I felt like translating yesterday and here you are. My schedule will be l little tight in the next few weeks, but I promise to post another chapter before my holiday in July. Thanks again to everyone who reviewed. I hope I didn't forget to reply to anybody.

Illusions 6

It was a fellow countryman, Roger of Hale, who used to sit at a table in a corner of the tavern, but who had barely talked to anybody. When they had seen each other for the first time, both of them had started; too astonishing was the similarity between them. The talks in the tavern had stopped for a moment when the two men had faced each other. They could have been brothers. The newcomer was nearly as tall as Sir Guy; he had wavy black hair, an aquiline nose and blue eyes.

"There's no love lost between them," Antoine, the landlord of the tavern whispered to another customer, when Guy had talked only briefly to the other man and then turned around not paying attention to him any longer. Then he begun to polish the counter vigorously; he didn't want to cross Sir Guy. You never knew how he would react and the Gisborne's family affairs were nothing to him.

Guy had seen that Hale would have like to get to know him better, but he was not interested. After the first encounter, he had not paid attention to Hale and after a while everybody knew that the knight would sit in the corner, mostly gloomy and alone. Obviously, he had got plastered today.

This drunken idiot! Guy wrinkled his nose. Although the moonlight was not bright enough to see everything, the odour was enough to make him reel back. The man had pissed himself and puked his guts out. He looked down at Hale derisively and kicked him in the ribs. "Damn! Sleep it off elsewhere!" he spat and turned away when the knight grabbed his cloak. "Help me…" he groaned. Guy laughed despite himself. He of all people a merciful Samaritan? Spleneticly he was going to shake the drunkard's hand off when it loosened and fell to the ground. The man didn't move and no sound was to be heard. Probably he was dead, but this meant nothing to him. He frowned and walked away. Guy was already a few yards away when he looked back. The man was still lying at the same place. Guy swore and went back. Perhaps it was the similarity, perhaps the fact that he was an Englishman like him…He needed somebody, who would lift the twerp; he would be damned if he touched him!

There was still light in the tavern, the landlord was clearing the mugs away and a male servant was rolling a barrel full of wine to the annex. Only a few minutes later a cart rumpled towards the house guy had rented. By now, he regretted the impulse to help the knight; disgruntled, he put a coin into the servant's hand and entered his house. It had been a perfect evening and now he had ruined it himself because of had been charitable. Guy snorted.

The servant dumped the senseless knight on the courtyard and the housekeeper made no bones about him. Two buckets of cold water and he regained his consciousness very quickly; he spluttered and blinked and glanced at Guy, who was looking down at him, unmoved. "Thank you," he whispered and tried to sit up. Guy's servant Pierre clasped his hand and propped him up and then led him to a chamber where he removed the wet garments. Exhausted Roger of Hale fell into the bed, sleeping as soon as his head hit the pillow.

The housekeeper set a steaming bowl with porridge, bread, milk and eggs in front of Guy. His guest had not appeared yet, but Guy hadn't expected him either. He had given orders to prepare some garments for Hale he could wear until his own soiled clothing had been washed and dried.

It was nearly noon when Roger of Hale left his chamber. Guy scrutinised him pensively; something was wrong with him. His eyes were blood-shot and his complexion ashen, but this didn't come from one night of drunkenness. His hands trembled when he took a slice of bread. "I want to thank you again," he said hoarsely. "You could have left me lying out there."

"I won't make a habit of it," Guy snarled. "You should know when you've got enough."

Roger grimaced, but it was a sad smile. "That's not it. It was not more than two tankards of wine…Perhaps I should drink more to get it over with," he murmured.

Seeing Guy's questioning look he laughed mirthlessly and added. "You needn't be afraid; you're not in danger. It's a family' disease, you know? Nobody knows the reason, but my father died when my two brothers and I were still little boys and none of us…got older than 25 years…My mother died of grief; I'm the last of the family. My sister, she could have lived…it's only the men…but she was killed by a drunken horseman." He seemed to talk more to himself than to Guy; perhaps he was glad to be able to talk about the whole thing. Guy didn't interrupt him and Roger continued. "I thought I'd make it to England. My aunt is living in Brycgstow. She should know that our branch of the family will die out. She will have got my letter by now, but probably I won't…."

A long silence ensued between them and Roger seemed to be grateful that Guy obviously didn't feel compelled to say something pious or some words of cold comfort. Eventually Roger pushed the plate and the cup aside and got up. "I will bring you back the garments as soon as possible," he said and walked to the door. "It was…" Abruptly he collapsed. With two long strides Guy reached the man, who was lying on the floor, groaning. When he looked down at him, he nearly felt, as if he were looking at a version of himself, the more so as Roger was wearing Guy's garments.

With Pierre's help Guy brought the knight back to the chamber. Roger was lying in the pillows, exhausted. His eyes were closed, his face deathly pale and he had dark circles under his eyes. As if feeling Guy's gaze, he opened his eyes. "Please…fetch a priest," he whispered and Guy nodded, getting up.

The priest, who left the chamber an hour later was very young, a milksop, who had probably just been ordained. He had been in the city for only a few days and had not learned yet to deal with death. He looked shocked and obviously didn't know what to say to Guy. "It is…" He licked his lips. "…certainly not easy for your. Your...brother…is he very near to you? "Guy stared at him for a few seconds without comprehending until he understood what the priest had to think because of the stunning similarity between him and Hale. His…brother…nobody knew the knight's name but him… Without a word, Guy nodded. He didn't hear the young priest's words of comfort; he only saw the gate that would open to him by Roger of Hale's death. It was not that guy hated France; he had loved his French grandmother, but he craved for the green hills and forests of England.

Roger didn't die this very day, but it was plain that he was wasting away. Despite himself Guy felt sympathy for the man; perhaps the similarity was the reason that hale told him everything about his family. The Hales were not from Bordeaux but from the area around Toulouse. Roger's father had not been rich and had not owned much besides his weapons and his horse. He had gone into service like many knights without possessions and had died early. Roger was the youngest and the only one who had survived so far. Roger didn't know why this strange man was sitting at his bedside and was listening patiently when Roger was telling his childhood pranks. Before he had fallen ill, Roger had been a kind and gullible man who had liked to laugh, the opposite of Guy, not that this was important any longer. It was a miserable and painful death. Spasms of coughing shook the weak body and he convulsed heavily. Blood ran from his nose and his mouth and in death agony his hand held Guy's in a vice grip.

Pale and shaken Guy looked down on Roger, when he was lying still on the bed at last. His face didn't look peaceful; he had known that he would die, but he had not gone easily, he had wanted to live, had fought. It was the first time in awhile that Guy felt something like regret about somebody's death.

The priests had told the servants about the grief Guy felt over his brother's death and this was the story everyone seemed to believe. What other reason could he have to pay for the man's funeral and several Masses to be read?

Several weeks later Guy left Bordeaux for England, on his hand the ring Roger had worn, on his side the sword with the Hale's crest and in his memory many a story Roger had told him.