by Tarr, Judith
She sprang forward, running lightly still, taunting the big gelding with her ease and grace. Jehan had a brief and splendid view of her flying heels.
She thundered through the gate half a length ahead of the King and wheeled within, tossing her head. The monks had scattered before the charge, slowed though it was, the more prudent arriving at a trot.
Richard laughed and tossed Alf a coin; he caught it, face flushed, eyes shining. The monks stared openmouthed as he slid from the saddle with the bezant still in his hand.
“Well, Brothers,” the King said in high good humor, “I’ve brought back your prodigal.”
“In grand style,” Morwin observed, stepping from behind a pair of tall monks. “Welcome to St. Ruan’s, Your Majesty.”
The King knelt to kiss his ring, as was proper even for royalty in the Church’s lands, and turned to present his followers. Novices took their horses; others led them, once presented, to the guesthouse.
Alf stood apart with Jehan hovering behind him. None of the Brothers approached them, although Brother Osric half-moved toward them and stopped. The King’s presence, and their own air of the world and its splendors, made them strange.
Morwin completed his courtesies. It was odd to watch him as if he had been a stranger, a small elderly man in an Abbot’s robe, very clean but somewhat frayed.
At last he looked at Alf, a quick encompassing glance, measuring this falcon he had cast from his hand. Suddenly he scowled. “This is a fine way to greet an old friend. What are you hanging back for?”
Alf came to his embrace. He was as thin and fragile as a man made of sticks, but he was still wiry-strong. He grinned at Alf, blinking rapidly. “The good Brothers will never get over it. Gentle Brother Alf who used to have to be dragged bodily out of the library to see what the sun looked like, roaring in at the head of a troop of cavalry. The next thing we know, Brother Edgar will be reading Aristotle.”
The other laughed with a catch in it, for Morwin’s tight embrace had kindled sparks of pain.
The Abbot held him at arm’s length. “You look as if you’ve got a lot to tell me. As soon as I've settled things here, come and talk.” He glanced beyond him at Jehan. “You make a pair of bashful maids, to be sure. Or are you so used to rubbing elbows with kings and bishops that you can’t spare a good-day for a mere abbot?”
“Good day, Dom Morwin,” Jehan said obediently, with a glint in his eye.
“That’s better.” Morwin flung his arms wide. "Welcome back, you two. Welcome back!”
The Brothers crowded around them then, reticence forgotten. In that babble of greeting and of gladness, none but Jehan noticed Alf’s pallor. With each hearty embrace it increased; although he smiled and spoke cheerfully enough, his face was drawn with pain.
“You should rest,” Jehan said in his ear.
Alf shook his head almost invisibly. “Yes,” he said to Brother Osric, “I had a look at some new Aristotle. And a copy of Albumazar in Arabic, from the Crusade...”
o0o
“So,” said Morwin. “You’re the King’s squire.”
Alf stood by the window of the Abbot’s study, gazing at the orchard, bleak now and grey, fading into the early darkness.
“Nothing’s changed,” he murmured. “Nothing at all.”
“But you have.”
Alf did not answer. Morwin prodded the fire, rousing the embers to sudden flame. He fed it with applewood; the sweet scent crept through the room.
“It’s so quiet here,” Alf said. “Nothing happens from year’s end to year’s end, except what’s always happened. The trees bloom; the apples ripen; they fall, and the winter comes. The world races past, but no one heeds it, except to spare it a prayer.”
“Do you think I shouldn’t have sent you out into it?”
Alf sighed. “I’ve been like a man from the old tales, taken away to the Land of Youth for a night, but that night was a lifetime long.”
“It’s all too easy to stay a child here, even if your body can grow old.”
“I know. Oh, I know!” Alf faced him. “I’ve been seventeen years old for half a century. And suddenly I feel as if I could advance to eighteen if I tried hard enough.”
“So,” the Abbot said with a wicked glint, “you’ve finally caught on.”
“God knows, it took me long enough.”
“Sit down and tell me about it,” Morwin commanded him. “How did you get from monk to royal squire in a little over a month—and half of it spent traveling?”
