Elisha Rex

by E. C. Ambrose

Kent exchanged a glance with Gloucester. “I am sure that is true, Your Majesty,” he said carefully.

  “What else, then? Why does the idea make you nervous?”

  “I, Your Majesty? Certes, I am as happy to sit parliament as any other man.” He offered a tight smile.

  Elisha pushed back from the table and beckoned to the baron. “Give me your hand, my lord Kent.” He held out his own.

  Kent rose slowly and walked along behind the chairs, then bowed before Elisha but stiffly. “I do not see why—”

  “I did not ask you to see, I asked you to give me your hand.” If they wanted a miracle king, by God he would give them one.

  Sinking down to one knee, Kent placed his hand lightly over Elisha’s, his breath caught and mustache twitching.

  “Why should I not call parliament, my lord Kent? Am I not king, by the acclaim of both church and country?”

  “Of course you should, Your Majesty, I have just said you should.” Kent’s pale glance darted away, his touch humming with deception.

  “Then why does my calling parliament make you nervous?” Elisha sent his own tension into his palm, flooding it with warmth. Lacking the affinity to make a fire or cast a glow over their hands, he focused on the gems that twinkled in his crown, the sunlight that bathed the chamber, and cast himself a dazzle that gleamed upon his head and shone from his eyes.

  Kent stiffened, glancing up. “Because they are already here, Your Majesty. Not a formal summons, of course, merely a suggestion from one of their peers. Most of the barons are already installed in their London houses, or in temporary lodgings about the city.” He dodged Elisha’s gaze. “I have done nothing improper, Your Majesty.”

  “I should thank you for making my task easier, which is, after all, why I have a council to begin with.” He let the light die down, and Kent snatched back his hand. Turning to Ufford, Elisha said, “My Lord Chancellor, it seems the parliament is nearer than we thought.”

  “Indeed, Your Majesty. Near enough that those who did not attend the coronation should already have come to pay their respects.” He flipped open his book, pen poised. “Parliament shall be summoned, Your Majesty. Shall we set the date at a month from tomorrow?”

  “A month? But they’re already in London!”

  Elisha’s outburst broke the awe of his earlier manifestation of power, and Gloucester let out a soft groan while a few others drew themselves up as if girding for the fight to continue. Randall cupped his brow in his hand, leaving Elisha feeling like an unruly child.

  The Lord Chancellor cleared his throat and said gently, “Many of them are, from what we have just heard, Your Majesty. First, we must determine who is present in town already and who is not. Also, even for those who have returned to London, some of their homes were lost in the recent fire, and we shall have to locate them in their new quarters. Letters must be written to summon each and every one—both those present, and those not, and, to avoid any hint of favoritism, those who are not present must be given opportunity to respond to the summons. It is not merely the lords, of course, the bishops must also be summoned, and the knights of the shires, and the burgesses, if you wish. A month is hardly enough, even to expect a reply from Lancashire, never mind Cumbria, Your Majesty.”

  “It ought to be at least six weeks, Your Majesty,” one of the councilors offered, “and is generally more.”

  Kent, who had drawn back at Elisha’s protest, stalked back to his place, his spine straight and head held high. Awe would not be enough, even for a pious man like him. England was, in spite of everything, a land of laws—and it was to the law that even the king must accede. “A month tomorrow,” Elisha agreed, and prayed it would not be too late.

  Chapter 13

  The rest of the day, and half the night, all of the Tower scribes were engaged with scripting the summonses. Elisha painstakingly signed every one of them until his wrist ached and his fingers could barely hold the quill. He requested a bare room for this—bare, for a king, meaning only two pages, the Lord Chancellor, and the requisite scribes and yeomen, a dozen men to oversee his childish script and know exactly how long each signature required. Nine letters, over and over again. Elisha Rex, Elisha Rex, a chant that just might make it so.

  When a herald arrived to a gentle knock and a long bow, Elisha dropped the quill with relief a little too obvious. “Yes?”

