“Then you’ll spend some time with Bransen?”
“For you, pretty lady? Of course.”
Dame Gwydre leaned forward and kissed Jameston on the cheek then walked past him and out of the room.
For the first time in several days her smile was genuine.
H
e stood alone in the center of the circular room, but he did not bow his head. Nor did he remove his powrie beret, even after Father Premujon, after whispering with Father De Guilbe, ordered him to do so.
Instead, Cormack calmly looked over at Dame Gwydre and asked, “Is it required of me, in this, your chamber, to remove the cap?”
She shook her head. Cormack didn’t even bother to glance back at the monks.
From the front of the room, near the door (which was open so that many of Pellinor’s citizens could view the proceedings), Bransen watched it all with a grin and a growing respect for Cormack. The man was cool-headed, unconcerned, as if the monks could not truly touch him. They had whipped him near to death and cast him away in a rickety boat to die, and yet he had survived. Perhaps Gwydre was the source of his confidence—maybe she had told him that she would stand with him in these proceedings—but more likely, Bransen thought, Cormack would have acted no differently were this trial in the chapel and governed only by the two fathers.
They couldn’t touch him. Not truly. Even if they burned him at the stake, they couldn’t touch the soul of Cormack.
Premujon called upon Father De Guilbe to open the trial with an explanation of the man’s alleged crime. Bransen listened intently through it all, hearing of the battle at Chapel Isle, where the monks had “rescued” and were “saving” three wayward Alpinadorans when the barbarians came against them viciously. After days of successful defense and another prisoner taken and, De Guilbe declared, with the barbarians ready to break and retreat, Cormack had snuck into the room and ferried the Alpinadorans away, betraying the brotherhood, scorning his superiors, and condemning the four Alpinadorans to eternal damnation.
It was a rousing recanting, Bransen thought, if one were inclined to believe such things. Many in the room, monk and Vanguardsman alike, called for Cormack’s head. Of course, to Bransen the courageous actions only made Cormack more the hero.
Dame Gwydre wasted little time in quieting the ruckus and made it clear that she would tolerate no mob mentality here.
“Father De Guilbe,” she said, “it would appear that Brother Cormack—former Brother Cormack—did no more than to grant men their freedom. Were they, the Alpinadorans, incarcerated for any particular reason? Had they committed criminal acts against Chapel Isle?”
“They owed their lives to us,” said De Guilbe. “To Blessed Abelle. Only through the power of the gemstones did they draw breath, for we found them adrift on the lake, grievously—nay, mortally!—wounded.”
“But they wished to leave after you saved them?”
De Guilbe squared his shoulders and did not reply.
“Do you consider their incarceration their cost for your efforts, then?” Gwydre calmly asked.
“I had my charge from Father Artolivan of Chapel Abelle,” the man replied staunchly. “My Alpinadoran guests would have come to our way—perhaps they would have then become emissaries of the good word to the rest of their heathen folk. That is a more important healing than the closing of any physical wound.”
“The captured Alpinadorans would have come to Blessed Abelle?”
“They were not captured! They were saved! And yes!”
“Never!” a woman cried from the back of the room, directly opposite Cormack, and all eyes went to Milkeila. “Not like that,” she added quietly, speaking directly and in apologetic tone to Dame Gwydre.
“It is not your place to speak here,” Father De Guilbe said through gritted teeth.
“Unless Dame Gwydre requests it of you,” Dame Gwydre added, throwing a disdainful glance at De Guilbe. “And she does, Milkeila of Alpinador, so please, continue.” With a steadying deep breath and a nod at her husband, Milkeila stepped tentatively from the gathering.
“What do you know of this incident?” Dame Gwydre asked her directly. “Were you there?”
“I was among those attacking the chapel,” Milkeila admitted, and she looked to Cormack again. “Even as the man I love was defending it.”
“You admit to a crime punishable by death?” Father De Guilbe demanded.
Bransen put a hand near his sword without even thinking. As he considered his reflexive movement, he realized that if the monks moved against Milkeila here he would indeed draw on them and defend her.
