Post of the Month

~ July 2009 ~

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Down in the small storeroom just off the main cellar, Timothy lay on his back on his bed, one arm behind the back of his neck and listened to the soft stillness of the night around him.

The usual things. The mice scratching and scrabbling around and fleeing from the almost noiseless prowl of a cat around the main cellar. The faint call from the street outside of the bellman, calling out the hour of eleven.

Timothy sighed restlessly where he lay, and fiddled with the unlaced neck of his jerkin. He had been busy in the kitchen until late; going through the contents of the spice chest and sorting what needed to be ordered in the way of fresh spices; committing the list to memory until he could get to the market and purchase these spices himself. It had been a busy day, full of tasks needing his attention, and he had been kept busy long after the fires had been banked for the evening and the kitchen had grown empty and silent.

Finally, he had come down here and thrown himself on his bed, but had not yet disrobed to sleep. He had found he couldn't sleep. Since the night of the storm, the days had been fresher, the nights not so oppressively stifling - but yet he found he still couldn't sleep.

There suddenly came the sound of soft footsteps crossing the kitchen above him. Timothy immediately jerked himself up on his elbow and listened intently, on guard. Who was that? He could not tell.

He rose from the bed and taking up his guiding stick, passed through the archway and weaved his way through the cellar, towards the set of steep stone steps that led up to the kitchen. As he neared the steps, he heard the slight creak of a door being opened. He knew that creak - it was the buttery door.

Finding the first step before him with his stick, Timothy quietly ascended them, his ears trained on the kitchens above. His hand went to the knife at his belt as he ascended the steps, for the first thought that occurred to him was that someone - either a kitchen worker or a stranger off the streets - had crept into the kitchens and was trying to filch something from the buttery.

On the top step, Timothy paused and listened into the kitchens. Putting out his hand before him, his fingers met the oak door of the cellar and found it slightly ajar. He assumed that with the door between he and the kitchens, he was hidden from whoever was in the kitchens.

He slowly pushed the door away from him, so there was no barrier between he and the kitchen. He wanted to be seen by this intruder, whoever they were.

There came a slight rustle of movement from over by the buttery door, as though someone had turned to see him, and he immediately jerked his head round to the movement.

"Who is there?" Timothy asked quietly into the stillness of the kitchens. "Giles?" He knew by now that the lad's father beat him when drunk and the boy often came back and slept on the hearth. But what the lad would be doing opening the buttery door when he didn't have the keys to the buttery, he didn't know.

There came another slight movement from over by the buttery door, and then a soft voice replied. "It is I, Celeste."

Timothy lingered by the top of the cellar steps, curious. "What are you doing here, Mademoiselle de Normanville? I heard the bellman outside in the street call out the hour of eleven not long ago."

Celeste's voice was apologetic. "I'm sorry I woke you."

Timothy hesitated a moment longer, then walked across the expanse of the empty silent kitchen - so different from its bustling atmosphere during the day. He felt his way along the line of the long table set in the centre of the kitchen, and rounding its corner, moved forwards until his stick hit the ajar door of the buttery.

He reached out a hand and lingered his fingers up and down the vertical line of the door edge in exploration, turning his head from side to side to finely refocus on the presence just before him that was Celeste de Normanville. There came another slight shift of movement, and a waft of rose-oil drifted across to him.

"I wasn't asleep," Timothy said. "I heard footsteps above me, crossing the kitchens, and the creak of the buttery door gave me cause to wonder. Only your father and I hold keys to it."

"I know. But Mother is ill and Father sent me down with his keys to the buttery, to get hippocras, so some valerian can be mixed with it, to help her sleep. I was looking for it. But I can't find it." There came another slight shift of movement from Celeste over by the buttery door, and the sound of a heavy bottomed jug being lifted, and then set dully back down on the shelf inside, as though she had not found what she sought.

Timothy tilted his head, listening to the sound, puzzled. "Why can't you find it?"

"Because it's dark. I have a lanthorn with me, but there's only a stub of a candle in it and it gutters."

Timothy fingered the keys at his belt; one of which unlocked the buttery also. "There's a cask of hippocras in the cellar. I can open it for you."

"Please, if you would." Celeste's voice was grateful.

Timothy turned and walked back across the kitchen. "Bring an empty jug from the shelf and lock the buttery door after you."

He descended the steps to the cellar, feeling for each one below him with his stick, but not breaking his pace, aware that Celeste followed with her light tread. He led the way through the cellar, feeling his route past the humped hessian shapes of the flour sacks that had been delivered only that morning, skirting around the rounded shapes of barrels.

The click of his metal-tipped guiding stick tapping against the stone flags of the cellar echoed through the cellar, but the echoes themselves were helpful to navigate by. They bounced off the walls and the low ceiling of the cellar and back to him; echoes both soft and hard, creating a constant web of information that strung out around him.

Celeste giggled slightly behind him as they walked through the cellar. "You make some noise with that stick - I'm sure you must make the mice down here scurry away from your path! We would always hear you coming, that's for sure."

"As I heard you," Timothy replied. "The soft tread of footsteps above the cellar, creeping around the kitchens. It wasn't the heavy tread of Hal, that's for sure. I wondered if we had an intruder."

"You really heard me?" Celeste sounded amazed, rather than patronising. "You have the ears of a fox."

"Makes up for eyes as blind as a stone," Timothy said wryly. He came up against the far wall of the cellar, then turned and felt his way along it a few yards. His searching hand swept along the rough brick surface of the cellar wall as he moved, then it brushed against the angular corner of a shelf jutting out from the wall, and he halted.

Reaching out his hands, Timothy found the familiar shapes of the several oak wine barrels stored on their sides on a wooden cradle; stored thus to allow the wine sediment to settle before opening. He moved to the end and found the smallest barrel which contained the hippocras, and then felt above it for the shelf once more, and the mallet and wooden spigots he knew lay there. He had conducted a thorough exploration of the cellar and its contents the first evening he had arrived, and now knew where everything was placed.

He was aware of Celeste's interested attention on him as he felt for the bung hole in the lid of the barrel above the level of the settled sediment and taking a wooden spigot, he positioned its pointed end against the sealed bung hole.

"Why are you still up?" Celeste questioned. "It's almost midnight."

Timothy drove the spigot into the bunghole with a couple of hard whacks from the mallet. "I'm like your mother. I can't sleep."

"Why not?"

Timothy ran his fingers over the the shape of the spigot to check that it was lodged tightly in the bunghole. "I'm not tired. I don't have the advent of darkness to tell me I must sleep. It's always been that way."

Celeste's voice was bewildered. "I don't understand that. You are blind, therefore you see ONLY darkness."

