Post of the Month

~ September 2008 ~

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Timothy ~ Written by Rhys. Posted on the HoS Yahoo group April 2007.

Where he sat in the de Normanville courtyard, Timothy listened to the stillness of the night. He sighed, rubbed a hand across his face.

He could not sleep. The night was humid. Down in his cellar bedchamber he shared with the sacks of grain and the mice, the night had seemed to hang over him like a hot wet woollen blanket. He had tossed and turned, and finally had pulled on his clothes and gone in search of fresh air and distraction from his thoughts.

The kitchens had been quiet, deserted. No-one had been around, everyone was sleeping.

Standing at the door of the kitchens, Timothy had listened to the silence of the night, of Nottingham beyond the bakery yard, and had realised how late the night had become. There were no voices in the streets, no carts, no bustle. Nottingham was sleeping.

The tang of a coming thunderstorm had hit his nose almost the moment he had stood in the kitchen doorway. Excited at the prospect, he had deliberated on the best place to witness the thunderstorm from; to experience it as though he were in the middle of it - and yet to remain dry. He had finally tapped his way across the bakery yard and entering the garden courtyard, weaved his way across that too, skirting the well and the random tubs of calendulas and lavender, his guiding stick clicking lightly against the stone flags.

He had come up against the far wall, where more tubs of flowers were ranged, and turning, had felt his way along it to his right, to find where the ivy covered the wall. Guided by the ivy, he had felt his way further along the wall until he had found the corner where the curved stone seat was set, right back into the corner, so the large swathes of ivy that grew up overhead and to each side was like an arbour. It was where he and Celeste had sat, two nights ago.

No-one from the house could see them sitting here, she had said then.

Timothy had reached up, feeling how the heavy swathes of ivy hung over the corner seat, creating a roof and had realised it not only provided a shelter from vision, but also from inclement weather.

So he had sat, and now he waited for the storm.

Whilst he waited, his mind flitted back through the events of the past day. As Guillot had promised, his father had heard in no uncertain terms about the incident concerning the water trough. Very little time had passed before Timothy had been summoned to the house, to Henri's study at the end of that long, plastered-wall passage. Once inside the chamber, he had stood before the man and felt his wrath. He had folded his arms and stood there squarely, presenting a calm face to Henri and had listened as Henry's voice, taut with anger, had admonished him.

_"I hadn't realised you had such a temper upon you!"_ Henry had berated, his tone one of almost confusion.

_"Contrary to popular belief, Henri, the blind are not ever-meek, ever-patient creatures - we have all the emotions you do; including anger if we feel we are being poked fun at,"_ Timothy had replied.

_"Well, my brother never showed such emotions - he was always grateful for whatever he was given, and whatever was done for him....which is surely how the blind should be! Are YOU not grateful to me for what I have done for YOU? - after all, who else would have given you a job?"_ Henry had demanded.

Timothy had resisted the impulse to continue the conversation along that line; Henri had a firmly fixed idea in his mind of how all blind should be and Timothy had doubted the man had enough of an open mind to change his views now after a lifetime. _"Of course I am grateful to you for my employment, Henri, as any employee would be to his master. But Guillot was in the kitchen, disrupting the work there - he took my knife from the table without my leave, and in play he nearly wounded your other boy with it! What would you have me do? - just ignore the situation and let him go unpunished? How will he learn if he is not taught what he did is wrong? What do you expect me to do in such a circumstance?"_

_"I DON'T expect you to cast your master's son into the horse trough!"_ Henri had shouted back into Timothy's face, so close that Timothy had felt the man's hot breath against his cheek, and he had flinched at the sheer volume.

Henri had almost immediately calmed. _"Ah, Timothy...._" His hand had patted Timothy's shoulder in some regret at shouting as he had moved past Timothy to sit once more at the study table. _"I took a risk taking you on - don't make me regret it...."_

And Timothy had left Henri's presence with those ominous words ringing in his ears.

Now, as he sat in the courtyard, he attempted to shake off those words still echoing faintly around his head. There was no point in retaining them; tomorrow was another day.

The night was completely still. There was no breeze. Timothy made himself comfortable leaning back against the wall and waited and listened.

There was something, but what? Was it a sound or just a tremor in the air? Had he heard it or felt it? Did it come from above or below? It was a tremor, but whether on the earth or the air he did not know.

