The boy was frightened and defiant like Lar, but there the resemblance ended. This boy’s fear and defiance were no more than the hissing of a cornered kitten who believed that puffing up the fur of its stubby little tail could make itself appear more dangerous.
Worse, they were making him forget why he had wanted to see Dre in the first place.
Dre cast a last glance over his shoulder so that he could pretend to be surprised when Lar came tearing around the corner. Of course Lar would know that he had heard the heels of his boots clapping all the way up the long corridor, but Lar did not know that he was the only elf in these tunnels whose mind was such a turbid fog.
Dre was, however, truly surprised when Lar skittered to a halt before him. He gasped at the impact and turned away to steady himself against the wall. He dragged his two hands down the stone to remind himself where this body ended, how it felt, and how to keep it together.
Britamund had not been alone with her future father-in-law since he had returned. There had been dinners and parties, and they had even danced together, but she knew how well Alred could hide his feelings behind his jokes and his gallantry.
Now they were alone, and he had no need to hide his feelings. If he stood with his back to her, it was not to hide the sorrow or the anger of his face. It was because it was his back he wanted her to see.
“…et Filii…
Lar squinted his eyes shut, and the water rolled over them like tears in search of a source. It was humbling, even humiliating; it made him feel like a child, and yet he dared not wipe his face, lest this be a necessary part of the rite.
“Those are the foundations of the great minster the King is building.”
The Abbot doubted the elf understood one word out of five, but to speak to him as to a child would have insulted his pride.
“Road” was the name for this thing. It was the way of men to take the same paths until they trod the life out of them, leaving dust and ash and dead, stony ground. Given enough time, Lar thought, they would surely trample the earth bare.
Sometimes they left a few trees to line the road, and beside one of these Lar waited, on the road that led up to the temple of the men that was called “abbey.” Church-men often went this way.
Britamund had not been expecting a hug. She was nevertheless glad that her father was home, for at least she would no longer bear the shame of knowing she dreaded her own father’s return.
Nor did he hug her. He closed the door very carefully behind him, and then they were alone together.
“Ach!”
Caedwulf did not need to be told that the young woman who had opened the door was not the young woman he had come to see. Even if the younger daughter of the Count of Flanders were given to personally answering the door, his fifteen-year-old betrothed could not possibly have the body of a nineteen-year-old. A pity, that.
“Praise God!” Alred cried. “You found a survivor!”
Caedwulf laughed gleefully. “I’m the only one left!”
Britamund wished she had hidden in her stuffy room after all. But she had thought that Dunstan would not dare to come find her, no matter where she sat, for she had understood.
“You are the twentiest twenty-year-old I have met today, and that is saying a lot.”
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