The monk held out two trays covered with a cloth. Alan did not hesitate.
“Which prisoners, Brother?” he asked, taking the trays.
“There are only the two,” said monk. “Father Jacob and Sir Ander.”
Only the two. Alan chuckled inwardly.
The smell of fresh-baked bread wafted up from the beneath the cloth. Alan grinned to himself in the shadow of the cowl and proceeded to the prison. He carried the tray carefully, so as not to spill anything.
He wondered suddenly if there was some sort of password he would have to give at the gate. Apparently not, for a monk opened it and silently indicated he was to enter.
One of the monks lifted the cover off the tray to inspect it. He cut apart the loaf of bread and removed the lids on the two bowls to sniff the meat and vegetables. Alan held a silent conversation as he stood silently waiting.
“Checking to see if the bread’s been poisoned? Probably not, more’s the pity. My brother is fortunate I don’t happen to have any arsenic on me today.”
The monk replaced the cloth and returned the tray, indicating Alan was to proceed. Fortunately Alan had learned from Dubois that Sir Ander and Father Jacob were being held in the monk’s quarters, otherwise he would have blundered into the main cellblock. Instead he headed for the smaller building. As he walked, Alan noted the number of monks and their disposition, the proximity of the gate to the prison entrance and any other details he thought might be useful.
He entered the building, carefully balancing the trays to open the door. Inside was the small shrine to Saint Klee, exactly as Dubois had described.
No one was within the outer room.
That left only the monk who was always on guard duty inside the cell. Dubois had said the master himself sometimes undertook this task. The idea of encountering the head monk was daunting, even for Alan. The master would immediately realize that he was an impostor. Alan was just about to set the trays on the table and make a swift retreat when the door opened.
Alan ducked his head and froze where he stood. Peering out from under the cowl, he breathed easier. According to Dubois, the master was an old man with iron-gray hair. This monk was young and bald.
Alan was about to hand the trays to him and leave, when the devil’s own luck was his once more.
“I heard you enter, Brother,” said the monk. “You come most timely. If you would take the trays inside and remain with the prisoners a few moments, I will make my daily report.”
Alan lowered his head in agreement.
The monk walked past him and out the door, leaving Alan alone.
“Son of a bitch,” said Alan.
With a shrug, he carried the trays into the cell block.
He had no clear idea what he was going to do. When they were making their plans, Simon had suggested that if they could find some means to inform Father Jacob and Sir Ander in advance that they were here to break them out of prison, they could work on removing the constructs from their cells. Simon had devised various schemes, but in the end, he had abandoned the idea, saying it was too dangerous.
And here was Alan, strolling into the cell block, ready to astonish his brother.
Ready to kill his brother.
Alan still had the blowgun strapped to his arm. No one had seen his face. No one would know how Jacob had died, not even the Knight Protector, for Alan would keep his back turned to the knight, his face hidden. Jacob would know in the very last moments who had killed him. That was as it should be.
Henry would be angry. That was putting it mildly. Henry would be furious. But he would understand. Henry was clever. He would find other ways to deal with this Eiddwen female without having to rely on Jacob. Alan wasn’t convinced that they needed his brother anyway. Eiddwen was one woman, even if she was a sorceress. At that, he felt a little shiver go up his spine when he remembered the gruesome sight of the bloodstained walls of her wine cellar.
The cells were as Dubois had described them, two cells on either side of a central aisle. Sir Ander was lying on his cot, reading a book. He rose to his feet and walked over to the cell door.
“Lunch is here, Father,” he said. “Smells like chicken stew today.”
Alan set the trays down on the floor. His brother was seated at a desk writing something. He paused in his work to glance around.
“Chicken stew,” he began to say. “One of my favorites—”
Alan removed his cowl.
Father Jacob stopped talking, struck dumb with shock. His pen suspended in midair, he stared in amazement.
“Hello, brother,” said Alan.
