Standing in the middle of the cellar with a sickened look on his face, Alric said, “I can’t believe I am being subjected to this.”
“Consider it a vacation,” Hadrian suggested. “For at least one day you get to pretend you are nobody, a common peasant, the son of a blacksmith perhaps.”
“No,” Royce said preparing his own sleeping space, but keeping his boots on. “They might expect him to know things like how to use a hammer. And look at his hands. Anyone could tell he was lying.”
“Most people have jobs that require the use of their hands, Royce,” Hadrian pointed out. He spread his cloak over himself and turned on his side. “What could a common peasant do that monks wouldn’t know the first thing about and wouldn’t cause calluses?”
“He could be a thief or a whore.”
They both looked at the prince, who cringed at his prospects. “I am taking the cot,” Alric said.
Chapter 4: Windermere
The morning arrived cold and wet. A solid gray sky cast a steady curtain of rain upon the abbey. The deluge streamed down the stone steps and pooled in the low pocket of the entryway. When the growing puddle reached Hadrian’s feet, he knew it was time to get up. He turned over on his back and wiped his eyes. He had not slept well. He felt stiff and groggy, and the cold morning air chilled him to the bone. He sat up, dragged a large hand down the length of his face, and looked around. The tiny room appeared even more dismal in the drab morning light than the night before. He moved back away from the puddle and looked for his boots. Alric had the benefit of the cot, yet, he did not appear to have fared much better. Despite having a blanket wrapped tightly around him, he lay shivering. Royce was nowhere to be seen.
Alric opened one eye and squinted at Hadrian as he pulled his big boots on.
“Good morning, Your Highness,” he said in a mocking tone. “Have a pleasant sleep?”
“That was the worst night I have ever endured,” Alric snarled through clenched teeth. “I have never felt such misery as this damp, freezing hole. Every muscle aches; my head is throbbing, and I can’t stop my teeth from chattering. I’m going home today. Kill me if you must, but nothing short of my death will stop me. A grave is certain to be better than this misery.”
“So that would be a no?” Hadrian jested, rubbing his arms briskly. He got to his feet and looked out at the rain.
“Why don’t you do something constructive and build a fire before we die of the cold,” the prince grumbled, pulling the thin blanket over his head and peering out as if it were a hood.
“I don’t think we should build a fire in this cellar. Why don’t we just run over to the refectory? That way we can warm up and get food at the same time. I am sure they have a nice roaring fire. These monks get up early, probably been laboring for hours making fresh bread, gathering eggs, and churning butter just for the likes of us. I know Royce wants you to stay hidden, but I don’t think he expected winter would arrive so soon, or so wet. I think if you keep your hood raised, we should be fine.”
The prince sat up with an eager look. “Even a room with a door would be better than this.”
“That may be,” they heard Royce say from somewhere outside, “but you won’t find it here.”
The thief appeared a moment later, his hood up and his cloak slick with rain. Once he ducked in out of the downpour, he snapped it like a dog shaking his fur. This sent a spray of water at Hadrian and Alric. They flinched and with a grimace the prince opened his mouth to speak, but he stopped short. Royce was not alone. Behind him followed the monk from the night before. He was soaked. His wool frock sagged with the weight of the water, and his hair laid plastered flat on his head. His skin was pale, his purple lips quivered, and his fingers were wrinkled as if he had been swimming too long.
“I found him sleeping outside,” Royce said as he quickly grabbed an armful of the stacked wood. “Myron, take off that robe. We need to get you dry.”
“Myron?” Hadrian said with an inquisitive look. “Myron Lanaklin?” Hadrian thought the monk nodded in reply, but he was shivering so hard it was difficult to tell.
“You know each other?” Alric asked.
“No, but we are familiar with his family,” Royce said. “Give him the blanket.”
Alric looked shocked and held tightly to his covering.
“Give it to him,” Royce insisted. “It’s his blanket. This fool gave us his home to stay in last night while he huddled in a wind-lashed corner of the cloister and froze.”
“I don’t understand,” Alric said, reluctantly pulling the blanket off his shoulders. “Why would you sleep outside in the rain when—”
“The abbey burned down,” Royce told them. “Anything that wasn’t stone is gone. We weren’t walking through a courtyard last night—that was the abbey. The ceiling is missing. The outer buildings are nothing but piles of ash. The whole place is a gutted ruin.”
The monk slipped out off his robe, and Alric handed the blanket to him. Myron hurriedly pulled it around his shoulders, and sitting down drew his knees up to his chest, wrapping them in the folds as well.
“What about the other monks?” Hadrian asked. “Where are they?”
“I…I bu-buried them. In the garden mostly,” Myron said through chattering teeth. “The gr-ground is softer there. I don’t th-think they will mind. We all lo-loved the garden.”
“When did this happen?”
“Night before last,” Myron replied.
Shocked by the news, Hadrian did not want to press the monk further and a silence fell over the room. Royce continued building a fire using various pieces of wood and kindling from inside the hovel. He used some oil from the lantern and quickly built a fire near the entrance. Despite the storm’s wind lashing the flames violently, the fire grew strong. As it did, the heat reflected off the stone walls, and soon the room began to warm.
No one said anything for a long time. Royce prodded the fire with a stick, churning the glowing coals so that they sparked and spit. They each sat watching the flames, listening to the fire pop and crackle while outside the wind howled and the rain lashed the hilltop. Without looking at the monk, Royce said in a somber voice, “You were all locked in the church when it was burned weren’t you, Myron?”
The monk did not reply. His gaze remained focused on the fire.
“I saw the blackened chain and lock in the ash. It was still closed.”
Myron, his arms hugging his knees, began to rock slowly.
“What happened?” Alric asked.
Still Myron said nothing. Several minutes passed. At last, the monk looked away from the fire. He did not look at them, but instead, he stared at some distant point outside in the rain. “They came and accused us of treason,” he said with a soft voice. “There were maybe twenty of them, knights with helms covering their faces. They rounded us up and pushed us into the church. They closed the big doors behind us. Then the fire started.
“Smoke filled the church so quickly. I could hear my brothers coughing, struggling to breath. The abbot led us in prayer until he collapsed. It burned very quickly. I never knew it contained so much dry wood. It always seemed to be so strong. The coughing got quieter and less frequent. Eventually, I couldn’t see anymore. My eyes filled with tears, and then I passed out. I woke up to rain. The men and their horses were gone and so was everything else. I was under a marble lectern in the lowest nave, and all my brothers were around me. I looked for other survivors, but there were none.”
“Who did this?” Alric demanded.
“I don’t know their names, or who sent them, but they were dressed in tunics with a scepter and crown,” Myron said.