the confidence in Ulrich's eyes, a scouring Ulrich could feel like a brush against chain mail in a close fight. And so this was.
Ulrich only nodded, content to let Philip take this where it would go.
"Then," Philip said, "keep on with your wager, Ulrich of Caen, and tomorrow, if this wager plays out the way you predict, I will sweeten the pot, adding wager upon wager. Are you game?"
"My lord," Ulrich said with a slow grin, "I am always game for a good wager."
* * *
The hall of Stanora was quiet, empty of all but sleepers and their sleeping noises, the favored dogs upon the hearth, the moon high now in the sky and white as new teeth in a hungry wolf pup.
He went by corners when he could, keeping to the shadows, and then tripped softly down the wide, straight stair that led out of the hall and into the stone forework of the tower gate. All was still, serene, the night slipping past like water in a stream, quiet and full. The dogs shifted in their sleep, one lifting his head and gazing with blinking eyes as he left the stony confines of Stanora tower. With a huff of sleepy air, the dog lay down again, rearranging his head upon his paws, content, drifting back into dreams before the man had even left the tower gate.
No one had seen him.
The main chapel, the one that served all Stanora, was on the eastern wall and close by the main gateway into the holding. The men-at-arms upon the wall and posted at the gate looked outward for any sign of danger, not seeing any within. Not knowing there was any within.
He made for the chapel, and, though he might have been seen, what was there to note? A man on his way to church? A man in sudden need of prayer? What harm in that? None, and so he could claim if stopped. But he was not stopped.
He entered the chapel by an open door and knelt in piety. A figure stood under the rood of Christ, his head cowled and his shoulders cloaked. This man stood and waited, saying nothing, yet expectant for all his silence.
"Father," the other man said.
Father Matthew stepped out from beneath the shadow of the cross and said, "What can you tell me?"
* * *
How they both came to be at the line of garderobes just before the hour of Matins, neither could have said. They had come silently, each from separate chambers on opposite sides of the spiral stair. There were three garderobes in a line, stone slabs with holes cut in, dumping what was put into that hole into the cesspit below.
They stood staring at each other in the dark, the only light coming but faintly from the arrow slit high above them. The moon was low now, brushed by distant tree-tops.
She was not going to use the garderobe with him so near, even if she was standing with her legs crossed, trying not to put her hand between and hold it in.
Even in the dark his eyes looked light. Strange eyes, so gray and light that they almost showed silver against his glossy black hair. He wore his hair long, longer than the priests liked, longer than outward piety demanded, yet it seemed to suit him. She liked it, though she supposed she should not.
"Go to," she said. "Go first."
"You go first," he said. "You live here."
"You are the guest. Besides, is it not easier for you?"
"What?" William asked.
Lunete sighed and squeezed her legs tighter. "Just... go to. Be quick."
He shrugged and faced the garderobe, not caring that she watched. She sighed again and turned to face the dark and the gallery rail.
She could hear it, of course. A long fall of water, thin and oddly musical. It was easier for boys. Everyone knew that.
"Your turn," he said, dropping the fabric of his tunic and turning to face her.
"You have to leave," she said, not able to resist the need to press her hand against her urge, an urge that grew stronger as relief came close.
"Oh," he said, obviously perplexed. "Yea. Yea, I shall leave."
"Leave, then!" she snapped, lifting her shift even as he stood there, staring at her.
He shuffled down the short passage until he escaped it, his
Ulrich only nodded, content to let Philip take this where it would go.
"Then," Philip said, "keep on with your wager, Ulrich of Caen, and tomorrow, if this wager plays out the way you predict, I will sweeten the pot, adding wager upon wager. Are you game?"
"My lord," Ulrich said with a slow grin, "I am always game for a good wager."
* * *
The hall of Stanora was quiet, empty of all but sleepers and their sleeping noises, the favored dogs upon the hearth, the moon high now in the sky and white as new teeth in a hungry wolf pup.
He went by corners when he could, keeping to the shadows, and then tripped softly down the wide, straight stair that led out of the hall and into the stone forework of the tower gate. All was still, serene, the night slipping past like water in a stream, quiet and full. The dogs shifted in their sleep, one lifting his head and gazing with blinking eyes as he left the stony confines of Stanora tower. With a huff of sleepy air, the dog lay down again, rearranging his head upon his paws, content, drifting back into dreams before the man had even left the tower gate.
No one had seen him.
The main chapel, the one that served all Stanora, was on the eastern wall and close by the main gateway into the holding. The men-at-arms upon the wall and posted at the gate looked outward for any sign of danger, not seeing any within. Not knowing there was any within.
He made for the chapel, and, though he might have been seen, what was there to note? A man on his way to church? A man in sudden need of prayer? What harm in that? None, and so he could claim if stopped. But he was not stopped.
He entered the chapel by an open door and knelt in piety. A figure stood under the rood of Christ, his head cowled and his shoulders cloaked. This man stood and waited, saying nothing, yet expectant for all his silence.
"Father," the other man said.
Father Matthew stepped out from beneath the shadow of the cross and said, "What can you tell me?"
* * *
How they both came to be at the line of garderobes just before the hour of Matins, neither could have said. They had come silently, each from separate chambers on opposite sides of the spiral stair. There were three garderobes in a line, stone slabs with holes cut in, dumping what was put into that hole into the cesspit below.
They stood staring at each other in the dark, the only light coming but faintly from the arrow slit high above them. The moon was low now, brushed by distant tree-tops.
She was not going to use the garderobe with him so near, even if she was standing with her legs crossed, trying not to put her hand between and hold it in.
Even in the dark his eyes looked light. Strange eyes, so gray and light that they almost showed silver against his glossy black hair. He wore his hair long, longer than the priests liked, longer than outward piety demanded, yet it seemed to suit him. She liked it, though she supposed she should not.
"Go to," she said. "Go first."
"You go first," he said. "You live here."
"You are the guest. Besides, is it not easier for you?"
"What?" William asked.
Lunete sighed and squeezed her legs tighter. "Just... go to. Be quick."
He shrugged and faced the garderobe, not caring that she watched. She sighed again and turned to face the dark and the gallery rail.
She could hear it, of course. A long fall of water, thin and oddly musical. It was easier for boys. Everyone knew that.
"Your turn," he said, dropping the fabric of his tunic and turning to face her.
"You have to leave," she said, not able to resist the need to press her hand against her urge, an urge that grew stronger as relief came close.
"Oh," he said, obviously perplexed. "Yea. Yea, I shall leave."
"Leave, then!" she snapped, lifting her shift even as he stood there, staring at her.
He shuffled down the short passage until he escaped it, his
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