by Kate Jacoby
“It is no joke, Brother,” Godfrey whispered, his eyes darting back to the others. Eluned could be trusted—but the lords? Did they already know? Would they help? “At least my friend’s conclusion about war is misplaced. We are to be spared that.”
“Really?” Hilderic murmured, attaching his formidable mind to the problem. “McGlashen was just telling me about the problem with these nomadic raiders stirring up trouble in the west. They’re moving east and no one knows anything about them. It is said they come from Mayenne but there’s no proof. If Selar wanted a war with his brother then this would be a useful way to gather support from the people.”
Godfrey considered that for a moment then shook his head. “This is nothing more than speculation, Brother. We could be completely wrong. We’ve no evidence at all...”
“No? Think about it, Godfrey. There was only ever one man who was a good influence on Selar, but he’s gone now and never likely to come back. If Selar wanted war, who better to help him than Vaughn? He’s ambitious, greedy and entirely self-serving. He’s completely capable of arranging these raids as a deliberate reminder of those during the Troubles. From what McGlashen says, these raids are very similar to those fifteen years ago. Back then there was barely a House in Lusara which didn’t suffer as a consequence. Raids and those evil abductions. Children of the great Houses taken and never seen again. McGlashen’s cousin Peter was one such—taken when he was only four years old. The child’s father died in the battle of Nanmoor fighting Selar, and his mother in childbirth only months later. Don’t tell me Selar can’t be behind this.”
“Then what do we do?”
“For the moment, nothing—and not a word to these others here. We don’t dare compromise McGlashen and Payne. Their presence on the council is too important. The people have already lost their most beloved champion, we cannot afford to lose more. After we’ve finished here, I’ll go and see Domnhall. After that...” With a shrug, Hilderic turned back to his supper guests and ushered them to their seats around the table.
Godfrey moved to the sideboard and poured himself some wine. As he brought it to his lips, there was an urgent knock on the door. Hilderic’s secretary, Father John, entered breathless, his eyes casting about the room.
“Archdeacon,” he gasped, bowing quickly to the others. “The doctor asked me to send for you. Bishop Domnhall has collapsed.”
Nash waited across the courtyard, wrapped in a old wool cloak. In the darkness he knew he was almost invisible unless someone looked directly at him. Not that anyone was about. It was a cold night and for the last hour light drifts of slushy snow had fallen from the sky, making the night altogether too miserable to contemplate. This was the first snow Marsay had had this autumn and it boded ill for the coming winter. With his eyes on the small ornate door opposite his sheltered corner, Nash let his mind wander for a moment. Inevitably, his thoughts returned to Gellatly—and Osbert.
He had a problem. It was not insurmountable—but it was a problem, nonetheless, one which required delicate handling and very careful timing. Gellatly had that afternoon once again drawn Osbert’s wrath on the subject of the King. The governor’s attitude had been stern but even so, was more generous than the official Guilde position. However, Gellatly had obstinately stuck to his strict moral code, endangering his position with Osbert—and handing Nash a singular opportunity.
To further his ambitions, Nash needed to rise. Not quickly—at least, not too quickly. In order to get close to Osbert, and therefore Vaughn, he had to remove Gellatly. A small step in his schemes, perhaps—but a necessary one. But there were difficulties. For one, Nash could not afford to involve himself in the eyes of the Guilde, and so his actions needed to be subtle. Then, of course, he had to ensure there was no real danger to the King. It would not do after all these years of work for Nash to remove the one person he needed most—especially by accident. Especially if...
Nash paused—then a slow smile spread across his face. There was a chance here for him to take more than a single step forward. In all his plans he had avoided the temptation to jump too far ahead of himself. He’d made that mistake before and suffered for it. He’d lost too many years by acting precipitously. But this time, there was the distinct possibility that he could do so without genuine risk. As long as his methods remained subtle, there was every chance he would succeed. Of course, it all depended on Gellatly. It all depended on how much he really hated Selar—and on how much he trusted Nash. And in the process, he could give Osbert and Selar exactly what they wanted. Yes!
