Chapter Twelve

The Beginning, Ten Years Later

Winter lay heavy on the land, like guilt on the head of a sinner. Snow covered all the great tor of the Isle of Apples; drifts taller than a tall man could reach buried its base. The surrounding fens had frozen solid; anyone with a mind to do so could walk across dry-shod like the Children of Israel.

Nothing moved on this dim dawn, though. It was too cold for even the woodcutters to venture forth. The sun hardly dared to show itself and wrapped up in clouds even as the shivering folk below wrapped themselves in blankets.

Richard drew away from the narrow window, pulling the shutter in and securing it. He let fall over the opening the thick woolen flap that was meant to cut the draft. Cold air came in regardless. A large brazier crackled with flames in the center of the round stone chamber where his servants huddled. Away to the side were the horses, dozing on their feet, lending their warmth to the gathering. Until he got quite close to their circle he could see his breath hang in the air. The fire made most of the light, though some of the pale gray sky was visible through the smoke hole in the thatch above.

Several skins of wine had been passed around in an attempt to find another kind of warmth. The morning meal had come and gone along with whatever work that had to be done. All were content to sleep the day through until time for the evening prayers and meal and then sleep again.

As would I, if sleep would come to me.

Of late, true rest was not an easy thing for Richard to achieve, yet weariness saturated him to his bones. Even the blood he supped on failed to rouse him for long from his lethargy. He'd departed from the king's court after that last tourney, claiming he'd been called to retreat from the world for the good of his soul. None had hindered him. Those with eyes to see had noticed the change in him. Some rumored it was du Lac's impossible love for the queen that made him leave. Others loyally maintained it was his dire wounding that had caused his withdrawal from all court life.

Though he'd recovered miraculously quick, they said he still bled in his heart.

At first, he'd gone to the lands granted to him by the king for his service. There, Richard had a fine keep of his own filled with rich furnishings, men, and weapons, the surrounding farms growing bounty enough to support all. He stayed there, alone, shunning the company of his fellow lords.

Sabra had tried to console him.

But... he shunned even her.

And then she'd departed, and he was truly alone.

He left his private chambers only at night to stalk the fields and forests like a lost ghost. Any hapless wanderers who happened to see him, pale of face, grim in aspect, clad wholly in black, crossed themselves and fled.

The comforts of his own hall brought no succor. After the harvest was in, stored, and allotted, he gathered a company of servants to see to his needs and took to wandering. He pitched his tent near a road or in a fallow field, or sheltered in some abandoned villa left by the Romans, never staying in one place for more than a few days. When his presence was noticed by the local lord, he would courteously decline the offered hospitality and move on.

He thought the passage of time would lessen his pain, but contrariwise, it only seemed to increase.

For the Goddess had betrayed him.

His servants, long used to his habits, took little notice when he went to bed an hour after dawn. They placed a smaller brazier of coals in the curtained-off area he claimed for his own and withdrew. One of the girls was curled in the bed to warm it and await his pleasure.

Today it was Ghislaine, ripened now to a comely woman. Richard climbed in next to her, pulling the covers almost all the way over their heads. She burrowed against him, sighing with contentment. Her firm flesh pleased him, a little, but he was not hungry, having supped the day before.

"Why do you smile?" he asked, once they'd settled.

" 'Tis nothing, my lord."

"I can see 'tis something and naught to do with me."

"I mean no offense, my-"

"And none has been taken, unless you deny me your reason to smile."

She hesitated, then yielded. "I've a small happiness of my own, I think. The next moon will tell me for sure."

"You're with child again?"

"I think so, the Goddess willing."

In the years from their first meeting she'd borne two children, both of whom had died. "And this is a happy prospect to you?"

"Yes."

"How so is it happy?"

"It just is, my lord."

He could see none of it. In the short hours that he'd known fatherhood, he'd felt only shock, regret, agony, and grief. Since that time he'd felt little else but anger, which he held carefully in check.

Why did Ghislaine not feel the same? Had not the Goddess taken her two babes before they'd lived even a year? And now she longed for a third chance to add to her sorrows.

"Know you the father?"

She giggled briefly. "Of course I must know him, else I'd not be this way."

He was in no mood for jest, but she did not notice, so diverted was she by her own thoughts. "If the babe lives we may marry, if my lord permits."

