Isle of Glass (12 page)

“Have you ever traveled?” he asked.

“A little," Alf replied. “I went to Canterbury once,
and to Paris to the schools.”

“Paris! Why, you’ve never been out of the dooryard. When I
get these troubles out of the way, I’m going Crusading again. This damp,
dripping land—pah!” He spat. “I’m hungry for the hot sun and the dust and the
bare hills of Outremer.”

Alf could see them in his eyes, a fierce pitiless country,
yet beautiful. He yearned after it as a man yearns after a woman.

“Jerusalem!” he said. "They kept me out of it, those
fools and cowards who called themselves my allies; and I had to take a craven’s
peace, and smile, and bow to the Infidel. But I’ll take the city yet. I told
him that, the Sultan Saladin. He’s a black heathen, but he’s a knight and a
gentleman. He laughed and said that I could try, and then we’d know who was the
better general.”

“I’d like to see Jerusalem,” murmured Alf. “And Byzantium.”

“That city I never saw. The Great City they call it, because
its proper name is so much of a mouthful.”

“Constantinopolis. Constantine’s City, Jewel of the East.
I’ve always wanted to see the dome of Hagia Sophia and the Golden Horn; the
caravans coming in from Cathay, and the ships sailing west with the wealth of
the Indies.”

“Why, Brother! you’re a dreamer, too.”

Alf laughed a little, surprised. “I suppose I am. That’s why
I learned Greek, to read about the East.”

“You know Greek?”

“Yes, Sire. A little.”

“And Arabic?”

“A few words. Maybe.”

“God’s bones! I’ve found myself a wonder. When I go back to
Outremer, my friend, I’ll take you with me. We’ll take Jerusalem, and we’ll
visit the Emperor in Constantinople, and we’ll be lords of the East.”

When Richard was delighted, he reminded Alf of Jehan. Alf
smiled, and blinked. For a moment he had seen a strange thing, the flash of sun
on blue water; and scented an air that had never known the grey chill of
Anglia. Then the image was gone.

Richard had looked back, inspecting the line of march; their
speech thereafter turned to other things.

o0o

They reached Carlisle in the evening after a day of bitter
rain. To Alf it seemed a grim city, walled about with dark red stone, dripping
with wet. Its people had come out to greet the King, but their welcome was
muted, the dour welcome of the North; they gave their liege-lord precisely his
due, no more and no less.

The Earl of the city met them at the gate of the castle,
with a sour smile; it little pleased him to play host to four hundred of the
King’s men, and many more besides, come from all about to attend Richard’s
court.

Richard’s smile was wider and brighter, but with more than a
hint of malice. “Hugo,” he had told Alf, “has been paying me tribute with one
hand and stroking my beloved brother with the other. One fine day I’ll catch
him between the jaws of the trap he’s made. But meanwhile I’ll clean out his
larder and use up his hoard, and make him thank me for the privilege.”

Yet to all appearances the Earl received his King with
proper courtesy, and the army dispersed itself about the town.

Aylmer lodged in the Bishop’s palace near the cathedral.
Bishop Foulques loved Aylmer no better than the Earl loved the King, but he had
had the grace to withdraw to the abbey near the walls; his dwelling was
somewhat more spacious than the castle and considerably more comfortable.

Aylmer’s attendants, Alf among them, were not forced like
the King’s to settle as best they could about the great hall; rooms were
allotted them, and beds. Alf shared a cell with Jehan and with a tongue-tied
young priest, and with the Pauline monk.

Reynaud’s doing, Alf was certain. There were others of his
Order about, pale shapes in grey cowls, with watchful eyes.

I feel like a cat in a kennel
, Alf thought.

Thea made herself comfortable on one of the cell’s two beds,
to Father Amaury’s great discomfiture.
Hounds have only teeth,
she
pointed out.
You have teeth and claws.

If I dare to use them,
said Alf.

Reynaud approached her. She showed her teeth; he retreated
hastily. She laughed.

o0o

They did not keep monastic hours here. But Alf’s body,
attuned to waking in deep night for Matins, could not lie sluggishly abed until
dawn. In the black dark before it, he slipped carefully from the bed he shared
with Jehan, gathered up a small bundle, and glided out of the cell.

