Isle of Glass (11 page)

“You didn’t. One of your vassals did. A baron of the
Marches, named Rhydderch.”

The King stroked his beard and pretended a calm he did not
feel. “Rhydderch. What has he done?”

“You know that there’s been trouble on the Marches.”

There was a dangerous glint in Richard’s eye. “I know it,”
he said.

“Rhydderch is behind it. He’s sent forces into Gwynedd and
is ravaging the lands along the border.”

“Are you implying that I don’t keep my lords in hand?”

“I’m implying nothing, Majesty,” Alf said.

If Richard had had a tail, it would have been lashing his
sides. “You tell me that one of my barons foments a major war, and that the
King of Rhiyana will concern himself with it. Gwydion’s a meddler, but even so,
in this he’s going far afield.”

“Of course he’s concerned. Kilhwch is his foster son. A war
with you would end in disaster.”

“For one side. Kilhwch is a boy, and Gwydion’s no soldier.”

“For both sides, Sire. Kilhwch is nineteen, which isn’t so
very young, and he takes after his father. And Gwydion, I think, would surprise
you. Isn’t his brother said to be the best knight in the world?”

“His brother is as old as he is. Which is ancient.”

Alf shook his head. “The Flame-bearer has no equal, nor ever
shall have. Not even Coeur-de-Lion.”

That barb had sunk deep. Richard’s eyes blazed. His voice
was too quiet, almost a purr. “You’re very sure of that, little monk. Do you
even know which end of a sword to hold onto?”

“I can guess, Sire.”

“And you guess at the prince’s prowess?”

“The world knows it. I believe it.” Calmly, boldly, Alf sat
on a stool near the King, his long legs drawn up.

The other did not react to this small insolence in the face
of the greater one. “Do you know how to convince me that I ought to go to war?
Aylmer could have told you. Anyone could. It’s ludicrously simple. Tell the
brawn-brained fool the other man is a better fighter than he is.”

To Richard’s utter amazement, Alf laughed. It was a light
free sound, with nothing in it but mirth. “You, Sire? Brawn-brained? Far from
it. But you have an alarming passion for fighting, and you want Gwynedd.
Unwise, that. You’d do better to send ambassadors to Kilhwch and tell him you
want peace. Else you’ll have Gwynedd on your left and Rhiyana on your right,
and all Hell between.”

“A small kingdom whose King is barely in control of his
vassals, and a greater one that hasn’t fought a war since before I was born.
But Anglia is strong, tempered in the Crusade.”

“And tired of fighting, though you may not be, Sire. Surely
it will be adventure enough to quell Rhydderch.”

Richard looked him over again, slowly this time, musing.
“Why are you doing this? Are you Rhiyanan?”

“No, Sire. It was entrusted to me by someone else. A knight
of Rhiyana who fell afoul of Rhydderch.”

“Dead?”

“No, though not for Rhydderch’s lack of trying.”

“So Gwydion already has a reason to be my enemy.”

“Rhiyana doesn’t know yet. And won’t, if you help us, Sire.
Send word to Rhydderch. Order him to withdraw from Gwynedd on pain of death.
And let Kilhwch know what you’re doing.”

The King was silent. Alf clasped his knees, doing his utmost
not to reveal his tension. Richard hung in the balance, debating within
himself. War, and winter coming, and troops to deal with who fretted already at
campaigning so late in the year. To stop Rhydderch, to beg Kilhwch’s kind
pardon—no. But a truce now, and in the spring...

He nodded abruptly and stood. “I’m bound to ride now for
Carlisle. By the time I get there I’ll have an answer for you.”

Alf rose as the King had and bowed, slightly, gracefully.
“As you will, Sire.”

The lion-eyes glinted upon him. “But it’s not as you will,
is it?”

“I don’t matter, Majesty.”

Richard snorted. “Stop pretending to be so humble. You’re as
proud as Lucifer.”

Alf nodded. “Yes, I am. But I try. That’s worth something.”

“A brass farthing.” Richard tossed him something that glittered;
reflexively he caught it. “I have work to do if we're to ride out of here by
night. You’ll wait on Aylmer. But I may steal you now and again. You’re
interesting, sir monk.”

Alf bowed low without speaking. Metal warmed in his hand,
the shape of a ring, the sense of silver, moonstone.

