Chapter 34      The Assassins

 

 

 

The wake ended well and next day, with sadness and gravity, they buried Aubrey behind the garden, under a magnificent black oak.  Gavin offered a prayer.  Una, dressed in somber gray, gave proper mourning.  Afterwards, they filed past the grave, silently saying goodbye.  Stewart said his own farewell, then another for Alexander.

In the bare branches, a weather-change wind gathered momentum.  "Cold snap," whispered Gavin, as the sky emptied of clouds.  Stewart looked up.  Low clouds streamed past the black branches with unnatural velocity.  Silhouetted on the highest perch, a single raven pointed its head into the wind and peered at their activity with a cool, gray eye.  It brought to mind the device on Cadmon's shield.

Gavin and Edward remained beside the grave while everyone else returned indoors, for last rites inevitably end with the dirge of spade and hoe.  Gavin would carve the marker in spring.  Who better to tend the grave than Gavin and his wife?  Outcasts though they may be, they were kind and generous, not at all worthy, as far as Stewart could see, of being excluded from the society of churchmen.  For their suffering, they understood better than most the meaning of tolerance and piety.  Theirs was no mere affectation, no uniform worn in the service of God.  Theirs was a deeper, nobler thread woven throughout their cloth.  In their way, they were much like Cadmon.  It bore little wonder they would find one another as friends.

The day moved quietly toward dusk.  As Gavin predicted, the clear sky opened wide to the north and poured frigid air upon the valley.  Timbers creaked and snapped in response to the cold.  Drafts eddied about like cats.  The churned mud formed a crust and swiftly petrified into a treacherous landscape.

Cold sealed the house.  No word had come from Cadmon, though everyone deemed the time too short to expect a message.  The road brought no strangers.  They may have been a ship at sea.  Stewart shut his eyes.  Something was going to happen soon.  He felt like a mouse in a burrow, knowing just outside, waited a cat.

He was not the only one to feel so.  Edward was itchily mobile, unable to sit or stand, unable to occupy his mind with conversation or game.  His face glowered, though he bore no malice.  He wandered around the too-small room, peering intently at people and objects, each time moving on.  He was like a fly.  James followed his traverses with growing annoyance.  Thomas looked up each time he passed.  At last, to most everyone's relief, he heaved into a heavy cloak and went out the door, presumably to expend his vitreous energy in larger confines.

Thomas looked after him and visibly decided not to follow.  Instead, he found Stewart and sauntered over, the familial humor beginning to glow around his eyes like ashes blown from sleeping coals.

"Stewart," he said forthrightly, "Master Edward dances like a teaser in a paddock."

Stewart smiled.  His adopted big brother was welcome.  They had seen comparatively little of one another since beginning the journey.  They met now, a little distanced by the lack of recent familiarity.  For the first time, he realized, they greeted each other as separate persons, persons with an intimate and shared past, but now separate in the way which fosters respect and appreciation of a different order.  Thomas sensed it, too, and actually seemed relieved by it.  Why?  Of course.  As an extra servant, he weighed on Thomas's conscience.  What was a new knight to do with a valet he could not afford?  A knight needed a squire, someone knowledgeable of the care of arms, not a valet.  Mayda and his imminent position as his own man relieved Thomas of wondering what to do with him.  In a refreshing way, this new perspective stood well for them both.

Sounds of someone aggressively chopping wood clattered through the wall.  They turned their heads toward the window.

"Master Edward," said Stewart.

"He is a man ill designed for the kitchen," mused Thomas.  "I imagine the battlefield suited him well in his time."

"I wonder why he left it?"

Thomas shook his head.  "He has not told me."

They listened to the cleaving and splintering of wood for a time.  Behind them, James poked the ashes of the hearth.  Stewart could not guess at James's thoughts, and despite his apparent turnaround, still granted him little trust.  Perhaps he thought of his squire, Aubrey, lying in the cold ground, or of the bruise on the side of his own head, still blotched and tender, which could have been so much worse, and how it all came to be.  Only he knew the full truth of that night.  Had he shirked?  Only he knew.  Was he easy within himself?  Of what did he think?  The poker explored the ashes restlessly.

Burke sat on a stool in the corner, huddled in a blanket, half asleep.  Gavin had disappeared into the passage.  Una busied herself quietly in the larder, putting to order the disarray caused the evening before, and probably using the activity as an excuse to remain in her domestic sanctuary.  She seemed a singularly unhappy person.

Returning his gaze to Thomas, he discovered that had been the subject of study.

Thomas smiled gently.  "Stewart," he said, "I love you as my own brother.  You know that."

"Yes," said Stewart in a soft voice.

"I wanted you to know that."

"I knew."

Thomas nodded.  "What say we take a cup of cider together?"

"I would like that."

They moved toward the larder, their shoes sliding dryly and thoughtfully through the rushes, when the outside door suddenly burst open.  All heads turned.  Stewart had a sudden thought of the assassins, but no.  Edward stood there, holding an axe in his hand, his brow fierce and determined.  He held the axe, not like wood cutter or even a berserker, but like a precocious child would hold some wondrous thing found, offered to an adult for identification.  But the hand was massive and the face never graced any child since Grendel.

