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

by C. B. Currie

  Perhaps she could run away with a Wayfarer. Petal said they were the best kissers, though she doubted Petal had kissed any of them. But they could play sweet melodies on their small lutes and were full of freedom and song. A life on the road with a traveling minstrel couldn’t be all that bad. At least she would see cities and castles. She’d seen Juniper Keep once, when she’d travelled to the Crossroads Inn with her father but it had been far off. The local landlord’s manor was nearer, but could hardly be called a castle, though it did have low ramparts and a small watch tower.

  ‘Stop standing around girl!’ her mother’s voice suddenly snapped. She turned and straightened her skirts with open palms.

  ‘Get out and fetch the cheese,’ she sighed. ‘Honestly one mention of those singing vagabonds coming to town and you forget all your chores. You’ve always been like that.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she muttered.

  ‘Well they won’t be here for a few days yet. They always stop at the mill first. You can have a gander when they get here. Maybe Father will let them play in the tavern again, though that business with the pickpocket might be remembered. And you can take your brothers to the cock-baiting if you like.’

  More dead chickens, Caera mused. As if in her life she hadn’t seen enough. She wondered what life would be like if she did run away with one of those ‘singing vagabonds’. Maybe she’d slaughter a hundred cocks if it meant a life on the road with an exotic wanderer.

  She hurried back to the pantry to find the cheese.

  Vanis turned the coin over in his hand. It was smallish and made of good copper. On one side had the year it was minted with a symbol of the Lifetree one side and on the other, the portrait and name of the king, who was known to be a pious and devoted servant of the Faith. It was the first time he could recall that he’d ever held one of the king’s pennies.

  As a boy, he had seen glimpses of money in markets when it changed hands among adults, but even that was rare. Many common folk never touched an actual coin in their lives and monks and lay brothers at the priory had certainly rarely had the need. This was something only the privileged such as landowners, merchants and the nobility handled, not runaway bastards like himself. And he had just earned his first coin this night.

  He had earned it playing music at the Goat’s Beard, a run-down tavern that served as the only landmark in a small hamlet nearby where local farmers lived. The inn had a surprising amount of traffic for a stop on what Vanis had always thought was a back road: pilgrims to Regent’s Sanctuary, farmers moving livestock to Brookleith or Havenside; peddlers out of Bastion, as well as merchants, minstrels and messengers who all passed through on their way to and from the northeast.

  The Wayfarers had been allowed to camp in the field behind the inn, near an orchard that was famous for its delicious sourgreen apples, and though their outdoor revelry attracted onlookers each night, only Vanis had been invited to play in the tavern. The owner claimed that wayfarers were cunning as thieves and flatly refused them entry, an insult they bore as lightly as anything else, content to strum their lutes and clap along to song around their own campfires. According to Drelo, because Vanis was clearly a Wesgarder, and not some dusky Selevian, he was the only one welcome to sing in the tavern to attract and keep patrons, though the songs he sang to keep patrons drinking were mostly taught to him by the Wayfarers.

  ‘Break’s over lad, back to work,’ the innkeeper tapped Vanis on the shoulder. ‘There’ll be more coin tomorrow if you keep this up.’

  So Vanis stood and took his place in a corner away from the cramped tavern’s fireplace, which he’d learned would make him too hot when playing. There he could see all the tables and those seated on stools at the bar and as long as their heads were turned, everyone could see him. There was an applause as he arrived and slung the lute ready to play it, for the patrons had been well pleased with his minstrelry so far.

  There were farmers, traders, sellswords who guarded caravans and even a priest among them. There were women – wives accompanying their men – and a few children who scurried restlessly about the room playing their own games while the adults drank. Vanis had little time for small children, and one little runner had even bumped him making him miss a note on one earlier song, but for the most part, their squealing voices were drowned out by the music and laughter of the tavern.

