The Tears of the Sun

by S. M. Stirling

  “How much did she burn?” asked Sir Garrick.

  “Hmmm,” said one of the clerks. “I make it ten pages by the surviving edges and corners. She didn’t do the best job. What are they?”

  “Probably drafts of their letters.” Sir Garrick frowned down at the bound woman struggling and screaming at his feet.

  “Adolphus!” he snapped. “Quiet her down. I can’t hear myself think.”

  A slender unarmed young man wearing a white tabard with a red cross on the shoulder came forward. After frowning for a few minutes he pulled a small brown bottle out of his leather satchel.

  “Laudanum,” he said briefly. “I hate to use drugs, but I don’t have too many options. I could try to gag her, but the danger of her choking or aspirating is very high. The danger of overdosing her on opium is lower, but still significant. Especially with a case of hysteria like this.”

  Sir Garrick grumbled under his breath. “She’ll do herself an injury anyway if we don’t quiet her, and we need her alive.” Louder he said: “Drugs. I take the responsibility.”

  Mary struggled and thrashed like a salmon in a net, but Adolphus was very good; he dribbled the drops in one by one. Yseult blinked, trying to sit. An ungentle hand, gauntleted and armored, pushed her back down.

  “Bide where you are, girl,” said the rough voice. “Bide quiet, that’s best.”

  She lay watching her mother try to spit out the drops and Adolphus pour small amounts of water in her mouth and rub her throat. Gradually her struggles eased and she lay still, breathing heavily. Sir Garrick turned towards Yseult and smiled thinly. She cowered, feeling much like a rabbit confronted by a coyote. Or a wolf.

  “Vulture and her chick, all in one net. Neat. Ah, Goodwife Romarec, attend.”

  Yseult’s teeth chattered; her skin wrinkled as if it were freezing cold, not a warm early evening. Romarec was frog-marched into the room and shot one quick glance at Yseult before bobbing her curtsy to the knight. With her came all the higher staff; one of the men had a bleeding bruise across his cheek and was being assisted by two of the Protector’s Guardsmen.

  “Sir?” the housekeeper said; there was a slight beading of sweat on her brow, but her voice was quietly respectful.

  “Attend, all of you.”

  He pulled a leather tube from his belt, twisted off the cap that closed it and shook out a roll of heavy paper, the kind used for official documents. It was sealed with a blob of red wax and ribbon; he held it up, then showed it to his own second-in-command.

  “Fulk, witness that this is the Lady Regent’s personal seal, and unbroken.”

  “I witness it, Sir Garrick.”

  The man went on in a loud official voice: “I am Sir Garrick Betancourt, belted knight and second son of the Baron of Bethany, Captain of Lancers in the Protector’s Guard under the Grand Constable of the Association, Baroness d’Ath. I will now break the seal and read this warrant.”

  He flicked off the wax with a thumbnail, undid the ribbon, and opened it.

  “The bearer has done what has been done by my authority, and for the good of the State. Signed, Sandra Arminger, Lady Regent of the Portland Protective Association, holder of the Crown’s rights in ward for the Princess Mathilda Arminger.”

  Yseult’s breath caught again. He could have them all killed, right now, with that backing him up. With a warrant like that you could do anything.

  “Fulk, witness that this is the Lady Regent’s signature.”

  “I witness it, Sir Garrick.”

  “By this warrant I am empowered to take possession of Gervais and arrest the Liu family as instructed.”

  He turned to Romarec. “Pack for her ladyship: two sets of underclothes, two dresses, two surcoats, a cloak. They should be old clothes, linen and wool only, shoes and warm boots, socks. Bed linen, a blanket, the silly things a woman needs to primp with and whatever sewing project she has in hand. My squire Kai will accompany you. Make sure you put nothing dangerous in the bundles.”

  “Scissors, sir?”

  “Bring them to me. They will be delivered to Fen House.”

  Romarec bobbed again, turned and turned back. “Fen House? Where is that?”

  “That is none of your concern. Mary Liu is being arrested for treason. She will be kept under wraps there until such a time as the Lady Regent believes she can move forward in this matter.”

  “Is House Liu proscribed or attaindered?” she asked.

  “That is none of your concern either,” answered the captain.

  Romarec drew herself up. “I have served House Liu for more than twenty years, my lord. I believe it is my concern.”

