Bumble snorted. “Mr. Frost made that very clear.”
“And who do you think ordered Caleb Frost to raise that objection?”
The cleric folded his arms just over his ample belly. “You did?”
Vlad bowed his head. Though he was making things up as he went along, he felt safe. He already knew Bumble was steeped in the ways of conspiracy, and, therefore, would see conspiracy at the slightest provocation. Bumble’s vanity also blinded him, so as long as the Prince made certain that he’d only acted because Bumble had him under his thumb, Bumble would believe everything the Prince said. To disbelieve was to allow that Prince Vlad might not be under his control, and his ego would not entertain that possibility.
“You gave me no choice. There are those among Mystrians—Samuel Haste being a prime example—who would criticize me for using civil authority to punish a man for a crime against the Church. By calling Fire here, by examining him myself in the matter of law, and by having his defender here to corroborate and publish my version of the events that transpired, no one will be able to take issue with Fire’s fate. He would have been disrespectful and defiant, he would have been said to have cursed the Queen, and all would have thought it fortunate that we were not forced to spend money on a second trial, when one had been already held.
“I would also have you notice that Mr. Frost was willing to play his part—defying you even with no audience—because it bolsters the validity of his testimony about Fire in this regard.”
Bumble tapped a finger against his chin, his dark eyes flicking back and forth. “You are saying this was theatre.”
“It was politics played out as you demanded. Fire hates you, hates the Church, hates God; there are those who might support him at that. Having him hate the Queen, hate the law and hate me, there are some who would support him in that also. But few are those who will support him in all these things.”
Vlad’s heart pounded as Bumble silently considered all he’d said. The Prince knew he’d overplayed his hand when he commended Caleb for acting defiant without an audience, but Bumble had let that pass. Vlad just hoped the man had moved from seeing if everything made sense, to figuring out how he would use this new-found knowledge to his advantage.
Bumble’s chin came up. “You should have informed me that this is what you were doing.”
“I did not think you a good enough actor to manufacture outrage effectively.”
“You would be surprised, Highness, as to what emotions I can call upon when needs require.” The Bishop’s eyes tightened. “This afternoon, we shall pass sentence. I shall want him burned tomorrow.”
“Is that wise?”
“How do you mean?”
“If you announce the sentence this afternoon, with the execution to take place on Monday next, your declaration will be in time for the Gazette. Moreover, you will be able to preach a message from the pulpit on Sunday which will be heard by crowds swelling the town to watch the Steward burn. With that much advanced notice, you will have people in from Bounty and Lindenvale, or perhaps even down from Summerland and Queensland.”
“Up from Richlan, too.”
“Exactly.” The Prince nodded. “You want to send a message to all heretics, and I need to send the same to anyone who would defy the Crown. Monday next gives us that opportunity.”
Bumble slowly smiled, which tightened the Prince’s guts. “Yes, very good, you are right. Monday will be perfectly acceptable.
And you will put me through Hell before then. Though he had no idea what Bumble planned, Vlad smiled. “Monday, then. It shall be perfect.”
Chapter Forty
5 July 1767
St. Martin’s Cathedral, Temperance
Temperance Bay, Mystria
Bishop Bumble climbed into the pulpit slowly, measuring his movements for their gravity. Prince Vlad had suggested that he could not have acted to display outrage when necessary. He still stung from having been blindsided by the Prince’s ploy. Though the Prince had claimed he did not want to portray himself as Pilate, the Bishop knew that many would see him that way. For his temerity at having tried his little game, Prince Vlad would have to pay.
Bumble grasped the top of the podium and gave himself a moment. He nodded toward Benjamin Beecher, and then turned and nodded to the Prince and his family. He let his gaze wander over the congregation. Vlad had been right about one thing: the delay had packed the Cathedral. Which is perfect for my performance.
