Chapter 6
Glayer watched the man hold forth yet another swath of rich velvet, this one in a deep sapphire blue. His lips curved in a slight smile and he held his chalice loosely in his left hand as he reclined in his chair in the lord’s chamber. His dressing gown lay heavy and warm against his skin, the material fairly singing with luxury.
“That one is very nice,” he said to the anxious tailor. “But have you anything in red?”
He bowed repeatedly. “Certainly, my lord. Certainly.”
The man scurried to his pile of goods on a low, wide ottoman, and Glayer observed his enthusiasm to please with great satisfaction. And well he ought—Thurston Hold’s lord was keeping the man employed with all the costumes he was commissioning of late. There were feasts and fêtes, tunics cut to impress his calling neighbors, costumes for travel and while petitioning at Henry’s court. Why, it was exhausting being of such high rank, considering only the number of times he was forced to change his clothing.
But the idea of it made his smile grow. Glayer Felsteppe had never been so . . . comfortable in all his life, and not simply in his physical person. True, Thurston Hold was a veritable palace, his furnishings and clothes rivaling Henry’s own, but it was his sense of inner peace that brought him the most happiness. His enemies? Banished. Dead, likely, but even if they weren’t, there was absolutely nothing that could be done to dislodge Glayer from his much deserved life. Constantine Gerard and everything he’d ever claimed as both a general and as the earl of Chase had vanished as if he’d never existed. And soon Glayer would own the last piece of the man’s legacy: the lands of Benningsgate.
He thought he’d leave the castle ruin standing for sentimental reasons.
Yes, Glayer was now titled, rich beyond compare, and working diligently to become a trusted resource to the king in his time of familial and clerical strife. Perhaps there was even a chance Henry would one day elevate Glayer to a dukedom.
The door to his chamber opened beyond the little stooped tailor and Glayer’s smile grew. He placed his chalice on the table and held his arms up expectantly.
“Glander!” he called, and the little dark head turned at the sound of his voice. “Come to Papa.”
Eseld lowered Glander into his arms and the baby smiled up into Glayer’s face. “Good morning, son. Have you had your breakfast, then?”
“It’s past luncheon, my lord,” Eseld said.
“Is that so?” Glayer said, touching a finger to the little chap’s nose. “We don’t care one whit, do we? We do not.”
The tailor cleared his throat timidly, causing Glayer’s smile to falter as he glared at the man for daring to intrude. He continued to scowl until the tailor fidgeted and then at last began gathering up his long lengths of cloth and, giving a hasty bow, scurried toward the door.
“Forgetting something?” Glayer called out after the man and raised his eyebrows as the tailor froze in his tracks and turned back.
“A thousand pardons, my lord,” the man said, dropping to his knees before Glayer. His head bent down and then Glayer felt the twin brushes of the man’s lips on the tops of his feet. He rose and likewise kissed the tiny, gowned impressions of Glander’s feet as well.
“You’re dismissed,” Glayer said with a wave. “Go on and fashion me a suit each in the blue and the red.”
“Certainly, my lord.”
“And I’ll need both complete costumes by the end of the week.”
The tailor hesitated. “Of course, my lord.”
Glayer looked at the man pointedly. “Well?”
“Only waiting for further instruction, my lord.”
“Get out!” he screamed. Glander whimpered in his arms and so he raised his hand up to cup the baby’s ear. “That was loud,” he allowed.
The door to his chamber shut and Eseld took advantage of the privacy to sit in a chair near his small side table. It was a gross liberty, but Glayer let it go. She was allowed some comfort, he supposed. He stroked Glander’s silky hair.
“Preparing for our next visit to the king, my lord?”
“I’d planned for us to travel to court at the end of the week, Nurse, but it will have to be postponed a bit—I’ve been invited to a fête at Jarlswood to be held in my honor.” What an interesting creature this boy was, his son. It didn’t even bother him that the child bore such a close resemblance to his mother. Theodora had been a stunning beauty. “Several lords of no little importance will be in attendance, I’m told.”
“I thought your priority was securing Benningsgate.”
He turned from the baby to glare at Eseld. “Excuse me, but I don’t believe your duties extend to the role of adviser. You’re barely qualified as a nurse.”
The old woman stiffened and turned her eyes away but made no rejoinder.
“There is no race for Benningsgate. No one else can hold such a claim to it as I, although many of our neighbors would love to add the lands to their own. Henry must agree that I am the worthiest of it, considering the obscene amount of money I am willing to pay above its worth.”
“Some may put up a fight,” Eseld warned timidly.
