The Widow and the King

by John Dickinson

  They were crouching in a ring around him, so close he could have reached over the stones to touch them. Huge eyes danced with the dying fires on the field. Their voices made him shrink. Long fingers, thick with hairs, stretched beseechingly towards him. The air was thick with their smell.

  And nothing happened.

  Nothing happened. They could not reach him. They did not try. They spoke, and waited, and spoke again.

  And the Heron Man did not come.

  Slowly, even as Ambrose glared at them across the little space, the beating of his heart began to ease. He was very tired.

  He rested his head back against the stone fountain, and tried to watch them under lowered eyelids. It was cool, but still warmer in these flat lands than in the mountains.

  Perhaps an hour later, he jerked up, realizing that he must have dozed. They were still there, but silent, watching.

  There was nothing they could do to reach him.

  He waited, and dozed again; woke, and dozed once more. Unhuman voices spoke as he dreamed, but he did not answer.

  Some time before moonrise they must have slipped, or been ordered, away, for when he woke in the high moonlight he could not see them any longer. Not even the breeze stirred the leaves of the garden around him.

  Now he was utterly alone.

  XV

  Shadows in Develin

  n the early spring, the soldiers of Velis surprised the garrison at Bay. They were within the walls before the alarm was raised. Bay tried first to fight, then to surrender, but the attackers ran through the buildings in frenzy, listening to no cries. They killed the family, the men-at-arms, the servants and the children of servants – even the animals – and heaped the bodies in the great hall, and fired it over them. Then they returned to Tuscolo, the capital, and crowned their king in a ceremony to which no one was invited.

  No one knew why Bay had been attacked. The first account to reach Develin was that Bay had sided secretly with Septimus, before his defeat. A later story was that it had been a private quarrel between Bay and some of Velis's counsellors, who had then persuaded the King that Bay would oppose him. The Widow of Develin sent careful messages of duty and submission to Tuscolo, and waited for news.

  ‘These are the words of Tuchred Martyr,’ said Father Grismonde to the scholars of the middle studies.

  ‘“Men adore the power of kings, which is manifest. Yet the power that is hidden is greater still. If the miser gives gold to a poor man, we have seen Raphael move his heart. When the coward knight turns upon his pursuers, there Michael rides upon his helm. And if a lying man speaks prophesy, you may look for Umbriel behind his eyes.”

  ‘Now,’ said Father Grismonde, wagging his finger at the scholars. ‘Some who seek to be foolish may ask if all good done by men is therefore of the Angels’ doing and not ours. This was not the meaning of Tuchred Martyr. For the Angel to take its place within us, the coward must first find a seed of courage, and the miser must think of the farthing in his purse – be it only for an instant – a scrap of time. Then comes the power of Heaven, blessing, increasing— Yes, what is it?’

  The scholar Cullen had stood to ask a question. You could do that, with Father Grismonde.

  ‘Master – haven't the Angels all fled?’

  ‘What? Fled?’ Grismonde drew breath. ‘No, of course not! Why should they?’

  Cullen frowned. Perhaps he was surprised at himself. Everyone was thinking it, of course. But what had made him say it aloud? To the priest?

  ‘People say they have,’ he said.

  Father Grismonde shook his head wearily. Even rank blasphemy no longer seemed to surprise him. With an obvious effort, he found the right degree of indignation.

  ‘What – what is this? Idiocy! Idiocy! You are here to think! To learn – not to repeat nonsenses! If there is more such fool-talk I shall meet it with the cane. No, no, no …’

  Ambrose did not know if the Angels had fled. But fled or not, he did not trust them any more. They had sent him to the garden of Ferroux.

  And Lex was gone, too. The last time Ambrose had seen him, he had been walking by himself on the winter tour, wearing a puzzled expression on his face. By the end of the journey he had disappeared. Four or five other scholars had also slipped away from the school since then. There were spaces on the benches that had once been crowded. And scholars were saying openly what they would never have dared to say the season before.

  The ‘power that was hidden’ was the Heron Man. And there was nothing to be done but wait to see what he did next.