Morwin listened to Alf’s tale, standing by the fire, neither moving nor speaking. When Alf spoke of the trial and of his punishment, the Abbot`s face greyed; his eyes glittered. “Show me,” he said.
Alf did not move to obey. “There’s no need. I’m mending; I’m content.”
“Let me see.”
“No.”
“Alfred,” Morwin said. “I want to know what you paid for your foolishness.”
“Less than Alun paid for his, and more than you would like.”
Alf shifted in his seat, and shook his head as the Abbot began to speak. “Let it be, Morwin. It’s part of my growing up; you can’t protect me from it.”
“You don’t deserve to be protected.”
“Everyone seems to agree with you, myself included.”
The Abbot glared at him. He smiled back.
Little by little Morwin softened. “Well. You haven’t done so badly since. The King seems fond of you.”
“I’m fond of him. He reminds me of Jehan. Hot-headed, impetuous, and exceedingly wise when he has to be.”
“And fond of letting people underestimate him,” Morwin said.
“Are you going to stay with him?”
“I’m sworn to it.”
“But do you want to?”
Alf stared into the fire. Slowly he answered, “I don’t know what I want. I’m a little afraid to take up a career of arms—it’s so alien to all I’ve ever been or taught. And yet I have a gift for it. Weapons fit my hands.”
“You aren’t carrying one,” Morwin said.
His hand went to his belt where a sword should have hung.
“Not yet. But I will. If I continue.”
“You doubt it?”
He closed his eyes and shook his head. “I don’t know what I’m saying. Of course I’ll go on. The King has bound me; I’ve made up my mind to it.”
“It’s going to be odd to see you riding about in mail with some lady’s sleeve on your helm.”
Alf rounded upon him.
Morwin laughed. “That’s part of the world, too, Alf. Don’t tell me you’re that innocent!”
“I’m no more innocent than you.”
“Nonsense!” Morwin snorted. “Remember the year in Paris? Every girl we met sighed after you, and you didn’t even know what it meant.”
“Of course I knew. I was the one who explained it to you. Horrified, you were. People did that? But that was for animals!”
“You blushed furiously all the while you told me, too, and swore you’d never stoop so low.” Morwin’s eyes danced upon him. “You’re blushing now. What will you do when you get to court?”
“Nothing,” Alf snapped. “I wouldn’t want to do anything. I’ve discovered something horrible, Morwin. I can’t bear the thought of...making love...to human women. They revolt me.”
“Whores and sluts would revolt me, even if I weren’t under vows—and I’m as human as they are.”
Alf shook his head sharply. “It’s all women. All human women. And men too, if it comes to that. I can love my fellow man, but not—not carnally.”
“And what led you to that sweeping conclusion?”
He would not answer.
Morwin shrugged. “Talk to me again when you’re a made knight, and we’ll see if you say the same.”
“I will.”
“We’ll see,” Morwin said. Even as he spoke, he glanced over his shoulder; his eyes lighted. “My lord! Come in.”
Alf had been aware
of the listener for some time; he turned, rising, bowing with new-learned grace.
Alun left the doorway, walking unaided although he limped noticeably. His eyes smiled on Alf; his mind touched the other’s, the familiar gentle touch.
Alf clasped his good hand and would have kissed it, had not his glance forbidden. “Brother,” he said. “Well met.”
“Well indeed,” Alf responded, looking him up and down. Even lame and with his hand still bound in a sling, even in the brown habit Alf had left him, he looked strong and proud, a knight and a prince.
The smile found its way to the corner of his mouth. “I make a very poor monk, my brother, though I’ve done my utmost short of actually taking vows.”
“He has,” Morwin agreed. “Brother Cecil is almost resigned to the loss of his best tenor from the choir since he’s gained a splendid bass-baritone in exchange. When you go, God only knows what I'll do to pacify him.”
Alf smiled. “And have they put you to work elsewhere?” he asked of Alun.
“No, but not for my lack of trying. Apparently I’m still an invalid.”
“Almost,” Alf said, “though if you asked, I might let you ride.”
“I wasn’t going to ask. I was going to do it.”
“Fara will be glad to have you back again.”
