12
The Faintings

‘But, Father, the Testings of the novices begins in two weeks.’

Gidyon, feeling uncharacteristically sulky, was standing by the window in his master’s chambers. Father Piers remained silent and puffed gently on his favourite pipe, whittled by himself many years prior to this moment. He settled into his worn chair, which creaked as he sat down.

Gidyon turned to face him. ‘Father, I hardly know her. I’ve never met her and I rarely reply to her few and far between letters. What is it going to mean to her if I do go all the way north to Petrine? What am I to say to her? For all I know, she might die whilst I am on the road there and then it will all have been for nothing and I will have missed study time I badly need.’

That was a barefaced lie. Gidyon needed no extra study time. He knew he would pass the Testings with ease. To cover his discomfort at the untruth he raked his hands through his dark, straight hair and returned, with exasperation, to the other side of the desk.

Father Piers regarded his charge. A popular boy of the fifth Stair, almost ready to take full vows. One more cycle of moons through the sixth and final Stair of the Order of Ferenyans was all it would take. He had grown so tall over the years with them and yet he was probably going to be much taller. Piers acknowledged that Gidyon was often wise beyond his years and destined for a senior place in the Order. He was also of a generous disposition and had a sunny nature, which made his stance on this matter odd.

Piers cleared his throat. ‘As I understand it, this is all the family you have. I realise you hardly know your grandmother but she has faithfully paid her donations these last eleven years and, although you don’t remember your parents, she must…and you should respect this.’

He gave a series of short puffs on his pipe before reaching for the clay mug of herbal tea. He took his time stirring in two heaped spoonfuls of honey as he silently sympathised with the youth. This situation with his remote grandmother was very poorly timed indeed, coinciding with critical tests in the boy’s march towards his bands and ordination. He was certainly likely to be regarded for the Blues, skipping quickly through the hierarchy of Whites, Yellows and Greens. He might possibly even go straight to Reds—an achievement previously unheard of, but this talented youngster could probably do it.

He chose his words carefully. ‘Gidyon, you are not a student who is struggling with his studies. I think we all agree on this, despite your concerns. I know that attaining your Blues means a great deal to you and we are all very proud of your efforts. But the fact is, your grandmother is gravely ill and it is our duty to make sure you fulfil her simple request to see you before she dies. Abbot Muggerydge insists.’

He held up his hand to stop the boy protesting.

‘If, in the most unlikely event you should fail to reach the level in your Testings we all know you are capable of, then Abbot Muggerydge has agreed to accompany your papers with a special mention. Now, that’s good enough for me—what about you?’

The boy swallowed a gulp of unsweetened tea and fixed his incredibly blue eyes on his superior. He held the gaze defiantly for just a moment, then dropped it with a quiet sigh.

‘You’re right, of course, Father. I just feel awkward about meeting a grandmother I don’t know, other than by name and a few letters. I’m sorry for sounding selfish—it’s just these tests are so important.’ He bit his lip and struggled with the decision before saying, finally, ‘I’ll leave this afternoon then?’

‘Yes, yes, that’s fine,’ replied Piers, with relief. He stretched. ‘I hope the old girl keeps her strength to see you. You’re a good lad and she’ll no doubt be very proud to meet you.’ He blew out his lips ‘Anyway, Gynt, it will probably do you a world of good to get away from this place for a few days.’

Oh no, here it comes again, Gidyon thought, the fit, or whatever that thing was a few days ago.

‘Very strange business,’ Piers continued, ‘you passing out like that and giving us all a scare. You’ve probably been burning the midnight oil studying or something, eh?’ He looked at Gidyon over his pipe. It was not really a question.

‘I’ll be off then, Father. Thank you for the tea.’

Gidyon made his way back to the east wing. True, it had been strange, his suddenly passing out like that in the cloisters, not to mention inconvenient as he had happened to be speaking in front of the new novices. They had carried his rigid body to the hospital wing and later the older novices had excitedly described to him how his eyes had rolled back into his head. Some wit had suggested he also began frothing at the mouth and speaking in tongues. This had caused great hilarity in the hospital before they were all shooed out by the monk in charge. Gidyon had no idea what had happened. It had been an isolated event. He ate enough for six and he had not been burning the midnight oil at all. If the truth be known, he did not have to study all that hard anyway. There was no explanation and he just wanted the fuss to stop.

