The King (Rodrigo of Caledon Book 2)

by David Feintuch

  “DID YOU NOT?”

  My tunic was clammy. “Perhaps a little, Lord. I’m young.”

  A grunt, of what might have been amusement. “Well said.” A stirring. “Sit. Take warmth from the fire.”

  Obediently, I sat on crossed legs before the burning fagots. As always, their heat was cold as ice.

  “Tell him, Tryon.”

  My grandfather hitched up his burial robe, squatted at my side. “Cumber is what you love, because it’s yours. Yet before my brother Rouel’s foolishness, Eiber too was part of Caledon.”

  “But, Grandsir—”

  “It matters not. Look.” Tryon seized a twig, drew a rough map in the dust. “Eiber’s land runs to the sea. Cumber’s doesn’t.”

  I nodded.

  “Though they both abut the Norlands. Now, from here, and here”—he jabbed at the dirt—“Hriskil may take sail between Eiber and Stryx, as he wills. Deny him Eiber and his journey is thrice as far.”

  A small waspish form peered over Tryon’s shoulder, chanting. “Deny him Eiber. Deny him Eib—the long Norland border with Eiber is indefensible, and the boy’s about to be thrown into the sea. What can he deny Hriskil?”

  Tryon looked cross. “It was once your land too, Cayil of the Surk.”

  “Aye, ere you stole it.” The little man’s voice was petulant In the cave of the Still dwelt not merely my ancestors, but all those who’d ruled Caledon.

  “Don’t start, this day,” Tryon said heavily. “My point, youngsire, is this: with your force holding Eiber, Hriskil will attend to his borders, and no else.”

  “Nons—I mean, I don’t follow. If we massed in Eiber, Hriskil would annihilate us. Surely you don’t mean us to attack the Norlands?”

  “Don’t be a fool, lad.” His tone was gruff. “A hare attack a panther? There are better forms of suicide.”

  “And Uncle Raeth? If he falls while I aid Tantroth?”

  “Then he falls.” Tryon’s glowing eyes drew close. “Raeth isn’t Caledon. You are.”

  Rustin sheathed his sword, unbolted the door. “You cried out.”

  I clenched and unclenched my aching fingers, and set aside the bowl of stillsilver. “He frightened me.”

  “Your grandfather?”

  I nodded. “Hold me a moment.” I clung to him, as a small child. More oft than not, sessions with the Still left me timid and shaky.

  “You need a bath.”

  I sighed. “All right, Rust.” I’d known Mother too well to fear her. But Tryon’s eyes glowed, and Varon ... no wonder I’d sweated through my tunic. I wondered if ever I would inspire dread in my successors.

  What must it be like, to live in the cave? Was there consciousness, when the king did not visit? They spoke sometimes of old quarrels, and sometimes one or another of them was absent.

  Late in the afternoon I had gloomy conclave with Willem of Alcazar, my chamberlain. Revenue had dwindled to a trickle, and we were hard pressed to feed troops and tradesmen. In Eiber, Tantroth would be even harder pressed; it was his bizarre custom to pay his soldiers with coin, like swordsmiths or coopers. True, it freed them to practice their art the year round, without concern for their crops. But who needed troops in the winter’s ice?

  As dusk approached, I took a long dreary walk with Anavar, from kitchens to stables to courtyard. Bundled in wool and cotton, my ward chattered like a youngsire released from his tutors. From time to time I grunted a response.

  Master of my castle, I felt trapped within its walls. Little more than a year before, I’d been free to mount Ebon and canter down the hill whenever the whim struck me. Now, I dared not be caught abroad, lest Hriskil’s sails sweep into the harbor and I be captured. Rust could go, or Willem, but the king must be held safe.

  The courtyard was soggy, and my boots soon covered with mud. No matter; a servant would clean them, but it took the joy from walking. Then Anavar wanted to go down the hill to market, and I wouldn’t hear of it; with youthful high spirits, he’d demanded what was forbidden me.

  The rising wind chilled my bones. Muttering foul oaths, I stomped inside and made ready for dinner.

  Over tough fowl and overcooked fish Freisart prattled interminably about the room arrangements of his palace in the Kingdom, now the Duchy, of Kant. If his story had a point, I failed to discern it. As host I couldn’t very well get up and leave. Despite their squirming, I made Elryc and Anavar sit at table as long as I myself was forced to.

