The Gathering Storm (Crown of Stars 5)

“Let me gather my strength first. I am so tired. I hurt. I need water to drink. Share your clavas with me, if you will. Tell me your stories while I rest. Then I will see how far I can swim.”

3

ZACHARIAS’ days fell into a routine. On fair mornings, Hugh presided over the schola, such as it was, with certain likely children seated on the ground before him as he taught them to write and read. Zacharias was never allowed to come close enough to listen, for if he had, he would have learned to write and thereby have a means to speak, and it was obviously Hugh’s intention to prevent Zacharias from ever speaking in any form again. He had, therefore, to content himself with scratching letters in the dirt with a stick when he thought no one would observe him, and from these bent and crooked symbols he tried to puzzle out a meaning, for since he knew the liturgy by heart surely he must discover the secret that allowed words to be poured into letters, the Word that brought forth Creation according to the Holy Book in which he no longer believed. Yet there was something, surely, to the Logos, the thought and will that nestled at the heart of the universe, its kernel, its soul—if the universe had a soul. If any man had a soul.

Hugh had long since given up his soul, yet how might a man appear so beautiful and so kind and at the same time hide within himself such a poisoned heart? How could any great lord stand so patiently before a dozen dirty Salavii peasant children and teach them their letters? A pious churchman might, who hoped to see them become deacons and fraters in their turn who could minister to their countryfolk and thus bring their heathen relatives into the Light. Did that mean Hugh was a pious churchman? Or a cunning fraud? Yet he labored in support of King Henry and Queen Adelheid as their loyal servant.

These contradictions Zacharias could make no sense of. He did not understand a man of such elegance who could nevertheless live in this wilderness without complaint, keep his hands clean and yet bloody them with such cruelty as cutting out an innocent man’s tongue, teach snot-nosed common children like any humble frater and yet walk among the great nobles in Darre with the arrogance of a man born to the highest rank. Be ruthless and yet seem so compassionate when mothers brought hurt children to his care, or his soldiers confessed their cares and worries and little crimes to him, for which he always prescribed a just penance leavened by the kiss of mercy.

If I did not hate him, I would love him.

The weeks passed as spring flowered around them. The church rose plank by plank, and many nights Hugh took Zacharias, Deacon Adalwif, and the other clerics to the crown where they studied the stars and the mysteries hoarded by the mathematici and prepared for the spell that would soon be their part to weave.

“What of the miracle of the phoenix?” Deacon Adalwif often asked Hugh as they walked back through the earthworks by lamplight.

“Did you see it with your own eyes?”

“Nay, I did not, yet these Salavii folk and I were spared by the intercession of a saint dressed in the garb of a King’s Lion. The Quman army passed right by us while we were helpless and yet none were touched.”

“A miracle, truly. But why do you think this miracle is linked to the heresy you speak of?”

“I know it in my heart, Your Excellency. Do you not also? You do not condemn it, as you would if you did not doubt the old teachings.”

Hugh did not reply, but his arm tightened on the book he carried with him day and night. He watched over that book in the same way he watched over Zacharias, who was never left alone during the day and was by night chained to the center post of the tent.

The Feast of St. Barbara marked the first day of Avril of the year seven hundred and thirty-five. Thirteen days later the Feast of St. Sormas dawned with a shower of rain followed hard on by a balmy south wind that chased the clouds away. As the novices gathered for their schooling, two excited Salavii boys informed Hugh that the waters had receded enough with the coming of spring that he could, if he dared, creep into the burial mound.

“What does he mean?” Hugh asked Deacon Adalwif.

She shook her head. “Nothing holy, my lord presbyter. This is an old grave mound such as the ancient ones erected over the bodies of their queens. That is why I insisted we build the church. I would have built it atop the hill to hallow the site and make it holy, but I could not obstruct the crown. Nevertheless, some of the children discovered a pool last summer and a hole that leads deep into the hill. They meant to crawl in, but I put a stop to it. There’s no telling what might lie inside an old grave mound like this one.”

“Surely you are not superstitious enough to believe in evil spirits, Deacon?”

“Nay, nay, not at all, Your Excellency.”

“Best that I investigate for myself, if the way is clear,” said Hugh, although Zacharias thought his color unusually high. “In that way, Deacon, drive out any lingering evil from this spot.”

“Of course, Your Excellency,” she said, looking relieved. “It has not been easy to keep the older boys from exploring where they will. One poor lad drowned in the river last autumn.”

“Let the children show me the entrance. I’ll take Brother Zacharias to carry a lamp and Gerbert to guard the entrance behind me so none follow.”

“You’ll take no others in with you?”

“Have I anything to fear? The bones of the heathen dead have no power over me, Deacon. Nor over you either.”

“Yes, my lord. In truth, my lord, you have the right of it.” But she still looked frightened.

And why not? Zacharias had leisure to reflect as Gerbert waded into a knee-deep pool of water lying up against a precipice cut into the high face of the earthworks about halfway around the hill from the little village and their camp. A trickle of water had, over the years, eroded the face of the earth away to reveal an entryway, two stones capped by a lintel, once buried, Zacharias supposed, by the tumulus and now half concealed by a curtain of moss. If the children hadn’t explored here, none of the others might ever have noticed. Gerbert hacked away the moss with his sword.

“Come.” Hugh held a lamp aloft as he waded into the water and squeezed through the opening.

The spring sun laid a warm hand across Zacharias’ shoulders, quite in contrast to the freezing water that iced his toes and calves as soon as he followed Hugh into the narrow tunnel, which was just higher than his head and quite dark. His hand shook, causing the light from his lamp to tremble as it illuminated stone walls incised with spirals and lozenges. He was afraid of the dark, but Hugh frightened him more. The corridor widened enough that a man might slosh through the knee-high water without scraping his shoulders on either wall.

“What’s this?” murmured Hugh.

Zacharias almost ran into a queer scaffolding that, twisting out of the water, was filthy with pale worms which after a moment he recognized as the remains of rotting feathers.

He retched, struck so hard by memory that he emptied his stomach into the water before he could stop himself.