Thief By Knight

CHAPTER ONE

Grantaire pushed damp hair from his eyes and leaned against the potter's stall as he studied his prey. The stall's owner gave him a suspicious frown. Grantaire pretended not to notice. Let the fool worry for his precious merchandise -- the fear would add excitement to his day.
Grantaire's keen eyes swept the row of stalls, searching for likely prey. The merchants shouted out bargains, their mingled voices becoming a squawking babble, like a flock of hungry chickens. Most of the goods, from leather-sheathed knives to bolts of cloth and even copper pots were worth far more than candles. There were useful things as well, like clothing and food. The fruit vendor juggled apples, the twirling red orbs shining as they caught the morning sun. The bright fruit made a sad contrast to the bearded man's soot gray tunic. Grantaire was not surprised the man had few customers -- it had been a tough year, and even during harvest time, apples were a luxury. Besides, no man wanted to watch another play with his food.
Grantaire knew better than to look to the merchants for his income. They paid their fees to the constable. A thief stealing from them would face more than just a half-hearted chase out of the bazaar. He might actually be arrested.
Grantaire smiled as he spied the perfect victim. He was haggling over a down pillow, of all things. Apparently, he wasn't happy with the price. The balding man shook a meaty fist in the air. Hanging from his belt by a single bit of hemp was a purse that bulged nicely, but not enough to buy too much protection. Grantaire licked his lips and sidled towards the stall.
"A Cambrai gold for one pillow? That's robbery!"
Feigning interest in the merchant's wares, Grantaire smiled. The vendor rolled his eyes and gladly turned his attention away from his outraged customer.
"Can I help you sir?" His sweeping arm took in the goods piled in neat rows behind him. "We have blankets for you and your horse, of the finest Tarascon wool."
Grantaire had no chance to reply as the portly man stepped in front of him, waving the costly pillow in the air like an awkward banner.
"I was here first. I would like to purchase this pillow. I'll give you three espalions for it."
Glad to have the merchant's attention shifted away from him, Grantaire left them to their spirited haggling. He reached inside his leather tunic and slipped a small knife into his palm. Scanning briefly for watching eyes, he turned back to cut the man's purse and found an old woman standing in front of him. She shifted her balance to examine a heavy blanket, and Grantaire snatched his knife back to avoid cutting her.
Cursing, he tucked the knife away and looked around for the man with the fat purse. He spotted him, further away than the man's short legs ought to have been able to carry him. The man was heading out of the bazaar.
Grantaire knew he couldn't very follow the idiot through the streets of Savin; someone was bound to notice. But he needed that purse. It would soon be getting too damned cold to sleep in the alley. Cursing himself for the risk he was taking, he sprinted after his victim.
Weaving through the crowd at a run was hard even for one of Grantaire's agility. He ignored the angry curses from the men he shouldered aside and hopped over the swinging cane of one old mother who took exception to his antics. He had to keep his eyes on his prey.
Intent on watching that money purse as it bounced inevitably out of the bazaar at the side of its chubby owner, Grantaire ran right into the constable. The broad chest appeared out of nowhere, hitting Grantaire in the face like a brick wall.
Rough hands pushed him back. Grantaire stared first at the gray tunic sporting the lion rampant of Tarascon. He lifted his eyes to the constable's frowning face.
"'Ere now! What are ye about?"
"Sorry, sir," Grantaire mumbled. He dared a look around the man's massive shoulder. His prey had paused by the gate, exchanging words with an old woman. If he didn't get that purse soon, he'd miss his chance.
He cast a hopeful look at the constable, who was still frowning at him. Grantaire considered groveling, but there wasn't enough time. He held his breath and hoped for the best.
"Watch where you're goin'," he ordered, shaking Grantaire for emphasis.
"Yes sir," Grantaire humbly tugged at a forelock. "Won't happen again, sir."
"Ah, go on, then." The constable shoved him aside and continued on his way.
Grantaire looked frantically at the gate. The man was still there, but the old woman was turning to leave. Gripping the wooden handle of his knife, Grantaire hurried over.
