Chapter 31      Death Takes Leave

 

 

 

They awoke to the sound of chickens clucking and pecking around them, more than two dozen red hens.  A cock strutted down the aisle in silent disapproval.  Two hens charged a crust of bread left from the night before.

"Is that breakfast I see at my feet?" asked Burke cheerfully, sitting up and stretching.

"Only the eggs, I fear," responded Alexander, "if they are laying."

"Dinner, then."

Alexander laughed.  "If you are very persuasive, maybe."

Stewart listened.  Their laughter sounded forced, but he congratulated them for the effort.  He pushed his blankets aside and got up.  The air felt damp.  He opened a shutter enough to peer out and saw sheets of slate blue mist sweeping by.  It was cold.  He closed the shutter with conviction and wrapped his hood tight around his ears.

"Bad out, eh?" asked Edward, still beneath a blanket of hay and sacking.

"Very bad, Master Edward.  The road is mud and there is heavy, falling mist."

Edward rumbled something and closed his eyes.  Presently, he thrust the hay and sacking aside and rolled to his feet.  He coughed and pulled his beard into place, combing it harshly with his fingers.  He coughed again and cleared his throat.  He surveyed the accommodations, and ended his assessment by fastening his gaze upon Stewart.

"I am missing a lot of business in this place," he said.  Stewart suspected he had only been chosen by chance.  The smith felt like complaining and he was convenient.  "Wars all around me.  Three kings on the island, and me days from my forge and no return in sight.  My fool apprentice could not fit a grip to save himself."  He paused.  "Do you know how to tell if a sword is made right?"

"No, Master Edward."

"If the guard is fitted tight and the pommel secure?"

Stewart shook his head.

"Well, you are not alone, lad.  My apprentice" -- he said the word sarcastically -- "does not know either."

Undismayed, Stewart leaned his head to one side and waited.

"So, you want to know, do you?  That is a damned bit more interest than that fool of mine ever showed.  Well, you strike the blade against a beam or a post.  Not hard enough to bend or break metal, understand, but hard enough to make it ring.  If it buzzes, the guard is loose, which means the grip and pommel are bad, too.  But if it sounds like a single piece of steel, try the temper.  Bend the blade four fingers out of true and let it spring back.  If it does not return true, the steel bad.  Understand?"

Stewart said he did.

"If the blade fails," continued the smith with a squint, "you should use it to strike the head from the thief who tried to sell it to you.  He is trying to get you killed!  Strike swiftly, though, before the thing falls apart."

Finished with his tirade, Edward cursed to himself a few times and rudely turned away.  Stewart would have felt offended had the smith not consistently applied the same manners to everyone, everyone that is, except Cadmon.

Stewart turned to find Thomas regarding him with amusement.  Thomas motioned him over.

"Well, are you his apprentice now?"

"Poor Dell."

"Yes, that lad deserves pity," Thomas agreed.

In a group, they went into the kitchen and found Cadmon and Gavin sitting over the trestle table, talking.  Their sunken eyes and sallow skin signed they had been at it all night.

"How is he?" asked Alexander immediately.  His voice had its guard up.

"Unchanged," said Cadmon.  "His fever has not abated."

Gavin shook his head.  "The wound is clean and healing, but a bad vapor has entered his nostrils."

"Have you not bled the evil humors out?" asked Burke helpfully.

"No bleeding.  His trouble cannot be gotten rid of so easily."

"Oh," said Burke, a little unconvinced.

Stewart saw him finger the herb pouch he carried around his neck, then drop his hand.  He could see what Burke was thinking.  Burke was just a village lad and Gavin had been a Templar surgeon.

"Is there anything you need?" asked Thomas.  "We can ride for it if there is."

"No, but thank you," said Gavin.  "I have a good supply of willow bark and have prepared a drink of it for your friend.  It sometimes breaks fever, but this vapor is a stubborn thing."

"Anything," said Alexander.  "But ask us."  Alexander stood easily beside his knight.  He no longer had the subdued carriage of a stable boy.

