Bransen didn’t reply, but his visage did soften.
“You know you don’t want to go alone,” Jameston said with a grin under that outrageously thick mustache of his.
Bransen couldn’t resist that smile, and returned it.
“Good thing we’ve got a long road ahead of us,” Jameston said, moving beside Bransen as he walked by. “Because you’ve got a lot to learn and I’ve got a lot to teach you.”
Bransen didn’t reply, other than to widen his smirk. He had spent his life in learning, from the Book of Jhest his father had penned, from the brothers of Chapel Pryd, and, more recently, from Dame Gwydre. He wasn’t about to let foolish pride get in the way now, not with the likes of Jameston Sequin offering him the lessons!
SIXTEEN
Moments of Private Clarity
Y
oung Brother Pontitious huffed and puffed as he ran along the road to the west, his precious cargo, the edict from Father Artolivan, set in a scroll case and slung over one shoulder. Until that morning, he had been jogging along with three other brothers, but they, with their scroll cases, had turned down the southern road for other destinations.
Pontitious’s pace was much greater that day, for he hoped to reach Palmaristown, his goal, before sunset. Suddenly he felt very vulnerable there alone on the road with so important a letter, and those feelings only increased when he heard the clip-clop of a horse and the rattle of coach wheels behind him. Pontitious veered off the side of the road, moving down into a gully behind some brush, where he crouched and looked back the way he had come.
He relaxed when he saw the horse, adorned in a bridle that showed the evergreen symbol of Chapel Abelle and his beloved order. He knew this horse, and recognized the small wagon it pulled. He scrambled back up to the road, waving for his brethren.
“Ho, Pontitious, Brother,” hailed the driver, a man named Josaul, and he slowed the horse to a stop. “I’d hoped to find you on the road. You’ve made a fine pace!”
“Would that Father Artolivan had decided to afford me a coach all the way from Chapel Abelle,” Pontitious said, moving to climb up beside Josaul. “My feet are sorely bruised.”
He reached up, but froze in place when the coach’s door flew open and Father De Guilbe leaned out, lifting his head over it and scowling fiercely at the young courier.
“Father,” Pontitious stammered and fell back.
“I do not recall hearing an invitation for you to ride with us,” De Guilbe said.
Josaul started to say something, but Pontitious spoke over him. “No, Father. I assumed that a coach from Chapel Abelle would afford a brother a seat.”
“You deliver Father Artolivan’s message to Laird Panlamaris?”
“That is my duty, yes, Father.”
De Guilbe offered an unsettling grin in reply. “Do you know Laird Panlamaris, boy?”
“No, Father. But I met his son when Prince Milwellis passed through Chapel Abelle.”
“And your impressions of the young man?”
Pontitious realized that his expression and body language were giving away his feelings for the brutish man, none of them positive. “I . . . I . . . I didn’t know him well.”
Father De Guilbe laughed at him, and he knew that he needn’t say any more. The large and imposing father then motioned toward the bench seat beside Josaul. “Do join us,” he said in a tone as unsettling as that wicked smile. “I wish to see the look on Laird Panlamaris’s face when you deliver to him the notification of Father Artolivan’s treason.”
Brother Pontitious swallowed hard and never stopped staring at Father De Guilbe as he made his way onto the seat beside Josaul. Behind them, the door closed, and Josaul urged his horse back into motion.
Pontitious looked at him with concern, but he just shrugged and shook his head helplessly.
They made the great port city by mid-afternoon, and, with Father De Guilbe guiding Josaul, for the father was obviously quite familiar with Palmaristown, the Chapel Abelle coach soon rambled right up to the coach house of Panlamaris Keep.
Ordering Josaul to stay with the coach, De Guilbe escorted Pontitious into the castle, and, again, this time as a diplomat and not a navigator, had them at their destination in short order, standing before the throne of old Laird Panlamaris.
“De Guilbe, young fool, is that really you?” greeted Panlamaris, a grizzled old man, still thick and strong and carrying the scars of a thousand fights.
