It was about the prisoners at St. Mere Abelle and in chapels all around Honce. It was about a higher plane of justice and of truth, and, without that place, then for what was life worth living, anyway?
He prayed to Blessed Abelle and he prayed to Brother Fatuus.
Brother Pinower would not fail.
The first of Milwellis’s catapults let fly the next morning, throwing a huge stone to the field just before the towering stone walls of St. Mere Abelle. Inside the chapel courtyard, the ground shook, and more than one man upon the wall cried out in alarm.
Dame Gwydre walked resolutely across the courtyard, a lone figure, tall and thin with her light brown hair cut short and fashionable and a smart but simple wrap pulled tight about her. Around her the monks and the attendants, who were mostly former prisoners of one side or the other in the ongoing war, rushed to and fro, calling out orders and crying for everyone to take cover.
Dame Gwydre ignored those shouts, and when the next rock soared in, this one clipping the top of the chapel’s front wall, then skipping up and over with a line of debris behind it, the woman did not flinch in the least. The Dame of Vanguard was no stranger to war. Entire villages under her domain had been sacked, every person and animal within murdered by the hordes of goblins and trolls inspired by the vicious Ancient Badden. She had smelled the stench of death, had witnessed the mutilation, and had lived for years on the very edge of disaster. It would take more than a few haphazard catapult throws to rattle Dame Gwydre.
She walked to the parapet ladder and gathered her wrap to free her legs, calmly climbing even as shouts announced a third missile was on the way. The blast hit the wall not far from where Gwydre climbed, and her ladder bounced back dangerously before settling once more into place.
Again, the woman didn’t flinch as she climbed to the parapet. She looked out over the long, sloping field toward Weatherguard, shielding her eyes so she could better discern the line of catapults.
“Dame, I beg of you, seek cover!” one monk exclaimed as he rushed to usher her away.
“Only a coward would throw from afar,” she replied. A fourth stone rose into the air but fell far short, bouncing about the turf and rolling to within a few strides of the wall.
Dame Gwydre laughed at the pathetic shot. “I do not fear cowards, brother,” she said to the monk and turned to face him directly to let him see her serene smile.
The man straightened his shoulders and returned her smile. From him emanated the same sense of calm that became infectious about the courtyard. The brothers and attendants went about their chores with rocks arching through the air, setting watchers along the wall, calling shots and yelling to those in an area of imminent peril. But the disruption had been minimized, as Gwydre had hoped, and morale had been fully restored to the point where a playful betting pool erupted about where each subsequent stone might hit.
Dame Gwydre spent most of the morning on the wall, even placing a few bets with the brothers, until Father Premujon scrambled up the ladder behind her.
“Artolivan is not well this day,” he informed her. “He will likely not rise from his bed.”
“Has he named anyone to speak in his stead?” Gwydre replied.
“Brother Pinower is out to the east. Brother Jurgyen, perhaps?”
“Has Artolivan named a successor?”
“Dame, he is not dying!”
“We are all dying, father,” she calmly replied. “He should name a successor.”
“Fathers of the order are selected by committee, not as an inheritance,” Premujon explained.
“I know, and I know, too, that such a gathering of leaders could not be brought about easily.” She turned to look over the field, for the monks were calling to her of danger. She spotted the boulder immediately where it arced and spun end over end, almost as if it were flying slowly, as if all the world were moving in half time.
“Dame!” Father Premujon cried. He grabbed her and tried to pull her aside.
Gwydre resisted his tug. The enormous rock plummeted at the last and hit the wall below; the shock wave nearly knocked them both from their feet.
“I win!” Gwydre cried in elation, and a great cheer went up about the courtyard. She winked at Father Premujon. “I do make such an inviting target.”
“Lady?” the monk gasped.
Dame Gwydre walked by him to the ladder and started down. “Gather the masters,” she bade the father. “Let us dine together this day.”
“Where are you going?”
“To speak with Father Artolivan.”