Gavin shook his head, "Thank you, but we need nothing but God's indulgence."

"May I see him?" asked Alexander.

The former Templar looked at the young man with tenderness.  "Yes, of course.  Wife is with him now.  Would you care to take a watch?"

"Yes.  Please."

"Then tell wife I said you will stand for her.  She will show you what to do."

"Thank you."

Gavin smiled thinly.  "Drink not his drink nor from his water lest the vapor climb to you through it."

"I will not," said Alexander.  He went down the stone passage to the archway and before he disappeared inside, thanked the Templar again.

Gavin craned his crooked neck to look up.  "It is time you ate," he said, "I must not forget my duties as host!"  He sprang from his bench and disappeared into the larder.  When he emerged, he held under his arms, two sausages, two loaves of heavy bread, and from each hand, a jug, which upon pouring, turned out to be cider.

"Take from my hay and corn as you need for your animals," said Gavin as the mesnie took from the victuals.  "My home is yours."

"Will you not eat with us?" asked Thomas.

"I will wait for wife," he said.

"She is here," said Thomas.

Turning, Gavin saw his wife emerge from the archway.  She still moved with the unobtrusive languidity of a nun.

"Una," he said gently.  "Let us break bread with these knights."

She shot him a sharp, questioning glance.

"It will be all right," he said reassuringly.  "These are Cadmon's friends."

She looked questioningly to Cadmon.  He lowered his eyes in agreement.

Why did she not speak? wondered Stewart.  He had only heard two sounds from here since they arrived, and they were not understandable.  Did she have a speech problem, or was she just extremely shy?

They sat down at table, Gavin at the head, Cadmon on his right, Una on his left.  Gavin offered a prayer and everyone stopped chewing during its delivery.  Cadmon, as usual, acquiesced.

Stewart saw James sitting directly across from him.  There was no social hierarchy at Gavin's table, but James did not seem to notice anyway.  He looked burdened, in an inward way.  The mood had come upon him as they had learned of Aubrey's unimproved condition.  Perhaps he felt guilty for the first time in his life.  The James who sat across the table was decidedly not the James of Norbury.  No one at the manor would have recognized him.

Gavin cut small bits of meat and bread, and offered them to his wife.  They behaved toward one another more like elder brother and little sister than man and wife.  Their friendship with Cadmon somehow fitted.

Una selected several pieces of sausage and finger-sized bits of bread.  She poured herself a cup of cider.  The cup was unglazed brick clay, and looked old enough to have been used by the original makers of the ruin they sat within.  She moved deliberately, first dipping the bread in the cider until the end was soft and spongy with liquid.  She popped this in her mouth with a chunk of sausage, then to Stewart's astonishment, she thrust her right forefinger into her mouth and began chewing.  She darted her eyes around the table to see who might be watching, and fortunately, Stewart saw the move in time to look down.  Across from him sat James, but he was busy slicing his sausage into flicks, too introverted to notice.  The others were either busy with their food or had reflexes as quick as his own.  After a moment, Stewart glanced up and saw her moving her finger back and forth as her jaw moved, sliding against one cheek or the other in time with the closing of her teeth.  What was she doing?  Then a sudden chill touched him.  He glanced across from the woman and saw Cadmon watching him.  And though the knight looked away almost immediately, Stewart understood.  This action was not to be examined too closely.  There was something disconcerting about the knight and his way of communicating his will.

Suddenly, revelation descended.  His skin crawled at the thought which had edged its way into his imagination, but it made sense.  What penalty would a nun receive for trysting with a knight?  What punishment would a knight receive for tupping a nun?  In such matters, God's church knew no mercy.  For their sins, they had cut out Una's tongue and broken Gavin's back.  Instead of death, they were given each other, but with their youth and beauty debauched.

Suddenly, he felt squeamish and sad.  He dropped his bread.  So many people disappointed him so much.  So many people suffered so much.  Jesus would have showed more mercy than that.  Why were men so cruel?  He imagined Mayda so disfigured and blushed to rage. 