As though on cue, the big man chose that moment to slip through the ornate door opposite. He paused long enough to pull his hood up against the snow, then made his way across to Nash.
“Well?” Nash enquired quietly.
“Hah!” Gellatly frowned and glanced around at the empty courtyard. “The monsters would annihilate us all if we gave them the chance.”
“Ogiers?”
“Not just him or his puffed-up advisors,” Gellatly growled, “but all of those heathens from Mayenne. You can’t get away from them. They’ve worked their way not only into the court, but the Church and even our beloved Guilde. Pretty soon, we’ll have nothing left. All the things that made our country great are now riddled with them, like maggots on a dead dog. And the carrion of Sadlan and Tusina hover over our borders waiting to pick over the corpse!”
Nash kept his voice soothing. “That’s dangerous talk, my friend. But come, let me buy you an ale before you get yourself all agitated. There’s a new tavern opened up down in the town. I hear their ale is the best in Marsay.”
He put an arm around Gellatly’s shoulder and drew him away. “Come. You can tell me all about it.”
The great hall was packed with courtiers, merchants, clergy and Guildesmen for the first official presentation of the envoy from Mayenne. He had gifts to give, good wishes to impart and there was hardly a soul at court who did not desire to be present for this historic occasion.
Godfrey made his way through the press of people with polite but firm resolve, moving to the right side of the platform where Hilderic stood. As he gained the Archdeacon’s side, Hilderic glanced dryly at him.
“You took your time. I thought you’d be too late.” Godfrey shrugged, “He had a lot of questions. What was I to say? Sorry, Bishop—I have a banquet to attend?” He took his gaze from the bustling throng waiting below and turned it on the old man beside him. Hilderic was shorter than Godfrey, with a square stocky face which matched his build. The tonsure he’d once worn as a monk had now disappeared, along with most of his hair. All that was left was a narrow band of grey steel which matched his eyes. Hilderic was old, but by no means frail. Despite the differences in their ages, the two men had become close friends over the years, although few would guess at it to hear them talk.
Formidable in his knowledge of Church law and custom, Hilderic had been instrumental in keeping the Church together as Domnhall’s ill health suspended much of his work. With the traditional alliance between Church and Guilde in tatters around their feet, that work was growing more difficult by the day. Godfrey had worked alongside Hilderic, taking as much of the administrative burden from his friend’s shoulders as he could. Still, it often didn’t make any impression on Hilderic’s mood.
With a grim frown, Hilderic murmured, “And how is he?”
“Still lucid, although his attention drifts from time to time. I told him you’d visit this evening, after these ... festivities. He still knows nothing of the matter we discussed. I don’t know when he’ll be well enough.”
“Then pray, brother. Not only for his sake, but for ours. We need him more now than at any other time.”
Godfrey nodded but was prevented from saying anything else by the appearance of Selar at the huge double doors at the end of the hall. Along with the rest of the court, Godfrey bowed deeply as Selar progressed towards the throne. Beside him was his gentle Queen, Rosalind. She wore a gown of sea green laced with gold thread. As he straight
ened up, Godfrey’s heart went out to her. She was too young to be so ill-used. Rosalind held her head high and, as always, moved at Selar’s side with grace and dignity.
The man beside her walked with a different kind of dignity—one born of power. The King had chosen his clothes carefully: a sky-blue cape lined with white fur over a long tunic of crimson and gold tied in with a low belt of jewelled blue kidskin. He wore a sumptuous gold circlet on his fair head, decorated by small rubies. A heavy brow shadowed his bearded face but the eyes deep in their sockets had not softened over the years. At forty-two, Selar’s tall, solid figure towered over his Queen and was still powerful enough to command respect where none knew of his reputation for ruthlessness.
Godfrey kept his eyes dutifully on the King as he took his throne, then glanced around the hall once more. There was a full Guilde presence in the traditional place by Selar’s right hand. Vaughn looked like he would rather be somewhere else, continually brushing a strand of thinning grey hair back from his eyes. Eachern, Kandar and other councillors flanked the throne. As one they turned to face the door where Ogiers of Quels was making his entrance.
