“Of course, master justiciar.” Von Madbury continued leering while Sir Gustav took his seat, somehow looking both incensed and wounded.
Sir Alaric’s gaze fell on me. A hard glare but with a softening need. Begging. He was begging me to stop. To reign it in. And not wanting to fight the big oaf in a square duel, I twitched a nod, remaining standing as King Eckhardt entered the hall. Stephan rose by my side.
“On yer feet.” Sir Alaric growled.
“Gentlemen…” Settling into his chair, King Eckhardt rubbed his furrowed brow. “Sir Alaric has apprised me of the … events that transpired at the church. Or, did not transpire, should I say?” His gaze fell to von Madbury then slid over to Sir Gustav who fairly writhed under his frigid appraisal. “Sir Gustav,” King Eckhardt maintained the pressure for some time before offering a lifeline, “it was a miscommunication, no doubt?”
“They were rabble, Your Highness.” Sir Gustav gripped the tablecloth. “Filthy. Stinking. Rabble. Unarmed for the main. Unarmored all. What good’s a fighting man who can’t stomach that?”
“A fair point,” von Madbury announced.
King Eckhardt’s eyes simmered cold. “A miscommunication, I said?”
Karl clutched his dagger beneath the table. So did I. So did everyone.
“Eh…?” It took a moment for the idea to crawl its way through Sir Gustav’s ears, burrow down the tunnel, skitter along the narrow confines, lodge itself like a mouse prick in his tiny brain. “A-aye, Your Highness.” Sir Gustav’s glare fell. He forced a nod. “T’was one of those. A-A miscommunication.”
“For the plan had been set,” King Eckhardt said, “and was rather straightforward, was it not?”
“Y-Your Majesty, I apologize. Aye.” Sir Gustav inflated his chest. “T’was my command. I … I was concerned that with the fighting men gone from the keep for so long, trouble might strike here, and this — this stranger,” he pointed at me with a sausage finger, “was taking his blessed time. Gabbing like a magpie with that loathsome scourger.” He stifled a sideways glance to von Madbury. “But, aye, it was on my order. So,” he offered a shit-bow, “my apologies. Again.”
King Eckhardt’s gaze set upon me next. “Is that sufficient, Sir Luther?”
“I believe we’re still owed a flogging.” I took a pull of brandy, swallowed, wiped my chin.
Sir Gustav’s eyes bulged bloodshot wide.
“You speak of debts?” King Eckhardt studied me, lips pressed together, eyes hangdog weary. “Is it not also truth that you owe me a head?”
I glanced at Karl. He’d returned before dinner with the sad-sack news that the Nazarene had given him the slip somewhere on the south-side.
“It’ll get done,” I said.
“Then I shall expect it. And soon.”
“Yeah. Sure. Soon.”
“Your Majesty,” Stephan set his napkin down and stood, “might we not address the miracle we all bore witness to?”
Lady Ludmilla whispered behind her hand to Lady Tourmaline, just awakened. The men remained silent, their glares iron barbs aimed Stephan’s way.
King Eckhardt took a slow measured sip. “Sir Alaric spoke to me of it at length. I wish I had been present to bear witness for, indeed, it seems beyond the realm of man. Into the realm of biblical legend. I would hear from someone better versed in such matters.” He glanced down the table. “Father Gregorius, if you would be so kind?”
“Yes, Your Majesty, certainly. Ahem.” Father Gregorius dabbed his chin with his napkin, pushed back his seat and rose, straightening his vestment. “Gentlemen, I am no inquisitor to be wholly expert in such matters. But,” he raised a finger, “I am a man of God, and the event described so lucidly by Sir Alaric can fall into but one of two categories. It was either a miracle of the Lord God himself or magic of the blackest sort. Are we all in agreement?”
A scattered draggle of unsure heads bobbed up and down, nodding stupidly. At best. A bunch of idiots in class, looking down, away, hoping the professor wouldn’t call on them. Down the table, someone burped, Harwin, possibly.
“I would agree,” Stephan said.
“I’d place it firmly in the realm of black magic, Your Majesty,” von Madbury announced with all the confidence born of ironclad ignorance.
“And heresy!” Brother Miles smote the table.
