“But I would suggest that, being a disobedient and wayward son as of late, you do your father’s bidding in this.” The black-veiled head tilted. “It is, after all, most possible that Brother Dolfin will not be here much longer.”
“You cannot!”
“I?” the Abbess shrugged. “It is not I who am responsible for any of this. Your actions are what have brought many things to heel.” She leaned just that much too close. “How many more lives must be set askew by your weakness, Gamelyn?”
Had she been a wily poacher, she could not have garroted him with a more skillful hand. He literally had no words, just stood there, quivering and staring at her and feeling the bottom drop out from beneath him….
“We will bring you back.” Her whisper wafted across his cheeks, a faint scent of almonds. “You have wandered far, but not so far that you cannot repent. We will glean the poison from your veins just as we took the poison from your father’s bedside—”
Words came, suddenly and furious. “That’s a lie. You know it’s a lie. Eluned never would have poisoned him. He was doing well enough. If you had just left it, let him have the comfort of the simples Eluned brought for him—”
“The enchantment is strong, I see.” Tucking her skirts about her, Elisabeth turned, moved over to the chair against the far wall, and seated herself. Poised, she smiled. “I feared destroying the charm might not be enough. So. You will confess, and take Communion, and cleave to your father as you ought.
“But first, you must eat. You will need your strength.”
Gamelyn shook his head. Backed away.
The Abbess rose. “It is of no matter. I can wait.” She motioned to the acolyte, who picked up the tray. “Perhaps a bit more hunger is what you need, after all.”
Entr’acte
“THREE DAYS,” Otho said with little preamble, walking into Johan’s solar. “He’s not eaten for three days, now.”
“Our brother must be punished.” Johan was only now dressing, with the aid of the old man who’d been his body servant since childhood. He was still hung over with lack of sleep, having spent the night keeping watch on said brother, as agreed. The Abbess was hoping something would break, soon, convinced that peasant whoreson who’d cozened Gamelyn into such madness would show up, try to take him back.
Johan doubted it. No peasant would dare the walls of a castle merely for some light tumble. And Johan had already decided their Reverend Cousin was altogether nigh to madness herself in her conviction that some Heathen cult was stalking the woods, all in itself a seditious danger to Christendom.
Likely just a bunch of jumped-up perverts full of mead and sin, thinking themselves more than what they were. Magic, pah! But Johan had committed himself and so would see it through, no matter how paranoid Her Holier-Than-Thou-ness acted on the way.
“Gamelyn has to be punished,” Otho agreed. “He’s flouted commandments—which I still can hardly believe—and he’s brought a lot of trouble to squat at our gates. You can’t believe he meant any of it. Even the wortwife… the medicine did help. It was foolish to discontinue it.” Otho grumbled a sigh. “Papa’s not exactly in his right mind now, and the Abbess is overly strong with her convictions… well. She means well.”
“Otho, you’ve always been beneath the mistaken apprehension that everyone means well.”
“Gamelyn certainly meant no harm, Johan. He’s the baby, Papa’s sheltered him because of it, and when his balls finally did drop, he went a little mad. We all have.”
“Sodomy?” Johan sneered. “I think not.”
“Only truly sodomy if he was the one poked instead of doing the poking.”
Johan glared at his brother.
“I actually pay attention in mass, Brother,” Otho pointed out. “Bloody hell, Johan, every lad including you has stuck his knob into something he shouldn’t at some time or other. I know what you do at night without the benefit of matrimony—”
“With a woman—”
“Several, sometimes. Quite a sin, that. And I know damn well you, like every lad born, has had a quick and dirty wank with his mates. If we didn’t have some horrific thing to confess, the priests would die of boredom.”
“You’re forgetting the tiny matter of consorting with witches—”
“I’m forgetting nothing, and neither am I saying he doesn’t deserve a good beating for all of this. All I’m saying is that Alais is convinced he’s set to starve himself before confessing to the Abbess, and I’m not sure I blame him.”
In a twist of temper, Johan shrugged off his servant and snapped at him, “Get out! I’ll manage!”
The servant threw a look of long-suffering at Otho then obeyed. Otho leaned one hip against the table by the entry.
