Post of the Month

~ November 2006 ~

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Timothy ~ Written by Rhys.  Posted on the HoS Yahoo group October 2005.

"Hey," The rough voice looming above him was accompanied by an equally rough hand on his shoulder giving him a shake. Timothy stirred and sighed at the voice and the touch jerking him out of sleep.

"Hey. Blind man." The hand jabbed at him more; Timothy jerked his head up fromwhere it had been resting on his arms on the alehouse table and jerked open his eyes. He recognised the voice looming above him; the voice of the man who kept the Bell alehouse.

"You told me to wake you when it was dawn," said the alehouse keeper, and moved away from the table.

Timothy straightened up more, rubbed a hand across his sleepy face, and turned his head to listen around him. The interior of the Bell was still and silent, apart from the alehouse keeper. No-one else was present. He wondered how late the night had been when he had fallen asleep here. Late, that was certain. He vaguely remembered asking the alehouse keeper to wake him at dawn before laying his head down against his arms and falling asleep.

He was both thirsty and hungry. There had been food on the table when he had fallen asleep - his platter of bread and mutton, and half a beaker of ale. The beaker had been on his right. Timothy reached out and felt over the table in search, but found nothing. He widened his search, using both hands to feel over the table, but found nothing; the table was bare. Either the food and ale had been taken, or cleared away. He cursed inwardly. He wished people wouldn't move things he had been using without letting him know.

The keeper of the Bell had moved to a table across the cramped space of the alehouse; Timothy turned his head to listen to the man's movements there. Therecame the abrasive swift sounds of a scrubbing brush being worked over that table in cleaning.

"Is it light?" Timothy asked across to the alehouse keeper, rubbing the back of his stiff neck.

The man gave a brief unamused laugh. "Of course it's light, you blind idiot. It's dawn, isn't it?"

Timothy frowned to himself at the reply but decided to let the accusation of idiot go without retaliating. From very early in life he had found his actions spoke more to sighted people than any protestations.

"Never seen you around here before," the alehouse keepers voice continued across to him together with the sound of the scrubbing brush.

"I'm not one of the blind beggars of Nottingham, no," Timothy answered sarcastically. "I was here eleven years ago and came to this alehouse - but it had a different owner back then."

"Aye. That would have been my uncle. But he died six year back." The alehouse keeper's voice carried a note of curiosity. "What you come back here then, for? Ain't you got anyone to look after you?"

Timothy rose in one easy graceful movement, straightening the front of his rumpled jerkin. "I look after myself."

The man was still curious. "So what are you doing here in Nottingham?"

"I'm looking for work," Timothy answered. It was partly the truth.

There came another brief unamused laugh. "What on earth is someone like you good for? You're stone blind and you think someone's going to employ you? You haven't a hope."

Timothy directed a slight and what he hoped was a sarcastic smile in the direction of the man. "Well, we'll see about that. I happen to be an eternal optimist."

"Hah," the man said, and continued to move around the tables, cleaning them.

Where he stood, the fingers of one hand in contact with the edge of his table, Timothy turned his head to listen, tracking the man's ever-changing location as he moved around the deserted alehouse. "You serve better than average fare here. I noticed that last night. Your bread is good, so too your pies. You don't have an oven on the premises - so who's your supplier?"

There came the scrape of a bench being up-righted across the alehouse. "Henri de Normanville the baker."

"So he's still here in Nottingham, is he," Timothy said softly half to himself and gave a slight smile.

The keeper of the Bell straightened up from setting the bench upright and he watched the young man with a mix of curiosity and suspicion. He didn't know what to make of this individual. All the blind he knew were old or infirm, wore tattered rags, were crouched up or hunched over in the gutters, groping helplessly around them and imploring in pathetic voices for money. This young man was tall and slim and was dressed plainly but well. Moreover he stood tall and straight as though he were proud of his blindness, not ashamed of it, and he presented a seemingly calm and unafraid face to the world around him that he could not see. He did not seem to be fazed by the fact he could not see what was happening around him. It did not even seem to bother or upset him at all. The alehouse keeper wondered.

Timothy felt for his cloak which lay on the bench beside where he stood and stuffed it into his backpack which also lay on the bench, aware that he was being observed by the man. When a person suddenly went silent and stilled their movements like that, it usually meant they were staring at him because he was blind. He had learnt to tell a lot of the time when someone was staring at him and it bothered him not.

He addressed the alehouse keeper. "Tell me, does Henri de Normanville the baker still hold the same premises in Long Row that he did eleven years ago?"