“You two must have eyes in the back of your heads,” I commented.
“I’ve borne enough of your jibes, Sir Luther.” Brother Miles stroked his greying mustache.
“Your Majesty, this Nazarene brought a man back from death.” Stephan glanced down the table. “With the exception of the ladies present, we all bore witness. Every single one. The Nazarene reached into the man’s breast and withdrew a crossbow bolt from within. He breathed new life into him.” He looked to me, eyes begging for agreement. “Was that not what you saw?”
“Yeah.” I cleared my throat. “It was a kill-shot, Your Majesty. Without a doubt.”
“But was this fellow indeed dead?” Father Gregorius’s eyes narrowed.
“Truly? I don’t know,” I admitted. “Didn’t get a shot at examining him up close. But he was down. The bolt buried in his heart. And I’ve seen men not die immediately from such a wound. But the bastard’s bags were packed, and he’d set foot on Charon’s skiff, that’s for damn sure.”
“Be that as it may,” Father Gregorius lifted his bible in emphasis, “I would err on the side of black magic. I have difficulty believing the Lord our God blessed a derelict such as this Nazarene with one of the many powers of Christ.”
“Your Majesty, please, let me parley with him.” Stephan rose. “If this Nazarene can indeed raise the dead, or heal the wounded, would that not be worth something? What if in truth he is the reason you’ve remained untouched by plague as many have claimed? Would that not be worth saving? Understanding? And, yea, indeed, harnessing? Has there not been enough death and drek in these fell times?”
“I’ll not argue you on that score, young Stephan,” King Eckhardt admitted, “but this fellow represents a threat to me and my kingdom. I believe you had a hand in clearing the town square?”
“I did, Your Majesty.”
“So you saw. And I thank you for the service. As well for the other services you’ve provided with regards to Father Demtry and my people.”
“He crucified all those folk.” Father Gregorius dabbed his chin with a napkin.
“Not to mention the Jews he drove out or murdered,” I added.
“Yes, Sir Luther, though,” Father Gregorius raised a finger, “there is some precedence in the canon for such deeds. Why, during the First Crusade, Pope Urban II sanctioned the murder of—”
“Barbarity,” Stephan scoffed.
“Nay, boy. Pontiffs throughout the ages have Christened them infidels, have they not?” Father Gregorius locked gazes with Stephan. “And indeed, Urban II went so far as to state that he would grant absolution to any party committing such acts of filial religiosity. Why, I believe—”
“Filial … religiosity?” I muttered, but Stephan was on it.
“Whole cities were burned for that absolution.” Stephan was ready to launch across the table and bury his hook hand in Father Gregorius’s eye. It would’ve been something to see under other circumstances.
“Surely you question not the doctrine of papal infallibility?” It was Father Gregorius’s turn to be offended.
“Which pope?” Stephan asked coolly. “The one in Rome or the one in Avignon? The Great Schism has muddied the waters.”
“Remember Paris—” I kicked Stephan’s foot under the table, hoping to jog memories of that fine city. He’d had a similar exchange there, where a mob incited by some bastard priest had nearly burned him at the stake over a similar misunderstanding. Or heresy. Or witchcraft. Depending on your point of view.
“The Lord our father is the Alpha and Omega,” Father Gregorius bulled onward, “the beginning and the end and thus encompasses all in his vast cosmic embrace.”
&n
bsp; “Or perhaps he’s simply the beginning and the end?” Stephan countered. “And perhaps everything in between is us. Only us. Our lives. Our choices. Our triumphs. Our failures.”
“Blasphemy.” Father Gregorius cast his napkin aside. “Heresy!”
“Barbarism!” Stephan spat. “You advocate the killing of—”
“Hey, fucking cool it, would you?” I hissed out the corner of my mouth.
Stephan opened his mouth to retort when I dropped a hand on his shoulder. A heavy hand. A crushing hand. I dug my fingers in and pulled him around til we were eye to eye. “Have a drink, brother.” I shoved my flagon in his face and tilted it back, forcing him to drink lest he stain his best shirt. His only shirt. “Relax. They’re already dead.”
