The Silver Bowl (12 page)

Chapter 23

The Messenger

IN THE EARLY MORNING
it started to rain. I lay awake listening to the rattling on the roof and the quiet snores of the women around me. Tired though I was, I couldn't sleep for thinking about the fire, and those shrouded corpses, and the burned man—and other things.

The prince had escaped death once again, but it didn't mean he was safe. Hiding him had clearly done no good; the curses had followed him to the abbey—for I had no doubt those flames were demon-sent. It was unnatural how they had risen up so fast and burned so hot. And that the fire should target the hospice in particular—it was far too personal, too particular, like wolves that only craved royal blood. And they would keep coming after him, again and again, however many times as it took. . . .

I got up, and dressed, and went outside.

It had turned windy and bitter cold; the rain would turn to snow soon. I pulled up the hood of my cape, and walked down the stairway to a covered walkway, and sat there on one of the benches. It calmed me to be out in the chill air watching the gray dawn.

After a while the bell rang for Prime. The monks would be making their way down the night stairs and into the church to pray. In the dormitories, departing guests would start gathering their belongings, cursing the rain, thinking how muddy the roads were going to be.

I got up and headed to the kitchen to help with breakfast.

It was then that I noticed the messenger. He'd just dismounted and handed the reins to a stable lad. Now he strode across the great court in the direction of the abbot's chamber, a roll of paper in a waterproof case clutched firmly in his hand.

He was in there for about an hour—a fact that everyone in the abbey seemed to know. Either he had a very long message to deliver or, more likely, he stopped to have sommat to eat. Whichever it was, he left the abbot's quarters just as briskly as he'd gone in. He collected his mount and rode out again, off to other towns and villages, spreading his message throughout the region.

We had just finished cleaning up from breakfast when the bell started ringing in the tower. As it was early yet for the monks' next service, we were clearly being called to hear the news.

Inside and out of the abbey walls, brothers and servants left off work. Novices put away their books. Visitors who had just set out turned back. It would not surprise me if some townsfolk came too, such was the crowd in the church.

It was the custom for the monks and the novices to stand up front, the rest of us behind. So even when I rose up on my toes, there was nothing before me but a sea of tonsured heads, each with its own shiny bald spot circled by a fringe of hair. It has never been explained to me why monks shave their heads in this particular way. Maybe they wish to look old and wise.

There was a rustling in the crowd, and I looked up at the pulpit; I thought it likely that the abbot would address us from there. And sure enough, here came his head, followed by his shoulders, and then the rest of him. He reached the top and stood for a moment, hands folded on the lectern, gazing down at us and waiting for silence. Finally, he began.

He spoke of the fire, and of those who'd died—six in all: five of the sick and the man I'd seen who was so badly burned. He'd been a novice, just fourteen. The abbot said some prayers in Latin, which I didn't understand. Then he read out the names of the dead and told us a few things about each of them.

That part I liked.

They knew the novice well, of course. The abbey had been his home since he was just a little child. He'd grown up there and was soon to have been ordained a deacon.

The other five, though, had been strangers. They'd come out of nowhere, desperately poor and desperately sick; and their histories were all much the same. Still, the abbot did his best. Whatever small bits of information each man had given to the porter when he arrived, or later to the monks who treated him, or to another patient in the next bed over—the place where he had lived, perhaps, or the wife who'd died, or the farm that had failed—the abbot told us those things.

I wept. Most everybody did.

“The funeral mass will be in two days,” the abbot said when he had finished. “God rest their souls. Let us rejoice that so many were spared.”

He paused for a moment and took a deep breath. He wasn't finished yet.

“There is another reason I have called you here. As you may already know, we were visited by a messenger this morning. He brought important news regarding the royal succession.” He cleared his throat. “As our king and all his heirs have perished”—there were gasps all around—“the crown of Westria shall go to King Reynard of Austlind, as he is the son of Gertrude, sister to our late king Godfrey.”

“But the prince!” someone shouted from the crowd. Others picked up the cry.

“What about Alaric?”

“Do they know for sure he is dead?”

The abbot raised his hand and waited till we grew quiet again.

“It is believed,” he said, “that the prince was drowned.”

