by Glenda Larke
“And the Prime says?”
“That there isn’t a problem. Anthon, your cousin Beargold–he’s an officer in the King’s Company, right?”
“Yes. Useless muckle-top. Gambles away his pay, that fellow. Family doesn’t have much to do with him these days. The silly laggard is always wanting to borrow money.”
“Have a word in his ear, will you? Tell him to bring the men in his corps up to top-notch fighting readiness. They need to know more than how to polish their shoes and wear bright red coats to parades.”
Anthon looked thunderstruck.
“I mean it, Anthon. In fact, go to all ten company commanders, and tell them–confidentially, mind–that I’ll quadruple the allowances of those in charge of the top three corps six months from now. We’ll have a competition to determine the winning corps. Swordplay, archery, fitness, horsemanship, arquebus, the lot. Prize money for the top individuals too. Tell them to keep it quiet, though, as it’s going to be a surprise for the King.”
“You’d do that?” He blinked. “Out of your own pocket?”
“Yes, and you’d better hope that their fitness for combat is not needed before then.”
“Pickles ’n’ pox, you are worried! Tell you what, I’ll match whatever money you put up.”
Ryce grinned. “Knew I could rely on you.”
“You bastard. You hooked me deliberately!”
Just then they rode up on Horntail, who had pulled his horse to the edge of the track. “A word, your highness,” he said.
Ryce nodded to Anthon to drop back, and Horntail took his place at Ryce’s side. “What’s the matter, captain?”
“Not sure. Maybe naught. Just seems too quiet. No birdcalls, no squirrels. And the horses up front smell something that’s making them restless.”
He tilted his head, listening, momentarily ashamed that he hadn’t noticed anything amiss. He watched the movement of his horse’s ears and concluded that Horntail was right. Turning in the saddle, he opened his mouth to ask Anthon to pass a warning back to be on the alert, but the words remained unspoken. The scream of a horse ahead of them, followed by shouts, made any warning superfluous.
“ ’Ware!”
“Look up!”
“Archers in the trees!”
Beside him, Horntail bellowed, “Flee! Everyone for himself!”
Time only for a random thought: Rot it, everyone has their bows unstrung…
An arrow thwanged past his head, clipping the top of his ear. He ducked, reached to draw his sword. Horntail viciously snatched the reins out of his hands and flipped them over his horse’s head. Then the sergeant raised his horn to his lips and gave a single blast.
“What the pox do you think you’re doing!” Ryce bawled at him, flinging himself forward in a vain attempt to grab the reins back.
Horntail took no notice. He was already hauling the Prince’s horse away from the track and into the trees.
Another arrow slammed into Ryce’s saddle above his knee. A third took a chunk out of his horse’s mane, which sent the animal flying through the undergrowth with scant attention to its own safety. A volley of arrows bracketed him, one clipping the heel of his boot.
Sweet Va, they’re everywhere! He kept himself tucked in low over his horse’s neck. Fury swamped his terror. “Fuck you, Horntail! Let go!”
But if the sergeant heard, he took no notice. Ryce leaned forward to reach the reins, but all he achieved was to pull Horntail halfway out of the saddle. When it was clear the man was determined not to let go even if he fell, Ryce relinquished his hold.
The arrows stopped coming, but Horntail’s pace never slackened. Bushes beat at the legs of their horses as they twisted through the trees at a reckless pace. A low branch nearly swept him from his saddle. A few paces further on, only his quick thinking saved his knee from being shattered against the trunk of a tree.
Not wanting to alert the attackers to where they were, he stopped yelling. His rage was undiminished. I’ll kill him. I swear I’ll skin him alive.
At last the mad bolt slackened and he was able to wrench his reins from Horntail’s hold and manipulate them back over the head of his mount.
He drew his horse to a halt, gazed back over his shoulder, searching for movement, for any sign of the attackers. The undergrowth stilled behind them; nothing moved. He couldn’t even be sure which way they had come. Somewhere in the distance, men and horses screamed. Dying. He swallowed back vomit and turned once more towards Horntail.
