Chapter 19      Enlightenment

 

 

 

Norbury town lay south of Lord William's fortified manor.  The tree-lined road connecting the two curved around the side of a broad, low hill, in milder seasons planted in long rows of wheat and millet, hay grasses, roots, squash, beans, and other vegetables.  From the manor, only smoke from hearth fires indicated the town's presence, however.  The fires burnt now, the baker's oven, the blacksmith's forge, the potter kiln.  Dark gray plumes rose above the trees to be scattered by persistent wind.

Alexander had never seen the road, the fields, or Norbury from horseback, and the experience elated him.  He glided above the world, like the low scudding clouds.  Mud filled the streets.  More than this, mud ruled the streets, rising in grotesque shapes from the tread of men and animals, split into dark fissures by the wheels of carts.  Mud lay upon everything and attached itself to everyone and everything he saw.  But not him; not Cadmon.  They were ahorse!

Cadmon rode easily, but in silence, as usual looking as if he were engaged in the weightiest of thoughts.  Alexander watched his knight's back.  He moved easily with the horse, yet remained firm at the shoulders.  He tried to do the same but felt his muscles tense and shift with every step of the horse.  He needed practice.  Ten years worth.  Already, he was ten years behind in his training.  He had been on the horses in the stable, of course, had ridden them to pasture and back, but never real riding, with a saddle.  That privilege had been left to the squires.  Such as me.  He smiled to himself.

"Your smith's name is Edward," said Cadmon.

Alexander awoke from his thoughts.  "Yes," he replied.

"A big, burly man with rough edges?"

"That fairly describes him.  He settled here when I was little.  He did not grow up here, though.  I am not sure if anyone knows where he came from."

"He is from Cumbria, near Egremont."

Alexander frowned.  The old men said that the young Cadmon had left on crusade long before Edward the smith arrived.  How could he know so much about him?  Cadmon was a strange man.  The old men said he was the best fighter they had ever seen when he left Norbury, and Stewart reported that Thomas pronounced Cadmon's skill above anyone at the manor, including himself.  Stewart even said Thomas wanted Cadmon to teach him.  What a knight was this!

Cadmon rode unlike a nobleman.  A nobleman held himself proudly, as if he were displaying himself for an audience, always conscious that others watched.  Cadmon, on the other hand, rode as if he were alone in a lonely place.  He lacked the sense of display, and that very lack placed him higher than the nobles who sought to ride like kings.  Cadmon stood out by not standing out.  He commanded respect by demanding none.  Alexander studied upon his feelings.  Probably all squires felt that way about their knights, but even so, Cadmon was different.  No one at the manor said his name in the same breath with another.

The town stockade rose colorlessly from the mud.  The gates were propped open with heavy sticks, though the natural resistance of the huge rusting hinges would have held the doors alone.  A guard slouched on a bench by the yard, scraping lumps of mud from his boots with the end of his halberd.  The guard glanced up when he heard the horses, and climbed upright with the help of the halberd staff.  He looked reasonably alert for inspection by a visiting knight.  After all, reports of sloppiness could easily find their way back to the manor, especially if the knight had need of proving something.  Cadmon merely watched the guard as he passed beneath the lintel, then shifted his gaze down the main street.  Alexander thought he would have favored a scratching dog with the same degree of attention.

The smithy stood at the far end of the town, on the east side of the common, where the noisier and smellier industries located.  It was easy to spot.  A stream of black coal smoke drifted out of the chimney, where it caught the breeze.  They walked their horses down the street, and at the split, took the avenue that led to the smithy.

The cooper had his sawyers going, making staves, and a boy soaking strips of inner bark for hooping.  The tradesmen and merchants looked up as they rode past, hoping some money was coming their way.  Each tried to catch their eye, returning to work only after confirming the knight intended no stop at their establishment.

Cadmon turned in his saddle.  "We will visit Master Edward.  Tether the horses and accompany me."

"Thank you."  It was a privilege to accompany a knight on business.  His knight seemed intent on letting everyone know the identity of his new squire.  And he had no arguments with that.

They tied their horses at the post and walked a row of planks to the smithy door, open about two feet for ventilation.  Voices came from inside.

Cadmon indicated for Alexander to follow, then turned sideways and slid through the door opening.

