Usurper

by David Waine

  “Will you not have a guard, Your Highness?” A man’s voice, one of the gaolers.

  “No, I will speak to the prisoner alone.” A woman’s voice, gentle. He had called her, ‘Your Highness’. “Stay hard by. If I need you, I will call.”

  There was a grunted response and a key scraped in the lock. The door swung wide, admitting a flickering shaft of yellowish light. In the doorway stood a slight figure, heavily draped and cowled, carrying a lantern. The burly gaoler admitted her, shut the door, snuffing out most of the light, and moved away. She moved into the cell, raising the lantern to better familiarise herself with her surroundings. The pool of light uncovered a rough table against one wall. She deposited the lamp there and, looking up, identified the position of the condemned man on the floor, slumped on the mound of straw that substituted for a bed. Gracefully her hands swept up to flip the cowl from her head.

  It was her, the witch he had failed to kill that morning. Never had he seen a face so fair yet, at that moment, he would have torn her eyes from their sockets if it could have gained him his liberty.

  “So you are the princess.” His voice was gruff and hoarse.

  Her eyes were soft and her voice matched them. “My name is Avalind Vandamm. Now you have an advantage over me.” His eyes flicked up. “You know my name, but I do not know yours.”

  Leave her in ignorance. “What does it matter?”

  She nodded sadly. “Yet I would ask it nonetheless.”

  There was something in her tone that quelled him, something that he recognised from that morning’s encounter. That vision of unsullied loveliness had greater power to still the rage within him than anything he could conceive. His gruffness died, replaced by the civil tone that had once been his practice.

  “I am Adiram Cabral,” he conceded humbly.

  “Adiram,” her voice had the brush of a kiss.

  “Call me Cabral, if you please, My Lady,” he explained, unable to meet her gaze.

  “Cabral, then,” it had the familiarity of a given name.

  This was becoming too much for him. His head hung between his knees and he knew that tears were close. So did she. The tone of her voice changed. Imperative, yet still gentle.

  “We have matters to discuss, Cabral,” she said. His head rose again. “Before we do, however, there are two questions you must answer.” She composed herself carefully on the straw before him and examined his face closely. “First, why did you attack us?”

  His answer was the obvious one. “I am a brigand. Brigands attack people.”

  She shook her head firmly. “That may have been your recent occupation, but it is not your calling. What I wish to know is why you became a brigand.”

  He had not expected such interest from a girl with reason to despise him. “You know that it was forced upon me?”

  “Do not underestimate the intelligence of a woman, Cabral.”

  “You are perceptive, My Lady.”

  She smiled. “A princess of the realm has privileges. One soon learns perception.”

  Now he smiled for the first time. He had a surprisingly pleasant smile and it sparked a tiny glow within her. “You are correct, Your Highness. I have only been a brigand for a short time. Before that I was a soldier, a captain.”

  “Under whose command?”

  “Baron Dumarrick. You know him?”

  She nodded. “His is the third family in the land, after my own and the Vorsts. Even now he is discussing matters of policy with my father and Count Amerish.”

  He nodded grimly. “I thought I saw the bastard at my trial.”

  Her eyes widened at the expletive. “You do not respect your liege lord?”

  He looked hard at her for the first time. “Why should I, after what he did to me?”

  She paused. “What did he do to you?”

  Now it was his turn to search her face. Satisfying himself that she genuinely did not know, he struggled to his feet and stepped a few paces away, his chains clinking. “How well do you know him?”

  “Not well. I see him at functions but that is all.”

  He rounded on her. “He believes in ruling with an iron fist, does Baron Loda.” The bitterness was back in his voice.

  A feeling of alarm grew in Avalind’s breast. Should she call the gaoler back?

  “A peasant was behind in his tithes — only a week or two but it made no difference to Dumarrick. He ordered him broken on the wheel.”

  Avalind was horrified. “For that?”

