That brought everything back to the same question. Why would the Church have anything to do with a spirit like the Ghost? They should do any number of things that they had not; and should not be doing any number of things that they were.
She rolled over and poked her nose through the curtains on the wagon-side of the bed. Jonny was fitting a small pile of silver coins_the last, from the look of things_into the hem of the curtain above the sink. That was one of the caches she already knew about, and as he caught the sound of the bed creaking, he turned and grinned at her.
"All hidden?" she asked. He nodded.
"Its ab-bout noon," he told her. "If w-we move out n-now, w-we should b-be at the Abbey b-by sunset."
She nodded, and swung her legs down over the side of the bed, pushing the bed-curtains back to either side. "And you think we should go there. You think that we might find something out about this vendetta the Church seems to have with us?" she asked, as her bare feet hit the wooden floor with a dull thump.
He handed her a wooden comb, and cut bread and cheese while she washed her face and dealt with the tangle of her hair. "Th-the Gh-ghost made a p-point of m-mentioning it," he said, thoughtfully. "L-like he c-couldn't t-talk about s-something, b-but w-was trying t-to g-give us a c-clue."
"Hmm." She accepted bread-and-cheese with a nod of thanks. "There is something very strange going on here," she observed. "Do you remember, when I was describing how Nightingale went off towards Kingsford and I said we were looking towards Gradford, he said that we were likelier to find the source of our troubles than she was?"
'"M-more l-likely to b-bear fruit,' he said," Kestrel agreed. "I d-don't know whether he m-meant the Abbey or G-Gradford, b-but I th-think we n-need to s-stop at the Abbey."
"It's a start," Gwyna replied, popping the last of her breakfast into her mouth, and licking a crumb of cheese from her thumb. "You know the proverb. 'Soonest begun, is soonest done.' Right?"
Kestrel kissed her nose, and gave her a playful shove in the direction of the drivers seat. As she crawled over the bed, she saw that he had already harnessed the horses, and turned the wagon so that it faced down the hill.
"Right" he agreed. "And y-you d-drive! I w-was up early, and I n-need a n-n-nap!"
Jonny had learned long ago the art of sleeping in odd places and under adverse conditions. A swaying, jostling wagon was no impediment to his drifting off to sleep. He had expected nightmares, or at the least, dreams troubled by the Ghost, but he slept deeply and soundly, and there was nothing to trouble his sleep. He woke shortly before suppertime.
He exchanged places with Gwyna, driving while she rummaged around in their stores for something for them both to eat that was not bread-and-cheese. While he recalled only too well the days when he would have been happy to eat bread-and-cheese for a month running, those days were in the past, and if he had a choice, well, the same food for three meals in a row was not going to be his choice.
This was true wilderness, except for the occasional sheep-farm, and by the rocky condition of the hillsides, he wasn't too surprised. Soil here was too thin to farm or graze; basically the only growing things keeping these hillsides from being completely barren were specialized plants suited to driving their roots into rock and holding tight. Two or three kinds of trees, wiregrass, lichen, moss, and some tough bushes; that was about it. Small wonder there were no people out here_the Ghost was hardly to blame for the condition of the land.
Funny, he thought. Somehow, though, this looks like land that's been worn out, as if people were here a long time ago, but exhausted the soil so much that it couldn't support anything but this wilderness again.
Well, that could be. Alanda was a strange world, and there were places in it like this, side-by-side with rich and virgin land, or a place like the stronghold of the Deliambrens. Maybe there had been people here, just after the Cataclysm_and maybe they had depended heavily on things coming from far outside because they had depleted their own land so much. And after the Cataclysm, when "outside" wasn't there anymore_they had died off, or gone elsewhere, leaving behind the land to recover on its own.
He shook himself out of his reverie as Gwyna reappeared with dinner for both of them. Speculation about the past was all very well, but at the moment he was perfectly willing to put such thoughts aside to concentrate on driving and dinner.
It was to be bread again, but this time with sausage, and an apple apiece. They thriftily saved out the seeds to be given to the owner of the next Waymeet; every Waymeet had some sort of orchard, planted from the seeds the Gypsies brought with them. So you might find apple trees growing side-by-side with Deliambren pares, Mintak tiers, and Likonian severins. Quite often fruits thought to be delicate turned out to thrive in unlikely climates, at least under the careful tending of the Gypsies.
"That's the last of the loaf," Robin told him, as she handed him his dinner through the hatchway. "At least we ate it before it went dry. How's the road?"
"Interesting," he replied, taking a bite. "W-well k-kept."
It was, too; one of the reasons why Gwyna hadn't been tossed all over the wagon while he negotiated potholes and pits. The road had been very carefully patched and graded, and that recently.
She poked her head out, then clambered over the ledge into her seat. "You're right!" she exclaimed. "Now why keep up a road that only leads to a dangerous pass and a nothing little village?'
Kestrel shrugged. "D-don't r-read t-t-too much into it," he cautioned her. "C-could j-just b-be the S-Sire d-doing his r-r-road d-duty r-right. After all, w-we w-were j-just c-complaining that th-the last S-Sire wasn't d-doing his d-duty on the r-roads. So n-no p-point in r-reading something into it wh-when th-the S-Sire's a g-good one."