The air smelt burnt.  Two men, Edward and a young man, Dell, the sheriff's son, were shearing, knapping and spooling a strand of thin iron wire, painstakingly hammering it into rough roundness.  It fed from a long spiral of metal cut from a flat plate.  All the materials rested close at hand on a thick-planked bench.  The room was gloomy, except for a spot of light where an open window threw a glow on their work area.  Scrape marks in the clay floor showed how they had shifted their bench to follow the light.  The smith looked up and squinted.  With his black beard and wild spray of hair around the sides of his head, the smith looked like a painting of the Devil.  He was glad Cadmon stood in front.

"What do you want?" growled Edward.  Alexander knew they were little more than silhouettes to the smith, as the light was at their back.

Cadmon said nothing.  He stood easy.

The smith tilted his head back and examined the silhouettes.  They wore nothing but cloaks, making their rank and station impossible to discern.  The smith waited, his arrogance plain.  He treated everyone alike.  Were it not for the excellence of his workmanship, he no doubt would have been shown the gate long ago.

A coal shifted in the forge and a cloud of orange sparks shimmered briefly against the shadows.  For seconds, they stared at one another.

When Cadmon spoke, it was only one word, said quietly and evenly.  He said "Edward," and the moment the sound touched the smith's ears, there was a change in his expression.  No, not a change, but a freezing of expression.  The smith fought the cobwebs of memory to place the voice.

At last, the smith stood from his bench, and not taking his eyes from Cadmon's darkened form, made one step forward.

"Cadmon?" said the smith incredulously.

"Full marks for memory, Edward Mathgen.  How is the fiercest of Cumbria's sons?"

"By God's Holy breath!  It is you!"

"I am welcome?"

"Lord, boy," Edward shouted at his apprentice, "Fetch a bench!"  And without losing momentum, continued toward the knight, "Cadmon of Yeavering, you are most welcome!  I bid you enter and make my home yours."

Cadmon strode into the forge and into the light.  His face was the most animated it had been since he had arrived in Norbury.  He and the smith embraced.  "It has been a long time," said Cadmon.

"Long time?  It has been half a lifetime!"  Edward stood back, his hands still on Cadmon's shoulders.  Cadmon was slightly taller and considerably thinner.  Edward squeezed Cadmon's arms affectionately.  "You still feel like you are made of yew wattle."

Edward referred to Cadmon's muscles.  Alexander had noticed them also.  They did feel like they were made of wood.

"Well, you still feel like you are half ox!" said Cadmon.

"I am!" roared the smith.

Alexander and Dell exchanged wondering glances, each seeing new aspects of the people they had come to expect only certain things of.

Edward crossed his arms over his broad chest.  "The fiercest?" inquired the smith, repeating Cadmon's words.

"Did I err?"

"Never!" growled Edward.  "Who is this with you?"

"My squire, Alexander."

"Squire, eh?" said Edward, addressing Alexander.  "Lad, you are one lucky pup."

"Yes, sir."

"Do you know who this is?"

Alexander glanced from Edward's smoldering gaze to Cadmon, who seemed to be studying the trunnels of the roof beams.

"He is my knight, sir," replied Alexander.

"He is the best damn fighter Byzantium ever saw and a better man than half the saints you ever got told of.  Keep that in mind when you pull his boots off."

"Yes, sir."

Cadmon laid a hand on Edward's shoulder.  "Thank you.  At least now I know you do not hate me for leaving."

Edward looked Cadmon square in the face.  "You left us alive, Cadmon, and if not for you, the bones of thirty eight men would have turned to Arab sand by now.  That is something I do not forget, nor do I weigh it any less this moment than I did twenty years ago.  Cadmon, I am your man.  I have said no more to any devil or god!"

Cadmon was visibly moved.  He squeezed Edward's shoulder and turned into the darkness of the forge.  Dell looked absolutely perplexed.  He had never before seen Edward speak civilly to anyone, much less address a fellow man with such admiration and respect.  Dell's gaze followed Cadmon's figure with intense curiosity.  Edward accompanied Cadmon to the hearth.  Alexander and Dell, falling naturally together, followed.

"How has fate treated you since we last met?" asked Cadmon.

"Well enough, I suppose.  No riches, but I still have my sight and all my limbs."

Cadmon turned and looked compassionately at the smith.  "I understand you are something of a legend hereabouts with your hammer and tongs.  A master swordmaker."

"That be true," said the smith flatly.  "There is no better this side of Acre."

"So, you have learned humility these years past."

"Humility be for priests and fools."