  He gave her a nod of grudging respect. “No. For now the demesne is going to be under my guardianship until the Lady Regent has tried the Dowager Baroness. All her children need to be present for that. At the very least you can expect her to be kept under arrest in Fen House until Lord Odard returns.”

  Tears leaked down Yseult’s cheeks at the thought of her brother, stinging in the burns.

  He’s so far away! He’s our lord but he can’t protect us now!

  Then she remembered Huon, her other brother, waiting for battle in Pendleton. What has happened to him? she wondered. Chaka likes Huon; he should be protected, but the Lady Regent . . . How could Mama put us at such a risk!

  Romarec left and returned after a time with three large duffel bags; the kind soldiers used to cart their kit to battle. Not the fine wooden trunks that opened into a traveling wardrobe her mother used to travel and visit in Association territories or to visit Court. Romarec picked a pair of tiny scissors—thread nippers—out of the work box and tied the basket up in a large napkin and stuffed it into the third duffel. The scissors she handed to Sir Garrick.

  “Good,” said the captain. “Now, attend. Do you know Alex Vinton?”

  The housekeeper bobbed a curtsy for a: “Yes, my lord Odar’s valet and manservant.”

  “Have you seen him in the last month or so, or even since he left?”

  The housekeeper shook her head, but Yseult gasped and burst out, “S-s-s-so tha-tha-that’s who tha-that was!”

  Sir Garrick turned and swiftly knelt by her. “Who, when?” he asked urgently.

  The hand was still pressing her down and her teeth were chattering as she said: “The man, I, I, I—I—”

  Sir Garrick frowned and said, “Let her up, soldier. A glass of water, please, Adolphus.”

  The chirurgeon brought the water as Sir Garrick helped her sit. She was trembling now, huge shudders traveling up and down her body as if powerful hands were shaking her. Her teeth chattered against the glass. Adolphus frowned and tilted her head, pulled at her eyelids and pressed her fingernails.

  “Shock,” he said. “It’s hot in here, but is there a blanket?”

  Romarec pulled one out of the cupboard and brought it over.

  “Open the windows. I want air in here, as long as we don’t shock her further with a sudden temperature drop.”

  The men silently moved aside and allowed the housekeeper to wrap up Yseult in the blanket. The windows all banged open. Yseult saw relief on the faces of many of the men crowding the stuffy room. The brisk evening air stirred bringing a medley of scents; cook fires, jasmine from the garden, the stables, and an odd thick iron smell.

  She saw Sir Garrick nod to an unspoken question from Romarec. The woman settled behind Yseult and hugged her.

  Adolphus put the glass to her mouth. “Sips,” he ordered. “Very, very small sips. You are in shock. If you try to gulp, you will choke.”

  Yseult sipped, and sipped again. Slowly the shudders settled down. But her tears still ran, stinging her left cheek as they slid over the burns. She saw Sir Garrick’s face, annoyed, but resigned.

  “Let her cry,” he said to the medic. “I’ll get nothing out of her until that’s over.”

  He knelt with a clank and put his hand under Yseult’s chin, the harsh calluses on his fingers like human sandpaper. It felt like her father’s hand o
r Odard’s.

  “I need the information, soonest, daughter of Gervais! Control yourself like a noblewoman. Quickly!”

  Yseult nodded and gulped . . . which started hiccups. Romarec chaffed her hands and rubbed her back. More handkerchiefs appeared at her gesture and Yseult breathed deeply. Her breath kept catching on her hiccups, but they faded away as she kept breathing and sipping from the glass Romarec held.

  Twice today, some distant part of her thought wryly. It’s turning out to be a real black letter day.

  Romarec gave her the glass, but her left hand wasn’t working and Adolphus had to catch it. “Saints Cosmas and Damien! What happened? How did you injure your wrist?” he asked probing.

  “Doo . . . doo . . . door . . . hit me . . .”

  “Where?”

  “Back.”

  Quick competent hands probed up and down her spine and shoulder blades. She twisted away as he touched where the door had hit her. He took her face again and tilted it.

  “Burns, rug and embers. Ah! From your mother’s gown. You must stop crying, you’ve washed them with enough salt water to clean them, that’s for sure, but it’s getting inflamed. I think you’ll have a few scars.

