Isle of Glass (10 page)

“Of necessity,” said Alf. “He didn’t dare write the full
tale in case the letter fell into the wrong hands. But there’s no treason in
this. That I swear.”

“By what, Brother? The hollows of the hills?”

“The cross on my breast will do, my lord.”

Aylmer marked his coolness, but it did not abash him.
“So—what couldn’t be written that needs Morwin’s best young minds and such
haste that even a war can't interfere?”

For a moment Alf was silent. Jehan’s tension was palpable.
Aylmer sat unmoving, dark and strong and still as a standing stone.

Alf drew a breath, released it. “It’s true that Jehan and I
have been...given...to you. You asked for me. Jehan was never made to live in
the cloister. But our haste rises from another cause. Some while ago, on All
Hallows’ Eve, a rider came to the Abbey. He was badly hurt; and we tended him,
and discovered that he was the envoy of the King of Rhiyana.”

The Bishop’s expression did not change, but Alf sensed his
start of interest.

“This knight," Alf went on, “had been in Gwynedd with
the young King, and had ridden into Anglia to speak with a lord there, seeking
peace among the kingdoms. The lord with whom he spoke was preparing war; he
meant to use our knight as a gauntlet to cast in Rhiyana’s face. The knight
escaped to us, though in such a state that even yet he can’t leave his bed, and
the Abbot took it on himself to send us with his messages to the King.”

“What sort of messages?”

“Kilhwch has no desire to go to war with Anglia. But a lord
of Anglia has begun to raid in Gwynedd. If our King will refuse to join in the
war and will take steps to punish his vassal, there can be peace between the
kingdoms.”

Aylmer sat for a long while, pondering Alf’s words. At last
he spoke. “But your man is from Rhiyana. Why is this struggle any concern of
his?”

“Gwydion of Rhiyana fostered Kilhwch in the White Keep; he
still takes care for his foster son’s well-being.”

Again Aylmer considered, turning his ring on his hand,
frowning at it. "I think you’d better talk to the King. But not tonight.
He’s celebrating his victory; he won’t want to hear about anything else.
Tomorrow, though, he'll be sober and in a mood to listen to you. Though peace
is never a good sermon to preach to Coeur-de-Lion.”

“I can try,” Alf murmured.

“I was right about you, I think. You were wasted in the
cloister.”

“I was happy there. And I was serving God.”

“And here you aren’t?”

“I never said that, my lord.”

“No. You just meant it.”

“One may serve God wherever one is. Even in battle.”

“Would you do that?”

Alf shook his head, eyes lowered. “No. No, my lord. Today, I
watched for a moment. That was enough.”

The Bishop nodded. “It takes a strong stomach.”

Jehan stirred beside Alf. “My lord,” he said with some heat,
“Brother Alf is no coward. He spent the whole day with the wounded. And it
takes a good deal more courage to mend hurts than it does to make them.”

Aylmer looked from one to the other, and his dark weathered
face warmed into a smile. “I see that you two are somewhat more than traveling
companions.” He rose. “You’ll sleep here tonight. Tomorrow you’ll see His
Majesty. I’ll make sure of that. But I’m warning you now: Don’t hope for too
much. War is Richard’s life’s blood, and he’s had his eye on Gwynedd for a long
time. One man isn't going to sway him.”

“We'll see,” said Alf. “My lord.”

Alf was up before the sun. The Bishop had not yet stirred;
Jehan lay on the rug with Alf, curled about Thea’s slumbering body. It was very
cold.

He rose, gathered his cloak about him, and peered through
the tent flap. The camp was silent, wrapped in an effluvium of wine and blood,
the aftermath of battle. A mist lay like a grey curtain over the tents.

The horses were well content, with feed and water in plenty.
Alf left them after a moment or two and went down to the lake.

The wide water stretched before him, half-veiled in fog.
There was no one near to see him; he stripped and plunged in, gasping, for the
water was icy. But he had bathed in colder in the dead of winter in St. Ruan’s.

When he was almost done, the water turned warm so suddenly
that it burned.

He whipped about. Thea stood on the bank in her own shape,
wearing his shirt. It needed a washing, he noticed.

She walked toward him, her soles barely touching the surface
of the lake. A yard or two away from him, she sat cross-legged on air. “What
are you scowling for?” she asked him. “Hurry and finish your bath. I can’t keep
the water warm forever.”

