I signed, "I have been in the hands of the Bard-killer, and then his son, the current Lord Reinard."
Master Iving caught my hands and frowned. "What is this? Can’t you talk?"
I clenched my hands and shook my head. I had been spoiled by having companions who knew the language of the hands, and now I remembered my muteness.
Peter stepped forward. "He said that he has been a servant of Lord Reinard."
The cheer was gone from his voice. He now knew some of what I had kept hidden from him.
"The Bard-killer?" Master Iving was alarmed, his voice harsh. "Why? And what did he do to you?"
I turned to Peter. "Translate this exactly: That last summer when I went traveling with Wallen, the Christian boy who would come to the guildhall, he took me to Songless Castle. The Bard-killer caught me and cut my tongue short, so that I can no longer speak not sing. With no reason to return to the Bardhall, I stayed there and became a harpist for his son."
Peter stumbled over the words, no doubt recognizing that Wallen was the same as the beggar who had run off with his cousin. The Abbot frowned at the words, and Master Iving darkened with anger.
"And how did you come to be here, but in such a poor state?"
How best to craft my story, so as not to tell a lie to a master? "This fall I met with Wallen and Sharp. The Christian had fallen in love with Lord Guerney’s daughter, who is betrothed to Lord Reinard. He had a plan to steal her away from Rockridge Castle, but needed my help, and so I donned a disguise. He did steal her, but once again left me in the hands of the Lord of the Castle. This good monk, Brother Peter, rescued me and with the help of Sir Charles, brought me here."
If I was lucky, Master Iving would not ask further about the knight. But he frowned as Peter spoke for me, and asked, "How do you know this knight?"
"I saw him often at Songless Castle." Alright, he lived there.
Master Iving thought for a moment after hearing this. "I think you have a ballad here, Gerard. But now, it is your turn to play for the master."
I took my place behind his harp and set my fingers on the strings – then realized what he had done. I was still a Bard-in-training, still subject to its rules and customs, still its child. Not abandoned to fate. I could go home.
He spoke again. "Think on this question as you play: where will go in the Spring, when you are once more free to roam?"
Any place but Songless Castle.
Fingers plucking strings, I played. I worked scales at first, loosening up my fingers, then played a simple melody to set my feet upon the path. Around me, the crowd watched, and I saw certain people smile with anticipation. Helena, who had come here with her father and now stood with the nuns, knelt with her hands before her breast. But Master Iving and the Abbot both looked at me sternly, waiting to judge.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Friday, October 2, 2009
Chapter 16.3.1
#
For the next three days Peter visited me only briefly, and spoke little to me, but I was far less lonely than the Abbot would have wished. Charles came by two or three times a day, staying until either Peter or the herbalist chased him out, and many others who had passed through Songless found excuses to come by and share a few words with me. They all asked how the Old Lord had died and how I fared under the New Lord, and I answered truthfully that I was treated better. I healed and strengthened, read the book of strange stories, and planned for the day I would leave.
The herbalist did not give me back the monk’s robe to wear, but found me a set of old but warm clothing. There were even boots, which I set aside. I no longer had a Christian Lord to tell me to wear them.
On the evening of the third day, as Peter brought me my supper, I heard the sound of a harp. "Is one of the brothers a musician?"
"A Bard has come by, and he is playing on the steps of church. You have leave to go and listen, if you wish." He gazed toward the music, his face shadowed by the same look Lord Reinard had when I played.
"You can go," I signed.
"I’m to stay with you, to show you the way if you wish to attend."
Very neat, I thought as I turned to my food. Peter’s desire was painfully clear, but it was on me if we would go or not. I turned to my simple meal, wondering if I could and face someone who might know me, someone to whom I would have to explain myself. What then?
And yet, the music was persistent in its summons. It reached into my heart, assured me that everything would be fine, and pulled me forward. There were few who could play like that, and I knew, before I reached the church steps wearing the cloak that I did not quite remember Peter draping around my shoulders, who would be seated at the harp.
He was an old master, frail, with seven strings marked on the back of his pale, aged hands. His hair was white and his face a map of winkles. His painted, carved cane rested on the steps beside him. He had always been old, for as long as anyone remembered, yet his fingers moved lightly over the strings, drawing out notes brighter than summer sunlight, yet softer than moonlight. He was Master Irving, whose gentleness brought out more confidences than Master Meiltung could ever get by force.
The music pulled me forward, through the crowd of monks and laymen, and commanded me to sit cross-legged at the master’s feet, the proper place for a Bard-in-training. I was a child again, trusting him as much as I could trust anyone, a student before the master. He paid me no mind but kept on with his playing, forming a melody that calmed and soothed me.
