Outside there were the sounds of crows, as they circled the fields being worked, seeking to pick at some scrap. “Then what happened?”
Gawain shuddered and crossed himself. “He seemed to be such an old man. I told Thomas to ride ahead and to push the man aside. I told him not to kill the old man, just to show him that Lord Henry was now the ruler of these woods. So Thomas laughed and drew his sword, and rode toward the man. That… that’s when it happened.”
Silence came into the small hut, and the flickering candle made Gawain’s features seem to dance. Father Stephen looked into the fear of those eyes and felt a taste of disquiet. Gawain was known as one of the most fearless of all the knights and men at Lord Henry’s manor. It was not a good thing to see, to see such a man frightened.
Gawain’s voice seemed to tighten. “On my honor, Father, I swear that I am not telling a tale. This is what I truly did see, as did William of deNoucy. As Thomas rode toward the wizard, he raised his staff and uttered some words loudly, words I did not recognize. Then the end of the staff burst into flames and lightning, and Thomas fell from his horse. Our own mounts reared and tossed us both onto the ground, Father. When we got back on our own feet, all three horses had fled back down the trail. The wizard had disappeared. William and I were not severely injured, but Thomas… he was dead, Father. In an instant.”
“I see,” he said. “And did the wizard reappear?”
“Nay, he did not.”
“And what did you and William do then?”
“We carried Thomas between us, and led him to a small home that belongs to a woodcutter named Harold, just outside of Lindsay Woods. Along the way we found all three of our horses, including Thomas’s mount. All three were still shaking and foaming with fear. I then went to Lord Henry, where he then commanded me to retrieve you, to give the Last Rites for Thomas’s immortal soul.”
Father Stephen got up from the stool and went to another shelf, where he took down a small leather satchel that held his vestments and sacred oils. “For that I will do. And that is all.”
Gawain shook his massive head. “I fear not, Father. For Lord Henry also demands that you vanquish the wizard.”
He felt his throat tighten up at the thought of Lord Henry. “Our lord did, did he? And did he say how I was to vanquish this wizard?”
Gawain now looked embarrassed. “I know not, Father. Lord Henry said… well, he said that you would be able to do so.”
Father Stephen returned to the table. “What exactly did our lord say about me?”
The knight said shyly, “He said that Father Stephen is known widely among these lands as a particularly holy man, and if wizards are in the employ of the devil, then Father Stephen should have no difficulty banishing him from Lindsay Woods.”
“I see,” he said, looking into the man’s disturbed face. “Tell me, Gawain. Do you believe in spirits, in witches, in the life of wizards?”
Gawain answered. “I am a simple man, Father, who believes in the end of the sword, and not much else. Yet I have seen and heard things that strike fear into me. Lights in the sky. Screams in the night. Stories from my fellow knights of odd things that have happened in the woods. And this wizard, killing Thomas with a staff, some distance away. I know the legends and the tales. I know not if all of these tales are true. But I do know what I saw with my own eyes. I saw this wizard and what he did.” There was a pause, and Gawain spoke again. “And you, Father? What do you believe in?”
Father Stephen said, “I believe in our Lord God and nothing else. Let us depart.”
GAWAIN RODE ON HIS black horse, called Shadow, while Father Stephen made do with his donkey, called Job, which he kept in a small stall built on the side of his house. Along with his satchel he brought along a simple wool blanket, rolled up. Gawain sighed heavily as he slowed his horse’s gait to match the plodding stride of Job.
“Cannot Lord Henry supply you with a horse?” Gawain asked. “One would think a priest of your stature would… well, you think he would supply you with a mount better than your donkey.”
“A donkey such as Job brought our Lord Jesus into Jerusalem,” Father Stephen said, looking out on the fields and woods surrounding his stone church, Saint Agatha’s. “I deserve no better. I am just a simple priest.”
Gawain kept silent for a half dozen gaits, and said softly, “Father, you know you are more than just a simple priest. A man such as yourself, Oxford learned and the brother of Lord Henry himself, a man who once carried arms, you could do better. You should at least be a bishop.”
Father Stephen saw the stooped-over figures of the men and women and children of his church, whom he blessed and married and baptized and buried. His people, his flock, his responsibility. “God’s work needs to be done, and I am a better man for doing it here.”
“Is it God’s will, then?”
“No,” he said sharply. “It is mine. And we will speak of it no further.”
It WAS DARK WHEN they reached the hut that belonged to the woodcutter Harold and his family, and the family of the dead knight Thomas was there as well. The man’s body was laid out on a table outside, clad only in a shroud, and as the people about him sobbed and cried out, Father Stephen went through the rituals of the Last Rites. Quid quid delquisti… Though he had not been here at the time of Thomas’s death, this was the best he could do, and as he said aloud the Latin phrases, he looked down at the young man’s face.
