Strands of Starlight (30 page)

They heard Charity's voice then—“Miriam! Miriam!”—and looked out the stable door to see her running across the common, skirts flying, dark hair streaming behind her. She made directly for the stable. “What's happening? I heard you shouting something about Aloysius Cranby.”

“You heard me?” Miriam breathed the starlight. Her knees stopped shaking.

“Anytime you make that much noise between the worlds, Miriam,” said the young witch, “we're
all
going to hear you. Roxanne would have come, too, but she's nursing Lake.”

“It's just as well she didn't come,” said Kay. The day was not overly warm, but his brow was dripping. He fretted with his sleeves. “Cranby's here in disguise. He's looking for information.”

Charity's eyes flickered. She had become quieter since she had been made a priestess. On the surface, she was still Charity, still full of sunlight and flowers; but within her, doors had opened, depths had been explored, knowledge had been won. Miriam would not have been overly surprised if Charity now knew about her past.

The witch shook her head. “He won't get it.”

“You and Sana should probably go and stay with the Elves until he's gone,” said Miriam.

“Sana, maybe,” said Charity. “She has Lake to think about. But I'm staying. This is a fight for all of us: pagans, Christians, Elves . . . whoever. We need to be sure that the bishop doesn't find out anything of any use to him.”

“We need to alert the village,” said Kay.

“I'm on my way,” said Charity. She kissed them both and departed.

Miriam rubbed her eyes. She was still struggling with her emotions, was barely succeeding in keeping them in check. Her strength was returning, and she absently gave one of the baggage packs a disgusted prod with her toe.

In a moment, she was on her knees beside the pack, untying the fastenings.

“Miriam!” cried Kay. “Leave it alone!” But when she threw open the flap and lifted out a sword, he slowly put a hand to his mouth. “That's . . . that's horrible. What's going on in Hypprux? Churchmen aren't supposed to wear weapons like that.”

“Supposed to, Kay?” Disgusted, Miriam put the sword back. “
Supposed to?
Churchmen aren't supposed to lie and hate either. They're not supposed to condemn innocent people to death. They're not supposed to do a great many things.” She stood up, brushed the dirt from her gowns. “Unfortunately, it also seems that they're not supposed to pay any attention to the religion they claim to profess.”

“Miriam . . .” Kay sounded hurt, and Miriam realized that her words had turned cruel.

“I'm sorry, Kay,” she said. “All this is . . . it's too close.”

“I know.”

“I wish Varden were here.” She picked up two of the packs, and Kay took the third. “We might have a few more pigs in the forest, but at least we wouldn't have them in the house.” She broke off suddenly and caught her breath. “We've got to get those panels out of the church, Kay,” she said hastily. “The ones that David carved.”

Kay hardly reacted. His eyes clouded, and perhaps his shoulders became a little more stooped. “It's too late, Miriam. They were going down the hall to the church as I left the house. They've already seen them by now.”

But Brother Louis and his companions did not comment on the panels. Kay and Miriam did not doubt that they had seen the carvings, for they looked very knowing at supper that night. Knowing, but maybe a little afraid, too. Miriam brought them food, filled their wine cups, tended to their wants, and she sensed the worry in them.
If that happened to Alban . . . then . . .

That night, their swords were beside their beds. That night also, Roxanne and her son left for the forest, and the town council gathered at Andrew's house after midnight.

“You're sure of this, Miriam?” Andrew asked.

“I'm sure.” Firelight and candlelight cast dark, wavering shadows of the men and women on the walls. Miriam felt their eyes on her as she stood before them, her elven clothes gleaming softly like a forest at dusk. “I met him during my trial in Hypprux. He questioned me, and he ordered the soldiers to torture me. I saw him several times because they brought me to him every day to see if I'd be more cooperative.”

“Yer absolutely sure?” said Francis. “Ye were in pain. Mightn't ye—”

“Dammit, Francis, I'm sure.”

The smith thumped his large hand on the bench where he sat. “Then we'd best be rid a' 'em. And quick.”

Elizabeth caught his meaning. “Kill them?”

“Aye,” said the smith. “Kill 'em and be done wi' it.”

“They haven't done anything,” said Simon.

