by Tarr, Judith
“I would rather go with you, Sire.”
“You’d rather I didn’t go at all.” Richard drained his cup and retrieved the crown from Alf’s lap. “When I get back I’ll have another of these for you to play with.”
“You’ll have a wound that will drain your life away, and two kingdoms in revolt, and the Flame-bearer ravaging your coasts.”
Alf’s eyes were blurred, unfocused, his voice too soft to be so clear. The King shivered with a sudden chill. Yet he spoke lightly. “So. You’re a prophet, too.”
“No. I see the patterns, that is all.”
“My pattern has two crowns in it and Jerusalem at the end of it.”
“Two hundred years ago,” said Alf, “there was a very learned man who rose to the Papacy. He had been promised that he would not die until he had seen Jerusalem. Being a clever man, he decided to live forever, for he would never leave Rome. But one day he fell dead upon the steps of a church within sight of his palace. The name of the church was Jerusalem.”
“I should put you in a bottle like the old Sibyl, and never uncork you.”
Alf smiled faintly, set his untouched cup aside, and rose.
“You’re not supposed to get up until tomorrow,” the King said.
“Really?” Alf asked. “I walked to St. Benedict’s this morning to see Brother Adam, who was my questioner. I’ve shaken his faith very badly; I wanted to give him what comfort I could.” He sighed and took up his tunic. “I didn’t give him much.”
“Was there ever anyone like you?” the King demanded of him.
Carefully Alf drew on the tunic, and then the cotte. As he fastened the belt he said, “If you're leaving tomorrow, I’d best get all your letters done today. There must be a week’s worth to do.”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort. Get back into bed and stay there.”
“Not to mention your mother’s letter, which you’ve put off answering. And the matter of the estate in Poitou—”
“Alfred.”
“Yes, Sire?”
“Go to bed.”
“Saving your grace, Sire,” Alf said, “no. I suppose my writing case is still in the solar?”
Richard snarled in exasperation and let him go.
o0o
Alf set down his pen. He had finished his third letter, and he was more weary than he cared to admit.
He looked about the solar. The King conversed quietly with one or two of his knights, considering matters of the war. The usual complement of servitors moved about or stood at attention.
No one glanced at the clerk in his corner, although there had been stares enough when first he came. He had disappointed them by seeming the same as ever but for his hollowed cheeks and his secular dress, and by settling quietly into his old task of writing letters for the King. They had expected more of one charged with witchcraft and proven a saint.
He reached for a new sheet of parchment. His back twinged; his half-smile turned to a grimace. He moved more carefully to sharpen his worn quill.
A disturbance drew his eyes to the door. The guard within conferred with the guard without and turned. “Sire!” he called out. “Owein of Llanfair, courier of the King of Gwynedd, asks grace to converse with Your Majesty.”
Alf crossed himself. “Deo gratias,” he murmured, no more than a sigh.
The man entered with dignity, although he was wet to the skin and plastered with mud. He wore no livery nor any sign of rank, but the brooch that clasped his cloak bore the dragon of Gwynedd and the eyes that scanned the room were proud, almost haughty. They fixed without hesitation upon Richard; the messenger limped forward to sink to one knee before the King.
“Your Majesty,” he said in a clear trained voice, “your royal brother of Gwynedd sends his greetings and his respect.”
Richard’s amber glare had passed him by to burn upon Alf. Your doing, it accused him. Damn you!
Alf smiled. A vein pulsed in the King’s temple; it took all of his control to say, “Anglia responds with similar sentiments.”
The envoy bowed his head and raised it again, and took from his wallet a sealed letter. “My royal lord bids you accept this epistle, and with it his goodwill.”
Richard took the letter but did not break the seal. “What is his message?”
“‘To our dear brother of Anglia,’ ” responded the messenger, “‘we have held our throne now for two years and two seasons, since the lamented death of our father, whom God cherishes now among His angels; in our poor fashion we have endeavored to govern his kingdom as he desired it to be governed. In particular, we have attempted to maintain relations with our neighbor and dear friend in Anglia, for whom—’ ”
Richard cut him off “Never mind the bombast! I can read it easily enough myself. What does Kilhwch want?”
