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

by C. B. Currie

  The bishop was a man of middle height and middle years. He had thinning grey hair and a paunch not unreasonable for a clergyman of his rank. He wore the clean white robes and heavy gold chain of his office and his arms were folded into his sleeves in front of him as he approached. He was not alone. He came with the fat young priest Haendric and Algwyn had been greeted by, but also with two more grey-robed priests and a stern, lean man with dark hair, a hook nose and dark scarlet robes, devoid of any badge of office.

  ‘Prior Algwyn, how unexpected,’ the bishop greeted his with a formal embrace and a kiss on each cheek, then did the same for father Haendric. ‘And Haendric, you old rascal, still keeping yourself up reading at night?’

  ‘As much as I can, Lord Bishop,’ the priest replied dutifully.

  ‘And this,’ announced the Bishop, is Archdeacon Livio, of the College of Deacons.’

  ‘Father,’ both priest and prior acknowledged him.

  ‘Archdeacon Livio has come all the way from the Holy Seat, via Castlereach of course,’ The bishop beamed.

  ‘A long journey?’ Prior Algwyn inquired.

  ‘A few weeks,’ the archdeacon answered curtly in a thick continental accent. ‘The weather was agreeable to sailing.’

  ‘Archdeacon Livio has been tasked with an audit of this diocese and surrounding parishes of course,’ added the bishop. ‘There have been signs from Heaven: a sickness is spreading in the southern ports, there was a shower of shooting stars in the Archos Isles, and heresies have been uncovered in towns across the continent.’

  ‘Heretics?’ Algwyn asked, and made a holy sign. ‘Good Heavens where?’

  ‘On the mainland,’ the archdeacon answered, ‘Venchy, Selevia, and even in Castlereach. Enemies of the Faith come in all guises, even in a cleric’s robes.’

  ‘Surely no priests have been accused,’ Haendric asked, and they were interrupted by the shuffling and scraping of boots at the door. Turning, Haendric saw armed watchmen in the city’s gold-trimmed blue livery arriving with a pompously dressed man wearing a heavy chain of office. The new Reeve he presumed. He wondered what business they might have in the Great Chapel.

  ‘The archbishop no less,’ Father Livio explained, and Haendric felt a stone drop in his belly.

  ‘Archbishop Celwyn has been defrocked,’ Bishop Aldric explained, ‘for preaching heresy and worshipping false prophets, for idolatry and pernicious reading. He is awaiting sentence at the kings own dungeon.’

  Algwyn and Haendric remained stiffly silent now. If they had read the archbishop’s letters then Havenside Priory was implicated as well. It was clear now why the reeve had arrived with watchmen.

  ‘Reeve Cerlic, place the prior under arrest.’ The bishop said. And heavy footfalls sounded on the cold stone, armor scraped and rattled as the watchmen took the brown-robed monk by both arms. Haendric half expected the prior to make a noise, to protest his innocence or demand the respect his position commanded, but he cooperated with dignified silence. The priest was about to protest himself, but Algwyn looked at him wordlessly and he understood. So far they only wanted the prior.

  ‘Father Haendric, you and the boy here are to return to Bastion Priory and remain until summoned,’ the bishop instructed him. ‘You will turn over your personal effects when we send someone for them.’

  Sullenly, ashen-faced, the prior was escorted from the chapel and Haendric and the novice had nothing more to do than follow the armed procession out. They walked the same direction for much of the way, until the soldiers passed the priory and entered their own small walled keep where the commoner’s gaol was kept. Haendric and the boy stood quietly by the priory entrance and watched as the gate closed across the street.

