"If that's how he swings a blade, then it's just as well he's destined to take orders."
Richard's face burned, but he was turned away from Dear Brother Ambert and pretended not to hear the jibe. He struck extra hard at the straw-padded practice post with his wooden sword and felt the impact jolt up his arm with numbing force.
Too much. It knocked the sword from his hand.
Ambert doubled over, hooting.
Richard fought down a burst of rage mixed with red-faced humiliation. He knew a direct challenge to Ambert would only lead to a beating. His oldest brother had four more years of skill and fighting experience over him. And taunts. He was very good with those.
"Pick up your weapon," ordered the fight-master, who was working with Edward, Richard's next eldest brother. "Ignore him and do your drills."
The practice area within the curtain wall of Castle d'Orleans was muddy from last night's rain. A layer of straw had been thrown down, but was uneven in patches. Richard's sword lay in one of the bare spots. Just his bad luck. He cleaned off the grip as best he could and went back to work on the post, striking it again and again to strengthen his arm. At fourteen, he was as tall as his brothers, but lean as string. The fight-master said he'd not yet reached his full growth and muscle, but constant practice would fill him out.
Richard wanted that more than anything and pushed himself hard, but some days absolutely nothing seemed to work. It was as though his own body was at war with him, and all he could do was trip or knock things over, or both. In the last six months he'd shot up over a handspan in height. He was misplaced elbows and knees, overlarge hands and feet, awkward lengths of shin and arm and always hungry. When not on the field, he haunted the kitchens, charming the cooks out of extra food between the usual meals.
He grinned as the sweat began to run on him, pretending the post was Ambert.
Something wet slammed into the side of his face with bruising force. He lost balance, sliced downward, missing the post, and staggered like a drunk. A sizable dollop of mud clung to him and dribbled cold down his neck.
Ambert burst into laughter again. He'd thrown the missile. Quick as spite, he stooped and grabbed up another handful and cast with deadly accuracy. He caught Richard square in the chest and it hurt. There'd been a large stone in that one. He grunted, losing the sword again, and abruptly sat down in the mud.
"There he is, champion to the swine! All hail!" Ambert executed a mock bow and erupted into laughter again.
Before he could make a third strike Richard was on him. His aim was also good; he bodily tackled his brother, and they rolled and splashed messily into the broad puddle from which Ambert had supplied himself. He kicked and punched full force, but Richard was too angry to feel it, busy delivering as much damage as he could in the brief time he had before they'd be pulled apart.
Around them the younger pages yelled encouragement, the older ones made quick wagers, and the armsmen hesitated between laughter and interference. If two of the Duke of Normandy's sons chose to fight each other, then let them be. Taking sides now could prove dangerous later on. Ambert was touchy about being helped unless he called for it. He always won, anyway.
Richard's fists seemed to be working together for a change, though, and as quickly as things were going he became aware of their adverse effect on Ambert. His brother grunted and cursed, and when he did hit, it wasn't with his usual vindictive strength.
A third party entered the fray, shouting and trying to grab hold of Richard. Without thinking he lashed out and clouted Edward solidly in the belly, toppling him. Then there were three angry brothers rolling in the mud trying to commit bloody fratricide.
As if by magic Richard discovered his speed and used his training. For every blow he got, he delivered two more in return, and he didn't care who he hit so long as flesh gave way and pain resulted. He was like a hammer in the smith's hand, force and mastery and direction, and having a decided effect on what had once been unyielding iron.
He was dimly aware of commotion around them and of a sudden slackening in the fight.
Then he was on top, straddling...Ambert...and pulping his face. Edward...was lying over there, moving slowly, favoring his sides.
The first, the very first, thrill of true exhilaration ran through Richard's young body, his heart pounding so heavily he thought he might die from it.
I won! I beat them!
Then the fight-master waded in and dragged him off. He gave Richard a shake and growled his name, but it was not necessary. Richard was in control of himself, gulping in the giddy air of victory. He'd never felt this way before, almost burning from the triumph. Did anyone else see it?
Apparently not. They were busy looking after Ambert and Edward. As with other rare successes in his life, Richard would have to savor this one on his own.
