* * *
BY AMON’S ASSESSMENT, LADY Marion had spent most of her life forging herself to compete in a world of men, a venture that by many accounts had led her to act and conduct herself “like a man.” Or a stereotypical man, at least—some hypothetical warrior-hero who never showed fear. In most ways, Lady Marion was more successful in portraying this farcical ideal than any male Amon had ever known—himself most guiltily included. But earlier in the evening, when he paid her his compliment, her eyes had widened and let loose their tears. In moments such as those, he was humbled by the power of her womanhood. Her capacity for care was beyond any other, which made her so very much stronger than any man.
“Every soul we’ve lost,” Charley Dancer spoke up, his head bobbing up between his gaunt collarbones. “That’s what you said?”
Little grimaced. “What of it?”
“More lives have been lost than ours.”
“What do you mean?”
Charley squirmed, seemingly afraid to contradict the group. “Well the Sheriff certainly, and Guardsmen, too. Do you suppose those weigh on her as well?”
John Little breathed in, and responded as kindly as possible. “Who have we killed aside from those who meant to kill us?”
“The Sheriff,” Amon answered instantly.
“Elena,” Tuck added. “She put an arrow through a fellow’s neck at Bernesdale.”
“Who meant to cut Will in half.” There was no concession in Little’s voice. “And this is after they killed Much, so I dare you to say they didn’t have it coming.”
“Anyone before that?” Charley pushed. “I passed through Bernesdale ’fore I joined you, I was told there were at least two dead Guardsmen.”
Little huffed. “Just stories. I know I didn’t kill anyone, and Alan didn’t none, neither. Will complained enough that he wished he had.”
“Arthur, maybe?” Tuck considered. “Why does it matter?”
“Doesn’t matter.” Charley shook it off. “I just mean that perhaps Lady Marion has kept stock of both sides throughout this. Maybe she thinks it’s better that she turns herself in now, to stop the bloodshed on both sides. Maybe she’s not just looking to protect you, but good people that get caught in the mix of it all. I don’t know.”
Amon was surprised that no one objected to the idea of good people existing amongst their enemies, but neither did anyone seem to agree with Charley. The idea floated helpless in the air for a bit before dissipating to apathy.
“I don’t know,” he repeated. “I don’t know how the score can ever be settled.” He turned his head to Tuck. “I don’t suppose your book can help us out?”
He didn’t mean to, but Amon let a brief chortle escape. It seized the attention and he was forced to explain himself. “My apologies. I just don’t think you’ll find much in the Bible about killing—or revenge—that won’t be awfully black and white.”
Tuck nodded slowly. “I wouldn’t say that’s necessarily true. But what about your book, Amon? What does your book say about it?”
Amon laughed again, irritated the conversation had come his way. He wasn’t interested in getting into a theological discussion at the moment.
“What book is that?” Charley asked.
Surprisingly, the frogman had an earnestness in his face that Amon warmed to. “You may actually like it. It’s not like the Bible, not at all. But I do carry it and read from it to find answers. It’s from a Roman philosopher named Marcianus Capella, titled De septem disciplinis, or the seven disciplines. It defines the seven intellectual pursuits of mankind.” That was an oversimplification, but Amon preferred to keep his thoughts on the subject private. Many found it scandalous to disrespect the teachings of the Bible, which was not Amon’s intent. “If you wish, I’d be happy to read to you from it, whenever is convenient for you.”
“Hm.” Charley’s eyebrows popped. “And what does it say on this?”
Amon let the question linger. “It will say seven different things,” he replied at last. “Depending on who you are when you read it, and which pursuits you currently struggle with.”
Across the fire, Tuck smiled. “I think you’d find the same is true with the Bible if you gave it more consideration.”
3rd of January
There can be no denial that some creator, whom we are compelled to call God, is responsible for this world and our ability to witness it. But of religion generally, and the Christ specifically, there is a stubborn desire to simplify this creator into a collection of rules and absolutes. Religion is the greatest affront to God, for it takes away His complexity. The creation of good and evil ignores the million brilliant shades between. Something as simple as murder, for instance, is aptly labeled evil, but has been sanctioned and condoned by reasonable men with moral intent for centuries. I myself suffer from characteristics that some call wickedness, but these are characteristics endowed by my Creator. Can we believe in a God who demands perfection of His creations despite His own utter failings? No, the world has more than two options, I would say, which is consistently proven enough by its constant, rapturous, inimitable complexities.
* * *
EVENTUALLY, WHEN MOST HAD supped and left the campfire to tend to other needs, Lord Robert and Lady Marion remained still in John Little’s hovel. More than two hours had passed, and Amon was left alone sipping small ale from a horn. At length he was joined by Miss Arable de Burel, who had come from the castle in search of Marion. Amon carefully explained their whereabouts, causing Arable to idle her time beside him at the fire. When offered a pull of ale, she politely refused.
