The Orphan King (Merlin's Immortals)

by Brouwer, Sigmund

  “What have you learned?” the beggar asked.

  “He dreams of conquering Magnus,” she answered.

  “That much is obvious,” the beggar said. “I want to know how he intends to attempt this.”

  “He has said nothing to the knight within my hearing.”

  “And to you? Surely you’ve found opportunity to tempt him. He’s as hot-blooded as any man. If you can’t turn his heart, then his heart doesn’t exist. Has he confided anything to you?”

  “He keeps his distance,” she answered. “When I try to spend time alone with him, he moves away. As if he is afraid of allowing himself to be close to me and that I will be too much of a distraction as he pursues the conquest of Magnus.”

  “So you do have power over him?”

  “Given time, yes, his heart will be mine. But he says nothing. He is secretive.”

  “We don’t have time. He has what we want, and it gives him too much power. We cannot lose Magnus. Visit him in the prison.”

  “Prison!”

  “He will be there soon. Speak to him and offer him comfort.”

  Isabelle drew a breath. “Do I reveal who I am, then?”

  The beggar said, “Hint that you have a secret to protect. A great secret. That you have protected yourself by trying to remain invisible. Hint that you have enemies and that you need his protection. A man such as he will move heaven and earth for a beautiful woman who appeals for help. If you can, let him know that you desire him.”

  “To what end?”

  “You have been raised as one of us, but you are also a woman. Could you see yourself with him? No, let me answer that. I can see in your eyes how you feel about him. Someday, perhaps, he too will be one of us. If you can lead him to our side, he would be yours. And the two of you could rule Magnus together. Is that enough of an end for you?”

  She didn’t answer. She gave the beggar a small coin.

  “Go then,” the beggar said, bobbing his head in pretended gratitude. “I need not tell you how to win a man. But be careful of your own heart. If he won’t come to our side, the trust you gain will be necessary for us to end his life.”

  Just as Thomas began to make out the jumble of vats and clay pots in the dimness of the candle maker’s shop, a ghostlike bundle of dirty white cloth rose from a corner and moved toward him.

  Thomas brought up his fists in protection, then relaxed as he noticed that the worn shoes at the base of the ghost had very human toes poking through the leather.

  He backed away to make room, and the bundle of cloth scurried past, bumping him with a solidness that no ghost possessed. Moments later, it squeezed past Tiny John.

  Isabelle stepped into the shop, making Thomas realize she’d slipped away for a few moments, but he didn’t give her short absence any more thought.

  “That’s Katherine,” Geoffrey said to Thomas. “Daughter of the previous candle maker. Ignore her. She’s surprised because I’ve returned early from the market, and she’s afraid of people.”

  Thomas watched her shuffle past a curtain and out of sight into the back of the cramped house.

  “The bandages around her head?” William asked.

  “It’s to keep people from screaming at the sight of her. When she was little—I am told—she reached up and grabbed a pot of hot wax. No mind that she’d been warned a hundred times. No mind at all. She learned the lesson, she did. The foolish child jumped blind into the flame warming the pot. As bright as a torch she became. The business that was lost because of her screaming.” The candle maker waved his hands, dismissing the girl’s pain. “It’s a curse she did not die. I was stuck with her as part of the arrangement to take over this shop on the owner’s death. Who might marry her now?” The candle maker shrugged. “The will of the Lord, I suppose.”

  Year after year at the abbey compressed into a single moment for Thomas. He turned on the candle maker with a bitterness he did not know he possessed. “How can you say there is a God who permits this? How can you give that girl less pity than a dog?”

  “Thomas.” William’s calm rebuke drew Thomas from his sudden emotion.

  “I give her a home,” the candle maker said in a hurried voice. “It’s much more than any dog gets.”

  Thomas told himself he had no right to interfere. “I ask your forgiveness,” he said coldly and without a trace of apology. “For a moment, her situation reminded me of someone I once knew.”