  He turned to Romarec: “Goodwife, get some soft cloths, soak them in water as cold as you can get it and dab at her face. Get the swelling under control. No arnica or witch hazel; this one’s too close to her eye. Just cool water.”

  Adolphus wrapped her wrist in a tight bandage and pinned it to the front of her riding jacket. She concentrated on sipping, holding the glass in her right hand.

  “I . . . I can talk, Sir, Sir Garrick,” she said.

  “Good girl! Ten minutes to control a hysterical fit, all on your own. You’ve got steel somewhere, Gervais.”

  She shook her head, tears still trickling down her cheeks. The left one stung and throbbed.

  “I—I went riding over the east bridle path today. I left the castle about five, five thirty. Master Johannsen might know exactly when.”

  “Were you just getting back when we saw you?” asked Garrick.

  She nodded. “I was going to find Jubal, the Captain of the watch and tell him. But my uncle yelled at me and I went to find Mama and forgot. A—a man, a—a beggar, I thought—tried to grab Iomedea’s reins from me about halfway along Parr Road, where it bends south. He looked at me, and I thought he looked familiar, but I couldn’t think of anyone . . . I hit him with my quirt and he jumped back behind the tall oak tree. I thought it was because I hit him, but, maybe it was because I wasn’t who he thought would come?”

  “And once I asked about Alex Vinton you remembered who it was?”

  Yseult flushed at the skeptical tone in his voice. “It was his eyes . . . That’s all that he couldn’t disguise. He was hunchbacked, dirty and had dreadlocks . . . Alex was always well dressed and clean and he taught us dance, and he was always very upright and picky about posture.”

  Yseult leaned back against Romarec, suddenly very tired.

  What an awful day! she thought and then had to control the hysterical giggles that threatened to set off the hiccups again at the utter banality of that.

  Sir Garrick stood back up and ordered a manhunt along the path.

  “Find that landmark and comb—fine-tooth comb—the entire area. We have to find him. Alive and able to talk if at all possible, but don’t let him escape even if you have to shoot.”

  She pressed the burning cheekbone into the soft, cool cloth, wiping her face with a sigh.

  “I guess that’s really bad? He must have come to talk to Mama?”

  Garrick looked down at her. “I wonder just how much you know and don’t know?” he asked thoughtfully.

  Yseult shuddered again and sipped more water. Breathe, she ordered herself. Sip. We are in so much trouble. I’d better not ask anything else.

  The wrapped, now still body of Lady Mary was carried out, along with the three duffel bags; diligently searched by Sir Garrick before being sent on. Yseult kept an unexpected smile off her face as the much detested white on white altar cloth popped out of the third bag. Yseult heard a thump. Sir Garrick leaned out of the window and waved her over. Romarec helped her up and over to the window. Her mother lay in an oxcart, the duffels holding her in place.

  “She’s off to Fen House, where she’ll stay until Lord Gervais returns. You’ll go to Todenangst, yourself. The Lady Regent summons you and your younger brother to await her pleasure. She told me to reassure you that Lady Mary will not be killed out of hand. Once Lord Odard is back she must stand trial for high treason and he must defend himself from the charges of accomplice . . . as must you and Huon.”

  Yseult gulped. The cart moved forward and she gasped, the gulp turning awry and she choked and coughed and wheezed desperately. Lying on the cobbles, in a pool of blood was the hapless, headless body of her much disliked Uncle Guelf.

  “Oh, poor Layella; lost her babe and now a widow,” exclaimed Romarec. She crossed herself and then grabbed Yseult as she swayed.

  “Where’s his head?” asked Yseult.

  Her voice sounded distant, beyond the heavy surf roaring in her ears. That makes three, spoke an unruly voice in the back of her mind.

  “Taken to be displayed on the traitor’s wall at Todenangst.”

  She decided that must have been Adolphus speaking, for Betancourt spoke right afterwards.

  “Sit her down. Romarec, pack for the girl. Include a set of court clothes, but mostly what I told you for her mother. She will need an attendant in Todenangst; not you, who?”

  Sparks danced before Yseult’s eyes and she concentrated on not throwing up. “Mistress Virgilia, the Lady Governess,” she heard. “Or the old nurse, Carmen Barrios. Her own maid is inexperienced.”

