She peeked out again after a minute and sighed. The events of the previous night came back as she stared up at the ceiling. Her back, arms, and legs ached, evidence of the reality of what might have been a very real dream. She sat up again and forced herself to touch her toes several times to move her rebelling muscles.
The wolf was curled up beside the narrow bed, taking up most of the floor in the small cell. He lifted his head at her movement and hung his tongue out in a canine smile.
"Good morning, old fellow.” The wolf moved its tail slightly. "You seem to be very attached to me. Do you have a name? Ambrosius might know. I’ll just call you Wrolf, which is unimaginative. And redundant. I must warn you, I am not at my best before my second cup of coffee. Oh, my, no coffee. Maybe not ever again.” Somehow this was worse than the strangeness of the situation or being sent off to slay dragons with magic swords. Eleanor almost wept for the rich, dark smell of fresh coffee and its splendid bitterness. Instead, she took a deep breath and looked about the room carefully.
It was very narrow, and the cot filled half of one long wall. Next to the bed was a chair. The bundle she had brought from Gretry Hall and her cloak were on it. She still wore the clothing she had come in, except the boots, which stood next to the door. At the foot of the bed lay the blue cloak studded with stars, surrounding a long, hard object which was clearly the sword.
She looked at her right hand, expecting to see a burn where she had touched the sword, but the palm was hare of any mark except a slight chafing where she had carried the bundle. Eleanor hugged her knees to her chest and found that her hose were still damp. Obviously Ambrosius’s modesty or his vows had prevented him from removing them, and Eleanor hoped she wouldn’t get a cold. She giggled a little at that, a heroine with the sniffles. She wondered how the brother had managed her, for though she was no more than tive foot seven, he was a bit shorter.
Then she wriggled out of the offending garments, the hose and the petticoats, also a bit moist around the hems, and folded her legs under her tailor-fashion to keep her toes warm, pushing the lumpy pillow into the small of her back and drawing the shabby blanket over her. The chill of the room seemed to bite into her, so .she drew the blanket up around her shoulders.
"What I would like, Wrolf, besides some coffee, is a long, hot bath, a cigarette, and a rum toddy. Well, 'if wishes were horses,’ and all that.”
There was the chiming of a distant bell somewhere, and the sound of feet passed the door. She tried to remember the order of the monastic day, but all she could think of was vespers, which she knew was in the evening. She gave up after a moment and concentrated on the one thing she did not want to think about, her eerie experience in the chapel. The blue cloak at her feet reminded her of it, and she could not look away.
St. Bridget, she knew, was an Irish character, sometimes called the Mary of the Gaels. Eleanor knew she was a pagan goddess who had been christianized. She had listened to her father on the subject of myth, folklore, and religion often enough. She wasn’t going to mention this to Brother Ambrosius or anyone else, since she had no idea how the Church stood here on the subject of earlier religions. Just because some pope had decided there were many earths was no reason to assume they had other liberal attitudes. Bridget’s feast was in February, an occasion of candles and lights and,
recalling Ambrosius’s words, Eleanor knew that she had come to the priory on that feast day.
"Wrolf, who spoke to me, the saint or the goddess? There are so many things I don’t know. Like, which sacred well? England is covered with holy wells. That’s one, Holywell. Then there’s Bridewell, which is sacred to St. Bridget, I think. And Glastonbury, of course. What a riddle! What a muddle. No, first I have to find a sheath for the sword. And I have to be a sheath for it, too. Does that mean I have to fall on it? It is a little long to swallow, isn’t it? And I am going to find helpers—by moonlight. I hope all of them are as nice as you, Wrolf. Do you think I am your Alianora? I wonder what happened to her.”
There was a light tap on the door. Eleanor sat up a little straighter and said, "Come in.”
It was Ambrosius, carrying a steaming earthenware jug, a large basin, and a rough towel. "Good morning, milady. Here is hot water.” He set the stuff down on the floor at the foot of the bed.
"Bless you. And good morning, if it is morning. It’s very dark still, even for February.”
