The Blood of Kings

by Kyle Alexander Romines

  Chapter Twelve

  Word from Corrin reached him the next morning that a peddler had arrived in Cashel with three corpses in tow—corpses she claimed were the remains of the Witches of the Golden Vale. The guards described the peddler as an old woman dressed in rags. Suspecting she was only after the reward, they dismissed the peddler’s claims, and she abandoned the bodies on the back of a wagon and went on her way.

  After voicing his displeasure at not being informed sooner so that he might question the peddler himself, Berengar left the castle and made his way down to the city at once. Though Cashel already showed signs of stirring, the hour was early, and the warden encountered a relative few along the road. He found the three bodies in a remote spot at the outskirts of the city near the cemetery, where they had been unceremoniously dumped under an elm tree.

  Morwen was already there when he arrived. Evidently her healing potions had done the trick, though he noticed she continued to lean on her staff for support. She stood with her back to him, staring at the charred remains in the shade.

  Berengar crouched beside the corpses. Scant remnants of dresses clung to each of the deceased, eaten away by the fire. They were women’s bodies. He was certain of that much, at least. All three had long hair. Each corpse’s skin was dry like parchment, cracked and blackened from the flames.

  “Is it them?” he asked Morwen.

  “I think so. Even with my abilities dulled, I sense magic about them.”

  It was the first time they had spoken since parting ways upon their return to the castle. When he attempted to visit her following his audience with the queen, he found her asleep, recovering from her ordeal.

  The warden turned over a facedown corpse and saw that a large portion of her lower face had been cut away. Berengar knew the work of his axe when he saw it. The body belonged to Cora, the witch who tried to force her way inside his mind.

  “Their crowns and jewelry are gone. The peddler must have taken them.” He withdrew his hand and rose to a standing position. “Not one escaped the flames. We were lucky. This could have been our fate.”

  “The bodies mustn’t be buried here,” Morwen said. “Lest their spirits linger in this place. They should be burned outside the city, their ashes consecrated by the priests and spread to the winds.” She hobbled closer to him. “Will you help me?”

  They’ve already been burned, he wanted to say, but when he saw her somber expression, he simply nodded and began stacking the bodies.

  In the time it took him to load the witches’ remains onto a wagon and secure horses for the task, Cashel had fully awoken. Crowds impeded the wagon’s progress as it rolled down the street. It was half an hour before they reached the gate. The clamor of city life slowly faded the farther they traveled from the city. Cashel was barely visible when Morwen pointed out a remote area off the road.

  “This is the place.”

  Berengar guided the horses to the spot and brought the wagon to a halt. Morwen knelt beside the bodies and muttered a long chant over each one, waving her staff around in the air as if to ward away evil. When she finished, she leaned against Berengar for support, much to his surprise. She was either still too weak to light the fire with magic, or else considered it inappropriate to do so, so Berengar started one for her.

  Together they watched as the roaring flames consumed the bodies, sending black smoke lofting into the sky. Even from a distance, the stifling heat from the fire joined with the considerable summer warmth, and sweat poured in torrents from the warden’s brow.

  “I used to wonder who my mother was,” Morwen said after a time, when the witches’ corpses were little more than soot and ash. “What she was like.” The rest she left unspoken, but he knew all too well the sentiment behind her words. Neither of her parents were what she imagined them to be.

  “My mother died when I was younger than you are now.”

  “Thank you for staying with me for this. I’m glad I didn’t have to do it alone.”

  The last of the flames left only smoldering embers as they died away. Berengar led Morwen to the wagon and helped her up before taking the reins.

  “What’s next?” she asked when they started on the path back to Cashel.

  “You’re going back to the castle to continue your recovery. You can hardly stand.”

  “But I want to help!” she protested.

  “I know. That’s why I’ve arranged for Laird O’Reilly to have the records from the inquest into Prince Aiden’s death delivered to the tower. I think there’s more to his death than we realize, and you’re better fit to determine if magic was involved than I.”

