Isle of Glass (33 page)

“I’m not weeping for him,” said Alf. “I’m praying for his
soul.”

“God knows he needs it.”

“Who doesn't, Sire?”

Richard laughed. “Aylmer says you have the face of an angel
and the Devil’s own wit.”

“A fair face and a black heart. That, say the Paulines, is
the essence of elf-kind.”

“Your heart is as pure as a maid’s and somewhat softer.” He
met Alf’s bright strange gaze. “We've decided to be kind to this carrion. After
you’ve buried your Abbot, it goes back where it came from, with a company of
knights to keep off the birds and bandits and a good man to hold the lands and
the folk until I find a proper lord for them. One who’s loyal, and who’ll wait
for me before he starts any wars.”

“Are you going to turn against Kilhwch after all?”

Swift anger flashed across Richard’s face. “Kilhwch is a
splendid fellow. So is His Majesty of Rhiyana. And I’m not such a scoundrel
that I’ll break up a pair of noble friendships. There’ll be no fighting on
either side of Anglia while those friendships hold.”

His anger faded. “Imagine, Alfred. A king who can ride
wherever he likes and leave his brother with crown and throne, and who knows
that he can come back and take both without having to shed even a drop of
blood. And I’m going to have a chance to see this prodigy. There’s to be a
tournament in Caer-y-n’Arfon in the spring, and Gwydion says the Flame-bearer
will come; I'll have a chance to see which one of us is stronger.”

Alf smiled. He was no longer quite so pale.

“And you,” Richard said. “Aylmer’s trying to steal you back
from me. Anyone can see, he says, that you belong in the priesthood. You and
that great clever ox of a Sevigny—you’ll be the right and left hands of the
Church Militant, and half the body besides.”

“I know," Alf murmured. “He came to talk to me this
morning. He wants me to resume my vows in full and to take up knightly
training, and to teach theology to one or two of his priests.”

“Will you have time to eat or sleep?”

“Occasionally.”

Richard stood squarely in front of him. “Tell me now,” he
said. “Tell me the truth. If you were free to do whatever you chose, would you
go with him?”

“Once upon a time,” said Alf, “two men disputed the
ownership of a fine hound. One had raised it from a pup; the other had found it
wandering in the wood, and taken it and fed it and trained it to hunt. They
took their case to their liege lord. He heard each side of the story, and
deliberated for a long while; at last he had his men draw a circle on the floor
of his hall and place the hound in it. The owners stood on opposite sides and
called to it.”

He stopped. Richard frowned. “So? What happened?”

“The beast lay down,” Alf replied, “and calmly went to
sleep.”

The King glared, then laughed. “The Devil’s wit, indeed!
Who’s calling you?”

“Aylmer, for one. Gwydion wants me to go with him to
Rhiyana. My Abbot, when he died, bade me make a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. And
you, Sire.” Alf smiled wryly. “I haven’t forgotten the promise I made to you,
though you’ve been most kind to let me see my Abbot to his rest as if I were
still one of his monks. When his Mass is over, if you command me, I’ll put on
your livery again.”

“And if I don’t command you? If I leave you free to choose?”

Alf was silent. Richard could find no answer in his face,
nor in his eyes that were the same color as the winter sun.

The King’s voice roughened. “When you have a hawk, there
comes a time when you have to set it free. If it comes back it’s yours. If
not...” He drew a breath. “I’m freeing you. You can go with your priests or to
your Fair Folk. Or you can rule Anglia with me. In Winchester I’ll make you a
knight and give you lands and riches and set you among my great lords. And in
the spring after the tournament in Gwynedd, we'll start planning a new Crusade.
You’ll have your pilgrimage to Jerusalem, Alfred, and a kingdom there if you
want one. And after that we can travel to Constantinople, just as we said we
would when we were riding to Carlisle.” His face was flushed, eager, lively as
a boy’s. “Tell me, Alfred. Tell me you’ll do it. With you by me, there’s no one
in the world who can conquer me.”

“Sire,” Alf said. He moved away from Rhydderch’s body, that
weighed like a stone on heart and mind. Richard followed him until they stood
together by the cold hearth. “Sire, I've been offered so much. Aylmer promises
to set the Church at my feet; Gwydion opens the realm of the Fair Folk to me.
And you spread before me all the kingdoms of the world.”