  “His Honor, Geoffrey de Wichingham, Mayor of the City of London,” the herald intoned, standing aside as the visitor swept in.

  A stocky man clad in stiff velvets that rubbed together as he moved, Wichingham moved forward in mincing steps, gave an elegant bow, then took a few more steps and bowed again, his gold-trimmed cloak trailing after him. In a few more steps, he bowed a final time and remained so, his thick gray hair tumbling forward.

  “You must command him, Your Majesty,” Ufford whispered.

  “Approach?” Elisha said, and Wichingham obeyed as one of the pages trotted out with a cushion for the mayor to kneel on.

  “I thank your gracious majesty for the honor of addressing you, Your Majesty.”

  “The honor is mine,” Elisha said, though Ufford’s shaggy brows informed him this had been too much. He hurried on. “What brings you to court?”

  “Merely to thank you again for your swift and decisive involvement in the matter of the fires.” He blinked at the ground near Elisha’s new slippers—slippers, because he was rarely allowed out of his chair, never mind out of the Tower, so he need have no fear of walking. “Your Majesty presented quite an impressive display on that occasion, such that many of our citizens still speak of it in wonder, and are, blessedly, more than eager to assist in the efforts to repair the destruction which, in many cases, they themselves were party to.”

  “I’m glad of it,” Elisha replied.

  The mayor plowed on, his eyelashes fluttering as he blinked too much. Symptom of an illness, or merely a nervous habit? “Yes, Your Majesty, well. I know that I speak for the Guilds and the burgesses when I say that we are all most grateful for your intervention, and that, of course, we celebrate your subsequent rise to your present lofty position.”

  If he had to listen to the man speak for much longer, even in praise, Elisha’s eyes would glaze—or simply slide shut. “I thank you for taking the time to say so.”

  The man glanced up with a brief compression of lips that tried to be a smile. “You are kind to say so, Your Majesty. I am, of course, also well-pleased to be restored to my position within the city. It was, to say the least, quite distressing to be so abruptly expelled from the place I work so hard to safeguard and improve. Among the many details of your advent, which I admired, was the justice, duly tempered with mercy, which you applied to those most dangerous elements among the rioters. As I say, the citizens have been most helpful in restoring the city thus far. No doubt, given the absence of the worst miscreants, not to mention the concern over Your Majesty’s justifiable wrath, they will continue on best behavior in the proceeding months.”

  “Are you coming to a point, your honor?” Elisha shifted on his seat, still a little uncomfortable with the idea of himself as the punisher of wrong-doing. Had he been too harsh? The mayor did not seem to think so.

  “Yes. And so, Your Majesty, it is with greatest humility, that I most humbly petition that you cease to apply that justice with such . . . directness.”

  “I’m sorry?” Elisha puzzled through the man’s words, but still found no meaning in them. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  The mayor drew a deep breath which puffed up his laces and ribbons and chains. “The punishments, Your Majesty. While, at the outset, they served to encourage good behavior while disciplining those who had committed fell deeds, they are, at this point, making some of the citizens rather concerned.”

  “I have punished no one since the day of the fire, your honor.”

  The man’s fleshy face wrinkled into a
frown. He pulled out a handkerchief from his sleeve and blotted the sweat that shimmered on his brow. “I am aware, of course, Your Majesty, that there have been no formal proceedings of the court, but still, the . . .” He deflated a bit. “You really . . . have you not had a hand in this?” He glanced at Elisha’s hands with a little shudder.

  Elisha stretched his awareness to encompass the kneeling figure, fidgeting in his confusion and fear. “Perhaps you can start by telling me what this is, and what makes you think the punishments have continued.”

  “Well, the bodies, Your Majesty. Four of those whom you marked upon the day of the fire and expelled from the city have since been found within the city, dead, Your Majesty. It appears, that is, when it was brought to my attention, I imagined that you were fulfilling the promise to punish them if they returned.” He managed an awkward smile. “Your Majesty, it is a fine thing for a man in your position to fulfill his promises, but if you could see clear to be a little more restrained . . . ? While we surely have no objection to the king’s justice, the condition of the bodies has been—discomfiting.”