“Continue without fear of retribution,” Dame Gwydre bade the woman. “You are charged with no crime and”—she paused to glower at De Guilbe—“you will not be.”
“Among the prisoners was a very powerful shaman of my people,” Milkeila explained, “one who would not even willingly accept their gemstone magic, even at the price of his own life.”
“And you, too, are a priest of that barbarian religion,” De Guilbe accused.
“No longer,” said Milkeila. “Like Cormack, I have come to see that neither side is right.”
That brought more than a few whispers around the room, particularly from the grumbling monks, but Gwydre again was quick to calm them.
“Father De Guilbe is wrong when he said that we were nearing the end of our assault,” Milkeila insisted.
“We were slaughtering you at our wall!” accused De Guilbe.
“We would have kept coming, to the last,” said Milkeila, talking directly to Gwydre and ignoring De Guilbe altogether. “Those prisoners were our brethren. We would not abandon them, whatever the cost. It is not our way. Which is why, when Bransen came to us with word of Ancient Badden even though I was out of favor with the leaders of Yan Ossum, all the tribes came together to defeat the wicked man.” She finally did turn to look at De Guilbe. “Unlike the brothers of Abelle, who ran away.”
The room seemed as if it would erupt.
And yet, again, the power of Dame Gwydre calmed it. She turned to De Guilbe. “Have you anything else, Father?”
“The disposition of the Alpinadoran converts is not your concern,” De Guilbe said firmly. “Nor are my orders regarding our stance against the tribes of Mithranidoon—we were at war with them for years before this incident. I saw the men we rescued as perhaps a mediation of that continuing conflict. But again, I need not explain myself to you in this matter. I was sent to Alpinador, a place outside Dame Gwydre’s province, by the Order of Blessed Abelle, acting upon lawful commands issued by Father Artolivan whose sovereignty in these matters Dame Gwydre and all the lairds acknowledge.”
De Guilbe leveled his gaze on Gwydre. “This man betrayed my orders, the lawful orders of the Order of Blessed Abelle, and by doing so endangered us all. It is as simple as that,” he insisted.
Bransen shifted uncomfortably as he studied Gwydre then, for he saw that the woman had little argument against the simple logic, however she might feel about the larger situation.
“Have you anything to say?” she asked Cormack. It seemed to Bransen as if she was begging the man to give her something, anything, to back down Father De Guilbe.
“Father De Guilbe was wrong and immoral in his actions,” Cormack replied without hesitation. “We had no right to hold the Alpinadorans.”
De Guilbe started to shout in protest, but Gwydre hushed him immediately.
“Father De Guilbe’s decision to hold the men in our dungeon brought actual war to us,” Cormack explained. “It is true that we had battled the barbarians on the lake for many months, but not lethally. Our fights were more gamesmanship than serious conflict, until that point. After the prisoners were taken, we were killing them at our wall and they were killing us—not as often, but we had fewer to spare. It wouldn’t have ended until one side or the other had been completely destroyed. I could not allow that insanity to continue. If the cost of that is my life, then so be it. I already accepted such a judgment from
Father De Guilbe, delivered to me by a brother who was as a mentor to me. I could not allow the killing, senseless and without gain to either side, to continue. I freed the prisoners, as Father de Guilbe charges. In the same situation I would do it again.”
Murmurs erupted about the room, some complimentary, some calling for Cormack’s death. Truly, Dame Gwydre seemed at a loss.
She was trapped here, Bransen realized. To go against the powerful Order of Abelle so openly as to intervene in their private matters would surely bring disaster to her holding.
“Would anyone else speak?” she asked, a plea if Bransen had ever heard one. He was about to answer that call when blind Brother Jond tapped his cane on the hard floor.
“I will,” he said. “I, who know you well, Dame Gwydre, and who went to Alpinador on your behalf to end the carnage of Ancient Badden.”
Gwydre’s smile showed her appreciation. “Please do.”
