Isle of Glass

by Tarr, Judith

  The King sat near the coals in hose and fur-lined cotte, playing at chess with Earl Hugo. A lamp hung above them, swinging slightly in the draft that lifted the heavy tapestries, casting its uncertain glow upon the board and the carven pieces. The white knights were warriors of Allah wielding curved scimitars, the black heavy and lumpen in chain mail on Frankish chargers; the white king a Saracen sultan, the black a Christian with a crown of crosses and leaves.

  Richard set a black castle before the ivory sultan. "Checkmate, my lord,” he said.

  Earl Hugo glowered at the board. “Checkmate,” he agreed at last. “Sire.”

  The King smiled at him, a deceptively gentle smile. “A good game, sir. And,” he added, “a good night.”

  Alf stepped aside to let Hugo pass. The Earl glanced at him and started, and crossed himself.

  The poison was spreading rapidly. Alf entered the room, letting the door-curtain fall behind him. Richard stood by the chessboard. His eyes were very bright.

  “Well, Brother,” he said. “You’re later than usual.”

  Alf bowed slightly and said nothing. His gaze rested on the chessboard, where a mitered bishop stood beside the Frankish king.

  “Sit,” the King commanded him.

  He obeyed, taking the chair the Earl had left. Richard took up the ebony king and turned it in his hands. “I’m fond of this,” he said. “The Sultan Saladin gave it to me, a token of our battles and our truce.”

  “Are you at war with me now?” Alf asked quietly.

  Richard set the chessman in the center of the board and took from a cabinet a flask and two silver cups. He filled them both and gave one to Alf. “You were out all day,” he said. “Why?”

  “I needed to be alone.”

  “Longing for your cloister?”

  Alf shook his head.

  “Liar." Richard sat at his ease, sipping from his cup. “It’s quieter there, isn’t it? No wars. No kings. No drunken squires.”

  Under the King’s keen eye, Alf sat very still. “They didn’t know what they were doing.”

  Richard spat a curse. “They knew, plague take them. They knew exactly what they did.”

  Alf looked up, a startling, silver flare. “No,” he said. “They didn’t. Or they would never have dared.”

  The King paused. This was an Alf he had never seen, bright, brittle, dangerous. “They told me a fine tale,” he said, “of swords and sorcery and a monk turned demon. Are you an elven knight in disguise?”

  “No knight, I.”

  “But a master of the sword. Twenty men swear to that—and one is my own master-at-arms.”

  Alf’s fingers clenched about the cup. “I...avoid weapons. They tempt me.”

  “Sweeter than women, aren’t they? I wish I’d seen you. Thierry was almost crying. That sweet touch, that perfect control, wasted on a pious shavepate.”

  “Not wasted,” Alf said very low. “Buried deep, and well buried. I think...I think I am a killer by nature.”

  “Aren’t we all?”

  With an effort Alf unlocked his fingers. They had bent the cup’s rim into a narrow oval. He set it down and wiped his hands on his breeches. “All men may be,” he said, “but I am worse than most. Or would be, if God’s grace had not set me in St. Ruan’s.”

  “God’s grace.” Richard snorted in derision. “God’s japery. With ample help from Mother Church. Look what they’ve made of you—a butt for every snot-nosed brat who happens by. You who should be out in the lists, daring the Flame-bearer himself to throw you down.”

  “Whatever I should have been, this I am. And I regret that I ever let my temper destroy my reason. It was unpardonable.”

  “So was what caused it.”

  “No.” Alf dropped to one knee. “Sire. Pardon the boys who mocked me. One night’s hell-raising is not worth three noblemen’s disgrace.”

  The King’s brows drew together. "It isn’t?”

  “Never, Sire. They won’t trouble me again. I can assure you of that.”

  “When they attacked you, they attacked me. They knew it. And they know that they’re getting off lightly in only being sent home.”

  “In dishonor, my lord; and one is in fetters now. Would you make enemies of all his kin, simply because he failed to carry off a prank? Isn’t it enough that all Carlisle is laughing at him?”

  “By God, no!”

  Alf stood. “Then, Sire, you are a fool.”

  As he reached the door, the King seized him and spun him about.

