Elisha Rex

by E. C. Ambrose

  Pernel looked up from a thin, square volume. “Meaning Yorkshire or Scotland, Your Majesty?” His face in the side-light looked troubled, and he lowered his eyes to the page.

  “Either—I don’t know.” Elisha let his awareness spread further around him, sensing the servant’s retreat. “You need not be afraid of me, Pernel,” he said softly.

  The answer came at a mumble that Elisha strained to hear. “I went north with his Majesty King Thomas, before, y’know?”

  “When he was the prince.”

  Pernel bobbed a nod, his eyes showing white at the corners where he peered back at his new king. “You can have up your own servants, Majesty—”

  “Peace,” Elisha said, holding up his hands. “He is not my enemy.”

  Pernel frowned, and Elisha considered how much to say. “I did not ask for this, and I did not harm the king or queen.” He drew a long breath. “If it were up to me, Pernel, they would be here, and I would not. Help me find them, please.”

  The frown deepened, Pernel’s long face drawn down, his hands clutching the great book.

  “You’re not the first to think me mad. You don’t like me because I’ve taken his place.” He leaned a little closer, even as Pernel stiffened, his breath caught. “Help me find him.”

  Pernel swallowed hard. “God’s truth, Your Majesty?”

  “God’s truth. His enemies and mine are the same—it’s not just France I’m talking about.”

  “No,” said the servant, after a moment, “France would’ve asked a ransom, wouldn’t they, Majesty?” He set aside the book and took Elisha’s map. “Yorkshire. Scotland?” They rose and went to the table, weighting the map with a ruler, stylus and ink stone. “Went up this way, we did.” Pernel traced one of the crooked lines past a series of words. “The coast don’t look much like this. This map don’t go far enough,” he muttered, then he dropped down back to the chest.

  With the map now oriented properly, Elisha looked at the top, the coastline Pernel had indicated. He closed his eyes and focused on what he had felt in Thomas’s desperate sharing, bringing every sensation back to mind. Yes—the salty taste of the sea. Elisha braced his knuckles on the table. “The coastline,” he said shortly. “Anything with that coast.”

  “That’ll be sea charts, though, Majesty—”

  A knock echoed through the little room, and both men froze. Elisha wet his lips, his stomach clenched. “Come,” he said, but he could not muster the right air of command as the archbishop entered.

  Clad in a robe of exquisite wool—so finely woven that its simple cut belied its cost—the archbishop raised a lantern of his own, making his arched brows seem the more pointed. “I saw you cross the yard, Your Majesty, and thought perhaps you sought my own domain. The church lies below.” His eyes traced the spread of maps. “What stirs you from your rest, Majesty?”

  Elisha straightened, shifting his hands behind his back, fingers splayed, hoping to forestall anything Pernel might say. “France. What else keeps England’s king awake?”

  The archbishop tipped his head. “It is rewarding to see that a man who rose for his other gifts should also take an interest in our foreign relations. That is . . . unexpected.”

  Almost as if it were also undesirable for Elisha to concern himself with France. Elisha shuffled the maps a bit. “This one doesn’t show all the coastline.” He plucked out the map Pernel first located and prayed he was looking at it the right way around. “I find I don’t know enough about our enemy.”

  “Have you then devised a plan to avoid war, Your Majesty? I know it usually falls to Dunbury to create such stratagems, but I fear that recent events have left him less fit than one might wish, poor man.” He crossed himself, glancing skyward.

  “You serve on the king’s council as well—what can you tell me about our recent dealings with France?”

  “I am not a worldly man, Your Majesty. The enemy I fight rarely shows himself for pitched battle.” He radiated a holy sincerity, hands folded before him.

  “But you must’ve been to visit the pope, yes?” Elisha rolled the map out atop the first. “What do you know of the lands between?”