  That night he was shaken awake in the darkness of his cell.

  ‘Have you found it, yet?’ said the Wolf.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You haven't looked, you runt! I know it's here. It's not in Tuscolo. It's not in Bay. I've been through both of them. It's got to be here!’

  ‘I haven't seen it.’

  ‘Listen.’ His face was very near to Ambrose's own. His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘I need the cup. It's nearly as important as my life – certainly more than yours.’

  ‘I've not seen it.’

  ‘Don't be stupid! I don't want to kill you. But I've got to stay ahead. I can't stay ahead without help. He knows that. He'll let me drink just twice more. Just twice! After all I did for him …’

  ‘You took Velis's men into Bay.’

  ‘Yes – I did. But it's his fault. If only he'd be plain with me, it wouldn't have been necessary. Anyway, the cup wasn't there. And now I need the cup more than ever. And that means you need me to have it. If I don't …’

  His breath hissed.

  ‘He knows I don't want to do it,’ he said slowly. ‘That's why he wants it to be me who does. And I will. If I have to, I will!’

  The Wolf ‘s head was so close that Ambrose could feel the warmth of his breath. His heart was beating thumpthump-thump as he lay eye-to-eye with the killer.

  ‘That would give him everything he wanted,’ he said slowly.

  ‘If I have to …’

  ‘I haven't seen it.’

  ‘You know something. You know where it is.’

  ‘I haven't seen it.’

  The man sat back against the wall of Ambrose's cell with a gasp of frustration. ‘You don't know what it's like! If I don't stay ahead, I'm finished. Velis – half the time he's like a wounded beast. If any of us goes wrong in his eyes, we're dead. And there's a lot of clever bastards around him who'd love to see my blood. That priest the Widow sent us – he's good, too. He nearly tripped me up over Bay. If I hadn't thought fast I'd have been marched out and had my head cut off. I can't relax. Not for a minute …’ He ran his hands through his hair.

  ‘All right, then,’ he said. ‘What is it you want?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I need that thing. I've got to stay ahead. What do you want for it?’

  Ambrose eyed his shape in the darkness. What could this man offer him? Could he possibly want anything that this man would offer?

  ‘I could make you King,’ the man said. ‘I told you that once. I meant it.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Don't be a fool. You'll only survive if you get strong. You've got the bloodline, from your father. You must be the very last male descendant of Wulfram there is. After a year of Velis, everyone will be sick of him …’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You can do it. I will help you.’

  ‘I don't want to be King.’

  ‘Don't be stupid! We're not playing girl-games here! The moment anyone knows whose son you are, they'll either try to make you King, or kill you to stop you trying it for yourself. Either you get the crown, or you get dead, one way or another.’

  ‘I don't want to be King!’

  Once more the man was on his feet, bending over Ambrose where he lay.

  ‘Listen. I need that thing. I know it's here. If you don't get it for me, I've another way. And if I get it without you, then I don't care what happens to you – whether he gets you or not. You'll be finished! Better think a
bout that. And hope I come back. Because right now, I don't think I will!’

  He turned, and stepped towards the wall of Ambrose's cell.

  ‘Wait!’ said Ambrose, flinging off his blanket and climbing to his feet.

  The wall was gone.

  For a moment Ambrose saw before him a dimly lit landscape, jumbled with brown rocks and boulders, and the far sweep of what might be mountains. Low above the ridge at the edge of the world burned two lights, brighter than any star he had seen. Before him the Wolf was striding away, ignoring him.

  Ambrose put one foot forward. It struck rock – not the dusty boards of the school, but a hard-edged rock. He looked around him. There was nothing here, nothing growing, nothing moving, except the figure of the Wolf, striding away from him, faster than Ambrose could follow.

  This was where the Wolf came from, when he came. This was how he could appear inside castles like Develin; like Bay and Watermane. He came into them from this place.

  The Wolf had learned his under-craft from the Heron Man. So the Heron Man must know this place, too. And so did his creatures.

  This was where they all came from.

