"If you get us there, we'll sing about you in songs, call our best colts by your name, and tell your story on a cold winter's night."
Slowly, slowly I unwound his reins from about the post.
"The Glory of the Black Steed,' we'll call it. It will be a story told for a hundred generations."
Half cooing, half whistling to the horse, slowly, slowly I started to gather the reins in one hand.
And slowly, slowly the horse rolled his head, pulled the reins from my hands, and ambled away.
I broke into a run. He broke into a slow canter. I went into a full sprint, and he went into a light, prancing gallop and waggled his fat hind end just as he disappeared into the woods. I flung a rock, but it missed his last waggle.
Innes was waiting patiently when I came back, winded. "I don't think he likes that noise you make with your tongue," he said.
"We need to cross the village and find the road on the far side. I can see it easily enough from here. It borders five, six, seven fields and then finds the woods."
"Is there anyone at work in the fields?"
"No one."
"And between us and the fields?"
"I see a long barn, the church, another barn beside a round barn, the manor house, the commons, then a row of houses, maybe ten or twelve."
"Perhaps if we waited till dark."
"And I see Lord Beryn's Guard just coming out of the woods."
"Anything else?"
"Nothing but the miller, who is hurrying off to meet them."
"Perhaps he is off to sell them some bread."
"Not bread," I said. "You know, Innes, I've spent whole days in my life when nothing ever happened to me."
"See what you've missed by not being blind. Maybe we should try to hide in the church."
Crouching, we ran toward the village. I was surprised at how suddenly the day seemed very, very bright, and how the light sharpened everything. Every branch was glinting with last night's hard frost. The stubble that stood in the fields stuck brusquely up and caught the light full. The air was perfectly blue, so blue that it startled the black trees to attention.
And even as my breath came shorter and shorter, I realized that deep inside, in a place touched only rarely, I was gladdened by the world, and gladdened by Innes. Even with Lord Beryn's Guard coming into the village behind us.
We crossed to the barn and creaked the door open. Rows of cows raised their heavy heads to us, then returned to their slow chewing. Fresh hay lay on the flooring, and a pitchfork was propped against one stall.
"Someone will be coming back soon, so let's be quick. Don't step there, Innes."
Through another door at the far end of the barn, then across to the church, a pause under the stone archway, then a push through the door, and we were in. The heavily spiced darkness of the place came around us. It might as well have been night outside, for all the light that shone here. Tiers of thick white candles lit the far end where the altar stood, their waxy smell spreading through the church, but their light huddled under the darkness sinking from the roof. It was all as quiet and as still as could be.
"I think we're alone," I whispered.
"No," said Innes, shaking his head.
"Who is ever alone in a church, children?" said another voice, and I saw someone rising from his knees in the center aisle, his robe blending so perfectly with the darkness that I had not seen him. He stood as quiet and as still as the church around him. His robe was belted tight—he looked as though he fasted regularly—and the low light of the candles set a halo around his head. In that holy place he seemed more spirit than body.
"Those who flee are safe here," he said slowly.
"Even two hiding from Lord Beryn's Guard?" asked Innes.
"Most especially two hiding from Lord Beryn's Guard. But most houses in Twickenham would have been a safe place. Not all—some are tempted beyond their mortal will—but most. Have the Guard returned?"
"They have," I said.
He asked nothing more, but beckoning, he led us deeper into the church, behind the altar and into the apse, where he set us crouching behind an altar screen. He motioned with his hands that we were to stay, and we waited, breathing heavily, but somehow never doubting that he had the mortal will to resist the temptation of a reward beyond imagining. When he came back, he brought bread and cheese, and milk still warm from the udder."It pleases me to think that ours might be the richest, creamiest milk in Twickenham, though I am often warned against boasting," the sexton admitted.
"Do you know the way to the abbey at Saint Eynsham?" asked Innes.
"I do. You are only a few hours away from it. I have traveled to Saint Eynsham Abbey myself."
"To the queen?" I said. "Do you know her?"