Gidyon let himself into his small but adequate quarters. As head of the fifth Stair he luxuriated in the privilege of his own tiny room whilst his peers quadrupled up and the younger boys shared with eight, sometimes ten others. He enjoyed the solitude after years of putting up with everyone else’s mess, noise and problems in the dormitories. Life at the monastery was still structured and full though and he liked it that way. He had known no other way of living since he had come to this place and memories before that were so vague he rarely, if ever, tried to recall them. He dimly recollected the old lady but, as an infant, she had packed him off here. Who could blame him for not being overwhelmed by her invitation to meet her again before she died? It seemed rather ghoulish, as well as pointless.

Gidyon knew he was the Order’s brightest, most gifted novice and probably headed for the Reds. And, although no one wanted to say it, all silently acknowledged that he was probably destined to be Abbot one day, when he would have the ear of the King and a role in the politics of the region. Gidyon was outstanding at sports too; there was no physical activity to which he could not bend his body. Fast, agile, skilled, it was magical to watch him perform, be it on a horse or running in a race. Whatever the sport, Gidyon would be at the front and winning. Tall and good-looking to boot, it seemed he had it all.

He did not much care, however, for the whispers of those who made such claims. They thought he could not hear their idle chat, but his hearing was exceptionally acute. His close friends teased him about it; one reckoned he could even hear the birds breathing in the trees. Their comments amused Gidyon, for at times he could believe such folly himself.

Little wonder that his nickname was ‘The Wizard’. He hated it but the moment it was coined, it had stuck like glue. He had learned to accept it with a deprecating shrug and plain good grace. No point in fighting it. Gidyon often tried to imagine what his parents had been like. Which particular aspects of them had combined to produce ‘The Wizard’? He would never know. He did not know what had happened to his parents. Had they died? Left him at birth with his grandmother? Left each other? He had forced himself to give up asking such questions. But they would come to haunt him sometimes in his dreams…who was he?

Sometimes he heard a woman’s voice, whispering to him in his dreams. He could never recall what she had said when he woke. He never told anyone about it. Why would he? As far as he could tell, she had never said anything to intimidate him or make him feel anxious. If he was honest, she was almost a comfort to him. He had never known his mother but he liked to believe she had a voice like this dream woman.

Gidyon stopped staring out of the window and dragged himself back to the task of packing. He looked around the room. The walls were covered with diagrams of all things astronomical. His passion for stargazing and worlds beyond his own was evident and he was single-minded in his desire to pursue the science of the stars once he had taken his vows.

‘Black devils! I don’t need this,’ he cursed as he threw his spare cassock into a small bag. It occurred to him for probably the hundredth time since he had heard the news that he had cost his elusive grandmother a pretty pile in donations and going to visit her before she died was the least he could do. He added to the bag a hat and some rough woollen mittens he felt he may need against the chill of Petrine’s highlands. In the small glass on the wall, he checked his long hair was still tied back neatly before picking up the bag to leave.

‘Stupid…what are you going to do for all those lonely hours?’ He pulled his new tablet of rag paper from under the wooden pallet where he slept and bumped his head on the frame getting up. Scowling with pain, he noticed his old stone on the windowsill. Gidyon had owned the stone for as long as he could remember. He could not recall precisely how he had come by it but it was a special item of childhood that he always took along to his annual Testings. He rolled the perfectly round, heavy sphere in his palm, watching its faint lights of crimson, gold, violet and emerald. It seemed that only he could see the colours. His fellow novices told him he was mad when he asked if they could see them too. So be it. He could see the colours and they never failed to fascinate him. He slipped it absently into the deep pocket of his cassock.

In the cool corridor, Gidyon yelled farewell to some novices before heading for the cloisters. The friendly taunts of the other students followed him.

‘You’d do anything to get out of the Testings, Gynt!’

‘Give grandma our regards.’

He grinned as he leapt the few stairs to his favourite part of the monastery. The friendly catcalls and guffaws died away as he entered the peace of the cloisters. He loved the vaulted ceilings and pillars and the beautiful gardens which he helped the monks tend. He breathed in the silence and calm one more time, then stepped through the magnificent archway into the front courtyard.

The old stable master was there, holding a fine horse ready for him.

‘Good day, Master Gynt.’

‘And to you, Horys,’ Gidyon replied. He recognised the horse: Empress. He was pleased this mare would be accompanying him. He had ridden her many times and appreciated her gentle nature and big heart.

He held out an apple he had picked from one of the trees in the cloisters. ‘Here you go, girl,’ he said, stroking her soft muzzle.

‘Thank you, she’s one of my favourites,’ he said to the stableman.

