Why the devil had Accolon decided to come here?
Perhaps Ridmark could find out why when he spoke with his former squire.
The monk led him to the doors before the church. The doors to the church were closed and sheathed in greening bronze worked to look like various scenes from the scriptures. The left-hand door displayed scenes from the books of the Kings, of David and Solomon and Jehu, while the doors on the right showed images of from the gospels, reliefs of the Dominus Christus feeding and healing the masses. The doors must have cost a fortune, and had no doubt been a pious gift from a wealthy benefactor.
“If you wait here, my lord,” said the doorkeeper, “the abbot should arrive shortly. I must return to my duties.”
“Thank you,” said Ridmark.
The fat monk left without another word.
“Churlish fellow,” said Kharlacht once the man was out of earshot.
“Complacent, more like,” said Caius. “The Frostborn war spared Taliand entirely, and I’m not sure that was for the best. War is a dreadful thing, of course, but too much peace and plenty can be as bad for a man as too much wine.”
The door to the church opened a few feet, and Prior Simon emerged. He looked smug, and the smile on his face was mocking.
Abbot Caldorman strode out, gazing at Ridmark with a flat expression.
The prior looked like a lordly noble, cold and aloof. The abbot, by contrast, looked a great deal like a peasant farmer. He had gone to fat from the rich fare of the monastery, but he still had broad shoulders, thick arms, and intense vitality. His hairline had receded so far that his tonsure was barely visible, and a golden cross hung from a cord around his neck. On his left hand was a jeweled signet ring of gold, a mark of his rank as abbot. Ridmark knew that the abbot maintained a fine house on the monastery grounds, living in luxury that seemed ill-suited to a monastic brother.
Caldorman stared at Ridmark for a moment and then offered a stiff bow. “Comes Ridmark.”
Well, the courtesies had to be observed. Ridmark dismounted, bowed over the abbot’s hand, and planted a brief kiss upon his ring. “Lord abbot.”
“Prior Simon tells me that you rendered a most…interesting judgment in the affair of our stolen cattle,” said Caldorman. He had a rough voice, grim and harsh.
“The prior has his opinions, like any other man,” said Ridmark. He passed over the pouch of coins Vegetius had given him. “You will find this sufficient compensation for the lost animals. More than market value, I expect.”
Caldorman opened the pouch and looked through the coins, frowning. He looked displeased, but neither did he hand the coins back. Simon held out his hand, as if expecting to take the pouch, but instead Caldorman tucked it away within the voluminous sleeve of his robe. “I cannot fault you, Lord Ridmark, for the amount, nor for your courtesy in delivering the money firsthand.” His lips thinned. “But you were too lenient with the thief.”
“Was I?” said Ridmark. “A starving man is a thief, aye, but one can understand why he steals.”
“He was not starving!” said Caldorman, his voice rising a little before he got himself under control. “Nor were any of the folk of Ebor starving. The alms from the cathedral have kept them fed.”
“Yet I note that the monastery has not given any alms to the men of Ebor,” said Ridmark.
“The charter of the monastery says that we are obliged to provide charity to the town of Castarium and the surrounding villages,” said Caldorman. “It says nothing about wandering vagabonds who happen to set up camp outside our walls.”
“Save for the business with Niall,” said Ridmark, “it seems the people of Ebor have conducted themselves admirably. No thefts, no murders, no attacks on the farms.”
“Do you want them to be rewarded for simply doing their moral duty?” said Caldorman. “And perhaps it is fear of you that keeps them in line, my lord Ridmark. Maybe the vagrants of Ebor know that if they steal one of your sheep, you will fall upon them with fire and sword.” He smiled. “I suspect your reaction would not be so restrained had the men of Ebor despoiled one of your farms or herds. After all, supporting the mob of servants who follow the Keeper about must take a great deal of money.”
“That would depend upon the reason for the theft and the thief’s conduct,” said Ridmark. “If Niall had attacked or killed one of your shepherds, then he would be swinging from a gibbet in Castarium’s forum even as we speak. He didn’t, and so he isn’t.”
