Chapter 13.4.1

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I came back to the world, and found myself moving. Someone was dragging me from the torture chamber, scraping my heels over the rough stone floor.

I raised my hands to the arms circling my aching chest, and felt the rough cloth of a monk’s robe. My rescuer – if he was indeed rescuing me – paused, then helped me to my feet. Then he pulled me against his taller frame and half-carried me beyond the door.

There he paused to pick up a lantern, and the light flickered up under the cowl, highlighting familiar features. Had my lord come back to save me? No, this man was too tall for my lord. This was Peter, determined to get me to lauds.

As long as it got me away from the torturers, I was grateful.

We went down a long hallway, then stopped before a wooden door. Peter pulled a key from his robe and opened it, then helped me through. He paused to relock the door.

It was the dusty storeroom. The secret passage, and freedom, was not far.

This time, when he moved the screen that revealed the passage, he came with me. He put the screen back in place, but there was no one to move the chest. I lifted swollen fingers and said, "They will know the screen was moved."

"The dust will tell them we came this way," Peter’s hands replied. He took a deep breath. "We will rest for a moment, no more."

"Can we hide in the cavern?"

"We have no food, nor fuel, and when the soldiers do not find us in the castle, they will scour all the land around. We must starve or go out to be caught. Our only hope is to leave quickly, before sunrise, and hide in the forest. Later we will make our way through it to the monastery."

"The Eastern Green Forest?" I signed. "Before dawn?"

"Lord Guerney’s soldiers are superstitious heathens – they would never follow us into that place, fearing as they do the simple shadows of the night."

There is nothing simple about those shadows, I thought back.

"By my faith in Christ, I know I have nothing to fear from it. I have seen a road that cuts through it – how could it exist, if people did not travel on it?"

The people who travel on it are doomed, I replied to myself. But I faced a forked path: did I tell the monk what I knew to be true, and unmask myself as a heathen unworthy of his sacrifice? Or did I stay quietly in character and face destruction of both body and heart? Perhaps his faith was strong enough to protect us both. Or perhaps I could change his mind before we stepped foot into that evil place.

For now, however, I struggled to my feet and accepted his help.

Chapter 13.3

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As I hung, the feeling in my wrists and arms faded, and with it went the outer world. I now stood on a black path in a dark world, one without music. It was made of black shale, blade-thin slices set on end, sharp knives marking a desperate trail.

Demons crouched on either side, their forked tongues licking fire-redden chops. Their scarlet eyes watched me, waited for my command. I could send with a word, through the paths of the spirit world, to catch a lord, a Bard, or a faithless lady with razor-sharp teeth. After that they would be mine, devoted servants all, to reclaim the Bardlands from their Christians Slavers. They would die in agony to befit their god, every lord and lady, every pious priest, every Silent Monk...

No – I would not set the demons upon the Silent Monks, those who had comforted me to no gain of their own. In their debt as I was, I could not repay them with hate. But they would think it no honor to be spared from the destruction of their fellows, so if I spared them, I would have to spare all Christians. Even the faithless lords. Then, how could I hunt a Heathen if I spared the much more deserving Christians?

With just their meekness, the Silent Monks had bought my anger.

My feet were poised to step onto that black, poisonous path, the path of hatred. I pulled back. I would not be seduced into setting the demons free. I turned and left the path, the one that makes slaves of those it calls its masters.

My death would not come easy, but at least I would stand before the gods without the stain of the black path on my feet, or the betrayal of my power as a Bard in my heart.

Chapter 3.2

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I came to as the soldiers were dragging me down the steps. They pulled me up, and slammed me into the wall. Several more times they tripped me or simply pushed me into the stone, until finally dropping me on the cold floor of the torture chamber. I lay there, bleeding and wondering why Lord Guerney even bothered to keep torturers.

"Duke! Jesse! Get yer lazy bones up!" yelled the Captain of the Guard.

The torturer’s apprentice stumbled through a door and pushed greasy hair out of his eyes. "What do ye want?"

"The Lady Laurice has run off, and this monk knows where. Lord Guerney wants to know it by breakfast."

Jesse rubbed his head, looked at me, and frowned. "Duke’s out."

