Always mindful that letters could be intercepted, Cecile buried any information of true importance in a mire of the trivial. Indeed, examining the seven letters, Sir Ander noted signs that the latest one, dated only two days ago, had been opened. Someone had passed a hot knife under the wax seal, leaving the seal intact but permitting the snoop to read the letter’s contents. The snoop had been careless, however, having allowed the seal to partially melt.
The snoop had wasted his time. Cecile’s letter to Sir Ander was that of one old friend to another, filled with news of the court, talk of the latest fashion, a witty description of a party given aboard the royal barge, expressing admiration for a young musical prodigy who was taking the court by storm, and discussion of her problems managing her estate. He enjoyed her writing; he would take time to savor the letter later, in the lonely hours of the evening. For now, he was curious as to why someone had gone to so much trouble to intercept this particular letter. He read it before reading the others.
Sir Ander found nothing in it that would mean anything to anyone else and he decided the letter had probably been opened at random: just someone checking on the countess. The last sentence meant a great deal, but only to him.
When all else fails, know that you can still rely on my friendship and this small token of my esteem.
“When all else fails,” Sir Ander softly repeated the words.
All else-including magic. She was letting him know she was aware of Father Jacob’s investigations. But then, of course she would know. Probably the king himself had told her.
And Cecile had told Sir Ander. She trusted him; perhaps he was the only person in the world beside Stephano she could trust. Her friend and her son.
The thought warmed him.
Sir Ander was tall and well-built with an upright, military bearing. Years ago, when he had courted the young and beautiful Cecile de Marjolaine, he had been considered handsome. Over the years, his strong-jawed face, that had once exuded rakish confidence, had softened, becoming graver, more serious. His smile was generous and lit his eyes. Father Jacob was volatile, a bomb liable to go off at any moment, leaving debris and destruction in his wake. By contrast, Sir Ander was reliable, steady. Women were drawn to him. He was fifty years old and he knew many women who would have happily and proudly called him “husband.” He had never married. He would never marry. He would always remain faithful to his own true love.
Sir Ander carefully folded Cecile’s letter (more valuable to him than the pistols) and placed it along with the other unread letters in the inner pocket of his coat. He then rose to his feet to greet the courier.
The Abbey of Saint Agnes, located about four hundred miles north and west of Evreux, near the Bay of Faighn, and one hundred miles east of the city of Westfirth, would require a good twelve days to reach traveling by land. Sailing the skies, the Retribution could make the journey in two days. Even this was too slow for the impatient Father Jacob and much too slow for Sir Ander and Brother Barnaby, who had to put up with him.
Sir Ander spent his time performing routine maintenance on the yacht’s arsenal of weapons, a task made difficult by Father Jacob’s restless stompings about the yacht and his attempts to point out to Sir Ander that he was doing everything wrong. Sir Ander had learned early in their relationship that it was far easier to agree with Father Jacob than be drawn into an argument. Sir Ander, who was an expert on firearms, as well as being an excellent shot, nodded when Father Jacob attempted to tell him how to load the canisters that were fed into the swivel gun, and chuckled to himself when Father Jacob stalked off to instruct poor Brother Barnaby how to manage wyverns in flight.
As Barnaby had predicted, Father Jacob was incensed when the monk insisted that his wyverns had to be rested and fed after only four hours of flight. The monk suggested they spend the night in the coastal town of Predeau.
“We will waste eight hours!” Father Jacob stated angrily. “I insist we keep going. We can hire wyverns from one of the inns-”
“Fly with hired wyverns!” Brother Barnaby repeated, appalled.
His wyverns were his love, his pride and joy. They were like children to him, and the thought of abandoning his wyverns, leaving them behind in a strange place to be cared for by strangers, was too much to bear. He cast a desperate glance at Sir Ander.
“I thought you might use this time to question the sailors in some of the local taverns, Father,” said Sir Ander. “Find out if they saw anything odd or unusual in the Breath the night of the attack on the abbey.”
Father Jacob glowered and appeared about to make some caustic comment, then he relaxed and gave a wry smile.
“I do believe you are trying to get rid of me, Sir Ander.”
“All I’m trying to do is get a good night’s sleep,” replied Sir Ander. “And I can’t do that with you stomping about.”
“Talking to the sailors is a good idea,” said Father Jacob. “Brother Barnaby, land some distance from town. I don’t want anyone to see us. I will change clothes,” he added, opening one of the chests built into the bulwarks. “Can’t go roaming about the docks looking like the Angel of Death. Scare people half out of their wits.”
Brother Barnaby cast Sir Ander a grateful glance.
They camped by the Rim, close to where the Rhouse River emptied into the Bay of Faighn, a magnificent sight-water roaring over the edge of the continent, cascading into the Breath in a cloud of mist and rainbows. The river was swollen, for now was the rainy season, the time of year when rains fell incessantly in the continent’s interior for days on end, replenishing the water in the rivers and lakes and in land seas. The water fell off the continents into the Breath, creating the mists and the clouds that would then rise up and cause the rains. God’s everlasting miracle.
Just as the magic is his everlasting miracle, thought Sir Ander. Except now not so everlasting.
Brother Barnaby released the wyverns to hunt. Father Jacob, dressed in a disreputable shirt and trousers topped by a shabby jacket, headed off for the docks. On these occasions he refused to take Sir Ander, saying he would be a hindrance. The knight had no gift for acting and always looked and sounded exactly like what he was, no matter how much he tried to disguise himself.
Sir Ander did not overly worry about Father Jacob going off on his own without a Knight Protector. Dressed in shabby clothes, the priest would not be a target for thieves. The worst that might happen was that he would end up in a barroom brawl, which, knowing Father Jacob, he would actually enjoy.
Sir Ander and Brother Barnaby both slept soundly; neither of them awoke when Father Jacob returned in the wee hours with bruised knuckles and a wide grin. He had, indeed, enjoyed himself, which made up for the fact that the sailors he questioned had not seen or heard anything untoward in the Breath. He did hear rumors about Trundler houseboats coming under mysterious attack, but such tales had been circulating for years, and were generally held to be nautical ghost stories.
The next day, with the wyverns well-fed and well-rested, Sir Ander and Brother Barnaby well-rested, and Father Jacob once more in a good mood, Retribution set sail for the Abbey of Saint Agnes.
Chapter Fourteen
People term us thieves and vagabonds. Their Church would see us banned from Heaven. Their communion with God is not our way. We are the Trundlers, children of a world gone by.
Ours is a culture of two halves, the half we show the world and the half we hold in our hearts and in our words. Our people remember the old ways, the old songs and lore and the true pathway to God, long since corrupted by their church.