"God be with you," the man called, looking after the old woman as she shuffled back into the bazaar.
Pretending to head for the gate, Grantaire bumped into the old man. He cut the purse and slipped it inside his tunic before the man could turn around to frown at him.
Grantaire felt a wave of guilt when he saw the silver circle hanging around the man's neck. It was the Circle of Divine Unity. Nestled within it, joined to the outer circle by spokes like those on a wheel, was a tiny stylus. It represented one of the saints; he wasn't sure which one. He was sure of one thing -- he had just robbed a priest.
"Sorry, father. My fault. Didn't see you there."
"Of course," the priest said, but his frown betrayed irritation.
"Good day to you, father," Grantaire said. He had to get out of here. Tugging his forelock respectfully, he turned to leave.
"God watch over you," the priest called.
"I hope not," Grantaire muttered as he reached the gate. He stepped through, lengthening his stride. He resisted the urge to run. The guard standing against the open gate watched him without interest. No one had noticed the theft. Smiling to himself, Grantaire strolled away from the bazaar.
"Stop that man!" The priest's voice, now shrill with urgency, startled Grantaire like sudden lightning. He took to his heels without a backward glance. "He stole my..." faded away among Grantaire's own thundering footsteps and the frantic beating of his heart as he raced down Mellier street. An astonished matron shrieked as Grantaire darted between her and her two children.
Grantaire dared a glance behind. The matron hustled her little ones out of the street just as the guard from the gate appeared, waving his sword. Grantaire thought he spotted other constables in the distance, pushing their way through the excited onlookers. Robbing a priest was a killing offense, and it had been weeks since the last hanging.
Grantaire bolted around the corner to Talley Street, slipping between two surprised mothers who were bragging about their babies. One of the brats started wailing; sounding the alarm for the following constables. Grantaire couldn't believe it -- he was being ratted on by an infant. If God was watching over him, it was pretty clear whose side He was on.
"This way!" a man's deep voice called from much too close behind. "Hurry!"
Grantaire slowed down, panting, and looked behind him. The constables had rounded the corner. There were five of them. One pointed at Grantaire.
"There he is!"
Just like them to point out the obvious. Grantaire took to his heels. An old man reeking of ale complained as Grantaire jumped over him and kept running down Talley Street. He sped past Talley's Corner. Brys would have hidden him gladly if he'd gotten here unseen, but Grantaire couldn't bring the constables right to the tavern.
He kept going, his mind racing faster than his feet. The constables following sounded like a herd of horses. He had to find a place to hide, and soon. He turned, running in front of a young squire leading a bay destrier. The horse reared and squealed in protest, ripping the reins from the boy's hands. Grantaire ignored the squire's curses as he sped away, past the respectable shops on Rabican street. A pretty maid crossing the street with a bolt of silk cradled in her arms stopped, her mouth forming an O of surprise as Grantaire ran in front of her. A heartbeat later he heard her shriek, no doubt catching sight of his uniformed retinue.
His side hurting now, Grantaire turned the corner and tripped over a young boy who'd been hunched over, pulling weeds around the shrine to Saint Etienne. Grantaire fell, his hands digging into the chrysanthemums and his head smacking hard into the saint's marble foot. The boy shouted in protest, and Grantaire hauled himself to his feet. He could feel blood trickling from a gash in his forehead. He looked behind him. The guards were catching up. Groaning, he forced himself to run again, though the vibrations of his own footsteps pounded inside his aching head.
Once past the shrine, Grantaire found himself on Tantrevelle street. He had not chosen this route by accident. Tantrevelle boasted the larger of Savin's two churches, and the only one with enough wealth to pass out alms to the poor. Which was what they were doing right now. An enormous crowd surrounded the white-robed priests who stood upon the church steps, passing out pieces of bronze. Huddled in misery, clutching their patched clothing to hold it together against the harsh wind, none of them even noticed as Grantaire raced among them, darting through the crowd with the grace of an acrobat. He grinned to himself as he cleared the throng and raced on down the nearly empty street. The crowd would not part so quickly for a group of sword-waving constables.
