“I do apologize once again for barging in on the meal like this—particularly to you, Reverend Lady,” Otho directed to their guest. “But I wanted to catch you before you left with too light an escort.”
Abbess Elisabeth was pale—and no wonder. “It was just the one man, you say? None else were killed? The villeins harmed no one else?”
“Well, what they did to the one man was quite enough.” Otho sat down to the board, gratefully filled his platter from the tray his wife handed him. The hounds that looked to him in particular settled down for the wait—now that the excitement of greeting was over, they’d get their share in time. “The man was found near the southern tree verge, staked out like a goat left for wolf-bait. They’d mutilated him.”
A harsh intake of breath from Alais.
“Good Lord.” The Abbess crossed herself.
Gamelyn focused on the bits of sausage baked into the bread, found that he was getting less hungry by the moment.
“Otho.” Sir Ian gave low rebuke. As Otho looked down, uncomfortable, Sir Ian continued, “When I asked for details, I did not think you would be heedless amongst our womenfolk.”
“Heedless, perhaps, but necessary, Uncle.” The Abbess folded her hands on the table, set a level gaze on Otho. “I would know. Was there more?”
Otho did not cease looking uncomfortable. “There was. It was a pagan thing, some sort of ritual. Or so your woman—your seneschal?—confirmed.”
“Sister Deirdre.” The Abbess nodded. “She knows much of these things. She once belonged to one of the pagan cults, before she saw the evil of her ways and came to the Church for absolution.”
“You have one who was a witch in your retinue, Niece?” Sir Ian seemed taken aback.
“If a soul wishes to repent, should I deny them the way to God?” the Abbess pointed out. “She does good work in my service, knows from experience how to interpret the ways of the demon worshippers. Deirdre has even made it possible to bring such as do not repent to justice.”
“She turned on her own?” Gamelyn hadn’t meant to ask it aloud, was sorry he had as Abbess Elisabeth’s gaze turned to him.
“Once she chose to walk in light instead of darkness, they were no longer ‘her own’, as you say.” The Abbess’s tone was indulgent, but uncompromising for all that. “Cousin Gamelyn, you speak with kindness in your heart, but it is misguided. When someone is relentless in their pursuit of evil, often there is no hope for them outside Heaven. Or Hell.”
Gamelyn put his gaze back to his half-eaten loaf.
“Well,” Otho continued, making inroads upon his own meal, “your man was left surrounded by some sort of markings. Runes, your acolyte called them. She would not read them aloud, but said they had to do with betrayal and revenge.” He chewed, swallowed, took a quaff of wine then added, “They’d circled him in salt. Even I know what that means.”
“What does it mean?” Gamelyn asked and, from the table’s end, Johan snorted.
“And you’re supposedly the bookish one. Salt is for purification, little prat.”
“Johan,” Sir Ian rumbled. “We have guests.”
Gamelyn glared at Johan, who winked at him and turned back to his plate.
“Well,” Otho put in, “Sister Deirdre seemed to think it meant something else as well. Your man,” he told the Abbess, “also had an oddly fletched arrow in his throat.”
“Oddly fletched?” Sir Ian queried, cutting an apple into quarters. He offered one to Gamelyn.
Otho nodded and took a gulp of wine. “Peacock fletching.”
Gamelyn dropped the apple quarter amidst the rushes on the floor. One of the hounds leapt on it, then gave a growl upon discovering it was fruit, not meat.
“Take care, lad,” his father said. “Have another.”
“I doubt it would fly,” Johan put in.
“Oh, they do.” Gamelyn spoke before he thought.
“You barely know your way about a crossbow, let alone a peasant’s weapon,” Johan dismissed.
For once, Gamelyn was glad of that dismissal.
“This was no mere peasant’s weapon. It had all sorts of witch-marks on it,” Otho said, then shuddered and crossed himself. “An evil thing, and no question.”
“Not only murder, but sorcery.” The Abbess was grave. “God will punish them.”
“I do not think Nottingham’s sheriff is one who will rely solely on God.” Otho picked at a tooth with the fine point of his knife. “He vowed to find the man—or men, both of them were gone by morning—and see their heads on his gate.”