The dame caught up with Premujon and the other monks, all the masters of St. Mere Abelle, as the meal was being set out in the chapel complex’s great dining hall. She waited for the attendants to finish bringing the food and drink before standing at the center of the long table and lifting her flagon in toast.
The others stood and lifted their cups in reply, but all were glancing around with confusion, not quite sure what to make of this impromptu gathering. The rocks had been flying at St. Mere Abelle all morning long, and a couple of men had been injured, though, thankfully, none seriously.
“I have spoken with Father Artolivan,” Dame Gwydre explained. “He is well. Let us toast to his continued health.”
“Huzzah!” the monks cheered and drank, and more than a few started to sit once more. But Dame Gwydre remained standing and kept her flagon high.
“But in the event that his health should worsen,” she said, “Father Artolivan has named a successor, a steward to the leadership of the Order of Blessed Abelle.”
Now the whispers began, some soft, some loud, as the brothers all began chattering with surprise.
“Should God take him from us, Father Premujon of Vanguard will steward the chapel and the order,” Gwydre said.
“This is unprecedented,” one monk remarked. He looked to Jurgyen, whom many considered Father Artolivan’s most trusted advisor. Many other gazes also fell upon Jurgyen as the brothers took their seats.
“Father Artolivan has decreed this?” Jurgyen asked.
“He has, and I trust you will go and confirm it presently,” Dame Gwydre replied.
But Jurgyen surprised her, showing the strength of his character. “No need, good lady!” he said with great exuberance. “We all trust the messenger.” At that, Jurgyen stood and lifted his mug, and everyone followed suit. “And who can disagree with the wisdom of Father Artolivan’s choice?”
There was nothing but sincerity in the young man’s voice, and almost everyone in the room was nodding in agreement. There would be no argument here; the brothers had decided to work toward the common and most important goal, their personal pride put aside.
Dame Gwydre looked to Father Premujon. The man fidgeted and seemed quite out of sorts. But in the end, he smiled back at her and joined in her toast. Dame Gwydre had facilitated this. They all knew it. She had gone from the wall to Father Artolivan’s bedroom and had demanded that he name a successor and that the successor be the man of her choosing, the father from Vanguard whom she had known and trusted for many years.
When Father Premujon asked—accused, actually—Gwydre of this after the dinner, the woman didn’t deny her role in the least.
“He needed the responsibility lifted from his old shoulders,” she explained. “And I needed someone in place who would remain strong through the trying days ahead. I needed you, Premujon, a fellow of Vanguard, who has known great hardship and who will not flinch when King Yeslnik comes calling.”
Father Artolivan, confident in Gwydre and their mutual selection of Premujon, rested very well that night, sleeping more peacefully than he had in years, since the war between Ethelbert and Delaval had commenced.
He died quietly the next morning.
EIGHT
The Heart of the Matter
“And so our young hero has found a cause,” Master Reandu said to Bransen when the Highwayman ventured to Chapel Pryd later that same day.
Bransen eyed him curiously, no
t pleased by the sarcasm in his tone.
“Bransen will fight for . . . Bransen,” Reandu said. “I am surprised that you did not bargain harder with Bannagran. Perhaps you might have added some gold to the purse for your services.”
Bransen continued to stare at the man to try to take a measure of this sudden change. Hadn’t Reandu begged him to “accept the deal” offered by Bannagran? And now he seemed quite perturbed that Bransen had done exactly that. They locked stares for some time.
“Are you angry with me, Brother Reandu?” he asked. “Or with yourself?”
“With both,” the monk replied. “And with all the world.”
“A few hours ago you bade me accept the deal and help be done with this war,” Bransen reminded. “What has changed?”
Reandu rubbed his face, looking very weary indeed. “In helping Bannagran, you aid Yeslnik.”
“Yeslnik or Ethelbert,” said Bransen. “They are one and the same. Equally worthless.”
But Reandu shook his head, slowly and deliberately.
“What has changed?” Bransen asked again.
“King Yeslnik’s advance guard came in this day. The king is not far behind,” said Reandu. He got up and moved about the room, peering out every exit to ensure that they were alone. “King Yeslnik has declared war against St. Mere Abelle.”
