For a moment, anger showed. "May His Grace, the good bishop, be hanged! For if that's what goodness is, I'd liefer be evil! To torment the young with visions of hellfire, to bind them fast within rules of his own devising, to roar at them and and tell 'em they were born evil, and must strap every last bit o' life out o' themselves, then turn and preach to 'em of the virtues of charity! To tell them that Faith is a gift, then condemn 'em for not having it yet! To tell 'em nothing can be good except what he tells 'em to do! Nay, surely I ought not have let 'em do it to thee! Surely I should have stood against thy mother, taken thee, and fled to the forest! Surely I should have taken thee from the nuns ere they beat out of thee thy regard for thyself, afore they ground thy soul down, making thee to think thyself vile for being male! Nay, and surely, when the priest did thunder at thee that thou must needs take a wife and rear up bairns, whether any lass did suit thee or no, then surely I should have ta'en thee and gone, the two of us together 'gainst the wild beasts of the forestfor better the wolves of the greenwood than the jackals in black robes, who prey upon souls!" Tears glistened on his cheeks. "Nay, they can't hurt thee anymore, lad, though God knows I'll miss thee shrewdly! At the least, thy suffering's done! Nay, I did wrong to marry me! I did wrong to father thee!"
That was too much; Rod winced and took Magnus's arm, turning him away and back to the horses. "We're eavesdropping on something intensely personal. Let the poor man alone in his grief."
Magnus gave him a peculiar look, but turned away and mounted, then brought his horse alongside Rod's, riding beside him-but from the abstracted look on his face, and his conspicuous silence, Rod suspected he was still listening mentally to the bereaved father. He was about to rebuke his son when he remembered that Magnus was a man grown now, presumably with a fully formed conscience. Either that conscience was lacking, in which case it was too late for Rod to do anything about it, or that conscience was sound, in which case Magnus had detected something in the man's thoughts that Rod hadn't been aware of.
Such as wanting everyone to know what he felt the priests had done to his son?
Then why not have shouted it aloud at the funeral? Because he was afraid.
Afraid? Of priests and nuns? Of people devoted to goodness and charity?
It seemed highly unlikely, but Rod remembered the Spanish Inquisition, the crusade against the Albigenses, and the fires of Smithfield. He reserved judgement. Then, too, these clergy had a distinctly homemade look about them; there was no guarantee that their dogma bore any resemblance to his own. Now that he thought of it, he hadn't heard the "bishop" mention the name of Christ at all.
Of course, there would have been no point in Roble's shouting charges to the faithful, who were unshakeable in their beliefs.
But to outsiders?
Rod glanced up at his son's faraway gaze, and decided not to interrupt.
5
Rod reined in with a sigh. "I don't think we'll ever agree on that one, son," he said, finally breaking the silence.
"But they do have the right to be governed as they wish!" Magnus exclaimed. "And if they desire to have a tyrant like that priest bellow and rail at them, if they wish to have him enforce their will with ostracism, who are we to tell them nay?"
"The sane ones, that's who."
Magnus started to say something, then caught himselfbut Rod had intercepted the split-second burst of thought that gave rise to the words, and reddened. "I'm a fine one to talk, is that it? If you'll excuse me, son, I think I'd better ride apart for a while. You don't need me to chaperone you, after all."
"I did not mean. . ." Magnus began, but broke off, seeing his father disappear off the trail and into the woods. Resentment burgeoned within him at his father's rejection. Then he smiled, as he realized he could agree with Rod on one thing-he didn't need a parent watching over him like a hawk.
Savoring that thought, he turned away-but he still felt a little guilty at having offended his father.
"There be no need to feel remorse when thou hast done right, young warlock."
Magnus looked up, startled. By the side of the road, gunnysack slung over his shoulder, stood the ragpicker. Magnus firmed his resolve and narrowed his eyes. "What dost thou here? Begone!"
"I but seek to offer thee that which will be of value to thee." The ragpicker swung the bag off his shoulder, reached in, and pulled out a golden chain with a bauble on the end. "Invulnerability, for thine heart! That no wench may ever capture it, to twist and torment it!"