  Thomas’s heart cried for the pain he knew the candle maker’s daughter had suffered; yet moments later, his brain sadly told him there was no use in caring. In this town alone, there were dozens of beggars and cripples who had less than Katherine.

  I guess, Thomas added silently to himself, that evidence of pain is all the more reason to be angry at this God those false monks so often proclaimed.

  Thomas changed the subject. “We came for candles.”

  Relief brightened the candle maker’s face. “Yes. I’ll bring my finest.”

  He clapped his hands twice. Immediately Katherine appeared with a wooden box.

  “She must earn her keep,” Geoffrey said defensively as he glanced at Thomas.

  Thomas said nothing. He looked away from the bundle of cloth with outstretched arms. The wrap around Katherine’s head was stained with age, almost caked black around the hole slashed open for her mouth.

  “These are my best candles,” Geoffrey said.

  “Perhaps these are the best candles you have. But compared to London …” William shook his head.

  “I’ve not been to London,” Geoffrey said, wistfulness apparent in his voice. “Few of us ever leave Magnus.” He coughed quickly to hide embarrassment at his ignorance, then grabbed the box from Katherine and shook his head as she cowered and waited for instructions.

  Thomas felt a hand on his shoulder, even as he winced to see Katherine’s fear. Isabelle had moved close to him. Tiny John seemed subdued at the horror of Katherine’s primitive mask and clung to the edges of Isabelle’s dress. The three of them stood in a tight cluster, and Thomas felt a great sadness to know their instinctive joining resulted from their shared status of outcast. At the same time, he felt warmth to be part of this makeshift family.

  “I apprenticed with the best master for miles around,” Geoffrey said. “I don’t need to see London candles to know these burn as bright as any in the land.”

  “A farthing each dozen,” William offered. “If the candles are as good as any to be found, what of the rest of Magnus? Is it the horrible place it is rumored to be?”

  “Two farthings and no lower,” Geoffrey countered. “And strangers as good as you have said less about Magnus and died for it.”

  Thomas gave the conversation his full attention.

  “Two farthings for a dozen and a half.” William lowered his voice. “And who might be doing the killing?”

  Geoffrey shook his head and held out his hand. “The color of your money first. This box holds three dozen candles.”

  “Four farthings, then. You drive a hard bargain.” William counted the coins. “About this fearsome domain …”

  Even in the dimness of the shop, Thomas could see the eager glint of a born gossip in the candle maker’s eyes.

  “A fearsome domain indeed,” Geoffrey said. He looked around his shop, as though searching for eavesdroppers. “Ever since Richard Mewburn disposed of the proper lord.”

  “Surely the Earl of York would not permit such an unlawful occurrence as murder within his realm.”

  “Bah.” Geoffrey waved his pudgy fingers. “That happened twenty years ago. Since then, murder is the least of evils here in Magnus. The slightest of crimes results in hideous punishment. Men with their ankles crushed for failing to bow to Richard’s sheriff. Branded faces for holding back crops—even though the poor are taxed almost to starvation.” Geoffrey lowered his voice. “The Earl of York is paid rich tribute to stay away. It is whispered that some evil blackmail prevented the earl’s father from dispensing justice after Magnus was ta
ken by force, blackmail that still holds the current earl long after the father’s death from—”

  Katherine gasped. She had not moved since delivering the candles. The first sound of her voice, eerie and muffled from behind the swath of dirty rags around her head, startled Thomas.

  “You cannot reveal this to strangers,” she protested. “It is enough to sentence them to death!”

  Geoffrey brought his hand up quickly, as if to strike her. She stepped back and bumped a table. Two clay candle molds teetered, then fell to the ground and smashed into dust.

  “Clumsy wretch!” the candle maker snarled. He grabbed a thin willow stick from the table beside him and whipped it across the side of her head.

  Had Thomas paused to think, he would have decided it was her complete acceptance of the pain that drove him to action. She did not cry, did not whimper, merely bowed her head and waited for the next blow.

  The animal had struck her face. What more cruel reminder of her deformity could exist?

  Holy rage burst inside Thomas.

