“She killed Lackling,” Alain managed at last. “She killed him, and she a holy biscop!” This betrayal was perhaps the worst of all. Only imagine what Brother Gilles, that good gentle soul, would have said had he witnessed such a thing! “And now Lavastine says we will march to war when there’s work in the fields to be done, and he even speaks of fighting against his own beloved cousin! It isn’t natural!”
Agius sighed. “Come, Alain. Kneel beside me. There is much for you to learn about the ways of the world. Perhaps someday you will be allowed to turn your back on the intrigues of the world, as I have sought to turn mine. What the biscop did—” He grimaced as he shifted weight onto his injured leg. Alain crossed hesitantly and knelt beside him. “Be sure that I will report it, if I can. But I may not be believed. She is a holy biscop, ordained by the hand of the skopos herself. Although my word is worth a great deal, there were yet only you and I who witnessed the act. If you were acknowledged, Alain, as Lavastine’s bastard, your word would be worth more.”
But at this moment, seeing the pale face and remembering the flat voice of Lavastine as he had announced his allegiance to Sabella in the hall, Alain was not sure he wished to be acknowledged as that man’s kinsman. Especially if it would bring further notice upon him.
“But nevertheless, Alain, there are many reasons why noble lords and ladies change their allegiances. Many reasons, and few of them good ones. With such games do the great princes while away their days, for they do not turn their hearts and eyes to the Hearth of Our Lady as they ought. They are beguiled by the world and its pleasures. We cannot know that sorcery is the cause of the count’s decision.
“But I know it is!” Alain burst out. “I know!”
Agius raised an eyebrow. He looked skeptical. “By what means do you know? Are you an adept? Have you received training in the forbidden arts?”
Alain resisted the urge to bring the rose out, to show its bloom, to make Agius smell its fragrance. It was not the season for roses, certainly, but the count had a small garden protected from the winds, open to the sun and often warmed by braziers; roses there bloomed early and late. What if Agius, not believing his tale of the visitation of the Lady of Battles, accused him of stealing it?
Or, worse, what if Agius believed him? What if Agius decided that Alain’s destiny was something that he, Agius, must manage?