Magnus squinted, trying to make out what the bauble was, but it twisted and turned in a patch of sunlight that made its form seem to blur. "What should I pay thee with?" Magnus demanded. "My soul?"
"Oh, nay! I shall take no pay. I exist but to aid those who are in need-or who will be."
"I trust not those who profess to offer much and ask little."
"Yet thou hast," the ragpicker called after him, "for thou hast acted from that same principle thyself, time and again." That rocked Magnus a little; he liked to think of himself as motivated by healthy self-interest, though he was aware that it came in many disguises. Still, he realized the comment was just a barb to hook him into further argument and possible exploitation, so he ignored it and rode on.
The trail curved, hiding the ragpicker from view. Magnus was tempted to go back to make sure the man had disappeared, but steeled himself against the impulse.
He rode on as dawn turned into morning, sending dapples of sunlight through the leaves of the forest. The ground began to slope upward, and the trees thinned out. Magnus crested the rise, broke through a final screen of scrub, and saw another village below him in the morning mist. The sunlight struck through the clouds, and sent a shaft down to highlight the collection of huts. Magnus halted, charmed by the sightand realized that glistening in the shaft of light were the whitewashed boards of a church steeple. With an uncomfortable pang of conscience, he remembered that it was Sunday. The church bell began to toll.
Magnus sighed and shook the reins. "Come, good mount. I must needs go forth to the chapel, some holy words to hear." He rode down into the valley, following the dirt road, softened now with the autumn rains, and came up to the church as the last few parishioners were filing in. But he was not quite late-a lady on a white palfrey, flanked by four men-atarms, was riding down an adjoining road, coming behind him.
Magnus dismounted, tying his horse's reins to a tree limb. He strode up to the church door, then glanced back to make sure his horse had grass to eat ...
And saw the lady watching him, with a gleam in her eye. Something about her regard made Magnus uncomfortable. He turned back to the church door, doing his best to ignore her. . . .
"Hold, sirrah!"
Magnus whirled about, instantly seething at the demeaning term-the more so when he saw it was a guardsman who had spoken it. Didn't he know Magnus's rank without having to be told? Even coated with dust and in his travelling clothes, his garb was clearly that of a nobleman, or at the very least, a squire.
But the guardsman wasn't entering-he was holding the door wide, and his fellows had stationed themselves behind the lady, who was marching toward the door. She looked up at Magnus, and her glance seemed to pierce him. He stood numbed by surprise, and she smiled, with newly moistened lips. "Art thou so hot to enter then, young man?"
"Young man!" Magnus took refuge in outrage. "Thou art not so much older than I, milady-and thy servants want rebuke! Thou must needs teach them to know their betters!"
"What!" the guardsman cried, and his halberd swung down.
Magnus dropped his hand to his sword. "School him, lady, or I'll do it for thee."
The three other men instantly lowered their halberds. Magnus stood poised, hand still on his sword, and locked gazes with her.
Her eyes seemed to swell; her lips parted.
Magnus felt a current pass through him, leaving him shaken. He hoped he looked like a frozen statue.
The lady's lips curved into a lazy smile, and her eyelids drooped. She
turned to the guardsmen. "Wherefore dost thou stand here idle, good fellows? Get thee in, to hear the holy man. Nay, get thee all within!"
"But my lady . . ." The guard was clearly taken aback. "Thy safety ... thine husband. . ."
"Mine husband is my concern." Her voice sharpened. "And this stranger is no brigand; couldst thou not tell his quality, by the look of him?"
The guardsman gave Magnus a doubtful glance that as much as said that he knew exactly of what quality Magnus was, and the young man's grip tightened on his sword; but the lady snapped, "Go!" and the four guardsmen filed into the church, with wary glances behind.
Magnus watched them go, his face stony, his hand relaxing from his sword hilt-and suddenly very wary of turning to look behind him.
"Hast thou no taste for aught but steel?" the lady said, her voice throaty. "No desire to sheathe thy blade in a proper scabbard?"
