by C. B. Currie
‘They said they didn’t need to pay for drinks,’ the innkeeper told him. ‘Said times was troubled and they would protect the town from robbers and thieves. Only they were the only thieves about.’
‘And the town watch?’
‘We don’t have any these days, the young priest said. ‘Nothing ever happens here. Most of the men who have weapons went to Brookleith two days ago to join Jandryl Faldon’s militia.’
Beland had met the knight once or twice, a well-known landlord in these parts. ‘What does Jandryl Faldon need more men for?’
‘Talk of rebellion.’ The priest said. Some nobles are rising up because they blame the King and his deacons for the way things have got. The deacons blame the chapelmen and are executing heretics. Some men came four days ago asking to see my books.’
Beland tried to look unconcerned. ‘You have books?’
‘Prayer books and Strictures only. Whatever they wanted , it was not in this chapel. I showed them the sick ones who came from the fair at Brookleith and they left quickly enough.’
‘So these thieves,’ Beland continued.
‘We had to hide the girls,’ the innkeeper said. ‘some of us have daughters and the first thing they asked about when they come into the tavern was for women. Even slapped Mabelle’s arse.’
The priest blushed and Beland frowned. He thought he saw Algas smirk.
‘So after the fight, the quiet lad, Hyllis they called him, he fired the wound and wrapped it. Said some words over it too, and put some ointment on it. His eyes was all rolling like he was some kind of sorcerer or something.’
The priest made a holy sign and Beland looked at Algas who only shrugged.
‘So they took him away, without stealing anything. They were saying the Northman must be some kind of maniac. But they said they’d be back.’
Beland well understood how a town expecting no trouble could be terrorized by a handful of armed men. Many men had weapons in Wesgard but few knew how to use them properly and fewer still were willing. Of those who were a good portion were dangerous men. All it took was the will to do others harm and robbers and brigands could have their run of the place. He had spent his life keeping men like these at bay. Men like Algas for that matter, so he was surprised the Northman had become the hero in this little misadventure.
‘The leader, Tometh, said they’d be back.’ The innkeeper continued.
‘This was a man delirious with pain,’ the priest explained. ‘He’d have been ranting.’
‘No, he said they be back with more men. He said it quietly, when he’d stopped fussing about the pain so much. It was like magic the way he recovered. We’ve all heard of robbers camping in the woods between here and Brookleith.’
‘What did you do with the hand?’ Beland asked Algas.
‘I fed it to the dogs.’
‘The dogs?’
‘Outside the tavern, He should have left me alone.’
Beland felt his skin prickle and wondered what sort of a man he’d been traveling with. He had been thankful for the extra brawn but now wondered what other trouble the brute could get him into if he couldn’t control his temper. But for now his concerns were greater. He was recovering and weak. Chaos was on the wind, times were unpredictable and brigands who promised to come back might just do so. An oversized Northman with an ill temper might be the only surety he had for the time being.
‘How many entrances to the chapel?’ Beland asked, and coughed causing a startled reaction in the innkeeper.
‘Just the front door,’ the priest said.
‘And how many people will fit in it?’
‘Most of the village.’
Beland noted Algas had stood, his hand ready on his hilt to show he recognized more violence needed to be done. The knight felt tired, old, in need of rest and his breath was still short. But he had purpose. ‘Move the sick to another place. Tell everyone to come here at sunset. Find me any able-bodied man in the town and tell him to bring a weapon – a sword, an axe, a scythe or pitchfork. We will need barrels, crates, a cart if there are any for a barricade. If they come, they will come tonight.’
Twenty-six
Vanis was allowed to stay at the Crossroads Inn and Stables to ply his trade as a wandering friar. He played canticles and hymns, and some of the songs taught to him by the Selevians, though none of the bawdy favorites that had been received so well at other inns in previous weeks. If he wanted to gain any acceptance on this part of his journey, he would need to play the part of an avowed brother, so far that story and the songs had got him room and board and more generous customers often tipped him a coin. Many times when a livestock sickness or crop blight had troubled Havenside, he’d noticed the chapel stayed fuller than usual for weeks on end: in hard times, the common folk always sought spiritual succor.
