Budic spat in Garren’s direction, and then he stormed out of the Hall.
Garren closed his eyes and breathed out slowly. He should have known. He should have known that it was Budic that caused Anna to miscarry. She had been so far along as well. And she had been so excited. Budic took that from her. How could he? How could he have done something so dreadful? By God, he would make Budic pay for his crimes. But not yet, for there were things he needed to do first.
“My Lord, is everything all right?” one of Aergol’s guards asked. “I heard shouting.”
“It was nothing,” Garren replied, rising to his feet and crossing to the door to retrieve his knife. He pulled his knife free from the wood. “Just my brother being his charming self. Budic was never a morning person.”
This brought a smile to the guard’s face. “We had noticed,” the guard said with a wink.
“Where might I find the King?” Garren asked.
“Everyone is down by the river. You will find him there.”
“Thank you,” Garren said with a smile, and then with what felt like a broken heart, he left the Hall.
“That is not an ass,” Yrre observed as he watched Bedwyr ride towards him on a majestic black stallion.
“You thought I meant a donkey?” Bedwyr stated with an innocent grin. “This is Old Ass, my warhorse, so named because of his stubbornness. He is also rather aggressive. He once picked up a stable lad and threw him across the yard, broke the boy’s leg he did. He has taken large bites out of every groom he has ever had. I am the only one who can ride him.” As if in agreement, the stallion raised his head and gave a shrill whinny, that unsettled Yrre’s more placid gelding. Yrre’s horse began to shy away from the beast that Bedwyr rode.
Yrre circled his horse back around. “You Sir, are a scoundrel, a liar and a cheat.”
“I never lied to you. I told you I would beat you riding an old ass, and I will. It is not my fault if you thought I was talking about a donkey.”
Yrre said something very unflattering in Saxon.
Bedwyr grinned back. “Shall we race? Or do you want to forfeit?”
“I’ll race you, and I will beat you,” Yrre promised. “Your horse is nothing but piss in the wind.”
“But he is fast,” Bedwyr stated with a grin.
“Fast doesn’t always win the race,” Yrre replied. “Surely a knight of your standing would know that. I can depend on my horse. The same can’t be said for yours.”
“I’ll be waiting for you at the finish line,” Bedwyr answered.
“You do that,” Yrre said, trying to hide his amusement as Bedwyr kicked his horse forward.
“My mare is in season,” Eadger said as he rode up beside his friend. “Do you think I should mention it to Bedwyr?”
Yrre glanced back at Bedwyr. Old Ass had his nostrils flared as he smelt the mare and the whites of his eyes were showing. White froth was flowing from his mouth as well, as the stallion chomped on his bit.
“He has her scent,” Yrre stated, amused. “Keep the knowledge to yourself, my friend. This has all the makings for an interesting race. I am tempted to make my wager slightly bigger. And after we have finished here, we will go and find Merton. Curse the weather in this country, he could be anywhere by now.”
“Merton isn’t anywhere,” Eadger responded quietly. “He is somewhere.”
“That doesn’t make it any easier to find him,” Yrre said.
“Are we racing today or not?” Bedwyr called, interrupting their conversation.
“Oh, we are racing, old man,” Yrre called back, and he kicked his horse on.
Garren watched the race from the top of the battlements. A great cheer rose from the spectators as the two competitors broke into a gallop. Bedwyr’s steed was the faster, and he set off at a breath-taking speed, leaving Yrre in his dust. But, without warning, the stallion planted his front feet into the ground and stopped abruptly. Bedwyr almost went over the beast’s head, as it was, he found himself sprawled across the animal’s neck. Bedwyr only just managed to get himself back in the saddle and gather up the reins when the stallion reared, thrashing the air with his hooves. Garren was too far away to hear what Bedwyr was saying to his horse, but he would bet it wasn’t complementary. Meanwhile, Yrre had slowed his horse down to a trot and leisurely made his way around the circuit.
Bedwyr’s horse reared again, but this time his rear was so high that he unbalanced himself and fell over. Lucky for Bedwyr, he was thrown clear. Old Ass struggled back to his feet, shook himself vigorously, and then immediately took off towards the crowd where Eadger’s mare was contentedly munching on some grass. There were a few panicked screams in the crowd as the horse charged through them. Eadger wisely dismounted and stepped clear of his mare as Old Ass came closer. He smiled at the approaching horse for it was about time his mare had a foal and this way he wouldn’t have to pay a stallion fee.
The two horses regarded each other for a moment, Eadger’s mare snorted a greeting and raised her tail in welcome. Old Ass stretched out his neck and sniffed her. And then casually he walked around to the mare’s back end and began to sniff and nudge that as well, before finally mounting her. The mating was over before it began. Old Ass, who was looking very pleased with himself, allowed a knight to lead him away. Eadger’s horse went back to grazing as if nothing of any consequence had happened.
“It looks like Sir Yrre has won and Sir Eadger will be able to add a foal to his stables this time next year.”
Garren turned and looked at the monk who was now standing by his side.
“You have very light footsteps,” Garren stated. “It is unusual for someone to creep up on me.”