  Morwen rested her arms on the staff in her lap and leaned back in her seat, appearing at least somewhat satisfied he’d given her something to do. “What about you?”

  “Once I see you to the castle, I’ll inform the queen that the witches have been dealt with. There’s also a woman in the city Laird O’Reilly claims has important information for me.”

  “You should tell Corrin to keep a lookout for the peddler. We don’t want any of the witches’ belongings ending up for sale in the market. Their possessions might be cursed.”

  Berengar nodded. “When I’m finished, I’ll come by and see what you’ve learned, provided you haven’t dozed off again.”

  A wry smile crept over Morwen’s face. “Did you actually just make a joke?”

  Berengar merely grunted in response as the wagon rolled through the open gates.

  Once inside the castle, he bade farewell to Morwen. When Corrin greeted him in the throne room, Berengar informed him of the witches’ deaths. He made sure to pass along Morwen’s instructions regarding the peddler. Several members of Alannah’s court exchanged whispers and furtive glances as he went by. They no doubt remembered the disruption he’d caused when he’d marched Calum into their midst and declared one of their number a traitor. If they were expecting a similar commotion to ensue at present, they would be sorely disappointed.

  As he approached the throne, Berengar spotted Ravenna standing off to one side. The princess wore a decidedly displeased expression. It wasn’t hard to see why. Ravenna was surrounded by a flock of well-dressed nobles, many of whom wore iron crowns. All were men, and Berengar guessed they were suitors. He even spotted Laird Tierney’s son Desmond among their number.

  Without warning, Ravenna broke free of their ranks and stormed to the dais, interrupting the performance of a bard with a distinctly Caledonian accent. Although their voices were drowned out by the noise in the background, it was clear Ravenna and Alannah were locked in an argument of sorts. Ravenna put her hands on her hips and leaned toward her mother, who frowned, while Ronan and Laird O’Reilly appeared none too eager to get involved in the dispute. Finally, Ravenna shook her head and stormed off.

  Berengar turned away and pursued the princess, who slowed at his approach. He felt the weight of Alannah’s gaze following them from the throne, where the bard had resumed his song, accompanied by a fiddler who wore the queen’s colors.

  “Mother is encouraging me to marry one of the Rí Tuaithe or their sons.” Ravenna nodded at the group of suitors from whom she had taken leave. “She says such a union would help stabilize the realm during these precarious times. She’s even taken to bribing those frightened by rumors of a curse on our family. It’s exactly what Father would have done.”

  “The lords of Munster are honorable men.”

  “Aye. They are worthy suitors all, but I do not want them.”

  “What do you want?”

  “To be free.” At that her anger seemed to abate, as if no one had thought before to ask her such a simple question. “I am glad to see you have returned safely, Warden Berengar. I was worried when you did not appear after your visit to the witches.”

  He found her words strangely touching. It had been some time since anyone voiced concern for his safety. “I owe you my thanks, Princess. Ronan told me you sent him to retrieve us over your mother’s objections. Were it not for his arri
val, I might have fallen prisoner to the Danes, or worse.”

  “Consider us even for saving my life.”

  Corrin interjected before either could say another word. “Forgive me, Your Grace, but the queen wishes to speak with you.”

  “I would have thought I made my position rather clear,” Ravenna said with a sigh. “No need to look so uncomfortable, Captain. Father taught me better than to cause a scene in public. I’m afraid I must excuse myself, Warden Berengar.”

  With that, she walked away, leaving Berengar to admire her.

  “She’s quite something, isn’t she?”

  The voice belonged to Desmond, who stood nearby.

  “That she is,” he replied appreciatively.

  “It is good to see you again, Warden Berengar, even under such circumstances.” Desmond extended his hand, a sign that his attitude toward the warden had warmed since they last met. “I was wrong about you. Cill Airne owes you a debt of gratitude for resolving the situation at Innisfallen without bloodshed.”

  “That was more Lady Morwen’s doing than my own, to tell you the truth,” Berengar replied as the two clasped hands. “I gather you’re here in your father’s stead.”

