Illusions 17
Osgood stared after the slowly disappearing carriage. It would be the last he would see of Guy in his life. He and Anne would return to an empty house in Gringstow. They had started to rebuild the castle but there was no use in continuing; there were no relatives and after his death, all his possessions would be transferred to some other subject of the King as a fiefdom. Each step was a tired one and he felt every single one of his years.
Too much was troubling him that he had not dared to say out loud so far, not even to Anne. Until now he had admired a King unknown to him, and he would continue to serve him loyally, but something had changed. A King had to take drastic measures, otherwise he was lost. But Osgood had seen it in the King's face how he had enjoyed the banquet , and the act of mercy he had let himself be praised for had not been Richard's idea. He had let the people prepare a feast for him and Queen Eleanor but seemed to have wasted no thought whatsoever on the fact that his return had made England poor.
And there was something else: Lady Marian had been sitting on her chair, pale and unmoving. There had been something in her face; not only relief at the fact that Guy would not lose his life, but also something like… fear…. He had not seen her after that – until now. She was standing by her window and looking down. He did not see more than her shadow but he knew that he and Anne had to speak to here before their return to Gringstow. Maybe she knew something about Guy's past. What was it, boy, that came over you?
Guy leaned his head against the wall of the carriage and inhaled deeply. He quickly smoothed the piece of parchment that he had not realised until now he was clutching tightly. Dear Guy… come to love you… We believe you… Marian of Knighton pleaded for your life… we will never forget you…
Time and again he read the letter, then folded it up and put it up his sleeve.
The carriage was labouring over bumpy roads. His head had started to hurt again; agitatedly, Guy touched his throbbing temple. The would that had started to heal had opened again and was burning. Exhausted, he leaned again the inside of the carriage. The monotonous rattling sent his eyelids to rest, but not him.
Anne and Osgood had forgiven him but he knew exactly that it would have been better for both of them if they had never seen him. They had seen him as a son for whom they wanted to rebuild Gringstow; now that hope was gone. It had been similar to what had happened to him. Through Marian he had been given a glimpse into paradise only to wake up in hell.
Marian – why had she saved his life? I could have loved you, and it scared me. He remembered her words well; how often he had wished he could purge all her words and her face from his memory, but it was his hell that he still saw her before his inner eye even though he knew that she had betrayed him. Maybe it had been her conscience or more likely… pity. He almost hated her for it; he would be damned if he let other people pity him. For a moment, he wished she had not pleaded for his life.
Slowly he pulled out Anne's and Osgood's letter again and read it; then he put it away carefully. At some point he fell asleep. When he woke up, the carriage had stopped and he could hear the soldiers' voices and their laughter. Sleep had not brought rest; if anything, he felt even worse than before. His forehead felt hot, but he was shivering and his limbs were aching. There was no blanket in this carriage, so he curled up in a corner and tried to make himself as small as possible. At the castle they had thrown him a loaf of bread and a skin filled with water into the carriage. He knew he had to ration the water but he was too thirste, so he gulped greedily until the skin was empty. Damn… his stomach… Cramps were shaking him. With his fist he pounded against the inside of the carriage until a soldier poked his head through the door. "Whaddaya want?" he snapped and added, after one look at Guy: "Damn you if you puke up everything! - Out!"
"Why are ya letting him out, Albert? Let 'im puke and lie in 'is own filth", one of the other men said.
"And then? Who has ter clean out the carriage afterwards? No way, he won't run away. Just look at 'im. From the way he looks he's lucky if 'e makes it ter the border."
The men were gathered around a small camp fire and warming their limbs. The horses were tethered and grazing after they had been watered at a small pond. They were looking at Guy, who fell to his knees by a bush and threw up. The men laughed. Drained, Guy let himself fall on his back in the grass and closed his eyes.
"No, ya won't, pal! Get up! And filthy as ya are we can't take ya with us", Albert sneered and poured a bucket filled with icy water over Guy's head.
Gasping, Guy sat up and was promptly dragged to his feet and pushed back into the carriage. The door closed and shortly after the carriage rumbled on. While the water had refreshed him at first, he was now shivering even worse than before. The carriage floor was covered with straw and Guy tried to wipe himself with it but it didn't help much.
Dammit, the son of a bitch is not moving! I guess he's dead. I told ya: Cut his throat and be done with it. This entire journey's been for nuthin'", one of the men ranted.
From far away, Guy could hear the voice but he was too weak to stir to show that he was still alive. Albert had stepped into the carriage and kicked him; Guy moaned.
"He's still alive but not much longer I guess. C'me on, let's just throw him out here; t' is the border and our assignment's over now."
Both men took hold of his legs and dragged him out of the carriage. He hit the ground hard. So this is it, was his last thought.
Rhobert was driving on his donkey; he wanted to be back at the monastery before dusk and then enjoy some blessed silence. He sighed; he knew exactly why the Bishop had called for him again. Had he been a simple abbot they would have left him alone, but Rhobert ap Morthwyl was the third son of a Welsh prince and with that came connections the Bishop liked to make use of when it came to building a chapel or acquiring land for the Church.
Rhobert had never had much use for money or games of power. He was a learned man and was grateful to his mother for being able to read Plato and Aristotle even in the monastery. Most men in his abbey were hard-working and pious men, but sometimes he missed someone to talk to. Rhobert laughed out out; the Bishop was surely not one of those people. For a man of the Church he was a little too interested in money.
Only two miles more and he would be there; at the fork he had to turn right. Here, close to the English border there was usually all kinds of riffraff; only a few yards into the other direction and he would be on English ground. Fortunately, the English hadn't been particularly interested in this part of Wales so far; sometimes there was an advantage in being poor. He would… What was that? Something, no, someone was lying on the side of the road. Rhobert looked around and listened, but there was not a sound to be heard, no horse or carriage to be seen… Silence. Hastily he rode closer and dismounted.