‘And I paid you! All of you,’ she snapped. ‘The brothel will expect you, but I can’t look after you this evening, Murdo. He has paid,’ she lied.
Cassien had to suppress a grin. A glance at Murdo reminded him this was no laughing matter.
‘When I’m finished with him, Vivienne, he won’t be able to hold his own cock to piss, let alone get it up to fuck you.’
‘Let me worry about the rise and fall of my cock, Murdo.’
This brought a roar of laughter from the other men and for this they won a glare from their leader. ‘Take him inside,’ he growled to them.
TWELVE
Florentyna was ushered silently into the chapel by Burrage. She could see the pale body laid out on the marble plinth while four tall, creamy beeswax candles burned near it: one at his head, one at his feet, and a candle at each side. She was immediately relieved to see that it was definitely not Reynard.
The candle near his right hand guttered and Florentyna noted how the attending cleric reached quickly for his snips to trim the wick; there was so much superstition surrounding bodies and their spirits these days that even the men of Shar paid them heed. She was sure the less people believed in the old magics, the more fearful they became of old superstitions and the greater they intensified their devotions to Shar. These fears seemed to be harking back to the Zerque days, when even a reflection in a puddle of water bore sinister significance.
To Florentyna, however, who took a more pragmatic view, it was simply a flickering candle and nothing to do with spirits — evil or good. Burrage had flinched, however, and looked anxiously at the cleric until he’d achieved a steady burn of the flame again.
She was able to approach the dead man with far less emotion now that she knew it was not Reynard, and as she drew alongside him she experienced a wave of pity on Dean Flek’s behalf. He belonged to others: a grieving wife and perhaps some children might miss him; certainly friends — like Master Pel — mourned his passing. Such a waste and such a brutal way to die. She knew death occurred all around her for one reason or another, much of it early and thus cruel, but there was something sinister about this man’s demise. There were too many questions surrounding it. Why had an innocent dean been killed so savagely? It wasn’t theft, and according to Pel he had no known enemies. Why had the stranger — the presumed killer — been naked? There was even the suggestion that the naked man — Gabriel was the name Pel had tentatively suggested — was of another world.
Burrage may have given a scornful glance, but this last notion is what had unnerved her the most. It was particularly relevant given that Fynch had warned her of this type of threat arriving. But who could she tell? Who would listen to her? Reynard was not here to consult, and she had no idea of how to find Master Fynch.
‘Your majesty,’ the robed man murmured softly, bowing his head. ‘We laid him out, as requested.’ He nodded at the open eyes of the corpse.
‘Thank you, Morn. Is Father Cuthben about?’ she asked the young man, marvelling, as she often did, at his neatly shaved pate as he bent. It suited his small, round head.
‘No, majesty. He is at the leper colony for the next two days. I can swiftly organise anything you need.’
She smiled. ‘I appreciate it. That will be all, thank you, Morn. We can manage from here.’
He bowed and silently left.
Florentyna returned her gaze to the dead man. He was no longer in his prime but he had surely had a kindly look about him, despite’s Pel’s claims that he was a stickler for this or that. His once-warm brown eyes were staring sightlessly at the intricately painted chapel ceiling and she briefly looked up at the mural that Emperor Cailech had commissioned to be painted. She had always loved it. The artist, Fairlow, had taken most of his adult life to complete it. It was breathtakingly beautiful, a rendition of the Wild beyond the border where legend had it that dragons flew above the forests and streams, where exotic flowers and other strange fauna abounded. She admired Fairlow’s imaginative flair; the lifelike paintings that always made her feel as though the king of the beasts was staring just at her. Not with ferocity, though; more with affection and with joy.
A boy rode the back of the dragon. The legendary Fynch.
That name was haunting her.
‘I told the priest not to finalise anything with the body, your majesty, particularly that you had requested seeing it as it was found,’ Burrage said.
‘And I suppose Pel and other villagers would have been too superstitious to close his eyes anyway.’
‘Indeed, majesty. Until prayers were said for him and the name of his killer passed to someone somewhere, they would continue believing his spirit was watching the murderer.’
