Lady Elizabeth lifted her head off the pillow, then rolled onto one elbow, wondering what had wakened her. She reached out to touch her husband for reassurance, then remembered that he had not come home—nothing unusual; the hunt often took him far enough, late enough, so that he stayed the night with Sir Whittlesy. But the apprehension in her breast turned to fear, from knowing that he was not home.
She frowned, angry with herself, and slid out of bed; she had footmen and maids and men-at-arms to guard her, if she needed. She was probably troubling herself for no reason; if there were any real danger, her guards would already be shouting the house down and fighting the intruder.
But a cold breeze seemed to blow against her back as she wondered why she had thought of an enemy entering her moated grange. Why not have thought of fire or flood, or even a squabble between servants?
Naught but a woman's megrims, she told herself sternly, and caught up her bed robe. As she started to wrap it around herself, though, she heard a clanking sound beyond her door and froze, heart leaping into her throat. For a moment she stood, frozen by fear, then forced herself to move toward the door. This was nonsense! she told herself. She was a knight's daughter, and should be indifferent to fear.
But the clanking came again, and her heart hammered in her breast. Still, she kept moving, reaching out for the unseen door in the dark…
It yawned open before her, creaking, and she stopped dead in her tracks, fear frissoning into terror, for dark against the dim glow of the night-lamp bulked a suit of armor, filling the doorway. For a moment her terror almost wheeled into panic, but she just barely managed to rein herself in and demand, "Who art thou, come so unseemly to my chamber?"
The man stood silent, closed helm turned toward her.
"Who art thou?" she demanded again, and was relieved to feel some of her fear transmute into anger. "How durst thou so afright me, coming here unheralded, unexpected? Nay, have the small courtesy to tell me thy name!"
Still the man stood, only staring.
"At least lift thy visor!" she cried in exasperation. Good, good—she was working toward fury. Anything would be better than this unbearable fear! "Ope thy helm and let me gaze upon thy visage, at least!"
The man's hand went to his visor then, and she felt a thrill of triumph as he lifted it…
And a bare grinning skull looked out at her with empty sockets where its eyes should have been.
Terror struck, and she screamed and screamed till unconsciousness claimed her and she mercifully swooned.
Rod had hoped it would go away if he ignored it, but it had been eight days now, and Gregory was still feeling as though he wanted to be a monk when he grew up. Rod hoped it was just a phase, but knew he had to at least pay it lip service—so here he was, trudging out of the woods with his youngest at his side (walking instead of flying, so as not to afright the natives) toward the log chapter-cabin of the brand-new Runnymede Chapter of the Order of St. Vidicon of Cathode.
So what was he doing bringing the boy, if he was so skeptical? Well, that was the point—that Gwen wasn't skeptical; she was delighted. Any medieval parent would be—having a son in the monastery was instant status. Not that the senior witch of Gramarye needed to worry about such things (though she would have liked it if the majority of the people she met really approved of her), but it was nice thinking she had an "in" with the Other World, too.
That wasn't really it, either, of course, and Rod knew it. Gwen was just happy thinking that her baby was going to have a surer road to Heaven than any of the rest of them. Which, he had to admit, was a nice idea—but he wasn't sure of it. He'd known too many clergymen himself.
"It's not all it seems to be, son." They turned into the footpath that led to the door. "Not just praying and contemplating." He pointed toward a three-monk team that was plowing the field near them. "That's how they spend most of their time—in good, hard work."
"Why do they say that 'tis 'good'?" Gregory asked.
"Because they think it helps keep sinful impulses away. I think it mainly keeps them worn out."
Gregory nodded. "Well, weariness would keep flesh from temptation."
Rod stared at the boy, amazed (as he always was) to find that children could understand so much. Probably right, too—after ten hours of pulling a plow, the monks couldn't very well have enough energy left for sinning.
The lead monk in the team looked up, saw them, and held up a hand. His mates stopped, and he disengaged himself from the harness, then strode over the furrows to meet them. As he came close enough, he called out, "Greetings… Why, 'tis the Lord Warlock! And his youngest."
"Well met, Father." Rod was startled to see it was Father Boquilva.
"And well come." The priest came up to them, dusting off his hands. "What matter brings thee, Lord Warlock? Have my brethren bred trouble again?"
"No… well, yes, but nothing we weren't expecting. Really nothing to do with the trip." He clapped a hand on Gregory's shoulder. "But this is."
"Thy lad?" Father Boquilva registered surprise for only a fleeting second; then he smiled and turned away toward the house. "Well, 'twill be more than a passing word or two. Come, sit and sip!"
Rod followed, squeezing Gregory's shoulder for reassurance—Gregory's reassurance, that is.
"Brother Clyde!" Father Boquilva called as they neared the house.
A big monk looked up in surprise, then laid down his trowel and mortar board and came toward them.
"This is Brother Clyde," Father Boquilva said to Gregory. "As thou seest, he doth labor with his hands, as do all of us— and if his task seems lighter than mine, be assured that yesterday he did labor in my place."
The big monk smiled and held out a hand that fairly swallowed Gregory's. The little boy looked up at him, wide-eyed.
"And this nobleman is Rod Gallowglass, the Lord Warlock." Father Boquilva looked up at Brother Clyde again. "I must speak with these good folk awhile; wilt thou join Brother Neder and Father Mersey in my place?"
"Aye, and cheerfully." Brother Clyde sighed. "Is not that mine office? Good day, good folk!" He bobbed his head to them, and walked on toward the plow.
"This is a monk's life," Father Boquilva explained as they went in, "prayer at morning and night, and hard work between, then rising to pray in the midnight also. Yet that thou hast already seen, when thou didst watch us aforetime."
Gregory looked up, startled. "How didst thou know we did watch?"
"Why, for that thou didst come to aid us in fighting," Father Boquilva said easily, sitting at a long table made of rough-hewn boards. " 'Ware splinters, now… and how couldst thou have'come, then, if thou hadst not been watching, hm? Yet this thou hast not seen—the inside of the chapter house. Regard how monks live."
Gregory looked about him. " 'Tis clean and clear."
Perception was amazing. Rod would have said it was empty and sterile.
"Clean indeed, and 'tis monks' labor keeps it so. 'Tis we ourselves who spread the whitewash, and we who crafted the tables and benches—as well as the wooden cups." Father Boquilva poured from a pitcher and set a mug in front of Gregory. "There will be ale in the fall, and wine in the spring—yet for now, 'tis water. And even with ale and wine, 'tis clear water for the greater part. Our food is bread, greens, and fruits, with meat on feast days."
" 'Tis a hard life," Gregory said, eyes wide.
"Aye, and thou wilt therefore understand the strong call it doth need, to do God's work." Father Boquilva took a long, thirsty drink, then looked up at Rod. "Now, Lord Warlock! In what matter may I aid thee?"
"You already have." Rod smiled, amused. "My boy has a notion that he may want to be a monk when he grows up."
The only sign of surprise was Father Boquilva's total stillness—possibly, Rod thought, because the priest had already guessed. Then he poured himself another water. "Well, 'tis not unheard of for a vocation to make itself felt so early in life. Though 'tis more common for a lad to feel the tug of the holy life, then find it was only one of many such pulls we all know, ere the strong, steady pull of the true vocation doth come. 'Tis a hard life, lad, as thou dost see me—and many who begin it as postulants return to their families ere they take the novice's vows. Of those who stay, many retire ere they become deacons; and even some few of the deacons return to the worldly life and never take final vows."