Fool, no one gets home, Josselin thought. Dragging his feet on the cobbles, he moved towards the light. The fresh wind blew away the gaol’s stench. The winter sunrays made his eyes squint. In front of the prison, the surviving citizens had gathered. Unafraid of the disease anymore, all those who were able to stand filled the square. Surprisingly, their emaciated and pale faces contrasted with the richness of their garments. Josselin supposed that, with the drastic reduction of the population, the goods of the deceased had made the fortune of others.
In the middle of the crowd, at the end of the guards’ line, a stage had been constructed. As he drew nearer, Josselin saw the blood spread on and around it like a poppy—the flower’s heart being the executer’s block. No. Probably, no one had made it home.
It wasn’t even Louis’s fault. Under a canopy on the side, the king was present. Yet, though the Crown had staged the forms, it was the crowd that fixed the trial and the sentence. Absent, and thus unwilling to give his opinion on the matter, the king had decided that each person arrested for a crime would go through a public trial. Given over to public prosecution, each suspect would face the consequences of his deeds according to their gravity—freedom or death were the only sentences. Among the prisoners, Josselin had seen common thieves stand alongside bloodthirsty gang members who had survived the melee. When he had expected the crowd to save half of them, the blood on the pavement showed otherwise. The people were burning for revenge and saw in the criminals the scapegoats for their own loss.
Discreetly, Josselin glanced in the direction of the dais. Only the king sat amidst the square of royal guards. Considering how physically devastated his friends had returned, Josselin could understand Selen’s absence. His eyes lingered on Louis, who, inspecting a mold on his chair with the tips of his fingers, seemed lost in thought. Neglecting the carving, Louis scanned the crowd with a scornful glare before his eyes fell on him. The corner of Louis’s mouth pinched and curved before he broke his stare. Though sorry, Josselin knew Louis wouldn’t interfere, and it was better that way.
Kilda was gone and wouldn’t return. They had made her condition sound severe. She was probably dead by now. If he hadn’t known better, Josselin would have concluded that she had run away with Lissandro. Not only had the man understood her better than he had, but he had stayed at her side, while he had been a pathetic spouse. He had let their child die, had been unfaithful, had failed his household, and had outlived valiant men like Urian. It was not for murder that he should be tried, but for his vile existence. Let’s put an end to this.
Consumed by guilt, Josselin climbed the steps. As the crowd quietened, he knelt on the bloody planks in front of the block. The executioner made a step to the side. From the dais, the herald spoke out.
“In the name of King Louis and the people of Trevalden, you, Josselin of Langdon of House Khorkina, are tried on the charge of murdering one of your household. Receive your sentence.”
Staring at the crimson smears on the wood, Josselin waited for the crowd’s bellow. Among the hesitant, first boos, one voice rose that silenced the others.
“Life!”
No. Not life. I don’t want it. He waited for the crowd to scoff at the fool, but the voice spoke again, calm and patient.
“Me and my companions are the first concerned. We request life.” The crowd buzzed, but no other voice rose to object the sentence.
“Then life it is,” the herald said.
As he had been ready for the blow, angst grew in Josselin. “Remind them I kneel here for murder,” Josselin whispered to the executioner.
He cast a glance at the axe. He could still throw himself on it before his will diminished. It would be a bloody mess—and it would hurt—but it would be on a stage, by someone else’s hand. He feared he was too weak to take his own life once back home, in the darkness of his chambers. Should he be set free, he would clench to scraps of life like a coward—fantasizing reasons to keep on living.
“They know your crime,” the executioner mumbled, distant. The man grabbed his armpit and pulled him up. “See it as your lucky day.” Pushed roughly along, Josselin stumbled down the steps and fell onto the pavement. “Next,” the executioner said behind him as he returned to the scaffold. Footsteps approached.
“You condemned me to live,” Josselin grouched.
“I said you should face trial,” the polite, familiar voice said. “I didn’t wish for you to die. We all learn to live with our faults.” The feet swiveled on their heels. “I will have Alis prepare your dinner, my lord.”
As Pierce walked away, Josselin burst into tears.
