Isle of Glass

by Tarr, Judith

  The Bishop nodded. “It takes a strong stomach.”

  Jehan stirred beside Alf. “My lord,” he said with some heat, “Brother Alf is no coward. He spent the whole day with the wounded. And it takes a good deal more courage to mend hurts than it does to make them.”

  Aylmer looked from one to the other, and his dark weathered face warmed into a smile. “I see that you two are somewhat more than traveling companions.” He rose. “You’ll sleep here tonight. Tomorrow you’ll see His Majesty. I’ll make sure of that. But I’m warning you now: Don’t hope for too much. War is Richard’s life’s blood, and he’s had his eye on Gwynedd for a long time. One man isn't going to sway him.”

  “We'll see,” said Alf. “My lord.”

  10

  Alf was up before the sun. The Bishop had not yet stirred; Jehan lay on the rug with Alf, curled about Thea’s slumbering body. It was very cold.

  He rose, gathered his cloak about him, and peered through the tent flap. The camp was silent, wrapped in an effluvium of wine and blood, the aftermath of battle. A mist lay like a grey curtain over the tents.

  The horses were well content, with feed and water in plenty. Alf left them after a moment or two and went down to the lake.

  The wide water stretched before him, half-veiled in fog. There was no one near to see him; he stripped and plunged in, gasping, for the water was icy. But he had bathed in colder in the dead of winter in St. Ruan’s.

  When he was almost done, the water turned warm so suddenly that it burned.

  He whipped about. Thea stood on the bank in her own shape, wearing his shirt. It needed a washing, he noticed.

  She walked toward him, her soles barely touching the surface of the lake. A yard or two away from him, she sat cross-legged on air. “What are you scowling for?” she asked him. “Hurry and finish your bath. I can’t keep the water warm forever.”

  “If anyone sees you,” he said, “there will be trouble.”

  “Don't worry. I’m not easily raped. Even by King Richard’s soldiers.”

  Alf flushed. That was not what he had meant, and she knew it.

  “You do blush prettily,” Thea remarked. Still wearing his shirt, she let herself sink. “Ah—wonderful. Somehow a bath feels much better on skin than on fur.”

  She wriggled out of the shirt, inspected it critically, rolled it up and tossed it shoreward before Alf could stop her. She was chest-deep, as he was; he averted his eyes and waded past her.

  Between one step and the next, the water turned from blood-warm to icy cold. He ran to the bank and fumbled for his clothes. His shirt was warm, dry, and clean, as were the rest. Thea’s gift.

  Once safely clad, he should have returned to the camp. He stayed where he was, not looking at Thea but very much aware of her.

  She emerged at length and accepted his cloak. “Thank you,” she said, not entirely ironically. “I suppose I should turn into a hound again and give you some peace.”

  He glanced at her. She was very fair, wrapped in the dark blue cloak. He remembered what lay beneath; the memory burned. His body kindled in its fire.

  So this is what it is, he thought in the small part of him that could still think.

  Thea stared. Beautiful eyes, golden bronze, burning. “You mean you’ve never—”

  He turned and fled.

  Once he had left her, he cooled swiftly enough. But he could not still his trembling. So long, so long—

  Other novices had groaned and tossed in their beds or crept to secret shameful trysts with girls from the village, even with each other. Monks had confessed to daylight musings, to burning dreams, to outright sin; accepted their penances; and come back soon after with the same confessions.

  Alfred had lived untroubled, novice, monk, and priest; had pitied his brothers’ frailty, but granted it no mercy. A man of God should master his body. Had not he himself done so?

  He had been a fool. A child. A babe in arms.

  Was he now to become a man?

  He drew himself up. A man was his own master. He faced what he must face and overcame it boldly. Even this, torment that it was, but sweet—honey-fire-sweet, like her eyes, like her—

  “No!”

  His mind fell silent. His body stilled, conquered.

  But he did not go back. Nor did she follow him, as a woman or as a hound.

  He was calm when he returned to the Bishop’s tent, to find Aylmer awake and dressed and surrounded by his monks. Jehan stood among them, conspicuous for his lordly clothes though not for his size; one or two of Aylmer’s warrior priests easily overtopped him.