The Rhiyanan shook his head. “I gave her to you, and she has come to love you. Keep her, my brother; in your new station, you need her.”
“But—” Alf began.
“It’s her wish as much as mine. Take her, Alf.”
“My lord, I can’t.”
Alun sighed. “You can’t, but you shall.” He sat by the fire, warming his good hand. “Now. Tell me what your King will do.”
“Won’t you see him yourself?” asked Morwin.
“Not until tomorrow, when Kilhwch comes.” Alun’s gaze crossed Alf’s, held for a moment, flicked away. “Then we’ll meet, all three of us.”
“Gwynedd and Anglia and Rhiyana,” Alf said. “That will be an alliance to reckon with.”
“It will indeed,” said Alun.
27
The King of Gwynedd rode into St. Ruan’s in the late morning, his dragon banner leaping and straining in a strong wind, the sunlight flaming on his scarlet cloak. Richard waited in the courtyard with his knights about him, vivid figures among the brown-robed monks.
Kilhwch reined his mettlesome stallion to a halt and sprang down. At first glance he seemed ordinary enough, a short stocky young man with a heavy, almost sullen face. But the eyes under the black brows were striking, steel-grey, piercing; flashing over the assembly, taking in each face.
They paused several times, at Richard, at the Abbot, at Aylmer. And, for a long moment, at Alf.
He stepped forward, stripping off his gloves and thrusting them into his belt. “Well, my lord of Anglia, you’re here before me.”
His voice was harsh, clipped, his manner abrupt. Richard’s eyes were glinting. “I left as soon as I saw your messenger off. He arrived safely?”
“Safely and in good time, with plenty of good to say about you.” Kilhwch’s eyes flicked to Morwin. “My lord Abbot, you’re generous to lend us your hospitality. If your Brothers would see to my men, we could get to our business.”
o0o
The Kings ate at the Abbot’s table with Bishop Aylmer and one or two of the knights, attended by their squires. In spite of his impatience, Kilhwch seemed content to debate the merits of Frankish and Alemannish chargers and to tell long tales of the hunt and of the joust. He did not move to speak of either war or peace.
He watched Alf steadily, with a look almost of puzzlement. He glanced from the fair strange face to the royal leopards ramping on the tabard, from the hands that poured his King’s wine to the head that bent to catch a comment from the hulking lad in the Bishop’s livery.
With each glance his frown deepened. At last he leaned toward Richard. “Your esquire. Who is he?”
Richard bit off half a leg of capon and chewed it deliberately. “Why? Have you seen him before?”
Kilhwch shook his head impatiently. “How long has he been with you?”
“Not long at all. Less than a month.”
Kilhwch sat back. His bafflement was turning to anger. “He’s been tonsured. Did you snatch him out of a monastery?”
“Yes. This one, in fact.” Richard grinned at Morwin. “The Abbot’s generosity is legendary.”
The young King turned toward Alf, who stood with the other squires by the wall. “You, sir! Come here.”
Alf came quietly, with that calm of his which could have passed for haughtiness. “My lord?” he asked.
“What is your name?” Kilhwch demanded.
“Alfred, Sire.”
“Alfred? Is that all?”
“Of St. Ruan’s, Sire.” Alf smiled a very little. “I have no lineage to speak of. If it’s that you’re looking for, you should talk to my lord Bishop’s esquire. He has pedigree enough for both of us.”
“Your pedigree doesn’t concern me,” snapped Kilhwch. “I had a message from one of the Folk, who gave me to think that he was with my lord of Anglia. But you’re not he. Where is he?”
“Here.”
Kilhwch leaped up. Aylmer too had risen, his face as unreadable as ever.
The young King all but vaulted over the table, and dropped to one knee. "My lord!” he cried. “What have you done to your sword hand?”
“Little,” Alun answered him, raising him and embracing him as a kinsman.
He pulled away, eyes blazing. “You went to Rhydderch. After all my warnings, you went to Rhydderch. And he well-nigh killed you, from the look of you. I’ll have his hide for a carpet!”
“You will do no such thing.” Alun’s soft voice had a startling effect. The King of Gwynedd subsided abruptly, like a child rebuked by his father.
