The Rose and the Thorn

by Michael J. Sullivan

  Entering the chapel, Amrath wasn’t about to resume his childhood role. He was king now and was going to make damn sure the bishop respected that. The moment the chapel door closed, he demanded, “So what’s this all about?” His voice boomed. Intimidation was key to most meetings, and he couldn’t imagine how anyone could control a kingdom without it.

  “I have been reluctant to say anything,” the bishop replied, folding his hands before him as if he were about to pray. He didn’t appear the least bit intimidated. “But my conscience refuses to let me wait any longer. You see, the problem is I have no conclusive proof, and yet if something were to happen and I hadn’t said anything, then…”

  Rambling. He used to do this when Amrath was a boy. A simple question could never have a simple answer. “What are you talking about?”

  “Please bear in mind that I could very easily be wrong. Most of what I’m about to say is mere supposition.”

  “Most of what? Spit it out.”

  Saldur began nodding, his old head bouncing as if his neck no longer worked right. Maybe it didn’t; maybe the old muscles were nothing more than dead strings now. “I have reason to believe that Lord Exeter may be planning to—well, there’s really no other way to say it than to say it—seize control of the kingdom.”

  Amrath should have been shocked, and he might have been if the bishop accused Leo or even the feuding Conrad and Heft, but he was pointing a finger at Simon, and not a day went by that someone didn’t accuse him of treason. But the bishop had mentioned the welfare of his family, and that was the only thing he was concerned with.

  “Simon is many things, but he’s no traitor. He loves this kingdom. Yes, he can be ruthless but do you really expect me to believe that he would resort to regicide?”

  “That is exactly what I’m saying. It’s because of his devotion to the realm that he feels a duty to replace you as king—to save Melengar from destruction.”

  Sauly offered a friendly smile, but Amrath wasn’t buying. No one accused a loyal marquis of the realm of treason and smiled about it. “I’m afraid you’ll have to do better than that. What makes you think that he’s planning anything?”

  “I don’t believe Chancellor Wainwright’s death was an accident. I’m convinced Lord Exeter killed him. He expected to be given the position of chancellor—then you and Alric would have suffered similar fates. With your appointment of Percy Braga, he’ll have to work quickly. Before our new chancellor develops loyalties that could challenge him for the throne. Is there any question that with you and Alric in the grave that he would rule?”

  “That’s your accusation? That Simon doesn’t like me or how I run the kingdom? Are you just now learning this, Bishop?” He used his title rather than his name intentionally. He wanted the old man to understand that he was speaking to the king, not an old student.

  The bishop looked disappointed but shook it off and spoke his next words with solid confidence. “Are you aware Exeter murdered the castle guard Barnes?”

  “There was no murder. The man fell during some investigation regarding a party for Captain Lawrence.”

  “But did you know that Exeter forced Sergeant Barnes out that window? And can you explain why the high constable has every man at his disposal looking for a girl who had been hiding in a wardrobe in the high tower? Could it be that the girl can implicate Lord Exeter in a plot on your life?”

  “Seriously? That’s the conclusion you came to? That some party favor the guards smuggled in for Lawrence’s birthday has to be a threat to my life because she ran away? It couldn’t just be that Simon is trying to find the girl because, one, it’s his job, and two, he sees conspiracies everywhere? Always has. As to Barnes, Lawrence’s report did mention that Exeter ordered Barnes to attempt the climb. He was just trying to prove a hypothesis. Was it extreme? Certainly—but we’re talking about Simon Exeter here. Do you have any real proof that he is planning my death? Any at all?”

  “I am merely informing you of the possibility based on what seems to me to be some very suspicious events.”

  “I’m sure Simon’s zeal might seem nefarious to you, but let me shatter your innocence, Bishop. Simon Exeter has done far worse than throw a castle guard out a tower window, and surprisingly, I’m still the king.”

  “I told you at the beginning that my thoughts were nothing more than speculation. I’m only thinking about your welfare.”

