The Silver Bowl (11 page)

Chapter 21

The Abbey

TOBIAS BASHED THE FLOOR
of the boat with a rock. Then well before sunrise the following morning we set it loose into the current. It would begin to fill with water, a little at a time, until it finally sank at some place far downstream. Then we awakened the prince, and broke our fast, and headed off through the trees in the direction of the road.

It was a long walk for someone in pain, and the prince said little along the way. Now and then he would stop, gasping, and say he must sit down. And so we would rest, but never for long.

By midafternoon it became clear that unless we picked up our pace we would not reach the abbey in time to be admitted there. The gates would be shut for the night. Alaric did his best to walk faster, clinging tightly to Tobias's arm, leaning forward, taking long strides. But he was pale and sweating and looked horribly ill. At one point he staggered away from us and vomited into the bushes.

“Tobias,” I whispered, “he can't do it. I think we should stop now, sleep another night in the woods. He'll be fresh in the morning, and we won't have so far to go.”

“No,” Tobias said. “A wound can go bad in a day, and I didn't much like how it looked this morning. He needs expert care, and we cannot give it to him.”

The prince was back now, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

“Here, my lord,” I said. “Why don't you lean on me for a while? I'm smaller than Tobias, just low enough to be comfortable.”

Wordlessly, he laid his good arm across my shoulders; I held him firmly around the waist, and we continued down the road.

I am embracing a prince
, I thought.
And this time he is awake.

I was so close I could smell him—the common sweat-stink of his borrowed clothes, and beneath that some costly perfume with just a hint of soap. He must have bathed before dressing for the banquet, and the scent still lingered. I felt myself blushing and turned away.

The sun was low in the sky when we began to pass through the abbey lands. The fields were empty now, bare of all but stubble, the harvest already in. We passed the mill, and the beehouse, and the fish pond, and the bakehouse, and the brewery. But we saw no monks about. They were already back within the walls, then, at supper most likely.

We rounded a bend, and the abbey gate came into view. Tobias groaned. “Too late,” he said. “And after so much effort.”

“No, wait,” I said. “Over there.” I pointed to where a crowd was gathered by another, smaller door. They seemed to be mostly poor widows, together with their raggedy children; but there were others, too, who just looked old, or feeble, or sick. One man conversed with invisible air, gaping, and grinning, and waving his arms.

The poor always waited for alms outside the houses of the great. So, too, at the abbey. Every evening when the monks had finished their supper, the almoner would gather up the scraps and take them out to the paupers. On occasion he might have a few coins for them, too, or a bit of candle wax, or some old clothes.

We took our places at the edge of the crowd and waited.

“Remember,” I whispered to Alaric, “you are Sebastian the foreign merchant now.”

He said “Ya,” or sommat like that, in a foreign-sounding way. Then grabbing my arm for balance, he lowered himself to the ground and sat leaning against the wall. He breathed heavily, his eyes closed.

Before long the door swung open. The paupers brought out their little cups and bowls and formed a proper line. There was no pushing or shouting; they knew there would be plenty for all.

The almoner carried a basket of bread, fresh from the abbey bakehouse. Each loaf was split in two, as the ration was half a loaf per person. In his other hand he held the almadish, filled with broken bits of fish, some carrots and turnips, and the remnants of the monks' hard-bread trenchers, now soaked in sauce from the meal.

Behind the almoner came his assistant, a fine-looking lad with clear skin and bright, dark eyes. He was dressed like a monk in a homespun robe, but he was not in holy orders. He wasn't even a novice, just a humble, illiterate lay brother, a servant of the abbey. He carried a tankard of ale, and as the paupers passed by, he poured some into each of their cups.

I had not seen him for years, but I'd have known that face anywhere.

I stepped forward. The almoner handed me a half-loaf. I curtsied to him in thanks, then quickly turned to the lad, who noted that I had no cup for the ale and seemed uncertain what to do.

“Martin?” I said.

He stared at me, eyes squinting.

“Martin Stinky-Toes-Frog-Face?”

“
Molly
?” he said. “Can that be you?”

“None other!”

“Oh, my stars! Brother!” he said to the almoner. “This here is my sister.” Then, still gaping in wonder, he set down the tankard and hugged me hard. “Oh, Molls, how I feared for you when I heard what happened at the castle.”

“I know. It was horrible.”

“Did you see—?”

“Yes.” I cut him off, not wishing the prince to hear such painful talk. “Then we ran away—me and my friend Tobias. We hoped to find shelter here, and work too. We'd like to stay on, as we have nowhere else to go.”

“Come in,” the almoner said, turning toward the door. “We'll find you beds for the night and talk about work on the morrow. I must hurry now or I shall be late for night prayers.”

