Behind the main body of the villagers, several more carried a battering ram they had cut, and seeing it, the sheriff called at once for the horses.
“Oil, my lord?” called the sentries from above the gate.
The ram was not large since they had but a score or two of men to carry it besides those who ran afoot, and likely it could not bring down the gates before they either lost interest or were turned away by sword. He hoped it would not come to that. “No,” he shouted back to them. “Not yet. I hope they but posture.”
By the time the knights were mounted and armed, the villagers had set down their battering ram as a bridge, and most had crossed the dry moat to the gate.
“Halt,” cried a sentry from the gatehouse, and she and two knights beside her brought their bows to bear upon the leading villagers drawing up below them. “What business have you?”
“There he is!” shouted one of the farmers, ignoring the sentries. “The sheriff!”
“And his daughter, she’s the one we want.” At that, the small crowd of men surged against the gate.
The sentries drew their bowstrings tight, but Daerwin signaled them to wait. “How dare you,” he thundered at the mob’s leaders from horseback, and they recoiled in spite of themselves. “How dare you approach my castle thus armed and ill humored!” He rode toward the gate, careful to keep himself and his horse out of the reach of their weapons. “Speak, one of you!”
The villagers looked at each other, but no one spoke.
The sheriff glowered over them. “Come, you would storm my castle, but you have not the nerve among you to speak a word in mine ear? Maddock? Botrain? What is this about?”
“What is this about? You know right well what this is about.” A large man at the front of the crown, the one the sheriff had addressed as Maddock and apparently the leader of this insurrection, glared up at the knights and raised his fist. “She saw this, Brannagh. She saw that you would do this, and she warned us.” The gathered men drew strength from his words and shouted angrily to support him.
The sheriff shook his head. “Chatka.”
“Aye, Chatka,” spat the villager. “Who else?”
“The Verdura fortune teller.” The sheriff eased a gentle tone of amusement into his voice and crossed his arms over his chest, projecting power and control, but more importantly, calm and reason. He still believed his farmers could be made to see through the old witch’s tricks. “Tell me, what has your Chatka seen now?” The sheriff squinted beyond the lighted torches at the gate. “Is she with you? Bring her here, let her speak.”
To his surprise, the crowd snarled and lunged toward the gate like a giant wolf. His horse, Revien, stamped his foot and neighed sharply in challenge.
Then Maddock motioned for the villagers carrying the litter to bring it forward and set in front of the gate. They drew back the cloth to show Chatka’s dead body. The tiny blood vessels of her cheeks and nose had burst, leaving dark blotches on her pale sunken face, her lips black, but her expression was nothing if not peaceful. The sheriff could imagine a hint of triumph there.
He glanced at Renda, but she looked as baffled as he felt. He had assumed, as she had, that they might have heard that five knights and not five villagers had been cured of the plague. But this was something else again.
His mind raced. Daerwin looked down over the body. “Boticlan, or I miss my guess,” he muttered, looking away thoughtfully. He had seen men die by boticlan before, the pale skin with the tell-tale blotching, the black lips. Boticlan was quick and painless, a favorite among suicides, but it did not allow for a change of heart. As quickly as the poison worked, even if Chatka had kept anoboticlan in her house, even if the vial had stood open in her hand, she could not have taken it before she fell unconscious.
His brow furrowed against the odor rising from her corpse. Odor? Was it his imagination, or did she smell of the plague? He shook his head. Everything smelled of it now. He could not be sure.
“You killed her, Brannagh,” shouted the large man, “just as she said you would.”
“She killed herself.” His eyes narrowed. “Had I killed her, Maddock, she would have died upon my sword, not by some craven poison,” answered the sheriff, and he looked into all their angry eyes. Some of them, some precious few of them, seemed unsure now. They might be turned to his side. “You must know I have been all night in the hospice—”
“Easing the suffering of them as deserves to die,” sneered another man, the one called Botrain, and instantly those who stood uncertain were firmly against the sheriff again. “Think us fools, do you? We know right well you’d not bloody your own hands, m’lord.” The scorn in the man’s voice was obvious.