He walked over to Jacob’s cell, his hand on the blowgun beneath his sleeve. Behind him, Sir Ander was demanding to know what was going on.
Jacob sprang to his feet and bounded to the cell door, clutching the bars with his hands.
“Alan! I don’t know what fool stunt this is, but you are in terrible danger. You must leave now! At once.”
Alan was taken aback by the intensity of his brother’s outburst. Jacob’s face was pale, the knuckles of his hand white. Alan was reminded suddenly, forcibly, of another time, far in the past, when his older brother had said almost those exact words to him.
You are in terrible danger! You must leave at once.
Almost the same. But not quite.
Shortly after the Reformation, when the Church of the Breath had been outlawed in Freya, Jacob and their father both had been arrested. Jacob had managed to escape. He could have fled to Rosia. In peril for his life, with the guards chasing him, he had come back to warn his sixteen-year-old brother.
“How dare you run off and leave our father in prison?” Alan had cried. “He was arrested because of you!”
“I am the priest, the one they want,” Jacob had said. “I came back to tell you that I love you both. Our father will probably not believe it, but that is true. So long as I am in the country, I’m putting you and father in terrible danger. I must leave at once.”
Alan let go of the blowgun.
“I won’t stay long. I came to tell you and the knight that Henry and I are going to free you. Tonight. Be ready.”
“Don’t do this, Alan!” Father Jacob said earnestly. “The risk is too great! You know what they will do to you if you are caught!”
Alan shrugged and said with a smile, “Trust me, Jacob, the idea of freeing you is not mine. Henry seems to think you might prove useful. He’s the one who has made all the arrangements. I came along for the fun. We will see both of you gentlemen tonight.”
He was interrupted by the sound of the outer door opening and footfalls crossing the floor. Alan pulled his cowl low over his face.
“Sit there,” said Sir Ander urgently. “On that stool.”
The monk entered to find Alan sitting on the stool, his hands folded. The monk silently indicated he would take over. Alan left, stealing one last look at his brother.
Father Jacob was seated in his chair, his gaze abstracted, his expression grave and troubled.
Alan left quickly. Walking back up the path, he wondered where he could find something to eat.
The chicken stew had smelled really good.
23
Our first duty is to God. Our second duty is to man, to save him from himself.
—Precepts of the Monks of Saint Klee
“You have the devil’s own luck, Alan,” was Henry’s only remark after Alan related the day’s exploits.
Dubois did not take the news so calmly.
“What were you thinking, Captain?” Dubois gasped. “You put the mission in jeopardy! You put us all in jeopardy!”
“Calm down, monsieur,” said Henry, fighting a strong desire to pat Dubois soothingly on the head. “As the poet says, all’s well that ends well. Everything ended well, didn’t it, Alan?”
Henry cast his friend a cool, appraising glance. He and Dubois had returned to their rooms at the guesthouse to find Alan divesting himself of his crimson robes. Removing the blowgun that he had strapped t
o his arm, he caught Henry’s eye and winked at him.
“Of course, everything ended well,” said Alan with a negligent shrug. “I’m not in shackles and leg irons, am I?”
“You left Father Jacob in good health?” Henry asked.
“My brother has that sickly prison look about him, but otherwise he is fine. I told him about our plan to set them free. He and his pet knight will be expecting us. And now I must find something to eat. I am ravenous. How did your meeting go with the grand bishop?”
“As you see, neither of us are in shackles or leg irons,” said Henry wryly. “Actually our meeting went quite well. We left Montagne ecstatic, envisioning himself lauded through the ages as the man who reunified the Church. I fear it will come as a severe blow to him when he finds out he has been deceived.”
He glanced at Dubois to see how he would take this. Dubois was seated on the bed, mopping his face with a handkerchief, still trying to recover from the shock.
Alan dressed again in the livery of a gentleman’s gentleman and they went out in search of food. Upon entering the dining hall, they found it deserted. Sister Cook was sorry to inform them that the noontime meal was no longer being served and it was several hours until supper. It was the work of but a moment, though, for Alan to charm the sister with praise of her chicken stew. They soon had all they could eat.