“My footsteps are light because my heart is full of God’s wonder. Can you say the same for yours?” Sampson asked with a curious expression.
Garren regarded the monk for a long moment. Sampson was far younger than him, but he could see the wisdom in his eyes. “You are a man of God,” Garren answered as if that explained everything.
Sampson looked down at his robes and picked up the wooden cross that hung from his neck. “There is no hiding the truth from you, is there?”
Garren chuckled. “A monk with a sense of humour. You are a first. I have never met one before.”
“My apologies,” Sampson said most humbly. “I spent too much time in the company of a man who was a master at sarcasm. A little of him has rubbed off on me.”
“There is nothing wrong with having a sense of humour. Surely God does not look down on that?”
“God looks down on very little.”
“I think that many members of your Church would disagree with you on that.”
“Our most Holy Bible is the word of God, but it is interpreted by man, and man does not always get it right. Sometimes I think it is supposed to be beyond our comprehension. That is why Jesus preached in parables so that we would understand. Do you still follow the righteous one?”
“I spent many years as a slave. To begin with, it was easy to hold on to my faith, but later it became more difficult. Believe me, when a whip bloodies your back, it is very easy to feel like God has abandoned you.”
“God never abandons anyone.”
“Then why does he let bad things happen?” Garren wasn’t expecting an answer, for he had never met anyone who could answer that question adequately. He began to walk away.
“God isn’t responsible for what befell you. He isn’t responsible for the wars and the famines, the diseases and the poverty. Man is responsible for that. Adam chose not to obey—”
“And now we must all suffer? And we must watch the people that we love suffer? Because of the sins of our forefathers? That is not a very forgiving God, is it?” Garren asked, turning back around to look at him.
“You are thinking like a man. You see only your suffering, and your pain and you look to the sky and cry, Dear Lord, why me? What have I done to deserve this? Don’t you see? God never said anything about any of us having a perfect life, but he
never said he would abandon us either. He was with you in your most desperate hour. He has always been with you. When you were in chains, he felt the weight of your irons on his own wrist. When you were lashed, he felt the pain as if it was his own and his heart wept. But I take heart in the knowledge, that one day we will forget what it means to be in pain. We will forget what suffering is. We followers of Christ are promised an eternal life — that is what the Apostle John said, anyway. A perfect eternity — what could be better?”
“I cannot envisage a perfect eternity. Do you really believe in such a thing?”
“Yes,” Sampson said with passion. “Death is the wages of sin, but through Jesus Christ, our Lord, God gifts us with eternal life. And if it is a gift from God, then it must be perfect, for he is perfect. You must forgive those who bound you in chains, who beat you. When Jesus was dying on the cross can you recall what he said?”
“Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing,” Garren answered. “That is easier said than done.”
“When you forgive, it is your heart that gets lighter. Hate just leaves you bitter, and bitterness destroys you.”
“You are very young,” Garren pointed out. “And you are untouched by the horrors of this world. When the heathens have gathered and burnt down your Church and slaughtered your people, come find me and tell me that you have forgiven them. And then I might believe that there is a way back from hate.” Garren didn’t wait for an answer but hurried away from the monk.
“I was there,” Sampson called from the battlements as Garren crossed the courtyard. “The day Merton was tortured. I was there. I witnessed it.”
Garren came to a stop and turned back around. Just at that moment, the weak winter sun seemed to shine down on the monk as if he was being given a blessing from Heaven. “You witnessed it?”
Sampson made his way down the battlement steps and crossed to where Garren stood. “I saw a bear bate once,” Sampson spoke softly. “I thought it was the cruellest thing I had ever seen. They set dogs on the bear, poked it with hot pokers, laughed and jeered at it as it roared in pain. But the bear, it carried on fighting, until it could fight no more. That is what they did to your brother. And like the bear, Merton kept on fighting until he could fight no more.”
Garren closed his eyes tight at the image the monk had just portrayed. When he opened his eyes again, the monk was looking at him with compassion. “Merton was still a child when I left, and that is how I remember him. When you tell me of his suffering, it is a child I see being tortured. Maybe, if I were to see him…”
“As I said, in eternity, there will be no suffering,” Sampson said, cleverly avoiding the subject of Merton’s mortal life.
“I meant in this life. Do you know Merton is still alive?” Garren asked quietly.
The monk seemed to struggle for words for a moment, and when he finally spoke, Garren had to strain to listen.
“I stole into the dungeons. Cut off what was left of his arm and sealed the many wounds he had on his body.”
“You saved his life?” Garren was surprised by such a confession.
“With God’s help, yes. Although recently, I have wondered if I did him a grave disservice. There was another who I couldn’t save, and it plays upon Merton’s soul. Guilt is eating him up, and it may yet destroy him.”
“You are referring to my wife,” Garren stated. “It’s all right,” he said quickly when he saw an edge of panic in the young monk’s eyes. “I know about the two of them.”
“You do?” Sampson frowned, clearly confused. “Alden was determined that you wouldn’t know the truth. What Merton and your wife did was wrong. It was a sin. But…I have seen the look in Merton’s eyes when he thinks no one is watching. He loved her, and it is tearing him apart. As unlikely as it seems, Merton is my friend. I hate to see him suffer so.”