"Where’d he go?"

Jesse shrugged. "With a wench. He’ll be back, soon enough. Her husband is jealous."

"Get to work on this fool as soon as you see him." The Captain hauled me up by my protesting arms and locked my wrists into chains that hung from the ceiling. I was too short for them, and hand to balance on my toes while the iron cut into my wrists. Before the soldiers had all left the room, I could already feel blood trickling down my arms.

Jesse stumbled back to his bed, leaving me to hang, and to await a slow, miserable death because my Lord and my childhood friend could not be bothered to take me with them.

The world is filled with bastards.

Chapter 13.1

Lord Geurney’s private chamber was a lush place, with tapestries on the wall, pillows on the bench, and thick velvet curtains on the bed. A brace of flickering candles threw shadows over the bearskin pelts that kept the sleeper warm, both those in the soft bed and those making do on the floor.

Lord Guerney, dressed only in his linen nightshirt, towered over me. His steward huddled beside him, wringing his hands nervously. The Captain of the Guard stood on his other side, grinning. Behind them all, curled in the bed like a contented cat, lay the Lady Victoria.

Raising the massive hand that carried a broadsword into a battle, Lord Guerney bellowed, "Where is my daughter, monk? Speak!"

Apparently he did not recognize me. I shook my head – all I could do, as two soldiers held my arms in a bruising grip.

His blow brought blood to my mouth.

"She disappeared with those beggars you came with. You’re with them; you know where they went!"

If I were truly with them, I would have left with them. That truth hurt worse than the slap. I shook my head.

Lord Guerney slapped me again, several times, until I felt that my head spin off. Then he turned to his night’s entertainment. "Are you sure this is the monk?"

"I recognize his feet." Her eyes sparkled with laughter. She knew I could not answer, and was enjoying watching my pain.

Now the Steward spoke up, his voice unusually high. "But are you sure that this is the man who acted between the Lady Laurice and the Bards?"

She ran her fingers through the thick pelt, then sat up slowly. It fell away, showing that she wore nothing to protect her from the chill of the night. With a toss of her head, her golden hair settled behind her creamy shoulders. Then she looked up with wide eyes.

I was surprised to see that they were not pure silver.

"I saw him talking to the Bard, in the language of the hands, and the next day he found his way to my Lady’s chambers. What do you think?"

The steward spoke. "Perhaps he was merely blessing the Bard. A little salvation would do nothing for those soot-black Heathens, but the monks still try."

"I think not." The lady traced designs in the fur, designs that were the property of Warlockers. "I know all the signs for the blessings, and those were not among them."

Damn. We had not thought of others knowing the language of the hands.

Lord Guerney turned to me. "How do you answer, Monk? Where have the Bards gone?"

I would have liked to have known that myself, and why they did not take me with them. Again I shook my head.

Now Lord Geuirney hit me with his closed fist, until blood flowed from my nose. "I’ll not have my daughter disgraced by a Heathen. Speak – or they’ll rip it out of you, below!"

"My Lord." The Steward’s nervousness had turned to a panic. "Would it be such a wise thing to risk the anger of the church? If they find out that you sent a monk to torture..."

"If they find out, the dungeon will be a busy place." Lord Guerney said firmly, a warning to the man and everyone else in the room. "Now, monk, do you choose an easy death, or a hard one?"
I could only shake my head.

This time when his hand fell, it brought darkness.

Chapter 12.6

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It was afternoon before I ventured from the kitchens, with a purloined loaf and a pork pie stashed in my bag. I found Wallen sitting in a corner of the Great Hall with Sharp’s lute in his lap. His face was swollen, with a bruise on one side, and he sullenly picked out the notes of a scale.

Great music, he was learning, comes through pain and hard work. He was also learning the lot of the abused and the helpless, the downtrodden, and those beneath his noble notice. This was becoming a bitter adventure for him – perhaps it would put some compassion in his heart.
At least I had the medicine for it. The thought of meeting his bride-to-be, and talking her into his trap, should lighten his spirits.

I knelt and reached for the bandages on his foot. He yanked it away, but I gently took it back.

