Chapter 29      Lights in the Sky

 

 

 

In a circle around the fire sat the men of Cadmon's mesnie, except Edward, who kept a seat at the door so he could watch the smokehouse holding Morkin's men.  The night was windless and quiet, with a hazy sky which let only the brightest stars and planets shine through.

Orbiting the well heaped fire, Stewart served the mesnie, listened attentively as they spoke, and studied their faces as they listened.  Both James and Aubrey reclined upon cots confiscated from the village, and appeared very comfortable in their blankets.

Cadmon had sewn Aubrey's wound closed with thread from his kit, just as he would have repaired his cloak.  Aubrey had watched the action with awe, but Cadmon assured him it was the best way and that he would remove the threads after the skin had healed.  Such was their trust in the knight that no one questioned such outlandish actions.  Certainly, they had seen men who had been stitched in that way after suffering a major cut, but they had never seen it done, and that Cadmon knew of such techniques surprised them.  But shrugging, they simply assumed he had picked up the art in his travels, along with his disdain for medicinal bleeding, and all the rest of his vast learning.

Thomas related how he and Edward had come upon the stranger, Geoffrey, on the road to Bridris and made challenge, how he had calmly stopped and raised his hand in a byway salute, arm upraised, palm out.  Thomas explained that by his clothes and manner, they knew immediately he was not of Morkin's band, and the latter, who was firmly tied behind Edward's horse, showed him no recognition.

To their surprise, the stranger mentioned Cadmon by name and asked if they were in association with that good knight.  Replying that they were, the stranger, who called himself Geoffrey, asked to accompany them.  Being in good and disposing spirits after their victory and bespelled by the invocation of Cadmon's name, they had invited the fellow along for the short ride back, and though they cast a fair number of inquiring glances, Geoffrey offered no further explanation of himself or his mission.

Cadmon requested the stranger speak and bare mind to all.  Everyone warmed at this remark, as well they should.  All eyes turned to the stranger, who had kept his own close council since arriving.

Taking a draft from his tankard, Geoff, as he presently asked to be called, said that since they were all comrades, deferred to Cadmon's request and began talking.  He spoke tersely and did not respond to the audience at all, a temptation which affects many men like wine.  His voice came measured, precise, practiced.  Obviously, he was experienced in delivering short, heavily laden messages.

"Cadmon requests I hold nothing from you," he said.  "I am Geoff.  I ride for William Marshal, Earl of Pembroke, who holds for John.  Cadmon sent a message to Earl William requesting a meeting so that he can convey certain information about a plot to poison the king.  Knowing of John's displeasure and distrust of the baronage, and being unknown of late in these parts, Cadmon wishes to convey his message by trusted intermediary, namely Earl William.  The Earl has acknowledged Cadmon by way of his reputation in Byzantium and of his high recommendation by William of Norbury.  To conclude this affair, the Earl has agreed to a meeting in Kenilworth three days hence."  That ended his report, but he added, "I regret to say, it was I who suggested we meet in this filthy sty.  My apologies for your wounds and inconvenience."  He smiled obligatorily.

In retrospect, Stewart realized they had learned more from Geoff in a hundred words than they had gleaned from Cadmon in a week's ride.

The fire crackled.  Ashes fissured and slid.  All eyes were on Cadmon.  The silence testified to everyone's amazement.  Even Alexander and Edward, who had kept their secrets well, stared at their knight.  So, they had learned something, too.  Stewart frowned at the impassive face which was the focus of so much attention.  In his head lay a plot to poison the king of England!  No wonder assassins were bent upon him.  He had been in secret communication with William the Marshal, a legend among knights, and had engineered a rendezvous to speak of his secret.  He lived a larger life than they.  Need they ever doubt such a man again?  He wished Mayda could have been with him this evening, to share the greatness of spirit embracing them.