My poor Thomas, he thought, how did you come to this? A chance to inhabit the world of learning and books and knowledge, the true path of God’s work, to learn more about you and your world, and you turned it down. You chose the easy path, the path of fame and wealth and honor and death, of course, death all about you. Men with swords and shields and armor, spreading death among the simple people, his flock. Burning homes and fields for coin and honor, bloody swords rising up and down, the stench of smoldering hay and wooden beams, the harsh cries of the men, the screams of the women, and the piercing cries of the children, newly orphaned…
He stopped, his mind awhirl. He could not remember what to say next. In the dim light of the torches, the people looked toward him, looked toward their shepherd in this world to lead them to the light, to lead them from the darkness. For just a moment the old memories came back and he felt like a fraud, an impostor. What was he doing here? What could he possibly do for these people? He was terrified for an instant, at being uncovered for what he was.
But only for a moment. The eyes of some of the children up front were looking at him, trusting in him, knowing that he spoke for God. He went on and completed the services, if for no one else, then at least for the children. In nomine Patris, et Fili, et Spiritus sancti. Amen.
LATER HE SPOKE TO Gawain and said, “I have need of you, and a torch, and nobody else.”
“What for, Father?”
“I wish to look at Thomas.”
Gawain gulped audibly. “In what manner, Father?”
Father Stephen said, “He was killed by a wizard. I wish to see if I can learn how this deed was done. You will agree there is no wizard here among us. I cannot talk to him. But the wizard’s work remains. I wish to see it.”
“But Father… I mean…”
He grasped the man’s shoulder. “Have no fear, Gawain. For we are doing God’s work this evening, and God will not allow us to fall into any harm. Our brother Thomas is gone. Only his body remains. We will not disturb his flesh or bones. We will only look. Do come with me.”
They were outside again, and Gawain spoke briefly with the family of Thomas, who all crossed themselves and went into the woodcutter’s hut. The night sounds of frogs and crickets filled the cool air and Father Stephen stepped closer. Gawain was behind him, as if seeking comfort from having the priest move in first. “Bring the torch up behind me, if you will,” he said, and as Gawain did so, he saw that the features of the young man were beginning to change. He would have to be buried early on the morrow, before the rot set in. He said a brief prayer and t
hen undid the shroud, and the torchlight began to quaver.
He looked back and saw that Gawain’s hand was shaking. “Be strong, Gawain,” he whispered. “Be strong.”
When the shroud was lying aside, he bent over and examined the flesh. There were old marks and scars along the shoulders and wrists and legs, from even such short service as a knight, but there was a fresh wound that intrigued him.
“Here,” he said, “bring the torch in closer to the chest.”
The light flickered some more, and Father Stephen heard Gawain murmuring a prayer, the Latin words nearly meaningless in the rush to be said. He looked at the wound, which was in the center of the chest. It was almost round in its shape, and about as wide as his thumb.
“Look there,” he said. “Gawain, have you ever seen such a wound?”
“Nay, Father, I have not.” The knight’s voice sounded strained.
“Nor have I.” He went around to the side and grasped the dead boy’s shoulders, and pulled him to his side. The dead boy’s flesh was cold and stiff and he murmured a quick prayer, asking for forgiveness for disturbing him such as this. His view was blocked and Father Stephen said, “Gawain, do you see anything on his back? Another wound?”
“Father, aye, I do. But this one is bigger and has torn his flesh so. Father, please, I am disturbed. Are we finished here?”
He gently lowered the boy’s body down and blessed him yet again. “Yes, Gawain, we are.”
DINNER WAS BREAD AND ale and seasoned cold venison, and he and Gawain slept in the rear barn on a pile of hay. The woodcutter had offered to let him sleep in their tiny home, but that would mean putting some of the children out in the barn, and that he would not do. He would not disturb the children. They made their beds as well as they could, as they heard the rustle of rats among them. Gawain extinguished a small oil lamp that they had borrowed from the woodcutter and he rested his head back in his hands, staring up at the darkness.
“Gawain?” Father Stephen asked, resting there in the night.
“Aye, Father.”
“Did you know Thomas well, before he died?”
He could hear the crackling of hay as Gawain shifted. “No, not really, Father. I just knew that he was young and eager, and quite strong.”
Father Stephen sighed. “Did you know that he had a taste for learning? That for a while he was eager to learn how to read and write? Did you know that?”
“No, Father, I did not.”
Of course not, Father Stephen thought. You and your kind, all that matters is the moment, the manner of death and honor, and blood being spilled. Always and always, blood being spilled.
“The day of his death,” Father Stephen said.
“Yes?”
“What was he wearing? What kind of armor?”
“Why, none, Father. He was just wearing a cloak, his hose, and a leather jerkin. For we feared not that we would encounter any men of arms on our trip to Lindsay Woods.”
“No, just a wizard, am I right? An old man who could be pushed away or killed without much work on your part.”
“Aye,” came the sad voice. “You are right.”
He thought for a moment longer and said, “Gawain, after the burial tomorrow of Thomas, we must travel.”
