Chapter Text
The bells for Sext had already rung as Brother Azirafael hurried up the steps to the abbey church. From within, he could hear the psalms already being sung.
Late again.
Still, he could not have abandoned his patient. He trusted that God would understand the benefit of saving a man's leg over singing.
Although it was not God's judgement that needed to be immediately feared.
Azirafael paused to adjust his robe and calm his heartbeat before tugging on the door and leaving the heat of the sun for the cool embrace of the church. Rapid yet quiet steps took him along the nave to the choir, where he paused, bowing his head and crossing himself before the altar. He stepped back and cast his apologetic gaze to the right where Abbot Metatron stood. Those shrewd eyes considered him for just a moment too long. A moment when Azirafael knew his fate hung precariously.
Today, it appeared, the abbot wished to practise mercy. He nodded and Azirafael speedily joined his place in the choir. He was not to be so lucky when the service was over.
"Brother Azirafael!"
Prior Gabriel sounded pleased with himself, as he always did when an opportunity for righteousness presented itself.
There was no point denying him. Azirafael paused in the courtyard and turned as the prior bore down on him. He was a tall, handsome man from a wealthy Norman family, and a stark contrast to Azirafael, who was of middling height and born to an ordinary, working Welsh family. Gabriel knew his own worth, and took great pains to ensure others knew it too.
"You were late to do God's work, Brother," he chided Azirafael.
"Yes, but Father Abbot gave me leave to take my place in the choir," Azirafael insisted, as politely as he could manage.
If Metatron had not sought satisfaction, surely there was nothing the prior could do now? Still, Azirafael's hands fidgeted beneath his habit. It wasn't that he feared punishment so much as he did not feel it a useful focus of his time when there was so much else to do. His gaze strayed to the castle, crouching moodily beyond the town. On such a clear, quiet day he could almost hear the sounds of the siege camp.
"Father Abbot's mind is occupied with the strife beyond these walls,” said Gabriel. “Were it not so, he doubtless would have required penance."
"What delayed you, Brother?" As always, Brother Sandalphon lurked in Prior Gabriel’s shadow. He prodded the conflict with a wicked delight.
"An old man needed his dressing changed." Azirafael shrugged. It was no secret there were many new wounds to be seen to as the castle siege dragged on. He had been given leave to tend them, and had done so with dedication.
"Work for an assistant, surely?" Prior Gabriel demanded.
This was fast becoming a complete nightmare! Everyone was on edge, of course, but there was no reason for the pair of them to visit it all upon him. It was not without challenge that Azirafael said calmly, "Ordinarily, yes, but events have robbed me of my usual help, as Brother Sandalphon is all too aware."
Sandalphon pulled a face like a man with a mouthful of uncooked nettle at being called on in Azirafael's defence.
"One," he listed with displeasure, "has left to take up arms on King Stephen Lucifer's side. The other has declared for Empress Michael and fled to his family's manor."
Azirafael looked to Gabriel for understanding, but the prior's eyes were cast Heavenwards on greater matters.
"Is not even this holy enclave immune from such conflict?"
"Sadly, we are besieged, along with castle and town," Azirafael murmured, somewhat sententiously. "And it's the innocent and dispossessed that suffer. We have a duty to them."
Like the old man too close to the fighting, who without Azirafael's experience and skill might have caught an infection that would have cost him his leg.
It was the wrong argument to make. Gabriel was considered very holy, but with that came what could be seen as neglect toward those more rooted in the world.
"You tell me about duty?" Gabriel's voice was grave. "Our duty is to God, Brother."
With a sniff he strode away, Sandalphon trotting after him like a dog.
Azirafael sighed. He was always easier in his heart when he saw the pair of them leave. And when he was working. The scent of earth and herbs would settle his nerves. If the castle fell, he would do well to be prepared.
He couldn't help reflecting that preparations would run more smoothly if he had an assistant, or several.
***
Beggars, Azirafael reflected some time later, could not be choosers. It was with an almost devilish delight that Brother Sandalphon had left the boy, who wore an oversized brown cotte, in the middle of the herb beds.
The boy looked clean and well-scrubbed, his eyes cast down with a meekness that Azirafael felt should not be taken at face value. He was alert to the point of tension, and when he did dare to lift his eyes, his expression was quick and curious.
No wonder Sandalphon had wanted him out of the main abbey buildings.
Still, Azirafael's little kingdom around the herbarium had offered shelter for him more often than not, and could do the same for another. He stretched his back, taking the time to wipe his perspiring brow as he took his new helper in. Slender, certainly, but strong-looking enough, with a cropped tangle of black hair and long-lashed eyes that were keen and dark, and studied him right back.
"What's your name, then, my dear?"
"Maledict, sir," a firm, gruff voice said.