Caldorman scowled. “He and his folk should have stayed at home.”
“They couldn’t,” said Ridmark. “They were driven from their lands.”
“By the greed of their lords, one should note,” said Caius. “Who are hoarding their wealth to the detriment of the surrounding community. An abbot ought to learn from their example.”
“Said the dwarven bishop of Khald Tormen,” said Caldorman, “and the dwarves live in caves of gold and jewels, all men know that.” Kharlacht made no effort to muffle his disdainful snort, and Caldorman glared at him. “Yes, how like a nobleman, so eager to tell others what to do with the sweat of their brow. This is why I am wiser than you, Lord Ridmark.”
“Oh?” said Ridmark, though he suspected that Caldorman’s brow had not seen the sweat of labor for some time. “Do explain.”
“You were born a noble, the son of the Dux of Taliand,” said Caldorman. “You know nothing of hardship, nothing of want. You do not know what it is to work for something, to behold something you have earned with your labor.” He gestured at the monastery. “All this belongs to the brothers of St. Bartholomew. It is ours, not yours, Lord Ridmark, and how that must irritate you. And certainly, the property of the monastery is not yours to direct to the vagabond vermin of Ebor.”
“I believe your lands and riches are the property of the church,” said Caius, “to be used in its work. Not to be hoarded in locked rooms like the rich man who built barns to store his wealth, only for God to demand his life that very day.”
Caldorman drew breath to argue further, but Ridmark was tired of the conversation.
“Enough,” said Ridmark. “We do not have to like each other, lord abbot, we merely have to stay out of each other’s way. You have recompense for your butchered cattle, I suggest you find contentment with that. Now, before I go, I am going to speak with one of your novices.”
Caldorman raised his bushy eyebrows. “Oh? And just which novice is that?”
He knew full well.
“Accolon Pendragon,” said Ridmark. “The son and heir of the High King. I hope you haven’t misplaced him.”
“I’m afraid I cannot allow you to disturb any of our novices,” said Caldorman. “They have come to the cloister as a sanctuary from the world, to pray and seek God and his wisdom. To have a secular lord disturb them, especially a man of blood, would be an affront.”
“All right,” said Ridmark. “I suggest you grant me permission to speak with Accolon, right now. Because I am going to speak with him today, one way or another. And it would be much better for your authority and prestige if you granted permission for what is going to happen anyway.”
For a long, cold moment, Caldorman stared at him. Ridmark wished he had thought to bring Aegisikon. None of the monks were any physical threat to him and the others. Years of easy living had taken its toll on the brothers of St. Bartholomew. But if Ridmark had to force his way inside, it would be easier to administer non-fatal blows with his staff instead of his soulblade.
“Your day will come, Lord Ridmark,” said Caldorman at last. “Yours, and all those like you. The proud nobles of Andomhaim will receive their just reward in due time.”
“As I recall,” said Ridmark, “the just reward of all men is damnation, save for those who believe in the salvation of the Dominus Christus. Now. Where is Prince Accolon?”
Caldorman let out an irritated breath, but he nodded, conceding defeat. “The novice is in one of the chapels.” He gestured at the church doors behind him. “I have decided to grant yo
u permission to speak with him. We do not usually let novices speak with members of the outside world, but occasionally it is…permissible.”
“Thank you for that gracious concession,” said Ridmark. He looked at Vegetius. “You and the other men stay here.”
“My lord.” Vegetius grinned at the monks. “We wouldn’t want the horses to run off, would we?”
“Your animals shall be perfectly safe here,” said Caldorman. “Unlike others, we know how to respect property.”
“Splendid,” said Ridmark, and he stepped past the abbot, Kharlacht and Caius following him.
The interior of the monastic church was cavernous and dim, light leaking through the lead-framed windows. The church was cross-shaped, and the high altar was at the intersection of the arms, with a dozen candles burning atop it. The monks’ choir was behind the altar, and to the left and to the right were smaller chapels in the transept arms. Ridmark walked towards the altar, the church silent around him, and glanced around. The church seemed empty.