The meal passed.  The day passed.  Aubrey grew weaker and the weather gradually worsened.  Aubrey slipped from semiconsciousness to unconsciousness in the afternoon.

They ate evening meal quietly.  No one felt like talking much, except to inquire after Aubrey, and when Gavin's responses dampened feelings still more, they spoke not at all.  They may as well have been at a monastery under censure.  The rain continued.  The wind grew colder and stronger.

As they had agreed, Cadmon made ready to ride to Kenilworth next day for his meeting with Earl William.  Lightly provisioned and armed, he intended taking with him only Alexander.  They were to await his return where they were.

Stewart groaned inwardly.  It was a graying of the heart!  Waiting all day tired him as much as riding all day.  The room seeped gloom and hopelessness.  The cross on the whitewashed wall became a mere blotch of shadow.  No one felt like being awake, and when the suggestion came from Edward to remedy that feeling, no one opposed.  They headed for the hay shed, to their beds.  Though nearly useless with the weather as it was, watches were selected.  The rest turned in and Stewart, excused from all watches because he was neither knight nor squire, buried his head under sacking and tried to force an image of Mayda to mind.  But the image would not come, only the idea, and he contented himself with it.  He felt himself drifting and presently knew he was asleep.  Thank God. 

It was Cadmon.  Alexander felt the pressure of the knight's hand leave his shoulder as he raised his head from folded arms.  He had fallen asleep at the table.  He looked around quickly, but all was quiet and dark.

"It is still night," confirmed Cadmon in a quiet voice.  "Aubrey is awake.  He wants to see you."

"Aubrey?"  He heard the hope in his voice.

Cadmon shook his head.  "Do not kindle hope.  He has awakened to say goodbye."

Alexander got up from the table, feeling heavy, dream-like.

"This way," said Cadmon, holding the lamp so he could see.  There was urgency in the knight's movements.

Alexander crossed the distance to the passage and pulled aside the drape separating the sick chamber from the cold.  Inside, he saw Gavin and Una bending over the bed.  The yellow light and umbral shadows made the room look like the Lord's manger in Yule stories.  But this was different.  Mary and Joseph and baby Jesus were not there.  It was Una and Gavin and Aubrey.  This occasion was a farewell, not a birth.  Una held a damp cloth ready to sooth Aubrey's forehead.  Gavin completed the motions of a priest giving final unction.  So, the end was at hand.  He had felt it coming and had prayed it away, but what weight did God give the prayers of such as they?

Una made eye contact with him and hurried him over.  As he approached the bed, Gavin and Una withdrew.  Aubrey saw the movement and looked up, but it took him seconds to recognize the newcomer.

"Alexander," he said in two shallow breaths.

"Yes."

Aubrey caught his breath.  "Quarterstaffs?" he asked.  His voice was flat, but Alexander could tell he had intended the words to contain the ironic humor of a challenge.

"I'm too sleepy," Alexander replied.  He smiled and reached for Aubrey's hand.  It felt icy cold.

Aubrey's eyes closed, then sleepily opened.  "Yes.  It is hard to stay awake," he agreed.

Alexander nodded.

"Alexander," said Aubrey.  His voice was serious.  He looked into Alexander's eyes.  "Be a knight," he said softly.  "Be you and me, together."

Alexander shook his head in denial of the need.  He tried to smile, but tears flowed freely.

"Who is teacher?" demanded Aubrey.

"You are."

"Then do not argue."

"I ... will not."

"Good.  The next time we meet for quarterstaffs, I want a good show!"

"You will get it."

But Aubrey did not respond.  He had fallen asleep.  Alexander held Aubrey's hand a moment longer, and he knew his friend was not asleep.  "Goodbye, Aubrey," he said, his voice scarcely heard outside his own brain.  He did not know what else to say.  He released Aubrey's hand.  He felt awkward, responsible.  He could not bring himself to turn around and announce by his expression what had happened.