If it lives. So, she was aware of the possibility of loss. "And if the Goddess takes this child from you?"

"We may marry anyway. 'Tis not good to be alone. He's a fine strong man. His get will also be strong, I'm sure."

How do they endure it?

Richard had been in this changed life for only a decade and already felt impossibly removed from the rest of humanity. To him, their lives seemed short and shallow as they toiled one day to the next, starving or feasting, living and dying, accepting such as their lot with few complaints, for that was the way of things, and it would ever be so.

I will live on, they will die. But how they waste their little lives! Their world is so small, they're like farm animals with speech. Can they not see themselves?

Ghislaine made bold to caress him, smiling her woman's smile. "Does my lord wish to be pleasured?" she whispered.

What he wished for was a lifting of the blackness from his heart. Even Ghislaine with her sweet body so willingly given could not do that. All that stirred within him now was despair and impossible loneliness.

"Sleep, child," he said. "Sleep and dream of heaven."

If she was disappointed by his reply, she made no show of it, obediently lying down again. Perhaps she expected some attention from him later to make up for it. True, he could go through the forms of love, mount and ride her to fulfillment, but would mock himself from beginning to end for his emptiness of spirit.

He lay still, holding her, until her breath lengthened into that of slumber. How he envied her that kindly rest. He'd not truly slept in months. He continued well in health; the blood he took kept him so. Would that it could as easily heal his soul.

When he thought he could move without waking her, he slipped from the bed and dressed. Gooseflesh plucked at him, but he hardly felt it. I must be as cold within as the world is without. But to avoid comment, he covered and cloaked himself, then quietly left. Though it was odd that he be up and about during the day, his drowsing people had long grown used to their lord's silences and night rambles and hardly stirred as he passed them.

The knife-sharp air made short work of his heavy finery, cutting its way into any careless opening. Well, a good walk would cure the chill and, he hoped, utterly tire him out.

It was hard going through the drifts. There were some paths trodden through this small village, though no one had used them much in the last few days. Richard's party had arrived just in time to shelter from the coming snowstorm in a hospice the nearby church maintained for travelers. It was a relic from the Romans, old now, but kept in repair. No one knew what they had used it for; it could have been anything from a temple for one of their gods to a granary.

The sun was well hidden, but the light still pained his sensitive eyes. He'd heard tales about how certain wild men of the north knew how to keep the snow glare from blinding them. They had a secret way of masking their faces, or was it just their eyes? No matter. Richard had nothing but his hood for protection. It would have to be enough.

In the distance he spied the humped shape of a church on a rise and set out for it. The village was an important one to have such a structure. That it was so close to the Goddess's sacred tor was interesting. The two faiths could work together if their believers tried even a little, but there were zealots on both sides that frequently prevented it, or so Sabra had said.

No. I've no wish to think of her today.

He did not wish it, but it happened. Often. Not an hour went by that she did not hover in his thoughts or that her name came to his lips. Sometimes, when the black despair all but consumed him, he thought he'd see her standing quietly in the deepest shadows, her beautiful face marred by that same sadness. Her arms would be stretched toward him, as though longing to relieve his suffering.

Then would he turn away.

He did not hold Sabra responsible for the betrayal, but she was still a servant to the Goddess. Her unquestioning faith was not something he could endure now that his own had been shattered.

But what has led me here to the Goddess's stronghold? In all his wanderings his steps always seemed to be drawing him to the great tor. He would resist and take another path, but as the seasons waxed and waned he would go south or east or west or north and eventually come within sight of it time and again.

Finally, this year, he gave in and came to the little village in its shadow. That was as far as he would go. If the Goddess really wanted him, then she could come the rest of the way herself.

But the days and nights passed with no sign from her. It was as he'd expected, so his disappointment was neither deep nor especially bitter. It simply was, like the weather.

The church was farther than he'd thought, until he realized it to be larger than he'd expected. Most were small and made of wood, empty inside, with perhaps a simple table to serve as an altar. This one looked comparable to the grand one in his father's keep, made of cut stone, built to last for centuries. As he drew closer, he saw some of the stones were not matched in color, meaning they'd probably been taken from older, unused structures and thrown together where needed. Sure enough, he saw some Roman lettering cut into one of them. Whatever word it had been was broken off in the middle and was upside down.