‘Piffle,’ she lamented, snapping her attention back to Flek. ‘Do you believe that Father Morn or Cuthben might now miraculously give us the name of Flek’s killer?’
‘No. But even I do feel more comfortable for our spiritual protocols to be followed.’
She sighed and Burrage continued.
‘Clearly Pel was so shocked, your majesty, I doubt anyone was prepared to interfere at all with the body.’
She nodded her understanding.
‘What are you hoping to see here, your majesty … er, if you don’t mind me enquiring?’ Burrage asked carefully.
‘I don’t know. I hoped something would give a reason why Reynard’s quill was found with him. Did he steal it? Was he given it?’ She didn’t wait for Burrage to answer. ‘I doubt it was the former. Flek was well liked and known according to Pel. I can’t imagine him for a thief.’
‘No, majesty,’ Burrage said softly in the background over her thoughts.
‘So that leaves us with Dean Flek being left with Reynard’s quill? Why? Reynard treasured that swan quill. He would never have given it away and even if he did, why to the naked stranger?’
‘Perhaps stolen by this Gabriel fellow?’ Burrage tried.
She shook her head, irritated that this puzzle eluded her yet feeling conscious of a hidden ‘awareness’, which some people claimed everyone possessed but rarely tapped into, that this man or at least his death was connected with Fynch’s warning.
‘Majesty, my head is spinning with all the potential conclusions we could draw. The fact is, unless this corpse can talk, we’ll never know.’
She didn’t care about Burrage’s dizzy head. She knew she was right — the quill was surely meant to be found. The dead man’s modesty was protected with linen. Her gaze took in his thick legs before turning to the hands, which were large and sunbrowned. Flek clearly didn’t mind working outdoors. She moved to his left and turned that hand over, not at all squeamish about touching the corpse.
It was cool and surprisingly dry, although it had lost its springiness. Florentyna could see the depression of her fingers, which in living flesh would have rebounded immediately.
‘If he was left with Reynard’s quill perhaps he is a scrivener of sorts?’ Burrage offered, clearly feeling redundant. ‘We could ask Pel if —’
‘No ink,’ she remarked briskly. ‘Every scrivener I’ve met had stained hands,’ she said, in a vaguely dismissive tone. Then her voice softened. ‘No, this man did not write or copy with ink, not even for a hobby, Burrage.’
‘You’re most observant, your majesty,’ he commented.
She gave a mournful smile. ‘His death will remain a mystery. The riddle of Reynard’s disappearance is now further clouded by the quill’s appearance. I’m embarrassed to think that that man Fynch could know more.’
Burrage stared at her stonily. ‘He was mild enough, your majesty, but he was stirring trouble. I’ll never understand why Chancellor Reynard brought a doomsayer into your life.’ He cleared his throat and waited, but when she didn’t say anything in response, he asked, ‘Why are you thinking of Master Fynch?’
She blew out her cheeks, frustrated. Florentyna shrugged a shoulder. ‘He haunts me.’
Burrage frowned. He was standing by the head of the dead man. ‘In what wa
y?’
‘Something about his manner, some intensity, that demanded I take notice of him.’ She could tell from his expression that Burrage thought she was reading too much into Fynch’s presence. He began to smile and she interrupted whatever was about to be said. ‘Reynard trusted him implicitly. He had shared things with the former chancellor. When I was dismissive, Reynard —’
‘Pardon me, your majesty, but claims of magical beings descending on the Crown of Morgravia was really too much for even —’
‘That’s the point though,’ she cut in. ‘Our sensible, clear-thinking Reynard handed over his trust and all but demanded I listen to Master Fynch. I don’t know what hold he had over the chancellor. What if that hold led Reynard to leave the palace, desert his position and go in search of this threat?’
There! She’d finally aired what had been nagging at her but she could see she wasn’t making much sense to Burrage.
‘Well, we’ve found his quill,’ Burrage said in a tone of comfort, just pulling up short of patting her hand soothingly. ‘Presumably more will turn up if we remain patient.’