“Sheriff FitzAaron was detailed to greet me and formally assign some of his men to the Abbey,” Elisabeth mused. “But I did not expect him so soon. What a cold welcome for him.”
“He just arrived this morning. Just in time, at that. FitzAaron is a ruthless one, my lady; he’ll see the deed done.”
“Cousin, please.” The Abbess had a lovely smile, no question. “We’re all family here; no need to stand on ceremony.”
“Speaking of ceremony….” Johan attempted a drink from his goblet, frowned as it proved empty, and held it up as a servant quickly poured more. “You had that head forester here, Papa. Gave him your hospitality, fed and housed him as well as his scrawny brat and their rounceys. Pity he’s not still here. You could have held him to account.”
“How is it his fault?” Gamelyn protested.
“Not his fault, certainly.” Otho shrugged. “But ’neath his account, since ’twas his man did the deed.”
“My responsibilities do not extend to holding one of the king’s foresters to account. Nor do yours,” Sir Ian pointed out.
“Surely it is the responsibility of any good man to hold an evil one to account,” was Abbess Elisabeth’s soft rebuke.
“Of course,” Sir Ian relented, “you are correct.”
“But they did nothing!” Gamelyn insisted. “It was their companions who did evil.”
“Are we not our brother’s keeper?” Johan misquoted softly, flipping his eating knife through his fingers and looking directly at Gamelyn.
No fear. The voice floated up through Gamelyn’s consciousness. They’ll only sense it, and then you’re nowt to them….
“So if your brother does something idiotic,” he challenged, “then you should be made to suffer for it for no other reason than he’s kin to you?”
“I do,” Johan drawled. “All the time.”
“Lads!” Sir Ian growled. “How many times must I remind you we have a guest? This is the dinner board, not the armaments practice alcove.”
“You’re sure of that?” Otho scoffed. “The entire castle’s a bloody war zone between these two—”
“Otho!” Alais protested. Then, “You see, honored Cousin, what family ties have landed you into.”
Elisabeth laughed. “I have four brothers, Cousin Alais. I’ve no doubt your husband’s siblings are minding themselves.”
Otho snorted, kept eating. He bit into a piece of meat, grimaced at it, then tossed it over his shoulder. The hounds leapt upon it with delight—and noisy squabbles.
“True enough,” Sir Ian concurred. “But for now, Niece, you must allow us to ensure your safety. I know you had planned upon continuing to Worksop today, but I must insist that you delay your trip”—he held up a veined hand as she started to speak—“until at least the morrow.”
“The sheriff insists as well,” Otho said. “FitzAaron is detailing soldiers to meet us at the Nottinghamshire side of Tickhill; he’d come to Blyth proper if he had Yorkshire in his jurisdiction as well as Derbyshire.” A grin. “He and our sheriff don’t see eye to eye on much. If that villein disappears east into the Peak instead of south and the Shire Wode, Nottingham will get little help from de Lisle.”
Sir Ian started to speak; Gamelyn watched as he caught the Abbess’s eye, gave a slight smile.
“I think he might in this case,” Elisabeth said, then also smiled, dipped her head to Sir Ian. “You forget, dear cousins, that Yorkshire’s sherif
f is also family. Brian de Lisle is one of my brothers.”
PEACOCK FLETCHING.
Peacock fletching.
Gamelyn had fully intended to head straight to the library after the meal. Instead he had come as far as the door out into the courtyard, seen the commotion there—soldiers gathering gear and getting ready for their escort duty on the morrow—and parked his buttocks in the window next to that door to watch.
And cool off. He was still worked up from the exchange with Johan, the unfairness of those assumptions, and….
The peacock-fletched arrow.
A “luck charm,” Marion had said, as lightly as if she were discussing the fortune of a hare’s foot, or cold iron over the doorsill to keep the fae from entering. But when she’d shot it, the thing had indeed proven remarkably accurate.
It couldn’t have been the same arrow. But… for her people, she’d said. Her family? The people of Loxley? The forest people?