His daughter, she’s the one we want.
Poison.
Gikka.
A brilliant move. Chatka could not be seen to die of plague, not after her insistence that it only struck those who angered the gods. Not when she could ease her own passing and frame Gikka for her murder all in one stroke. But he could not reason with an angry crowd.
“Maddock,” he called then, turning to the large man who had spoken to him first. “Upon my sword, I know nothing of this. Since you’ve not thought to bring your liege lords with you,” he spoke over their shouts, “I will let Maddock into the castle, unarmed and alone, to speak with me and come to some accord. Agreed?”
The crowd grumbled angrily, more upset, it seemed to the sheriff, that they might solve the problem without bloodshed and looting than they were over Chatka’s death. But after only a moment’s consideration, they agreed. Maddock handed off his weapons, then bade the rest back away across the moat before the sheriff opened the gate and let him through. A few of the angrier villagers ran for the gate, but the knights had it secured again before they reached it. They could only rattle the iron bars in frustration while they watched their appointed representative disappear into the castle.
Maddock was the trapper and tanner who kept shop in Belen. While his lands held little value of themselves, he had free run of the forestlands nearby which kept him well fed. Renda had had no dealings with him directly, but she had heard of him through the knights and farmers that he was a man who traded honorably and could be made to see reason more readily than some, and certainly more readily than Botrain, whose nom de guerre had been the Rabid. If her father could make any of them see reason, it would be Maddock.
Now he sat grudgingly and accepted a cup of hot tea in the sheriff’s audience chambers.
Lord Daerwin gestured for the servants to leave, and Renda closed the doors behind them before she took her seat.
“Maddock,” the sheriff began, “I need you to tell me what happened.”
“She spoke to us as she always does, but a bit quieter last night, like she were worried or upset.” Maddock’s tone was calm and wary, and occasionally, Renda saw him finger a thin leather thong that hung into his shirt from around his neck, no doubt holding up some medallion or sachet of herbs or other. “She said she saw her death. It would come from poison at Gikka’s hand and by sunset, and that we could see the proof of it an we but come to her house today. And sure enough, as she said, there we found her, dead.”
“At Gikka’s hand.” Renda sat forward. “Surely not. Chatka never speaks so clearly.”
Maddock laughed darkly and drank his tea. “True, Chatka never speaks so clear. But what difference does it make? Her meaning is plain enough.”
“Indulge me,” Lord Daerwin said with a diplomatic smile. “What were her exact words, do you recall?”
The man frowned, staring into his cup. “Think so. Repeated it to myself over and over, the better to remember it later. She said, ‘To quell the overspilt dark comes the sweet and silent hand, trusted ‘gainst our better thought, to claw and steal away the fire.’” He frowned. “I thought sunset was in there somewhere, as well, but that’s the main of it. Mayhap sunrise.”
“Sweet and silent hand, overspilt dark.” Renda laughed. More of the witch’s poetry, as she�
�d suspected. “Why, that could mean anything at all.”
The sheriff rubbed his eyes wearily. “Maddock, I tolerated Chatka’s rubbish because I had the idea that you and Botrain and the rest were wise enough to see through her street tricks.” He looked up at the tanner, his flint and steel eyes showing just a touch of disappointment. “Was I wrong?”
“What is this?” Maddock looked up at them both, and his eyes were full of betrayal. His gaze settled on Renda. “Her words are clear enough to me, and her sight was true! Chatka’s visions scattered dirt upon your blessèd family honor, so you sent your filthy squire assassin to make it look—”
Renda felt her blood surge at the accusation. “Preposterous.”
“—like she done it herself!”
Such a challenge to Gikka’s honor and her own could not stand unanswered. She stood with her hand on the hilt of her sword. “I will gladly defend Gikka of Graymonde’s name and my own against your charges, Maddock. Choose your ground.”
“Hold,” Daerwin said sharply. “Maddock, surely a man of your intelligence can see,” he began, “that what Chatka said means nothing at all, taken alone.”