“And that is why it is so important that I make a good impression on my neighbors, dear Nurse,” he said condescendingly. “As young Glander here grows into his birthright, there will be no shortage of allies and those wishing to align with Thurston Hold and the powerful house of Felsteppe.” He bounced Glander again. “Isn’t that right? We shall claim everything as far as our eyes can see, shan’t we? Yes, we shall.”
Eseld’s already thin lips seemed to disappear in her lined face.
“When you leave,” Glayer continued pointedly, “locate Simon and send him to me. I’ve a task for him.”
“He’s still recovering his arm,” the nurse snipped. “You can’t think to—”
“You will do as you’re told!” Glayer roared, the baby in his arms startling and then beginning to cry. Glayer’s face felt afire as he tried to calm himself enough to comfort his son, holding the boy closely on his shoulder and hushing him. He hated for the boy to cry—the sound was piercing and gave Glayer a headache, as well as making the child’s countenance a horror.
“You needn’t fear that I’ll have him rebuilding the sanctuary he’s all but deserted. I’m sending him on a journey.”
Eseld didn’t comment, but Glayer couldn’t keep from telling her the details of the thing. It was brilliant really. A complete coup.
“I’ve found out at last where my enemies have been hiding all these years—under the protection of an abbot at a cloister in Austria. By the time Simon makes the lengthy journey, he should be recovered enough for his task.”
“You’re sending an old priest to kill your enemies?” Eseld asked with a confused frown.
“Don’t be stupi—well, you can’t really help that now, can you?” he smirked. “No, Simon’s task is not to kill the four men against me—if even they still live. His status as a priest will allow him to beg counsel from his Christian cohort.” Glayer patted the baby’s warm, smooth, rounded back and spoke softly now; the little fellow had fallen asleep.
“Simon is to gain audience with the man who has sheltered the four responsible for my strife the past five years. Victor, I believe he is called. Shh, shh,” he comforted the stirring boy. He looked over the baby’s head. “And then he will kill the priest. He’s the only one left with enough reputation to possibly vouchsafe for the traitors.”
Eseld didn’t move, didn’t comment, although he could see the fury in her cloudy eyes. Good; he hoped she was vexed, the foolish, delusional fanatic.
“So, go on and fetch him, Nurse,” Glayer goaded.
Eseld stood and approached the lord of Thurston Hold and his heir, her spindly arms reaching toward the child.
“No, leave him,” Glayer commanded, knowing it would pain her to do so. She hesitantly turned to go and Glayer cleared his throat softly. Eseld froze in her escape.
“Pay your homage,” Glayer reminded her in a quiet, happy voice.
The old woman turned and dropped to her knees, kissing Glayer’s feet. She reached a trembling hand toward the end of the baby’s dressing gown, but Glayer cupped his boy’s feet in his hands, denying her.
“That will be all,” he said.
Eseld struggled to her feet and quit the chamber, pulling the door closed behind her and leaving Glayer and the baby on the luxurious velvet chaise.
Glayer sighed through his contented smile and stroked the baby’s fine gown, covering his shallow, even breaths. “Mothers,” he complained on a sigh. “Be glad you don’t have one. And you’re welcome.”
* * *
The boy stood for a moment between the pair of massive winged cherubim, soaking up the bright sunshine. He had to squint, even with his hand shielding his eyes. The statues must have been fifteen feet tall, but rather than being intimidating, they seemed to smile down on him.
He dropped his hand and faced forward, looking past tall, wide gates to the courtyard beyond, where it seemed the entire population of the compound was milling about the plots of trees and fountains. He felt a bit of nerves settling in his stomach. He should be relieved, he supposed; now that he’d survived this far, all he had left to do was follow the instructions Father Simon had given the woman on the Chatham road.
If he could find the one Simon had named among so many similarly garbed men inside . . . He swallowed down the shaky feeling in his throat.
But not all the men inside were dressed the same, he now saw, and not all of them were even men. Three couples dressed in the clothing of laity were clustered near the center of the courtyard, an equal number of mounts waiting nearby and obviously equipped for a journey. The men and women were smiling and taking turns embracing one of the robed men in particular, a skinny, balding monk.
Must be him.
He drew a deep breath and started through the gate, glad that no one had thus far noticed his arrival. But that was usually the case with adults and children. Very few grown persons ever paid young ones any heed, unless it was to get up to something dastardly. Up to this point in his journey, it had suited him just fine to be ignored.
