Randall sat a moment as if thunderstruck himself. “My wife’s been struck by lightning.”
Wincing, Robert said, “Nearly so, Your Grace. She’ll be all right.”
“She rode as your messenger, Your Majesty.” Randall’s glance raked Elisha’s face. “Apology refused.” The duke spurred his horse and burst ahead of them on the road to London and Allyson.
Chapter 15
Riding the final measure, Elisha told Robert of his suspicion of Mortimer and asked for his aid. Given the expression on Randall’s face, he doubted the duke would be much help to him, for a few days, at least. Allyson could likely have healed herself—certainly, Elisha could have done it, but too many people knew what had happened and expected to see some sign of the trauma. Thank God Allyson’s injuries were minor, or it might have sent her husband straight over the edge unto madness. Even Randall’s aid might not be enough to compensate for the barons’ growing hostility, and Elisha’s friendship with Blackmere became another black mark against him. He still had weeks before the parliament, and his hopes of being heard looked increasingly bleak.
The next day, Elisha discovered that law and procedure were not the only impediments to action: religion, too, must take its toll, for it was Sunday. The long mass included a sermon by the inquisitor, Father Osbert, who spoke with spirit about the crusade against heresy and false miracles put up by the Devil to snare the unwary. He even found a hunting metaphor to slide into his speech.
In the gallery provided for royal use, Elisha kept still and tried to think it was not directed at him. The inquisitor had, so far, been observant, but not judgmental. If it weren’t for the dozen others gathered in the king’s gallery with him, Elisha might have quietly excused himself from the service. But when he looked away from the altar, Elisha found Brigit gazing at him with warmth, Blackmere with contrition. Randall and Allyson sat close together just beyond Brigit. The duke’s attention focused solely on his wife, who wore a bandage over her eye and another at her wrist. She spoke to the rain, to Sundrop, its master, and he answered her with fire. So let Chelmsford drown—Elisha had his hands full with the growing tension over the upcoming parliament.
With Ufford in attendance as ever, Elisha gratefully fled after the service had finished. Outside, a steady stream of citizens tramped past the large arch of the inner wall. A few slowed, then stopped, staring in his direction. Before long, a crowd had gathered there, not close enough to disturb the guards, but large enough that they stood at the ready.
“What’s all that?” Elisha asked.
“The parishioners at St. John ad Vincula, Your Majesty,” Ufford replied. “A larger crowd than usual. I have heard that all the churches have been crowded since your advent at the fire.” He tapped his fingers on the cover of his large book, then raised his wild eyebrows. “They want to see you, Your Majesty, though many of them are afraid, given the murders in town, and this latest incident in Chelmsford.”
The crowd wavered with uncertainty, fear and hope in conflict among them. A few of the citizens used crutches or wore conspicuous bandages. “And the others wish to get their own miracles,” Elisha murmured. “Have I any other duties today?”
“’Tis the Sabbath, Your Majesty. The day of rest.”
Beyond the arch, some people knelt in prayer, others crossed themselves as they stood, a hundred pairs of eyes fixed upon him, even when they pretended to be looking away. Elisha found he was rubbing his palm, his thumb and fingers stroking over the scar. The archbishop had given them a miracle-working king—for what? The archbishop wanted to make him a holy man, then stand by and watch him fall, while the web of mancers killed citizens and tainted arrows, aiming their malevolent intent at Elisha’s supporters. Elisha considered dodging the eyes, the prayers, the hope; they reminded him of the men who gathered outside the hospital at Dunbury, desperate for his help, because he was the only one who would help them.
Elisha started walking.
“Your Majesty?” Ufford called from behind him, but he was already past the inner rank of buildings, waving aside the guards.
The citizens edged back from him, but more fell to their knees, hands clasped at his approach. “Mercy, Your Majesty!” someone called.
