The Rose and the Thorn

by Michael J. Sullivan

  Why hadn’t Richard killed her? Perhaps Hilfred was smarter than he thought. Only a fool would trust a man about to betray his king. Likely kept her alive to work as insurance in case something went wrong. Maybe he even planned to blackmail him later. He should have had Richard slit her throat in the dungeon, but he thought it was best to have her body discovered far away or not at all. Having her die in the castle would have just provided Exeter one more piece to add to his puzzle, and himself one more accusation to defend against.

  For the first time, Saldur was forced to consider who had killed the constable and why. They said a note had been found on him—something about Exeter harming some women.

  Could it really be as simple as the girls having hired thugs to protect them from harm? Hadn’t he heard that there were other murders in the city just like Exeter? Each of the victims had somehow harmed the women from this Medford House. How ironic that the petty affairs of prostitutes from the worst quarter of the city could hold a dagger to his throat. Saldur was always amazed at how few people had an appreciation for seeing what was possible. This Rose had him trapped. She could have asked for so many things—money, power, anything really. If arranging for the release and protection of a handful of whores would put the matter to rest, Saldur would be happy to oblige.

  Forgetting the fire, his bath, and his waiting bed, Saldur turned and headed back to the burned-out castle once more. He needed to convince His Majesty to release the girls, before Rose started pointing fingers.

  When Albert returned to The Hideous Head, Royce was waiting with the door open. Pulling him in, the thief shut the door quickly, and Albert struggled to wipe the rain from his eyes with his soaked sleeve.

  “Well?” Royce asked.

  “It went fine,” Albert told them. “I got the package to Bishop Saldur and I saw him go back to the castle. Can I ask what was in it?”

  “Leverage,” Royce replied.

  “So I’m involved in what now… blackmail as well as murder?”

  “Gwen and the girls were arrested,” Hadrian said.

  “I’m sorry to hear that, but what does that have to do with Bishop Saldur?”

  “Royce has come up with a plan to get them out.”

  Clearing his eyes, Albert could see Hadrian at one of the tables, a toppled mug of ale before him and a puddle on the floor. His big sword lay bridging the gap across the table and the chair beside him, the baldric left dangling. Royce remained on his feet, hovering uncomfortably close. Neither looked like they had slept.

  “I’ve been thinking,” the viscount said. “I’m not cut out for this nefarious sort of life. That and the fact I’m more than a little concerned that the royal guard might be looking for a certain viscount who delivered a message to Lord Exeter shortly before the fire. So perhaps it’s time I left Medford.”

  “You’re not going anywhere,” Royce told him with a certainty that made Albert believe it. “I need you gathering information.”

  “I appreciate your confidence in me, but… here.” Albert held out a coin purse. “There’s twenty gold tenents for a job I secured while at the party. It’s yours to do with as you please. The person who hired me will never find me where I’m going. I don’t think I’ll be able to show my face in Melengar, or possibly all of Avryn, ever again. I’m thinking of going south, Delgos or perhaps Calis.”

  “You’re not going anywhere,” Royce repeated, ignoring the purse.

  “And what if I’m arrested?”

  “Albert,” Hadrian said. “You’re overreacting. No one is after you. Besides, you’re one of us now. We wouldn’t let them hang you.”

  Hang me? The thought chilled him.

  “You don’t think they’d really—” But of course he did. Why else would he have said it? “And how could you stop it? The two of you are so cavalier about everything! I don’t mean to be insulting, but please understand that you’re just two men—they have an army. I’m sorry this is all…” Albert threw up his waterlogged hands, spraying liquid off the cuffs. He was befuddled, lost for the proper words to describe the extreme absurdity. “I’m leaving.”

  Royce stepped between him and the door, his face inches away, and when he spoke it was barely above a whisper. “The king’s men might be after you. If they are, they might question you. If they absolutely must find a scapegoat, they might choose to pin a crime on you. But if you walk out that door and Gwen is executed as a result…” He licked his lips, and his eyes glared, unblinking. “Maybe you should take a tour of the city’s fountains on your way out of town.”