Only the cooks were awake, baking the new day’s bread. The
bath behind the kitchen was deserted. Alf lit the lamp over the nearest wooden
tub and took up the yoked buckets by it, passing through the warm rich-scented
kitchen to the well. He was seen but not remarked, a monk in cloak and hood
indulging in the eccentricity of a bath.

It was not Thea alone who could warm water without fire,
though this was far easier, a mere tubful. He folded himself into it, sighing
with pleasure. Let the saints have their holy filth; this ill-made monk would
be clean.

He washed swiftly but with fastidious care, rose and dried
himself, and took up the bundle he had brought. For a long moment he regarded
it. The brown habit was his better one, almost new, yet the near-newness only
made it the harsher to the touch.

Slowly Alf drew it on. Without tunic or trews to cushion it,
it was nigh as galling as a hair-shirt; and his skin, once inured to it,
yearned for the caress of princely linen.

He bound the cincture tightly, settled the cowl over his
shoulders, let the hood fall back. On the floor lay the last of the bundle’s
contents, a fine sharp razor. A stroke or six, and Brother Alfred would have
returned wholly, from bare feet to bare crown.

He did not know he sighed until he had done it, and then he
did not know why. Kneeling by the tub, he groped for the razor.

It eluded his hand. At length, piqued, he turned to look for
it.

He had gained a companion, a slight figure in a habit like
his own, but within the deep cowl shone a smile he knew all too well, full of
dancing mockery. “Returning to the womb, little Brother?” asked Thea.

He held out his hand, tight-lipped.

She folded her arms. The razor glittered in her hand, close
to the merest suggestion of a curve.

Alf’s breath hissed between his teeth.

Her head tilted; her smile retreated to the corner of her
mouth. “It’s a pity, you know. To make yourself ugly for God—as if He could
care for such trifles.”

“It’s done, as you say, for God, whether He heeds it or no;
and to mark me as the Church’s own.”

“A slave of Rome. How dramatic. It’s still ridiculous,
little Brother. Why not make a real sacrifice? Like the pagan priests—or like
the monk, the one they all call a heretic—”

“Origen.”

“Origen,” she agreed lightly. “God’s eunuch. Now that is an
irrevocable choice.”

Alf spoke with care. “I should like to finish what I have
begun. If you please—”

“If you insist,” she said, "I’ll help you. Or are my
hands too foul to perform so sacred a rite? Schismatic Greek that I am,
unconsecrated by any vows, and—ah, horrors!—a female.”

She would prick him into a rage, and only laugh the harder.
He struck on his own account with all his native sweetness. “I should not touch
a woman, nor she touch me. But in the circumstances, I hope you have a light hand.”

Light as air, and as gentle as her tongue was cruel. “What
lovely skin you have. Soft as a child’s. And your hair—I know women who’d kill
to have hair half so thick or half so fine.”

“Including yourself?”

She could even mock his self-possession, won as it was
through bitter battle. “Why, little Brother! My touch hasn’t struck you
speechless. You’ve even mustered a tiny bit of wit. If I were a proper woman,
I’d swoon with astonishment.”

“If I were a proper monk, I'd exorcise you as a devil.”

She was done, the razor secreted somewhere within the
pilfered habit. She laid her cool hands on his shaven crown, a touch light
almost to intangibility, yet it held him rooted.

“Believe me, Brother Alfred of Ynys Witrin, you are a very
proper monk. Now you even look it, though I never needed the proof.”

His head came up with the swiftness of temper. But she was
gone, vanished. There remained only a brown habit, crumpled on the floor.

“I
need it!” he cried.

The air returned no answer.

o0o

Since that first morning in the camp, Alf had served Aylmer
each day at Mass. The Bishop called upon him to do the same in Carlisle in the
small chapel.

Its walls were of that grim red stone which seemed to have
been dyed with blood, but arras of eastern work concealed them, and the furnishings
were rich, treasures from the first Crusade. Alf sensed both their age and
their foreignness; the silver chalice with its graven Apostles held a flavor of
old Rome.

As he aided Aylmer in disrobing, a very small page in royal
livery slipped through the door. His eyes upon Alf were wide and rather
frightened, though it was to the Bishop that he bowed and said, “My lord, His
Majesty wishes to borrow Brother Alfred.”

“His Majesty knows that he doesn’t need to ask,” said
Aylmer. “Tell him Brother Alfred will be along directly.”

