Sanctuary
After escaping the Red Paladin camp,
Squirrel and the Weeping Monk rode through the night and most of the
morning. The horse was weary now, it
would be hurt if they pushed it much further, but the Monk feared they could
not afford to stop. There was no
certainty how far behind the Red Brothers were, if they were caught it would
all be for naught. Still, they had to
give the beast a few moments rest at least, if he went lame they would be found
just the same.
The Weeping Monk reined in the horse
and dismounted, catching hold of the saddle horn as his legs threatened to
buckle beneath him. His heartbeat
throbbed incessantly in his skull and the edges of his vision began to close
in. Distantly, he heard Squirrel’s voice
as he stumbled a few paces forward, trying to ignore the pain that shot through
him with every movement. He leaned over
his knees, gagging, but he had not eaten since before his encounter with the
Green Knight and could bring up nothing.
He forced out a few quick breaths through his nose, swallowing hard,
trying to regain some amount of control of himself.
He let himself down to his hands and
knees, gritting his teeth, biting back a scream of frustration. God, if
you still hear me, I need your help, he begged silently. I’ve
done the boy no good to free him from the camp only to be caught less than a
day’s ride away. You’ve charged us to
care for widows and orphans surely you meant the little fey children too. I can protect him, if you’ll only given me
the strength. He sat back on his
heels as some of the dizziness and pain subsided. Better yet, he felt the peace he’d sought so
desperately the day before settling in behind his breast bone. God had not yet abandoned him after all.
The Monk glanced over his shoulder to
see Squirrel standing a cautious distance away, eyes wide with fright.
“It’s all right,” he assured the
boy, licking sweat from his upper lip.
“I’m all right now. We’ll move on again soon.”
.
. . .
“Riders up ahead,” Squirrel said,
pointing toward a group of half dozen horsemen coming onto view around a bend
in the road.
The Monk’s hand went to his sword
hilt, and he angled their horse’s head away so as to partially shield Squirrel
from view.
“State your name and business
stranger,” the lead horseman barked as they approached. He was elderly, the Monk noted. In fact all the mounted men seemed too old or
too young to be out on a patrol.
“We’re merely passing through,” the
Monk answered.
“Men in robes don’t just pass
through of late,” the man said. “You’ll
come with us, to await his lordship’s pleasure.”
“As his lordship is away,” came a
higher pitched voice, “and his return is uncertain, I believe I will see them
now, Sagramore.”
The older man sighed, his grip
tightening on his reins, but he moved aside, allowing a young woman to spur her
mount to the front of the group.
“You’re the Weeping Monk,” she said,
after looking him up and down. “There
have been whispers you were among the slain when Merlin and the Wolf’s Blood
Witch wiped out the Red Paladins.”
Wiped
them out? “All of them?” he asked,
his tone guarded.
“Most, so they say.” Her brow
furrowed. “You did not know?” The young
woman studied him more closely. “You are
injured, my lord,” she said. “My hold is
not far from here. Will you return with
us and take some rest?”
.
. . .
The Weeping Monk settled back in the
chair before the hearth, watching Squirrel voraciously attack the meal that had
been brought to them. He hardly paused
for breath until he’d finished more than half of it, when he glanced up at the
Monk. “Are you going to eat?” he asked a
little sheepishly.
“No.” He shook his head. He was so tired that even eating seemed like
an insurmountable effort, and he was still somewhat nauseous from pain and weariness
besides. “Perhaps later. Have what you will.”
He was just beginning to doze off
when the young woman entered the room. “Please,
don’t get up,” she said as he started to rise.
She smiled over at Squirrel. “I
trust the fare is to your satisfaction?”
“Oh yes,” Squirrel muttered from
around the chicken bone he was gnawing.
“We are very grateful for your
hospitality,” the Monk said, “Lady…?”
“Guinevere,” she answered, sitting
in the chair across from him. “My healer
tells me you are badly hurt. I wanted to
assure you, you are both welcome to stay as long as you need to recover.”
“Again, thank you.”
“I had hoped to ask you what news
you had from Gramaire, but if you did not know about the Red Paladins, I assume
you were not there.”
“I was not, we left shortly
before. It was a rout then?”
