The Balance Ch. 22-24

Diogenes clapped Sean on the shoulder. "Good thinking, guardsman. When this is over, come and talk with me. There's a sergeant's spot coming up in my squad and I think you might be the man to fill it."

"Oh God, no. The last thing I want is a promotion!"

The captain chuckled and walked away, the last soldier trailing him. Far away, a bell tolled the hour.

One o'clock in the morning. This night is going to last forever. He looked over at Lucien.

"Heard any good ones lately?"

Chapter 24

In another part of the palace, Angela tried once more to relax and go to sleep. Ever since their audience with the king and queen broke up, she had been in a state of high agitation.

She had spent part of an hour in the communal bathing room, listening to the castle gossip. Many of the high-born ladies bathed together in the old Roman way, gathering in the calidarium or the frigidarium, laughing and relaxing after a days' labor. Some of them had given her long, questioning looks, but none had dared to approach her to ask about what had happened earlier in the evening.

Which was well, for she hardly understood it herself. Something had greatly upset Paul, that she could tell. What had happened to drive an otherwise sweet-tempered young man to the heights of scorn which he had shown for Ariana and the royal family, Angela could hardly guess. What had he seen? The sort of orgy which Ulf had described, his face twisted in a half-loathing, half-hopeful rictus? Pagan worship rites? Witchcraft?

She sighed and sat on her small bed, combing her hair. None of her maids were with her this evening. The thought saddened her, for her heart foretold that after the events of tomorrow morning, this would be the last she saw of Heklos. She had told Abiron the truth. She did not think for a moment that Lambert would allow her to stay to try to guide the new church here. She had been chosen for a beautiful face and a clever mind, not her faith, and her scarlet past would always follow her.

The thought of leaving troubled her. It was a strange thing, she reflected, that in the past two weeks Heklos had begun to feel like a home. She would miss it. The dark-haired, sweet-faced maids, the other castle servants, cheerfully busy throughout the day, the few ladies of rank who had warmed enough to her to exchange greetings and polite conversation.

And Abiron. And Abiron.

She removed and hung up her gown in the wardrobe beside her habit and the other few pieces of clothing which she had brought. Stripped to her shift, she blew out the candles and lay down to sleep, the coals of the fire the only light in the room. In the dim light, she caught the gleam of steel. Her dagger, discarded on a side table. Thinking of Paul's warning, she got up, shivering in the chill air, hid it under her pillow, and crawled under the bedclothes again.

And lay, sleepless.

I've made up my mind. I have. In the morning she would stand in the great hall and denounce Abiron's faith, and the faith of almost everyone in Heklos, as a fiction. She would testify to the greatness of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. She would not do so happily, but to do otherwise was to invite personal ruin. Paul would do the same, with more passion, and this entire sad affair would be over. Lambert would betray her, and she would be shunted back to another nunnery, less restrictive than the first, but still a cage. There to live out the rest of her life, unless her family should someday have need of her and summon her back home, a useful tool once more.

Angela ground her teeth. She had never given in before. Why was she doing so now? Even when her father had stood over her, with his sword still red with the blood of her only lover, she had not begged forgiveness, but had instead raged against him in fury at the outrage he had committed. That, she had thought in her more introspective hours, and not the act of fornication itself, had been what had really driven Lord Robert to send her into exile.

She turned from side to side, then lay on her back, staring at the ceiling above her, dark wood beams almost unseen in the darkness. Unbidden, her hands met and clasped on her chest. Unthinking, voiceless, she prayed. She used no words, but sent up a silent plea of emotion, asking for guidance, for forgiveness, and for mercy. For who, she could not tell. Was it for herself? Her faith? Or for every person in this land which she was only now beginning to know?

Across the apartment, in the sitting room, her door slowly creaked open. A dark shape, only visible as a deeper shadow against the dimness of the hall, stood outlined in the entranceway.

He will come for you tonight.

Angela smiled. Paul had misjudged her badly, and Abiron as well. If he came to her tonight he would find a willing bedmate. And why not? Why should she not have one night of happiness to warm her for all the long cold nights to come? One memory of happiness to set against the guilt tomorrow would bring? She closed her eyes, feigning sleep, but her ears strained for his voice and her skin heated for his touch.