  He chose Three Maidens - a bawdy song for the common folk, one that actually borrowed its tune from a popular chapel hymn, though it was played a lot faster, with an energetic lilt. The crowd immediately burst into cheers as he strummed the first few notes and many began to sing along.

  Prince Baelon the Bold was handsome young man

  And they say he wore it the length of two hands

  As he went down to the stables to fetch his horse water

  There strumming her lute was the stableman's daughter

  They went into a stall and tripped in the hay

  The first of the maidens to fall that day

  At the edge of the fields he was riding his steed

  When he felt in his breeches a burning great need

  A girl from the village did catch his keen eye

  Swinging her flail and threshing her rye

  He climbed down from his mount and flattered his prey

  The second fair maiden to fall that day

  Into the scullery under the stairs

  And there was a kitchen wench polishing her wares

  He silenced her gently and soon gained his chance

  But a noise behind him sent him into a dance

  The matron was angry, stormed into the room

  Then chased him out to the courtyard with a broom

  But not before Baelon had got his sweet way

  With the last of the maidens to fall that day

  The song finished, tankards were raised and jokes and bawdy taunts exchanged. Vanis bowed extravagantly, as he imagined a bard should for his audience, at least one playing in a lord’s hall. Then, fingers dancing across the strings, began the next song.

  By the time it got late, there were so few people left drinking that there was little need for any more music. The last few tunes he played were slow, haunting and without words, one of which he particularly liked, but had no name. The Selevians had taught it to him and it seemed a good one for sending people to bed. Most patrons had returned to their nearby farmsteads, or the travelers to their sleeping quarters and rooms.

  The innkeeper thanked Vanis and offered him a place in the loft, but he declined, preferring to return to the tent he had shared with the Selevian men and youths after his nightly trysts with Gilene. In the field behind the inn, not far from a small wooden chapel – no more than a large house, and a couple of simple cottages with kitchen gardens, the campfire was still burning low and some of the Wayfarers were still up talking in low voices, wrapped in blankets against the early autumn chill.

  Drelo and his two sons greeted him warmly. Of the three coins he had earned that night, he had agreed that one should go to the Selevians for keeping him and he passed it to the headman, who pocketed it wordlessly. A third of everything that came into the caravan was passed to Drelo, though it was not his to spend. That money, Vanis understood, was for the entire clan and would be useful when they had to pay for lodging and protection over the coming winter, when the roads would be unfit for so much travel.

  ‘After Brookleith, we will stop at the Crossroads Inn and then go on to Bastion’s fair.’ Drelo told him. ‘Over winter, I think, we will stay in the city if they will have us.’

  Vanis smiled into the fire. Drelo always said I think when he had already made up his mind. ‘Where did you live last winter?’

  ‘The Gutters,’ Drelo answered, naming the poorer district of Bastion, known for brothels, ale-sinks and dangerous alleys. ‘It’s sometimes hard to find rooms, but we managed. There is work too, at the taverns, though perhaps with your nice clothes and fine voice you could play in one of the great inns.’

  ‘I hadn
’t thought about winter.’ Vanis admitted.

  ‘We survive, but perhaps we don’t eat so well,’ Drelo told him, reminding him of all the poached meat they had shared on the road that they could not get in any town. ‘But we get most of our money working in the traveling months. We’re not really welcome in small towns when times are hard. The city, she doesn’t care as long as there is coin. We can always find people to rent us space.’

  Vanis understood the money Drelo hoarded was needed over the cold months to buy food and shelter, when the villages and towns were huddled down for the winter and the time for fairs and marketplaces was over. Autumn was the golden season for Wayfarers in more ways than one: the harvests and fairs were the best time to collect before the lean months ahead.

  ‘Perhaps you as well will find what you seek in Bastion,’ the headman suggested. ‘Or perhaps your road takes you further. Perhaps across the seas one day.’

  One of the dogs trotted over and nuzzled Drelo and he cuffed its ears affectionately. There were docks in Bastion, a river route to the capital. Vanis was confident now that he could ply his trade in the city and pay his way through the winter if he had to. But looking into the embers of the fire, his mind wandered to those far horizons all the same.