  The hand on Alf’s arm was cruelly tight. He glanced from it to the furious face. “Pardon them,” he said.

  Richard’s jaw worked. His fingers tightened, and suddenly sprang free. He stood still, fists clenching and unclenching, battling to master his voice. “You,” he said thickly. “You damned, pious, preaching priest.”

  Alf smiled faintly. “All of that,” he agreed, “I may well be. Let the squires go.”

  “I’ll sentence you as I sentenced them. They started the fight, but you brought steel into it.”

  Alf said nothing. They were eye to eye, almost body to body; he could feel the King’s anger as a physical thing, a wave of white heat.

  Abruptly Richard spun away, stalked back to the chessboard, began to set the pieces in their proper places. Alf watched him. He paused, balancing the king and his ebony bishop. “Two of them I’ll give you. But not the worst of them.”

  “All three," said Alf. “Especially Joscelin.”

  Richard glanced over his shoulder, a swift, vicious, lion’s glare. “Don’t abuse my generosity, priest.”

  “All three,” Alf repeated. “Pardon them.”

  The King ignored him, setting down a double rank of pawns, ebony men-at-arms, ivory Saracens. When all stood in their places, he regarded them, arms folded.

  A long step brought Alf to stand beside him. “I take your gift of the two boys with gratitude. But give me Joscelin.”

  “No.”

  “What will you do with him?”

  His gentle persistence drove Richard through rage to a quivering calm. “I’ll keep the fool’s head shaved and give him to a monastery." The King bared his teeth. “That ought to satisfy you.”

  “No,” Alf said. “It does not. Set him free.”

  “Priest,” purred Richard, “you’ve got as much as you’ll get. Get out of my sight before I take it all back again.”

  Alf did not move. “Joscelin,” he said. “Let Joscelin go.”

  The King’s hand flew up, swifter than thought. Swifter still, Alf blocked it, held it. There was a moment of frozen stillness. In Richard’s eyes, a spark caught. With all his great strength he fought to break the other’s grip.

  Alf swayed slightly, but did not let go. Richard stopped, panting, staring at the thin white fingers. They looked as if they would break at a word. They held like bands of steel.

  The spark grew. Richard looked from the hand to the body behind, and to the pale face. “Let me go,” he said, neither commanding nor pleading.

  Alf obeyed.

  Richard rubbed his wrist, still staring, as if he had never seen Alf before. "Two go free,” he said. “You’ve won that. But the third has to pay.”

  “How?”

  “Either he humbly craves your pardon for his sins, and escapes; or he goes into the cloister.”

  Alf opened his mouth; Richard cut him off. “No more! That’s as far as I’ll go.”

  Slowly Alf bowed his head. “Yes, Sire,” he murmured. “Do I have your leave to go?”

  “Go, damn you. Go!”

  o0o

  The King’s wrath had not confined Joscelin to the Earl’s dungeon. The squire rested in relative comfort in a dark box of a room behind the kennels, with a straw pallet to sleep on and only a single ankle-chain to bind him.

  He lay in a huddle on the pallet, his cloak drawn over his shorn head, nor did he respond when his guard thrust a torch into a wall niche, flooding the cell with light.

  The man nudged him with an
ungentle foot. “Wake up, handsome. You’ve got company.”

  “I’ll speak with him alone,” Alf said.

  Joscelin started a little at the sound of his voice and peered through slitted eyes, seeing only a hooded shadow behind the smaller, broader shape of the guard.

  The man withdrew with a coin in his hand and a blessing on his head, fair wages for the night’s work. Alf settled beside the pallet and waited for Joscelin to focus.

  The squire looked little like the elegant young man who had sought to torment a helpless monk, dirty and disheveled, his dark curls gone. Yet as his sight cleared, he knew the face within the hood; his lip curled. “Well, pretty Brother,” he said. “Come to gloat over the victim before he goes to the block?”

  “No,” Alf said. “I’ve spoken to the King. He’s promised to let you go. On one condition.”

  Hope leaped high in the dark eyes, though the voice was mocking. “Oh, yes. There’s always a condition. What is it? Do I have to kiss your fundament?”

  In spite of himself, Alf flushed. “You have to ask my pardon.”

  “Same thing,” said Joscelin. “What if I won’t?”