The paupers were already drifting away. Having been fed, they would move off into the town, to whatever humble shelter they could find for the night. One of the widows looked back at us.
They are the lucky ones,
she must have been thinking.
They'll sleep in a bed tonight.

“Excuse me, brother almoner,” I said, “but there is someone else with us.” I pointed to where Alaric sat, still leaning against the wall. “We met him on the road. He came here from Austlind and was robbed and beaten; then a dog was set upon him. Now he's penniless and alone and sorely wounded. Do you think he might—?”

“Of course,” the almoner said. “Help the man up, Martin. Let us go inside.”

As I watched Prince Alaric shuffle through the door, clinging to my brother's arm, I marveled at how he'd changed in only a matter of days. Dirty and sunburned now, with stubble upon his cheeks and ragged, knife-cut hair, his humble clothes rumpled and stained with mud—he was the very image of a common man who had tumbled into misfortune. His mother, may she rest in peace, wouldn't have known him.

When the almoner had locked the door, he called to a passing novice. “You, there, Brother Robert. Come and take this poor fellow to the hospice.”

“But I shall be late for Compline,” the boy said.

“God will forgive you this once. And when you get him there and settled in a bed, I want you to wait till Brother Eutropious returns. Tell him this man was dog-bit and his wound needs looking to. Understand?”

The boy nodded.

“Then go. Can you not see he is about to drop?”

“Yes, brother.”

“Your friend will be in excellent hands,” said the almoner as we watched the prince walk slowly away. “Now see to your sister, Martin, and to young Tobias, too. I must go to prayer.”

We ate our half-loaves and what remained of the paupers' scraps, washing it all down with several cups of ale—and very good ale it was, too, from the monks' own brewery. While we ate, Martin ran upstairs to the dormitory where the lay brothers slept. Soon he came scampering back down again accompanied by a gangly lad with honey-brown eyes. His sandy hair was cut close to the head, so his ears were even more prominent than they usually were: my brother Tom.

“Spider-Legs-Elephant-Ears!” I crowed.

“Will you look at that!” He took me in his arms and squeezed me half to death. “Wicked Little Molls, all growed up!”

“They fed us at the castle,” I said.

“And you didn't miss a meal.”

“Not a one.”

Then the smile slid off his face. “You heard about Ma?”

“Yes,” I said. “Do you go back there much?” I didn't say
home
.

“Once a year, Molls. At Christmas, same as always.”

“Does Tucker still work in the cutting room?”

“He does all the tailoring now. Pa's taken to drink.”

“Taken?”

“Well, it's worse now.”

“And Anne? Is she married, or still keeping house for Pa?”

“Keeping house,” Martin said. “She did find herself a sweetheart, only Father wouldn't give her a dowry. Not a farthing, Molls. So the fellow went and married someone else.” He kicked the ground with his boot. “Father shoulda died, not Ma.”

Tom shrugged. “The devil wouldn't take him, I guess.”

Tobias cleared his throat, then. I think he was embarrassed.

“Sorry,” Martin said. “Family talk. Forgot you were there.”

“That's all right. I'm very forgettable.”

“You are not!” I said. “You just have better manners than we do. This is my friend Tobias, Tom. He worked up at the castle too. In the stables, same as you.”

“Chaw! Really?”

“Yes,” Tobias said. “Carting mostly, and other odd work. Hauling.”

“You thinking to stay on here, then, along with Molls? I could talk to the constable about you tomorrow. We've been a lad short since September when old Gustav was taken up for stealing.”

“I'd like that,” Tobias said. “Thanks.”

“Mind you, there's not much goes on around here—mostly praying, and lots of work.”

“That's fine with me.”

“All right,” Martin said. “Then we'd best get you settled. Compline will soon be over, and we're all supposed to be quiet. Tom, take Tobias upstairs and find him a pallet. I'll go with Molls to see the matron.”

“G'night then,” Tom whispered. “Wicked Little Molls!”

I took Martin's arm, and we crossed the yard in the growing darkness. “Was I really as bad as all that?”

“No. You were never wicked, only wild. You'd say most anything, whatever you heard on the streets.”

“Still do,” I said. “Stinky-Toes-Frog-Face.” I gave his arm a squeeze. “Now, tell me about the matron.”

“Well, she's a great, plump widow with a ruddy face, and a large nose, and the best heart in the world. She looks after the women who visit here, commoners and highborn ladies alike. She'll look after you as well.”

“Will she give me work?”

“I expect so.”

I leaned my head on Martin's shoulder, feeling safe and protected.

