Free Holanders, Siriol was rather pleased than otherwise. “Less chance of our Mitt being recognized,” he said.

The other safety measures were much more disturbing. In the week before the Festival, all boats were ordered to the far side of the harbor. Siriol had to move
Flower of Holand
to a distant mooring, where she was bumped and rubbed by six other boats crammed in round her. He grumbled furiously. He grumbled even more when, for two days before the Festival, no boats were allowed in or out of the harbor, and all were searched by soldiers every few hours. At the same time Harchad had all the tenements on the waterfront knocked down, and a large rubbly space cleared in front of the harbor. This was more serious. The street where Mitt was supposed to join the procession vanished. They had hastily to choose the next inland. Milda and Mitt were furious. They had lived in one of those tenements.

“The whole lot down, just to keep his nasty old pa safe!” said Mitt. “Talk about callous tyranny!”

“They should have come down years back,” said Hobin. “They were nothing but rats and bedbugs. And ‘callous tyranny' is the kind of talk I'm not having.”

“But those poor people are turned out in the street!” Milda protested.

“Well, it's cleaner there,” said Hobin. He was combing his hair and getting ready for a Guild meeting. “Anyway, to my certain knowledge, three trades have offered them room in their guildhalls, Gunsmiths included. But there's new houses being built for them, back in the Flate.”

“The Earl's building them houses?” Mitt asked incredulously.

“No,” said Hobin. “Would the Earl do a thing like that? No. It's one of the sons—Navis, I think.” He put on his good jacket and went away downstairs, as far as Mitt could see, rather annoyed with Navis for stealing the Gunsmiths' thunder.

“He'll come back talking of Waywold,” Mitt said as the door slammed. “You see. Still, it won't matter you going back there after tomorrow.”

“Mitt, I'm nervous!” said Milda. “All our planning!”

Mitt felt pleasantly excited, no more. “Don't you trust me or something?” he said. “Come on. Let's have a look at those clothes.”

Milda laughed excitedly as she fetched the red and yellow costume from its hiding place under her newest carpet. “I don't think you know the meaning of fear, Mitt! Honest, I don't! Here, now. See if they fit.”

It was a strange and rather ridiculous costume. The breeches, which came halfway down Mitt's thin calves, had one yellow leg and the other red. The jacket was red and yellow in the opposite halves. Mitt was a bit thin for the jacket. But he buttoned it up and added the jaunty cap, which had a double crown like a cock's crest. “How do I look?”

Milda was delighted. “Oh, you do look handsome! You look just like a merchant's son!”

Mitt looked in the little mirror, all prepared to agree. He felt very fine. And he had rather a shock. He looked good, it was true. But there were things in his face one never saw in the smooth faces of wealthy boys—lines which made it look old and shrewd. It was the knowing face of the poor city boys who ran about in the streets, fending for themselves. And yet—this was the thing which shocked Mitt most—it was a babyish face, too. Under the lines there were empty curves, emptier than in any boy's face he had ever seen, and his eyes stared as round and wide as his baby sisters'. Mitt made haste to alter it by putting on his most jokey smile. The empty cheeks puckered, and the eyes leered long and sly. Mitt flipped the crest of his cap. “Cock-a-doodle-do!” he said. “Roll on, Festival!” Then he turned away from the mirror and did not look in it again.

7

On the day of the Festival, Ham called for Hobin soon after dawn. That's got rid of him! Mitt thought, hearing them clattering away downstairs. To tell the truth, he had not slept as well as usual. But since this was a holiday, he stayed in bed another good hour. I reckon they'll be questioning me all tonight, he thought. I better get all the rest I can. But when Milda called him, he was very glad to jump up and put his own holiday clothes on, on top of the Festival costume. They were supposed to be spending the day at Siriol's house. So they went there first, Milda, the two babies, and Mitt, very bulky and warm in his double set of clothes. They were not to go to the side street until word came that the procession had already left the Palace.

The procession left the Palace a little before midday. Ynen watched it from the upstairs window of a merchant's painted house. He was crowded round with hearthmen and hearthmen's sons, all of whom had strict instructions to keep Ynen safe. Ynen could hardly see for them. His was the first and worst position anyway. The other boy cousins were all in houses from which they could see the cleared space by the harbor. Ynen could see it only if he craned, and if he craned, someone was sure to take hold of the back of his jacket and pull him respectfully back inside.