“If anyone sees you,” he said, “there will be trouble.”

“Don't worry. I’m not easily raped. Even by King Richard’s
soldiers.”

Alf flushed. That was not what he had meant, and she knew
it.

“You do blush prettily,” Thea remarked. Still wearing his
shirt, she let herself sink. “Ah—wonderful. Somehow a bath feels much better on
skin than on fur.”

She wriggled out of the shirt, inspected it critically,
rolled it up and tossed it shoreward before Alf could stop her. She was
chest-deep, as he was; he averted his eyes and waded past her.

Between one step and the next, the water turned from
blood-warm to icy cold. He ran to the bank and fumbled for his clothes. His
shirt was warm, dry, and clean, as were the rest. Thea’s gift.

Once safely clad, he should have returned to the camp. He
stayed where he was, not looking at Thea but very much aware of her.

She emerged at length and accepted his cloak. “Thank you,”
she said, not entirely ironically. “I suppose I should turn into a hound again
and give you some peace.”

He glanced at her. She was very fair, wrapped in the dark
blue cloak. He remembered what lay beneath; the memory burned. His body kindled
in its fire.

So this is what it is
, he thought in the small part
of him that could still think.

Thea stared. Beautiful eyes, golden bronze, burning. “You
mean you’ve never—”

He turned and fled.

Once he had left her, he cooled swiftly enough. But he could
not still his trembling. So long, so long—

Other novices had groaned and tossed in their beds or crept
to secret shameful trysts with girls from the village, even with each other.
Monks had confessed to daylight musings, to burning dreams, to outright sin;
accepted their penances; and come back soon after with the same confessions.

Alfred had lived untroubled, novice, monk, and priest; had
pitied his brothers’ frailty, but granted it no mercy. A man of God should
master his body. Had not he himself done so?

He had been a fool. A child. A babe in arms.

Was he now to become a man?

He drew himself up. A man was his own master. He faced what
he must face and overcame it boldly. Even this, torment that it was, but
sweet—honey-fire-sweet, like her eyes, like her—

“
No!
”

His mind fell silent. His body stilled, conquered.

But he did not go back. Nor did she follow him, as a woman
or as a hound.

He was calm when he returned to the Bishop’s tent, to find
Aylmer awake and dressed and surrounded by his monks. Jehan stood among them,
conspicuous for his lordly clothes though not for his size; one or two of
Aylmer’s warrior priests easily overtopped him.

There were curious glances as Alf entered. One man in
particular fixed him with a hard stare, a small dark man in a strange habit,
grey cowl over white robe. Something about him made Alf’s skin prickle.

“Brother Alfred,” Aylmer greeted him. “I’m getting ready to
say Mass. Will you serve me?”

Alf forgot the stranger, forgot even the lingering shame of
his encounter with Thea. He had not gone up to the altar in years.

Ten years, nine months, four days. Not since he had found
himself unable completely to reconcile his face with his years; when he had
ceased to doubt that he would not grow old.

But Aylmer had not asked him to say Mass, did not know that
he had taken priest’s vows. Surely he could serve at the altar. That was no
worse than singing in the choir.

Aylmer was waiting, growing impatient. Alf willed himself to
speak. “I’ll do it, my lord.”

Aylmer nodded. “Brother Bernard, show Brother Alfred where
everything is. We’ll start as soon as the King is ready.”

o0o

Dressed in alb and dalmatic and moving through the familiar
ritual, Alf found that his fear had vanished. In its place had come a sort of
exaltation. This, he was made for. Strange, half-human, elvish creature that he
was, he belonged here at this altar, taking part in the shaping of the Mass.

He was preternaturally aware of everything, not only the
priest and the rite, but the Bishop’s tent about him, the high lords kneeling
and standing as the ritual bade them, and the King.

Richard was difficult to pass by: a tall man, well made,
with a face he was proud of and a mane of gold-red hair. He heard the Mass with
apparent devotion, but the swift fierce mind leaped from thought to thought,
seldom pausing to meditate upon the Sacrament. His eyes kept returning to Alf,
caught by the fair strange face, as Aylmer had known they would be.

When the Mass was ended, the celebrants disrobed swiftly.
Alf paused with Alun’s knightly garments in his hands. “My lord,” he said to
Aylmer, who watched him, “if you would allow me a moment to fetch my habit—”

The Bishop shook his head. “No. It’s better this way.” A
monk settled his cloak about his shoulders; he fastened the clasp.

