Snow in July (24 page)

“Down, sir!” Alain admonished the hound, who obeyed with surprising alacrity. After bringing his horse under control, he dismounted, tied the reins to a branch, removed the saddlebags, and walked over to stroke the dog’s head. “I am glad to see you too.” The dog stretched his nose toward the saddle packs. “Ah, hungry, are we, lad?”

Alain opened one of the bags, first finding a bulging wineskin, which he pulled out and set beside him. He reached in again and withdrew a linen parcel containing a loaf of warm, fragrant bread. The dog sniffed it and backed off a pace, growling. Alain smelled the loaf. Its faintly musty odor reminded him of the lethal meadow saffron. He put the bread aside and repeated the process with a bundle of apples and several juicy slices of roast pork. The hound refused to consider the apples, but when he got to the pork, he sat, threw back his head, and howled plaintively.

A group of pilgrims, walking up from behind Alain, cast uneasy glances at the dog and hurried past, disappearing around a bend in the road.

His stomach rumbling, Alain wanted to howl too.

Sampling whatever Ulfric had put into the wineskin was out of the question.

“It appears we shall have to forage elsewhere.” He threw the tainted food, as well as the wineskin and saddlebags, into the brush. The dog whined, sidling closer, and Alain scratched him behind the ears. Tongue lolling, the dog nuzzled Alain’s hand. “I’m sorry I have nothing to give you, but I do thank you for saving my life.”

The dog favored him with a lick that coaxed a smile to his lips as he wiped his cheek on his sleeve.

The animal’s presence reminded him of Kendra, and he groped inside his pouch for the packet containing the lock of her hair that he’d found en route to rescuing her. His fingers drew out not one packet but two. Thinking he’d retrieved some herbs by mistake, he unwrapped the packets.

Both contained a lock of hair.

One was Kendra’s as Alain fondly remembered it: glossy and golden. The other, much shorter lock, also blond, had a thin, brittle quality.

When the dog began nosing the packets, Alain folded them up and stowed them in his pouch, berating his slow wits.

The other swath of hair had to be the item missing from Kendra’s locket, which Alain had watched the outlaws desecrate. He recalled that her father had slipped him a small packet before he and Ruaud had “surrendered;” this had to have been it, he reasoned.

He hoped the lock was from a family member rather than a beloved suitor.

No, not a suitor, unless he had misread the signals she had been arrowing his way.

Hair from her murdered brother, perhaps?

Whatever its origin, if Waldron had intended for Alain to use the token as a means of winning Kendra’s favor, it was too late to avail himself of the opportunity. Kendra never wanted to see him again. She had made that all too clear.

He pounded the ground with his fist, making the dog jump to his feet. As Alain rose, so did his determination to carry out Waldron’s implicit command to return Kendra’s treasure to her.

But not while traipsing across the countryside, half starved and looking like an archery butt.

Before untying the horse, he checked each hoof for stones and loose shoe nails. Upon finding no problems there, he loosened the girth and removed the saddle and blanket, searching for burs, bits of straw, or anything else that might cause the horse distress. The mare stood patiently, mouthing grass and swatting flies with her tail. At one point, she swung her head around as far as the reins allowed, gazing at Alain as if to insist he was worrying for no good reason.

Only after he had finished examining the tack would he concede that perhaps the mare might be right.

Saddled, mounted, and moving onward once again, he was glad his canine ally had chosen to accompany him, though not always at his side. At intervals, the dog would veer off the path after a rabbit or bird, baying with joyous abandon, returning before Alain had traveled too far.

“What shall I name you?” he asked the hound between one of those forays, when he had dismounted to rest the horse. The dog’s towering, majestic appearance inspired an idea. “What think you of
Seigneur Noir
?” Seated beside Alain, the hound cocked his head as if in confusion. Chuckling and fondling the dog’s ears, he explained, “It means ‘Black Lord.’ You do deserve the title, though I admit it’s a mouthful.
Noir
should suffice.” He repeated the name several times, and the hound answered with an agreeable bark.

After getting under way, he caught sight of the abbey church’s soaring walls within the hour, as the nones bells began to toll.

The lightness of spirit sparked by Noir’s friendship yielded to the somber recollection of his purpose for choosing the church as his first destination.