45
Folc laid his foot on a stool. He had just arrived in the capital with the last convoy. A rest on a steady seat was more than welcome. In his hand on the thick blankets, he held Brother Benedict’s cold hand. The monk’s flabby skin perspired a greasy moisture, and the protruding veins quivered. His complexion was beige, like a rough parchment made of old goat skin. His brow and cheeks drowned in a permanent sweat which released an acrid smell. His sparse, white hair stuck to his scalp. Though conscious—judging from the feeble moans Folc could hear—Brother Benedict hadn’t opened his eyes yet.
Behind him, the doctors and priests who had come with the convoys buzzed around between the beds to nurse the remaining sick. Not all would survive, but at least they had a chance now. The doctors had taken over the grey nurses’ authority. The sect still worked among them, but the devotees were now relegated to the subordinated tasks of cooking, laundry, and accompanying the patients through their everyday routine. Since he had been here, the windows had been opened thrice, and half of the beds had had their sheets replaced for fresh ones. Folc suspected the place hadn’t been that clean a few days ago.
“Here is your broth, Brother.” Selen settled at the monk’s side. “But first, you have to take your drops and infusion.”
From a small flask, Selen counted ten drops he poured in a cup. With a hand on his neck, he gently lifted the monk’s head and approached his sunken lips to the rim. Brother Benedict moaned. His eyelids fluttered, and his hands lifted up. When they reached his chest, Selen placed another cup in them. The trembling hands closed on it. Steam rose over the cup.
“What do you give him?” Folc asked.
“Greater celandine tincture and an herbal infusion. Unfortunately, we didn’t have time to make more tincture. Neither do we have fresh herbs to macerate. It will be some days before we receive provisions from all over the country. Until then, I’m treating those people with drops and teas,” Selen sighed. “I hope it will be efficient in strong doses. We have not much to lose.” Brother Benedict swayed in Selen’s hold. “Here,” Selen whispered. He took back the cup, rectified the cushion behind the monk’s back, and proceeded feeding him sips of broth.
Selen’s hands were bruised and as covered with cuts as his face. Healing, they had taken a light pinkish color. The shadows under his eyes were deep and wrinkled. His drab hair was loose down his back but for a purple ribbon tied midway. Louis and Selen had arrived a few days ago, and since then, his friend had worked constantly in the hospital to organize the caretaking of the population. His need of sleep was blatant, but probably his conscience didn’t let him rest.
Taking the bowl away, Selen laid down the monk for one more nap. He tucked the sheets and blankets under the mattress. The deep breathing of the monk’s sleep was barely audible under the noise behind Folc.
“Should we go home?” Folc asked. “You can come back later.”
Selen’s gaze was lost on their friend. He nodded. He removed his gloves, laid them on the bedtable, and, after one last glance at the resting monk, he pushed himself up and made his way to the exit. Folc followed him. He wanted out and to the peaceful life of the palace again.
In the yard behind the hospital, Selen untied the bridle of a bay mare from a wooden post. Two lads came forth with a brown gelding and helped Folc get on his saddle. His stiff leg hurt, but he had been used to worse during his
journey. They crossed the porch and rode into the streets. An army of small, industrious hands was busy cleaning, repairing, and renovating the damages. Though it would take a while to wash away the stains on the walls, fix the shutters, and install new cobbles, it would take a longer time to fill the bellies of the bony, dull faces. Even then, the memories would remain, and secrets would dwell in guilty hearts.
Once arrived in the palace courtyard, Folc rejoiced to be home again. He breathed in, closed his eyes, and tilted his head backwards to the sunlight. At last. Standing next to his horse, Selen unfastened his saddle bags. Stable lads walked his mare to a heap of hay. A boy in brown hose and a blue woolen tunic came to fetch his mount. With help, Folc dismounted. A spark crossed his body from his feet to his spine when he put his foot down. The pain was less intense, but it would need time to heal. He guessed that no one would object should he take a few days’ rest.
“I will bring my materials back to the apothecary,” Selen said, the two voluminous bags on his shoulders. “Will you join me?”
“In an instant. I need to make sure that all my goods are well arrived,” Folc answered.