He leaned forward. "You had no need to treat me like that. Have I even been anything but good to you?"

Not even thinking of how to answer that, I glanced around the hall. There were others present. Two soldiers were looking in our direction. I pressed my lips together firmly and jerked my head in their direction.

Wallen glared back. He said nothing more, however, and withstood my ministrations. I was able to finish, and when I signed a blessing, I let the note fall from my sleeve to the ground by his hand. I looked at it, then into his face, and smiled.

He glared back with ice hard eyes. He clenched his hand.

I rose quickly and walked off. This storm, like so many before it, would surely pass.

#

The glass garden at vespers, the note read. After the prayers I rushed to the dining hall, to see if Wallen showed any more hope, but he was not there. Neither was Sharp, leaving Lord Guerney to be entertained by a untalented minstrel. The ladies-in-waiting announced that their mistress was tired and would sup in her chambers. Charles caught my eye and grinned, but had no news. In the morning, I assumed, I would hear how the final act of our adventure would be.

It was not yet morning when I woke to the sound of someone climbing into the hayloft. I rolled over, thinking it was Peter come to fetch me for Matins – and looked into the face of the Captain of the Guard.

Chapter 12.5

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When the lord and his ladies had retired to their chambers, I found Sharp cleaning and storing his instruments. I tried to explain myself to the bard. First he ignored me, then turned and threw a crust of bread in my face. "Christian dog."

Stung, and all too aware of who might be watching, I signed my thanks and slunk off to the stables. In the morning, I felt, there would be time to explain. Still, the long night was cold and lonely, and I was a long time in finding sleep.

All too soon I was shaken awake. I rolled over, hoping that it was Wallen or Sharp come for an explanation. Instead, backlit by the grey morning light, I saw Peter the Monk. His eyes were red and puffy, but he seemed otherwise none the worse for his indulgence of the night before.

"What is it?" I signed clumsily, unaccustomed as I was to the early hour.

Hos hands flew numbly. "You missed Lauds. I should have warned you of the dangers of drinking too much honey and wine. How is your voice?"

"The same," I answered truthfully. "How did you know to find me here?"

"When I didn’t see you at Lauds, I searched the castle. I knew you would not miss an office on purpose."

Of course not. Thanks to my new companion, my disguise had just gotten harder to maintain. "Thank you for your concern."

"It is more than that. After seeing the Heathens last night, my cousin has expressed an interest in the apprentice. Since you have been tending to the boy’s misery, I thought you could deliver this to him." He handed over a folded piece of paper.

"I hope it is written simply," I signed. "I fear the boy is rather simple."

"It has a time and a place – that should be simple enough. Come, let us do our morning charity in the kitchen."

I made a face.

"They are baking bread and pies today, which will not be counted until they are put in the storeroom."

Peter, I realized, would have made a wonderful bard.

Chapter 12.4

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There was nothing I could do for Peter, but to arrange him comfortably. I went up to the great hall where the dinner was well underway. Sharp again played for delicate tidbits while Wallen crouched, miserable, by the cold door.

Wallen’s feet needed attention. I set to work with salve and clean rags, then looked at his face. It was red and swollen, as if he had been hit hard.

"I couldn’t sleep last night," he muttered. "The floor is too hard. And all day I had to practice on that damned lute. I kept making mistakes. I don’t think I’m going to survive this."

I put salve on his bleeding finger tips, and wondered about his face.

Just then the door to the Ladies’ tower opened, and two women walked out. One was the Lady Victoria, who examined me with a critical eye, and the other was the Lady Laurice. She swept her skirts back from a prominent belly and announced, "Tonight I will eat with the company."

"She is pregnant." Thankfully, Wallen spoke in a quiet voice, or he might have been heard throughout the silent hall. "She sticks out a full mile."

I shook my head as gently as I could, aware of the gazes from both the Lady Victoria and the Steward. I dared say nothing now.

"And I say she is." His voice raised in volume, catching the attention of nearby diners.

I made a swift, subtle motion for him to be quiet, and finished with his feet. I needed to leave.

He grabbed my arm angrily. "Talk to me, damn it."