  There were curious glances as Alf entered. One man in particular fixed him with a hard stare, a small dark man in a strange habit, grey cowl over white robe. Something about him made Alf’s skin prickle.

  “Brother Alfred,” Aylmer greeted him. “I’m getting ready to say Mass. Will you serve me?”

  Alf forgot the stranger, forgot even the lingering shame of his encounter with Thea. He had not gone up to the altar in years.

  Ten years, nine months, four days. Not since he had found himself unable completely to reconcile his face with his years; when he had ceased to doubt that he would not grow old.

  But Aylmer had not asked him to say Mass, did not know that he had taken priest’s vows. Surely he could serve at the altar. That was no worse than singing in the choir.

  Aylmer was waiting, growing impatient. Alf willed himself to speak. “I’ll do it, my lord.”

  Aylmer nodded. “Brother Bernard, show Brother Alfred where everything is. We’ll start as soon as the King is ready.”

  o0o

  Dressed in alb and dalmatic and moving through the familiar ritual, Alf found that his fear had vanished. In its place had come a sort of exaltation. This, he was made for. Strange, half-human, elvish creature that he was, he belonged here at this altar, taking part in the shaping of the Mass.

  He was preternaturally aware of everything, not only the priest and the rite, but the Bishop’s tent about him, the high lords kneeling and standing as the ritual bade them, and the King.

  Richard was difficult to pass by: a tall man, well made, with a face he was proud of and a mane of gold-red hair. He heard the Mass with apparent devotion, but the swift fierce mind leaped from thought to thought, seldom pausing to meditate upon the Sacrament. His eyes kept returning to Alf, caught by the fair strange face, as Aylmer had known they would be.

  When the Mass was ended, the celebrants disrobed swiftly. Alf paused with Alun’s knightly garments in his hands. “My lord,” he said to Aylmer, who watched him, “if you would allow me a moment to fetch my habit—”

  The Bishop shook his head. “No. It’s better this way.” A monk settled his cloak about his shoulders; he fastened the clasp.

  “Alfred, Jehan, come with me.”

  o0o

  Richard sat in his tent, attended by several squires and a knight or two. “Aylmer!” he called out as the Bishop entered. “Late for breakfast, as usual.”

  “Of course, Sire,” the Bishop said calmly. “Should I endanger my reputation by coming early?”

  The King laughed and held out a cup. “Here, drink. You’ve taken unfair advantage already by going to bed sober last night.”

  As Aylmer took the cup and sat by the King, Richard noticed the two attendants. "What, sir, have you been recruiting squires in this wilderness?”

  “They’ve been recruiting me, Sire. Brother Alfred, Brother Jehan, late of St. Ruan’s.”

  One of the knights stirred. “Jehan de Sevigny! They’ve thrown you out of the cloister?”

  “Alas,” Jehan replied, “yes. I outgrew it, you see.”

  “Like Bran the Blessed,” Alf said: “he grows so great that no house will hold him.”

  The King’s golden lion-eyes had turned to him and held, as they had during Mass. The others laughed at the jest, Jehan among them; the King was silent, although he smiled. “And you, Sir Monk-in-knight’s-clothing? Wouldn’t the house hold you?”
/>
  “No, Sire,” Alf responded.

  They were all staring now, at him, at the King. Their thoughts made him clench his fists. Richard had found another pretty lad, the prettiest one yet.

  That was not what Richard was thinking of. He had been trying since Mass to put a name to that cast of features, but none would come.

  “Alfred,” he said, “of St. Ruan’s on Ynys Witrin. Are you a clerk?”

  “Of sorts, Sire.”

  “Pity. You look as if you’d make a swordsman in the Eastern fashion. Light and fast.” With an abrupt gesture, Richard pointed to a seat. “Sit down, both of you. While we eat, you can tell us a tale or two we haven’t heard before.”

  It was the first time Alf had sat at table with a king, though he had waited on royalty once or twice, long ago.

  Those high feasts had been not at all like this breaking of bread upon the battlefield. Richard was at ease, standing little upon ceremony; no one paid much heed to rank.

  Afterward, as they all rose to go, Richard gestured to Alf. “Sir monk. Stay.”