He waved at Selen and limped his way to the barracks. As he passed by, the guards stood at attention and offered him a hand. He gladly welcomed the help and leaned on one of his men’s shoulders up the steps to his chambers’ door. A guard opened the door for him and stepped back. Folc straightened and went in.
“Please, wait outside,” Folc said. “I won’t be long.” With this, he closed the door behind him.
His chambers were two adjacent rooms of naked stone walls. His most valuable possessions were the books on the shelves. The rest of his belongings, from clothes to equipment, were locked away in trunks he used as low tables for bowls and pitchers. A couch, a table, and a chair of raw, dark wood completed the furniture. The two small windows were effectively insulated with glass and fur curtains. Sober and useful. He didn’t need more. Home again, he thought, a hand on the cold wall. In the middle of the room, on woven mats, two bags had been dropped off.
Folc knelt in front of one of the bags and opened it. His misericorde poked out. He put it on the floor at his side. One item at a time, he removed linen, hose, doublets, and night robes. Until he found what he was looking for. He had preciously packed it in Earthfell. Between two folded blankets was Askjell’s leather notebook.
He picked it up, rose, and took it to the table where he leafed through the pages. So much misery they had seen. The fear of the disease and the terror in Embermire. They had escaped bandits. Not all of them had made it. Folc’s heart sank when his eyes caught a line on Lissandro. Never a lord has shown so much generosity and impudence. Despite his flow of cocky remarks, may the gods grant him to keep his head steadier than his mind. Yes, so much fun they had had in the taverns and with each other. It had been the adventure Askjell had looked for. And now, the story had come to an end. He skipped to the last page. He had completed their story according to Louis’s words. Folc took a quill, opened his inkpot, and dipped the tip. Drawing on the ink, he wrote.
This chronicle is the testimony of what noble hearts had to accomplish and would accomplish again should terror strike the innocents, despite the heartbreaks, the losses, and the madness they suffered. They couldn’t save all because they were only human. And the most insignificant among them, a young squire, gave his life so that you could live yours.
Satisfied, Folc dusted the page, blew over it, and closed the notebook. Preciously lifting it in his arms, he laid it on the shelf above his couch, for the nights to come, to remember a time long gone, the time they were still companions.
Folc left his room. As soon as he stepped out, the guards took hold of him. Folc let them carry him down the stairs and into the courtyard. The rest of the way to the garden, he did on his own. He was captain of the royal guard. All was in the appearance.
In the garden, yellow and blue flowers pierced the last patches of snow. Green buds grew on twigs. Behind evergreen bushes, Selen walked out of the apothecary. His boots minced on the gravel, and he grinned. Folc shot Selen a smile and followed him into the solar.
A warm waft welcomed them. His friend sighed. The solar was empty, and the bedsheets were as neatly folded as after an army of maids. Folc raised an eyebrow.
“Next time, you should consider…”
“…Tying him down?” Selen suggested. “I suppose I will have to wait until he collapses from exhaustion. At least, I had him in here five days, two of which we shared.”
Selen walked to the door on the side of the bed. Delicately, he unlocked it and stepped inside. Folc tiptoed behind. Instead of the lavish, cushion-filled, porcelain-adorned chamber, a few wooden toys and a chestnut cradle filled the space. A raging fire burned in the hearth. Dim light passed through the blue-veiled windows. Selen leaned over the cradle, and a gargle answered his smile.
“What’s that?” Folc asked when he saw the blond locks, the glittering blue eyes, and the small wriggling arms. But with a glimpse at Selen, he knew. And when his friend lifted the child in his arms and held it tight, he didn’t want to ask. “It makes me happy for you.”
Selen held one little hand in his while the other one grasped the skin of his neck. The child rubbed his nose against his cheek. Selen giggled and turned to him. The shadows under his eyes could barely be seen.
“His name is Neleus.”
Folc smiled. “I suggest we search for his other father.”
