Read Online Duncton Tales by William Horwood - Free Book Online Page A

Forgery, that brilliant but notorious early Modern attempt to fool scribemoles in Uffington into thinking a contemporary text concerning Stone liturgies was of late mediaeval origin. Unfortunately this work brought Privet into direct conflict with Deputy Master Snyde, whom she had managed to keep clear of since their initial meetings.
    The problem was that Rules needed extra aides to help with work generated by Privet’s researches, and Snyde objected to this channelling of resources towards something he saw as irrelevant to the Library’s main work, and in this matter he won — for all but Privet were removed from the task, which left her working on something that most regarded as a waste of time.
    Yet she rose to the occasion, working longer hours and arriving near a solution to the problem in late February, when spring was almost come, and even librarians’ inclinations were turning to matters of the heart, and stirrings of the body, rather than dry textual interpretations.
    With the coming of March, the days began to lighten, and the soil and undergrowth of Duncton Wood began to stir with new life.

    One morning, arriving even earlier than usual, she came upon a thin, gaunt old mole ahead of her among the stacks. He moved quickly, like a weasel investigating an alien creature’s run, and his fur had the thin lack-lustre look of one who has been too long physically inactive and out of the fresh air. Yet old though he seemed, he had a certain vigour, and when he turned to look at her his eyes were sharp and penetrating.
    “Ah! Yes! The mole Privet, I think.”
    “I am,” said Privet, suddenly in awe, for she sensed that this might well be Stour.
    “And you …?” she began, feeling that if she did not ask she might regret it for ever.
    “Yes, yes, I am the Master. “Old Stour” as they call me.”
    To her surprise he laughed in a thin kind of way, though as he did so she was aware that his eyes continued to appraise her.
    Then he said, “I am well pleased with your work, Librarian Privet. The Frandon matter has been one of some embarrassment and I am glad it has been resolved, though the ambiguity remains. You have showed … tenacity.”
    “It is a forgery, Master, and I think I can say which of the Uffington scribemoles perpetrated it, though why I’m not sure.”
    “Boredom I expect. A bigger fact in history than so-called historians give credit for. Been tempted towards forgery myself! In fact …” he permitted himself the briefest of smiles. She knew suddenly she was not afraid of him. But more than that, she saw he was a mole alone. In that momentary smile was a weariness that came from a remembered life when he had not been Master … and not thereby been alone. In that there was something that they shared.
    “Master,” she began, daring to take her opportunity.
    The smile fled, and he raised a paw to silence her.
    “I know,” he said. “You are a mediaevalist and wish for other and more appropriate work. Scribes and scholars always come here expecting something other than I can at first give them. But you shall have what you desire in time. Now, tell me where you were trained.”
    She hesitated. She had hoped that after so long here nomole would ever feel the need to ask her.
    “Tell me, mole. I shall tell no other. From what I have heard of you it is plain enough you have fled from somewhere. If I am to trust those that work for me I must know they will answer truthfully what I ask of them, and fully if I request it. We live in strange and changing times and a mole must be cautious. You have more than the makings of a scholar, you are one already. But without a history.
    We know most moles that come here. Now, whatmole taught you to scribe, and where?”
    Even after this Privet hesitated, her face contorted with distress and worry, her mouth open to reply but no words coming.
    “Well, mole?” said Stour, coming closer.
    She looked into his eyes, and at his austere face, and down at