  “It was primarily a sea voyage, Your Majesty, and I fear that I did not suffer well the waves.” He gave a pinched but rueful smile. “Here is Avignon, where the Holy Father resides, in a palace so grand that it puts the Eternal City, Rome herself, somewhat to shame, surrounded by the wealth that princes only long for.” His long fingers stroked across the parchment, then pinned it down. “They say that only a Frenchman can now serve in that highest office of the Church. Perhaps Father Osbert can tell you more? I believe he is a Frenchman born and bred.”

  “The inquisitor? What if he’s a spy?”

  The archbishop reared back and crossed himself. “Your Majesty! Can you make such a claim against a priest of the holy church?”

  “It is my job to be suspicious. You gave me this role for holy reasons, Your Grace. But if I am to keep it, it will be worldly deeds that earn the crown.”

  “As you say, Your Majesty.” The archbishop inclined his tonsured head, he worked some idea around in his pursed lips and finally said, “I understand you have summoned your own confessor?”

  “A priest I know.”

  “I am at your service, Your Majesty, for any spiritual need.”

  “You have other tasks to keep you, I’m sure.” Elisha held out his hand. “Thank you for your insight and guidance thus far, Your Grace.”

  The archbishop’s eyes sparkled as he reached out and took Elisha’s hand, giving only the slightest inclination of his head. His hand was cool and unexpectedly strong, his presence a more subtle blend of faith, calculation, avarice, curiosity. He moved to withdraw, but Elisha clasped the hand in both of his.

  “I wouldn’t be here if not for you, Your Grace. Don’t think I don’t know that.” Elisha allowed something of the peasant’s subservience to seep into his stance. As he increased the contact, the archbishop’s presence flickered, like a feeble flame blown by the opening of a door. A false presence—a projection. How sensitive must a magus be to project a presence not his own?

  “Surely another would have recognized what I have, Your Majesty.” The archbishop returned his smile, or rather, his teeth did, though his eyes resisted. He looked down then at the scar on Elisha’s upper hand. “You are a marked man, my liege. It was only a matter of time before you came to the notice of the Lord.”

  “All I can say is, I’ll do my best to uphold the honor I’ve been given.” Elisha released him. “Your Grace.”

  “I have no doubt, Your Majesty. Fare you well with France.” Still smiling, he swept himself through the door.

  Chapter 12

  Elisha whirled to Pernel, causing him to drop the armload of scrolls he had discovered. “He was Thomas’s confessor, wasn’t he? The king’s confessor?”

  “The archbishop, Majesty? Yes.”

  “How often?”

  The servant stared at him, and finally said, “Weekly, just about, Your Majesty. Monthly, at least.”

  “Saints and martyrs,” Elisha murmured, knotting his fingers into his hair as he slumped against the table. And Thomas was a pious man—he would not have held back in his confession. How much did the archbishop already know? Likely he was one of the first to know about Rosalynn’s pregnancy. Thomas needed an heir, or the kingdom remained unstable—and someone who wanted that instability would need to do something about it before that heir could be born. Even if he was no necromancer himself, the archbishop could have spread the word among the mancers. Would Thomas have mentioned their friendship? Of course—he would want absolution for the lies he told to try to save Elisha from the flames. Dear God.

  Pernel cut him a glance and slowly gathered up the maps.

  Would they kill Thomas now? Whatever their purpose, they weren’t through with him yet. They used terror, p
ain, and murder to generate their power—witness Morag’s position as a gravedigger. War with France? Why not! Why not take that a step further and set up Elisha as king, ruling the citizenry in opposition to the barons.

  By supporting Elisha’s elevation, the mancers forged a civil war steeped in personal betrayal, vengeance, and injustice. All England would become their cauldron. And when the French arrived, they would find a nation already on its knees.

  “How’s the king’s confession any of your concern, Majesty?” Pernel grumbled under his breath, so softly that only Elisha’s extended senses caught the sense of it as the servant dropped his pile of scrolls on the table.

  “How much did King Thomas trust you?”

  The servant straightened, hands trembling, his sandy head bowed. “I am pleased to say I had his Majesty’s trust in everything, Your Majesty.” Pernel forced his hands to relax. “With absolute discretion. Ask anyone. Your Majesty.”

