Instead of cheering Gamelyn as it normally did, Sir Ian’s rare smile took the butt of the whip to his conscience. “Perhaps I can even talk you into a walk ’round the bailey with me in the morning? I’m doing quite well with Mistress Eluned’s medicine.” The smile turned crafty, and Sir Ian leaned into Gamelyn. “Between you and me, the leech is simply furious. Swears she’s poisoning me. I heard him say it overloud, so I had him put in the stocks. Far too many people took pleasure in throwing horse shit at him.”
Gamelyn didn’t have to fake his laughter; it bubbled up, impossibly genuine.
“Ah, lad, it’s good to hear you laugh. You seem in such a good mood today. You’ve been moping too much. Alais swears you have a lady friend. I do hope it isn’t Mistress Eluned’s daughter.”
“I swear to you, Papa, she is but a friend.”
“Good. Perhaps I am old-fashioned. Johan says it’s well past time you were salted—but Johan’s inclinations are not something you want to adopt. You should treat a lady with honor, not basely. He thinks I don’t know what he gets up to with the serving girls, but I do. He thinks confession wipes the slate so he can sin again, but you and I know it isn’t quite that simple, eh, my boy?”
Gamelyn did not flinch. Miraculously.
“Perhaps he’s right, and if you’re old enough to go to war, you’re old enough to indulge in a few sins. Our king is looking for soldiers. Again. And money. Always. I can ill afford either, but another tax is being poured into his coffers. He’s no Henry… ah, there was a man. Lionheart will beggar us yet. He’s borrowed more from the Templars, I’ve heard. They already hold notes on half of England.”
Indulge in a few sins. Sir Ian’s arrows might have been flung quite without intent, but they hit their marks no less successfully. And such talk about the king… usually Sir Ian was not so free with any criticisms of his betters. Gamelyn peered over at Donall, but Donall was not heeding his master’s remarks. He was still quite occupied with scowling at Gamelyn.
“Well, if you’re not indulging, I’m sure you’re contemplating it.”
If his father’s thoughts had to be all over the map, why did they keep returning to this particular thing?
“Just make sure you take confession with Brother Dolfin regularly. I would not tell Abbess Elisabeth, though. I know the confessional is sacrosanct, but she is a woman and would most certainly not understand. As she’s in the midst of looking for a good placement for you, there is no sense prejudicing her favor. I understand you’re to bring her here for me.”
“I am.” Gamelyn squeezed his father’s hand gently and gave a wary eye to Donall, still hovering on the edges. “I’ll leave you to rest, for now.”
“You’ll come later, then?”
“I promise you, Papa. I will be here.”
Gamelyn made it out of the solar before the tears betrayed him, sudden and startling, to spill and run over his cheeks. He leaned against the wall until he had some control, eyed the corridor leading to his chambers.
Eyed past it, to the stair that would lead down and outward. To the chapel.
Prayer. Peace. Forgiveness.
For what? The lies? The horrible culpability that he was spending time with his lover instead of his ill father?
For Rob?
Once the confession started, he would have to tell it all, and he wasn’t sure he was ready for that. Ready for the penance, yes. Ready to swear to never do it again?
He ended up retreating to his chambers.
IT WAS a perfect day for a ride.
The heat had finally broken, and a bank of clouds had rolled up the valley of the river Don, bringing the less-than-rain/more-than-mist that dampened everything and could, midwinter, be misery for days on end. Now, with Beltain’s approach, it was a welcome kiss upon Rob’s cheeks, filling his lungs with lovely moisture, coating his outer clothing and his curls with a slick that looked more like fuzz than damp.
It was close to Beltain, Rob realized with a jolt.
Perhaps he could convince Gamelyn to come. It would show him what they were about more than any tangled discussions where Gamelyn listened, his eyes wheeling wide like a horse looking to spook, and where Rob tried to explain things that really couldn’t bear explaining.
Perhaps Rob had offended Gamelyn more than he’d thought, and that was why he’d not returned yet….
Nay, he was not going to mope about like that.