Owein’s face did not change, although his eyes flickered. Amusement, Alf realized, and reluctant admiration. “Your Majesty, the words he spoke to me were blunt and without embellishment. But he bade me couch them in the terms of courtesy.”
“Courtesy be damned. What did he say?”
Alf had come quietly to stand behind the King. The messenger’s eyes widened a little; he closed his mouth upon his protest and bowed slightly, yet with more respect than he had shown the King himself. “His Majesty of Gwynedd said to me, ‘Pretty it up, Owein. But make sure you let him know that his barons are raising hell on my borders, and that my barons are like to raise hell in return; and that’s no good to either of us. I’ll see him and talk to him in any place he chooses; maybe we can put out this fire that’s threatening to burn us both out of our kingdoms.’ ”
Richard’s brows had drawn together until they met; his eyes had begun to glitter. “Kilhwch won’t fight?”
Owein maintained his serenity. “My liege desires a conference. The place is to be of your choosing; he asks that you come as he will, with no more than twenty knights in attendance and in certainty of his friendship.”
“He wants peace? Bran Dhu`s son wants peace?”
“The King of Gwynedd desires what is best for his kingdom.”
Richard broke the seal and skimmed the letter, muttering to himself. “‘Kilhwch of Gwynedd to Richard of Anglia, greeting... Conference...alliance...friendship... Given in Caer-y-n’Arfon, four days before the Calends of December.’ ”
He looked up sharply. “It took you this long to ride to me?”
The messenger nodded briefly. “Yes, Sire. My horse was shot from under me as I passed the border; I walked until I found another; there were other difficulties.”
“Pursuit,” Alf said softly. “Battles. A wound. And cold and famine and this deadly rain.”
Again Owein bowed with respect which came close to reverence.
Richard looked from him to Alf, tugging at his beard. At length he said, “I’ll consider my reply. Giraut, take this man and see that he’s well cared for. I’ll call for him later.”
For a long while after the messenger had gone, escorted by the King’s page, no one moved or spoke. Save the King, who paced like a caged beast.
He came to a halt in front of Alf. His glare swept the solar. “All of you. Out.”
They obeyed swiftly. One or two shot pitying glances at Alf. The King’s wrath looked fair to break upon his head.
When the last small page had passed the door, Richard smiled sweetly. “Now, my fair young friend,” he said. “Suppose you tell me exactly how you managed to concoct this plot with the King of Gwynedd.”
“To concoct what plot, Sire?”
Richard shook his head. The rubies flashed and flared upon his crown. “No, Alfred. Don't play the innocent here. Just tell me the truth.”
“Very well, Sire,” Alf said calmly. “The truth is that Kilhwch of Gwynedd is a wise man, and he sees no profit in a war between your kingdoms. And you, Sire, are furious, and ready to force a conflict for pride and for folly.”
The King’s breath hissed between his teeth.
Alf nodded as if he had spoken. �
��Yes. I dare much. Overmuch, perhaps. But only because I wish you well.”
“You wish me hamstrung and unmanned.”
“I wish you strong upon a strong throne.” Alf sat at the King’s worktable with grace that concealed his growing weakness. “Sire, if you agree to this meeting you suffer no disgrace. Your friends will be glad that you don’t try to sap the kingdoms’ strength with a useless war; your enemies will be mortified. They’re relying on your falling into the trap.”
“Weaseling words. Maybe you’re my enemy.”
Alf held out his hands, the wrists bearing still the marks of chains. “I won’t contend with blind anger that knows full well that I speak the truth. For Anglia’s sake, Sire. For your own. Agree to meet with Kilhwch.”
“You take a lot on yourself, for an unfrocked priest.”
“Yes,” Alf agreed. “I do.”
“Damn you!”
Richard raged around the room, fists clenching and unclenching, jaw working. Alf watched him and tried to forget the pain that darkened the edges of his vision. He could not faint now—must not. He gathered all of his waning strength and held it tightly, waiting for the King’s temper to cool.