Outside the town of Glastonbury, he passed the biggest encampment of pilgrims he’d ever seen. Had this been Normandy, he might have fallen in with these folk.

But the solace he sought did not exist in a crowd.

He arrived at the abbey’s gates and explained his pilgrimage to the porter, who welcomed him and Noir and held the bridle while Alain dismounted. Conversationally, Alain remarked upon the pilgrims’ camp, for he noticed far fewer visitors at the abbey.

“A pilgrims’ encampment, sir knight?” The porter’s squint gave him a befuddled look. “Ah, yes. They must be assembling for the feasts of Saint Peter, Saint Paul, and the First Roman Martyrs, though it seems a mite early for folks to be arriving already.” Alain quirked an eyebrow upward. “The feast of the apostles Peter and Paul isn’t for another six days, and First Martyrs’ is the day after,” the porter explained. He slapped his forehead and rolled his eyes. “Ah, what am I thinking? Tomorrow is John the Baptist’s day, so the early ones probably have arrived for that. You will stay for High Mass tomorrow too, won’t you, good sir?”

Although Alain suspected that the monk had tagged him as a wealthy benefactor, thanks to Ulfric’s gift, he said, “Lord willing.”

Upon Alain’s request, the porter imparted directions to the stables. The path led past a tree the porter claimed had grown from a cutting of the original that had sprung from Joseph of Arimathea’s staff. Leading the horse and hound, Alain passed the gnarled, haw-laden, and otherwise unremarkable tree without pausing to consider the legendary spiritual connection. He found the stables and entrusted both animals into the groom’s care. Noir seemed content to curl in the straw for a nap.

Some part of Alain wished he could join the dog.

As a man in a daze, he followed the strains of soulful chanting toward the main church and slipped in through one of the small side doors.

By this time, the office of nones was almost over, but that didn’t prevent him from kneeling and bowing his head. Guilt assaulted him from many angles: old matters, such as his failure to protect his brother, as well as the newer issues of deceiving Kendra and getting Ruaud killed.

He remained long after the chanting had been replaced by the rustling of the monks rising to leave.

“As I live and breathe—Alain!”

He jerked his head up.

A grinning Ruaud was standing before him, clad in a plain tunic and trews. Alain, grateful beyond measure, grasped Ruaud’s forearm to haul himself to his feet.

Together they genuflected toward the altar and left by the same side door Alain had used. He resisted the urge to question Ruaud’s behavior, but after they stepped outside, he could no longer contain his curiosity.

“What in heaven’s name are you doing here, on a—what?” Alain took a moment to recall how many days he’d been held captive. “A Saturday afternoon? You, who would rather darken the doorway of a tavern than a church, even on Sunday mornings? Did those outlaws scare you into taking vows?”

Ruaud’s paunch-shaking laugh was a joy to hear. “This attire was the only garb the abbey’s wardrobe master could find to fit me, for the outlaw’s gear got shredded during the fight.” His expression sobered. “But I am fulfilling a promise. The good Lord does answer prayers.”

“For me?” Alain couldn’t disguise his surprise.

“And the Lady Kendra. Is she all right?”

“Yes.” Alain snorted. “Somewhat. At present, she lodges with her cousin—and my chief rival.”

“And how, pray, did you permit that to happen?”

Alain’s stomach rumbled. “It’s a long story, and I’m sorely in need of meat and drink first. Meat and drink that won’t kill me.”

Ruaud shot him an inquisitive glance as a small group of monks strolled by, but Alain gave a slight shake of his head.

“Come, then, my friend. The abbey boasts a fine and decently private guesthouse for visiting nobility.” As Ruaud turned toward the building, he plucked at the shoulder of Alain’s tunic. “I trust the story includes how you came by this finery?”

“Only if you tell me how you grew piety overnight.”

“Done.” Ruaud chuckled.

They reached the guesthouse door, which opened onto a spacious common room furnished with several tables and benches, three sideboards stacked with pewter plates and tankards, and a large hearth laid with a heap of glowing embers. A steaming cauldron hung from a rod wedged between the hearthstones, creating a heady apple-cinnamon aroma that was making Alain’s stomach complain even more.

At this hour, the room stood empty, presumably because the other guests had not yet returned for the evening.