"Good," said Cadmon.  "I had hoped not to find a toothless, bleary eyed shadow.  Of this I am well pleased.  Have you kept your technique?"

"You mean in swinging these beasts?" said Edward, lifting a blade.

Cadmon nodded.

"Never in tournament, but I heft each blade and practice against reed men behind this forge.  If I forget the feel of good sword in hand, how ever could I make a sword to fit my reputation?  Aye, Cadmon, I am in practice yard shape, but I am not battle ready."

"Honestly put, Edward.  Nevertheless, you are my man."

Edward paused at this declaration.  There was something unspoken in the words.

Cadmon crossed to the forge fire and stared distractedly into the embers for a moment.  Then, with sudden motion, he grasped hold of the bellows and gave it a single downward thrust, sending a jet of air up through the tuere.  A geyser of sparks and subtle, blue tinged flame flared and subsided.

"Edward, you are these coals.  One blast of air across them brings back the flame."

Edward watched the hearth thoughtfully.

"You always were one with the words, Cadmon, and these words have meaning beyond my certainty.  After twenty years, a man like you does not come visiting without cause."

Cadmon looked measuringly into Edward's eyes.  "It is so," he said.  "Is there some quiet place we can talk?"

Edward glanced at Dell and Alexander, then back to Dell.  There was something of suspicion in the second glance.

"Through here," said Edward, pushing open the door into the private chambers.  "The kitchen is to the right.  We can talk there."

Cadmon looked at Alexander.  "You had better come along, too."

"Yes, sir."

Dell pinched his brows very slightly at Alexander's look, aware that he was being singled out as the one whose trust could not be counted on.  "I will knap the wire out," he said quietly.

Edward raised his chin in brusk, disdaining approval, stepping aside to let the other two pass beneath the lintel, then he too stepped inside and closed the door.  Dell remained standing long after the door closed.  When he finally turned to the workbench, his face betrayed no emotion, his high, soot-dirtied, aesthetic brow smooth and self contained.  He picked up a hammer and a length of unfinished wire wrapped around a wooden form.  Were it but wrapped tightly about the smith's neck!

Inside, the men wound their way through a dark passage into a large, high ceilinged kitchen.  Waxed linen hung across four tall windows, each divided into three lights.  The walls were wattle and daub, heavily plastered and whitewashed.  Wooden corbels supported heavy beams, which were the joists of the floor above.  A wide, nearly square table with a bench on each side sat square on the flagstone floor.  Hams, strings of roots and herbs, gourds, and sausages hung from pegs around the walls, even over the crackling hearth.  And presiding over the bright, open room was a woman with one hand on her hip, the other hand holding the handle of a broom.

"Cadmon," said Edward, "I want you to meet my wife of fifteen years.  This is Mary."

Mary nodded, but continued to regard the knight, as would a bird, curious but prepared for flight.

"Mary," said Cadmon with a smile.

"Husband has spoken well of your name many times," replied Mary, eager to show her familiarity with the honored guest.  She spoke too fast.  Alexander felt sorry for her awkwardness, and knew he felt the sympathy more keenly for his own recent experiences.  She continued, "You are welcome."

Cadmon acknowledged the avant with a slight tilt of his head.

Edward gathered Alexander up and propelled him forward.  "This is Cadmon's new squire."

Mary nodded.  "Alexander," she said, recognizing the young man.  "I knew your mother."

Alexander nodded soberly.  He, too, remembered her, and the association was of distant, irretrievable happiness.  A mother and a father he would never be able to talk to again.  Gone an unacceptable forever.  He smiled his appreciation.

"A squire!  How nice for you."  She smiled again, genuinely pleased.

"Thank you, ma'am," said Alexander.

"Could you find us some hot cider, Mary?" asked Edward, pushing a bench out from the table with his boot.  "And some of that fine molasses bread, if there is any left."  To his guests, he said, "Sit!  Sit!", as his sensibilities demanded.

Mary dutifully pulled down three pewter tankards from pegs on the wall, tilted them upside down and gave them a tap in case anything had fallen in since she had hung them last.  She poured the tankards three-fourths full of cider from an earthen jug, and lastly, plunged a hot poker from the fireplace into each one, warming the contents to a pleasant temperature.  Placing these before her guests, she pulled a cloth off of a brown loaf, half gone, set it on a cutting board and put the whole affair, pierced by a stout knife, in the middle of the table.