The same candle began to gutter again and Burrage frowned. He walked around the corpse to check the wick himself this time. ‘Must be one of those woollen wicks. The royal chapel is supposed to have only silk wicks — linen at worst,’ he tutted, but she could see he was unnerved at the demented flickering. She knew he was fighting the superstitious notion that it was the soul of the dead man trying to reach out to the living.
He began to fiddle with the wick. ‘May I blow this one out, majesty? It shouldn’t offend our dead friend here,’ he offered.
‘Go ahead,’ she said. Burrage blew on the flame, coughing quietly as the light winked out, when two extraordinary events occurred.
Florentyna gasped as she saw the shadow on the man’s palm. She reached over his body to lift his hand to look more closely and then cried out, spinning through a full circle of fear as she heard the word ‘Help’ being called, as though carried on the breath of Burrage as he blew out the flame.
Burrage stared, transfixed. ‘Are you all right, your majesty?’
‘Burrage, did you hear that?’
He looked stunned. ‘Hear what? I … I thought I heard a door in the distance creaking,’ he offered.
‘No, no, not a door. Did you hear someone speak?’
He shook his head and looked around, clearly spooked. ‘Morn!’ he yelled uncharacteristically loudly.
The man rushed in through the door he’d left closed. ‘Yes, your majesty … is something wrong?’ he enquired, looking between them.
‘Is anyone else in the chapel?’ the queen asked.
He shook his head. ‘I was told to ensure no-one else would be visiting at this time.’
Burrage glanced at her and took up the questioning. ‘Have you seen anyone around?’
‘We are alone, I swear. The guard passed just a few moments before you called for me. All is calm and quiet.’
Florentyna shook her head distractedly. She moved to the other side of the body to get a better look at what she thought she’d seen in the shadow. Florentyna leaned closer to stare at the man’s chest, which was woolly with grey hair.
‘There!’ she said, astonished.
Burrage peered closer. ‘Shar’s breath! What is it?’
She recognised it immediately with her sharp eyesight. ‘It’s the imprint of the royal sigil. And what’s more I am sure it’s the version of the one burned onto Reynard’s swan quill.’
‘How do you know?’
‘The miniature size … and see the break, there, on the leg of the dragon?’ she pointed, excited. ‘It’s the same on the quill!’
He did not share her glee. Stared at her with frightened eyes. ‘How can that be?’
She shook her head, eyes sparkling with intrigue. ‘I don’t know, Master Burrage. But we can both see it so we know we aren’t imagining this. And what’s more I heard a voice.’
Burrage now looked petrified. ‘Whose?’ he asked, sounding reluctant to hear the answer.
‘His!’ she replied, ruthlessly throwing more kindling onto the fire of his fear.
Burrage gave a squeak, stepping back from the chapel’s dead guest.
She looked between the two men, slightly frightened herself, definitely embarrassed that she was nodding her head in such an obstinate way. ‘I heard him.’
Morn gave a light sneer, stopped himself before he gave offence to the highest office in the land, and steepled his fingers in a show of quiet superiority. ‘Forgive me, your majesty. May I ask did you touch the body?’
‘Yes,’ she said, just short of snapping. ‘I lifted his arm.’
‘Ah,’ he said, with smug understanding. A look of sympathy flickered into his expression as he adopted the tone of explaining something to a child. ‘Quite often when a body is shifted, or indeed even as it lies, air will escape. It’s not uncommon to believe the dead are speaking when, in truth, it’s simply the body settling. You were mistaken, majesty. Be assured, this corpse did not speak.’
Her lips thinned slightly. Morn had tried but had lost the battle not to sound condescending. She straightened her bearing to show her full height. ‘I did not imagine what I heard.’
‘Oh, dear me, no, your majesty, I’m not for a moment suggesting you did. It’s just that the physics have explained the stages of the decomposing body to me. And I have been around enough to know that odd “sighs” do occur. It can be most disconcerting.’
‘It was not a sigh, Morn; it was a man calling out. He pleaded for help.’
Morn looked at her aghast.
‘Surely, your majesty is not —’ Burrage began.