  “You'll go into the cloister.”

  Joscelin yawned and stretched and rattled his ankle-chain. “Is that all? And here I was, saying Paternosters for the repose of my soul. His Majesty’s getting soft.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “If you fulfill the King’s condition,” Alf said, “you go free. Completely free.”

  “And back to my family in disgrace.”

  “No.”

  “He really has gone soft. Pity. There was a time when he’d have cropped my ears for getting into a fight with a lily maid, and losing.”

  “You choose the cloister, then?”

  Joscelin lay back and closed his eyes. “Maybe,” he said. “It’s not a bad life. Wine and song and a woman here and there, and boys whenever I want them.”

  “Do you think it’s like that?”

  One eye opened, dark and scornful. And in its depths, a black fire of hate. “Pretty Brother. I know it’s like that. Don’t pretend to be so much holier-than-thou.”

  “If you only beg my pardon, you can return to your old place and be as you were before.”

  A tremor ran through Joscelin’s body. “Oh, no,” he said. “It won’t be the same.”

  “You can live down your disgrace.”

  “If you don’t shut your mouth,” Joscelin said quietly, reasonably, “I’ll shut it for you. Go away and let me sleep.”

  “Joscelin—”

  “Joscelin,” he echoed bitterly. “Joscelin! Be a good lad, Joscelin. Smile nicely, Joscelin. Bow to the handsome Brother, Joscelin. And never mind the King, Joscelin. He’s found a new darling and he doesn’t need you any more.” He laughed, a harsh strangled sound. “There now. I’ve let it out. I’m jealous, by God’s left kneecap! My lord’s got a new boy, a beautiful boy, and when he deigns to notice the old one, all he has is a smile and a pat on the head, and a penny for sweet charity.”

  Alf reached for him without thinking, as he would have reached for Jehan, to comfort him.

  Violently Joscelin struck his hands away. “Get your filthy claws off me!”

  For an instant they faced each other, deadly pale, Alf with horror and pity, Joscelin with hatred. “Joscelin,” he said gently, “I’m not the King’s boy.”

  Again, that terrible, mirthless laughter. "Don’t tell lies, pretty Brother. We’re all good Sodomites here.”

  Alf shook his head. “Believe me. I’m not.”

  “Lies, lies, lies. Go away and take them with you.”

  “I will pardon you for all you have said and done to me, if you will only ask.”

  “That for your pardon!” Joscelin spat in his face.

  Slowly, carefully, Alf wiped the spittle from his cheek. Equally carefully he said, “If you reconsider, send for me.”

  Joscelin laughed. His laughter followed Alf for a long while after.

  18

  When Aylmer could not sleep, he often found peace in the lofty quiet of the cathedral, winter-cold though it was, dim-lit by the vigil lamp above each altar. That night he had lain awake, listening as the great bell tolled each hour, until at last he rose and drew on the brown habit of his old Order, stepped over the novice-page who slept across his door, and went quietly out.

  The cathedral was deserted in that dark time between Compline and the Night Office. He bowed low before the central altar, murmuring a greeting and a prayer, and turned toward the Lady Chapel.

  In the dimness, he did not see the figure that lay prostrate on the stones in front of the altar until he stumbled over it. A gasp escaped it; it rolled over swiftly, half-rising.

  He knew who it was even before he saw the face; that feline grace was unmistakable. He held out a hand; Alf hesitated, then let the Bishop draw him to his feet. He looked very pale, shadow-eyed.

  Aylmer heaved a mental sigh. This had kept him awake, and it seemed determined not to let him go. “Come into the sacristy,” he said. “It’s warmer there.”

  For a moment he thought Alf would refuse. But when Aylmer turned, the other followed.

  As the Bishop lit a lamp in the sacristy, Alf stood among the holy things, his cloak drawn about him. At that moment, in that light, he did not look entirely human: a creature of the wild hills, trapped in a net of iron and of sanctity.

  Aylmer sat on a low stool. “Well, Brother,” he said. “You’ve been living hard, from the look of you.”

  Alf shivered, though not with cold. “Not living hard, my lord. just—just living.”

  “Hard enough, from all I’ve heard. Were you fighting with the King tonight?”

  Alf’s lips tightened. “How did you know?”