  The bishop knew he had overextended himself and was retreating. If it had been Simon standing there accusing Saldur of treason, there would be no such withdraw. But then again, Simon wouldn’t have made an accusation without any proof. He’d be able to stand by his words. Simon was a man of steel and Saldur was a man of cloth.

  “… and my conscience required me to make you aware of the possibilities. I could never forgive myself should something happen while I stood by in silence. All I ask is that you keep a wary eye on Simon Exeter.”

  Amrath looked toward the door, where footsteps and voices approached. Guards, by the sound of their boots. There was a knock. “Your Majesty?”

  “Enter,” the king replied.

  Richard Hilfred and one of his men opened the door and bowed. “Count Pickering urgently requests your presence in the great hall.”

  “What is it?”

  “The Earl of West March and the Earl of Longbow are at it again, sire.”

  CHAPTER 13

  THE COACHMAN, THE LADY, AND THE DRUNKS

  The carriage stopped in front of The Hallowed Sword Tavern on Merchant Square. With the closing of the shops, Hadrian had seen jugglers and pitchmen call it a day and join the musicians who had all moved inside to one of the three largest taverns. The Hallowed Sword was the nicest and the loudest, with shouts and song. The only people still on the street were the sheriff’s patrols. They had passed four of them just traveling from the Lower Quarter.

  “That will be a silver, if you please,” the driver said, holding out his hand.

  “We’re going to need a ride home as well,” Royce said. “So you’ll need to wait.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that. Not tonight.”

  “No?”

  The driver shook his head, causing the long pheasant-tail feather in his hat to snap like a buggy whip. “There’s a big ta-do at the castle. Every driver has his rig in Gentry Square. Nobles pay handsomely.”

  “That would explain why it took so long to find you.” This was a lie. They had passed on five drivers perfectly willing to take their business. They were just too big or too small. Number six was just right.

  “And why I should be going. A silver tenent, please.” He leaned down farther from his perch on the carriage’s high bench, as if getting his palm closer would aid Royce in opening his purse.

  Royce stared at him a moment. “Listen. It’s my birthday and I happened into a lot of money just this morning—a small fortune—and I want to celebrate. I plan to drink heavily and I’ll need a secure means of getting back to my friend’s house. Still, I can see that it would be unpleasant to sit out here for hours, so I’ll tell you what… why don’t you come inside as my guest. I’ll pay you the silver for the trip here and another for the trip home in advance, and I’ll buy you drinks while you wait. How does that sound?”

  The man looked at him suspiciously.

  “Or you can go sit in the cold all night in Gentry Square hoping to catch a couple of good fares.”

  “Gonna be a cold night too,” Hadrian mentioned, pulling at his cloak and shivering.

  The driver took his hat off and scratched his head.

  “It’s my birthday,” Royce said forlornly, as if someone had just killed his dog and the driver was refusing to lend him a shovel for the burial. “I want to celebrate, but I don’t know anyone in town except Mr. Baldwin here.” Royce clapped Hadrian on the back. “You’d be doing me a favor. What do you say?”

  The driver squinted his eyes and pursed his lips tightly, shifting them around in serious thought. “How many drinks?”


  Royce smiled. “More than you can handle.”

  “Ha. I wouldn’t count on that. It takes a lot to reach my fill. I’m a bottomless hole—that’s what my wife used to say.”

  “I’m sorry. Has she passed?”

  “Ran back to her family years ago, on account of my drinking.”

  “Sounds like you could use a friend as well.”

  The driver nodded, pulling the collar of his long carriage coat tighter. “I think you’re right. And it is getting bleeding cold out.”

  The inside of The Hallowed Sword was as festive as the windows promised. A quartet comprised of two fiddlers, a pipe, and a drum stationed themselves on a balcony above the bar, working up a sweat. Below, folks danced and hammered the wooden floor with their heels. Tables circled the revelers, piled high with the empty mugs and cups the patrons were stacking in a contest. Two teams competed for the tallest tower and one daring lad was standing on his table, where he drained his cup and then gingerly placed it atop the swaying pillar. The moment he let go, the tavern burst out in cheers. Even those at the rival table applauded, then started drinking faster.