"Aye, that he does," the keeper of the Bell answered.

Timothy gave a thoughtful frown to himself at hearing this piece of news, then felt for his stick which was propped against the edge of the table, and took it into his hand.

He addressed the ale-house keeper once more. "Do you still have the well in your yard?"

"Aye," the man grunted in response, returning to his scrubbing of a table.

Timothy gave a smile in the man's direction. "Then I bid you good-day. Doubtless I shall visit your excellent establishment again whilst I'm in Nottingham."

He oriented himself, remembering that the door was across the far side of the alehouse There was no draft sweeping his face and hair from that direction to indicate where exactly the door was, but he could find it. One of the first rules of survival - always remember where the door was. He walked forwards, sweeping his stick from side to side before him, negotiating his way round a clutter of rickety trestle-tables and benches and stools, and he came up against the closed door.

The heavy oak door yielded with a drawn out creak as Timothy pushed his weight against it, hanging onto the large iron ring that served as a handle. He poked his head outside and listened. The breeze blew his hair softly; immediately he felt the warmth of an early-morning sun on his face.

The day promised to be hot.

The sharpness of the world met all of Timothy's senses in a glorious flood as soon as he stepped outside. People moving past him; busy, purposeful movements; carts rumbling over the cobbles of the space that was the market place before him. He paused where he stood just outside the alehouse and he listened to the sounds that criss-crossed over the market-square, refreshing his memory of how large a space it was.

The first time he had come here, it had been with Tuck. He had been twelve years old, and he remembered entering Nottingham and walking through the market square, holding on to Tuck's stout arm for guidance, and being absolutely entranced by the brisk flow of movement around him; all the different sounds and scents to process and identify. He had not found this huge sprawl of a town frightening - indeed he had found it exciting, exhilarating...so different from Thornton and the villages near the abbey which he frequented.

As they had walked through Nottingham that first time, Tuck had described to him what was around him; the large market cross in the middle of the market-square, the way the homes rose two stories above him and overhung the narrowest streets so at places they blocked out the light; the bright liveries of servants and nobles who passed them by - cloth of gold, azure blue, horse-trappings of scarlet and silver which glinted in the sunlight. The twelve year old Timothy had listened avidly. Colours and light were meaningless to him, they did not exist to him; sunlight and azure blue and scarlet were words that were not important to his understanding of the world - but they were important to sighted people, so it was best to pay at least some attention to them and learn a little about them in an intellectual sense so he did not come across as stupid to sighted people. He had learnt very early on in his life that many sighted people considered the blind hapless and stupid - a misconception he had always been happy to set straight.

After that first visit here at age twelve, he had often accompanied Tuck to Nottingham. Tuck had often been the one whom Father Lawrence at Thornton Abbey had sent to Nottingham on various errands, and for the next three years of Timothy's life, he had visited the town with Tuck at least a dozen times. Timothy had never been frightened of exploring any new and unfamiliar surroundings and before his first visit to Nottingham was over he had been confidently tapping his way along the maze of streets in Nottingham, exploring whatever he encountered and mapping out his surroundings in his own way. Tuck had goodnaturedly ambled along beside him and had seemed to enjoy watching Timothy explore and learn. He always had done so, Timothy remembered now; Tuck had always encouraged him and given him the freedom to discover for himself. Discovering for oneself was so much more satisfying than simply being told about things around him by sighted people.

It was thanks to Tuck allowing him to explore Nottingham so thoroughly that Timothy could now bring back to his memory a mental and sensory map of this crowded town. He stood still, listening to the sounds of the market and now let that map unfold in his mind.

Timothy turned away from the sounds of the market-square, and swept his stick out to his right. It found the wall of the Bell, and using the wall of the alehouse as his guideline, Timothy followed it along a few yards, and turned its corner, into the small yard at the back of the alehouse.

It was a small yard, roughly cobbled. Timothy remembered it from eleven years ago, when it had boasted several ramshackle stables for the steeds of more well-to-do travellers who stayed at the Bell. It seemed the stables were still there, for across the yard he could hear the steady smooth strokes of a person grooming a horse which stood there, occasionally snorting.

The well was in the middle of the yard; he could hear someone already there at it - a man - sloshing water from one pail to another. Timothy tapped his way towards the sound.

His stick hit the stone wall of the well; he put out his hand and felt before him and his fingers met on the curving stone wall at waist height. He felt over it in exploration, well aware the other presence at the well was staring at him, though not a word was said.