“So we hear,” she said, “but it’s
barely been two days, reports are so confused it’s hard to say. I’m not even certain who emerged the victors. Or the fate of my father and our other men
who marched with Uther.”
“Your father supports Pendragon?”
“When the king calls, his vassals
answer,” she said, carefully not committing.
He paused, then asked, “Have your
confused reports brought news of Father Carden?”
Something in her eyes softened, and
he knew before she answered. “This
morning I have heard from more than one refugee they’ve seen his head on a pike
outside Gramaire,” she said. “I’m
sorry.”
He nodded, feeling the blow of her
words numbly. Father Carden’s death
should strike him harder he thought, but at the moment it hardly felt real.
Guinevere stood. “I’m sure you’re both tired, I’ll leave you
be. If you have need of anything, do not
hesitate to ask.”
.
. . .
Guinevere entered the holdfast’s
small chapel, finding the Weeping Monk kneeling before the altar. She hesitated as he glanced over his
shoulder, hearing her approach. “I’m
sorry,” she said, “I didn’t realize anyone was here, I did not mean to disturb
you.”
“It’s no disturbance,” he said,
“besides the chapel is yours.”
He started to rise but she motioned
him to stop. “A chapel is meant for more
than one.” She knelt at the altar a
respectful distance from him, folding her hands in front of her and they
remained in comfortable silence for some time.
“What do you pray for, my lady?” he
asked, seeing her stir from her meditative posture.
She sighed, sitting back on her
heels. “For my father, for protection. Mostly, for discernment to know what is best
for my people, and the strength to do it.”
“Noble request,” he said. “God will
certainly hear them.”
“It is a comfort to hear you say that,”
she said. “And you? What do you pray
for?”
“I thank God for the kindness you
have shown us,” he answered. “I pray for
guidance. For those that I’ve killed.
And for Father Carden.”
“You miss him,” she said softly.
He nodded, almost imperceptibly.
“It must be difficult,” she said, “when
there are many who rejoice at your loss.”
It was, in a way. Squirrel was
thrilled by the new of Carden’s death, and how could the Monk blame him? Carden was largely the reason Squirrel’s
whole family was dead and why he’d been hunted like an animal for weeks.
“Father Carden was not entirely an
evil man,” the Monk said, hesitantly. “He
was misguided, overzealous, and while he’s done things I cannot any longer
condone…” He paused. “He saved my life
when I was a boy, brought me up in the church, made me what I am. He was not
unkind to me.”
Briefly, she laid a comforting
hand on his arm, then crossed herself. “I
have some business that must be tended to,” she said, standing. “Good day.”
.
. . .
“Keep your weapon up,” the Monk
instructed, tapping Squirrel’s blade with his own. “You can never drop your guard, especially
when your opponent has height on you.
Which for you should be everyone.”
“Oi now,” the boy said, affronted,
but he kept his blade up to parry the next blow.
“Good, better,” the Monk said,
rolling the stiffness out of his still mending shoulder.
“Well done, Master Squirrel,” Lady
Guinevere called as she approached them.
“You will rival most of my knights before long.” She turned to the Monk.
“May I speak with you?”
He nodded, sheathing his blade.
“Walk with me,” she said, and they
started off down the yard. “Your wounds
are healing well?”
“Well enough,” he answered. This was not what she had come to ask him,
but he would let her reach her point in her own time.
“Then I expect you’ll be on your way
soon,” she said. “Will you return to
what remains of the Red Brotherhood?”
“Are there remains of the Red
Brotherhood?” he countered.
“There must be some, the church does
not die.”
“No,” he agreed. But hopefully certain members of it had, God
forgive him. “I’ve not yet decided where
we’ll go.”
“There is no rush, I was merely
curious,” she assured him. “A few of the
men who marched with my father have finally returned to us.”
There, this is what she’d wanted to
discuss. “The news was not good I take it.”
“My father was slain,” she said,
“along with most of our fighting men.”
