The King's Hand
Page 2
But Eamon could not track the camp. It had rained, leaving the ground changed and muddy. No man could track in the sodden sludge.
Eamon looked to the trees as though they might be able to aid him. The ridges and darkening skies watched him in silence, just as the throned had watched him.
He took hold of the pouch at his neck. The heart of the King lay hidden there, the broken shards silent beneath his touch.
There had to be something he could do.
He had failed.
“I have not failed.” His voice sounded frail in the grey stillness.
He had failed before he had even begun.
Eamon drew a deep breath. There was a way; there had to be a way.
He strode back into the hollow, back to the banner of the fallen King’s men. The cloth stirred in the breeze, the impaled star rippling against the darkening sky.
Suddenly Eamon lifted his head to the silent ridges.
“I know you see me!”
His horse started but he persisted, raising his voice to reach the distant heavens. The stars threw his words back at him.
“I know you hear me! My name is Goodman. I would go before the King!”
He heard his voice echoing up the ridge.
The hills were silent. The trees glowered back at him.
He laid his hand against his horse’s neck as the long echoes of his voice faded away.
Silently he buried his head against his horse’s warm throat. What use was it? He was lost. He would never find the King in time. Why had he interfered with the Right Hand’s decimation? What had he honestly thought he could save? If he had only kept still and quiet, as Cathair had told him, at least some of his men would have lived. Why had he spoken? He could have saved them better by his silence, and done so without humiliating himself. Now his men would die, and he had made himself the Right Hand’s enemy. That was the price for his idiotic high-mindedness.
Suddenly his horse snorted. Eamon looked up, then gasped.
A ring of men stood around them. They were darkly dressed, with heavy hoods and masks.
Eamon’s hand moved instinctively to his sword hilt. “Who are you?”
“Your name is Goodman?” The voice was indistinct.
“Yes.”
“Then we will take you before the King.”
Eamon stared. Was it possible?
The man who had spoken held out one hand.
“You will surrender both your sword and dagger, Goodman.”
Eamon took a deep breath, then unslung sword and dagger and held them towards the hooded man. He passed it to one of his companions. Another came and took the horse’s reins. The beast tossed its head nervously.
“Do not harm him,” Eamon said.
“It is not the creature’s fault whom it serves. It will not suffer for that.”
The man held a length of cloth. One of his fellows carried a rope.
“Am I to be a prisoner?”
“You will agree to be bound and blindfolded?”
What choice did he have?
Eamon held out his hands, trembling in the half-light. The man who tied him knew his business. The rope was taut, the knots firm. When the cloth was brought to his face, its thickness forced his eyes closed.
“You will lead me truly?”
“We will lead you to the King.”
Someone took his arm. He walked forward unsteadily.
They led him a short distance and then, beneath the eaves, they helped him mount his horse. He was secured to the saddle. He heard other horses in the darkness near him. His reins were taken and the men led him away.
They pressed on hard throughout the night and much of the next day. He did not know where or how far they went. He was aware only of the tireless speed of his horse and the silence of his guides; they did not speak, either to him or to each other. His world shrank to the sounds beyond his darkened eyes.
The cold wind tore at him as they left the shelter of the ridges. From there, they passed trees that scratched Eamon’s face as skeletal branches knocked overhead.
The land was mostly level, though they went through a couple of small valleys, Eamon gripping his bound hands to the saddle pommel as they went up and down. He did not know where they were, but guessed that they were still on the West Bank.
They paused from time to time. Twice he was offered food, which he ate gratefully. When they stopped, he heard other horses and then voices speaking together. After the long silence every noise seemed as loud as thunder and startled him as much. He thought that he heard his name mentioned.
Then they were moving on again, first over earth and then over a swaying bridge. Loud water ran beneath it, but it was not wide enough to be the River itself. Perhaps they had crossed a tributary.
The wind confused and distorted the sounds around him. More horses. Tent cloth? Astonished murmurs.