‘I know what I heard, Burrage. It was not a door creaking, it was not a dead body settling, it was quite clearly the word “Help”.’ She glared at each of them, with her mouth set in a firm line, then she moved, speaking as she did so. ‘Morn, no-one is to shift or touch this man’s body,’ she said, reaching the chapel’s door. ‘Burrage, I want you to find Master Fynch.’
He blinked. ‘How?’
She pushed open the chapel door. ‘I don’t know how and I’m not sure I care. Find him. Have messages sent to every corner of the realm. He was on foot as far as I know so he may still be close. Nail up summons in all the town squares, spread the word among inns. Word travels faster than pigeon or horse but feel free to use every form of communication at your disposal. Get it moving. I want Master Fynch found and brought to me urgently.’
She left both men staring at the empty space where she had stood.
Cassien looked around the small, empty outbuilding that he’d been brought to. In a corner a small brazier burned. It struck him as odd but he didn’t think further on it as he was held between two of Murdo’s friends. He could smell the liquor coming off their breath.
‘I’m going to enjoy fighting you,’ Murdo said, dark eyes glittering as he paced before him like a bull pawing at the ground before it charged.
‘It won’t be a fight, Murdo,’ Cassien said. ‘I won’t strike you back.’
‘It’s your choice, stranger. I’ll just beat you into a pulpy heap, then.’
‘I suppose you will and that’s easy, given that you have me held between your obedient dogs. It’s hardly a fair challenge and far from the courage I’d expect from Razor braves.’
The men holding him showed their offence by pulling his arms harder and further behind his back until his tendons felt as though they might snap, his joints might pop.
‘Who are you calling a dog?’ one said.
Cassien simply stared at Murdo, his expression unchanged by the stresses on his body.
‘Let him go,’ Murdo ordered, frowning.
They shoved him forward, no doubt expecting him to fall over but Cassien was far too nimble on his feet and he took a step and twisted back, just in time to miss the blow that Murdo thought he’d land.
Cassien smiled at Murdo.
‘Put your fists up, pretty boy, s
o I can “fairly” smash up that freshly shaved jaw of yours.’
‘I don’t need my fists,’ Cassien replied, already seeing the blow before Murdo could land it.
Murdo punched … and felt only air against his knuckles. He turned to look for Cassien and found him standing behind him. He looked baffled. ‘Can’t you stand still and fight like a man?’
‘Like a man who doesn’t know how to fight, you mean? Like you, Murdo?’
Murdo roared and struck with both fists in a round swing meant to box his ears or break his jaw. It was a favourite move of the tough men of the Razors, or so Cassien had learned from Loup. In less than a blink, Cassien had cut both his arms in a sideways movement to block the man’s fists. He could hear Murdo’s teeth gnash with his rage. The mountain man kicked, again feeling only air against his shin as Cassien neatly leapt over the angry foot and landed lightly with bent knees. He stood up and waited patiently. His breathing rate hadn’t changed. But Murdo was snorting like an enraged bull.
Murdo stared with fury, then rushed at him, yelling that fury. Cassien spun one way, Murdo lumbered in his direction, and then Cassien spun in reverse and avoided Murdo’s pummelling by rolling over Murdo’s back. The mountain man straightened quickly, confused, and roared as his men began to laugh. Cassien waited in an irritatingly patient pose with his hands by his sides, his body relaxed. It wasn’t appropriate right now, but he wanted to congratulate the big man. Murdo was sure-footed and not nearly as cumbersome as he appeared.
‘Shar curse you!’ Murdo roared. ‘Fight me!’
Cassien shook his head. ‘To what end?’
‘Prove which of us is the stronger.’
‘You are, Murdo,’ he answered. ‘Nevertheless, I thought you were going to pulp me.’
‘Stay still then.’
Cassien grinned but knew what that reaction would mean. Sure enough, Murdo glanced at his companions.
‘Hold him,’ he ordered.
Cassien felt his shoulders and arms clamped by Murdo’s companions. ‘Ah, well done, Murdo, you’ve entirely outwitted me,’ he said dryly. ‘Now, with your men bravely holding me down, you can beat me senseless.’
Scrivener's Tale Page 21