Amon studied her closely. She drew closer to the fire, wincing as she wrapped a shawl tight about her chest.
“Do you mind if I ask you a most personal question, Miss de Burel?”
She smiled simply. “Only if you stop calling me that.”
“Arable.” Amon returned his eyes to the fire. “How many months?”
He felt her body freeze beside her, and she took a sharp inhalation through her nose. “I’m certain I don’t know what you mean.”
“You’re beginning to show. How long has it been since you’ve had a monthly bleeding?”
“I don’t—” She stood quickly as if to deny it, but stumbled slightly off balance and steadied herself on his shoulder. Amon rose with her and offered his support. What he found in her face was a frightened little girl, tears already gathered at the corners of her eyes. “I didn’t want to believe it was true,” she said as he lowered her back to her seat.
“You won’t be able to hide it much longer. You’ve taken to wearing shawls, I noticed, but that bump will be larger than the shawl soon.”
She bobbed her head softly, her face flush red and squeezed tight. Her hands found their way down to her slightly swollen belly, its roundness made more obvious as she traced its outline through her dress.
“Four months,” she answered.
It was as Amon suspected. “I don’t mean to pry into the particulars, but that is only slightly longer than you have been with us. You’re certain, then?”
Again her head bobbed as an answer. “I haven’t … yes, that is. That is the only explanation, there was no other … not since…” Her face dropped into her palms and she shook.
“Then the father…”
Another silent admission. William de Wendenal, the brief Sheriff of Nottingham—who had also been betrothed to the Lady Marion. Wendenal’s and Robin of Locksley’s deaths were a very tender subject that had proven an endless source of antagonism between the women for months. While that hostility had dissipated recently, Amon worried greatly what complexities the addition of a child might bring.
“For a long time I thought I was just tired from everything,” Arable said. “I didn’t think … I haven’t had any sickness, you know.”
“Not everyone does,” Amon replied.
“How did you know?”
“I can see it in your face,” he admitted. “And your … well, forgive my crudeness but th
ere isn’t another way to say it. There’s been more sensitivity in your chest of late, yes? I notice the way you wince when you fold your arms.”
Arable’s hands moved to her breasts, unconsciously perhaps. Her emotion-wrought face somehow found a deeper shade of red. “I didn’t think anyone would notice that. You know an awful lot on the subject.”
At that, Amon could laugh. “I was my mother’s only son. Ten sisters, if you can believe it. They joke that my father was lucky to have died before they grew of age. I saw six of them through ten childbirths. You’d be well challenged to find an aspect of it that would surprise me.”
That earned a bit of laughter, and she straightened the errant curls of hair that had stuck themselves to her forehead. “No father? Just ten sisters, your mother, and you? That sounds like a trying time for a young man. I don’t suppose … is that why you … er…?”
Her mouth clamped tight before she made any further embarrassment of herself, but the question could not be unasked.
Whatever part of himself had warmed toward Arable in the moment turned sour and dark. “Is that why I became a knight? Is that what you meant to ask? Is that why I distinguished myself in Aquitaine against the usurper Henry’s forces? Is it why I applied myself to studying the natural disciplines of the trivium? Is this what you were going to ask? Which of my achievements were you about to reference?”
Arable was appropriately speechless. Ten years ago he might have felt some shame at barraging her so hard, or for showing her no mercy while she was in such a vulnerable state herself. But he had never been given that same clemency. Ever since his first mistake of trusting an untrustworthy friend with that knowledge, it had followed him—and Lady Marion’s infamy had only made it worse. Those who sought to define him solely by that one private bit of information thought he was always obliged to explain himself at any moment, in any circumstance. Even now, when Amon had chosen to approach Arable and extend her the support he knew she was lacking, even still her first instinct was to see him as a single adjective.
“I am so sorry,” she said. “I just … I just don’t really know how that works.”
“Then you should educate yourself. Perhaps in something other than prejudice.”
“I’m not…” She reeled. “Amon, this is me. You know me. You can’t think—”
“I absolutely can.” Amon stood to leave. “I have known you three months, Arable, and you strike me as a decent young woman who did not deserve my lady’s distrust. But I have known others whom I would describe with much greater fondness, who I had known for many years, whose opinion of me turned quickly upon learning more about me. So no, I do not know you. You can never know what vices a person carries with them, and how it changes them into someone you’ve never seen before. You know nothing about me, and have never bothered to ask. Why on earth would I assume I can trust you with my secrets?”
22nd of January, 1192
It cannot be long now. The best of mankind always strives to improve itself, ever moving toward greater understanding, greater knowledge, greater acceptance. As more people embrace the desire to study the human condition, the sooner the light of knowledge will chase out the shadows of fear and prejudice from the collective soul. I doubt I will see it in my lifetime, because such bigotry is generational and seemingly impossible to uproot in a man. But one or two generations from now, it should no longer bear any taboo for a man to lay with another man. It will be as commonplace and unimportant as one’s preference for breakfast. Fifty years, no more than a hundred, until humanity has improved its biases. It cannot be long now.
