Woolen clouds jostled and shoved above the path that led away from Mont Clare. Scattered spears of sunlight broke through gloriously and faded, playing tag with the squalls of rain that squabbled their way to the hidden horizon.
Luc's own spirit mirrored the land. One moment illuminated, full of the determination to do what was Right, the next battered by the conflicting demands of seduction and duty... And a growing suspicion that he had those labels applied incorrectly.
The road to the Cathedral was two days' march with Tonerre plodding beside him, though with a reasonably-well maintained path, the going was not difficult. Luc passed fields of brilliant flowers that exploded into butterflies at the sound of a cough and high-waving fields of wheat, through deep woods where bandits watched and waited for better prey. If not for the turmoil that yet boiled within him it would have been serene, but the woods and wild places were, he somehow knew, all hers, and even in prayer her face intruded on his thoughts.
The second afternoon, on the final stretch to the cathedral, Luc stopped at one of the many roadside shrines that had been erected for pilgrims touring the church's holy sites. He knelt at the scrap-made wooden cross in its tiny shrine and spoke the words he had been taught, but serenity did not come. It was only when he noticed the creepers that wended in under the rafters and the green sprouts pushing up through the floor that he felt the echo of holiness in the space.
Luc's arrival at the church came that evening as the great bronze bells rang for vespers and the westering sun cast his shadow far before him. Sparing a glance at the pilgrims hurrying to the service in the cathedral's vaulting central nave, Luc instead circled to its rear, where the library hid in the cathedral's shadow. He hitched Tonerre at a freshly filled trough and spent some time working the burrs from the beast's short coat before presenting himself.
The half-dozing porter at the library's entrance was leaning far back on the legs of the stool he'd been given, shoulders pressed against the wall. He half-opened one eye, likely to see which novice had been sent to fetch a tome by his master, and the legs of his stool snapped down on the flagstones at the sight of a knight.
"You-" he began in a sputter that threatened to grow into bluster.
"I am on a holy mission, sir, charged by the Bishop himself. I require the knowledge within this library. Will you bar my way?"
Luc, who in the past two days had spoken only to his horse, felt he was being rather clever for a young knight who got no respect, having carefully planned his words during his travel. He was stating only facts (and carefully not mentioning that this particular clue was given by his quarry) and he held the Porter's eye to show his trustworthiness.
He did not hear how the dust of the road and the days of silence had added gravel to his voice, nor think of how the stag's blood had stained his shirt and leather trousers. He did not, in short, think of himself as looking or sounding like a hard-bitten killer of men. Indeed he was hard-pressed to hide his own surprise at how the porter blanched and babbled permission to do whatever he wanted before slipping away..
Luc shrugged and passed into the library. A small sign on the librarian's desk informed anyone interested that the librarian would return tomorrow at Lauds. With a sigh the young knight began to search the stacks for any sign of his prize.
A candle's span passed fruitlessly. High windows did little to help when the sun set on the other side of the cathedral and dusk fell swiftly. Luc was straining to make out a title in the last fading light when a voice startled him.
"Pardon, good sir, but might we be of aid?" Luc spun, hand flying to the hilt of his sword before he remembered where he was. Chagrined, he grimaced as he examined the two figures before him.
Dressed in the monochrome habits of the nunnery, they were, from what he could tell in the dim light, quite lovely young women. Long-lashed eyes in pale faces looked up at him. A curl of bright red hair had escaped the wimple of the speaker to lay across her forehead.
"My apologies, sisters, but I did not hear your approach. I am Sir Luc, questor of the church. May I know you?"
"I do so hope," said the one on the left and demurely raised one hand to her mouth to cover her giggle. The other gave a playful slap to her arm and a mock-reproachful look.
"I am Sister Charity, and this is Sister Mercy. We know of you, of course- a noble knight dispatched from these very grounds! You have been the talk of the cathedral, sir knight." Luc's brow furrowed.
"But that is of no moment, sir knight," Mercy picked up smoothly. "What has drawn you to our humble library?" As Mercy spoke, Charity slipped around and to Luc's back. Soft fingers fiddled with the clasp of the dusty road cloak that covered his shoulders. Luc glanced back, but Charity only nodded back to her Sister.
"I... I am seeking the Chronicle of Saint Cuthbert. I believe that its seventh volume contains knowledge that I require for my quest." The cloak slipped off his back, the clasp giving in at last, and Charity folded it in her arms.
