The Last Knight by Candice Proctor Page A

porter come hustling out of his lodge, his tonsured sandy head bent, his long black robes hitched up with one hand as he hurried. Few men, even monks, she thought, would fail to respond to the implacable authority in that smooth, cold voice.
“Do you need shelter for the night?” asked the porter, his fingers still anxiously clutching his robes as he skidded to a halt a safe distance from the big knight. He was a young monk, with the soft white face of a man who has spent most of his life indoors, and he peered up at them with pale, myopic eyes that widened at the sight of Walter, slumped unconscious over the saddle.
De Jarnac's elegant black horse fidgeted. “No, but we have a wounded man. Might we enter and entrust him to your infirmarer?”
“Yes, yes, by all means,” said the porter, his pale eyes opening even wider as he stepped back quickly. “The infirmary lies just beyond the gardens, to your left. I will have Brother Infirmarer sent for, if he is not there already.”
De Jarnac nodded and nudged his horse forward through the gatehouse.
Clicking to the roan, Attica followed him into a forecourt littered with great piles of sand and stone. Dust and the scent of freshly cut timber filled the air, along with the familiar thwunk-chink of mallet striking chisel that echoed across the court from the mason's lodge hugging the south side of the nave. She remembered having heard it said that most of the immediate funds provided by Lothar had gone, at his insistence, into constructing the monastery walls and gate and the massive stone church that crowned the black knight's tomb—as if all that masonry might somehowserve to protect him from the wrath of God. They said the monks were still struggling to finish their cloister and replace the temporary buildings scattered about the compound. As her tired horse picked its way across the court, Attica looked around at the tumble of old timber buildings and decided the rumors were true.
But the monastery gardens, when they came to them, were extensive and well tended. A heady mingling of scents wafted up to greet them, sweet lavender and pungent rosemary and an unidentifiable but delicious medley of other rich fragrances that washed over her like a cleansing balm. Attica felt some of the strain of the past hours begin to ebb away, and in its place came an exhaustion so complete as to be almost numbing.
“The good brothers of Saint-Sevin appear to be building themselves a new kitchen,” said De Jarnac, nodding toward the half-erected walls of brilliant white, newly cut stone rising on the far side of the gardens from the timber-built infirmary that stood looking quiet and empty in the afternoon sun. “I wonder if Brother Infirmarer is here”— reining in, the knight slid from his saddle in one graceful motion— “or if we must wait for Brother Porter to fetch him.”
Attica didn't say anything. She couldn't. She suddenly felt so tired, she wondered if she had enough energy even to dismount. She watched in an envious kind of amazement as de Jarnac ran up the three short steps to the infirmary and disappeared through the open door. Her own body felt so weighted, her brain so sluggish, that it took an enormous effort of will simply to swing her leg over the cantle. As she lowered her weight, the ground came at her in a rush and she stumbled awkwardly, grasping the stirrup leather for support. She was glad de Jarnac wasn't there to see it.
But his squire was.
“Give me a hand with your groom; then I'll take care of the horses,” said Sergei.
She lifted her head and looked at him. She had never seen anyone quite like this small squire. He had a strange, wide-boned face, with fair hair and skin still surprisingly pale despite the hours he obviously spent in the sun. But it was his eyes that fascinated her. Dark and tilted upward slightly at the corners, they seemed to stare at her almost unblinkingly, as if he had seen too many horrors, too young, to ever recover. She had no idea how old he