A simple monk had no business with such things. He knew he
should return it with courtesy; half-raised his hand, opened his mouth to
speak.

When he left, he had not spoken. The ring was still clenched
in his fist.

The King broke camp shortly after noon and turned his face
toward Carlisle. His men, recovered from the ravages of battle and of drink,
set forth in high spirits, singing as they went, songs that made no concessions
to the small somber-clad party about the Bishop.

The more pious of those pretended not to listen; the rest
beat time on thigh or pommel and at length joined in. Alf rode in silence. He
had been silent since he returned from the King’s tent.

Jehan frowned. He had hoped that, once Alf had delivered his
message and given himself over to Bishop Aylmer, he would be his old self
again. But he seemed more moody than ever. He did not even answer when Jehan,
looking about, asked, “Where’s Thea?”

A little after that, Alf left his place behind the Bishop. Others
were riding apart from the line, young knights impatient with the slow pace,
bidden by their commanders to patrol the army’s edges. He did not belong with
them, unarmed and unarmored as he was, but no one rebuked him. He had an air
about him, Jehan thought, like a prince in exile.

“An interesting young man,” a voice said.

Someone had ridden up beside him, the man in the grey cowl
on a bony mule. Jehan swallowed a sharp retort. He did not like this Brother
Reynaud—not his face, not his eyes, and not at all his high nasal voice.

The monk did not seem to notice Jehan’s silence. He was
watching Alf with a peculiar, almost avid stare. "Very interesting,” he
repeated. “I understand that he’s a churchman?”

Jehan had his temper in hand. “Yes, Brother,” he said easily
enough. “He has a dispensation to wear secular clothes. So do I. We thought it
would be less dangerous to travel this way.”

“Oh, yes. Yes. It might be. Certainly he looks most well in
that guise. Though one so fair would look well even in sackcloth." Brother
Reynaud smiled a narrow, ice-edged smile. “Does he come of a princely family?”

“Not that anyone knows of. But he doesn’t need to be a
lord’s get. He’s princely enough as he is.”

“That,” said the monk, “is clear to see. His parents must be
very proud of such a son.”

“He’s an orphan. He was raised in the abbey.”

“Oh? How sad." Brother Reynaud’s eyes did not match his
words; they glittered, eager. Like a hound on the scent, Jehan thought.

Hound. Grey cowl, white robe. Jehan remembered dimly a name
he had overheard, a word or two describing a habit and an Order. Hounds.
Canes.
Canes Dei
. Hounds of God.

He went cold. His fingers clenched on the reins; the
chestnut jibbed, protesting.

He made himself speak calmly. "Tell me, Brother. I
can’t seem to place your habit. Is it a new Order?”

Reynaud glanced at him and smiled again. “New enough. The
Order of Saint Paul.”

The Paulines. They were the hunting hounds of Rome, seekers
and destroyers of aught that imperiled the Church. Heretics. Unbelievers.
Witches and sorcerers.

Alf rode unheeding, his white head bare, the grey mare
dancing beneath him. Someone called out to him, admiring his mount; he replied,
his voice clear and strong and inhumanly beautiful. No one could see his eyes
as they were—those, he blurred, by subtle witchery—but that was a small thing
to the totality of him. He looked what he was, elf-born, alien.

The King had summoned him. The mare wheeled and fell in
beside the red charger. They rode on so, horses and men matched in height, but
the King heavier, slower, earthbound.

“The King has taken to him,” Reynaud observed.

Jehan’s heart hammered against his ribs. He could smell the
danger in this man, a reek of blood and fire. “I'm not surprised,” he said. “He
was quite the most brilliant monk in our abbey. And the most saintly.”

Reynaud did not react at all to that thrust. “Your Abbot
must have been sorry to see him go.”

“He was. But Bishop Aylmer asked for Brother Alfred, and it
was best for him to leave. He needed to stretch his wings a little.”

“Strong wings they must be, to attain a King in their first
flight.”

“That’s what the Abbot thought. And Dom Morwin’s right about
most things.”

“Was it your Dom Morwin who admitted this paragon to the
abbey?”

“Oh, no. Dom Morwin’s only been Abbot for five years.
Brother Alf came when he was a baby.”

The gleam in Reynaud’s eye had brightened. “Alf, you call
him?”

Jehan swallowed and tried to smile. “There are a lot of
Saxons in our abbey. And of course there’s the great scholar, the one who wrote
the
Gloria Dei
. With two Alfreds in the place, one had to have his name
shortened.”

