by Bobby Adair
Beck’s faith in that axiom stood on shaky ground at the moment.
Beck scanned across the foggy fields, looking for a pile of wood with a pole standing out of its center.
“If all die of starvation except for your scholars,” asked Blackthorn, “how will you survive? There will be no farmers to grow more food. No more hunters to bring animals from the forest. No more gatherers to bring roots and berries. There will be no soldiers to defend the walls. There will only be weak-bodied scholars pretending to learn things from ancient books they do not understand.”
“I…” Beck was at a loss for the next lie because, in his mind, he was in agreement with Blackthorn’s line of reasoning, but not the conclusion. “The Academy will share what it has if necessity requires it,” lied Beck. “We don’t intend to make gluttons of ourselves. We intend to eat small rations, enough to keep us alive until plentiful harvests return.”
“I see,” Blackthorn said.
Beck looked again for the pyre.
“Allow me to ask one more question on this matter,” said Blackthorn. “What happens on that day when the starving farmer is at your door, and you have to make that choice between filling your belly and filling his? Will the nobility of your choice remain, or will you then rationalize your way to self-preservation?”
Beck wanted to blurt out the next lie, that indeed the food would be shared, but he knew the truth of it as surely as did Blackthorn. He said nothing in response.
After a moment, Blackthorn, said, “Thank you for not lying about that. I would have lost the last of my respect for you.”
The last of my respect?
Beck suspected the next thing Blackthorn said would be an order to bind him and haul him off. He looked around for a place to run. Nothing. He was out in the fields between the town and the circle wall. No place to hide was nearly close enough. With the horsemen behind, he had no hope of winning a race back into town, and the wall was much too far. Even if a miracle floated him magically over the wall and into the forest, what would come next? The same fate.
“Whatever you do with your hoard of food, it matters not to me,” said Blackthorn, “until you and I return from our expedition. We shall see what happens at that time. In the meantime, I want to assure you that you will be going with the expedition.”
“Yes,” Beck squeaked out through a tight throat. Suddenly, the expedition seemed like salvation.
Blackthorn tugged his reins, and his horse stopped. Blackthorn wheeled it around so that he could look at Beck without turning his head. “Father Winthrop is weak. Despite my attempts to coerce him, I believe he lacks the fortitude to put himself onto a horse when the appointed day arrives. I believe he will fall to the ground and cry like a woman in front of the whole of the army and cavalry. As much as I would enjoy having every man, woman, and child see through the façade of his brave piety, I cannot allow him to debilitate the morale of the army. That is the whole purpose of bringing the ministers along.”
Beck considered pleading for permission to stay. If Winthrop could cry and act his way out of it, why not Beck?
Blackthorn tilted his head toward the four riders. “Of Winthrop, I expect such behavior. From you, should you have any ideas that don’t coincide with mine on this matter, those four men will accompany you in all you do until the day the army marches out of Brighton.”
“But…” Beck looked back at the riders. No. He didn’t want this at all.
“They will shore up your courage.”
“I am a minister on the council,” said Beck, puffing himself up with authority. “Am I to lose my privacy? Am I to become a walking prisoner?”
“Call it what you wish,” said Blackthorn. “The men will not enter the Academy. They will wait at the door, or when it freezes at night, they will wait inside your dining hall. Surely, they will be of no bother to you there.”
Beck wanted to argue. He wanted to win his point with an eloquent protest. Mostly, though, he wanted to keep himself off the pyre pole. He’d have to find a way to work with the problem these four guards represented. He looked up at Blackthorn. “I thank you for the service of providing four guards to protect my courage.”
Blackthorn nodded and said nothing else as he wheeled his horse around to gallop toward one of the drilling cohorts.
Chapter 23: Franklin
With a tray in one hand holding a plate of eggs, smoked pork, and bread, Franklin knocked on the door, not knowing what to expect on the other side. Father Winthrop had locked himself in his room. The fire girl said he was distressed and seemed to be mumbling to or looking at other people in the room. “Who?” Franklin had asked her. She explained that the room was empty all night. What’s more, it appeared the Father Winthrop had not gone to bed but had stayed in his chair the entire night.
Franklin asked the girl if Father Winthrop had taken ill. She said she’d not seen any evidence of that in his chamber pot. He asked if Winthrop was drunk. She said he’d been drinking wine most of the prior day and through a good part of the night, but not so much that a man of his size would lose his senses.
Franklin knocked again, anxiously waiting for a reply.
Putting his ear to the door’s thick wood, he listened, hoping to hear Winthrop’s rhythmic snore. He didn’t. What he did hear was the sound of something moving inside, not constantly, just occasionally—the sound of the big man shifting in his chair, trying to find a comfortable position in which to settle his plump rolls of flesh.
Winthrop had to be awake.
Franklin knew he needed to go inside.
He steeled his nerves and thought about Fitz, which, of course, made his heart ache with longing, though he’d seen her in the kitchen before leaving there with the tray in hand. He thought about all the things the two of them were planning together. He thought about the goal.
He had to open the door.
