A Different Kingdom(28)

'That they can camp near the river, at the wood's edge if they choose, and be eaten by the wolves or they can seek the sanctuary of holy ground along with us.'

Michael grunted. The fox men looked sullen, Ringbone touching his ivory neck charm uncertainly,

'I'm damned if I'll sleep under a tree tonight, anyway,' Cat said, and kicked the mare forward to where a trio of long-skirted figures was approaching. Old men, bald-pated.and full-bearded, the sunlight behind them throwing their faces into shadow. Crosses made of unsquared twigs swung from their waists. Michael stared at her. She hated the Brothers, always had. Even Nennian she had distrusted, but she was willing enough to partake of their hospitality now that the Forest-Folk had shunned her. She made him feel oddly ashamed.

'Pax vobiscum.'

The fox men backed away at the sound of the secret language, the Church tongue of magicians. Michael shrugged and joined Cat.

'Et cum spiritu tuo,' he mumbled. A priest had taught him that in the depths of the Wolfweald a long time ago. It fell off his tongue like a flint, but the Brothers smiled as one, faces crinkling.

'A Christian couple—in odd company, it is true. And you have travelled far. Enter the Retreat ad be refreshed.'

Michael looked back but Ringbone and his men had disappeared in a twinkling. Must be back in the trees. Damn fools. And yet he could not blame them. The Brothers and their Knights had been responsible for much of the violence in the wood. For a moment he thought of returning to the depths of the trees. Ringbone was his friend, after all. But it was himself and Cat the beasts were after. To return would be folly. He cursed under his breath, and hoped the proximity of the Retreat would keep the night's evil from them. Then he sighed and knelt before the tallest of the Brothers of the Wood, the one who had spoken, and felt a leaf-light hand on his head. A blessing.

'In nomine Patri... '

They would have peace tonight, at any rate.

The community was a mere circle of thatched huts huddled against the loom of the surrounding forest. The chapel was the only substantial building, logwalled and chinked with clay. The others were a sprinkle of wattle and daub and turf with birch bark and sod roofs. There was the pungence of a herb garden, orderly rows of cabbages and an orchard with bee skeps silenced by the season. Michael was sure he could scent the strong whiff of fermentation. Cider it would be, cloudy and potent. There was no wine to be had. The blood of Christ would come from the juice and pulp of apples, His body from barley bannock.

'We eat no meat here,' one of them had said. But it was good to tuck into fresh vegetables and fruit, bread that could be torn between the hands, butter and buttermilk. They must have a stretch of pasture here somewhere, off in the trees. No need to fear the wolves with the chapel rearing its blunt tower above the wood, the crucifix hovering over every corner. For a moment Michael envied the Brothers their faith, and remembered going to mass at home, the heady incense that made him think of Byzantium, the red flicker of the sanctuary light. Childhood.

His forearm twinged, itched. Smelled. Ringbone's poultice had been disagreeable but effective. He was aware of how he smelled. Cat, too, for that matter. They smelled of the forest and their own overworked bodies, of horse and old rain. The Brothers were as clean as pins. He longed for a bath. Still some manners left, he thought with a smile.

They ate and ate. More Brothers trooped into the low length of the refectory, blessed themselves and joined them. Most were old. Some even bore the facial scars of the tribes, the tattooing of savages. It took all sorts, he supposed. It would be easy enough to tire of life in the woods and the wilderness, to come here seeking peace. No women, though. A sad state of affairs. He noticed they avoided Cat's eyes, which seemed to amuse her. As discreetly as he could, he levered her mischievous hand from his thigh under the table.

When he had wiped his wooden plate for the second time, watched approvingly by the beaming Brother Kitchener, he found a youngish man standing before him, obviously ill at ease.

'The Brother Abbot would be glad of a few words when you are done,' he said. His gaze strayed to Michael's sword, hanging at his hip. 'He will not keep you, and we have a tub rigged for bathing and a place for you—for both of you— to sleep.' The young brother was blushing and Michael realized that Cat was probably treating him to a lascivious wink.

'I will take you to him when you are ready.'

The Abbot was not so old either, oddly enough. He was a vigorous man in early middle age with a broken nose and the build of a boxer. Michael would have bet he had once been a Sellsword or Knight; he had that look about him. His eyes were as blue as cornflowers, widening a little with interest as they gauged the pedigree of the Ulfberht.