"It is always dark in Albion now. We eat in a quarter-hour. You will hear a bell. Come to the refectory then.” He seemed a little distant this morning.
"Thank you.”
He left, and Eleanor threw back the covers. She poured water into the bowl and removed her remaining clothing, shivering in the cold. She splashed water on her face and body, then rubbed herself vigorously with the towel. She opened the bundle and pulled on the remaining clean shift and then the other tunic. Then she sat on the edge of the bed and pulled her skirts up and put her feet into the basin. The water had cooled down to tepid, but it still felt good. She rubbed them hard with her hands, then dried them carefully. Then she donned the second pair of hose, wriggling her toes at the warmth.
She piled the clothes on the bed and moved the bowl onto the chair. Adding the last of the warm water, she washed the filthy hose she had worn and wrung out as much water as possible. She draped them over the back of the chair to dry and glared at the dirty water. Finally, she spread her smelly shift out on the bed to air with the two petticoats.
Wrolf had retreated to the corner near the door while she dressed. He watched her belt her robe about her. She reached down and picked up the little pouch she had brought with her, and it made a faint jingling noise.
Eleanor opened it. Inside there was a small knife, about seven inches long, with a plain wooden handle, and a curious ring. She turned the ring over in her hand. The band was chased with a complex interlace that met in the center in the shape of some grotesque beast. It slipped itself onto her left forefinger almost without her volition. She stared at it, curious about both its shape and the finger upon which she placed it. Then she heard the bell ring again.
She dragged on her boots, still damp, and undid the belt to slip the pouch onto it. Then she left the cell and looked up and down the hall. Where was the refectory?
Wrolf whined and bumped her with his head. Eleanor shrugged and followed the animal, wondering how he knew his way around. Maybe he had been a brother in a previous incarnation.
The refectory was much as it had been the night before, except there was a little more light coming in the single, long window. There were several men at the table, Ambrosius and three others. Another man stood at a lectern, opening a volume. Ambrosius motioned her toward the table. He handed her a bowl of thin porridge. She stood while he said a blessing. Then they all sat and began to eat while the brother at the lectern read aloud.
Eleanor found that the only thing to recommend the porridge was its warmth, but she ate it gladly. She took several glances at her companions and found they were all thin, solemn men, except the reader. The meal was over very quickly, but the brothers continued to sit and listen to the reader. She gave him very little attention, the text being on spiritual cleanliness. Only after he closed the book did Ambrosius say another prayer and the brothers leave the table.
Wrolf lounged in front of the fire, apparently undisturbed by the lack of wolfly victuals. The reader served himself a bowl of porridge from a pot over the fire and sat down. Eleanor waited, unsure of the correct behavior.
"Did you rest well, milady?” Ambrosius asked.
"Yes, thank you.” She studied the brother who was still eating. He seemed rather fatter than the others, and that bothered her. There was also something else about him she could not put a name to, a whiff of something wild, as her mother would have said. Realizing the danger of staring, she looked around the room again, noting the absence of candles or light other than the grayish sunlight and the fire.
That puzzled her, for candlelight was inextricably bound up with he
r idea of the Middle Ages. Then she remembered that Ambrosius had told her that Randolph Gretry had burned the fields year after year. Candles were made of tallow, the fat of sheep. If there were no crops, or few, then there might not be many sheep and therefore no candles. Beeswax? The same thing applied.
The plump brother finished his cereal and gathered up the bowls from the table. Eleanor watched him shuffle away. Ambrosius sat across from her and fingered the cross around his neck. It was wood and very simple in shape, but carved on the face was an interlace, like the bands on the sleeves of his habit. The silence was broken only by the popping of the wood on the fire and the sound of Wrolf worrying something out of his paw pads.
"Tell me, Brother, what is the history of the figure of St. Bridget in the chapel?” she asked finally.