When he finished, his spell remained. I sat calmly as he studied my face, then placed his hand on my head.
"Yes, this is one of our lost children. I will take him home. Gerard, where have you been for so many years?"
For the next three days Peter visited me only briefly, and spoke little to me, but I was far less lonely than the Abbot would have wished. Charles came by two or three times a day, staying until either Peter or the herbalist chased him out, and many others who had passed through Songless found excuses to come by and share a few words with me. They all asked how the Old Lord had died and how I fared under the New Lord, and I answered truthfully that I was treated better. I healed and strengthened, read the book of strange stories, and planned for the day I would leave.
The herbalist did not give me back the monk’s robe to wear, but found me a set of old but warm clothing. There were even boots, which I set aside. I no longer had a Christian Lord to tell me to wear them.
On the evening of the third day, as Peter brought me my supper, I heard the sound of a harp. "Is one of the brothers a musician?"
"A Bard has come by, and he is playing on the steps of church. You have leave to go and listen, if you wish." He gazed toward the music, his face shadowed by the same look Lord Reinard had when I played.
"You can go," I signed.
"I’m to stay with you, to show you the way if you wish to attend."
Very neat, I thought as I turned to my food. Peter’s desire was painfully clear, but it was on me if we would go or not. I turned to my simple meal, wondering if I could and face someone who might know me, someone to whom I would have to explain myself. What then?
And yet, the music was persistent in its summons. It reached into my heart, assured me that everything would be fine, and pulled me forward. There were few who could play like that, and I knew, before I reached the church steps wearing the cloak that I did not quite remember Peter draping around my shoulders, who would be seated at the harp.
He was an old master, frail, with seven strings marked on the back of his pale, aged hands. His hair was white and his face a map of winkles. His painted, carved cane rested on the steps beside him. He had always been old, for as long as anyone remembered, yet his fingers moved lightly over the strings, drawing out notes brighter than summer sunlight, yet softer than moonlight. He was Master Irving, whose gentleness brought out more confidences than Master Meiltung could ever get by force.
The music pulled me forward, through the crowd of monks and laymen, and commanded me to sit cross-legged at the master’s feet, the proper place for a Bard-in-training. I was a child again, trusting him as much as I could trust anyone, a student before the master. He paid me no mind but kept on with his playing, forming a melody that calmed and soothed me.
When he finished, his spell remained. I sat calmly as he studied my face, then placed his hand on my head.
"Yes, this is one of our lost children. I will take him home. Gerard, where have you been for so many years?"
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Chapter 16.2.2
He frowned, and looked out the window. "This summer, perhaps. Now the roads are covered with snow."
I might be free to go where I wished, but he was still bound to his lord.
He brightened. "Still, the road to Slatten should be open. We could go there, and see if we find anyone we know."
"When would we go?"
"I need to finish my penance, first, then take communion. And it will be best for you to rest at least a week more."
"I don’t wish to wait long," I signed back.
A rattle of dishes came from the door. Peter stood there with a tray in his hands, his eyes wide and his face stern. He looked at Charles, then at me.
The knight lifted his hands. "Do you remember the rats in Wellcome’s dungeon? They were four feet long, the color of swamp mud, and stank worse than a midden. Three of them took less than to hours to strip that horse to its bones, then..."
Peter set down the tray by my bed. "Idle chatter is not becoming to a monastery, and neither are idle hands."
Charles snatched up his broom and darted out the door, surprisingly quick for one of his frame.
"There is more between you and the knight than I thought," Peter said quietly.
"This is not our first adventure together," I signed back. "He knows the language of the hands, and is a welcome companion."
Peter bit his lip, as if blocking off further questions. "Here is your breakfast."
Had our discussion from the night before offended him? I asked him about it.
He shook his head, paused, then spoke. "I talked with the abbot. He reminded me that you are a Heathen and ignorant of the truths of the Christian faith. That you have good intentions, but still, it is best that I speak to you no more than necessary. Then he sent me to ponder the stations of the cross until all impure thoughts were cleansed from my mind."
What was impure about accepting the summons of a god?
"But I must know, Gerard – why did you come to Rockridge disguised as a Silent Monk?"
"There truly is something wrong with my voice, and I cannot speak. No one questions a Silent Monk’s lack of speech."
"But – why did you come to Rockridge at all?"
"To help the Lady Laurice escape with the Bard." That was true enough.
He sighed. "And now that she has chosen his apprentice, we are both cast aside."
Far too true.
I might be free to go where I wished, but he was still bound to his lord.
