Dragon Tree (28 page)

Still, it was
a risk, for there was no way of knowing who had already passed
through the gates and might be taking refuge inside.

As if to aid
in making the decision, the skies cracked open with a jagged fork
of lightning. The rain increased to slanting sheets that forced
everyone in the small group to turn their heads to the side. Ciaran
caught sight of Amaranth’s face and was appalled to see that her
lips were blue, her eyes glazed and unfocussed.

“We cannot
stay in the open,” he decided. He raised a gloved hand to signal
them forward, cautioning the men needlessly to pull their cloaks
tight about them. It was common for monasteries to insist that
weapons be left at the gatehouse but a knight without a sword was
as naked as a forester without his bow and quiver, and so he
ordered that daggers and swords be well concealed.

Amie barely
paid heed. She was cold and wet. The rain had penetrated the
tightest weavings on her cloak and was running down the back of her
neck. Chills and aches swept through her in waves and twice over
the course of the past hour she had reached beneath her tunic for
the small vial that contained the aumosniere.

As Tamberlane
led the group across the meadow, the rain beat down on their heads
and shoulders and did not let up until they were across the wooden
bridge and approaching the gatekeeper. The latter looked as sodden
and as sullen as the pilgrims he was sheltering. He was as broad
around as he was tall, with a fat, jowly face shielded under the
brim of hat that collected water and spilled it over his nose each
time he tipped his head to or fro.

“God’s
greetings to you, my son, and in His name, I bid you welcome to St.
Albans.”

“God’s
greetings to you, good friar," said Tamberlane. "We come seeking
shelter from the storm.”

“As do all His
sheep, my son,” the monk replied wearily, without looking up. “How
many, anon?”

“There are six
of us. Hungry, weary, and wet enough to beg a humble roof over our
heads for the night.”

“Humble, eh?”
The friar noted the quality of the horses and the well-fed look of
the two wolfhounds who sat and calmly returned his stare.

Tamberlane
produced a small handful of copper coins. “Not so humble as to
prefer the common hall over a bit of privacy,” he said quietly.

“Ah.” The monk
looked up then, spilling water down his back. A pudgy hand reached
out for the coins and contemplated the weight. “No doubt God's
creatures will want shelter and fodder as well?”

Tamberlane
dropped another coin into the cupped palm. The motion disturbed his
mantle enough to outline the shape of his sword beneath.

“You may leave
your weapons here with me, my son," the monk said, eyeing the
shape. "They will be well tended until you fetch them in the
morning."

Tamberlane
glanced pointedly at the small pile of swords and daggers left
carelessly on the mud and dropped several more coins into the
cupped hand. “We come in peace, Little Brother.”

“Peace? Is
there such a thing in mother England these days? Nay, I think not.”
He made the sign of the cross as a blessing and when he was done,
the coins had vanished somewhere inside his robes. “Seek out
Brother Ignatius inside the gate. God go with you.”

“And with you,
good friar.”

A nod and a
long trickle of water flowing off the brim of the hat sent them on
their way through the iron gates of the monastery. Inside the
cobbled courtyard, the men rode directly to the stables. Tamberlane
dismounted and handed the reins to a waiting stableboy. He looked
around, clapping his hands on his arms to rouse some warmth and on
each clap, a spray of water droplets exploded into the air. Amie
was the last to dismount and only did so with help from Roland.

Looking at
her, Ciaran's sense of alarm increased. Her eyes were huge, the
centers as dark as two holes burned into her skull. She seemed
unable to focus or keep her head steady for any length of time and
when he approached, he saw the small vial of blue liquid she was
clutching.

“How much of
that have you taken?” he asked quietly.

“Only a drop
or tthhoo,” she guessed, the words slurring softly together. Her
eyes narrowed to concentrate on the motion of his hand as he
reached out and gently uncurled her fingers to extricate the vial,
but then she looked up and smiled wide. “But I feel quite fine, my
lord. I trust you have not sought refuge at this foul smelling inn
on my account for I could ride another half day at least without
discomfort.”

“Yes, I can
see that,” he murmured.