  Albert didn’t move. He barely breathed and Royce continued to watch him like a cat hoping the mouse would run.

  “We really could use your help, Albert,” Hadrian said, his voice so pleasant and casual that Albert was disoriented. These were very strange people. “I promise you, we’ll have your back. If anything happens, we’ll be there.”

  When the viscount replied, he spoke quietly, haltingly, and at a slightly higher pitch than usual as he dragged each word out with a struggle. “What is it you want me to do?”

  “Good man,” Hadrian said, clapping him on the back and drawing him away from Royce and the door.

  “What do you want him to do, Royce?”

  “Find out all you can about where Gwen and the girls are being held. If you hear anything—anything at all—about plans for their execution or release, get back here as fast as those new shoes will let you. Understand?”

  He nodded. “Okay.”

  “If I’m right, we won’t have to do anything.”

  “And if you’re wrong?” Albert asked, not at all certain he wanted to hear the answer.

  “Then Hadrian and I will have to go in and get her. I’m hoping it won’t come to that.”

  “I agree,” Hadrian said.

  They planned to go get her —to rescue a whore imprisoned by the king of Melengar after the queen was murdered. The two of them. Common thieves nonchalantly challenging the might of an angry monarch. Albert was employed by madmen. Who did they think they were?

  Except for the soot stains, the ash, and the still-rising smoke, the room was as Amrath had left it. Nothing had been burned, not the carpet, not the swan mirror, not the bed where he had found Ann beneath covers as if sleeping. If an army had breached the walls, he could comprehend her death, and he would mount his horse, lift his axe, and ride with the storm. But this. Some invisible monster had slipped into their bedroom and smothered his sweet Ann. A beast that he could still smell, whose poison he breathed as he lay holding her.

  “Your Majesty?” It was Valin this time, knocking softly on their door.

  “Go away! Leave us alone!” he tried to roar, but his voice, scorched by the smoke, was raspy and vicious.

  “But, sire, it’s not healthy—”

  “Go away!”

  “Just let me come in. I’ll—”

  “I swear I’ll beat to death anyone who enters this room.”

  The king pulled his wife closer. If he closed his eyes hard enough, it was almost as if nothing had happened. Almost as if he hadn’t left her on the one night in her whole life that she really needed him.

  He couldn’t see much anymore. He hadn’t stopped crying since he saw her, since he entered in disbelief and rushed over to try and wake her up. He chased them all out, throwing chairs, stools, and tables. If he’d caught anyone, he would have ripped them apart. He had become a real bear, a wild bear, a wounded and dangerous bear.

  Amrath was having trouble breathing. His chest ached as his heart was crushed and torn, consumed in misery. In the silence of the bedroom, even the absurd haunted him.

  Why did I say it depended on if you were ready to go to the party?

  “Of course I love you, Ann. I’ve always loved you—I’ll always love you. I should have said so. I was being a fool, making a stupid joke.”

  The tears continued to seep out of his closed eyes and leak across his cheek into her lovely hair.

  “Your Majesty.” Leo th
is time. Then the door opened and Alric and Arista stumbled through, their cheeks wet, eyes red.

  “Will you kill your own children?” Leo called out.

  Before he could rise, they rushed toward the bed. “Father?” Arista was out in front, ahead of Alric, whose sight was fixed on his mother.

  “You shouldn’t—” He coughed again. “You shouldn’t be in here. You should—” He doubled over and started to vomit.

  “Get him out!” Leo ordered. “Get all of them out of this damn smoke, or we really will lose our king!”

  CHAPTER 22

  HOMECOMINGS

  King Amrath stared out the shattered window of what had once been his council chambers. Now a gutted, scorched-black cave, it stank of smoke and death. Long black tears ran so that even the stone walls cried. The rain continued, weeping for the loss as the king looked out of his ruined home at the city below. The king had no more tears to shed.

