‘But…’
‘Must go. Late for lesson. May be beaten – again.’
‘Oh. Yes you must. Shall I see you?’
‘Hope so.’ He grinned, just as she remembered him grinning each time they had stood wordless on the mountain path. And he strode off towards the school.
He might be beaten. So might she, if she was late. What was it they had sent her out for? Oh, more wretched firewood. They would never burn so much if they had to cut or carry it themselves!
Nevertheless she skipped a little as she hurried across the courtyard. Something had changed, she thought. Something was different now from the ordinary trudge of the day.
She felt that something good was about to happen.
XVIII
Out of the Sea
ow say, Your Majesty,’ said Padry, in the council chamber at dawn. ‘Does the Angel Umbriel make use of a chamberpot?’
‘A chamberpot?’ repeated Ambrose, baffled. ‘No, I doubt it. Not that I think it matters if he—’
‘Why then,’ exclaimed Padry, ‘perhaps a king is more than an Angel indeed!’
Ambrose looked at him suspiciously. ‘How so?’
‘Thus: a king, who is only one, says not I but We. Whereas Umbriel, who has – as it is written – seven eyes, can have no wee at all!’
‘All right,’ grumbled Ambrose. He dropped into his chair. ‘I don’t suppose he leaves writing in his book for any reason. And when we look over his shoulder we will now see the word “chamberpot” added to the list of all our other sins.’
Padry sighed to see his pun go to waste. He had thought it rather a good one. Perhaps it had just been bad timing – the early hour affecting the King’s mood. But dawn starts were unavoidable if any real work was to be done before the whole pack of courtly jackals started to swarm around the King. If the boy would sit up late over his wine …
‘So what have you got for me?’
‘The new charter for the market of Pemini, Your Majesty. The freedom to exchange goods and money, untaxed, save for certain fixed tariffs to be paid annually to the Crown, and a share to Lord Delverdis – I fear we have to give him something, or he will start to make his own rules – and strict prohibitions on short weights, clipped coin and the rest…’
Ambrose took the scroll. His eye moved quickly down it. ‘Why no unlicensed preaching?’ he asked suddenly.
‘That is to prevent self-named prophets taking advantage of the market crowds.’
‘But why? Why can’t they preach, if they’ve heard the Angels?’
‘The Church does not permit it. Only licensed—’
‘Then let them ban it, not me.’
‘Your Majesty—’
The door opened. Aun of Lackmere walked in. ‘At it already? Bones of the Angels! It’s getting earlier each day. What has my Lord Chancellor slipped past me this morning?’
Ambrose dropped the scroll on the table. ‘I’m to prevent prophets preaching in the market places,’ he complained.
‘Prophets? Damned right. String them all up by the heels. There was one down in Tuscolo quayside yesterday, I hear. If I’d known it before sundown—’
‘What was he saying?’
Aun stared at his King. ‘What does it matter what he was saying? Prophets are trouble, that’s all.’
Ambrose slammed his hand on the table. ‘I want to know what he was saying!’
The baron frowned. ‘Why?’
‘The Angels matter! When we were fighting Paigan, I heard them. I heard them twice. Now I’ve come away to be King in Tuscolo and I don’t hear them any more. We talk about them. We even crack silly jokes about their chamberpots. But there’s no meaning to it here. What if I’ve left the Path somehow, and they prefer to watch widows and orphans and prophets instead?’
‘The Angels watch us all, Your Majesty,’ said Padry.
‘Do they? Where are they, then?’
‘Damned if I know,’ said Aun. ‘And I’ll be damned if your prophet knows either. You want to hear what he said? I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you without having heard it myself. He was saying, “Listen to me. The Angels have spoken to me. That makes me more important than your kings and bishops, doesn’t it? I don’t have to prove it to you, I’ll just tell you it’s true, so listen.” It’s the same damned stuff they all spin. Any wheelwright or landsman with a quick tongue can do it if they’ve a mind to. Then hayricks get burned, rents get refused, and you have to go and string men up just to put things back into place.’