Edward grunted appreciatively.

"Well," she said, "I will leave you gentlemen to your business."  She sounded reluctant to go.

The smith tucked his head.  "Thank you, Mary," he said.  He occupied himself with cutting a fistful of bread, letting the action serve to dismiss her.  "She makes wonderful molasses bread," he said to his guests, stuffing a large chunk into his mouth.

"Thank you, Mary," said Cadmon.  "The bread smells very good.  You have been most gracious."

Mary warmed under the words of the knight.  The sentiments were rarely heard, but rapaciously appreciated.

Cadmon bid farewell to her with a gesture.  She bowed, as she would before the alter in church, then disappeared into another part of the house.  A door closed and they heard a latch fall into place.  There were sounds of a stair being climbed, then household sounds in a distant upper chamber.  Dell, in the forge, could be heard planishing the wire with a little hammer.  They were alone and unheard.

Alexander noticed, with pleasure, how Cadmon comported himself like a learned cleric, rather than like a dog at a pan.  Cadmon sliced a moderate sized piece of bread, took a moderate sized bite, and complimented its taste.

They ate and drank.  Little was said beyond a few pleasantries about the house and the bread.  At the end of his patience, Edward broached the subject head on.  "As good as this bread is, Cadmon, I cannot imagine your coming all this way just to taste it."

Cadmon smiled his slight, all hiding, monk-like smile.

Edward continued, "Further, I can not believe you would be here just to look up old comrades and talk about battles past."

"You were never any man's fool, Edward, and I do not take you for one now.  You are most apt.  I am not here out of pure friendship, though I have come to you because of it."

"Your words are more difficult now than they were when I knew you last, and to be honest, I did not half understand what you said then."

Alexander could appreciate that.

"Old friend, I am here because I need you," Cadmon replied.  He turned to Alexander.  "Pay close attention, squire.  You are now of this."

Alexander started to ask a question, but nodded instead.  Perhaps the mystery of Cadmon's presence was about to be revealed.  Everyone at the manor had speculated many things, but to this point, Cadmon had remained as silent as his old horse.

Cadmon put his arms on the table, letting the tankard tilt idly back and forth between his lean fingers.  "The problem is simple.  The solution is not.  King John is to be assassinated," he said quietly.

The smith merely stared at Cadmon, the corners of his mouth turned down, his eyes seemingly bored by the announcement.  When Cadmon offered no more, Edward repeated, "Assassinated.  Truly, you make visit upon no small matters, Cadmon."

"King Richard met his end by the same hand, I have little doubt."

"Lion Heart?" said Edward, squinting.  "Surely you are mistaken, my old friend.  I know something of his end, and it was from sheer negligence.  He besieged a broken-down castle called Chalus-Chabroland.  It was nearly deserted, so like a fool at the hunt, he went riding about the field without his armor.  He wore only his helmet.  An old man on the parapet with a rusty crossbow and a frying pan shield, loosed bolts and curses at the knights.  It was great fun.  When Richard appeared, the old man sent a bolt flying at him.  For sport, Richard stood in his saddle and applauded the old fool, but proved himself a greater fool when he dodged late and took the bolt in his shoulder.  His wound went bad and he died eleven days later.  His mother, Eleanor was there.  And that is the truth of it."

"You are right in all particulars, Edward, and I commend your judgment in listening to the most accurate accounts, but more went on than is generally spoken of.  In those first days after the wound, before Eleanor arrived, there was much pretense of good health.  In that time, there was opportunity and opportunity taken, I do not doubt.

"Go on."

"In the courts of France, there is great opposition to the Plantagenet family.  Plans to bring an end to its dynasty of kings are passed on from one generation to another like a dusty heirloom."

"So?"  The smith wrapped his hands around his tankard and looked expectant.

Cadmon smiled at the smith, genuinely amused at his reaction, though perhaps a bit frustrated.  Alexander could not tell.

"You remember Philip, do you not?  Is he not capable of something like that?"

"Philip.  Of that fellow, I could believe most tales, poison as well, but the risk if he were discovered, Cadmon."  The smith spread his great hands as if holding a weight.  "The barons would be pushed into the light.  They would lock shields against him.  Philip would not risk that."