Ducking around the side of the apothecary's tiny shop, he leaned against the wall, breathing deeply and waiting for the stitch in his side to ease. He thought he had bought himself some time.
"There he is!" Grantaire looked up to see three guards running at him from the other direction. They must have anticipated his route, separating from their comrades who were even now pushing their way through the crowd of alms seekers, hoping to trap Grantaire between them.
They might have succeeded. But Grantaire had learned some escape routes that weren't marked by street signs. Turning around, he leaped up the side of the building, his hands and feet digging for a hold in the crumbling bricks. He slipped, his fingers scraping painfully and one foot pushing at empty air. He pulled himself up with his hands, fingers shaking with effort. His feet found a purchase, and he scrambled to the roof of the building. An arrow bounced off the bricks beside him just as he pulled himself over the edge.
He wasted no time. The constables weren't likely to climb up after him, but from up here he was a good target for their arrows. He raced across the roof top and leaped for the next building. He sailed over the alley and hit the roof hard. Grantaire rolled as he fell, trying to lessen the impact to his sore muscles. The movement took him dangerously close to the edge of the roof. He latched onto the shingles to keep himself from falling. They cut the palms of his hands, but Grantaire gritted his teeth against the pain and pulled himself up.
Two arrows sailed over his head, fanning him with their passing. He spared a look down at the guards running down the streets below him. They weren't far behind. He turned and sprinted for the next building.
Grantaire knew he couldn't keep this up for long. Sooner or later, one of those arrows would find him, and it would all be over. He kept going. He had to hope he could keep up this lofty route long enough to reach the slums, the one part of Savin where he would be at home, and constables weren't welcome.
It wasn't far now. Grantaire raced past another arrow and flung himself onto the next building. The rotting beams of the roof groaned under the impact. He ran across the shuddering roof and launched himself at the next one.
He hit hard. The sharp cracking of wood was all that warned him as the roof gave way beneath his feet and he went crashing into the building below. Splinters of wood and dirt rained down on him. All was suddenly quiet. Grantaire listened, but the guards outside were silent, no doubt as stunned by his sudden disappearance as he was.
Grantaire got to his feet and looked around. He stood in the middle of a filthy shack. Empty crates surrounded him. A battered cot squatted in one corner. Something thudded against the only door; the guards were trying to get in.
The shack boasted no windows -- the only light came in through the hole he had just created. The door groaned again with sudden impact. The guards were pounding at the door. Grantaire couldn't escape that way. He grabbed a dusty crate and dragged it across the floor. He climbed onto it, tried to hop up to the roof. His hands could almost touch the broken timbers. The door groaned again, this time splitting wood. Grantaire stacked up another crate and scrambled up just as the door crashed in. He leaped up, sending his make-shift ladder crashing into the guards as he pulled himself onto the roof.
Losing no time, Grantaire scrambled across the roof and down the other side. The guards were right behind him, but they were in his territory now. The streets here, which were not graced with names, reeked of dung and stale urine, their very dirt stained by the poverty of the souls who lived here. Even the buildings, frail and crumbling for the most part, crowded close together like sorry children trying to hide their mischief from the light of day. Grantaire ran for the nearest alley and stopped. Rats squealed as they scurried into the shadows. He decided to follow their example.
Turning to one structure that seemed identical to the others, except perhaps that it leaned a little more, Grantaire jumped up. His hands grasped the rusting drain pipe. He dangled for a second. He took a deep breath, gathering his strength, and began climbing.
Only one window opened on this side, and the wooden shutters were closed. Straining from his dubious perch on the drain pipe, Grantaire banged the handle of his knife against the splintered wood.
"Sydney," he whispered as loudly as he dared. The constables couldn't be far behind. "Sydney, it's Grantaire. Let me in."
He waited, holding his breath. He prayed Syd was there, that she hadn't gone for one of her morning walks, or spent the night elsewhere. He listened for signs of pursuit. He heard nothing. The silence didn't reassure him. If the constables were looking for him quietly, they had a better chance of catching him unaware.
At last the shutters rocked, then swung open. Sydney squinted at him, one slender hand pushing vainly at her mass of wild, brown hair.
