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.