Cadmon regarded the smith acutely.  "The years have sharpened your political wits.  Again, you are partially right.  Philip would never do something of this magnitude if ever he thought discovery were possible.  But what if he merely provided word of the goings and comings in the royal English household?  That information, in the hands of a cunning enemy, could make for a moment's opportunity.  And for a skilled assassin, the flicker of a blinking eye could provide all the opportunity needed -- provided he knew when and where that eye would flicker."

"And you say the eye winked in Richard's tent outside the walls of Chalus-Chabrol?"

"I believe so."

"Who was the assassin?"

"His name is of little consequence.  He is long gone.  What he may have placed in the wound to make it septic, is likewise gone.  More important, who sent the man?  Who else is in league with the plotters?"

"Well?"

Cadmon frowned thoughtfully.  "Do you remember The Old Man of the Mountain?"

"Of course. Rashid something or other."

"Rashid ed-Din Sinan."  Cadmon spoke the name like a native.

"Yes, I remember." said Edward guardedly.  "He sent the assassins who stabbed Conrad of Montferrat.  I remember.  But he, also, is dead.  Long ago."

"True, but the tradition lives.  Assassins are used by barons who have not the money to raise armies, but can afford a handful of well disciplined men.  The economics are plain.  In place of war, politics has learned the art of secret murder.  Assassins are employed throughout Europe now, employed by kings and suzerain lords who would bring their willful sons to earth.  Economically."

"I am at loss, Cadmon.  If it is not the King of France and it is not the Old Man on the Mountain, who is it?"

"Do not confuse the paint on the shield for the shield bearer.  It is Philip, King of France, far behind it, in the shadows, but the first peel of paint is Baron Linceul, the Shroud, of the Limousine, now residing in a fortified manor house outside Paris, and due, I think, in England soon."

During this exchange, Alexander listened, wide eyed but discerning.  These men were discussing the murder of kings!  The thought at once frightened and exhilarated him.  They used the first names of great men with ease and, for the life of him he could think of no other word, disrespect.  Cadmon and this singed bear of a blacksmith called King Philip Augustus of France a familiar Philip, and King John of England, John.  Despite the danger of such words, he felt honored to be privy to their discussion.

"The most hated man in England today is John," said Cadmon.  "Half his barons are looking across the channel for Philip's son to take the crown from his head."

"So much is known."

"Edward, you can see it around you.  Sixteen years after Richard died, John lost Normandy to Philip.  More provinces are under siege.  Even the noblest barons are wearied by John's taxes and the others have already made oaths of allegiance to Philip and Louis.  He splinters the empire.  Would it be this way if Richard were still alive?"

Edward shrugged.  "I doubt it.  Whatever else his failings, he could keep order."

"Just so.  There is a patient kind of genius at work here, a plan willing to span years to fruition.  Richard would have re-organized the kingdom and restored balance, so he had to die.  Next in line was John.  What better way to tumble the walls of the kingdom than from within?  John's potential was known from the time of Richard's imprisonment.  His coming to power is as well conceived as any siege tunnel."

Edward contemplated this tactic, and slowly nodded.

"With England's barons split down the middle, the lands on the continent lost or falling, and Philip waiting to pounce on any weakness, what better king to have sitting on the throne of England?  What better time for him to die and let the steadying hand of France restore order?"

Edward did not move.  He thought for a full minute, then said, "Philip is a snake, but Philip would have to be an extraordinarily patient man, Cadmon, and while I could imagine it of him, I cannot say I am convinced."  He paused again.  "Maybe I can see a strategy and maybe I cannot."  Edward looked hard at Cadmon.  "But assassinating kings?  That is hard to swallow.  What proof have you?  How did you come by this knowledge?"

"That is a fair question.  I would ask it myself," said the knight.  A few seconds passed, an odd pause for a man so self possessed.  Cadmon seemed to be selecting his next words with great care.  Almost repeating himself, he said, "It merits answer."

Cadmon looked across the table at the smith, but Alexander could see his eyes growing cold and distant, focusing far beyond the weapon maker, far beyond anything in the room.  The knight seemed to prepare himself for the next part of his narrative like a swimmer finding the courage to plunge into cold waters.  The ensuing silence steadily built upon itself.

Cadmon began.  His voice emerged in measured phrases, nearly a monotone, bleached of emotion.  It was the voice of an echo.

"Not long ago," said Cadmon, "my wife and I lived in a villa on the shore of the Mediterranean, in France."

Edward squinted to see the meaning.  "And now?" he asked with the tact of a plow hammer.

Cadmon slowly shook his head.  "She is dead."

