‘Has he had a fit?’ asked someone at the back of the crowd.
‘Didn't you see … ?’
‘Here, Luke boy. We'll get you some water …’
Pushing through the crowd came the bald monk. He knelt beside Ambrose.
‘Did you see him?’ Ambrose gasped. ‘Did you see him?’
‘I heard your mother's voice,’ said the man softly. ‘And then I saw him. Are you hurt?’ ‘… I don't think so.’
The crowd gave back around the Widow. She looked down at them both.
‘Who was that with you, Luke? Where did he come from? Where is he, now?’
‘He's been here all the time. I don't know where he went.’
‘All the time?’
‘Who was it?’ asked someone.
‘I didn't see …’
‘Some priest, I thought …’
‘Not a priest,’ said the bald monk, rising to his feet. ‘Not a priest … By the Angels, my lady,’ Ambrose heard him whisper. ‘What an evil you have borne in your house!’
‘I know nothing of this. Who was he?’
‘I barely know. But my eyes saw him last in Tarceny, on the day that Tarceny died.’
Someone in the crowd repeated the word Tarceny!
‘It portends something,’ said a counsellor. ‘An omen.’
The Widow frowned. Then she said: ‘I would know what you know of this, Martin, as soon as we may speak privately.’
‘My lady, you shall. And it concerns – another in your house.’
Neither of them looked at Ambrose. The crowd was close around them.
‘Does it? Well, you may bring them if you think it right. Once my royal guest is in his chambers and resting from his travels, you and I shall seize a moment then – around sunset, I guess. Come to the council chamber. And,’ she said, looking around at the faces of her counsellors, ‘I may wish to debate this in a fuller council when there is more time – when I myself have heard what lies behind this. Now, friends, we have enough to do to last us till Easter, yet it must be done before tonight. Let us be about it …’
‘My lady!’ said Ambrose. ‘The King … May I speak with you?’
‘Quiet, you boy,’ said the Widow. ‘Find your friends and stay with them, or go to the infirmary if you are unwell. Do not wander.’
Ambrose looked to the bald monk, who gave the slightest shake of his head. His mouth formed the word Sunset.
‘To it, all,’ said the Widow. ‘The King lies here tonight. If his rest lacks comfort, I shall have hides … Yes, Merivane?’
A patient stableman at last caught the Widow's eye.
‘My lady – is it yet known how many horses the King brings with him?’
‘Oh, indeed. Martin?’
‘My lady?’
‘How many horses?’
‘Some nine scores. And his wagon master will look to this house for more …’
‘Nine scores!’
‘Angels help us …’
Sunset, thought Ambrose as he watched the crowd follow the Widow slowly down towards the double doors. Sunset: the King would be here by then. But he could not have blurted out the secrets of Develin in front of all those people. She'd have stopped him, even if he had tried. At sunset, alone, she might listen. She had seen the Heron Man in her hall. He could talk to her, now.
‘What will the King think of this omen,’ he heard a man say, ‘that on the eve of his arrival a man is seen to appear and disappear in this hall, and cause a boy to have a fit?’
‘Michael's Knees, Hervan,’ cried the Widow. ‘This is not so strange. With the King's appearance I swear we are all having fits.’
There was a burst of laughter from the men around her.
This time, thought Ambrose, the laughter was real.
Someone was singing in the open courtyard as the house assembled. It was one of the party attaching wreaths to the poles with which the king's men would be greeted. Whoever it was was trilling away with a careless purpose and joy, as if the king's men were not already riding up to the outer gates, and there were still all the time in the world to finish his task. And in her chamber Dapea had sung and done little dance-steps as she dressed Sophia's hair and dreamed of going to Tuscolo. It made Sophia realize how little song she had heard around the castle all that winter, in a place that was normally full of music. They had all gone plodding about in their grey worlds as if the sunshine would never again break through their clouds. She could not imagine why they should start singing now, as she stood waiting in her pale silks for the man that she dreaded. But they had.
And perhaps they deserved to sing, she thought. They had done what they had been told to do, and they had done it well. There were garlands on the gates and in the hands of girls. There were wreaths, going up around her on hand-poles, to be held out to the king's riders as they came. There were stirrup-cups, and posies for the harnesses of the leading horses. The midden heaps had been cleared, and the steps to the hall strewn with scented orange-petals – the very first of the year. The lowering sun flashed upon the polished helms and shoulder-pieces of the guard. Provisions had been coming in from the manors all day. Some were still stacked in carts, ranged along the courtyard walls because there had been no time to unload them. People around her were smiling. Develin stood like a bride, decked to meet her groom.
Sophia looked at her feet and fidgeted. It was all happening too soon. And the more that happened, the more preparations that were made, the more she felt that she was being steered like a sheep into her pen. Each garland, each stirrup-cup, was another push from a pair of hands she knew towards this marriage that she found impossible to imagine.
Where was Chawlin?
