The Godspeaker Trilogy

by Karen Miller

  But he was alone. Alone with a dead man and cheeses and hams.

  “God have mercy,” he muttered. “I’m losing my mind.”

  He remained in the cellar with Ven’Martin, praying.

  God, show me the path to take. Show me how to serve you. Show me what I must do to save my uncle from the darkness. Show me how I can return him to your light.

  He heard no more strange voices. No more breezes stirred the cellar. His heart, so disquieted, found its peace again. And when the innkeeper came down to him with a message that it was just on dawn and he was wanted by the queen and her council … he knew without a whisper of doubt what it was he had to do.

  “What?” said Duke Edward. “Man, are you salt-brained ?”

  “Edward,” murmured Rhian. “Temper your language.”

  “Forgive me, Your Majesty,” said Duke Edward, pink with emotion. “But Chaplain Helfred is salt-brained if he thinks to march into Marlan’s clutches and survive the encounter with a whole skin!”

  Helfred stood before Their Majesties and the dukes, who were seated round the public dining room’s long table. The queen looked sleepless, the king like a bowstring pulled too tight. They sat side by side … yet separated by a distance as wide as the river.

  Zandakar stands between them. He is hazardous, like rocks.

  He cleared his throat. “Your Grace, you may call me salt-brained, you may call me daffy-doddled, you may call me any uncouth epithet you like. But the fact remains that Venerable Martin lies dead beneath us in a cellar. He must be returned to the bosom of the Church so he might be reposed and prayed for and buried.”

  “Buried with holy rites?” said King Alasdair. “Within the precinct of a church? Ven’Martin? Are you mad, Chaplain, to offer such an insult to Her Majesty’s face?”

  The three dukes were glaring, grossly affronted by the idea of Ven’Martin receiving any kind of grace. Clearly they wished him tossed nameless in a deep hole dug by labourers in an unknown field.

  He kept his hands clasped loosely before him. “Your Majesties … Your Graces. I appreciate this is a difficult morning. I imagine we have all struggled overnight with Ven’Martin’s death. However—”

  “However?” said Duke Rudi, pugnacious. He was like a Keldravian fighting dog, overmuscled and swift to the throat. A good man for Rhian to have on her side but wearisome when it came to tempering with commonsense. “There’s no however here, Chaplain. Ven’Martin was a conniving would-be killer, sent here by Marlan to butcher Ethrea’s queen. He was filth, man. He was—”

  “Your Grace, please,” said Helfred quickly. “While we must deplore Ven’Martin’s actions it’s not your place or mine to condemn him out of hand. He’s a son of the Church. Only the Court Ecclesiastica can assess his culpability.”

  “And who is it heads your precious Court?” sneered Duke Adric. “I believe it’s the prolate, is it not? I think I see a problem there, Chaplain, since it was the prolate who sent Ven’Martin to kill the queen.”

  God save me, God save me . The letter from Marlan burned in his pocket. If he showed it to them they would never let him go. They would use it to bring Marlan crashing down from his great height … and in doing so might well destroy the Church too.

  I cannot allow that. God’s Church must survive.

  “That is what Ven’Martin said,” he replied. “But the word of a dead man is not proof, Your Grace. I always suspected Ven’Martin’s devotion to my uncle was of an order inclining him to … rashness. When I return his body to the capital I shall request an audience with the Court Ecclesiastica and tell them of his claim. The Court will investigate. It’s empowered to judge even a prolate. If I can convince them my uncle has—has—”

  “Lost his reason and run amok?” said the king. “You’re a fool, Helfred. Marlan will deny everything and the Court will never support you over him.”

  “Helfred …” Rhian cleared her throat. “You can’t go. The Court Ecclesiastica has declared you anathema. If you show your face to its members or your uncle …”

  He’d known it from the moment she’d said Ven’Artemis had come for him, but even so the words were a blow. Cut off from the comfort of the Church …

  Echoing faintly in his memory, that strange, unknown voice: Helfred, have courage. Follow your convictions and keep the faith .

  Was it Mr Jones’ Hettie … or just his own frightened heart? And did it really matter? The advice was sound.