Twisting free, I hastily blessed his feet, then added, to remind him of his place here, "Heathen child."

"What!" He jumped to his feet and cuffed my head. I scurried to the side, but he jumped on me and hit me again. There was anger, pent-up and fermented, in that blow, and he started to give me another one. He may not have inherited a full measure of his father’s cruelty, but he did have the Old Lord’s temper.

Sharp caught his hand, and pulled the attention of the room away from me. "What is this?"

"He insulted me!"

"What did he do – stick out his tongue?" This brought laughter from, and only from, the Lady Victoria. "You need a lesson, child. You do not – hit – a – Silent Monk."

In each pause, he backhanded Wallen across his face, and there was no playful acting here. Then Sharp turned to Lord Guerney with a bow, "Please forgive the interruption, my Lord. My apprentice is new, and very rude."

Wallen clenched his fists as he lay in the straw. He turned his face toward me, and I saw fury among the specks of blood.

I fled.

Chapter 12.3

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A little while later we sat on the cool floor of the wine cellar, our backs against the heavy wooden casks, with a pot of honey between us. We each had a large pewter cup filled with burgundy. No one had questioned us as we took our supplies and made our way to the basement, and I thought that strange. Setting down my cup, I signed, "At Songless the Brothers are not so free with the castle larder, but it seems to be different here."

Peter smiled bitterly within the shadow of his hood, and signed back, "My uncle would not deny me these pleasures – even though it was he would consigned me to the glory and poverty of God."

"Your uncle?" The mixture of wine and honey was good, but potent.

"Lord Guerney did not think it seemly that his sister should bear and raise a bastard, so I was given to Saint William’s when I was old enough to walk." He clenched his hand, just as I had seen my Lord Reinard clench his hand. Then Peter picked up his cup and drained it.

Sipping my own brew – which I was convinced would not help my affliction – I decided to brave a question that bothered me. As causally as I could, I signed, "Tell me – why do you wish ill of Lord Reinard?"

The monk helped himself to another serving of wine. "I don’t wish him ill – he gave me life, though denying me the enjoyment of it. I only wish him dead, so that my cousin will not be forced to marry him. He is cruel and hateful, an aged relic unworthy of her youth and beauty. She needs a strong, young, adventurous young man – and a home where I also would be welcome. And not just as a barefooted half-monk."

"He denied you the enjoyment of it?" I had already guessed the first part.

Peter downed the second drink in a single gulp. "I should be the next Lord Reinard, heir to Songless Castle – as if that were a prize! But he refused to marry my mother, after spoiling her, after learning of me. Instead he took a young maiden, fresh from the convent – who repaid his kindness by taking a Heathen for a lover. The fool."

"The Old Lord or the maiden?" I asked.

"The Heathen," Peter replied. He closed his eyes and tilted back his head.

And snored.

I looked at his face, still troubled in his sleep, so much like my own lord’s. So that was why Lady Laurice had used the lie that she had, and why she thought it would work.

The Old Lord’s legacy of suffering fell far wider than I, or anyone, had known.

Chapter 12.2.1

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I spent the day in menial tasks, as was expected of me, and waited to catch Wallen in a private place. I did not, for Sharp kept him busy with lessons on the lute, forcing him to learn the first of the cycle of songs. By late afternoon I had not succeeded.

I went out to the courtyard and watched the snow fall in a steady white curtain. A haycart turned into a drift before my eyes; a barrel became a mound. One lump rose up suddenly – it was a dog, shaking the thick shell from its fur. The clods flew off and ruined the perfection of the new-fallen snow, but within a minute the roughness was filled and smoothed by fresh fall. Such is the action of the goddess of snow, that she casually repairs the destruction of her work – but when her ire is roused, the catastrophe she brings is worse than any man or beast could ever wreak.

A hand touched my arm. I recognized Brother Peter by his height. He signed, "It is time for Vespers."

Vespers – the service just before dinner. Since I was not serving another in need – the only thing a monk considered more worthy than attending a service – I was bound to attend. Gods help me, what would I do?

Everything Brother Peter did, I realized.