  Ambrose looked at the nearest of the boulders that littered the landscape. It was large enough to hide any man – or thing – that crouched behind it. There were thousands like it, all around.

  His nerve failed, and he drew back. The night of his cell flooded around him.

  He stood in the close darkness, straining to see the Wolf. Perhaps he still could, for fleeting seconds longer, as he stood in one place and looked beyond it into the other. He thought he could see a man's head and shoulders, moving among distant rocks. Then the night was complete, and the Wolf was gone.

  That was how they hid themselves – the Wolf, the Heron Man, the things he had seen at Ferroux. They walked among the brown rocks, and looked into the world. And unless you knew how to look, you would not see how close they stood.

  Someone in another cell called a question, sleepily, in the darkness.

  ‘It was just a dream,’ Ambrose answered through the thin wooden wall around him. ‘Sorry.’

  He wondered how many of them he had woken. How many of the people around him were now sinking back into sleep, thinking that it had been Luke, just crazy Luke, having a dream.

  It had been a dream; but not his. He had looked into the dream of the world. His mother had spoken of it, so long ago. He had had no idea that it would be so desolate.

  And the Wolf was right. The cup he wanted was here, in Develin. That must be the ‘stone thing’ that Chawlin had spoken about at Ferroux.

  And the Wolf had another way to get it.

  Maybe he should not have sent the other scholars back to sleep. Maybe he should have spoken with them.

  The one thing they won't do is believe you.

  He was going to have to make someone believe him. And it must be someone who would not only believe, but could do something, too.

  Sophia woke in the dawn, from a dream about her father.

  She had been walking with him in a moonlit garden where old, broken stones peeped from among herb-bushes and the paving was cracked under her feet. She had been telling him everything that had happened since he had gone away – everything – and he had been nodding as she spoke, because he understood. It was good to have him back. Everything depended on him. He was back in his place at last.

  And then he said: But why is it like this?

  She looked around at the stones of the garden, and the ruined buildings that lay in the moonlight. The roofs were gone. The doors hung upon broken hinges. She could not explain it.

  Why? Because of you, perhaps?

  She could not answer. Her father looked at her with eyes that measured all that she was. But when he spoke his voice was Chawlin's.

  She woke.

  Her heart was beating heavily. Her mind was a confusion of thoughts. She could hear cries at the gatehouse, the sounds of the door-leaves being opened, hooves in the courtyard as some early rider stirred about his business. The house was not ruined after all. It had been a dream.

  Father had not come back – of course not. The wonderful lift that she had felt in her heart was sinking away. The dull dawn seeped in to fill the emptiness he had left behind him.

  It had been Chawlin's voice. Father had spoken with Chawlin's voice. She remembered that Chawlin's smile had reminded her of her father. That was not right. She loved them both, but they were separate. How could she dream that they were not? The thought disturbed her. There should be places in her heart for both of them. One should not blot out the other.

  She tried to recall her father, and to piece together what there had been about his looks or voice that had been different from Chawlin. He must have been older, by ten years perhaps. He would have been the same age when he left her that Chawlin was now. And he had thought a lot, like Chawlin … or had he?

  Was she just assuming that he had been unlike her mother, who always decided things so firmly?

  She could not remember.

  After some time she woke Dapea, who was sleeping on her floor. Dapea was tired and cross. Plainly she did not think it was reasonable that her mistress should rouse her before dawn and demand to be dressed. They lit rushes at Sophia's table. While Dapea's hands were busy in her hair, Sophia sat at her glass trying to remember what Father's voice had sounded like, and wondering if she had ever known.

  There was a scratch at the door. Dapea, still shivering in her shift, answered it.

  ‘Lady Sophia,’ said the voice of one of her mother's maids-in-waiting beyond the door. ‘My lady wishes to speak with her – as soon as possible.’

  Sophia jumped to her feet. She wasn't ready! Dapea was back with her, coaxing her to sit. Her fingers went back to work on Sophia's hair, while the Widow's daughter looked into her reflection in the rush-lit glass, and did not see.

