The Gathering Storm (Crown of Stars 5)

“Yet those fearsome hounds follow you as meekly as lambs. One might say you had bewitched them.”

“Say what you will,” said Alain. “God alone know the truth of what I am. What kin my mother was born to I cannot say, only that she died a pauper and a whore.”

Hathumod whimpered, the kind of bleat a small animal might make when caught in a falcon’s claws.

“What are you now?” Father Ortulfus’ intent gaze might have been that of the falcon.

“I am grateful to be a common laborer, working in peace at this monastery.”

The sacrist appeared out of the clot of officials who had fallen back at the first sign of violence.

“Think of the oil, Father!” he whispered so loudly that all heard.

The abbot bit his lip, hesitating, then gestured for the sacrist to step back before he addressed Alain again.

“Is it your intention to declare yourself as a converso? To work for a year and a day at this place and then, when that year and a day have passed, to devote your life to God as a monk?”

The night was so still and restful, chill without the biting cold that would come with winter, that its tranquil presence spread a glamour over them, washing away the tensions that had threatened to erupt moments before. The evening breeze touched Alain’s face and spilled peace through his soul. He remembered the breath of healing that passed over his heart after the guivre vanished into the wood. Was it a presentiment?

The man who raised him, his foster father Henri, pledged him to the church in return for the right to foster him. Didn’t he turn away from that vow when he pledged himself to the Lady of Battles? All she had brought him was death.

Nay, love, too. He would not be dishonest. For all the pain it brought him, he would never disavow his love for Lavastine, for Adica, and even for Tallia, who had turned her back on him. For his faithful hounds, who followed him.

It was time to return to the vow first made, although he was only an infant when it was spoken over him.

“Truly,” he said, meeting the abbot’s avaricious gaze, “I will labor here for a year and a day, and then enter the monastery as a monk, devoting my life to God, as it should have been all along.”

“So be it.” Father Ortulfus turned to Prior Ratbold. “Escort our visitors to cells. There’s still the matter of Lord Berthold to investigate. We’ll send a party up to the barrows in the morning. I will interview them further after we’ve seen if there’s any truth to their claim.”

“What if we can’t find them again?” objected handsome Baldwin. “I don’t want to go back to those nasty barrows. They scared me.”

Hathumod turned on him angrily. Her tear-stained face glittered under the moon’s light. “You’ll hush now, Baldwin! I’ve had enough of your whining! No matter what happens next, no harm will come to us, will it, Lord Alain?”

He did not know the future. Yet in his heart he did not fear for them. They were not wicked liars, probably only mistaken in their belief, desperate for the passion brought to them by Agius’ tortured vision.

“No harm will come to you,” he agreed. “Father Ortulfus is a good man. He will listen carefully to what you have to say, as long as you are honest.”

As soon as Prior Ratbold escorted the visitors away, the laborers crept back onto the porch and into the dormitory, slipping away to their cots in the hope no one would notice. Father Ortulfus did not leave immediately. His attendants lingered beside him as the moon rose higher still, bathing the forest’s edge in its gray-silver light. From here, on the porch, they could not see the other buildings of Hersford Monastery, only a corner of the stables, the spindly outlines of apple and pear trees, and the fenced-off garden, fallow at this season except for a rank stand of rosemary.

The sacrist approached Alain, bobbing nervously. He wore a good linen robe, befitting his rank, under a knee-length wool tunic trimmed with fur. “There is a cell free for your use, Brother, set apart from the rest as befits your position among us, but with a good rope bed, a rug, and other small courtesies.”

Alain regarded him with surprise. “Nay, Brother, what would I want such courtesies for? I will labor among my brethren here until I have fulfilled my vow. A cot in the dormitory is good enough for me.”

Father Ortulfus watched him but said nothing. He and his attendants departed quietly. Alain stood on the porch listening, and after a while he heard the muffled sound of weeping. He walked into the dormitory to find Iso facedown on the coarse hemp-cloth cot, trying to stifle his sobs.

Kneeling beside the youth, Alain rested a hand on his bony back. “All has been set right.”

Iso struggled to speak. Fear made his stammer worse. “B—but th—they’ll th—throw me out. I h—h—have nowhere to g—g—go.”

“Nay, friend, no one will disturb you. You’ll stay here, where you belong.”

As Iso calmed, Alain became aware of many listening ears, those of the other day laborers, poor men, some crippled, some slow of wit, some merely down on their luck or seeking the assurance of a meal every day, who served the monastery with labor day in and day out, although few of these men would ever be allowed to take the vows of a monk. It was so quiet in the dormitory that a mouse could be heard skittering along the eaves. It was so quiet that the moon seemed to be holding its breath. The wind did not sigh in the rafters, nor could he hear the night breeze moving through the trees outside. Rage grunted and settled down beside Alain’s cot. It was too dark to see her as anything but shadow. Sorrow stood by the door, as still as though he had been turned to stone.

o;Think of the oil, Father!” he whispered so loudly that all heard.

The abbot bit his lip, hesitating, then gestured for the sacrist to step back before he addressed Alain again.

“Is it your intention to declare yourself as a converso? To work for a year and a day at this place and then, when that year and a day have passed, to devote your life to God as a monk?”