“I was not at the island, of course,” said Jond. “But I watched . . .” he chuckled at his choice of words, and many in the room joined him awkwardly. “With my ears I witnessed the efforts of Cormack against Ancient Badden: He was nothing short of courageous and valiant, fighting for Vanguard and for the good of us all. In the weeks that followed, I had many opportunities to speak with the man—brother to brother—and I find him to be of exemplary character and human decency.”
Reading De Guilbe’s furrowed brow, Bransen figured that if the father could have gotten away with it, he would have leaped upon Jond at that moment and choked the life from him.
“And with all respect to your office and judgment, Father De Guilbe,” Brother Jond added, “my heart grows heavy indeed to think that our beloved order has cast out a man of such fortitude and character.”
De Guilbe exploded, shouting at Brother Jond to remember his place, sit down, and shut up. Several monks joined in that chorus, filling the room with the buzz of excited titterings and whispers.
“I will speak for Cormack!” Bransen heard himself yelling above the din. The room quieted instantly, all eyes falling on the Highwayman, on the man who had killed Ancient Badden and delivered them from a horrendous war, on the man who had dropped Badden’s severed head in the road, a gift to their beloved Dame Gwydre. “I will echo Brother Jond’s words to a one, except to add that it does not surprise me to see the Order of Abelle so confused and wrongheaded regarding the disposition of an honest and decent man. Such a monk is a rare thing, I fear, and one who does not fit their tenets.”
Of course, that brought only more shouting and tumult, until finally Dame Gwydre managed to calm it down.
“You have no standing in this, Dame Gwydre,” Father De Guilbe pronounced once more. “This matter happened beyond Vanguard and within the domain of the Order of Blessed Abelle. Cormack is ours to discipline.”
“Cormack helped Vanguard win a war,” Gwydre reminded.
“Nonetheless, you know that I am correct.”
The dame rubbed her face, and Bransen held his breath. This was her place to take a stand, a brave one, or to fail, the Highwayman knew, and he sorely hoped that Gwydre would prove herself better than the typical self-serving coward he had come to expect from a laird.
“I will speak for Cormack!” exclaimed another voice, an unexpected source indeed. All eyes in the room, most notably those of Father De Guilbe and Cormack himself, fell to the speaker, Brother Giavno, Father De Guilbe’s second.
“This is madness wrought of foolish pride,” Giavno said to De Guilbe. “As our stand against the Alpinadorans was madness, and murderously so!”
“Brother!” De Guilbe shouted.
Giavno whirled to address Father Premujon. “Our time in Alpinador was trying,” he explained. “We lost men and good brothers to the weather and the beasts and, yes, to Alpinadorans. Worse still, we knew by the time we had arrived on the lake called Mithranidoon that our mission was futile. We were not going to convert any souls in that barbarian land.” He looked to De Guilbe and repeated, “We weren’t.
“I do not know if Cormack was right or wrong in what he did,” Giavno said in more humble and muted tones. “I do not know if Father De Guilbe acted wisely or acted the fool in keeping the Alpinadorans against their will. We punished Cormack for his betrayal. I beat him near to death with a scourge, and we cast him adrift on the lake to die. But he did not die. And how did he repay us for our punishment? By returning with that man, there”—he pointed to Bransen—“to warn us of impending doom. Were it not for them and for Milkeila and her people, Ancient Badden would have succeeded in dropping the edge of a great glacier into our lake, washing us all away to our certain deaths. Enough, please, Father Premujon. Let Cormack go.”
He looked to Cormack as he finished, tears in his eyes. “I am proud to say that this man was once my friend and sorry to admit that I failed him miserably.”
Again the whispering erupted, more muted and with many heads nodding. Bransen, as surprised as any, watched Dame Gwydre intently. She looked to Father Premujon; the two shared telling nods.
After a long while, Gwydre asked, “Are you satisfied, Father Premujon?”
“I am,” he replied.
“Father De Guilbe claims this situation a matter of the Order of Blessed Abelle. Despite my strong feelings here I am forced to agree,” Dame Gwydre admitted.
Many around the room gasped, but Bransen grinned and nodded, fully expecting what was forthcoming.