Perhaps not entirely. Once his brothers were on their feet again they each shot him a look. Ambert's was suffused with hate and an implied promise of revenge later on; Edward's was...surprise. That was different. In the past those two more or less worked together. He limped over.
Richard braced for further assault, but none came.
Edward merely smiled, a grim smile, but unexpected. "So, the babe of the family's become a man at last."
Had that been said by Ambert it would have dripped with venom, but there was nothing malicious here.
"You fought well, Dickon." Edward glanced over his shoulder to Ambert, who was vainly trying to swipe mud from his clothes. "Don't turn your back on him. He doesn't forget insults."
A look between them. Abrupt understanding on Richard's part. He had acceptance. A very small portion of it to be sure, but still...
"Come and wash that muck off before you are declared champion of the swine."
He should talk. They were both filthy.
Edward led the way to a long trough by the smithy, dipped a bucket in, and poured water over his head, scrubbing the worst from his face. He had an eye swelling and going dark, but grinned through it. "Your turn."
Richard half expected to be hit with the bucket. But that did not happen. He was thoroughly doused with a full measure of water and then another. After all the exertion in the summer heat it felt delicious.
"This will do. We'll swim in the lake later to get it all off. Come on, then." He trudged back to the practice field.
"You hurt?" Richard ventured to ask.
"Not much, but from now on I'll leave it to others to keep you two apart. I've had my fill."
"Didn't mean to hit you."
"I know. This was Ambert's doing."
Ambert still bled from his nose, which looked to be broken. He threw down the rag he held to his face and charged Richard.
Who braced, fists ready to beat him again.
But Edward stepped between, catching another clout to his ribs as he caught Ambert. He took it and did not release his hold.
"I'll kill the little bastard!" Ambert shrieked, trying to struggle free.
Edward swung him around and threw him against the practice post, knocking him breathless.
Ambert stared with baffled shock. "You dare?"
"You're not lord of the castle yet," said Edward. "So, yes. You deserved what you got, leave it at that."
"You"
"Look at him, brother, and use your wits. He's no bastard, and he's not little anymore. He took us both down without even trying."
Richard felt his jaw drop.
"So think twice before you go after him. Next time someone might not pull him off you."
Ambert's eyes blazed, but he made no move against either of them. After a moment he lifted his chin and smiled. Not a pleasant sight through the blood and filth. "Next time will come. Be sure of it."
He sauntered toward the trough. None too steadily, though he seemed to be trying to hide it.
"Back to practice," said the fight-master to his remaining students. "No food till you've sweated again."
Richard went through his drills and sparred with some of the taller pages. He had bruises and a cut inside his lip, but nothing that couldn't be ignored. What did unsettle his concentration was wondering about Edward. Sometimes he'd get between Ambert and Richard, attempting to head off Ambert's worst excesses, usually with a joke or insult, always at Richard's expense. He always made Richard their common enemy, but not to the point of encouraging an attack.
Until now Richard thought it had been only for their mutual advantage for Edward's main argument against the bullying was that they should avoid attracting their father's notice. If Richard got hurt too badly, even old Montague would step in to mete out punishment to all. It tended to be brutal, more harsh than anything Ambert could inflict or was willing to endure.
Until today that had been the extent of Edward's protection, such as it was. Had something changed? Richard found it hard to believe this acceptance was based solely on his one victory.
He got an answer at evening prayers. The brothers kept themselves widely separated in the chapel, an intuitive stratagem they'd adopted long ago to prevent clashes. The chapel became neutral ground for them, allowing them the freedom not to fight. It had less to do with the damnation of their immortal souls and more to do with the priest, for apart from the fight-master and their father, he was the only other man with any kind of authority over them and didn't put up with their quarrels. He had a heavy whip close to hand to enforce the dignity of his church, but rarely used it. Once was usually enough to put the fear of God into the most rambunctious worshipers, and witnesses to such demonstrations were subject to immediate conversion to respectful behavior.