James and Burke rose to their feet in unison, hands reaching for their belt knives, but upon seeing the source of the alarm, they visibly relaxed.

"Where is Gavin?" demanded Edward.  His voice held tinctures of many undefined emotions.  Certainly, something had worked him up.

"In his tower," replied Thomas evenly.  "What is wrong?"

Edward pried his gaze from the curtained entrance to Gavin's sanctuary and fixed it upon Thomas.

"This is," said the smith.  He held the axe by his right hand, the fingers gripping the haft as if he were throttling a serpent.  "This is," he repeated, pausing for the assemblage to appreciate the significance of it.

Stewart saw only an axe.  He saw Thomas frown with perplexity.  He, too, saw only an axe.  James and Burke, apparently, saw only an axe.  Una, who had emerged silently from the larder, glanced anxiously toward Thomas.

"What is it, friend Edward?" Thomas quietly inquired, approaching the smith as he would a skittish horse.

Abruptly, the smith sensed the cold air pouring in and slammed the door closed.  "Sorry," he said.  He looked past Thomas to Una.  "Where did you come by this?"  Again, he held the axe forward.

Una looked very uncomfortable, embarrassed and beset.  Of course.  She could not answer Edward, could not answer anyone.  Her austere expression blushed, and at once, the smith sensed what he had done, but his sensitivities were little prepared, if inclined, to offer solace where his hobnailed words had scarred a delicate finish.

"Never mind," he growled.  "I will find Gavin myself."

"I am here," said an unexpected voice.  It was Gavin standing hunched beneath the curtain of his door.  His expression was freezing to look upon.  He did not like his wife accosted by boors.

Edward turned and blinked, realizing for the first time, perhaps, how disruptive he had truly been.  Gavin's look had cooled the forge.

"What do you want?" asked Gavin, never moving his eyes from Edward's face.

Una trembled and shook her head, attempting to stop the conflict she feared imminent.  She rushed along the wall to her husband.  He reached out a hand to receive her, but kept her distant enough to not hinder a sudden move.  His knightly training emerged like a storm.  Stewart feared what would happen next.

Edward lowered his eyes and surveyed the positions and expressions arrayed about him.  Stewart saw him recognize what he had done.  Yes, Edward, you have been a bull again.

Edward stood tall and raised his head proudly.  "My apologies to everyone," he said, "and more to you, Mistress.  I beg your pardon most of all."  And the growling tenor of his words conveyed both his sincerity and his impatience.  Una looked to the floor, accepting the apology.  She turned her eyes imploringly to her husband.  Even from across the room, Stewart could see her eyes begging him to desist.

Gavin did not melt all at once, but he released the tension in his posture and gaze.  "What is your question, Master Edward?"  The tone was of statement rather than question.  The next time, the tone would be a demand.

Holding forth the axe again, Edward said, "What is this?"

"It is an axe."

"Yes, yes, I can see it is an axe!  But I can also see these lines where the wood has polished the metal.  Look!"  He placed the blade flat on the table and pulled a lamp beside it.  The flame jumped with the sudden movement, and by its shimmering light, Stewart saw a pattern of tiny lines spread across the face of the axe, a little like the grain of wood.

"Yes," said Gavin.  "It is the temper mark."

"You know what this is, then?"

Gavin nodded.  He surmised Edward, puzzled by the intensity of the smith's questions.  A moment of indecision flickered in his eyes, then his pupils opened, benignly, shining with paternal understanding.  He had guessed at something fundamental, and bet upon it, though for all the world, Stewart could make no headway in the matter.  Whatever motivated the smith remained an unsolved riddle to him.

During this brief exchange, Una had unhooked a large stirring ladle from a wall peg and laid it beside the axe.  As soon as it hit the table, Edward seized it and examined its polished bowl minutely.  Even from a pace away, Stewart saw the same telltale markings.  Edward seemed to weaken, turning the spoon over and over, marveling at the mere existence of the utensil.

"A ladle," said Edward.

"Yes," said Gavin.

Una watched her husband and the smith with absolute attention.  Her dark eyes and parched complexion would not distinguish her among any gathering of peasants, but her carriage and expression, without a doubt, would.  She did not understand exactly what her husband had surmised about the smith's ravenous interest, but she sensed the sudden easing of tension.

"These lines," Edward said, gently touching the ladle bowl with his fingertips.  "You know what steel they sign?"

Gavin smiled slightly.  "Yes.  I know of Damascus steel."

This remark seemed to hit Edward as a blow to the stomach.  He faltered for words, then asked, quietly, almost as if he dreaded the answer, "Did you make them?"

Gavin took the ladle from the smith and felt the contours without really looking at it.  "No, Master Smith, I did not.  But I lived for a time with the family of the man who did."

"A smith, like me?"

"An Arabian smith, but yes, much like you."

"You watched him make this?"