  “Give me your hand.” Elisha held out his own, planting his feet, facing the man.

  Pernel sucked a breath through his teeth, drawing his hands close. “You’re not—that is, Your Majesty.” He blinked fiercely. “I heard stories about what happened after the fire.”

  “You’ll not be withered into an old man, I swear it.” Elisha displayed his palms, the scar tissue smooth at their centers.

  “Fought the devil, you said.”

  “And the devil has taken our king.”

  Pernel’s head shot up.

  “Our king,” Elisha repeated softly, “and I’ll be the first to admit it, to anyone I can trust.” Again, he offered his hand, praying that the risk would pay off, that he wouldn’t have to prevent Pernel from speaking about anything that passed in this room. He suddenly realized what Thomas had meant in wanting Elisha exiled, not only for his own safety, but to avoid his witnessing the things a king might have to do to protect his kingdom.

  The servant’s hand edged out and finally touched Elisha’s.

  “Thomas trusted you for absolute discretion,” Elisha repeated, watching, keeping contact, and letting his awareness search the man.

  Pernel stood proud, though his hand still trembled. “He did, Your Majesty.” Conviction filled his presence. He would serve Thomas with his life.

  “Would you swear an oath with me, Pernel? To serve me as you served him, as I pray you will serve him again?”

  Their eyes met, a killing offense for some nobles. “You don’t trust the archbishop?” Pernel asked, wavering. “Majesty?”

  “I do not.”

  Pernel took a deep breath. “Walter’s probably told him where to find you this morning. We had word to keep careful watch, that his grace was worried for your faith and thought you needed more guidance. We’re to tell him . . . not private things, you understand? Things like this, or like nightmares.” Pernel dropped his gaze then. “Forgive me, Your Majesty.”

  Elisha shook off his apology. “For the archbishop’s benefit, in front of everyone, you go right on hating me for a usurping scoundrel. In the meantime, take those maps and find every stone fortress on the northeast coast, churches, too. Stone, with some kind of undercroft. It must be remote.” Elisha drew back his hand to rest his chin on his fist.

  “You think the king’s being held there, Your Majesty?”

  And for the first time, Pernel mentioned them both in the same breath without a hint of irony at Elisha’s stolen title. “I hope to God they’re not moving him,” Elisha thought aloud.

  “The nightmare!” Pernel scooped up his maps and faced Elisha, flushed. “You had a vision.”

  It was near enough the truth, though Elisha shuddered to think of the rumors that would be spread through the servants’ halls in the next few hours.

  Outside, a bell rang for Prime: the Tower’s inhabitants would be rising. Pernel smothered a yawn, but nodded. “But you should be at chambers, Your Majesty, to break the fast.”

  Elisha nodded, taking up the best map of the Channel. “Fast indeed. We have a lot of work to do.”

  Pernel grinned back at him as they descended to his chambers to start the day.

  • • •

  By the time the bell rang at midday and urged them to supper, Elisha slumped in a rich chair, in a great room, surrounded by arguing lords and barons, the map he had brought now covered with a dozen others, each a little different. His head ached with arguing. Where would the French land? How did anyone know they were coming at all? Why not let them in, at least the throne could be taken by someone with royal blood. Any reference to “royal blood” made Elisha long to leap up and flee to the archive to pore over the maps until he found Thomas and brought him home.

  “If you believed that, Kent, why didn’t you challenge the coronation?” Randall shouted.

  Kent blanched, lips tightening, and flicked a glance at Elisha. “And argue with a miracle?” He crossed himself elegantly. “I don’t know how to do that—none of us does. Even the chroniclers and archivists who stayed up these past three days to find a legal challenge dare not throw up the love of law against the word of the Archbishop, never mind the evidence of our own eyes. Men have been healed.” He rapped his knuckles on the table. “London yet stands, the peasants once more await our direction—quite nearly everything is right again.” He shook his head.

  “Everything except the king,” Elisha said carefully.

  “I’ll ask you not to put words into my mouth, Your Majesty.” Kent, a tall man grown thick around the stomach, crossed himself again, as if merely applying the title to Elisha made him think of doing penance.