While she
stood smiling wanly and swaying against his arm, he passed the
reins of his horse to Roland. “Take Quill and Fletcher with you and
see to the animals. Buy each beast an extra rasher of oats, then
come and find us.”

Amie giggled
into his sleeve. “Quill and Fletcher... not dreadfully fearsome
names for outlaws are they? I should think Gut-Eater or
Throat-Slitter would be more convincing and indeed, that is what I
shall call them henceforth.”

Tamberlane
cast a wary glance about the stable but there was no one within
hearing distance. The newly christened Gut-Eater and Throat-Slitter
gave off little grins, which faded when they saw the scowl that
darkened the Dragonslayer’s brow.

He took hold
of Amie’s arm and led her across the courtyard toward the pilgrim's
hall. Flanked by Sir Boethius and Sir Geoffrey, they passed through
an arched doorway into a room a fourth the size of the great hall
at Taniere. Here was the common chamber, where ragged travelers and
pilgrims sought to lay their heads on a dry pallet of straw for the
night. There were two fires blazing, one at each end of the hall.
What few benches there were had been dragged in front of the heat.
They were occupied by surly men who would likely sit there all
night in order not to lose the choice seating.

A monk
approached, his face round and serene. “I bid you God’s welcome, my
son. In His name, we bless His generosity...
pater, filius,
spiritus sanctus
...”

Tamberlane and
the two knights went down on one knee to receive the blessing; Amie
followed an instant later, responding somewhat mulishly to a hard
tug on her sleeve. When Tamberlane rose again, he left it to
Boethius to hoist her back to her feet.

“We were told
at the gate to seek Brother Ignatius.”

“You have
found him, my son.”

“We seek more
private accommodations than a common hall.”

“Ahh.” The
friar's head tilted as he studied Tamberlane's face. “Alas, the
foul weather brings many to our door as you can see.” He spread a
hand to indicate the crowded floor where those who were not lucky
enough to get a bench were rolled in blankets to keep warm. “We are
but a small monastery and the cells fill quickly.”

Ciaran held up
a shiny silver coin. “We require four.”

The monk’s
eyes grew as round as the coin. “Four? Gracious goodness, you seek
the miracle of loaves and fishes where we have not even one loaf or
fish.”

A second coin
joined the first.

The friar
stared at the coins a moment and sucked on his lower lip. “One. I
could perhaps arrange for one chamber. My own, by happenstance. It
is smaller than a mouse hole and farthest from the Hall.”

Tamberlane
dropped the coins in his hand. Leaving their two knightly
companions to grumble and kick their way toward the heat of the
fire, he and Amie followed Friar Ignatius along the length of the
pilgrim's hall and out a rear doorway to an adjoining corridor.
There they found a statue of a saint standing guard over a covered
breezeway that was flanked on the left by a long row of arched
doorways and on the right by a low half wall which opened out onto
a cobbled courtyard.

They followed
the breezeway to the end before the friar stopped and opened one of
the cell doors. Inside was a narrow cot, a stand containing a jug
of water, the fat stub of a candle, and a small three legged stool.
On one wall hung a wooden crucifix, on another a brown woolen
cassock. Covering the single small window was a wooden shutter that
rattled against the stone and let in enough rainwater to stain the
wall and form a small puddle on the floor.

“It is colder
than Satan’s heart in here,” Tamberlane remarked. “We need heat.
The lad is cold and wet right through and needs to be warmed.”

Friar Ignatius
glanced at Amie, who stood swaying by Tamberlane’s side, her eyes
closed, her shoulders drooping. “Unfortunately, the only chamber
with a proper hearth is the common hall.”

“Is there not
even a brazier? A pan in which we might burn some pine knots?”

The friar
glanced at the coin glittering in Tamberlane’s hand and sucked
violently on his lip again before nodding. “I could perhaps arrange
for a brazier.”

“And a good
supply of wood.”

The coin was
plucked from his fingers and vanished under the friar’s robes. “And
a good supply of wood, of course.”

