Timothy had left the Castle gates far behind. He had retraced his route; tapping his way down the wide sloping street away from the Castle, through the dank alleyway once again into a narrower street, and then through another small alleyway to another, curving, street. Long Row. Here, Henri de Normanville the baker had his business. Judging by the quality of the bread and pies he had tasted yester-eve in the Bell alehouse, the business was thriving, Timothy thought.
He walked along Long Row, keeping close to the right hand side of the street, well out of the way of the occasional horse that clattered past or cart that rumbled past, his stick clicking from side to side over the cobbles, and on his right, hitting the walls and steps and doorways of the homes and workshops he passed, keeping in contact with this line of buildings and using it as his guide as he followed the curving street along. This street was busy with a swirl of people flowing around him. There came the sounds of sawing wood from the joiners, and the smell of tanning leather was mixed with the smell of fresh blood and slaughtered animals in the butchers yard.
Timothy could smell the bakers before he came to it. The smell of baking bread and pies came floating down the long street in spasmodic swirls to him, and intensified the nearer he got.
He remembered Henri de Normanville's bakery well. The first time he had come here was with Tuck when he had been ten years of age. The bakery had possessed a small courtyard, with a very deep well - water free from pestilence, Tuck had said to him. Henri and Tuck had known each other, and before starting the long walk back to Thornton, Tuck and Timothy had always come here to the de Normanville's yard and filled their waterskins from his well.
Henri had usually been around at those times, and Timothy had liked the man from the first time they had met. A Frenchman with an air of perpetual energy about him concerning his business, yet with plenty of time for people. He had used to come out to the yard whilst Tuck had rested on the seat there for a while and had talked to Tuck.
Henri had liked children - Timothy supposed at that age he had been still regarded as a child, his blindness maybe making him seem a little younger than he was. He remembered the first time he had met Henri, of solemnly extending his hand to be shaken, and a cool calm hand had shaken it - and then that same calm hand had gently stroked his cheek, clearly because he had seen that Timothy was blind. Timothy, who loved physical contact and particular his cheek being stroked because it signalled affection, had not minded at all, as it had not been done in a patronising manner; it had been a friendly gesture. Henri had never been patronising, and had always seemed completely at ease with Timothy's blindness. It had only been months later that Timothy had learnt from Tuck that one of Henri's brothers in Normandy had been blind.
So here was one person who had been a friend, who would no doubt remember him after all these years. And who would doubtless have a lot of information about what Timothy needed to know. Maybe he would even have recent news of Tuck.
Timothy hoped he would find a lot of answers to his questions.
He was now halfway along Long Row, with the scent of baking bread stronger than ever, and his stick when he tapped it to his right now hit a stone wall, instead of a series of doorways and steps belonging to shop fronts. Timothy put his right hand out to the side to feel over what his stick was now connecting with, and smiled to himself in recognition as his fingers swept lightly over the blank stone wall.
He was here at last, and the wall at least, had not changed in eleven years. Still tapping his stick before him to ware him of any obstacles, he kept his right hand in contact with the wall, trailing his fingertips lightly along it as he walked on. He could not remember exactly where the door in the wall was, but he knew he had not gone past it, and if he continued onwards, he would find it.
Feeling along the wall, Timothy found the wooden door set in its stone archway. He halted, turned to it and ran his curious hand over both the curve of the archway, barely taller than he, and the weathered oak door with its cold iron bands and studs. Just the touch of both stone archway and wooden door brought back memories.
Timothy felt over the door for the iron ring and twisting it, found the latch lifted. The door was unbolted on the other side. He pushed it open and stepped inside the small courtyard, and closed the door quietly behind him, leaving behind the bustle of the street. He stood for a moment and listened around him, sweeping the small courtyard with his hearing.
No-one else was in the courtyard. Where he stood, the warmth of the sun fell full on his face, and Timothy turned his face up to the heat with pleasure, feeling himself smile, the warmth of the morning and the enclosed feeling of this little courtyard bringing back memories of Lisbon and like courtyards. There had been little courtyards like this dotted around the princess Mafalda's palace - little enclosed places, sun-kissed, drenched in a multitude of pleasurable scents from the flowers and herbs grown there; the flit of birds amongst the trailing vines and the lazy hum of bees as they inspected blossoms. Places of intrigue, whispered gossip and clandestine meetings. Stone benches to sit upon and snatch kisses from willing ladies...