  At last the meal was done. Freisart and his cousins tottered off for a postprandial stroll. I curled up on pillows before the fire, nursing a skin of wine. Genard and Elryc disappeared. In the far corner, a lutist strummed melancholy lays.

  I dribbled wine down my chin. A fit end to a foul day.

  “You could always go to bed.” Rust’s tone was dry.

  “You could always hang yourself.” I wasn’t feeling magnanimous.

  A studied silence. “My prince, I pray it’s weeks of mud and sleet makes you so ungracious.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Again you upbraid me?”

  A sigh. “Never I thought I’d see again the Roddy whose deportment was so loathsome. But day by day, you drive us to distraction.”

  “You’re here by choice. If it’s such an ordeal—”

  The door crashed open. “Roddy, come quick!” Elryc panted for breath. “Freisart’s fallen and won’t rise!”

  Hushed, I stumbled to my feet. “Where?”

  “The anteroom upstairs!”

  Freisart lay wheezing on the stone flag. His face was gray. “My chest ... a knot.”

  “Call a physicker!”

  A servant rushed off.

  His voice was thin. “I so wanted to see Chorr again, in spring, when the blossoms—”

  I knelt. “Shall we take you to chambers, my lord?”

  “Yes, do tha—” His eyes rolled up, and he was dead.

  Elryc dropped to his side, ran slender fingers over Freisart’s frayed robe. “Who will mourn you, King?” His eyes glistened.

  Absently, I kneaded Elryc’s shoulders. “His day was past.”

  “He’s dead, Roddy. Moments ago he was grousing about the stair. His worst worry was a cold bed, and porridge again to break fast. Now ...”

  “You barely knew him.”

  “We all barely knew him.”

  I touched the old king’s flesh, still warm. “He isn’t Mother. You need not grieve as for her.”

  Elryc buried his head in my chest.

  Servants carried the old man’s still form to his chamber. Respectfully, Elryc and I walked behind. Afterward I led him away. “You’ll sleep tonight with Hester.”

  “I’m twelve, I don’t need a ...”

  “Nonetheless.” Firmly, I led him up the stair.

  Docile, perhaps grateful, he let me deliver him to his old nurse.

  Rustin was gentle as he helped me dress for bed. “At times you amaze me.”

  “How?”

  He would say no more.

  The funeral was delayed a day, while gardeners clawed at the stony earth. It rained most of the morn, making their toil sheer misery.

  In normal times invitations would issue to all the nobles for days’ ride around. But Groenfil and Soushire wouldn’t leave their castles when Danzik’s troops might lunge. And Raeth was far beyond Cumber, in his windswept winter camp.

  After the rite, I paced the great hall, the passageways, the cellars. I startled a cook in the steamy kitchen, where for years I’d been made to take my meals. The barrel of apples was near empty. They were soft and starchy, no treat for a bored palate.

  At last, in afternoon, the rain ceased. I thrust on my cloak, went to the stables to visit Ebon, fed him carrots and an apple from my pouch. He was less particular than I.

  At the stable door, Anavar struggled into his outer jerkin. “May I walk with you, my lord?”

  I gestured assent. We tromped through the muddy courtyard. Restless, I climbed the ramparts. The walls were manned, though our defenses were not
at full alert. Thanks to our prominence on the hill, an enemy could be spotted hours before reaching us. We had more to fear from a saboteur with a torch than from troops at our battlements.

  Far below was the harbor, lashed by gray waves. I tossed pebbles from the high wall to break the excruciating boredom.

  We descended the narrow stone step. Anavar glanced longingly at the gate.

  Again? My fists knotted. If he so much as breathed a word of ...

  I hesitated. Well, why not?

  Anavar followed my gaze. His tone was eager. “May I, sir?”

  “No.” His face fell. I added, “Not without me.”

  He gaped.

  “Raise your cloak.” I thrust my own cloak around my ears. “Gateman, open.” I pulled Anavar through.

  The gatekeeper stammered, “My lord, what shall I—”

  “Say naught.”

  I strode down the winding hill. Anavar, his eyes alight, trotted to keep pace. “Where do we—”

  “To the market.” And then perhaps the tavern.

  A long walk, and soggy, but I reveled in it If only I could have saddled Ebon, my day would have been perfect, but I could hardly ride my charger into my town and go unremarked.

