Isle of Glass (16 page)

Lamps glimmered there, for the high narrow windows let in
little light; Aylmer stood near the far wall, listening as a secretary read
from a charter. When Jehan entered, he dismissed the man and beckoned. “Ah,
Jehan. How went it with the quintain?”

Jehan grinned ruefully. “Terrible," he answered. “I
think my father’s right. I’ve gone soft.”

“Give yourself time,” Aylmer said. “I hear you’re doing
somewhat better with the sword.”

“A little, my lord.”

Aylmer nodded toward a chair. He sat carefully to spare his
bruised muscles; the Bishop watched with amusement. “How old are you now?” he
asked.

“Just sixteen, my lord.”

“So?" Aylmer’s brows rose. “You’ll grow rather more, I
think.”

“My father’s a big man. So is my brother Robert. The others
are too young to tell, but they’re all robust little monsters. Even my sister
Alys.”

The Bishop smiled a rare warm smile. “Yes: I’ve heard of the
Sevignys. A proper pride of lions, those.”

“We hold our own,” said Jehan.

“You do,” Aylmer agreed. “Father Michael speaks well of your
scholarship. Very well, in fact.”

Jehan rubbed a callus on his sword hand and sighed
involuntarily. Father Michael had not been pleased to see his new pupil. Quite
the contrary. Was he, who had sat at the feet of the greatest scholars in
Christendom, to be condemned to teach grammar to this great ox of an Earl’s
son?

He had made no secret of his contempt. “Do you know Latin?”
he had demanded in the vernacular.

“Yes,” Jehan had answered in the same language.

“So.” The priest had barely concealed his sneer. “Say in
Latin: ‘The boy sees the dog.’ ”

Jehan had obliged. And continued to oblige because it amused
him, though his good humor had begun to wear thin.

At last, as Father Michael framed yet another simple
sentence, he had said in the Latin which Master Peter had taught him and
Brother Osric refined and Brother Alf perfected, “Father, this is very
pleasant, but isn’t it rather dull? Could we do a little Vergil? Or maybe a bit
of Martianus?”

He smiled even yet to remember Father Michael’s face.
Skeptical at first, but breaking into incredulity and then into joy. “God in
heaven!” he had cried. “The ox has a brain!”

Aylmer had marked both sigh and smile. “Troubles, lad?”

“No,” Jehan answered. “Not really. By now I should be used
to the way people react to me. I’ve got such a big body and such a stupid face.
But actually, inside, I’m a skinny little rat with his nose in a book.”

Aylmer laughed aloud. “Hoi, lad! you’re good for me. Here,
have an apple. They’re from your own St. Ruan’s, the Isle of Apples itself.”

“Are they?” Jehan took one from the bowl on the table. “They
call it Ynys Witrin, too, you know. Though I’ve heard that the real Isle isn’t
even in the world.”

“The Land of Youth. Yes.” While Jehan nibbled at the apple, Aylmer
wandered down the line of books, pausing now and then to peer at a title. At
the end, he turned. “Do you think there’s such a place?”

“There’s a lot in the world I don’t know, and a lot out of
it. Maybe there is a real Ynys Witrin, or Tir-na-n’Og, or Elysium. Or maybe
they’re all just other names for Heaven.”

“Maybe,” said Aylmer. He came to sit by Jehan across the
table. “Some people say that the mystic realm is right across the water in
Rhiyana.”

“I’ve heard that.”

“Your mother is Rhiyanan, isn’t she?”

“Yes, my lord. She’s the Earl’s daughter of Caer Dhu.”

“Kin to the King, I hear.”

Jehan finished the apple and set the core upright on the
table. “Distantly. She never went to court. She was fostered by a lord and lady
in Poictesme, and married my father when she was barely out of childhood.” His
eyes upon Aylmer were wide, blue, and guileless. “Are you curious about
Gwydion, my lord?”

The Bishop’s cheek twitched. “Somewhat,” he admitted. “When
you were in St. Ruan’s, did you talk much with the Rhiyanan knight?”

“I took care of him,” answered Jehan. “He slept a lot.
Sometimes he talked. He wasn’t the talkative sort. He was very quiet, actually,
unless he had something to say.”

“What did he look like?”

Jehan shrugged. “Rhiyanan. Tall, black hair, grey eyes. Face
like a falcon’s.”

“Young?”

“Rather. Old enough to be a knight, but not much older.”

“Well born?”

“Yes.” Jehan tipped over the apple core and rolled it from
hand to hand.

