I retreated beyond the hearing of my lords. “In my cell, Mar came to me daily, to pleasure himself at my misery. It wasn’t just ...” My hand flew to my scar. “The things he made me say ... better I’d cut out my tongue.”
Striding down the trail, my uncle never looked back. As Mar neared, Rustin stood.
“We’re well rid of him.” Elryc’s tone was soothing. “Larissa will understand. She thinks no better of him than you.”
“Yes, she knows him.” I ruffled his hair. My brother, near thirteen, stiffened at the indignity.
Margenthar untied his steed, bowed to Rustin.
“The formalities.” I snorted. “We bow and simper, while—”
Rustin handed him the sword. Margenthar shifted his grip, leaned forward, rammed the steel through Rustin’s throat. Rustin toppled, twitched once, and was still.
“Roddy!” Elryc’s voice was a shriek.
I sprinted down the road. A scream, amidst the rasp of breath. Another. I cut it off.
Margenthar swung onto his saddle, cantered into the dusk.
My legs pumped. My heart pounded. The shrubbery crawled by at snail’s pace.
I tore loose the clasp, let my cloak fall, galloped on.
At our camp, cries of alarm. Hoofbeats.
Margenthar disappeared over a rise. Behind me, trumpets sounded.
I skidded to a stop, threw myself into the grass. “Rust!”
The blow had near severed his head. Unseeing eyes stared.
More blood than Lord of Nature should allow.
I cradled his face. “Rustin!”
Horsemen thundered past. They rode with swords drawn.
I staggered to my feet. “Kill him! Find Mar and kill him!”
Genard flew down the road, legs pumping. Elryc struggled behind.
“M’lor—”
“He’s gone.” I sank to my knees beside Rustin’s still form.
“The Still, make him come alive—”
I shook Genard like a terrier, a rat. “He’s dead!” With loathing, I cast him aside.
Elryc reached us at last. He stopped, hands on knees, chest heaving. He made to speak, but was too winded. His eyes said all he might.
I sat crosslegged, took Rustin’s wrist, touched his fingers to my face.
He knew I loved him, did he not?
“Let the hateful greet the hateful.”
I caught myself in a shuddering sob, quelled it.
I was king. It was not meet.
Nine
THREE LEAGUES FROM FORT.
I walked slowly down the road. My blood-soaked breeks chafed.
Behind me, Anavar, Elryc and Tursel carried Rustin, in my cloak.
Three leagues from Fort.
The whole camp had assembled alongside the road, jostling to take sight of the stricken king. A soldier, no older than I, thrust out my coronet, wiped clean on his shirt.
I placed it on my brow, three leagues from Fort.
Willows arched over the gloomy roadway, encumbered with spring’s new shoots. Somewhere, a cricket called with relentless monotony.
It seemed an hour, the silent stroll along the wagon path in the dust. I mustn’t get too far ahead of Rust.
Our camp occupied the road and the great meadow alongside.
I turned from the trail.
Elryc, Anavar and Rustin followed.
Kadar and my bodyguard fell in beside me.
At a wagon, my footsteps faltered. Scores of soldiers stood aside. I found voice. “Lay him down. Six men as honor guard, all the night. We’ll bury him in Cumber.”
“What of Mar, sire?” Groenfil’s tone was grave.
Our horsemen had returned from the chase, three fewer than set out. Margenthar had set ambush, and was gone.
I had to force my words through unwilling lips. “First, the Norland. After Hriskil, I’ll pay Mar heed.”
In an act of unparalleled kindness, someone had seen to it that my tent was ready. Slowly, as if dazed, I made my way to it. Troops stood aside. One or two held out their hands, as if pleading alms. A few wept.
I tore aside the flap.
Kadar motioned his squadron to their places, one to a side.
I beckoned my bodyguard close, seized his jerkin. “No one enters. All the night. See to it, on your life.”
“What of your brother and—”
I thrust the flap shut and stood aching in my tent, three leagues from Fort.
