Chapter Text
He wishes zayde were here, for so many reasons. As the blood is rinsed from his hands it is not rinsed from his mind’s eye; he dreams of the men he has lost, the sounds of the screams in the emptying streets, the heavy weight of burning the door to the shul. He dreams of his mame, imagining what would have happened if they had been mere minutes later. He sees John’s throat cut, and feels panic in his heart when he wakes.
He had not expected to like the man as much as he did, but over the time of working together, he had come to admire John’s curiosity. At first Sam had thought it was just another way for him to gather information to use, and in a way that was true, but John used what he learned to show a true kindness to the people who sheltered him, using his money at the businesses, learning about the food, the customs, and participating with a generous zeal. He would be sad, Sam thinks, if he died. Perhaps that is what friendship is.
He thinks of Henry now, far away in Sigismund’s camp with Zizka’s woman, trying to find the canon for the raid on Maleshov. Every time he thinks of taking the fight to Von Bergow he can feel his skin prick, and he cannot decide if it is just or his pride and anger getting the better of him. All he knows is the feeling sticks to his stomach and makes him lose the little bread he has eaten.
Jehuda would know how to guide him. He misses that most of all, in this bed of drunkards and blowhards. He wonders what the advice would be.
Keep away from the bath girls. Do not drink yourself to stupor. Keep your tongue. Keep your own counsel. Remember who you are.
He will not forget, and yet there is something in John’s example that he keeps thinking on. When he wakes from his dreams, when he prays, he thinks after of the generosity he showed to the traditions, the customs, the people. He thinks of what it felt like to hold the torch to the door of the centre of his learning, of his heart.
It has been four nights since he returned to the Devil’s Den, riding alone from his people in the cover of night. Three since he gave them his gold. And now, now he is waiting, and it is driving him to madness.
He finds the priest, such as he is, looking out over the dawning sun. There is a book in his hands that he thumbs absently, and his face breaks into a lined smile when he sees him.
“You’re up early, son.”
“As are you.”
He laughs. “You’ll find soon enough that age brings with it a need to run from the grave. Sleep will evade you, even when you need it.”
He coughs, and Sam notices the pallor on his skin.
“Can I get you a drink?”
“Hair of the dog, eh?” He shakes his head, and takes a wineskin from his belt. “It’s too early for the swill they have on tap here.”
He offers Sam some, but he refuses. He lets the silence settle on them for a moment as the sun becomes golden.
“Can I help you, child?” Godwin’s voice is soft. Sam is reminded of hunting for game.
“I’m not looking for some absolution from your God, if that’s what you mean.”
“I wouldn’t dream to suggest it. But, I think, you might be looking for something?”
Sam swallows back the feeling again, his stomach churning.
“Tell me,” he starts, “what would you say if one of your men came to you, and said he cannot think of anything but the need to make somebody pay for their actions. That all he sees is the blood. What would that mean, to your God?”
“Well…” he swallows another short sip of wine, and furrows his brow. “There is the answer of the cloth, of course. That judgement of sins will sit with God, and it is our duty to find forgiveness in our hearts.”
“Ah yes. And then those who do wickedness can repent and go to your heaven. That is it, isn’t it?”
“Or refuse, and burn in hell. That is one answer. Another would then be that there are righteous wars to be waged. Sometimes, it is not a wickedness to seek retribution, as long as it is for the greater service of God. And as long as we repent, we can still enter heaven.”
“And if both are convinced they are on some holy mission?”
“Well. That’s how we end up here, I suppose. Two Kings, thrice as many truths. Beyond that though, what I think? We are just men. Imperfect men. Trying to survive a hard world.”
“A great comfort.”
“Some find the comfort in the idea of forgiveness. I know God’s love has saved me, many times.”
“But do you not think… is it not cowardice, to only want to do what is right for some eternal reward?”
“What do your people believe?”
Sam scoffs. “Is that a genuine question?”
“I’d like to know. And I think you’d like to try to tell me. So why not? Tell me.”
He breathes. The silence is peaceful, the sound of the morning birds, the stirring of the girls across the river cleaning their linens. He tries to bring the patient tongue of the rabbi to his imperfect mouth.
“There is no one way that will last forever, at least, that is what I believe Jehuda would say.” Saying his name chokes him for a moment, and he swallows away. “No one truth that we can understand anyway, without turning to Him. It does not matter what we intend. It matters what we do to make the world better. We do not do for fear of punishment. We do to make the world better. Closer to the truth we cannot know.”
He shakes his head. It feels so clumsy when he says it. He wishes he could find the words, but the fire burns again, and the heat of it is all he can feel. He wishes he could find the space for his thoughts. He wishes he was around the kind of men who could help him.
He has never felt more alone, surrounded by people.