“But they will.”

Andrew spoke quietly. “I have no wish to murder sleeping men.”

“They'd do ye in a trice.”

Miriam stood up. “If we kill them, then everything falls apart. Cranby's friends in the northern towns know where he is, and they'll also know what's happened if he disappears. It would b e one more reason for the Inquisition.”

“How do you know this?” said Simon. He sounded suspicious.

“I . . .” How could she explain? The strand of potential that gave Saint Brigid safe passage for a few more decades still shimmered tantalizingly amid alternate futures of battle and war, and though she did not know how to make it more real, she knew that the immediate murder of the three clergymen would extinguish it altogether. “I . . . just know. Think about it, Simon.”

“The Elves got us into this,” said the miller. “I'm not sure they'll get us out.”

Miriam knew what he meant. Since she had ceased denying it to herself, for how much longer could she deny it to others? Simon knew what he was seeing. She felt the distance between herself and these humans about her, but she loved them all the same. “All right, Simon. If I am an Elf, then listen to me as though I am.” She was almost frightened by her audacity, but she pushed on. “I'm seeing more. I know more. My people brought something to Saint Brigid years ago, and now you're in danger of losing it completely. Listen to yourself talk. All I hear is distrust and suspicion. It used to be that the Elves were friends to this ground. Now . . . Well, what say you?”

Francis spoke. “I'll listen to ye, maiden. Ye speak wisely.”

Simon's face was grim. “You're probably right,” he said at last. “But then what are we supposed to do?”

Andrew spoke. “We must make certain that the three friars find out nothing.” The carpenter's voice was quiet in the darkened room, his tone thoughtful. “We have to be sure that there are no contradictions in what we tell them. We need to send word to Saint Blaise and the other towns about who they are.”

And so it was that in the ensuing days, when Brother Louis wandered through the town, stopping now and again to chat with a housewife or a shopkeeper, he found that all the villagers were ignorant of any dealings with Elves, witches, or demons of any sort. “We're all good folk here,” he heard frequently.

Miriam, her awareness focused on the trio, found in them an increasing sense of frustration. Where were the Elves? Why did no one know about the panels in the church? Why did everyone seem to think that it was just a funny story? There was even talk of dedicating a plaque in the church to the memory of Jaques Alban, for the serene repose of his immortal soul. . . .

Maddening!

***

Miriam was cleaning the stables, and she was sure that someone was watching her.

She saw a quick flash of white over by the house. She went on with her work, but a short time later, she saw it again, this time closer, near the woodpile.

Mechanically, she forked hay into the mangers of the four horses, her mind shifting into starlight, her awareness slipping quietly out to the woodpile. It had been a week since the friars had arrived in town, and the villagers had, as far as she knew, held out against their questioning. Cranby's disguise, while allowing him anonymity, had its disadvantages, for he could not press for information as he could have if he had come as an official of the Inquisition.

Her awareness reached, surrounded the woodpile.

Hoyle?

As she worked, she watched him. Hoyle had been the most silent of the three churchmen. Obviously, he had his opinions, but he was not going to reveal them. Louis spoke at length, often patronizingly, and Bartholomew giggled and laughed like a schoolboy, sometimes mimicking members of the town or animals, so that even the most cautious had to laugh. But Hoyle . . .

A hot flash of lust exploded into Miriam's mind. Hoyle, it seemed, had needs that he was attending to.

Miriam broke off the contact, tightened her grip on the pitchfork. “Bastard,” she muttered.

Thinking back over the last few days, she realized that Hoyle had been watching her a great deal. He had always made sure that he was near her on some pretense, whether she was occupied with housework or merely arranging flowers in the church. Now, when she finished up in the stable and reentered the house, he followed her.

The kitchen was deserted. Hoyle entered behind her. “We need to talk,” he said.

“About what?” Instinctively, she dropped her hands to her sides, relaxed but ready.

He pulled a chair away from the table and sat down. “All sorts of things,” he said. “About Elves . . . and witches . . . Things like that. I assume you want to help your village.”

“I do what I can,” she said.

“Hmmm . . . just so. I'm sure you can do a great deal.”