  He bowed. “Your concern for me is humbling, Majesty. But how can I ask the people of Ethrea to defy Marlan and his Court if I’m not prepared to defy them myself?”

  She had no answer. She knew he was right.

  “Besides,” he added, “Ven’Martin’s body cannot remain in the cellar. Nor can you take it with you when you leave. You must distance yourself from what transpired last night, Majesty.”

  “I can’t pretend it didn’t happen, Helfred! I can’t pretend I didn’t—” Uncomfortable silence, as Rhian fought to retain her composure. “I can’t pretend.”

  Poor child. If only he had time to counsel her. “Majesty, of course not. But neither can you allow this tragedy to divert you from your greater purpose.”

  “He’s right,” said Duke Rudi. “Old Scooton has a chapel and a bevy of venerables who support the queen. Why can’t we—”

  “ No, Rudi,” said Rhian. “Telling Old Scooton’s venerables who Ven’Martin is and how he died would create more problems than I have time to solve. And we can’t see him buried under false pretences. Not only would it be wrong, we’d be undone soon enough. We’ve sworn the innkeeper and his staff to silence but news like this finds a way to spread.”

  As the dukes muttered amongst themselves, and Rhian exchanged dark looks with the king, Helfred took a step closer to her.

  “Your Majesty, you must see there is no other course of action. Let me return to Kingseat with Ven’Martin and do what my vows demand must be done for his soul.”

  “Oh, Helfred …” Rhian sat forward, eyes intent. More than ever she looked her father’s daughter. “I’ve already kept you safe from Marlan once. Now you want me to hand-deliver you?”

  “I want you to be a great queen,” he said. “Your father spent his life keeping state and Church apart. You’ve defied Marlan to see that legacy kept alive. Queen Rhian, this is Church business. It’s my spiritual duty to take Ven’Martin home and see that he’s prayed for so his soul might be cleansed. If you are the queen you think yourself to be, you’ll not presume to interfere with that.”

  As her council gasped and muttered Rhian gave him a faint, mocking smile. “And there speaks the Helfred who once drove me to distraction. I was beginning to wonder where he’d gone.” She glanced at her council. “Gentlemen, I would have private speech with my chaplain.”

  Reluctantly obedient, the king and the dukes withdrew. As soon as they were alone Rhian leapt up from her chair and began to pace her makeshift council chamber.

  “I could forbid you leaving, you know,” she said, glaring at him. “I could truss you hand and foot and toss you into that wretched peddler’s van. I could tie you to the tail of Zandakar’s horse.”

  He nodded. “Yes, Your Majesty. You could. But you won’t.”

  “Oh, won’t I?” she demanded. “For a pimpled, outcast chaplain you’re terribly sure of yourself.”

  He touched his freshly pustuled chin, suddenly self-conscious. “Ursa gave me some ointment. It doesn’t seem to work.”

  She banged her fist on the table in passing. “This isn’t only about Ven’Martin’s soul, is it? You think you can save your uncle.”

  Yes indeed, she was her father’s daughter. Shrewd. Astute. A keen judge of men’s hearts.

  “If I say yes, will you call me disloyal?”

  “For not abandoning your family? No. Of course I won’t. But Helfred—” Rhian stopped her pacing. “You have to know he can’t be redeemed.”

  “I do not know that, Majesty. Nor do you. And to claim otherwise is arro
gance unbecoming to the Crown.”

  Her chin came up, her eyes glittering with temper. “Lecturing me again, Helfred?”

  “Indeed, Majesty. When it’s warranted.”

  Hipshot against the table she considered him, brooding. “You can’t honestly believe you’ve a hope of swaying Marlan from his course against me.”

  “Your Majesty …” He spread his hands wide. “I honestly believe God wants me to try. And since it seems we’re in a new age of miracles—who knows? With his grace I might yet avert a bloody, destructive confrontation between you.”

  “You might. But I doubt it. And I can’t give you unlimited time to try. The longer I stay here the more dangerous is my position. I must push on to Kingseat, Helfred. I must reclaim the castle and take hold of my crown.” Rhian shivered. “Or lose it, I fear. I am endangered by more than Marlan. The great nations will not stay their hands forever. I’m amazed they’ve stayed them for as long as this.”