They got through the ritual, and Ambert left for evening meal. Richard hung back, though, hungry for knowledge, not bread. Edward had taken to standing in front for prayers and to hear the mass. He'd done so again, then lingered to talk with the priest after everyone else had gone. They each noticed Richard standing by the door. Edward nodded, but only to acknowledge his presence, not invite him over, being more interested in what the priest was saying. It looked like they'd be there for a while.
Perhaps Edward's conscience had grown somewhat more sensitive of late from these talks. That would explain his help. Richard had heard of such things happening. He was himself destined to serve in the church when the time came, which would be soon, in the next year or so, and often brooded over the pending change with mixed feelings. It would liberate him from the discord and violence of his home, but also remove him from the wide world in general, which he was eager to explore. There wouldn't be much of that once he was within a monastery, not unless they went on a pilgrimage to some distant land. But instead of being a strong warrior on a fine horse leading the way, he'd be one of the robed and anonymous brothers walking barefoot in the general procession behind the guardsmen.
The priest had assured him that God called many, and they willingly followed, for the spiritual rewards were greater than anything this world offered. Richard did his best to listen, but so far had yet to hear the Voice that would instantly convince him to forsake the life he knew for protective walls and a calm routine of devotions and tilling crops.
Well, no one on earth or from heaven was calling him just now. He shrugged at Edward's curious display of piety and hurried away to the main hall before the food was all eaten.
They were up at dawn, blinking in the new light, rousing for another day's lesson learning their warcraft. Ambert's face was swollen, mottled red and blue, especially his nose. Because of the gaudy damage he tried to escape practice, but the fight-master wouldn't let him.
"Think your enemy will feel sorry for you if you're wounded? Get at it or I'll give you something to really regret."
Ambert snarled and muttered, but took a wooden sword and drilled with the rest. When he chanced to groan, he got a switch across the backside from the fight-master for being soft.
Richard tried not to show amusement, but it was hard going. He kept his distance, though, knowing Ambert would blame him for every pain. The switchings put him into a truly foul mood, and he took it out on anyone within reach.
If Edward hurt from yesterday's scrap, he made no complaint and did as he was told, keeping up with the rest.
An hour of this, an hour of that, then it was time to use real swords. They were much heavier than war blades, their edges well blunted, and tended to clank rather than ring when struck, but the metallic sound still awoke an excited enthusiasm in everyone. If they mastered these clumsy tools, then might they be allowed to have something better later on, earning the right to wield a true weapon.
Richard pulled on a much-battered helmet that more or less fit. He had to wrap cloth around his head to get the thing to stay in place. The others were no better, except for Ambert, who had one of Montague's castoffs that served him well enough.
Their body protection was bulky padding, some with thick leather attached, all of it hot. No one complained. This was like real soldiering.
They were paired off and drilled over and over until their sweat ran in rivers and they were red and puffing fit to drop.
Ambert was merciless on his opponents, but drew no rebuke from the fight-master. That's why they were here, after all, to learn how to win. Those who were unlucky enough to match him used their best defensive skills and backed out of range when they could. Eventually, even he ran out of fight, and retired to the side. He peeled out of his leather armor and swilled down water mixed with wine to keep his blood going.
Richard was paired with an older page for shield and sword work; Edward was set against one of the armsmen. The sun was almost overhead. Another few bouts and they could break off for midday meal.
At a signal, they began free drills, which was Richard's favorite part of practice. It was very close to real fighting since you could choose your moves rather than going through the same ones in the same order. His winning yesterday gave him confidence, but his body wasn't cooperating as well as it had then. He felt awkward again, as though everything was back to being the wrong size, particularly himself. Besides, the page was ready with his own surprises. Richard missed some opportunities, but made up for the lack with his height and reach, and tried hard to regain the control he'd possessed. He knew fighting wasn't always about force, but in choosing how and when to use it wisely. The shorter page seemed to have that lesson down and was putting it to test.
Edward favored one of his legs, apparently still aching from his involvement in the brotherly brawl, and the armsman attacked on that side, forcing Edward to put more strain on the limb. The ploy worked, and Edward lost his footing and fell. Twice.
Ambert enjoyed both events, jeering each time. "See the great champion, crippled by a beardless boy."