My two clothes chests—Rustin’s and mine, together—were in their usual place. I sat on one, in the flicker of the white hour-candle in its silver sconce that hung from the centerpole. The handle was a cunning lion’s head.
Nigh on eighth hour, by the black line that crossed the candle at intervals.
Outside, the subdued sounds of a camp preparing for night.
My clothing chest was of oak, its grain lacquered and gleaming dark against gold. Black iron bands held the wood against the jostle of wagons, the unsteady grips of porters. Within, the chest was lined with cedar slabs that lent a refreshing scent to our garb.
I took out Rustin’s favorite shirt, held it tight to my cheek.
The tent was golden yellow, its draperies royal maroon. Ropes hung loose from the centerpole, for the hanging of garments or other convenience. Our bed—feather-filled cushions on a canvas underlayment—was dressed, as always, with pale soft cloth, and an ermine blanket on top.
We’d need sleep, Rust and I. In the morn there’d be the ride to Cumber, and the ceremonial greetings.
Near the bed stood a three-legged stool, on which I perched when Rustin dried my hair after we bathed. A dark wood, walnut, perhaps. At the base of each leg the carver had skillfully fit an iron cover to keep it unfrayed. The seat itself was rounded, smoothed by infinite care of its maker.
A set of fitted rugs covered me canvas floor of the tent, notched to surround the centerpole. Assembled, they formed the royal seal of Caledon, in gold thread on black.
Hanging from the rope across the top of the rear wall was a tapestry, portraying Stryx harbor on a clear day. Whitecaps, frozen forever, sailed into the rock-strewn shore.
Come to bed, Rustin. It’s grown dark.
The chest that held our bedcovering, when turned on its side, formed a table whose surface bore the royal seal, on which was set our ewer and basin. Near it, a silver to peruse my face. Its edges were an ornate filigree, intricate work that one such as Jestrel might render. The center, impeccably smooth, was polished to a perfect reflection. It had been Mother’s favorite.
I rubbed my scar with the soft fabric of the shirting. Rust wore it on special occasions. He’d had it for my coronation, and our first banquet after we’d wrested Stryx from Uncle Mar’s hands.
Uncle Mar.
Near our chest sat the inlaid wooden box of alternating cream and ebon slivers, in which we carted the delicacies that eased our travel. Dried fruits, hard sour confections, sweetmeats, each wrapped in a soft cloth. Tiny glass goblets, and a golden flask of sweet liqueur. Dried, salted beef and hard thin breads that satisfied night hunger. Roasted nuts in a silver jar. Wrapped carefully in cloth, peaches dipped in wax that they might not rot.
Soft night-shoes sewn of ermine lay at the foot of my bed. They were Rust’s present, after I’d begged pardon for my tantrum at the market.
Rustin liked to see me wear them. I slipped them on my feet.
My eyes stung. I stared fixedly at the carpet.
Slowly, the camp stilled. Outside the tent, whispers. “Let me see him.”
“It’s forbidden.”
Tenth hour, and part of another. I unlaced my jerkin. My breeks were stiff with dried blood; I paid them no heed.
I would wear them often.
In Cumber, we would order a rite of mourning. I would not attend, lest my grief be snatched from me.
Idly, my fingers played over the hilt of my dagger. I lifted it from its leathern sheath. Two small ruby eyes adorned a wrathful silver face. Nowhere as ornate as the dagger
Anavar wore, my gift from Lady Soushire.
I closed my fingers over the eyes, grasped the hilt, wafted the razor point across my forearm. It barely scratched.
From the side, near upside down, the royal seal of Caledon under my feet seemed a woman’s face. I smiled, ran the point across the flesh of my forearm a trifle more firmly. The effect was more satisfying: an angry red blotch; a drop of blood.
Setting aside the dagger, I shifted Rustin’s shirt, so as not to stain it. I rocked slowly, to and fro, clutching the shirt.