Timothy shook himself out of the recent past only to delve deeper into his memories of years before.
He had liked the feel of Henri de Normanville's little courtyard the moment he had stepped inside it with Tuck the first time at age ten. It had been a hot summer's day, much like this one.
_"I can smell lemon-balm and lavender,"_ he had said to Tuck as he had stood at the well, feeling over the stone curve of its wall as Tuck had wound the bucket up to fill their waterskins from.
Tuck, as always had been accommodating. _"Go and explore."_ His gentle finger had stroked Timothy's cheek in fondness. _"Go and feel what you can find. I'll warrant you'll like what you discover."_
Timothy grinned to himself now upon remembering those words. _"Go and feel what you can find"_ Never "go and see what you can find". Tuck had never said that to him. Timothy's world had been touch, and "seeing" what he could find had never existed; it had no meaning.
Timothy had never needed second bidding to go and explore. Not now, as an adult, and not then, as a child. Totally unfamiliar surroundings were to be explored and learnt about, not to be feared. Whilst Tuck had busied himself at the well filling the waterskins, Timothy had turned away from being in contact with the well, and sweeping his stick before him, had walked forwards into unknown territory with eager curiosity.
The courtyard had been paved with cobbles, and the lavender, and lemon-balm and all the other plants, he had discovered, had grown in tubs of earth situated in various positions around the courtyard. Timothy had come up against the stone wall of the courtyard and thus had felt his way around the courtyard's perimeter, exploring each tub of herbs and flowers that he had found; smelling, feeling, listening to the buzz of the bees circling around him. Lavender and lemonbalm, marigolds with their own distinctive scent and delicious-smelling pinks, with their fringed petals. A spiky bush of rosemary, and feathery chamomile. His fingers had explored all with delight, bending his head to put his nose to flower-heads and herbs he crushed between his fingers, the peaceful buzz of bees around him, and full of content in this little peaceful oasis of a courtyard, Timothy had been delightfully absorbed in the world under his fingers.
Finally, Tuck had quietly called him, and Timothy had felt his way over to where Tuck now was, and had found the friar sitting on a small stone seat in a corner of the courtyard, beside a bush of lavender that grew in a stone tub.
_Are we allowed in here?_ he had solemnly asked Tuck, standing beside where the friar sat, laying a hand on Tuck's arm.
Tuck had chuckled, his plump hand had gently rubbed Timothy's bare forearm in affection. _"Aye, lad, we're allowed. Henri's a good man, and a friend of mine. He won't mind if we rest here for a while."_
Timothy had turned slightly towards his left, listening, idly fingering over the spikes of lavender flower-heads which sprouted upward on their long stalks. _"I hear the kitchens of the bakery."_
_"Aye, there's an archway in the far wall which leads to another small yard which services the bakery kitchens. Where the wood for the fires is stacked and handcarts are loaded and unloaded,"_ Tuck had replied. _"But this little courtyard is Henri's personal garden."_
Now, Timothy wondered if that small stone seat was still there, and if there were as many tubs of herbs and flowers as he remembered discovering as a child. He smiled as a breeze blew against his face and carried to him the scent of lavender and pinks. A bee buzzed lazily around his head and then faded into the distance, on an erratic but purposeful path across the courtyard. The scents that came across to him and the sound of the bee told him that yes, this courtyard was still very much used as a garden.
Some things never changed, thought Timothy, and was glad this little oasis of peace in Nottingham still remained.
On his left across the courtyard was Henri's home. There was an archway set in the wall, with an iron gate leading to Henri's home; he remembered feeling over the iron gate, but had never been past it into the house. On his right, through an archway with a solid wooden door was the yard of the bakery and the kitchen itself, kept separate from the de Normanville house across the courtyard because of the risk of fire.
Coming out of his thoughts, Timothy jerked his head round to his right, listening, as from that direction he heard the crash of a dropped platter inside the kitchen past the barrier of the wall, accompanied by a swear-word, and he grinned upon hearing it. There came the usual clatter and bustle of a busy kitchen; platters clashing, people moving about, voices. They would have been working before dawn to bake the days bread.
