Ingenious pain, Andrew Miller [little red riding hood ebook .txt] 📗

doors. We may not be quite comfortable here but we shall not be destroyed. Sure this weather cannot last.'

Dyer stands. 'If you, Mr About, would be good enough to obtain some provisions from the monk, I shall be on my way.'

The Reverend says: 'You truly intend to go, sir?'

'I do.' He goes out. The others look at each other, big-eyed.

Mr Featherstone says: 'He's mad. Stark mad.'

The Reverend concurs. 'His accident has perhaps hurt him more than we had thought. I have seen men concussed before, not quite in their right senses for a while. I shall attempt to reason with him.'

About says: 'Be so good as to see he takes no more than is his. Whatever he takes is sure to be lost.'

The Reverend fights his way along the edge of the building to the stables. Outside, Mami Sylvie is heaped about with snow. Inside, the stable is surprisingly snug. Two lamps taken from the coach are burning. There is a smell of horse skin, horse dung and last

summer's hay; the monastery's meagre tithe, evidence perhaps that the old monk has more visitors than they have imagined. James Dyer is examining his horse's shoes. The coachman, puffing on a short pipe, is tending to the other horses. Ponko is also there, chewing on a piece of straw.

The Reverend stands behind Dyer, talks to him in a low, soothing voice. Dyer is angry when he finds the Reverend has not brought out food for him. He goes back into the monastery. The Reverend waits in the stable, grins at Ponko. The coachman points to the roof The Reverend cannot understand what the man is saying to him. The coachman speaks to him like a child. The Reverend hears 'red' and 'schnee', then sees what it is the coachman is pointing to. Lengths of wood, curved at the end. About's famous runners, surely. When Dyer returns, the Reverend tells him of the runners. They could not do anything today, of course, but tomorrow, the next day. Dyer says: 'You were of some use to me yesterday. I thank you for it.'

'Thank me, sir, by remaining here another twenty-four hours. You are not fit to travel. And what of the postillion? You alone have the skill that might save him.'

Dyer leads the horse out of the stable.

The Reverend, hands sheltering his eyes, watches him go, the horse picking its way, the rider urging it on. 'I should have stopped him,' says the Reverend to himself. 'There goes a man to certain death.'

It is late in the afternoon before Dyer returns. The company are sat by the fire, the backgammon board spread between the Reverend and Monsieur About. Ponko watches their moves with fascinated incomprehension. There is a distant booming at the door. The old monk wakes from his meditation, is gone a quarter of an hour, and returns with Dyer, the surgeon buttoned in his surtout, a bag in each blue fist. He cannot speak; the wind has frozen his face.

They sit him as close to the mound of glowing cones as they can. His clothes drip, then smoke. Mr Featherstone offers his flask. Dyer swallows, the blood comes into his face. In a voice like the voice of ice itself, he says: 'The horse failed me.' He does not speak again that night.

For breakfast there is only a mouthful of cheese and black bread, the bread so solid it must be thawed at the fire before they can eat it.

About says: 'How is the wounded man this morning?'

The Reverend replies: 'You may see for yourself, monsieur. The arm is mortifying.'

'It will not be easy to bury him,' says About. 'The ground will be like iron.'

Dyer comes in and sits at the table. He says: 'The snow has stopped.'

About says: 'It has, sir, but I hope you are not thinking of repeating your adventures of yesterday. If you leave today you must do so on foot.'

Smiling, he takes the force of Dyer's stare. The Reverend says: 'Since we must remain a little longer, will you not attend to the postillion. Doctor?'

'He is not my patient, Reverend. He is not of any consequence to me at all.'

The Reverend persists. 'Your oaths as a physician should make him of consequence to you. And if not that, your common humanity.'

'Do not presume, sir, to tell me what I should or should not do.'

'Sir, it seems that someone must.'

'You are impertinent, sir. Idle and impertinent.'

'It is impertinent to wish that we might save a man's life? Is that idle?'

'My business, sir, is with the Empress. I have not come this way to dance attendance upon every post-boy, footman, or lady's maid that falls sick or has themselves shot. I should never have got past Dover.'

Lack of sleep, lack of hot food. The Reverend hears the anger in his own voice. 'This man was in your employ. He was shot by your companion.'

'Mr Gummer was no companion, sir.' Dyer points to his head. 'This was not a kiss he left me with.'

'He was in your company. Zounds! A dog has more compassion.'

'Are you calling me a dog, sir?'

'No, sir, for a dog would have more heart than to leave a man to die, and for no better reason than that he is too eager to keep an appointment.'

'How should you like, sir, to feel my boot on your arse?'

Dyer stands, walks round to the Reverend. The Reverend stands. It has been many years since he felt like this. Black bile. He clenches his fists. He says: 'Nothing would give me greater satisfaction than to bloody your face, sir. I am amazed a man such as you should have lived so long.'

About says: 'What is your price. Doctor, to attend to this' - he gestures - 'unfortunate creature?'

'You refer, monsieur, to my fee?'

'Indeed. The word eluded me.'

Dyer sits down. He is quite calm. It is as if nothing of the last three minutes has actually occurred. The Reverend sits, dizzy with anger, shocked to find that he is disappointed.