“How dare you!” In his anger he could barely force the words through his teeth.
The sergeant pulled his mount around to face him. “For the safety of my prince I’d dare anything. Even disobedience.”
“Your duty is to obey me!” His hands shook with rage. “I could see you dead for your treason.”
“Ten years back, my King bade me keep his son safe, whether it cost me my pride, or my honour, or my life, and that’s what I’ve done this day.”
“You caused me to desert those under my care! You caused me to lose all honour this day. And you lost your own, indeed. How can I ever lead men when they’ve seen me desert them? They saw me flee a field of battle. Run away, like a craven coward.”
Thinking to return to where the ambush had taken place, he pulled his horse around. There was nothing to be heard now. The dying had been silenced.
“It’s over,” Horntail said. “I saved your life. Whoever they were, it was you, my prince, they sought. The only living will be those who fled. We were surrounded by archers in trees loosing arrows. What could we do, any of us? Our bows unstrung, our arrows mostly already loosed once today and in need of refletching! They had us caught like pigeons in a net for plucking, about to have their necks wrung.”
He closed his eyes. Breathed deep. Patted the quivering neck of his mount.
Blister the hedge-born vassal; he was right. “You deserted your men,” he said finally.
“Aye.”
“A dark moment for us both, then.”
“Aye.”
Horntail pointed a finger. “If we ride towards the setting sun, that way, we’ll get ourselves out of this cursed forest before dark, methinks.”
He looked over his shoulder. “There must be wounded men back there. We have to go back.”
“I blew the horn. It was the signal to scatter and flee. My men will have obeyed. They will regroup, what’s left of them, and help any who are still alive.”
Anthon, I pray you are one such…
“Your highness, I’m sorry, but I can’t allow you to ride back.”
“Can’t allow me, Horntail? Since when does a sergeant give orders to a prince?”
“Since he was appointed by his king, your highness.”
Sick at heart, he nodded his reluctant agreement. Perhaps this would be what it would be like to rule. Not to be a hero, but to be wise. “Let’s get to the road, then.”
They urged the horses on. Twice they had to dismount and lead them, picking their way down slopes and up hills. They didn’t speak again until they’d emerged from the forest. Grimly, he looked up and down the deserted road, now barely visible in the gloaming.
He was desperate to get help, but the horses needed to be walked, and he knew it. He curbed his raging impatience and said as they continued on, “Who were they, Horntail?” Va, he sounded piss-weak.
“I’ve no idea.”
Think, you ninnyhead. Marshal your thoughts. You’re a prince! “It was a clever ambush. Good place. They chose their spot well.”
“Aye. Well executed. They were accurate with their arrows.”
“Well trained, then. What makes you think they were after me? Why not the King?”
“If they’d wanted the King they’d’ve known the likelihood he wouldn’t be hunting all day. They would have waited for him earlier.”
He thought about that. “They knew where to wait, and when. Someone told them.”
“Reckon you could be right, your highness.”
A traitor.
But why? Why me? Tamping down his anger, he considered coldly the little they knew. “To train men, you need space and privacy and time. A large estate somewhere.”
“Money to spare,” Horntail added.
The horses paced wearily on. “Privacy,” he said at last. “That’s the key. Secrets don’t last long usually. Some chambermaid working at his manor house would have a relative working in the palace, or a stableboy would blab to his sister at a neighbouring property. That’s the way things work, especially when something unusual is going on. People talk.”
The King always knows what I’m up to. Or he did, in the days when he cared to listen.
He looked across at Horntail. “So, possessing estates no one’s ever invited to visit, a man of wealth whose servants don’t mix with others–we all know who fits that description. All we have to ask, in fact, is what’s changed.”
“What’s changed? His confidence. Prime-poxy-Fox now thinks he can attack the King’s heir–and get away with it.”
It was an effort to unclench his jaw sufficiently to speak. “We will see about that!”