  “You won’t be charged with treason for doubting me. I’d have to charge myself for that. But the doubt must end. France is coming, and we’re still in here, fighting with each other. Don’t let your doubts hold you back from action.”

  “But how do we know this, Majesty?” said Mortimer. “Rumors, only, but there are always rumors.”

  Sweat slicked Randall’s red face. “You were there at Dunbury when the French ambassadors approached Prince Alaric. Every word and deed was a threat. That gaudy reliquary they gave him was a threat. The kingdom’s been a mess since before Hugh died—God rest him. If you were King Philip, wouldn’t you press the advantage?”

  “Some preparation is prudent, as always, Dunbury, but I won’t levy men for this phantom war.” Mortimer leaned back, eyes half-closed. A murmur of assent passed the room. “Call up Parliament, Your Majesty, and let it come to debate. If the vote is for an army, then we’ll raise our levies.”

  “That could be months,” Randall snapped.

  “And the season for war is nearly over,” said Gloucester. “Even the French would hesitate now.”

  “William the Conqueror crossed the Channel in September.”

  While they shouted at one another, servants moved among them, silent, laying out the tables with ale, bread, cheese, steaming plates of leeks and roasted fowls. Elisha’s taster was already at work, filling him a plate, and taking a few bites of each item. He finally nodded to approve Elisha’s reach for the bread, a hard thing to poison. Since his accession, every moment and action seemed freighted with hazards, but he took a quiet, guilty pleasure in eating the king’s bread. Finely milled flour made it soft and white, while an oven kept under the watchful gaze of an entire staff ensured the crust was perfectly crisp, never over-cooked—nothing like the hard, dark loaves of his childhood, nor the mealy bread he could afford on his earnings as a barber. Once in a while, he had been lucky enough to have a good baker as a patient and to be paid in bread.

  Weighing the loaf, Elisha looked down at his hands. The scars remained in part because Thomas’s own hands had not yet healed from being branded for stealing food. “My Lord Chancellor?” He gestured Ufford closer. “If I want to pass a law to say that no man can be bodily punished for the theft of food, do I need the approval of the council?”

  “No,
Your Majesty. You can proclaim a writ,” Ufford said, but his mouth turned down.

  “You don’t approve.”

  “The Bakers’, Butchers’ and Mercers’ guilds will not approve if the punishment is lifted for theft, Your Majesty.”

  Elisha envisioned rank upon rank of people standing between the throne and justice. “Labor, then. Anyone convicted of such a theft must do labor to the value of the theft.”

  Ufford’s eyebrows ticked upward. “It would be like hiring thieves, Your Majesty. Wherefore should they not keep stealing?”

  Elisha frowned. “Triple the value of the theft?”

  Ufford considered this a long moment. “They might accede to this.” He gave a little bow and turned away to the clerics who sat by, ink at the ready.

  Washing down his bread with a swallow of ale, Elisha watched the great men of his council settle in to their meals, stabbing meat and tearing bread, glaring at each other or leaning close, muttering. The archbishop settled coolly at the opposite end of the room, delicately breaking morsels of bread to sop up his platter, disdaining the earthly fights. Elisha was king, and yet, to take any useful action, he needed them—their knights and levies, their support. Mordecai worshipped knowledge, building it into a bulwark to defend his sensitivity. But Elisha sat in knowledge now, certain the French were coming, and the knowledge availed him nothing.

  Ufford returned to his side, finishing a morsel of food and delicately wiping down his fingers.

  Elisha pushed back from the table, and his own stillness spread slowly across the room, men taking a few hasty bites, pushing back their plates, and gesturing for servants to take them away. They stared up the table, at him. “What will it take to convince you to prepare for war?” he asked.

  “What it always does, in the absence of an actual invasion, Your Majesty: the support of parliament,” Kent replied.

  “Then call them,” Elisha demanded. “Whatever members are not already here must be recalled. The Lord Chancellor said they had not gone far.”