The roads had seemed empty but the taproom was full of travelers, many delayed by new edicts restricting travel. The innkeeper recognized that some music and song would comfort those who were stranded at the inn, so upon hearing the young monk could play, invited him to stay. He quickly learned the reason for the quiet roads and the full taproom. Traders, tinkers and messengers were still allowed to travel, but those without a good excuse were defying orders and taking to the roads by night. Many of these looked rough and came armed. Often he would play to a full house only to see a quarter or more of the patrons leave mid-evening.
The second evening, two holy knights from Juniper Keep stopped in. The castle was less than half a day’s ride but it was late and they were on their way back from Northwatch. They brought tales of more sickness and many had died in that town. None at the inn seemed ill yet, but the knights had called in at one nearby steading along the way, because folk had told them a widower had died alone with nobody to tend him. Though their white tunics and cloaks reminded him of Beland, Vanis shied away from asking if they knew the knight at all. He had left his old life and Havenside behind him for good.
Now on the third night, he sat across from a merchant out of Bastion, sharing ale and stories. The fellow had a wagon and was returning to the city after his seasonal rounds. There were two armed men and the merchant’s young son in the party. They were headed for the city in the morning., and were sure they would be allowed entry because they were residents and because the merchant knew guards at the gate. None were sick so any patrols would likely let them pass. The wagon was empty for the cloth and leather goods they’d carried had already been sold in their journeys around the farms and villages of the shire.
‘To Bastion, you say?’ The merchant asked. His name was Gordwyn - a flaxen haired man in his middle thirties with a thick beard, burly forearms and an ale-swollen belly. His son was about twelve or thirteen and looked just like him. ‘What takes you there?’
‘I have been posted to the priory, but travel is restricted. There were two of us going on foot but brother Cellim turned an ankle and had to stay at the chapel in Regent’s Sanctuary.’ He did not say he had come from Brookleith.
‘I suppose having a monk along would calm their fears,’ the trader said, referring to his men. Vanis thought simple folk were superstitious more than religious. Just having a cleric at hand would not stop them getting sick if it was their turn. But he did believe his presence would be of help when the trader tried to explain their way past guard patrols and gatehouses. Having a clergyman on the journey would lend a certain weight to the merchant’s own case. Then there was the coin.
‘I can pay you half a dozen coppers for your trouble. I have my own rations, so I will not beg you for food.’ It was a lot of money to him but he figured he could earn it back in the city.
The merchant took the coins Vanis passed across the table. ‘We have a whole barrel of ale on the wagon, just bought it from the Inn tonight. You can share that if you like.’
‘What is the news from the Breadlands?’ Vanis pressed him.
‘Some folk have locked themselves away, and a few have taken sick. But I’ve finished my rounds for
the season and I’m heading back to Bastion. People say it is bad there but I must check on my family. So must they.’ He gestured to his two bodyguards who were busy talking to a serving girl and, it appeared, trying to outdo one another with compliments and questions.
‘Well I’m sure It’ll be over by the time we get there,’ Vanis assured him, then quickly added, ‘With Heaven watching over us.’
The merchant made a holy sign over himself and his son dutifully imitated him. ‘And your name is…?
‘Brother Vanis,’ he quickly answered and took a guilty sip of the ale. He had never taken his final vows after all.
‘Well, Brother you’d best get back to your songs of prayer, for we all need them tonight. We’ll be leaving at first light so be up by then.’