I decided on the spot that I would stay there forever. I'd work for the good-hearted matron, and see my brothers and Tobias every day—for in my fantasy, he would stay there forever too. He'd go over to the hospice in the mornings and visit Sebastian the merchant (I couldn't go, of course, because I was a girl); then in the afternoons he'd tell me all about it, and the news would always be good.

Then one day Sebastian would walk out of the hospice, whole and strong, his cheeks pink and his beautiful curls all grown back, ready to declare himself to the world and take his rightful place on the throne of Westria. But first he'd thank us heartily for everything we'd done. He'd kiss me on the cheeks, and say what a wonder I was, how I'd saved his life, and stood by him in time of need, and all such things as that. I'd weep when he left and feel an aching in my heart. But as long as I lived, whenever King Alaric was spoken of, I'd remember that he was
my
Alaric, and we had shared our special moments together, and I had held him in my arms. . . .

I know how that sounds—like a foolish, sentimental fairy tale, especially the part about the prince. But oddly enough, it wasn't far off the mark. That's how things actually happened, at least for a while.

I did find work in the women's quarters, sweeping floors, and serving at meals, and helping with the linens on wash days. The matron was much in need of my help, as there were rather more noble visitors at the abbey than was common. Indeed, every one of the private rooms was occupied.

I recognized some of the ladies as guests from the wedding and thought what a blessing it was that Alaric had listened to me. For if he'd come to the abbey as he'd wished, in the character of a nobleman, he would have been found out for sure. Instead he was hidden away, safe and anonymous, in the sick ward with the paupers, growing stronger every day.

It was a season of healing for me as well.

I'd never known what family meant. There was an empty place in my heart where that knowledge should have been. For though I had many brothers and sisters, they were mostly gone before I was old enough to know them; and those who remained had not the time to spare for me. My mother dwelt in a world of her own, and the less said about Father, the better. I don't think I'd have been such a wild little thing if I'd had someone warm to come home to.

Now, for the first time, I did. For Matron took me to her heart like the child she'd never had; Tobias was nearby, just across the way in the stable yard; and my brothers were forever popping up—calling me Wicked Little Molls and squeezing the breath out of me whenever they took the fancy. It was like having a real family, and it softened me. When the world around you is orderly and calm, and you are spoken to with kindness, and praised, and petted, and teased—why, there's no need to be wary and ready with your fists.

You know how people say there's always a lull before the storm? It's true. Those quiet months when I felt so at peace—that was the lull. And it was well that I enjoyed it, for when the winds came, they rose suddenly. And soon I would be out in that storm, in the very center of that storm, with no protection in sight.

Chapter 22

The Storm

COMPLINE, OR NIGHT PRAYERS,
marked the end of the day. After that, the Great Silence began. We were not supposed to utter a word until breakfast the following morning.

But I didn't like to go to bed with the sun; nor was I much inclined to silent reflection. And so most nights if the weather was fair I'd go outside and sit on the dormitory steps. I rarely went alone. There was usually someone with a story to tell, and the time to sit there and tell it. We kept our voices low. Nobody heard us.

On that particular evening I was with my bedmate, Alice. She'd been at the abbey for a couple of weeks, looking for work in the town. She was a good talker and had entertained me with many tales of her adventures. But I'd wondered how it happened that she was cut adrift as she was, traveling the roads alone. And so, on that occasion, I asked.

“My parents made a match for me,” she said, “and I wouldn't agree to it. So they disowned me and turned me out.”

“But why did you refuse him? Was he old and ugly?”

“Middling old,” she said. “And middling ugly. But that was not the reason.”

“What was it then?”

“The last wife he had, he beat her to death.”

“No!”

“Yes.”

“But why would your father choose such a man?”

“He was big in the town. A cloth merchant. He's middling rich, too. Father thought him a catch.”

“Ah,” I said. “So how have you managed since without a penny to your name?”

“Who said I had not a penny?”

“You said they disowned you. I just thought . . . did they give you some money, then, before they sent you away?”

“Of course not.”

“Well?”

“I took it, Molly.” She laughed at my astonishment. “Father thought I didn't know where they kept the money, but I did. I only took my dowry. They'd been glad enough to pay it and be rid of me.” She shrugged. “So they did pay it, and they are rid of me.”

“You can't go back then. Not ever.”

“No. Not that I would want—”

“What is that?” I asked, sniffing the air.

“The bakehouse, most likely.”

“No. Not at night. And the bakehouse is too far away to smell so strong. And this is not sweet and yeasty like—”

A novice came running past us, then, skirts flying, sandals slapping against the flagstones.

“Fire!” he yelled. “Awake! Awake!”