"I am blind, therefore I do not SEE." Timothy corrected. "Even darkness. But aye - sighted people need visual points of reference. The only way they can understand it is that I "see" darkness. So be it. Imagine me being in complete darkness, if you must. If it is the only way you can understand. I have heard from some blind people who once were sighted that they went into darkness. That is how they register their blindness, that is how they, who once knew sight, are able to describe it. So it must be true. But I have never seen light, so I cannot describe to you if what I experience is darkness. I have to guess that it must be the same, but I cannot truly tell you from my perspective."

He replaced the mallet on the shelf above the barrels. "Give me the jug."

Celeste touched the jug against his hand, he took it by the handle and holding it under the spigot tap, pulled up the t-shaped bar and released the wine. He listened as it trickled into the glazed jug, and inhaled with appreciation its rich spicy scent. Nutmeg, cloves, cinnamon, grains of paradise and ginger imbued with a hint of buttery vanilla courtesy of the oaken barrel it had been stored in and he was suddenly taken back to being in the deep, cool, echoing wine cellars of Princess Mafalda's palace in Lisbon.

Celeste seemed to be enjoying the release of the scented wine also, for he heard her inhale softly where she stood close on his left.

Timothy shut off the flow of the wine, and handed her the jug. "I bid you goodnight." He turned and headed onwards through the cellar to its little side storage room through the archway, where his bed was.

To his surprise he heard Celeste quietly set the jug down on the floor by the barrels, and then her light footsteps followed him.

Timothy uneasily turned his head to listen over his shoulder as his stick found the one step down into the side cellar where his bed was. "What is you want now?" Timothy asked.

Celeste's voice was apologetic. "A candle. My lanthorn is nearly out and I fear it will not last the journey back through the kitchens and across to the house. I noticed you have several candle stubs stuck on a pewter plate by your bed; a legacy of the last cook. May I take them?"

Timothy sat on the edge of his bed, and levelled his face at her presence that still hovered in the archway, now directly before him. "Aye, take them, I have no need of them."

Her footsteps dropped down the one step to stand on the stone flags of the little store cellar; her presence moved close past him to the head of his bed to the stool there, and he listened to the swish of her skirts as she moved.

Her skirts brushed his knees as she moved past him, and he heard her pick the pewter plate up from the stool beside the head of his bed. "I have the candles. I'll light them from the one in my lanthorn that gutters. Thank you."

"My pleasure," Timothy said wryly, listening on.

Where she stood, he heard her fiddle with the lanthorn she carried, swinging its tiny door open, and then heard the flare of candles being lit and they being stubbed once more onto the pewter plate, to make them stick there. The scent of hot wax wafted over to Timothy's nose.

She sat beside him on the bed with a crackle of the straw mattress under her, as though it was the most natural thing in the world, and he heard her swing the lanthorn door shut once more. "There, that's better."

Timothy listened, puzzled at her comment. "What is better?"

"I can see now. I can see you. You have NO idea how dark it is down here in this corner of the cellar." There came the flare of several candles suddenly passing close in front of his face and then back again with a strong waft of fresh lit wax.

Timothy put out his hand and his fingers found the rim of the pewter plate. He stilled it as it moved back before his face, and his fingers found and explored the warmed base of the lit candle stubs residing amongst their surroundings of congealing wax. Celeste, seeming taken aback, held the plate still.

"You tease me," Timothy observed, unoffended, feeling over the plate in curiosity. "Waving the candles before my face to find if I blink."

Celeste had the grace to sound ashamed that she had been found out. "How did you know?"

"Because sighted people do it many times to me," Timothy replied, unperturbed. "Moving their hand or a candle close before my face to try and find my reaction. They seem to want to test me in some strange way. They are curious, I suppose."

"I just wondered...." Celeste admitted. "But your eyes do not follow the light. Your eyes fascinate me, to think they let in no light for you. You have beautiful dark eyes. And yet they are so very odd, also. Constantly misplaced in relation to each other and to the world around you. But you know, I can see now they're part of what makes you, you. Part of your personality. And that I like."

She lowered the plate on which the candles were set, away from his hand, and then her hand covered his that still held his guiding stick. Surprised, Timothy covered her hand with his other, feeling over it with curious fingers, wondering what she was doing. He followed her hand with his as she ran her own fingers up and down the shaft of the stick, and finally lingered on the metal knob of his guiding-stick.

"I'm surprised you haven't had this stolen from you," Celeste observed.

"My guiding stick?" Timothy was surprised. "It may be made of fine quality ebony, but it is a long guiding stick for a blind man - too long and too slender to be a walking staff. Why say you that?"

"Because the knob I do not think is just silver-gilt. It is silver; solid silver. It's pretty." He felt her fingers cover his and steer his fingertips lightly over the curves of the engraved knob. "Was it a gift to you?"

"The master cook I was apprenticed to for seven years gave it to me as a parting gift when I left Lisbon three months ago," Timothy replied. "Before that, I had a long slender guiding stick of plain olive wood. When I was a little boy, I had a guiding stick of hazel. The monks at Thornton used to make them for me." A vague memory flashed across his mind; a memory of being three years old and his hands being taken by adult kind hands and touched to a long slender length of smoothed hazel wood, whilst Tuck's voice had sounded above him. He could not remember what had been said, but he remembered his hands being directed to this length of wood, the feel of the smooth wood with its recently stripped scent and he remember the adult hands covering his and gently steering his fingertips along it in, the same way as Celeste's hand steered his now.

Celeste's voice broke into his thoughts. "Was this stick made special for you?"

Timothy removed the leather loop from his wrist and laid his guiding stick on the bed behind him. "Aye, I think so, I think my master must have had it crafted especially for me, because it is the right length for my height; the top comes up to my shoulder. That is needful, for it to be so long, so I can feel ahead. I can always feel two paces ahead of where my feet are, so I am always forewarned of obstacles or danger."

"It must be terrible to not know what is ahead of you more than two paces as you walk," Celeste said.

Timothy laughed, reached out and finding her arm, lightly patted it. "No, it's interesting, it's always an adventure. Life is an adventure. And I always love exploring what is around me."

Celeste's voice suddenly sobered. "I wish I could embrace my life as an adventure, as you do yours. It would make my life a great deal easier."

Timothy was bewildered. He paused his hand on her arm, sensing all too well the change in her mood; uncertainty now bubbled its way up through the layers of her usual self-controlled manner. "What is amiss, Celeste?"

"I'm to go to Rouen to be wedded," Celeste said at last in a small voice. "Well, I expected it. I am fifteen, more than ripe for marriage. My grandparents in Rouen have found me a suitable husband. He's a merchant who holds a fine house in the city. Father knows of him and approved the match."

She was silent for a few moments as though dwelling over what had been decided upon for her. "My future husband is ten years older than I, and has been wed before. His wife died in child-bed two years ago, and the child died with her."

Timothy, his hand lain on her arm, felt her shiver. "I am only here until September," she said quietly at last. "I will make the crossing to Normandy before the storms of Autumn arrive. My mother already flies into haste preparing my trousseaux. My father will accompany me. I leave the rest of my family behind here."