The rest dropped into deep bows and curtsies, a sea of bowed heads. He could not heal them all, not without a week of attunement and knowledge of their every condition, but he called upon his cloth talisman, the one most associated with healing, letting it echo his desire and build into a warmth of healing at his fingertips. One of the guards edged into his path, and Elisha shot him a glare, stepping past to an old woman who knelt, mumbling over her hands. He touched her head, and she sighed, her eyes rising to his as he sent her the strength for healing, for her body to use as it would.
“Bless you, Your Majesty,” she said, and tears sprang to her eyes. Elisha turned away, to a young man with a bandaged arm. His own arm twinged as they touched, and, at least for the moment, he took away the pain. As the young man called out his blessings, those who had backed off, who crossed themselves in fear, now surged ahead, and he moved on to the next, and the next. At last he sank into a chair Walter carried out to him, a steady stream of people coming to kneel at his feet, touch his scarred hands, murmur their blessings. He expected to feel drained, exhausted from healing, as he had every night at Dunbury, but every smile, prayer, and whispered thanks sustained the healing warmth. And it was not until the last of them moved away, the last of the fear converted to wonder, that Elisha leaned back and yawned.
The archbishop stood in the shadowed arch, the inquisitor by his side, both watching, neither saying a word, though Father Osbert’s quill moved carefully over an open page, as if he noted everything he saw.
Rising wearily, Elisha gave them a nod and returned to his chambers, full of worries. It was well enough for the king to heal his people, but it was still weeks before the parliament, and the barons were even less likely than before to support him. He paced while Walter prepared the fire and went for food to appease the king’s growling stomach. Then Elisha stopped by the chantry, where a small desk stood with its inkpot and quill, where Thomas might have sat to write his letter.
After a moment, Elisha, too, sat down and took a bit of parchment, the texture still unfamiliar in his hands. He hesitated so long over how to spell Mordecai’s name that the quill dried out and had to be inked again. Even then, he started badly, with a scratch across the page and a few blots that he quickly sprinkled with sand. His hand tired of the labor before he had done much more than list his troubles: the murders in the city, the incident while hunting that only inflamed the barons more, the question of how to handle France if they could not raise an army. By the time he sealed the letter and rose, his servants moved quietly about, re-warming his meat, frowning as they poured water over his ink-blackened fingers.
Walter hurried off with the letter in search of a messenger heading for Wight, while Pernel and a couple of squires laid out his supper. Just as he was finishing, a solid knock brought Lord Robert to his door, eyes alight. “The answer’s Hythe, Your Majesty. It’s above Hastings, in Kent.”
“Kent?” Elisha rose from his table.
“Don’t get excited now, we don’t think that Kent himself knows anything. The town’s been held by the Archbishop of Canterbury, but he owns all sorts of things. Mortimer’s sister’s husband is castellan there, at Saltwood. Same bloody place they planned the murder of St. Thomas á Becket.” Robert crossed himself, looking slightly dazed.
Before he could ask, Pernel brought out the map and showed him the town of Hythe, on a perfect cove just across the channel. For a moment, Elisha’s hopes returned. Still, he had no army and had only the parliament to wait on in the hopes of getting one.
“How fares the duchess?”
“Very well, Your Majesty, and that’s put the duke back to rights, leastways as much as he can be without Rosalynn home. Still can’t get o
ver that lightning.” He shook his head. “Like the bombards, only straight down from the heavens.”
Lightning and bombards. Elisha caught Robert’s arm. “We can do it! We don’t need the barons, just the bombards. We know they’re massing—the French—they might come any day now.”
“They’re likely just waiting calm seas.”
“Yes. If we can ensure a good crossing, we can bring them when we want them, where we want them. We could even steer them into the bombards’ range.”
“The bombards are here, Your Majesty, outside London,” said Robert uncertainly.
“Then get them moving toward Hythe.”
“I’ll talk with the duke.”
“Good man! In the meantime, I’ll ride for Chelmsford and see if I can’t end the rain.”
“If you think that’s wise, Your Majesty. Yon cursed storm nearly killed the duchess.”
“It’s a chance I must take to save the kingdom.”
