The Martyr and the Prophet (The Lost Testament Book 1)

by C. B. Currie

  Beland arrived at the gates which stood open, but well-guarded. The watchmen, in mail and helmets with spears standing upright, ushered him through and the sergeant on duty recognized him and waved a greeting from the gatehouse to the right. He trotted over and dismounted and the sergeant nodded at one of his men to take the reins.

  ‘Brother Beland, welcome,’ he said, clearly resisting a frown as he noted the brown tunic. ‘We were about to close the gates, you got in just in time. His Lordship wants them shut an hour before sundown these days.’

  Beland looked at the deepening blue of the sky and wondered if sundown would even be that far. ‘You’ve heard of brigands about then?’

  ‘A merchant’s wagon was attacked only last week. The guards chased them off but one man lost an eye. Have you seen anyone suspicious?’

  ‘One wastrel was in the woods not two hours out of Juniper Keep. He kept to himself, could have been a poacher.’

  The guard grunted. ‘A lot of people have seen as much. Sly-looking fellows everywhere these days. And what brings you to bastion this time?’

  ‘Order business as usual. I’ll ride to Havenside in the morning. How’s the family?’

  ‘Well as always, thank you. The lad is learning swordplay.’

  Beland slapped the sergeant’s mailed shoulder. ‘You’ll make a guardsman of him yet. Well I mustn’t wait.’

  ‘Of course,’ the sergeant nodded, ‘you can leave the horse with us.’ And he turned to the men to bark orders for closing the gate.

  Beland strode purposefully along the main street lined with taverns, workshops, stalls and houses, thankful he hadn’t been called upon to remember the guardsman’s name. The city was alive with noises. Traders hollered from their counters and stalls, crates and wagons creaked and groaned past as the drivers shouted at folk to move aside or exhorted their beasts to trot faster. Women chased flocks of geese across the road, a boy drove half a dozen pigs through the splattering mud and there were chickens clucking and dogs barking left and right. The buildings loomed two, three, sometimes four floors high, with great sloped roofs that blocked out the last of dying light.

  It also stank. With so many people and animals crowded into the walls it smelled like a cesspit. There were open ditches that ran down each side of the road, flowing with effluent, food waste and brackish black water. Down a narrow street to the right Beland briefly spied a woman in a headscarf tossing a bucket of waste out of a second floor window and a pair of grubby boys nimbly dodging the splash on the sodden track below. That alley was the entrance to The Gutters, a warren of hovels, huts, gambling dens and ale-sinks behind the merchant houses, where good folk rarely went and only the brave would venture after dark. Beland had certainly never had cause to go into its maze of alleys, though he had once or twice walked along the main path that wound through the middle, which was safe enough in the daytime, save for the fetid puddles and piles of stinking rubbish.

  He passed a brothel, the door and windows open to let out the thick smell of a dozen strong perfumes, stale liquor and hearth smoke, painted harlots leaning from wide windows on the ground floor and the one above, calling to men in the street.

  ‘You there,’ one girl with long black hair and a dark complexion shouted at him as he passed, ‘you look like you could do with a foreign girl. All the way from across the southern sea I am!’

  Her accent suggested she was local even if her dark skin was from across the sea. The other girls laughed with her, for it was unlikely that a knight of the order would wander into a brothel in front of the whole town, even if he were inclined to such temptation. But he was teased almost every time he passed the brothels in this town, and many others. It seemed to be the sport of whores all over Wesgard to make fun of chaste clergymen and holy knights for coming within earshot of their bawdy houses.

  After a hundred paces or so, Beland turned right onto another wide avenue that intersected the main street. There was a great church on the opposite corner and a large tavern, the Laughing Cockerel, on his right as he turned. A few doors down across the street, where he almost had to dodge more running boys and a courier’s swift horse, was a walled mansion with the symbol of the Holy Chalice wrought into its iron fence. A single guard stood inside, a young novice in the familiar chainmail and white tunic, but with only a small black chalice over his breast whereas proper knights had a large red one. He had a sword at his hip and a long halberd stood upright in his right hand. His helmet was spit-shined and domed and sat perfectly in his head over the hood of his mail shirt.