  The first thing Haendric did was hide the book he’d brought with him. It was near dark by then, and dismissing the boy who’d come with them, he’d hurried to the chamber reserved for himself and the prior and quickly removed the tome from his own bags. He then wrapped it in a leather cloth that had bound a wheel of cheese to be gifted to Bastion’s own prior and took the bundle out to the garden, selected a thick evergreen bush that was tucked into a corner of the old stone walls of the dormitory and thrust it inside. It would be easily found if anyone took an interest and might even be noticed in daylight should any of the monks happen by that part of the small gardens, but it would have to do for the night at least, and the small garden was enclosed by a sturdy wall and the priory’s gates locked overnight. Then he returned to sup in the refectory, joined the monks for late prayers and retired to his chamber. In the morning, he went to beg the bishop’s permission to see Prior Algwyn.

  Bishop Aldric made no fuss, allowing Haendric’s request with a dismissive wave. So he walked to the barracks, announced his intention to the sergeant, who had been given no instructions to deny visitors and was escorted to Algwyn’s cell. It was down a long corridor in the basement, lined with barred cells that stank of urine and sweat. The old prior looked tired but otherwise in good condition. The guard said he’d been given a small meal of ale and stew the night before and bread and cheese in the morning. It occurred to Haendric that it was not too different from what they ate at the priory, but no doubt far better than common criminals got in the same gaol.

  ‘This is a first for me,’ Algwyn quipped when he saw his old friend. The prior was sitting on a stool next to a bedroll on the rush-covered floor. Haendric had brought another given to him by the guards and sat on it in the corridor outside the bars. After the guard’s footfalls faded, there was snoring coming from one of the cells, and he thought he heard faint sobbing from another.

  ‘They came this morning and went through our baggage,’ Haendric said. ‘They talked to the lay brothers too.’

  ‘And did you hide it?’

  ‘Hide what?’

  ‘The book. I know you kept one. Al-Ghalil was it? You were still reading that one and I wouldn’t expect you’d be able to put it aside.’

  Haendric felt foolish then, and terribly guilty. Had he brought this on the prior?

  ‘That’s why I wanted you to stay silent,’ Algwyn said. ‘I am the prior and it was my library with the heathen books. They will not blame you.’

  ‘Sooner or later they will, if they ask enough people.’

  The prior shook his head. ‘The archdeacon, Livio came last night. He gave instructions that I be fed well, then spoke with me and we prayed together.’

  ‘What did he ask you?’

  Mostly, he just told me. He told me that Heaven is displeased with the Twelve Realms. The lights in the sky were an omen, the sickness in the south is punishment for heresy, and the Holy City will not stand in the east unless we guard the Faith at home. He is deeply devoted, Haendric, like the mad saints who preached doom ahead of the Northmen a hundred years ago.

  ‘And is he as mad as they were?’

  ‘He’s a true believer, I think.’

  ‘Have you lost the priory?’

  ‘I don’t know that either but I think so. Brother Cellim can run it well enough I suppose. Aldric will be made archbishop and sent to Castlereach. The king will decide what to do with the old archbishop. Retire him to a monastery I suspect.’

  ‘Perhaps someplace quiet like Wellstone?’ Haendric quipped and earned a smile from the prior.

  ‘We’ll see. Take it away, Haendric. Keep it safe. If you’re found with it…you are not a bishop, or even a prior, and the king’s justice can be swift.’

  ‘And you? What will they do with you?’

  ‘The archdeacon said he would be back in a day or two, when they have made their inquiries as they call it. No doubt they’ll send busybodies to Havenside.’

  ‘And when they find the books have been sent away? Or that some were stolen and cannot be accounted for?’

  The prior’s voice dropped to a hoarse, urgent whisper. ‘That is why you must go now, even if they told you to stay and wait in the city. There is something they want in those books. I don’t know what it is but something important.
Something they want. Take it and flee!’

  ‘And what will you do?’ Haendric asked, aghast at the sudden passion in the prior’s tone. He had never known the man to be one of such vigor.

  Just as quickly though, the energy drained from the prior’s voice and he sounded suddenly deflated. ‘Livio will return with questions for me. And he said I will talk.’

  ‘You’ll talk?’

  Algwyn leaned back against the stone wall and let out a long, resigned sigh. ‘He said they all talk in the end.’