Christ’s blood, he might as well say Rob was indeed that demon lad he’d first thought him, and that his family was of the fae!
There was no help for it. Gamelyn would have to brave that crowded courtyard and do some reading. Figure this all out. Shinnying from the windowsill, he halted, looked across the courtyard to the stout door leading to the library, and frowned. There had to be a way to ask Brother Dolfin about the arrow without involving Rob and Marion. Dolfin already knew some of it; unavoidable, since he heard Gamelyn’s confession, mostly to do with lying to his family about why he went to Loxley.
Gamelyn’s cheeks heated. Considering last night, his confession was entirely overdue as it was. Not that he truly wanted to contemplate any of that just now….
“Cousin?”
Gamelyn started, gathered up his vagrant thoughts, and turned. The Abbess was gliding down the hall toward him, the seemingly ubiquitous and silent novice several steps behind, like a gray ghost. “Reverend Lady,” he acknowledged, dipping his head.
“Come, Cousin Gamelyn, please. We’re all family here. No need to be so formal.” There was a smile on her face as she came to stand beside him. “Did I disturb you? You seemed lost in thought.”
“I was thinking, but you didn’t disturb me.”
“Were you, perhaps, going into the courtyard?”
Gamelyn hesitated, then nodded. After all, to reach the library one did have to cross the courtyard.
“Excellent! I find that my digestion improves if I take a walk after mealtime. Would you consent to accompany me, show me around your home while I am waiting for your brother to gather suitable chaperonage for my departure?”
“I….” He was quite used to the presence of important strangers—but this was different. Somehow. “I would be honored, Reverend Lady.”
“Cousin, please.”
“Cousin.”
They walked out into the bustle. There were a few clouds that the previous day’s gusts hadn’t blown away, but mostly sun warmed the cobbles—a nice change from the dreary past days. As they picked their way around people organizing saddles, weaponry and the kit that accompanied every escort—even one of a half day’s ride at the most—Gamelyn pointed out some of the more important points. The well. The weavers and dyers who had set up a thriving business in a remarkably short time. The smith and his very valuable forge. It was a good way to occupy his attention other than with what he might not know until he got another chance to go to Loxley. This time, with more care than ever.
“I must confess, I had an ulterior motive in wanting your company, Gamelyn.”
It sent a tiny thrill of apprehension down his spine. Surely it was a guilty and hypersensitive conscience that suggested she knew, somehow, where his thoughts had been circling.
“Your father spoke to me last night about your interests. He was hoping I could aid you.”
Interests. Again, the apprehension. Why should he ’ware her questions? Rob and his father were innocents run afoul of a renegade in their ranks. And the enchantment that surrounded the forester’s cottage, Eluned’s talents and Rob’s… oddities… had nothing to do with the sorts of paganism and blasphemy that the renegades had put into practice. Perhaps Rob and his family were… Heathens. But crofters’ ignorance did not mean witchcraft. Surely arrows fletched with peacock feathers weren’t all spelled to some arcane evil.
And surely there was no way she could know what he had seen last night, or the unseemly interest it had held for him.
Abbess Elisabeth was peering at him with her lovely, too discerning dark eyes. They were merely deep brown, but reminded him, sudden and disturbing, of the canniness in Rob’s black ones.
“Wh-what interests?” he asked.
“In a holy vocation?” Her smile broadened and she put caressing fingers to the cross at her breast. “Why, are there others I should know about?”
This time, apprehension ramped itself into result. The remarkable self-control that had done Gamelyn justice in his dealings with Johan clicked into abrupt use, bringing with it a surety that he gathered about him like a fine-spun cloak. “Ah, of course. I’m afraid I was letting my mind wander. Sometime when one woolgathers it’s hard to catch back up.”
“Indeed. I’m sure you’ve done this tour more than the once, and you’re young enough—intelligent enough—to be easily bored. Let me attempt to occupy your thoughts for a bit.” Another smile, and charmed, Gamelyn smiled back.