I turned and followed him to the chapel. Although I had come here before, and had not been torn apart by the guardians of the chapel, I was still nervous as I stepped into its gloom. Today the stained glass windows were dull, and only candles lit the way. Their god, writhing in his eternal agony, seemed to glare at this Heathen intruder.

Peter dipped his hand int a silver chalice beside the door, drew a cross over his breast, and bowed to his god. He looked at me expectantly.

I peered into the chalice. Did it contain the elixir of truth? Would the anger of their god fall heavy on me if I touched it? Or was this the path by which he would steal my soul and keep me captive forever? I feared to touch it – until the steward of the castle, wringing his hands in a determined way, stepped into the chapel behind me. Should any action convince the man that I was not the Christian he thought I was, it would be this. I plunged my hand in, nearly knocking the chalice over, and dress a cross of my own. Then I bowed hastily and followed Peter to a bench at the very front of the room.

I had survived; I was intact. Among the enemy I bowed my head and thanked my gods for watching over me.

When the service began, I faced a second test, and this one I could not pass. The priest, standing before us but facing the god, sang out the service in a rich baritone. Everyone, including the Silent Monk beside me, sang back responses. Even if I could have sung, I did not know the words. All I could do was pull my hood deeper over my face and hope no one noticed that this monk was silent.

But then, who could have heard me over my companion’s strong tenor? The voice that only a god could have given to a man filled the room until nothing else could be heard. The service soon became a dialogue between the priest and the monk, holding all the glory, suffering, and forgiveness of their god. As I listened I came to believe that this was a god who would look kindly on a Heathen soul and hide him in the folds of his robes. Anger and fear could not stand against the pureness light of his love. Like a fountain of light, I thought, a fountain from a vision.
I breathed easily in the assurance of his charity.

Then the song faded away, leaving a peace upon the souls of the faithful.

The god in agony seemed no longer to be glaring at me, but smiling sadly. There was a great power here and a lesson here, even for a Heathen. Perhaps we were wrong to shun it all.
In silence, the people filed out of the chapel. Peter turned to me and signed, "Why did you not take part in the service, good brother?"

Quite truthfully, I responded, "I have lost my voice."

The monk pressed his lips into a thin line, then signed, "For that you must have wine with honey. Follow me."

No true Bard would refuse an offer of wine – though I doubted that the potion would restore my voice without an extra measure of magic.

Chapter 12.1

"We have come to a truce, he and I," I signed quickly. "And to help heal the wound, I have dedicated this season to serving him."

A true enough statement.

The Silent Monk paused, then signed in quick little movements, like whispers. "Did you travel west with him – near Songless Castle?"

How much did he suspect? I framed my answer carefully. "I have been to Songless Castle, and recently, but it has been only the last few days that I have traveled with the Bard. Do you suspect him of treachery?"

"I care nothing of the Bard. Tell me of Songless – so news of it comes to us."

"It still stands."

"But what of Lord Reinard? How is his health?"

"Hale and hearty." I was almost truthful. "And looking with joy to his wedding day."

The monk a gesture with his hand – a Heathen gesture that accompanied a cry for justice from the god of fate. The monks often used it, though they refused to believe in that god. He then signed, "Will he never sicken and die?"

I started. Where was the good charity of my adopted order? I glanced back to where the ladies watched us with gleeful smiles.

"Look at this!" the Lady Laurice called out. "Brother Peter has found a friend!"

He bowed to her, then signed a quick blessing over me.

"Come to me, brother. I have much to tell you!"

I slipped around him and stole to the door, deep in thought. So the monk who looked like Wallen was known to her, and considered a confidant. Perhaps there was something here we could use?

Chapter 11.4.2

I went to her and laid my hands upon her satin-covered waist, and played upon it as if it were my harp. I thought of my Elise as I did so, if her devotion and steadfast heart. Then I thought of Wallen and the Lady Laurice, of the Bard-in-training and the woman who would give everything she had to be with him. Barefoot, both of them, running over hill and dale to escape her father’s wrath.

Beneath my touch, she twisted back into my hands. Something had awakened within her, something that Christians tried to guard their women against. I could feel her hungering passion, which would soon be hunting for a target.