There was silence. "I'm looking at your face," Celeste's voice said finally. "I see on it that you don't really understand how I feel upon that."

"I have never had family to leave behind," Timothy answered quietly. "Only the monks at Thornton Abbey."

"It can't be the same."

"No. No it is not," Timothy agreed softly. "I did not grow up with mother and father and siblings. I did not grow up in a house that was a home. I slept in a dormer with the monks. The whole of Thornton Abbey was my home. Huge, old and cold, made of stone. So many passages and steps leading everywhere." His mind drifted back to those early days. "In truth, when I was in the Abbey kitchens, I would sit there and listen to the clashing of pots and dishes and the crackle of the fire, smell the herbs, the cooking pottage, and try and imagine a family's chatter in place of the brothers silence. I imagined that was what being in a home with a mother and father and siblings would feel like. Sometimes I longed for it; for a mother and father and siblings."

He hesitated a moment before deciding to bare a little of his soul to her. "I have never longed for sight. But sometimes I have longed for a family. As good to me as the monks at Thornton were."

"I am afraid," Celeste admitted solemnly. "I have been lapped up in the secure arms of my family all my fifteen years."

"Fifteen seems the age for a change of life," Timothy said wryly. "I was fifteen years old when I ran away from Thornton Abbey. I was afraid, too, back then. Afraid that I was going to be forced into being made a monk and kept locked within Thornton Abbey forever."

"I wish I could run," and Celeste gave a small sigh.

Timothy found her slender hand and squeezed it in an attempt at reassurance. "No, don't wish that. Running's no good. You end up having to stop and turn and face what you ran from, eventually."

Celeste's voice was curious. "Is that what happened to you?"

Timothy decided not to answer her question. Instead, he squeezed her hand gently once more and sought to draw her sudden curiosity away from him and his past. "This future husband of yours - is he a good man?"

"I know not. I have never met him. He speaks no English. I gather he liked my description, as he wants me as his wife."

"Any man would like a description of you," Timothy said gently in an attempt to reassure, not knowing what to say. He ran his hand lightly over her shoulders, her head, the curve of one arm. "You have a fine outline." He moved his hand to run her fingers along the line of her neck and along her jaw to hold her chin and he smiled at her. "You have a fine shape to your chin."

Celeste moved, and he felt her hands cover her face; he moved his hand to feel over the back of them, concerned. "I don't want to leave here, Timothy," she said. "I wish my father had found me a Nottingham merchant. I go to a man I know not, and I doubt I shall ever see my parents again."

Sometimes it was far easier to reveal innermost feelings to someone who was not a family member, Timothy thought.

He felt Celeste lower her hands from her face, and he felt for one of her hands and secured it in his. "But you will be near your grandparents in Rouen," he said in a further attempt at comfort. "You'll have some family nearby."

Celeste gave a sarcastic snort. "Family I scarce know. I have met my grandmother but the once and found her to be a harridan. My grandfather was barely interested in me the one time he met me, two years ago, when he visited England. He sets great store by Guillot and Yves but not by his granddaughters."

"It will be better than you think," Timothy said, groping around for further words of comfort.

"No it will not," and Celeste gave a small sob.

Timothy's impulse was to reach out to the small form before him and hug her. He rested his cheek against hers, and his hand wonderingly stroked the fall of hair down her back. Her hands gripped his arms but apart from that she was still within the circle of his arms. The smell of her warm flesh and rose oil hit Timothy's nose in an intoxicating jumble.

"It is not as though you will be going to Rouen as a scared virgin not knowing what is expected of her," he said quietly, still stroking her hair.

She gave a slight laugh which ended in a choke. "You say the most charming things!"

"It is the truth," said Timothy quietly, drew back from her, and moving his hand up to the face before him, fingered over it curiously wondering what her reaction was. "Is it not?"

"It is the truth and for me, it is a blessing," she said.

She was silent for a moment, and then Timothy felt her light fingers touch his cheek, they stroked gently across it. He felt his mouth smile in response. "I love the way you smile when you feel people touch you," Celeste whispered with a hint of wonder in her voice. "Every touch to your face or hand in friendship seems a blessing to you."

Timothy smiled again, turning his cheek into the curve of her fingers that had paused against the side of his cheek. "It is."

Celeste's voice was wistful. "I envy you."

"You don't have to envy me. We all possess a skin. You only have to close your eyes and feel, as I do."

"Show me," she whispered.

Celeste's hand slid up Timothy's bare chest under his shirt until it reached his neck, and he felt her hand apply light pressure to the back of his head. He bent his head, still sweeping the fingers of one hand across her face to catch all its movement, the open blinking eyes that closed as he moved his face close to hers, the mouth that parted in readiness. He lowered his hand to her shoulder and drew her closer, pressing his body against her. Her hands slid down to rest on his hips and she leaned in towards him, and one of her legs slid in between his as they kissed.

Timothy buried his face in the hollow of her neck and trailed his mouth upwards against the slope of her throat and around until he reached the curve of her ear. He eased her nearer to him, caressed the length of one slender leg, pushing up the skirt of her gown, and then his hands moved up her body and his fingers explored the front of her gown. It was tied by fine laces. Delicately he pulled on one of the laces, and felt the ties give way; he felt and heard Celeste take a deep breath, and with the action, he felt the ties loosen and give way even more.

Gently, he drew both gown and shift below down past her shoulders and upper arms til she was naked to the waist, and then he slowly traced a line of featherlight kisses across her throat and down to the top curve of her breast, revelling in the feel of her warm bare skin. He felt that curve of it and of its partner fall and rise in increasing pleasure and anticipation under the touch of his lips and he purposely slowed the trail of those featherlight kisses, lingering on each one.

Celeste's mouth gently touched his forehead, kissed his temple and then his closed eyelids as though the wings of a butterfly fluttered against them; a delightful sensation, and Timothy felt his heart rate increase as her hands made their way up his sides and around his back. Her short nails coursed over his skin, leaving trails of heat in their wake. Her skin tasted and smelt of roses growing in sunshine, hot and sweet and comforting. Timothy wanted to lose himself in the taste and feel of her, luxuriate in it, let himself be swept away by its power. Need burned him, urgency flamed at his soul, desire melted away all the sharp places inside him until he felt smooth and molten, and there was nothing that existed in the world save this bed, he and her, and the touch of their hands and lips upon each other.

Until footsteps sounded through the cellar and Henri's shocked voice from the archway exclaimed: "What in Heaven's name-?" and suddenly Timothy's senses jolted back to the real world with a terrifying clang.

"Father, what-?" Manon's puzzled voice was saying as her footsteps came up behind Henri's, then her presence too halted in the archway, and she gasped.

Timothy at once recoiled from the contours of Celeste's warm inviting body. She gave a small wail of fear, her movement shifted before him, and there came the flustered rustle of clothing as though she was trying to draw shift and gown back over her shoulders again.