  “Not the nurse. I remember her; she’s very old. Virgilia . . . Would that be Virgilia Santos? A collateral of Baron Jacinto Gutierrez?”

  “Yes,” breathed Yseult.

  “She’ll do. Where is she?”

  Romarec patted Yseult on the shoulder. “I’ll bring her with the bags. Will you take Yseult away in a tumbrel as well?”

  “No; she’ll ride. She has two horses, I believe. I’ll send them with her, and one of the undergrooms.”

  “Goodwife,” said Yseult.

  Romarec stopped and looked back, “Yes, little one?”

  “If the captain allows, pack the books on my nightstand. There are several and they are my special favorites.”

  Sir Garrick gave a quick nod and Yseult wondered why none of the other men had taken off their helmets or gauntlets. She caught his eye.

  “What happens to my Aunt Layella, and her sister, poor Aunt Theresa, who was supposed to marry Uncle Jason? What will they do now? Can they stay at Loiston Manor? All the house of Gervais is gone or under arrest; we can’t protect them. Will you protect them? And where are Odo and Terry Reddings? And Sir Chezzy?”

  Sir Garrick grimaced. “All good questions. I don’t have answers for every one. Sir Harold Czarnecki was wounded on September fifteenth during the retreat from Pendleton.”

  She gasped and he frowned at her. “Yes, I suppose everybody will soon know. We broke our teeth on Pendleton. Boise and the CUT were there. With force much greater than we had expected. Czarnecki’s squire was killed in action. Young Odo Reddings was shipped out with Czarnecki and Terry’s body. They’re all at McKee Manor, as of this morning. And under guard. I am appointed steward for this land. My job is to determine how deep the rot has penetrated. Was it just your mother and uncle? Or are the rest of the adults in on it? We can’t risk them being Guelf’s agents or dupes.”

  Yseult shuddered. Sad Aunt Theresa, who had lost the child her Uncle Jason had left her pregnant with when he was captured and murdered on a mission for Gervais, was unthinkable as an agent of evil; much less gentle Aunt Layella who had lost her babe just six weeks ago. And this man, the Regent’s agent, would have to question them hard and long. She shuddered again and blotted quick tears as a sudden thought obtruded
. . .

  Terry! Dead? How much more death will I see today?

  The papers were sorted, docketed and bundled up, along with the charred fragments from the grate. Yseult could hear Sir Garrick’s men tramping through the castle, scaring the servants as they searched, their voices loud and echoing down the corridors. A few times she heard crashes.

  Sir Garrick cursed under his breath and strode to the entranceway.

  “This isn’t a sack! Have a care, there! Fulk, go see that they stay under control.”

  Yseult felt a glassy calm descending on her, and a huge weariness. The housekeeper brought three packed duffel bags in for her and her fleece-lined cloak. She huddled Yseult into it as she whispered, “Courage, dear heart. I’ll be waiting to hear good news of you.”

  For once Yseult didn’t care about the strictures on her conduct. With a sob she turned and hugged her, one armed.

  “Take care, take care!” she whispered. “I will pray for you.”

  “And I for you, chick.”

  “Will you give your oath to stay with your escort and not try to escape?” asked Sir Garrick.

  Yseult looked up at the knight with swimming eyes. “Yes,” she whispered. “Parole. I will cast myself on the mercy of the Lady Regent. I swear by God the Father, God the Son and the Holy Spirit, Amen.”

  She crossed herself and hesitated as the armored man gestured to the door.

  “But, please, can I take my Bernadette and my Immaculate Conception from the chapel? I—I was going to go there to pray this evening”—a short hysterical laugh escaped her—“but matters seem to have overtaken me! I promised.”

  Sir Garrick sighed and nodded. “I’ll take you there. Let me first check your bags.” He pulled everything out, shook each piece and repacked the bags. Just as neatly as Goodwife Romarec had done in the first place, she noted. Yseult sighed with relief to see her Bible, her first book on St. Bernadette, Our Lady’s Little Servant, the Werfel novel, Song of Bernadette, and Trochu’s serious work on her as well as the collected writings of Bernadette edited by Laurentin.

  At least I’ll have those, she thought, only briefly regretting the seven novels on her bookshelf.

  “Everything is in order here. Let’s go to the chapel. I’ll have to check everything you wish to bring.”