The cool had perked Arawn up as well, black hoofs dancing as Rob had saddled him. They still had the northwest edge of de Warenne’s land to cover, along the Don; Rob had to set some nets and weirs to make an estimate of fish numbers. He was sure to catch himself some fancy fish for his supper, and perhaps some for the people of Blyth as well.
Gamelyn had promised to show; had genuinely seemed to want to come along. It constantly amazed Rob how little Gamelyn knew about how such things were done. Perhaps as a third son—and that sadistic git Johan constantly reminding him of it, so it seemed—there was no need for him to know the smaller details of being “lord of the manor.”
Not that Gamelyn talked that much about life in the castle. Not that Rob wanted a constant reminder of it.
There were some subjects that were off-limits, and that was fine.
But he wanted Gamelyn here, riding beside him. Lying beside him at night. Not sleeping that entire night and during the day, too. Swapping compliments disguised as insults. Even learning how to wield that bloody great sword that seemed to deny ever becoming a part of Rob—a constant clumsiness, unlike like his bow or staff.
Gamelyn was pure grace and power, handling that sword. Rob smirked. Gamelyn was also getting to be fairly powerful with his other sword, and Rob had no objections to that, none at all. Rob missed the reciprocation, though.
He missed Gamelyn. It was a strange feeling, a yearning he’d never before been so taken by. A need, really, one just this side of uncomfortable and carrying as its baggage more than a little worry.
What if that Motherless chapel’s siren song of unfathomable guilt and put-upon misery had won out again?
What if Gamelyn had decided he just didn’t want to come, after all? That he was done with the game?
Only it wasn’t a game, and Rob was not going to start in on that again….
“…WANT YOU going back there, Eluned. It’s too dangerous. This bloody crow of the White Christ has set Nottingham to slaver on our heels. He’s just waiting for the excuse.”
Crow of the White Christ? It sounded familiar, but as Marion climbed the steps to their cottage Adam’s voice continued, scattering that thought into many more.
“Blyth’s lord is kin to her, and when she takes her suspicions to him, ’tis likely he’ll listen.”
“You said George didna tell her—”
“He gave her things she wanted to hear, things cheap enough at the price about the making of th’ arrow, and the ways of using it. He made up things that set a gleam in Nottingham’s eye… the pious fraud! But nay, he gave nowt of value.”
Marion stopped at the door and went no further. Her father was stalking the floor, hot-eyed and hunched, as if some sword had run him through. Eluned sat at the table, watching him helplessly, tears streaming over her cheeks.
“The magic held on him and I made sure of it.” Adam’s voice cracked. “’Twas the longest night of my life… the only thing that held me strong was that he needed me.”
“Is he…,” Marion started, and her own voice failed. But she had to know. “George is dead, ent he?”
Adam turned to peer at her, then slowly nodded.
Marion leaned against the door lintel, tears stinging her eyes.
“She asked George where to find the covenant,” Eluned murmured, slow. “Surely she could not accuse you?”
“She could not. But she’d like to. Worse, th’ bitch is connected to everyone in power. Thankfully the sheriff I report to is no’ so pious. De Lisle has authority over me, not FitzAaron in Nottingham, and I know he’s already refused to heed his sister’
s fire-eyed warnings about ‘pagans overrunning the shire’. He told me as much when he gave the orders to give George to Nottingham.” Adam’s voice gained strength. “We’ll take more care. Move the Fête deeper into the Shire Wode, to the stones of Mam Tor. There’s none as dares goes that far, and few outside the covenant who knows the place.”
Marion shoved back against the lintel edge until her spine scraped at the wood even through fabric.
The Hooded One will be blooded upon the night of sacrifice….
“I saw the Lady. In the mere.”
This was met with a spectacular silence. Eluned, in particular, had paled, her mouth dropping open.
“In the… mere?” she said, very slow.
“She showed me the story,” Marion said. “Of what had come before. And….” Still, she was loath to speak of it, as if it was supposed to remain, burning, in her heart until she got to the place of telling… wherever that was. Instead, she settled for the basic upshot of it. “She told me that I had to go to Rob.”