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“It’s as if I already knew,” she
said softly. “When I did not hear from
him within the first days I knew something horrible must have happened.” They
continued in silence for a moment as she gathered her thoughts. “With myself
the only heir, and most of our menfolk gone, every northern raider and errant
lord will see us as ripe for taking. And
we’ve hardly even a king to appeal to now.” She stopped, turning to face
him. “So, if you’ve no pressing business
elsewhere, I wanted to ask… would you consider remaining here, just until
things settle? A warrior of your skill would be a great help to me in defending
my lands and my people. Your name alone
would deter many from attacking us.”
It had taken a lot for her to ask
this of him, he could see that in the set of her jaw, but the earnestness in
her eyes spoke to the need that had overcome her pride.
Before he could answer, she
continued, “I would pay you of course.”
“I’m not a sell sword,” he said, an
edge creeping into his voice.
“Of course not,” she hurriedly
stammered. “Forgive my offence, I did
not mean to suggest-“
He held up a hand to stop her. “No offence taken, my Lady.” In truth, the
suggestion rankled him, but even as he had denied it, he realized if the
Brotherhood was truly lost to him, as he feared it was, a sell sword was all he
would be good for. “As to payment, from
where I stand I seem to be in your debt.”
“I don’t want you to consider that,”
she said. “I’ve only done what any
decent person would. You owe me
nothing.”
“Regardless,” he said. “I would be
pleased to serve you, for as long as you have need.”
.
. . .
Sagramore entered his family
chambers, tossing his sword belt over a chair arm.
“Are you meeting with Lady Guinevere
today?” his wife asked, straightening the sword belt to hang evenly.
“Yes,” he said, falling into the
chair. “Once she returns. She wanted to
assess the potential for defenses in the outer towns and rode out early this
morning. In company of the Weeping
Monk.”
“Ah.
That’s the part that troubles you?”
“She spends over much time with that
monk I find,” he grumbled. “This is her
home, she can shelter whom she wills, but why should he be brought into her
confidences? He’s an outsider, and one
of the paladins.”
“You’re only upset because you
wanted to be the only voice in her ear,” his wife chided.
“Her father entrusted her to me,” he
said, shifting his weight, her words ringing uncomfortably true. “I want to help her.”
“I know, and she knows that,” she
said. “Guinevere’s a clever girl, she
knows good council from bad.”
“Let us hope that she does.”
.
. . .
Guinevere adjusted her grip on the
hilt of her sword, feinting to the left of the fence post she had chosen as her
stand in opponent, before swinging her blade around to the right connecting
with a satisfying thunk.
“You’ve been taught by a blank swords master.”
Guinevere started, not having heard
the Monk’s approach. “It shows?” she
asked, hastily collecting herself.
He nodded. “They have very distinct style; strike hard,
strike fast.”
“My father thought it would balance
my natural disadvantages.”
“To some extent,” he agreed, “but
I’ve never cared for their methods. The
flaw is if you’ve not bested your opponent in the first three blows you’ve
lost.”
He laid a hand on his sword hilt, giving her a questioning
look. She nodded, and he drew his blade,
delivering a low thrust. She parried the
blow, stumbling back, off balance.
A hint of a smile quirked at the
corner of his mouth. “And they’re wont
to neglect their foot work.”
She righted herself, dropping into a
fighting stance and they circled each other briefly.
“Well your masters seem to have had
no appreciation for a full field of vision,” she said. “I imagine fighting with a hood up must be
similar to fighting with one’s hair down.
Does it not get in your way?”
“No, I don’t find that it does.”
She feinted for his knee, then
pivoted to bring her attack in from the side to test this statement. Indeed, his blade was there, and very nearly
disarming her.
They exchanged a few more blows, and
while Guinevere found she struggled to keep up, he hardly seemed to expend any
effort. She hoped she never had to face
him in earnest, she wouldn’t have a prayer. Their blades crossed, and with a
practiced flick of the wrist he brought his sword to the top, forcing the point
of her own to the ground. He reached
forward, taking hold of her wrist and gave it a gentle twist. In fairness, she released her sword,
disarmed.
They paused, silent but for their
rapid breathing, both suddenly becoming aware of how close they stood.
“Forgive me,” he said releasing her
wrist.
“No, it’s…it’s alright,” she said,
taking hold of his arm in turn as he started to move away. “Quite alright.”
His breath caught as they studied
one another and he found he was drawing her closer. Then her arms were around him, and their lips
met.