Wait. He heard a faint voice coming from the transept arm on the left.
Ridmark stepped into the transept and saw the robed man kneeling before a shrine, his head bowed, his hands folded. The man was muttering a prayer over and over, and Ridmark recognized the prayer for forgiveness.
“Accolon,” said Ridmark, and the kneeling man stiffened and rose.
He turned, and Ridmark found himself looking at Accolon Pendragon, the son and heir of High King Arandar.
Accolon hadn’t been fat, but Ridmark was disturbed by how much weight the prince had lost. His hawkish face had taken on a gaunt cast, and his dark eyes had an uneasy glitter to them. Accolon staggered a little bit as he caught his balance as if his head was swimming, and Ridmark wondered just how much he had been fasting.
“Lord Ridmark?” said Accolon, blinking. “Bishop Caius? Headman Kharlacht?”
“Aye,” said Ridmark, his voice quiet. “How are you?”
“I…” Accolon blinked a few times. “I…you came all this way to see me?”
“It’s not far from Tarlion,” said Ridmark. “I didn’t even use the power of the Shield Knight to travel. We rode here, I had some cases to decide in the town. Kharlacht and Caius were on separate errands, and they stopped here. We came to speak with you.”
A smile appeared on Accolon’s face, the haunted look receding somewhat. “It is good to see you all. I think about the old days a great deal, how we all fought alongside each other to face the Frostborn.” The haunted look great stronger. “Things seemed simpler.”
“Old days?” said Kharlacht with a snort. “You’re not even thirty, lad. You don’t get to talk about the old days until you’re forty at the earliest.”
“And I have seen centuries,” said Caius. “You all seem like children to me.”
Accolon tried to smile. “I think about the recent days, then. Or I try to when I am not praying. It is a…a welcome distraction.”
Ridmark said nothing. The changes in Accolon were both drastic and troubling. He remembered when Accolon had accompanied him back to Owyllain to face the jastaani horde the Sovereign had raised. Accolon had been the image of the confident, valiant young prince, and he had won the confidence of everyone around him. That prince seemed a far cry from the shattered, guilt-ridden young man in front of Ridmark.
“Why do you need distractions?” said Ridmark. “I imagine the abbot keeps you busy.”
“He does,” said Accolon. “He has been a good spiritual father to me.” Ridmark doubted that. “But…” He sighed. “I suppose you all know what happened. I suppose you know of my guilt.”
“We have heard the story, yes,” said Ridmark. “Perhaps we should hear it from your own lips.”
It was a simple enough story, one that had been repeated countless times. Accolon had been Ridmark’s squire during the war against the Frostborn, and soon after the defeat of the Frostborn he had been knighted, serving more and more as his father’s right hand. His experiences had given him a great deal of confidence, and for many women, confidence and authority and youthful vigor were an attractive combination. Accolon soon discovered he had a taste for the company of women, and he had taken several lovers in rapid succession.
One of them had been a minor noblewoman from Cintarra named Caitrin Rhosmor, an orphan visiting Tarlion in hopes of finding a wealthy husband. Accolon had been taken with her at once, and the girl with him. Their relationship had been a minor scandal, especially since Accolon would need to marry soon as the heir to the realm, and Caitrin had fallen pregnant.
That in itself, while hardly commendable conduct, was not a tremendous problem. Half the Duxi and Comites of the realm seemed to have mistresses, and Andomhaim had been ruled by High Kings with mistresses before. It could even be interpreted as a good sign since it was proof that Accolon could father children and would father an heir on his eventual wife. There were well-established traditions for dealing with the mistresses of high nobles. Caitrin would receive a suitable stipend and raise the baby, and in time, the child would come to court. Some of the past bastards of the High Kings had gone on to become knights of renown or noblewomen of prestige.
The traditions were well-established…but conscience was a stronger force than any tradition.
Caitrin had been amenable to a long-term role as Accolon’s mistress, but in a fit of guilt, she had hanged herself in her room.
She had been three months pregnant.
