The Burning Stone

Was it possible that she loved him in the same hopeless way that he loved Tallia? Or was she merely clinging to someone familiar in a world that must seem strange to her, severed from the noble way of life she had become accustomed to? Either way, he owed her gentleness.



He helped her rise and walked with her back into camp. She showed him the tent where she slept. They had to wait there a few moments until a blowsy woman emerged and, behind her, a Lion from the third cohort who was straightening his tunic, a man Alain vaguely recognized but didn’t know. He greeted Alain without embarrassment and walked away, whistling. The whore took a swig of cider and looked Alain over.



She wasn’t a pretty woman, but she had the knack of letting the neck of her shift hang low over her breasts, and she knew how to set hand to hip and jut out her leg just so, to suggest goods for sale in the market.



Was this how his mother had looked? Or had she still retained some flower of innocence blooming somehow in the mire of her life? Henri had always said she was beautiful. How would his mother have looked had she lived on, with all the beauty hardened out of her like sap squeezed from a young tree? Was beauty doomed to wither where its goodness was not nurtured? Could beauty only arise out of innocence and purity? Or was it a quality entirely unrelated to anything but the accident of its presence in the world?



“I pray you,” he said to the whore. “I just saved Sister Hathumod from being raped. They’d dragged her into the bushes—”



“That would be Lord Dietrich,” said the whore, looking Hathumod over with a resigned sigh, probing at her ribs and abdomen while Hathumod stood with head bowed. The young novice was ashamed, or humiliated, or uncaring; he couldn’t tell which. “He’s gone through every woman in the train, and he’s looking for fresher prey.”



“Is there anything that can be done to protect her?”



She had a smile no more scornful than that of those hard-eyed noblewomen who oversaw extensive estates and flogged their servants when they were angry. “From the lords?” She laughed. “You Lions are more honest than them. We’re lucky if they give us food after they’ve taken what they want.” With a practiced touch, she hooked fingers up between Hathumod’s thighs and felt at her groin. Alain looked away quickly, ashamed on Hathumod’s behalf, but Hathumod only gasped, shuddering, hands hiding her face. She didn’t even protest. The whore sniffed her fingers, then shook her head as she addressed Alain. “No harm done, this time. But there’s not much we can do for her, friend. She’s a bit touched in the head, thinks she’s a noble lady’s get, and while I grant you she’s well spoken, I don’t see any retinue following at her heels. She hasn’t a clue how to take care of herself. She brings us nothing to eat for she’s no way of getting food and no possessions to trade. We’ve been feeding her in exchange for her preaching, for truly she’s got no other skills. She can’t even mend a tear in a skirt.”



He knew a bargainer when he saw one. He had watched Aunt Bel haggle on market day many times. “I’ll see what extra food I can bring. But I’ve no coin. I’m new to the Lions, and we’re only paid in coin twice a year.”



“Umm,” she said, looking him over again in a considering way. “New to the Lions, indeed. You’ve got nice shoulders, my friend. But nice shoulders don’t make dinner.”



In that instant, he hated Geoffrey for impoverishing him. It had been within his power, before, to aid the poor and the helpless. Now he had little enough himself, and he felt helpless. “On the nights when I haven’t duties in camp I’ll do what I can to help you, bring in firewood, hunt a little. Gather berries when they’re ripe.”



Someone had bitten the whore’s lower lip, and the wound hadn’t yet healed. She played at the wound with her tongue as she eyed him with professional interest. “You’re a good-looking lad, and well spoken. I’ve a young cousin at my old village of Felsinhame. She’s looking for a husband. She’d not mind one who was away for months at a time, if he was a good lad otherwise.” Seeing something in his expression, she hurried on. “She’s not like me, a horrible sinner, an old slut.” She said the word harshly, and for an instant he glimpsed an angry memory deep within her, rooted in her face. “She’s not like me. She’s a good girl.”



“I’m not looking for a wife,” he said softly as, behind him, Hathumod whimpered and finally began to cry.



“Did you find her?” Folquin asked when, at midnight, Alain arrived at his sentry post somewhat farther downstream on the same brook that he had splashed over to rescue Lady Hathumod.