Henri's ominous, looming presence thrust itself forwards before Timothy, in between where he and Celeste had recoiled from each other and there came the slap of hand against flesh accompanied by a squeal of pain. Suddenly, Celeste was no longer sat on the edge of the bed but somehow tumbled over it to the stone flags on the other side where the force of her father's blow had sent her. There came a low moan from her.

"Henri, I-" Timothy began quickly before Henri's presence shot close to him, and then two wiry hands grabbed the neck of his jerkin and shook him so hard his head jerked back and his teeth clashed together.

"I'll kill you!" Henri's voice roared into Timothy's face; and Timothy found himself grabbed by the shoulders, hauled up with swiftness and strength he had not known Henri de Normanville was capable of, and thrown sideways off the bed.

The brick wall banged against the side of his head, the world spun around him, and for a moment he could only sprawl there, crushed up against the corner by the bed, out of breath from shock.

"How could you DO this!" Henri's voice thundered close into Timothy's face. "My God, and under my own roof too! I employed you - and your gratitude to me is to do this!"

Timothy knew he would be a fool to try and make any form of excuse. He had been stupid and had been caught. There were no excuses, save the ones of loneliness, of needing and seeking comfort, and those were not excuses Henri would listen to.

"Sir, I have done you and your hospitality grievous wrong and I humbly beg your-" He choked on his words as sudden hands twisted in the neck of his shirt and shook him once more, and his head clashed against the wall again.

Henri's hot breath huffed against his face. "Is this how you repay me? - Is it?"

Timothy's head reeled and he tried to suck in enough air to answer.

Henri's hands released the neck of his shirt. "By God, I should call the Night Watch to cart you off!"

"'Tisn't his fault, 'tisn't his fault, oh leave him be - he was only getting the wine for me!" Celeste wailed hysterically from by the bed.

"As for YOU - whore -" Henri's angry footsteps quickly rung back across the cellar floor to where Celeste wailed.

"Father - don't-" Timothy heard Manon whimper from the archway, before there came the sound of blows rained down upon flesh, accompanied by shrieks from Celeste and then hysterical sobbing.

"Father-" Manon's voice pleaded from the archway, "please don't bring the Night Watch here - think of how word will get out about this and bring shame upon us if you do....please, please, just let him go-"

Timothy jerked his head round to Henri as the man loomed over him once more. "Get out from under my roof!" Henri voice shouted into his face. "Out! Out from under my roof if you have such little respect for me!"

Timothy scrambled up immediately and staggered sideways to his left, feeling for the bed to find his guiding stick and pack, but his fingers missed the side of the bed and flailed through empty space as Henri's rough hand grabbed the neck of his jerkin, and jerked him round and through the archway. "Out!"

Still dazed by banging his head against the wall, Timothy found himself bundled swiftly through the cellar and up the steps by the man, Henri's fist twisted in the neck of his jerkin.

The empty silent kitchen whirled past him in a dazed blur as he was hauled through it by Henri and then pushed up the kitchen steps into the bakery yard and the night air. He stumbled up the steps and across the rough cobbled bakery yard, pushed onwards by Henri, unsure of what obstacles were ahead without his guiding-stick. He heard little save their footsteps and his own panicked breathing.

A heavy door swung open before him. Timothy flung out a searching hand and his fingertips bounced off the door's edge as it swung away from him. He shot out his other hand in search and it found the door's weathered wood frame set in the crumbling wall. His surroundings suddenly stopped swirling around him and swung back into perspective now his hand touched something solid and familiar around him. Only this morn he had stood here in this open doorway with his hand on the frame, listening to all that had passed up and the street beyond the bakery...

Henri's savage oath reverberated around the confines of the bakery yard, echoing off the line of the stone wall before them to ring in Timothy's ears. "By GOD, I'll make sure you never work in Nottingham again!"

The hand knotted in the neck of Timothy's jerkin pulled him forwards through the doorway of the bakery yard into the space of the night street beyond; he felt a final sharp shove between his shoulder blades and he fell forwards onto the muddy cobbles of the street.

Timothy dragged himself up onto hands and knees, gasping for breath - and then there came the sound of the solid oak door slammed behind him and the sound of the bolt shot home before Henri's quick angry footsteps marched away from the closed door.

Immediately Timothy twisted round, scrambled to his feet and felt his way back the few yards he had been thrust. His hands found the side of the wall, the door that led out of the bakery yard. Frantically they explored it, pushed on it - it did not give. Still gasping, he pushed on it with all his strength, seeking the way back in, even putting his shoulder to it - but the door did not give.

The door had been bolted from the other side, and he had been shut out, he realised with a cold sweat breaking over him. Shut out in the street, with neither his belongings or his guiding stick.

He hammered on the door with both fists in angry frustration, then leant his shoulder and cheek against its weathered surface. and tried to recover his breath, still distractedly running one hand over the door, at a momentary loss as to what to do next.

Henri's quick angry footsteps rang out once more.

Timothy stopped moving and was motionless, hand paused tensedagainst the door as he listened. He extended his senses and waited. As though it came from someone else, he heard his breathing quicken in apprehension, felt the increase in his heart rate.

Henri's footsteps marched up the kitchen steps once more, but thistime they headed across the bakery yard, not towards where he stoodon the other side of the door, and they were not alone. With them were the staggering unwilling footsteps of Celeste, as though her father had hold of her and was dragging her. Her frightened voicecried out to him in the stillness of the night to show her mercy as his thundered in retaliation that she deserved none. Behind their footsteps, Manon's footsteps trailed as though keeping well out of the way, her voice adding to theirs, pleading with her father.

Timothy screwed shut his eyes and turned his face into the door, wincing as the footsteps paused at the door between the courtyard and the bakery yard and the crying Celeste was momentarily silenced by the sound of a few vicious slaps and punches. Then her crying and moaning continued on a far lower scale and the collective footsteps continued their course across the stone flags of Henri's courtyard garden.

There came the clang of the iron gate that separated the courtyard garden from the house, the turn of a key in it - and then Celeste's low moaning and sobbing faded as she was dragged inside the de Normanville house on the other side of that iron gate.

The night was silent again.

Where he stood outside in the street with his cheek and shoulder against the door that led to the bakery yard, Timothy brought a shaking hand to his cold face, fingers clawing briefly at his bare skin before moving to twist in his unruly and tangled hair. He sucked in a breath, and contemplated a way to reach Henri to try to explain, to take the blame from Celeste before her father half killed her, whilst knowing all the while that Henri would not listen and that it was his right to do with Celeste as he pleased.

He felt guilty and felt a coward - and yet he knew he could do little to make this situation right. It was done - and he knew he had been lucky just to have been thrown out onto the street. If he had any sense at all, he would make himself scarce before the Night Watch came along and investigated what the noise had been about, or before Henri changed his mind and sent them after him.