Richard bit back reminding Ambert that he had also been bested the same way. There was clearly more wine than water in Dear Brother's cup, so he would be immune to good sense for the time being. Aware of this, the fight-master did not rebuke him or force him back to the field to sweat it out. Time enough for that after midday when food would sober him.
Not one to be ignored, Ambert continued his insults. Usually he held back from attacking Edward, since they were both of a size and age to match each other. There was also the easier target, Richard, who had ever been their common enemy. That was changed, but Ambert seemed quite willing to persist inflicting abuse on his own. He found much to criticize; Edward's every move was subject to unsympathetic judgment, and it had a worsening effect on his actions. Clumsy and panting, with every pass he grew redder of face and struck harder and with less discipline.
The fight-master told Ambert to stop, but got the argument that enemy soldiers were just as likely to fling taunts as spears and arrows.
Then the armsman who opposed Edward gave a brief guttural cry, staggered, and dropped, twisting to one side. He'd been hit in such a way as to draw blood. A normal occurrence during practice even with blunted weapons, Richard was used to seeing and hearing men in pain.
Breathless, Edward pulled off his helm to stare down at the damage he'd caused. He stood confused and suddenly pale for a moment, then in a strained voice called the fight-master over. Others also stopped their free drill and crowded close. Richard did the same.
The armsman was bleeding from the inside of his upper leg, and trying to staunch it with his hands. The only other time Richard saw such a flow was when the castle butchers were at work. If the animal wasn't yet dead from a knock between the eyes the blood would pulse from its cut throat just like that. The fight-master knelt next to the man and dug deep into the muscle with both thumbs, and yelled to the boys to go fetch a healer. Three of them hared off.
"You'll want the priest for this one," observed Ambert, who had joined the gathering. "Congratulations, Edward, you've made your first kill on the field of battle. Father will be very proud."
Even the grim fight-master, busy as he was, looked aghast. There was a moment of absolute silence as Edward's white face flushed crimson, then he whirled and fell on Ambert like a roaring storm. But Ambert was prepared and, grinning, threw his drink into Edward's eyes. It was one of his favorite ploys to immobilize an attacker.
Only this time it didn't work, not for a man already in a blind fury.
There was a near-inhuman roar of fury and pain, such a sound as Richard had never heard from anyone before, much less Edward. He slammed bodily into Ambert and both went rolling.
Richard was aware of shouts and hoots, of the fight-master's bellow, of pages and armsmen milling about, and all he could see was Edward trying his best to murder Ambert. There was no mistaking this for an ordinary fight. He just knew.
No one else seemed to, though.
He hesitated. Certainly he held no love for Ambert, who deserved every crack and clout he got, but Edward...he didn't need the mark of Cain on his soul.
So for Edward's sake Richard waded in and grabbed him, a strange reversal on yesterday's actions. He pulled hard on his brother's legs, dragging him clear. Edward was cursing and weeping at the same time, in full frenzy. Richard called for help and got it. Three of the armsmen had to hold Edward down while Richard went to check on Ambert.
His face was bloodiedhis nose againand he gasped like a dying fish, feeble hands to his throat. After pummeling him senseless, Edward had tried to strangle him. Ambert seemed out of danger for the moment, but he'd likely emerge from his stunned state himself ready to kill. Richard, in a rare moment of authority, ordered men to carry him back to the castle.
That still left the wounded armsman to deal with...
Resolved now. The fight-master was on his feet, shaking his head at the very, very still figure on the ground. Several of the men crossed themselves and began prayers.
A healer arrived moments later, but pronounced that nothing could have been done to save the man. One of the boys was sent to find the priest, making truth of Ambert's callous prediction. The fight-master found the cause of the man's death quick enough. The tip of Edward's otherwise blunted sword had broken off, leaving a ragged and wickedly sharp edge. It had cut through padding and flesh like a reaper's scythe and tapped one of the courses through which the lifeblood ran. Once severed there was no way to stitch it up again.
Edward now sat exhausted on the churned ground and gaped stupidly at the corpse, eyes dull, his battered face slack with shock. Richard stood close to him for want of a better place. He'd done what needed to be done, and wasn't sure what would come next.
