Isle of Glass (26 page)

Alf crossed himself. “
Deo gratias
,” he murmured, no
more than a sigh.

The man entered with dignity, although he was wet to the
skin and plastered with mud. He wore no livery nor any sign of rank, but the
brooch that clasped his cloak bore the dragon of Gwynedd and the eyes that
scanned the room were proud, almost haughty. They fixed without hesitation upon
Richard; the messenger limped forward to sink to one knee before the King.

“Your Majesty,” he said in a clear trained voice, “your
royal brother of Gwynedd sends his greetings and his respect.”

Richard’s amber glare had passed him by to burn upon Alf.
Your
doing
, it accused him.
Damn you
!

Alf smiled. A vein pulsed in the King’s temple; it took all
of his control to say, “Anglia responds with similar sentiments.”

The envoy bowed his head and raised it again, and took from
his wallet a sealed letter. “My royal lord bids you accept this epistle, and
with it his goodwill.”

Richard took the letter but did not break the seal. “What is
his message?”

“‘To our dear brother of Anglia,’ ” responded the messenger,
“‘we have held our throne now for two years and two seasons, since the lamented
death of our father, whom God cherishes now among His angels; in our poor
fashion we have endeavored to govern his kingdom as he desired it to be governed.
In particular, we have attempted to maintain relations with our neighbor and
dear friend in Anglia, for whom—’ ”

Richard cut him off “Never mind the bombast! I can read it
easily enough myself. What does Kilhwch want?”

Owein’s face did not change, although his eyes flickered.
Amusement, Alf realized, and reluctant admiration. “Your Majesty, the words he
spoke to me were blunt and without embellishment. But he bade me couch them in
the terms of courtesy.”

“Courtesy be damned. What did he say?”

Alf had come quietly to stand behind the King. The
messenger’s eyes widened a little; he closed his mouth upon his protest and
bowed slightly, yet with more respect than he had shown the King himself. “His
Majesty of Gwynedd said to me, ‘Pretty it up, Owein. But make sure you let him
know that his barons are raising hell on my borders, and that my barons are
like to raise hell in return; and that’s no good to either of us. I’ll see him
and talk to him in any place he chooses; maybe we can put out this fire that’s
threatening to burn us both out of our kingdoms.’ ”

Richard’s brows had drawn together until they met; his eyes
had begun to glitter. “Kilhwch won’t fight?”

Owein maintained his serenity. “My liege desires a
conference. The place is to be of your choosing; he asks that you come as he
will, with no more than twenty knights in attendance and in certainty of his
friendship.”

“He wants peace? Bran Dhu`s son wants peace?”

“The King of Gwynedd desires what is best for his kingdom.”

Richard broke the seal and skimmed the letter, muttering to
himself. “‘Kilhwch of Gwynedd to Richard of Anglia, greeting...
Conference...alliance...friendship... Given in Caer-y-n’Arfon, four days before
the Calends of December.’ ”

He looked up sharply. “It took you this long to ride to me?”

The messenger nodded briefly. “Yes, Sire. My horse was shot
from under me as I passed the border; I walked until I found another; there
were other difficulties.”

“Pursuit,” Alf said softly. “Battles. A wound. And cold and
famine and this deadly rain.”

Again Owein bowed with respect which came close to
reverence.

Richard looked from him to Alf, tugging at his beard. At
length he said, “I’ll consider my reply. Giraut, take this man and see that
he’s well cared for. I’ll call for him later.”

For a long while after the messenger had gone, escorted by
the King’s page, no one moved or spoke. Save the King, who paced like a caged
beast.

He came to a halt in front of Alf. His glare swept the
solar. “All of you. Out.”

They obeyed swiftly. One or two shot pitying glances at Alf.
The King’s wrath looked fair to break upon his head.

When the last small page had passed the door, Richard smiled
sweetly. “Now, my fair young friend,” he said. “Suppose you tell me exactly how
you managed to concoct this plot with the King of Gwynedd.”

“To concoct what plot, Sire?”

Richard shook his head. The rubies flashed and flared upon
his crown. “No, Alfred. Don't play the innocent here. Just tell me the truth.”

“Very well, Sire,” Alf said calmly. “The truth is that
Kilhwch of Gwynedd is a wise man, and he sees no profit in a war between your
kingdoms. And you, Sire, are furious, and ready to force a conflict for pride
and for folly.”