He could hear the pail swinging where it was suspended above the well. He reached up his hand and felt around, and found the handle. He dropped the bucket on its rope into the depths of the well, hearing the echoing splash from deep below and then employed the winding handle. There came a drag of a full wooden bucket off the well wall opposite him, a resultant grunt from the man as he felt its weight, and then the presence moved away across the yard towards the horse being groomed, the footsteps and sloshing of the water in the bucket receding.

The summer in England was so far proving hot and dry, and the water-level in the well was far down. Discarding his backpack at his feet and propping his guiding-stick against the well wall, Timothy doggedly kept winding on the well handle, feeling all the muscles in his arms at work. The well handle was stiff, but he was young and fit, and soon the sound of the leaking bucket was drawn up to his face level, whereupon he reached out and found it, and drew it over to stand on the wall of the well.

Timothy was not such a fool as to drink from a town well. Instead, he cupped his hands into the water and dashed it against his face in the hope that it would clear his head.

He sighed as the cool film of liquid lingered against his face, and for a moment he stood still, his hands over his face, his fingers spanned across his forehead. His head vaguely ached - too much ale the previous evening. He had played dominoes with two merchants from Lincoln who had sat at his table in the Bell. They had been fascinated that he could play, though blind, by feeling the dots carved on the wooden tablets. Timothy grinned to himself, remembering their underestimation of him and his subsequent taking advantage of that. He had bet them in good humour a meal and ale on the outcome of the game, and had beaten them soundly. They had eaten together and talked for much of the evening.

Yester-eve had been enjoyable. He had arrived safely in Nottingham, found the layout of it had scarce changed from his last visit eleven years ago and had found his way to the Bell alehouse without problem. There, he had been able to relax and enjoy himself, listen to all the news and gossip circulating around him whilst he oriented himself with his new surroundings; after weeks of walking from Southampton along a multitude of roads and trackways, usually only encountering small villages and inns which had grown up alongside those routes, he had to get used to living in a bustling busy place such as Nottingham once more. It was good to be back, to be once more in a familiar place.

But now, it was time to get down to business. For he did have business to attend to, and it lay at Nottingham Castle. And he was not facing who he had to face feeling unshaven and grimy.

Being blind and not being able to see himself was no excuse for looking unpresentable to sighted people. Over the years, since leaving Thornton, Timothy had quickly learnt how to use sighted people as his mirror. Their reactions had soon taught him what clothes to wear, what colours looked best on him in certain situations, how to have his hair. Women had taught him a lot of that - amongst other things....

Timothy delved into the backpack at his feet, found the small cake of soap he possessed wrapped up in a piece of cloth, and dipping the cake into the bucket of water resting on the well wall, he lathered it between his hands and rubbed the lather over his chin and throat. Taking his dagger from his belt, he stood at the well and scraped the stubble from his face until it felt smooth, then casting off his shirt and jerkin, he washed from the bucket. Rubbing himself dry with his cloak, he pulled on shirt and jerkin, lacing up the front and sleeves neatly and buckled his belt around his slim waist once more.

He leaned both hands on the edge of the well wall, and drew a deep breath, as though to prepare himself. He was ready. Let the day bring what it would. He had waited long for it.

He reached out to his side where his stick was propped against the well wall and took it up. Turning around from where he had faced the well, he leant back against the well wall, running his fingers slowly down the stick in thought, and his mind went back to the past, to three months ago, a dry and dusty day in Lisbon. The day he had left. Standing in one of the deserted quiet courtyards of the palace of Malfada, a 12 year old princess of Portugal, where his master Gilbert de Guesclin and he had been employed as cook and assistant cook to the princesses household for the past three years. The hot courtyard had been heavy with the scent of jasmine, and birds had flitted about it as he had faced Gilbert and held out his hand in farewell that early morning.

_" A parting gift for you."_ Gilbert, master cook and his mentor, his voice thick with emotion, had taken Timothy's hand and pressed his fingers to a long, slender object proffered.

_"A guiding-stick? But I already have a guiding-stick."_ Touched by the unexpected farewell gift, Timothy had laughed a little, nevertheless, feeling over the gift, a little surprised, for Gilbert had never, refreshingly, made much of his blindness.

Gilbert's square hand had pressed his. _"Aye, but this is a fine one. Feel how fine."_ His hand had taken Timothy's and gently directed it down the smooth length of the slender stick, and then up to the metal knob. _"It's ebony - a hard wood. The knob is of silver. It looks very fine - very elegant."_

_"It FEELS very fine,"_ Timothy had agreed in admiration, feeling over the smooth curve of the metal knob.