‘It is a question of authority, Your Majesty,’ put in Padry.
‘Authority!’ snapped Ambrose. ‘All right. I’ll use some now.’ He took the pen and scored through the phrase that had offended him. ‘You can seal it like that, or not at all!’ And he rose from his place and stormed out of the room.
Padry sighed, gathered up the parchment and added it to the bottom of the pile that he carried. Perhaps, by the time they got back to it, Ambrose would see reason. If not, well, it was not a great matter. Or not yet. The Bishop of Tuscolo was elderly and his mind was tending to wander. His Grace would fuss at the King about protecting the Church, but there was no fire left in him. The next winter might well claim him. And who knew who his successor might be? Hah, who indeed? It might be anyone, might it not?
‘Cub,’ muttered Aun, looking out of the window.
‘We are the Keepers of his Day,’ ruminated Padry. ‘But in the Night we cannot help him.’
Aun looked round. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ he said sharply.
What did it mean? thought Padry.
What he had meant was that between them, the ruthless, pragmatic old baron and the wily chancellor, they steered their well-intentioned young King through his kingship. They were doing well, too. Laws had been given, foundations made, trade – to judge by the revenues from market and river-tolls – had risen beyond anything in Padry’s experience at Tuscolo. All in less than eighteen months!
But of course there were places where neither of them could help him. The soul on the Path met many things, helpers and hinderers, but it made each step on its own. Angels, goddesses, the ancient princes who came and went from the shadows around the throne – there was nothing chancellor or baron could do for Ambrose there. That would be the blind trying to lead the half-sighted. And the stink of witchcraft was never far away. Perhaps that was why Lackmere did not like what Padry had said.
Perhaps. Or perhaps it was because Padry had said we. The baron, like so many of his kind, looked down on all clerks as at best a necessary evil. No matter what Padry did for his King, how often he was right, how often he said things that Lackmere actually agreed with, the baron would not permit himself to be coupled by the simple word we. That assumed too much.
And when I first saw you, my fine baron, when you first came crawling out of the wilderness to the Widow Develin with that half-starved boy who is now the King, your armour was stained and your hair was in tangles and your whiskers as shaggy as any peasant’s. And still you look down on me. Maybe if I were made bishop in Tuscolo you will think again. It might not be long now.
He coughed and gathered his papers. He was stretching his hand for the door when he heard others approaching it from outside. They were in a hurry. He stepped back. The door burst open, revealing Ambrose again, this time with a small crowd of courtiers at his back.
‘Some interesting news,’ said Ambrose grimly. ‘Gueronius has returned.’
* * *
‘He has landed in Velis, it seems,’ said Ambrose, pacing in the circle of his councillors. ‘An Outlander vessel – hear this, an Outlander vessel – sailed into harbour and put him ashore. Just like that. I suppose his ship was wrecked and he has been sheltering somewhere in Outland all this time.’ He cocked an eye at one of the councillors, who shrugged.
‘We may imagine so, Your Majesty. It is said he and his companions were themselves dressed in some strange fashion that we may presume is worn in Outland. Even so, people recognized him.’
‘Ah,’ said Aun. ‘Now, you see, we may need some of that authority.’
Ambrose glared at him. ‘What am I supposed to do?’
‘It depends,’ said Aun. ‘How many has he got with him?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘The first question you should ask. Enemy coming? What strength has he?’
‘He’s not necessarily an enemy.’
‘You’re sitting on a throne he thinks is his.’
‘And what if it is rightfully his?’
‘Then your neck is forfeit and so is that of every man who backed you,’ said Aun, looking around at the ring of faces. ‘Don’t think of giving it up. You can’t. He’d have to knock your head off anyway, just to be sure you didn’t change your mind.’
Ambrose looked at Padry. Padry opened his mouth and shut it again. His mind was still clearing from the shock of the news. A queer, tingling feeling lingered in the pit of his stomach. Gueronius was back. And he had come from Outland.