“Was he one of the elven-folk?”

The apple core stopped. “Do they exist?” Jehan asked with a
touch of surprise.

“So it’s said.” Aylmer shifted in his chair and sighed. “So
it’s said. Did you know that the Monks of St. Paul are forbidden to preach or
to found abbeys in Rhiyana?”

“Are they? Why?”

“It’s the King’s command. The old Orders are sufficient, he
says, and the Church in his kingdom is thriving. It needs no Hounds to hunt its
heretics.”

“Or its Fair Folk? If they exist,” Jehan added.

“If they do,” agreed Aylmer. "Tell me. Where was
Brother Alfred born?”

Jehan went cold. Brother Reynaud he could deal with; for all
his cleverness, the man was an idiot. But Bishop Aylmer was another matter
altogether.

“He was born somewhere near St. Ruan’s,” he said. “I don’t
know where. He was one of the abbey’s orphans. There are always a few about.
Most grow up and take some sort of vows—by then they’re used to the cloister,
you see. They tend to forget exactly where they were from, and so does
everybody else.” He paused. “Brother Alf isn't Rhiyanan, if that’s what you’re
wondering. I think maybe he’s Saxon.”

“You and he are close friends.”

“I don’t know about that,” Jehan said. “I used to bother him
to help me with my books. He was my teacher for a while. Then we came here.”

“He taught you?”

“Well. Somebody had to.”

Aylmer did not smile, but his eyes glinted. “Isn’t it odd
that he should have been teaching you? You must be almost of an age.”

“Not really. He’d been there all along, and he’s brilliant.”

“Like his namesake, the other Alfred? I used to dream of
sitting at the great scholar’s feet and being his disciple. But I never had the
chance; and when I was in St. Ruan’s last year, he was ill and seeing no one.”

“I remember,” Jehan said. “I’d just come to the abbey.”

“Had you? I never saw you. Though I saw young Brother
Alfred. He struck me as a remarkable boy.”

“And he doesn’t now? Is that why you’re asking about him?”
Jehan’s fists knotted. ”That’s not true, my lord! He’s all you thought he was.
But he’s having troubles. He’s not used to living in the world, and he never
wanted or expected to be the King’s friend, and people are cruel to him. They
can’t stand someone who’s good and brilliant and handsome, all at once.”

The Bishop’s smile won free. “Now, lad, there’s no need to
shout at me. I like to think that I can judge a man by those who love him; and
by that reckoning, he doesn’t have many equals.”

“He doesn’t by any reckoning,” Jehan muttered.

“I think not. But there’s another side to this. Brother
Alfred has friends of very high quality indeed. Unfortunately, his enemies are
at least as powerful, and more numerous besides.”

“The Hounds?”

Aylmer’s eyes narrowed. “You know of them?”

“They’ve been after me about Brother Alf. Who is he, what is
he, what do I know about him?”

“Last night,” Aylmer said, watching him under heavy brows,
“there was an uproar in one of the alehouses in the town. Brother Alfred, it’s
said, was in the middle of it.”

Jehan sat still, his face blank.

“There were unusual circumstances,” the Bishop continued.
“Alarming ones, some think. Have you ever tried to shave a man with a sword?”

“Shave him? With a sword?” Jehan laughed. “It’s hard enough
to land a proper blow.”

“According to the tales I've heard, our frail young Brother,
who was raised from infancy in an abbey, barbered a man with a sword as well as
any surgeon with a razor.”

There was a long pause.

“My lord,” Jehan said slowly. “I saw Brother Alf last night.
He was awfully sick. Not drunk, just very sick. It was inside more than out. He
wanted to die, my lord.”

That caught Aylmer off guard. He leaned forward. “What!”

“He wanted to die. A—a friend found him. Stopped him, and
came and got me.”

Jehan thought he could decipher Aylmer’s expression. Deeply
shocked, and—concerned? “Why? What happened?”

“I’m not absolutely sure. I do think...the stories may be
true. But he’s no devil, my lord. Nor any devil’s servant.”

“God knows," Aylmer muttered, “I want to believe that.”

“You’re learning to love him,” Jehan said. “The best people
always do. But the rest hate him. It’s that hate that makes the Hounds want to
hunt him.”

“It’s more than that, lad.”

“Not much more,” Jehan said fiercely. “He’s so much more
God’s creature than any of the rest of us. The world scares him witless. Last
night he tried to run away from it. He still wants to. And now the hunt is up.
He’ll run right into the middle of it.” He struck the heavy table with his
fist, rocking it on its legs. “Why can’t people leave him alone?”