Instead, a strong, clammy hand, damp with sweat, covered her mouth, and a cruel grip dug into her upper arm, fingers strong enough to bruise.

"Damn you, wake up!" a voice hissed.

Lambert.

Eyes wide with outrage, still fixed in his grasp, Angela scrambled to a sitting position. She struck at the bishop, but found her blows warded effortlessly aside.

"Silence, damn it!" he hissed. "It's Lambert! Don't struggle."

God's kneecap. He thinks I am fighting him because I think it is someone else. Not because he disgusts me. She forced herself to relax.

"Your Grace," she said, and she did not have to fake the trembling in her voice. "Forgive me. After what Brother Paul said this evening, I was worried that Abiron was come here to...attack me. You woke me from sleep and I panicked. I am sorry."

Lambert nodded, but his eyes were still cold. Releasing her, he lit a taper from the fire, and used it to light a candle near the bed. By its light, she could see that his face was drawn and agitated where he crouched, only an arms length away from her.

"Are you troubled, my lord?" she asked.

He looked sharply at her, and she schooled her face to meekness. Carefully, she thought. He is a pig but no fool. Do not let on you sympathize, however slightly, with his enemies.

"There are too many guards about, and my movements are watched. I am denied conversation with a man in my employ. I see betrayal, Sister. Tell me," he said, and his voice with thick with suspicion, "what did you and High Priest Abiron," and here he sneered openly, "do in your little excursion to town today? Find a little place to cuddle? Did you make arrangements to betray your God? I know how slow a woman's wits can become when a pleasant face becomes involved."

Angela gaped, and nearly laughed before she caught herself. Was the man insane? She drew herself up regally and spoke with the hauteur of generations of Saxon nobility.

"You forget yourself, Your Grace. You know, better than any other, what one lapse in judgment has cost me. Do you think I would abandon my God for this jumped-up pagan deity and a cult of rural fools? Abiron is a comely boy. But he is just that. A boy. And tomorrow he and his wife and every single person in this stinking, festering pit will bow their heads to us."

Lambert nodded, mollified. "Well said, Sister." He looked at her, and something in him changed. "You say boys do not interest you. Perhaps a man would?"

He drew a fingertip down her shrinking arm. Goosebumps rose in revulsion at his touch.

"I will say, Sister, that it is not inconceivable that I can improve your station. Can you read and write? If you agree to become my private secretary, there is no telling how far you may rise." His wandering hand found her left wrist and gripped it cruelly, grinding the small bones together. "Do otherwise, and things will be less...pleasant."

Eyes watering in pain, she flung aside her pillow with her right hand and grabbed the naked dagger that rested on the mattress. Lunging, she set its point at his astonished throat.

"Touch me again unwilling, and I will bleed you where you stand," she snarled. "I am not some whore you can buy for a loaf of bread or a skin of wine. I am still Lady Angela Lyons, and I will go to no one's bed who I do not choose."

Lambert rose, and the look he gave her chilled her bones.

"There are many forms of surrender, Sister. You should choose your battles more wisely. I will forgive this impertinence. But if you betray us, I will have you assigned to my service, and you will be able to do nothing about it. I will look forward to the pleasure of breaking you.

"Tell me. How long do you think it will take before you beg me to take you, just for the privilege of eating or drinking? What will you do to avoid being shared out among the men in a war-camp?

"Make sure you keep me happy, little Sister. I would hate to see your sweet flesh abused. At least, I would hate for it to be by someone who was not myself." Whistling merrily, he left the chamber, leaving the door open behind him.

Shaking, Angela closed and bolted the door, cursing herself for not taking the precaution earlier. Weeping with pain and with reaction to Lambert's threats, she opened the window of her bedchamber and looked out into the garden. In the south, the moon was riding high, silvering the frost-bitten plants with light. A few pale stars shone dimly, eclipsed here and there by thin, scudding clouds.