"It could be, you're right." She settled beside him with her arm around his waist, and smiled up at him. He smiled back and caught her hand in his; a small hand, but very strong, with callouses on the fingers where only a musician would have them. A proper hand, to match the proper lady. Just being with her made him feel so warm_needed and wanted.
Being best friends is the only way to be lovers, he decided, as she rested her head against his shoulder. Staying best friends is the only way to be married.
"I th-think the Abbey isn't t-too far," he said, as shadows deepened under the trees, and the skies above the branches turned crimson and gold. "The n-next v-valley, m-maybe."
His guess was correct; as they topped the hill and looked down into the shallow valley stretching below them, it was obvious that they were back in some vestige of civilization. The leafless trees of an orchard lined both sides of the road, immaculately tended. And as the horses stretched their necks out with interest, the sound of bells ringing for evening services drifted clearly up the road.
He flicked the reins to get the horses moving again, for at the sound of the bells they stopped, their ears flicking forward nervously. Long shadows already filled the valley, and as they moved down the hill and went from the last light into evening's mist and blue dusk, the temperature dropped perceptibly. Gwyna huddled against him for warmth as well as companionship, and he shivered as a chill breeze cut through his shirt.
Once they were beneath the trees, they saw the lights of the Abbey shining up ahead of them, at the side of the road. There didn't appear to be any activity at all around it, which was a little odd.
Well, their harvest is obviously over. There's no real reason for anyone to be moving around at sunset, not when they just rang the bells for evening prayers.
The Abbey was fairly small, a complex of two or three buildings surrounded by a stone wall with a heavy wooden gate in the front. Trees grew right up against it, however, and Kestrel could only look at them wryly and remember a certain small boy who had found walls to be no hindrance as long as there were trees nearby. Presumably many generations of novices here had discovered the same truth.
He pulled the wagon up to the gate, handed the reins to Gwyna, and jumped down to knock for admission.
It opened
immediately; there was a lantern just outside, and the light fell on a sour-faced Brother in a dull gray robe, who scowled at him as if Kestrel was personally responsible for everything that was wrong with the world. The man had the soft, ink-stained hands of a scholar, and a squint that suggested many hours spent in a library bending over half-legible manuscripts. His mouth was framed with frown lines, and his jowls quivered when he spoke.
"What do you want?" His voice was not pleasant; a harsh and untrained croak. Kestrel smiled encouragingly, and shyly. He tried a ploy that had worked with other officious, self-important men in the past; to look as harmless and humble as possible. This was the one time his stutter might be useful.
He bobbed his head, submissively. "W-we are t-t-travelers, sir, and w-we are s-seeking sh-shelter f-from the c-c-creatures of the n-night w-within the w-walls of the_"
The Brother did not even give him a chance to finish his sentence. "Be off with you!" he growled. "This is no hostel, and we do not take in any ne'er-do-well who comes requesting shelter! This is a holy order of recluses. We have chosen to leave the world and all the sin within it. We sought to leave such as you in our past, not to open our gates to you!".
"B-b-but _" Kestrel began; shocked as well as puzzled by the Gatekeeper's vehemence. He hadn't said or done anything to warrant such a reaction. The man acted as if they were dressed in rags and covered in filth, yet the wagon was quite clearly visible from the gate, and it was just as clear that they were not penniless wanderers. He had never yet met a Churchman who could resist the possibility of a donation.
Except that it seemed this Brother-Gatekeeper most certainly could and would. "Be off!" he repeated, raising his voice. "No one is allowed within these walls but the Brothers. No one! Find yourself some other shelter _vagabonds and mountebanks are not welcome here!"
And before Kestrel could get another word out, the Gatekeeper slammed the gate shut, right in his face.
He turned, slowly, and walked the few steps back to the wagon, to join Gwyna, who was just as surprised as he was. "What was that all about?" she asked, a little dazed. "What on earth made him say those things? Was he quite mad?"
He shrugged. "At l-least he d-d-didn't f-forbid us to c-c-camp up against the w-w-walls," he pointed out. "Th-there m-might b-be a w-w-well or a s-stream where w-we c-can g-get w-w-water."
He took the halter of the horse nearest him and led it off the road, onto the grassy area surrounding the walls of the Abbey, and beyond the circle of light cast into the blue dusk by the lantern beside the gate. Gwyna sat on the seat of the wagon, shaking her head. "I have no idea what could have set him off like that," she observed, dispassionately. "You were the essence of politeness_he was the one who was rude. And every single Abbey I have ever seen or heard of has always been willing to take in a traveler or two, especially in the wilderness like this. This is very strange."
He noticed that she was pitching her voice to carry, as if she was speaking to an audience, and he grinned to himself. If Gwyna had her way, her voice would drift right over the walls and just might reach the ears of someone who cared a little more than the Gatekeeper what a couple of "vagabonds and mountebanks" thought of this Abbey.
