"May have?" he laughed. "I like thee, friend Richard. Few are so brave as to admit the truth, even here in God's house. Have you tried praying elsewhere?"

"Yes, my words go up, but my thoughts remain as in a grave. Heaven does not hear me."

"That sometimes happens."

The comment startled Richard. He expected a reproof that perhaps he'd not been listening well enough.

"It is an awful thing when heaven is silent to us. It's happened to me many times." He seemed strangely cheerful about it.

"Indeed? What did you do?"

Joseph shrugged. "I just went on until God took notice and spoke in such a way as I could hear. There were times when He was wickedly slow about it, but I always forgave Him."

"You forgave God?"

"Oh, yes, all the time." His seeming conceit was boundless. "Do you smile?"

"Yes." Richard could not recall when last that had happened. "I hope you don't let others hear you speak thus."

"Pah! I care not. What can they do to me that God has not done already? If I can forgive Him, then I can forgive them. What? Do you laugh?"

"Were this summer I'd say that the sun had touched your head."

"I've had that as well. A good, long life I've had so far. I'm sure whatever comes next will be just as interesting."

Richard thought the man's advanced years would preclude that.

"You think me too old?" he countered, as though he'd heard the thought spoken. "Fie on thee, good Richard. I've time left in me to do many things."

"What would you do, then?"

"I'm not sure, there's much to choose. I could walk the road like you and find out if it is truly endless. Think of the stories I would hear on the way! How the traveling poets would envy me!"

"Or you could stay and let them bring their stories to you."

"True. Come, tell me your story."

"All of mine are sad."

"For one so young? How wretched."

Richard had not thought of himself as being young for a very long time now. A decade had passed since his change, and though he did not look any older he often felt quite aged. But seated next to him was a man easily twice his years.

Why did they not weigh him down?

"Tell me one anyway," said Joseph. "Perhaps the sorrow of it will make me more content with my lot in life."

"I would not burden you so-might I ask a question instead? You seem to know much."

Joseph, staring ahead and seeing naught, waved one hand, palm up. "Perhaps. Ask away."

"I have heard from the holy men that no one may serve two masters, but what of serving both a master and a mistress?"

"Are they of the same house?"

"I think so."

"Then I would say yes, if both are in accord with each other for your welfare. I'm sure you already knew that, though. Why did you ask?" "Because my mistress betrayed me, and now I wonder if my master will do the same."

"It's been known to happen. How did she betray you?"

"She demanded too much of me and would not tell me why, so I left her service."

"You must love her deeply to feel such pain."

"I love her not now. I may even hate her. She gave me everything I desired, and much that was beyond any of my dreams, but then... what she then did was most pitiless cruel. She allowed someone important to me to die."

"And there is a hole in your spirit from that."

"Yes."

Joseph turned as though to look at Richard, then gestured at the figure carved in the cross behind them. "Did He not suffer a great betrayal-and forgive?"

"It was not my life sacrificed, but that of another. I could have borne it had I been in his place."

"You seem to have dealt with that grief, just not with the betrayal."

"Yes. I wanted to know why, and she had no answer for me. I was told she had no answer for herself either."

"So your faith in her died."

"And I came here."

"But He also gives you no answer, hm?"

"None that I can hear. If it must ever be so for me, then why should I live on?"

The old man nodded, thinking long. "I can speak for myself only. My future is as veiled to me as my sight, but I move forward, because I do not know what is in my path. I may stumble off a cliff and break all my bones, or I may happen upon a great treasure that will buy comfort to last me all my days. What I cannot do is hold myself mired in place. You are mired, friend Richard."

"I've a right to be."

"For a while. But that you came here tells me even you know the while is past. You wish to break free."

"I've wished it from the first! I wished it, prayed for it, demanded, begged, shouted to the skies for it. Why has it not happened?"

"Because until now it was not the right time."

Richard snorted, then sagged. An answer that was no answer. Not to him, anyway. "I thank thee for listening, Joseph. You have been kind."

"You think I've not helped you?" He laughed. "You will see, child." With some effort, Joseph boosted himself up.

"Ah, but those flags are cold on my bones. I shall take myself to a good fire now. God keep thee, traveling Richard."

"And you. Here-take this token to remember my thanks." Richard pulled a gold ring from his small finger and pressed it into Joseph's hand. "It will buy you wood enough to warm thee."

"An old man's blessing on thee in turn do I give. Be of good cheer. The road has many twistings." He bowed his head once, turned, and shambled from the church. Richard could hear the tap of his staff on the frozen ground for a time, then full winter silence fell. He was quite alone again, dwarfed by the emptiness around him.

It is too easy for me to feel sorry for myself.

Compared to blind Joseph, he had all there was in the world.

Everything but blind faith?