  ‘Brother Beland of Juniper Keep.’ The knight announced himself. ‘On my way to Havenside.’

  The novice rattled the keys off his belt and opened the gate, wordlessly ushering the knight into the courtyard, eyes lingering briefly on the brown tunic. Beland understood, for he had reacted the same whenever he had seen others on penance, wondering what sin it was they had committed, wondering if his own would ever been discovered, for all men were sinners.

  The manor was a quiet refuge from the bustle of the town. As soon as the oaken door closed behind him, Beland felt a wave of peace. It was a large stone building in the manor district along the northwest walls, donated to the order by Lord Dorand’s grandfather, still remembered as Dorand the Generous. The current Lord Dorand of Castle Bastion was notoriously cheap, though Beland had never met him in person.

  Yet the privileges of the order still stood: a manor to be used as chapter house and the right to leave their horses at the watch stables. For that the order paid a stipend, and provided feed, and it could also call upon the armored knights of Juniper Keep for the shire’s defense and order which was no small contribution. The manor was a wide stone house of two floors and a capacious cellar where cider was brewed and kept. There was a well and a small orchard in the gardens behind it, which reached to the town’s north wall.

  Beland turned left toward the common room, a large hall lined with bookshelves, four large square tables in the middle, where the knights dined or read. There were several younger men in their white tunics, but not in mail, at quiet study of the Strictures or some other holy texts. One looked up, noted the penitent’s colors and greeted him.

  ‘Brother Knight,’ the young man said.

  ‘Brother Knight,’ Beland nodded. Is the Knight Captain in?’

  ‘In his quarters.’ The youth returned to his study. It was good to see young knights spending as much time at study as at swordcraft, and Beland fondly remembered his long years as a novice. Without the guidance of the Faith, a knight’s weapon could be a dangerous tool. Many young warriors of other stripes had shown him this much over the years. He climbed the stone stairs that started just in front of the door and made his way down the second floor hall toward the office at the end.

  ‘Knight-Penitent Beland,’ he announced himself formally as he stood before the captain’s desk. Donnal, the Chapter’s captain was a solidly-built man, somewhat shorter than Beland, and like most knights, with short cropped grey hair and a clean-shaven face with a square jaw and a congenial face. He had been wounded during the Qureshi campaign and limped around the desk to clasp Beland’s hands in greeting. Beland noticed Donnal’s prized hunting hawk sat on its perch in one corner.

  Never a stickler for discipline or even many courtesies, Donnal gave the brown tunic a teasing pout of reproof as he looked him up and down. They had already discussed this possibility.

  ‘Welcome back, old friend. Not quite staying out of trouble, I see.’

  Beland could not suppress a smile. They had trained and served together, and while Donnal had eventually been promoted ahead of him, they both knew it was a reward for his being lamed, and that being Knight Captain of the Bastion Chapter house made him little more than glorified, pious innkeeper. Though he had been a fierce warrior in his day, Donnal would fight no more battles. If his growing paunch was any indication, that suited him well enough in his middle years, for he had ever been fond of his food and drink.

  ‘Sit,
brother,’ the captain indicated and hobbled over to a low cabinet atop which a small wooden cask lay on a stand. He drew two metal goblets from the cupboard below and placing one on the bench, turned the cask tap and began to pour. The hawk on the stand cocked its head a moment then looked away.

  ‘What brings you this time?’

  ‘Inquisitor Miecal.’ Beland answered.

  Donnal handed him the first cup, his eyes noting again the brown tunic, and went back for the other. ‘He’s a stern one. What does he want?’

  ‘I’m to deliver a letter to Prior Algwyn at Havenside. After that, more orders, so who knows?’

  Donnal’s eyes flicked involuntarily over Beland’s brown tunic again. They had discussed the boy when first Beland had known, but rarely since. Now it must be becoming clear to his friend that the secret was finally out. ‘Perhaps they’ll have you heading north for the reavers.’ He suggested tactfully.