The child bowed again, shot Alf a last glance, and fled.

Alf smiled a little, wryly, and laid the Bishop’s alb in the
press. Aylmer watched him with narrow eyes until he straightened and turned.

“Brother,” the Bishop said, “what would you do if I gave you
to the King?”

Alf stood still. “In what capacity, my lord?”

“As a clerk, to begin with. Richard needs a good secretary.
And,” Aylmer added, “a friend.”

“Am I competent to be the King’s friend?”

“You’ve been doing well enough at it. He likes you, Brother.
Richard deals well with men and knows how to make them love him; but he seldom
returns the favor.”

“You know what people are saying.”

Aylmer snorted. “Of course I know. And I’ll be frank with
you: there’s substance in it, as far as Richard is concerned. He has a weakness
for a fair face. But he doesn't stoop to force. He’ll do no more than you let
him do.”

“My lord,” Alf said, "I’ve only felt desire once. And
that...that was for a woman.” His cheeks were flaming, but he kept his head up.
“I don’t think the King will endanger me. Not that way. But I had thought—I had
hoped—I am a simple monk, cloister-bred. My Abbot sent me to be your servant.
Not to become a King’s favorite.”

“You think so?" Aylmer asked. “I give Dom Morwin a shade
more credit. He entrusted you with the Rhiyanan’s message. I doubt he expected
your errand to end with its delivery.”

Alf bowed his head. No. Morwin would not have expected that,
old fox that he was, knowing Richard’s nature and the nature of the message.

And that of the messenger.

“With whip and spur he drives me into the world." Alf
looked up. Aylmer’s gaze was unsurprised, understanding. “He drives me straight
into the lion’s den.”

A smile touched the Bishop’s eye. “This Lion only devours
the weak. And that, Brother, you are not. I’m not afraid for you. If you fear
for yourself—” He lifted the silver cross from the other’s breast and held it
in the light. “This is stronger than armor. Trust in it.” He let it fall.
“You’ll sleep here and you’ll serve me at Mass, but you belong to the King.
Stay with him. Serve him. Be his friend.”

Alf knelt to kiss Aylmer’s ring. “As my lord wishes.”

Before he could leave, Aylmer stopped him. "Brother. Be
wary. This isn’t your cloister; people here can be dangerous, especially around
the King. If you sense trouble, come to me at once. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” Alf said very low.

Aylmer frowned. “Do you? You're not a spy, Brother. Nor are
you a watchdog. But I’m the King’s Chancellor and your protector. I don’t want
harm to come to either of you.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Go then. The King’s waiting.”

Alf bowed. As he departed, he felt Aylmer’s eyes and mind
upon him and shivered. The Bishop saw far more than Alf wished him to see. And
Alf did not trust him. Not yet, and not quite.

o0o

When Alf presented himself at the keep, the Earl’s guards
eyed his face and his habit and his newly tended tonsure and sneered. Yet they
let him pass, following him with leers and not-quite-inaudible remarks.

So too the King’s own squires, though there was no mockery
in their eyes and voices but black hostility. Alf dressed as their equal and
mounted on a horse fit for a prince, and always in the company of the King or
the Bishop or the outsize novice, had been hard enough to endure. But Alf alone
and afoot and in monk’s garb was unbearable. They glared as they admitted him
to the solar, and one spat, although he was careful to miss.

The King was deep in converse with several men with the garb
and the bearing of noblemen. Alf effaced himself, a silent figure in a brown
cowl, settling by the wall. No one noticed him.

The audience was long and tedious. At last Richard brought
it to a close, dismissing the barons with courtesy that was a thin veil over
irritation. Even as the door closed upon the last, he stretched until his bones
cracked, and grinned at Alf, a lion’s grin with a gleam of sharp teeth. “Well,
Brother. You took your time.”

“I’m sorry, Sire,” Alf murmured.

“Never mind.” Richard looked him over, fingering the rough
fabric of his habit. “Hideous stuff this. Where are your other clothes?”

“They were only to travel in, Sire," said Alf.

“You should have kept to them. They suited you.”

“This is my proper habit, my lord. And it’s an excellent
disguise. Who notices a monk in a cowl?”

Richard laughed with one of his sudden changes of mood.
“Aye, who does? And monks hereabouts are ten for a ha’penny. Don’t tell me
you’re about to vanish among them.”