“St. Mere Abelle?”
“Chapel Abelle,” Reandu explained. “Abelle has been declared a saint by word of Father Artolivan and the masters, and so the chapel has been renamed in deference to Abelle’s holy station. With the declaration has come a determination of defiance against King Yeslnik, and he, in turn, has declared the church outlaw. Do you know Father De Guilbe?”
Bransen scoffed at the mention of the unpleasant man.
“Then you do,” said Reandu.
“He has brought trouble,” Bransen reasoned. “That is no surprise.”
“He will arrive here with King Yeslnik in the morning.”
Reandu went quiet, and Bransen sat back and digested the bits of information. “So if King Yeslnik has declared the church outlawed and yet Father De Guilbe travels with him . . .” He paused and looked at Reandu, who was nodding slowly.
“Then De Guilbe is now outside the order,” Bransen finished.
Reandu frowned. “The Church of the Divine King.”
“No,” Bransen corrected, “the order, your order, is now led by De Guilbe and not Artolivan.”
The weary Master Reandu rubbed his face and looked away.
“So it does matter to you now which side proves victorious,” Bransen said. “Before, you were interested merely in ending the war, but now the stakes have been raised. Now it has become a personal trial for Master Reandu.”
The monk looked back at him, and there was no disagreement in his solemn expression.
“Do you wish to recant your advice to me, your humble servant?” Bransen asked, unable to resist a bit of smugness at that confusing moment. “Should I betray Bannagran and flee to Ethelbert’s flag? Or should I simply surrender to Bannagran once more and go back to his chains and blades?”
“No, of course not,” Reandu said. “No, Bransen. My advice to you would not have changed.”
“But you do not wish Yeslnik to win,” Bransen said bluntly.
Reandu’s eyes widened, and he glanced all around nervously. Then he growled, angrily, and began breathing heavily, and Bransen could see that the man was torn here, was mad at himself. Did Reandu, perhaps, not like what he was learning about his own courage and convictions?
“When the war was merely about the torn flesh of peasants, Reandu cared less,” Bransen stated. “But now, over some silly allegiance to a sainted dead man and a meaningless church, Reandu has come to care.”
“I always cared, Bransen,” Reandu replied, his voice showing the wound. “Always did I wish to alleviate the suffering. . . .”
“If the war was declared over this very day, Yeslnik the victor, De Guilbe the new religious head of Honce, would Reandu accept the verdict?”
The clever question had the monk wincing in pain and embarrassment.
“I would not have advised you differently, even had I known the escalation of enmity between St. Mere Abelle and King Yeslnik,” he said, strength returning to his voice. “My duty is to advise you to do that which is best for you and for your family. I would not have Bransen executed by Bannagran before King Yeslnik’s throne, nor would I demand of you that you find in this war a higher context and mission.”
“Even as you are faced with exactly that?”
“Perhaps,” the monk said and shrugged. “I see no clear path before me, but I will seek the correct road for myself and for those who look to me for guidance.”
“De Guilbe or Artolivan?” Bransen asked. “Hardly a difficult choice.”
Reandu looked around once more as if he expected the royal guard to swoop down upon them at any moment. “What do you know?”
“De Guilbe is a wretch,” Bransen said. “A merciless brute quick to punish any who disagree with him. You know of his history?”
“I know that he went to Alpinador at the request of Father Artolivan.”
“Where he imprisoned those who would not bend to his demands of conversion and warred with those who came to rescue their imprisoned brethren,” Bransen replied. “Murdering them at the base of his fortress walls. Do you think that a proper use of the holy gemstones? And when one of the brothers in his charge could not stand the needless bloodshed any longer and thus freed the captured Alpinadorans, bringing peace to the island, De Guilbe ordered the monk beaten unconscious and cast out in a boat to die. But he did not die—indeed, he rescued me in the cold north, and that man, that monk Cormack, is of great character and conscience, a man your order should revere and not torture!”