  “They respected your father, Majesty,” he said. “As his daughter, they respect you. And whatever you wrote to them, they respect that.”

  The look she gave him was almost grateful. “I’ll stay here one more day, Helfred. You have that long to change your uncle’s mind. But by noon tomorrow I will be on the road for Kingseat.”

  One meagre day? It wasn’t enough. But he could see she’d not grant him more. He bowed. “Majesty.”

  She began pacing again, like a high-mettled mare constrained in its box. “You must know meeting with Marlan might put you in danger of your life. I’ve already killed one man. I don’t think I could live with myself if—” She flung him an angry, anguished glance. “I might not like you, Helfred, but I don’t want you dead!”

  “I’m aware of the danger, Your Majesty,” he said. “I cannot let it deter me.”

  “Damn you,” she said quietly. “I liked it far better when you were just a prosing bore.” She sighed. “Very well. Go.”

  He was at the door when her voice stopped him. “No. Wait.”

  He turned. “Majesty?”

  Her searing pain had been thrust back into hiding. She looked like a queen again, austere and self-controlled.

  “If you can be foolhardy, so can I. When you see Marlan give him a message. Provided of course he doesn’t immediately throw you in a cell.”

  “Certainly, Majesty. What should I tell him?”

  “That I have no desire for conflict between us. For Ethrea’s sake, for the sake of its Church and its people, I am willing to forgive his crimes against me. He can’t remain prolate, but I’ll take no action beyond that. In the name of peace I’ll see him discreetly and comfortably retired. He’ll want for nothing, he has my word.”

  He blinked. “Majesty, you are … magnanimous.”

  “No, Helfred, I’m practical,” she said, grimacing. “No good purpose is served in airing this dirty linen. I’ll have troubles enough convincing the ambassadors I’m capable of keeping their masters’ many interests safe without making my first act as queen a declaration of war on the Church.”

  It was a bold move. A clever move. “Your Majesty, I’ll tell him. But I must be honest with you … I doubt he’ll agree.”

  A small smile, unsettling and most definitely unamused, curved Rhian’s lips. “Well, Helfred, that’s his choice. And his misfortune if he’s stupid enough to turn me down.”

  It took him less than half an hour to be ready for the journey. During that brief time he hid Marlan’s letter in the peddler’s van. Faith in God he might have, but to take such incriminating evidence with him to his uncle’s palace would be the act of a naïve fool.

  Marlan’s words are blazoned on my heart. If I must I’ll quote them to him and he will know I do not lie.

  The innkeeper gave him one of the inn’s light carts and a carthorse for the journey. Together they saw Ven’Martin’s body placed in the back and covered with burlap to confound curious, prying eyes.

  With a puffing grunt Helfred climbed onto the driving seat, picked up the reins and slapped them on the sleepy horse’s rump. By Rhian’s order no-one gathered to wish him godspeed. His departure was to be discreet and unremarkable. But as the cart rumbled forward he looked over his shoulder and up at the inn … and caught a glimpse of Rhian at a window, her face half hidden by its muslin curtain. When she realised that he’d seen her she nodded once. So regal.

  The last thing he saw, as he left the inn’s courtyard, was her small strong hand pressed against the window’s glass.

  Nearly three hours after leaving Old Scooton he reached his final fork in the road. Continue straight ahead and he’d end up in the capital. Turn left and cross the Ethling riverlet and he’d find himself at the Prolates Palace gates. He turned left, his heart thudding. The breeze was brisk and salty, coming in off the distant harbour. It was still full of ships. Trade continued unaffected, it seemed.

  That will please Her Majesty. God willing, once Marlan’s dealt with, life will swiftly regain its balance.

  Thanks to the duchy’s soldiery the road was clear now, so close to the castle and his uncle’s palace. For most of his journey he’d had to push his way through gathered and gathering crowds. Word had spread from Old Scooton that Rhian was coming. Her eager subjects had plagued him with questions, clamouring to know if she came close behind.

  He’d pleaded ignorance and forged his slow way onwards.

  Does Marlan realise the depth and breadth of her support? Does he understand how the people love her? Or does his own hate blind him to the truth?