“Aye,” Maddock nodded. “Save she is dead.”
“Aye, she is dead,” the sheriff agreed.
“Given that, it all comes sharp and bright, doesn’t it?”
“Ah, but she did not say that Gikka would kill her,” the sheriff added, “and I must say, from what I know of Gikka’s methods, it strikes me that boticlan is not her way.”
“Boticlan, what boticlan? None but you calls it so, m’lord. Us common men, we’s not as learned in poisons and such, I reckon.” The tanner stood angrily. “But we’ve no need to be. Chatka lies poisoned, just as she foreseed, and she all but named her killer, the assassin Gikka.”
“Gikka has served this house and the duke himself with honor and loyalty. She is an acclaimed war hero,” snarled Renda, “and I will hear no slanders against her!”
“You’ll not hear them, missus, but they be so, just the same.”
“Peace, both of you,” said the sheriff. “Maddock, did you mount no watch, that someone might see who came and who went?”
“See?” The villager laughed incredulously. “See Gikka of Graymonde? You must be joking. Aye, we did watch, but we seen no one.”
“There, you see? You have no proof.” Renda crossed her arms.
Maddock glared at her. “Is all the more to her guilt. We’d have seen if it was anyone else.”
“Anyone but Chatka herself!” Renda sighed in exasperation. “This is hopeless!”
The sheriff waved Renda to patience and smiled at Maddock again—the picture of reason. “Indulge me once more, good Maddock. How is it you hear Gikka’s name in Chatka’s words?”
“Do you not?” The tanner sat again. “Look, it’s not just me. Us all, when we seed Chatka dead, we standed around thinking and working it out.” He ticked off the points on his thick fingers. “‘Quell the overspilt dark,’ to kill Chatka and shut up her dark words against Brannagh. ‘Sweet and silent hand,’ that’s poison, but at a sweet hand, a woman’s hand, aye. And silent, by Didian, who but Gikka? And ‘trusted ‘gainst our better nature,’ again, who but the assassin? That, and then Botrain, he brung up the grudge Gikka had against her for spying her out in the crowd that night.” He looked between the sheriff and his daughter. “If you can’t see it, it’s because you won’t.”
“‘To claw and steal away the fire?’” prompted Renda angrily.
“I…don’t know.” He looked away and fingered his amulet rope again. “I’m not remembering the exact line we took, but it’s plain enough.”
Renda fumed. It was plain enough indeed. They had decided Gikka was to blame, and Chatka’s prophecy just reinforced what they wanted to believe.
The sheriff nodded and looked up at Renda. He saw what she saw. They could not hope to fight the villagers’ conclusion, and Gikka’s very absence all but proved her guilt in their eyes.
“Know, Maddock, that neither I nor the Lady Renda charged Gikka of Graymonde, nor any other soul, to harm Chatka, much as her words vexed us. This upon my word as Sheriff of Brannagh.”
“You lie.” The tanner rose and glared at the sheriff.
“Sit you down!” Renda seethed. She whirled, and with her swordpoint against his gut, she pushed Maddock back down into his chair. “You have overstepped yourself. You and I shall have business together, Maddock, and soon.”
The tanner’s hard gaze broke, and he looked away.
“But,” the sheriff continued as if nothing had happened, “even so, in the interest of justice, I must consider what you say, that Gikka might have found reason to attack Chatka on her own.”
“What?” Renda stared at him.
“Hear me out.” Lord Daerwin gestured for her to put down her sword. “Please.”
She sheathed her sword in exasperation and paced away from the table.
“Maddock,” he asked, “how did Chatka die?”
“Poison—boticlan, an it please you—as you seen,” the villager muttered sullenly over his tea. “No saying how.”
“You saw no marks on her, no sign of struggle?”
“None.” The man glowered at him. “Her food or drink must have been poisoned.”
“Must have been!” Renda slammed her fists down on the table before him. “Come, what proof have you that she died of anything but her own years?”
“Or the plague?” offered the sheriff softly.