  Elisha still had no idea what exactly had happened, but a sick weight settled in his gut. “You and your men have found four people, murdered? Mutilated?”

  The mayor flinched and gave a quick nod. “Their skin, Your Majesty. The parts that had been touched by your wrath had been removed.”

  “Dear Lord.” Elisha sat back, clenching the arms of his throne. Mancers, it had to be.

  “Perhaps, Your Majesty, someone among your followers has taken it upon himself to carry out these punishments,” Ufford began.

  “Murders,” Elisha snapped. He pushed up from the throne. “I need to know who’s done this, and what’s happened to the other punished men. If we can find where the others have gone, we might be able to—” He broke off, catching Ufford’s lowered head, the strain in the man’s shoulders evident even if Elisha could not sense his frustration. “What is it, man?”

  “Certes, the crimes must be investigated, Your Majesty, but you do have people for that, including the honorable mayor himself.” Ufford regarded the kneeling man. “Now that he understands Your Majesty was not a party to these acts, I am sure he shall endeavor to discover who might have been.”

  The mayor said something, more a breath than a word, and Elisha squatted before him, causing him to shrink back, sweating more ferociously than ever. “What was that, your honor?”

  “Witches, Your Majesty.” He blinked and scrubbed at his face with the kerchief. “Begging your pardon, Your Majesty, I know that once you yourself were accused of such a thing, and I expect that it may be a sensitive issue, but it has been said that perhaps the deaths were effected by sorcerous means.”

  A witch hunt. And Elisha’s own actions had started it. For a moment, he crouched there, trapped. Should he encourage the hunt, because it was the truth? In point of fact, evil witches had everything to do with it. Or discourage it because they were more likely to discover the secret ranks of the magi than they ever were to find the lair of the mancers? He pictured Rowena, Brigit’s mother, bound upon the stake, and the fire in her daughter’s eyes.

  Elisha covered his own fears. “It is just as likely that they were, as the Lord Chancellor suggested, punished by those who support my elevation. Before I got here, I understand that many of them wanted me for a saint?”

  The mayor nodded.

  “So,” Elisha pushed back to his feet, his stomach churning, “it may be that mutilating the bodies gives the killer a sense of being closer to me.” He shook his head as if he could dispel that notion.

  “Relics.” The mayor wrung his kerchief in his hands.

  “Of a sort.” Talismans, but Elisha would not use that word. “Pray continue your investigation and report to me whatever you find. In the meantime, I shall make sure that my wishes are known and the crimes should stop.”

  “Would Your Majesty wish to issue a proclamation?” Ufford inquired.

  “Can you see that it’s written up?”

  “And that it strongly separates your royal person from these despicable crimes, Your Majesty.” Ufford gave a bow and strode over to the ready scribes.

  “If there is nothing else, your honor?”

  “Nothing, Your Majesty. Thank you.” The mayor rose to a bow, walked backward, bowing again until he finally scurried out of the hall.

  With a wave of his hand, Elisha summoned a page. “Send for Duke Randall of Dunbury, would you?” The boy bowed deeply and hurried away while Elisha stalked the room. One of the scribes carried a great mound of parchments over to a broad desk and began sorting through them. “What’s all of this?” Elisha picked up one of the pages and found a lengthy greeting to Thomas that briefly chilled him and reminded him of last night’s contact.

  “Petitions, Your Majesty. They arrive in advance of a parliament.”

  “But they can’t have arrived yet, and these are addressed to my predecessor.” Elisha replaced the page and sifted out another, this one requesting permission for a lord’s daughter to marry.

  “Most times, parliament can’t even address the petitions, there’s just too many, Your Majesty. Some can go to the king direct, of course.” He gestured toward the one Elisha was holding. “As for the rest.” A shrug.

  “What happens to them?”

  “I’m to sort and store them, Your Majesty, in the event there’s time for them to be examined and answered.”