  “For that!” He spat the confirmation out. “Dumarrick doesn’t have a paid executioner. Such a man would be skilled and that would shorten the victim's suffering. One of the men under my command was ordered to carry out the sentence. Not by me. By Dumarrick. He refused and I supported him. I argued that the man should be given more time to pay and that, in any case, the punishment was much too harsh for such an offence.”

  An ominous silence developed between them. Avalind knew that he was fighting with an inner demon to confront the memory. At length she asked him to continue.

  “The peasant was broken on the wheel and so was my soldier. I was flogged and flung out of his service. Do you want to see the stripes?”

  Without waiting for a reply, he turned his back on her and lifted his shirt. A wave of sickness swept through her as she beheld the livid black and red welts on his pale flesh. Even now they oozed. Unable to bear the sight any longer, she averted her gaze.

  “More than that,” he continued, “he circulated my name to every lord in the land. If I get a job shovelling pig droppings for some peasant now, I am dead meat and so is he. What option did I have but to turn brigand?”

  Avalind hung her head. “Then you have been treated most unjustly, Cabral,” was all she could bring herself to say.

  “Tell that to the hangman in the morning,” he retorted bitterly.

  Her head jerked up. “Did you say any of this at your trial?”

  “Why were you were not there?”

  For a moment she was flustered. One of the reasons she had come to see him was a nagging suspicion that she should have been present as the star witness.

  “They took me straight to the infirmary, where a body of venerable matrons subjected me to the most rigorous inspection imaginable.” She shuddered at the memory, humiliation vying with outrage. “To ensure that you had not defiled me, I presume. When they finally announced that I was unharmed, the trial was over.”

  “Long over. It lasted less than ten minutes.”

  She was shocked. “But the Law…”

  “Vandamm Law!” He spat the words out. “I was caught in the act, or so they said. There could be no defence. I was not even allowed to speak.”

  “Then how could they try you?”

  The bitterness that had surged back into his eyes slowly dissipated again. “They didn’t need you as a witness. They had your companion, Callin Vorst. He told them all that they needed to know.”

  Avalind’s head tilted slightly to the right at the mention of her rescuer’s name. “Master Vorst is my bodyguard. His devotion to me cannot be questioned.”

  “I don’t question it,” replied Cabral, “and neither does Lork.”

  Avalind shut her eyes involuntarily. A memory of bloodily feasting flies flooded back through her mind. “Lork was the name of your companion?”

  Cabral nodded. “A rough fellow and a brigand far longer than me. Yet his story was not so very different. Most men are not born evil and some are thrust into the paths of wickedness against their will.”

  “Could you not have sought employment in some foreign land?”

  He laughed bitterly. “Soldiers of fortune? Mercenaries? Yes, we could have gone to Draal and offered them our skills. I imagine they would have made us as welcome as such men are anywhere. Sooner or later, though, we would have been ordered into battle against our own people.”

  “How can you be sure of that?”

  Another bitter laugh. “Bless your innocence, My Lady. A mercenary has
no loyalties, except to gold. He is the worst kind of brigand.”

  “So you rejected that option?”

  “Yes, whatever we may have done, we were, at heart, loyal Kingdom men so we did what we could and lived hand to mouth.”

  Avalind had collected herself again by now. “Have you killed many people?”

  “I have killed in battle, but only foes who were armed and had a chance against me. Yelkin is close to our eastern border and we have to deal with raids passing through Dragotar from time to time. As a brigand, I have never killed.”

  Avalind relaxed visibly. “In part, you have answered my second question.”

  Cabral had forgotten that she wished to discuss two questions with him. “Oh yes,” he said, “your second question.”

  “After my horse threw me this morning, you advanced on me with raised blade. Master Vorst was engaged with your — companion. You could have killed me with a single blow, yet you did not do so. Why was that?”

  “I have already told you.”

  “No.” Her look was unwavering, but her eyes remained gentle. “You have already told me why you did not kill anyone else. I do not believe that was why you did not kill me.”