_"It....was crafted especially for you. A farewell gift."_ Gilbert's hand had momentarily laid against his cheek in fondness, then placed on his shoulder as they had stood face to face. _"You've been the best apprentice I have ever had, Timothy."_

Timothy had smiled at the memories. _"Whenever you stayed at Thornton Abbey in my childhood, I always liked to be at your side in the kitchens and learn about the food you cooked as you prepared a meal for your then master. The food you prepared was so much more interesting than the fare the brothers prepared and ate. It smelt and felt and tasted so much more interesting."_

Gilbert had chuckled and his hand had patted Timothy's shoulder. _"Aye, I never forgot the little blind boy who lived at Thornton Abbey with the brothers and who was always sneaking into the kitchens when I was at work there and who constantly asked me questions about what I was cooking, and who always wanted to touch and smell and taste it. And when you found me in Nottingham, eleven years ago and begged me to take you on as your apprentice and to take you with me wherever I served - well, it was only something in your determination that made me agree. Who'd have thought that blind fifteen year old who stood before me in Nottingham eleven years ago would turn out to be the best apprentice I'd ever had?"_

Gilbert's voice had turned curious. _"Is it Nottingham you're returning to?"_

Timothy had been purposely vague. _"...Eventually. I have a hankering to go back to England. It's just time for a change, Gilbert. That's all."_

"Time for a change..." Timothy murmured to himself now in memory, running his fingers idly up and down the top third of the guiding-stick.

He explored the stick with appreciative fingers, well aware of its beauty. He appreciated Gilbert's thoughtfulness when having had it crafted especially for him, for it was the right length needed; when he lined it up against his body, the top of the knob came up to his shoulder. The ebony wood was smooth and the stick was thin but still very strong. The last two inches of the stick was encased in a sheath of metal, so it protected the tip and the end of the wood did not splinter or become worn down as he tapped it from side to side ahead of him as he walked. He appreciated that idea of his mentors when having this stick fashioned - he had walked long distances in past weeks, following endless-seeming roads and trackways north to Nottinghamshire. His intended destination.

Timothy paused and explored the guiding-stick with suddenly more curious fingers than appreciative ones, running his hand up the stick shaft to the knob at the top of it, and he felt over its shape, aware his face was twitching puzzled frowns. Hugo had remarked on his stick. He had thought Timothy had stolen it.

_Why?_ Timothy thought puzzled now.

He thought about it for a few moments longer, frowning to himself in thought, straying his fingers over the engraving he could feel on the knob, and then not able to find the answer to his question, cast it away.

_Hugo is bound to think the worst of me, whatever I do. I suppose it is reasonable for him to think in order to survive I have turned to thievery!_

Timothy gave a slight laugh to himself at the thought, and slinging his light backpack across his shoulders once more, he extended his stick before him, and turning away from the well, retraced his steps back across the yard, towards the sounds of the market square in the distance ahead of him. He felt his way around the corner of the alehouse, headed forwards several yards, and then his stick found uneven cobbles - the uneven cobbles of the market square.

Timothy stood still for a moment, running his stick idly from side to side ahead of him, and listened to the waking town all around him. He had not been in Nottingham for eleven years. He cast his mind back over the years, examining the mental layout he held in his head. Which route to take - which direction to go in?

The heat of the sun was strongest against his forehead, the front of his face. Wrong direction. Timothy turned his head until the full heat of the sun could be felt centered on his right cheek, and turning to his left to keep the heat focused on his right cheekbone, he then moved confidently forward.

Strangers found it difficult to believe that though he had no light perception, he could still guide himself by the sun.