"Whatsit?" she mumbled, stifling a yawn.
Grantaire had no time for explanations. He jumped in through the window, pushing Syd aside as gently as he could. He jumped to his feet and closed the shutters before turning to kiss her.
"Thanks, Sydney." He glanced around the room, taking in the scattered clothes and the bearded man snoring in the bed.
"Sorry if I woke you."
Sydney shrugged. She bent over, giving Grantaire a nice view of her taut backside and picked up a faded, brown smock. He helped her struggle into the sleeves, after which she patted his cheek affectionately while yawning ale fumes into his face.
"Thanks, darling. You're up awful early. What'd you pinch?"
Grantaire took the money purse from his tunic pocket and dangled it. Sydney's eyes widened in appreciation at the satisfying jingle.
"I robbed a priest," Grantaire said, trying not to sound as foolish as he felt.
Sydney's look changed to one of alarm. She snatched the purse from his hands, pulling the strings open and emptying it into her open palm. Dropping the purse on the floor, she poked through the contents -- one espalion gold, three silvers, and a pile of tarascon bronze.
"Hmph. Not much of a haul." She picked up a silver coin and tucked the rest back into Grantaire's pocket.
"I can't believe you robbed a priest. What were you thinking?" Sydney sat down on the edge of the bed. Frowning, she poked at the fleshy arm of her latest customer, who continued to snore in happy oblivion.
Grantaire sighed. "I didn't realize he was a priest until it was too late."
Sydney tilted him a smile. "It's not like you to be so sloppy. This tavern of yours is going to get you killed."
Grantaire shrugged. There was no use arguing with her. Sydney didn't understand his determination to buy Talley's Corner. She didn't think a thief should have ambitions besides daily survival.
Despite their differences, Sydney was the closest thing Grantaire had to a real friend. "Buy you a drink?" he offered.
"Any time." Sydney slapped the leg of the man snoring in her bed. He grunted but didn't wake. "I'll meet you at Talley's as soon as I get rid of this fool."
Grantaire bowed with exaggerated dignity and left to the sound of Sydney's amused chuckle.

***

For more than ten years now, Grantaire had been traveling from town to town, stealing to stay alive. During most of that time, he'd slept on the street. Sometimes, he'd find a barn or shack to spend a night in. In really good years he'd even managed inn rooms for the coldest of the winter nights. But in all that time, he'd never found a place that felt like home.
Until he came to Talley's Corner. Named after the original owner, the tiny tavern wasn't much to look at. The front door swung on rusty hinges, the tables wobbled on uneven legs, and dozens of scratches scarred the top of the bar like a veteran soldier. Still, it was a comfortable place. Brys, the current owner, served good ale and good food at reasonable prices. The place was clean, and there was seldom any trouble.
Grantaire appreciated all of that. But the most important thing Brys offered his guests, even the homeless thieves, was genuine kindness. Grantaire would never forget the first time he'd met the barkeep. He'd stumbled into the tavern on a rainy night, his first night in Savin. Tired and wet, Grantaire had stumbled over to the bar and handed over his last bronze coin for a mug of ale. Brys brought a foaming mug of ale, a hunk of bread, and a steaming bowl of stew. When Grantaire looked up at him in confusion, Brys shrugged and smiled.
"You're a new customer," he said. "I figure if I treat you nice on your first visit, you'll keep coming back."
Grantaire had. Over the years, he'd lost count of the number of free meals Brys had handed out with similar excuses. It was here he'd met Sydney, the only woman he'd ever known who could drink him under the table.
Grantaire watched in undisguised admiration as Sydney downed her ale in one long swallow. She slammed the tankard down on the bar top and sighed happily.
"Thanks, Grantaire." She turned to Brys, who stood idly behind the bar with an amused smirk on his round face. It was barely past dawn, and business was slow.
"Brys, my friend, you pour a fine brew. I'll have another." She grinned and winked slyly. "Grantaire's paying."
The barkeeper chuckled as he palmed the bronze coin Grantaire slid across the polished, wooden bar top. "What trouble did she save you from this time, son?"