A shadow crossed Richard’s face. “Is that all I am to you? A
tempter?”

“My lord, you know that’s not so.”

“Do you realize that you’ve never called me by my name?”

“You’re my King, Sire. I wouldn't presume—”

Richard struck the wall with his fist. “Damn you! You’ve
presumed to rule me, heart and soul, since the day you met me.”

“Richard,” Alf said. "Richard, my lord. You see so
much, can’t you see that I look on you as my friend?”

“I see it,” Richard answered harshly. “I wanted to hear it.”

Alf, who spoke as much with touch as with words, had never
touched Richard. He laid his hand very lightly on the King’s shoulder. “You
never once tried to overstep the boundaries I set. For that I learned to love
you.”

Richard trembled under his hand.

He did not draw it away. “Richard. I have so many choices,
who never had any, who needed to have no thoughts of my own but only to do as I
was bidden. Each choice is one I would make gladly. But I can’t have them all.
Only one.”

“And that’s not mine.”

“No!” Alf cried. “Don’t you see? I don’t know. I can’t
choose. Bishop Aylmer thinks I should go back to Winchester for Yule and do my
thinking there; then I can go where I will.”

“That makes sense.”

“Do you think so?” Alf let his hand fall from Richard’s
shoulder. His eyes were troubled. “Sire, I have to think. I have to pray. But
whatever I choose, remember. Remember that I’m still your friend. Your brother,
even, if you will.”

For a long moment the King stared at him, as if to commit to
memory every line of his face. Suddenly, swiftly, Richard embraced him, then
let him go, stepping back.

“I’ll remember,” he said. He turned away, striding past
Rhydderch’s body, paying it no heed.

Alf drew a shuddering breath. “There,” he whispered to the
empty hearth, the dead shape, “truly, is a king.”

o0o

“Sing praise to the Lord, you His faithful ones,
and give thanks to His holy name.

For His anger lasts but a moment; a lifetime, His good will.
At nightfall, weeping comes in, but with the dawn,
rejoicing.”

Such a contrast, Alf thought, between Rhydderch and his
victim. Morwin lay in state in the chapel, surrounded with candles and incense
and the chanting of monks.

He seemed strange, lying so still, who had been lively and
restless even in sleep; the robes of a Lord Abbot had displaced his old brown
habit. But his face bore a hint of his wicked smile.

Almost Alf could hear his dry humorous voice. “All this fuss
for a silly old fool. I should sit up and grin, and give them all a proper
fright.”

Alf smiled and touched the cold hand. Something glittered
beneath it upon his breast. Alf’s fingers found the shape of a cross, the cool
smoothness of silver, and a memory of Thea’s presence.

“To you, O Lord, I cried out; with the Lord I pleaded:
‘What gain would there he from my life-blood, from my going
down into the grave?’ ”

The chanting rolled over them both, living and dead. From
where Alf stood, he could see the shadow that was the doorway of the Lady
Chapel, a faint glimmer as of painted stars.

The lamp there was extinguished, the chapel forbidden until
it should be cleansed of the stain of murder. Bishop Aylmer would do that
tomorrow after the funeral Mass.

“You changed my mourning into dancing:
You took off my sackcloth and clothed me with gladness,
That my soul might sing praise to You without ceasing;
O Lord, my God, forever will I give You thanks.”

Alf knelt beside the bier and bowed his head over his folded
hands.

o0o

“Brother? Brother Alfred?”

The chapel had been silent for a long while. Alf
straightened slowly, stiffly. Several monks stood near him, watching him:
Brother Osric, Brother Owein, and old Brother Herbal.

Looking into their faces, he realized that they had always
thought well of him. The younger ones had been his pupils; Brother Herbal had
taken vows a year or two before he had. Familiar, all of them, and yes,
beloved.

Brother Osric cleared his throat. A bright lad, he had been;
aging now, his eyes, never good, peering myopically through the dimness.
“Brother,” he said again. “We’ve met in Chapter, all of us, to elect our new
Abbot. Some of us wanted you to be there. But...well...you were sent out and
you came back a layman, and there’s the matter of—of—”

Osric had always lost all fluency when he was agitated. Alf
finished the sentence for him. “Murder,” he said. “I know, Brother. I
understand. And I appreciate your coming here to tell me.” He looked from face
to face. “Whom shall I congratulate?”

