Enchanted Pilgrimage Read Free

Old Ones?”
    The monk shook his head. “I do not know. I do not know the man. I’ve talked to him only once or twice. Intellectual curiosity, perhaps. Perhaps something else.”
    â€œPerhaps he thought Taylor might have written of the Old Ones.”
    â€œHe could have. Taylor could have. I have not read the book.”
    â€œCornwall has the manuscript. By now he would have hidden it.”
    â€œI doubt it has been hidden. Not too securely, anyhow. He has no reason to believe that his theft of it is known. Watching him, I saw him do it. I let him leave. I did not try to stop him. He could not have known I was there.”
    â€œWould it seem to you, Sir Monk, that this studious, light-fingered friend of ours may have placed himself in peril of heresy?”
    â€œThat, Master Beckett, is for you to judge. All about us are signs of heresy, but it takes a clever man to tread the intricacies of definition.”
    â€œYou are not saying, are you, that heresy is political?”
    â€œIt never crossed my mind.”
    â€œThat is good,” said Beckett, “for under certain, well-defined conditions, the university itself, or more particularly the library, might fall under suspicion because of the material that can be found on its shelves.”
    â€œThe books, I can assure you, are used with no evil intent. Only for instruction against the perils of heresy.”
    â€œWith your assurance,” said Beckett, “we can let it rest at that. As for this other matter, I would assume that you are not prepared to regain the manuscript and deliver it to us.”
    The monk shuddered. “I have no stomach,” he said, “for such an operation. I have informed you; that should be enough.”
    â€œYou think that I am better equipped and would have a better stomach.”
    â€œThat had been my thought. That’s why I came to you.”
    â€œHow come you knew us to be in town?”
    â€œThis town has ears. There is little happening that goes unknown.”
    â€œAnd I take it you listen very carefully.”
    Said the monk, “I’ve made it a habit.”
    â€œVery well,” said Beckett. “So it is agreed. If the missing item can be found and proves to have some value, I’ll speak a word for you. That was your proposal?”
    The monk nodded, saying nothing.
    â€œTo speak for you, I must know your name.”
    â€œI am Brother Oswald,” said the monk.
    â€œI shall mark it well,” said Beckett. “Finish off your wine and we shall get to work. King and Broad, you said?”
    The monk nodded and reached for the wine. Beckett rose and walked forward to his men, then came back again.
    â€œYou will not regret,” he said, “that you came to me.”
    â€œI had that hope,” said Brother Oswald.
    He finished off the wine and set the cup back on the table. “Shall I see you again?” he asked.
    â€œNot unless you seek me out.”
    The monk wrapped his habit close about himself and went out the door. Outside the moon had sunk beneath the roof trees of the buildings that hemmed in the narrow alley, and the place was dark. He went carefully, feeling his way along the rough, slick cobblestones.
    A shadow stepped out of a doorway as he passed. A knife gleamed briefly in the dark. The monk dropped, gurgling, hands clawing at the stones, a sudden rush of blood bubbling in his throat. Then he grew quiet. His body was not found until morning light.

4
    Gib of the Marshes was up before the sun. He was always up before the sun, but on this day there was much to do. This was the day the gnomes had named when the new ax would be ready. He needed the new ax, for the blade of the old one, worn down and blunted, would no longer take a proper edge, no matter how much whetstone might be used.
    Ordinarily at this season of the year the marsh would have been wrapped in low-hanging fog early of a morning, but this morning it was clear. A few