Who to go to? she thought. And can I go to anyone? The royals may have sympathy with her claims, but even if they declared the game a forfeit in response to the threat against her person, they could not protect her permanently. And would the king understand, or even try to protect her? The queen might try to intervene on her behalf, but Angela knew from sad experience how little a woman's wishes mattered when set up against those of her lord. Angela's spiritual superiors could even seize on her absence as an excuse to wage war against Heklos, claiming that she had been kidnapped and held against her will, a victim of the perfidious lusts of the king or prince. Or of the priesthood of the Deity itself.

Her best course of action, she decided, was to bow her head to Lambert, and to flee into the anonymity of a cloister as soon as she could. The stifling captivity of that life may kill her, she knew, but that was far better than the future of rape and degradation she could see in Lambert's eyes.

But I can't leave without saying goodbye. Not to Abiron. And his lady wife has been kind to me, in her own way, little though we have met. If I am going to condemn them to ruin, the least I can do is apologize and try to part as friends. Or if not friends, at least not as enemies.

With new resolve she shed her nightgown and dressed. She put on her last clean chemise and eyed her gowns. With no one to aid her in dressing, she resentfully donned her habit, belting it harshly around her waist. She stepped into a pair of soft slippers, paused for one moment to slide an object in the pocket of her gown, then opened the door. She glared at the guard standing there. Not, she noticed, the one who had gone into town with her and Abiron the previous day. This was the dim one who was always looking at her breasts, as if she was faceless and mindless, a mere body for his gaze.

"I don't suppose it occurred to you that I might not want to let a man into my room after midnight, you fool," she said with biting sarcasm.

He gave her a look of bovine stupidity. "He's a priest, and your superior, isn't he, miss? Was I supposed to keep him out?" His eyes took on a cunning cast. "And he gave me a little coin for my trouble, too. Maybe you should have treated me a little nicer over the past few weeks. As it is, I'll drink on this for the next couple months." he said, jingling his purse.

"Dog," she said, cursing her swift temper. "No. Dogs are loyal. You are a rat, skulking in the shadows."

The guard took a threatening step toward her.

"Lay one hand on me, and I scream rape," she said calmly. "Will you be able to convince the mob of your innocence before they tear you limb from limb?"

His face went white.

"I am going for a walk. Do not think to follow me. Perhaps you are an honest traitor, and will stay bought. It is nothing to me. But I do not want to see you near me ever again. Make sure you are not here when I return."

"The king...the king ordered me to guard you. If you are found missing and I am absent..." he stuttered.

"Then the fault will be on your head. Indeed, the king ordered you to guard me. And instead, you let a man into my chambers for the price of a few mugs of beer." To his uncomprehending look she asked, "Your name wouldn't be Judas, would it?"

Her back straight and her steps sure, she left him gaping in the corridor. It did not take her long to make her way to the apartments Abiron shared with his wife, the High Priestess. For a mercy, she saw light peeking around the doorframe, indicating that they were not yet abed. Frowning, she noticed the absence of guards at their door. Was every guard with a set of wits in the entire kingdom off having a drink?

Gathering up her courage, she knocked at the door. Within moments, it was answered by Abiron.

As she had been on the day of their first meeting, she was struck by his beauty. Like most men in this country, he was not overly tall. In fact, if they had been back in England, he would have been counted smaller than most. But he had a breadth of shoulder which was difficult to disguise and his arms and legs were lithe and strong. His eyes, Angela thought, were his best feature. Dark like his hair and deep set, they were windows to a face that was both calm and kind. He was younger than she, but there was always a sense of stillness about him, as if he were a pool of dark water and she had only glimpsed the surface.

He smiled in greeting, but had a look of wary confusion on his face. "Sister Angela. How may I serve you?"

Somehow she mustered a small smile. "I wished to speak with you and your wife. Is she here?"

Abiron stepped aside. "Please. Enter. My lady wife is absent at the moment. We were discussing our future with the royal family, and I have just returned. It was the high priestess' desire to share a glass of wine with the queen before returning to our rooms." He gestured at a well-upholstered chair before the fire. "Please, sit. May I offer you something to drink? Wine?"

Angela made a face. As a maiden in a noble house, she had grown used to watered wine with meals, but she had never enjoyed it. And the full-bodied wine served at this court was far too strong for her. The last thing she wanted was for her last meeting with Abiron to be fuzzed by strong drink.