  “He sent me a message.”

  “I’m not to serve him again?”

  “The message was: ‘Brother Alfred is to ride with the King tomorrow morning at terce. And tell him to leave his damned skirts at home.’ ”

  For all his troubles, Alf could not help but smile. It was a thin smile, almost a grimace of pain. “He forgives as swiftly as he condemns. And I gave him much to forgive.”

  Aylmer leaned against a richly carven chest. “First the King’s squires, then the King himself. You’re trying hard to make enemies.”

  “They make themselves.”

  “It takes two to start a war, Brother.”

  “True, my lord. It needs an attacker. And a victim.”

  “Do you see yourself as the victim?”

  “Better that and dead, than living and a murderer.”

  “You have an urge to kill someone?”

  For the first time Alf looked at him directly. His eyes had a strange gleam. “I could, my lord. I could commit every act that could possibly damn a man.”

  Aylmer rose and opened the chest. Amid its contents he found a violet stole.

  As he lifted it, Alf’s hand stopped him. It felt thin and cold and not quite steady. “No, my lord. Don’t put the seal of the confessional on this.”

  “Whether I wear the stole or not,” Aylmer said, “the seal is there. Though I can’t promise absolution.”

  “I ask no absolution. And no silence.”

  “Let me decide that for myself.”

  The Bishop returned to his seat with the stole in his hand. After a moment, Alf knelt facing him.

  “I think,” said Aylmer, “that I can spare you the agony of telling me a truth or two. St. Paul’s monks have a reason to be after you. Don’t they?”

  Alf nodded tightly.

  “A good reason, by their lights. You aren't exactly circumspect about yourself.”

  “You know,” Alf whispered. “You know—”

  “Enough,” the Bishop finished for him. “If you’d wanted to protect your secret, you’d never have let yourself be sent on an errand for the King of Rhiyana. Especially to me. I’ve waited on Gwydion in Caer Gwent. I’ve seen his court.
I know what the Fair Folk look like. And,” he added, “a little of what they can do.”

  “Then,” Alf said, “you think I’m one of them.”

  “I know you are.”

  Alf drew a shuddering breath. "How—how long?”

  “Since I first saw you.”

  “But you never—" Alf stopped. He was seldom at a loss; yet Aylmer had never betrayed that he knew. Not even in his mind.

  Carefully Alf mastered himself. “I meant to confess to you,” he said. “I was gathering courage for it; but you came before I expected.”

  “What made you decide to tell me?”

  The Bishop’s face was stern, his gaze forbidding. And completely unafraid, though he knew what powers Alf had. Knew very well indeed. In their own country, Gwydion’s people had few secrets.

  Alf faced him with all disguises gone; he met the pale unhuman stare without flinching.

  “My lord,” Alf said, “I’m tired. I could lie and hide and pretend to be human, but I’m weary of it.”

  “Weary unto death?”

  Alf caught his breath as if at a blow. Yet he answered with the truth. “Yes. Unto death.”

  “You’re young to be so sure of that.”

  “No,” Alf said. “Young, I am not.”

  Aylmer paused. A breath only, but long enough for a swift train of thought, a flare of recognition.

  He was not surprised, Alf realized. “Alfred of St. Ruan’s,” he said slowly. “Alfred, of St. Ruan’s. I was so proud that I knew what you were, and too blind to see... But if the Gloria Dei is yours...”

  “It is mine.” Alf’s fists had clenched at his sides. “I wish to God that I had never put pen to parchment.”

  He looked up. To his amazement, Aylmer was laughing silently, a convulsion of pure delight.

  The Bishop wiped his streaming eyes, struggling to regain his composure. “Your pardon, Brother. But if I were the Lord God, and I wanted to show the whole herd of theologians and canon lawyers what utter asses they are, I would have done exactly what He has done. Given them you.”

  “It was sheer hubris for me to dare to write what I did. But I never meant it to be a mockery.”

  “Nor did I. But the hair-splitters wax haughty in their conviction that man is the measure of all things, the center of the universe, the Macrocosm in microcosm. You show them that there’s more in creation than they’ve ever dreamed of.” Aylmer shook his head and coughed. "Brother, Master, you've restored my faith.”