“You’re too hot.” He dipped up a palm full of water, drank it, and scooped up more for his horse. The thick pink tongue scrubbed his hand.
“How long have the monks been gone?” Roger said, looking around.
“Some while, obviously.”
The chapel and the two other buildings in the monastery were all falling down. They were made of wood, and holes gaped in their walls. Grass and gray-green weeds sprouted all over the courtyard, splitting the paving stones, and the wall was tumbling slowly to pieces. There was an old fire bed in one corner of the wall, a half-burned log and a heap of charred wood. The road west from Stafford ran just below this hill, and wayfarers caught on the road at night probably came up here for shelter. Fulk led his horse slowly around the courtyard to cool it down.
This place made him uneasy, as if someone were watching him. The wind roared through the pine woods all round it, with a distant, constant howl, and the wildflowers in the courtyard stirred, their blossoms swaying from side to side. It was beautiful, but he preferred the squat, homely buildings of Stafford , where people lived and worked.
Roger was giving his horse more water. Fulk slid his hand between the bay’s forelegs. Roughened with sweat, the hide there felt dry and cool.. Roger’s horse was probably still overheated. Fulk walked his horse around behind the dormitory, looking in the windows where the shutters had broken. Dry brush had blown up against the building in deep, soft heaps; twigs crackled when he stepped on them. He went back to the well and let his horse drink its fill.
“I’m going inside. Those damned monks, God save us from them. The place is a ruin.”
Roger nodded; he took Fulk’s horse off to tether it. Fulk put his shoulder to the chapel door and forced it halfway open.
The narrow, vaulted room smelled musty and mildewed. Nothing moveable remained in it—either the monks had taken everything with them, or people had stolen it. Even the altar was gone. On the wall over the dais where it had stood, there was a patch of discolored wood in the shape of a cross, where the Crucifix had hung. The air was dusty and hard to breathe. Fulk went to the side door into the dormitory—the silence and emptiness made the back of his neck prickle.
Made of oak and bound in iron, this door stood half open, and he put his hand on it to push it wider. Part of the door around the latch had been recently broken off.
Someone had forced his way through here. He stepped back, warned, and shifted to one side to see through into the corridor beyond.
In the dim light he could see only a little way past the door, but the thick dust on the floor was covered with footprints.
“Roger.”
He kicked the door open and went through it, drawing his dagger. The corridor stretched away empty into the brown shadows. He thought, There is nothing here, I am acting like a child. He went cautiously down the corridor, glancing into the open doors on either side. These were monks’ cells, so small he could see every corner in a quick glance through the door.
Something whispered in the dust behind him, and he whirled, so that the club smashed down across his raised arm instead of his head. The blow knocked him sprawling down the corridor. He rolled—the wash of pain in his arm froze his breath in his lungs and blinded him, and he flung himself to one side, unable to see what was attacking him.
The club smashed into his side and he cried out. He could hear someone breathing hard. His eyes cleared, and he saw the club descending and tried to pull himself out of the way, and it struck him across the knee. A huge man loomed over him. His right side and his arm hurt so much he was sick; he got his feet up and kicked, slamming his bad side against the floor, but his feet struck the man with the club in the groin and knocked him back across the corridor.
He could not move. He felt pinned to the floor, and slowly, slowly the man with
“How long have the monks been gone?” Roger said, looking around.
“Some while, obviously.”
The chapel and the two other buildings in the monastery were all falling down. They were made of wood, and holes gaped in their walls. Grass and gray-green weeds sprouted all over the courtyard, splitting the paving stones, and the wall was tumbling slowly to pieces. There was an old fire bed in one corner of the wall, a half-burned log and a heap of charred wood. The road west from Stafford ran just below this hill, and wayfarers caught on the road at night probably came up here for shelter. Fulk led his horse slowly around the courtyard to cool it down.
This place made him uneasy, as if someone were watching him. The wind roared through the pine woods all round it, with a distant, constant howl, and the wildflowers in the courtyard stirred, their blossoms swaying from side to side. It was beautiful, but he preferred the squat, homely buildings of Stafford , where people lived and worked.
Roger was giving his horse more water. Fulk slid his hand between the bay’s forelegs. Roughened with sweat, the hide there felt dry and cool.. Roger’s horse was probably still overheated. Fulk walked his horse around behind the dormitory, looking in the windows where the shutters had broken. Dry brush had blown up against the building in deep, soft heaps; twigs crackled when he stepped on them. He went back to the well and let his horse drink its fill.
“I’m going inside. Those damned monks, God save us from them. The place is a ruin.”
Roger nodded; he took Fulk’s horse off to tether it. Fulk put his shoulder to the chapel door and forced it halfway open.
The narrow, vaulted room smelled musty and mildewed. Nothing moveable remained in it—either the monks had taken everything with them, or people had stolen it. Even the altar was gone. On the wall over the dais where it had stood, there was a patch of discolored wood in the shape of a cross, where the Crucifix had hung. The air was dusty and hard to breathe. Fulk went to the side door into the dormitory—the silence and emptiness made the back of his neck prickle.
Made of oak and bound in iron, this door stood half open, and he put his hand on it to push it wider. Part of the door around the latch had been recently broken off.
Someone had forced his way through here. He stepped back, warned, and shifted to one side to see through into the corridor beyond.
In the dim light he could see only a little way past the door, but the thick dust on the floor was covered with footprints.
“Roger.”
He kicked the door open and went through it, drawing his dagger. The corridor stretched away empty into the brown shadows. He thought, There is nothing here, I am acting like a child. He went cautiously down the corridor, glancing into the open doors on either side. These were monks’ cells, so small he could see every corner in a quick glance through the door.
Something whispered in the dust behind him, and he whirled, so that the club smashed down across his raised arm instead of his head. The blow knocked him sprawling down the corridor. He rolled—the wash of pain in his arm froze his breath in his lungs and blinded him, and he flung himself to one side, unable to see what was attacking him.
The club smashed into his side and he cried out. He could hear someone breathing hard. His eyes cleared, and he saw the club descending and tried to pull himself out of the way, and it struck him across the knee. A huge man loomed over him. His right side and his arm hurt so much he was sick; he got his feet up and kicked, slamming his bad side against the floor, but his feet struck the man with the club in the groin and knocked him back across the corridor.
He could not move. He felt pinned to the floor, and slowly, slowly the man with
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