Franklin turned the handle and pushed the heavy wood inward.
Humid, hot air laced with Winthrop’s unwashed stink engulfed Franklin and flowed up his nostrils and down his throat, leaving a taste of sweat, smoke, and chamber pot residue. Franklin cringed.
Winthrop, without turning away from the fire, said, “Not now, girl. Go.”
Franklin reluctantly stepped inside and closed the door behind.
The plate rattled on the tray as Franklin took a step forward.
“I told you to—” Winthrop cut himself off. He looked around with bloodshot eyes and a vicious scowl, ready to berate.
In a placating tone, Franklin said, “I’m worried for you, Father. I brought you breakfast.”
Winthrop waved Franklin away and turned back to the fire.
Franklin took another step forward, deciding to risk what might come next, and marched over to plant himself in front of Winthrop’s chair.
Winthrop’s breathing demonstrated his agitation, but he said nothing.
“The lesson you taught me with Oliver was exactly the lesson I needed to learn,” Franklin announced, hoping Winthrop wouldn’t see through the obvious lie. “I know I need to be strong enough to suffer through the actions required by correct decisions.”
Winthrop eyed Franklin suspiciously.
“You’ve put yourself under too much stress trying to teach me and foolish Oliver because you care too much about turning us into carriers of The Word.” Franklin looked down at the food and sniffed, trying to draw Winthrop’s attention away from the lies he was making up. “Now your health is in jeopardy. You must eat something, or you’ll fall ill.”
Winthrop’s eyes fell away from Franklin and settled on the tray.
“Eggs,” said Franklin. “Fresh from the market. A big helping of smoked pork, and that bread baked by Widow Stein with that crust you like. It’s still warm. I just came from the kitchen.”
“It is morn
ing, then?” Winthrop asked.
“Late,” said Franklin. “Almost noon.”
Winthrop subtly nodded toward his lap, and Franklin understood that as an instruction to set the tray there.
“Careful,” said Franklin as he let go the tray. “Would you like a drink, as well?”
Winthrop cocked his head toward a line of wine bottles at the foot of the bed. “Fill my cup.”
Franklin did as instructed, filling from a bottle that had been sitting open. He set the cup on Winthrop’s tray and stepped back.
“You intend to watch me eat?” Winthrop asked, irritation seething in his voice as he stabbed his food with his fork.
“Some things occurred to me this morning at the market that I don’t fully understand, and I was hoping you could enlighten me with your wisdom.” Franklin hoped he wasn’t overplaying the falsehood and flattery. But with Winthrop, was there any limit to false praise?
Winthrop nodded as he shoveled a mouthful of drippy egg yolks in past his words. “I have my doubts that anyone can appreciate the wisdom of all my years.”
“I wish to try,” said Franklin.
Winthrop stopped chewing, and his hands stopped manipulating the next bite onto the fork. “I have no desire to waste my morning talking the finer points of market vegetables and rotting rabbits.”
“Oh, no,” said Franklin, shaking his head vigorously. “I spoke with some people from Coventry at the market. They asked me about Father Nelson and his story of Lady and Bruce.”
That caught Winthrop’s attention. “People from Coventry? So it has begun. Blackthorn with his folly.”
“Folly?” Franklin asked, though he suspected Winthrop was referencing something to do with the expedition.
Winthrop shook his head, gestured vaguely at nothing, and then took a big gulp of his wine. “Put another log on that fire, boy.”
Franklin did.
Winthrop heaved a labored sigh. “What did these people say about Father Nelson that has unearthed curiosity in your inbred mind?”
“That story that Father Nelson told us about his adventure into the mountains to find the origins of the Lady and Bruce,” said Franklin. “These people from Coventry overheard that I was your Novice and pulled me aside to ask questions.”
“What sorts of questions?” Winthrop asked, sitting up a little straighter in his chair.
“They admired Father Nelson very much,” said Franklin. “They asked me if his story was true, and of course, I said that it was. When I confirmed his story, it was as if his esteem among them grew to godly proportions. They seemed to believe that he was the bravest, most devout of all the clergymen.”
“All?” Winthrop asked, clearly baiting Franklin into a scolding.
Franklin didn’t take the bait. The trap was of his making. He faked a stammer and said, “Except you, of course. That goes without saying, does it not? No man knows The Word better than you. No clergyman has the devotion of the people as closely to his heart as you.”
Nodding, but still irritated, Winthrop crammed a greasy chunk of meat into his mouth. “Of course.”
“I can understand why Father Nelson found it necessary to go on the journey,” said Franklin.
“Do you?” Winthrop asked skeptically, without looking up from his plate.
“I apologize for saying this, but I think I also understand why he feels the need to tell the story of it so readily to anyone with an ear.”
“That he does,” Winthrop grumbled.
“Any clergyman,” said Franklin, “having to stand in the glow of your devotion to The Word must, like any regular man, feel perhaps jealous, less worthy—”
Winthrop’s head snapped up, and his face showed rising anger.