For a time, they paced on in silence. To Ryce, the night had a dream-like quality to it; a feeling of being intensely alive hand in hand with knife-edged fear. A moonlit road, tired horses, shadows dancing as the wind tossed the trees, two men from different walks of life suddenly closer than brothers.
“Witan Saker Rampion warned me,” Horntail said. “He said Fox moves with men who serve A’Va. So I found out all I could about the Prime.”
“I’ve heard his staff are not even Ardronese.”
“Heard that too. The Fox family has at least one estate in every country of the Va-cherished Hemisphere. Their staff? They move from one estate to another. You’re right, visitors aren’t welcome. They never mix with their neighbours. Ask about who lives there, and no one seems to know.”
“Does Valerian have a family?”
“There’s vague talk of a son. Or possibly sons.”
“He’s married?”
Horntail didn’t know.
“Cousins, brothers, uncles, aunts, grandmothers?” Ryce asked. The wind cut through the cloth of his hunting coat, and he shivered.
“No one talks of them. It’s almost as if Valerian Fox is the only Fox alive.”
“That’s…” The only word that came to mind was chilling. “But why would the Prime want me dead? Of what possible benefit is that?” He sighed. “No, don’t bother answering.” The answer was obvious. When he became King, he’d rid himself of Fox. If he died first, though, the Prime would have a chance to control a regency for Prince Garred on King Edwayn’s demise. The thought was nauseating.
“Saker warned me too,” he said. “He thought Fox was financing a movement against the Shenat and the Primordials and was eyeing the Pontifect’s throne. He wrote me a letter from Lowmeer after his nullification.”
“You still hear from him, your highness?”
“Not recently.”
“A clever man.” Horntail gave a grunt that was half-laugh. “I wasn’t surprised when I heard he hadn’t died up on the Chervil Moors. He has the ear of the shrine guardians, that man. You could do worse.”
“Worse?”
“For your own Prime one day.”
He snorted. “We joked about that once, but Saker’s not made for a desk in Faith House or leading chapel prayer. I will talk to the King about getting rid of Valerian, though. Let’s pick up the pace.”
As they rode on, Horntail’s mouth was a grim line surrounded by the grizzle of his beard.
Pox on’t, Ryce thought, I hope Lord Anthon Seaforth is still alive.
“Brigands, that’s all.”
His father stared at him after uttering those dismissive words, his frown drawing his unruly eyebrows together; his eyes, small and sunken now with age, still able to make him feel like a schoolboy hauled up for teasing fellhound pups. “The reports I have this morning say you did not disport yourself honourably.”
“You would rather I were dead?” Ryce asked, not bothering to conceal his bitterness.
“I would rather I had a son to be proud of!”
“Fifteen men died there yesterday. All of them feathered with arrows shot from men in trees. They had no chance to flee. Thank Va, Lord Seaforth was not among them, nor Ser Raknen Marchbury. But Lord Benford’s youngest son died, and so did Lord Telman’s nephew. The Earl of Fremont’s grandson had to have an arrowhead dug from his thigh, and who knows if the witchery healer will be able to stop it turning putrid. The rest of the dead were their attendants, four of the huntsmen and four of my guards.”
“And how many of the brigands died?”
“None that we know of.”
“You should be ashamed.”
“How could men with swords cut down men peppering them with arrows from the trees? You should ask who’s behind this. Who has the resources? Who has the men? Who has the manor lands to train such assassins?”
“Brigands! Born bad and brought up to fight and rob honest men. Such scum have no need of training.”
“Sire, have you heard a word I’ve said?”
“Do you call me a fool? What are you trying to say, Ryce? Who are you wanting to blame for this?”
“Prime Valerian Fox, that’s who!”
“How dare you? How dare you! Valerian is my one true friend. I am fed up with your casting aspersions on an upright man of Va, who has the interests of this monarchy and this nation at heart! My interests! The one man who stands with me against my enemies.”
“What enemies?”
“Have you forgotten who killed your mother?”
The words robbed him of speech. He stared at the King, at a loss.