Grantaire grimaced. "Don't ask."
Brys glanced at Sydney, his puppy-brown eyes questioning. Syd wisely shook her head, even while accepting a new tankard.
"I think I'll go get some sleep. It was a long night." She glared at Grantaire, her irritation only half in jest. "And some folks wake you at the crack of dawn around here. Keep him out of trouble, Brys."
Brys snorted. "It's too much to ask from a lowly barkeep."
Laughing, Sydney sauntered out of the bar, taking the half-full tankard with her. Brys didn't comment; he knew she'd return it eventually. Instead, he grabbed a faded, linen cloth and began wiping down the bar, which didn't need the attention. He shot a meaningful look at Grantaire.
"Well, whoever you stole from, I hope it was worth the trouble?"
Grantaire sighed. He knew the reason for Brys' concern, and wished he had a better answer.
"No. It wasn't." He reached into his pocket to dig out the meager handful of coins and slapped them down on the bar in disgust. One bronze coin spun wildly before falling down with a tinny clatter.
"That's all I got, Brys." He picked up the gold, an espalion. Espalion was a poor country, and their currency showed it. An espalion gold was really a mixture of gold and copper -- most silver coins were worth more. He picked it up and began to roll it absently back and forth along his knuckles. It gave him something to look at so he wouldn't have to face Brys. The barkeeper's disappointment was no greater than his own. Grantaire hated to let him down. In all his years of traveling, Brys was the first person Grantaire had dared to call his friend.
The towel stopped moving along the bar top. "Grantaire, if it was just me, you know I wouldn't mind waiting. You're my friend, and you love Talley's Corner as much as I do. I know you'd take good care of the place.
"But I promised Fay. God knows she's a good woman, but I can't make her wait forever. We're not getting any younger. And she misses Bertha."
Grantaire nodded, not looking up. When Brys and Fay's only child had moved to Montrevel years ago with her husband, Brys had promised his wife they would sell the tavern and follow them. Now, it seemed, Fay was tired of waiting. She was making Brys keep his promise.
Brys' one condition was that they sell Talley's Corner to someone who would take good care of it; he loved the place to much to even think of it getting run down. Grantaire seemed like the perfect choice. Hell, he'd practically lived here the past few years; it was as close to a home as a wandering thief was likely to find.
There was one big problem. Grantaire had no money. Oh, he managed to feed himself most of the time. There were times when he'd even squirreled away a few silvers. But he needed a lot more than that to buy the tavern.
"Just give me a little more time, Brys." He looked up at Brys imploringly, knowing the barkeeper had heard this request too many times now. "Five hundred gold is a fair price for Talley's. And it's not a fortune, not really. All I need is one big score."
Brys sighed, but his look was full of sympathy. "All right Grantaire. You've been a good friend. I'll wait till year's end; can't leave till spring anyway."
He stopped, shaking a finger to silence Grantaire's gratitude. "But I've one condition. I'll need something to show Fay, just to prove you'll be able to get the money. She won't wait for nothing."
"Agreed." Grantaire slapped the flat of his palm on the bar top. It stung, but he didn't care. Grantaire was desperate to get this tavern. When Brys had first offered to sell it, it had seemed like some kind of miracle. With a place of his own, Grantaire would have a chance to leave his past behind him and make something of himself. Any conditions Brys wanted to name were better than a flat-out no.
Grantaire's mind raced, wondering just how much "proof" he could manage. "I'll have a hundred gold for you by next week," he said. Brys narrowed his eyes suspiciously, but Grantaire met his gaze without flinching. He ought to be able to filch a hundred by then. If not, well, it couldn't hurt to promise.
Brys nodded, satisfied. "All right. A hundred it is. But I have to tell you, Grantaire -- if you can't do it, I've got to find someone who can."
Grantaire waved a hand in the air, dismissing his friend's concern. His own promise had made him confident.
"Don't worry. I'll have it." He slid another bronze across the bar. "How about another ale to celebrate our deal?" Grantaire knew he was pushing it. Brys was the rare barkeeper who actually cared about the welfare of his guests and didn't let them drink more than they could handle. Grantaire was already on his fourth ale. That was a bit much early in the morning, even for him.