  He was terribly afraid his uncle didn’t realise, or if he did simply didn’t care. And if that was the case, what hope did he have of making Marlan accept Rhian’s unexpected and generous offer?

  Dear God, give me wisdom. Dear God, give me strength. Please let me reach him and turn this kingdom from the brink.

  There were six Kingseat soldiers at the Palace’s rear gates. Never in its history had soldiers been stationed there, barring the entrance of God’s chosen servants. For a moment he could only sit in the cart, blinking furiously to clear his blurred vision.

  “What do you want, Chaplain?” their commander demanded. “Do you have official business or have you come to gawk?”

  It was on the tip of his tongue to reprimand the man. But that would be foolish, so he breathed out his offence and let his face settle into a kind, harmless smile.

  “God bless you, soldier. I’m Chaplain Henry from Daylesbury parish. I’m come to serve a spell in the palace archives. God bless me, it’s an honour. Would you look at the beautiful building? I declare I’m so moved I could lead us all in prayer right this mome—”

  “Get on,” said the soldier, waving him past.

  “God bless you, soldier,” said Helfred, and hurried through the gates before the man changed his mind.

  In the palace stableyard he took a young groom aside. “Stand with this cart, man,” he told the lay-servant. “Don’t let it out of your sight … and don’t look in the back. If anyone asks it’s the prolate’s private business. God bless you and keep you. Disobey my instructions, you’ll imperil your soul.”

  “Cha—cha—chaplain!” the groom stuttered. “I won’t!”

  Walking into his uncle’s ecclesiastical residence was the most terrifying thing Helfred had ever done. Every breath was a prayer, every step a beseechment.

  God give me strength. God give me courage. God give me the wisdom to prevail. God give me strength …

  He was so scared he wanted to vomit.

  His arrival was noticed immediately, of course. Doubtless he was notorious by now. As he entered through the palace’s elaborate doors, as he crossed its vast marble entrance hall, as he trod the sweeping staircase up to the first floor, hostile gazes and agitated whispers followed him. He ignored them. He’d known he’d have no friends in this place, not even one or two clandestine supporters. Venerables and chaplains, modestly robed devouts, they all glared and muttered and kissed their thumbs at his passing. Prayer beads ra
ttled. He wished he could rattle his own.

  He found his uncle in the library.

  “So,” said Marlan, standing before his enormous oak desk. “My prodigal nephew is returned to the fold.” He extended his hand, expecting it to be kissed.

  Helfred halted before him and did not kiss his hand. “Your Eminence.”

  The strain of the past weeks showed plainly upon his uncle’s face. Marlan’s cheeks had lost flesh and his bloodshot eyes were sunken. Ringed with shadows. He looked unwell.

  I have done this to him. In helping Rhian I have brought him so low. But I have no regrets. God, give me strength.

  His uncle’s outstretched hand clenched into a fist. The holy ring on his finger winked in the afternoon sunshine filtering through the tall, leadlight window.

  “Why are you here, Helfred? Do you come for my forgiveness? If so, you have wasted a journey. I told you once, our blood-tie will not absolve you from blame.” He lowered his arm, eyes burning with hate. “You traitorous lickspittle little turd, you must have the intellect of a flea to come into my palace. After all you’ve done? With anathema pronounced upon you? The intellect of a flea .”

  God give me strength … “Your Eminence, I come with an offer of clemency from Her Majesty.”

  “Her Majesty?” said his uncle. A small muscle flicked beside his spider-veined right eye. He was surprised. He was waiting for news of her death.

  “Yes, Prolate,” said Helfred, his mouth shrivelled dry. “Cease your unlawful opposition to her reign and she will forgive your many manifest sins. You will be permitted to retire from the prolateship and—”

  “She forgives me?” said Marlan, incredulous. “Rhian the harlot? Rhian the whore? That unrepentant disobedient degenerate bitch forgives me ? And you presume to bring her insult yourself ?”

  “It is no insult, Marlan, but a generous—”

  His uncle’s brutal hand struck him across the face, its ring splitting his cheek wide where once before a whip had cut it. Scarlet pain blinded him and blood slicked his skin.