Book II Chapter 10 The Twilight of Magic by Hugh Lofting
The pocket of the tunic
For a moment longer Giles remained looking out at the ferry-boat before he closed the window part way and turned to the saddle-bag. He opened it without much interest, and spread its contents on the bed.
Besides the newly laundered linen there was a tunic, some hose, a pair of gloves and other things. He could hear Luke below shouting for the host, then the clatter of footsteps and his cheerful whistle as he crossed the stable yard to look to his horse.
The idea of a clean shirt after so much hard travel seemed very welcome to Giles. In less than a minute he had changed. He was about to get into his old jacket when he noticed it was muddy on one sleeve. He took up the tunic from the bed. It was a newer and a lighter one than that which he had worn for the last two days. He put it on and threw the old one over a chair. Then he lay back on the bed to wait for Luke’s call to supper.
It seemed as though the esquire had not found everything to his liking in his horse’s stall. For presently his voice could again be heard calling impatiently for the innkeeper.
Waiting and weary, Giles must have dozed off into a short sleep. Because suddenly he sat up, wondering where he was. He rubbed his eyes. He was more certain of being sharply aroused than he was of having fallen asleep. He was sure, too, that he had been often brought to his senses by the same thing before, though as yet his drowsy mind could not give a name to it.
Then his hand flew to his side. Yes—hot! Something was burning in the pocket of his new tunic. Frantically he pulled it out. He had been awakened by the Whispering Shell!
Without stopping to wonder how or when it had come there, he clapped it to his ear while it was warm. Words, clear and sharp as though the speaker were beside him! His very heart seemed to stand still to help him listen with all the attention of his soul. For it was the voice of Barbara that he heard.
‘The King’s Finder. He is very clever, very skilful. But I do not believe he can find us here. No, not now. For this is the end of the journey.’
Who could it be that she was speaking to? thought Giles . . . The voice went on gently, sadly:
‘How clear the water was! And such a beautiful day! Do you remember the wide green sward sweeping up to the castle hill, the oak trees clumped about the slope, the soft warm air, the glorious scent of the wet lilies? No? But you cannot have forgotten him, the young man, tall and strong, the King’s Finder, who threw sticks into the lake for you to bring ashore?’
There came a high, sharp bark.
Mollie!
It was to her dog the Countess Barbara was speaking. Then the jingling of a silver collar. The spaniel was scratching her ear, humbly thoughtful, no doubt, of that great battle in the lake where she had lost the swimming championship to Maggie. A pause of silence followed. And Giles found his hand trembling like a leaf as the shell cooled slowly. Was the beloved voice going to say no more? What had she meant by ‘the end of the journey’? Was he not to learn after all where that journey ended, where she was now?—Where, where, where?
But suddenly the heat glowed up again within his palm. And the words ran on:
‘Sir Giles Waggonwright, the truest man in the royal service. I hope this does not injure him at the Court: failing but once, after succeeding so faithfully and long. They’ll all be wondering what has befallen me—thinking maybe I am dead. My poor father, the good Queen Mother and the King. It is wrong of me to keep them thus in ignorance. Yet it couldn’t be helped. And oh, my Mollie dear, I want so to sit out here on the grass a while longer, before we go in. They will all learn soon enough where we are, even if the Finder could not trace us. It will not matter now, a short while still in freedom, under the stars and the little wide-roaming moon.’
Something that might have been a sob broke into the words. But almost instantly, growing brave and firm again, the voice went on:
‘Yes, soon we’ll go in. You too, my Mollie. I think they’ll let me bring you with me. I’ll ask the Lady Abbess. She was a friend of my mother’s years ago. You shall be a nun too—though you’ll have to be less frisky, even if you don’t wear the veil and gown. Yet we must not delay too long, lest Sir Giles overtake us after all. A few minutes more and we’ll ring the bell at the big gate there . . . We’ll go in. . . . Then we’ll be Sisters, Sisters of Saint Bridget.’
Giles sprang off the bed. Thrusting the shell still warm into his pocket he leapt across the room and pulled the door open.
‘Host!’ he yelled. ‘Hulloa, below there!—Host!’
‘Coming, Sir, coming,’ called a voice in the distance. In another moment the innkeeper’s face appeared, with a candle held beside it, peering open-mouthed from the foot of the staircase.
‘Saddle the black mare,’ Giles shouted. ‘Quick! Don’t stand there gaping. Bring Midnight to the door. Run, I tell you, run!’