A voice commanded him to dismount; other hands helped him. The men led him on as he stumbled repeatedly.
The wind stopped. He heard tent cloth drawn aside, felt the warmth of a brazier. In the sudden sheltered silence, he knew that eyes, whose gazes he could not return, stared at him.
His wrists throbbed beneath bonds that suddenly felt tight.
The man who had led him let go of his arm. Blinded, bound, and unaided, Eamon stood giddy and afraid.
“Who is this?” asked a fierce voice. Its accent was Easter. He remembered the dark-haired, clear-eyed man whom he had seen at Pinewood and shuddered.
“A Hand that surrendered to us.” It was the man who had spoken to him at Ashford.
“A rare occurrence!” the first voice scoffed.
Eamon’s hands were clammy with sweat.
“His name is Goodman. He asked to be brought before the King.”
“This was no way to lead him.”
His heart leapt joyfully into his throat: he knew that voice. It was great and stern, but kind and compassionate. While the throned assumed authority this man bore it of his own accord, of his very blood and nature. But even as Eamon rejoiced he felt shame kindling fear: for every treachery he had wilfully committed, this man could lay claim to his very life.
His sense receded from him. He felt faint. Quivering, he dropped to his knees.
“I did not deserve to be led at all,” he breathed. Sobs tangled his words. “I should have been slaughtered and left to rot in the dark; thus do my deeds deserve to be repaid.”
Hands came to his brow; comforting hands.
Fire leapt to his palms.
Strike him, Eben’s son!
Shocked, Eamon clenched his hands, desperate to quench the flames. His teeth ground together with the effort.
There was a laugh in his mind, chill and deep. You thought to cast me out? You thought you had? I am still here, Eben’s son, and you are still mine!
The snarling voice sought to master him. With a cry, Eamon turned from it. His only hope was in the man before him.
“Help me!” he whispered. “Please! Forgive me for what I have done! Cut me down for it if you cannot forgive it, but help me!”
The hands were still on his brow; they had not flinched. Eamon turned his whole being towards that cool touch, clinging to it against the rage of the voice.
“You have no hold on this man, voice of Edelred.” The King’s firm words sounded in his ear, thrilling Eamon such that he forgot his struggle. “He has turned from you and you must turn from him. I command it.”
As suddenly as it had come, the voice was gone. Stunned silence hung in the air.
Shuddering, Eamon pressed his face against his bound hands. The band over his eyes grew wet.
The King touched his shoulder. “Courage, Eamon.”
His eyes were unbound. Cold air brushed his face. The light seemed terribly bright. He blinked hard.
The King laid the band aside. “Now you can see,” he said.
Awestruck, Eamon could bring no words to his lips, and could scarcely bear the feeling in his heart.
“With deepest reverence, Star of Brenuin, I hardly think that wise,” said the Easter accent. Eamon looked up to see a tall man with dark hair. He bore the same emblem of a blazing sun that Eamon had seen both at Ashford Ridge and the Hidden Hall. This Easter had bright green eyes that watched him critically.
He was not the only other man in the tent. Eamon now became aware of others, some Easters and some wayfarers whom he recognized from the Hidden Hall so long ago. They seemed like vestiges of a long-forgotten past.
Eamon looked back to Hughan. “I do not deserve to be unbound,” he whispered. “I am worthy of neither grace nor mercy.”
Hughan met his gaze. “I know.”
Grief closed about his heart. What words could he possibly speak? He would only condemn himself, just as he had condemned his men…
Trembling, he reached to the pouch at his neck. It was difficult with bound hands, but he eased the cord over his head. It held the shards of the heart of the King.
Eamon swallowed. He could not meet the King’s eyes.
“I was charged to bring you this, and to perform more besides. I have betrayed you, sire, more times than can be counted. But this I return to you.” The broken stone sounded as he held it forwards. “Hughan,” he breathed, “I am sorry.”