  At Llewelyn’s Keep—we’d have to find a new name, soon or late—we detoured by the Tradesman’s Cut that ran outside the ramparts. Sharp-eyed guards watched from the walls. The Keep, nowadays, was manned by soldiers from Stryx. No vestiges of Llewelyn’s tenancy remained after his betrayal, making homecomings grim for poor Rustin.

  As we strode along the coast road a freshening wind blew through my hair, I threw back my cloak. Anavar danced alongside like a marmot freed from his cage. He stooped for pebbles and twigs, tossed them at the rocky shore.

  A brisk walk brought us to Potsellers’ Way, the narrow alley that led to the market square. Most of the stalls were open, but trade was lethargic, the few shoppers listless and weary. As I hoped, with my hood obscuring my face, we went unrecognized.

  Anavar stopped at the leatherer’s stall, pawed through sheaths and bridles. “Might you increase my stipend, sir?”

  “Again?” I knotted my fists. “What do you spend it on?”

  “Trinkets, now and—”

  “Women?” My tone was grim.

  “No, my lord.”

  “Bah.” He wouldn’t tell me, even if it were so. “It’s the third time this year you’ve asked.”

  He reddened. “I have no lands.” No revenue from taxes, as a baron should.

  “That’s not my fault.” If Anavar hadn’t joined the war on Caledon, he wouldn’t have been captured. I sighed. “Learn to live within your purse.” How often had Chamberlain Willem told me the same, in my recent youth?

  “Aye, my lord.”

  We walked on.

  “What caught your eye at the leatherer?”

  “The inlaid dagger sheath. It’s a perfect fit for—”

  “How much?”

  “A silver and three coppers.”

  “Beyond reason.” I examined a winter hat I didn’t need. Then, with a sigh, I unknotted my purse, fished out a pair of silvers. “Well, get it. Don’t gape, it’s rude.”

  Anavar dashed to the stall, raced back with the sheath. He threw his arms around me in a joyous hug.

  “Don’t make a scene. I’m king.”

  “Nobody here knows.” His eyes sparkled. “It’s beautiful. See how the black threads make a horse? Look at—”

  “All right.” My tone was gruff. Perhaps at times I was harder on him than I might be.

  His grin vanished. “Look!” He stared past my shoulder.

  I whirled, hand on dagger. We’d left impulsively; my sword was left at home. What if assassins—

  Nothing, save a parchment broadsheet pasted to the wall. A crude drawing. Squinting, I moved closer. A drawing of an old man. He lay flat on his back, his crown tumbled aside. Green slime oozed from his mouth. Nearby a boy gloated. He carried a bowl overflowing with an evil green substance. He, too, wore a crown.

  I was a pillar of stone.

  Anavar tugged at my sleeve. “Please, sir.”

  “Who made this?” I spun from one side to the other, but none looked my way. The hatter busied himself with his wares. I demanded, “Who?”

  “Don’t call attention, my lord. We left our swords—”

  I tore down the broadsheet, surged toward the hatter. Anavar barred my way. I slapped him hard. An angry blotch sprang up on his cheek.

  I thrust the broadsheet in the hatter’s face. “How dare you allow this?”

  “I didn’t—”

  “Traitor!” I threw down his table, dumping his stock of hats in the mud. “Mock me, would you?”

  “Help! Fedor! Maron, Help!”

  My foot lashed out in a wild kick. The leatherer’s table went flying.

  Peasant folk materialized from doorways, stalls, the road. Angry hands clawed at my cloak.

  Anavar pulled loose his blade. “Stand clear! He’s the king!” No one paid heed.

  In the distance, a clatter of horses.

  A swarthy fellow lunged. I kneed him, seized him by the shirt, threw him at a wall. An old woman kicked Anavar from behind. He stumbled, lost his dagger.

  An elbow snaked around my neck. I stamped on a foot, drove backward with all my might. My assailant crashed into a furrier’s stall. His grip eased. I broke free. I turned, smashed his mouth. My knuckles oozed blood.

  A clamor rose. “Get him! Kill him!”

  “Stand away!” The crack of a riding crop on a peasant’s back. “No swords, unless they—Roddy, mount!” Rustin slapped Ebon’s reins into my hand. A dozen guardsmen milled about.