Her death had shattered Accolon, who blamed himself. The prince had been inconsolable, and he had gone to the Monastery of St. Bartholomew, intending to take vows as a monk in penance for his lustful behavior and Caitrin’s death. For Arandar’s only son, the heir to the throne, to become a monk would be a disaster, but Arandar had let his son go. He thought the prince needed time to work through his grief before returning to Tarlion.
That had been four months ago, and Accolon had shown no signs of returning.
“What is there to be said?” said Accolon. “I sinned. I sinned grievously. I succumbed to the temptations of the flesh, and now I must live with the consequences. Caitrin killed herself out of shame. Her soul is damned as a suicide, and so is our child. That is my fault. Mine! Every day I pray to God to have mercy upon her and the child, and to forgive me for my sin, my most grievous sin…”
He trailed off, the haggard look on his face intensifying.
“Surely you do not doubt God’s forgiveness, Accolon?” said Caius, his voice gentle.
“No,” said Accolon, “but my sins were grievous, and…”
“God gives his mercy to all who repent and mend their ways,” said Caius. “Obviously you are repentant. I have seen few who were so remorseful. Perhaps the time has come to accept that forgiveness.”
“You didn’t see her,” said Accolon, shaking his head. “You didn’t see her hanging from that rafter, how her face had turned purple, how the tongue had swollen over her teeth…” He broke off. Ridmark had seen hanged men before, and he knew what they looked like. It was clear that Accolon had loved Caitrin, and to see a woman he loved meet such a death would have been a devasting blow.
A blow, perhaps, that had shattered his mind.
“You can’t blame yourself, lad,” said Kharlacht.
Accolon shook his head. “It was my sin, my sin that drove her to this.”
Kharlacht grunted. “Aye, that is so, but you were prepared to face the consequences. Would you have thrown her into the street? Would you have abandoned her to starve, her and the child?”
“Of course not,” said Accolon. “I had already spoken with Father. He wasn’t happy, but he understood. We would have given Caitrin a stipend and a place to live, and…”
“Then she chose to kill herself,” said Kharlacht. “Not you, lad. You didn’t tie the rope around her neck. She did that herself. You were responsible for putting the baby in her belly, aye, but you had owned up to that. You weren’t responsible for her death.”
“If I had not succumbed t
o my lust for her flesh,” said Accolon, “then she would be alive right now.”
There was no good answer to that.
“But is staying here will not help anything,” said Ridmark.
“I must pray,” said Accolon. “I must show penitence for my sin.”
“And what of your duties?” said Ridmark. “Your father needs your help, Accolon. There are many troubles in the realm.”
“He is better without my aid,” said Accolon. “Father is a wiser man than I am. He never succumbed to the sins of the flesh as I did. Better than he rule without my poisoned help.”
“And what about your sister?” said Ridmark. “Princess Nyvane? If you become a monk and renounce your title, she will be the heir to the throne. She will become High Queen when your father dies. Andomhaim has never been ruled by a High Queen, so she will likely be forced to wed. If she marries wrong, we could have another civil war, worse than before. Even if she keeps her throne, her foes might try to use you as a weapon against her.”
“It might…it might not…” started Accolon.
Ridmark looked him in the eye. “How will creating all these problems for your father and your sister show your penitence? How will abandoning your duties express a contrite heart? It seems to me that if you are truly repentant, you will take up your duties with new vigilance, rather than spending every day in prayer.”
Accolon hesitated. Ridmark saw the doubt on his face, the uncertainty, the grief. Then Accolon shook himself and stepped back.
“Thank you for coming to see me,” he said. “It was kind of you, truly. But forgive me. I must…I must pray. I must ask for forgiveness.”
With that, he turned, dropped back to his knees, and began muttering the prayer again.
Ridmark grimaced and tried to think of something else to say. But he saw that no words would reach Accolon in his current state. He beckoned to Kharlacht and Caius, and they walked from the church and back into the sunlight. Vegetius stood with the men-at-arms and the horses. It seemed the abbot’s courtesy did not extend to waiting for his guests’ departure.
Dragontiarna: Knights Page 7
