by Tarr, Judith
Alf flinched. Quietly, steadily, he said, “I murdered a man in cold blood in God’s own sanctuary. I am in the deepest state of mortal sin. I can’t say Mass for you. It would be blasphemy.”
No! Morwin snapped with a ghost of his old vigor. You said you'd do anything. Anything, Alf.
“Morwin—before God—”
Before God, Alfred, ego te absolvo....
“Morwin!”
Friend, brother, son, thy sins are forgiven. Say the Mass, Alf. For love of me, for love of God. And for your soul’s sake, see to his rest the poor creature who killed me.
Morwin’s eyes were fading; he blinked, peering through the shadows. Such a fair face, to be the last thing I see. Are there tears on it? Poor lad. When you've laid this bag of bones in the ground and made your peace with Rhydderch, find your own peace in the City of Peace. What is it that the Jews say? "Next year, in Jerusalem.”
“You—you bid me make a pilgrimage?”
For peace, Alf. To Jerusalem. The darkness was almost complete. But on the very edge of sight glimmered a light.
Morwin reached for it. So far, so fair...
Alf! Alf, look. It shines. It shines!
o0o
Alf raised a tear-stained face. Jehan was standing over him.
“He’s gone,” he said. His voice was soft, level. “I couldn’t follow him. It was too bright.” Suddenly, luminously, he smiled. “But he went on; I saw. I felt. There was joy, Jehan. Joy!”
The novice stared at him as he crouched there with the Abbot’s lifeless body in his arms, his hands red with the blood of the man he had slain and the man he had defended—and on his face, pure joy.
Jehan swallowed hard. Others crowded behind him, an alarming number: the kings, Aylmer, Thea, a handful of knights, several monks, all in various states of undress. Their faces were white with shock; even the kings seemed frozen with the horror of it, a chapel turned to a charnel house, an Abbot foully murdered.
Jehan frowned. Three crowned kings—and not one had the wits to act. He singled out the solid dark figure of Aylmer. “My lord Bishop, you’d best take over the abbey and see that the Brothers know what’s happened. Brother Osric, Brother Ulf, take Dom Morwin to the mortuary; you, sir knights, had better see to Rhydderch. Brother Owein, roust out a party of novices to clean up the chapel; it will have to be purified later. And if you please, my lord Gwydion, would you take care of Brother Alf?”
o0o
Jehan hesitated at the stair’s foot. Gwydion had left Alf in his old cell, by Alf’s own choice, for it was quiet and isolated, and it had a door that could be bolted against the world.
With sudden decision, Jehan strode forward. The door was shut; he knocked softly.
“Come in,” Alf said.
He sounded like his old self. Jehan lifted the latch and stepped into the cell.
It was the same as it had always been, very plain and very bare. Alf sat cross-legged on the hard narrow bed in his shabby old habit, as if he had never left St. Ruan’s at all.
Jehan found that he had nothing to say. Alf looked quiet, serene; he even smiled. “Have they finally let you go?”
“I let myself go.” Jehan sat on the bed and looked hard at him. “Brother Alf, are you bottling yourself up?”
Alf shook his head. “I’ve been talking with Gwydion. That’s all.”
“But you’re so quiet.”
“Ah,” said Alf. “I should be raving and trying to find a sword to fall on.” He turned his hands palm up and flexed his long fingers. “Yes. I should be. I killed a man. He killed one who was dearer to me than a brother. And I have to say Morwin’s funeral Mass, witch and murderer that I am, suspended from my vows.”
“You’re none of those things.”
He sighed deeply. “Am I not? It’s very strange, Jehan. I’ve tormented myself for so long for so little; now that I have a reason, I find that I can’t. I am what I am; I've done what I’ve done. I can’t change any of it.”
“Is that acceptance or indifference?”
“I’m not sure yet. Gwydion says it’s part of my healing. Thea says I’m finally coming to my senses. I think I’m numb. Either I’ll come burning back to life again, or I'll mortify and fall away.”
Jehan swallowed, but could not speak.
“‘I am the Resurrection and the Life; he who believes in me will never die.’ ” Alf spoke softly, wonderingly. “To believe that, and to know it... When I looked into the middle of the Light, Jehan, for a moment I saw Morwin. He was a boy again; and he was laughing.”