Was it possible that it was Tirone and not Selar who was responsible for those raids? If Tirone meant Lusara ill then surely the best way to disengage suspicion would be to send one of his most trusted and respected advisors. That man would also be able to report back to Tirone on the strengths and weaknesses of Lusara, of Selar. This envoy could be the bringer of war on both sides of the border.
If so, it was unlikely Ogiers knew anything about it. His reputation spoke only of his honour, his courage and his skills at peacemaking. He had been solely responsible for reopening the northern trade routes between Mayenne and the war-loving nation of Sadlan. The effort had taken him five years—and none too few grey hairs.
Ogiers had brought his gifts and now had them laid out before the dais. He stood to one side as a chest of rare Alusian crystals was displayed. In response, Selar had risen from his throne and was even now reaching down to touch them.
Suddenly there was a flash of movement from the other side of the hall and a roar of rage. Godfrey turned in time to see a yellow-clad figure lunge towards Selar, the glint of steel in his hand. There were cries of horror as people backed away, but Godfrey found his feet taking him forward. The man raised his hand to strike at the King, who, shocked at this outburst, had no time to move. Abruptly another man lunged forward, placing himself between the King and the knife. There was a scream of pain and the attacker fell slowly to the floor.
For a second nobody moved. Then Godfrey fell to his knees beside the fallen man. Blood oozed out of a gaping wound in his chest but his eyes were full of nothing but sorrow. With his last gasping breath, the attacker grabbed hold of the trium which hung on a chain around Godfrey’s neck. Then he fell back, dead.
“Who the devil is he?” Selar was demanding. “Vaughn? He’s wearing Guilde colours! What’s the meaning of this?”
The Proctor pushed his way through the crowd and stared distastefully at the bloodied corpse. “His name is Gellatly, Sire, and I have no idea what he intended.”
“Well, it’s damned obvious what he intended,” Eachern snapped, bending down to take the knife from the dead man’s hand. “He intended to assassinate his King! Are you going to tell us you knew nothing about this?”
Vaughn opened his mouth but no words came out. He shut it again, took a deep breath then said, “I do not like your tone, my lord. Are you accusing me of treason? If so, may I remind you that it was also one of my own men who saved His Majesty’s life—while you stood idle. Perhaps this is some scheme of yours.”
“Enough!” Selar blasted at them both. With a thunderous frown, he glared at the faces of those gathered around, finally landing on a man who stood silently beside Governor Osbert—the man who had saved his life. “You. What’s your name?”
The man bowed deeply, “Nash, Sire. Samdon Nash.”
Selar’s gaze narrowed, “Well, Samdon Nash, it seems I owe you my life.”
“No, Sire. I did nothing more than my duty.” Nash was the picture of calm, his eyes downcast before his sovereign.
“More than these other incompetents,” Selar jerked his head. “Do you know this man?”
“Yes, Sire.”
“You do?” Selar took a step forward, his eyes level with Nash. “Then you knew he was going to do this? Come, speak up, man.”
Nash raised his eyes and held Selar’s gaze. “No, Sire, I did not know what Gellatly intended. However, I cannot say I was surprised when I saw him move. I suppose that’s why I was able to react so quickly.”
“And why were you not surprised?”
At this, Nash glanced first at Vaughn and then at Osbert. When Osbert nodded, he replied, “It was no secret that Gellatly did not hold the greatest love for you, Sire. Only a few days ago, when he was speaking to His Grace the Duke of Quels, Gellatly repeated that he would love to see you lose your throne. I’m sorry, Sire, but I had no idea he was that serious. I would have said something otherwise.”
“Yes, I’m sure you would,” Selar hissed. He turned very slowly until his eyes landed on his brother’s envoy. Ogiers’ smooth composure was noticeably shaken and his eyes widened as they read the unspoken question in Selar’s eyes.
