Malcolm pushed the door open hesitantly.
He could not understand how a man like the King could be such good friends with a man like the Earl. There was nothing he could see that the two had in common. The Earl was not a man at whom one could wink. It was always a great surprise to Malcolm merely to see him laugh. And today he certainly did not look as though he might laugh.
Alred spotted Egelric at the top of the hill, near the highest tower, talking to one of the workmen. Through the years, he had lost in deference and gained in self-confidence, but he still dressed as he always had, in his maroon peasant shirt “that didn’t show the dirt,” as he always said. He was scarcely distinguishable from the craftsmen who worked under him, except perhaps for the way he carried himself. Alred wondered how high in life Egelric would have to climb before he consented to let his hair grow long and dress like a gentleman. Knight, perhaps?
Alred scratched his head anxiously as he came into the bedroom. How would he ever tell Matilda?
She turned to him as he opened the door, and he saw she held little Cynewulf in her arms. Need she look so maternal?
“Will you stay for dinner?” Sigefrith asked.
“I had better,” Theobald said. “I don’t like to surprise Edris with my ravenous belly.”
Theobald gasped and opened his eyes. There was only the familiar ceiling of his bedchamber overhead. He was not outside, and he did not—oh, God, he did not have wings!
It had been another of those dreams, but he had never had this dream before. And this one had not frightened him as the others had. There had been no monsters. Only he. Was he the monster?
There was a hand, as big as half the sky, and only the night behind. The hand glowed like an autumn moon, but there was not a star.
“There it is, boys,” Malcolm whispered triumphantly when they had reached the darkened church. “It’s your last chance to turn back if you are frightened.”
Dunstan was nearly paralyzed with dread, but he knew that turning back—alone—was not a possibility. Better to face dead bodies in a crypt with the boys than the wide night all alone.
The hour was late, and the boys had run around all evening “like young pagans,” as Bertie’s father had said—Bertie had patted the finger-bone beneath his collar and smiled—but they were far from tired.
Even Dunstan was wide awake with the delight and terror of escaping from the familiar comfort of his tower room. There was something blood-stirring about spending the night outside, on a heather-covered hill that resembled the wild moor, he was told, with two big boys—boys that had already traveled long distances and seen many things—boys that seemed almost wild themselves at times, particularly when Malcolm’s golden eyes shone like a cat’s, as they did tonight.
“You shouldn’t be up here alone, Baby,” Malcolm scolded when he clambered up the ladder and found Iylaine sitting in the loft of the stables, as he had expected.
Iylaine was sitting in the shadow of the bales, wedged into a narrow space between the wall and the hay, and he had apparently interrupted a daydream.
“Nimea: Hmmm, who would I rather hang with? A group of scrappy, kick-ass underdogs led by the most gorgeous profile on the continent, or an elitist group of inflexible, stuffy nobles who spend their days committing violent genocide, braiding each other’s hair and being bossed around by an old lady with a hat that must be almost as heavy as Alred’s attitude?”
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