  Sixteen

  Caera woke up early as usual and went to pick berries. She left the loft where she slept with her younger brothers and went downstairs. Her mother was already awake and kneading dough on the kitchen counter to place in the large stone oven the tavern kept for baking bread. She greeted her with a kiss on the cheek and went out to the well behind her father’s tavern to fetch the basket that was outside. She usually went to the well to get a pail of water to leave by the door but noticed her mother had already done it this morning.

  With the basket, she crossed the planks over a small ditch and climbed the bank to the high fields then looked over the village of Brookleith. The sun was peeking above the hills to the east and it warmed her face, but to the south and west, heavy rainclouds gathered against a blue sky. The woods across the field were reddened in front, dark in the recesses and bordered by tall, knobby pines, bent haphazardly by weather and time. The air was fresh and cool, but it did not feel much like autumn yet. A sapwren sang nearby and another answered.

  She waited while the blacksmith’s daughter, Petal, climbed the bank to meet her. Then they set off across the high field to an embankment that sloped down to the woods. The bank was spotted with clusters of several types of berry bushes that the landlord had planted years ago and anyone was free to help themselves. At the bottom a shallow brook trickled by that was the border of the town for her because she rarely crossed it anymore. They had played in the woods as children but these days there was talk of robbers and worse in the shire, and folk stayed close to the town. But hunters were still heading out to the woods to trap the rabbits that the lord allowed them, and old Gallyn was herding his pigs into the woods to forage for acorns. They waved a morning greeting to the men.

  ‘The Wayfarers are coming,’ Petal told her.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. Father had his first customer already this morning, a rider whose horse threw a shoe. He said he passed them near Taryn Mill. They could be here in a day or two.’

  ‘They never come when people say,’ Caera noted as she began to rummage through the vines.

  ‘But they always come.’

  “Well my brothers will like that. Last year they loved the dancing dogs.’ Caera was a little excited herself, because the wayfarers always seemed to arrive around harvest time, when Brookleith was holding its fair. It was always a time of singing and dancing, good food and new faces.

  ‘I hear that Ellie is going to marry a carpenter in Mowbry’s Refuge,’ Petal added. She was an interminable gossip.

  ‘That’s way across the other side of the shire,’ Caera said. ‘I’ve never even been there.’

  ‘Me neither. I’ve been to Havenside to visit our cousins. Alysen married a crofter there last year. It was a big wedding, that’s where I kissed the merchant’s son.’

  ‘You did not.’ Caera teased. Petal was ever making up stories about what she did with boys as well. Harnith’s daughter was as tall as Caera, slightly slimmer, long legs, with dusky hair, a splash of freckles and full lips. ‘We did too,’ petal went on, and looked around conspiratorially before lowering her voice to a whisper. ‘We did more than that. He kissed me right between my legs, so he did.’

  Caera was aghast at that claim and flushed deep red. ‘He did not!’

  ‘Yes he did. And touched me there too.’

  Caera had no more response to that. Petal was popular with the local boys and Caera envied her for that, but didn’t know whether to believe the stories she told of all the boys she’d slept with. Other girls snickered at her ribald tales.

  ‘Do you think your Berryck will ever do that?’ Petal asked smugly.

  Caera rolled her eyes. ‘He’s not my Berryck.’

  ‘Father says your parents are looking for a husband. He says it’s time you were married. Those big hips and breasts of yours are ripe for children.’

  ‘Stop it!’ Caera chided her and they both laughed. But Caera thought herself too tall in comparison to most girls, too chubby in comparison to Petal, and when she looked in the polished silver or a still water, she thought her mouth was too small for her wide round face. But her parents told her she was pretty and men and women alike in her father’s taproom commented how she had flowered in recent years and praised her big brown eyes and long, honey-colored hair. Couldn’t they see how plain she was?

  ‘I won’t marry Berryck.’ Caera continued.

  ‘We’ll all marry someone.’

  ‘But not him. He’s too…nice.’

  They both laughed again and went on filling their baskets under the climbing sun.

