Free The Green Man by Kate Sedley Page A

that for a moment even his natural cynicism had evaporated, and he was allowing himself to believe that he would indeed be crowned as King Alexander IV.
    â€˜I’ve come to the conclusion, Roger,’ he said, linking his hands behind his head and staring up at the canopy above us, ‘that maybe I’ve nothing to fear from the English, after all.’ This was the wine talking, and I had no doubt that he would sing a different song in the morning. ‘No,’ he went on, ‘the danger lies, as I always thought it did, with my dear brother.’ He turned his head on the pillow. ‘You’ve not discovered anything yet?’
    I hesitated, then answered slowly, ‘I’m not sure.’
    He was alert on the instant, heaving himself up onto one elbow and peering anxiously at me through the darkness.
    â€˜Out with it, man! What is it?’
    â€˜A silly incident, Your Grace. Nothing more.’
    â€˜Tell me!’
    So, somewhat reluctantly, fearing what I felt would be his quite justifiable ridicule, I told him about the man in the Green Man mask.
    â€˜I thought it would prove to be one of the mummers late for his entrance,’ I said. ‘But that turned out not to be the case.’ And I proceeded to describe my meeting with ‘Mother Earth’ and her ‘consort’. ‘So Your Grace can see,’ I concluded, ‘that I was right to call it a silly incident and not to wish to worry you with it. It’s nothing, in my opinion, but a stupid jest being played by one of the mummers’ troupe on another of their number. Your Highness has nothing to fear. You may sleep easily in your bed.’

Five
    T o my surprise, Albany seemed to be genuinely concerned by my story and interrogated me closely regarding the details. Did I think the attack had been deliberate? Where had I been standing exactly when the man had pushed past me? From which direction in the castle had he come? Was I sure that I had had no glimpse of his face? Was it certain that he had not been one of the mummers’ troupe?
    I did my best to answer these and other questions, but my knowledge of the castle was as limited as his, never having set foot in it – never, indeed, having set foot anywhere north of Hereford – before the previous day. I had to admit to myself that repetition of the incident had convinced me how very trivial it had really been, and that I had built a mountain out of a molehill. What did it really amount to, when all was said and done? A man wearing a mummer’s mask – at a time when mummers’ masks abounded in the castle – had given me an ill-natured shove because I was in his way. That was all there was to it.
    Or was it?
    Later, when my bedfellow had fallen into what appeared to be an uneasy slumber, judging, at any rate, by his tossing and turnings, I found myself lying wakeful in the darkness. The mummer playing the Green Man had either mislaid or had his best mask stolen. But why? For what reason? Was there a sinister motive? And, if so, what was it? Did it really have anything to do with me? On reflection, wasn’t it far more likely to have been taken as a prank by another member of the group who had a grudge against the leading player? That was a much more plausible explanation. Clement, as ‘Mother Earth’ had named him, had struck me at once as a man with a large opinion of himself, and therefore one who had probably made many enemies amongst the troupe’s younger generation. Moreover, it was just the sort of silly trick a boy would play, and there was no doubt that the figure I had seen so briefly had been shortish and lacking in bulk.
    With this finally settled in my mind, I heaved a sigh of relief and turned over, presenting my backside to my unquiet companion. Beyond the drawn bed-curtains, Davey gave the occasional gurgle and snort as he wriggled around on his truckle-bed, but other than that all was quiet except for the