  ‘Reavers?’

  ‘Lord Dorand has sent half a hundred cavalry and three times as many levies to help. They’ve been raiding the coasts this season and the king has ordered men north and west. Apparently not a large band, just a few ships. But they’ve taken slaves and robbed the chapels in three ports in as many weeks.’

  Bastion, like all towns was a repository of local news, and like the innkeepers and tavern masters in the city, the master of the chapter house received travelers from all corners of the country, mostly order knights and clergy.

  ‘They’d be waiting for harvest, so they can seize grain as well. Or perhaps the market days, for money and slaves. That’s what they used to do. ’Beland took a sip from the cup. It was cool and crisp, the bubbles soothing his dry throat and the alcohol almost immediately warming his tired head. ‘Good cider.’

  ‘From our own orchards,’ Donnal beamed proudly, and Beland looked left out of the glass window panes over the gardens and apple trees. ‘Gotten better since I started overseeing. You should come more often.’

  Beland chuckled. They both knew he would come only when he was ordered. Though he was granted leave each year, he had spent the time at Havenside of late. Before that he would often visit Donnal at Bastion and they’d ride out and hunt together in the woods northwest – another privilege the lords of Bastion had granted to officers of the order.

  ‘Perhaps I’ll come more often,’ Beland offered, reminded with a sudden stab of regret that tomorrow would be his last visit to his son. He decided it better to change the subject. ‘There’s talk of brigands on the road. Thought I saw one this morning.’

  ‘Everyone is seeing brigands these days,’ Donnal said, and took a gulp of cider. ‘The watch is closing the gate early and Lord Dorand stepped up patrols for a while before he sent the horsemen north. I think half the time they’re just wanderers or runaways though. Not apt to give a real fight.’

  ‘Let us hope,’ said Beland. ‘What news from the capital?’

  ‘Now there’s something strange,’ Donnal leaned in. He’d always been a good one for gossip and often repeated rumors that turned out to be nothing. But when he lowered his voice he was usually speaking about something more substantial. ‘The Fathers of the Faith have sent deacons to visit the bishops. I’ve heard they are in Venchy, Donach, and here have the King’s ear. In Venchy they are said to be rounding up Selevian Wayfarers.’

  Beland frowned inquisitively. The Wayfarers were traveling entertainers, singers and jugglers who were pretty harmless in his experience. Though they did not often go to chapel, which might cause suspicion among the clergy, they seemed to keep the faith as best they could. But they were also considered by many to be vagabonds, and as an itinerant people and they had at times been the target of official pogroms and purges.

  ‘There is also one at the Order Chapel in Castlreach,’ Donnal continued. ‘Since the Fathers elected a new Patriarch, he’s been seeking to renew contact with the princes and kings, restore the Faith in the Twelve Realms.’

  ‘I didn’t think we’d lost it.’ Beland observed.

  ‘Nor I.’ Donnal stood to refill his cup. ‘But apparently the Chapel needs to be put back on a righteous path by these deacons or we’ll all lose our way.’

  ‘Even the order?’

  ‘It would appear so,’ Donnal grunted as he flopped back into his seat.

  ‘The king is said to be overly fond of his prayers and not so much of governing these days. There are rumors the great lords are unhappy that he spends more time with the deacons than he does with them. He doesn’t seek their council anymore.’

  ‘So the Patriarch will rule a kingdom?’ Beland asked. ‘We tried that in the east and it didn’t work.’

  Donnal shrugged. ‘Probably nothing will come of it except they’ll ask us to say our prayers more often. But there has been some rumbling about the wealth of the priors and bishops. The Patriarch is an austere man.’

  ‘I’ve met few who rise high in the service of the Chapel can claim that,’ snorted Beland. ‘Prior Algwyn, perhaps; many parish priests. But I’ve never met a thin pardoner or a hungry confessor.’

  Donnal chuckled. ‘Nor have I. But we knights need sustenance. An army marches on its stomach and I feel like an assault on the kitchens. My hip is not so bad unless I’ve been sitting too long. Will you come and help me slaughter some meat and wine?’