Alexander heard the smith sigh all the way across the table.

"I am sorry, Cadmon.  Truly."

 And the smith's rubbled expression indeed conveyed untempered sympathy.

Cadmon moved his hand depreciatively and continued, steady, cold, his voice paced like a pavan.

"She was killed in an attempt on the life of my guest, the faultless elder son of a knight, a friend of mine, in the court of Louis.  This young man overheard a conversation he felt compelled to share.  Of its essence, you have just been told."

"She was murdered?"

"By longbow, from great distance," said Cadmon.  "The archer missed his intended target by less than the width of my hand."

His voice did not exactly break, but the emotion he felt was obvious.  The air felt physically chilled.  Edward exchanged a glance of concern with Alexander.  The smith had not the experience nor the predilection to comfort his friend in any material way, but as Alexander watched, the smith seemed to share his friend's distress, much as a loyal dog would do.  Sympathy without understanding, perhaps.  Or sympathy without avenue for demonstration.

Alexander watched the knight.  This was a window into the impenetrable labyrinth of Cadmon's soul.  Never in his stay at the manor had he seen such feeling in him.  Such a rare event, like an eclipse.  He felt out of place, inadequate, but immeasurably honored by the knight's offering.  The trust implicit with this modest revealing warmed him, and he felt a surge of human closeness which perfectly complimented his respect.  Yet, the knight was so distant in every aspect but the physical, he could only look forlornly to Edward for his knight's comfort.  But, of course, there could be no comfort from either of them, from any soul living.

Cadmon stared on into memory's distance.  He began to speak again, the magnitude of his emotion appearing as a proportionate lack of emotion.

"Her death came swiftly.  It was nearly instant, but as she fell, we saw each other's eyes.  I remember vividly, e'en now."  Cadmon's voice lapsed briefly into Scots Gaelic, then he said, "She knew.  She knew it would be our last look upon one another."

Later, Alexander learned the meaning of that Gaelic phrase.  It meant death of life.

Cadmon sat, unmoving.  He stared at the cutting board and the knife piercing the half-eaten loaf.  His jaw muscles tightened and relaxed several times.  For the first time, Alexander sensed an abiding anger in Cadmon.  It affected the air.  It felt like ripples spreading across water, unfocused, but unmistakable.  Edward seemed to feel it, too, but he shrugged, doubtless attributing it to a draft of cool air.  But it was not cool air.  It was of the same substanceless substance which tided him in the stable.  Cadmon was not entirely the ascetic monk everyone thought he was.  The young man stared at his knight, more a mystery now than ever before.  Curiously, the physical sensation of Cadmon's emotion failed to unnerve him, strange as it was.  In other circumstances, it would be witchcraft, but here, with him, it was simply a manifestation of nature.  Something strange, but natural.  Disconcerting, but not frightening.  Or was it simply his imagination?

Cadmon smiled.  No, it was more a grimace.  It was unsettling to look upon.  The knight continued, "Obviously, the young man, my guest, had been followed, and -- events -- validated his story."

He canted his head, saying with exhaustion, "I roused the household and we searched the grounds.  We found no one.  By the time I returned home, dawn was but an hour away."

Cadmon interlaced his fingers and pressed his chin against them.  "In due course, I had the boy transported to an abbey under the protection of an abbot, whose honesty and discretion were known to me.  Later that morning, I myself, carried my love to a tomb of that same abbey and placed her therein.  The funeral she deserves must wait until this is over."

Alexander shivered.  Cadmon's voice held unnaturally steady, cold as meltwater from mountain snow.  His eyes fairly glittered, like the dance of light in moonlit ice.  Though always aloof, for a moment Cadmon was no longer with them at all.  He again prowled the hills around his house, stained with love's blood.

Edward exchanged another brief glance with Alexander.  The room confined, the air clenched.  Alexander saw the smith suffer a brief shiver, even as he.

 So, Cadmon, said Alexander to himself, you, too, have lost all.  A sad kinship, a sad cloak to share.

What a wondrously deep love he must have felt for her.  Cadmon was a man incapable of half measures.  What an extraordinary woman she must have been.  Who but a peerless woman could satisfy a peerless man?  Certainly no maid of the valley.  He could form no picture of her.

Alexander shivered again.  His mind passed briefly upon what Cadmon's encounter with the assassin would have been like.  Nothing sane.  He looked at the knight, watched him grow quiet, inward looking.  Then, almost visibly, he pulled a mask down over his soul and once more became the knight the people of Norbury had come to expect.