  He returned her look for a long time before answering. He knew instinctively that she would see through any lie immediately.

  “Your Highness is correct,” he admitted at last. “We had not eaten or drunk anything but river water for four days. Starvation can bring madness on a man. It did on Lork. He was a good companion in many ways but he was readier to spring to the sword than I. Nevertheless the madness was growing on me.” Another long pause, during which she knew he was struggling to find the right words. “When I saw you on the ground,” he continued at last, a hint of approaching tears cracking in his voice, “when I saw your face, the madness left me. I knew I could never harm a hair of your head without destroying my soul.”

  As he had spoken, his voice had lost its edge of bitterness and a new quality had crept into it. He now sat, dejected, head hanging.

  “And none of this came out at your trial?”

  He shook his head without looking up. “No. They summoned your bodyguard, Vorst, and asked him if I was the man who had attacked you. He replied that I was and they condemned me on the spot.”

  “Do you hate Master Vorst for identifying you?”

  He shook his head. “No. He was performing his office when he laid me out, and he told the truth at the trial. I bear him no ill will.”

  She gathered her cloak about her and rose to her feet. “Thank you, Cabral, now I know everything. You have been most cruelly misused. Kingdom justice, Vandamm Law as you call it, will bear a fairer and more humane face from this night on. I swear it.”

  He struggled to his feet, the lumps on his head throbbing anew. “That will be most comforting when they hang me in the morning.”

  She smiled openly. “Justice can be harsh, but it can also be kind. When the Rule of Law fails to deliver natural justice, another hand must intervene.” Reaching under her cloak, she produced a file and a coil of rope and placed them on the table. “Here are the means of your escape. Dawn is still several hours yet. You will have time to sever your chains and be through the window long before your disappearance is discovered. It is up to you to survive honestly and safely until I can have the charges against you quashed, whereupon you may re-enter the world as a free citizen.”

  He was stunned. “You would do this for me?”

  She stared straight back at him levelly. “Would you not have done the same for me? I have seen into your heart tonight, Cabral, and I find no malice there. Use the remainder of your life well and I bid you joy.”

  He moved to the table and examined the file and rope. Both were of good quality, yet there was still a problem. “Will they not hear me filing?”

  “I have thought of that,” she said, gathering her cloak about her. “I have arranged for one of my maids to smuggle in a serving girl from a tavern in the town. I understand that her skills are not limited to serving ale and meat, and that she applies herself to her additional activities with zeal.” A rise in the buzz of noise from outside, including loud laughs and a few obscene grunts, punctuated by a high-pitched giggle, indicated that she had arrived. “They will restrain their baser urges until I have gone, whereupon I imagine they will be occupied. That will be your opportunity.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Dawn rose over a scene of utter confusion. Squads scoured the immediate countryside and more rode out with the offer of a reward. None of them was helped by heavy rain in the small hours, although the sun had since appeared weakly. A further squad put the previous night’s guards in chains.

  These four hapless men stood trembling before their liege lord in the great hall. Chamberlain Gledden eyed them with unconcealed disdain before turning to face his king.

  “The gaolers, Your Majesty.”

  Rhomic Vandamm sat on his great throne, whiskers quivering. Immediately his wrath exploded. “Four men!” he roared, “Four men to guard one brigand and you let him go!”

  “If you please, Your Majesty,” ventured one. It was Gench, Callin’s luckless host of two nights previously, now demoted to a mere gaoler. His knocking knees gave away his conviction that his fall from grace was, if anything, accelerating.

  “Gench!” Rhomic’s voice slashed the air. “Demotion wasn’t enough for you, was it?” The king spoke quietly but his voice reached every corner of the hall. “You and your half-witted associates will pay dearly for this.”

  “Should I not pay in his stead, father?”

  Avalind swept into the hall, wonderful in a loose fitting lemon gown, russet hair flowing behind her. Heads bowed in deference wherever she smiled. She walked the full length of the room, passing through shafts of coloured light, to her father’s raised dais, and bobbed a curtsey.