Third hour of the morn, and the camp was silent as death.
In my soft furred night shoes I wove my way among flickering campfires until I reached the wagon. The soldiers of the guard, abashed, stood away.
The wagon was empty, save for my cloak, and the burden within.
I stood by the wheel, looking down at the stained cloak.
Below me, a stirring. Rubbing his eyes, Anavar crawled out from under the wagon.
“What do you here?” My voice was harsh.
“I knew you would come.” Shivering, he hugged himself against the night cool.
“Go to your tent.”
“No.” But he retreated a handful of paces, to stand near the guards’ fire.
My hand reached out to my cloak, pulled back as if burned.
Gritting my teeth, I forced my fingers to stroke the cloth, and the stiff flesh beneath.
After a time I opened the edge of the cloak, brushed the hair away from Rust’s cold face.
Already he had transformed to what was left, after the essence departed. “Oh, Rustin.” My voice was a whisper. “Who will love me now?”
I stood, silent, unmoving, for many breaths, until the ache of my legs forced me to shift.
I closed the cloak, made my way toward my tent.
Anavar fell in beside me.
“Get thee gone.”
“Sir, say your grief.”
Almost, I destroyed him on the spot. My hands closed on his shoulders to hurl him into the fire, but with fierce effort I quashed my inclination. We stood, eye to eye, a hand’s breadth apart.
“I, too,” he said, “know of death.”
I gazed into his unblinking scrutiny until at last, despite my whole will, my head sagged, came to rest on his chest. His fingers, tentative at first, kneaded my shoulder blades.
At length, I pulled away. “Go to bed.” I strode to the tent, knotted shut the flap.
I sat on the cushions, crossed my legs. Fourth hour, and half of fifth.
I started to doze, caught myself. I hammered my leg, above the knee, over and again, hard enough to cause a bruise that would keep me from sleep.
The tent swayed gently in a night breeze. The flicker of a hundred fires danced on the fabric.
In time, I would go out into day.
Across the tent, on my clothes chest, lay my dagger. I summoned the strength to retrieve it.
Daylight came, and I put aside Rustin’s shirt, laced my boots, opened the flap.
I had slept not a wink, nor tried to. My very bones ached.
I shook Bollert awake, in the back of a wagon. “Saddle Ebon.” He jumped to his feet, ran off to do my bidding. To the guards surrounding my tent, “Sleep as long as you might. I need no guarding.”
A grizzled trooper stretched, rubbed his back. “Kadar’s orders—”
“Countermanded.” I trudged to the cookwagons. Camp servants bustled about, raising the morning’s meal. “Is there to eat?”
“Bread baked in the night.” The cook gave me a loaf, still warm. “In an hour, porridge. And there’s water for tea.”
I grunted, my mouth full. Was it betrayal, to feel such hunger?
As the camp began to stir I leaned on the wagon wheel devouring my ration, my mind empty at last.
A timid hand sought mine.
I looked down at Elryc, devoid of expression. He squeezed my fingers. Then, a sharp breath. “What befell you?” His fingers brushed the angry red scratches that lined my arms, my legs, my torso.
“They don’t hurt.” Not nearly enough.
Elryc’s eyes darted to my dagger. Abruptly he loosened the flap of its sheath. For a reason I couldn’t fathom, he was weeping. As if dazed, I let him take my plaything. I’d find another.
In a while, he was gone.
Day lightened.
From afar, Elryc, Anavar and Genard regarded me gravely. It annoyed me. I returned to my tent, closed the flap, nursed the satisfying sting of my scrapes.
After a time, the flap opened. I winced at the unwelcome light.
Anavar peered round, spotted me crosslegged on the chest. “It’s time the tent was struck.”
Wearily, I uncurled myself. “Very well.” I crossed to the entry.
He eyed me uncertainly. “Sir, your breeks ...”
I glanced down at the bloodstained cloth. “What of them?”