Still mystified, Robert bowed and departed.
“Good news, Your Majesty?” Pernel asked.
“The best.” Elisha grinned, then glanced down at the map in his hand. Better would be finding the king. A weighty guilt settled over him like the ermine cloak of office that should have been reserved for Thomas alone. “Or nearly so,” he murmured.
• • •
The ride would have been accomplished much faster if he didn’t need to wait for a retinue to be gathered, riders to be sent ahead for lodging, routes planned and checked—a thousand things that bothered no one but a king. The archbishop looked speculative, and the inquisitor asked to ride along, the better to document the strange storm. Elisha felt Brigit’s presence often as she moved so quietly in the background of these preparations that he wondered if she were casting another deflection. Since her visit to his chamber, she watched him with gentle eyes and soft smiles, and he did his best not to show his revulsion.
They rode through an ominously dry landscape, sheep munching despondently on tufts of browning grass, nosing the runnels of failing streams. Ahead, dark clouds crowded the horizon. A group of townsfolk, friars, and nuns clustered over the near hill, praying. A girl on the outskirts started shouting, pointing, and a few of the better-dressed folk arose, hurrying to bow and curtsy.
“Oh, Your Majesty! Thank you for coming!” A well-dressed woman blinked back tears.
At her side, a stout fellow with a twisted bow of a mouth looked over Elisha’s horse and resumed staring. “Started down there, at the Lamb,” the man said at last. “Landlord’s not come out for weeks. Ain’t answered his door for three days now.”
Hope and doubt stood side by side. Elisha chose to reply to the former. “Thank you, Goodwife. We’ll see what might be done.”
“If prayer avails little, Your Majesty, there might be more to this,” Father Osbert began but stopped himself with a gracious nod. “But yes, let us see what might be done.”
In the town below, the line of rain carved deep grooves into the grass before running down into the river. The steeple could barely be seen through the downpour and thick mud delineated the streets.
Father Osbert crossed himself, and said faintly, “I have heard of such wonders, but until now, I have not been witness to them.”
“You need not ride on with me, Father.”
The priest swept his gaze over the townsfolk then back to the rain. “If there be demons at work here, you shall have need of me, Your Majesty.”
No demon but himself, and the man who lived in the rain. Elisha reined his horse about, to come close to Father Osbert, and said softly, “I’ll return if there’s any sign of demons, Father. If that’s the case, it is these good people who will need your protection.”
The priest gravely inclined his head.
To the others, Elisha said, “None of you are beholden to come with me into the rain.”
“We are, yer Majesty,” Madoc announced, urging his pony forward along with a few of the other men-at-arms.
“Very well.” They rode forward, Madoc taking the lead, each man putting up his hood as they crossed the boundary into the pounding rain. Mud sucked at the horses’ hooves, their ears drooping back, heads lowered. They rode only as far as the bridge before Elisha reined in, shaking back the folds of cloth that defended his hands, and caught the rain in his palm as he sent out his presence. “Sundrop,” he began. Overhead, thunder rolled, and the sky darkened. His mount shivered and snorted.
“Hear me out—”
A sound like a bombard’s blast at close range smote the sky along with a brilliant flash. Madoc’s pony reared, and he fought it back to a standstill, mist swirling from its nostrils. Elisha’s horse danced in spite of his calming hand upon its neck. He tossed the reins to a guard and slid down, stumbling as his boots struck the watery surface and sank into the ooze. A short distance ahead, a black smear marked the ground with a twinkle as of glass: the place where Allyson might have died. He slogged forward, his sodden cloak dragging at his throat, until he yanked it off, handing it to Madoc as he passed. The rain beat upon his head, dragging the black locks of his hair to loop over his ears.
“Go on, then!” Elisha cried into the storm. “Do your worst! Only don’t kill my horse, or my men—don’t let more innocents be lost.” To the rain alone, he said, “The fields of Essex are dying for this, Sundrop. Did Chanterelle want you to crumble her beloved earth into dust?”