He paused and quickly dropped to one knee, wriggling his filthy forefinger beneath the ankle lace of his shoe until he felt the little round coin. He was dismayed that he hadn’t taken time to wash up in the river when he’d snuck from the boat. Perhaps the man wouldn’t take him seriously if he thought him nothing more than a dirty, penniless orphan.
Well, it was the truth, wasn’t it?
He stood once more, feeling a moment of dizziness, and then began his march forward, the gold coin clutched so tightly in his right fist he wondered that it didn’t melt.
One of the well-dressed men—he had eyelashes like a woman and a fancy tunic with braiding—caught sight of him over the slight monk’s head and gave a quizzical smile.
“Pardon me, Victor,” the man said, and his accent was foreign even to this part of the world. “I think there is someone who wishes to speak with you, yes?” The woman at his side, holding a girl child in her arms, leaned ’round and gave a coo and a kind smile of the sort ladies were wont to give as her gaze caught sight of him.
The monk turned around and looked down, his own slight smile on his face. His eyes were red-rimmed and glistening. He opened his mouth and spoke in the language of the towns planted along the winding river below, but of course the words made no sense.
The boy seemed unable to slow his breathing, had to swallow several times. He tried to recall Simon’s exact instructions to the woman.
Up the river to Austria, in the town of Melk, where there is an abbey. Give this to the abbot there—Victor. Tell him who you are and what has been done to you. If there is any help to be had for you . . .
“Are you Victor?” the boy asked, surprised at how strong his voice sounded to his own ears, when he was actually more than a little concerned he might vomit before all these finely dressed people staring at him with amusement.
The monk’s reddened eyes widened a bit. “I am indeed, my son. Do you require my assistance? I’m a bit occupied now, but if you—”
A huge blond man stepped forward, a falcon sitting easily upon his shoulder, and placed a hand that seemed as large as a cartwheel on the monk’s own thin shoulder. “It’s all right, Victor. We have a long journey ahead of us. We can surely wait a moment more.”
The monk reached up and absently patted the large man’s hand before turning his attention back to his visitor. “Well, then. What can I do for you, child?”
The boy wrenched his attention away from the hunting bird and thrust out his arm, his fist opening with what seemed to him to be a creaking of his fingers, the bright sun glancing off the gold in his palm in delirious flashes. Almost finished now . . .
All those gathered around Victor seemed to still. They leaned forward slightly to gaze at the coin offered to the monk and glanced at one another quizzically or with frowns.
Oh, no. Maybe it meant nothing after all. Maybe the woman had been right, and Simon had been sending her on a goose hunt to get her far away.
Victor himself reached out very slowly and retrieved the little metal disk with forefinger and thumb. He looked down at it thoughtfully for a moment before raising his eyes slightly to regard the boy once more. “Where did you get this, child?”
Tell him who you are and what has been done to you . . .
He swallowed down his fear again.
“My name is Christian Gerard. A man called Glayer Felsteppe killed my mother and I think my father might be dead, too. His name is General Constantine Gerard, and he is the earl of Chase. I know that it probably doesn’t make very much good sense to you, but I was told if I came here, you could help me.”
The abbot made a strange sound in his throat before he was pushed gently aside and a man with long hair stepped into his place and then squatted down before Christian. He reached out his arms, and when his sleeves rose, Christian saw that his skin was painted with spiraling black swirls. His eyes sparkled as he grasped Christian’s elbow with one hand and cupped the side of his face with the other.
“Christian?” the man asked, and his voice broke on the word. “Christian Gerard?”
Christian nodded, and the tightly winding spring of fear was somehow uncurling in his stomach. “Did you know my father?”
The man suddenly gave a huff of laughter and he smiled, even as a tear raced down his cheek. In the next moment, Christian found himself pulled into the man’s painted arms, held tightly against his chest. No one had embraced him since his mother had died, and even though the man was a stranger to him, Christian could feel the love and compassion coming from him like the warm glow of the sun above. It surrounded him, cushioned him, sank into him. Then the man pressed his lips to Christian’s cheek, which he knew had to be grubbier than his hands because he had no way of seeing when it should be cleaned.
Then he felt other hands touching his hair, his back and arms, and the light of the sun was blocked as he was taken into the somehow even brighter fold of these strange and beautiful people, all laughing and whispering his name.
“It’s all right,” the man holding him said. “It’s all right now—you’re safe. Thank God, thank God—it’s a miracle.” His arms tightened around him, rocking him slightly.
Christian curled his dirty fingers into the man’s clean tunic, buried his face in his neck, and at last sobbed like the child he was.