  Her mother had never sent for her like this – never this early. Something must have happened. What could it be? What that concerned her could the Widow think so urgent? Someone had told her about Chawlin. That must be it. That would be enough to make a mother summon her daughter at any hour of the day or night. She would be furious.

  ‘There, my lady. You can go now. Angels go with you.’

  Reluctantly, Sophia turned for the door.

  It wasn't right, she thought, as she picked up her skirts and made her way through the dimly lit passages. Chawlin was hers. They had no right to make her give him up. She would defy them. She had done nothing wrong. She would refuse to stop loving him – they couldn't make her, whatever they did …

  But it wasn't what they did to Sophia that would matter. It was what they would do to Chawlin. They would disgrace him, beat him, send him away and bar the doors. It was unfair! He hadn't asked her to fall in love with him! But they would make sure that she never saw him again. So she was going to have to deny it. She would deny everything. It was gossip, malicious, spread by some troublemaker in this house …

  The council chamber was empty. She crossed it, to the door that led to her mother's private rooms. There was no sound within. She paused to steady herself. Her heart seemed to be fluttering wildly. She scratched softly on the woodwork.

  ‘Enter.’

  The Widow was half-dressed among her maids. Whatever it was that had troubled her had also got her out of her bed.

  ‘Sophia.’

  ‘My lady,’ said Sophia, dropping a curtsey. That wasn't anger in her mother's voice. Not yet. It might just be worry.

  ‘I have received a message, concerning you.’

  ‘Yes, my lady?’ So they had found out about Chawlin.

  ‘It comes from the King.’

  She meant it had come from Velis. The Widow was careful to call him ‘King’ now, even to her daughter. The pattern of the rug under her mother's feet ran with vines and fruit-trees at the rim. Sophia stared at it, trying to understand what she had been told.

  ‘It came this morning. The riders who brought it had r
idden all night. He himself will be here within three days.’

  Velis would be here in three days!

  ‘W-why, my lady?’

  ‘The letter he has sent me …’ The Widow glanced at a sheet of paper, curled like a new-born upon her writing desk. ‘I have to take it as an offer for your hand in marriage.’

  Sophia gasped.

  ‘It is very – sudden,’ the Widow went on, raising her arms to allow her heavy black gown to be dropped down over her head and body. ‘I should have expected …’ her head disappeared, and re-emerged with her long black hair all tousled by the passage of the cloth, ‘… a trusted ambassador, tasked to look us over, and to drop hints. I would then hint my replies in return. I would certainly have hoped for the courtesy of a month's warning before the entire royal pack of scroungers descended on my house. This King is not like that, it seems.’ She scowled at the letter. ‘He has even chosen to let me know what dowry he expects for you.’

  ‘Why me?’

  ‘It is logical. He has defeated his enemies – even some who may not have thought they were his enemies. He still has to unite the Kingdom. By allying with us he gains the support of the last great house that has taken no side in these troubles. We are strong here in the south, where he is not. Still …’

  ‘I – I won't do it.’

  ‘Well, I did not suppose you would leap for joy. But you must understand that we have no choice, and very little time. That is why I called you at once. This will be all around the castle before noon …’

  ‘No!’ Sophia almost shrieked. ‘He's a monster! You can't …’

  Her mother approached her, deep in her black robes. For a moment Sophia thought she was going to embrace her, but she drew back. Her words, when she spoke, had sympathy in them. But they were firm.

  ‘Sophia. We rule this house, but we also serve it. In this castle alone two hundred souls look to us for their bread, their warmth, their law – but above all to keep them safe. Beyond our walls there are thousands more. You know that. I cannot make an enemy of this King. Nor should I – we – surrender a chance to give all the Kingdom peace, by making an undisputed King strong. And …’ She turned away. ‘And, yes, he has let cruel things be done in his name. That does not mean that he is a monster in his own house. He is a young man – nearer your age than mine. His father and elder brother died in Tarceny's rising. His surviving brother was killed by Septimus, and I had some part in that. The house where he grew is a ruin. He has known nothing but enmity and war. He is swift, moody – I hear these things from Brother Martin, whom I sent to him. But I do not think him a monster.’