Was this how a Bard had claimed the heart of Wallen’s mother, and so earned a generation’s worth of misery for her people and her son?

On the couch, the Lady Laurice moaned softly. "Brother, you are wasted in that skirt."

"Is he that good?" The Lady Victoria glanced at me lightly. She played with a lock of her golden hair. "Perhaps I should introduce him to the wonders to be found without his vows."

"By the Virgin Mother!" Lady Laurice growled. "You will try for Saint Peter himself, at the very gates of Heaven! Let this monk be!"

"As you wish." The Lady Victoria rose, her mouth pressed into a thin line. Her gaze raked over me, and stopped at my bare feet. She opened her mouth, glanced at her Lady, and firmly shut it again.

I decided to leave quickly.

Straightening up, I signed a Heathen blessing on that fair waist, and turned to leave – then found myself face to face with another Silent Monk. My heart hammered – I was about to be exposed for the fake that I was.

The monk lifted his head enough for me to catch a glimpse of his features, and I saw that it was Wallen.

Taking an easy breath, but staying in character, I signed a greeting.

He returned the greeting, then said, "I see you have made peace with the Bard who meant to harm you."

But – what? Wallen already knew that. I looked down in puzzlement, and saw that his feet were calloused, tough – not torn by rocks and ice. I looked back at the monk’s face, and saw that he was not my lord. Not quite. But certainly close enough to be his brother.

Chapter 11.4.1

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Morning came with a dull yellow light that struggled through snow-filled clouds and failed to penetrate the darkness of the castle. Shrouded in shadows, I easily passed the guards and entered the forbidden cloister of the ladies tower. This time my quarry filled the workroom. Some spun, some wove, and some embroidered, all beneath braces of candles. At first the Lady Laurice was out of sight, but then I found her reclining on a bench strewn with pillows. She held a small one against her belly.

“The child, the child!” she cried out, rocking the pillow. “I feel it move!”

The room echoed with laughter.

“Tell me,” said the Lady Victoria, perching on a cushion beside the bench. “Have you named a father for your child?”

Lady laurice wrinkled her petite nose. “How about that sweet boy of yours? Father would believe that.”

“Please, my Lady, no. Lord Guerney would have him flayed and gutted, then used for target practice.”

I doubted that she was joking.

Lady Laurice shrugged. “Only if he finds the boy. Didn’t he leave months ago to sing his songs for Lord Reinard?”

“Sing? Oh, you mean the singer?”

Singer? Who was this whore, to call a third-string bard a singer?

To her credit, Lady Laurice gave her handmaiden a hard look. “I thought he was a Bard.”

The Lady Victoria shrugged.

“He’s come back for you,” cackled Auld Martha. A shuttlecock flew between her fingers. “He sang for supper, just last night.”

Lady Victoria sat up sharply. “Back? Oh, my Lady, you must name him the father, and quickly, before he comes to bother me. Besides, if Lord Reinard has heard about the child, and decided to marry you regardless, learning that the father was a Bard should certainly change his mind.”

“What was his name?”

Lady Victoria screwed up her delicate face in thought. “I think...”

Sharp, I thought. And he was in trouble.

“Sharp,” Auld Martha said for her. “He has an apprentice with him – not a bad looking creature, for a Heathen.”

The Lady Victoria rose. “I’ll have to try him out.”

No, I thought firmly. As much as I wanted my lord to give up his false lady, he did not need to replace her with a fickle one.

Auld Martha threw the shuttlecock. “Ah, but if you want a man with muscle, then he’s not for you. His face is strong, but he could hide behind a post. And he wears the poorest excuse for a beard that I have yet seen on a man.”

“Oh.” Lady Victoria sat back down.

Lady Laurice sat up, and spied me. “Is that our monk? Brother Peter, is that you?”

“Not unless he’s lost some height,” Lady Victoria replied. She knew her men – but fortunately, she did not dwell on my feet.

“No matter, he’ll still hold our secrets. Come to me, brother, and rub my back. The child has made it hurt.” She threw the pillow to the floor and rolled over.