They would not answer. Yet they had chosen someone; that
much Alf could read, even without witchery. Someone important, and someone
controversial, from the gleam in Brother Owein’s eye and the set of Brother
Osric’s jaw.

Brother Herbal frowned. Like Morwin, he had never had much
patience. “Well, Brothers? Isn’t anybody going to tell him?”

Alf stood. His knees ached; his back was twinging. He had
lost the knack of kneeling for long hours on hard stones. “What’s the trouble?
It can’t be anyone I'd object to very strenuously; I’m not such a fool that I’d
demand another Morwin.”

“Good,” said Brother Herbal. “Because Morwin, you’re not.”

“What do I have to do with—” Alf broke off. He knew. God
help him, he knew.

He wanted to burst into wild laughter. Four times now. Would
they never learn? And five choices, it made. Five. He would go mad.

“Now look here,” Brother Owein said sternly, as if he had
been a stubborn novice. “This is becoming a ritual. Elect Brother Alfred; argue
with him; lose the argument; and go through the whole foolish process again to
elect someone less able but more willing. I know Dom Morwin wanted you to be
Abbot after him—and so did Dom Andreas, Dom Willibrord, and probably Dom
Lanfranc, too. Haven't you got the message by now?”

Alf sank down upon the altar steps, so pale that Brother
Herbal hastened to him. He waved the old man away. “I'm not going to faint. I’m
not going to shout at you, or howl, or even weep. I'm not even going to remind
you that I’m still recovering from trial for witchcraft, or that I killed a man
on sacred ground.” He held out his hands to them. “Brothers, you honor me more
than I can say. To gather, all of you, and to elect me your Abbot, even knowing
what I am and what I've done... I think I shall weep, after all.”

Brother Herbal grimaced. “Go ahead. But tell us first. Yes
or no?”

Alf looked at each in turn. “You know that I have a charge
from Morwin to seek absolution in Jerusalem.”

“We know,” Osric answered. “If you go now, you go as Abbot,
and some of us will go with you. By your leave, of course.”

He wanted to laugh again, for pain. “Oh, Brothers! Do you
know what torment this is? I stand upon a peak in the desert with all of heaven
and earth spread about me, and voices whispering in my ear, bidding me look and
choose. A warrior priest in the Bishop’s train, a lord of Anglia, an elven
knight of Rhiyana—and now, Abbot of St. Ruan’s. Dear God! What shall I do?”

Brother Owein stood over him, hands on hips. “All of a
sudden your worth is catching up with you. I don't doubt you’d make a good
knight or lord or priest; you’d certainly make a better Abbot than most.” He
glanced at his companions. “We had orders to make you accept, by force if
necessary. But we didn’t know how many others had been at you. The abbey can
manage as it is for a day or two. Take the time. Meditate. Pray. Say the Mass
and ask for guidance. Then tell us. Yes, or—God forbid—no.”

They left him then, with many glances over their shoulders.
The last, as they passed the door, found him on his face before the altar.

His shoulders shook. Weeping, they wondered, or laughter?

Reverently, lovingly, Alf lifted the vestments from the
press where he had laid them away, so long ago. They bore a sweet red-brown
scent, for the press was of cedar of Lebanon. Amice and alb, white linen of his
own weaving; the cincture from his first habit, soft with age; maniple and
stole: and the chasuble of black Chin silk, embroidered with silver thread,
heavy with pearls.

He laid out each garment as an acolyte would have done, but
the novices who would serve him, and the Bishop and the priests of St. Ruan’s
who would concelebrate the Mass, had busied themselves elsewhere in the
sacristy, leaving him alone with his priesthood and his God.

He found that his hands were shaking, nor could he stop
them; his heart pounded. To say the Mass, and this Mass of all others, with
such burdens as weighted his mind and his heart, and perhaps also his soul, if
soul he had...

He leaned against the wall, breathing deep again and again.
Dear
God
, he thought.
Morwin, make me strong. It’s been so long, so long; and
I am not worthy. I am—not—

Jehan’s concern pierced through his barriers. He forced
himself to straighten, to take up the amice. His hands, his mind, remembered.
He touched the garment to his head and laid it about his shoulders, murmuring a
prayer.

He reached for the alb. Jehan held it out to him. For a
moment their hands touched. Alf smiled. “My bulwark,” he said. “Thank you,
Jehan.”