Brys started to answer when a shadow fell across the bar. Grantaire started to turn around when an all too familiar voice made him freeze where he sat.
"There he is! That's the one who stole my purse."
Grantaire's stomach did back-flips. This couldn't be happening. The constables wouldn't hunt him down -- not for a tiny purse like that. Not even for a priest. Hoping this was all a bad dream, Grantaire turned around.
It wasn't a dream. It wasn't the constables either. The priest stood with his arms folded smugly before him as he peered at Grantaire with distaste. Next to him stood a tall, muscular man with a deadly looking sword sheathed at his side. Instead of a constable's uniform, he wore an expensive-looking red and white tunic sporting a coat of arms Grantaire didn't recognize. The man was younger than Grantaire, probably in his early twenties. Clean-cut and handsome, he regarded the thief with an expression of polite concern.
Grantaire thought about going for his dagger, then discarded the idea as hopeless. This guy was obviously a knight of some kind; he wouldn't stand a chance. He tucked a hand into his tunic pocket, stroking the gold and mother of pearl comb he kept there. A gift from his mother, the comb usually made him feel secure. It wasn't working now.
"Uh, I'm sorry," he said, half rising from his seat. "I think you have me confused with someone else."
The priest's face flushed red. "You're lying."
"Felix," the knight said, his voice a pleasant baritone. He touched the priest's shoulder in a conciliatory gesture. "There is no need to be rude."
The knight stepped forward, his long stride bringing him within inches of Grantaire. The thief stepped back. He looked up into the most brilliant pair of blue eyes he'd ever seen and felt his world turn upside down. It was as if those eyes looked right through him, knew everything he'd ever done. Grantaire felt his soul weighed in the balance and found lacking. He felt ashamed.

Swallowing nervously, Grantaire tore his gaze away from the knight and fixed it upon his dusty boots. He was shaking. Damn it, what was wrong with him?
"I believe you are right, Felix. He is lying." The knight's voice was calm. He sounded oddly disappointed, like a father with a lazy child.
"What is your name, friend?"
Grantaire looked up at the knight, not sure if he was the one being addressed. This guy was certainly no friend of his. Grantaire started to say so, then caught a glimpse of the knight's sword. It was very big.
"Grantaire," he mumbled.
The knight nodded politely. "I am Sir Enjolras D'Cheval, and this is Brother Felix of the House of Saint Anselm."
Grantaire looked curiously at them, wondering what this was all leading up to. The knight seemed to expect some sort of response; since Grantaire didn't know what to say, he didn't get one.
Sir Enjolras glanced at Brys and frowned. "Would you mind stepping outside? It would be best if we dealt with this alone."
So that was it. It wasn't good enough to turn him over to the constables -- the priest wanted to see him punished in a more personal way. Grantaire swallowed nervously. He'd heard how brutal some of these knights could be.
He looked desperately at Brys. The bar top must have gotten awfully dirty. Brys was scrubbing it so hard the veins stood out on his sun-browned arms. He wouldn't even look at Grantaire.
Grantaire turned back to Sir Enjolras. The knight was watching him expectantly, his face emotionless. A little brutality in the morning was probably all in a day's work to someone like him. Grantaire sighed in resignation. He had no choice.
"All right," he said, trying to sound casual. He pointed to the tiny door beside the bar. It led to the alley where Brys dumped his garbage. "We can talk out there."
Grantaire opened the door and stepped out into the alley. He cast a thoughtful glance at the end leading out into the street. The others appeared right behind him, leaving him no time to make a run for it.
With an exaggerated sigh, Grantaire lowered his head and tucked his hands into his pockets. His right hand gripped a tiny knife he kept hidden for just such emergencies. If he could just get in one quick jab, maybe the knight would drop his guard long enough for Grantaire to get the hell out of here.
"Well," said Grantaire, trying his best to sound both humble and resigned. "I suppose you're going to beat me for my insolence. Go ahead. It's no less than I deserve."
The priest snorted. "That's certainly true."