“Alfred, Jehan, come with me.”

o0o

Richard sat in his tent, attended by several squires and a
knight or two. “Aylmer!” he called out as the Bishop entered. “Late for
breakfast, as usual.”

“Of course, Sire,” the Bishop said calmly. “Should I
endanger my reputation by coming early?”

The King laughed and held out a cup. “Here, drink. You’ve
taken unfair advantage already by going to bed sober last night.”

As Aylmer took the cup and sat by the King, Richard noticed
the two attendants. "What, sir, have you been recruiting squires in this
wilderness?”

“They’ve been recruiting me, Sire. Brother Alfred, Brother
Jehan, late of St. Ruan’s.”

One of the knights stirred. “Jehan de Sevigny! They’ve
thrown you out of the cloister?”

“Alas,” Jehan replied, “yes. I outgrew it, you see.”

“Like Bran the Blessed,” Alf said: “he grows so great that
no house will hold him.”

The King’s golden lion-eyes had turned to him and held, as
they had during Mass. The others laughed at the jest, Jehan among them; the King
was silent, although he smiled. “And you, Sir Monk-in-knight’s-clothing?
Wouldn’t the house hold you?”

“No, Sire,” Alf responded.

They were all staring now, at him, at the King. Their
thoughts made him clench his fists. Richard had found another pretty lad, the
prettiest one yet.

That was not what Richard was thinking of. He had been
trying since Mass to put a name to that cast of features, but none would come.

“Alfred,” he said, “of St. Ruan’s on Ynys Witrin. Are you a
clerk?”

“Of sorts, Sire.”

“Pity. You look as if you’d make a swordsman in the Eastern
fashion. Light and fast.” With an abrupt gesture, Richard pointed to a seat.
“Sit down, both of you. While we eat, you can tell us a tale or two we haven’t
heard before.”

It was the first time Alf had sat at table with a king,
though he had waited on royalty once or twice, long ago.

Those high feasts had been not at all like this breaking of
bread upon the battlefield. Richard was at ease, standing little upon ceremony;
no one paid much heed to rank.

Afterward, as they all rose to go, Richard gestured to Alf.
“Sir monk. Stay.”

Aylmer’s satisfaction was palpable; as was the sudden
interest of the others. Jehan frowned and wavered. But the Bishop’s cold eye
held him; he retreated.

o0o

One was not precisely alone with a King. Squires cleared
away the table; another sat in a corner, polishing a helm. But those in
Richard’s mind were nonentities. He relaxed in his chair, eyes half-closed,
saying nothing.

Alf was used to silence. He settled into it and wrapped himself
in it.

The King’s voice wove its way into the pattern of his
thoughts.

“Brother Alfred. Alf. What are you?”

He regarded Richard calmly. His God, a white elf-woman,
himself—those he feared. A king troubled him not at all. “I’m a monk of St.
Ruan’s Abbey, Sire.”

“Noble born?”

He shrugged slightly. “I doubt it.”

The King’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t you know?”

“I was a foundling, Sire.”

“A changeling?”

“Some people think so.”

“I can see why,” Richard said. And, abruptly: “What does
Aylmer want?”

“Aylmer, Sire?” Alf asked, puzzled.

“Aylmer. Why is he thrusting you at me? What’s he up to?”

This King was no fool. Alf smiled without thinking. “The
Bishop is up to nothing, Sire.”

“So now he’s corrupting his monks in the cradle.”

Alf’s smile widened. Richard’s eyes were glinting. “Don’t
blame him for this, Sire. I asked him for an audience with you.”

Richard frowned; then he laughed. “And he didn’t even ask.
He simply placed you where I’d fall over you. Well, Brother Obstacle, what do
you want?”

The mirth faded from Alf’s face. He spoke quietly,
carefully. “I’ve been sent to serve the Bishop. But I’ve also been entrusted
with another errand.”

“By whom?”

“The King of Rhiyana, on behalf of Kilhwch of Gwynedd.”

The drowsing lion tensed. "One monk, with only a boy
for company. Are they trying to insult me?”

“No, Sire. They honor you with their trust.”

“Or taunt me with it. I know what Gwydion is like. He lairs
in his White Keep and spins webs to trap kings in. How did I stumble into this
one?”