The fight-master crouched next to Edward. "There will be no trouble for you on this, Lord Edward. Accidents on the field happen all the time. We lost two last year, remember? 'Twas but practice then, as well. If he had family you might have to pay recompense, but that will be up to your father."
Edward seemed not to hear. Eventually the fight-master gave up and left to see to duties concerning the situation.
Richard knelt by his brother, thinking he should say something, but no words came to him. Theirs was not a family to share thoughts or offer solace to one another. He felt an unfamiliar twinge in his heart. I hurt because he's hurting. It was awful, truly, truly awful, and it couldn't have been nearly as bad as what Edward must be feeling. He wanted to help him, but didn't know how.
The priest finally arrived and ordered the man carried to the chapel. Seemingly appearing from the empty air, Holy Sisters from the nearby nunnery clustered around the fallen. They also crossed themselves and prayed. Their chosen lot was to care for the sick and injured and, when needed, to wash and dress the dead for burial. They would shortly be at their task.
A slow procession made its way to the chapel. Edward painfully got to his feet. He tagged along in their wake, looking like a forlorn and beaten dog searching for a scrap. Not for food, but comfort, Richard thought. He knew what that was like.
None came.
Edward stood without the chapel door, staring inside as though waiting to be granted permission to enter.
None came. No one paid him any mind.
Richard drew near. Out of nowhere he suddenly realized he stood eye to eye with his brother. When had that happened? Have I grown or has he gotten smaller?
"It's not your fault," he said. He spoke clearly to be certain he was heard.
Edward blinked at him. His pale blue eyes were immeasurably sad, so much so that Richard felt like crying himself. "It is my fault, Dickon. I let Ambert anger me, else I'd have noticed the break on my sword. Instead I kept fighting as though that man was... was...oh, God forgive me."
The last came out as a rushed whisper, and Edward turned and fled. He was across the yard and out the great gate before Richard could think to follow. He started tardily after, but the fight-master called him back.
"Leave him be, Lord Richard. He'll have to deal with this by himself. Whether by accident or in real battle, the first kill is always the hardest. You'll learn that...when it's your time."
Richard didn't see either of his brothers for several days afterward. Edward was not to be found, and Ambert was simply to be avoided. Easily done, for he was confined to his bed like a woman in labor. Several of his ribs were broken or cracked, and he couldn't move without screaming curses. The healer kept him well supplied with wine. A drunken stupor was better than listening to the howls.
Their father, Montague, was not unduly concerned by the incident. He grunted and laughed once, then dismissed it. Men fought and men died, that was the way of life. Get the praying and burying done and move on with things.
Training continued as usual. The castle swordsmith took the broken practice blade and blunted it down again. Though slightly shorter than the others, no one thought anything of it. Only Richard avoided using it, as though some remnant of ill fortune and death might be clinging to the metal.
Then at evening prayers Richard spotted Edward in the chapel in his usual spot at the front. He continued kneeling after everyone else departed. Richard went over, reluctant to interrupt, but Edward looked up and gave him a wan smile.
"Where have you been?" Richard asked.
"Walking."
"Where?"
"To the monastery."
"That's over a day's journey. On horseback."
"Our Lord walked everywhere except into Jerusalem, and I'm not worthy enough or humble enough to ride an ass, so I walked."
"Alone?" All roads were dangerous, even the ones in Duke Montague's rigorously patrolled lands.
"Not alone."
"Who was with you?"
Edward smiled again and pointedly glanced around them to indicate their surroundings. Richard saw only the castle chapel, a cold place within the thick stone walls, but with a very nice fresco of the holy baptism above the altar. His gaze rested on the central figure of the Christ, head bowed as His cousin John poured water over Him. Above them hovered a white dove, and what seemed to be rays like the sun shone from its milk-white breast. Richard knew the story well and thought the painting very pretty. Sometimes he wondered if Jesus had gone properly swimming after His baptism. It didn't seem the right sort of question to put to the priest, though, so he never asked.
"God was with you?" Richard wavered between doubt and the desire to hear something remarkable. There were many wonderful stories told about visitations and miracles, but they were also always in some other land happening to some other people. It would be nice to have such an event here at Orleans.