The King’s breath hissed between his teeth.

Alf nodded as if he had spoken. “Yes. I dare much. Overmuch,
perhaps. But only because I wish you well.”

“You wish me hamstrung and unmanned.”

“I wish you strong upon a strong throne.” Alf sat at the
King’s worktable with grace that concealed his growing weakness. “Sire, if you
agree to this meeting you suffer no disgrace. Your friends will be glad that
you don’t try to sap the kingdoms’ strength with a useless war; your enemies
will be mortified. They’re relying on your falling into the trap.”

“Weaseling words. Maybe you’re my enemy.”

Alf held out his hands, the wrists bearing still the marks
of chains. “I won’t contend with blind anger that knows full well that I speak
the truth. For Anglia’s sake, Sire. For your own. Agree to meet with Kilhwch.”

“You take a lot on yourself, for an unfrocked priest.”

“Yes,” Alf agreed. “I do.”

“Damn you!”

Richard raged around the room, fists clenching and
unclenching, jaw working. Alf watched him and tried to forget the pain that
darkened the edges of his vision. He could not faint now—must not. He gathered
all of his waning strength and held it tightly, waiting for the King’s temper
to cool.

It calmed long before Richard wished it to, nor would it
rouse again. Cold reason dulled the fire; calculation slew it altogether.

The King stopped and glared at Alf, who seemed intent upon a
letter. He looked pale, haggard; a dark stain was spreading over the back of
his cotte. The hand that held the letter trembled just perceptibly.

Richard snarled and cursed him. He did not look up. But
Richard had seen enough men on the edge of endurance to recognize another.

And he had done it all with quiet, monkish obstinacy, to get
what he wanted.

“Damn you,” Richard said again, little more than a whisper.
“You’re worse than a woman. Or is that what you are?”

Alf smiled and shook his head. "In the words of your
former squire, I have a face like a girl’s. But the rest of me...”

“The rest of you ought to be roasted over a slow fire.”

Alf had gone back to his reading.

Richard snatched the letter from his hand and dragged him to
his feet. “All right, damn you. I’ll go to meet this wonder-child, this wise
old sage of seventeen.”

“Nineteen, Sire. Nearly twenty.”

“What! So ancient?”

“So ancient,” Alf said. “I’m glad you’ve come to your
senses.”

“I think I've lost them altogether.”

Alf smiled again, but his lips were white. “Sire, if you
don't mind...may I sit down?”

“You're going back to bed.”

And Richard carried him there, past staring faces and in
spite of his protests. When he lay in the royal bed with the King’s surgeon
tut-tutting over his reopened wounds, Richard said, “You’ve won. It’s cost you
your vocation and half your hide, but you’ve won.”

Alf winced as the surgeon probed too deeply, and blinked
away tears of pain. But he spoke as clearly as if he had been lying at his
ease. “Sire. If you really want to do this, I know where you can meet with
Kilhwch.”

“Of course you do. You plotted this months ago.”

“Days, Sire. There’s a place not two days’ ride from Gwynedd
across Severn’s mouth, with room enough to house two kings and their escorts;
the Abbot there—”

“Abbot, sir?”

Alf nodded. “I’m speaking of St. Ruan’s, Sire.”

“I suppose the Abbot’s in the plot, too?”

“If plot you choose to call it. The man whose errand I took
on myself is still there, a lord of Rhiyana who can speak for the Elvenking.
Think of it, my lord! Three kings and three kingdoms united in amity, with the
Church as witness. Your enemies will gnash their teeth in rage.”

“You can play me like a lute,” Richard said. “God knows why
I stand for it.”

Alf smiled. “Because, Sire, you need my meddling. Your
reputation forbids you to be sensible, but if you can blame it on my plotting,
you can do whatever is wisest, and confound your enemies without awakening them
to the truth.”

“Flatterer. Go to sleep and leave me in peace.”

Obligingly Alf closed his eyes. Richard stood for a while,
watching the surgeon’s deft gnarled hands, flinching from the sight of the
outraged flesh. “Goddamned martyr," he muttered.

The pale face did not change. Richard’s hand crept out to
touch it; stopped short; withdrew. He turned on his heel and strode out.