Jehan could not bear it. “Brother Alf! Don’t you understand? It’s my fault he’s dead. It was my idea to bring Rhydderch here; I brought him; and he—he killed—”
So young, so strong; he had borne all that Alf had borne, and been a shield and a fortress, and never wavered or fallen. “Jehan,” Alf said. “Jehan. It was none of your doing.”
“It was!” he cried.
Alf shook him. “Jehan de Sevigny, Rhydderch’s coming put an end to the war and to the quarrel between kings. When he died, when no one else could move or think, you did both, splendidly.”
“I started the whole thing. The least I could do was put an end to it.”
“Which you did, most well. You’re fit to walk among kings, Jehan.”
“I'm not fit to walk with a dog.” Jehan dashed away tears, angrily. “I wish people would stop praising me and see what an idiot I am.”
“You are yourself. That’s enough.”
Jehan’s brows contracted. “Here you are, giving me my own advice. And you’re barely in any condition to bear your own burdens, let alone mine.”
“No,” Alf said. “I think I’m stronger than I ever was.” He settled his arm about the tense shoulders. At first they tightened, but little by little their tautness eased. Jehan drooped against him.
He smoothed the unruly hair, gently. “Just before Morwin went to the Light, he paused. He turned back to me with the joy already on his face, and said, ‘Don’t mourn for me, Alf. And don’t mourn for yourself. I’m not leaving you alone; you have Jehan to be friend and brother and son. Love him, Alf. Love him well.’ ”
Jehan buried his face in Alf’s robe and wept.
o0o
Alf held him until he had no more tears to shed, and for a while after as he lay spent, without speech or thought.
When he stiffened, Alf let him go. He sat up, scrubbing his face with the backs of his hands, sniffing hard. “A fine great booby I am,” he said. “You must be mortally ashamed of me.”
Alf smiled and shook his head. His own cheeks were wet. “We both needed that. Do you feel better?”
“Yes. Yes, I do.” Jehan tried a smile. It wobbled, then steadied. “Thank you, Brother Alf.”
The other looked down. Gratitude had always embarrassed him.
Jehan’s smile warmed. “You’ve changed completely, and yet you haven’t changed at all. If you’re going to say Mass again, does that mean you’re going back to being a priest?”
“I—” Alf`s fingers knotted; he stared at them as if their pattern held an answer. “I don’t know. Morwin left certain things for me to do. For atonement. The Mass was one. And I’m to go to Jerusalem as a pilgrim. Whether I’m also to go as a priest, he didn’t say.”
“But of course you should. Isn’t that what you are?”
“That’s the trouble. I’m not sure I am. I’m still Richard’s squire. And Gwydion—Gwydion and Thea—talked to me for a long while. Gwydion will be going back to Rhiyana very soon now, before his brother comes raging into Anglia. He’s asked me to go with him as a kinsman.”
“Do you want to?” asked Jehan.
Alf raised his eyes. “When I’m with him or with Thea, I feel as if I’ve come home. I’m no longer a witch or a monster or even a peculiar variety of saint; I’m only Alf. They could set me free to be what I was truly meant to be. Maybe even, still, a priest. A priest of the Fair Folk.” His lips twitched. “The theologian in me is going to hav
e to do some very agile thinking.”
“You’ll do that, then,” Jehan said.
“Maybe.” Alf unlocked his fingers, one by one. “Maybe not.”
Jehan shrugged. “It doesn’t matter to me. I don’t care in the least where I go, as long as it’s with you.”
For a long moment Alf was silent. His face was very still, his eyes at once clear and impossible to read. “Jehan,” he said at last, “I love you as a brother. As a son. When I had fallen as low as I could fall, you lifted me up again and showed me how to be strong. You’ve been living your life for me.”
Jehan opened his mouth; Alf raised a hand. “Jehan, you’re young. You have a whole life to live, a life of your own. You’ll be a warrior, a scholar, a prince of the Church. You’ll walk with kings; you’ll counsel Popes. You’ll even win the respect of the Infidels, who deny the Christ but who know what a man is.”