“Not so young anymore, laird,” De Guilbe replied.
“Aren’t you supposed to be in Alpinador, converting barbarians to the light and the stones?”
De Guilbe waved the notion away. “Too stubborn and stupid a lot for that,” he replied jovially, for these two were obviously old friends (which of course made Pontitious even more nervous). “I could not convince them, so I killed a bunch instead.”
Laird Panlamaris laughed heartily, as did the many attendants in the room, as did Father De Guilbe. Only Pontitious, so obviously and painfully nervous, did not join in.
“Your order is better for it,” Laird Panlamaris said. “I’ve met a few Alpinadorans in my sailing days. Not one worthy of civility. Fierce warriors, though, huh? So I count those among my finest kills!”
Another round of laughter made Pontitious want to crawl into a crack in the floor. Never in his young life, not even on his first day at Chapel Abelle, had he felt so out of place.
“So what brings young De Guilbe to my humble city?”
“Not so young, though I wish I were, and there is little humble about the grandeur that is Palmaristown. I do believe that your fine city has grown as powerful as I have grown old.”
“A flagon of mead for that man!” Laird Panlamaris called to an attendant, who scurried from the room. “And, aye, we have prospered under the fine friendship of King Delaval, may the old ones see fit to seat him at their table.”
“Aye!” Father De Guilbe agreed, while Brother Pontitious winced at the reference to Samhaist, and not Abellican, tradition.
“And you must know, De Guilbe, that everyone in the world seems young to me,” Laird Panlamaris added with a laugh.
“Father Artolivan?” De Guilbe said slyly.
Laird Panlamaris snorted and waved his hand dismissively. “No, perhaps not that one. The gods don’t want him so they make us keep him.”
Brother Pontitious’s eyes widened at that, and he looked to Father De Guilbe for some guidance but found instead the man smugly smiling at him. Brother Pontitious knew at that moment, beyond all doubt, that Father De Guilbe had injected Father Artolivan’s name into the conversation to elicit exactly that response.
“Your pardon, brothers,” Laird Panlamaris said with obvious insincerity. “I do not suffer that one well.”
“Your son would agree,” said De Guilbe, and Panlamaris nodded.
“The rebuff of Milwellis will be remembered the next time Father Artolivan calls upon Palmaristown’s fleet for transport or supply or defense,” Laird Panlamaris promised.
Smiling all the wider, Father De Guilbe reached around Brother Pontitious and removed the slung scroll case. “I expect none of those to happen anytime soon,” he explained, handing it to Panlamaris.
An attendant rushed up and took the case, popping off one end and rolling wide the scroll. He read it quickly, bending low and reciting its contents into the ear of Laird Panlamaris.
The man sat stone-faced. Another attendant came in with Father De Guilbe’s flagon of mead, and the monk took his first swallow just as the reader finished, stood straight, and stepped back.
“You would drink with me after delivering this?” Panlamaris said, his voice calm but in a manner that promised violence. Brother Pontitious took a step away from the throne.
“I?” De Guilbe replied. “Not I. Brother Pontitious here delivered the note. Would that it had never been penned, but Father Artolivan would not heed my advice.”
“You know what it says?” asked Panlamaris, his tone growing stronger and dar
ker.
De Guilbe nodded.
Panlamaris fixed a withering gaze on poor Pontitious. Not a large man to begin with, the young brother seemed to melt into the floor.
“He is a courier and nothing more,” De Guilbe explained.
“Then get out of my chambers!” Laird Panlamaris yelled. Pontitious began stammering and stuttering and looked to De Guilbe for guidance.
“Get out,” De Guilbe quietly advised.
Bowing with every backward step, mouthing words though no sound came forth, Brother Pontitious executed a graceless departure.
“Has Artolivan gone mad, then?” Panlamaris asked when the young brother was gone at last.
De Guilbe shrugged and sighed.
“Yeslnik wins—has won!” Panlamaris insisted. “Ethelbert is pushed to the sea and will not break out. More of Honce’s holdings pledge fealty to Yeslnik daily.”