It calmed long before Richard wished it to, nor would it rouse again. Cold reason dulled the fire; calculation slew it altogether.
The King stopped and glared at Alf, who seemed intent upon a letter. He looked pale, haggard; a dark stain was spreading over the back of his cotte. The hand that held the letter trembled just perceptibly.
Richard snarled and cursed him. He did not look up. But Richard had seen enough men on the edge of endurance to recognize another.
And he had done it all with quiet, monkish obstinacy, to get what he wanted.
“Damn you,” Richard said again, little more than a whisper. “You’re worse than a woman. Or is that what you are?”
Alf smiled and shook his head. "In the words of your former squire, I have a face like a girl’s. But the rest of me...”
“The rest of you ought to be roasted over a slow fire.”
Alf had gone back to his reading.
Richard snatched the letter from his hand and dragged him to his feet. “All right, damn you. I’ll go to meet this wonder-child, this wise old sage of seventeen.”
“Nineteen, Sire. Nearly twenty.”
“What! So ancient?”
“So ancient,” Alf said. “I’m glad you’ve come to your senses.”
“I think I've lost them altogether.”
Alf smiled again, but his lips were white. “Sire, if you don't mind...may I sit down?”
“You're going back to bed.”
And Richard carried him there, past staring faces and in spite of his protests. When he lay in the royal bed with the King’s surgeon tut-tutting over his reopened wounds, Richard said, “You’ve won. It’s cost you your vocation and half your hide, but you’ve won.”
Alf winced as the surgeon probed too deeply, and blinked away tears of pain. But he spoke as clearly as if he had been lying at his ease. “Sire. If you really want to do this, I know where you can meet with Kilhwch.”
“Of course you do. You plotted this months ago.”
“Days, Sire. There’s a place not two days’ ride from Gwynedd across Severn’s mouth, with room enough to house two kings and their escorts; the Abbot there—”
“Abbot, sir?”
Alf nodded. “I’m speaking of St. Ruan’s, Sire.”
“I suppose the Abbot’s in the plot, too?”
“If plot you choose to call it. The man whose errand I took on myself is still there, a lord of Rhiyana who can speak for the Elvenking. Think of it, my lord! Three kings and three kingdoms united in amity, with the Church as witness. Your enemies will gnash their teeth in rage.”
“You can play me like a lute,” Richard said. “God knows why I stand for it.”
Alf smiled. “Because, Sire, you need my meddling. Your reputation forbids you to be sensible, but if you can blame it on my plotting, you can do whatever is wisest, and confound your enemies without awakening them to the truth.”
“Flatterer. Go to sleep and leave me in peace.”
Obligingly Alf closed his eyes. Richard stood for a while, watching the surgeon’s deft gnarled hands, flinching from the sight of the outraged flesh. “Goddamned martyr," he muttered.
The pale face did not change. Richard’s hand crept out to touch it; stopped short; withdrew. He turned on his heel and strode out.
25
Kilhwch’s messenger left at dawn, well-fed and newly clothed, with the King’s horse under him and the King’s letter in his satchel, and gifts of gold and food and safe-conduct to ease his way to Gwynedd. Richard rode out well after sunrise with twenty knights at his back, and among them, Aylmer and a grim-faced novice.
And, falling in behind as they left the keep, a rider in blue on a grey mare. His hood was drawn up against the cold, the rest of him well muffled.
The King’s men exchanged glances. One or two dropped back; two more fell in on either side of him, concealing him from the crowd that had gathered to see the King go.
It was the wind that betrayed him. As they neared the south gate—as the King passed beneath its arch—a gust blew back his hood, baring his head. A flash of sunlight caught it and broke into rays about it.
A shout went up. A single voice at first above the cheering for the King: “The saint! The saint!”
Two joined it, three, a dozen, a hundred; the crowd surged forward. Voices, faces, minds beat upon all his senses. “Let me touch you—don’t go away—my baby’s sick—my eyes, my sore eyes—my leg—my arm—my hand—it hurts—oh, God, I hurt—”
The gate arched above him. The voices thundered in the hollow space, beating him down.