But he could not move from here. The door had been slammed and locked in his face. Beyond this door down in the cellar still was what he needed - his possessions, and most of all his guiding-stick. Beyond him in the still night air was a labyrinth of streets and obstacles - a web he dared not tangle himself in without his guiding- stick.

Timothy cursed under his breath and felt with both hands past the oak door along the weathered stone of the wall that enclosed the de Normanville property.

He did not dare leave being in contact with the wall. It was the only solid object in the world to him; the only familiar landmark in his surroundings. The door to Henri's courtyard garden was set in this wall somewhere ahead of him along this line of stone, and at the moment through his blur of fear and horror and frustration it was his only possible route - a route back to familiarity and safety - a route back to his possessions - a route back to his guiding stick and thus his independence.

A dog started barking - footsteps ran down a nearby alley; suddenly terrified that the Night Watch could be after him, Timothy quickly scrabbled along the line of the wall, both hands searching over the wall surface.

The iron-banded door that led to the courtyard garden suddenly appeared under his hands. Timothy pushed frantically on the door, it did not give and he realised it was bolted from within. He slammed the flat of his hand against the wooden surface in fresh frustration, turned to follow the line of the wall along in hope of finding another door - and three paces on collided into a column ofstone that jutted a way out from the wall itself.

Timothy recoiled a step from the collision with a hissed oath - then reached out a wary hand before him to explore what he had walked into. He ran his fingers swiftly over the jutting column of stone and recognised it as a buttress that reinforced the courtyard wall, protecting it from accidental knocks by carts that regularly rumbled down this street during the day.

Stooping, Timothy quickly ran his fingers down over the buttress in exploration till his fingers met the ground and the rough cobbles there. Then he swept his fingers up the line of the buttress and around it, measuring it to himself using the span of his hand. Wide at the base, the buttress narrowed with height, but the wide base was all he needed - just a foothold a few feet off the ground so his fingers could find the top of the wall.

Determination fired up in Timothy's heart and he swung his head to himself in fury, glad at least to feel his own familiar movements in this unfamiliar area; it was something of a momentary reassurance amid the turmoil that seethed through him. Suddenly, he was a fifteen year old boy again in the dead of a still and heavy summer night, hurriedly feeling his way along the towering stone wall that enclosed the grounds of Thornton Abbey, trying to find a way out, a way over - a way over to freedom, scarcely knowing what else he could do from the oppressive prospect of being forced to take orders save run - whilst panic and fear that he might be caught had swirled around his stomach like a base sickness and had clenched around his throat like a fist that could choke the life out of him.

He jerked out of his powerful memory as the dog barked again, more running footsteps sounded down the nearby alley and a drunken man cried out as though in pain.

Timothy sparked into action. Finding a foothold on the base of the buttress, he launched himself quickly upwards against the wall, his hands reaching up as far as they could, slithering over the rough stone above his head in a search for where the top of the wall was, for he had no precise idea how tall the wall was. His searching fingers poked into cobwebs strung across the gaps in the stone, crumbled past loose mortar, and then found nothing but empty space at the very limit of his reach.

He gripped the top of the wall with both hands and hauled himself up, getting one foot and then the line of his whole leg onto and then over the top of the wall. For a moment he perched astride the top of the wall, listening with fear as the dog continued to bark, and then swung his other leg over the wall to descend its other side.

Loose bits of mortar dislodged and scattered down the wall. A few small stones skittered to the ground. Timothy felt the rough stone wall scrape into his legs as he slid several feet downwards, facing the wall, still clinging onto the top of the wall by his fingers.

He hung by his hands for a moment - and then he let go.

His feet suddenly met the ground and he staggered a step to oneside, caught by surprise at how quickly the ground had come up to meet him.

Timothy sat on his heels a moment and briefly ran his hand along the ground before him.

His fingers touched the familiar cracked stone slabs of Henri's courtyard garden with weeds poking up between them. Here by the wall he smelt moss and dankness. There was something close by him on his left; the very nearness of its existence pressed against his face. He reached out his hand to the left and felt around, and his fingers found the shape of a large wooden tub banded by iron.

He explored his hand over the rim of the wooden tub and his fingers found the branching stems and hairy leaves of calendulas, and his nose caught their spicy aroma. Beyond the calendulas, his fingers found the rod-like leafy shoots of lavender, and he also smelt the subtle dry aroma of thyme. The feel of the plants and their scent connected him fully with his surroundings, made them start to fall into place for him, and his map of the courtyard began to fall back into place again. It was good to find something else in the world around him other than the wall.

Timothy suddenly froze where he crouched as there came the sounds of running footsteps again. This time they ran right past him on the other side of the wall and faded down the street, and he heaved a sigh of relief. In the distance, an angry man's voice shouted and was met with anothers full of belligerence.

Where he still sat on his heels, he turned his head to listen around him. From the direction of the de Normanville home, he could faintly hear voices; Henri's still angry and raised, Celeste's still sobbing and moaning. He shuddered to himself - if they saw him down here, there would be Hell to pay. It was best to hurry to the cellar to catch up his possessions and then leave. He could let himself out quietly by the courtyard door and then make for the Bell, where he could wait for dawn and think upon what to do next.

Rising to his feet, Timothy felt along the curved line of the large tub, and came up against the wall again. He quietly felt his way along it, skirting the clusters of tubs that were ranged against the length of the wall; tubs of pinks and lavender, thyme, hearts-ease and daises with their feathery foliage that brushed against his knees and thighs. He came up against the concave corner of the wall and followed the line of the wall round, trailing the back of his right hand lightly along it, whilst he kept his left hand slightly before him to ware him of any obstacles in his way.

Several yards on from the corner of the wall, his hand met upon the familiar stone archway which housed the oak door that led to the bakery yard. Timothy paused, felt over the stout door for the iron ring that served as a handle, and quietly tried it.

The door did not give. He pushed on it more urgently, whilst still endeavouring to be quiet, and it still did not give. He realised it had been locked, and a fresh wave of dismay swept over him. He could not enter the bakery yard and so reach the kitchens and thus his possessions. Henri had no doubt locked everything in his path, including the door to the cellar.

_Now what?_ Timothy asked himself, troubled.

He sighed and leaned against the cold stone wall, feeling the dampness of dew seep through his clothes and onto his skin. He shivered involuntarily, then tentatively raised one finger to his temple, wincing as he touched the point of impact where he had banged his head against the wall in the cellar. The pain sent waves of throbbing aches through his skull. Sweat stood out across his brow, and mingled with the already drying rivulet of blood on his cheek. His fingers found a small graze on the side of the temple where his head had connected with the rough stone of the cellar wall; he had not realised till now that he had been bleeding.