“Shrine healers and their fobbing witcheries! They killed her.”
“She died of childbirth fever.” He knew that much. He even thought he remembered something of the day she’d died.
“If I’d prayed to Va, I could have saved her! Instead the Prime, the Shenat Prime I inherited from my father, told me to go to the Shenat healers and to pray at the King Oak, and I did. I did all he asked. I prayed and prayed, and they sent their witchery healers–but still she died!” He drew in a ragged breath, his chest heaving as his hands clutched at the arms of his chair and his fingers clawed around the carving. “She was all that was good and beautiful and loving, and she died because Fox was not yet the Prime of Ardrone.” Spittle dripped down his chin, unheeded.
“Father, you can’t know that—”
“I ought to have married again. I ought to have fathered more sons… but I never could find a woman worthy enough to be a queen such as your mother.
“Get out of my sight. Go to the chapel and bow down to our one true deity, lest you follow in my foolish footsteps that led to your mother’s death! We were led into wrong paths by the wickedness of the Shenat. Witches all!” He clawed at his eyes, as if he could destroy what his inner eye was seeing. Blood-stained tears runnelled down his cheeks.
Aghast, Ryce reeled away, then turned and fled, calling for the King’s manservant to attend him.
27
Murder Most Royal
This was so infuriating! All she needed was for Torjen, the Regal’s manservant, to make the trip up the spiral stair to her bedchamber to tell her Vilmar was waiting for her below.
But night after night, he never came.
She had everything prepared. Vilmar’s signature was on the Law of Succession amendment with reference to her regency if he died while Karel was a minor. She had procured the sleeping draught through Gerelda and she had a backup of rat poison. Her new chambermaid slept in the cuddy, not on a truckle bed. Best of all, the glazier who came to fix a loose window pane in the retiring room had unwittingly provided her with a solution to another problem. On her request, he’d provided her with some soft grout, a horrid oily and smelly ball of it, but she knew just where she would use it. She now kept it wrapped tight in a piece of thin cambric torn from an old
kerchief, which she hid in the drawer of her escritoire along with the sleeping drops in their tiny bottle and the poisoned pellets in a pill box.
A whole moon passed, and although Vilmar seemed to regard her fondly enough when they met in public, he never sent for her. When the next moon-month came and went, she began to despair. There was no point in her descending the stairs herself; she had no way of opening the door into the Regal’s bedchamber from the inside. She didn’t want to have to use the main staircase because that would mean being seen by the Regal’s guards at the door to his solar.
Fortunately, Torjen–his narrow face pinched with disapproval as usual–did eventually knock at her chamber door one evening to tell her she was required within the hour.
She rubbed her body with perfume, liberally applied, then selected the most elaborate of her nightgowns. Her maid, Klara, helped her into it, then brushed her hair. She surveyed herself in the looking glass, then dismissed her and the chambermaid, saying, “You may both retire for the night. I will not require you again.”
“Oh, but—” Klara began.
“I shall be most displeased if either of you are here when I return,” she said sternly. “You need a good night’s sleep, both of you. Off with you, right now.”
She waited until they had gone, then fetched the grout, the sleeping drops and the poison. She slipped them all into the pocket of her mantle, lit the single candle on the candle holder and set off down the spiral staircase. Just before reaching the open door at the foot, she left the grout, still inside the cambric, on a stair tread.
When she entered the royal bedchamber, the Regal was seated in one of the hard-backed chairs at the table in the corner of the room. He was already in his nightgown with a rug over his knees. With a languid wave of his hand, he dismissed Torjen who had been urging him to put on his bed socks.
“You look very nice, m’dear,” he said, but as the words were drawled in bored tones and accompanied by the most perfunctory of glances, she doubted it was anything more than an attempt at courtesy.
She dropped a curtsy and crossed to his side, putting on the sweetest smile she could manage. “How may I serve you tonight, Your Grace? ’Tis a little chilly in here. Would you like me to massage your back or rub your feet? Or shall I warm you in bed, perhaps?”