A monk wearing a stained apron over his habit approached Ruaud and Alain as they entered, greeting Ruaud by name and giving Alain a respectful nod. Ruaud introduced Alain and explained their needs in what Alain couldn’t fail to notice was vastly improved English. Alain added his request for a plain tunic, offering the fine crimson one, as well as the fox-trimmed cloak, as payment for his bed and board.

The monk acknowledged Alain’s generosity with profuse thanks, eyed him as if taking his measure, executed a bow, and left through a back door, returning a few moments later with a tunic similar to Ruaud’s lying folded across his palms. Alain accepted the garment with thanks. The monk conducted him outside and up the staircase to Ruaud’s chamber, while Ruaud stayed in the common room. Alain made quick work of stripping off Ulfric’s gifts and passing them to the monk, who bowed again and departed to allow Alain to finish dressing.

As the undyed linen settled about his torso, he couldn’t deny the feeling that he had shed a death mark.

“My God, but it is so good to see you!” Ruaud exclaimed upon Alain’s return to the common room.

Alain smiled at Ruaud’s seat selection, near the rear of the room, where they could enjoy an unimpeded view of the main door with their backs guarded by the wall.

Some habits did indeed die hard.

“I didn’t take that long to change, did I?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Indeed. And I cannot begin to tell you how glad I am to see you, Ruaud.”

“So, what happened to you back on the Tor?”

“The what?”

“Glastonbury Tor. It’s what the locals call that hill where the outlaws built their lair. Were you and Lady Kendra imprisoned in that tunnel? You must have heard us calling you, even over the infernal noise of that devil-dog.”

“The dog acted to protect us. So that was you. I thought so, but Kendra feared a trap.” Ruaud’s statement prompted Alain to ask, “What do you mean, ‘us’? Who was with you?”

The monk approached their table carrying a pair of trenchers piled with bread, cheese, roasted chicken, and stewed, spiced apples balanced across one arm, and a pitcher of ale and two flagons tucked under the other. Ruaud and Alain helped the man unburden himself, and he filled the flagons, leaving the pitcher on the table before departing to attend a large group of richly caparisoned Saxon guests that had just arrived.

Alain raised his flagon to celebrate finding Ruaud, and took a long pull.

“Thane Waldron sent a scouting party to track us.”

Alain nodded. “That explains why I felt as if we were being watched—and not just by our captors. Where are Waldron’s men now? And what became of the rest of the outlaws? How badly did you get hurt?”

Laughing, Ruaud held up both hands in mock surrender. “Toenails of God, Alain, even in French you talk too fast. You eat while I talk.”

Alain was happy to comply, and he began demolishing the first good meal he’d eaten in half a week.

After swilling more ale, Ruaud said, “Waldron’s men are dispersed throughout the town, seeking word of their lady. We parted with the promise of sharing any information we might uncover.” He punched Alain’s shoulder, almost jarring the chicken leg from Alain’s grasp. “I had a strong hunch you would turn up here sooner or later.”

Alain shared Ruaud’s grin. “I have become too predictable. That’s certain death for a scout. I shall have to work on changing that.” After licking his fingers, he asked, “And the outlaw band?”

“All dead. The whores’ sons gave me a few cuts and scratches—nothing worth talking about—though my right knee still aches where one of the sods kicked it.”

“An elder-flower compress will ease your knee’s pain.”

Ruaud grunted. “That could be what the abbey’s infirmarer uses. Save your supply, Alain. I am well cared for here.” With both palms on the table, he leaned closer, frowning. “And what of you? I found bloody bandages inside the tower.”

“Lady Kendra healed me,” was the only explanation Alain felt prepared to divulge. It still awed him to contemplate the miracle she had wrought, and he understood it no more now than when it had occurred.

Ruaud downed his ale and poured more from the pitcher. “There’s another story, I’ll warrant.”

Alain nodded, although he wondered whether he could ever relate it to Ruaud.

Instead, he asked, “If you were so certain of where we were, why did you and Waldron’s men stop searching for us?”

Ruaud slammed down his flagon, slopping foam onto the tabletop. “We were ordered off the land by its owner.”

“What? Who? The outlaws—”

“Had appropriated it for themselves, and their band was too large and too elusive for the thane to defeat, so he told me.” Alain felt a disbelieving eyebrow lift. “Well, you crossed that marsh too, Alain. A fine natural defense, no?”