“Well, that will be done for you,” her father said. “Rob is coming home. I’ll have a good night’s sleep and a meal and go drag his arse back here where it belongs.”
The ire in her father’s voice boded no good for his son; usually Marion was not thick enough to put herself in the middle of it.
Usually. “She told me I was to go to him.”
Eluned was watching her, frowning. Adam shook his head. “Nay. You’ll not go. It’s bad enough that Rob’s there.”
“He’s courting Gamelyn.”
“I well know whose tunic he’s wanting to lift, and it’s bloody nonsense.”
“What if I told you it wasn’t nonsense?”
Eluned was still peering at her, frown deepening into contemplation.
“What if I told you that Gamelyn could very well be part of the Lady’s plan?”
“What if I told you, Mistress Sauce, you’ve no opinion on this?” her father retorted. “You’d let your baby brother roger the bloody king if he took the notion!”
“That’s not—”
“Marion.” It was tight. “I’ve had the worst fortnight of me life, and no mistake. I am not going to argue with you over some noble’s brat that your brother has taken some mad turn over.”
“The Lady is—”
“The Lady is no doubt ready to roast your brother over slow coals for not paying proper attention to a lass. He’s the Hunter.”
“Are we no more to you than prize fawns for the Horned One’s use?”
“Marion!” Her mother. “That’s enough!”
“I Saw Her, and She warned me, Da. Warned of the danger comin’, and the blood and fire and th’ changing.”
“Do you think we’ve not Seen the changing happening?”
“Happening, or going to happen?”
Eluned shook her head. “Marion, you canna scry the future with any certainty.”
“So you know what She says and I canna.”
“Marion. That’s not what your ma is sayin’. You have to realize—”
She knew her father wasn’t thinking straight, that he was wearied beyond words, sickened by what had happened. It didn’t help. “Did you See what would happen with George?”
“Mari—”
“I did. Even Rob didna See… and you always take Rob’s Sight seriously.”
“Sweet Lady,” Adam beseeched into his palms. “Mari, pet—”
“Don’t ‘pet’ me. I should have all the respect for my Sight that Rob does, p’rhaps more, because while he might well end up more powerful than I, I’m the eldest!”
“Marion, it’s no place for a young lass—”
“I’m old enough to be wed and bedded and have my own bairns, so I’m old enough to know my own mind. And I think you’ve been listening to your Churchgoing underforesters a wee bit much if you’re goin’ t’ refuse me because I’m a woman!”
Adam threw a look at Eluned. Eluned had sat back in her chair during Marion’s outburst, arms crossed.
“Is that why, then?” Eluned queried, all too calm. “Because you’ll get no help from me on that front, and you know it.”
“Bloody damn,” Adam said, and flung himself down into the nearest chair, glaring at the scarred wood of the board.
Eluned reached across, took her husband’s hand. “Perhaps you should let her go, Adam.” She tried a smile that didn’t quite work. “If nowt else, to make sure you and Rob don’t kill each other.”
Adam stared at her for a long moment, then gave a short laugh. There was no more humor in it than in Eluned’s smile. Then he shook his head. “Aye, well. Can a man get any supper?”
“Supper and a decent bed, love,” Eluned said. But she didn’t stop looking at Marion.
TWO SUNSETS, two sunrises. Endless errands about the castle for his brothers, daily work with Roberto in the armaments gallery, walking with his father about the bailey. The first passed the time, at least; the second tired his body and made him recall Rob’s clumsy attempts with the practice sword; the latter gave Gamelyn honest joy, for while Sir Ian’s gait was more considered, he was walking without pain and with some semblance of his old strength.
Yet Gamelyn still felt trapped. As if he would jump out of his own skin.
You are not meant to wear a hood, my last-born son. You are meant to wear the sun and spread your wings across the Summering.
The voice spoke to him in the dark hours, and when he slept, he dreamt of quiet green and a lover’s touch….
It was as if he were bewitched, as if the charm about his neck had stoked fire into his soul, possession instead of protection. He even took it off several times, but the dreams started, then. Nightmares: fire and screams and a loneliness that made him wake choking, desolate, lost.