“But the body!” people cried. “Did they find his body?”

“No,” Elias said. “They have not found him, only the wreckage of the skiff in which he escaped. But it was the king's boat. That is certain, for it bore the royal crest.”

I was so startled that I stepped back, nearly crushing the toes of a woman behind me. “Oh, I'm sorry!” I said, touching her arm. But she only waved me away. Her eyes remained fixed on the abbot as she blotted tears from her cheeks with the corner of her apron.

So they'd found our ruined boat, with no sign of the prince anywhere. It'd be a natural assumption that the prince had drowned. But then they'd gone and added the bit about the royal crest—and that had given them away. Because it wasn't there; I knew it for a fact. Tobias had scraped it off.

It was a lie, then, not an honest mistake. Reynard had no body to show to the people and rightfully claim the throne, so he'd embroidered himself a tale, added that one little detail to make it more believable: it wasn't just
any
boat they'd found washed up on some mudbank, or half sunk in shallow water—no, it was the
king's
boat, the very same one that was missing from the water gate!

I felt my hands ball into fists.

“My children!” the abbot boomed over the sounds of whispers and weeping. “Please hear me out to the end. We will never get through this if you will not listen.”

The crowd was abashed. There were little gasps and sniffles as they tried to control themselves. Finally it grew quiet and the abbot went on.

“There is a document,” he said, “that bears the late King Mortimer's seal, and supports Reynard's claim. It states that in the absence of a living male descendant, the succession then goes through the female line—that is to say, through his daughter Gertrude to her son, Reynard. This is in accord with ancient custom.

“And so it appears that he shall be our new king. And as he also rules Austlind, our countries shall be joined. I fear we will lose our name—become part of Austlind, or West Austlind, perhaps.”

He waited for the burst of outrage that did not come. The outrage was there, all right; but he'd implored us to hold our tongues and hear him out, and this we were determined to do. The abbot blinked, cleared his throat, and continued.

“As Reynard was already in the country, having come to Westria for the wedding, he has stayed on at Dethemere Castle. To be more precise, he has taken possession of it and has sent for knights from Austlind to man it properly. He wishes to assure us we have nothing to fear.” I heard scorn in his voice as he said this. “He will see that no factions rise up and cause a disturbance among us as happened after Mortimer died. He will see that the transition is peaceful and orderly.”

Elias bowed his head. Then, “That is all.” His voice came deep out of his chest, full of emotion. I thought he was close to tears. “May God sustain us in these terrible times.” Then he crossed himself and, clinging tightly to the rail as he went, slowly descended the circular stairs that led down from the pulpit and disappeared from sight.

The crowd began to disperse, people wiping their faces, muttering to one another, heads hung in sorrow. But I did not move. I would stay there awhile, till everyone had gone and I was alone in that cavernous space, where the stained-glass windows glowed in the pale morning light and, in the chapels along both sides of the nave, candles twinkled before holy images. I thought I might work things out more easily in such a place as that. Perhaps God might even notice me and offer a word of advice. He never had before, but perhaps he would take an interest now, as it concerned great matters this time, not just me and my little unimportant problems.

I craned my neck and looked up at the highest part of the ceiling, where the columns curved and became arches, then met at a point in the middle. I wondered if God sat up there looking down at us.

Then I felt a hand on my arm and turned.

He no longer smelled of soap and perfume but of smoke and common sweat. But his face was as fair and rosy as ever it was before, and his honey-colored hair had been neatly trimmed by a monk's careful razor.

“Molly,” he said, “it is time.”

“Yes,” I replied. “And Alaric—there is something I must tell you now.”

Chapter 24

The Abbot Elias

“I NEED YOU TO ARRANGE
a meeting with the abbot. This afternoon, if possible.”

Martin stared at me, dumbfounded. “I'm the almoner's boy,” my brother said. “I don't make appointments with the abbot.”

“Then ask the almoner to do it.”

“No, Molls. No.”

“I promise you, Elias will be glad to hear what we have to say. But the matter is delicate and secret, and cannot be bandied about the abbey.”

He shook his head. “Even if I did have access to the abbot, which I do not, I would never bother him at such a time. He has heavy matters on his mind right now. Surely you can understand that.”