After luncheon, they returned to the guesthouse.
“I am going to take a nap,” said Henry. “We have a long night ahead of us. Alan, what are you doing?”
“I thought I’d walk down to the stables to make certain they are taking proper care of our griffins.”
“We need griffins for Father Jacob and Sir Ander to ride,” said Henry. “Use your charm on the stable hands.”
“Use my name, monsieur,” said Dubois. “They will give you anything you need without question.”
“As you both command,” said Alan. “I live to serve!”
He grinned, winked, and started to turn away when Henry called after him.
“No more exploits, Alan.” Henry’s voice was cool. “Someday the devil won’t be watching.”
Alan laughed and waved his hand in acknowledgment. Still chuckling, he sauntered off along the path that led down the mountain to the carriage house.
“That man makes my blood run cold,” said Dubois, using the handkerchief once again. “Being around Captain Northrop is like being around a powder keg—always waiting for the explosion that will blow one to bits.”
“Alan improves upon acquaintance,” said Henry, hiding his smile.
The main hall of the guesthouse was dark after the brightness of the sun. Henry observed his companion as they climbed the stairs that led to their rooms. Dubois had loosened his cravat and was fanning himself with the handkerchief.
“You appear nervous, Monsieur Dubois,” said Henry, pausing in the hall. “Don’t worry. Our plan is sound.”
Dubois shook his head. “I confess I am filled with trepidation, my lord. Alas, I am not a man of action like you and the captain.”
“I believe you are braver than you think, monsieur,” said Henry. “We will meet you at the stables.”
“I will have the mounts ready,” said Dubois. “We will probably not have time for farewells, my lord. I find it odd to say this, considering that I am Rosian, but I pray that God saves your people from this terrible calamity.”
Henry held out his hand. “Thank you for your good wishes, monsieur, and for your help. You and I can never be friends, but I propose we remain the best of enemies.”
“I will pray to God to watch over you this night,” Dubois said. “Although I fear God Himself can do little with Captain Northrop.”
The two men shook hands and parted, each going to his own room. Henry took off his court clothes and threw them on a chair. That was the last he would see of them. They would be traveling light, so no luggage.
He did not immediately sleep, but stood gazing out the window at the sun sparkling on the waters of the inland sea.
He smiled, thinking again about Dubois’s last words to him. A cynical man, a man of science, he did not believe in God. He found himself wishing he could believe as Dubois believed. He longed for the comfort of commending his wife and little son to God’s care, the comfort of knowing that a benevolent and loving deity was actually hovering over them. He wished he could believe that God was also taking a personal interest in this night’s adventure.
But Henry couldn’t worry about what wasn’t. At least, he thought, though he might not have God, he had the next best thing. He had Mr. Sloan and Alan Northrop.
The thought sent him to his bed with a smile.
* * *
Henry was already awake and changing into the crimson robe when Alan tapped softly on his door. The church clocks had chimed the hour of one. He had left the window open to observe the courtyard bathed in the lambent light of the stars and a bright half-moon.
The Citadel slumbered. The priests and nuns had long since attended evening prayers and were asleep in their cells. The grounds were deserted, and no lights shone in the windows. Accustomed to the bustle of the city, where people roamed the streets at all hours, Henry viewed with alarm the empty sidewalks glimmering palely in the moonlight.
“I knew the place would be quiet,” he said to Alan. “But not this quiet!”
“It’s like a bloody mausoleum,” Alan said in agreement. “I passed Dubois in the hall. He is on his way.”
“How did he look? Our Dubois is no adventurer.”
“He was so buttoned up in his cloak I couldn’t see him. He bobbed his head at me, gave me God’s blessing in a voice of doom, and disappeared.”