  “You have the truth of it. As his eldest son, it is my responsibility to represent him in Cashel.”

  “And how is Laird Tierney?” Berengar remembered the image of the frail old man sitting in a stone chair, barely able to support the weight of the iron crown on his head.

  “Not well, I’m afraid. His illness has only worsened. His physician does not know if he will survive. After the coronation, I intend to return to Cill Airne at once, if the queen permits.”

  Berengar followed his gaze to the throne, where Ravenna and her mother appeared to have made amends.

  “She seems fond of you,” Desmond mused. “If I might be so bold, what is the nature of your interest in the princess?”

  “I’m here to protect the royal family until King Mór’s killer is captured. That’s all.”

  Desmond seemed to regard him with skepticism but had the decency to keep any doubts to himself.

  “Do you know her well?” Berengar’s gaze lingered on the princess a few moments longer than necessary.

  “We were childhood friends.” Desmond grew suddenly pensive. “The princess and her brother spent a summer in my father’s castle when we were younger. It was King Mór’s intention that Prince Aiden should study under the masters at the Institute.” He chuckled. “The prince was more interested in seeking adventure, as I recall.”

  The description sounded in keeping with what Berengar knew of Aiden from Ravenna and others. He was reminded of his own adventure near Cill Airne, and the lingering questions that remained from his time there.

  “When we set out from your city, Morwen and I were attacked on the road by the déisi—the same lot who passed through your city. Were you ever able to find out who hired them?”

  “I’m afraid not, though not for lack of trying. The déisi aren’t the sort to leave a trail.”

  “What about Gorr Stormsson?” Berengar asked. “The Danes have been spreading across Munster of late. Have you had any trouble with them in your lands?”

  “None. The Danes land their ships along the coast to the east and have little influence in the west. My father’s soldiers stand ready to keep our lands clear of their threat.”

  Somehow there was a connection between the Danes, the déisi, and the Brotherhood of Thieves, but Berengar had not found it yet. He thought again of the assassin’s cleverness and recalled Agatha’s shrouded hints about a darker power exerting influence over Munster. What was he missing?

  At that moment, a hush fell across the hall as a man in lamellar armor and a black cloak entered the throne room. His skin was pale, as if the season were winter, not summer. The yellow hair on his head and beard were braided. Berengar’s gaze fell on the dagger he carried at his side.

  A Dane, he realized.

  The nobles drew back, clearing out of the man’s way. Almost at once, Corrin shouted an order, and the guards surrounded the newcomer in a circle, pointing rows of sharp spears at him.

  Ronan put himself in front of Queen Alannah, his hand resting on the hilt of his blade. “You dare enter the queen’s presence while armed? Who are you?”

  The Dane leered at the guards with a pair of malicious blue eyes. “I come in peace.” He raised his hands. “I am only a messenger—from Gorr Stormsson.”

  Ronan’s voice carried across the chamber, full of loathing. “Your master is the enemy of peace. You will be lucky to leave this place with your head still attached.”

  The messenger only smiled. “You would be wise to hear my master’s proposition. Much bloodshed might be avoided.”

  Alannah stood but remained behind Ronan’s protection. “Let him speak.”

  At Corrin’s command, the circle of guards broke, forming two rows that ran the length of the room. They continued to hold their spears out; if the messenger made an attempt on the queen, he would be cut down before he ever reached the throne.

  “My master will have peace, if you meet his terms.”

  “And what are his terms?” Alannah’s gaze was unwavering.

  “First, your armies must disband and return to their lands of origin. Second, Gorr Stormsson is to be made a lord of Munster and raised to the rank of thane.”

  “Is that all?”

  Berengar watched as the messenger’s eyes fell on the princess. “He requests the hand of the Princess Ravenna in marriage. You will remain on the throne until the time of your death, at which time Gorr Stormsson will become king. In return, he pledges never again to wage war against Munster. The pillage and plunder of your kingdom will cease. My master will bring these lands under his watch and protect them as the High Queen and her wardens have failed to do.”