He spread his hands wide. "I was serving the abbey when she first arrived, but I am only a sexton. The small offices I have done her she would hardly remember. And she was none too eager to meet anyone then. She had just been banished to the abbey, you see, and that without her child."
"She was banished to the abbey," repeated Innes slowly.
"By the king himself. I am told he does not forgive easily. Finish the cheese now. You'll not be disturbed here. Even Lord Beryn's Guard would not desecrate the altar—though there's one who would, if he knew you were here. At nightfall you'll come to my house. You'll eat again and grow warm."
But it wasn't eating and warming that first met us that night. The sexton came back for us late, carrying two cloaks the color of gray night. We scurried through the dark and moonless night, so dark that even the stars seemed to shine no light. We followed his sure steps to a whitewashed cottage, the door opened to a gleam of yellow light, and he shoved us in."Wife,"he whispered. There was a moment of utter quiet, then a high squeal of such pitch that piglets could hardly have matched it. "By Saint Julian himself, it can hardly be true. Can it be true? It cannot, yet it is," and by the time she had finished, we were encased in the nurse's arms and drawn into her, and she was murmuring at us and crying and laughing, as if we had been her long-lost babes, returned to her arms at last and ready to remember her own dear lullaby.
Then there was more food—mutton and cold ham and eggs whipped to a froth—and all the while she was heating buckets of water for us, and we ate to the hot splashing of it into a copper tub. "A sight," she said, drying her hands on her apron. "You're as black as if you'd rolled with hogs. And there's other things I could say about you that would hardly be proper to say to folks so lately met." She reached above her, pulled a handful of purple herbs dangling from the beam, and threw them into the water. "You first," she said to me. "And you'll be next. Give me those smelly things you've got on. No, I'll have none of that. I've raised more than my share, and there's nothing new under the sun for me to see. So be quick about it and in you go."
I had forgotten how delicious it was to be so warm. But even more, I was surprised at how pleasing it was to have someone fuss over me. She lathered me up, wiped me down with a coarse towel, and clothed me in carefully patched clothes, all the while crooning her lovely lullaby.
And afterward there was hot cider, the tale of the Grip at the two mills, the tale of her own escape in the cart—"Saint Leoba herself must have sent her blessed bees"—and then wonder at the king and his riddling. "And the king sent the Grip to guard you?" exclaimed the nurse. "Another riddle only the queen herself might answer," she said.
But as to Lord Beryn, she knew well enough why he might set his Guard in search. "By Saint Sebastian, he is a man who hates for no reason other than to hate. Why, he hated even the queen, that gentle soul, only because she was a miller's daughter. 'I'll not be bowing my knee to a peasant,' he said aloud, and even in her presence if the king had no ear nearby. He would have killed her and the child both, if the baby hadn't disappeared first. Then he turned the king against her, and that's why she sits alone in Saint Eynsham Abbey, the dear, with never a word of those she loved."
"Can a man hate so much that he would kill a baby?" I asked.
&nb
sp; "Yes," murmured Innes,"and worse."
The sexton rose and stood behind Innes, his hands on his shoulders. "Who knows how the hate of Lord Beryn fits into the design of all things in this world, and whether even that hatred—yes, wife, even that hatred—will take its right place. But for now, sleep."
The nurse led us to their loft and laid us down between heavy rugs, pulling them over and around us so that their fur lay thick and warm against our chests, and the sweet, heavy smell of the leather came up against our faces. She tucked the heavy comfort of it tight around us. The sexton sat by the door—he would stay there till morning—and I watched the nurse stand over him and touch her hand against his cheek.
I lay back, caught between waking and sleep, then fell gently into dreamlessness.
Chapter Seven
When I woke up, it was full dark. The wind outside whined as it searched for chinks in the walls, then whistled shrilly when it found one and stuck its nose through. It was a cold whistling, and I was not ready to leave the huddle of the rugs when the sexton's hand shook my shoulder.