“You can do all that,” Jehan said. “We can do it together.”
“No, Jehan. Maybe our paths will cross. Maybe they’ll even converge for a space as they have now. I pray they will. But whatever you do, you must do on your own, for yourself. If I go to Rhiyana or to Jerusalem or to Winchester with the King, you must not follow me, unless your own path takes you there.”
“It will—because it’s yours.”
“Child,” Alf said, though he bridled at the word. “Your way lies for now with Bishop Aylmer.”
“He’ll free me if I ask.”
“Don’t.”
Jehan glared at his feet. Great ugly feet, like all the rest of him. And in the center of him, a terrible ache.
“Jehan.” He refused to look up. Alf went on quietly. “I’ll tell you the truth. If we have to part, it will not be easy for me to bear. But I want you to go your own way, wherever that is, without regard for me. Please, Jehan. For my sake as much as for yours.”
Jehan’s shoulders hunched; his head sank between them. His voice when he spoke was rough. “If you go one way and I go another, will I ever see you again?”
“Yes,” Alf answered him. “I promise.”
Muscle by muscle Jehan relaxed. He drew a deep breath. “All right, then. I’ll grow up, and stop dangling at your tail.”
Alf smiled.
He scowled. But Alf’s smile was insidious. It crept through the cracks of his ill-humor and swelled and shattered it, for all that he could do. He found himself smiling ruefully; then more freely, until they were both laughing like idiots over nothing at all.
32
Rhydderch’s body rested in the room in which he would have slept, guarded as he had been while yet he lived. Even now he seemed to scowl, hating those who had tended him and made him seemly, clothing him as a lord and according him due honor.
Alf stood over the bier, too still and too pale. He did not respond when Richard came to stand beside him; his eyes were fixed on the dark furious face.
“If ever a man looked like the Devil’s own,” Richard said, “this one does.”
Alf shuddered. The King clapped him on the shoulder; he winced, for his back was still tender. “There now. He was damned long before you put the seal on it, but he'll get the Christian burial you wanted for him. There’s no need to shed tears over him.”
“I’m not weeping for him,” said Alf. “I’m praying for his soul.”
“God knows he needs it.”
“Who doesn't, Sire?”
Richard laughed. “Aylmer says you have the face of an angel and the Devil’s own wit.”
“A fair face and a black heart. That, say the Paulines, is the essence of elf-kind.”
“Your heart is as pure as a maid’s and somewhat softer.” He met Alf’s bright strange gaze. “We've decided to be kind to this carrion. After you’ve buried your Abbot, it goes back where it came from, with a company of knights to keep off the birds and bandits and a good man to hold the lands and the folk until I find a proper lord for them. One who’s loyal, and who’ll wait for me before he starts any wars.”
“Are you going to turn against Kilhwch after all?”
Swift anger flashed across Richard’s face. “Kilhwch is a splendid fellow. So is His Majesty of Rhiyana. And I’m not such a scoundrel that I’ll break up a pair of noble friendships. There’ll be no fighting on either side of Anglia while those friendships hold.”
His anger faded. “Imagine, Alfred. A king who can ride wherever he likes and leave his brother with crown and throne, and who knows that he can come back and take both without having to shed even a drop of blood. And I’m going to have a chance to see this prodigy. There’s to be a tournament in Caer-y-n’Arfon in the spring, and Gwydion says the Flame-bearer will come; I'll have a chance to see which one of us is stronger.”
Alf smiled. He was no longer quite so pale.
“And you,” Richard said. “Aylmer’s trying to steal you back from me. Anyone can see, he says, that you belong in the priesthood. You and that great clever ox of a Sevigny—you’ll be the right and left hands of the Church Militant, and half the body besides.”
“I know," Alf murmured. “He came to talk to me this morning. He wants me to resume my vows in full and to take up knightly training, and to teach theology to one or two of his priests.”
“Will you have time to eat or sleep?”
“Occasionally.”
Richard stood squarely in front of him. “Tell me now,” he said. “Tell me the truth. If you were free to do whatever you chose, would you go with him?”