  The ache was still in his chest, a crushing sensation as if someone had punched a hole through his ribs and squeezed his heart. The rest of him was just numb. He still had trouble breathing. Leo had likely saved his life by sending his children in, but the king wasn’t sure if a thank-you was appropriate, nor was he at all certain his trouble breathing had anything to do with the smoke.

  But he was still king. He still had responsibilities. Leo and Braga were steering the kingdom as best they could, but they still needed him.

  The meeting had begun with a tally of the dead. Remarkably only a little over a dozen people perished in the fire, mostly servants who worked the upper floors—Drundiline, his wife’s favorite handmaid, and Nora, the kids’ nurse. Their loss was tragic, but Amrath hardly noticed. He still puzzled at how Ann’s bedchamber was hardly touched by the fire, but Arista’s room was nothing but a blackened shell.

  “Your Majesty?” Leo said softly.

  “What? Sorry, I…”

  Leo smiled sadly. “Never mind. Go on, Chancellor.”

  Braga nodded. “It was Richard Hilfred who set the fire but Exeter who ordered it.”

  “As I tried to warn you, Your Majesty,” Saldur said.

  The bishop’s voice irritated him. By not heeding his counsel, Saldur was blaming him for Ann’s death. There was too much truth there not to hate the cleric for pointing it out.

  “As far as I have been able to determine,” Braga said, “Lord Exeter had long plotted to take the throne. I suspect he may have murdered Chancellor Wainwright, hoping to obtain the chancellery. When you appointed me to that position, he apparently decided to take action.”

  “And where is Exeter now?”

  “He’s dead. Butchered in Gentry Square.”

  “Who killed him?”

  “We think he was betrayed by someone he was conspiring with.”

  “Yes,” Saldur agreed. “That’s how things look.”

  “Wasn’t there a note? Something about a group of women taking credit?” Leo asked.

  “Oh yes, some foolishness suggesting a house of prostitution was involved,” Saldur said. “Obviously a poor attempt at diversion.”

  “I would have to agree with the bishop, Your Majesty,” Braga added. “I’m continuing the investigation, but the women mentioned in the note don’t appear to have had anything to do with it. Medford House is literally a handful of women struggling to survive in an alleyway. The madam of the house was recently battered by Exeter during an investigation the high constable was conducting. This appears to have been the source of the charade, but that’s where it ends. The real killer was just trying to throw us off his scent.”

  “But the women of Medford House were arrested?” Leo said.

  Braga raised his hands and shook his head in a show of frustration. “The sheriffs are Lord Exeter’s men and some can actually read. You can hardly blame them. At the time his body was found, his treachery was not yet known. They acted in haste—without knowing the facts or about the constable’s guilt. I’m just grateful they didn’t kill anyone. I’ve already given the order for the women’s release.”

  “I think we need to do more than that,” Saldur said. “These poor girls have been treated badly, and while we know they weren’t involved, rumors are already spreading. People think they were responsible for the wanton slaughter of a high-ranking nobleman and relative of the king.”

  “And the killer of my wife,” Amrath reminded them.

  “Of course, excuse me. It’s just that people might be angry to think someone of their social standing might do such a thing and get away with it.”

  “How would it be if I knighted them?” the king said, not entirely joking.

  Saldur offered an uncomfortable smile. “I think just some declaration of royal protection would suffice.”

  “I suppose we could issue an edict and instruct the sheriffs to actually enforce it,” Braga said. “It’s my understanding that crimes against women in that profession often have a blind eye turned by those entrusted with keeping the peace in the quarter.”

  “Do as you want,” Amrath said to the chancellor. “I really don’t care. Now what about Richard Hilfred?”

  “He is dead as well, Your Majesty, by my own blade, the night of the fire,” Braga said.

  “Well done, Chancellor,” Leo exclaimed, and it was followed by rousing applause by all in attendance.