“Then I would argue that Cormack is no brother of the Order of Abelle, that his title was lawfully stripped by a man empowered to do so,” said Premujon. “When he was put in that boat and cast adrift he became the charge of Dame Gwydre and not of Father Artolivan or his emissaries.”
“But I defer to you, for your guidance, at least,” said Gwydre.
With a look to Father De Guilbe that was part apology, part exasperation, Father Premujon said, “We have had our justice on the brother, Cormack. It is up to Dame Gwydre to decide whether his actions merit further punishment or celebration. I have witnessed the cost of this war with the evil Ancient Badden for many months now, my good lady. I would counsel you to leniency at the least.”
“Go free, Cormack,” Dame Gwydre pronounced immediately. “With my great, great appreciation for your heroic efforts against the most evil Ancient Badden.”
The room exploded into cheers, but Bransen watched Father De Guilbe. He even walked among the throng swarming Cormack, veering to be near to De Guilbe so that he could hear the man say to Premujon, “Father Artolivan will hear of this.”
“Oh, he will, indeed,” the father of Chapel Pellinor replied.
Bransen laughed, and both men regarded him. He almost mentioned that more monks like Premujon, Cormack, and Jond might make him rethink the value of the Order of Blessed Abelle, but he merely tapped his finger to his black bandanna—his head wrap which held the soul stone Cormack had given to him (and the irony of that pleased him all the more)—and turned and walked away.
T
he snow fell heavily in spurts this day, but there was little breeze and the temperature was pleasingly moderate, leaving the air dancing with large, lazily drifting flakes. Unlike most winter Vanguard storms, it was not a day where one had to remain huddled beside a fire, though surely many chose that route.
Dame Gwydre, wrapped in a dark blue shawl, was glad to be out, feeling very much like a little girl in a friendly snowstorm. Walking beside her, Bransen was similarly at ease. He had known much snow in Pryd, of course, but there was something very different about the Vanguard winter, something . . . cleaner. In Pryd, the snow came and melted and left a muddy mess repeatedly, but up here, once the snow landed on the ground, it stayed throughout the winter season.
“I trust you are enjoying your stay at Castle Pellinor,” Gwydre said. “I have been so busy of late that I have had little time to look in on you and your lovely family.”
Bransen continued to look at his companion curiously for a short while, still unsure of why Gwydre had bad
e him, in no uncertain terms, to come outside and walk with her this afternoon. “We have never been more comfortable, of course,” he answered, but with clear hesitancy in his voice, which drew a knowing grin from Gwydre.
“Always expecting the mule’s arse rent, yes?” the Lady of Vanguard teased.
Bransen stared at her, mouth hanging open as if he had no idea of how to respond.
“You don’t know that old saying?” Gwydre asked.
“The mule’s arse rent?”
Dame Gwydre laughed at him. “Mules are frustrating creatures, particularly if you have one you don’t know well. The mule’s arse rent is the extra and unanticipated cost of renting such a beast when it is returned with boot prints on its arse.”
Bransen just stood there, gaping.
“An old saying, is all,” said Gwydre. “Or is it my use of the crude term that surprises you?”
“You constantly surprise me, Lady Gwydre.”
“Good!”
Bransen laughed helplessly.
“To my point, though,” Gwydre continued, “you fear that I have some ulterior designs in bringing you here—even above hoping that you would speak for Cormack at Father De Guilbe’s spectacle.”
Bransen arched a brow. “The possibility has crossed my mind.”
“You do not trust me.”
“I . . . it’s not . . .” Bransen stumbled.
“You have every right to be suspicious,” Gwydre conceded. “My man Dawson deceived you initially to trick you to Vanguard, and I demanded of you that you fight on my behalf.”
“I understand now that you had little choice,” said Bransen. “After meeting Ancient Badden, I better understand your desperation.”
“And you forgive me?”
Now it was Bransen’s turn to laugh. “Forgive you? You saved my life in tricking me here. I understand that.”
“So we are friends?”
“Of cour—” Bransen started to say, but he suddenly felt as if he was walking into another trap here. He stopped abruptly and stared hard at Dame Gwydre, who burst out laughing.
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