Beside her, the Widow waited in her black robes. Even for her King she would not change them. In the heart of that chattering crowd she stood like a rock, with her eyes on the inner gate. She had said no words to Sophia, but had looked at her long and carefully before they had gone down the steps together. Something was worrying her. Sophia guessed, from the absent way in which her mother had dealt with the final preparations, that it was not just the King's arrival. Maybe she had sensed that her daughter could not be trusted to play her part. If so, Sophia knew she would receive another talking-to before long.
Where, in the Angels' name, was Chawlin? She had not seen him since they had parted in the turret the day before. Surely he knew, now, that the King was arriving a day earlier than expected? Was he still going about his preparations?
Or had he given up?
Could he have done that to her?
The sun had touched the western wall. Beyond the gatehouse she could hear voices. The horn sounded from the unseen towers above the outer gate. She could hear the distant crack of the doors ceremonially opening before the King's party. The noise of many hooves rose from the outer courtyard.
‘They're in,’ said someone near her.
Hooves, hooves, hooves. So many of them, moving at a walk. The King had brought a great company with him. Sophia looked at her mother, but the Widow's eyes remained fixed on the inner gatehouse. The inner gate stood open. The gate-guards were looking out and down into the courtyard beyond. Then they straightened and held their long pole-arms upright. A single rider appeared there, framed against the light, wrapped in a cloak and with his head bare. Then there were a crowd of them, thronging in the gateway, filing inwards into the shadowed courtyard.
‘Hoorah! Develin, hoorah for the King!’ bellowed Hervan.
‘Hoorah!’ roared the house.
‘Health to His Majesty!’ cried Hervan, again.
‘Hoorah!’
‘Destruction to his enemies!’
‘Hoorah!’
The riders advanced slowly up to the foot of the steps. Their leader gave no sign in answer to the crowd's cheers. He rode bare-headed, with a great mane of dark hair standing out from his head in all directions. A straggling beard fell to his chest. He wore mail, and seemed to be frowning.
Father Grismonde stepped
forward. ‘Now thanks be to Michael, Your Majesty, that he has guarded you, and to Raphael that he has guided your way, for you are safe come.’
‘Develin does not greet me herself ?’ said the rider.
Beside Sophia, the Widow stirred.
‘I hold it more pleasing in the eyes of the Angels that their prayers shall be said first, and by their priests, Your Majesty. As for greeting you, this I now do with joy, and I bid you welcome to my house.’
The eyes of the rider flicked around the crowd. Behind him, garlands were being handed up to his followers, who took them awkwardly. Sophia thought that the leaves and flowers had looked better on their poles than they did about the necks of armoured men.
‘So. A swift answer,’ the man said. Without any further word he swung himself down from his horse and stood before him. He was of middle height, little taller than the Widow. And beneath his hair and beard his skin was very smooth. Sophia realized suddenly how young he was. Surely he was not much older than she. His eyes were dark and his brows heavy. If his face had any expression at all it was the faintest puzzlement. Behind him others, who must be his aides and counsellors, dismounted too. At the back of his train mailed horsemen were still filing slowly into the courtyard.
So this was the man she still hoped to escape! She had known it would be dangerous. She now saw how very dangerous he might be. She swallowed. But she knew also that she was going to try – try really hard, even if it meant losing everything. She would need guile, and help. Where was Chawlin?
The Widow was sinking into a slow curtsey, the first that Sophia had ever seen her do. After a moment she remembered herself, and curtseyed too.
‘My house is yours, Your Majesty,’ said the Widow. ‘And my homage also.’
‘In truth, madam, I had rather have seen blood these past years than hear words of homage now. Blood spilled in my cause or, if it is my enemies’, then spilled to their destruction.’
‘Strength spent in battle may not last,’ said the Widow, evenly. ‘We in Develin have nursed ours in these sad times, and now we would lend it to you, to bring the peace.’
‘Peace may mask traitors that battle will expose.’
‘I have not heard that there are any here, Your Majesty.’
‘I will not trouble you with what I have heard.’
The Widow rose at last from her curtsey, and looked her King in the face. If she was angry at what he had said, she showed no sign of it. Instead, she nodded to Sophia.
‘My daughter, sir, the Lady Sophia Cataline diCoursi Develin.’
Sophia met the eyes of the man who would marry her. At first she wondered if he was at all interested. Then she felt she was being stared at, as if by a boy who wanted her to insult him, so that he could start a fight. She realized, too late, that she should have remained down when her mother rose. She curtseyed again. It was better to do so twice than stand in front of this man. She could tell already that he did not like being looked in the eye.
‘Your only child?’
‘My only child, and my heir, sir.’
‘So. I have a gift …’
He looked around him, as if unsure which of his followers carried what he sought. Something was handed to him. There was a faint jingle in the air and his fingers touched her shoulders.
She had thought she would shudder when he touched her. She had braced herself to fight it, so that he would not guess how she felt. But his fingers clumped upon her skin with no more feeling than if she or they were made of wood. When they lifted, they left something heavy behind them. It was a necklace.
Gift-giving! Already! And of course she had nothing to give to him in return.
‘My daughter is still choosing her gift for you, Your Majesty,’ said the Widow. ‘It will be the best that Develin can provide.’