Timothy hazarded a guess that Henri would be there.
He turned left and walked across the courtyard towards the sound of the kitchens. His stick came into contact with the courtyard wall, and reaching out, his fingers came into contact with the archway leading to the bakery yard; he passed through the arch, felt his way forwards, and his stick hit the few shallow steps that led downwards into the kitchen. He descended them, reaching out his free hand, felt before him and to the side, and his fingers touched the side of an open doorway.
Keeping his hand in contact with the side of the doorway, Timothy halted in the doorway of the kitchen. The heat from the fires immediately hit him in the face, and the noise and clatter and murmur of voices resounded in his ears. He turned his head, listening, trying to find Henri's voice in the kitchen but could not find it, and felt his brow twitch in bewilderment. Was Henri not present?
He drew his guiding stick up close against his body and stood and waited, aware he was facing the open space of the kitchen before him. Sooner or later someone would see him, be curious and come over to find out what he was doing here.
Whilst he waited, he listened to the flow of movement criss-crossing the kitchen before him. By the way the echoes of noise bounced off the walls and ceiling and came back to him, he judged the kitchen to be high and wide. He had never been inside this kitchen, but Tuck had, and he remembered Tuck describing the interior to him and saying that cobwebs hung from the rafters, along with hams that were being smoked. Now he could smell ham in the process of being smoked, doubtless from one of the rafters above a fire, and his mouth watered at the smell. In addition to that scent, the delicious smell of baking bread pervaded every corner, spiked with additional scents of spices; musky clove and nutmeg, fiery pepper, sweet cinnamon.
Across the kitchen, someone was busy scrubbing the stone floor and similar scrubbing strokes sounded across a wooden surface, a wooden table, and a long one, judging by the way the sound of the scrubbing strokes moved location from right to left across Timothy's perception.
Timothy smiled at the familiar bustle before him, the noise and clatter within the hot kitchen, all the many and diverse sounds and scents - like so many kitchens he had worked in, in the past.
Someone had obviously seen him standing at the doorway, for they were coming over to him; heavy footsteps on the stone floor. Timothy focused on the presence as it moved towards him and halted before him, and he gained the sense that whoever it was, was studying him. It was a sweaty, large, male presence, slightly out of breath, indicating overweight. Timothy turned his head to face the sound of the heavy breathing.
"What d'you want?" the male voice belonging to the presence growled suspiciously.
"I've come to see Henri de Normanville," Timothy replied.
"See?" The man was both gruffly amused and bewildered
Timothy sighed inwardly; sighted people could be so dense sometimes. "Yes, SEE; I know that I'm blind and my usage of the word "see" doubtless gives you great hilarity and confusion - but you know what I mean."
There was silence between them, and he was aware of the man studying him further, as though trying to weigh him up. Timothy supposed he that did present a puzzle to sighted people - he often received that feeling from them, as he did not fit their expectations of what a blind person should be like. He knew that he clearly appeared blind to sighted people, by the guiding stick he held, and the way he moved and held his head and the way his eyes behaved - but he was no groping, cowed blind beggar seeking scraps at a kitchen doorway, which was what this individual had been obviously expecting to find. His person was clean, his clothes were plain but well-cut and serviceable, and he stood straight and unafraid and spoke confidently. He was not the typical blind person most sighted people expected, he knew.
He spoke reasonably again to the presence before him. "I assure you, I know Henri, though we have not met for several years. If you were to tell him Timothy of Thornton was here, he would know me."
There came silence from the man facing him, as though he was still trying to sum Timothy up. Timothy turned his head and endeavoured to listen past the large silent presence before him, to the voices in the kitchen. He still could not hear Henri's voice amongst them.
"Is Henri there, in the kitchens?" he asked.
The man's response was brusque. "No, he's in the house."
Timothy straightened his shoulders. "Then would you be so kind as to tell him I am here? I don't mind waiting - and I would like to see him," he added with a flash of mischievousness.
There was hesitation from the presence before him, and then a sudden relaxing of tension - as though he had been studied enough and the man had come to the conclusion that this strange visitor seeking Henri posed no threat, Timothy thought amused. "Follow me," the man said.
The man moved past him and up the steps leading to the yard; Timothy turned and was quick to follow, feeling over the steps with his stick as he ascended them.