‘His Grace insisted you have a reliable horse for the journey. They don’t come much better than Empress,’ the old man said, handing him her reins. ‘She’s provisioned for two days. You’ll need to replenish stores at Merbury. Oh, and I’m to give you this note. Father Piers just caught me on my way here and asked me to deliver it.’ Horys nodded deferentially and handing him a folded paper.

Gidyon read its contents quickly. Piers told him there was a purse of money in one of the bags and that he should try to live frugally on his travels. He also wrote that a man called Galbryth would meet Gidyon in Petrine township and escort him to his grandmother’s remote property.

Horys continued. ‘I imagine the journey will take you five, possibly six sunrises. Stick to the main towns from Merbury and veer off towards Three Lakes which will take you directly to Petrine.’ He nodded to take his leave.

Gidyon thanked the man again and climbed up onto the horse, which patiently waited whilst he settled himself comfortably. He waved before nudging her forwards onto the road which would lead him away from the monastery and all things familiar. Turning his stone in his pocket, Gidyon allowed Empress to walk at her own gentle pace as he drifted off into a daydream in which he imagined himself a hero on a wild adventure, leading an army, fighting off monsters, with women swooning over him.

He had never travelled north of Leedon so in truth he was interested by the prospect of visiting Petrine. And by all accounts, his grandmother lived so remotely that he would have the opportunity for long, rambling walks and quiet time to prepare his mind for the Testings. Maybe it would not be so bad after all…well, as long as she doesn’t die whilst I’m there, he amended.

They had reached the open road and he kicked Empress into an easy trot, dreamily letting his eyes move with the countryside which streamed by him. Absently twisting and turning his stone, he gradually sensed an increasing warmth emanating from it. He gripped the stone and experienced a sense of alarm; the vague feeling that this was a trap. However, a moment later the sensation was broken. Immediately he gave Empress the rein and permission to enjoy some freedom at a gallop.

He let go of the stone and the notion of danger.

‘Oh, this is unthinkable!’ exclaimed the plump girl.

‘Come on, Lauryn, it’s marvellous…I’d give up pudding for a whole moon cycle for someone to take me away from these books,’ said Emyly, Lauryn’s only real friend.

The girls had struck up a friendship when they were five summers old, each recognising in the other a genuine need. Emyly was plain, buck-toothed and freckled. She was also hilarious and Lauryn loved her.

Lauryn took no pains to enhance her own obvious assets: large, deep green-grey eyes and thick golden hair. She pulled her hair back severely, refusing to display its glossy beauty, did everything she could to get out of any form of exercise and deliberately indulged in her food. She was a hearty lass, as Cook liked to call her; and that was the kindest description of herself Lauryn had heard.

At the moment, however, she was the talk of the convent, although it was nothing to do with her careless ways. Lauryn had fainted a few days ago in the scriptorium, spilling ink—thankfully only a small amount—on the illumination she had just begun working on. Emyly had become near hysterical when Lauryn, for no apparent reason, had suddenly gone rigid in her chair. Her eyes had rolled back and she had struggled for breath before falling in a dead faint against her friend, taking them both heavily to the ground. As a result, Lauryn had spent the next two days under close observation in the hospital. Sister Benyt had been strict about visits, allowing Emyly only a few minutes with her friend each day. Lauryn had appeared fully recovered from whatever had ailed her immediately upon regaining consciousness, but the much revered head of the Gyrton convent had still insisted on contacting Lauryn’s grandmother in Petrine.

Lauryn had no parents; her grandmother was her only known family. She had sent word by return with the messenger politely insisting that Lauryn be allowed to travel to Petrine as soon as she was strong enough in order to spend a few days in the clean, fresh air of the highlands. The request was not open to negotiation, as the Prioress later advised the granddaughter when she protested.

‘Lauryn, I have no power to argue this for you. Your grandmother has expressed her strong desire to see you and for you to enjoy a short break. She donates enormous sums of money to the convent to help feed and clothe our community and keep this Order in relative prosperity. And I believe I am right in saying you have not seen your grandmother for eleven years or so? It is about time you paid her a visit.’

Before Lauryn knew it, she was packed up and being driven by horse and cart to meet up with the northern-bound coach. She was furious, though in truth she did not know why. Leaving Emyly was the worst part, but escaping the scriptorium was a blessing. She hated the convent, even though she was good at her work and was one of its most talented scribes. Lauryn knew, deep down, that if she cared she could be good at just about anything she chose to do. It was just that she wasn’t really interested in the detailed, often mind-numbing work of copying out two hundred pages of script onto parchment.