"Why, so I do." Magnus slammed the blade back by his side and turned to give the lady a cold bow. "Naked steel must not be borne within the church. By thy leave, milady, I'll step within."
"Art thou so eager to hear a sermon?" There was a faint sneer in her voice. "Nay, belike thou art a very cleric of a warrior, who dost live by the Church and the Book."
That stung, but Magnus knew at least the name of the game, if not its strategies, and retorted, "I am a man for the Book and the Law indeed. Good morn to thee, lady."
"Why, then, speed thee to God." Her lips smiled, but her tone was contemptuous. "And I had thought to bid thee home to dine, to slake thine appetite of me."
The thrill that passed through him was nothing he could control; Magnus had to remind himself that there was no sin in feeling desire, only in giving in to it. "'Tis not seemly for a lady to entertain a gentleman other than her husband."
"Mine husband is off to the wars," she said instantly, "or to attend upon his suzerain at a conference of lords, regarding their rights in opposition to the Crown, which must surely be much the same as a battle-and will detain him for some weeks yet."
"What knight is this?" Magnus demanded. "Tell me thy husband's name." He could feel himself slipping, and hoped that personifying the man might make him lose interest in the wife.
She frowned, realizing the gambit; but protocol, and regard for her own status, prohibited a refusal to answer. "He is Sir Spenser Dole, and I grow lonely in his absence."
"Then thou art fortunate in having so many brave servitors to accompany thee." Knowing the man's name didn't lessen the tide of hot blood flowing through Magnus's veins, but it did explain the situation-Sir Spenser Dole was a knight advanced in middle age, fifty in a world to which sixty was ancient, and the young woman had no doubt been married to him against her will, in accordance with custom and her father's wishes, cementing an alliance between two knights, or perhaps even their lords.
Magnus bowed again and turned away, determined to have nothing to do with the lady, nor with her invitation. "Be easy, knight." Her touch was featherlight on his arm, but sent the current coursing through him again, and he stopped in spite of his good intentions. "I do not seek to turn thee from a course of honor, but only to give rest and comfort to a valiant warrior who, I doubt not, hath ridden long and is both a-hungered and weary." She moved around to his side, far enough that he couldn't help but see her, her eyes wide and imploring. "Nay, wilt thou leave me lorn?"
He knew he should have-but the lady was very beautiful, and Magnus's pulse was pounding in his ears, and what harm was there in sharing a breakfast with her? "The Mass," he protested, in a last feeble defense-but he had the door open, and could hear the priest chanting the Lavabo.
"The Book has been moved," the lady said with a lazy smile, lips full and moist. "The mass is half-spent, and thou must needs come again to the church at another time. Thou hast done as well as thou might, to honor holiness on the day of rest-but travellers have ever great difficulty in finding a priest, and thou art surely to suffer no blame if thou hast not had a Mass."
"Half a Mass is better than none......"
"Not to the Church, who would have thee come again if thou dost come too late."
Which was true; coming in after the Credo meant that his Sunday obligation was not fulfilled.
"Rest thee, then," she said softly, smiling almost proudly. "Come away to my castle, and find repose and refreshment." The church door slipped from nerveless fingers; he turned away from the chapel, following the sway of her hips, and telling himself there was no harm in light conversation.
Sir Spenser's castle was tall, but not large-scarcely more than a curtain wall surrounding a square keep, perhaps fifty feet on a side. This was no nobleman's wife, but a country knight's. Still, Magnus reminded himself, Dole was a good man, and deserved no slur on his honor.
The lady did not take them in over the drawbridge, however, but around to the narrow plank bridge that ended at the postern gate. Magnus knew, right there, that he should turn and go, but the lady's voluptuous figure swayed before him, and he told himself that he would stay just long enough for polite conversation, then leave. After all, she could scarcely invite him openly to her bed in front of her husband's servants.
But there were no gardeners in sight, nor grooms, as he passed through the postern. He told himself that they were only gone to church, and followed the lady through the door to the keep, resolving firmly to turn on his heel if he didn't see any servants inside.
