A King in Cobwebs

by David Keck

  “No,” said Biedin. “I see. There is justice in that.”

  Abravanal clutched Almora’s hand, but had to leave her. The Duke of Gireth was not fit for the king’s right hand. Not that day. Durand remained near the old man, certain that the Painted Hall was no safe place with Ragnal and the Great Council camped all around.

  As Durand sat beside the old man, his eye was drawn to the curious noise at the arrow loops: thousands of starlings crowded out the light. Serving men lugged long shutters, but the windows gave glimpses of vast flocks surging round and round Gunderic’s Tower.

  Two hundred nobles settled at the boards and benches.

  The servants hammered the shutters into place. Other serving men had started to bring out wine.

  There was hardly a word spoken in that long hall.

  “Too quiet!” said Ragnal. A gaggle of the black-robed toadies had brought the crown—Durand remembered calling the court clerks “starlings” when he’d first seen them. Ragnal snatched the crown from the fawning creatures and seated the thing on his head. The gold flashed and the fat black sapphire Evenstar glinted with its cat’s-eye sliver.

  The black-clad men seemed to be scurrying everywhere. A few were whispering advice in the king’s ear. Ragnal pressed his massive hands to his temples.

  “Musicians!” he said. “Anything.” And Durand remembered the king’s plague of whispers.

  Durand wondered if this was the way of things in the Hall of Eagles back in Eldinor. He wondered how these people would fare when the Hornbearer was at the walls.

  “Yes. Well,” began Prince Biedin. “There was meant to be an entertainment, even before this evening brought us a wonder.” The prince grimaced at a dozen serving men, saying, “I think that we need not wait for our little show. There is space enough between the tables, I think.” And the little men rushed off, bowing and licking their chops.

  Durand took note of Leovere and his men sitting stiff-necked and closed-mouthed well down the hall from the high table. Here was Leovere giving the realm a last chance, perhaps. They had, no doubt, expected great things from the Council vote. No matter what Ragnal and the rest thought, Leovere knew that the Hornbearer was nigh.

  Leovere was not alone, of course. The Great Council were all around. Maud of Saerdana, lady herself of two dukedoms, sat among her people. Nearer at hand was Gireth’s old friend, Alret, Duke of Garelyn, with his long mustaches. Farther away was Deorwen’s brother, the austere Moryn of Mornaway. And bearded Ludegar of Beoran, who had worked hard to upturn the kingdom ten years before.

  “Durand, I am ashamed,” said Abravanal. “You have been in Acconel since you were a boy, a loyal man twenty winters and more. I should have flung Leovere’s accusations back in his teeth at the Lindenhall. A man’s heart should know such truths when he has seen so many winters.”

  Ragnal curled his lip. “Now you are whispering, Duke Abravanal?”

  The old man gripped Durand’s arm, and the king sniffed.

  “Where is this entertainment, Brother?”

  “They must take care with it, Highness,” said Biedin. “I am not sure why something simpler would not have served better.”

  Just then, a clamor arose from the entry stair—a rattling of chains.

  Biedin raised his eyebrows. “Here we are.” And a gang of handlers pulled a bear into the hall. The ragged creature moaned. Chains stretched from a broad, gilded collar, cut like a crown. The handlers tugged the animal into the midst of the company where someone had fixed a ring in the floor.

  Next, it was brutish dogs for the bear and a haphazard gang of fiddlers running up the steps to the minstrel’s gallery. The beasts shrieked below while the musicians sawed in the gallery above. It was no wonder that Ragnal was going mad.

  Ragnal waved off the latest flock of serving men. “If we must have a feast, where are the trenchers?” griped Ragnal. It had hardly been long enough for a man to run to the kitchen.

  “Here,” said Biedin. “They are coming.” He gave Almora a pleading glance. It seemed that he must often apologize for his brother. “Bread and butter. Claret and beer.”

  The bear roared and thrashed against his chain as the dogs snapped.

  Plates clunked down on the high table, but Ragnal’s were snatched away and set before a pair of clerks who gingerly tested each morsel.