.
. . .
Dawn light was just beginning to
peer over the horizon as the Weeping Monk entered the room he shared with
Squirrel, finding the boy sharpening an arrow head on a stone.
“When a man makes love to a woman, is
it like horses?” Squirrel asked without preamble. “I thought it must be, but I saw a pair in
the woods up on a tree the other day and it didn’t look like horses.”
“Given I am a monk,” he answered,
“I’m not really the man to ask that.”
“But weren’t you with Lady Guinevere
last night?”
He paused, startled. He thought they’d been careful not to be
seen. “Why would you think that?”
“Well, you didn’t come back here to
sleep and she likes you.”
He relaxed a little, if that was
all. “Maybe I did come back and left again while you were asleep.”
“No.” Squirrel shook his head. “I would have heard you. Besides, you haven’t redone your eyes
yet. They’re all smudged.” He motioned
to his own cheeks.
Damn the boy, he was
perceptive.
“Was that the first time you’ve been
with a woman?” Squirrel rambled on. “As
you said, you are a monk, and an ugly one.
I can’t imagine you’ve convinced too many girls to be that close to
you. Unless you really do do it like
horses, and then they wouldn’t have to look at you.”
The Monk gave Squirrel and smack on
the back of the head. “Enough,” he said, then sighed. “No you don’t always have to do it like
horses. Now don’t ask me anymore. It’s a sin.”
“A nice one though.”
He gave Squirrel a sharp look, half
raising his hand again.
“All right, all right,” Squirrel
relented. “Can we go find something to
eat?”
.
. . .
Guinevere turned from the braid she was
twisting into her hair at the sound of a knock on her door. “Enter,” she called. She smiled when the
Weeping Monk slipped into the room.
“You’re astir early.”
“I needed to speak with you,” he
said.
“You hardly need to schedule an
audience,” she said, noting how he hesitated at the door. It wasn’t as if he had never been in her
chamber before. She motioned to the
window seat next to her, but he sat on the far end of the bench. “Is something wrong?”
“I came to tell you that I’ll be
leaving today.”
“So suddenly?”
He nodded, offering no explanation.
“Would it be related to the reports
of a group of Red Paladins approaching?” She straightened, drawing herself
up. “The Weeping Monk has ridden with
the Red Brotherhood for as long as I can recall, yet you have made no attempt
to rejoin them, and now that we hear they are little more than a day’s ride
away you say you must leave.”
Still he did not answer.
“What happened at Gramaire?” she
asked. “That’s what all this stems from,
is it not?”
He nodded slowly. “I killed a company of Trinity Guard.”
“Why?”
“Why hardly matters now,” he
said. “I should have killed Whitlow as well
but he slipped away and he will have told the church elders by now.”
“You must have had reason,” she
said, her brow furrowed. “The church’s
justice is seldom delayed, would they not have come for you before now if that
was their intent?” As far as she was
aware, the paladins were merely passing through on their way to the coast, the
Monk’s presence might have nothing to do with their own.
He still would not looking at her,
busy with his own thoughts. Thoughts
that did not seem to please him.
“Something else is troubling you.” She reached out and
touched his arm and he pulled away. “You
can tell me,” she prompted gently.
“I should have told you already,” he said. “I should have told you of my own accord
before there was threat someone else would.
What I have done is unforgivable.
I have deceived you, and defiled you horribly.”
“You frighten me,” she said, suddenly in dread of she didn’t
know what.
“I’m sorry, Guinevere.
I…I should have told you before, but I’ve kept the secret so long I
almost forget myself sometimes. I’ve
never told anyone, but it was unfair of me to keep it from you.” He paused,
seeming to steal himself. “I-“ His voice
broke and he took a breath. “I’m of fey
kind.”
“No,” she gasped, moving back from him in spite of
herself. “No that cannot be, every inch
of you is human.”
“Some of us show no outward sign.”
“But to have risen so far in the Brotherhood, the Paladins
would never have allowed it.”
“Father Carden was the only one who knew.”
“And now he’s dead.”
“Abbot Whitlow suspects.”