  Royce found them a table not far from the fireplace and near the window. He offered the driver the chair that afforded him a view of the street so he could watch his rig. The man smiled at the thoughtfulness.

  “I’m Pensive Stevens,” Royce said. He was absolutely charming, and Hadrian was amazed at the transformation. His hood was thrown back and the brooding specter had become a fun-loving, charitable man. “And this is my close friend, Edward Baldwin. What’s your name, good sir?”

  “Dunwoodie, they call me.” The driver looked different in the light of the tavern. Out in the night, he appeared as a pale face lost in a bundle of dark clothes. Inside, the man’s cheeks and round nose were flushed red, his skin dry and creased from a life in the wind.

  Royce held out his hand. The driver again seemed surprised. A smile came to his face and he shook with an approving nod of his head.

  “Well, Mr. Dunwoodie, I’d—”

  “No mister, just Dunwoodie.”

  “Tonight you’re my guest, so tonight you’re Mr. Dunwoodie —the noble Mr. Dunwoodie of the Carriage.” Royce winked at him. And Hadrian had a hard time keeping a straight face. Royce could be just plain eerie sometimes. “Now, you said this was the best place in the city for drink, right? So how about I fetch a round.”

  “They have maids that will come by and serve—”

  “We can’t wait, not tonight! Tonight is special. And Mr. Dunwoodie shouldn’t have to wait for anything.”

  Royce jumped up and headed off to the bar.

  “Your friend is a very generous man,” Dunwoodie said.

  “A heart of gold, that one.” Hadrian couldn’t help smiling. “Nice place, this.”

  “One of the best in the city. See that blade above the bar? That’s the Hallowed Sword. Legend goes that there is the weapon of Novron the Great, the one he done defeated the elves with.”

  “Really?”

  “ ’Course not, but that doesn’t stop everyone from toasting it every night. Just one more reason to drink. And who knows, maybe it is Novron’s sword.”

  Royce returned with three cups of cider and handed them out. “To Mr. Dunwoodie of the Wheels!” he declared, and raised his cup.

  Hadrian drank, not surprised to discover his was soft cider.

  “To Mr. Stevens and his birthday!” Dunwoodie raised his cup again.

  “To the Hallowed Sword!” Hadrian raised his cup to the blade above the bar, and it wasn’t long before Royce was off fetching another round.

  They toasted the sword eight times that night as well as the musicians, Diamond—the mare that pulled Dunwoodie’s carriage—and every tier that went on the cup-stacking pile at the nearby tables. At last Dunwoodie looked at the two of them, struggling to focus.

  “You are wonderful people,” he slurred. “I love you, I really do. I just met you, but I love you. And damn do you know how to drink.”

  Ten minutes later Dunwoodie’s head was down.

  The tower nearest the rafters fell with a clatter, and the room erupted in a resounding cheer, but Dunwoodie noticed none of it.

  “What now?” Hadrian asked.

  “Let’s get him a room. Mr. Dunwoodie of the Carriage deserves a soft bed to sleep this one off.”

  Royce paid the innkeeper and Hadrian carried Dunwoodie upstairs, where they stripped him of clothes. Just as planned, they fit Hadrian well enough, driver’s jackets and pants being notoriously loose. Hadrian pulled the blanket up over Dunwoodie and was surprised to see Royce place a stack of silver coins on the nightstand.

  They hurried back down and out the front door only to be met by five now-familiar lads waiting on the street.

  “Still here, I see.” Top Hat had his thumbs hooked in his belt, exposing a dagger, and his hat tilted up, revealing an unhappy face. Puzzle was with them too. None looked pleased. Hadrian guessed that with each passing hour, their continued presence in the city made it appear all the more likely that he and Royce were members of the rival thieves’ guild, and that was a possibility Top Hat and the others weren’t happy about.

  “You really ought to leave. Even if you are Black Diamond. This city is an empty pocket. It ain’t like Colnora with all the fancy merchants warring with each other to see who can build the biggest fortune. Down south, coins spill. Here, purses are tight. You can see we ain’t living like no kings. You tell the Jewel, Melengar is a desert and Medford an empty sewer. There ain’t enough to share.” He took a step forward and his face grew hard. “But since this is all we got, we’ll fight for it. You tell the Jewel that.”