  Seventeen

  Haendric followed Donnal through the back door and up the stairs. It was late at night, dogs barked in the city somewhere, all else was quiet at they were led only by the candle in the holy Knight’s hand. Donnal was a heavy drinker, had a limp and seemed an unlikely protector but the priest had met him several times over the years and they shared Beland as a friend. He would be safe in the Order’s chapterhouse for a night at least.

  Once they had closed the doors to the Knight-Captain’s chambers, they were free to speak, albeit in hushed voices. The office was sparse but for a shelf, a keg, a desk and a hawk, hooded for the night, resting on its perch.

  ‘The archdeacon has sent for me tomorrow,’ Donnal said, running his hand through his graying hair.

  ‘What for?’ Haendric asked.

  ‘We are the Order of the Chalice and we do the Chapel’s business. They will ask for our sword arms. If they’re rounding up heretics they will expect us to do the collecting.’

  ‘Will you turn me in?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Donnal assured him, pouring two cups from the keg on the bookcase. ‘But you won’t be able to hide here either. Others will know. It’s best you go before dawn.’

  That last sentence cut him. The old priest had never expected to feel unwelcome in the chapter house before but he also understood. He sipped from the cup he was handed. It was good, crisp cider, surprisingly sweet.

  ‘This one’s mixed with berries in it,’ Donnal said. ‘Much better since I took over as brewmaster.’

  The knight drained his cup in almost one gulp and turned to pour another. Haendric was not far behind, taking several hearty swigs. After this day and night he needed a drink too.

  He had retrieved the heathen book in the small hours and made his way to the dockyards at first light. No ships were scheduled to leave till midday and he could not loiter. So he went to the Chapel of the Blessed Hand, near the riverside walls and not far from the barracks. There he entered in priest’s robes and left wearing the tunic and breeches of a commoner that he had found in a chest in the private rooms in the back of the chapel. When he returned to the docks the ship had still not arrived, perhaps due to some holdup in the capital a day’s sail downriver. They told him that many ships were delayed these days, because some of the crews had taken ill in Venchy and seamen were becoming fearful of travel.

  He went next to the second floor of the tavern by the warehouses, and paid a harlot, paid a harlot, to hide in her chamber all day while he tried not to listen to her and another girl with the sailors they brought into in the next room. At dusk he had scurried - through back streets as much as he could - to the gardens behind the great chapel, climbed a wooden fence, crossed the Bishop’s own garden, scaled another low wall and dropped into the orchard of the chapter house of the Order of the Chalice. It had required some waiting and the throwing of pebbles at the milky glass of Donnal’s chamber windows but he had nowhere else to go. An ageing priest on the road would attract attention; so might a commoner of the same description. The best place to hide, he decided, was right under their noses in the city. Donnal had opened the window, recognized the priest, looked around to see nobody was watching and hissed at him to hide in the orchards until well after dark. That was fine with Haendric: by then he was almost too exhausted to move.

  He had no idea if the archdeacon had sent for him or not or if they were out looking for him. He had seen no watch patrols, but then he had not been at Bastion Priory all day and had kept off the main roads. Donnal had been told by the reeve no less, who had arrived some hours before Haendric, that an elderly priest was missing and that he and his knights should keep a lookout. Haendric suspected that Donnal, put out to pasture all these years with old wounds, secretly craved adventure and liked to break a few rules. He had always been mischievous and what the priest hadn’t seen with his own eyes, Beland had told him in many a fireside tale over mulled wine. But these were no playful adventures. Donnal looked worried – for the priest and for himself.

  ‘Why do they want you?’

  ‘Heresy.’ Haendric said flatly, knowing Donnal was a good knight but not overly devout or doctrinal. ‘They’ve arrested the prior for the heathen texts we study and they’re looking to purge the Chapel of heretics.’