"He's always with me. Us. All of us."
Now he sounded like the priest. "Did you see Him?"
"Each time I look into another man's face."
Richard felt disappointment. "You learned that at the monastery."
"No. During my walk. I never went in. Just watched outside."
"Then why go there?"
"I wondered that myself."
Edward looked quite gaunt. He was also very dirty. Richard frowned, recalling stories of men who lost their wits and went wild, living as animals in the woods like King Nebuchadnezzar. Is that what happened to his brother? "Have you had aught to eat?"
"Not since I ran away. I've been fasting."
"Are you done, then? Evening meat is"
"I'm fine, Dickon, and I need you to listen to me. I've things to say and no one else to say them to who might understand. It affects you, and I hope...well, I don't think you'll mind very much."
"Mind what?"
"You're supposed to be the one to take orders, and I'm to be the family champion."
"Yes..."
"That's not going to happen now. I'm taking your place. You will"
"What?" That was impossible. Their fates had been planned since before birth. You didn't just change things.
"Be still and listen. I've prayed much and thought much, and it finally burst on my mind like a great light in a long darkness. I don't belong here. I've not been fighting for the family, I've been fighting God's will for me. I never was and never will be a champion."
"But you're strong, you can fight. You're good."
"Yes, I manage well enough, but there is no heart behind it. And after what I did there never will be. I have innocent blood on my soul, caused by an anger that nearly drove me to kill my own brother. I need to be elsewhere, in another place where anger like that will never overcome me again."
"The monastery."
"Yes. Or another like it."
"What about just staying away from Ambert?"
"I thought that through as well. It still comes out the same. I am the one who's been called."
"Father will be angry," Richard pointed out.
"When is he not?"
True.
"It won't be easy, but I know he will grant me leave to go."
Richard doubted that. Their father was infamously, often capriciously stubborn. That he would accept this changeeven if it was argued to be God's willseemed impossible On the other hand, if this was what God truly wanted for Edward there was little the Duke d'Orleans would be able to do against it. "You'll need the priest to help you."
"I've spoken to him. He will choose the right time, and then we shall speak to Father."
He took that to mean Edward and the priest, not himself and Edward. Richard thought he'd like to listen in, though. It might be very interesting to see the duke backing down before anyone, particularly to God Himself.
Outside, night had gently settled over the castle, and the chapel was quite dim. The altar candles still burned. The priest was diligent about that. They burned day and night, and when there was a death and a watch to be kept, more were lighted. Just a few evenings ago Richard had himself stood vigil over the dead armsman when it was his turn. He'd drawn the latestor earliesttime and shivered in the pre-dawn chill until the next man took his place at sunrise.
That had been a long watch, his first acting as Lord Richard d'Orleans. He was old enough now for such duties. Just. Not that it had been his idea. The fight-master put him forward since Ambert was abed and Edward gone. After the novelty of wearing a special tunic and holding a real sword wore off it got boring. He had no fear of standing alone in the near dark with the dead man so close, only worried that the priest might catch him wavering. The sword, which had to be held respectfully upright, grew very heavy over the next few hours. It was hard to do that and remember to pray at the same time.
"I'm told that Ambert isn't well," said Edward.
Nudged back into the present, Richard shook his head. "He's drunk. They'll keep him that way 'til he's mended because of how he carries on. I've seen wounded pigs cornered by the dogs making less noise. The fight-master wants him on the field again before the moon turns, but that will be too soon for Ambert."
"He's that badly hurt?"
"He's that badly lazy. You know how he is."
"And I will be leaving you to his mercy."
Richard shrugged. "I'll get on all right. Won't care much that you'll be gone, though. I'm just starting to like you."
Edward suddenly laughed. Unlike Ambert's bursts of mirth, there was no derision behind it. "I deserved that. You're the only honest one in the family. Don't lose your honesty, Richard. It's important."
It must be to prompt Edward into using his given name. No one else did. Father and Ambert always called him "you, boy" or worse. "If you're going to the priesthood, then I'm to be the champion? For real?"