He gave her a thin smile. "You call it a figure, not a statue. It is our local miracle. The tale goes that seven monks of St. Benedict all received a vision of the Virgin, which instructed them to come to this place. After many hardships, they arrived and set about building a small church. Each morning they awoke to find the stones they had set up thrown down again. Finally, one had a dream telling him to face the door of the church west instead of east. They did this, and the next morning the chapel was complete with the figure of the saint already in place. They did not know who the saint was, but since this all happened at St. Bridget’s Day, they assumed it was she.
'The figure is of wood, three ells high. There is not a mark upon it made by any chisel, nor are the colors on it any we can create. The colors have not faded in two hundred years and more. The Pope has sent investigators, but they know no more than I have told you. Were you lettered, I would show you our own history, which records many cures and—”
"But, I am. Or I was when... I was before.” Eleanor had no idea whether she could actually read the language of this time and place. She still didn’t have any idea how she could speak and understand Brother Am-brosius, for she knew she wasn’t speaking the English of her own time.
"Oh. It did not occur to me that you could read.” He seemed slightly bemused. "Why do they waste learning on women?”
"In my time, most people can read.”
"You mean... farmers and butchers and...?” "Everyone.” She didn’t think getting into a discussion of universal literacy was a good idea. "What is the significance of the sword? I cannot remember ever seeing anything like it. Female saints are usually praying. That flaming sword seems more appropriate to Michael the Archangel.”
"Very true. It is. And, as far as I know, nothing like it exists anywhere in the world. One of the Vatican investigators went so far as to hint that it might not be a saint at all. It is truly unfeminine and more like those ancient queens of Albion, Morgiane and Gunni-fer, who led men into battle.”
Eleanor felt the war in her breast. Part of her wanted to know the local folktales of these women, especially Gunnifer, and the rest of her knew she ought to be on her way as soon as possible. "Tell me about St. Bridget, then. All I know about her is that she is from Ireland.” "She is a patron of trees and fields, and wells in particular. She blesses animal and plant alike and has a special joy in the young of any kind and a delight in bees and honey. Before the Darkness, the priory was famous for its honey and its mead. Now we are lucky if our hives yield a pot each of honey. As for mead, it is a fast fading memory.”
"You all look.. .very thin, except the reader.”
"Brother Jerome? I... did not introduce you, did I? I am afraid my thoughts are in great disorder after...” At least now she had an idea what was bothering him, for he was very distant compared to the previous night. "Did you hear what she said, Brother?”
"I did. And it frightened the wits out of me. Twenty-two years I have been praying in front of her and I have never heard a word. Oh, yes, milady, it all happened. She smiled and shed her light on you and gave you the sword and the cloak, though the statue looked just as before this morning. I said nothing to the others. You must not think I am envious, for I would not have the tasks she set you for all the world.”
Eleanor spent a moment wondering why she was not scared witless, herself. She felt very sorry for the man; he had seen a miracle, and he hadn’t cared for it much. "I was thinking about it when you brought my water. First a sheath for the sword and then the sacred well. The Harp, the Pipes, and the Heir. Do you know what any of that means?”
"I sat up the rest of the night thinking on it when I properly should have been praying and reading in such books as we have here. The scabbard is mentioned in our chronicles as follows: 'St. Bridget left Hibernia in such haste that she did not sheath her terrible, swift sword.’ One assumes, then, that the thing is still there.” Eleanor did not allow her face to show the dismay that these words brought to her heart. "Splendid. I only wish I had the ability to fly across the sea.”
"I am sure you will find a way. Now, I have given much thought to the well. I feel it must be the well at Glass Castle, for the Darkness came there very early.” Eleanor made a silent thanksgiving to her father and mother’s profession as folklorists. She had grown up with discussions of Arthur and Merlin, Finn and Cuchulain as dinner-table conversation, and she knew most of the variants of names and stories. "Glastonbury?”
"I do not know a place by that name.”
"Uh, there is a white hawthorn that flowers there at Christmas, brought over miraculously by Joseph of Arimathea. At least, that is the tradition I know.” "’Twas brought in seven days and seven nights from
Jerusalem by the great St. James, who left Joseph behind to spread the word of the Lord. So, I suppose it is the same. Do you know, when the Pope divined the multiverse, it seemed all neat and simple. But I find that actually confronting it is not.”