  Berengar’s blood boiled at the man’s audacity. He had half a mind to charge the messenger with his axe right then and there, without regard for the consequences, and not just for the insult to the High Queen. Forced marriage was once a fairly common practice throughout Fál. Nora herself had been abducted by a murderous lord who wished to make her his bride when she was the heir to the throne of Connacht, though she escaped his grasp. For Ravenna, who had already endured one marriage that had been imposed upon her, it would be an unimaginable fate.

  “If you refuse my master’s generous offer, know that ships carrying two thousand fighting men are on their way to Munster as we speak. With your fleet in ruins, you have no way to prevent them from landing on your shores.”

  “You dare threaten—” Ronan started to say.

  Ravenna held up her hand to silence him. “I can answer for myself.”

  Before anyone could stop her, the princess descended from the dais and walked calmly toward the Dane. Berengar stood frozen in place, and his heart—usually steady no matter the danger—skipped a beat as she drew nearer to the messenger. He was too far away to reach her in time if she needed help.

  Ravenna stopped mere inches away from the Dane, who averted his eyes under the force of her penetrating gaze. “Here is my answer. Never again will any man possess me. I do not fear your master, who was not even man enough to come here himself. I name Gorr Stormsson a coward, in sight of everyone here. He will fall like his brother before him, and the dogs will eat at his corpse.”

  As anger showed on the messenger’s face, the princess deftly reached down to his waist and in one clean sweep drew his dagger and pointed the blade at his throat. The messenger’s eyes widened in disbelief.

  “If I were queen, I would have your head. How fortunate for you that I am not.” Ravenna held the dagger point under his chin. “Now you will send a message for me. Tell your master the people of Munster do not frighten so easily. It’s only a matter of time before our soldiers smoke him out of hiding like the rat he is.” The dagger clattered to the floor, and Ravenna turned her back on him. “Escort this worm from the castle at once. And Captain? There’s no need to be
overly gentle about it.”

  Corrin laid a gauntleted hand on the messenger’s shoulder. “As you wish, Your Grace.”

  As Ravenna returned to the throne, the cadre of suitors seemed to shrink back from her, as if startled by the princess’ display of ferocity. Berengar only smiled, unable to help himself. The king’s killer should hope Mór’s daughter doesn’t find him before I do.

  The woman Laird O’Reilly wanted him to meet resided in a merchant class neighborhood, home to neither the poorest nor the wealthiest of Cashel’s citizenry. Berengar arrived at a modest one-story home with a thatched roof, one of many clumped together. At first no one answered when he knocked on the door. For a moment he thought perhaps he had come to the wrong address, but after a few moments he heard footsteps inside, and a young woman opened the door. Her fine clothes and expensive jewelry seemed out of place compared to the humble dwelling.

  “My name is Berengar. Laird O’Reilly said you’d be expecting me.”

  “Yes, I know. My servant should have let you in. I don’t know where the old fool has gotten off to now. She’s deaf in one ear and nearly lame. I’ve told Father she’s impossible to manage, but he refuses to listen to me.” She waved him inside. “Do come in.”

  After telling Faolán to wait outside, Berengar ducked under the doorway and stepped over the threshold. The home’s interior was even less impressive than the outside. Though the hall was spacious enough, there were only two additional rooms, a bedroom and a kitchen. Although her surroundings were commonplace, the woman herself was striking. Berengar noticed a select number of more valuable items in the room, including an ornate chest at one end and a shield bearing a family coat of arms adorning the wall.

  “I am Lady Elaine of Clan McClellan,” she said proudly. “Laird McClellan is my father. I assume you’ve heard of him?”

  Berengar grunted a noncommittal response.

  Lady Elaine took a seat in front of the hearth and gestured for him to sit across from her. Her eyes gleamed when she noticed his ring. “You’re one of the wardens, aren’t you? I used to dream of being presented at Tara’s court. Tell me, are all its halls as wondrous as the legends say?”