46
The cane hit the ground, searching for a grip on the wet cobblestones of the esplanade. Besides the wind, the white reflection of the early spring light on the puddles made the eyes water. While protecting his face with the neck of his plain blue houppelande, Louis adapted his pace to Pembroke’s feeble footsteps. Behind the count, discreet as a shadow, a bearer followed with a wine jug and a cup. Pembroke had insisted that long morning walks would cleanse his lungs of the foul air of the tower. For nearly a week, he had lain in bed with a fever and was laboriously recovering.
“I received letters yesterday,” Louis said. “No one has heard from nor seen Mauger yet. I could contact Neolerim, but I fear the same negative answer.” He scratched at his cuticles. “The traitor left on foot and without belongings. I am surprised he didn’t show up somewhere. The dogs should give him away.”
“I suspect the network covers his traces. You shouldn’t be too keen on searching for him. The man surely burns with desire for revenge by now,” Pembroke croaked. “I fear you’ll hear of him soon enough.”
“It’s me who burns for revenge. Brother Benedict still lies on the threshold of death. Selen has been at his bedside with drops and brewets, but the man is aged. And then, there’s the city…”
Pembroke uttered a rattly cough.
“I must summon the council to see through the situation,” Louis carried on.
“I am what’s left of the council.”
“I meant a new one.” The thought of searching for new candidates already wearied him. “Confidence is no longer of value when one shares it with corrupt men.” He sighed. “Is Josselin’s decision definitive?”
“I haven’t heard from him for a while. His resignation came right after the trial. The rumor says Khorkina House’s shutters have been sealed from the inside.” Pembroke’s cane dug into the mud between two stones. “You should talk to him.”
“Yet, he has been charged. He can’t be an official anymore. Should I meet him, I would come empty-handed.”
“Comfort, maybe?”
Or more questions I would have to answer. “I will write to him.” Louis turned to Pembroke. “Your brow shines with sweat. Should we make it back to your chambers?”
Pembroke grumbled. “I am not a bedridden crumbly.” He snapped his fingers. The bearer bustled to fill the cup with wine and handed it. Pembroke drained the cup and dabbed at his lips with his sleeve. “But I have important reports to go through.”
“Of course.” Louis nodded.
“I wish yo
u a pleasant day, Your Majesty.” Grasping his cane, Pembroke withdrew to the palace with his back straight and a phlegmatic gait.
With a sick taste in his mouth, Louis turned his gaze on the city. Smoke still rose from the areas that had required a thorough sanitation. Deciding to relish a moment of solitude, far from the harassment of the complainants and the child’s cries, he walked to the edge of the esplanade and sat on a cold, flat stone. Under his fingertips, he rolled grains of sand.
“Slaves…all of them,” he whispered. “They revered me like a god bringing salvation.” He scoffed and cast his glance to the firmament. “I am pathetic, don’t you think?” The corner of his mouth twitched.
“I abolished the nobles’, the Church’s, the cities’ privileges. It only satisfied the jealous.” He shrugged. “I know what you would say. That I strove for it. That they didn’t. I wanted popular sovereignty, and I got a despotic state. I am but another Tarquin.” He sucked on his teeth. “You would have succeeded. You were so much brighter than me.” He motioned down towards the city. “But look at them,” he hissed.
Louis tried to take hold of himself. “Horror, despair, and enthusiasm should have grasped their souls. The common misfortune should have united their strength. Make them dare. Make my return irrelevant. I thought…” he whispered, “I thought that moderation and kindness were society’s soul. I made that public trial because I thought that, considering the exceptional circumstances, their judgment would show mercy and forgiveness where iron laws brought an inevitable death sentence. But…” Louis shook his head and scraped a nail on the stone. “They manifested an implacable tyranny and poured gore as if they were the executioner. I should have stuck to the laws. The result would have been the same but for a few exceptions.”
He lowered his head and muttered. “I cheated and played with truth, thus corrupting their souls. By altering the social contract, I made myself a criminal.” His blood boiled again at his own repulsion. “Without even raising a hand, I became an emperor in his coliseum. Infamy for the crime should already be the sole punishment. So much blood hadn’t been shed since the uprising of the nobles less than two years ago. The wheel and the triumph.” He rose and stared into the sky.
Light from Aphelion 2 - Tears of Winter Page 48