“Well, Maledict, let me show you what sort of work you’re taking on." Azirafael kept up a cheerful stream of chatter while he conducted the boy around the thriving vegetable plots, the richly fragrant herb beds, and the reed-lined fish ponds, ending in the fields of peas near the brook.
“We’ll be harvesting here today,” he explained, handing Maledict a sickle. “In this heat we’ve only a day or two while the peas are still at their best. The pods we harvest for ourselves; the stems we put to use as animal bedding; and the roots we plough back into the soil to nourish it.”
“Like human life,” spoke Maledict for the first time in a while.
“Well, yes, I suppose so,” Azirafael replied to this unexpected wisdom from someone so young, and caught the flash of a glance toward the town and castle where too many human lives were being ploughed under, far before their proper harvest time. “How old are you, Maledict?”
“Eighteen,” he answered gruffly. He was small for his age, if he was telling the truth.
“And have you family over there?”
“No!” Maledict answered swiftly, flinching. “But—but I can’t help it if I think about them. The townspeople are saying the castle will fall within a day, and all the omens agree with them. It’s not fair for them to suffer when all they’ve done is hold firmly to the vows they made! They swore, they all did, to the old king before he died, that they’d support Empress Michael. Stephen Lucifer himself swore! And now he and his cronies have abandoned their vows so he can take the kingdom for himself. How can they follow him?”
That all came out in such a great rush that Azirafael was left somewhat startled.
“I think they—” he began cautiously.
“It’s because the Empress is a woman, and they think ruling is a man’s job.” The gruff, guarded voice was gone; Maledict sang out clearly and lightly. “They’d rather have any man than a woman, forget their vows, and forget the line of succession!”
“I’m sure they’d point out that King Lucifer is also royal, through—"
“Yes, through his mother, the hypocrites!" Maledict countered. "What’s better, a man who’s the son of a past king’s daughter, or the daughter and only child of the last king? The royal line is moving through a woman either way.”
“My dear,” said Azirafael, mildly, “do you always trust strangers this quickly?”
Maledict’s gaze lifted from the sickle in a flash of unguarded dark eyes. “Well, no.” He cleared his throat and settled back into his earlier gruff tone. “Only you.”
“And you can,” Azirafael said. “But for Heaven’s sake, guard what you say around anyone else. Walls may have ears even in a cloister.”
Maledict pulled into himself, possibly feeling that he’d been admonished. Or possibly not feeling that way at all.
“I’ll repay you trust for trust,” Azirafael offered. “For myself, I can’t see much about Lucifer or the Empress to show me which one has a hope of being the better. But I do believe there’s a great deal to be said for keeping one’s vows and loyalty.”
Maledict shot him a thoughtful glance, gave a nod, and began to work the sickle, capably enough but still resembling a child who’d borrowed their parents’ tools.
“Now,” Azirafael said earnestly, “in this heat, you’ll soon be over-warm in all that cloth. No need for shyness or making yourself miserable. Strip to the waist and be comfortable.” And he demonstrated by pulling down his own habit from thick shoulders, letting the folds hang from his middle.
Maledict’s smooth sickle-strokes faltered, and a blush too abrupt to be attributed to the August heat spread across his features. “I’ll be fine.”
Of course, this by no means must prove what Azirafael suspected; there could be many reasons for modesty. But there were other tests.
“My dear, quickly!” He pointed toward the stream. “There’s that heron that raids our hatcheries—you’re closer than I am, throw a stone at it!”
Maledict levelled a stare at the unsuspecting heron (which, to Azirafael’s knowledge, had never even seen the hatcheries), pulled up a stone, gave a great backward swing of his arm, and let the stone loose with an underhand throw. It had nearly the distance to the bird, though the aim was off by several feet. The heron flapped away, unharmed, with an offended squawk. Azirafael cast a considering glance at Maledict, sweating away in his oversized cotte, then back toward his own workshop, nestled away in the herbarium, and did some serious thinking.
It was no light matter for a man to decide whom to trust with his loyalty. Anthony Crowley of Maesbury would stand by that, and the time he'd taken over his choice, even if it had cost him immediate access to the King.
He was not welcomed as an aristocrat capable of bringing six knights and fifty men-at-arms to the siege, but rather was left to kick his heels outside the tent with a young boy not yet old enough to shave. Murmurs of voices traveled through the partially open tent flap, not quite drowned out by the sounds of the surrounding camp. Sat on a narrow bench, Crowley turned his face to the sun and closed his eyes.
"You're eavesdropping, aren't you?" the boy said.
He had bright, intelligent eyes, and a small dog lay on the ground at his feet, chin resting on his master's boot. The dog's eyes didn't look any less bright or intelligent, and gazed up at Crowley hopefully. Crowley resisted the urge to search his purse for a treat.