The man headed across the yard back towards the courtyard, and Timothy, using his ears, followed him. He crossed the fire-wood scattered bakery yard, avoiding a handcart tipped abandoned on its side, and came up against the wall.
The footsteps which had strode ahead of him into the courtyard had stopped, as though waiting, and as he felt his way through the archway, Timothy gained a sense that the man was watching him with a mix of pity and impatience.
The footsteps suddenly sounded back over to him across the courtyard and the man's brisk presence suddenly loomed in front of Timothy once more.
"You need some help? Here." A rough hand grabbed his right forearm, encircling it like a vice, and before he knew it, Timothy was being steered forwards across the space of the courtyard, turned left and then right, and all the time forwards. Disoriented and somewhat annoyed by his own guidance suddenly being taken out of his hands without so much as a by-your-leave, Timothy however decided not to protest. His aim was to find Henri, and as this individual was intent on taking him to Henri, his aim was achieved with the minimum of difficulty and so this complete disregard for his independence could be tolerated.
"You didn't come with anyone to help you?" The voice, a couple of paces ahead of Timothy, drifted back to him as he was half-led, half-pulled across the expanse of the peaceful scented courtyard. The tone was on the patronising side.
"No," answered Timothy, securing the shaft of his stick in his left hand and carrying it rather than employing it, allowing himself to be led forwards wherever they were going.
"You have an accident or something?"
"No," Timothy replied again, "I was born blind."
Born blind...it was the first time he had said that to anyone with complete certainty within himself, he realised. He had, according to the brothers at Thornton, certainly been blind at the age of five months when he had been left at the abbey gates - but there had always been some question as to whether he might have been born sighted and lost his sight in those first few months of life through illness, which had caused his mother to abandon him. Now, thanks to Abbot Hugo's slip, he knew for certain that he had been born blind.
The man was curious. "Can you see anything at all? Can't you see light?"
"No," Timothy replied for the third time, "I'm totally blind."
It never failed to amuse him how fixated sighted people seemed to be on light and whether he could see it or not. It was a question he was often asked. It bothered him not that he could not see light - but it sometimes seemed to bother sighted people that he could not see light, as though being able to see light would be some sort of saving grace in regards to his blindness in some bizarre way. He had long since ceased trying to understand. But the amount of fuss that sighted people made over light and being able to see it or not, had long since convinced him that being able to see light was more trouble than it was worth and an ability not worth having.
There was now amazement and disbelief mixed in with the man's curious tone of voice. "How the hell did you manage to get here by yourself, then?"
Timothy gave a wry smile to himself; this reaction from sighted people was commonplace. "By using my ears, nose, fingers, stick and memory. Oh, and my legs, of course. I'd never get anywhere without those."
The man did not seem to either understand or appreciate the joke, for he gave a humourless grunt in response and fell silent, and Timothy sighed inwardly and followed where he was led.
"Stop." The large hand encircling his forearm checked him with a jerk, and Timothy immediately halted. There came movement beside him, and then the clink of an iron latch being lifted. Timothy put out his hand to feel and his fingers met briefly upon the twisting curving lines of the ornamental iron gate he had often felt before set into the far wall of the courtyard, before the shape of the gate was swung away from him with a creak.
"Through the gate here," the voice ordered, and the rough hand steered Timothy ahead through the gate, before his self-appointed guide drew level with him and then ahead, almost pulling him onwards. Timothy followed.
He had not taken more than a dozen steps across a stretch of rough uneven cobbles, when the hand around his arm pulled at him to stop again, and he did so.
"Wait here, I'll tell 'im you're around," the man instructed, the large hand gripping Timothy's forearm released its hold and the footsteps sounded away - and Timothy was suddenly left standing alone in the middle of he didn't know where.
He sighed to himself, extended his guiding stick and swept it from side to side over the ground ahead of him, and to his left and to his right - but the stick found nothing save cobbles. No walls, no objects around to connect with and get some bearings. Just space around him, save for the feel of the cobbles below his feet and his stick. Timothy presumed he was standing in some sort of small yard.