When the monk
was gone, Tamberlane closed the door and stripped off his gloves.
The leather was wet and he had to struggle with each finger, which
did little to improve his disposition.

Amaranth was
standing where he had left her, her eyes closed, her head bowed.
Water
drip drip dripped
off her cloak forming a wet circle
around her feet and she looked like a bedraggled waif.

After
shrugging out of his own sodden cloak, Tamberlane approached
her.

"My lady?"

There was no
answer, nothing to indicate she had heard him.

“Amaranth?”

This time her
chin tipped up slightly, but her eyes remained closed.

“I am going to
leave for a few minutes. You must get out of those wet clothes.
Take them off and wrap yourself well in blankets. When you have
done so, call out to me, I shall be right outside the door.
Amaranth? Do you hear me?”

“So tired,”
she whispered.

She swayed
forward and would have fallen had he not reached out and caught her
against his chest. She whimpered softly and turned her head so that
her face was pressing into his tunic muffling her voice.

“So tired,"
she sighed. "And so c-cold.”

Tamberlane
stared over her shoulder at the wall behind them. The candle threw
their shadows on the stone blocks and they looked as if they were
locked in a passionate embrace.

Sparing a soft
curse for Marak’s potion, he slid his hands up her arms and held
her away from his body. He unfastened the toggle holding her cloak
closed at the neck and removed it, then tossed the sodden garment
over the stool with his own. Her tunic was soaked through, and he
drew a deep breath before he unbuckled her belt and lifted the hem
over her head. The shirt beneath was no better off and he ordered
her arms high as he lifted that off as well, leaving only a thin
linen bluet to guard her modesty.

Working
quickly, not pausing to either think or look, he dropped quickly
down onto one knee to unwind the linen bandaging around her calves.
Her legs, when he unfastened the points and peeled the wool hose
down, were white as snow, her feet were pink, the toes a chilly
red.

He snatched
the blanket off the cot and wrapped it around her shoulders,
whereupon he sat her down on the edge of the bed and used his hands
to chafe some warmth into her legs and arms.

When he looked
up again, her eyes were open. They were still huge and round, the
centers still dilated but she had found his face and was focussing
intently on it while he continued to rub her feet. Her lips were a
faint blue, but at least her teeth had stopped chattering enough
for her to speak.

“Your name is
Ciaran,” she said.

He smiled
briefly. “Yes. It is.”

“‘Tis an
unusual name, I do not know it.”

“It is
Celtic.”

“Ah, Celtic.”
She nodded sagely, as if that explained all of the oddities in the
world. “Do you have brothers or sisters with odd names too?”

“I had two
brothers, but they are both dead.”

“You have my
sorrow, good knight.”

He shrugged
the loss aside. “I barely knew them. One was fostered at a young
age to a knight who travelled to Rome where both of them died of
the pox. The other was gored by a boar while out hunting and I not
yet five years old.”

“Yet there is
longing in your voice when you speak of them.”

Tamberlane
released her foot. “The longing you hear is for dry clothes and a
stoup of mulled wine.”

“Yes...” her
eyes roved across the breadth of his shoulders. “You are very wet,
my lord. You should rid yourself of your own garments before you
catch the fever. Come, let me help you. And then I shall rub some
warmth into your flesh as well. I know from experience it does not
take much to get a man's blood flowing hot.”

Startled, he
sat quickly back on his heels placing himself out of reach as she
stretched her arms forward. When her hands met with only empty air,
she looked at him and frowned.

"You do not
wish me to rub you, good sir?"

“I am quite
capable of rubbing myself. I mean, of course, warming myself," he
corrected quickly.

She sighed
extravagantly and settled her hands back onto her lap. The blanket
did not close tight at the throat and thus the length of her neck
was exposed as well as an alarmingly amount of damp linen that
stuck to her skin and kept no secrets. It molded to the shape of
her breasts, which he already knew were small and firm, but the
chill had caused her nipples to rise into tight little peaks that
held his gaze until he lifted the blanket and wrapped it close
around her shoulders again.

His arms ached
with the memory of holding her, his fingertips tingled recalling
the softness of her cheek.