To that he had to answer yes. And he still did not know what to do about it. Falling on his knees before the altar would seem but empty posturing now. He had a disturbing feeling that he'd somehow moved forward, all without noticing. Well, he would see if the road had a twisting ahead soon enough, when the snow melted.

He departed the church, pushing the door shut. The day was still dark, but he kept his hood well forward and shrugged his sleeves down to cover his hands. Just because he could not see the sun did not mean it wasn't there to burn him.

He looked about for some sign of where Joseph had gone, spying footprints in the snow, leading back toward the hospice. They sometimes crossed the ones Richard had left. He wondered where the old man had come from, for there were no other tracks. Perhaps he'd been sitting in a dim corner near the door all along.

But such speculations left him about fifty paces from the church. On one side of the path stood a strong young sapling, its straight trunk nearly his own height. The same height, in fact, as Joseph's staff.

He cast about for Joseph, but the old man's steps halted here.

That the little tree had not been there earlier was strange enough, but what reduced Richard to gaping astonishment was the fact that it was thickly foliaged as though at the height of summer. The tender green leaves seemed to glow against the virgin snow, bathed in a light from a hidden elsewhere.

He touched one, and found it to be real. He plucked it away and smelled the fresh sap.

And on this sunless day a glint of gold winked brightly at him from the green. At the base of one of the slender limbs was his ring. It fit around the wood exactly; indeed, the bark was beginning to swell and grow over it.

The leaves rustled in the wind like warming laughter, but a chill seized Richard, and he ran the rest of the way back to the hospice.

He wanted to tell someone, but could think of none. There were many in his company, but servants all. They would accept his story without demur. He'd not be able to discuss its meaning or ask questions. They would only shrug and call him blessed and continue on with their own little tasks. Telling even Ghislaine would not be right.

For the first time in years he wanted Sabra with him, not to pour out his bitterness, but to share his wonder. She, of all those he knew, would absolutely understand. How he ached for her.

It was time to go home.

He pushed noisily into the hospice, drawing breath to tell them to get ready to decamp. They would obey willingly enough once they knew their destination.

But he never gave the order. Standing but a few paces inside was the richly cloaked figure of a woman. His heart stopped for an instant and a smile of true joy broke upon his lips.

Sabra?

She turned round, pushing back her scarf. His heart resumed its beat, but sank low. She was not Sabra, only some noblewoman also stopping here to rest.

Richard quickly gathered his wits, pushed his hood back, and made a low bow. "Greetings, lady."

She curtsied in turn. "Greetings to thee, Lord du Lac."

Damnation, she knew him. He wanted no part of courtly life just now. He had much to do and think about.

"I heard in the next village that you were traveling to here," she said. "I am glad to see they were right, for long have I searched for thee."

He had no ready reply, puzzling over the familiarity of her voice and face. "And you have found me." He hoped she had not sought him out for some errand, for he would have to disappoint her.

Her smile faltered. "You do not remember me? It's not been too long, I hope. Recall you Elaine, daughter of Lord Pelles Bernard?"

He managed to shut his gaping mouth, go forward, and bow over her hand. "Of course I do. I could not see you well coming in from the light outside. How fare you, good maid?"

She laughed-and he'd have recognized that sound at least-and touched her free hand to his cheek. "Maid no longer, my lord."

Of course, she'd have married after all this time. He saw something of the change in her, now that he knew to look.

Her bearing was sedate, as befitted any dame past twenty. Her figure was more lush and there was a maturity in her eyes only experience brings. "My congratulations, good lady."

She retained her impish smile. "We are at cross purposes. Come without, I would speak with thee."

Which meant no servant was to hear. He held the door for her. She swept out, pulling her cloak tight. "Glad I'll be when spring comes. This is the worst winter I've ever known."

"What brings you out in it, then?"

"Something of import to you, I hope."

"What? A message from the king?" That did not seem right. If the king wanted him, there were other messengers to send.

"No, from me. I've been trying to find you for a very long time. You've wandered to and fro so quickly that any missive I sent to you was lost or arrived too late. Only a week ago a minstrel come to sing for his supper at our keep claimed to have seen you on the road heading this way, so we rode hard to catch you up."

"We?"

"My brother Lavaine is with me as escort and protector."

"And your husband?"

"I have none."

"Ah. So why have you sought me out? What message would you impart?"

"An important one. It is your own fault that it arrives so many years late."

"I'm sorry-"

"Never mind that, Lord Lancelot. Come this way and you will know all."

She had grown into quite the imperious lady, but then he recalled she'd been as sweetly demanding in bed as well.

He followed her to where her party had paused on the road. It was a small group, half a dozen armed squires, their horses, and a supply cart. The latter puzzled him, for if they'd wanted speed, they should have had pack animals along.