The Chapel of St. Lamar at Upchurch. XXIII Storing, Pentian Year Nine Hundred And Fourteen. Sext.
Sir Hamral, Father Anselm.
The pale young priest, Father Anselm, lights a candle and smiles, nervously, at Sir Hamral. Without cease, heavy autumn rains clatter upon the timber roof, and given the thick walls and tiny, narrow windows, but scant natural light penetrates into the great, open space. The church hall is simple, with few adornments: a plain wooden altar stands at the front, with the empty floor before it strewn with straw where the parishioners sit or stand during mass.
“They say Upchurch has always been filled with good men of faith,” says Father Anselm, “Long before the Crusades delivered the Frounter out of the hands of the wicked Canemites, Pentian men dwelt here, living quietly under ruckish rule. A ruckish fortress is said to have once stood where the manor house is now.
“And I understand that this Chapel was built the same year Weremach was crowned. Sir Antony of Kindesley had died the winter before, and he left the money to build St. Lamar in his will. Good Sir Antony, you may know, is buried in the graveyard just outside. I have heard that it was quite a doing to secure a relic for the Chapel, but after many months of searching they found the eyetooth of Saint Lamar that to this day still protects us from harm. And then, several years later, Count Ralf, Durrell’s father, paid for our belfry and bell.
“This all may not seem like much to you, compared to the great big churches in Heremac, but it is a fine little church and my parishioners are quite grateful that they have their own priest living right here in Upchurch. Not all villages this small are so lucky, and have to share their priest with another village or two. It is all the more remarkable, given that St. Lamar is one of the newest parishes in the entire Canglen diocese; the parish was established only a few years before I was born. You see, in the old days there was no priest—the Chapel was only used when the Count visited Upchurch, and then he would bring his own chaplain with him.
“I am lucky enough to be the third priest to reside here in Upchurch. I fear I don’t remember much about the first priest, Father Reinardus—he died when I was still a lad. But Father Dominic, now he was a good man indeed! My father was a farmer here in Upchurch—my brother Hamond still works the same ground. But somehow Father Dominic saw some promise in me, and taught me my letters and the rudiments of theology, and later sponsored me to be his successor. The good father died six years ago, and I have been the priest here ever since.
“St. Lamar is a small parish, and I am responsible for a little over nine score souls. Many of the good folk here in Upchurch are set in their ways, and still belong to the same parishes their families were born to—your man Oswald, for example. Both of his wives insisted that their children be baptized in St. Hildegard, so every Easter Oswald takes the whole brood over to Hillsfar to take communion there.
“But the parish of St. Lamar is growing, nonetheless, and thriving. Whenever possible, we try to accommodate poor travelers to Upchurch, letting them sleep here in the church hall itself. I sleep up in the loft above us. It may be small, but it’s quite comfortable, I assure you.”
Sir Hamral nods, looking around the church hall, taking it all in.
The Guest Quarters. XXIV Storing, Nones.
Vandoren, Friar Sidrach Landry, Valerius, Helena, Hermia.
As the twin girls look on, giggling, Vandoren kneels on the floor and rubs the belly of his shaggy puppy, which shivers in delight. “Many thanks to you, good Friar,” says Vandoren. “May the Five bless you; I am ever indebted to you for such a warm gesture. I believe I shall name him Achrach, in your honor.”
Sidrach opens his mouth to reply when suddenly Helena and Hermia turn as one toward the door. This motion is followed by a soft rapping.
“Enter,” commands Valerius, taking his staff in hand and standing up.
The door opens to reveal a man, perhaps thirty years old, still thin, of medium height, dressed in a red tunic. He has a fair complexion and dark black hair. Behind him stand a pretty young woman and a little boy.
“Clement!” cries Vandoren, springing to his feet. The minstrel strides forward to clasp his old friend’s hand. Clement laughs and wraps Vandoren in an embrace before entering the room.
Vandoren takes the hand of the young woman and kisses it before leading her inside the guest quarters.
“Cynthia,” says Vandoren. “As lovely as ever. And this little brute must be Simon. How old is he now?”
“He will be six in the next few months,” says Cynthia, trying to coax the shy little boy forward. “And you, Vandoren, are just as silver-tongued as ever.”
“Friar! Valerius!” calls Clement, “Good to see you both.”
“Indeed, my son, indeed,” says Friar Sidrach. “Such as pleasant surprise to see you and your family here in Upchurch!”
“I suppose it is,” says Clement. “Damn, but it hath been too long since last I saw you all. I have but recently completed my studies in Canglen, and Cynthia and I have returned to Heremac, only weeks ago. I am a practicing physick now, hoping to make an honest living. I hapt to run into Old Hamral a few days ago, and he told me how he and Hamral’s mother were preparing to move to Upchurch, and then he proceeded to relate to me all of young Hamral’s recent good fortunes. I find it all quite astonishing, really, as it seems but only a little while ago we were killing dogs and chasing bandits up and down the Frounter. How much everything has changed in the last few years, and mostly for the better. When I heard that Kirke was going to visit Upchurch to formally install Hamral in office, I knew I had to see this with mine own two eyes.”
“Did you received the message I sent to you a few weeks ago?” asks Valerius.
“Indeed I did,” says Clement. “It was an exceedingly odd query, and I have tried to oblige to the best of my ability. You wished to know how one might determine the sex of a creature like the Dolorous Worm—Oh, do not look surprised, for I heard all about that escapade of yours, even in distant Canglen. Such creatures as the Worm are a curious subject. In some ways, they resemble the common serpents of the field, but their magical natures makes things considerably less certain. Such creatures, after all, do not obey the sorts of natural laws that mundane beasts are subject to.