  He made to shove Royce, who moved out of the way. Top Hat missed, stumbling forward a step.

  “I told you,” Royce said. “I don’t work for the Black Diamond. I don’t work for anyone.”

  Top Hat regained his balance and turned, frustrated and flushed. “I hope you’re right. That way when my messenger returns with the truth of it, I get to kill you.”

  “Then shouldn’t you be off sharpening something?”

  Top Hat and the others watched as Hadrian and Royce climbed onto the carriage. Hadrian took the driver’s bench and Royce sat in the back like a noble lord.

  “You have a bleedin’ carriage?” Top Hat asked.

  “Beats walking,” Hadrian replied.

  The five stared in wonder as Hadrian snapped the reins, waking up Dunwoodie’s old ink-black mare. He called, “Let’s go, Diamond.” This brought alarmed looks from the members of the Crimson Hand and took a moment for Hadrian to understand why. Afterward he couldn’t stop laughing.

  This beats the straw out of living in a barn.

  Albert Winslow stood in the great hall and took a deep breath, savoring the luscious scents of an autumn gala. Cinnamon, wood smoke, apples, and the burning caps of pumpkin lanterns. He even imagined he could smell the crisp chill of the coming winter, one he narrowly avoided dying in. The seasons all had scents that added to their personalities, just like the women he’d known. And just like the seasons, they fell into the same categories: fresh, hot, ripe, and cold as the grave. Sweet music rose over the crowd, buoyed up by the warmth of gaiety. It drifted above the laughter and measured steps of the dance that dominated the chamber. The lush sweep of luxurious gowns twirled from the delicate waists of ladies, and the click of the men’s shoe heels kept perfect time with the music.

  He had missed it all so.

  He glanced at the cider barrel. There was one at every door and several in every room in the castle. Cups hooked to the rims by their handles along with pewter ladles. And the slices of apple floated like smiles. His mouth watered at the memories. He hadn’t had a drink in two weeks, or was it longer? The days in the barn blurred. He’d tried to sleep through most of them. His strategy had been to die in his sleep, but he found it was not as pleasant or easy as it sounded. The pains in his stomach kept waking him. If he could have afforded it, Albert would have
drank himself to death. He couldn’t think of a better way to die—blissful and oblivious. And if there was agony as he took his final breaths, he’d never know it. The best part—the true genius of the plan—was that no matter how much drink he consumed, he’d have zero chance of waking with a hangover. Pleasure without consequence or without payment—surely there could be no better exit.

  What shocked Albert was that he was back standing in the castle’s drawing room amidst the familiar revelry—the barn already no more than a nightmare, no longer real. One moment he was near naked and casting himself into the lonely straw, begging for a quick death and the next he was in Essendon Castle, his feet sore from dancing in new shoes. He marveled at the shifting of the world, at fortunes shuffled by the whims of gods who were clearly insane.

  Am I the only one to see the truth of it? Or is everyone thinking the same and keeping their mouths shut?

  Lord Daref had been a perfect host. To the blind, deaf, and dumb, associating with Viscount Winslow would be seen as a source of bolstered status for a mere lord. Walking in with a viscount beside him, Daref hoped to increase his standing at court. Albert would have preferred a blonde with a big chest, wide hips, and a great laugh.

  While Daref was jealous of the viscount’s rank, Albert, on the other hand, was envious of the extra layer of fat Lord Daref had put on since the last time they’d met. He literally jiggled when he walked. After Daref inquired about his lean frame, the viscount had lied, saying he was taking a vow of abstinence for the love of a lady. She had refused to speak to him, he had explained, but his heart had been so chained that he fasted until she granted him an audience. Turned out she was a stubborn wench. When at last she had relented, he found her a bore beyond suffering. After denying himself for so long, he had wanted to cast his dice and ride the wind. His first thought, naturally, had been to visit his good friend Lord Daref.