"I'll take you to the abbey now. It's best to go soon, while it is still dark and we can see the watch fires of Lord Beryn's Guard."
I nodded, still half asleep.
"And one thing more. The Grip is not in the mill."
I was no longer half asleep. I shook Innes awake.
"His body has been moved?" But the sexton only shrugged his shoulders.
The nurse had three packs ready for us and our dark cloaks on her arms.
"There's more than one time we've taken a secret walk at night when Lord Beryn's Guard have been about," the sexton explained with a sly wink,"and we've enjoyed the venison for it all the next winter."
The nurse draped the cloaks around us and crushed each of us in turn—even the sexton.
"Be safe, be safe. And when you reach the queen, may you find her well, poor dear." She clasped us closely once more, then doused the lamps and shushed us out the door. The touch of her hand on my back stayed with me through the night.
And a dark night it was. As dark as we would have wished, and darker. Innes held on to my cloak and I followed the sexton, though it was not easy. His thin self scurried like a rabbit, the stars alone giving him enough light. We did not speak, nor did we ever slow our pace. We moved like the shadow of an owl, and as quietly, while the wind crackled together the icy branches over our heads.
Long before any light even hinted at the dawn—the beginning of our fourth day—the sexton stopped us. "A short rest," he whispered. "We'll be there soon enough, and it's then we'll see the Guard's fires."
I nodded and sat down, my back against the rough bark of a tree. Almost immediately the heat from the walking left me and the ground frost began to work its way up my back. I held my cloak close, while Innes paced back and forth, beating his arms against his sides.
"Heaven only knows how you'll find the queen," the sexton whispered."It's been eleven years and more since I last saw her, and then she seemed like one who had fallen into herself, what with her sadness. What more years of brooding might do to her..." He shook his head at the thought. "She came to Twickenham once, you know, soon after she was crowned and on her way to visit the abbey nuns. Our maids danced for her, and they put flowers in her hair and she danced with them, round and round about. It seemed that hers would be the sweetest reign. Then a year later she came again, alone and at dark. On a night just as cold as this, I saw her ride into Saint Eynsham Abbey with my own eyes."
"She was alone," said Innes. It was not a question.
"She was with my own dear wife, her nurse, sent off with her, never to return to the castle. But at the king's command, the king's loving command, she was turned away at the abbey doors, and the queen walked in alone and unattended, like a peasant in search of a night's shelter. At the gate I found her nurse weeping and weeping, and there was no way to comfort her, the child being gone and the queen walled away. And so I brought her here"
"How is it the queen lost her baby?" I asked.
A long moment of silence."You haven't heard the story?" Innes asked."Tousle, it's one I've heard over and over again, and me just an orphan shuttled from horse stall to horse stall. How the queen bore the king's heir, and how he disappeared after a year, probably murdered. How the king banished his queen to Saint Eynsham Abbey, there to live the rest of her life unless called upon."
"I never heard the story," I said, standing and rubbing the chill out of my legs. "My da never told it."
"And now is not the time for the telling of it," said the sexton. "Not if we hope to pass Lord Beryn's Guard while the dark is still with us." And so we started again, trudging forward with numbed toes.
And the dark was still with us when the trees thinned out and showed Saint Eynsham and the abbey beyond, a low dark mass against a low dark sky. I would have not seen it if it had not been for the pale lights that flickered feebly in three of its windows.
There were no fires in the clearing between us and the village, and no sign of Lord Beryn's Guard. Still, the sexton was cautious," Steady now, steady now," he said from the last grouping of trees. "The Devil himself would be in it if we were to come so far and be caught at the very doors." Slowly he stepped out, stepped back in again, and then out once more. Three steps and he motioned to me to follow.
And so slowly, crouching, sometimes breaking into a run, we crossed the open ground and reached a small stream. "There," said the sexton, pointing. "Put your feet just there." But I could see almost nothing in the darkness, and though the sexton leapt from stone to stone, Innes and I were soon wet up to our knees, until we both finally simply waded across most of it."There used to be a ford here," said the sexton.