He clicked the metal tip of his stick against the cobbles several times and listened to the echoes come back to him - yes, this space was enclosed by walls so it was some sort of yard. Ahead of him, he was aware of some large mass. The air pressure against his face was different there - he was facing something very high, wide and solid. He turned his head from side to side to try and find any difference in what he sensed ahead of him, trying to find the edges of that large solid mass, but could not, unless he turned his face right up to the space of the sky above him.
Ahead of him, the man's footsteps had veered away to the right. Timothy turned his head in their direction to curiously listen and he heard those feet ascend steps. And then he heard a door swing at the top of those steps, and the footsteps suddenly fade away down a stone-flagged surface. The door at the top of the steps swung shut again, and turning his head to uneasily listen around him, Timothy realised he was alone again.
He straightened his shoulders and walked forwards, sweeping his stick across the ground before him, curious to learn what was in front of him and how far away it was.
He came up against a wall; the large solid mass he had sensed the existence of ahead of him. He felt over the wall in exploration - it was not the rough stone of the courtyard wall, but a smoother wall that indicated it was part of a well-to-do dwelling. The mass in front of him was explained; it was the house.
Timothy turned to the right, in the direction he had heard the man's footsteps go, and he followed the wall along, keeping in contact with it with his hand, until his stick hit a jutting-out stone step. The steps that the man had ascended. Timothy halted, ran his stick upwards over the jutting out step, and above that step he found another step and another one - and they seemed to continue for further than his stick could reach.
Now he had oriented himself in his surroundings to some degree, and was in contact with some landmark in his surroundings rather than standing in nothingness, Timothy was happy to wait. He stood at the bottom of the steps, idly running his stick over the bottom one, and he patiently waited, listening. From beyond the walls, he could hear the sounds of the town as Nottingham woke in all seriousness and went about its business. And he waited.
Someone was coming now; footsteps were approaching along the stone flagged surface - quicker, lighter footsteps than those of the stranger who had guided him, then the door at the top of the steps above him creaked open. Timothy turned his face expectantly towards the sound.
"Timothy?" Henri de Normanville's familiar voice was hesitant. The footsteps paused halfway down the steps, then they continued and a flurry of glad movement came towards where Timothy stood.
He smiled at the approach, and held out his hands towards the approaching person in greeting, waiting to find the form and to make physical contact.
Henri's voice lost its tinge of doubt, and instead gained a note of pleasured recognition. "Timothy of Thornton...."
Timothy of Thornton....once, yes, he had been. But not anymore.
Timothy shook off the faint feelings of unease that Henri de Normanville's greeting invoked, and smiled afresh in the direction of the man as he came up. "Henri! I can't have changed that much, if you still recognise me after eleven years."
He felt his hands warmly clasped, and he smiled at the touch, for it was genuinely sincere. It felt good that someone at last was pleased to see him.
He ran his hands up the mans arms and felt over the outline of Henri's shoulders, realising for the first time that he was taller than Henri. Eleven years ago, that hadn't been the case - and the feel of Henri being now shorter than him, brought home to Timothy with new impact just how much time had passed since he had last been in Nottingham, had last spoken with Henri. He had thought that things had not changed much - and now, as he felt over the outline of Henri's small and somewhat bowed shoulders, he realised with a shock that maybe structures like St Mary's Abbey and the Bell and Nottingham itself had not changed - but people he had known had. They had grown older.
"I thought for a moment....is it? Then I realised, aye, it was. No, you were only fifteen when last we met, but you have not changed that much, save grown taller and filled out into a man." Then Henri laughed and Timothy found himself gathered into a bear hug by the smaller man.
He laughed too, and hugged the man back. "Henri, how fare you? It's been a long time - too long, mayhap. But I'm glad to find an old friend in Nottingham who remembers me."
Henri drew back from the hug and patted Timothy's shoulder. "Too long, indeed. But it isn't hard to remember you, Timothy of Thornton." His tone was wry, and Timothy grinned, aware he was being studied. "Look at you, grown to a man. Taller than me now - and you've been in warmer climes than England, judging by the colour of your skin." His voice took on a fond and humorous note. "I suppose you wish to look at me, too, after all these years. 'Tis only fair."
Timothy found both wrists gently taken and raised, and his fingertips gently placed to either side of the man's face. He spanned his fingers out and gently, slowly, moved his fingertips down the animated face of his old friend opposite him.