With great dignity, Ogiers drew himself up, “If you wish to involve me in your domestic squabbles, Your Majesty, then I suggest you say so openly. Otherwise, with your leave, I shall withdraw.”
“Oh, believe me,” Selar intoned menacingly, his eyes glinting in the candlelight, “you have our leave. And you can tell my brother that he will have to try much harder next time.”
Ogiers stiffened, his jaw jutting out in defiance. Without a word, he turned and stalked out of the hall, his retinue trailing behind.
Forgotten in the argument, Godfrey now rose to his feet. Selar glanced at him then jerked his hand towards the body. “Get that thing out of here—and clear this room!”
With a final bellow to Vaughn and his council, Selar strode away. The crowd around the body began to break up and soon Godfrey was one of the last remaining. Hilderic joined him, his face pale and ashen, but it was the Queen who drew Godfrey’s attention. Cursing himself, he moved quickly to her side.
“Your Grace, please allow your ladies to take you away. You should not have seen this.”
The Queen tore her gaze away from the body. She looked shocked but her voice was steady as she said in a whisper, “Father ... I can’t help it. Why did he do it? What would make him ... he must have known he would be stopped.”
Godfrey took her hands in his, dropping his voice until it was audible only to her. “Who knows what makes a crazy man act? But you, daughter,” he added pointedly, “must not be sorry he failed.”
She met his gaze for a moment then nodded slowly, the briefest hint of a smile gracing her sweet face. “Oh, Father, I would that you were my Confessor. You chide so gently.”
“I do so for love and care of your immortal soul, daughter. The gods bless you where you least expect it. But please, leave now.”
She nodded and turned away. Gathering her ladies together, she left.
Godfrey turned back to Hilderic as three soldiers lifted and carried Gellatly’s body out of the hall. The two priests stood alone as a great silence descended like a shroud. In his mind, Godfrey saw again that moment when Gellatly had lunged forward. Now he could remember the look on the man’s face—a look of pure hatred. Nash had been diplomatic to say the least—a rare talent these days.
With a sigh, Godfrey looked to his friend, “I must say, I’m glad the Bishop didn’t keep me any longer than he did. I would have hated to have missed all this fun.”
Hilderic’s eyes rose heavenward. “Oh, stop it, Godfrey! I’ve never been able to understand your twisted humour.”
“Perhaps not, Brother,” Godfrey replied amiably, “but sometimes, I fear the joke is on me.” Taking the Archdeacon’s arm, he walked across the open space towar
ds the door. “This will be the first time in my life that I will do penance for sharing the wishes of a Queen.”
Chapter 2
There was no doubt about it—he was stuck.
The tree was sturdy but Micah had now climbed so high that its branches were lighter and their strength questionable. Pine needles rustled under the strain of his weight while the bough beneath his feet groaned in protest. With growing alarm, he cast about for a surer hold, careful not to crush the eggs nestled under his padded tunic.
He grabbed a handy stump which jutted out from the trunk then shifted his feet in order to gauge the next step down. But it was no use. The only way he could reach the lower branch was to slide down with his stomach against the trunk—and thereby crush the eggs he’d climbed to collect.
Micah glanced down. His master stood beneath him, adjusting the load on the pack horse. With a sigh, Micah attempted to address the question that had been tossed up to him with such ease. “To be honest, my lord, I really don’t know.”
Dunlorn glanced up with raised eyebrows. “You don’t know? You’ve had three years to think about it, Micah—surely you must have some idea how your family is going to react to your sudden return. They will have missed you—especially your mother.”
“Aye,” Micah nodded without enthusiasm. “My mother will also have been busy, I’m sure, making sure my sisters are properly married and keeping an eye on my brothers. She was never able to quite get the idea that they were grown up and could look after themselves. Apart from anything else, I’m sure I must have an army of nieces and nephews who know nothing of my existence.”
“One of the trials of being the youngest child?”
“With five brothers and two sisters at home I seriously wonder if they’ve even noticed I’ve gone!”
Dunlorn turned back to the horse with a chuckle. “Oh, I think they’ll have noticed. And your father?”