“Johan. Let Gamelyn have his own confessor. It’s the right thing to do and you know it. Neither of you likes the other much, and each of you has your reasons, but Papa’s too ill for this nonsense.”
“Illness that was perpetrated by Gamelyn’s idiocy.” Johan frowned at Otho.
“So the family hardheadedness continues! Think of Papa, curse you! Gamelyn’s already making his prayers when he’s not pacing the floor. Papa wants to see him, but he won’t see him until he’s had Communion. Both of them, stubborn as mules. And I know damn well the Abbess is taking liberties with what Papa said. He confesses to her because she’s family and of higher rank. Never bad to hedge your bets when you’re getting close to Heaven. Papa likes Brother Dolfin quite a lot and did he know Gamelyn requested him, he’d respect that right. Then it would be done.”
“The Abbess seems to think the pagans aren’t done with Blyth.”
“The Abbess sees evil lurking everywhere. That’s her job, but it doesn’t have to be ours. See it done, Johan. See it done and let’s get on with our lives, eh? See Papa through his last days with some dignity and grace, not this… nonsense.”
XXIV
“ALMS. ALMS fer a cripple… thank’ee, sor, bless you!”
The voice floated upward, cracked and coarse and just that much over the top. Even an hour ago, Gamelyn might have thought he was imagining it. But Alais had come in not long ago with a tray of food and more sympathy than he’d yet had, and the news that Brother Dolfin would be in not long after to give him absolution and Communion so he could go and see his father.
He’d not wanted to believe it, at first. But she had insisted, and sat with him, ensured that he’d eaten every scrap of the simple meal she’d brought him—not too much, as she’d said, else his empty stomach would just puke it back up again. And she’d told him how his father was, made it clear that, no matter what had happened, she forgave him and there was no doubt in her mind but that the wortwife had helped Sir Ian.
He’d waited, after Alais had left. Sat in his window and watched a baby wolf spider spin a web in one corner, expecting the Abbess to descend at any moment and tangle him up in another sort of web. He knew, before she came and after she had left, that she had wrapped him tight in his own culpability, sunk her words like venom in his veins… and he knew, deep down, that it wouldn’t affect him so if there wasn’t some truth to it.
“Alms! A palm of grain, sor, would surely feed an ’ungry man….”
Gamelyn looked down, saw a wide hat, tattered braies that barely came to mud-encrusted ankles, and a filthy hand holding out a wooden bowl warped from ill use. Some traveler, Gamelyn would wager, rather than one of the peasantry who looked to Blyth; one who knew how to use that bathetic tone to full effect. Perhaps some jongleur who’d lost his trade when he’d lost the use of whatever limb had crippled him. Perhaps a former tumbler—that right arm extending the bowl looked fairly muscular beneath the overmended sleeve.
The wolf spider lost its footing, dropped a good hand-length and saved itself with a silken thread just before it reached Gamelyn’s bent knee. Relentlessly it began climbing back up.
Usually the beggars didn’t hunch down beneath his window. Usually they didn’t hunch nigh to any window, never being sure whe
n the pisspots would be dumped.
“You there! Gi’ off!”
And sure enough, one of the guardsmen was descending upon the hapless beggar.
“You’re not t’ be here! Hie y’rself to th’ gate or the back wall, where y’ belong!”
The beggar seemed to be either deaf or not heeding. Gamelyn leaned outward slightly, wondering if he should drop something on the fellow’s head. Perhaps he was deaf… but nay. He was getting to his feet, quite slowly.
“Clear off, I say!” The guard grabbed the beggar’s tunic; he wobbled and Gamelyn could see he had a twisted foot. “Look up there!” the guard was blustering. “His lordship’s quarters are in this turret! You’re not to disturb him.” The guardsman saw Gamelyn, gave a quick bow, and grabbed the beggar again, shook him. The beggar cringed, throwing up the hand without the bowl. The guardsman pointed. “See? You’ve disturbed one of my lords already! Your pardon, milord, I’ll see this ’un on his way.”