Ynen could hardly bear it, even before the first of the procession came past. When at last he heard the
thump, thump, thump
of the horsehair drums, followed by the squealing of scarnels and joined finally by the groaning of cruddles, his frustration was almost boundless. Perhaps he was not very musical. It struck him as the most exciting sound in the world. Then he heard shouting. Then the lovely, lovely din of the rattles. And at last came the first of the procession, ribbons fluttering from silly hats, banging and blowing and scraping as they marched, with a beribboned bull's head bobbing among them, and the lucky boys with rattles tearing in and out between their legs. Lucky red and yellow boys.

“Oh, why can't all the revolutionaries drop dead!” wailed one of the hearthmen's sons.

Ynen wished they would, too. But for Hands to the North, he would be down there in the stirring din and the bright colors. And here came Grandfather, looking strange and rather silly. Ynen had an excellent view of Hadd's cantankerous old face under a hat loaded with fruit and flowers. On Hadd's shoulders, and trailing behind him, was a magnificent creamy mantle, embroidered with scarlet and cherry red and gold. Over that was draped a garland of wheat-ears and grapes. Not much of the rest of Hadd was visible, because Old Ammet was in the way. Ynen had very little attention to spare for Old Ammet. All he saw was ears of wheat bristling at head, hands and feet, cherry ribbons, and a girdle of apples. Ynen was chiefly impressed with Hadd's skinny legs, cased in scarlet stockings, strutting underneath Old Ammet. Ynen giggled at the important way those legs walked. He had not realized before how vain his grandfather was and how much he enjoyed being an earl. At the sight of those red, strutting legs, Ynen longed to seize a rattle and whirl it in his grandfather's face. To his annoyance, the red and yellow boys were on their best behavior. None of them dared wave a rattle at Hadd. If only they would! Ynen thought, craning, and being pulled back.

Navis came next. Ynen giggled again. His father's feet were in buckled boots, so his legs did not look as ridiculous as Hadd's. But he had ribbons at his knees and fruit in his hat. And juice was coming out of Libby Beer and running into Navis's ribboned sleeves. Flies were following her. Navis was looking hot and bothered—most unusual for him—and obviously wondering if he could get Libby Beer to the harbor still in one piece.

Behind Navis were two merchants who had been pressed into the procession. One wore a hat with ears, the other a hat with horns. They looked right idiots, and they knew they did. All the boys at the window shrieked with laughter. Ynen leaned out again and yelled insults, which were drowned by the next batch of cruddle players. After that the procession was all music, things on sticks, boys with rattles, until it got smaller and smaller and wound downhill out of sight. Ynen sat back with a sigh. He desperately envied Hildy. She and the girl cousins, as the most important of Hadd's grandchildren, had seats at the window of a house on the very edge of the cleared space.

Mitt was by now in the side street, with Milda, Siriol, and Dideo, hastily climbing out of his own clothes. In front of them were the backs of the crowd lining the main street. They were solidly Free Holanders and their families. Most of them had been there since dawn to make sure of the position. Mitt could already hear the thumping and skrawking of the procession, very near. As he passed his jacket to Siriol and put the crested cap on his head, a bull's head on a stick went by above people's heads. The noise was deafening.

“Be careful, Mitt,” said Siriol. “And remember you say, ‘I've come to meet Flind's niece,' to the one that meets the cart at Hoe. If he says, ‘She's expecting another little one,' then it's all right to go with him. Got that?”

“Yes, all in my head,” Mitt said, attending to this no more than he usually did when Siriol talked of such arrangements. The din of the scarnels was making the back of his legs jump.

“Old Ammet's coming!” said someone in the crowd. “Pass it back.”

“Old Ammet in sight.”

Siriol handed Dideo the lighted taper. Dideo bent over the bundle he was carrying.

“Oh, Mitt, be careful!” Milda said. She was smiling and looking sad, both at once. Mitt looked from her to the sister in her arms, and then down at the other sister, unsteadily standing and holding Milda's hand. They upset him. He could not think of anything to say to them.

He was glad when Dideo passed him a bundle on a strap. It was scarlet to match Mitt's left side, and it had a stiff twist of paper coming out of it, which sent off little puffs of smoke. “There,” said Dideo, and his face was netted in smiles. “That's long enough to last to the cleared space.” He patted Mitt's shoulder as he hung the bag on it.