“Don’t be stupi—well, you can’t really help that now, can you?” he smirked. “No, Simon’s task is not to kill the four men against me—if even they still live. His status as a priest will allow him to beg counsel from his Christian cohort.” Glayer patted the baby’s warm, smooth, rounded back and spoke softly now; the little fellow had fallen asleep.
“Simon is to gain audience with the man who has sheltered the four responsible for my strife the past five years. Victor, I believe he is called. Shh, shh,” he comforted the stirring boy. He looked over the baby’s head. “And then he will kill the priest. He’s the only one left with enough reputation to possibly vouchsafe for the traitors.”
Eseld didn’t move, didn’t comment, although he could see the fury in her cloudy eyes. Good; he hoped she was vexed, the foolish, delusional fanatic.
“So, go on and fetch him,Nurse,” Glayer goaded.
Eseld stood and approached the lord of Thurston Hold and his heir, her spindly arms reaching toward the child.
“No, leave him,” Glayer commanded, knowing it would pain her to do so. She hesitantly turned to go and Glayer cleared his throat softly. Eseld froze in her escape.
“Pay your homage,” Glayer reminded her in a quiet, happy voice.
The old woman turned and dropped to her knees, kissing Glayer’s feet. She reached a trembling hand toward the end of the baby’s dressing gown, but Glayer cupped his boy’s feet in his hands, denying her.
“That will be all,” he said.
Eseld struggled to her feet and quit the chamber, pulling the door closed behind her and leaving Glayer and the baby on the luxurious velvet chaise.
Glayer sighed through his contented smile and stroked the baby’s fine gown, covering his shallow, even breaths. “Mothers,” he complained on a sigh. “Be glad you don’t have one. And you’re welcome.”
* * *
The boy stood for a moment between the pair of massive winged cherubim, soaking up the bright sunshine. He had to squint, even with his hand shielding his eyes. The statues must have been fifteen feet tall, but rather than being intimidating, they seemed to smile down on him.
He dropped his hand and faced forward, looking past tall, wide gates to the courtyard beyond, where it seemed the entire population of the compound was milling about the plots of trees and fountains. He felt a bit of nerves settling in his stomach. He should be relieved, he supposed; now that he’d survived this far, all he had left to do was follow the instructions Father Simon had given the woman on the Chatham road.
If he could find the one Simon had named among so many similarly garbed men inside . . . He swallowed down the shaky feeling in his throat.
But not all the men inside were dressed the same, he now saw, and not all of them were even men. Three couples dressed in the clothing of laity were clustered near the center of the courtyard, an equal number of mounts waiting nearby and obviously equipped for a journey. The men and women were smiling and taking turns embracing one of the robed men in particular, a skinny, balding monk.
Must be him.
He drew a deep breath and started through the gate, glad that no one had thus far noticed his arrival. But that was usually the case with adults and children. Very few grown persons ever paid young ones any heed, unless it was to get up to something dastardly. Up to this point in his journey, it had suited him just fine to be ignored.
He paused and quickly dropped to one knee, wriggling his filthy forefinger beneath the ankle lace of his shoe until he felt the little round coin. He was dismayed that he hadn’t taken time to wash up in the river when he’d snuck from the boat. Perhaps the man wouldn’t take him seriously if he thought him nothing more than a dirty, penniless orphan.
Well, it was the truth, wasn’t it?
He stood once more, feeling a moment of dizziness, and then began his march forward, the gold coin clutched so tightly in his right fist he wondered that it didn’t melt.
One of the well-dressed men—he had eyelashes like a woman and a fancy tunic with braiding—caught sight of him over the slight monk’s head and gave a quizzical smile.
“Pardon me, Victor,” the man said, and his accent was foreign even to this part of the world. “I think there is someone who wishes to speak with you, yes?” The woman at his side, holding a girl child in her arms, leaned ’round and gave a coo and a kind smile of the sort ladies were wont to give as her gaze caught sight of him.
The monk turned around and looked down, his own slight smile on his face. His eyes were red-rimmed and glistening. He opened his mouth and spoke in the language of the towns planted along the winding river below, but of course the words made no sense.
The boy seemed unable to slow his breathing, had to swallow several times. He tried to recall Simon’s exact instructions to the woman.
Up the river to Austria, in the town of Melk, where there is an abbey. Give this to the abbot there—Victor. Tell him who you are and what has been done to you. If there is any help to be had for you . . .
“Are you Victor?” the boy asked, surprised at how strong his voice sounded to his own ears, when he was actually more than a little concerned he might vomit before all these finely dressed people staring at him with amusement.
The monk’s reddened eyes widened a bit. “I am indeed, my son. Do you require my assistance? I’m a bit occupied now, but if you—”
A huge blond man stepped forward, a falcon sitting easily upon his shoulder, and placed a hand that seemed as large as a cartwheel on the monk’s own thin shoulder. “It’s all right, Victor. We have a long journey ahead of us. We can surely wait a moment more.”
The monk reached up and absently patted the large man’s hand before turning his attention back to his visitor. “Well, then. What can I do for you, child?”
