Thirty-one

“Pater is sending me back to our school today.”

“Our school?” Rian asked.

“You’ll come, won’t you?”

Rian was dismayed. “Now? With you?”

“No, no,” Geoffrey assured him, “Not until things are ... complete.”

“Complete,” the boy said, his voice dull, his eyes lost for a moment their luster.

“I’m sorry for you. You must know that.”

“Yes ... thank you.”

The boys were quiet for a time. Geoffrey looked up into the brightening sky.

“Bright enough for collecting firewood, I guess.”

“Yes,” Rian agreed. “Let’s get started. We’ve two priests to gather for.”

And then they heard the complaints of the village girl who couldn’t be far away at all.

“Take your hands off me!” she shouted.

The boys turned to each other, and then ran to the corner of a cottage where they saw the girl pushing away from a man in rags. He grasped her arm and held her tight. She fought back with her other fist.

The man grumbled, “Vixen, I’ll teach you to ignore me.” And he pulled her close, “Give a kiss, whore!”

Geoffrey yelled, “Unhand her!” and he closed in, too, Rian at his heels.

“Leave be, boy!” the man told him. “One kiss and I’ll be home.” His free hand rubbed across the girl in a sickening way.

For her part, the girl stayed calm. She aimed to strike the drunk–his sour breath and the dirt of him repelled her–but he had her fast in a wide grip now. Instead, she stamped hard on his foot and he let her go in surprise.

“Bitch!” and he made to grab her again, but Geoffrey pushed him away and the drunk nearly tumbled.

“Bitterfolk!” Geoffrey mouthed with disgust. Another man appeared, armed with a club.

“Turn away now, I tell you, or you’ll regret your filthy words and pawing.”

Rian raised his own voice, “Geoffrey, calm yourself. We want no fight with our brother.”

But the drunk would have none of the boy’s appeasement. “You’re not my brother.” The hatred boiled off of him.

“Friend then,” Rian offered, but the man only cursed them. And he stepped toward the girl.

Geoffrey moved to push him away again, but the man pulled a knife and aimed wildly for the young man’s side.

In a flash, Rian leapt in between them and took the blade. He was undone by it. No pain, but the warm blood began to fill his tunic with its stain. “Heaven,” he whispered as Geoffrey pulled his short sword.

The drunken man’s eyes widened and then he fell, too. Geoffrey had turned his blade so that he’d strike cleanly through the ribs and the man was dead in an instant.

The village girl screamed. She was terrified for Rian and ran for the boy’s father.

The other man nearly panicked when he saw the blood, but he managed a blow with his club. It landed squarely on Geoffrey skull. He ran away after.

From above, the rook saw Rian fall with his prayer. It took to wing, just as Geoffrey fell with all his dead weight.

Thirty

Who can tell what a bird might know?

How did this one on the rooftop get singled out when the rookery was abandoned? Was it told to remain? Or can a bird have a destiny? Did this rook, its claws gripping the sharp angle on top of a gabled window, know what would unfold after its clamor flew away?

Or does it just watch, feeding during the quiet hours, sometimes flying in slow circles above the village to exercise its wings?

This morning, the rook watched as Geoffrey approached. He met a young woman along the way, a girl who smiled and greeted the student, “I know you, isn’t that so, Lordling?”

“Well enough to know my heritage, I see, not that I share it so liberally.”

“Rian told me so.”

“I misremember telling him.”

“Oh, Rian knows things, he does,” she said. “And your signet ring tells its own tale.”

“I would fain to misremember you, but I still have the bruises.”

The girl laughed, flashed her bright teeth and filled Geoffrey with something like love. “You aren’t cross with me, are you, Lordling?”

“How can I be cross ... even as you continue to bowl me over?"

“He said you had a sweet tongue.”

“Who is that?”

“Rian, of course.”

“I misremember giving him even the hope.”

“Oh, that’s wicked of you. Really,” she frowned. “It drips of venom instead, I see.” And she huffed off, despite Geoffrey’s loud protestations.

She would not hear him.

His heart sank, but Rian came to his rescue.

“She flirts with you!” Rian whispered as he came close.

Geoffrey was startled, Rian approached so silently.

“She turns her back to me,” Geoffrey announced.

“And isn’t that a kind of flirting?”

Geoffrey watched the girl's backside and thought, "Yes, it may be."

Twenty-nine

Selden rose in the middle of the night to recite Vigils. He let Geoffrey sleep, a kindness he offered only so that the young man would be well rested come dawn. Perhaps with a little more sleep Geoffrey would argue less about his being sent back to the school. Selden had already made plans for the young man to accompany a merchant who was on his way to the Cities.

He lit a torch in the church. The candles, he was saving for the funeral rites. The beeswax burned slowly, but there was only the one full candle left. It would do for the altar–vigil and funeral, and some days of the octave.

“Funny how the details of living already confound the grieving,” Selden thought, for he had come to like the bishop quite a lot. “But we’ll live these days well, or try. The man’s not yet dead.”

Selden prayed until dawn. Geoffrey came into the church then and they took up Matins together, reciting the psalms of the day responsively, sharing the last when the verses were odd-numbered.

When they were finished, Geoffrey told the master, “The villagers are bringing food and wood to the bishop.”

“They’re generous people.”

“We’ll make do on our own, then?”

“They’re poor people, too.”

“Rian’s told me that his mother will cook for us,” Geoffrey shared.

“She’ll just cook for one,” Selden told him, which drew a hard look from the student.

“You can’t send me away.”

Selden chuckled, “I can command you if you like.”

“I’m needed here.” He was sincere, always puzzled that the master would not carry even a dagger.

“I would rather not argue, Geoffrey. I know you mean well, and I don’t discount the help you are to me, but someone needs to tell Primus that I’m to be here for more days.”

“Through the octave?”

“Yes. What’s a few more days?”

“That’s how I feel.”

“It can’t be helped.”

“You won’t even carry a blade. How could you ever defend yourself here?”

Selden’s ire was being stoked. “I won’t argue... And you will obey.”

These were direct words and Geoffrey was galled by them. He raised his voice, “Don’t you feel the tension here? The resentment the First People hold toward us?”

“Quiet! I told you–”

“I will not be quiet,” though he did lower his voice. “I’m entitled to my argument.”

“I’m entitled to your obedience.” Selden stared.

“I’ll cut us firewood with Rian. He’s offered. He’s the obedient one, I can tell. The good one who’ll– ”

“Geoffrey, listen, please.”

The young man was already standing, waiting for leave, breathing deeply, simmering, waiting for the boil.

“I’m sorry.” It wasn't so hard to be kind, Selden thought.

The young man's stance softened. “I can’t change your mind?”

“No... The firewood will be most appreciated. And then we can discuss our plans.”

“Yes, master.” And the young man received Selden’s blessing and headed to the village square to seek out Rian at his father’s smithy.

Selden thought, “A fierce lad. Loyal and good-hearted. As stubborn as I was, and maybe more.”