Wintertide (12 page)

“True nobility lies in the heart. You must do what
you
know to be right.”

“How do I know I’m not being selfish?”

“Ah, that brings us to the next virtue—faith. Faith is not simply a belief in the tenets of the church but a belief in virtue itself. A knight does not find fault. As mentioned, a knight believes in the good of all men, including himself. He trusts in this belief. A knight is confident in the word of others, in the merits of his lord, the worth of his commands, and in his own worth.”

Hadrian nodded, though the words did not help ease his conscience.

“Generosity is the sixth virtue. A knight should show bounteousness to all, noble and commoner alike. More important than generosity of wares is a generosity of spirit. A knight believes the best of others and always extends the benefit of doubt. A knight does not accuse. He does not assume wrongdoing. Still, a knight grants no benefit to himself and always questions if he is at fault.

“Respect is the virtue concerning the good treatment of others. A knight is not thoughtless. He does not harm through recklessness. He seeks not to injure by lazy words or foolishness. A knight does not mimic the bad behavior of others. Instead, he sees it as an opportunity to demonstrate virtue by contrast.”

Nimbus paused. “I don’t think you need worry too much about this one either.” He offered a smile before continuing.

“The final virtue is sincerity, which is elusive at best. Nobility by birthright is clear, but what is in question here is noblesse of heart and cannot be taught or learned. It must be accepted and allowed to grow. This virtue is demonstrated through bearing not swagger, confidence not arrogance, kindness not pity, belief not patronage, authenticity not pretension.

“Thus are the virtues that comprise the Code of Chivalry,” Nimbus concluded. “The path of goodness and truth to which men of high honor aspire. The reality, however, is often quite different.”

As if on cue, the door burst open and three men tumbled inside. They were large, stocky brutes dressed in fine doublets with silk trim. The lead man sported a goatee and stood near the door, pointing at Hadrian.

“There he is!” he announced.

“Well, he certainly isn’t this little sod,” roared a second man, who pushed Nimbus hard in the chest and knocked the tutor back against the bunk. This man was the largest of the three and wore several days of beard growth. The insult, as well as the terrified expression on the courtier’s face, brought the new arrivals to laughter.

“What’s your name, Twig?” the man with the goatee asked.

“I am Nimbus of Vernes,” he said while attempting to stand and regain some level of dignity. “I am Imperial Tutor to—”

“Tutor? He’s got a tutor!”

They howled in laughter again.

“Tell us, Twig, what are you teaching Sir Bumpkin here? How to wash his arse? Is that your job? Have you taught him to use the chamber pot yet?”

Nimbus did not answer. He clenched his teeth and fixed his eyes on the unkempt man before him.

“I think you’re getting under that ruffled collar of his,” the last of them observed. He was clean-shaven and sipped wine from a goblet. “Careful, Elgar, he’s made fists.”

“Is that true?” Elgar looked at the tutor’s hands, which were indeed tightly clenched. “Oh dear! Am I impinging on your sacred pedagogical honor? Would you like to throw a punch at me, little Twig? Put me in my proper place, as it were?”

“If he takes a big enough swing, it’s possible you might actually feel it,” the shaved one said.

“I asked you a question, Twig,” Elgar pressed.

“If you don’t mind, we’ll continue this another time,” Nimbus said to Hadrian. “It would seem you have guests.”

Elgar blocked the tutor’s path as he tried to leave and shoved him again. Staggering backward, Nimbus fell onto the bed.

“Leave him alone,” Hadrian ordered as he stood and grabbed a towel.

“Ah, Sir Bumpkin, in all his regal glory!” proclaimed the man with the goatee, pointing. “Well, not
that
regal and certainly not
that
glorious!”

“Who are you?” Hadrian demanded, stepping out of the tub and wrapping a towel around himself.

“I am Sir Murthas and the gent with the handsome face beside me here is Sir Gilbert. Over there, that dashing fellow holding the pleasant conversation with the twig is none other than Sir Elgar. We are the three finest knights of the realm, as you will soon discover. We wanted to welcome you to the palace, deliver you a fond tiding, and wish you luck on the field—as luck is all you’ll have.”

