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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.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
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?
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?
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, August 10, 2009
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.
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.
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