"Am I?" Crowley smiled but didn't stop listening to the murmur of voices through the canvas.
"My brother said people who eavesdrop on others should be prepared to hear something that will upset them." This was said with all the confidence of a child repeating the words of a hero.
"Sounds like a wise man, your brother."
"Not so very much. He declared for the Empress Michael, you see?" The boy's shoulders sagged. The dog lifted its head and licked the boy's fingers.
"Ah."
Crowley was lucky he was his own man and had no troublesome family to disagree with him. "So what finds you here, then?" he asked, seeing as there was time to waste, and he liked the boy's cheek.
The boy straightened his spine defiantly. "I'm Adam Young and I'm honouring my father. He'd want our land and holdings at King Lucifer's disposal. I'm going to swear fealty in my father's place." This was said very seriously.
Crowley was tempted to ask if the boy was sure, advise him on the weight of his own deliberations. He felt it'd not be welcome though. The boy was here to show all concerned he was a man, and his pride was too new and delicate a thing to be questioned.
"I wish you luck," Crowley said instead.
Adam nodded, pleased at being acknowledged as an equal.
Deputy Sheriff Hastur Courcelle came to call the boy into the tent. He was unfamiliar to Crowley but had an overconfident air about him. He spared Crowley a dismissive glance as he ushered Adam inside, his dog following obediently behind.
Crowley leaned back again and listened. The boy spoke well and true. The King and his men could not fail to be impressed by him. Indeed, the King thanked him heartily and enquired where he planned to spend the night.
"The abbey guest house," Adam said. “I have companions who will stay there with me.”
News worth knowing. A young boy of fortune, but not yet old enough to hold it in his own right, would need a steady, caring hand to guide him. The King would be tasked with appointing him a guardian.
The prestige of being that guardian couldn't hurt Crowley either.
Crowley made sure to congratulate Adam as he left the tent. The boy was flushed with pleasure and accepted the praise with genuine happiness. Crowley watched him walk off, his step much lighter and his head higher than it had been. Three children his own age ran out to greet him, and the dog trotted forward, tail wagging in excitement. There were no adults to be seen.
For his own part, Crowley was left waiting a while longer before he was called into the royal presence.
Even then, the King and Hastur made sure to keep him ill at ease while they finished discussing the papers laid out on the table. Sheriff Beelzebub stood, hand on their sword hilt, glaring at him.
Crowley nodded, and settled in to wait.
Eventually he was acknowledged.
"Your name, Lord Crowley, is known to us, as is your estate." Lucifer regarded him steadily. "That they are devoted to our cause is not so well known. Before today, all accounts would have named you as one of the associates of the Lady Agnes Nutter, and her vassal lords the Devices, in yonder castle."
It was a truthful accusation, and one Crowley was prepared for. There would be time to defend himself, however. He kept silent.
"This change of heart of yours comes belatedly, as I have been in these parts some four weeks without a word from you." Lucifer sat back in his chair and waited.
Crowley found himself not inclined to grovel or apologise. He had a more careful game to play here. "The Devices have been my friends since I was young. A lord as fair minded as you”–-Crowley bowed prettily but not obsequiously–-“must recognise that my choice of path at the moment requires a great deal of thought. I have taken my time in deciding where to serve. I am here. Those who flocked so easily to you may fall away just as lightly." He lifted an eyebrow at Hastur, who bared his teeth.
"And you will not?" Lucifer asked.
Crowley met those dark, handsome eyes. "And I will not."
"As you needed time and thought, so do we before we accept you." A pause before Lucifer continued. "I hear you were betrothed to Device's daughter."
Ah, yes, that sticky point.
"I hardly know if that is still the case." Which, as far as Crowley was concerned, was all truth. "It was a plan my father made with Lady Agnes Nutter, her great aunt, years ago, but I thought her over-young for the match. Even now, she’s not yet twenty, and I very much doubt that she wants to be tied to an old man of forty. She would be most gratified to see any bargain undone."
As would Crowley.
And the truth was, Crowley had not thought of her in years. He'd liked her well enough, but in the way an older dog will find amusement in the antics of a puppy without the wisdom to regulate itself.
"And you?" Lucifer persisted.
"As the lady wishes. I have not married so far and have no great thoughts to do so now, and certainly not to someone who, to me, seems scarcely more than a child."
Lucifer considered this. To Crowley’s mind he did not seem like a man to do much without first thinking it through. However, he also seemed like a man who felt entitled to have what he wanted and let very little stop him getting it.
Still, as Lucifer’s religious feelings were not as staid or blinkered as those of Empress Michael, Crowley could see a future with Lucifer as king that might well be brighter than anything Michael might offer him.