But he didn't-see any servants, and didn't turn on his heel-because, as soon as they were through the door, the lady turned and pressed up against him even as he stepped forward, molding the curves of her body to his, parted lips seeking his mouth with an urgency that took him completely by surprise, and his body responded automatically. He yielded to temptation and the deepening of the kiss, putting his arms around her and pressing her hips against his own.
Then he realized what he was doing, remembered that this was another man's wife, and broke off in alarm.
She laughed with triumph, low in her throat. "So, then. Thou art not so godly as all that, art thou?"
Wrong choice of words; it reawakened Magnus's conscience. He stepped back, releasing her. "Nay, then, thou hast the right of it-I should be in church, even as thou sayest. I thank thee for thine hospitality. . . ." He was turning back toward the door, when she scoffed, "What, a Sunday man? Art thou then so afeard of Hell that thou wouldst turn from heavenly pleasures?"
She was, Magnus thought as he turned, highly overrating herself-but when he looked at her again, eyes bright, face flushed, bosom heaving, he wasn't so sure. Still, he tried his best to affect a frosty demeanor. "Thou hast a husband, lady, and I a duty to chivalry." This time, he did manage to turn around.
But her voice was all contrition, demure and shamed. "Nay, then, thou hast the right of it to scold me so. Have no fear-I'll be a seemly matron. Yet thou must needs permit that I make amends. Come to mine hall, and taste some wine to refresh thee."
Magnus hesitated, his hand near the latch.
"Wilt thou make me feel to be a thing of evil?" she pleaded. "Nay, turn, and have the grace to let me do my penance."
Magnus relented and turned back. "Why, I cry thy mercy, lady, and will gladly taste thy wine, for I am parched."
She gave him a tremulous smile of gratitude and turned away, leading him into the keep, and Magnus followed, relieved that the situation was no longer compromising, but wary still.
His wariness increased as she led him up the spiral staircase, but not so much-the great hall was, after all, for public occasions, and it wasn't terribly surprising that a single guest would be entertained in the solar.
They came out into a gallery, and the lady, no longer swaying, but still with a movement that Magnus found enchanting, led him to the door at the end. She opened it, and they came into a small chamber filled with sunlight from three tall windows in its outer wall. Magnus was surprised-he would have expected the solar to be larger, even in so small a castle as this-but it was well appointed, a carpet on the floor and
tapestries on the walls, with an hourglass-shaped chair, a scroll-carved bench, and a small table.
The lady took a flask and glass from the silver tray on the table, gave the goblet to Magnus, and filled it with wine. "Recline thee, sir, and tell me-whence hast thou come, and whither goest?"
He found it unnerving that she did not ask his name, but perhaps it was wise, under the circumstances. He sat on the bench, the chair being behind the table. "I wander without purpose, lady, to see what may be found in Gramarye."
"Dost thou seek wrongs to right, and damsels in distress?"
"I have found the first, but not the last," Magnus admitted, "though, to tell truly, I know not what I seek."
"Wilt thou not taste of my wine?" she pleaded.
Magnus tipped the goblet against his lips, looked up, and nodded. "'Tis sweet, milady, and full. I thank thee."
"I would thou couldst thank me for more," she said ruefully. "What hath set thee to thy travels, then?"
Magnus took a long swallow of wine to give him time to mull over the answer. He couldn't exactly tell tales outside the family, after all, "A yearning to see more than I have known in my youth, I would have to say-and a yearning to be away from the folk of my childhood for a space." Which was true enough-but Magnus had travelled throughout the Isle of Gramarye as he grew, and knew most of it fairly well; the broader vistas he longed for were not to be found on his home planet.
"I have yearnings, too," she sighed, "but a man may wander, and a woman must stay."
Magnus looked up sharply, feeling compassion for the first time. "Nay, surely if thou dost long to see more of the world, as I do, it must needs go hard on thee to rest."
"I shall rest, as I must," she sighed, "for I know full well that a wanderer's life would pall, and I would long for house and husband. Yet I may dream."
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