“Once upon a time,” said Alf, “two men disputed the ownership of a fine hound. One had raised it from a pup; the other had found it wandering in the wood, and taken it and fed it and trained it to hunt. They took their case to their liege lord. He heard each side of the story, and deliberated for a long while; at last he had his men draw a circle on the floor of his hall and place the hound in it. The owners stood on opposite sides and called to it.”
He stopped. Richard frowned. “So? What happened?”
“The beast lay down,” Alf replied, “and calmly went to sleep.”
The King glared, then laughed. “The Devil’s wit, indeed! Who’s calling you?”
“Aylmer, for one. Gwydion wants me to go with him to Rhiyana. My Abbot, when he died, bade me make a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. And you, Sire.” Alf smiled wryly. “I haven’t forgotten the promise I made to you, though you’ve been most kind to let me see my Abbot to his rest as if I were still one of his monks. When his Mass is over, if you command me, I’ll put on your livery again.”
“And if I don’t command you? If I leave you free to choose?”
Alf was silent. Richard could find no answer in his face, nor in his eyes that were the same color as the winter sun.
The King’s voice roughened. “When you have a hawk, there comes a time when you have to set it free. If it comes back it’s yours. If not...” He drew a breath. “I’m freeing you. You can go with your priests or to your Fair Folk. Or you can rule Anglia with me. In Winchester I’ll make you a knight and give you lands and riches and set you among my great lords. And in the spring after the tournament in Gwynedd, we'll start planning a new Crusade. You’ll have your pilgrimage to Jerusalem, Alfred, and a kingdom there if you want one. And after that we can travel to Constantinople, just as we said we would when we were riding to Carlisle.” His face was flushed, eager, lively as a boy’s. “Tell me, Alfred. Tell me you’ll do it. With you by me, there’s no one in the world who can conquer me.”
“Sire,” Alf said. He moved away from Rhydderch’s body, that weighed like a stone on heart and mind. Richard followed him until they stood together by the cold hearth. “Sire, I've been offered so much. Aylmer promises to set the Church at my feet; Gwydion opens the realm of the Fair Folk to me. And you spread before me all the kingdoms of the world.”
A shadow crossed Richard’s face. “Is that all I am to you? A tempter?”
“My lord, you know that’s not so.”
“Do you realize that you’ve never called me by my
name?”
“You’re my King, Sire. I wouldn't presume—”
Richard struck the wall with his fist. “Damn you! You’ve presumed to rule me, heart and soul, since the day you met me.”
“Richard,” Alf said. "Richard, my lord. You see so much, can’t you see that I look on you as my friend?”
“I see it,” Richard answered harshly. “I wanted to hear it.”
Alf, who spoke as much with touch as with words, had never touched Richard. He laid his hand very lightly on the King’s shoulder. “You never once tried to overstep the boundaries I set. For that I learned to love you.”
Richard trembled under his hand.
He did not draw it away. “Richard. I have so many choices, who never had any, who needed to have no thoughts of my own but only to do as I was bidden. Each choice is one I would make gladly. But I can’t have them all. Only one.”
“And that’s not mine.”
“No!” Alf cried. “Don’t you see? I don’t know. I can’t choose. Bishop Aylmer thinks I should go back to Winchester for Yule and do my thinking there; then I can go where I will.”
“That makes sense.”
“Do you think so?” Alf let his hand fall from Richard’s shoulder. His eyes were troubled. “Sire, I have to think. I have to pray. But whatever I choose, remember. Remember that I’m still your friend. Your brother, even, if you will.”
For a long moment the King stared at him, as if to commit to memory every line of his face. Suddenly, swiftly, Richard embraced him, then let him go, stepping back.
“I’ll remember,” he said. He turned away, striding past Rhydderch’s body, paying it no heed.
Alf drew a shuddering breath. “There,” he whispered to the empty hearth, the dead shape, “truly, is a king.”
o0o
“Sing praise to the Lord, you His faithful ones,
and give thanks to His holy name.
For His anger lasts but a moment; a lifetime, His good will.
At nightfall, weeping comes in, but with the dawn, rejoicing.”
Such a contrast, Alf thought, between Rhydderch and his victim. Morwin lay in state in the chapel, surrounded with candles and incense and the chanting of monks.