Thunder smacked at his skull with a jolt he could feel. His skin thrummed with it, his bones ached, and Elisha flinched. Imagine God’s chosen king finished by a stroke of lightning from an unnatural storm. A fitting end. He swallowed, struggling to master his breathing as the oppressive sound tremored around him. Then it dissipated, and the blow did not fall.
The clouds roiled and a man emerged from the slanting rain. Elisha took a deep breath and approached, his boots squelching in the mud while the other man made no sound at all. The young man’s features slowly resolved, solidifying from the drops, although the rain still streaked through him, his face formed of streaming water.
“You.” Sundrop’s lips curled, and Elisha wondered suddenly how old he was. The gray of his face and the ruffling of his colorless hair against the rain made him ancient, while the anguish of his eyes made him a child, helpless with grief.
Elisha took another step. He wanted to reach out but only spread his hands and spread his patience to the falling rain. “You loved her,” Elisha breathed.
“You are with Death,” the clouds spat against his ears. “What do you know of love?”
“Do you think that love never dies?” The answer seemed flippant, even tempered with his memories of Brigit, and he was not surprised when the rain slapped his face.
“She died for you!” it howled, stinging his skin with sudden ice.
“God knows I would have saved her.”
The sky grew less gloomy as they spoke, as if the clouds lessened, although the patch of darkness lingered on the right-hand side, just past the bridge, soaking into the thatch and pounding on the sign that marked the accursed inn. The sign of the Lamb. That irony stung at the back of Elisha’s eyes, and he bowed his head. He recognized the place from Chanterelle’s sending, her father’s establishment, where she learned to love the earth because it could hide her from the groping hands of the customers her father sold her to. Chanterelle helped Elisha to understand his affinity with death, and she came to his aid when he struggled against Morag in the New Forest. Then Morag had hunted her down, slew her, and used her ashes to lay a trap for Elisha in turn. Elisha’s fists clenched.
“I’m doing it—sending the rain back to Essex, for the earth. Are you through now?” Sundrop’s touch was a lash of pain. The rain felt raw, seared by screams and weeping.
Elisha winced, his healing instincts drawn and helpless.
“I won’t harm you,” Sundrop’s voice cracked, his presence ripp
ling uneasily through the rain. “She would not want you hurt.”
Elisha radiated calm and comfort. “You knew her before she was a magus.”
Sundrop’s gaze snapped back to him. “She loved the gardens, always. Those trees—she planted them.”
A row of apple trees impossibly dense with fruit stood along the riverside, nurtured by one who loved the earth and all that it could give. The rain fell more gently there, a patter on the rich, green leaves. Elisha’s chest felt tight. “Who were you, back then?”
The rain wavered in patterns on the ground, then a shaft opened in the rain, drawing Elisha’s eye to the opposite bank, to the millwheel churning in the running stream. “Jerome, the miller’s boy.” And a whisper so faint it barely reached his skin, “She would never let me touch her. Even to dry her tears.”
Elisha watched the rain caress the apple trees. The earth and the rain and the things that grew between. It was the kind of tale they told after feasting at the Tower: a tragic maid and her true love. Elisha thought back to when he’d first met Sundrop. Had she known that he had made himself for her?
“I’m sorry,” Elisha murmured.
“So what?” Rain lashed back at him. “You regret befriending her? Making her a target for your enemies?”
Elisha let himself grow numb to the cold. How long had it been raining here? Sundrop must be exhausted. “They already wanted her, Sundrop. She had been listening, and they knew.” Even such an able spy was no harm without a master to report to, or at least, an accomplice to spread the word. “Who did she tell?”
Stalking into the rain, nearly vanishing, Sundrop paced then returned, his face clearer this time. “Rye. Who is with crows.”
But the crow woman clung to her own. She wouldn’t reveal her friend to the mancers. “That doesn’t—”
“Parsley is Rye’s brother. Parsley is for hire—for anyone’s hire. I had not known how hard he was.”
Elisha Rex Page 12