There came another spate of Celeste screaming and crying from the direction of the de Normanville house, and Timothy lurched a step in shock away from where he leant, suddenly feeling vulnerable. Even though he knew the layout of the courtyard, it suddenly seemed as though it was a box to trap him, and trapped he would be if someone from the house came down here and found him. If Henri encountered him a second time, and what was more, having broken back into the de Normanville premises, there would be Hell to pay and the night watch would definitely be called.

Timothy suddenly had the urge to hide, and in this walled courtyard he knew of only one place. He scrabbled frantically onwards along the guideline of the wall, coming up against its corner and heading onwards, stumbling past assorted tubs of flowers and herbs, never leaving contact with the wall, until a jutting out object suddenly contacted with his shins and he almost fell over it.

Timothy put his hand down to touch the knee-high object and recognised the smooth curving edge of the stone corner seat. He moved his hand up and felt the great swathe of ivy that hung over the space above the seat and to either side of it. With a shaking breath of relief he hurriedly moved to sit on the stone seat, feeling out over the draperies of ivy to either side of him, reaffirming to himself how they shielded this corner he now sat in.

Timothy normally did not like corners, they made him feel trapped, but this particular corner made him feel safe, with the natural shelter of the ivy around and above him, and the curved stone seat set far back into the corner - and the knowledge that he could not be seen from the house if he sat here, as Celeste had once told him. He did not want to be seen from the house, for if Henri saw him here, he would surely throw him out, and Timothy knew he could not go anywhere without his guiding stick. Nor was he going to abandon his few possessions which still lay in the cellar.

He had climbed into the courtyard and here he would have to stay as trespasser til morning. Til he heard Giles or Hal come to the kitchens and then he could go to the door that connected the courtyard with the bakery yard and ask them to fetch his possessions. Then he would go.

He was still shaking. He gulped in the warm summer night air, trying to get his breath, and shrank back right against the corner till his back was wedged against it and met the very stone, drawing his knees up to his chest so his feet were on the stone seat also. He turned his face against the protective swathe of ivy that climbed up the wall on his right, and pushed the knuckles of his right hand against his right eye in distress as Celeste's screaming, begging of her father could still be faintly heard from the house.

Everything was all still a maelstrom of fear and uncertainty and disorientation that swirled around him.

He wrapped his arms around his knees, buried his face against them and shivered. And Timothy of Lisbon, who had once been known as Timothy of Thornton and who now called himself Timothy of Nottingham, made himself very small in the dead of the night and hid amongst the protective shelter of the ivy.

***

"Timothy?" A voice whispered into his awareness.

Timothy had been drifting where he sat back on the stone seat, huddled in the corner; his head drooping against his drawn-up knees, his eyes closed. Not dozing but not fully alert either - drifting....yet the base of him still knowing what was going on around him. He had never known how to explain this particular state of being to sighted people, they did not seem to possess it. It was a state of being where he could cut ties with all that was going on around him, like moorings on a boat, and just drift....drift into himself, his inner self and be completely comfortable there, his senses still working on a basic level, but his mind nowhere, thinking of nothing.

It was easy to go there if he was alone, if no-one was talking to him, touching him - but just as easy to come back, to return to the world around him; a voice saying his name, a touch to his hand or arm - and a familiar voice saying his name now brought him back.

"Timothy?"

He jerked his head up from his knees and opened his eyes, immediately straightening up and lowering one leg to the ground; there came a soft tread of footsteps nearing; a tread he knew; a rustle of a gown and a concerned whisper from Manon; "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you. It's all right - I'm alone."

The first time she had said his name she had been over by the iron gate that linked the courtyard to the de Normanville home. The second time, her voice had been closer, and now she was closer still.

"Everyone's abed now, don't worry," she whispered. "No-one's seen me come down here."

Timothy turned his head to follow her movements as she moved to stand directly before him. "Manon." He lowered his other leg to the ground, straightened up, turning more to face her, and found he was stiff. That alone told him he had been in his huddled position for quite some time. He listened, but heard no birdsong, and Nottingham beyond the courtyard walls was still shrouded in stillness. All was peaceful - save for the thudding of his heart which suddenly launched into action and flowed adrenalin through him. He suddenly felt vulnerable again; she had found him so she had obviously been able to see him.

"Manon, is it dark?" he whispered. He felt disoriented and did not know how long he had been drifting, lost within himself, He felt wary - to lose track of time put him at a disadvantage in the world that was geared for the sighted, who were ruled by the elements of light and dark and obeyed them rigidly. "What is the hour?"

He was aware of Manon's attention focused on him, sensed her wariness, tension - maybe even a little horror.

"It's still dark," she whispered back eventually after a pause. "I heard the bellman call out the hour of two a short while ago."

Timothy rubbed a hand across his face and fell to thought.

Manon's voice was bewildered. "Father locked all the gates. How did you get in here?"

"I climbed the wall," Timothy replied softly. "He threw me out without my belongings or my guiding-stick - and without the latter, I cannot find my way independently. I climbed back in intending to collect my belongings and leave, but I found the door to the bakery yard locked. I needs must wait till Giles or one of the scullions arrive to stoke up the kitchen fires and then I must throw myself upon their pity and ask them to get my belongings for me."

There was silence from Manon; he turned his head to listen in her direction, trying to read her. "You're very quiet," he observed.

"I don't know what to say," Manon's voice was awkward and hesitant. "I saw you in the cellar with Celeste....on the bed....and she naked to the waist and you running your hands over her naked flesh and kissing it. I am no innocent, I know what happens between a man and a woman but that is my sister, and she is but two years older than I."

Timothy hesitated, then held out his hand in Manon's direction. He sensed hesitation on her part also, then her presence moved forwards a step towards him and very slowly, somewhat gingerly, he felt her small warm hand lain uncertainly against his. Her whole arm was tense and stiff, stuck out straight before her, and he realised she was keeping herself at arms length, and up till now had made sure she was out of his range of touch.

The realisation shocked him; he now realised for the first time that she had been scared of coming near him.

"I didn't mean to frighten you, Manon." Timothy gently squeezed the little hand that had been placed in his. "I would never force a woman to the act of love."

"In two years time when I am fifteen, I shall be married off like Celeste will be this Autumn - Father when he goes to Rouen this Autumn will be finding me a husband - and in two years time, will a man be doing that to me?" Manon whispered. "Supposing I do not wish it to be done to me? - he will force me, because he will have the right to, because he will be my husband, and I will not be able to stop him because he will be too strong."

"If he is a good man, he will not force you," Timothy said softly.

Manon heaved in a long shuddering sigh as though stifling emotions of dread, and he felt her cover his hand with her other. "I had best pray for a good man, then."

Timothy stroked her hand, not sure what he could say to allay her fears. He had not been able to allay Celeste's. "Why were you with your father when he came to the cellar?" he asked at last.

"Father wondered what was keeping Celeste, as Mamam had sent herdown to fetch the hippocras some time since," Manon said. "I was waiting in the solar for Celeste to return and followed him to thekitchens in search of her. We came down to the cellar and found you both."