  Aylmer’s satisfaction was palpable; as was the sudden interest of the others. Jehan frowned and wavered. But the Bishop’s cold eye held him; he retreated.

  o0o

  One was not precisely alone with a King. Squires cleared away the table; another sat in a corner, polishing a helm. But those in Richard’s mind were nonentities. He relaxed in his chair, eyes half-closed, saying nothing.

  Alf was used to silence. He settled into it and wrapped himself in it.

  The King’s voice wove its way into the pattern of his thoughts.

  “Brother Alfred. Alf. What are you?”

  He regarded Richard calmly. His God, a white elf-woman, himself—those he feared. A king troubled him not at all. “I’m a monk of St. Ruan’s Abbey, Sire.”

  “Noble born?”

  He shrugged slightly. “I doubt it.”

  The King’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t you know?”

  “I was a foundling, Sire.”

  “A changeling?”

  “Some people think so.”

  “I can see why,” Richard said. And, abruptly: “What does Aylmer want?”

  “Aylmer, Sire?” Alf asked, puzzled.

  “Aylmer. Why is he thrusting you at me? What’s he up to?”

  This King was no fool. Alf smiled without thinking. “The Bishop is up to nothing, Sire.”

  “So now he’s corrupting his monks in the cradle.”

  Alf’s smile widened. Richard’s eyes were glinting. “Don’t blame him for this, Sire. I asked him for an audience with you.”

  Richard frowned; then he laughed. “And he didn’t even ask. He simply placed you where I’d fall over you. Well, Brother Obstacle, what do you want?”

  The mirth faded from Alf’s face. He spoke quietly, carefully. “I’ve been sent to serve the Bishop. But I’ve also been entrusted with another errand.”

  “By whom?”

  “The King of Rhiyana, on behalf of Kilhwch of Gwynedd.”

  The drowsing lion tensed. "One monk, with only a boy for company. Are they trying to insult me?”

  “No, Sire. They honor you with their trust.”

  “Or taunt me with it. I know what Gwydion is like. He lairs in his White Keep and spins webs to trap kings in. How did I stumble into this one?”

  “You didn’t. One of your vassals did. A baron of the Marches, named Rhydderch.”

  The King stroked his beard and pretended a calm he did not feel. “Rhydderch. What has he done?”

  “You know that there’s been trouble on the Marches.”

  There was a dangerous glint in Richard’s eye. “I know it,” he said.

  “Rhydderch is behind it. He’s sent forces into Gwynedd and is ravaging the lands along the border.”

  “Are you implying that I don’t keep my lords in hand?”

  “I’m implying nothing, Majesty,” Alf said.

  If Richard had had a tail, it would have been lashing his sides. “You tell me that one of my barons foments a major war, and that the King of Rhiyana will concern himself with it. Gwydion’s a meddler, but even so, in this he’s going far afield.”

  “Of course he’s concerned. Kilhwch is his foster son. A war with you would end in disaster.”

  “For one side. Kilhwch is a boy, and Gwydion’s no soldier.”

  “For both sides, Sire. Kilhwch is nineteen, which isn’t so very young, and he takes after his father. And Gwydion, I think, would surprise you. Isn’t his brother said to be the best knight in the world?”

  “His brother is as old as he is. Which is ancient.”

  Alf shook his head. “The Flame-bearer has no equal, nor ever shall have. Not even Coeur-de-Lion.”

  That barb had sunk deep. Richard’s eyes blazed. His voice was too quiet, almost a purr. “You’re very sure of that, little monk. Do you even know which end of a sword to hold onto?”

  “I can guess, Sire.”

  “And you guess at the prince’s prowess?”

  “The world knows it. I believe it.” Calmly, boldly, Alf sat on a stool near the King, his long legs drawn up.

  The other did not react to this small insolence in the face of the greater one. “Do you know how to convince me that I ought to go to war? Aylmer could have told you. Anyone could. It’s ludicrously simple. Tell the brawn-brained fool the other man is a better fighter than he is.”

  To Richard’s utter amazement, Alf laughed. It was a light free sound, with nothing in it but mirth. “You, Sire? Brawn-brained? Far from it. But you have an alarming passion for fighting, and you want Gwynedd. Unwise, that. You’d do better to send ambassadors to Kilhwch and tell him you want peace. Else you’ll have Gwynedd on your left and Rhiyana on your right, and all Hell between.”