Nimbus snorted. “They’re here because they heard a bath was ordered and wanted to see your scars. Knowing nothing about you, they came to see if you have any fresh bruises or recent wounds they might take advantage of on the field. Also, they are trying to intimidate you, as a man in a tub is at a disadvantage. Intimidation can frequently win a contest before it starts.”

Sir Elgar grabbed hold of Nimbus, pulling him up by his tunic. “Talkative little bastard, aren’t you?” He raised a fist just as a sopping towel slammed into his face.

“Sorry. Elgar, is it?” Hadrian asked. “Just got done drying my ass and noticed a smudge on your cheek.”

Elgar threw off the towel and drew his sword. In just two steps, the knight cut the distance to Hadrian who stood naked and unflinching even as Elgar raised the blade’s tip toward his throat.

“Brave bugger, I’ll give you that much,” Elgar said. “But that just means you’ll be an easier target along the fence. You might want to save that water. You’ll need it after I put you in the mud.” Sheathing his sword, he led his friends from the room, nearly colliding with Renwick, who stood outside the door holding a goblet of wine.

“You all right?” Hadrian asked, grabbing a fresh towel.

“Yes, of course,” Nimbus replied in an unsteady voice. He smoothed the material of his tunic.

“Your wine, sir,” Renwick said to Hadrian.

Without pause, Nimbus took the cup and drained it. “As I was saying, the reality can be quite different.”

Chapter 9
Winds Abbey

Royce stood before the window of the bedroom, watching Gwen sleep and thinking about their future. He pushed the thought away and suppressed the urge to smile. Just imagining it would bring disaster. The gods—if they existed—detested happiness. Instead, he turned and looked out over the cloistered courtyard.

The previous night’s storm left everything covered in a new dress of unblemished white. The only exception was a single line of footprints that led from the dormitory to a stone bench where a familiar figure sat wrapped in a monk’s habit. He was alone, yet the movement of his hands and the bob of his head revealed he was speaking with great earnest. Across from the monk was a small tree. Planting it was one of the first things Myron did when he returned to the abbey after the fire. It now stood a proud eight feet tall but was so slender it drooped under the snow’s weight. Royce knew there was great resiliency in a tree accustomed to bending in the wind, but he wondered if the strain could be endured. There was a breaking point for everything, after all. As if reading his thoughts, Myron rose and gave the tree a light shake. He had to stand close to do so, and much of the snow fell on his head. The tree sprang back, and without the burden of snow, it appeared more like its former self. Myron returned to his seat and his conversation. Royce knew he was not speaking to the tree but to his boyhood friend who was buried there.

“You’re up early,” Gwen said from where she lay with her head on a clutched pillow. He could make out the elegant slope of her waist and rise of her hip beneath the covers. “After last night I would have thought you’d be sleeping late.”

“We went to bed early.”

“But we didn’t sleep,” she teased.

“It was better than sleep. Besides, around here, after first light
is
sleeping in. Myron is already outside.”

“He does that so he can talk privately.” She smiled and drew back the covers invitingly. “Isn’t it cold next to that window?”

“You’re a bad influence,” he said, lying down and wrapping his arms around her. He marveled at the softness of her skin. She drew the quilt over both of them and laid her head on his chest.

Their room was one of the bigger guest chambers, which was three times larger than any of the monks’ cells. Gwen, who left Medford a week before Breckton’s invasion, had arranged to bring everything with her, even her canopied bed, carpets, and wall hangings. Looking around the room, Royce could easily imagine he was back on Wayward Street. He felt at home but not because of the decorations. All he needed was Gwen.

“Am I corrupting you?” she asked playfully.

“Yes.”

His fingers caressed her bare shoulder and ran along the swirled tattoo. “This last trip Hadrian and I went on, we went to Calis…into the jungles. We stayed in a Tenkin village where I met an unusual woman.”

“Did you? Was she beautiful?”

“Yes, very.”

“Tenkin women can be exceptionally attractive.”

“Yes, they can. And this one had a tattoo that—”

“Did Hadrian find the heir?”

“No—well, yes, but not how we expected. We stumbled on the news the Empire is holding him in Aquesta. They’re going to execute him on Wintertide. But this tattoo—”

“Execute him?” Gwen pushed herself up on one elbow, looking surprised—too surprised to just be avoiding questions. “Shouldn’t you be helping Hadrian?”