Cadmon spoke again, his voice weary but lacking its former tension.  "But since it is not a secret easy to tell, Baron Linceul supposes he can still conceal it with my death."

"These assassins," said Edward, "they search for you?"

"I have no doubt."

"And the boy?"

"No longer."  The tone said more.

Edward asked the obvious.  "They found him, then?"

"He was betrayed by a monk more loyal to his temporal lord than his faith."

Edward frowned and rubbed a calloused hand over his beard.  The motion made a sound not unlike a farrier's file against hoof.

"How would such a lad be privy to a dangerous conversation like that?  It is not something to be spoken of in the market."

Cadmon smiled once, but there was no humor in it.  "Strange as it may seem, he had to visit the garderobe late the night before, and chance played a hand.  It so happened the apartment above had a garderobe built into the room and though the ceiling stones were too thick to hear through, the conversation echoed down the shared garderobe shaft."

Edward snorted, "He hears a plot to murder John while relieving himself?  That is a coxcomb for a minstrel!"

"Quite.  At the time, he did not know who owned the voices he heard, but the next morning, he asked who occupied the chamber above.  That was his undoing."

"Baron Linceul!" said Alexander.

Cadmon nodded.

Edward said, "Next, the boy goes looking for you.  They miss him, figure out why, and send a hunter to bag him."

"There you have it."

"Why visit you?"

"I was a friend of the boy's father.  You knew him, too.  Donnerprise."

Edward recognized the name with approval.

"Donnerprise sent the boy out of friendship to me."  Cadmon's voice reflected the irony of that decision.

"What of Donnerprise?" asked Edward.

"I do not know, but I think it is safe to assume his tongue no longer presents a threat."

"This is a rotten porridge, Cadmon."

The knight agreed.  The shadows on his face receded.

The smith's hands inadvertently moved as if he were using shears.  He was thinking with his hands.  "So," he said.  He leveled his gaze at Cadmon -- Alexander noticed he was one of the few who could keep a steady gaze into Cadmon's eyes -- "What brings you to my door, if I do not fear to know?"

"I need you to help me intercept the king's assassins, or at least foul their plans."

Edward grunted.  "That is not all.  Don't spare the spurs now."

Cadmon let a typically faint smile cross his lips.  "Foremost, we must safeguard John's son.  If both die, England falls asunder."

Edward raised himself.  "I do not like it, mind you, but I understand," he said.  "If we can save but one, it is the son."

Alexander did not understand.  He hoped they would continue, step it all out, but they seemed to be talking in knowing looks now, both knocking the same drum, words dispensed with as too crude for the delicacy of the predicament they faced.  Maybe Cadmon would tell him later.  He did not feel free to ask at the moment.

"How do you go now?" asked the smith.

"I will assemble a handful of men, let the assassins in my pursuit know my whereabouts, and when they strike, capture or kill them.  It does not matter which.  From that thread, we shall unweave the tapestry and delay the plot long enough to ruin it.  Assassination rests heavily on timing.  All we have to do is delay it."

"Oh," responded the smith sardonically.  "Is that it?"

Cadmon said nothing.  Edward continued his rumination.

"Why not just send a message to John and be done with it?  That is straight and to the point.  A rook could understand!"

"Another fair question, but John is a very suspicious rook already."

"So?"

Cadmon thought a moment, his eyes moving into an expression of normal remembrance.  "Assassination is a subtle thing," he said.

Edward shrugged.  Alexander struggled to keep up.

Cadmon turned to Alexander, wearing the same expression of understanding he had shown in the shed that morning.  So, he will take pity on my ignorance, thought Alexander.  He was glad.

Cadmon digressed, to explain and possibly, considered Alexander, to further distance himself from his memories.  "A story will serve the need, Alexander," he said.  "Long ago, the Sultan Saladin, early in his authority, when he was at crosses with The Old Man of the Mountain, had occasion to doubt the security of the very earth beneath his feet.  One day, the Old Man of the Mountain sent a messenger to Saladin with strict instructions to give his message only in private.  In audience before the great sultan, he declared this intent, and Saladin cleared the court of everyone save a few close advisors.  Again, the messenger stated the conditions under which he could deliver his message.  Saladin then cleared the court of all save his two most trusted bodyguards, whom he held as closely as his own sons.