  Ragnal must have read something in Durand’s glance. “You goggle at my tasters, Durand Col? Do not fool yourself. There are many who’d like to see their king dead. Our brother, Eodan in Windhover, for one. He has tried. And half the barons of our Great Council. And our darling wife and loving son, oh yes. And what of you? I have heard a line or two of your own tale.” He nodded to Abravanal. “Would your master not like to see our decision deferred? A vote delayed? Have you not killed for this old man before?” He curled his lip at the tasters. “So eat, my boys, and tell me how Abravanal’s cold kitchen fares!”

  Down the table, beyond Almora and the giggling tasters, Queen Engeled and her young son had begun to leave the table. Durand felt that, at any moment, things around the king could go wrong. His Highness had seen his wife’s attempt at slipping away.

  “Oh no, no,” said the king. “We are a happy family, yes. Let the people see, I say.”

  Prince Biedin seemed to note his brother’s increasing impatience.

  Having taken a place at the lower tables, he now stood, a cup of wine in his hand. “Your Highness, ladies, gentlemen. The miracle of the duke’s daughter demands a word or two from us here. A toast, I think.”

  The dogs got hold of the bear then, and, for a moment, no man could hope to speak over the din. The bloodied creature kicked, unable to right itself as the snarling pack worried its throat and limbs. The racket was devilish.

  Finally, the bear fell, thrashing its last, and the hall was silent.

  “A moment, Brother,” said Ragnal. The king was standing. “Let me raise my glass. Almora! A fine young woman. Heiress to Gireth. Heiress to Yrlac.” He paused to let the crowd grumble. “Or so some say.”

  He gave Almora a look. “Fresh as the cherry’s first flowering.”

  There were some few leers among the many at the long tables. A few men exchanged elbows.

  Durand scowled, but Abravanal was furious, spluttering, “Villains! She is a noblewoman in her own home.” Durand was sure that no one could hear him.

  Between the tables, the bear was truly dead now. Handlers got hold of the dogs.

  “And a word for Durand Col!” said Ragnal. “An exile! Survivor of the headsman’s stroke. Battler of Kieren’s monsters.”

  The king waited a moment as two stooped men in Eldinor black shuffled out to take hold of the bear, dragging its black carcass from the center of the hall. There was a long smear of blood, and the whining of dogs straining at their leashes.

  As the whole room watched the dead beast, Durand—and Durand alone—saw the appearance of bent figures, slipping from corners and under tables. There was Euric with his bladder face, and the thorn-crowned King. Even Lady Alwen and her babe crouched at the trail’s edge. Before Durand’s horrified eyes, the babe scrabbled out upon the reeds—a ghastly crab-scuttle driven by a convulsive thirst.

  Ragnal was still speaking.

  He waved at the shabby ruin of the bear. “Where gallant and dashing knights from all Gireth could do nothing, Durand the exile, Durand the black and battered outcast, somehow found his way to the mountains and back with Abravanal’s runaway girl! This is the tale we are told.”

  A few laughed outright, but Durand Col was as far from anger as he was from the Farrow Moon.

  Suddenly, he felt a hand on his arm and Abravanal shot to his feet. Down the table, Durand saw ancient Kandemar, Herald of Errest, standing now as well. A witness, stern as a stone Power.

  “It is enough!” Abravanal said to the startled company. Many smiled at his anger.

  The king gave the duke a little pucker of disdain.

  “No!” said Abravanal. “In the Lindenhall,
I was a fool. With a good man’s blood, I sought to buy peace. My steward raised Gunderic’s Sword before all Creation and that old blade broke before it would strike down Durand Col. I tell you, blind steel knew what I ought to have known.”

  The shaking old man turned to Durand. “Durand Col, I command you, kneel before me.”

  Durand did not know what Abravanal intended, but as Durand looked out into that hall of Lost souls and sneering nobles, he knew that he could not shame the old man. Not before these people. He slipped from the bench and knelt, bowing low, feeling very like the scarred bear before the fond old man.

  “Durand Col,” said Abravanal. “I would have you repeat your oaths to me if you will.”

  Durand nodded deeply. He put his hands between Abravanal’s.

  “Swear fealty to me and mine, your hands in my hands. Love all we love, shun all we shun, and swear to defend me and mine against all creatures that live and die.”