* * *
SIR AMON SWIFT DID his best to focus on the seven disciplines as he awaited Lady Marion. The night was clear, which let him trace the constellations of astronomy; and he practiced several mental examples of geometry and arithmetic as they pertained to the distances between the heavenly bodies. Rhetoric, logic, and grammar were trickier things to practice without instruments, and music was nearly impossible. Still, as he always did, he shifted his mind from discipline to discipline, always selecting that which he felt he had most neglected to keep his brain alert and curious. Charley Dancer ended up accompanying him for some length of time, and Amon found it relaxing to explain each discipline and how they related to each other. Charley did not seem to understand the notion of De septem disciplinis’s allegorical narrative, so Amon spoke only in broad terms. He was filled with the distinct notion that Charley was showing more kindness than true interest, but it was nonetheless rewarding to teach each concept rather than defend them.
It seemed ruthlessly late of night when Lady Marion and Lord Robert finally rejoined the group. They both seemed startled that Amon was still awaiting them. “I am mortified,” Marion apologized. “I took the opportunity to close my eyes, I had no idea you were waiting on me.”
“It is no matter, my lady, I would wait on you asleep or awake just the same.”
“But still.” She blushed, taking stock of her hair and clothing. “You should get to sleep, Amon, I’ll be returning to the castle.”
“I will walk you to its gates, my lady. I can still, at least, do that.”
Lord Robert remained unusually quiet as they ascended the hill. The night was dark as fresh ink, but Amon knew the path well and led his lady with certainty. “May I ask if you came to a decision?”
“I have.” Marion swallowed. “Though it does not seem to please anyone involved. If de Senlis or the Chancellor returns to Huntingdon to claim me, I intend on letting them. And I do not intend for there to be any more discussion on it.”
The crispness of her words were aimed at Lord Robert, who remained stoic.
“As you say, my lady.”
“In that regard, Amon,” she softened, “I will very likely not need your service for much longer. When the time comes, you will be released from your duty, and none of my crimes shall be reflected on you.”
“That is most kind,” he conceded. “But my charge is not yours to dismiss. So long as your father has paid for my fealty, I will defend you against any threat.”
“It won’t be a threat, Amon. It will be the law. You cannot challenge that.”
“As you say, my lady.”
Marion went on to promise that she would speak with the countess and allow Amon access to the castle again, but he had little ability to care for such things at the moment. He had expected Marion’s answer, but somehow had not expected the wave of unfamiliar emotions it encouraged within himself. As uncertain as Lady Marion’s course had always been, Amon had never been forced to consider what would become of his own, were she to leave him. He wondered if her father would issue him a new charge, or dismiss him for failing to protect her from herself.
He wondered if any other lord in England would have the strength of character to employ Amon at all.
He wondered what odd mercenary jobs he would be forced to take before being murdered by a backstabbing accomplice or a bigoted vagabond.
He wondered what shame would be left to throw at him, the only able-bodied knight in England who had been refused service in the war.
Marion and Robert left him at the gates of Huntingdon Castle, their silhouettes swallowed by the torches within.
14th of February
I have more to write tonight, on loyalty and its fickleness, or its steadfastness. I have not decided which yet. I find words are not mine to command at the moment. My thoughts remain elusive to the bitter confines of sentences.
* * *
BEFORE RETIRING, AMON FOUND the Delaney brothers again and pleaded a moment of their time. “There will come a moment, soon, I fear,” he explained extemporaneously, “when Marion will need us in spite of herself. It may come at great risk to our health. I hope I will be able to rely upon you both to stand with me, if the need arises.”
Peetey looked shocked. “We were just kidding about tying her up and dragging her out of here.”
“I know,” Amon answered. “Which is why I’m asking you to reconsid
er it.”
PART VI
BAILEYKING
FORTY-SEVEN
JOHN LACKLAND
HIGH KEEP, NOTTINGHAM CASTLE
JOHN’S FIRST PRIORITY WAS to rearrange the furniture on the top floor of the keep. There were a total of eight rooms—one at each corner, and another in between each of those—connected by a narrow, square hallway. The central space, around which the hallway bent, was enclosed as part of the eighth room. This was the only bedroom of the lot, but its window was on the tower’s eastern face, and John hated the intrusion of the sun in the morning. Both the sun and the endless groans of discontent masses were positively dreadful things to be awoken to.
This afternoon, he took reports about the happenings below along with a plate of too-salted ham. Only one dozen loyal men were at his disposal, who lived in blissful ignorance of the importance of their current task. They thought they were simply securing the high keep for his personal use. His sentinels were men of little acuity, best used for executing orders that had a lot of obvious verbs in them. If he’d told them what was really happening, they’d either demand more money or stab him in the back—both of which were admittedly wise moves.
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