No, in all truth, what really troubled her was the fact that she was a lonely girl. Lonely for the love of a mother; lonely for a connection to a family. Lauryn was the only member of the convent who did not have brothers or sisters. For her, the rare holidays highlighted her isolation all the more and if it were not for Emyly’s firm friendship, she felt she could disappear altogether and never be missed.

She hated the grandmother the Prioress spoke of so respectfully. What kind of a grandmother never visits her granddaughter or makes contact other than by an all too occasional letter? And those letters brought her no consolation; they gave no insight into this mysterious woman. No, she was a total stranger and Lauryn felt nothing but contempt for someone who could masquerade as a caring relative but gave no emotional support whatsoever to a girl racing into womanhood.

But Lauryn would admit to none of this. She went through life as an observer, taking little interest in anything or anyone, save her good friend Emyly. She felt entirely removed from the life she led; she did not belong in the world around her. And now she was being forced to travel into that world to confront the grandmother she despised. She hoped the woman died before she arrived. Perhaps she could escape out onto the moors where this old girl was supposed to live. Lauryn would not mind that so much. The thought of rambling walks alone through the highland countryside almost made the drudgery of getting there worthwhile. Almost. At least that way she could continue to be alone, which was what she did best.

Lauryn smirked as she recalled a regular comment on her school reports: ‘Would make a good leader if only she would participate emotionally in convent life.’ What a jest. Who would she lead? Who would want to follow fat Lauryn? No one liked her, except Emyly, and she had no relationship with anyone else. She had been wondering about men lately, about life outside the convent. She knew such thoughts were not permitted, but she had no intention of taking full vows. That would be a shock to all. Instead she planned to wander the Kingdom of Shorell…as a visiting scribe perhaps. Such a life would suit her. Would any man ever take an interest in her? Did men ever fall in love with the fat girl? Lauryn grimaced. Well, she would catch herself a fine man one day. He would be strong and witty and a leader amongst men. They would fall madly in love and he would never want any other woman but her. And she would not be plump. She would be gorgeous, as her mother had been.

Lauryn’s favourite daydream was to conjure a vision of how her mother and father looked. He was dashing and handsome, her mother incredibly beautiful and slender. They too were madly in love but fate had forced them apart and that was why they had to give up their only daughter. Or perhaps they had died tragically, in one another’s arms. Her mother’s last words to her own mother, this mysterious grandmother, were always the same: look after Lauryn. And that’s when the dream invariably turned into the nightmare. Look after Lauryn! Send her as far away as possible to live life alone and unloved amongst a community of stiff-backed, unforgiving women.

As the cart rumbled along, Lauryn took her stone from her top pocket and felt the comfort it always brought her. Strange; it was very warm. She twirled it in her palm and watched its iridescent colours. No one but her had ever seen the colours within it, but that was all right—it was worthless to anyone but Lauryn. It was just a stone, after all. And yet for Lauryn it was her connection to her past. It was all she had carried with her when she arrived at the convent, other than a tiny sack of clothes. The Prioress had told her that the stone had been carefully sewn into one of her mittens when she had arrived at Gyrton on that frozen late winter’s afternoon more than a decade ago.

Shivering and confused, the tiny four year old had cried for hours and been inconsolable for weeks. Her only comfort was the stone, which she clutched tight. It had never been far from her in all the years since and Lauryn liked to think that it represented the soul of her mother, wherever she was and whoever she was.

She came out of her dark thoughts into the bleak and misty afternoon of the town and allowed herself to be helped down from the cart and escorted to the waiting coach. There were other people clambering aboard: a chatty mother with two daughters and a single male traveller. He was very old and entirely uninterested in all of them. That was fine with Lauryn; she intended to ignore them all for the three days it would take to reach Petrine.

She pulled a small book of poetry from her gown and hid behind it, pretending to lose herself in the words, only putting it down to share a small polite meal with her companions or to sleep. The girls tried to engage her in conversation but her fearsome comments on the probability of plague sweeping through neighbouring nations, even those divided by sea, put paid to any plans they might have entertained of making a pleasant new friend. Lauryn saw the old man twitch a smile at her tirade; he was obviously an old hand at warding off unwelcome and trivial chatter and perhaps recognised in her the same rude trait developing.

It was three long and tedious days before Lauryn sensed they had arrived on the outskirts of Petrine. No one else was left in the coach now; the ladies had alighted at Verban and the old man even sooner at Divyn. It mattered not to her that she was alone. When finally they reached the centre of Petrine and Lauryn stepped down from the coach, a man hailed her. This must be Master Galbryth whom the Prioress had said would meet her.

‘Here we go,’ she muttered and grimaced back at him.