Thirteenth Night (24 page)

“You probably should thank Mother for that,” he said. “I've guessed that she's the one responsible. But it's fine with me. A fool and a chess player as gifts for Christmas. Good night, Herr Octavius.”

“Milord,” I said, and with one last bow left the room.

“You're very good with him,” whispered Viola. I had spotted her passing a doorway during the game and guessed that she had observed the whole interlude.

“He's a fine boy,” I said.

“And you're a good chess player. You let him draw the second game, didn't you?”

“I confess it.”

“And yet that time he didn't catch on. You have more facets than a diamond, Feste. Do you have children of your own?”

Something in my face must have closed shut, for she immediately backed off.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I don't mean to pry. I've just realized that there's so little I know about you.”

“As it should be, Duchess,” I said lightly.

She shook her head. “No, it shouldn't be. You came to help us when you were called. You didn't have to come, but you did.”

“I did have to come. There was no other choice.”

“That says quite a lot. When this is over, we will sit down and have a good, long talk. Perhaps a game of chess. And please, Feste, don't hold back when we play.”

“Milady,” I said, bowing. She brushed my cheek lightly with her hand, then turned and left.

And what was this? May a Duchess look at a fool? Or love a cat?

*   *   *

In the morning, I sought the only creature who truly understood me. I fed him, saddled him, and rode through the northwest gate. Looking back, I saw Perun standing on the wall, watching me. He waved. I waved back. It occurred to me that I only had two more days of protection from his challenge.

Zeus took his usual pace up the hill but uncharacteristically slowed as we approached the point where the path to the cliffs veered off. I urged him along the road instead. He seemed nervous about entering the woods. I could hardly blame him. I was nervous, too.

I slowed Zeus to a walk and commenced my search. The road was wide enough to accommodate a good-sized wain, though none had been by recently if I was any judge of tracks. I was surprised that Perun's patrols didn't extend this far, but perhaps he limited his bailiwick to the town's walls during the winter. Only a fool would be out traveling this time of year, and such would be left to the Lord's protection, for he scarcely deserved Perun's. The sun was over the eastern ridge, and the light was filtering through the trees at a high angle. There was little wind, and the brush and evergreens closer to the cliffside had prevented much in the way of drifting. The road was as well preserved as an amateur woodsman and tracker could possibly desire.

I spent the better part of the journey examining the sides of the road, looking for suitable locations to wait in ambush. I recalled halfway through that it was not so very long ago that I had been attacked from these very woods. The sound my sword made as I drew it from its scabbard seemed absurdly loud in the emptiness. I can't say that it gave me any comfort.

About five miles in, a branch hung at an unnatural angle. I reined in Zeus and dismounted cautiously, sword at the ready, hoping I wouldn't have to use it. It was a recent break, and the surrounding brush also showed evidence of some disturbance. I squatted down to examine the ground. The snow lay smoothly. Too smoothly, in fact. I took a few steps past the brush into the wood proper and saw a crude path made recently in the snow, a profusion of footprints with two shallow grooves running through it such as would have been made by a pair of heels dragging. The smooth snow separated this track from the road, and there were slight ridges at the sides of it, where the brushing had been slightly less meticulous.

“Have you come about the dead man?” screeched a voice from my left. I whirled, pointing my sword in its direction.

He looked at me, more amused than threatened. “I am unarmed,” he said more gently. “And a peaceable man. I didn't mean to startle you. It's been a while since I've spoken to another person.”

“I didn't hear you approach,” I said apologetically, sheathing my sword. He was clad mostly in blankets, draped over his shoulders and belted haphazardly around the middle. On his feet were sandals, stuffed with rags. An ineffective way of keeping out the cold, I thought, but he seemed to pay it no mind. The hair and beard were long and matted enough to afford a little extra warmth. His eyes, which were the only feature I could make out clearly, were blue and gentle. As for his age—all I could do was estimate the length of the beard and add sixteen. Maybe thirty, maybe fifty. Only a shave and a bath would reveal it.