Morning was grey and sullen and Vanis wished he’d had time for one last visit to the wandering folk, where they had camped in the woods. He looked wistfully from the stables to the patch of forest where they’d entered, but saw no smoke rising behind the trees. He hoped old Drelo and his sons and Gilene would be alright. All of them, children and dogs included. Perhaps, when they ran into one another again Gilene might even be happy to see him. If he ever saw the Selevians again, he thought. Drelo had warned him their roads would be different and he had known this, even if he hadn’t wanted to face it at the time. Now he was bound for the city, and he had never stayed in a place before. The prior and Brother Cellim - the real one back at Havenside, not the one he’d made up to explain his wandering monk story – had always preached against the sinfulness and spiritual decay of the city. The thought excited him.
The merchant’s wagon was being loaded with ale and cider from another wagon, barrels and kegs that were stacked against the bales of wool for cloth and rolled hides for the tanners that the merchant would bring back to the city. Vanis surprised them all by pitching in and helping to haul the barrels; in the city, they said, folk were not used to seeing chapelmen doing heavy work. The barrels were wedged in and covered over with pelts, then with woven baskets, clay pots and other goods, all covered by a stitched leather sheet.
Gordwyn had a brisk business going – he sold the wool to the weavers and the leather to the tanners, then he took the finished goods around the hamlets and villages of the shire and sold them back to the smallfolk. When it was not the season for shearing or slaughter, he did another round, buying handcrafts from crofts and cottages and selling those in the city. Gordwyn was an easy talker, as all merchants had to be and as the wagon set off, with two spotted grey draft horses in front, the merchant and his son driving and the two armed guards sitting with feet dangling off the back, the mood was light and the conversation plentiful, despite the gloomy weather. He told Vanis he had a two-storey house and a small garden patch which his wife and daughter tended. He also had one servant to help at the storefront and around the house. She was the daughter of a cousin in the countryside and he assured the self-anointed monk that she was a pretty girl of chaste disposition. Vanis thought he’d like to meet her and fix that disposition, before he remembered his robes.
Vanis sat up front with Gordwyn and his boy, his eyes wandering left and right over unfamiliar countryside and his feet enjoying the break from walking everywhere with the Wayfarers. His boots were very worn and he wondered how much he’d have to spend to have them repaired in the city, but Gordwyn assured him another cousin was a cobbler and would do the work cheaply if they brought him a flagon or two of good cider.
Vanis played Freedom of the Road for them as the cart wobbled along, though at times his fingers were jolted from the strings. The boy was delighted and asked for more songs. He wondered what it would be like to have his own family, perhaps go back to a village like Brookleith and settle with a nice buxom girl like Caera. Her wide hips would be good for children, he thought, then became distracted by other thoughts, brought on by the memory of those smooth curves.
He was roused from his daydream when Gordwyn tugged at the reins and the wagon began to slow. There were two horsemen up ahead, dressed in black and trotting toward them. He had occasionally seen the soldiers of local lords, but none he recalled dressed their men in black uniforms. Their helmets were dark iron and their dark leather cuirasses polished to a sheen. They had black breeches and shirts under black cloaks.
‘The Guardians of the Faith,’ Gordwyn waned darkly. ‘They’re the archdeacon’s men. Practically run the city watch these days.’
They stopped their beasts as the wagon stopped and one drew forward to speak to them. Vanis was nervous suddenly because of the wrapped sword in their cargo, but then the wagon guards and the merchant all carried swords, for few sensible men travelled without. Of course, chapelmen did not.
‘Where are you headed, friend?’ His accent was southern, perhaps even from across the sea in Venchy,
‘Back to Bastion,’ the merchant answered, ‘And you?’
The rider’s face soured at his insolence.
‘We are to tell folk the city is closed. If you go to the gates they are under orders not to open. You may try your luck at the docks but few ships come these days.’
‘By whose orders?’
‘The reeve and the archbishop.’
‘But we live there,’ Gordwyn protested.
‘Then pray that those you left are still alright. The Scourge has claimed many souls.’
Then the horseman looked at Vanis.
‘And you Brother Monk, where do you hail from?’