  The candle maker raised his arm to strike again. Thomas roared and dove across the narrow space between them. He crashed full force into the candle maker, and they both fell to the ground. Before the candle maker could react, Thomas pounced on his chest.

  Fury possessed Thomas and he grabbed Geoffrey by both ears. He pulled the candle maker’s head inches from the floor and held it. His arms shook as he fought an overpowering urge to dash the candle maker’s head against the stone in one savage motion.

  “Foul, horrid creature,” ground Thomas between clenched teeth. “You shall pay dearly for the abuse—”

  He did not finish his threat.

  William pulled him upward, and during that motion, soldiers burst into the shop.

  Had William not been so helpless with both his arms around Thomas, he might have been able to reach between his shoulder blades and pull the sword free from where it had been strapped in a sheath on his back.

  Instead, less than a second later, three soldiers had him pinned against the wall. Two other soldiers grabbed Thomas.

  “You hail from the abbey at Harland Moor,” one of the soldiers holding Thomas said. It was not a question. “Three monks have been found dead there. One by a blow to the head. Two by poisoning.” The soldier grinned. “You and your large companion here will hang. You for murder. Your companion for aiding a murderer in escape.”

  Late morning heat baked the bandages that covered Katherine’s face. In heat like this, it always seemed that she could not draw enough air, no matter how she strained her lungs. Yet it was more than the heat outside that made her long for the cool shadows of the candle shop. She hated crowds. She hated the mockery and taunting of children; she hated the unexpected jostling, for the small holes left for her eyes gave her little vision, and most sounds that reached her were muffled and displaced.

  So she walked with hesitation through the marketplace, holding her basket as close to her side as possible, and hoping Hawkwood might find her soon.

  “Fresh bread! Fresh bread!”

  Katherine turned her head to seek the source of the cries.

  No. It wasn’t Hawkwood. This seller of bread was a man with only one arm. The other arm, ending at his elbow, tucked a long loaf of bread against his ribs. Hawkwood was a master of altered appearances, but even he could not give the illusion of a stumped arm.

  “Potions! Healing potions! Love potions!”

  Katherine turned her head in the opposite direction. An old woman, face half-hidden in the shadows of a bonnet, leaned over a rough table covered with dried herbs. Inside her bandage, Katherine smiled. Hawkwood would enjoy the irony of posing as someone with knowledge of herbs and potions.

  Katherine moved closer to the old woman and pretended to scan the table.

  “Potions!” the old woman screamed again to be heard above the din of the market. “Healing potions! Love potions!”

  Katherine waited. Would Hawkwood give her the phrase?

  “Scat, girl,” the old woman hissed. “You’ll turn others away. I’ve nothing to restore a face like yours.”

  Katherine hesitated. There might be someone standing right behind, unseen to her, and Hawkwood had no choice but to react thus.

  “Scat! Scat!” The woman’s voice rose to a strained screech. “No love potion would earn you even a blind fool!”

  Katherine backed away. What was it in the weak and the hurt, so far from nobility, that took satisfaction in showing cruelty to those even weaker and more hurt?

  Something bumped her ankle. It was awkward, bending over so far that she might be able to see the ground through the eyeholes of her bandage.

  The object at her feet was a red ball.

  Before she could puzzle further, a second ball, blue, rolled past the red one. Then a green ball.

  “Ho, ho, fair lady! A tiny farthing is all I require.” A man danced in front of her, scooped the balls into his hands, and began to juggle. “One farthing and laughter is yours.”

  Katherine shook her head. Whatever reason Hawkwood had for arranging the three lit candles at the altar of the church to wait her morning prayers, it was important enough to have summoned her forth. She could not dally, not even for a jester with a bouncy, belled hat, twinkling eyes, painted face, and ridiculous red and green tights.

  The jester spun the balls in a tighter circle so that they were almost a blur. Blue, red, green. “Come, come, fair lady. The Lord loves laughter. Heaven stands open at the sound!”

  Heaven stands open.