On the back side of the walls, he found the rear gate, and the path the Brothers took to the orchards and to a small vegetable garden. There was a well beside the garden, as he had hoped there would be; he picketed the horses a little way away from it, in an area where there was some grazing, and left them water and grain to augment the grass.
As he worked, he took in what he could of the area around the walls. The place was unnervingly ordered, especially in comparison with the country they had just passed through. The garden had been thoroughly plowed up for winter, leaving not a trace of whatever vegetables had been growing there. He had no clue what variety of tree grew in this orchard of theirs; the thrifty monks had left not so much as a windfall fruit underneath them, and without leaves it was impossible to make any accurate guess as to what they were growing here. While he took care of the horses, Gwyna bustled about the wagon, preparing dinner, heating water for washing, setting up a picture-perfect campsite...
Too perfect, he realized after a moment. This was not like the Gypsy Robin he knew! And he grinned again as he saw what she was up to. She was acting in every way like a proper little wife, a well-trained trader's wife who was a good Church-going woman and a lady who knew her proper place. There was nothing to show that they were Gypsies and Free Bards, and not ordinary, middle-class traders. And if the Free Bards were in disfavor with the Church, the traveling traders were not.
So, they would look like traders; industrious, God-worshiping traders, eh? He silently congratulated Gwyna on her cleverness, and did his best to emulate her, right down to shoving their instruments into hiding when he returned to the wagon. Just in case whoever showed up next from the Abbey happened to look inside the wagon.
There would be someone; Gwyna had made certain of that, not only by her words, but by the busy clatter she made with her pots and pans.
But they were left in peace to wash up and eat that hot dinner she had prepared so carefully, and he began to wonder if this Abbey was inhabited by nobody but a single, mad old man. But just as full darkness fell, the expected visitor arrived.
They didn't even notice him, he moved so quietly, with hardly even a swish of his robe against the grass. There were no twigs beneath the branches of these trees to betray him by snapping unexpectedly underfoot; the ground had been swept as clean as the floor in a house. In fact, when the man cleared his throat to announce his presence, he succeeded in startling both of them.
They looked up, to see him standing just within the light of their fire, a thin, diffident man with a pleasant expression and shy eyes. "Oh!" the Brother said, immediately apologetic, and hurrying forward into the light of their fire. "I'm so sorry, I certainly didn't mean to frighten you! I thought you knew I was there! Please, forgive me!"
Kestrel had been sitting beside the fire; he stood immediately, and went to meet the Brother, holding out his hand, which the man took in a firm and friendly clasp. "N-no offense. J-just d-didn't notice you. M-my n-name is J-J-Jonny B-Brede, good s-sir," he said, concentrating on speaking slowly and rhythmically as Harperus had instructed him. "M-my w-wife G-Gwyna and I are t-traders."
"And not vagabonds and mountebanks, I know," the Brother said, pulling back the cowl of his gray robe so that they could better see his ascetic, but friendly face and his apologetic smile. "I hope you will find it in your heart to forgive Brother Pierce; he is old, often ill, and altogether very unhappy. Life has not treated him well. Most of the Brothers here are not like him."
Kestrel returned his smile. "Well, I c-c-can s-see th-that you aren't, at any r-rate... B-Brother... ?"
"Oh! Ah! Brother Reymond, Trader Brede," the Brother replied, his smile widening when Jonny did not meet his friendly overture with a rejection. "I am the Abbey Librarian, and I wanted to apologize for the fact that we simply have no room for you and your wife. That is why Brother Pierce has been instructed to tell travelers we can take no one in. Every cell is occupied, we have no guest rooms, and since our order has taken a vow to use no beast of burden, we have not even a stable you might shelter in. I also wished to be certain that you were warned about the dangers hereabouts."
"Dangers?" Jonny looked around, nonplused. This certainly didn't look like a very dangerous area_
But on the other hand, this Abbey was a small island in the middle of the wilderness. They had been lucky so far; there was no telling what wandered under the branches of these trees once darkness fell.
"I fear so _" Brother Reymond had the grace to look guilty. "Of course, to experienced travelers like you and your wife, these things are likely to be no more than an inconvenience."
"Why don't you tell us what they are, first, before we decide," Gwyna said dryly from her place beside the fire. "Perhaps we ought to move on, after all."
"Oh no!" the Brother said, paling
. "No, you don't want to do that! There's a Beguiler about, perhaps more than one! What if it found you on the road?"
Jonny shrugged; that was not a threat he took seriously, since they had a wagon to sleep in. Beguilers couldn't get into a closed wagon. Then I s-suppose we'd d-drown," he replied lightly.
Beguilers were creatures that hypnotized their victims, then lured them into swamps to fall into deep water. Once their victims were safely dead, they feasted on the remains. They cast their "spell" with a combination of sound and light; if you saw them but did not hear them, you were safe enough, and if you heard but did not see them, it was possible to remain in control of yourself. Most often they caught unwary travelers who mistook the light for the lantern of a house or wagon, and were then lulled by the Beguiler's humming to their death. It was not too difficult to evade them, if you knew they were around.
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