“Yes, I would very much like to see this dead man of yours.”

“Oh, he isn't my dead man,” he replied. “But there is one about, and you're the first person come by since he came on the scene. I thought he might be yours.”

“Not necessarily,” I said.

“But you were looking for something. Will a dead man do?”

“Quite possibly. Let me take a look at him, and I'll be able to answer you better.”

“This way, then,” he said, and turned. I reached out and stopped him. He looked at me quizzically.

“If you don't mind, walk uphill from these tracks,” I requested. He nodded and continued on. I followed, leading Zeus by the reins. This was an old section of forest, with trees reaching high into the heavens and little undergrowth. Enough sun fell through the branches to let us pick our steps with confidence, although he looked as if he knew the woods well enough to do it blindfolded.

“How did you find him?” I asked.

“The screaming,” he said shortly. I waited for him to elaborate. “I was praying in my cave, off a ways yonder. Then I heard it.”

“I take it you're a hermit?”

“Neither by choice nor by inclination, but recent circumstance has made me one.”

“Would I be correct in guessing that you are one of the Perfect?”

He laughed quietly. “No, my friend, I am one of the Flawed. My name is Joseph, by the way.”

“I am Octavius of Augsburg. Forgive me, I did not mean to be facetious. But you are a Cathar?”

“A name given to us by others. They call us Cathars, Patarines, Bogomils, damned Manicheans, any appellation they can attach before they light the pyre. They burn us because they think it spills no blood. I've seen burnings. It isn't true.”

“What do you call yourselves?”

“The Good Men. Which is about as arrogant as anything else, when you come to think of it. But it provides us with a worthy goal, if nothing else. By the way, would you happen to have anything to eat that you could spare?”

I rummaged through my saddlebags. “A bit of bread and cheese, if you like.”

He shook his head. “No cheese. Nothing that comes from coition. But a scrap of bread would be most welcome.” I gave him the whole thing and he nodded his thanks as he tore into it. “The ignorant believe we live off the elements. The truth is, we depend on the charity of others in the winter.”

“Where are your companions?”

He shrugged. “Fled, I suppose. We lived at the sufferance of the Duke, and when he died, the food stopped coming. I think he kept his support a secret, given the way things are nowadays. That bishop bears us no love, and Perun would happily launch another Crusade in our direction. So, between the lack of food and the fear for our safety, the group just fell apart. Part of our history, it seems. We were a schism of a schism, anyways. Kept finding out that the elders who administered the consolamentum had committed fornication or some other mortal sin, so there'd be arguments over who was pure and who wasn't. And we'd start over with a new round, and then the same thing would happen again. A small band of us settled here and dwindled down. Now, it's just me and the wolves.”

“And the dead man. Tell me about the screaming. When did you hear it?”

He counted back on his fingers. “Nine days ago, in the early morn.”

I calculated quickly. “Morning of the Feast of Saint John?”

“I'm afraid that we do not recognize your saints, so I couldn't tell you. When every local village can purchase a sainthood from the Church for their local legend, it makes the whole idea pointless.”

“Yes, it's who you know, isn't it? But I would like to know when you found him.”

“It was the morning of the day after the snowfall.”

“Tell me as much as you can.”

“As I said, it was far away. But it went on for a while. Then it stopped. When I got here, he was already dead.”

“Did you see who did it?”

“I must confess that I didn't try. As I said, I am unarmed and not particularly adept at defending myself. I couldn't do anything to help the poor fellow, so I decided to do nothing to join him.”

“Sensible. What could you hear? Any words?”

“It was not in a language that I recognized. But it went on for some time. Here's where I found him.”

The snow was greatly disturbed and heavily stained with blood. It was clear that the forest denizens had come afterwards to partake of the feast, but enough of an impression remained to show me where the body had lain. The footprints were too closely overlapping for me to get any kind of read from them. There were several deep holes dug in a snowbank nearby. I tiptoed around the edges of the scene, squatting to examine it.