"I have you to thank for not being dragged away by the night watch," Timothy said soberly.

"Father would not like the knowledge of this incident to get out," Manon answered. "Especially now he knows that Celeste has lain with other men. It is a matter of pride. She will soon be on her way to marriage in Rouen - he will want to hush this up and be rid of her. I but reminded him that if he brought in the night watch to deal with you, then the whole town would know of this matter. His business associates. Everyone. He would feel shamed indeed."

"What has happened in the house?" Timothy asked. "I heard Celeste from within, screaming and crying."

"Father dragged Celeste to his study and beat her with his belt," Manon replied. "Then he locked her in the cellar and left her there and went to his bed. Told us all to go to our beds; Mamam was near hysterical. But I left my bed and crept to the cellar door and listened after he left Celeste there. She was crying; incoherent. Then I went to the study. There were clumps of her hair fallen on the floor there, as though he had pulled them from her head in a great rage."

Timothy sighed, withdrew his hands from Manon's, and propping elbows on knees, buried his face wearily in his hands, trying to assemble in his mind what to do next. "I need to explain to Henri that it was not her fault-"

"He wouldn't listen to you." Manon sighed. "She confessed to meeting other men when he beat her. I stood outside the study door and I heard Father demand of her if you were the first. You weren't, she said. She confessed that she has rolled in the hay with stable boys from the Angel."

There was a silence from Manon as though she had a question on her mind but was afraid to ask it; Timothy felt her hesitation only too well. Finally Manon said timidly: "You didn't....did you?"

Timothy knew what she meant. "No, but if your father had not come along we would have," he answered soberly.

"WHY?"

Timothy struggled with the answer, wondering if a thirteen year old maid would understand. "Because I was...lonely. Grown men get lonely, Manon. And she was lonely too. What we had been about to undertake was by mutual consent. I did not force her."

"I could see THAT, in the cellar." Manon immediately retorted. "And she told me yestermorn about your rosary. How she'd teased you by hiding it down the front of her gown, and told you to come and get it and you didn't know where it was, so she grabbed your hand and put it under the front of her gown That was cruel of her, to do that. She said I should have seen the look on your face when she grabbed your hand and put it under the front of your gown. And she giggled." There was a moment's silence from Manon. "She is my sister," Manon said at last, "but a part of me believes that she deserved the beating she took."

Timothy did not believe anyone, least of all a woman, deserved such a beating for something as simple and as natural as the urges of their body, but he was in no mind to argue the matter. He merely sighed in response and rubbed a weary hand across his face.

There came a soft sigh from Manon opposite in response and he suspected she was studying him. "I've seen the way Celeste has looked at you, the past few days," Manon said finally, breaking the silence between them. "Like she admired you, thought you were handsome. You probably haven't been aware of the way she's looked at you. That's not your fault, you're blind. It's probably why Father didn't send for the night watch or beat you within an inch of your life. Because you are blind."

Timothy sat back on the stone seat and wearily rested his head back against the stone wall behind him. "Manon, go. You'll only be in trouble if your father catches you with me."

"He's taken a jug of wine and gone to his bed, he won't stir," Manon said. "I slipped Mamam's valerian into the jug before he took it. So he'll sleep now till morn. You needn't worry."

"Your ingenuity is to be praised," Timothy said without humour.

"Maybe things will be better in the morn," Manon said without too much conviction in her voice. "He will be calmer, Celeste will be calmer. He'll unlock the cellar and let Mamam see to Celeste's cuts and bruises for I would imagine she has some."

Timothy felt guilty beyond words. He fingered the graze on the side of his forehead, caused when Henri had thrown him up against the cellar wall and he knew to be thankful it was the only injury he had received.

"I'm not sure whether my ingenuity is an admirable thing; how can slipping a sleeping herb into the drink of one's own father be an admirable thing," Manon said, "but it was for the peace of everyone that I did so. I was so afeard he might go back to Celeste and punch and kick her again. Or start on you. I saw you down here and I didn't want him coming after you."

Timothy was bewildered. "I thought I couldn't be seen from the house if I sat here."

"If I crane my neck out of my window, I can just see over this high wall behind you into this corner of the courtyard," Manon replied. "You know, if I jumped from my window, I think I could land on the courtyard wall itself."

Timothy listened numbly and didn't quibble. It was beyond him as to what sighted folk could see or not see, and all the permutations of that.

There came a jingle before him, and he jerked his head away from leaning it against the wall behind him and turned it to listen, suddenly alert and curious. "Father's sleeping, so I crept into his bedchamber and took his belt with his keys on it," Manon said. "I've got the cellar key, I can get your possessions." Her small warm hand suddenly rubbed reassuringly over the back of his, and Timothy gave a slight smile at the touch. "Wait here."

Her light foosteps hurried away across the courtyard; there came the light jingle of the keys as though one was being selected, then the squeak of the bakery yard door being pushed open. Timothy listened to her footsteps cross that and down the steps of the kitchen, where there came another muffled jingle of the keys, and then her sounds faded into the rest of the night's silence.

Timothy sighed again and rested his head back against the wall behind him once more. It seemed ridiculous that he, a grown man of six and twenty was relying upon a little maid of thirteen, but he knew he had to rely on her, and he was suddenly grateful for her maturity in this awkward situation.

It was not long before he heard her footsteps ascend the kitchen steps, a careful closing and locking of doors behind her, the last door in her wake being the door that separated this courtyard fromthe bakery yard - and he leaned forward in anticipation as her footsteps approached and her presence drew near.

"Here," she whispered in the hot heavy night air, coming close, and her small hand took his and pressed his palm against the familiar engraved metal knob of his guiding stick. Timothy took the guiding stick and immediately ran his fingers up and down its long slender length to anxiously check for any damage. There was none, and his urgent, searching fingers ceased their anxious exploration and instead lovingly caressed the shape of his guiding-stick with relief and recognition, a greater sense of security flooding back into him now he had it back under his hands. It was hard to explain to sighted people that his guiding-stick felt like a part of him, as easily and as naturally used as an arm or a leg.

There came the sound of an object set dully on the stone flags at his feet, and his wrist was taken and his hand drawn down to touch the humped leather shape by his feet, even as he reached down his hand in exploration of his own accord. His fingers strayed over the familiar shape of his pack. "You'd best check everything is there," Manon whispered.

Timothy grabbed one of the straps of his pack and lifted it up to sit it on the stone seat beside him. His fingers found the buckle and he swiftly unfastened it and flipped back the worn leather flap, aware that Manon was watching him.

He reached inside his pack and felt over its contents, searching for all the items that should be there, crossing each one off in his mind as his fingers encountered it. His set of measuring spoons, his turned wooden measuring beaker marked on its inside by notches carved in the wood that he could feel and so measure volume by, his wafer stamps, his change of clothes, the bundle of reference letters wrapped in their oiled square of linen, most precious of all Beatriz's lock of hair folded between a similar square of linen - yes all was here.