‘Regent’s Sanctuary,’ Vanis lied. ‘I was called to Bastion Priory, but perhaps things have changed.’
‘Have you ever been to Havenside?’
Vanis tried to hide his shock. Had the prior or Haendric hired men to find him? If so these looked unlikely – too professional – and he dismissed the idea that Prior Algwyn would care at all where he was or what he was doing.
‘Never,’ Vanis answered. But could not resist his curiosity. ‘How fares the place?’
‘Burnt to the ground,’ the man answered coldly. ‘It was full of heretics. They were put to the sword.’
Vanis almost turned white. The priory burnt down? What of Haendric, Caddock, even Algwyn? He was speechless.
The rider looked them over one more time then turned and cocked his head to call his companion. ‘Travel safe friends,’ he said, and the two continued on their way.
Gordwyn cooed the horses on again and the cart creaked back into motion. When the riders where safely far behind them he turned to Vanis. ‘Didn’t you say you were from Wellstone?’
Vanis did not answer. He just stared ahead with glassy eyes.
Twenty-seven
‘The sword?’ Haendric demanded
‘All of them,’ Donnal replied softly, almost guiltily, though the Knights of the Chalice had had nothing to do with it..
Haendric felt nauseous. Prior Algwyn’s death had been a shock but he at least had understood the politics of it. Killing a cloister of harmless monks was another problem entirely. What harm were sanctimonious Brother Cellim, music-loving Father Caddock and all those novices and lay brothers? Decent men all, and now all gone.
‘Who could they get to do such a thing, the Order?’
‘Good Heaven, no,’ answered the knight. ‘They have their own men now. They call themselves the Guardians. They wear black and are sworn to the Chapel Fathers. Most are foreign – Auglsanders, Grosslanders, Ventish. They’re either mercenaries or zealots, I can’t tell which.’
That was something of a shock coming from a holy knight sworn to forego earthly pleasures and defend the Faith with his own life. Haendric knew of course that knights were not perfect. Beland had sired a bastard and Donnal liked his drink. He also sometimes liked the company of women of the night if the fevered ranting of one harlot who had lay dying in his hospice some nights earlier were to be believed. But zealotry was once a word given to what Donnal’s order did. If these black-clad warriors were even more fervent, they were all in trouble.
‘Who ordered this
?’ Haendric asked in a tired voice.
‘The archbishop of course, which means the archdeacon, which probably means some cardinal in the capital or overseas. There is more.’
‘Go on.’
The landlords are restless. They don’t want a king who spends all his time on his knees listening to holy men from abroad. They don’t want these black warriors arresting priests and burning monasteries. The knights and lords have their own priests and their own monks and rely on them, to keep the common folk happy. Havenside was a step too far. Commander Garmand and Inquisitor Miecal have been speaking with Lord Dorand and others. ‘
‘Speaking of what?’
‘Of change. There have been sicknesses and blights before, and heretics too. I told you about the trials and hangings, but there was never such an cruel series of attacks. The king has gone mad since his daughter died, spending all his days in the company of the deacons. He listens only to the Chapel and not his own great men. Lord Dorand’s cousin Marwynd in the Southeast holds vast lands. He a cousin of the king and has a large following among the nobility.’
‘Treason?’ Haendric asked, ‘Rebellion? I’ve read my history, thank you, and the Shield Wars last century did the country no good. Nearly tore it apart. Look at the names of the towns about here: Bastion, Refuge, Sanctuary - they speak of nothing but despair.’
‘And hope,’ Donnal pointed out. ‘Of chance, and a new beginning.’
‘Where does the Order stand on this? You’ve always done the Chapel’s bidding.’
‘Lord Marwynd has been listening to some of the continental sects. He believes that the path to Heaven lies in the Prophet’s words, not the writ of the Chapel Fathers. We can start our own Chapel here in Wesgard, independent of the Selevian Holy Throne.’
‘With Marwynd as King?’
‘He is wise, stern and popular.’