But he need not have worried.  Cadmon, as always, knew what to do.  The knight stood beside him.

"He was a good young man," said Cadmon simply, "and had much promise.  We shall miss him."

Alexander wept silently and swallowed.

"Come.  We must tell the others."

"Yes.  We must."

Stewart awakened to a sound and a light.  He propped himself up on one elbow, a chill of recognition rising to the scene before him.  Just as in the darkened barn before the ambush in Bridris, a single lamp glowed.  He focused, pushed sleep away.

Gavin stood just inside the door with a lighted lamp, hunched, unspeaking, waiting until all had stirred.  Cadmon stood beside him, still as a statue.  Behind Cadmon, stood Alexander.

Stewart's heart sank.  He knew what they would say.  Slowly, the others awakened and the depth of the silence told him each knew, as he did, what this lamp in the darkness meant.

"The lad fought strongly, but he was no match for the fever," said Gavin, shaking his head.  "God's will is hard."

Attention focused on Cadmon, who stepped forward to accept his follower's wanting gazes.  "Aubrey did not suffer pain," he said.  "He passed quietly in his sleep.  We will miss him."

"No!"  James was on his feet instantly, and once there, seemed to lose track of his intent.  "No," he repeated, looking at each of the faces around him, feeling cornered.  "I am no knight!  I am no knight!" he abruptly screamed in a voice full of rage and agony.  He repeated the words over and over, the words becoming an anguished howl, anger finding voice without words.  James looked about wildly, startled by his own outburst.  No one could help him.  No one moved.  He fell to his knees in the straw.  His body was a tense as a bow string.  Everyone awaited his next words.

"I am Judas," he said finally in tones of exquisite self hatred.  "I have killed my squire."

Thomas reached for him, like a brother, but James jerked his shoulder away violently.

"Do not touch me, Thomas.  I am a leper!" he sobbed, then catching his breath, said, "I am unlucky, and always have been.  Morkin swept over me like a sleeping dog."  His voice swam in bitterness.  It seemed as if all the pent up emotions of his life found outlet in a moment.

Stewart felt great compassion swell in him.  At last, the real James is revealed, he thought.  The spines and shields are stripped away, and beneath is this poor, frightened fellow.

Edward made to speak, but James cut him off.

"I killed my squire, Edward!  That is not knightly!  What should a man do who wears spurs but is not a knight?"

"Enough!"  Cadmon's voice boomed through the shed.  No one had ever heard him speak so.  James spun about.  Even Edward looked startled.

"Enough," he repeated more quietly.

James bowed his head.

"Sir James, thou art a knight.  In these rough walls, you have found your conscience, that is all.  We must all live with stains upon our garments."

James looked up, frowning, pulling from Cadmon's words something calming.  He said, "My watch was overrun."

"Yes, that is true."

James sighed deeply, lowering his eyes.

"Were you at your duty that night?" asked Cadmon.

Hesitantly, "Yes."

"Then you have nothing to be ashamed of.  You did your best."

"It was not enough."

"Perhaps," agreed Cadmon, his voice barely above a whisper.  "But we can often do little more than watch.  Our best cannot stop the wind or the tide.  We cannot see the thoughts of bad men or catch an arrow in flight.  We are limited, James.  We are limited.  Live with yourself.  We must all live with ourselves."

James stared into the middle distance, unseeing, his chest heaving in gasps.  Then he nodded and seemed to lose all muscle tone.  Thomas went to him and took his arm.  This time, James did not resist, but looked up as if seeing Thomas for the first time.

"Thomas?"

"Yes," Thomas smiled.

James's eyes moistened and Thomas took him to his blankets and sat him down.

Cadmon's voice issued strong and somber.  "It is time you all know how I come to be here and why we have lost our friend.  James, you must listen well.  Before I speak, Gavin wishes to lead you in prayer."

Stewart saw Thomas watching Cadmon attentively, narrowing his eyes as he did when studying something which defied his understanding.