"There isn't anymore," replied Innes. We went on, the frigid water squishing out of our shoes and our toes starting to pain as though they could crack off.
"Will we be able to get into the abbey?" I whispered.
"Will there be a fire to welcome us?" asked Innes.
The sexton held up his hand to quiet us. "If it's heard that you two have reached the abbey, it's not the getting in that you'll need to be worried about. Mind you move quiet as the tomb here, or we'll have every dog and rooster and pig in Saint Eynsham barking and cackling and squealing."
We moved past a row of houses—all dark, all sleeping—and to the commons. It was too cold for any cows to be tethered there—winter still holding on as it was—so we ran across it, startling only a few of the larks that had begun to gather. Past another row of houses, and then we stood at the top of a vale that sloped down between two rounded hills. And in the very center of that vale stood Saint Eynsham Abbey.
"Now, the way you'll want to be going..." began the sexton.
"A moment," whispered Innes urgently. The sky that had grown pinker and pinker as we crossed Saint Eynsham showed brighter, brighter, and then yielded to the white sun that rolled over the world's edge. And in the utter quiet, Innes stood with his face to it, rapt, still.
"Whatever is he doing?" asked the sexton.
"God's gift," I said.
The sexton nodded his head and waited patiently. "It's yours to hear the dawn, then," he said when Innes turned back to us.
"It is," said Innes surprised."How would you know that?"
The sexton leaned forward and mussed his hair. "You're hardly the only one God is giving gifts to. How do you think that I'm able to find my way through the woods on the darkest night?" Then, as the larks began to sing, he pointed down the vale to the abbey.
I felt alone. In all this wide world, was everyone so sure of his gift but me?
The path out of Saint Eynsham meandered to a stone-arched door, the only opening in a wall three times as high as a man. The wall rounded the abbey in gracious curves, heading up a rise and curling at the top of the gorge, then coming back through lowland and around again up a bare hill, finally closing its loop at the end of a sturdy limestone church, the cross on its roof like a key locking it all together.
br /> "That over there is the abbey church," said the sexton pointing, "and a finer one you'll never see this side of Wolverham. Follow along the wall there, and you see Saint Joseph's Chapel, Saint Mary's Chapel, and there, the smallest, Saint Anne's. If I were to make a guess, it would be to Saint Anne's that the queen goes to say her prayers.
"Now, follow the line of these cherry trees across the court. The cherry trees, Tousle, not the pear. Right. At the far end is the abbess's house. The grand one. Just to the south of it—no, to the south, boy—there's the abbey hall. It's where the Holy Sisters will be when they are not at prayers. It's where they do most of their living."
"And that is where the queen will be?" asked Innes.
"It may be that she would be there. But, Tousle, if you look back to Saint Anne's Chapel, you see where there has been new building? It's my guess that those are the queen's rooms."
I stared down at the abbey grounds. The first sunbeams had already scampered past the ordered fruit trees—pear and cherry—and clambered all around the chapel steeples, and finally lay against Saint Anne's, where they were beginning to dry the dew from the dark slate.
"Then I'll be leaving you here, Tousle, and you, Innes. You'll find an attendant at the door, and she'll welcome you, though I'm of a mind that she'll not take you to the queen. You'll need to find that way yourselves. But if you do come to meet the queen, if you do, give her a blessing from me, and tell her that I well remember the sad night that brought her here."
A pause.
"And I'll be remembering you both as well."
"And we you," whispered Innes.
"We'll be back," I said. "When the riddle is solved and we've taken it to Wolverham, we'll be back."
The sexton raised his hand in blessing and farewell, and left us looking down on Saint Eynsham Abbey.
The sexton was wrong about the attendant. Though all the limestone apostles smiled down from their cozy niches, the iron hinges on the oak door did not creak open with a welcome. Instead, a tiny window jutted open at our third knocking and a face thrust out, a face as solid as the rounded stones that arched the door. It might almost have been made of rock itself.