‘So,’ said the King, carelessly. ‘Madam, we have travelled fast and far. If my soldiers could be quartered according to their needs …’
‘I have arranged it. And rooms are ready for you, Your Majesty. My chamberlain will accompany you …’
‘In time, madam. I will speak with my counsellors first.’
He turned and left them.
Can I get up now? thought Sophia. No one had signed to her that she might. But it was stupid to stay in curtsey if there was no one to curtsey to. She rose. The King had marched off and was standing among his people, a few yards away. They were talking in low voices. Sophia could see the people at the back of the ring craning to hear what was being said. Hervan was murmuring to an officer on the edge of the group and pointing to the hall, where more refreshments waited. At last, still debating whatever it was, they followed him up the steps and within.
Beside her, the Widow let out a long breath.
‘It seems we are dismissed,’ she said.
‘I feel like fruit left hanging on the tree,’ said Sophia.
Normally she would never have said that – not to the Widow. But she was angry. She thought that a man that had come all this way for her, even if unwelcome, should have shown her more attention. He should have allowed her to speak, at least. And she was angry for her mother, too. No one had spoken like that to the Widow, ever. The Widow laughed with her people, but did not allow insolence. Now she had had to endure the crudest accusations in front of her house, and speak humbly in return. She must be seething.
‘Stay with me, Sophia,’ said the Widow.
‘There will be more business yet.’
There was. The task of settling the royal following into the castle had been divided up among officers of the house. But of course there were problems. There was too much of this, too little of that. Men kept coming up to the Widow asking what to do. More wine was brought for the stirrup-cups, for the King's men were thirsty. The crowd diminished. Sophia wondered what it was that the Widow wanted to say to her. She found herself fingering the necklace that the King had put so casually about her, and looked down at it.
They were pearls – more and larger than she had ever seen. In the evening light they seemed almost blue. They were warm too, and no wonder. Whoever it was that had carried them for the King must have borne them next to his skin for days. What that man had so casually flung about her neck must be worth a half-dozen manors.
He had touched her! And yet there had been no feeling – no life at all between her and him when he had done it. His fingers on her skin, and such wealth passing from him to her! And no feeling. What kind of marriage could this possibly prove to be?
Now she shuddered at last.
The Widow was looking at her again. If she had seen the necklace, she did not comment on it.
‘Come with me, Sophia.’
She led her daughter up the steps to the hall. Sophia realized that she must want to speak in private, and wondered what it was that she was going to say. Perhaps it would be a reproof for the way she had behaved on the steps – for failing to curtsey at the right time, or something like that. Perhaps it would be worse. The Widow was worried about something. It was beginning to look more and more as though that something was indeed Sophia. And the Widow must be angry after the way the King had treated her on the steps. Sophia realized that she might have to bear that as well.
They passed through the hall. The King and his counsellors stood clustered around the great hearth, where logs were blazing. A few of them looked up as the Widow went by. Martin was with them, and Hervan. The rest all seemed to be young men, armoured, violent, who watched each other and the world around them like wild beasts. One of them was leaning on the wall a few paces apart from the others, kicking idly at the brickwork as though he was tense, waiting for something. He looked familiar.
She stopped and stared. He did not look up. He was deliberately not looking up at her, avoiding her eye. But she had seen him before. He was a young man, with coarse, brown hair that straggled around his face. She remembered that face, looking down at her. He had winked at her.
‘Sophia,’ called the Widow from the door, in a low voice.
<
br /> Sophia picked up her skirts and hurried after her.
She had seen him before, she thought, as they climbed the spiral stairs in silence to the living quarters. He had been one of the company of riders that had passed her on the road the day she had met Chawlin. Someone had said that one of those riders had been a counsellor to the King. Who? Just a day or two ago …
He's one of Velis's counsellors. They want something from this house. You know what it is.
Luke. Ambrose of Tarceny. He had said it.
He had said that he had met this man. How and where? What did it mean?
As to what it was they wanted …
She followed her mother into the council chamber. The Widow turned to face her.
‘Something happened this morning in the hall, Sophia. It reminded me of the chest I keep here. I have not thought of it for months.’
The chest had been drawn out from under the Widow's seat. The little dark key from the secret drawer was already in the lock. The Widow lifted the lid for Sophia to see. The chest lay open, with only the bed of papers inside.
‘Only three people living know of the drawer where I keep my key. Myself. Hervan, whom on this I trust more than myself. And you, for your father showed you the trick when he played with you on his knee.’
The Widow was advancing on her. Her face was pale as a wall. Her eyes were dark. She must have borne this inside her for hours, and all through the interview with the King.
‘Where is it, Sophia?’
Sophia shook her head. She could not think. She knew it would be fatal to answer before she could think. And Chawlin would be in danger, too …
Could she deny it? She had no idea what her face had given away. Everything, perhaps …
‘Dear Angels – what are you doing with it? What are you doing to us?’
‘I – to keep it safe,’ she managed.
‘Safe? It is deadly! Safe? What do you mean?’
‘They want it – the King.’
‘The King? What talk is this?’
Feet were running in the corridor. Burne, one of the house servants, appeared at the door, panting. A welcome distraction!
The Widow and the King Page 28