The defeat in his voice sounded so final, so unlike him. “I truly am
sorry Guinevere. I had no right to come
to you as I have done. To deceive you
into…consorting with my tainted blood. It was-I never should have-”
“Stop,” she said, then more firmly. “Stop it.” She laid a hand on the side of his
face, tilting his chin to finally make him look at her. Her heart constricted, seeing the pain behind
the unshed tears glinting in his eyes. “Lancelot,
I don’t care,” she assured him.
“You don’t care that I tricked you into taking some demon
spawn into your home? Into your bed?”
“You are far from a demon,” she insisted. “How can you even say such things? Do you
think so little of me, to fear that it would matter? You are who you are, no matter what you are.” She leaned forward and kissed him gently.
“This changes nothing between us.” Feeling
him tremble slightly as he took in a shuddering breath, she rested her forehead
against his until his breathing steadied and some of the tension in him
eased. “But you are right,” she said,
pulling away. “You must go. The paladins may only be passing about their
own business but we cannot take the chance.”
.
. . .
“I’m coming with you,” Squirrel insisted, following the
Weeping Monk into the stables.
“No,” the Monk said again, “you’ll be safer here with Lady
Guinevere and she with you.”
Guinevere laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder, “He is right,
you cannot leave me completely defenseless.”
Squirrel relented, if reluctantly. “You’re coming back though?”
“Yes.” The Monk nodded.
“You promise?”
The Monk paused in adjusting the strap of his saddle, seeing
the doubt in Squirrel’s face. “You have my word,” he assured him.
“Be careful,” Guinevere said.
She wanted so badly to go to him, to put her arms around him and kiss
him once more, to prove to him that she meant it when she said his confession
changed nothing, but they were in the yard and others might see. Still, an understanding seemed to pass
between them as she held his gaze a moment.
He nodded to her, ever so slightly, then mounted and was gone.
. . . .
Guinevere sighed and settled back in her bed, her heartbeat still
thrumming through her pleasantly. She
pushed the Monk’s hair back from his face, slowly letting the honey colored strands
fall through her fingers. “I’ve missed you.” In truth once he’d returned
earlier in the evening she could hardly wait for the holdfast to retire so that
he could come to her.
“Missed this?” he asked, his lips finding the pulse point of
her throat.
“Well, yes,” she said, “but I’ve missed you.”
He smiled almost shyly, glancing away from her in a way she
always found endearing.
“I was worried about you, if the paladins really had been
searching for you-”
“It would take more than a handful of paladins on the road to
be a threat to me.”
“I know,” she said, though her hand strayed almost
unconsciously to the scarring behind his ear, left by a Trinity Guard mace when
he’d fled with Squirrel.
“I did meet some paladins on the road,” he said. “They were harassing a fey woman and her
children. I had to kill the brothers, it
was the only way to stop them.” He
turned onto his back, staring up at the ceiling, the prospect of further love
making dampened by the shift in conversation.
“In the end it may not have even done them any good.”
“It did that day,” she said.
“That’s something.”
He sighed. “I don’t know
what to do. Father Carden always told me
I was God’s weapon, meant to dispel the darkness brought by the fey. The Green Knight shamed me for hunting my
own, and said I should instead use what skill I have to fight for the fey. I
turn my blade against my brethren no matter which side I choose.”
Guinevere propped herself up on her elbow so she could face
him. “Why choose?” she asked. “Be both.”
He looked at her questioningly.
“The Red Brotherhood is corrupt, you’ve left them
behind. They’ve been blinded by overzealous
teachings, their crusade against the fey is not God’s. You could change that now. Be the Sword of
God, and Defender of the Fey.”
He nodded slowly. He’d
spent much time over the last weeks in prayer and meditation, searching for his
place again. Perhaps the reason a clear
answer seemed to evade him was because he had limited the choices he considered.
“You think you only delayed the inevitable for that woman and
her children,” she continued. “Next time
bring them here. I have been doing a lot
of thinking since my father died. I have
come into possession of his holdings for a reason, and there’s a reason that
you came here when you did. There is much good you and I could do. For as long as I’m able to hold these lands,
we could make them a safe place for fey kind.”
“We could,” he agreed, considering. “Avalon, Sanctuary of the
Fey.”