“Why did Alden not want me to know?” Garren asked.
“Merton and Alden’s relationship is complex and perhaps difficult to understand to an outsider or to someone who has been away for a long time. Come, let’s find somewhere private where we won’t be overheard, for what I have to say is for your ears, and your ears alone.”
19
Garren followed Sampson to a small stone built church that was tucked away behind the Great Hall. The church looked like it had been constructed in a hurry, almost as if it had been an afterthought. Perhaps the former King of Dyfed had more important things to worry about than God when he had built his castle.
Sampson gave Garren a weak smile as he opened the door as if apologising in advance for something that was to come. Garren stepped inside, the church smelt strongly of incense, which helped to cover up the smell of the damp and mould. There were a few candles, casting long shadows in the gloom. A beautiful gold cross, adorned with precious jewels, sat with pride and place in the centre of the Altar Table. Two very large, and lit, beeswax candles had been purposely placed either side of the cross. Their little lights made the jewels in the cross sparkle. There was no other furniture in the room, and Garren found his eyes drawn to the altar and the cross — he wondered if this was what the monks had intended all along. There seemed to be an unspoken message here that cried out that in this church, there was no place for anything but worship.
They were not alone; for there was another monk knelt at the altar. This monk was lost in prayer, his eyes were closed, and he held his hands as he prayed. Sampson cleared his throat to get the monk’s attention.
“Lord du Lac has asked me to hear his confession,” Sampson spoke with confidence and authority.
“Of course,” the other monk said, offering a smile and rising to his feet. The cross that hung around his neck wasn’t carved out of wood like the one Sampson wore; but instead, it was made of gold and decorated with precious stones, a tiny replica of the one on the altar. Without question, the other monk silently left the church, closing the door behind him.
Garren looked at Sampson questionably.
“What?” Sampson asked when he saw the look on Garren’s face.
“It’s just…I thought…who was that?”
“The Bishop of Llandaff, he is here on a visit.”
“Why would the Bishop of Llandaff bow down to your orders?” Garren asked, confused by what he had just witnessed.
“Bishop Eilliau is a man of great wisdom. But, I am God’s vessel. Bishop Eilliau knows this. God chose me from the moment of my birth. I speak with his authority, and his alone,” there was no arrogance in the way Sampson spoke, he just told it as it was.
“How old are you?” Garren had wanted to ask that question from the very first moment he had met him.
“In years, I think, sixteen, seventeen, maybe eighteen. I am not sure. Why is my age important to you?”
Garren gave an indifferent shrug.
“You think me not wise? Would you think me wiser if I were eighty? Jesus knew more about God when he was twelve, then I will ever know. Would you think less of Jesus if he were eighteen and stood in front of you?” Sampson looked at Garren knowingly. “I didn’t think so.”
“You look younger than you are,” Garren said. “I thought you thirteen.”
“As did Merton, but he stopped seeing me as a child when I saved his life. My age isn’t important. It bears no relevance to anything.”
“My apologies, I didn’t mean to offend you.”
Sampson’s eyes sparkled with humour. “May the day never come when I take offence at being told that I am younger than I look. When I am fifty, I have no doubt this curse,” he indicated his face with his hand, “will be a blessing. Come,” Sampson encouraged as he walked towards the altar and knelt, he bowed his head and began to pray.
Garren looked around the little church one more time. He felt a cold sensation travel down his spine and sweat broke out upon his brow. He hated confined spaces. This church reminded him of the cell where he had once spent many long months. There had been no natural source of light in that cell, and there was none in
this church. He hated that. He hated not being able to see the sky.
“Do you not pray?” Sampson asked, although his head was still bowed.
“This is your realm,” Garren stated as he knelt beside the monk. He too closed his eyes, but no prayer came.
With eyes still closed, Sampson made the sign of the cross and whispered the sacred words, “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.” He then dropped his hands, opened his eyes and turned to look at Garren. “This is not my realm. This is God’s.”
Garren too, opened his eyes.
“I could not get Merton to step into a church,” Sampson said with humour. “But a church is where I first met him,” he smiled at the memory. “Merton said to me, that day, that he didn’t deserve or want absolution. I think, what he really meant is that he could not forgive himself for the sins that he had committed, so he could not understand how God would forgive him. Merton had already judged and sentenced himself to Hell. What Merton didn’t understand then, and what he still doesn’t understand, is that it isn’t his decision to make — it is God’s. And God is merciful, especially to those who repent.”
“Do you know where Merton is?” Garren asked.
“No,” Sampson shook his head, the humour falling from his face. “He disappeared almost two months ago, and no one has heard anything of him since. I am going to go to Brittany to look for him now that this cold spell has passed. Although I pray to God that he has had the good sense not to go there.”
“You think he seeks revenge?”
“We are talking about Merton,” Sampson said with a sad smile. “But, I believe there is more to it. I think he has gone there to die. If he is successful and has his vengeance, he will then let them kill him. It is more than likely that he will be unsuccessful and they will kill him anyway. I will not stand by and let that happen.”
The Du Lac Princess: (Book 3 of The Du Lac Chronicles) Page 22