Bransen’s own volume gave him pause, and he was surprised to realize how much he had emotionally invested in the fight between Cormack and the church. He couldn’t help but give a little self-deprecating laugh at his own unexpected passion. “I was in the north at the demand of Dame Gwydre of Vanguard,” he explained.
“Yes, to battle Ancient Badden. The details have come to Chapel Pryd. Your exploits were no small matter to the Order of Blessed Abelle, I assure you.”
“And when I went to battle Ancient Badden, I went with many allies, including the monk De Guilbe had cast out to die. But De Guilbe was not beside me, nor were any of those under his command. Nay, he fled the field.”
Reandu stared at him.
“And when Dame Gwydre pardoned the monk De Guilbe had banished, and when Father Premujon of Chapel Pellinor supported her edict, so began the battle between the church and Father De Guilbe. In Chapel—St. Mere Abelle, Father Artolivan, too, opposed De Guilbe, strongly.”
“And you believe that his defection to Yeslnik is self-serving and not necessarily rooted in the call of his conscience,” Reandu reasoned.
“It is rooted in his wounded pride,” Bransen assured him. “And nothing more, unless it is his realization that his actions have cost him the succession of old Artolivan’s seat.”
Reandu took a moment to digest this information before stating the obvious, “You are not pleased with Yeslnik’s choice of De Guilbe, and never were you pleased with Yeslnik himself, as I recall. Has this news given you pause over your agreement with Bannagran? Will you betray him and simply run away?”
“No,” Bransen answered without hesitation. “For I have seen the alternative, Laird Ethelbert, and am no more impressed by him. My fight is personal with Affwin Wi; she stole my sword and the star brooch Father Artolivan entrusted with me. I ride with Bannagran but care nothing for the larger questions of the day. There is no right and wrong to be found there in my heart.”
“I don’t believe you,” said Reandu.
Bransen started to rebut the monk but held his tongue. Something about the manner in which Reandu was looking at him told him the truth of the monk’s accusation: Reandu didn’t believe him because Rea
ndu expected more of him.
That notion shamed Bransen. He wanted to deny that Master Reandu’s opinion held any meaning to him. He reminded himself of his years living in the hole in the floor of Chapel Pryd, when Reandu and Bathelais and the other brothers had practically imprisoned him and had given him the most humiliating and filthy duties. He had carried chamber pots for this man, Reandu, and given the unsteady legs of the Stork, he had often worn their contents.
He brought back all of those unpleasant memories then in an attempt to defend against the pangs of guilt, but one truth kept peeking through the wall he was constructing: Reandu had cared about and for him, and in the critical moment when Master Bathelais was about to strike Bransen dead—as Bransen tried to rescue Cadayle from the rape of Laird Prydae—Reandu had stopped Bathelais.
“I’ll not betray Bannagran,” Bransen said. “My fight is with Affwin Wi. Your own choice is more important to the ways of the world.”
“Many look to the Highwayman with hope.”
“Your order is fractured and is choosing sides,” Bransen reminded. “The Highwayman is but one man.” He paused and lowered his eyes, closed them, and closed his heart. “The Highwayman is but one dead man, killed in the east by warriors from Behr.”
Brother, begin the process,” Father Premujon ordered. “It is no small matter,” Brother Jurgyen replied with obvious exasperation.
“It is necessary.”
Jurgyen shook his head. “We cannot affect the fate of Vanguard’s ports. Whatever information we may garner would be cursory and would not alter our course. . . .”
Father Premujon closed his eyes, his face growing very tight, and Jurgyen wisely quieted.
“Brother,” Premujon said after taking several deep breaths, “the gulf teems with Palmaristown warships—likely Delaval ships, as well. Lady Gwydre is cut off from her people, and those people may well prove critical in our battle with King Yeslnik.”
“We cannot affect the fate of—”
“Information is power!” Premujon interrupted. He raised his voice for effect and not in anger, grabbing Jurgyen by the shoulders. “We have in our grasp the greatest weapon of all. We can see events far removed and know the outcomes weeks before our enemies can adjust accordingly. We will be the quicker!”