“Are you a huntsman?” he asked, watching me curiously.

“Neither by choice nor by inclination, but recent circumstance has made me one. Where is the body?”

“This way,” he said, and we walked a short distance through the woods. “He was already dead when I found him. He was stripped of his garments and appeared to have been tortured. I administered the consolamentum. It normally takes more than one of us laying on hands, but in an emergency…” He trailed off.

“What is that, exactly?”

“The imposition of hands, the ritual of blessing and acceptance, the forgiveness of the rebellion against Heaven that is within us all, allowing the forgiven to return there. If he wasn't sufficiently pure, then metempsychosis will take place.”

“If at first you don't succeed, try, try again.”

“That's one way of looking at it. In any case, that was all I could do. He could be brought into town to have the Last Rites administered if you would prefer.”

“I'm sure your ministrations were fine.” He led me to a rough cairn, stones piled haphazardly over the body.

“What happens to the body is irrelevant,” he commented as I stood before it. “But I thought it might have mattered to others. The ground is too hard to dig a grave in the winter. Normally, I wouldn't build anything like this. It's too much like that feast of stones that they call a church. But I thought it might keep the scavengers away.”

I removed some stones from the head of the cairn. The man inside was maybe twenty-five, no more. A short life, ending in horror and pain, judging by his face. He had been beaten savagely, one ear hacked off. I removed more stones to find more signs of torture, slashes to the body, fingers missing.

“Odd how little blood there is,” I commented, trying to sound dispassionate, failing miserably.

“He's very clean,” agreed Joseph. “He was like that when I found him. It was all I could do to drag him over here.”

“Why didn't you report this to the town?”

“As I said, I don't trust Perun. He'd hang me for the death of a squirrel if he could tie me to it.”

“But you trust me. Why?”

He shrugged. “You came looking for him. I assumed that you cared about him. Did you know him?”

“I never saw him before in my life, and that's the Lord's truth.”

He looked at me, perused me for any signs of dissembling. “I believe that. And now I am puzzled. Was I wrong to trust you?”

“No. I am trying to prevent a great evil from continuing. Will you assist me further?”

“If I can.”

“Then tell no one else of this matter. I will return tomorrow to bring back the body. Will you be here?”

“I'll be here,” he said. “And so, I expect, will he. Will you explain your actions to me?”

“Not now. You're safer not knowing.”

“That I believe more than anything else that you've told me. Until the morrow, then.”

I hastily reassembled the stones and rejoined Zeus.

*   *   *

The last thing that I wanted to do when I returned to the villa was play another game of chess, but it is rash to ignore the summons of a Duke, no matter how young. I duly presented myself for another skillful drubbing at his hands, but he motioned me to be silent and dashed around the room, drawing the curtains and shutting the doors.

“May I request a favor of you?” he whispered.

“Certainly, Milord,” I replied, a bit apprehensive.

“Would you listen to me recite?” he asked.

Dear God, more amateur theatrics. I assented immediately and composed myself upon a cushion, prepared for obsequious praise. He stood solemnly before me and placed his right hand upon his breast.

“Hard ways have I gone,” he declaimed. “Many sorrows have I suffered. Thirty winters and thrice half year have I passed in living here…” He passed from rote to role as the spirit began carrying him away. Altogether too young to be playing Our Savior, but hearing His words in a child's voice was chillingly effective.

He ran through each of the speeches in turn, then looked at me expectantly when he was done. “Was it all right? I took great pains to con it, but I've got all the words in the right order.”

“You do, and you must let them speak for themselves. Listen to the words, Milord. The poetry will carry you if you allow it the privilege. And let me show you one useful technique.” I stood behind him and placed my hands on either side of his waist. “Say ah, and hold it,” I instructed him.