Chapter 11.3

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As I lay in my bed of straw, my fingers ached for my harp. For decades it had been my constant companion, my voice when I could no longer sing, my comfort. With it I had woven bandages to bind a shattered heart, and arrows to pierce the demons of the night. In times past, it had fed me and given me a place to sleep, and now it assured my shelter at Songless. Friend, shelter, comfort – my harp was like a wife to me.

Perhaps that is why so few Bards marry – any woman who takes a Bard for a husband must remain mistress to his music. Likewise, we seldom stay in one place for too long a time, less our feet become like the roots of a great oak tree and fasten us to the ground. Music needs adventure and change.

Bards are not trees, but the wind which sweeps through the trees, spreading news and songs as we travel. Yet I would never be the wind, for the wind is not dumb. It howls, it cries, moans, and it shudders. It comes in the evening and is gone by morning.

I had stayed ten years at Songless, ten years in which ivy had marched across stone walls, and tree roots had dug deep into the soil. I had grown into the castle, become a part of it, and it was the only place I could live. And I had taken a wife.

I missed the touch of my harp, but I realized that I missed Elise more.

Chapter 11.2

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At the end of the evening, the dishes were cleared and the tables put away, so that soldiers and servants could lay down in the great hall. I headed toward the stables, a place of greater warmth and privacy, but Sharp stopped me. He guided me toward a dark corner, then pressed his hands to his chest. “Dear Brother, I must confess my heart, or it will shatter from anguish.”

“Heathens don’t confess and we don’t have hearts,” I signed back, but I do not know that he understood me.

“Hear me, please. My very heart has been shattered by the pains of love.”

Perhaps he should learn not to be so casual with his heart. I held out my hands and bowed my head.

Behind me, servants moved, but perhaps not as quickly as they could have.

“I once loved a lady, one so fair and so fine that the birds would sing at the mention of her name. She was sweet as nectar, as beautiful as the summer sky, as gentle as a lamb. Freely I gave her my love, and freely she returned it. Then, and for this sin I beat upon my breast and call upon the gods for mercy, I freely left her. Now I have returned, but she will not have me. She has taken a new lover, a soldier who is constant of heart and will, strong in body, weak in mind. She will not have me, and I am unconsolable.”

He did not looked grieved, not then nor when he was accepting his dinner from the fair fingers of maidens – but his message bothered me. How were we to persuade the Lady Victoria to help us now?

“Who is her new lover?” I signed slowly. “Will he help?”

“She lies under the spell of the captain of the Guard.”

Ouch.

I thought, then signed, “I will approach Lady Laurice myself.”

“How?” His voice dropped to a whisper. “She stays in her tower, with only the company of her ladies.”

“And Silent Monks, remember?”

The darkness of his expression showed me that he did, and only too well.

Chapter 11

Voices and rich scents filled the Great Hall. I could see Charles sitting with the other soldiers, filling himself with thick soup and beer. Sharp played before Lord Guerney’s table, and accepted bites of roast venison and blood blooding from the ladies. Wallen and I crouched with the beggars at the end of the hall, waiting for leavings.

I dressed my Lord’s torn and swollen feet with ointment, wrapped them in fresh rags, and signed a blessing.

"You’re good at that," he said, his fingers too stiff to sign, thankfully.

I signed back. "I’d better be – others are watching."

Behind me, the Steward was watching with more than a casual interest.

A serving maid came by with day-old bread. Wallen took a piece, and winced as he bit into it. "Is this worth it?"

"We can leave if you are willing to give up the Easter Green Forest."

He closed his eyes and seemed to consider the choice. I held my breath, hoping.

Then with a sigh he opened his eyes and looked at the high table. "Which of those is the Lady Laurice?"

"Don’t you know your own betrothed?"

His voice fell to a whisper, thankfully. "My father made the arrangements – for himself. I inherited her."

So the Lady’s fears had not been unfounded, after all. I quickly signed, "She’s not here."

"Then where..."

I glanced back and saw the Steward looking at me with a frown. "Enough of this," I signed quickly, then moved away.

My noble Lord Reinard dropped his stubbly chin onto his rag-covered chest – obviously disillusioned with the adventure that had barely begun. By the time this was over, I realized, he would be a different man. But for better or worse, I could not say.