  When she got back to the tavern, Caera was excited to share the news with her family. The Wayfarers’ show was an annual visit these past few years and they always arrived in autumn, on their roundabout way to the fair at Bastion. She thought herself too old to get as excited as her younger siblings, but she could still feel that rush she’d felt as a girl just a few years before whenever they came.

  They would pitch a great tent colored in motley orange and purple, on the high fields. By then the harvest was in and the high fields were bare and they could create their own showground on the edge of the village. There they would play their lutes and flutes and drums into the night; the women would dance and the men sing in their husky voices. Tumblers and jugglers would flip and roll and surprise the villagers with their tricks and the old man with the dogs would make them walk on two legs, jump through flaming hoops and beg for treats and money from the crowd. One of the old women would set up a tent, burn scented candles inside and read people’s fortunes for a fee; the men would hold cock fights that drew many gamblers from the taverns, and there would be a cock-baiting prize where boys could pay a penny to throw stones at a cockerel until a lucky shot killed it, with the winner taking home the dead bird for a family roast.

  There would be games and merriment for the whole week because it was also around the time that market was held, when the farms and hamlets from leagues around would sell their produce in the village square. Buyers would come from nearby towns as well, and the two taverns and one boarding house were always full; townsfolk also filled their houses with visiting friends and kin. Her father Burgwyn ran one of the taverns, The King’s Ransom.

  The place was larger than a barn and had a storied history. It was said that Crown Prince Caemron, who later became King Caemron the First, had been forced to hide in a cellar there more than a hundred ago, during the Shield Wars. That mantle was also claimed by the nearby town of Regent’s Sanctuary, a day or so away on foot. Yet the people of Brookleith swore it was their town the future king had found safety in and underneath the site of this very inn, and Caera was proud to uphold the local legend.

  Working at the inn, Caera was popular with townsfolk but not as popular as her friend Petal. But Petal had a reputation and such a loose tongue that she only had herself to blame for such talk. Caera had not kissed any of the young men in Brookleith herself, though she had kissed a youth from across the shire at the spring fair, just to see what it was like. As Petal had reminded her that morning, her mother insisted it was high time she wed, but she couldn’t imagine marrying some local boy.

  Especially not Berryck. His father was a blacksmith like Petal’s, only he was in service to the local landlord, Jandryl Faldon, and lived at his manse outside of town where father and son worked the forge. Berryck was oafish, dull and apparently he imagined himself marrying Caera and keeping her happy with a brood of gaggling children.
She thought she would rather marry one of those scarred wagon guards that eyed her hungrily in the tavern, when they passed though. Perhaps not a sellsword then, when she thought about it, but most certainly not the colorless Berryck. A good lad all agreed, with his heart in the right place, but altogether too tame for Caera’s wild fantasies.

  She was interrupted from those dreams by her mother’s voice.

  ‘Get your brothers and roll another keg from the storehouse, Caera.’

  She nodded and scurried for the side door. More barrels. Her hands were hard and calloused. She wished for the life of the maidens in the stories, who were carried away on white steeds to high castles. She wished she were carried away but had no idea who would do it. The idea of sleeping with Berryck was practically repugnant, harmless as he was. The merchant’s son at the fair would have slept with her. Though she always thought she’d save that for her husband, she knew he’d wanted to. She was sure Petal lied about the trysts she claimed, but then Petal had kissed so many boys who could say for sure she hadn’t done more?

  She found her two younger brothers and helped them drag a keg from the stack because they were still smaller than her, and then had them roll it back into the tavern. There it was her daily struggle to lift it with her father, onto the rack behind the bar, where it was laid sideways and a tap inserted. Her brothers rolled the empty one away, while she watched a dreamed of a life above such drudgery.

  But Caera was no fool either. She knew she would not marry a prince or a lord. Not even a knight, unless he were an especially poor and local one, and the two sons of the only local knight, who was the chief landlord in this part of Somersvale, were already married. No, she would marry a tradesman, another crofter, a merchant if she was lucky. But at least it wouldn’t be Berryck.