He smiled as he felt over the remembered curves and lines of the face before him; it was common misconception amongst sighted people that he "saw" with his fingertips. But having been born blind, he did nothing of the sort. He felt with his fingertips, not saw with them. His sense of touch was not merely a substitute for sight, but a valid method of learning about the world around him in its own right. It was no mere substitute.
It was the first time that Timothy had felt another human face since leaving Portugal, and this particular kind of human contact did his heart good, for he was a tactile soul who liked physical contact. He loved to feel faces and all the movement in them that was directed at him, smiles and frowns and other little twitches and furrows of the skin that he could recognise as various expressions illustrating emotions - but sighted people that did not know him often found his method of learning about faces alien to them and sometimes would flinch away from him if he put his hands up to their face to feel over it. It was good to meet an old friend who did not flinch away from his curious fingertips, who understood his need to touch.
Henri's generous mouth was wide and smiling at him now. Timothy smiled in response as he felt over the curve of the lips and the relaxed jaw, and lowered his hands from the man's face. "You've not changed, Henri."
Henri patted his hand, seeming quite flattered by Timothy's observation. " But I have, my boy, I have, if you could see. My hair's gone quite grey - and unfortunately, there's less of it."
"I hear that's a sign of virility so mayhap you shouldn't worry too much over it," Timothy said wryly.
Henri laughed. "Come and breakfast with me. You've never been inside my home, have you - so you wouldn't know the layout; here..." Timothy felt his wrist taken once more and his hand lightly touched to the man's arm. "Do you wish for guidance?"
Timothy smiled, for it was an invitation, and a far cry from the rough pulling across the courtyard he had tolerated from the man who had fetched Henri. "I would appreciate it, for I have little idea where I stand. I remembered your fine courtyard garden well, from my visits to it as a young lad, but beyond it I found myself lost."
"We stand before my home." Henri's voice was full of pride. "Up the steps and through the door, and we'll be inside."
Timothy lightly took hold of Henri's arm just above his elbow, and felt before him with his stick to find the first step. "Lead on."
They ascended the stone steps - seven in all - and passed through the door that creaked, out of the heat of the sun and the sounds of the town beyond the courtyard walls. Suddenly there was peace and coolness surrounding Timothy - but also the feeling of being enclosed, the space of the sky shut off from above his head.
Once past the door, Henri turned sharply to the left and led the way onwards.
"Where are we going?" Timothy asked, unsure, turning his face upwards to catch the echoes of their voices and footsteps as he walked beside Henri down what seemed a very narrow passageway - scarce wide enough for two men to walk abreast. He put out his free hand to the side and touched a cool plastered wall.
"My private chamber is down here," Henri replied. "Set aside at the end of this passage - and away from all the domestic traumas my wife and children manage to create."
Timothy laughed, still keeping his face upturned to catch the echoes of their voices, learning much about the dimensions of this passageway. "Your oasis of peace?"
"You could say that, lad. My wife's a good woman in many ways but there's times I need to shut my ears to her. That's difficult to do at the best of times, which is why I have my private chamber. I was about to breakfast in there when you arrived. I wasn't sure if it was you, which is why I came out. I had to see for myself. When my manservant Hal told me there was a blind young man asking for me and gave a description of you, I wondered; could it be?"
"Stranger things have happened," Timothy said wryly.
"Aye, well, I'd thought you long dead, so it does my heart good to see you." Henri's hand patted Timothy's one that held onto Henri's arm. "My brother died, you know. My blind brother in Normandy."
"I'm sorry to hear of that," Timothy said, trailing the fingertips of his free hand lightly along the plastered wall as he walked beside Henri down the narrow passage, curious about the route they took.
There came a sigh from Henri. "Well, it was for the best. He never had much of a life, being blind."
Timothy refrained from comment. Henri had always been kind and well-meaning, if sometimes coming out with such misguided statements, and Timothy felt sorry for the man for coming out with such comments rather than felt angry with him for making them.
Henri turned to the left and halted; Timothy immediately halted too, and heard the squeak of another door pushed open before him. "Here," said Henri, "here's my chamber, go through to it," and his arm steered Timothy forwards through the doorway ahead of him.
Timothy entered a chamber that had meadow-sweet strewn amongst the scattering of rushes over the stone flags underfoot. He released his light hold on Henri's arm and extending his stick, swept it over the stone flags ahead of him in exploration. It hit nothing.