  The words of the old formula were not air alone, but an incantation to bind a man to the wards and the patriarchs and the king. Durand felt each syllable closing around him, defining him, putting an end to exile and shame.

  “I do swear it, Your Grace,” Durand managed.

  But Abravanal had not finished.

  He cast a defiant glance over the company.

  “And while it is yet mine—by right and by conquest—I cede to you, Durand Col, the honor and title and lands of the duchy of Yrlac!”

  The crowd exploded and the king swore.

  “And!” pressed the old man. “And as you are the greatest of friends to my family, I offer to you the hand of my only daughter, Almora.”

  Durand wavered like a starving man. Abravanal had stepped back a pace and stretched out his hand to Almora. And Durand knew that she’d come. She would no more shame the old man than would Durand. Durand tried to say something. He tried to plead a whispered, “Your Grace!” But this was Abravanal’s masterstroke, and he led the girl to Durand’s side and joined their hands. Almora looked up into Durand’s eyes, her mouth tight. But there was no fear or frustration in her face.

  A flock of starling courtiers had rushed the high table, priest-arbiters among them, for the king raged. “Can the man do this?” he shouted.

  And the bobbing courtiers answered yes, unless and until judgment is passed against him, she is his daughter, lest she says nay.

  “What say you, girl?” Ragnal demanded.

  Durand saw Almora’s face. Abravanal had done a monstrous thing, but after a moment’s shock no greater than Durand’s, the girl only raised her chin a resolute inch.

  “We are betrothed,” she said.

  Durand glanced at Deorwen, but now there were leagues of distance in the woman’s dark eyes.

  “I am your man,” said Durand. He was trapped—so far from what he wanted. “She will be my only thought.”

  Abravanal smiled—a broad, toothy grin. He clutched Durand’s arm. “My heir now, and holder of half my dominion!”

  Down the hall, Leovere and his brigand lords were, all of them, off the benches. Not a few looked ready to hack their way down the tables to Durand and the old man.

  What would Leovere of Penseval do now?

  “Out!” Ragnal was raging. “All of you! Out!” And Durand joined the last of the company to depart, hearing, as he left, Ragnal saying, “Where do you go, my son, my wife? You, I think, will come with me. We will find a place to have words.”

  21

  Like a Red-Gold Coin

  “You did not expect that, did you?” said Abravanal. “And neither did they!”

  Durand and the rest had fled the Painted Hall. Abravanal could not contain his glee. He took Durand’s wrist as they climbed the stair. “I foxed the lot of them. And their faces!” The old man whooped once. Durand had not seen Abravanal like this, not in all the years he’d served in the man’s hall. It made it hard to remember that Leovere had the Hornbearer and his devils hidden away among the hills of Gireth.

  Kieren, Coensar, and Doerwen looked less pleased. Durand was sick.

  They gathered in the chamber block’s passage, keeping an eye open for Ragnal’s functionaries. None but Durand noticed the Lost following him up the stair.

  “What will they do now, the devils?” said Abravanal. “All the writs and seals are aimed at the wrong duke!” Abravanal grinned. “Duke Durand you are now, my lad. Durand of Yrlac. Lamoric would have laughed—and you will be a fine duke too, it is sure.”

  His elation faltered a moment then as he remembered Almora.

  “Oh, my daughter! If I’d had a moment, I would have spoken to you. But there it was. There was the chance. You are more dear to me than all the titles in Creation.”

  “It is fine,” Almora said. “I am content.” Her words, at first, seemed numb. But then she nodded sharply to herself. There had been a whole great world of hopes and fancies to be set aside in an instant. And, whatever she thought, she would not gainsay her father’s masterstroke—not by word or even by a glance. “I am happy.”

  The Lost had now joined the circle. The beggar king peered close at Kieren’s whiskers.

  Durand thought that another knight should have gone for Almora to that mountain cave. Another knight would have been a better match.

  He glanced from Deorwen’s half-concealed glower to the young girl he’d watched grow. There she stood, looking up at a black-bearded thug little better than the Hornbearer.

  He realized that she must be waiting, and that she’d had no word from him.