  ‘Prior Algwyn? He’s no heretic. I’ve never met a man so pious.’

  ‘Tell that to the archdeacon.’

  ‘Rat-faced little bastard.’ Donnal chuckled, taking another swig. ‘And it looks like he has the Bishop Aldric’s ear.’

  ‘Archbishop now.’

  ‘That cunt would sell his own whelps to the Northmen for an archdiocese,’ Donnal sneered. ‘I never liked him.’

  ‘Well he has one now.’ Haendric asked, ignoring the gutter language. ’What whelps?’

  ‘Only rumors, but did you ever meet a bishop that never whelped a bastard?’

  ‘I haven’t met so many bishops, three or four?’

  ‘Nor I, but if Aldric has a clean cock, he’s the only one in the Twelve Realms.’

  Haendric blushed. He had met plenty of Knights of the Chalice, but really only knew two, and Beland much better than Donnal. He’d never heard such bilge in such company.

  ‘Forgive me, Father,’ Donnal said, noting his discomfort. ‘I have spent too much time around young soldiers, and laymen. And my hip hurts.’ He drank, poured and drank some more.

  ‘The bishop doesn’t seem to fear them.’ Hendric said, referring to the deacons.

  ‘He should. Last time they came, I was recently back from the Qureshi Campaign, and had been here only a year or two. My wounds were fresher, but I was younger and they did not pain me as much. They were looking for witches, a cabal of witches, they claimed. That was the year the frost damaged the harvest and the cattle all suffered from that drooling disease.’

  ‘I remember. I was parish father at Highleith then. Half the village lost livestock.’

  ‘I’ve never seen magic,’ the knight continued, ‘but I’d be a fool not to believe in it. The powers of the Underworld live in the dark hearts of men, they do. But when they came for the families here I saw their magic, the deacons’ magic.’

  ‘What did they do?’ Haendric leaned forward, anxious to know what awaited prior Algwyn, and himself, if they caught him.

  Donnal swirled the steel goblet in front of him and his eyes were fixed on the floor in front of where Haendric sat. ‘We rounded up several families – all from The Gutters, none of any note. All had been denounced by their neighbors. One man protested he was owed money by the man who had named him. But that man was a licensed merchant and it was a poor man’s word against his accuser’s. Some of the guards touched the girls too much but they had to behave while we were there. After a
day and a night the women and children were released, but not before the deacons obtained confessions.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I don’t know, I wasn’t in the room. But they sent some red-robed bastard, didn’t look anything like this one now, but he had the same eyes: cold, fervent, resolved. Brought with him several fellows with dark hoods, called them his surgeons. I don’t know what they threatened them with, bribed them with or gave them to drink but each wife and son and daughter came out and claimed their father was a sorcerer.’

  ‘And they hanged the men,’ Haendric recalled. ‘Several men were hanged that year weren’t they?’

  ‘I saw them before that. I heard them. Heard them scream and beg though I was several rooms away. And I heard hem stop. They were brought out of the dungeon after the surgeons were done. They went calmly to the gallows. They did not cry or protest. In fact they didn’t notice anyone around them at all.’

  He drank some more and wiped his mouth. ‘They stood there, stiff as boards and blank as simpletons. They didn’t see their families, not their wives or children or anything, just swung on their ropes, almost as if they were happy to die. Whatever they did to them in that gaol it stripped them of their very souls.’

  Haendric recalled Algwyn’s words. He feared for his friend, and for what they might do if they caught him too. He was too old to die in anything but a comfortable bed.

  ‘You must hide from them. That Livio he has the light in his eyes. The same light I saw in enemies in battle. He has come here to kill.’

  ‘So where in this city can I hide?’ Haendric wondered aloud, and immediately felt rude for being so direct.

  Donnal moved to the window and opened it to look up at the sky and the priest followed him. There was a crescent moon climbing behind white wispy clouds that scudded across the darkness.