He saw Alexander across the fire.  Alexander blinked back tears, so great was his relief at the recovery, even the enhancement, of his revered teacher's position.  Stewart felt his chest constrict with shared emotion.  He rejoiced for Alexander.  His friend needed no further disappointments.  It could be that the last few days had been ultimately to the good, that Alexander's doubts and the despair they fostered, now climaxed by complete vindication, increased the brightness of his knight to such extent that he could never dim again.  If that be so, then the misery was worth the endurance, provided Cadmon continued upon his exalted path.  Stewart had little doubt he would.  A reputation respected by William the Marshal was a reputation to gain ground, not lose it.

Watching James out of the corner of his eye, Stewart noticed a shrink of embarrassment -- it was James's watch which had been overrun -- and, if he was not mistaken, he detected from James a passing look of gratitude toward Cadmon for not speaking of it.  He pondered this development.  Perhaps James would amount to something if he could keep out of the way of evil long enough to build a reputation for honesty.  It would take time, but the effort would serve him well.  A man's reputation protected him even in his sleep, and no demon could wrest it from a strong man in tempting circumstances.  The question was, could James be counted upon to have such strength of character?  He longed to forgive the young knight, but caution forbade any rash largesse.

"I must ride in the morning," announced Geoff after the tankards had been filled at least three times.  "I ask your leave."

The assembly toasted Geoff and said their good nights.  He smiled his pleasure in their company and took himself to a pitched bed near Cadmon's own.  After he departed the glow of the fire, Thomas yawned and pointed to Aubrey and James, both asleep.  Cadmon stifled a yawn himself, and wearing a pleasant expression, asked Edward if he could keep the watch a few hours more, then wake him at moonrise.  Edward grunted he would.

Stewart watched the men attend to their toilet and bedtime tasks.  Thomas pulled out a tooth stick and chewed the end to softness and began scraping his teeth, washing his mouth out with the last of the ale.  Cadmon stepped into the night beyond the shaft of light from the fire.  He returned a few moments later, looking pleasantly tired.

"Pile on some hard wood, Stewart," said Cadmon.  "Let the fire burn warm all night.  Each watch will stoke it."

"Yes, Cadmon," Stewart said.

Cadmon bent to his ear.  "Your insight and discretion are exceptional, Stewart.  Thank you."  And he then stood and moved off to bed.  Surprised and pleased, Stewart stared after him with growing awareness.  So, Cadmon had overheard the conversation between himself and Alexander that afternoon, or at least had heard enough of it to know what it had been about.  Such praise from a man like Cadmon had no peer.  He felt grand inside.  From just a few simple words, his evening had transformed.  He smiled to himself and felt the world not so bad a place.  Yes, everything between he and Mayda would work out well.  He felt it.

Presently, the barn turned from a mead hall to a barracks.  Only Edward and he were awake now.  He reclined and absently watched the smith.

Edward sat with his back against the door, facing the night, a massive bear of a man, hard, immune to cold, sleep, hunger and other weaker emotions.  He stared intently into the darkness, focused on something in the far distance, skyward, above the smokehouse.  Even in repose, he looked formidable, like the beast he had befriended with releasing death.

Cadmon sometimes called him by an old nickname, Mathgen, which he had explained, meant bear.  It was appropriate.  Like Cadmon, he commanded respect, but of a less ostentatious, more earthly sort.  Certainly, you felt that if he gave you his word on a thing, neither God nor devil could dissuade him from it, and if once you earned his respect and loyalty, he would defend you with his life.

The smith was a lingering shadow of the old Saxon house-carls.  A sword wielded by those massive arms could cleave a horse in half.  He felt safe in his presence now, where before he had trembled with unease when he and the smith had found themselves alone.  Thomas had formed some kind of friendship with him, Thomas with his slim body and combed brown hair and Edward, with his over-muscled bulk and wild hedge of hair and rats nest of a beard.  Stewart smiled benevolently.  Walking together, they made quite an unlikely pair, no fair team of horses they.  The palfrey and the destrier.  Stewart laughed and repeated the simile.  He liked the image.

"Stewart," said Edward.