He brightened. "Still, the road to Slatten should be open. We could go there, and see if we find anyone we know."
"When would we go?"
"I need to finish my penance, first, then take communion. And it will be best for you to rest at least a week more."
"I don’t wish to wait long," I signed back.
A rattle of dishes came from the door. Peter stood there with a tray in his hands, his eyes wide and his face stern. He looked at Charles, then at me.
The knight lifted his hands. "Do you remember the rats in Wellcome’s dungeon? They were four feet long, the color of swamp mud, and stank worse than a midden. Three of them took less than to hours to strip that horse to its bones, then..."
Peter set down the tray by my bed. "Idle chatter is not becoming to a monastery, and neither are idle hands."
Charles snatched up his broom and darted out the door, surprisingly quick for one of his frame.
"There is more between you and the knight than I thought," Peter said quietly.
"This is not our first adventure together," I signed back. "He knows the language of the hands, and is a welcome companion."
Peter bit his lip, as if blocking off further questions. "Here is your breakfast."
Had our discussion from the night before offended him? I asked him about it.
He shook his head, paused, then spoke. "I talked with the abbot. He reminded me that you are a Heathen and ignorant of the truths of the Christian faith. That you have good intentions, but still, it is best that I speak to you no more than necessary. Then he sent me to ponder the stations of the cross until all impure thoughts were cleansed from my mind."
What was impure about accepting the summons of a god?
"But I must know, Gerard – why did you come to Rockridge disguised as a Silent Monk?"
"There truly is something wrong with my voice, and I cannot speak. No one questions a Silent Monk’s lack of speech."
"But – why did you come to Rockridge at all?"
"To help the Lady Laurice escape with the Bard." That was true enough.
He sighed. "And now that she has chosen his apprentice, we are both cast aside."
Far too true.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Chapter 16.2.1
#
The next day I found I could move easily. I rose went out the door, then through another door that led outside. I looked upon an inner court, a square of pristine snow bordered by covered walkways. Before me the spire of the church thrust higher than the red tile roofs of the cloister, and beyond it I could see the low, dark stain of the Dragon’s Tooth Mountains. I faced to the west, therefore. Towards Slatten, the Guildhall – and Elise. I closed my eyes and basked in her memory.
Not long, my lady, before I hold you again.
"Gerard!" Charles called out.
I opened my eyes to see him running across the square, a broom in his hand. I signed, slowly and with broad movements, "Careful. You ruin the snow."
He looked back at his footprints and shrugged. "More will fall. Go back inside, where it’s warm."
I hadn’t noticed the cold until he mentioned it. I retraced my steps, motioning for him to follow me.
Inside the room, he pulled the chair next to the fireplace, Then he sat on my bed, leaving the chair for me. "How are you doing?"
"The Abbot knows I’m a Heathen."
Charles looked as if this were not news to him. "What is he going to do?"
"I don’t know. He is letting me stay, but when I can travel, I think he will want me to leave."
Charles puzzled for a bit, then asked, "Will you go back to Songless?"
I shook my head. "I’m free of that place. I owe no allegiance to Lord Reinard. I will go to Slatten to look for Elise, and then – did you mention that you might go on a pilgrimage? To Bartiese?"
The next day I found I could move easily. I rose went out the door, then through another door that led outside. I looked upon an inner court, a square of pristine snow bordered by covered walkways. Before me the spire of the church thrust higher than the red tile roofs of the cloister, and beyond it I could see the low, dark stain of the Dragon’s Tooth Mountains. I faced to the west, therefore. Towards Slatten, the Guildhall – and Elise. I closed my eyes and basked in her memory.
Not long, my lady, before I hold you again.
"Gerard!" Charles called out.
I opened my eyes to see him running across the square, a broom in his hand. I signed, slowly and with broad movements, "Careful. You ruin the snow."
He looked back at his footprints and shrugged. "More will fall. Go back inside, where it’s warm."
I hadn’t noticed the cold until he mentioned it. I retraced my steps, motioning for him to follow me.
Inside the room, he pulled the chair next to the fireplace, Then he sat on my bed, leaving the chair for me. "How are you doing?"
"The Abbot knows I’m a Heathen."
Charles looked as if this were not news to him. "What is he going to do?"
"I don’t know. He is letting me stay, but when I can travel, I think he will want me to leave."
Charles puzzled for a bit, then asked, "Will you go back to Songless?"
I shook my head. "I’m free of that place. I owe no allegiance to Lord Reinard. I will go to Slatten to look for Elise, and then – did you mention that you might go on a pilgrimage? To Bartiese?"
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