"Yes.  At my asking, he forged it from my sword."

Edward reached for the ladle and again looked longingly at the bowl.  He asked, "You are not a smith, yourself?"

"I have worked steel with that family, but no, I am not a smith."

Edward fixed Gavin with a fierce eye.  "Do you know the secret of these lines?"

"I do."

Edward placed his hand to his forehead.  "I must know," he said softly.  Stewart barely heard his voice.

"Are you sure?"

Exhausted, he nodded, aware that the former monk understood something of what the knowledge meant to him.

"It is in the tempering of the wootz, Master Edward.  The tempering is all important once you have the right kind of steel."

Edward sat at the table and motioned for Gavin to join him.  To the smith, no one else occupied the room.  "Tell me," he said.  "Tell me everything."

     Gavin took the bench opposite the smith.  "Very well," he said softly.  "If you wish it.  But once I do, the quest is gone.  You know that."

"I know," said Edward.  His eyes looked into Gavin's and transmitted certainty.  "It is better to know."

"Not always," replied Gavin.  "The finest truths are always hidden."

Edward shrugged.  He gripped the ladle.

"This steel is a truth," began Gavin, taking the implement and caressing the line pattern.  "These lines show toughness and strength, but as the lines grow finer, so does the steel.  The finest steel shows no lines at all."

"No lines?"

"None, but I am confident they are there, nevertheless."

"An act of faith," muttered Stewart inadvertently.

Gavin looked up and chuckled, "Somewhat, young Stewart.  Somewhat."

Edward and the former monk spent considerable time seated before the fire, talking.  Throughout, Edward held the ladle.  Gavin sat wrapped in a heavy, woolen blanket.  When, at last, the conversation trickled to a stop and Gavin walked away, Edward remained, staring into the flames.  He looked bereaved, more than he had shown over Aubrey.  Everyone moved quietly around him.

The changing light played over his scars and wrinkles, casting odd shadows, and most memorably, flickering deep into his coal black eyes.  He seemed a man removed from himself, uncertain of his prowess, uncertain of his life's direction, perhaps uncertain of his dreams.

The change alarmed Stewart.  Like a storm, Edward was one of nature's violent events.  It was not right that a ladle should damp him so.

Abruptly, James Beaumont disengaged himself from his watch at the window and crossed the floor to Edward.  He wore a puzzled expression.

"There is a light in the shed across the way," James said quietly.  His voice had an underlayment of tension.

It took a second for Edward to release his attention from the ladle.  "A light?" he asked.

"Yes, a candle or a lamp.  In the shed."

Everyone crowded to the window for a look.  Without doubt, a faint light secreted itself between the loose battens of the shed and cast a line under the door.

"It was not there before?" asked Edward.

"No, it just appeared."

"It might be Una," offered Stewart.

Thomas shook his head with certainty.  "Everyone is indoors.  No one's been out."  He pushed the window open a little more and scanned sharply right and left.  "I had best go take a look," he said.

"Wait," said Edward.  He spoke in a hoarse whisper.  "I think we had best look from right here.  For now."

"They are here, then," said James.

No one needed to ask for further identification.  Thomas felt for his dagger.

"What is it?" inquired Burke from across the room.  He still had a blanket draped over his head.  His thick voice and unsteady gait said he had just awakened.

"It is them," answered James quietly.  His voice trembled slightly, but his eyes were intense.  It was not fear that made him tremble, Stewart decided, but anticipation.  He had a lot to prove yet.

Una stood in the doorway of her larder, her hands wrapped in the warmth of her apron.  In her eyes, there was fear.

"No one open the door," announced Edward, speaking to them all but facing James, "or you will likely find yourself pinned to it."

Stewart immediately saw a vision of James impaled upon a crossbow bolt wedged into the door timbers.

Thomas took another look out the window and said, "They want us to know they are out there.  They are brazen about it!"

"Yes," agreed Edward, "but for a reason."  His thought was open ended.

"They have separated us from our horses," said James.

"Small good it will do them," said Edward.  "If we fight, it will be close combat."

"But we cannot ride!"

"No," considered Edward, "We cannot."

"Then what do we do about it?"

Edward had taken charge.  James's question was tacit acknowledgement of the smith's authority.  Good! thought Stewart.  After Cadmon, he was the most experienced.  Also, he had stopped brooding over his ladle.

Edward said to Una, "You had best fetch your husband."

She hurried into the passage which led to the tower.

Burke peeked out the window where Thomas had been standing.  His expression confirmed the light still shown.

"All right," said Edward.  "We will see what they want.  Shutter the lamps but this one.  Bring our weapons in here."

As the lamps were covered or extinguished, Burke and Stewart gathered the knight's accoutrements from the adjoining room and spread them over the table.  The knights began selecting their tackle.  Edward donned his hauberk, but chose nothing else but a short sword.  He moved to the door.  By the time he signaled he was ready to open it, he was backed up by two mail clad knights and two armed squires.

Gavin emerged from his passage with a formidable crossbow.