“Because,” Aylmer answered, “he isn’t like anyone else. I'll
shield him if I can. But I may not be able to.”

“No one will. And he’ll die, and I—I’ll kill the man who
does it to him!” Jehan leaped up and ran blindly for the door.

The apple core had fallen to the floor. Aylmer set it on the
table, carefully upright; and sat for a long while unmoving.

Alf paused in the doorway of the King’s bedchamber. It was a
small room, little more than a cell, dominated by a great carved and curtained
bed; Richard had concealed the bare walls with several layers of hangings, and
set in it a brazier from the East that did what it could to dispel the northern
cold.

The King sat near the coals in hose and fur-lined cotte,
playing at chess with Earl Hugo. A lamp hung above them, swinging slightly in
the draft that lifted the heavy tapestries, casting its uncertain glow upon the
board and the carven pieces. The white knights were warriors of Allah wielding
curved scimitars, the black heavy and lumpen in chain mail on Frankish
chargers; the white king a Saracen sultan, the black a Christian with a crown
of crosses and leaves.

Richard set a black castle before the ivory sultan.
"Checkmate, my lord,” he said.

Earl Hugo glowered at the board. “Checkmate,” he agreed at
last. “Sire.”

The King smiled at him, a deceptively gentle smile. “A good
game, sir. And,” he added, “a good night.”

Alf stepped aside to let Hugo pass. The Earl glanced at him
and started, and crossed himself.

The poison was spreading rapidly. Alf entered the room,
letting the door-curtain fall behind him. Richard stood by the chessboard. His
eyes were very bright.

“Well, Brother,” he said. “You’re later than usual.”

Alf bowed slightly and said nothing. His gaze rested on the
chessboard, where a mitered bishop stood beside the Frankish king.

“Sit,” the King commanded him.

He obeyed, taking the chair the Earl had left. Richard took
up the ebony king and turned it in his hands. “I’m fond of this,” he said. “The
Sultan Saladin gave it to me, a token of our battles and our truce.”

“Are you at war with me now?” Alf asked quietly.

Richard set the chessman in the center of the board and took
from a cabinet a flask and two silver cups. He filled them both and gave one to
Alf. “You were out all day,” he said. “Why?”

“I needed to be alone.”

“Longing for your cloister?”

Alf shook his head.

“Liar." Richard sat at his ease, sipping from his cup.
“It’s quieter there, isn’t it? No wars. No kings. No drunken squires.”

Under the King’s keen eye, Alf sat very still. “They didn’t
know what they were doing.”

Richard spat a curse. “They knew, plague take them. They
knew exactly what they did.”

Alf looked up, a startling, silver flare. “No,” he said.
“They didn’t. Or they would never have dared.”

The King paused. This was an Alf he had never seen, bright,
brittle, dangerous. “They told me a fine tale,” he said, “of swords and sorcery
and a monk turned demon. Are you an elven knight in disguise?”

“No knight, I.”

“But a master of the sword. Twenty men swear to that—and one
is my own master-at-arms.”

Alf’s fingers clenched about the cup. “I...avoid weapons.
They tempt me.”

“Sweeter than women, aren’t they? I wish I’d seen you.
Thierry was almost crying. That sweet touch, that perfect control, wasted on a
pious shavepate.”

“Not wasted,” Alf said very low. “Buried deep, and well
buried. I think...I think I am a killer by nature.”

“Aren’t we all?”

With an effort Alf unlocked his fingers. They had bent the
cup’s rim into a narrow oval. He set it down and wiped his hands on his
breeches. “All men may be,” he said, “but I am worse than most. Or would be, if
God’s grace had not set me in St. Ruan’s.”

“God’s grace.” Richard snorted in derision. “God’s japery.
With ample help from Mother Church. Look what they’ve made of you—a butt for
every snot-nosed brat who happens by. You who should be out in the lists,
daring the Flame-bearer himself to throw you down.”

“Whatever I should have been, this I am. And I regret that I
ever let my temper destroy my reason. It was unpardonable.”

“So was what caused it.”

“No.” Alf dropped to one knee. “Sire. Pardon the boys who
mocked me. One night’s hell-raising is not worth three noblemen’s disgrace.”

The King’s brows drew together. "It isn’t?”

“Never, Sire. They won’t trouble me again. I can assure you
of that.”

“When they attacked you, they attacked me. They knew it. And
they know that they’re getting off lightly in only being sent home.”