The door was of stout oak and fitted well. It pulled open easily, the balance indicating the hand of a master carpenter. He went in and pulled it shut.

The church was very large, a full thirty paces from the door to the altar, and fifteen from side to side, the thatched ceiling gracefully high. Two long, narrow windows, hardly more than a handspan wide, were placed on either side of the altar. At this time of year, they were covered over with oiled parchment, allowing in light, but keeping out the drafts.

On Sabbaths and feast days the building could hold a very large congregation indeed. Now it held only Richard, but he'd wanted to be alone. Though his servants usually kept a silent, respectful distance, it wasn't the same as true solitude.

He slowly approached the altar, pushing his hood back. Above hung a very large cross, nearly man-size. Cut into it was the crucified Christ, His tortured body twisted just so. The wood was stained nearly black, so that one had to come quite close to see the equally black figure emerging magically from the background. His wounds had been painted red.

The one from the spear thrust bled profusely. Richard's hand stole toward his own long-healed wound, recalling the blasphemous jesting of the other lords on that bleak day. Unlike the Christ, he had no scar to show for it, not to see, anyway.

He'd come here, seeking comfort from the faith he'd been born to, but the crucified man had nothing to say to him.

Below was the altar table, bare now, but the sides were beautifully carved with scenes from the Bible. He recognized Abraham offering his son Isaac up as sacrifice, knife in one hand, the other holding the boy down, his face raised to heaven.

Richard backed away, suddenly sickened. Can I never escape?

He quickly turned to leave and was brought up short, colliding with a stooped old man who had been directly behind him. With a surprised cry, the ancient toppled over and would have fallen hard to the flagged floor had Richard not instinctively caught him.

"I'm sorry, old one," he said, righting him. "I did not know you were here."

The fellow chuckled at his obvious chagrin. "Nor did I, but I perceive that you must be gently raised to show a poor stranger such courtesy."

" 'Tis nothing."

" 'Tis much in this harsh world, especially for me."

Richard suddenly noticed the thick film that covered the old man's eyes along with the long staff he held to steady and guide his faltering steps. What he did not understand was why he'd not heard him.

"May I ask one more boon?" said the ancient. "Would you show me to the altar? I'm turned around."

"Of course."

He took the old man's arm and slowly led him over. The staff tapped noisily now, his sandal-shod feet shuffling.

"Here it is." He placed the man's hand on the table.

"Ah, this is a comfort to me, to be able to tell myself the stories again." His questing fingers ran along the carvings like spiders.

"I should think you'd know them well enough by now."

The man smiled, something he did frequently to judge by the hundred creases in his leather-dark face. "Ah, but does one ever tire of dancing to a favorite song?"

Richard made no answer.

"Who are you, good sir, that I may thank you?"

He could say Lancelot, but was weary of that fame. He wanted no distinction today. "I am Richard."

"I thank thee, Richard of... ?"

"Just Richard."

"Then I am just Joseph."

He was a courteous man to take no title, place name, father's name or trade, so as to be no better or worse than Richard in his life station. His apparel was ragged and humble, his white hair and beard untrimmed like that of a hermit, but fairly clean. Perhaps he was a holy man with this church. They wore their vestments only when required by their duties.

"Why are you out on such a bitter day as this, friend Richard?"

"My legs wanted stretching."

He chuckled again. "Not by much, for I judge you to already be an uncommonly tall fellow."

"So I've been told."

"Come and sit with me a little while, would you? Perhaps you will tell me a tale of the road, and I will tell you one of our village." Joseph eased himself down, seating his creaking bones on the one shallow step that led to the altar. He seemed very much at home and not likely to move.

Richard gave up all hope of reclaiming any solitude without seeming to be boorishly impolite. He sat on the step as well, knees near his chin, arms bridging them, hands clasped. "My road is long and has no ending."

"That is their nature, is it not? My village is small and has no ending-in its own way, of course. It is very famous for this church, though. This is the first ever built in the land, did you know? Many pilgrims come here to pray. Are you such a pilgrim?"

"No, my people and I are only sheltering in the hospice until the snow melts enough for us to travel again."

"But you did come here to pray?"

"I may have."