Gavin began speaking and everyone's head bowed.  When it was done, and the amens pronounced, Cadmon said, "You all know of the plot.  What you do not know is how I came to learn of it.  Two of you know of this story.  One of you has asked me for it," he glanced salutarily to Thomas, "and now you shall hear it.  You have more than earned the right."

They all seated themselves, as they had done for the tale from Arabia, but the atmosphere now was sad and dark.  Una entered the dull, contrasting lamplit glow, and seated herself beside her husband on the steps leading from the shed into the kitchen.  Strange shadows played upon Cadmon, as he recollected his thoughts and gathered strength to say what he had kept concealed from all but a few since arriving in Norbury.  Here, in these ancient ruins, in the cold and dark, Cadmon began to speak.  As the chronicle unfolded, Stewart found himself horrified and amazed.

Cadmon had been married.  His wife had died in his arms, impaled by an assassin's mismarked arrow.  The young man who had braved the tide of enemies to tell Cadmon had also died.  The watch on Norbury's gate was murdered.  And now, Aubrey was dead.  A sad lineage.  James listened with gravity.

"You know more than a plot exists," said Gavin, as if Cadmon had indeed stated as much.  "Else, your message would be nothing more than wild ravings."

Cadmon examined Gavin and indicated that he did.

"How much more?  These men deserve knowing what they risk their lives for."

Gavin spoke to Cadmon as a respected equal.  How would Cadmon respond to such affrontry?  Stewart held his breath, but he need not have.  The knight responded like a mature man, with no sense of insult, no fouled dignity.  If anything, there was gratitude for revealing an oversight.  In truth, Stewart did not expect less.

Cadmon said, "You are right, friend Gavin.  You are right.  My life has been much of secrecy and silence."  He let his gaze pass along each face.  "Such have no place among this assembly."  His gaze lingered benevolently upon James, who looked down with strong emotion.

"Two men are known to ride in John's train.  One is an oxman named Rob from London.  The other is unknown, but has access to the king's larder.  The method is slow poison, administered over a period of weeks.  The poison will have different amounts of Monkshood, an extract of Castor bean, bloodroot, yew, and tartar emetic.  Each will be applied at different times and with different amounts to simulate a disturbance of the bowels which will bring about dysentery and death.  I consulted one knowledgeable in these things before leaving France.  If done correctly, no one will suspect poison.  I understand the second man is an expert with these substances.  That is all I know."

"God's Holy Blood," breathed Edward.  Ignoring the sharp look from Gavin, Edward went on, "That is enough to hang one or two Jacks, I think."

Everyone agreed this was so.

"You must get this information to the king," said Thomas.  "We dare not dally."

Cadmon smiled ruefully.  "We have time, Thomas.  The poisoners cannot strike until the French forces are ready to make the most of the disarray.  We have time."

Thomas frowned and nodded.  He looked like he was not completely trustful of poisoners to keep to schedules.

"We must also fight the king's mistrust of everyone, friend, stranger or enemy.  Geoff told me he is quite unreasonable, more so now than at Runnymede.  He has caught his father's fire and he pursues his foes doggedly."

"That he does," said Thomas with cold conviction.

"Yes, you have seen him at close range and recently.  Do you agree with Geoff?"

"In every detail.  He behaves like a man possessed."

Cadmon studied his sword hand a moment.  "He defends a kingdom tearing itself apart.  Two of every three barons have gone to the French."

"No!" exclaimed several voices at once.  "The treason cannot be so bad as that!"

"It is true.  But the rot has stopped, Geoff says.  It has stopped.  The rest stand loyal with the king."

"Thank God England has some men of honor," said Gavin.  Una crossed herself in silent agreement.  "Thomas is right.  You should not dally," continued Gavin.  "You must go.  We will attend Aubrey."

Cadmon considered.  He made up his mind, saying, "We will go, but it may be days before we return."

"We will be here," said Edward with a firmness no one doubted.  Thomas and the others agreed emphatically.