Kilhwch’s messenger left at dawn, well-fed and newly
clothed, with the King’s horse under him and the King’s letter in his satchel,
and gifts of gold and food and safe-conduct to ease his way to Gwynedd. Richard
rode out well after sunrise with twenty knights at his back, and among them,
Aylmer and a grim-faced novice.

And, falling in behind as they left the keep, a rider in
blue on a grey mare. His hood was drawn up against the cold, the rest of him
well muffled.

The King’s men exchanged glances. One or two dropped back;
two more fell in on either side of him, concealing him from the crowd that had
gathered to see the King go.

It was the wind that betrayed him. As they neared the south
gate—as the King passed beneath its arch—a gust blew back his hood, baring his
head. A flash of sunlight caught it and broke into rays about it.

A shout went up. A single voice at first above the cheering
for the King: “The saint! The saint!”

Two joined it, three, a dozen, a hundred; the crowd surged
forward. Voices, faces, minds beat upon all his senses. “Let me touch you—don’t
go away—my baby’s sick—my eyes, my sore eyes—my leg—my arm—my hand—it hurts—oh,
God, I hurt—”

The gate arched above him. The voices thundered in the
hollow space, beating him down.

Then suddenly he was free. The mare moved into a canter,
keeping pace with the beasts about her. The shouting faded behind them.

Alf did not look back. His protectors moved away; the mare
lengthened her stride. She ran as lightly as a deer among the heavy destriers.

Just behind the King, she slowed. Richard rode between
Aylmer and Jehan; only the novice acknowledged Alf’s presence. He reined back
his mount to keep pace with the mare, and regarded Alf with a wild mingling of
joy and anxiety. “Brother Alf! You weren’t supposed to come.”

“Should I have stayed behind in
that?”

Jehan glanced back. Carlisle huddled within its red walls,
crowned with its red keep; about its gate seethed the crowd that had sought to
overrun Alf.

He looked at his friend, who rode with eyes fixed forward,
face white and strained. “I am not a saint,” Alf said. “I am—
not
—a
saint.”

“You’re ill,” Jehan said.

Alf shook his head sharply. “I’m somewhat battered, and I’m
a little weaker than I should be. That’s all.”

“A
little
weaker!”

“Would you be able to keep from shaking if you’d just been
canonized?” Alf stared at his hands. In spite of his words they were almost
steady. “She said it would happen. They would canonize me, or they would burn
me. They tried both.”

“Brother Alf—”

He straightened in the saddle. “Don’t call me that.”

“Brother Alf,” Jehan said stubbornly, “you’re trying to
uncanonize yourself by proving just how nasty, disobedient, and downright human
you can be. Don’t you know by now that you don't have to prove anything to me?”

“Maybe," murmured Alf, “I need to prove it to
myself."

Richard looked back, a fierce amber glare. “Take my word for
it. You are nasty, disobedient, and downright human. And damnably clever. I
should send you back to Carlisle and make you find your own way out of the mess
you made there.”

“Sire! I—”

“Look at that,” Richard said to Aylmer. “Injured Innocence,
done to perfection. Should I send him back? Or should I let him find out for
himself that he’s not half strong enough to keep the pace I’ll set?”

Aylmer met Alf’s glance with a dark steady stare. To the
King he said, “He was determined enough to come over your express command. Let
him stay. He can pay whatever penalty he has to pay.”

Alf nodded. “Just because I’ve been a priest, Sire, doesn’t
mean you have to treat me as if I were a woman or a child. I can do whatever I
have to do.”

“Do you mean that?” Richard demanded.

“Yes, Sire.”

“Well then. You've cost me an esquire. Take his place. That
means you’ll be treated exactly like any other squire—the good and the bad.
You’ll be bowed to, but you’ll have to work; if you slack up you get a beating.
And you’ll be exercising at arms whenever you get the chance. Do you still want
to ride with me?”

“Yes, Sire,” Alf replied without flinching.

“That’s a commitment, boy. From the moment you take my hand
and swear on it, you're mine until I see fit to let you go." Richard held
out his mailed hand. “Will you take it? Or will you go back?”

Alf hesitated only briefly. He clasped the King’s hand and
met the King’s eyes. “I shall try not to disgrace you.”

“You’ll do more than try. I’ll give you till evening to
learn what you’ve got yourself into.” Richard turned his back on him and
clapped spurs to the red stallion’s sides. “
Allez-y
!”