“But these
are
heavy matters, Martin. Indeed, they are the very same.”

“What? What is it you think is so urgent?”

“All right,” I said. “I shall tell you. He said I might if there was no other way.”

“He?”

“Yes. Now listen. You remember when Tobias and I came here, we traveled with a merchant from Austlind? We'd met him on the road. He'd been savaged by a dog and had lost all his money. We took pity on him and brought him with us so he could be cared for by the monks.”

“Yes, Sebastian, I know all that. He was among the ones who survived the fire.”

“Yes. Only none of that story was true. His name isn't really Sebastian.”

“What is it, then?”

“It's Alaric.” I looked him hard in the eyes. My brother blanched. “He's alive, Martin. Our rightful king. He is here, and in terrible danger.”

Elias met us in his chambers, but only after he'd closed the shutters against prying eyes and sent away the novice who'd brought in the wine and the bread. Though it was midmorning, we talked by candlelight.

“Molly here tells me that you are not who you've been pretending to be but are instead our lost prince in disguise. Can this possibly be true?”

“Yes,” he said. “I am Alaric, grandson of Mortimer the Bold, son of Godfrey the Lame, brother of Edmund the Fair, and the sole surviving descendant of the royal house of Westria.”

He sat tall in his chair, hands resting on his knees, his gray eyes bright in the candlelight. I thought—and not for the first time—how unbearably handsome and noble he was despite the shabby clothes he wore. He carried himself with such dignity, and spoke so beautifully and with such authority, that no one could possibly have doubted he spoke the truth. Certainly Elias did not.

“My lord,” the abbot said, bowing as low as his sizable paunch would allow, “you bring me more joy than you can possibly imagine. The message that was brought to us this morning—it was a blow, my lord. A heavy blow indeed. And now I learn you have been here all this time—and in our hospice, among the paupers.”

“It's true. I was.”

“It grieves me most terribly to hear it, Your Grace.”

“There's no reason it should, Elias. I was cared for most capably by Brother Eutropious. As for the humble surroundings—they proved a most excellent lesson for me, and one I needed to learn. For if I am to rule, I must know my people. All of them, even the paupers.”

“Very well said, my lord. Very princely indeed.” Elias heaved a great sigh of satisfaction.

“I regret I could not declare myself sooner—to you or to my countrymen. I know there are many who have sorely grieved for me, thinking me dead and the kingdom lost. But I needed time to recover from my wounds; and I had to do it in secret, as I have powerful enemies who would gladly take advantage of my weakness.

“But now it seems I can wait no longer. Reynard forces my hand. And if I am to reveal myself and claim my right to the throne, I'm afraid I shall need some help from you.”

“I will do everything within my power, my lord. You need only tell me what you require.”

“Clothes befitting a prince, for a start. And a good horse, not skittish. I'll need messengers, quite a few—men you trust without question. I will write out the letter I wish to send. Then perhaps a few of your scribbling monks can get busy making copies—in a fair hand, on good vellum. When they are finished, I shall sign them. I'm afraid I have no seal.”

“You may use mine if you wish. 'Twill come with some authority, though not much. It's better than none at all.”

“I agree. Now, I shall also need a cart and a driver to escort Molly safely to Castleton—leaving today, if you can arrange it. There's important business she must do for me at Dethemere.”

“Excuse me, Your Majesty,” Elias said, “but perhaps you have forgotten that Reynard has occupied the castle?”

“Of course I have not forgotten. But Molly worked there for many years. The other servants will vouch for her.”

“I see.”

“My lord,” I said, “Tobias was a carter in your brother's stables. And he wishes to go with me to keep me company and offer such help as I might need. He can handle the horses. There's no need of a driver.”

“That may be,” said Alaric, “but I was thinking more of protection. I'm glad Tobias will go with you, but I want the driver, too—someone rather menacing in appearance who knows how to use a sword.”

“Excuse me again, sire,” said Elias. “But if this is an urgent matter of great import—”

“It is. The whole enterprise is forfeit if she doesn't succeed.”