"The table is a few yards ahead of you across the chamber, and the bench is before that." Henri moved past Timothy, ahead of him across the chamber. "Seat yourself at the table, my friend, and we'll eat. I'm curious to know where you've been all these years."
Timothy walked forwards and his stick found the low long outline of a bench. He sat there, casting his backpack from his shoulders and setting it on the bench beside him, and propping his stick against the bench. Henri moved round the table to settle himself opposite, and Timothy turned his head to face the man's presence as it settled.
"Here." There came the sound of Henri reaching across the table and the glug of liquid being poured into a container not far from him. "There's a goblet on your right, and an empty platter before you. To your left there's bread and cheese and pork on platters, and a bowl of fruit between you and I. Help yourself."
Timothy carefully swept his right hand out across the table in search and his fingers found the cold stem of the goblet.
The wine was full-bodied, sweet and refreshing. He took several gulps, suddenly aware of how dry his throat was.
"It's a goodly chamber you have, Henri." He turned his head from side to side, scanning over the interior. The echoes of his voice told him the chamber was small but high, and there was an open window to his right; the breeze from it softly kissed his face, and he felt a patch of warmth on his right cheekbone. Sun must be coming through the window. Timothy turned his face into the warmth with pleasure, sifting the scents that came through the open window on the breeze. Lemon-balm and lavender again, mixed with the warm scent of baking.
"It's the best chamber in my home. Finely plastered, ornamented with tapestries and the window overlooks my sweet-scented courtyard. It's a worthy place to entertain guests." Henri's voice was proud. "And as you said, an oasis of peace away from my wife and children."
Timothy felt over the contents of the platter to his right with sensitive fingertips, and found still-warm bread. He tore off several pieces and transferred them to his own platter, then swept one hand outwards across the cloth-covered table again in search of other dishes for he could smell both cheese and meat, even if Henri had not told him of their existence. His fingers found the rim of a pewter platter upon which were thick slices of pork. He drew his knife from his belt and stabbed up several slices and transferred them to his platter to eat with the bread. He had forgotten until now how hungry he was. The pork was succulent, and the bread was fresh and light of texture.
"The last time we met, you had two daughters," Timothy remembered to Henri as he ate. "Are they well?"
"I have two sons to add to that now, aye, and a third daughter. All are alive and well - a healthy brood. Celeste and Manon were but infants when you and I last met - now Celeste is fifteen and Manon two years younger." Henri's voice grew curious and Timothy gained the sense that he was being studied. "What about you - you're not wed? - no children?"
"No," said Timothy.
There came the glug of Henri pouring himself more wine. "Well, I suppose it would be hard for you to find a woman who would have you, you being blind."
Timothy resisted the temptation to smile as his mind travelled vividly back to hot nights in Lisbon, the feel of Beatriz's scented sweating skin next to his and their limbs entangled in a glorious jumble as they had made love in a wonderfully dishevelled bed. He had never found it difficult to attract the women - he being blind had never seemed to matter.
_"I hear blind men are good lovers."_ Beatriz's forthright voice came back to him as they had sat in one of the scented courtyards of the palace and flirted unashamedly with each other in a clandestine meeting. It had been in the heat of noon and no-one else had been around. They had fell to talking, then flirting, and she had allowed him to touch her face and her hair and to take her hand.
Timothy had teased her. _"Do you? And do you also believe that there is a corresponding level to that? That the blinder the man, the better the lover he is?"_
Beatriz's voice had sounded fascinated. She had picked a small jasmine flower from the vine growing by them on the seat and softly stroked it down his right cheek.
_"That's an interesting theory. So, how blind are you?"_ She had tickled the tip of his nose with the little flower. _"Can you see this flower right before your nose?"_
Timothy had grinned, and had playfully stroked a fingertip carefully and delicately down the side of her slender bare neck to the top curve of her breast which had swelled tantalisingly above the low neckline of her bodice. _"Oh I can't see a thing. I'm totally blind - so what do you think that makes me as a lover on a scale of one to ten?"_
Beatriz had giggled, and her hand had gone to cover his and trap it before it went further down. _"I would have to research the theory and give you my findings."_