Alan assisted Henry in attaching the first of the blowguns to his arm. “I told them we would need two more griffins. Dubois is right. The moment I mentioned his name, they were eager to give me anything I wanted. Though I wonder what they will say tonight when he wakes them up and orders them to saddle four griffins.”
“They will do as he orders and keep their mouths shut. I observed him today. Everyone in the Citadel knows he is the grand bishop’s agent. He may look like a clerk, but people treat him like royalty. No one will be inclined to question him, especially not these days when Montagne is tossing people into prison willy-nilly.”
Henry checked to make certain the blowgun was secure and not liable to fall off his arm, then tested the wrist straps to make certain he could remove it quickly. He and Alan each attached a second blowgun on the other arm. They studied themselves in the mirror, adjusting their robes to make certain they covered the blowguns and the traveling clothes they were wearing beneath.
“I think we are ready,” said Henry.
“As ready as we will ever be,” said Alan.
He was about to open the door, when Henry clamped his hand over his friend’s. He looked at Alan intently.
“You went there to kill Jacob. Knowing how much we need him to stop Eiddwen from destroying our country.” Henry’s voice held barely masked anger.
“We could deal with that female,” Alan said with an attempt at a grin.
“I am disappointed in you, Alan,” Henry said.
Alan tried to meet Henry’s eye and failed. At last, he lifted his head.
“I didn’t kill him. I won’t, Henry. You can trust me. I admit that I thought about it, but the old hatred just wasn’t there. I must be growing soft.”
“Or growing up,” Henry suggested.
Alan gave a soft laugh. “God! I hope not!” He looked at Henry anxiously. “Are we friends still?”
“I’ve put up with you this long,” said Henry, smiling.
He opened the door on the empty hall. They walked quietly through the silent corridors and out into the night. Their eyes were already well adjusted to the darkness and they had no difficulty seeing the path. Henry looked up and marveled at the beauty of the clear night sky.
“Did you know there were so many stars? In the city, with all the lights and the fog, we are lu
cky if we see one or two.”
Alan made no response. He was walking with his head bowed, either brooding or playing at being a monk, Henry wasn’t sure which.
“He said he wouldn’t come with us,” said Alan abruptly.
“Who said that? Jacob?” Henry asked, alarmed. “Why not?”
“He didn’t want me to risk my life to free him,” said Alan. “He was worried about me.”
“But he is coming,” said Henry, a question in his words.
“I think so,” said Alan. “We didn’t have much time to talk.”
Just like Jacob to be contrary, Henry thought.
“We can always hogtie him,” Alan suggested.
Henry grunted.
At the sight of two monks walking the ramparts not far from them, Alan and Henry fell silent. They walked along the narrow path, side by side, their shoulders rubbing companionably, preparing once more to go into danger together. Henry felt the usual tingle of excitement, the gut-tightening tension, and a sudden surge of joy. Given a choice, he would not have traded places with anyone this night. He enjoyed danger as some men enjoy opium.
“The prison,” said Alan softly. He stopped to point to walls that loomed black against the starlight. “Two monks are posted at the gate. You take one and I’ll take the other. When you get inside the compound, turn to your left and keep close to me. I know the way.”
Henry nodded. They had been over this plan many times before, but it was their habit to run through the details one final time.
“No lock on the door to the monks’ quarters. There is a lock on the door to the cells and padlocks on the cells. You have Simon’s keys?”
“In a pouch on my belt.”
“I hope this powder of his works,” said Alan.
“It works,” said Henry, more emphatically than he intended. “I know from firsthand experience.”
By way of testing his compound, Simon had thrown the powder into Henry’s face, and Henry had spent the next few moments writhing on the floor trying to breathe, then bent over a sink as Mr. Sloan poured water into his burning eyes.
They were within half a block of the prison. From here, the path left the shelter of the trees. Alan and Henry shook hands and then broke into a run. Henry, unaccustomed to running in a skirt, had but one thought: Don’t trip on the robe.
The Seventh Sigil Page 35