Paul laughed at her reaction. "I know just how you feel. I have never liked wine either. And I doubt you are in the mood for beer or ale." At her shake of the head, he continued, "I have just learned about a drink they serve here which comes from the East, from Chin. A kind of leaf, crumbled, steeped in boiling water, which may be drunk with milk or honey. It is called chai. I was just going to have a mug. Will you allow me to acquaint you with it?"

Angela nodded. At her gesture, using a thick cloth, he carefully took hold of a pot which had hung suspended over the fire. He added a pinch of crumbled leaf to two empty mugs and poured a quantity of boiling water into each. With a flourish, he handled a mug to her, where she cradled it in her palms, hands slowly warming. Careful of the hot liquid, she assayed a sip. The taste was not displeasing, she decided. Strong, though somewhat bitter. Seeing Abiron setting out a small pot of honey, she ladled a generous dollop into her mug and stirred it. The second sip was far more pleasing then the first, and she smiled at her friend, relaxing for the first time in hours.

A friend, she thought. How long since I had one of those? And how bitter the knowledge that no sooner had she realized that Abiron was her friend than they would have to part, with no meeting again on this side of heaven? Looking up from her chai, she saw Abiron looking at her over his own mug from where he sat on the opposite side of the fire.

"Why did you come, Sister?"

Taking a deep breath, she spoke. "After the events of tomorrow, I do not think I will be welcome here in Heklos. If what I suspect comes to pass, Bishop Lambert will take on the institution of our church in your lands onto his shoulders. Paul and myself will be set aside for others, of loftier rank.

"Although we do not agree on many things, I have come to see you as a friend. And although I do not know her as well as I would like, I have come to regard your lady mother with respect as well.

Abiron's eyes widened, but he motioned for her to continue.

"Among my people, if one is taking leave of a friend and does not expect to see them again in this life..." her throat closed and she had to fight back tears.

No more! I am sick to death of weeping.

"It is a custom, in my house, to give a gift of leave-taking. That although friends may be parted by distance, by war, by enmity, or by the door through which we all pass, and that but once, we may look upon the object given and remember them with fondness." She fumbled in her robe.

"I wished to give you another gift, my friend, but circumstances..." she shrugged. "We do not always choose our own paths." She handed him a small box, carved of dark wood.

Abiron took it from her and opened it with gentle hands. Inside, two figures rested on worn cloth. Sitting on their haunches, wings unfurled, mouths wide open, displaying sharp teeth, the dragons looked ready to leap into the sky and do battle with fierce hummingbirds and deadly bumblebees. He smiled.

"What are they called?"

Angela extended a shaking hand and softly stroked one figure, the wood worn to satin smoothness by generations of fingers.

"This one is Fafnir. He was slain by the hero Sigurd. The other," she touched a parchment-thin wing, "is Magelaar, who guards the world tree from those who would harm it. They were given to me by my mother, who had them from her mother. They have been in my bloodline for generations, from before our forefathers set foot on the island's shore. It is said we can trace our line back to the great King Hrothgar himself."

"They are beautiful, my lady," for once she did not grow angry at the honorific. "I will always think of you when I look on them. However, I have a question."

"What is that?"

"You said that if circumstances were different, you would have chosen another gift." His voice, as always, was gentle. "What would have that gift been?"

Angela hesitated. Why not tell him? Who will know?

"It would have been myself, my friend. I would have given a gift of my body to you, and we both may have had a memory to treasure. But whatever I may be," she continued, as silent tears washed her cheeks, "I am not an adulteress. I will not tempt a man away from his wedding vows. And your wife the high priestess is far to wise and noble a lady for me to try to destroy your marriage."

Abiron nodded. His eyes were lit by a spark of amusement which she did not understand. "And if I were free to choose, my lady? What then?"

Hope, that feeble, battered bird, savaged by abuse and betrayal, staggered to its feet and began to sing. She quashed it ruthlessly. "You aren't. You can't. Do not cheapen yourself in my eyes by pretending you can lie with me without breaking your vows to your wife."