“Plague’d not touch her!” The man stood, clearly offended. “She was pure, unlike those of this house who consort with undead and assassins.” He watched the sheriff and Renda exchange glances. “Her vision was strong, and she seen her death at Gikka’s hand, is all I know.” He turned to the sheriff. “Enough of this. Lord Daerwin, we of your villages demand of you the death of Gikka of Graymonde.”
“You overstep yourself again, Maddock,” said Renda menacingly.
The sheriff met his gaze. “You have no idea what you’re asking of me.”
“Asking!” Maddock laughed incredulously. “Oh, no, we’re not asking, m’lord. An you don’t, you force our hand.”
The sheriff stood then, and his eyes blazed with fury. “Do not threaten me, Maddock. Without the grain gathered by my knights, by my own hands, and put away in my storehouse, the villages will starve.”
“Not after your storehouse comes our storehouse. M’Lord.” With that he rose and strode from the chamber.
For a moment, the two knights stood staring at the door. Then, from far away, they heard the sound of the heavy outer doors closing. The gauntlet was thrown.
“I’d have cut him down where he stood, had you not stayed my hand,” Renda said quietly.
“And you would have brought them all against us, had you done so,” he sighed, “which you know. Else I could not have stopped you. In any case, I doubt we could stand against them now, toe to toe. Thank the gods for these ancient walls.” He sat heavily behind his desk, and the dust of his dead knights billowed up from his clothing. “Renda, you must send for her.”
“What?” She could not believe what he was asking of her. “You believe them, then?”
“Of course not. I’m all but certain that Chatka took boticlan to escape the dishonor of the plague. Then again,” he said with an uncertain shrug, “Gikka is a shrewd one. She may well have had a hand in it an she thought it a service to us. Regardless, she must answer this charge directly, or they will hound her and us until they have their quittance. Whatever her intentions may have been—”
“Assuming she killed the old witch at all.” Renda shook her head in disbelief. “We have only their words for what the old woman said ere she died. For my part, I doubt Gikka would waste her time on such a one.”
“But, Renda, they will not rest until she pays for Chatka’s death.” Her father looked up at her. “Whether she stands guilty or no, we have no choice but to bring her here to face the charge.”
“And h
ow is she to prove herself innocent? What possible word or deed might acquit her? You heard them. That they did not see anyone means Gikka is guilty in their eyes! They demand her death whether she stands guilty or no. Maddock’s said as much.”
He rubbed his eyes wearily. “I suppose I could imprison her. How long do you think she might stay below ere she freed herself? A tenday?”
Renda glared at him bitterly. “Unlike yon rabble, Gikka of Graymonde is loyal to the House of Brannagh. She would stay below forever an the door stood open, upon your merest word.” She turned away from him in disgust. “Would that you might grant her the same trust.”
“Enough, Renda.”
“You would have me summon her, then?” She laughed with angry disbelief, and her voice rose with rage. “You would have me bring her, if not right into their murderous hands, to her death of plague to appease your mutinous canaille without? Nay, I will not!”
“Renda!”
“And nay again, Father!” She drew her sword and strode toward the door. “My sword wants blood since the war’s end. If I must, I will dispatch them all myself, one by one, but I will not sacrifice Gikka to them!”
“Hold, Knight, and hear me!” He rose and moved between her and the door. “By the gods, child, it is a most dire risk, to bring her here, but as surely as I stand before you, she is safer in my prison than she is at Graymonde!”
He was right. Assuming that Gikka had no hand in this, she would have no idea the villagers were against her. The first time she rode into Brannagh lands, they would ambush her.
“I say we bring her hither, let them see her sent below, and then a few days hence when they turn to other matters, she may quietly disappear back to Graymonde.”
She stared at him. “Can you be so naive? They will not settle so easily. They know her, Father.” Renda shut her eyes and turned away. “It’s said all over Syon that no prison can hold Gikka of Graymonde; thus they demand her death, and I warrant they will not rest until they see her head on a pike without.”
The sheriff nodded.
“There has to be a way for her to defend her name.”
Sword of Hemlock (Lords of Syon Saga Book 1) Page 25