He became aware again of the weight of Manon's curious attention on him as he felt over his belongings to ascertain all items were there. He drew his hand out of exploring the contents of his pack and turning his head, tried to smile in her direction. "Thank you," he whispered simply.

"Food for the morrow for you," Manon whispered, and he felt her small warm hands push into his a cloth bundle. Timothy felt over it, through the thin weave and felt the shape of a manchet loaf, a small nettle-wrapped cheese and a knuckle end of a mutton bone which still had some meat on it.

Timothy laid his hand over Manon's and gave it a brief squeeze of appreciation before stowing the cloth bundle inside his pack. "Manon, you are a good friend, but I fear you will get punished for helping me and for taking the food," he said.

"The food is but a small amount. I doubt it will be missed in the confusion that I warrant will exist tomorrow in the kitchens, what with a full days work to be done and yet no master cook," Manon said wryly. "Half the kitchen staff can't count, anyhap. Hal's got keys to the cellar; for all my father knows Hal could have filched the paltry sum I took and thrown your belongings out onto the street for you to take." There was hesitation from her. "Besides....you're my friend," she said at last. "We're friends....aren't we?"

Timothy reached out and found her arm and patted it. "Aye, we're friends. Good friends. And I could ask for no better friend than you," he smiled at her.

"What are you going to do now?" Manon whispered.

"Leave." Timothy buckled the strap of his pack and felt along the seat for where his guiding stick had been propped. "Now I have my guiding stick I can find my way through the streets." He slipped the leather loop of the stick around his wrist. "June nights are short - soon I will hear the start of the dawn chorus. I'll walk to the Bell and spend the rest of the night there. The town gates will be open at dawn and I can leave Nottingham. It's best I leave in case your father tries to seek me out on the morrow or sends someone after me. Besides, his threat to me that he would make sure I would never find work in Nottingham again was no idle one. I cannot stay here and not be able to make shift for myself. I need to earn my food and lodging."

"Where will you GO?" There was a note of dismay in Manon's voice that he was leaving Nottingham.

Timothy caught the dismay in Manon's voice, and knew she realised that they were about to bid each other farewell. He knew in his heart he would never be welcome at the de Normanville's again and knew Manon knew that also. He tried to be gentle, but honest. "I'm not sure yet where I will go."

"Are you going to stay in England?" Manon asked.

"Maybe. Maybe for a while. But this area doesn't feel like home any longer, Manon." Timothy paused whilst he attempted to search for the right words to explain. "I've been away eleven years and now I've returned and I've found that this area that I grew up in doesn't feel like home any longer. This area is where I grew up, and yet I don't feel a part of it anymore."

He paused again, pushed his knuckles against his right eye in distress as that realisation all at once dawned, longing to communicate that realisation to her, to someone, but not knowing how.

He felt as though he did not exist, as though he had been swallowedup by Nottingham, as though it were some huge monster which had scooped him up in its mouth and he wanted it to spit him out.

_Where do I go?_

He did not know. And suddenly that mattered.

Manon's voice broke into his thoughts, and he gained the sense thatshe was watching him with some curiosity. "Why don't you go back to Lisbon? When you talked of Lisbon to me, you sounded as if you were so happy there. Is there someone in Lisbon who waits for you?"

Timothy rubbed his eyes, finding them damp. "Yes. Her name is Beatriz."

"Are you going back to her?"

Timothy struggled with memories and a sudden aching longing for thewoman he had left behind in Lisbon. "Not yet. I came back to England for a reason."

"What reason?"

Timothy put out his hand, and found Manon's shoulder. He travelled his hand up till he reached her face and laid his palm against the side of her cheek. He traced his thumb briefly over the line of her mouth and the tip of her nose. Her face was still. Unsmiling. What sighted people described as solemn.

"Has there ever been anything you really want to find the answer to, Manon?"

"Lots of things," Manon said. "Like whether the stars be made of fire or ice, because they look like they could be made of either, and yet they are so far away, no-one can tell for certain."

Timothy smiled. "That's a good question to want the answer to." He felt his smile leave his face. "There's something I really want to find the answer to, Manon. And it's something I've wanted to know ever since I left Nottingham eleven years ago."

"Well, why didn't you stay and seek the answer back then?" Manon asked.

"It was impossible to stay, back then," Timothy said. "I was a fifteen year old blind boy with little experience of life, and I had just run away from Thornton and the pressures put on me there of taking Holy Orders. The door to my question had been recently slammed in my face. I decided it would be best to go away. So I sought out an apprenticeship as a cook with a friend and I left with him for Normandy."

He fell silent for a moment, briefly thinking over the past. "I felt that one day, that door which had previously been slammed in my face would be left unguarded," he said finally. "And when that day came, I as a grown man would have a better chance of obtaining the answer I sook."

"And that time has come?" Manon queried.

"I think so. That's why I've returned."

"You're brave." Manon's voice held no patronising in it. "Blind and yet you've come alone all that way from Lisbon just to try and find an answer to a question. That's brave."

Timothy registered the lack of patronising in her tone. "Sometimes you have to be brave. Sometimes you have to make choices and take risks in order to survive. When you don't know what is before you...sometimes you just have to make yourself go forwards, into the unknown and hope for the best." He stroked her cheek. "It's the best piece of advice I can give anyone. Best piece of advice I can give you, Manon." Timothy traced his fingers thoughtfully over her face, aware he was doing it for the last time and wanting to take away an impression of her that he could tuck into his memories.

"I must go," he said softly at last.

"I hope you find the answers you seek," Manon whispered, and then Timothy felt her small arms wind around his neck. He folded his own arms around her and hugged her to him in emotion, laying his cheek against her head.

He realised now that he had made a great deal many acquaintances whilst he had been here in Nottingham, but he had only made one friend, and that was Manon.

He drew away from her, and gently took Manon's face between his hands, finding her cheeks were wet. He made an attempt to smile at her.

"I'll never see you again, will I." Manon's voice was quiet and accepting but nonetheless sorrowful, and Timothy felt a line of moisture roll down one cheek and over the back of his knuckles.

He leaned forwards and with her face still between his hands, he kissed her forehead. "I shall always remember you, Manon. Be happy. Be brave. Be fortunate."

He released her face from his hands and rose from the stone seat, taking his guiding stick into his left hand, and with one last, loving sweep of his right hand over her soft hair, he moved past her and tapped his way fluidly across the garden courtyard. His stick connected with the courtyard wall, and then the heavy oak door that led out into the street; softly he slid the well-oiled bolt back and slipped out into the stillness of the night street, quietly closing the courtyard door shut after him.

Sighted people could look back at what or who they were leaving behind forever. It only seemed to cause them more pain.

He was glad he did not have the option.