The beggar looked up then. Straightened slightly, and met Gamelyn’s gaze, a mop of wheat hair that seemed totally incongruous with the dark brows. Those brows were angled quite fiercely over large, ebon eyes. One was held in a squint, which relaxed as the beggar met Gamelyn’s gaze, held it.
It was Rob.
“Oh, God.” It hissed through Gamelyn’s teeth. He shook his head violently. No. Get out of here. Go….
“Go on, get out of here!” Unconsciously aping Gamelyn’s very thoughts, the guardsman aimed a halfhearted boot at the beggar’s rump. With a nimbleness that belied any lameness, the beggar dodged the kick and scuttered around the corner.
Yes, Gamelyn prayed. Get out of here, Rob, what in Hell are you thinking?—you bloody fool!
“HE SAW me, I’m sure of it,” Rob murmured.
John smiled, but it slid into a grimace as he scrubbed at the grime on Rob’s nape. From over the wall of his cot, the horse occupying the next stall stopped chewing, gave a stomp and a snort, then resumed chewing.
Rob was also trying to undo some of the damage of disguise—plus some extra achieved during his act. “Some lads thought a cripple was fair game for improving their aim with a dried horse turd. Wankers. Me mam would have their guts for garters, were they her boys.” He turned and peered at John. “You’re sure of this, are you? I can climb the wall—”
A shake of the dark brown head, quite adamant.
“I don’t want no trouble for you.”
John met his eyes, still frowning. Clearly chiding.
Rob smiled, reached out, and ran his fingers along John’s cheek, then angled forward and gave him a kiss. It started as a brief intimacy; John leaned into it, with parted mouth and tongue and a hint of a nip to Rob’s bottom lip, then broke the kiss and nuzzled into Rob’s neck.
“He is ours, lord,” John whispered. “Even as you.”
“I only hope he believes that.”
“You must,” John’s grin was cheeky, lopsided, “convince him.”
“Aye,” Rob muttered. “There’s only been one way I’ve been able for that. In the middle of a bloody castle full of bloody murderous swine who’d as soon see me shot as walking, no doubt.”
BROTHER DOLFIN came to hear Gamelyn’s confession, reassuring Gamelyn that Otho was standing outside the door to see to their privacy. He was subdued, his robes properly hanging about his ankles and his sandals on his feet, which suggested that, after all, there had been some chastisement his way. But he had brought several books, and didn’t, as usual, demand that Gamelyn return ones he already had on loan to keep the new ones.
Gamelyn asked for absolution and Communion. When Dolfin canted an eyebrow at him and muttered something about young men who weren’t sorry they’d done something, only very sorry they’d got caught, Gamelyn shook his head and asked, half choked, whether Dolfin really thought Gamelyn had any intention whatsoever of starting it all over again.
Dolfin gave him a long, troubled look. Then he leaned forward, kissed Gamelyn’s forehead, and began the words of absolution.
After that, Gamelyn padded across the hallway, beneath the watchful eye of Johan and surely more guards than even a well-grown lad should need.
The Abbess was coming from his father’s solar; she halted before him, compassionate. Of course, even when she was sitting in his room, spinning the web, she had reeked of compassion….
“Please, you must understand,” the Abbess laid a gentle hand on Gamelyn’s shoulder, and it was all he could do to not flinch away. “I meant you no harm, only help. You’ve trained as soldier as well as scholar, and you know the sense of a good sweat to release all the ill humors. Suffering is often the only way to release ill spirits trapped within. Sister Deirdre can attest to that, isn’t that true?”
Deirdre had joined them as they stood there, and her eyes were flat upon Gamelyn. Gauging, as if she could all but smell the rebellion, nearly boiled dry but still simmering, beneath the regret and shame. The latter should have left him with Brother Dolfin’s absolution but hadn’t; it was merely scabbed over, a pus-laced sore that he couldn’t help but pick at.
For he believed the Abbess. He didn’t want to, but he did and worse, he knew it.
“Your father is waiting for you,” the Abbess said, and dipped her head as she got out of his way.
Sir Ian looked horrible. Wilted and lank against the cushions, nearly the same color as the bleached linen sheets despite that Alais had assured they were not bleeding him. Gamelyn sped to the bedside, took his father’s hand, and fell to his knees beside the bed.