  Numbly, I swung into the saddle. “Easy, boy. Anavar?”

  “Here, my lord.” He clutched a guardsman’s waist, riding behind.

  “Move.” Rustin lashed his gray.

  “Did you see that sheet? They say I killed Freisart!” I reined in, dismounted to retrieve it for Rustin. “Here, look—”

  From his saddle Rustin bent, seized my hair, pulled me to the tips of my toes. “Ride, King Rodrigo. This moment!”

  Gasping at the sting of my scalp, I swarmed into the saddle. Rust lashed Ebon with his crop. My stallion bolted. I had all I could do to hang on.

  We dashed along the coast road. The gates to the Keep were open. In moments we were out the upper end, cantering up the hill. As the horses tired, we slowed to a walk.

  I hauled out the torn broadsheet, fuming. Who was responsible for this calumny? Uncle Mar, most likely. It had his touch.

  Anavar rode head down, dejected. “I lost my dagger.”

  “So?”

  “I’ve a beautiful new sheath, and no blade.”

  I snorted. I had worse to worry about. If Mar had his way, the whole world would think me a poisoner.

  “Rust, how will we—”

  He cocked a finger in my face. “We’ll speak later.” He spurred his gray to the head of our troop, his mouth set in a grim line.

  The horses trod up the winding hill, a long slow walk that gave my ire time to cool. By the time the castle gates hove into view I was in good humor; we’d had our adventure, though it had come to a rather abrupt end.

  I walked Ebon to the stable, handed the reins to a stableboy. “Rub him down, before he—”

  Rust grasped my arm. “Do it yourself.”

  I met his eyes. They held a menace I didn’t care to ponder. Sometimes he was beyond sense. “Very well.” Sullenly, I yanked the reins from the boy’s hand.

  When Ebon was dry and brushed, watered and fed, I stalked to the donjon, ravenous with hunger, but pleased I hadn’t taken out my growing fury on the mount I loved.

  Before the day was out, I would put an end to Rust’s dominance. When I’d sworn by the True to submit to his guidance, I’d been but a boy. Now I was near a man, yet he rebuked me before my subjects like—I couldn’t think of the like. He’d even pulled my hair until I’d nearly squealed from the pain. How dare he
treat so, the king of Caledon?

  I swept the guard aside, hurled open the door to the Keep. It crashed into the stone wall. “Is dinner set? What’s—”

  My court was assembled in the great hall at a laden table. Freisart’s women cousins, Jestrel, Chamberlain Willem. Elryc and his Genard, Anavar, gazing greedily at a roast. And a tall stranger in traveler’s cloak.

  “Who’s this?”

  “Banwarth of Hare, my lord.” Rust’s manners were impeccable. “Envoy of our liegesman Tantroth, with tidings of—”

  “What news, Banwarth? How fares your master?”

  “He’s in his hills, sire.” From the recesses of his cloak, he whipped out a scroll, liberally sealed with wax and imprints of Tantroth’s ring of state. “He sends you word.”

  I cut myself a liberal slice of beef, waved my courtiers to begin. “Let’s have it.” I perched the scroll by my plate, eyed it dubiously. “When written?”

  “I’ve been two weeks en route, sire.” Eiber was only a day’s sail, but Tantroth had lost his harbors. His runner had to thread his way past fortified points, patrols and scouts, with betrayal ever a risk. Tantroth’s wax seals couldn’t prevent unauthorized reading, though they would tell me whether the missive had been tampered with.

  A plea for men and arms, no doubt. I busied myself with my meal. I’d waited two weeks for my duke’s letter; a few moments more wouldn’t matter, and I was famished. I piled steaming corn, juice of the meat, turnips, and thick hot bread onto my trencher, washed it down with copious draughts of dark wine.

  When at last my hunger eased, I took the scroll, broke its seals, read laboriously.

  “To our royal cousin and liege, Rodrigo of Caledon, we send greetings.”

  How like Tantroth, to deny my authority while acknowledging it. He called me liege while referring to himself as ‘we’, a royal prerogative.

  No matter. Tantroth would serve me as long as it served himself, and no longer; we both knew as much.

  “Hriskil himself occupies our dwelling in the Hadriads, according to reliable informants. Distressing, but a great opportunity. I know every nook, every cranny of the castle, and every rock in the foothills and streams. With your full support, and if we can lure him from ...”