“Presiding over a heresy trial is a terrible thing, my friends. Reverend Beecher, Bishops Harder and Southfield have been a comfort. At the times when I might have shrunk from the enormity of the situation, they supported me. Their clear-headed counsel kept me focused on one point. The reason for the trial was in the hopes that the defendant would see the error of his ways, would recant his heresy, and again join in communion with the Church.”
Bumble looked down, as if he needed a moment to let him get the better of his emotions. “I should like to thank Caleb Frost for accepting the challenge no one else would, of defending Ephraim Fox, even though Fox did not desire defense. Caleb’s objections reminded us that we had a grave responsibility to present all the evidence so there could be no doubt as to Fox’s involvement with heresy. It was hoped that Fox himself would realize how firmly he was caught, and this realization would be the catalyst for his repentance. Despite Caleb’s spirited defense, it was not.
“Even though the case against Ephraim Fox was so overwhelmingly strong, I hoped we would not be forced to pass down the sentence that we did. It is not an easy thing to condemn a man to death. To me, to my fellow judges, that sentence would not only rob him of his life, it would rob him of eternity. For if he died unrepentant, his soul would forever be consigned to the burning pits of Perdition. While we, my friends, will enjoy Paradise, he will only know unending torment.”
The Bishop passed a hand over his forehead. “Even before we passed sentence, I went and spoke with Prince Vladimir on this point. Only he could grant the punishment of death. He had just finished examining Ephraim Fox himself, and what I saw on the Prince’s face made my heart shrink. For even though I wished forgiveness for a man who denied and defied God, I saw the Prince was not disposed to grant leniency for crimes committed against the Crown. Though I expressed a wish that he use his power to commute the sentence to life imprisonment at Iron Mountain so that Ephraim Fox would have a chance to reconsider and be saved, the Prince was adamant that insults against the Crown could not go unpunished. And while he could have conducted his own trial, and ordered Fox’s execution on criminal grounds, he felt it just as well to save time and allow our sentence to stand.”
Bumble turned, nodded toward the Prince. He thought he detected some anger in the man’s eyes, but the Prince did a very good job in keeping his face impassive. That will teach you to defy me, and to try to thrust responsibility upon me.
“The Good Lord commanded us to love our enemies as ourselves. He beseeched us to forgive and to turn the other cheek. But he also warned us to render unto the government that which was the government’s.” And now, Highness, I throw you a bone. “I know that Prince Vlad’s decision was not an easy one for him, and that perhaps his hands were every bit as much tied as mine. I look forward, in the coming days and weeks, to praying with him, so that together we can find peace with the choices thrust upon us. As is said, ‘uneasy is the head which wears the crown,’ and the same may be said for the mitre. Together, I hope, we can understand and forgive, as we shall hope to be forgiven.”
Vlad nodded to Bumble, slightly, but enough to be noticed.
Bumble returned the nod. “And for all of you, for all peoples who claim the Good Lord as their Savior, there is a lesson. Many are the false prophets who come and twist Scripture to deceive you. They wish to bind your thoughts in such a way that you are confused and seek understanding through them. Such a false prophet was Ephraim Fox. He and his work were placed on this earth to do only one thing: to sever your relationship wi
th God and His son. The flames to which he will be consigned are the flames he shall know for all time without end. Look upon him and his fate, weep, and do not follow in his footsteps.”
Nathaniel Woods, his face and hands blacked with burnt cork, huddled in the shadows across the street from the old Temperance Armory building. Two men sat before the door and a single lantern burned from where it hung from a nail above the doorway. One of the men, the fatter and older one, had tipped his chair back against the wall and was already nodding off. The other, a nervous young man who had been treated to an extra mug of ale for his dangerous duty guarding the heretic, had taken to bouncing from one foot to the other. He said something to his compatriot, then turned and walked to the alley beside the Armory.
Nathaniel distinctly heard the thump of a body hitting the ground, but the first guard did not notice. Taking one last look up and down the street, Nathaniel darted across. With his right foot he caught a crosspiece on the chair and tipped it forward. As the guard rocked toward the street, Nathaniel dropped a leather hood over his head and pulled the neck tight. The man’s hands went to his throat to try and tear the hood off, giving Nathaniel an easy shot at the back of his skull with a leather sack filled with lead shot.