Then suddenly he was free. The mare moved into a canter, keeping pace with the beasts about her. The shouting faded behind them.
Alf did not look back. His protectors moved away; the mare lengthened her stride. She ran as lightly as a deer among the heavy destriers.
Just behind the King, she slowed. Richard rode between Aylmer and Jehan; only the novice acknowledged Alf’s presence. He reined back his mount to keep pace with the mare, and regarded Alf with a wild mingling of joy and anxiety. “Brother Alf! You weren’t supposed to come.”
“Should I have stayed behind in that?”
Jehan glanced back. Carlisle huddled within its red walls, crowned with its red keep; about its gate seethed the crowd that had sought to overrun Alf.
He looked at his friend, who rode with eyes fixed forward, face white and strained. “I am not a saint,” Alf said. “I am—not—a saint.”
“You’re ill,” Jehan said.
Alf shook his head sharply. “I’m somewhat battered, and I’m a little weaker than I should be. That’s all.”
“A little weaker!”
“Would you be able to keep from shaking if you’d just been canonized?” Alf stared at his hands. In spite of his words they were almost steady. “She said it would happen. They would canonize me, or they would burn me. They tried both.”
“Brother Alf—”
He straightened in the saddle. “Don’t call me that.”
“Brother Alf,” Jehan said stubbornly, “you’re trying to uncanonize yourself by proving just how nasty, disobedient, and downright human you can be. Don’t you know by now that you don't have to prove anything to me?”
“Maybe," murmured Alf, “I need to prove it to myself."
Richard looked back, a fierce amber glare. “Take my word for it. You are nasty, disobedient, and downright human. And damnably clever. I should send you back to Carlisle and make you find your own way out of the mess you made there.”
“Sire! I—”
“Look at that,” Richard said to Aylmer. “Injured Innocence, done to perfection. Should I send him back? Or should I let him find out for himself that he’s not half strong enough to keep the pace I’ll set?”
Aylmer met Alf’s glance with
a dark steady stare. To the King he said, “He was determined enough to come over your express command. Let him stay. He can pay whatever penalty he has to pay.”
Alf nodded. “Just because I’ve been a priest, Sire, doesn’t mean you have to treat me as if I were a woman or a child. I can do whatever I have to do.”
“Do you mean that?” Richard demanded.
“Yes, Sire.”
“Well then. You've cost me an esquire. Take his place. That means you’ll be treated exactly like any other squire—the good and the bad. You’ll be bowed to, but you’ll have to work; if you slack up you get a beating. And you’ll be exercising at arms whenever you get the chance. Do you still want to ride with me?”
“Yes, Sire,” Alf replied without flinching.
“That’s a commitment, boy. From the moment you take my hand and swear on it, you're mine until I see fit to let you go." Richard held out his mailed hand. “Will you take it? Or will you go back?”
Alf hesitated only briefly. He clasped the King’s hand and met the King’s eyes. “I shall try not to disgrace you.”
“You’ll do more than try. I’ll give you till evening to learn what you’ve got yourself into.” Richard turned his back on him and clapped spurs to the red stallion’s sides. “Allez-y!”
o0o
Jehan dropped back with Alf to the rear of the column. “I think he planned that,” the novice called over the thunder of hooves.
“I know he did. Look—not a single royal squire in all this riding.”
“And you let him?”
“I came, didn’t I?”
Jehan shook his head. “It’s a long leap from saint to squire, and you started as a monk. You’ve got a lot to learn.”
“Then you’d best teach it to me. I’ve only got till evening.”
“Thank all the saints you’re clever, then.”
To Jehan’s amazement, Alf laughed. “Too clever, maybe. Come now, Master, your pupil’s ready. Will you keep him waiting?”
o0o
By nightfall the travelers had found lodgings in a baron’s drafty barn of a castle, driving that provincial notable to distraction with the honor and the terror of playing host to the King. In such confusion, any number of errors could have gone unnoticed.