It came again, echoing like a distant door opening on silent hinges, revealing for a moment a huge vaulted chamber, and then closing just as silently. It was as though the lid had been lifted momentarily from a cavern within which could be heard the deep shaking of the surge. The lid was replaced without a sound, without an effort, and the whole of Nottingham seemed to wait breathlessly in the hot heavy silence of the night.

Timothy waited too, anticipating the rain. He could smell and taste the coming storm in the air. The air almost seemed to crackle around him, and he waited with quiet excitement. He had loved to witness storms ever since a boy.

The tremor grew to a murmur and the murmur into a grumble, as though huge muffled stones were being rolled down vast fields. Timothy thought of Thor and his hammer striking down through the sky, and of the ancient people, listening long ago and waiting as he now waited. What had storms meant to them?

Suddenly the storm sprang into full life. A long peal of thunder disturbed the air, no longer low from outside Nottingham, but at a gathering height above him, as if rising up to attack. The first drops of rain fell on Timothy's face and pattered on the stone flags of the courtyard.

Timothy listened, still breathless with excitement. He could hear the storm sweeping across Nottingham, pattering on roofs nearby. There was a rush of wind. Suddenly the thunder and the rain was upon him, upon the courtyard, upon the whole of Nottingham and all the dwellings within it, and with it came the immediate drop in temperature, and the sweet cool tang of raindrops blotting out the sickly smell of the summer heat.

Everything was alive. Thunder rumbled once more as though someone was hitting the sky with a huge mallet, and the air and rain was moving continuously around him. Timothy turned his face up to the sky in delight, feeling the sheer space of it as the thunder rumbled around it. The sky above seemed made of parchment or hide. It flapped and cracked as it was hit again and again. Then the sky was no longer made of parchment but a thin sheet of metal. Thor's hammer flew across its surface, breaking it open with a triumphant crash and the rain came down in a torrent.

Timothy drew back under the great swathe of ivy that overhung him on this curved stone seat in the corner of the courtyard, and wriggling right back against the corner, drew his legs up to sit crosslegged on the seat so they were out of the rain. Here, he was perfectly sheltered, but could still be in connection with the storm. He rested his head back against the wall and listened to the patter of the rain on the sheltering ivy overhead, and his mind drifted back.

The last time he had sheltered here from the rain, he had been fifteen years old and with Tuck....

That time came back to him now as sharply as if it had been yesterday....

A set of narrow winding stone steps that had led to a small chamber in a tower. A large solid table hewn of oak that had been loaded down with parchments and paper. A bench on which he had been curtly bidded to sit; he had reached out before him and his fingers had found the thick edge of that solid table and had strayed along it in exploration, wanting to gather all the information about his surroundings that he could, for Tuck had stood behind him in the corner of the chamber and had clearly dared not speak.

Cold, cold stone chamber, even though it had been August, the month of his birth....

The voices that had bounced off the cold stone. Voices full of sarcasm, withering scorn, derision, mockery. Voices that had assaulted his ears, using words designed to belittle him.

 Voices that then had turned to anger and irritation as Timothy had stood fast under first the patronising and sarcasm, and then finally the threats. His blindness was the least thing in the world that upset him, and that attitude had seemed to only inflame the anger of his opponants.

The clink of chain mail as he and Tuck had been escorted off the premises by two guards, with those angry, raised voices ringing in his ears, wishing him nothing but trouble and an untimely end. And then the heavy oak door had been slammed shut behind he and Tuck, and the voices had suddenly become muffled and then disappeared.

Back down the steep stone newel staircase from the tower chamber, stumbling down the staircase in his haste as the guards behind had roughly forced he and Tuck on down the steps at a quick pace; Tuck breathing heavily with the exhertion of being rushed on, yet still finding enough breath to berate the guards. _"For the love of sweet Mary, the boy is blind - give him time to find the steps below with his stick so he knows where to place his feet - or would you cause us both to fall and break our necks?"_

Timothy had stumbled on the last step, fallen to hands and knees against the stone flags, been hauled roughly up by a large unfamiliar hand that had gripped the neck of his jerkin, and flinging out a frightened arm in search, had found Tuck's arm again for guidance as they had been hustled on along an echoing stone passage. He had been terriffied he and Tuck would be parted.