"There are said to be no women save Lady Agnes in the castle by now," Lucifer said as he picked up a page of parchment from his desk and studied it. "Device's daughter is thought to be hiding in the town. It would not be displeasing to have the lady in safe-keeping."
Ah, so that was the bargain that must be struck. Yet, it was not being explicitly ordered. Interesting.
"I see," Crowley said, neither accepting nor refusing the implied commission.
"Well, you may remain in attendance until the castle falls. We will call if we have work for you. Where may you be reached?"
This question was an easy one to answer, at least. "I plan to see if there's room in the abbey guest house."
Azirafael kept an unobtrusive eye on Maledict as he mingled with the other novices and students throughout Vespers and supper, noticing that the bright and confident face from the gardens dimmed with tension as nighttime loomed. If he’d had the chance, he would have reassured the lad that the trial he was bracing for wouldn’t need to be faced after all, but he wasn’t able to collect him until the meal was concluded.
“Come with me, Maledict,” Azirafael said, and was gratified by the relief that crossed the young face at the sound of his voice. “We’re free until Compline; I can show you more of the herbarium and the work you’ll be doing there. Unless you’d rather stay inside?”
Maledict did not at all wish to stay inside, although he did stop to be sure, once they were outside in the cooler evening air: “They said I was to go with the master of the novices after supper. Are you sure it’s alright for me to go with you?”
“Not to worry, my dear; I spoke with Brother Job myself and have permission for you to come with me as long as you’re needed. I’m responsible for you, all properly approved. Here’s my workshop”—he opened the door into the dim room, rustling with bundles of drying herbs and swimming in their rich fragrances—“where you’ll be helping me with my preparations: medicines, lotions, lozenges, all sorts of remedies. Many’s the time when some concoction or other needs tending overnight. I’m getting a bit old for that myself, some might say”—he himself certainly would not say; fifty was scarcely past one’s prime, in his opinion—“so I’ve made you a bed, there on that bench, for you to spend your nights out here.” A quick indrawn breath whistled beside him. “You’ll be able to bar the door, see”—he demonstrated the mechanism—"so that none will trouble you, not even me, until you’re ready to show yourself.”
He paused there to be sure his message was sinking in, and encountered a pair of raised eyebrows and a face that was a complicated mix of relief, gratitude, and shades of indignation.
“How did you know?” demanded the boy Maledict, who was no boy, indignation winning out for the moment.
“My dear, how on earth were you going to manage in the dortoir?” Azirafael smiled.
“I could have! Boys aren’t very smart; I can fool them. And men see a surface like this”—she indicated her enveloping tunic—“and don’t look any deeper.” She glanced toward Azirafael, encountered his eyebrows placidly raised, and her belligerence dissolved into laughter. “Not you, of course! What gave me away? I tried my hardest; I thought I had everyone fooled.”
“Oh, I’m sure you do have everyone else fooled,” he reassured her. After all, she had been very convincing. He had almost doubted himself on several occasions. “But I was in the world for decades, and crossing end to end of it, at that, before I came to rest here in this calmer harbour. And, as you say, I do prefer to look more deeply at people than their mere surface. But as far as what gave you away, my dear, I do hope you’ll take it as an ally’s advice to hone your performance, not criticism. First, your voice: When you came to arguments that touched your passion, it moved into your true register—not cracking or breaking; simply soaring. That can be learned, and I’ll show you, and you’ll need to remember it when you’re around anyone other than me. And second, when you tossed that stone with that underhand throw—you’ve got some power in that arm, but I doubt anyone’s ever trained you to throw properly, more’s the pity. A boy’s aim might be off, of course, but he’d throw it overhand. That can be learned as well.”
She gazed at him, laughed again, helplessly, then collapsed onto her bench-bed with her face buried in her hands. Azirafael let her alone while she cried, knowing it was from relief and not distress, now, and soon enough she wiped her eyes as she raised them again, looking indeed like an eighteen-year-old woman, dishevelled shorn hair and borrowed boys’ clothing notwithstanding.
“You mean it, don’t you?” she asked, not doubtfully but wonderingly. “That you’re responsible for me. Aren’t you the one trusting a stranger too quickly, now? You don’t even know who I am.”
“Someone seeking a safe refuge, clearly,” he replied. “Who am I to deny that to one in need? You’ll tell me more when you’re ready and I need to know it, I’m sure.”
She pressed her lips together and set her shoulders. “I do want to tell you everything,” she said, seriousness overtaking her natural good humour. “But what you should know first is that I’m a danger to you, and anyone who helps me. My father is either in Shrewsbury Castle preparing for a hopeless battle with Lucifer, or—I hope to God—fleeing to Normandy and the Empress with his liege-lady, Agnes Nutter. I’m Anathema Device, Lord John Device’s daughter, and if I’m not already hunted by Lucifer’s forces, I will be soon.”