“Then might it not be wiser to send someone . . . older? Someone more experienced? Someone—”

I saw impatience flash across Alaric's face. “Elias,” he said, “the matter is secret. I cannot reveal it even to you. But understand this: no one but Molly can accomplish this task. And though she be young, and common, and a girl—I would lay my life and my kingdom in her hands without a second's thought.”

“Ah,” said the abbot, deeply embarrassed. “Then I shall find you a perfect monster to drive them to Castleton. He shall frighten small children and brigands alike.”

“Excellent. Now I'm afraid I have no money whatsoever to pay you for any of this. Would a princely donation to the abbey suffice as soon as I am able?”

“Of course, Your Majesty. We would be most grateful.”

“Now I'm going to write out a list of names for your messengers: men I feel sure will rally to my side and swear fealty to me as their sovereign lord. I shall ask each of them to gather such friends as are loyal and willing, and bring them here to the abbey in four days' time. It will not be an army exactly, but I hope for a goodly number of able men devoted to my cause. They may assemble here? You give your permission?”

“Well, yes. I am not sure how we shall manage to house and feed so many, but—”

“They can camp in the courtyard, and you can bring up food from the town. They won't be here long. Have I asked too much of you, lord abbot? Can you do it?”

“The scribbling monks and the messengers I can arrange myself. And Brother Jerome, our hosteler, will do his best to look after your people—so long as you don't expect a bed and a seat at table for every man. I shall have to apply to Bertram, our local lord, in the matter of the warhorse and the clothes. You will also need armor, I presume.”

“No.”

“No? You have some already?”

“I shall not need it.”

“Ah. I assume then—I'm sorry if this is presumptuous, Your Highness—that you do not mean to actually fight yourself. I must say, I think that is wise, as you have been wounded, and are very young, and are not yet finished with your training in the arts of war.”

“I am sixteen.”

“Ah. Well then, there must be among your known supporters some man you particularly trust, one who can guide and instruct you in directing your army—help you come up with a battle plan, and see to the tactics, and so on? For though I have lived a quiet and secluded life, even I can see it is no easy thing to take a castle well manned by knights.”

“I hope I shall not need to.”

“You will not challenge Reynard, then?”

“Oh, I will challenge him. And though I am young—as you so kindly pointed out—I've spent many days lying upon that cot in your hospice thinking upon the matter. I may not be a knight, nor tested in battle; but I have read widely and deeply of the great kings of past ages, and of all that befell them and their kingdoms, and of war, and—”

“
Books
, my lord?”

“Yes, books.”

“Oh, merciful heavens!”

“Elias—I am amazed that a learned man such as you would scorn the written word.”

“I most assuredly do not. But my life is a spiritual one. Yours must be more . . . practical.”

“And so I must learn useful skills, is that it? How to ride fast, and slice off a man's head with my sword?”

“Well, that is rather a gruesome way to put it, sire—but yes. And how, you know, to organize your troops, and . . . and whatever it is you must do in war. It is beyond me, I'm afraid.”

“That's all in books too, Elias—and not just how such things are done in our country, and in our time, but how they've been done throughout the ages. By the Greeks, and the Romans, and the Persians, and the Parthians, and all the mighty kingdoms they fought against.”

The abbot was speechless.

“And that's only the half of it. All the great events of the past are laid down in those pages. And new ideas to inspire the imagination, and great questions to ponder. How are we to imagine what we've never seen or experienced if we don't go to the past and learn from it?”

“But
Reynard
, my lord—will you fight him or not?”

“I hope to win a moral victory, for my claim is righteous and the people of Westria will rally to my side.”

The abbot drew in a deep breath and slumped back in his chair, his arms slack, his eyes wide. “My lord,” he said. “Do you think . . . are you saying . . . do you truly believe that Reynard of Austlind is just going to give you the throne?”

“It isn't his to give; it's mine by right.”

Elias covered his mouth with a pudgy hand. He looked so utterly stupefied that Alaric broke into a hearty laugh. “I know my cousin better than you, lord abbot. And while it is true that I am young, and a bit of a dreamer, I assure you I am no fool.”

“I . . . I'm sure you are not.” The abbot looked down at his hands and picked distractedly at a fingernail. “But—oh, my prince, I do fondly hope you are right.”