  Braga bowed his head respectfully and humbly, but his pride was evident. Amrath had been right in appointing his brother-in-law to the position. At least one member of the council had done something of value that evening.

  “Richard Hilfred…” the king muttered. “He saved my life once. It’s hard to believe.”

  “I knew Richard Hilfred well,” Saldur said. “He often came to me with concerns about his life—and Richard was a very troubled man.”

  “Don’t you dare try and excuse him.” Amrath tore at his beard, pulling until it hurt.

  “Absolutely not, sire. I would never—but as his bishop, I listened to him confide his many personal troubles with me and often mentioned his great sadness at the death of Rose Reuben—something he blamed you for not preventing. Still, I never suspected he would go so far.”

  “So Exeter and Hilfred are dead,” Amrath said. “But that doesn’t explain the queen’s death. Why is it that no one woke her? No one thought to get her out? How is it all of you stand before me without a scratch or a burn?”

  With each word the king’s voice grew louder until the roar of the bear had returned and his hand had settled on the pommel of his sword.

  There was a long pause.

  “Your Majesty,” Braga began softly. “We tried.”

  “How hard is it to run up a set of stairs?”

  “Before setting the fire, Richard Hilfred chained the doors to the residence shut. He thought you and your family were inside. His plan was to kill all of you. I tried… please believe me, Your Majesty. After killing Richard Hilfred, I did everything I could to get the doors open, but it was useless. As the fire grew, I was pulled from the inferno by two guards. There simply was nothing that anyone could do.”

  He chained the doors shut?

  If the conversation continued, Amrath didn’t hear what was said. It was as if he were falling into a bottomless well. All he could think of was his wife and daughter, trapped as the castle burned, and all the times he had offered a kind word to a man who chained them in to die. The mention of his daughter’s name pulled him out. “What was that?”

  Leo spoke. “I was asking how it was that Arista survived?”

  Braga said, “It was Richard Hilfred’s boy. He carried the princess out.”

  “Hilfred’s son saved my daughter?”

  “But how?” Leo again. “If the doors were chained, how did a boy manage to do what none of you could?”

  “Reuben Hilfred had a key,” Braga said.

  There was a silence as everyone paused to consider this.

  “It’s likely the son was in league with the father,” Saldur said.

  “Did he pe
rish in the fire as well?” Amrath asked.

  Braga said, “He escaped but suffered severe burns and is being cared for by a healer. It may be days until we know what really happened. He’s unconscious and under guard.”

  “But if he was in league with his father, why did he save Arista?” Amrath asked.

  “We don’t know.”

  “I say he should be executed,” Saldur said. “I’ve seen this many times, the poison of the father infects the son. Likely the boy’s guilt drove his actions, and it was only fear of Novron’s judgment that motivated his saving of the princess. Such a tragedy.” Saldur shook his head. “If only you had listened to me, sire, the queen might yet live.”

  There it was again, the accusation that all this was his fault. Amrath pulled the great sword of Tolin Essendon from its sheath. The huge blade came out easily and the king wanted nothing more than to sever the bishop’s head from his shoulders.

  He took a step forward, raising the blade and watching the bishop’s eyes widen in horror as he inched backward. An instant later, Leo’s shimmering blade lifted his own and forced it aside. “Amrath… he didn’t mean it.”

  The king fumed, his chest rising and falling with his breath, which hissed through his teeth. He stared at Saldur, who fell backward, tripping on the blackened timbers, rain splattering his grandfatherly face. That fall saved his life.

  “Go on, Sauly, say this is my fault one more time!” This wasn’t a bear growl; this was a roar. “I’ll cleave you in half and string you up in the square so the peasants can have a new corpse to gawk at!”

  “Forgive me, Your Majesty. I only—”

  “Shut up, Bishop,” Leo said, still holding the massive Tolin blade with his own slender rapier. “If you want to live to draw another breath, just be quiet and leave.”