“Not all of them,” Stephan hissed low, snatching the flagon away, taking a sip, and only maybe the hint. “And there’s still more dying. Daily. In the wood camp. Up at the old keep. Judas Priest, in this very yard. That blackguard you hunted is still alive, still stalking folk, still killing them.”
“Baseless gossip garnered, no doubt, from the riff-raff in the yard.” Father Gregorius locked glares with Stephan. “The small-folk are meant to live and to toil and to die, for that is their lot in life. Sometimes they have difficulty discerning fact from fable.”
Stephan held his ground. “A boy went missing from the Grey-Lark camp last night.”
“Rudiger’s dead,” I said. “He ain’t killing anyone, brother.”
“Well, Lou,” Stephan took a gulp of wine, “someone is.”
…located near a mile from the clan-holt. We fortified the site with earthen works and a central tower. From thus, we made our initial forays…
—War-Journal of Prince Ulrich of Haeskenburg
Chapter 23.
NORTH THROUGH THE GREY-LARK FOREST, we commenced a new hunt. For a new killer. Three days shot to shit, and still nothing but more folk going dark. More sleepless nights tracking rumor and gossip with all but shit to show. I was haggard, spent, dreaming of sleep on my last two legs when I knocked on their door. “You rang?”
In the corner, Lady Mary sat cross-legged by the hearth, playing some hand-clap game with Sarah and Joshua. It looked like a shoddy affair, but the children were smiling, giggling, carrying on. A fine thing to see for once. Juxtaposed against that was Ruth’s look of consternation at my arrival, confirming that she, in fact, had not rung for me, would never ring for me, would deign only to allow me in because Abraham had in fact rung for me. “Sir Luther…” She said it the way most people say crabs, and not the ocean kind.
“What is it, my lady?” I glanced past her to the figure lying motionless abed. He looked roughly the same but diminished somehow. By degrees, perhaps, but that’s why they called it consumption. “Is he…?”
“Oy vey.” Ruth trembled. “No, not…”
I let loose a bated breath. Good. Having the children and Lady Mary carousing through children’s games in view of a cooling corpse would’ve paled even my stunted sense of decorum.
“It…” Ruth rose, unconsciously smoothing her hair, frizzed out in uneven jags. “It was I who wished to speak with you. Sir Luther. Might we?” She hesitated a moment, her hand on Abraham’s shoulder, frozen, unable to move. “In the hall, perhaps?”
Lady Mary glanced up, lips pursed, mid-clap with Sarah. “Go on, Ruth.” Lady Mary stood and smoothed out her skirts. “I’ll sit by him.”
“Thank you, my lady.” Ruth’s eyes were blood-shot like she hadn’t slept in days. Like maybe since we’d got here. Like maybe since ever.
I glanced down the hall. It was early, desolate, dawn. I’d had trouble sleeping even when the chance presented itself, the thought of Rudiger’s arms gripping, his crushing embrace, me unable to breathe, hovering just beyond the veil. Cold sweats and hot panic. That’s what awaited me whenever I closed my eyes. New nightmares ever in supply to supplant the old. “It’s cold out here.”
“I shall survive.” Ruth gathered her shawl then shouldered through the doorway, easing it shut with a protracted squeak.
“I’ll have that greased for you.”
“No, no. It has to be...” Ruth knelt by the door, laying her open palm against its smooth surface, running it down to the floor, from hinge to knob, inspecting it close, studying the grain. “It has to…”
“Uh,” I paused, “what, ‘has to,’ my lady?”
Ruth glanced over her shoulder, exasperated. “They changed the door.” She gripped her lower lip, muttering to herself. “They must have. It looks the same, but…”
“Who … ah … changed the door?”
“I heard them last night. Scratching.” Ruth shook her head and scoured the surface again. “Deep. Long. And I heard them creeping down the hall. So soft. So quiet.” She tapped her ear. “But I heard.”
“Who?”
“I … I don’t know.” A facial tic distorted her face. “And I heard his voice again.” She licked her cracked lips. “Last night. He was talking. Saying. I don’t know what he was saying.”
“You’re not really narrowing it down.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“Was it von Madbury? Lady Mary said—”
“Von-who?” She grimaced, waving a hand, “I … I don’t know.”
