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Imagine! He might pass men-at-arms bearing the standard of the Salian king. He might watch Hessi merchants, men from a foreign land so distant that none of the Osna merchants had ever visited their towns, men who had unusually dark skin and hair, who wore round pointed caps on their heads even when they were indoors, and who were said to pray to a god different than the Lord and Lady of Unities. He might speak with traders from the island of Alba, where, it was said, the Lost Ones still walked abroad in the deep forests, hidden to the sight of men. He might even hear the adventures of the fraters, wandering priests ready to venture out again to barbarous lands to bring the word of the blessed Daisan and the Church of Unities to people who lived outside the Light of the Holy Circle of Unity.
Once a year, during the summer, there was a great fair at Medemelacha where any possible thing known to men might be bought or sold. Slaves from lands far to the south, where the sun, as fierce as a blacksmith’s furnace (or so said the merchants), burned their skin black, and others from the ice lands who were so pale you could see right through them. Infant basilisks chained in shrouded cages. Goblin children from the Harenz Mountains, trained as rat-catchers. Bolts of silk from Arethousa. Cloisonné clasps in the shape of wolf heads, gold and green and blue, to ornament the belts and fasten the cloaks of noblemen. Finely wrought swords. Pitchers molded of white clay, painted with roundels and chevrons. Amber. Angel tears like beads of glass. Slivers of dragon’s fire ossified into obsidian.
“You have left me, Alain.”
He started back to himself, aware that he was standing like a lackwit ten paces from the door that led into the vestibule and thence to the sacristy, where the sacred vessels and vestments for the church were kept.
Smiling, Brother Gilles patted him on the arm. “You must accept what Our Lord and Lady have chosen for you, my child. For They have chosen. It remains only for you to understand what They ask of you, and to obey Them.”
Alain hung his head. “I will, Brother.”
He took the jar of oil inside and left it with one of sacrist brother’s mute assistants. Coming back outside to an afternoon dimmed by the approach of clouds, he heard horses and the cheerful noise of riders unfettered by the vows of silence that most monks took.
Circling to the front of the church, he saw Father Richander, Brother Gilles, and the cellarer speaking with a group of visitors. The strangers were brightly dressed in tunics and capes trimmed with borders of red leaves and blue diamonds. There was a deacon and her attendant frater in drab brown robes, a woman with a fur-trimmed cloak, two well-dressed men, and a half dozen foot soldiers in boiled leather tunics. Imagine what it would be like to ride free of here, of the monastery, of the village, to ride outside the great Dragonback Ridge that bounded his world and venture into the world beyond!
He edged closer to listen.
“The usual tithe includes the service for a year of five young persons of sound body, does it not, Mistress Dhuoda?” Father Richander asked of the woman in the fur-trimmed cloak. “If you ask for more, then the townspeople may be forced to send some of the young persons we employ as servants here, and that would create hardship for us, especially now, in the planting season.”
She had a haughty face, tempered by a grave expression. “That is true, Father, but there have been more raids along the coast this year, and Count Lavastine must increase his levy.”
Count Lavastine! Mistress Dhuoda was his chatelaine; Alain recognized her now, as she turned toward him to gesture to the soldiers accompanying her. If he could not sail with his father, then he had hoped that at least he might be called to service in Count Lavastine’s levy, even if only for one year. But it was not to be. Alain knew why. Everyone knew why. The church was the suitable place for the child Merchant Henri had acknowledged and raised as his own but whom everyone knew was really the bastard child of a whore.
“God speed you on your journey, Mistress,” said Father Richander as chatelaine and deacon mounted their horses. The soldiers readied themselves to walk.
Brother Gilles limped over to Alain. “If you wish for company on your path, you could walk with them,” he said. “You will return to us soon enough.”
“I will.”
He fell in behind the foot soldiers. Chatelaine Dhuoda, leaning to talk with the deacon, did not even appear to know he was there, trailing along after the others. No one paid him any mind.
They passed out through the monastery gates and began the long climb up the hill. From behind, rising out of the church, Alain heard the cantors begin the chant for the office of Nones. The voices of the choir drifted after him as they marched up into the trees. Then they were engulfed by forest.
He was used to the walk, but Count Lavastine’s soldiers grumbled among themselves.
“King’s monastery, that’s what they are,” said the youngest of the men.
“King of Wendar, you mean. No king of ours, even if he claims the throne.”
“Ha! Selfish bastards, too, fearin’ count’s levy will take their servants away. Don’t want to sully their hands with commoner’s work, do they?”
“Hush, Heric. Don’t speak ill of the holy brothers.”
Young Heric grunted irritably. “Do you think the abbot wonders, though, if the levy is being raised to fight raiders or to join Lady Sabella’s revolt?”
“Quiet, you idiot,” snapped the older man, glancing back.
Alain tucked his chin down, trying to look harmless. Of course they had noticed him. They just didn’t think he was worth acknowledging. But no man, even in Varre, would talk rebellion against King Henry in front of a man whose loyalties he did not know.
They trudged the rest of the long walk in silence. Alain measured it reflexively by the offices which would soon circumscribe his day. It took from Nones to Vespers to walk up and over Dragonback Ridge, down the long slope to the dragon’s head where lay the prosperous village of Osna. Fittingly it began to rain, a dreary mist that settled in around them. By the time the little party reached the longhouse of his Aunt Bel, he was soaked.
Chatelaine Dhuoda was expected, of course. She arrived once a year to exact the portion due to Count Lavastine from the village. Usually the young people who had spent the previous year in the count’s service returned with her. Over time St. Euseb?’s Day had become the traditional day for a young person to embark on an apprenticeship or to bring a fosterling home. But this year Dhuoda was alone except for her retinue.
Alain stood by the hearth, drying his clothes by the heat of the fire, and watched the greeting ceremony at one end of the hall. At the other end of the hall, his siblings and cousins and the servants of his aunt’s household laid the table on which they would serve a feast. Under the shadowed eaves on either side of the long hall the youngest children sat on chests or huddled on beds, keeping out from underfoot.
The baby began to cry. He walked over to the cradle and picked it up, and it stilled at once, sucking a finger and staring with now perfect equanimity at the scene. Motherless, this child, as he was; its mother had died birthing it, but there was no doubt that his cousin Julien was the father since Julien and the young woman had declared before the village deacon their intention to wed. Because Aunt Bel’s daughter Stancy was nursing a child and had milk to spare, Bel had fostered the baby in her house.
When it came time to serve, Alain handed the baby over to one of his young cousins to hold. It was a mark of Chatelaine Dhuoda’s importance that Aunt Bel, one of the richest persons in the village, had her own kin rather than her servants serve the table at which Dhuoda now sat. Alain poured ale and so he was able to hear much of the conversation that went on between the chatelaine and the merchants and householders who were important enough to be seated at table with Count Lavastine’s representative.