De Guilbe nodded.
“This . . .” Panlamaris fumed and reached over and tore the scroll from his attendant’s grasp. “This is treason.”
It occurred to De Guilbe that he could diffuse the situation at that point by mentioning the extraordinary nature of Yeslnik’s request regarding the disposition of the prisoners and the awkward situation it presented for the church. But the wounds regarding Cormack were too raw for the man who for the first time in his life had miserably failed his mission—a failure he still believed was due to Brother Cormack’s treachery.
“It is far worse than you think,” he heard himself saying. “They harbor not only the prisoners from Ethelbert’s army, they hold in chains not only the men loyal to King Yeslnik, but there is another in their chapel who is much sought after.”
Panlamaris, fist clenched up beside his strong, bearded jaw, leaned forward in his seat, eyes locked on De Guilbe.
“They harbor the Highwayman,” De Guilbe announced.
Panlamaris’s eyes popped open wide, and he mouthed, “He murdered King Delaval.”
“Dame Gwydre has provided him with a Writ of Passage, forgiving all crimes.”
“She forgives the murder of the king?” Panlamaris roared, and De Guilbe saw no reason to clear up that little matter and merely shrugged.
“How many brothers are at Chapel Abelle?” the Laird of Palmaristown demanded.
“Less than three hundred.”
“How many prisoners of each side?”
“I know not the exact count. A couple of hundred of Yeslnik’s men, perhaps twice that of Ethelbert’s.”
“Would that my son were returned from the Mirianic coast,” Panlamaris muttered. “He has many of my finest commanders and warriors with him.”
De Guilbe looked at the man curiously, for only then did it occur to him that his words might be escalating this incident above the level of parlay and disagreement. “What do you mean?” he asked as Panlamaris rose quickly and forcefully from his throne.
“Ah well, then,” the man said. “It wouldn’t do for Milwellis to have all the fun, would it?”
“What will you do?” De Guilbe asked, but Panlamaris wasn’t listening to him.
“Since Yeslnik’s decree I’ve got more men free of duties, what with fewer prisoners to watch,” Panlamaris said, nodding his head as he worked through the details. “Couple hundred monks, a few hundred others . . .”
“Dame Gwydre is there with four ships of men.”
“Skinners and drunkards, no doubt. She won’t follow the course of Artolivan. She’s nobody’s fool, from all I’ve heard. She’ll get on her boat and go home. This isn’t her fight.”
That last word resonated in De Guilbe’s thoughts, at first uncomfortably. As he considered the wheels that seemed to be turning here, however, the fiery monk grew more and more at ease, coming not to regret at all his decision to tell Panlamaris of the Highwayman.
Good enough for Father Artolivan, he thought but did not say.
Y
ou’ve got to know what they see,” Jameston explained. “If you were up on that rock, where would you be looking? What movements would catch your eye?”
Bransen squinted in concentration as he followed Jameston’s pointing hand.
“Or over there by the stream in that stand of oaks?” the scout asked.
“There are a million places to hide, and surely there is no path invisible to all of them,” Bransen replied.
“Am I telling you anything different than those who taught you to fight?” Jameston retorted, his expression finally showing that he was growing weary of Bransen’s constant arguing. “Is there any perfect defense? Or a swing that can’t be parried?”
“Measure your enemy,” Bransen admitted. He laughed at himself then and waved his arm wide. “So where would enemies most likely hide in wait? What vantage points are most likely and how to avoid them?”
“You couldn’t have admitted that an hour ago and saved me my talking?”
Bransen started to reply but stopped short and laughed instead.
“Pretty wife you left behind,” said Jameston.
“It’s been a long road,” Bransen admitted.
“We just left!”
“Not from Chapel Abelle,” Bransen started to explain, but he realized that Jameston had been playing with him with that last comment. “For so many years my life moved in a slow and straight line,” he explained, as much to himself as to his companion. “Everything around me was solid as stone even when I wasn’t.”