Hughan took the shards from him. As he did so a flash of jubilant light sparked among the pouch threads. Eamon stared in amazement then gazed up at Hughan, to whom the light bounded.
The shards grew dim, but when the King looked back to him his face seemed brilliant with light.
“I know what you have done, Eamon,” Hughan said gravely. “I know that you merit death and perhaps, for a part, you came here seeking it from me. I will not give it to you.”
Eamon stared in disbelief, but Hughan was undaunted.
Quietly, the King knelt beside him. Eamon flinched away, but Hughan took his hands. The King unbound him. Then Hughan reached forward and laid a kiss against his forehead.
“I rejoice at your returning, Eamon,” he said, “and I welcome you.”
A long silence fell. Eamon felt streams of hot tears on his cheeks. The King’s kiss lay on his forehead with greater power than any mark.
“Who is this man,” snapped the Easter, incredulous and angry, “that is a bloodied Hand, and you welcome him?”
Hughan rose and looked at him. “His name is Eamon Goodman.” He drew Eamon up to his feet. “He is the First Knight, and defender of my house.”
None spoke.
Eamon gaped. He could not bear it any longer. “First Knight! I am not worthy even to serve at your table! You cannot know what I have done! I have captured and tortured men, breached them and lied to them and led ambushes against those who should have been my fellows under your banner. I have been courted by your enemies in every quarter and given fealty to them without ever once remembering you. I have killed and broken men as wholeheartedly as any of your enemies have done.” He shook fearfully. “I do not deserve to serve you; I deserve to be condemned!”
“I do not condemn you.”
Eamon stared. “But you must!”
Hughan matched his gaze. “You must know this: had you worked treachery against me seven score seven times, still you would have the name by which I called you.” Hughan looked deep into Eamon’s eyes. “First Knight, take courage. See clearly, and serve me better henceforth.”
Hughan watched him with gentleness and compassion. Eamon felt that he had never seen, nor perhaps would ever see, a truer man.
Overjoyed and overawed, Eamon slowly sank to his knee. He took Hughan’s hand and touched his forehead to it.
“I will serve you with all of my heart.”
The King lifted him to his feet and smiled at him. Eamon’s head and heart span with emotions he barely understood.
There was a long moment of silence. Eamon slowly became aware of the others around him, their strange looks puncturing his joy. He had to say so many things… he did not have the words.
“Hughan… what day is it?”
“It is night of the twenty-first.”
His heart plummeted. So they had ridden a full day. That left him only six…
“I… I–I have been sent with a terrible task –”
“I understand,” Hughan said quietly, “but before you speak of it you must rest. It is late.”
“Yes,” Eamon breathed.
“Would you conduct him to a resting quarter, Leon?”
The man who had led Eamon from the valley nodded. He had pushed back his hood, revealing a handsome face with dark eyes. Eamon had first seen him at the Hidden Hall.
“Yes, sire,” Leon answered.
“Star of Brenuin.” The Easter spoke suddenly, and still his voice was hard. “I would have this man guarded.”
“Very well, Lord Anastasius,” Hughan answered. The Easter bowed his head, seeming better satisfied. Hughan looked again at Eamon.
“Go with Leon,” he said, “and rest. I will send for you in the morning; you can speak freely of your task then.”
Eamon bowed low. Forgetting every burden, he followed Leon from the tent into the cool night air.
As he was led away, Eamon heard voices rising in the tent behind him. His mouth dropped open in amazement as he took in the scale of the camp around him.
It was larger than it had been when he had seen it on the ridge in Southdael, and from what he could gather they were in a southern-facing valley. He could see no sign of any other inhabitants nearby, but there was a river branch nestled at the valley floor, around which the camp had been set. The River itself lay some distance from the camp’s eastern edge. Over it, Eamon made out a bridge worked from a series of connected boats. It was being crossed by a small group of men who led carts of supplies. The pontoon snaked beneath their weight. A similar bridge spanned the tributary to the west; Eamon imagined he had been brought over the western bridge.