"God willing and if you're spared to grow into it. You won't have far to go the way you're shooting up like a spring weed."
His heart beat a lot faster than before. Lord Richard, Champion d'Orleans. That's what they'd call him. It was almost too large for his brain to hold. "There's so much to learn..."
"If anyone was born to the sword, it's you. You're already better than me and Ambert together. And doesn't Ambert know it. That's why he taunts you so."
"I thought it was because he has a foul heart."
"There's that, too. He has a darkness in him he got from Father, God help us. But men can change. Certainly I've found the truth of it. I will pray for them. And you as well. But until and unless that darkness lifts...Ambert will eventually come to fear you, Dickon. Beware of him."
"Fear me?" Richard couldn't see that ever happening.
"And what a man fears he will try to destroy. Never give him a reason to do so. He will likely provide his own, he always has."
He nodded agreement. Ambert was ever quick with excuses and explanations to show himself to be the injured party in any altercation. But he often had help. "If you're all changed, will you tell me why you used to take his side against me?" It was a risky question. Had he asked it a week ago, he'd have gotten a thump between the ears.
But Edward only sagged, looking ashamed. "Because I was a fool and afraid."
"You. Afraid?"
"Oh, yes, and very good at concealing it under the cruelty. But that part of me's gone. For good, I hope. It used to matter that I hide behind such a mask. Once it was very important that no one know my real face, especially my family. To show anything of myself was to be seen as weak, and here weakness is always attacked or at the very least mocked. But heaven help me, it took my killing of that poor wretch to see the wrongness, to know just how empty it makes the heart and soul. A few days ago I'd have rather died than show...but when he died instead...because I wasn't letting go of the fear...the anger..."
Tears? Edward weeping?
Yes. Even in the dimness Richard could see the shining tracks on Edward's face. He made no effort to hide them, or wipe them away. Were he here Ambert would have pounced with boundless glee until another fight broke out. When he was prepared for it, there were few things that gave Ambert as much pleasure as beating someone.
"...Perhaps one day you'll be able to forgive me."
This was indeed a new brother before him. The old Edward would never have spoken so. Maybe he had been touched by God, and with that thought came a sudden insight. Richard wasn't at ease with thinking this way, but there'd been something the priest once said..."Edwardare you able to forgive yourself?"
The question caught Edward by surprise. He was a time answering. "One day, but not now."
"Why not? If I forgive you then you have to forgive yourself."
Edward looked at him most strangely. "Maybe both of us should go into the priesthood."
Richard felt himself turn pale. The prospect of being champion had taken hold of his heart with eerie strength, and he did not want to give it up now that it was a likelihood rather than a hopelessly remote chance. "One priest's enough for this family."
"More than enough."
At that moment, Richard's belly gave vent to a very loud and unexpected growl, and, most shocking in a church, Edward abruptly doubled over with laughter. Before, Richard might have burned with mortification but it was all different now. He fell in with Edward's humor, the first time that had ever happened. Neither of them seemed able to stop.
The noise drew the priest in to see the source of such an unseemly disturbance in God's house. His reaction was not one of sympathy, and for their impudence he threw them out, slamming the thick oaken doors behind them.
This was also uncommonly funny, and they staggered like drunks toward the courtyard. Eventually, they settled down, catching their breath.
Edward seemed to notice his disheveled state for the first time. "Look at me. I can't go into meat like this, they'll mistake me for a pig and roast me on a spit."
"The lake then? The water will still be warm from the day."
"The lake it is. But let's not race. I'm tired."
They walked to the castle gate, nodding to the guards on duty there who cracked it open, allowing them to slip out. As they trudged on, Richard looked at his brother in the starlight and knew he didn't want him to go. "Do you have to leave?"
"Yes. But not tonight, nor tomorrow. Soon, though."
Well. That would just have to do. Edward wouldn't be too far away. Perhaps later on Richard could ride over to the monastery and they could laugh in its chapel. "You're sure about this?"
"We all have different roads, Dickon. This one is mine. And it's all right. Truly it is."
It must have been, for on Edward's young and weary face there was a measure of peace that Richard had never seen before. How strange that it should come to him only after he'd killed a man.