He had not known where he was at all, and Nottingham Castle had seemed a vast confusing array of chambers and passages, steps and doorways as he had been hustled along.

Down more steps, then a narrow passageway not wide enough for he and Tuck to walk abreast. He had dropped behind a step, his right hand still gripping Tuck's upper arm for guidance, still terriffied that they would be parted, and had followed where Tuck led, forever pushed on by the two guards directly behind him, their heavy boots tramping along the stone floor. He had reached out his free hand and touched the side of the passage as he had been led along, and his fingers had found the wall moist with trails of slime. The dank smell had clawed at his throat and bred further fear in him, for that dank smell smelt of Death.

_"Where ARE we, where are we GOING?"_ he remembered his frightened fifteen year old voice calling out to Tuck as they were hustled along, fearing the end of their journey along this evil-smelling passage so cramped and close would lead to a dungeon or an oubliette. Tuck had been wheezing in distress, out of breath from being hustled along, and unable to answer, and the sounds of him had further frightened Timothy.

A draught had shafted into Timothy's face from ahead of him and he had sensed an opening in that direction where there was air and space - and movement and noise of other people. Suddenly, one of the guards behind him had given him a sharp shove between the shoulder blades with a curt "Get out there!" - and he had tumbled out into space after Tuck - into fresh, warm air, into the noise and movement of a street.

Tuck had halted, Timothy had also, and had run his guiding stick immediately over the ground around him to gather clues. He had found cobbles with it.

A heavy gate had clanged sharply shut behind them - no less sharp than the words Timothy had heard flung out at him in that small square tower chamber that had smelt of parchment, melted wax and ink - and the presence of the guards had gone. He had half-turned, cast his long guiding-stick out in exploration in the direction of the slam, and his stick had struck the line of a thick stone wall, and the bottom of a heavy wooden door, banded by iron. _"Where are we?"_ he had asked, confused, of Tuck, as he had continued to run his stick over the ground around him in exploration.

Tuck had still wheezed, breathless, beside him, and his hand had patted Timothy's where it was still tucked in the crook of Tuck's elbow for guidance. _"It's all right, lad - we're outside the castle. They threw us out through a side door. They've gone. The guards have gone."_

Relief had flooded through Timothy; a warm, upsurging wave spreading throughout his previously chilled-feeling body.

The familiar touch of Tuck's hand had rubbed the back of Timothy's knuckles in a reassuring gesture. _"Come lad, let's move away from here lest the guards return."_

Timothy had walked a few steps with Tuck away from the gate into the busy street - and then it had been as though his feet had suddenly refused to obey him. He had halted, all at once reeling from the delayed shock of confronting those voices in the tower. Tuck, whose arm he had hold of for guidance, had halted also.

_"Timothy?"_ Tuck's voice had been concerned.

Timothy had not known what to do, what to say in reply to Tuck's inquiry. He had felt in a daze. Half of him had been angry, half of him had wanted to weep. He had been beyond words. Instead he had stood and felt himself shake with fear and supressed rage at his treatment. Whilst a little voice had whispered inside him: _well, what did you expect?_

Tuck's cool hand had stroked his hair back from his hot forehead in a soothing touch. _"It will be all right,"_ Tuck's voice had reassured.

Timothy had been far from sure all would be well. He had suddenly seen himself as how those sneering voices in the castle tower must have seen him. The fact that, as a blind person, he had no rights, had been pushed home to him hard enough by those voices. He had no rights, he had learnt no trade to provide for himself - and both his current freedom and his current independence could be easily enough taken away from him if higher powers wished it - why, the tone of those voices in the tower had even indicated to him all too clearly that his life could not only be controlled, it could be ended if he decided to cause any more trouble.

Rain had begun to patter down against the cobbled street, and Tuck's plump hand had patted Timothy's arm. _"We'd best take shelter."_

He had taken Tuck's arm once more for guidance and had numbly followed where he had been led, little caring where they went.

Their footsteps had echoed as they had walked down the cobbled street, mixing with the throng of people going to and from the market, the scent of the butchers, the tanners and the candlemakers all hitting his nose in a pungent eddy. They had turned several corners, until his stick had hit a wall on his left, and then Tuck had halted and creaked a wooden door open in that wall - a familiar door to a familiar place, which had been like a blessed balm after the frightening unfamiliarity of Nottingham Castle and that chamber in the tower....