  ‘I will,’ said Beland, setting down his cup half full, for he was never a heavy drinker and imagined he would have more with his meal. Donnal on the other hand, drained his second cup and reached for Beland’s before he stood.

  ‘Come then,’ He said standing. ‘A couple of knights have ridden in from Castlereach and they may have more news of these northern pirates.’

  Six

  Vanis sat on a simple bench in the corridor outside the prior’s chambers as he strained to listen to the hushed voices within. He could tell that both Father Haendric and Prior Algwyn were angry, but they kept their voices low and with the ringing in his ears, it was hard to catch a word. His face had been cleaned up, though there was still dried blood from a cut on his lip and another above his eye. His head throbbed and his eye was aflame. He knew from fights he had as a boy his neck would hurt in the morning. It had been an eventful afternoon.

  It had started outside the kitchens where he was helping to load a cart of dried meat, grain and cheese that the monks would send to Bastion for sale to support the priory. A local small landowner, Elbry, who had recently married the woman Vanis had been meeting these past few weeks, had come with a crowd of onlookers to confront him. The yeoman started pushing him and then hit him almost before he could explain himself, and before anyone could stop it. The beating had only lasted perhaps a minute or so, but it was enough for a young novice monk who was not inclined to fight back against a burly farmer, and had felt like much longer.

  Vanis had rolled with the second, or perhaps it had been the third. As the yeoman’s sizeable fist glanced off his cheek, his head filled with bright sparks and a numb ringing in his ears. He’d eventually landed on his shoulder, still winded from the previous blow in the gut and his nose bleeding and eye swollen shut from the several before that. At one point he tried to push himself up on all fours, hoping to get to his feet and possibly even run, but flinched as he saw the big man stepping forward, preparing to receive a kick in the ribs. He closed his eyes and braced for the pain.

  After a moment however he realized the blow hadn’t come. As his hearing faded back into focus he could hear men’s voices shouting and pleading and risked a glance with his one good eye. Friends and villagers were pulling Elbry away, insisting that the beating he’d already given the novice was enough. The farmer looked angrily around the gathered crowd of townsfolk, clergymen, and lay brothers, spied his betrothed Alysen, watching and pleading teary eyed. With a broken and reproachful stare, Elbry shook his head at the girl and stormed off.

  That had been several hours ago and after a spell in the infirmary, alongside the injured Father Caddock, Vanis had been summoned to the prior’s cha
mbers. He did not know how the farmer had found out but he imagined that sooner or later someone in Havenside had noticed and villagers of course, love to gossip. He wished these simple folk would stay out of his business: most of them couldn’t even read. At least, if they’d expected a life of celibacy from him, they now knew they were mistaken. He chuckled at the thought, but kept it to himself. It was time to show the priory his pious side. He didn’t mind lying to the stern Prior Algwyn, but worried that Father Haendric knew him too well.

  The door opened with a squeak of the hinges and a rattle of the iron knob. Haendric called him in.

  Prior Algwyn sat behind his desk unlike Haendric’s cluttered room, there were no papers or books and the table was completely bare save for a small carving of the Lifetree. There was a neat shelf with many volumes along one side of the wall, and a pair of spare chairs, one of which Haendric sat himself down in. In the corner stood the brown-robed Brother Cellim, a senior member of the priory. He was a portly man with a balding head who also disapproved of bastards. Cellim was ever in a foul mood and often refused to sit because, it was rumored, he suffered from painful piles. The youth stood however, not presuming to be invited to the empty chair. He was surprised when the prior offered the seat to him.

  ‘You’re still sore aren’t you, lad?’ Algwyn said by way of greeting, but his voice was cold and reproving. ‘Take a seat, then.’

  Vanis did as he was told, and looked at Father Haendric who watched the prior, expressionless.

  ‘We all sin.’ The prior said.

  ‘Bastards are born in sin,’ Cellim added excitedly. ‘Fornication runs in their blood!’

  ‘I am sorry, Prior,’ The novice began, ‘I did not intend to bring shame on the priory.’