Protection, the stable lad had said, and Rob’s touch upon it, light as a breath upon his skin, and when Gamelyn put it back at his throat, the nightmares stopped. But the loneliness lingered.
On the evening of the third day, he finally took refuge in the only place he knew.
He had never spent this many days without respite in the chapel. Gamelyn’s knees ached against the wooden rail, where he had spent the past half hour in front of the altar, stuck in some kind of horrific limbo where no prayers would come. He was unfit to pray, that was it, must be it; he had spent the past days in a hollow, pinioned Purgatory and the days before that in a strange, alternate lifetime of something that he still could not describe as anything but filled with stunning, darkling beauty.
But Gamelyn was stubborn and desperate, finally dissolving into alternate fits of misery and contrition expressed by either tears, or holding his breath until the tears stopped. The latter, however, made him queasy and faint; finally he just let the tears come and hoped that, at this time of day, no one would come into the chapel.
Finally, the prayers came, even if he was presently unsuited to pray them. He was left trembling, exhausted….
Empty.
And it was his own fault. He knew it was, yet still he could not tear those halcyon days from him.
It would be… sacrilege.
He looked up at the cross, the twisted and beatific agony in Christ’s face, and wanted to weep again.
“There is no sin that he has not known, you know. None that he would not understand.”
Gamelyn started; his elbows went sideways and he narrowly missed racking his chin on the altar. He fell to hands and knees, peered upward to see Brother Dolfin striding over, worry plain in his expression.
“Oh, dear. Forgive me.” Brother Dolfin squatted beside him. “I truly thought you knew I was here; I was cleaning the ledges when you came in and I could have sworn you heard my greeting…. Here.” Broad hands gripped Gamelyn’s arms, helped him rise, and made sure he was steady before they released him. Not for the first time, Gamelyn considered the strength beneath that plain woolen, and that Brother Dolfin must have been one hellacious battlefield adversary in his former life. As Rob was so fond of teasing,
Gamelyn was no skinny archer lad.
Rob. Rob….
“I haven’t seen you here in a while, Gamelyn.”
Gamelyn shrugged, backed out from under Brother Dolfin’s grip. “I’ve been… occupied. With some exploring. And my reading. You gave me a lot to think upon, and I’ve been—”
“It’s that forester lad, isn’t it?”
Gamelyn froze. Slid his gaze sideways to take in Brother Dolfin. “That forester lad’s” other fondest statement—for someone who’s so good at closing his face into a stone cairn, there’s times you’re no great shakes as a liar—had come home to roost. Brother Dolfin’s eyes were narrowed upon him, canny.
“Mm. I should have seen it. But I also have been preoccupied with your father’s health, and some research my Abbot has me doing for him, and… Well.”
Gamelyn looked down, away. “I… I should go. I have to venture from Blyth first thing tomorrow and have yet to see to the arrangements; the Abbess has asked for me to be escort for her trip here to my father, and….”
“I see.” It sounded… disappointed?
Get in the queue, Gamelyn mused; it was tinged with gloom but also with some anger.
Brother Dolfin’s hand rested on his sleeve again, startlingly gentle.
“I think you’d better make the time for confession. To me, here and now.”
Gamelyn frowned, looked at Brother Dolfin.
“Better me than the Abbess,” the monk insisted and there was a shrewdness to him—calm, but with a knife’s keen edge. “Please, Gamelyn. I think we know each other well enough for this trust. Heed me, and let me hear your confession.”
FOR ONCE, Brother Dolfin’s penance had been strangely lacking in strictures, pridewise. Instead, he had focused on other things: the importance of faith, the mercy of Jesus and His humanity, the importance of knowledge to fight the threat of despair and anger.
“Ira—Anger—is the well-paved road to sin. In the grip of anger, we can do horrible, horrible things. And Accedia… it is called Sloth, but in truth it is Despair. To despair and lose all hope?—that is to turn your back on God. Do not assume any knows the totality of God’s plan for us. And none of us are beyond God’s love and salvation, Gamelyn. None of us.”
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