“Where?” Alice called after him, jumping to her feet. But he did not answer, just kept calling the alarm: “Awake! Awake!”

Moments later the church bell started ringing, loud and insistent:
Clang! Clang! Clang!
Doors opened and the inhabitants of the abbey came straggling into the yard, fastening their clothes, running fingers through tousled hair, looking about them to see where they ought to go.

“This way!” a monk called, and the crowd followed.

Still, I sat unmoving, except that I was trembling violently—for, heaven help me, the voice in my head had come again: “
I'm sorry!
” it cried. “
They're too much for me now. Please, you must help—
”

“Come on!” Alice said, grabbing my hand and pulling me up. “They'll need many hands to haul the water.”

I shook myself like a wet dog.
Go away,
I told the voice.
Leave me alone.

We raced down the stairs and melted into the crowd. The air was bitter with smoke, but there was no sign of flames till we rounded the corner by the south gate. And then I saw it: the hospice was burning.

The monks were still bringing buckets from wherever they were kept, handing them out, then hurrying back for more. I wormed my way to the front of the crowd, and what I saw—oh, it made the roots of my hair rise up and my skin go all to prickles.

How could it have gotten that bad so quickly, before anyone raised the alarm, before anyone smelled smoke?

No one could possibly have survived it.

Already a line was forming between the well and the roaring fire, people passing water-filled buckets from one hand to the next, then passing the empty ones back to be refilled. I spotted Martin among them. He waved me over, and I joined the brigade. There was no hope of saving the hospice; that was obvious to all of us. But we might at least keep the flames from spreading.

It was heavy work and my arms ached, but I was grateful for it. Had I not been given a task to do, I think mad rage would have consumed me as surely as the fire was consuming the hospice.

Not long after, we heard a crash, and the air filled with fiery sparks. The roof had collapsed. But we still went on passing buckets for an hour, maybe more—until at last the word came down the line that the fire had been put out. It was safe to go in and search for bodies.

Four stretchers were already laid out in the courtyard by the time I got there, each containing a body covered with a sooty shroud. I saw Tobias kneeling beside one of them. He'd pulled the sheet back and was studying the face. Then he covered the corpse again and went to the next one. Then the next. Not Alaric, then. Not yet.

I heard shouts: another body had been found. I didn't want to look—indeed I dreaded it more than words can tell—but I went back to the hospice all the same.

Four or five monks were there, wading through the smoky ruins. They wore heavy boots and leather gloves, and their robes were hiked up above their knees, held in place with cords of rope. They were leaning over, hauling charred timbers out of the way.

I watched as they lifted the body out—nothing now but a great, black lump that had formerly been a man. I thought I would be sick, but I couldn't stop watching to vomit. They set the remains on a waiting stretcher. Now there were five.

Tobias studied that one too, as soon as it was set down by the others. Then he got to his feet and looked toward the hospice to see if they were bringing out more bodies. Instead he spotted me. He came over then and wrapped me in his arms.

“Oh, Molly,” he said.

“He might have escaped, Tobias. There's a chance. Weren't there more than five men being cared for in that place?”

“Oh, ten at least. Maybe fifteen.”

“Even at his worst he walked all that way to get here, and he's had near two months to mend. Surely he could run out a door.”

“Of course he could.”

“Then let's go find him.”

Tobias went one way and I another, moving through the crowd, searching for that one familiar face. I didn't know which monks had worked among the sick, so I stopped each one I passed and asked about Sebastian. But they all said the same thing: they'd recovered five bodies; beyond that they knew nothing.

Finally, I asked the right person. Yes, he said, there were survivors. They'd been taken to the garden behind the Lady Chapel.

“Oh, bless you, brother,” I said, grabbing his hand and nearly crushing it with joy. Then I left him staring in astonishment as I ran away.

A cluster of people were gathered in the garden. Some were sitting on the ground, a few on stone benches. A handful of brothers were looking after them.

The moon hadn't risen yet, so it was dark in the garden. I couldn't make out their faces from where I stood, not in the dim light. So I went in close, going from man to man, carefully studying each one. They were all smeared with soot, and many were sick from the smoke; but only one was seriously burned. The monks had already loaded him onto a stretcher.

It was dreadful to hear his cries. I'd burned my hand a time or two and well remembered the pain. But this man was raw and blistered all over; his clothes had burned right off of him. Oh, how that poor man suffered—it must have been beyond bearing. The rage in my heart rose up again.

I turned away. I couldn't watch anymore.

And that was when I saw them: an old man wearing nothing but a blackened shirt, sitting on the dead grass, wheezing and coughing and trembling with the cold, his pale, bony legs stretched out before him. And there beside him, offering him a cup of water—was Alaric.