“Ah, yes. Alfred of St. Ruan’s. I hadn’t noticed the
coincidence. Is he still alive?”

“Still. Though he doesn’t go out any more, nor write much.
He’s getting quite old, and his health isn’t very good.”

“That’s a pity. Your young Brother is named after him,
then?”

Jehan nodded. “Takes after his scholarship, too. He hated to
see Brother Alf go. But the Abbot insisted. There are other teachers, he said,
and one of them is the world.”

“True enough,” Alf said.

Jehan drew his breath in sharply. Intent on the fabric of
truth and falsehood, he had not heard the approaching hooves. Alf’s eyes looked
darker than usual, more grey than silver.

He smiled at Jehan and said, “I heard you talking about me.
Base flattery, all of it. I'm really quite an ordinary young nuisance; my Abbot
decided he’d had enough of me and inflicted me on the poor Bishop.”

“Both of us,” Jehan put in. “What did the King say, Brother
Alf?”

Alf shrugged. “A word or two. He wanted to buy Fara.”

He smoothed the mare’s wind-ruffled mane.

“Did you say yes?”

“Of course not. I said she was only lent to me; he said that
he understood; we both agreed that she’s the most beautiful creature afoot.”
She arched her neck; he stroked it and laughed a little. “Aye, you are, and
well you know it.”

Reynaud had withdrawn in silence. But his presence remained,
like a faint hint of corruption; surely he strained to hear what they said.
Jehan wanted to shout a warning, but he dared not.

Their horses moved together; knee brushed knee. Alf gripped
Jehan’s shoulder for an instant, as a friend will, saying something
meaningless. But Jehan caught the thought behind, the surge of comfort.

Alf knew. He was on guard. And the Hounds of God, for all
their fire and slaughter, had never caught one of the true elf-blood. That he
was sure of, with Alun’s surety.

o0o

Alf started awake. It was very late, with a scent of dawn in
the air. Jehan’s warm body lay against him, dreaming boy-dreams. His own had
been far less gentle, a wild confusion of fire and darkness, Alun’s black boar
and a pack of ghost-white hounds, and a lion transfixed with a flaming sword.

He lay still as the cold sweat dried from his body. He had
not cried out; no one had awakened. Thea crouched close in hound-shape, glaring
as she had glared on that first night.

“Thea,” he breathed. “I thought you’d gone back to Rhiyana.”

Her lip curled in a snarl. She was exhausted and in a foul
temper.
I set out for St. Ruan’s, and traveled all this black day and half
the night, and found myself outside this tent. With Alun in my mind all the
while, telling me about the book he read today and chanting the Offices.

You knew it would happen
, Alf said in his mind.

Her hackles rose; she bared her teeth.
I put up every barrier
I had. I went down to the very bottom of my power. And I hunted a trail that
led me in a long arc back to you.

Alf sighed. I
hoped you'd be wise enough to go home.

No!

He winced. Her anger was piercing.
I’m sorry
, he
said.

Don't pity me!

I don't
. He drew the blanket up to his chin.

She lay down beside him. He went rigid. Her body was
beast-warm. But her mind was a woman’s.

Her annoyance pricked him, less painful than her anger but
more shameful.
Don't be so ridiculous. You never minded it when I slept with
Jehan.

But he doesn't know—

No more do you.
She rested her chin on his chest and
closed her eyes. All her barriers had firmed against him.

A test, Brother
, he told himself.
Think of it as a
test.

By infinite degrees he relaxed. She was only a hound. A
sleeping hound, worn out with her long fruitless chase.

Boldly he stroked her ears. She did not respond. With the
air of a man plunging into deadly peril, he laid his arm over her flank. It was
sleek-furred, wholly canine; her heart beat as a hound’s will, swift, slow,
swift, slow, in time with her breathing.

He loosed his breath in a long sigh. He had done it. He had
mastered her, and himself.

Perhaps.

Alf rode most of the way to Carlisle at the King’s side. It
was not the place he would have chosen, but Richard would not let him ride in
obscurity behind the Bishop. “You interest me,” the King would say when he
protested. “Tell me another tale, Brother!”

And Alf would obey. Or Richard would tell tales of his own:
accounts of his travels and of his many battles, of the sea, and of the lands
of the East.