Rain had spat against the stone flags of the de Normanville courtyard and there had been the familiar scent of wet lavender, wet calendula rising to meet Timothy's nose; a soothing mix of scents. He had followed Tuck's curve around the well in the middle of the courtyard, and when Tuck had halted, he had halted also, put out his hand to feel before him and had found two walls going into a corner, and that corner shrouded by ivy. Tuck's hand had taken his and guided it down to touch a stone seat below the ivy, set back against the corner. His fingers had swept the cold smooth surface of the curved seat.

_"We'll be dry here,"_ Tuck had said, and had settled himself with a sigh.

Timothy had sat beside Tuck, finding himself under shelter out of the rain, and drawing his legs up onto the seat to sit cross-legged, he had pulled his cloak around him and had listened to the patter of the rain on the ivy above him. With his back against the corner of the wall and his shoulder in contact with Tuck's, he had suddenly felt safer, shielded; hidden. It was always difficult to know when he could not be seen by sighted people, unless he was alone in a chamber - but he had felt hidden then, and had felt easier for it.

Tuck beside him had given a slight sigh. _"We may as well sit here the night out of the rain and try and get some sleep. It's no good us setting back to Thornton in this weather, lad. The rain is a fine drizzle, but looks set in for the evening. We'd find little shelter on the road and would be soaked through. Besides, it's almost dusk by now. The light is fading and the sky is purple and grey with rage from the storm."_ Timothy had listened numbly to the description, it having little meaning to him. _"The gates of the town will have probably shut before we can reach them."_

Timothy had shivered, remembering the ominous clang of the castle gates behind them as they had been thrown out onto the street. He had realised then that they could have all too easily have been the clang of a dungeon door.

_"Here."_ Tuck's hand had taken Timothy's wrist and had touched his fingers to the soft flaccid surface of the aleskin Tuck carried. _"Take a drink. I've some bread here, too."_

Timothy had not wanted neither refreshment, had recoiled his hand from its contact with the aleskin and instead had flapped his hand violently through the empty space before in him miserable and angry frustration, not knowing what to do, how to fight against those voices in the tower, whose words and veiled threats had come back to sting him.

Tuck's arm had lain across his shoulders and drawn him close. Timothy had buried his face against Tuck's shoulder and allowed a few hot silent tears to at last fall. Tuck had said nothing but had stroked his hair in comfort, and Timothy had been aware of the man's troubled silence as the rain had fallen around them, pattering on the leaves above them.

Finally, Timothy had turned his head aside so his cheek rested against Tuck's shoulder, furiously rubbed his eyes dry of moisture, and had sought Tuck's hand. Taking it between both his own, he had idly fingered over the back of it, taking reassurance from the contact, and they had sat like that in silence, given to contemplation over what had occurred, what had been said in that tower.

_"I should never have brought you,"_ Tuck had said at length out of the silence.

_"I asked you to accompany me,"_ Timothy had replied quietly. _"And had you not agreed, I would have still come, on my own. I'm only sorry that you will face the displeasure of Father Laurence as well when we return to Thornton."_

_"Ah well,"_ Tuck had sighed, _"no matter. There are some things which have to be done, and the Lord understands that, I'm sure."_

_"Everything will change now."_ Timothy had whispered with fearful certainty.

Tuck had lifted his hand from Timothy's and his fingers had gently stroked Timothy's cheek in comfort. _"No it won't."_

_"Yes it will. Everything at Thornton will change."_ He had rubbed his cheek against Tuck's shoulder in misery, seeking solace. His quiet words, scarcely heard above the gentle patter of rain, had held certainty within them. _"My lifewill never be the same again after today."_

Truer words had never been spoken, Timothy thought now, coming out of his memories.

As suddenly as it had started, the storm faded. The belt of thunder had passed over Nottingham and was moving away. As if it could not bear to be left behind, the rain followed. Timothy suddenly felt restless at its passing. The rain, so alive, had gone. Passed over him, leaving him here, inactive and alone.

_What am I doing here?_ he asked himself. _Here, so static in Nottingham?_

_Biding your time. Waiting._ the answer came to him.

Timothy sighed and rested his head back against the wall behind him and listened to the fading thunder as it disappeared into the distance.

He felt he had already waited a lifetime.