"I am sorry. All right. First I go across the Irish Sea in midwinter and find this sheath. Then I come back and expel the Darkness at Caer Wydor. Then I travel the length of Albion to the North Wind Country, and find the Harp and the Pipe and the Heir. All in four and a half months. I know. I sound cross. I am. It seems like a great deal to do in such a short time. I do wish I knew what I was doing and why I was picked. You will never see a more reluctant heroine, Brother Ambrosius.” She gave him a nervous grin before she continued.
"Where I come from, food is gotten in large stores, and one travels in self-propelling vehicles. A horse is not a common animal and is only used for pleasure. I don’t even have a horse. Which means I should begin walking. Tell me, out of curiosity, what was the day of your Alianora’s birth?”
"Let me think. Why, ’twas the last day of the year, as I recall.”
Eleanor did not answer. That was her own birthday, New Year’s Eve. "You... and the wolf, you seem to glow in the dark. How is that?”
"Why, it is part of the teachings. 'And let your light so shine before men.’ Have you never heard it?”
"Yes, in the litany, but I never thought to take it literally.”
"Literally? But words have precise meanings.”
"'A word means what I say it means, no more and no less.’ I can see I have a lot to learn. If I survive this, I would like to come back and talk to you. But now... can you spare me some bread? And what is the closest town? Bath?”
He didn’t look too thrilled at the prospect of her return, though Eleanor did not believe he wished her any ill. She had gone from a curiosity to a troublesome guest, and he would be glad to see the back of her. "Bread and cheese, though not much of either. Avoid Bath. There is much Darkness there. Let your wolf lead you. He will keep you safe from harm.”
"Brother, what is the Darkness?”
"It is a great evil which hates all living things.” "You said my... cousin had gone over. Is he still alive?” "His body lives, but it is empty of spirit. That is what happens to them.” His eyes were a little wide with nerves, like a shying horse.
"Zombies,” she said, without thinking.
"What?”
"Oh, just a word for the living dead. Can the bodies be... disanimat
ed?” She had a scholar’s objective curiosity on the one hand, and a great need for information on the other.
"Yes, by light, by hope, and by faith.”
"No more tangible means.”
"Milady, the light you cast is almost blinding. I do not think you need more than that. But, if you see a thick black smoke with no flames under it, run. The Shadow Fire is very terrible. I shall pack you a bag while you gather your things.”
IV
Eleanor walked to the door of the priory with Ambrosius. She had rolled Bridget’s sword into the blue cloak, then tied her blanket around it. Then she had used the wide girdle to secure the ends and had slung it across her shoulders, bow-wise, the hilt above one shoulder, the flat of the blade resting across the opposite hip. The extra garments, including the still damp hose, she had made into another bundle, which she tucked under her arm. With the cloak on, she made a very lumpy sight.
Ambrosius handed her a heavy leather bag, and she slung it over her left shoulder. The length of the sword was already beginning to chafe her left hip, and she knew she would be heartily sick of the burden by evening.
"Richard the Third was right,” she said aloud.
Ambrosius jumped. "What?”
"It is a play—or rather a line from a play that never may be written in Albion. It is about the last descendant of Henry and Eleanor. Betrayed on the field of battle, and on foot, he says, 'A horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse.’ Except, I don’t have a kingdom. And if there was a horse, Wrolf would probably want it for dinner.” Eleanor was worried about many things, not the least of which was her companion’s appetite. At the sound of his name, the wolf looked back and barked.
Ambrosius decided, after some thought, that she was being funny and laughed slightly as he opened the door. No new snow had fallen, and the whiteness was still marked with the footprints of the night before. "Go down the hill that way. When you reach a high oak, turn right. Go west then. The sun will be some help but little I fear.”
Adrienne Martine-Barnes - [Sword 01] Page 3