  Katherine did laugh. Again, Hawkwood had managed to arrive unexpectedly. “One farthing, then. For when heaven stands open, only fools turn away.”

  Hawkwood nodded, satisfied from her answer that it was indeed her beneath the bandages. They both knew that should she ever be discovered, two things were certain. Her death, and then someone put in her place behind the bandages for the very purpose of capturing Hawkwood.

  “Arrange to deliver candles to Gervaise,” he said in a lowered voice. “I shall be in the church when the midafternoon bells ring.”

  Katherine set down her basket and clapped as his juggling continued. Appearances might be important.

  The jester bowed, then reached into a bag at his feet and pulled out a short, straight stick. He tilted his head back and balanced the stick on his chin. He began to juggle again, stick tottering, as he walked away from Katherine to cajole attention from others in the marketplace.

  The stone walls of the church provided cool air, and as Katherine entered, she stopped to set down the cloth bag of candles. She pulled her clothes away from her body and flapped them to enjoy the relief of that air against hot and sticky skin.

  “Welcome, Katherine.” The words greeted her from the shadows of a large pillar. “I trust these candles are of the same fine quality that our father priest has come to expect.”

  “Yes, Gervaise,” she answered as her eyes adjusted to the dimness. “Geoffrey complains, of course, that for what payment he receives, he should call the candles a contribution of charity.”

  Gervaise was an elderly man with gray hair combed straight back. A plain cassock covered his slight body, and he stood with his hands in front of him, folded together. “Please, Katherine, let me help you with that bundle.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  As he stooped to take the candles, he said, “Will you bring these to the nave? I’ll set the others in storage.”

  Again Katherine nodded. The elaborate acting, she felt, was rarely necessary, but Hawkwood insisted they always behave as if enemy ears were nearby and open. He said the island of Magnus was riddled with enough hidden passages that those ears could very well be there.

  In the nave she began to remove from the candelabra the stubs of burnt candles to replace them with new. Not for the first time did it anger her to see the finely wrought gold of the candelabrum gleaming in the light that poured in through stained glass high above. How many mouths could this gold feed;
how fat must the clergy become?

  Something bumped her ankle and rolled over her foot. A red ball.

  She smiled, a movement that scraped her skin against the tight bandages. When she turned, she saw the outline of a figure in the shadows behind the beam of light. Wordlessly, she moved closer.

  She saw Hawkwood as he usually was. An old man, bent beneath a black cape.

  “M’lord,” she whispered, “fare thee well, here where heaven stands open for those who believe?”

  Hawkwood relaxed at the familiar words and pressed farther back so that he stood in a recess of the wall, invisible in deep shadow. Katherine moved in front of him and bowed her head. Any unexpected visitor would see only her, deep in meditation.

  “Katherine, I fare well. Magnus, however, may not.”

  “M’lord?”

  “In the candle shop, you were visited yesterday by two men, each now in the dungeons.”

  “Yes. They were strangely familiar.”

  He nodded. “The older is one of us. A knight and a good friend of mine.”

  Katherine drew in a startled breath, loud enough in the cool silence of the inner sanctum of the church that it echoed from the far walls.

  “The other,” Hawkwood continued, “is one I had hoped long ago might take Magnus from the enemy.”

  “Then if we release them from the dungeon …,” Katherine began.

  “We must, yet the knight is well known to the enemy,” Hawkwood said. “He fought hard when Magnus fell all those years ago and was barely able to escape with his life. We must find a way to let them escape without revealing how we have hidden ourselves in their presence all these years.”

  “If he is well known to them, why did he return to certain death?”

  “Because of the other,” Hawkwood replied. He took a moment to gather his thoughts. Katherine did not interrupt. She rarely did. “The one named Thomas. We play a terrible cat-and-mouse game with the enemy.” Katherine could not see his grim smile, but she heard it in his voice. “And we are the mouse. They know, as do we, the knight’s purpose here. They can afford to let him live while the rest of the game is played. What we do not know is the heart of the other, Thomas.”