Before opening the door to Winthrop’s chamber, Franklin had decided he had to say what he had to say. He wished he were eloquent enough, imaginative enough, to have thought of a better way to say it. “—and might feel the need to make himself less invisible. I think the story helps salve the weakness in Father Nelson that causes him to do so.”
Winthrop didn’t say anything for a moment. Neither did he look away. Franklin grew nervous. Having gambled on speaking badly of one of the other Fathers, he’d in a way elevated his own status. As Fitz had explained it to him, by devaluing Father Nelson, he’d shove himself one step closer to being seen by Winthrop as a kind of peer Winthrop could confide in.
He hoped.
Finally, Winthrop said, “Yes. You may be right about that.”
Shaking his head again, Franklin said, “I don’t mean to imply that Father Nelson is a bad man. I say these things because I know he is a man who strives to be as devout as you. All men are subject to the temptations that befall them.”
Winthrop nodded.
“All of us must also accept the limitations of who we are,” said Franklin.
“Meaning?” Winthrop asked, anger growing in his voice again.
Trying to tamp down that anger, Franklin said, “I speak for myself, mostly. I know I lack in many ways. I suspect the other clergymen feel the same. Perhaps we all cannot help but feel that as we stand in the light of your devotion. What I’m saying is, I wonder if someone as average as myself is to rise to the level of my aspirations, to one day be as devout as you, to one day be loved by the people as you are, I wonder if I should embark on some expedition outside the circle wall.”
Winthrop cringed. “Only demons and fools go beyond the circle wall.”
Pretending meekness at admitting his own failings, Franklin said, “Or those who wish one day, perhaps far in the future, to follow in your footsteps. How else is the average among us supposed to raise himself closer to divinity?”
Winthrop harrumphed. “None of that matters.”
“I don’t disagree,” said Franklin. “None of it matters to one such as yourself whose staunch devotion is enough for any thinking man to appreciate. For many of the pig chasers and dirt scratchers, the ignorant ones—”
“Most of them are ignorant,” Winthrop interjected.
“—are unable to fully appreciate devotion for what it is. For them, the expedition and the bravery of Father Nelson are what they see, what they appreciate. It is regrettable, but in that way, some of them see the two of you as equals.”
“Sheep dung!” roared Winthrop.
“My apologies, Father,” said Franklin, quickly. “I do not mean to imply that any learned man believes that. Just the ignorant ones.”
“I tire of this talk,” Winthrop told Franklin. “Is there a question here? Did you not say you had questions?”
“Yes.” Franklin shuffled around nervously, not all of it fake. He pretended to gather his courage. “Being average at best—”
Winthrop said, “You are nothing special, that is for sure, but you are so much more than the average, even among the clergy.”
“—I ask you if I should embark on such an expedition.”
Chapter 24: Beck
“This is the place I was telling you about,” said Evan.
Beck looked at the remains of the old structure. The walls were mostly intact. The door and windows were nothing but holes of roughly rectangular shapes. The roof had rotted away a few centuries ago. Even the floor was mostly covered with a layer of dirt and grown in with hundreds of season’s worth of weeds and wildflowers.
Beck said, “But it doesn’t have a roof. None of these buildings do. What will we do with them?”
“The militia…” said Evan, looking cryptically into the gray sky.
Beck shrugged and wondered why Evan so often assumed others were privy to the conversations going on in his head. “I’m not making the connection between the militia drilling out in the fields and the roofs we don’t have.”
“General Blackthorn is drilling those men har
d, but he doesn’t drill them all day,” said Evan. “Most have extra time.”
“And?” Beck asked, getting impatient. He truly hated when Evan got into one of his less socially tolerable savant modes.
“We can hire those men. They need the coin for drink or to give to their families. The men will build the roofs for us.”
Nodding and smiling, Beck said, “Yes, there are plenty of them around without a lot to do when they aren’t drilling. How many of these ruined structures on this street can be used?”
“Seven to ten,” said Evan, “each facing this alley on one side and backing up to the fields on the other. They’ll make perfect barns.”
Beck looked up and down the height of the walls. “Tall enough for horses.”
“Absolutely,” said Evan. “I’ve measured them all. Even with flat roofs, we’ll be fine.”
“Flat roofs will be the easiest and quickest to construct, correct?”
“Yes.”
“So,” said Beck, “We offer to store and care for their animals, especially their horses, while the army is killing demons in the Ancient City. We offer this service at an attractively small price, and we get all the animals we need.”
“Yes,” Evan agreed.
Beck walked over and laid a hand on one of the walls. “The farmers think these places are haunted because they’ve all heard stories of them collapsing on somebody’s grandparents. They think the ghosts of the Ancients do that.” Beck shook his head at the stupidity of it. “It’s just that they’re old and that eventually happens to all of these old walls.”
“Just because they won’t live in these places doesn’t mean they’ll care if their horses do.”
Beck nodded and stepped away from the wall as he surveyed the remains of the old building.
“Whichever plan we finalize on,” said Evan, “whether it be escaping west with a band of survivors we select, or overthrowing the government here and using these animals to feed ourselves, we’ll have the animals we need.”
