The Burning Stone
Page 114

Lavastine took him into the garden out of earshot of Lord Geoffrey and the rest. The hounds followed meekly. Under the shade of an apple tree, he set a hand on Alain’s shoulder and regarded him sternly. “Is she pregnant yet? I fear that only a child will cure her of these ravings.”
“N-nay, Father. Not yet. She is so—” He stammered out syllables that even he could not understand.
“A stubborn nut to crack, so the wits would have it. But fruitful within that hard shell.”
Alain began to stammer out an apology.
“Nay, Son, you have done as well as any man. She only begins to trust you, and I fear that she takes after her noble mother in having a stubborn nature and after her noble father in being simple in the mind.”
Alain didn’t know how to reply. “Surely it’s her holiness, not her simplicity, that makes her what she is.” Fear padded away from them down a lush row of greens, turnips, and radishes not yet harvested. A bee wandered among roses. Sorrow and Rage had gone over to sniff at comfrey. Steadfast licked Alain’s hand. The bell rang to summon the nuns to Vespers.
“If it were holiness, then why would she cling to this heresy?” objected Lavastine. “And if her words held any danger to those of the faith, then Mother Scholastica would not have released her out into the world. Or they would have threatened her with excommunication. But they do not fear these delirious speeches she gives. Therefore we have no reason to fear them either.”
“But she is so set on it. I don’t know what to do!”
“She clings to it because it gives her comfort. As she comes to rely on you, she will come to you for comfort. You must win her trust as a mason builds a keep: one stone at a time. The more careful your work, the stronger the foundation and walls. A few months more will make little difference except to harm your alliance with her if you move too hastily and set her against you. You can breed many children whether you start having them in ten months or twenty.”
In the field beyond the garden, geese began squabbling. Bliss stood suddenly, watchful, and padded over to the archway that opened onto the field. The geese had foraged so diligently before; now they hissed and honked—as Aunt Bel would say—as if they meant to frighten off the Enemy. “But what of the curse that Prince Sanglant sent warning of?”
Lavastine whistled Terror over and stroked his ears. “Bloodheart is dead. If his dead hand still holds a weapon, then we must be ready to meet it.” He smiled grimly. “And we must trust in God’s mercy.”
The hounds went mad. Fear bolted toward the archway, barking furiously. Bliss had already vanished out onto the field. Geese scattered. Sorrow and Rage bounded away through the garden, leaves flattening under their heavy stride. Steadfast gripped Alain’s hand in her mouth and dragged him after her. Only Terror stood his ground, hackles up, growling fiercely as he stuck beside the count.
Alain ran to the arch. Out in the field the hounds converged, then Rage split off, cutting sideways, and Sorrow leaped the other way. Their barking came fast and furious. Was that a flash of white along the ground? Sunset bled fire along clouds that had streamed out to cover the western sky. In the east, a few stars winked into view between a patchwork of clouds. From the church, he heard the first high voices raised to God. Vespers had begun.
“Lay down beside me, O Lord, sleep beside me.
Protect me from all harm.
Let my Mother watch over me and sing me to my sweet rest
as You watch over Your children.
Lord, have mercy. Lady, have mercy.”
Bliss bowled over, tumbling, righted himself, and began to dig. Dirt sprayed out behind his forepaws. Steadfast, Fear, Sorrow, and Rage converged on him and soon they dug furiously and with a hellish cacophony of barking.
“What means this?” asked Lavastine, coming up behind Alain, but Terror was already there, biting down on the count’s wrist and trying to tug him back into the garden.
A shuddering thrill ran through Alain. He touched his chest, where hung the tiny pouch that concealed his rose. It seared his fingers with cold through the linen of his summer tunic.
“Let me go,” he said. By then others had come out to investigate. Reluctantly, Lavastine let Terror pull him back into the garden into the circle of his attendants.
Alain ran forward into a blizzard of dirt.
“Peace!” he cried, but they gave him no peace. Dirt stung his eyes and coated his tongue and lips. They were in a frenzy, barking so frenetically that he could no longer hear the nuns’ singing over their deafening noise. A tiny body, white against the earth, darted, spun, and leaped.