  “Avalind,” Rhomic was taken aback. “This concerns you?”

  “I should have been here yesterday, I must confess, but I was being examined by the matrons to make sure I was still intact.” She held his gaze coolly.

  Rhomic matched her look. “Are you still intact?”

  She nodded. “Yes, father. I could have told you that without the matrons’ prodding.”

  At that moment Soth arrived, muddy and wet. The prince handed his cloak to a guard and gave a brief, terse statement, the upshot of which was that the prisoner had made a clean escape. Avalind made no attempt to conceal her smile.

  “You seem pleased, madam?” Rhomic’s tone was ominously quiet.

  “I would rather not have the blood of any man on my conscience, sir.”

  “Even one who tried to kill you?”

  “Is that what the charge was?” she laughed. “Attempted murder?”

  “You know it was!” The king squinted at her through narrowed eyes.

  “I don’t, actually!” she rounded on him, smiling. “I was being poked and pinched at the time. I have seen no transcript of the trial. Was one taken?”

  There was a momentary buzz around the assembled courtiers, and one giggle, instantly suppressed. Rhomic knew this defiant side of his daughter’s nature well. She had inherited it from him. “You maintain that you should have been present?”

  “Am I not the star witness?”

  “We have the testimony of Master Vorst. What could you possibly add?”

  At this moment, by coincidence, Callin entered the great hall. He had been with a squad searching the castle.

  “Perfect timing, Master Vorst,” observed Rhomic. “What have you to report?”

  Callin cleared his throat. “Nothing, My Liege. He is not in the castle.”

  Rhomic nodded grimly. “It would seem, therefore, that he has several hours start on us. You will notice, Master Vorst, that your news has devastated my daughter.”

  This caused the girl to laugh aloud. A stunned silence settled on the court. She was risking a humiliating public dressing down.

  Rhomic allowed the moment to hang longer t
han he should. “Explain yourself, madam.”

  Avalind turned to Callin and fixed him with a cool stare. “Master Vorst, the investigation into yesterday’s occurrence is still proceeding. I understand that you gave evidence at the trial.”

  Callin nodded. “Yes, Your Highness.”

  “Would you please repeat your evidence?”

  “The king asked me if the prisoner was the man who attacked you. I said he was.”

  She glared at him. Unable to respond in any other way, he shrugged and stepped back. Slowly, she turned to face her father. “That was the extent of your questioning?”

  Rhomic sat back on his throne, stroking his beard. “What are you saying, Avalind?”

  “That I was not attacked.”

  Gledden stepped forward arms outspread. “If Your Highness will forgive me, I fear the trauma of your ordeal has robbed you of recall. I can summon a detachment of guards who recovered the body of this brigand’s accomplice. Master Vorst, himself, can produce the sword he took from your assailant. How can you claim that you were not attacked?”

  “I did not claim that Master Vorst was not attacked,” replied the princess coldly.

  Hearing the tone, Callin found his voice again. “My concern was for Her Highness’s safety, My Liege. One man attacked me and I saw another advancing on her.”

  Count Amerish and Dorcan now entered the room, Simack having remained in bed with a headache. The old count stood beside Callin, Dorcan at his other side. “I can vouch personally for the loyalty and devotion of all my sons, My Liege.”

  Rhomic nodded without comment.

  Callin continued, “There was no time. The princess was threatened by the second man and I could not go to her aid while the first was attacking me.”

  Rhomic raised his hand. “None here accuses you of anything, Master Vorst.”

  Reassured, Callin bowed. Avalind, however, did not share her father’s magnanimity. Her words expressed thanks but her tone hinted at something darker. “I, too, accept that you acted courageously and in my interests, Master Vorst. To use your own word, however, you were not to know that I was not ‘threatened’.”

  A hush fell on the gathered assembly. Those at the back craned forward to hear. Unwittingly, Rhomic echoed their movement, by craning forward himself. “Explain.”