Outland? Theoretically he had known of it for years, a vague mystery, well beyond any useful horizon. But that an Outlander vessel should sail into harbour and put someone ashore – suddenly the mystery had a force that it had never had before this. How many were the Outlanders? How strong were they? He remembered an evening over wine, and the eye of Ambrose glinting in the candlelight as his finger pointed at Padry’s heart. That ship must not sail. But it had sailed indeed. It had sailed because he had allowed it to – he, Thomas Padry, who a moment ago had been back to daydreaming about a bishop’s crozier!
‘What’s he told them about us?’ muttered a councillor. ‘Gueronius, I mean.’
‘And what did he promise them, to earn his passage back?’ said another.
‘Gueronius alone can answer that,’ said Ambrose. ‘So. How many men has he at this moment?’ He looked at the councillor.
‘A few only, we think,’ said the man. ‘Some were men of the Kingdom – survivors of his crew. But there were some Outlanders, too.’
‘That’s easy, then,’ said Aun. ‘Send to arrest him.’
‘What for?’ said the King.
‘What do you mean, “What for”? Anything you like. Treason. Or if you want to be squeamish about that, for bringing Outlanders into the Kingdom. There will be laws about that, for sure.’
‘I am not a tyrant,’ said Ambrose. ‘If he has no men, he is no threat. He’ll find no friends in Velis either – that’s Baldwin country. And he has a right to his lands and his liberty, according to laws that I have passed, Aun. If he surrenders his claim to the throne peacefully and comes to tell us what we need to know of Outland, then he may keep them. Lord Joyce can bear the message, since he was a Tuscolo man once.’
‘Joyce? He’s a rat. You trust too much.’
Padry winced. That, said in full council! Really …
‘And you never trust!’ exploded Ambrose. ‘And you never forgive!’
‘Forgive?’ said the baron, looking hard at him. ‘What has forgiving to do with it?’
‘You know!’
‘Do I? Tell me, then,’ said the baron grimly.
‘I’m talking about Raymonde, your son.’
‘I thought so. My son who killed his brother. My son who lent his witchcraft to Velis. My son with all the dead of Develin and Bay around his neck – whom you favoured with your forgiveness without my counsel—’
‘And you dispute my right to forgive?’
‘I don’t dispute your right. And I don’t dispute your right to favour him with all those awards and offices and powers, either. Nor your right to try and make love to Gueronius. All I want to know is how the hell are we to keep you on your throne?’
‘Aun, if I’m to be King, I must do it my way. Or I’ll be as bad as every other king – or cut-throat – this land has had!’
‘Cut-throat now, is it?’ growled the baron.
‘The Angels are watching, Aun.’
So are your councillors, thought Padry. He cleared his throat. ‘Your Majesty …’
‘… Watching, are they? A moment ago I thought you said they had gone off somewhere.’
‘That’s enough,’ said Ambrose. He said it coldly and simply, and it ended the argument. ‘My Lord Chancellor, you will please draft me a letter for Lord Joyce as we have discussed. Gentlemen, I thank you. You may all go. I shall now have breakfast with my Queen – if she will deign to join me.’ He sat and put his hand over his eyes.
The councillors walked down the corridor in a body. Padry dropped to the back, still musing on his own reaction to the news that Gueronius had returned. Which had been, quite simply, horror. Why? He had liked the man once.
It was the association with Outland – the sinister aura of the unknown. It was the shock that someone presumed dead, mourned and mentally laid to rest, should have sprung to life again like a japing ghost. And it was the fear that everything they had done since his departure might have been done in error, and would now have to be undone. That would be unbearable – and dangerous! There must be no question of Ambrose abdicating or whatever. Lackmere had been right to scotch that quickly. The land had a king, and it was not Gueronius.
Looking back, Padry could pinpoint exactly the moment when his own loyalty had shifted decisively to the new King. It had been nothing to do with wealth or charters or good justice. Oh, all that mattered, yes. But this was a stronger reason still. This was why he would fight, bite, claw and spend all his wits to keep Ambrose in power.