“What do you want, Brother Hoyle?” The starlight was telling Miriam more than she really wanted to know.

He steepled his fingers, looked at her appraisingly. “We've come to know much about this town,” he said softly. “We know, for example, that a witch with your name journeyed down to this area about a year ago.”

“I'm not a witch, Brother Hoyle.”

“Oh, I'm sure you're not. But don't you see? You bear her name.”

“There are at least ten other women in this village named Miriam.” An edge crept into her tone.

“I'm sure there are,” Hoyle continued. “And we'll have to talk to them also. But you could make everything much easier for yourself—and them—if you became . . . a friend of mine. I'm in a position to help you.”

Miriam felt nothing but contempt.

He did not notice. “You have to understand, Miriam. Witchcraft is a serious charge, difficult to disprove. Witches are capable of using the most evil forms of magic to conceal the truth, and in order to be sure that you are not of their company, we might have to . . . question you strenuously.”

She kept her face a careful mask of calm. Starlight.

Smiling, he held out his hand. “I can help.”

She met his eyes. “Go to hell.” She turned and left the house, feeling his rage beating on her back in hot waves.

That night, at dinner, Hoyle kept his eyes sullenly on his food, but Miriam knew that his thoughts were elsewhere. Nevertheless, she served him politely; but she was still relieved when the three friars retired to their rooms.

Kay leaned back in his chair, wiped his forehead. “I don't know how much more of this I can take. Something's going to slip eventually.”

“Something has.” Miriam told him about Hoyle.

Kay nodded slowly. “Yes, that's one of their methods. If they can't find Elves, they'll fall back on witchcraft.”

“Why are they so sure I came here?”

“They're not totally sure, and of course they haven't recognized you, but Brother Louis—Cranby—mentioned to me that they have some fairly reliable information. He asked me about it.”

“What did you tell him?”

Kay considered for a moment. “I told him the truth, Miriam,” he said gently. “Charity helped me decide what the truth actually was. I told him that, yes, Miriam of Maris had come to the village, that she was injured, and extremely bitter, and that, in despair, she had eventually taken her own life.”

Miriam stared down at herself, stunned. “Dear Lady,” she said. “Is that what I did?”

Kay looked at her somberly. “I think it was, Miriam.”

She sat down. She had never thought of it in that way.

“The story seemed to mollify him,” Kay went on after a time. “Though I did see him poking about in the churchyard. Of course, the lack of a grave marker proves nothing: commoners' graves aren't marked, particularly if there's suicide involved.”

Miriam was still half in shock. “But how did they know I came to Saint Brigid in the first place?”

“Louis said that a witch was taken some distance from here. She was questioned, and she said that she knew you.”

“A witch? I don't know any witches . . . I mean, except for Roxanne and Charity.”

“Well, Louis called her a witch. Actually I suspect from some things he said that she's really a midwife.”

Miriam went cold, dizzy. “Wh-where?”

“Up around Furze. Miriam? What's the matter?”

She stood up and grabbed him by his soutane. “They're still holding her? Is she still alive? Where is she?”

“Miriam!” Kay gasped. “Please!”

Letting go of his cassock, she forced herself to find the stars, breathed, dragged herself toward a semblance of calm. “Kay . . . that's Mika they're talking about. That's the woman who nursed me back to health.” She pressed her hands to her temples. “And Aloysius Cranby's got her. There's no need to ask where: Hypprux. They're torturing her, maybe getting ready to kill her. I have to get help, Kay. I have to get her out of there.”

“But . . . but how?”

Anger was not helping. Painfully, she flooded it with starlight. She felt the tranquility expand, and she yielded to it a little. Her identity began to slip, but she fought her fear and opened herself to the light. She could not give herself totally yet, but she had to try, for she was going to need what the stars could give her.

She looked at Kay. There was a gleam of starlight in her eyes. “Elves,” she said, “are known for being ingenious.”

Since the friars had come to Saint Brigid, Miriam had not left the village; and when she set foot among the trees that night, the forest, with its odors and sounds, its sense of quiet life, filled for her what had become an almost physical need. Her elven clothing glimmered darkly in the shadows, and the shimmer about her quickened as though her arrival in Malvern was something of a homecoming.