He headed across the market-square. The area was beginning to bustle. All around him came the sounds of traders setting up creaking, squeaking trestle-tables. All manner of wares came into Timothy's perception, the delicious smell of bread and spices, the clean scent of soap. The aroma of herbs, and freshly-made candles. The clink of many small iron items - maybe nails - piled together on a wooden table. The warm scent of leather and the jingle of buckles and horse-trappings came across to him on his left as there came the sounds of saddlery being placed and arranged on a table. His hand brushed against the edge of a table on his right; he trailed his fingertips along the edge of it as he passed by it, and felt bolts of smooth silk and soft velvet stacked there. This table had a canopy; he heard it flap gently above his head in the summer morning breeze - and then something soft suddenly fluttered gently against his face. He immediately halted and put up his hand to explore, always wary in case he banged his head on something - and he found long bunches of ribbons for sale, hanging down from where they were arrayed along the support of the canopy, fluttering in the breeze. They fluttered into his face, tickling it, and he smiled at the sensation and fingered over the silken lengths in appreciation, before ducking his head beneath them and moving past.
Timothy headed onwards, sweeping his stick from side to side ahead of him, threading his way across the market square, past the sounds of trestle tables being set up on which merchants were displaying their wares. Every so often, his stick connected with a leg of such a table, or he came up against the edge of one unexpectedly, his tapping stick having gone under the space of it and therefore thinking the way ahead was clear. Each time he bumped into a table there came an aggrieved sound or moan from people nearby; he merely ignored them and felt his way around the table and headed forwards again, all the while, keeping the heat of the sun on his right cheek, using it to guide himself in the right direction across the wide yet crowded space of the market square.

He was used to feeling his way around markets. There had been plenty in Lisbon. This one was no different. Markets were a maze, but he was used to mazes. Ever since he could first remember, his surroundings had been a continual set of mazes for him to learn about and get to know. Each new maze presented its own challenges, but held very little fear for him.

There were plenty of people gathering in the market-place now; people coming from all directions and moving around the trestle-tables. Doing what the sighted called looking, thought Timothy. A detached way of observation, done from a distance, where hands didn't reach out to explore, fingers didn't feel, ears didn't close-focus in. Looking always sounded very unsatisfactory.

He came up against the edge of a trestle table where the pungent sweet smell of mixed spices suddenly flooded his nose. Instead of turning and feeling his way around the table to walk on in the direction he wished, he stopped and put out his hands to feel over the table, the surface of which was his waist height. His fingers met the smooth round shapes of earthenware bowls, containing all manner of spices, and his fingers lingeringly explored the contents of the bowls - delicate tubular curls of cinnamon, small spiky shapes of cloves, sweet and fragrant seeds of anise, and the lightly-wrinkled oval shapes of nutmegs.

"Oi," growled a man's voice behind the trestle table, "don't touch the goods unless you're going to buy."

"If you want me to buy, then you will have to let me touch," Timothy replied calmly. "It's the way I do things."

There came a silence, as though the man was looking at him and realising something. Sighted people were sometimes slow at doing that; realising from looking. Unperturbed, Timothy merely continued to finger in exploration over the bowls of spices arrayed before him and amusedly waited. Then the man spoke again, this time without the aggressive growl in his voice. Instead his voice held a note of fascination, curiosity and suspicion, all mixed together with the tone of one whom has had the truth finally dawn on them. "You're blind...."

Timothy grinned. "And I never buy any spices I haven't had a feel and a smell and a taste of first."

The spice-seller's voice was almost grudging in a way. "What do you want?"

Timothy ran his fingertips afresh around the shapes of the earthenware dishes on the cloth-covered trestle-table. He explored the contents of each dish, conveying a pinch of the powdery spices to first his nose to smell, and then to his tongue to taste. His searching fingers discovered the cool smooth marble shape of a pestle and mortar, and his fingers explored the contents, finding freshly cracked peppercorns. He took a pinch of them out and placed them on his palm and then lifted both hands to his face to briefly inhale the aroma of the seeds that the warmth of his hands brought forth.

"Fine black peppercorns you have," he remarked.

The spice-seller's voice was both bewildered and suspicious. "If you're blind...how do you know the peppercorns are black?"

Timothy grinned. "They are pungent and fiery. That's all I need to tell me. My nose and my tongue."

The man merely grunted in response.

Timothy straightened up from the table and turned his face in the direction of the seller across the space of the trestle-table. "I'm out of many of these spices. I want some anise and some cloves. A nutmeg. Some of these peppercorns..." he dusted the cracked fragments from his hands, "and some cinnamon quills." He searched in the purse at his belt and took out the few coins he had left; paying for the sea-voyage from Lisbon to Southampton had hit him hard.

"How much?" Timothy asked. "For a nutmeg, two handful of black peppercorns, likewise of anise, a handful of cloves and half a dozen cinnamon quills?"

"Four silver pennies," the man replied. There came a sudden flurry of movement from him, the bowls being lifted, placed down again. Timothy listened to the sounds and the movement from the seller, and then came the sound of several small objects placed on the table in front of him. "There," said the seller. "Before you on the table. What you wanted."

Timothy put one hand down on the table before him, and his fingers found several small cloth bundles lumped together there. He explored them one by one, checking there were the right number there and that he had not been cheated. He had had plenty of experience of sellers at markets who thought it would be easy to cheat a blind man. Not so, as they had oft learned.