Richard watched them with great interest. “So,” he said, “you’re the one who ran afoul of my baron.”
Alun nodded, bowing slightly. “My lord of Anglia. I am glad that at last we meet.”
“I’ve you to thank for my new esquire—and for the fact that I'm here and not waging war against Gwynedd. You’re a shameless meddler, Sir Rhiyanan.”
Kilhwch whipped about. “Keep a civil tongue in your head, sir!”
Richard’s teeth bared. “I may be rough-spoken, but I don’t run like a dog at some hedge-knight’s heel.”
“Damn your insolence! Would you speak so of a king?”
“King?” Richard laughed. “King of what? Rags and patches?”
Aylmer stirred. “No,” he said. “Rhiyana.”
While his King stood speechless, he approached the man in the brown robe and knelt as Kilhwch had knelt. “Your Majesty. I thought perhaps it was you.”
“And why did you think that?” asked Alun, who was Gwydion. The hand with which he raised the Bishop flamed with the blue fire of his signet.
Aylmer shrugged. “It was like you to do something of the sort.”
“Nonsense!” Richard burst out. “Gwydion of Rhiyana is unspeakably ancient. This is a boy with his first beard. How old are you, lad? Twenty? Twenty-two?”
“Eighty-one,” said the Elvenking, limping forward. Jehan, closest of the squires, leaped to offer him a chair at the end of the high table.
Richard shook his head stubbornly. The grey eyes rested upon him, quiet, amused, and uncannily wise in the smooth youth’s face.
“Sire,” Alf said. “He is who he says he is.”
Richard glared at him. “You knew?”
“From the beginning.”
“And you never said—”
“I did not wish it.” Gwydion accepted a cup of mead from Alf’s hand and sipped it. “It’s one thing for the King of Rhiyana to ride abroad alone and under a false name, and another altogether for him to suffer violence at the hands of a foreign king’s vassal.”
“That,” growled Kilhwch, returned now to his place, “it surely is. Before God, that swine shall pay for i
t.”
Richard tugged at his beard, scowling fiercely. “Did he know who you were?”
“Only that I was Rhiyana’s ambassador,” Gwydion answered.
“And in Rhiyana, do they know?”
“No.” Gwydion set down his cup. “My brother’s face is the image of mine. I left him holding the crown and the throne; those of our people who saw me go thought I was Aidan, fleeing the peace of Caer Gwent. They think so still.”
“Not for long,” Kilhwch muttered. “Wait until Aidan finds out that you’ve been stirring up scorpions’ nests on the Marches of Anglia. Half the exploits he’s known for are yours—but this one was harebrained even for him.”
Gwydion’s face grew stern, although his eyes glinted. “Hush, lad! You’re giving away state secrets. As far as anyone knows, I sit serenely and pacifically on my throne, and Aidan rides far and wide upon his errantries. Would you ruin the reputations we’ve labored so hard to build?”
“You’ve already done it. Spectacularly. And it will be even more spectacular when Aidan gets wind of it.”
“Not if we turn failure to success,” Gwydion said. “Here we sit all together, which is a thing Lord Rhydderch never looked for. Shall we thwart him further?”
“How?” demanded Richard.
“That’s for us to decide. Shall we begin?” He glanced to Morwin. “By my lord Abbot’s leave.”
Morwin bowed his assent. “Alf—bring out the best wine, the Falernian. And see if Brother Wilfred has any cheese.”
o0o
Jehan followed Alf on his errand. In the odorous dark of the wine cellar, he gave himself free rein. “Brother Alf! Is Alun really Gwydion?”
“Yes.” Alf blew dust from an ancient jar and peered at the inscription on its side. “Greek wine,” he muttered.
“You really have known all the time?”
“Almost.” The second jar was Greek also; he frowned.
“How did you know?”
“I was in his mind. He thinks like a King. High, haughty, and most wise.” Alf sneezed. “Pest! where is it?”
Jehan held up a small cask. “Here.”
Alf glared, and suddenly laughed. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I wanted you to talk to me. What do you think the kings will do?”