  “A small kingdom whose King is barely in control of his vassals, and a greater one that hasn’t fought a war since before I was born. But Anglia is strong, tempered in the Crusade.”

  “And tired of fighting, though you may not be, Sire. Surely it will be adventure enough to quell Rhydderch.”

  Richard looked him over again, slowly this time, musing. “Why are you doing this? Are you Rhiyanan?”

  “No, Sire. It was entrusted to me by someone else. A knight of Rhiyana who fell afoul of Rhydderch.”

  “Dead?”

  “No, though not for Rhydderch’s lack of trying.”

  “So Gwydion already has a reason to be my enemy.”

  “Rhiyana doesn’t know yet. And won’t, if you help us, Sire. Send word to Rhydderch. Order him to withdraw from Gwynedd on pain of death. And let Kilhwch know what you’re doing.”

  The King was silent. Alf clasped his knees, doing his utmost not to reveal his tension. Richard hung in the balance, debating within himself. War, and winter coming, and troops to deal with who fretted already at campaigning so late in the year. To stop Rhydderch, to beg Kilhwch’s kind pardon—no. But a truce now, and in the spring...

  He nodded abruptly and stood. “I’m bound to ride now for Carlisle. By the time I get there I’ll have an answer for you.”

  Alf rose as the King had and bowed, slightly, gracefully. “As you will, Sire.”

  The lion-eyes glinted upon him. “But it’s not as you will, is it?”

  “I don’t matter, Majesty.”

  Richard snorted. “Stop pretending to be so humble. You’re as proud as Lucifer.”

  Alf nodded. “Yes, I am. But I try. That’s worth something.”

  “A brass farthing.” Richard tossed him something that glittered; reflexively he caught it. “I have work to do if we're to ride out of here by night. You’ll wait on Aylmer. But I may steal you now and again. You’re interesting, sir monk.”

  Alf bowed low without speaking. Metal warmed in his hand, the shape of a ring, the sense of silver, moonstone.

  A simple monk had no business with such things. He knew he should return it with courtesy; half-raised his hand, opened his mouth to speak.

  When he l
eft, he had not spoken. The ring was still clenched in his fist.

  11

  The King broke camp shortly after noon and turned his face toward Carlisle. His men, recovered from the ravages of battle and of drink, set forth in high spirits, singing as they went, songs that made no concessions to the small somber-clad party about the Bishop.

  The more pious of those pretended not to listen; the rest beat time on thigh or pommel and at length joined in. Alf rode in silence. He had been silent since he returned from the King’s tent.

  Jehan frowned. He had hoped that, once Alf had delivered his message and given himself over to Bishop Aylmer, he would be his old self again. But he seemed more moody than ever. He did not even answer when Jehan, looking about, asked, “Where’s Thea?”

  A little after that, Alf left his place behind the Bishop. Others were riding apart from the line, young knights impatient with the slow pace, bidden by their commanders to patrol the army’s edges. He did not belong with them, unarmed and unarmored as he was, but no one rebuked him. He had an air about him, Jehan thought, like a prince in exile.

  “An interesting young man,” a voice said.

  Someone had ridden up beside him, the man in the grey cowl on a bony mule. Jehan swallowed a sharp retort. He did not like this Brother Reynaud—not his face, not his eyes, and not at all his high nasal voice.

  The monk did not seem to notice Jehan’s silence. He was watching Alf with a peculiar, almost avid stare. "Very interesting,” he repeated. “I understand that he’s a churchman?”

  Jehan had his temper in hand. “Yes, Brother,” he said easily enough. “He has a dispensation to wear secular clothes. So do I. We thought it would be less dangerous to travel this way.”

  “Oh, yes. Yes. It might be. Certainly he looks most well in that guise. Though one so fair would look well even in sackcloth." Brother Reynaud smiled a narrow, ice-edged smile. “Does he come of a princely family?”

  “Not that anyone knows of. But he doesn’t need to be a lord’s get. He’s princely enough as he is.”

  “That,” said the monk, “is clear to see. His parents must be very proud of such a son.”

  “He’s an orphan. He was raised in the abbey.”