“I will, although I’m not sure why. I was hardly any help on the last trip, and I didn’t need to save him. So your little prophesy was wrong.”

He thought it would put Gwen at ease to know her prediction of disaster had not come to pass. Instead, she pushed him away—the familiar sadness returned.

“You need to go help him,” she said firmly. “I might be wrong about the timing, but I’m not wrong about Hadrian dying unless you are there to save him.”

“Hadrian will be fine until I get back.”

She hesitated, took a deep breath, and laid her head back down. Hiding her face against his chest, she became quiet.

“What’s the matter?” Royce asked.

“I
am
a corrupting influence.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” he told her. “Personally, I’ve always rather liked corruption.”

There was a long pause, and he watched her head riding on the swells of his breath. Running his fingers through her hair, he marveled at it—at her. He touched the tattoo again.

“Royce, can we just lie here a little while?” She squeezed him, rubbing her cheek against his chest. “Can we just be still and listen to the wind and make-believe it is blowing past us?”

“Isn’t it?”

“No,” she said, “but I want to pretend.”

***

“There wasn’t much of a fight,” Magnus said.

Royce always thought the dwarf’s voice sounded louder and deeper than it should for someone his size. They sat at a long table in the refectory. Now that he knew Gwen was safe, Royce’s appetite returned. The monks prepared an excellent meal accompanied by the first good wine he had tasted in ages.

“Alric just ran,” Magnus said while mopping up the last of an egg. For someone so small, he ate a lot and never passed up an opportunity for food. “So Breckton’s army took over everything except Drondil Fields, but they’ll have that soon.”

“Who burned Medford?” Royce asked.

“Medford was burned?”

“When I came through there a couple days ago, it was.”

The dwarf shrugged. “If I had to guess, I’d say church-led fanatics out of Chadwick or maybe Dunmore. They’ve been pillaging homes and hunting elves since the invasion.”

Magnus finished eating and leaned back with his feet on an empty stool. Gwen sat beside Royce, clutching his arm as if she owned him. The very idea of belonging to her was so strange that he found it distracting but, he was surprised to discover he enjoyed the sensation.

“So how long are you back for?” the dwarf asked. “Got time to let me see Alver—”

“I’m leaving as soon as Myron gets done.” Royce noticed a look from Gwen. “I’m sure it won’t take him more than a few days.”

“What’s he doing?”

“Drawing a map. Myron saw a floor plan of the palace once, so he’s off reproducing it. He said it’s old…real old…dates back to Glenmorgan apparently.”

“When you leave,” Gwen said, “take Mouse. Give Ryn’s horse to Myron.”

“What does Myron need with a horse?” he asked. Gwen just smiled, and Royce knew better than to question further. “Okay, but I’m warning you now. He’ll spoil it rotten.”

***

Myron sat at his desk in the scriptorium carrell, arguably his favorite place in the world. The peaked desk and small stool took up most of the cramped space between the stone columns. To his left, a half-moon window overlooked the courtyard.

Outside, the world appeared frightfully cold. The wind howled past the window, leaving traces of snow in the corners of the leading. The hilltop scrub shook with winter’s fury. Peering out, Myron appreciated the coziness of his tiny study. The niche in the room enveloped him like a rodent’s burrow. Ofttimes Myron considered how he might like to be a mole or shrew, not a Dusky or Greater White-tooth, or even a Lesser White-tooth Shrew, but just a common shrew, or perhaps a mole. How pleasant an existence it would be to live underground safe and warm in small, hidden chambers. He could look out at the vast world with a sense of awe and delight in knowing there was no reason to venture forth.

He put the finishing touches on the drawing for Royce and returned to working on the final pages of
Elquin
. This was the masterwork of the fifth dynastic poet Orintine Fallon, a massive tome of personal reflections on how the patterns of nature related to the patterns in life. When completed, it would be the twentieth book in Myron’s quest to restore the Winds Abbey library, with a mere three hundred and fifty-two remaining—not including the five hundred and twenty-four scrolls and one thousand two hundred and thirteen individual parchments. For more than two years’ work, that accomplishment might not seem impressive, but Myron only scribed full-time in the winter, as the warmer months were devoted to helping put the finishing touches on the monastery.