“Please,” he begged. “Forgive me.”
“It’s done, my boy. Forgiven. Forgotten.”
No, never forgotten. Gamelyn would never forget. Any of it.
“I’ve made arrangements,” Sir Ian whispered against his hair. “The Abbess has agreed, in light of your penitence, to see to it. I have given her the proper donations to ensure your place, and she has sent the marks on to the monastery at Ely. It’s so far away; I’d hoped you could stay close, but this is better. Considering….”
Considering that within Ely’s walls bided one of the richest and scholastic monasteries in all of England, one that Gamelyn had once sworn he would kill to study with.
Considering the Abbess’s likely irritation over his rejection of her over the past days.
Considering Johan’s certain ire when he heard how much money had been disbursed.
Considering the very real fact that Sir Ian was dying.
Considering… Rob.
It was a dream, he willed, mute torment, as he laid his head in his father’s hand and begged his forgiveness. A wild, lovely dream that I’ll never forget. But you cannot come for me, you must go and never come back. I’ve lost you. It’s over. It has to be.
Rob, they’ll kill you and I’m not sure I can live with myself now as it is….
“Thank you, Papa. It is more than I ever dreamed of.”
Sir Ian smiled. “I think it would be best.” He closed his eyes, hesitated.
“Papa?”
“Perhaps you should not wait overlong to take your leave, eh? We both know that I have such a short time left.”
“Papa.”
“When your brother is mesne lord….” Sir Ian went silent again, with Gamelyn reliving every silent agony he possessed. But when Sir Ian spoke again, it was firm. “You must go, son. Take what is yours. I have given the order; your paxman will go with you at the time of your choosing. But….” The old man wavered, “Will you stay close? Until your departure?”
“I will stay close,” Gamelyn said. “That I swear to you.”
JOHN’S FRIEND, a lass named Anne, came down to the stables to inform them that the overabundance of guards in the lord’s turret had been dispersed. There were only the normal ones, parading back and forth, easy enough to avoid if one knew the way of it.
“And I do.” Anne gave Rob a critical eye. “You’re sure the height of Dunstan, though awful shaggy and way too skinny. He’s off t’ see his ma in Thurcrof
t, though they aren’t knowing that.” She rolled her eyes and shrugged. “We can pad you up a bit, give you a shave. You can likely braid that hair up, cover it with a coif. Dunstan wears one when he’s stacking wood in th’ chambers.”
“A white rag cap?” Rob couldn’t help the protest. “I’ll look like me old granda just before he fell dead over his plow. As to shaving….” He grimaced and rubbed a hand over his chin, where stubble was giving way to serious beard. “I do look a proper wild man, I guess. We’d best have it over with so the nicks’ll be gone by tonight.”
“I’ll leave no nicks,” Anne promised, and went to get supplies. John began watering the horses.
Rob stood there, chewing at a thumbnail and contemplating his options. They looked better than ever. Even considering a kerchief on the head.
“When you take the horses to pasture,” he told John, “m’ sister will be watching out for you. Tell her we’re set for tonight.”
THE BACK stair was dark and narrow and had a distinct draft that more than once fluttered the edges of the coif about Rob’s ears. Just as well Anne had fastened it down with some hairpins, even if Rob’s humiliation was thusly complete.
Gamelyn had best bend his lovely arse over more than the once for this night’s work.
His ankle twisted beneath him; the stone steps were amazingly uneven for a supposed ‘mastery of Frankish architecture’. Rob gave a muttered curse and Anne thwapped him with the end of her besom for his pains.
For some reason she didn’t treat him with the least bit of reverence, and it was bloody refreshing.
He nearly ran into her at the top of the stair—not paying attention, trying to decide what he was going to tell Gamelyn when he laid eyes on him—and Anne glared at him, mouthed, Wait.
Better to go in without any encounters, brief or otherwise, and rely on the disguise only for emergency. Anne had sworn at the curls hanging down his back—they had kept evading even the tightest braids and now were giving him a skull ache that a staff knock would envy—but she was handy with a sharp dagger and had given him a better shave than even his mam could tender.
Greenwode Page 41