“Been getting any shut-eye, Ruth?”
“Admittedly, I … I’ve had my difficulties.” She bit her lip, nodding to herself, offering one last glare at the door. A glare full of venom. Of disgust. Betrayal. “Forget the door. Forget it. The door’s not important.” She reached beneath her shawl. “Here. It’s for you.”
“It…?” I half-expected a shank to the gut.
Clutched in Ruth’s harpy claw was a letter. “It’s addressed to you.”
“From?” I took it.
“Someone placed it in our laundry.” Ruth chewed her nails. “I don’t know who. But your name’s on it.” She pointed, “There,” and retracted her hand like I was a bear-trap set to make her Lady Mary’s twin. “See?”
I flipped it over, waved it, half-bowed. “Many thanks.”
As I turned to leave, her hand lit upon my elbow. “Sir Luther…”
I paused. “What is it?”
“They say there’s a man in Haeskenburg who can heal the wounded.” Ruth was wasted, shivering, looking worse than I felt. And I felt like hammered shit. “A man who can c-cure the sick. The afflicted. A man who might…” Her lips pursed hard, strangling her last words.
Fuck. “You’ve been talking to Stephan, yeah?” The bastard had gone blabbing behind my back, hamstringing me with my debt to Abraham. Maybe I wouldn’t kill the bastard Nazarene if he could cure Abe. That was the play, anyways.
“It matters not with whom I speak.” Ruth rose up straight, trembling. “What matters is whether it is possible. Whether this story holds truth? Please, Sir Luther, I beg of you, tell me. Is there such a man?”
“Truth’s not always cut and dry.”
“I don’t know what that means. It sounds like waffling. Like obfuscation. It sounds like prevarication.”
“I don’t know what any of those words mean, though I am partial to waffles.”
Her eyes blazed. “Is there a man in this town with a gift for healing?”
I took a breath. Bloody fucking Stephan. “At the old church, I saw something I can’t explain. We all saw it.” I laid a hand on the door. “A miracle? Black magic? Trickery? I don’t know.”
“Tell me what you saw.”
So I told her.
Tears welled up in her eyes. “A man who can draw back the caul of death.”
“Even if that’s what I saw, he’s allegedly a Christian, and you—”
“Are merely a Jew. Yes. Thank you for clearing that up. Be that as it may, do you think — is it possible he could cast away Abraham’s sickness?” Ruth snatched at my arm with raptor talons. “Is it possible?”
“I don’t know.” I raised my hands. “Honestly.” I peeled her fingers off my arm, firmly, gently. T
hey felt like dried twigs. “I think it unlikely.”
“Unlikely, yes. But, do you believe,” she foundered on a jagged shoal of hope, “it might be possible?”
“I don’t know, my lady.” Not after I bash in his skull. “He’s gone to ground.” Slit his throat. “He’s a scourger.” Cut off his bloody head. “A Christian scourger.” I let that sink in, fester, spread.
“And you’re a Christian, yes?” Ruth sneered. “A Christian who owes me. Owes Abraham. Owes us everything, might I remind you?”
“No need.”
“Then do what you can. Do it soon. Do it now.”
“Sure.” I nodded curtly. “What I can…”
Her eyes narrowed. “And bring us a bible.”
“I brought one.”
“No. A New Testament. A Christian Bible.”
“Shh…” I finger to my lips as glanced down the hallway. “Loose lips, my lady.”
“Such a comfort. Knowing only the aegis of ignorance lies between our survival and utter demise.”
“They won’t know,” I lied.
“And if they do?”
“I’ll handle it.”
She eyed me balefully then offered a nod. “If a Christian could perform miracles on behalf of a Jew, would he?”
“I suppose there’s a first for everything.” I turned the letter over as Ruth closed the door.
There was no imprint in the wax seal other than an indent from someone’s thumb. The poor man’s seal. I waited til Ruth’d gone back to her personal Purgatory, if that was a Jewish thing, before I cracked it open. It was short. Sweet. Written in a hand that was either a child’s or someone just learning to write. It specified a place and a time. No wasted effort: Courtyard. Tent City. Noon. Alone.
The Last Benediction in Steel Page 15