Gawain’s voice was troubled. “To Lindsay Woods?”
“No, to Lord Henry’s manor. We must see him, and I must talk to him.”
The knight’s voice was cautionary. “He will not be pleased, to see you without news of the wizard’s death.”
“His pleasure is not my worry,” Father Stephen said. “Now, I bid you a good night’s sleep, Gawain.”
“And you, too, Father.”
Father Stephen pulled his old wool blanket over him and turned over, soon listening to the whistling snore of Gawain and the squeaks and rustles from the rats sharing their quarters.
THE MORNING MEAL WAS old bread, dried apples, and another small piece of venison, and in a cleared area near the path, they laid Thomas’s body to rest. It was not a churchyard but it would have to do, and later, Father Stephen would come back to consecrate this ground. The hole had been dug and Thomas’s body had been wrapped in the shroud, and as his body was lowered into the ground, Father Stephen said the Latin prayers again, commending Thomas’s soul unto the Lord. The boy’s family and the family of Harold the woodcutter watched on, and some of the children—bored at what was going on—played in the distance. Life, Father Stephen thought, life does go on. No matter what the men at arms say.
When the services were done and the last of the dirt had been shoveled over the body by Harold and the boy’s uncle, Father Stephen got onto his donkey and said to Gawain, “Now, we travel.”
“Aye, Father. Whatever you say.”
THE MIDDAY MEAL WAS eaten along the way, more dried apples and stale heels of bread, and as they approached the large, cultivated fields around the manor house of Lord Henry, Gawain said, “There are many things that I do not understand, Father.”
“Then do not fret,” he said. “For that is the way of the world. And what is the matter for which you do not understand?”
Gawain waved a hand about their surroundings. “You could be here, Father. Either at your brother’s side or serving your church, but you could be here. In warm quarters, eating meat every day. Meeting with travelers and lords who read and write as you do, and who speak Latin as well. Educated people, traveled people. Yet you stay in Bromley, in a muddy house with a leaky roof, eating food that is no better than what the villains eat. Why is that?”
“Because that is what I have chosen,” he said carefully.
Gawain glared at him from his high perch on his saddle. “That is no answer, Father, and you know it.”
“Then that is the best answer you can have. Look, we near my brother’s manor. Let us not talk of it any more.”
As their mounts were led away, Father Stephen looked with a critical eye at the manor, the place where he had been born and had been raised. There were a few happy memories here but not too many. His older brother had been his father’s son, and he had been his mother’s. While Henry learned the ways of armor and battle and fighting, he had learned to read and write and had memorized the old tales and songs. He had even done some learning at nearby Oxford. They had been brothers but had been rivals, right from the start. Their three sisters—all now married off, and one, Celeste, living in Burgundy—had stayed within their own manors, and he had not seen them for years.
But it had not been a bad life, not until their mother and father had taken ill and had died, within a week of each other. Henry had been thrust into the head of the family, and in some complicated plot to increase his power and his holdings, he had traveled to France, to fight for King Edward, old Longshanks. And Stephen had gone along as well, as a frightened yet eager young knight, to show his older brother that he, too, could fight for their family, even if he was book-learned and knew how to read and write Latin.
He shook his head at the memories, looked again at the manor. Henry had done well. Part of the manor had been expanded, and it looked like some of the windows had been replaced with real glass. The large door to the manor opened and a tall man came out, bowed in their direction. It was Ambrose, Lord Henry’s head servant. “Father, Lord Henry bids you welcome, and invites you to join him.”
Father Stephen bowed back. “As he wishes.”
As they dismounted Gawain said, “And how did Lord Henry know we were approaching?”
“These are my brother’s lands,” he said. “No doubt we were spotted some distance away, and the news came here quickly. My brother does not like to be surprised by unwelcome guests.”
Shortly they were in the manor hall, where tables were set up on the stone flooring. Tapestries hung along the wall and even some music was being played, by a player of the fiddle and a player of a pipe in one corner. Dogs wandered about, snarling and biting at each other over scraps tossed at them by the well-dressed men and women sitting at the long tables. L
ord Henry— and my, how his brother had gotten heavy and his beard gray—sat at the table at the head of the room, laughing loud at something. Next to him was a thin girl, Lady Catherine, a young girl not yet thirteen, and who had been betrothed to Henry to settle some land dispute.
Father Stephen murmured a quiet prayer as he advanced across the room. That laughter from his brother brought back memories of their time in France, the laughter as he bounded into battle and slaughtered the inhabitants of a village whose only crime was that they pledged their loyalty to a French king.
“Come, come,” his brother yelled out. “Look who approaches.” He belched and swayed in his great chair, and Father Stephen realized Lord Henry was drunk. His brother yelled out, “My holy brother comes to greet me. Do you bring me good news, then? Has the wizard been vanquished? Did you bathe him in Holy Water? Did you strike at him with a relic of Saint Agnes? Did you bid him farewell by tossing phrases at him in Latin?”
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