  Elisha eyed the mound of papers, reflecting the needs, desires, and whims of his people. “Is there?”

  “Almost never, Your Majesty.” He set one aside, then another. “Marriages among the lords, yes. Land disputes involving barons, yes.” He ran his hand through the papers. “Visits to little parishes for the laying on of hands? No. Disputes involving chickens, no. Ride to Chelmsford to relieve a curse? No.”

  “Wait a minute, Chelmsford is cursed?”

  “With weeks of rain, aye, Your Majesty.”

  “You’ve not heard of this? It is the talk of the taverns.” Randall came in, the herald trotting alongside, and bowed to Elisha, then straightened. “I suppose you’ve not been long back to the mainland, Your Majesty.”

  The title still sat awkwardly, the more so when it came from someone he knew so well, someone he was so used to addressing as his superior. Randall’s clothes looked loose, his face haggard, but it was true that a certain light had returned to his gaze with Elisha’s accession. A project, Allyson said, to take his mind off of their daughter’s disappearance. So be it: Randall’s aid had so far been invaluable to navigating his new role.

  “What is your will, Your Majesty?”

  Elisha forestalled him with a hand and read through the relevant parts of the Chelmsford petition. Raining for weeks. He should have known something was wrong with the weather—how often did London get so many sunny days? But in the New Forest, Elisha had met a magus who knew the rain. This curse was Sundrop’s doing, and Elisha knew exactly why. “This is a curse I could lift.”

  “Surely it is not so pressing that it requires your personal attention, Your Majesty; not when we must prepare for parliament, not to mention handle Kent and Gloucester and the rest.”

  Elisha shook his head. “The petition states that the rain is centered upon a certain inn, but falls lightly on its orchard. I have to ride to Chelmsford, to apologize.”

  Randall made a soft sound that might have stifled his sigh. “You don’t ride to them, Your Majesty, they ride to you. Or you may send a letter. To whom do you need to apologize?”

  Elisha considered how to explain, in front of those who did not know the ways of the magi, how to even try to reach a man who lived in the rain. “I believe that someone has placed a curse on that inn, someone the innkeeper and I have both wronged. I am not sure any other could carry this apology, and the man who placed the curse will certainly not come to me.”

 
“You have called up Parliament to ask them to summon levies for war, Your Majesty, the barons are at a critical moment. You cannot simply ride away.” Randall looked small, bald, vulnerable.

  Meeting Randall’s gaze, Elisha said, very carefully, “The man in question is very . . . sensitive.” He placed emphasis on that last word and saw Randall’s understanding nod.

  “Could my wife carry the message, Your Majesty? She is well-spoken, as you know.”

  “It’s worth a try.” Allyson was a magus, and it might work, but Elisha suspected that sending an emissary in his stead would only infuriate Sundrop all the more. He smiled, for Randall’s sake, but the expression felt too tight, binding him like the crown and all the weight it carried, holding him down.

  “I shall have her sent to you for your message, Your Majesty. And now?” He looked expectant.

  Elisha led the duke back toward the throne and had a chair brought out so they might both be seated, isolated together, before he spoke. “There’s been a series of murders in London, the people I sent from the city. I believe my other enemies may be involved, but Ufford refuses to let me investigate personally.”

  “As well he should, Your Majesty—especially if your enemies are involved. We cannot risk losing another king.” His expression hardened, burdened but determined. “But it rather sounds, in this case, as if it might well be your friends to blame.”

  “Is there someone you can suggest to aid in the investigation?”

  “I know a man who might, if the mayor will have him. I’ll see to that as well, Your Majesty.” He scrubbed his hand over his balding scalp. “When the barons hear of this, Your Majesty, they will be all the more adamant against you. It is one thing to have a king declared in part by the acclaim of his people and quite another if those people begin killing in the king’s name. It is precisely the sort of thing that makes the barons nervous.”

  “Nothing I do or say seems to make them any less so.” Elisha spread his hands. “How am I supposed to calm them down?”