The man pitched face first onto the ground. Nathaniel plucked keys from his belt, closed the shutter on the lamp, then opened the Armory door. He dragged his man in and tied his wrists while Owen did the same with the skinny guard. Nathaniel locked the front door, then the two of them walked to the back and opened a stout oaken door behind which the Steward had been placed.
Fire’s prison had once been the strong-room constructed to store supplies of brimstone and firestones. It was fairly sizable for a prison cell, but Fire had been bound in the far corner. The short chain only allowed him to travel five feet. A tray with a crust of bread and a cup of water lay six feet away. Nathaniel thought that was an unnecessary cruelty, since with the gauntlets and the mask, there was no way he could have eaten that last meal.
The Steward’s head came up and one eye opened. The other had swollen shut.
Owen crouched next to him, unlocked the chains from the wall. “We don’t have much time, Steward. We’re taking you out of here. You’re not burning tomorrow. You’re not a heretic.”
“Who sent you?”
Nathaniel worked on the mask’s buckles. “Ain’t no time for that. God’s got more work for you. You know that. We’s just making sure you do it. Come with me.”
The two men helped the Steward to his feet. Nathaniel took the keys from Owen and carefully walked the preacher toward the rear of the old Armory building. It had been built with its back to the Benjamin River, which made transporting supplies from Norisle easier. Nathaniel unlocked a small door and guided the Steward through.
A twenty-foot-long war canoe waited beside the dock. A slender, clean-shaven man of average height accepted the keys from Nathaniel, then helped the Steward into the canoe. Justice Bone bid the man lie down, then covered him with tent cloth, making the prisoner look like little more than wadded fabric. Nathaniel took his position in the front of the canoe.
Owen came out of the Armory and tossed a strip of cloth into the river, then got into the middle, all but sitting on the Steward. Nathaniel pushed them back from the dock, and Justice guided them into the middle of the broad river. The sliver of a moon half-hid itself behind thready clouds. All three men paddled, keeping their pace steady and serene. They waved to those who saw them passing beneath bridges and excited no alarm.
As they made it past Temperance’s western wall, all three men breathed a sigh of relief. Nathaniel turned. “You weren’t in there much time at all.”
Owen smiled. “They’ll get the message, literally. We’re halfway done.”
They left the city precincts behind, then picked up speed. Within two hours they headed toward the south shore and brought the canoe up against a dock. Justice made the canoe fast while the other two helped the Steward from the canoe and up to a woodshed set back from the river. Once they had him inside, they freed him from the chains. Justice came and got all the restraints, then headed off to sink them in various deep-river channels.
After he departed, Count von Metternin appeared with bandages and ointments. “It is good to meet you, Steward. You will be my guest for some time—until your wounds heal and even longer, I hope.”
The Steward looked at the three men, tears welling in his eyes, confusion and fear battling for control of his expression. “Do you know what you’ve done?”
“I gots me an idea.” Nathaniel shrugged. “But don’t you be worrying none about us. You’re a very important man, and saving you is going to mean a lot.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It is not important that you do, Steward.” The Count slowly began to wrap the man’s hands in clean bandages. “What is important is that the Prince does, and when the time becomes appropriate, he shall explain all.”
Bishop Bumble had been certain that Vlad had arranged for the escape, but his conviction died when he saw Vlad’s astonishment and anger at reading the message scrawled on the Armory wall. It outrages him as much as it does me.
The cleric offered a restrained smile. “Thank you for coming so quickly, Highness.”
Vlad distractedly waved a hand at him and moved deeper into the Armory’s front room. A message had been written in ink, clearly scratched there by fingers wrapped in an ink-stained cloth. The vandal had written, “The Croun has no ryte to tak no mans lyfe.” Vlad traced some of the letters in the air, then shook his head and turned.