  “It is a more joyful doom than any man could merit,” Durand said. He took her small hand. “Almora, your life and happiness I set before all things.”

  Men would laugh. The girl and the bear. Well, he would break the engagement when the Council nonsense was done. He would set Yrlac aside—if they survived Leovere and his friends from the forest. But, with the duke at his elbow, he could not utter a word of these thoughts.

  “Well,” said Kieren, carefully. “I wish you joy, both of you. And you, Durand, you’ll now be in the eye of the Great Council. Your Grace, I suppose I should say.”

  It was true. Leovere, at least, would be after his head. “I suppose.”

  “Ah, Durand,” said Abravanal. “Once again, I have done this to you.”

  “I wonder,” said the Fox. “It is likely that the Council will contest His Grace’s right to pass the title, though it will take days to redraft the various documents. The laws must be searched. They will be an unhappy lot, but Patriarch Oredgar is out there somewhere, watching them all, so they can hardly pretend it did not happen.”

  “What will the boy do?” said Abravanal.

  “Leovere? He’s been prowling round the table like a dog at a feast since he rode in. And it’s been more and more likely that the Great Council will throw the bones to him. There’s not one of them who wants the others to take Yrlac. They would far sooner let it fall to a baron from Penseval. Now, the man can only wait to see how the arbiters rule.”

  “Yrlac was sure to be his,” Deorwen said. “We must hope he waits. If he has any sense, he will stand by a little longer. He might yet win without a war.”

  Almora curled her hand around Durand’s arm. “He has called upon the maragrim,” she said. “How long will such a man wait? Now the maragrim are in every village and the kingdom tears at itself. What can we do?”

  “We must pray,” said Abravanal.

  Heremund the Skald appeared in the stairs, bowing with his cap crumpled in his hands. Euric stepped aside, goggling, to let him approach. “You got up Ragnal’s nose, that’s certain! Um. Your Grace,” said Heremund. “What do you mean to do next? I suppose our Durand has a seat at the Great Council now.”

  Durand spat a curse long before he could stop himself.

  “His Grace has much to atone for this day,” laughed Kieren.

  “This is mad,” said Durand.

  “We will need to send riders,” said Kieren. “Our loyal men in Yrlac must learn of their new lo
rd, and the barons of Gireth must know what’s been done.”

  Durand nodded. “They should be strong parties only. The roads are full of devils.”

  “And you will need to receive the oaths of your barons in Yrlac.” The sound of it was strange. “That must happen quickly.”

  “Durand Col, Duke of Yrlac,” marveled Heremund. “You remember, Durand, the road near the Col? Riding double? Your poor horse!”

  Durand nodded, remembering very well the dread and hunger of those days.

  “You must swear fealty now to Ragnal, then?”

  “Fealty to Ragnal,” Durand repeated. He had felt Creation move, lock and key, with those words. There was doom in them. He could do nothing else until he had given his oath to Ragnal.

  “Ragnal was not pleased,” said Kieren.

  “Yet,” Durand said, “if I’m to hold Yrlac, it can only be in the king’s name.” Though the king seemed to have been driven half-mad by his court and the whispers, Durand was a fighting man and Ragnal was king.

  “I will go to the king,” Durand said. “My oath is his, if he’ll take it.”

  Deorwen frowned. “I wonder. It may do much. Appease His Highness and he may tire of this business. We may be free of the Great Council for a time.”

  Very suddenly, the Lost swiveled. There had been a sound.

  “A scream,” Almora supplied. “Down the passage, toward the Painted Hall.”

  Durand put the others behind him and stalked toward the sound. He thought of the maragrim. He wondered about nightfall and the Eye of Heaven beyond the walls.

  “Kieren, find a room,” he said. “Bar the door.” There was no knowing what madness might come. Yet even as Sir Kieren nodded his assent, Queen Engeled staggered into the passage. She caught hold of his coat.

  “My son!” she said. “He has my son. I have heard him. He is raging! Reilan is only a boy. Ragnal will kill him!”

  “Where?” said Durand. The beggar king inclined his gory head, blood slithering down his hollow cheek.

  “There,” she said, gesturing down the chamber passage.