“When you were this Stork fellow, you mean?”
Bransen nodded. “Even as I began to find those moments of escape from the Stork, there were so many constants. It was as if the world was there, one place known to me, and I could play with it as it amused me. But now there is so much tumult, so many things changing.”
Jameston shook his head. “Now you’ve got others depending on you,” he said with a knowing grin. “That’s the only real difference.”
Bransen stepped back as if he had been slapped and let the scout’s words sink in.
“I’ve seen it happen a thousand times,” Jameston said. “You’ve got your wife, now with child, and her mother all needing you.”
Bransen sighed as he considered the truth of the statement.
“So you’re more careful with every step and smiling less because you’ve got something to lose. For the first time in your life, you’ve got a lot to lose.”
“Thank you for pointing that out,” Bransen sarcastically replied.
“And you’re making the biggest mistake of all,” said Jameston, slipping past the sarcasm. Bransen went silent. “You’ve got more to lose because all the world—all your world—is better, but you’re smiling less. You’re letting those bad maybes bury the good that is.”
“What?”
“Lighten your step!” Jameston scolded. “I spent many hours with Callen on the boat. She told me of a masked man who challenged the Laird of Pryd and defeated him. She told me of a masked man who leaped from a Samhaist bonfire to slay a powerful priest. Of a masked man who saved Yeslnik, then robbed him and stole his powdered wife’s heart at the same time. Oh, and then robbed him again in his own castle for no better reason than to witness the foolish expression on his face.”
“It does seem as if everyone is prying into my past.”
“Everyone but yourself,” said Jameston.
“What does that mean?”
“It means you’re forgetting to remember where you came from and how far you’ve walked,” the scout replied. “It means you’re losing your joy in your worry. You see powries raiding a coach and take them on, then take on the men in the coach when you’re done with the dwarves. You see a high castle wall and decide to climb it for treasures you don’t even want. Now there’s a man I want to walk beside.”
“I’m right here.”
“No. Wish that you were.” Jameston finished and walked down the path, leaving Bransen to ponder his words.
They were apart for nearly half an hour, Jameston continuing along the road south, when finally a voic
e came out of the trees to Jameston’s right not so far away.
“If I was one of Yeslnik’s bowmen, you’d be lying dead in the brush.”
Jameston froze at the sound of his own words coming back at him. He slowly turned to regard Bransen, sitting easily on a branch, his legs dangling, his mask down over his eyes low enough so that the star-shaped brooch showed clearly on his forehead.
“And how did you know to be there instead of up on that rock?” Jameston asked.
“Because I know that you know what your enemies are likely to see and from where they’re likely to be watching.” He pointed across the way to a thicket up on a bluff on the other side of the stream. “They can’t see you from there. You were careful to make sure of that.”
“Good to know that you listen to me, boy,” said Jameston.
More than you realize, Bransen, who was smiling widely inside and out, thought but did not say.
F
ather Malskinner and Brother Honig of the Chapel of Precious Memories entered the keep of Laird Panlamaris somewhat tentatively, expecting an angry berating from the volatile man. Brother Pontitious had stopped by the chapel of Palmaristown before his return to Chapel Abelle to inform the monks of the stern and defiant message he had just delivered on behalf of Father Artolivan.
“Ah, good,” Laird Panlamaris greeted warmly. “I always count on Father Malskinner to be on time.”
His apparent good humor had the three monks visibly relaxing.
“I trust that your son is well?” Father Malskinner said.
“Since your church has taken its stand he had better stay away from Ethelbert’s swords,” came the rather sharp reply.
“The brothers would not refuse to care for any man’s wounds,” Father Malskinner replied.
“Yes, any man of either side. Under Father Artolivan, your order has perfected the art of—”
“Neutrality,” Father Malskinner finished.
“Cowardice,” corrected Laird Panlamaris. His arm sliced to his side. Immediately a dozen men dropped their halberds level with the monks and closed in on them in a nearly complete and inescapable circle. The two monks were herded together as sharp bronze spear tips prodded at them.
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