It had been early on, before they had even got him crowned. It had been the day his mother had brought the wretched Prince Marc to him. That was when Padry had witnessed a man’s sins being lifted from him and had seen that his own might somehow be forgiven, too. (Even if right at this moment they looked like coming home to roost! Outland! What had Gueronius brought with him?) But there was hope, Thomas Padry. With this King there would always be hope. That was something he could cling to. Let him only serve faithfully …
A touch on his arm. It was the Baron Lackmere, beside him at the back of the group, signing for him to slow his pace. Surprised, Padry obeyed. They watched the others get further ahead.
‘You were right about the night, weren’t you?’ growled Lackmere from the corner of his mouth. ‘That’s what’s eating him, for sure.’
Padry frowned, puzzled. ‘You mean …?’
‘The Queen. Withholding herself, I suppose.’ He jerked his chin at the councillors ahead of him. ‘They’ll guess now. Or soon they will.’
The Queen. Padry stopped short.
In the Night we cannot help him. A different, and far more earthy, meaning to the word ‘night’ than he had intended. The Queen. Maybe that was why Ambrose was so jumpy these days. Maybe that was why the boy sat up over his wine when other things should have been calling him to his couch.
Maybe? Certainly. For sure. Thomas Padry, you think yourself a man of the world. And in some ways you are as unworldly as your own King! The baron had guessed it. Why hadn’t he? After all, he knew Atti better than almost anyone in Tuscolo. And yes, he could believe it of her. Yes, he could.
Well, if that was the truth, then there was indeed nothing they could do to help. Ambrose had made his bed, so to speak. Now he must lie on it. But it was awkward. Very awkward, at a time like this. Few things would eat a king’s authority faster than a rumour that he could not control his wife. This could make things much more difficult.
‘Hush it as long as we can,’ said the baron.
XIX
The Demon
he King’s butler brought a kid into the fountain garden. It was less than a year old. Its coat was a beautiful, shining slate grey, its legs long and delicate, its eyes soft and fearful as it stared at the crowd of courtiers surrounding the Queen. The Queen’s pet lynx roused itself inquisitively from its cushion.
Immediately the kid skittered away to the far end of its leash, splaying its legs and pulling in vain against its collar and the strength of the butler’s arm.
; ‘His Majesty begs you will consider it,’ said the butler. ‘He asks me to say that he hopes it will remind you of kindness and of good things when the day wearies you.’
‘I do not understand,’ said the Queen, so that all her courtiers could hear. ‘Does His Majesty think that I am his goatherd?’
‘No, Your Majesty!’ said the butler earnestly. ‘He means it as a thing of beauty for you, a living jewel chosen from a thousand of its like!’
‘A jewel?’ said the Queen in cold surprise. ‘But it is a goat!’
The crowd of courtiers tittered. The Queen turned her head away so that the man might not speak with her again.
Her hair was braided and thick with gems. Her face was like a statue’s. There was powder on her skin – thick white powder to hide the marks of sleeplessness under her eyes. She sat listlessly by the fountain. The courtiers who normally jostled for her attention glanced nervously at one another. The young knight who was carefully losing to her at chess fixed his eyes on the board with a frown. No one wanted to put themselves first when she was in this mood.
The chief lady-in-waiting looked around. Her eye fell on Melissa, who had been standing holding her tray for a quarter of an hour. She signed her forward.
‘What is this?’ sighed Atti as Melissa held up the tray.
‘Sweetmeats, Your Majesty,’ said Melissa. ‘You sent for them.’
‘No one here is hungry,’ said Atti. ‘Take them away.’
Melissa lowered the tray. The sweetmeats, still warm from the oven, were arranged in an elaborate flower-pattern on the shining silver. The beautiful smells reached out to set the juices running in a score of noble mouths. Their eyes followed the tray as Melissa backed away from the Queen. But there was nothing they could do. She had said no one was hungry.
‘Take that away, too.’
The butler bowed low, dragged the kid over to him and picked it up so that its legs dangled over his arm. He and Melissa left the circle around the Queen together, each bearing their rejected offering. The butler caught Melissa’s eye as they walked side by side. His brow lifted, questioning.
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