“Your father was right to confide in me, Cousin. If you feel that you have a vocation, I could be of some help to you in your pursuit of a good position. You seem a fine, thoughtful young man. Your father says that you read to him often, and have a fine hand, take his letters for him. You have been a dutiful son, a respectful prop and stay for him in his illness.”
Gamelyn couldn’t help the pleased smile that quirked at his mouth.
“But it is not wrong to think about the future. Uncle Ian has lived a righteous, full life, and as saddening as it is to those of us he will leave behind, ‘all flesh is grass’—”
“‘And all the glory thereof as the flower of the held’,” Gamelyn finished softly. It put an ache in his throat—he did not want to think of his father dying, not yet. Surely he still had some time.
“Even so,” she replied. “You are quite surprising, young sir. Not many lads your age know Isaiah that well.”
“Actually I usually prefer the New Testament to the Old,” Gamelyn confessed. “But the language in this particular quote is all the finer, I think.”
“And he knows the difference!” the Abbess marveled. “Do you know the Latin, then?”
“Of course. ‘Vox dicentis clama et dixi quid clamabo omnis caro faenum et omnis gloria eius quasi flos agri’.”
“‘Of course’.” The Abbess chuckled. “And not without a little pride, I see.”
Gamelyn flushed again, apologized. “Brother Dolfin is always saying my pride will be the death of me—”
“Yet to develop any talent adequately, one must realize one’s own worth, otherwise risk squandering such God-given gifts. Great goals must have great aims.” She peered at him for a moment. “I’m afraid I must agree with your elder brother in one thing, however.”
“Johan?”
“Indeed. He thinks you have not the makings of a soldier.” Her gaze slid to him as he stiffened, albeit slightly. “My agreement has a different taste, however. It would be a shame for a brain such as yours to be wasted in battle.”
It sent another flush of satisfaction through him. A welcome sensation, that; there were, in truth, very few times he could grasp this sort of pleasure. Often there was a pure and unsullied lifting in his heart when he gave himself to prayer. Reading a beautiful and complex turn of phrase seemed to set soft, powerful music in his heart and mind. Of course, the short, snatched moments he had with Rob and Marion in the green Wode, often in quiet companionship, and….
He halted mid-step, jolted by what had next come to his mind. It was only yesterday, the memory: Rob’s prickles and pride turned to a nurturi
ng quiet so rarely displayed, the feel of his callused, slender fingers smoothing against Gamelyn’s face, the….
The lovely-wild grace of Rob’s throat, bared to the moonlight, submitting to the stable lad’s caresses….
Oh, God! Gamelyn commanded his thoughts to restraint—unaccountably successful—for the Abbess didn’t ken that a new, even more disturbing truth had taken him. Neither was the novice even bothering to heed him; she walked, head down, lost in her own contemplations. Probably prayer, and Gamelyn envied her, sudden and strong and no matter that it was as great a sin as any lust. The novice looked at peace, contented, untrammeled. Untouched.
Gamelyn gave a tiny start as the Abbess put a concerned hand on his arm, but she paid no heed, merely continuing her statements.
“Elder siblings are always keen to assert their rights, Gamelyn. Uncle Ian loves you dearly and Johan views that as a threat. I would heed that as a warning, and think not too long upon your future. The Church would welcome a young man such as you.” She smiled, gave his arm a pat, and continued on. “And of course, with the financial support your father promises to you, in addition to my sponsorship, you would find your way to a very fair situation.
“Now, would you show me the stables? I like my palfrey overmuch, I fear, and saved some roots from the table for her.”
Glad for the distraction, Gamelyn gestured and led the way. He’d taken merely a few steps when he realized the barn was where Rob had… touched him.
Gamelyn tucked the sudden tremble of his hands into his tunic sleeves and kept walking. He knew his cheeks were heating again, and for no good reason. This was not pleasure… not exactly… nor was it pain… at least he didn’t think it was, though there did seem to be something hurtful in it. It was something else entirely. Something that he couldn’t easily classify and didn’t understand at all.
Dutiful, he saw the Abbess and her silent companion to the stable, and did not—did not—go anywhere near the stable lad’s cot. Then he retreated to the silent stacks of the library behind the chapel.
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