“This is clearly your fault, Bishop.”
“What?”
“Don’t be coy. In your sermon, you laid the blame for Fox’s execution firmly at my feet. You know, you have preached against anti-Crown sentiments, and this time you went and stirred them up.” Vlad thrust a finger toward the message. “Do you know what I see here? Do you? Look closely.”
Bumble blinked. The anger on the Prince’s face, the anger in his voice, made no sense. “It is a message, yes, but I had nothing to do with it.”
“No? Is that how you spell right? Is that how you spell life? No, I bet not.” Vlad’s eyes tightened. “But in Richlan they do spell those words that way. Richlan, where your man Fox traveled before he went beyond the mountains. You thought all his settlements had been destroyed. Apparently not. Or he had sympathizers. Or your trial and plan for a grand execution brought people in, then you set them on me. How do you think this will look in a report to Launston? Have you thought of that?”
“How dare you speak to me in that tone!”
Vlad covered his face with his hands for a moment, then opened his arms wide. “Do you not know what you’ve done? Let me explain. You laid Fox’s death upon me. You made it a matter for the Crown. Now he’s escaped. The message is an anti-Crown message. Because it is anti-government, now I must act. I must call out troops and have them search. How do you think people will like that? The foment stirred up by this search will increase resentment. It is a spiral that will rage out of control. It cannot be stopped. It cannot.”
Bumble’s heart began to pound. He understood the Prince’s scenario. The idea that things could rage out of control—out of his control—sent a cold trickle through the Bishop’s guts. This was not the way things were supposed to go. “There must be something we can do.”
Vlad shook his head adamantly, but slowed the expression and looked up. “Did anyone witness the escape?”
“No.”
“And those who discovered it, what have they seen?”
Bumble shook his head. “Just that the guards were tied up and that the cell is empty.”
“Then it would be possible…” Vlad frowned. “No, you would never do it.”
“Do what?”
The Prince headed back toward the cell and waved the Bishop in his wake. “In the morning half-light, your men likely did not notice the magick circle and forbidden sigils painted there in the corner wher
e Fox sat.”
“What sigils?”
The Prince lowered his voice, but stressed his words. “The ones Fox drew with his own blood. One of your men removed the muzzle so Fox could eat. Fox bit his own tongue, then used the blood to lick a circle and sigils. Then he spoke words and his Satanic master stole him away. The devil used imps to capture the guards to humiliate them and you.”
Bumble slowly nodded. “And we…”
“Not we, Bishop, but you discovered the method of escape. I was walking into the cell when you thrust me back and scattered the demons left herein. You cast them out, a legion of them, in a titanic struggle. Were I to tell that tale to Caleb Frost, and were you to deny it, in all modesty, of course, it would be believed.”
“Yes, yes it would.” Bumble looked back toward the front room. “And of the words on the wall? More deception?”
“Nothing a coat of paint won’t conceal.”
“But Fox is still out there.”
“I know, and a danger to us both, now.” Vlad’s expression sharpened. “I’ll send my best men after him. If Nathaniel and Owen can’t find him, he can’t be found. And if they do, gunfire will do for him what a bonfire would have. Like as not he’s headed west, toward what was once his empire.”
“Your plan has merit. I believe we can make this work.”
“It better.” Vlad nodded solemnly. “If it doesn’t, we both will be destroyed.”
Bumble hid a smile. In that, Prince Vlad, you are half right.
Chapter Forty-one
8 July 1767
Temperance
Temperance Bay, Mystria
Clad only with his lover’s fading warmth, Ian Rathfield sat at his desk and slowly paged through the report he’d prepared for his superiors in Launston. He had, primarily, stuck to facts that were mission critical. Occasionally he offered insights into the nature of Mystria and Mystrians. Never did he allow himself to speculate about things he could not confirm.
Of Limited Loyalty: The Second Book of the Crown Colonies Page 32