"A goodly assortment," he observed with pleasure, and stowed the small bundles away in the small backpack slung over his shoulder.

The spice-seller's voice was curious. "What do you want them for?"

Timothy felt over the few coins in his palm and found the groat; his last. He ran a fingertip over the four arms of the embossed cross, ensuring the coin had not been subject to clipping "I'm a cook."

The man scoffed, incredulous. "You, a blind man, a cook?"

Timothy tipped the other coins back into the purse at his belt and held out the groat in the direction of the seller's voice. "Yes."

"Now I've heard everything." The groat was snatched from his fingers, there was hesitation as though the man was examining it.

"Oh, I doubt it; life would be very boring if we heard everything," Timothy replied with a brief smile directed at the spice-seller, and feeling his way along and around the table, moved on. "I bid you good day."

He made his way onwards through the market square full of people with their chatter and gossip, still keeping the full heat of the sun on his right cheek all the time, adjusting his direction whenever he felt that heat shift position. All the while people thronged around him. Some just barged into him, he ignored them; others he was aware parted out of his way as though he had the pox as soon as they saw his tapping stick and he heard whispers: "he's blind...."

He passed by a throng of chattering, gossipping women where the stench of off-smelling fish was prevalent. Having often gutted fish himself, Timothy recognised the sounds, the slashing of the knife through fish-heads and tails, the slithering thunk of the gutted fish into a wooden pail.

He could hear a man's voice ahead, speaking aloud, preaching. A friar by the market-cross. Timothy's stick hit the stone step of the market cross, and he negotiated around it and headed forwards once more, still keeping the heat of the sun focused on his right cheek. At the edge of the market square lay a network of small narrow streets leading from it; he must be sure to find and take the right one.

A cart rumbled across the market-place cobbles before him. Timothy paused and waited for it to pass before venturing forwards. He knew that sighted people could see that he was blind within moments of looking at him - but it was ingrained in his experience that most of the sighted population did not care if they ran a blind man over with a cart or horse. It was always best to exercise caution when hearing the approach of a cart or horses.

He was on the edge of the market-square now. His stick now no longer struck the uneven cobbles of the market square, instead it found a muddy straw-strewn gutter which he nimbly stepped over, and then he felt through his stick ragged patches of cobbles and hard-packed stony earth littered with refuse. Ahead, he smelt stale ale, heard creaking doors flung open and the sound of sweeping sodden straw out of those doors, two women busily chattering to each other. Another alehouse - the Angel. Timothy remembered it being here eleven years ago, and happy memories of the place came momentarily back to him. Another good establishment he would take pleasure in re-exploring. When he had the time....

Having crossed the market square, Timothy walked forwards until his stick hit the wall of the Angel alehouse, and then turning left and using the wall as his guideline, followed it to its corner and round it, and took the narrow street there which led away from the market-place. This was the street he wanted.

A group of boys suddenly spilled out of a building and scattered out into the street ahead of him, jostling each other and full of conversation. They sounded young, no more than ten or twelve. Apprentices, Timothy hazarded. He kept pace behind them, heard them turn at the sound of his tapping stick, as though to see who was following them who made the noise. He heard them whisper to each other: "Look, a blind man!" They seemed fascinated. Timothy merely grinned in response at their whispers, unoffended. Being blind was nothing to be offended or ashamed over, as far as he was concerned. He moved past the group of apprentices as they parted to let him through, and he kept steady pace before them, calmly tapping his way onwards, keeping his right hand on the hilt of his dagger at his belt, just in case.

This street was long and winding and sloped upwards from the market square. Carts trundled past occasionally; Timothy kept well to the side of the narrow street, using the walls of the building on his right as a guideline. The group of apprentices turned off into a sidestreet, taking their laughter and chatter with them. A dog chased a yowling cat down the street ahead of him, its furious yapping echoing and mixing with the fading cries and noise of the morning traders Timothy had left behind him.

Timothy was brought out of his thoughts as a large wagon came rolling past, bumping over the uneven cobbles. Timothy stood and waited until it had passed, then he crossed the street, found the narrow opening of a dank alleyway, went through it and out into a wider street beyond.

This street sloped steeply upwards, and led to the main gates of Nottingham Castle. As Timothy walked, he felt the pit of his stomach twist into a hard knot of apprehension. Abbot Hugo had been less than welcoming - Heaven knew what sort of reception he would receive here....