The Burning Stone

Yet with the hounds at his side, Alain felt no fear. It might even be possible that these young lordlings could beat him, scar him and best him, even pitted against the hounds, but that would be a minor crime compared to their assault on her.



“What manner of men are you, who would assault a holy woman sworn to the church—”



“And found consorting with the whores!” cried the man who’d been on the ground. He finished hitching up his belt, drew his knife, and fingered it menacingly. “Get out of our way, Lion. You’ve no right to be interfering with us. And I want no trouble with those hounds. If she’s your paramour, I’ll pay you for damages, but there is no whore-woman who’ll say nay to me in that fashion and get away with it. By God, I’d be shamed before my comrades!”



“You’ll be shamed before God!” said Alain, low and furious. “What manner of parent raised you to think that your pride matters more than this innocent woman’s fear? That your lust matters more than her charity? She has cast aside every luxury and every privilege to minister to the poor, who are God’s creatures as much as we are. What have you cast aside? You cannot even walk one step without dragging your own vainglory with you, as if God made this world solely for you to take your pleasure in it. You cannot even take in one breath of air without filling your heart with wrath because you have forgotten that compassion should rule in our hearts, not self-love. You are an empty shell, pumping and groaning in the night, and long before you take the last step off into the Abyss you will find that you wander on this earth no better than a rotting corpse because all that is good in you will have fled and all that is thoughtless and bestial will have eaten you alive.”



For some reason, the three men had fallen back, and as he took a step toward them, they fell to their knees.



“The blessed Daisan taught us that good is natural to humankind, but that evil is the work of the Enemy. In whose camp do you intend to muster? Choose your place now.”



He was actually shaking, he was so angry. And he did not know, nor did he care, how they meant to respond. When they began to weep and beg his forgiveness, he was surprised enough that he could not think of one word to say to them, and in the end they staggered up and stumbled off back to their camp, still hanging on each other, trembling and moaning.



“My lord.”



In his fury, he had forgotten her. Now he turned. She was kneeling, shawl torn from her head, hair half tumbling down her shoulders. Her robe was stained with dirt and vegetation, and she had gotten leaner in the face, but she still had the habit of blinking at him, marmotlike, a helpless animal needing shelter.



“Lady Hathumod.” He extended a hand to help her up, but she shrank away from him, or from the hounds, who had come up on either side of her. Standing, their heads came level to hers where she knelt. “Pray tell me you haven’t been injured.”



“Nothing more than scratches, my lord.”



“You shouldn’t be here. How are you keeping yourself? Surely not—”



“Nay, my lord,” she said, gaze dropping, suddenly embarrassed. She had lost her slippers or worn them out: her bare feet, untangled from the robe, were blistered and bloody.



“I pray you, forgive me. Of course you were not. But then how are you living? I saw you a few days ago, and then again tonight, bringing water to the beggars. Who is keeping you?” He knew she could not be keeping herself. How could a noblewoman’s daughter survive outside the hall or the cloister unless like some young noble ladies she chose to ride to war with her brothers?



“The whores keep me, my lord. There’s no churchwoman who preaches the word to them, or sings mass for them, or blesses them. They are as eager as any soul to hear the good news. Isn’t it good news to them that the blessed Daisan took upon his own body our pains and our sins, and in this way brought Life to all humankind? Isn’t it a comfort to them, who know no other way of life but sinning? Shouldn’t we minister to the sick and the afflicted before we give our substance to those who live in comfort, my lord?”



“I beg you,” he said, because the words were as painful as a knife cut, “do not call me by a title I can no longer claim.”



She pressed hands to her forehead but did not answer.



“You can’t travel with the army, Lady Hathumod. It isn’t right. We’ll come to a convent, and I’m sure they’ll take in a young woman of your birth and education and good sense.”



“God have mercy, my lord.” She swayed forward, clung to his hand. “Do not make me leave you.”