Grantaire raised his head, glaring. Taking note of the look of smug superiority on the priest's face, he considered changing the direction of his attack.
"Felix!" The knight addressed his companion as if he were a naughty child, not a holy man several years his senior. "If you can not be civil, then please do me the honor of being silent."
The priest bit his lip, then nodded obediently. Surprised, Grantaire began to wonder just who this Sir Enjolras was.
"I apologize," he said, turning to Grantaire with a slight bow. "But please rest assured that we have no intention of beating you. As Saint Alexandre has written, violence is the tool of evil. A good man must rely on wisdom and understanding, not brute force, to settle his disputes."
Grantaire looked warily from the knight to the priest. "Then what exactly do you want?"
Brother Felix looked at Enjolras. He stamped his foot in frustration. "You can start by giving me my money back, you ruffian!"
Grantaire shrugged. If that was all they wanted, they could have just asked for it inside. They didn't have drag him out into the cold alley. He started to reach inside his tunic. The knight's hand on his arm stopped him.
"I'm not going for a weapon," he said a bit defensively as he looked up to meet the knight's earnest, blue gaze. "I was getting the money."
"There is no need," Sir Enjolras replied calmly.
"There isn't?" Grantaire stared at the man, frowning. He was starting to get impatient with all this nonsense. "Look, I'm sorry I stole it, okay. I didn't realize he was a priest. Just tell me what the hell you want and I'll give it to you."
Sir Enjolras frowned in disapproval. Grantaire tensed, wondering if he had pushed the big knight too far.
"It is not proper to use profanities in the presence of a priest."
This was getting ridiculous. Here he was, standing in a stinking alley on a cold, autumn morning, with a fat priest and a crazy knight, arguing about foul language.
"Is this some kind of a joke? Did Brys put you up to this?" Grantaire stared intently at the man who claimed to be Sir Enjolras. He seemed surprised by the suggestion.
"We are quite serious." He nodded at the priest, who was staring at the ground in disgust and ignoring the whole discussion. "And you must agree your crime is also serious. Felix was most upset."
Licking dry lips, Grantaire nodded and grabbed a firm hold on his patience. This Enjolras was obviously insane. And he had a very big sword. It was a dangerous combination. Grantaire decided to pacify him.
"All right," he said, trying to sound calm. "We all agree on that. My crime was terrible." He slapped his right hand against his chest, over his heart. "Why, I'm so disgusted with myself I can hardly bear the shame of it. Maybe there's a way I can make up for it?"
He looked at the knight hopefully. He'd promise anything just to get rid of this lunatic.
Sir Enjolras shook his head. "Your offer means a great deal. God approves of a humble heart."
Grantaire stifled his laughter as the knight reached into the pocket of his tunic and withdrew a leather pouch much like the one Grantaire had stolen, but fuller. He held it out to Grantaire.
"Please accept this."
Grantaire looked at Enjolras in amazement. His eyes were devoid of guile; something told Grantaire they had always been so. Confused, he took the pouch and opened it.
His breath caught in his throat at the contents. The pouch was full of ducheyen gold, the most valuable coin minted. Grantaire stared up at the knight with wide eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, but found he had nothing to say. Brother Felix appeared similarly afflicted; he stared at Grantaire with eyes wide and mouth open like a floundering salmon.
Sir Enjolras smiled indulgently. "Please, do not thank me. Saint Genevieve taught us that charity is the greatest gift of God, and to God belongs our gratitude for every kindness."
"But, but..." Brother Felix, finding his voice, pointed at the bemused Grantaire. "You're giving him more money? But he's a thief!"
Enjolras put an arm around the priest's trembling shoulders. "He was a thief," he corrected firmly. "I am certain Grantaire felt he had no choice. A man's way of life is often determined by his circumstances. But now, we have given him the freedom to choose a new life."
With a smile, the knight bowed slightly to Grantaire. "Go now, and lead an honest life. May God protect you." With that he turned and swept from the alley, dragging the reluctant priest behind him.
Grantaire watched them go, wondering if his encounter with those two lunatics was God's way of punishing him for daring to rob a priest. That was one mistake he'd never make again.

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