He was taken to a small tent, woven from dark cloth that stirred in the wind. Leon held the entryway open while Eamon passed inside. A bed had been set there, piled high with covers. Eamon wondered whether he was stealing somebody’s bedding for what little of the night remained. The light led him to believe that scant hours would see them to the dawn.
“You can sleep here,” Leon told him. “There will be guards posted outside, should you need anything.”
“Thank you,” Eamon answered. He guessed that the guards would keep a close watch on him. Leon nodded and disappeared. Eamon heard him speak to the guard detail outside.
Slowly, he got into the bed. The covers were thick over his weary limbs. Though he was exhausted he could barely still his mind.
He was in the wayfarer camp and the King had received him. But as he settled into his bed his heart was darkened by his task; its impossibility preyed on his fledgling joy.
CHAPTER II
It seemed long before he slept, and no time at all before light worked its way through the folds of his shelter. If he dreamed, he did not remember it.
At last he rose from his bed. He rued it at once as he hurried to put on his boots and fumbled for his cloak, mindful not of its colour but only of its protection from the chill. Then he stepped out.
There were four tall men in uniforms before the tent: two bore the sword and star, two the bold sun designs of two different Easter lords. As he emerged, swathed in black, Eamon saw them tense. Men and women nearby stopped and stared at him.
He shuffled uncomfortably. “Good morning,” he said to his guards. His voice was dry from sleep; he swallowed. None of the guards answered him. “I must speak with the King. May I go?”
“General Leon will come for you.”
“Do you mind if I stand with you until he arrives?”
“No.” It was a fierce reply.
Eamon did not dare to go far from them, but stepped forward a little to stand in the early light. It was
as though every eye stared at him. He steeled himself for all that lay ahead.
After what seemed an eternity, Leon walked across the damp grass towards him. The man was wrapped in his blue cloak. Eamon’s heart beat faster.
“Good morning,” he called as his escort approached. The man nodded but did not answer. Nor did he speak to the guards as he beckoned Eamon to follow him. Eamon felt a terrible foreboding. Every step brought him before the hateful gaze of a dozen men. Some of them jeered him from their campfires, though a look from Leon silenced them.
They walked back towards the King’s pavilion. Now that his eyes were free from both dark and band he saw it was a grand blue affair, with traces of silver along its edges. At its head blew the King’s banner with the sword and star, sunlight just kissing the banner’s crest.
As they approached, Eamon heard a cry to his right and turned. A woman stood there, bearing a wide tray. This she put down hastily and ran towards them, laughing and crying.
“My dear Mr Goodman! It’s you!”
With a flash Eamon recognized her: Ma Mendel. Alone of all the faces that morning, she was unafraid and welcomed him.
“It’s you, it’s really you!” The next moment the old woman threw her arms around Eamon’s neck. She hugged him with a mother’s fondness.
“It’s so good to see you!” Eamon answered, embracing her.
“Let her go, Hand!” someone yelled.
“Stand down!” Leon called back. The wayfarers did so, though suspiciously. “Mrs Mendel, please –”
Ma Mendel quirked a chastising eyebrow at him. “This man rescued me from the Hands, Leon. Am I not to welcome him?”
“Mrs Mendel, you’re worrying the men.”
“An old thing like me?” Ma Mendel gave him a wink. “It’s been many a year since I worried men, sir!”
Leon sighed. “Mrs Mendel, step back.”
Ma Mendel kissed Eamon’s brow and fell back from Eamon’s embrace to take hold of his hands. “Oh, you’re frozen!” she exclaimed. “Why aren’t you wearing gloves, dear?”
“I must have left them on my bed,” Eamon answered. He might have felt foolish, but the kiss was warm on his forehead and her joy moved him beyond words.