“After much research, I have been unable to come up with a reliable answer to your question. In fact, I have seem some suggestions that strange creatures such as the Worm may actually be hermaphroditic—or even able to change their sex, based on need.”
Valerius scowls. “I had feared as much.” The magician in black then furrows his brows, noticing that Helena and Hermia now crowd on each side of Cynthia, looking intently at her belly, then back at Valerius.
“She is with child,” say both girls in unison.
Clement looks at Valerius, and then to his wife, who blushes.
“I wanted to wait a little longer before I told you,” says Cynthia. “I… I was only sure a few weeks ago.”
“The baby will be a boy,” says Helena, matter-of-factly.
“With black hair,” echoes Hermia.
The Great Hall in Upchurch House. XXV Storing, After Vespers.
Sir Hamral, Sir Will Garnfellow, Father Anselm, Vandoren, Friar Sidrach Landry, Old Hamral, Clement, Mendelor, Valerius, Lady Alice Rowland, Cynthia.
As the embroidered birds in the great raven tapestry look on, Cerdic, the stooped, elderly porter of Upchurch, places the jar of wine on the long oaken table, then takes his place among the seated guests. The table is laden with the remains of a great feast. Sir Hamral sits at the end of one table, his father and mother seated directly to his right, with Cerdic beside them; Lady Alice and Sir Garnfellow to directly to Hamral’s left, with Clement and then Cynthia beside them. Mendelor and Vandoren sits across from Clement, laughing as the physick tells one more bawdy joke, as Cynthia manages a wearied smile. Little Achrach hovers under Vandoren’s seat, his tail wagging in anticipation of another piece of bread. At the end of the table sit Father Anselm, Friar Sidrach, and Valerius, all dressed in black and talking quietly.
“A most excellent and delectable feast, Lady Alice,” declares Garnfellow, draining his cup of wine and slamming it down on the table emphatically. “By the Cup! I cannot recall when last I have enjoyed so fine a meal. I was beginning to fall away to but a mere, wispy shadow of myself, but your famed generosity has restored me. Perhaps, after a few more cups of wine, I shall bring forth my viol, and we shall have a nice bit of music. Perhaps Vandoren there could be persuaded to strum upon his psaltery, and Oswald can play his horn. And that reminds me—just where is that man? He owes me a game of nines-men-morris, and I fear he is shirking his duties. Ha!”
“I expect he is busy preparing for the Count’s visit,” says Cerdic, his thin voice quavering. “With only two more days before the Count arrives, Oswald will want everything to be in order.”
“Such dedication!” cries Garnfellow. “Would that my own men Nym and Bartle knew such virtue. I shall drink, then, to good Oswald!”
And the fat knight refills his cup, raises it high, and takes a great, dramatic drink.
“Old Hamral!” says Garnfellow, wiping his yellow beard with the back of his hand. “Good it is, to see you and fair Elsbeth here in Upchurch. Perhaps, after dinner, you and I could engage in a bit of the old knucklebones, just as in days long gone? I must warn you, sir, that I feel that today I am one of Dame Fortune’s favored sons!”
Old Hamral grins slyly, then looks sideways at his scowling wife. “Perhaps once the fair ladies have retired, Sir Garnfellow,” he says softly, leaning in. “Although just this moment I find myself a wee bit light in the purse, if you take my meaning. Perhaps if my dear son were willing to spot me a few pennies or so, just for the night…”
Old Hamral smiles warmly and looks to his son, who nods impassively in return. Old Hamral claps his hands at this largesse and falls back in his seat, satisfied.
Young Hamral gestures to Jacob, standing in the open doorway and the young boy turns on his heels and runs out, returning in a moment with his friend Pyers. The two boys carry what looks to be a great platter, almost as tall as a man and covered in a cloth. They bear their burden straight-away to Sir Hamral, who stands up and clears his throat.
“Father,” he says, “I wanted you to see this—my coat of arms.”
With one tug, the knight then pulls away the cloth, revealing a kite shield beneath. Jacob and Pyers balance the shield on its end so that all the dinner guests can see. Emblazoned on a gray field is a gold pentifix, shining over the head of a red worm, its head torn off and its tongue lolling out.
Old Hamral stands, tears in his eyes. “I had once dreamt of my Terence becoming a knight, with his own arms… and when he died, I had given up on that dream…”
Sir Hamral nods somberly at the mention of his older brother, but before the knight can speak the outer door to the hall is flung open. Standing there is Oswald, his face flushed.
“Good my lord,” blurts Owsald. “I bear ill tiding. Just this afternoon, a Pentian delegation, making its way to Upchurch to pay respects to you and the Count, was ambushed while only a few hours ride from the manor house. A band of Black-Blades out of Utterbol fell upon the party, slew most of the bodyguards, and took many captives. A few survivors only just now carried this awful news to us.”
“Is this Sarpedon’s doing?” cries Mendelor, springing to his feet.
“In a way,” says Oswald. “We believe that the ambush party was led by a mighty ruck captain, Minos—a brother to Sarpedon. Even now they are bearing the captives back to the dungeons of Utterbol.”
“How many captives do we believe we taken?” asks Sir Hamral. “And where were they from?”
“Sir Hamral,” says Oswald, “The delegation included several representatives from the Church, sent by Bishop Martin. They were traveling under the protection of Lownell—including Baron Richard, and his son Sir John.”