A pause. His tone was chastened. “No matter, my lord.”
Ebon, saddled and ready, nibbled at grass. Bollert was nowhere to be seen. I untied Ebon from the tent stake, hoisted myself into the saddle, waited patiently for our column to assemble.
The morn was warm and dewy, the sun bright, as befit days of sowing. Churls at their fields would be gladdened. Ebon’s tail flicked at persistent pests.
“My lord King.” A soft voice. Lady Soushire, on her palfrey.
“What do you wish?” I sounded harsh, and cared not.
“In the camp there’s ... consternation. None dare approach.”
“If they doubt our cause, let them depart.”
“It’s not about the Norlanders, my lord. This morning you’re an ... apparition.” Her wave took in my clothes, my manner, my mien.
“What would you?”
“Summon strength to show your men their king’s still with them.”
“I’m here. If they would more, they’ve but to ask.”
“Rodrigo—”
The gossamer web binding my temper frayed. “I would be alone, my lady.”
With a glance of reproach, she departed.
Presently we commenced our march. I rode alone, near the head of the column, encircled by my bodyguards. From time to time, despite myself, I dozed.
As we climbed the last of the hills and wound our way into the green valley of Cumber, Tursel sent runners ahead. Presently they brought Tresa’s assurance we were welcome and expected before dusk.
Our whole force seemed infected by a will to end our journey. Perhaps I was the cause; to me it mattered not. First Anavar made to join me, men Elryc. I rebuffed them both. Presently Tanner and Genard appeared, with a waterskin. I drank deeply, handed it back, rode on.
The highest turrets of Cumber castle were visible a goodly distance from the town. As always, bright banners flew. Even in Uncle Raeth’s absence, his holding reflected his inimitable style.
We clattered over the cobbles of Cumber Town. Aproned merchants came blinking out of drab stone shops to stare silently at our procession.
The road turned sharply at the castle wall. From the ramparts, armed and helmeted soldiers watched our passage, grim of face.
Today the gates were open. A year past, I’d been seized by Margenthar of Stryx as I battled desperately to reach them. My fingers drifted to my scar.
Our front guard turned, marched smartly through the narrow twisting entry, into the walled courtyard.
I guided Ebon past the turns.
On the steps to the keep, Lady Tresa waited.
Abruptly, Elryc spurred past me, cantered ahead to Tresa. He swung off his mare, spoke urgently to her. Tresa’s hands flew to her mouth. After a moment her gaze found me, returned to my brother. She nodded.
Elryc stood aside.
I rode to the steps, tugged gently at the reins. Obedient as ever, Ebon came to a halt.
Tresa made a deep curtsy. “Rodrigo, my lord King.” She held my bridle.
I bowed, a formal bow of respect. “My Lady Tresa of Cumber.”
“On Grandfathe
r’s behalf, we welcome thee. All that thou seeeth is thine.”
“We thank thee for thy grace, for thy kindness and thy welcome.” I dismounted, the ceremony completed. Now we’d return to normal speech.
“My lord Earl Groenfil, my lady of Soushire, welcome.” To me, “Roddy, Elryc told me. I’m so sorry.”
I swallowed. “I would not speak of it. Is there a chamber to which I might withdraw?”
“Of course.” She snapped her fingers, summoned servants.
“We’ll need have swift burial,” I said. “Near Pytor.” Nurse Hester had brought my brother’s body to Cumber, in a last act of service.
“It will be so. I’ll call when all is ready.”
“I thank thee.” With what dignity I could muster, trying not to yawn, I followed the servant to the castle’s high reaches, and solitude.
How long I sat amid the fine trappings of my chamber, I knew not. At length, a quiet knock. Tresa stood aside for servants with washbasin and ewer, and others bearing my clothes chest. With brisk efficiency she directed their labor, hurried them out the door.
Tresa remained. “My lord.”
I made no answer.
Unbidden, she sat beside me. “Elryc’s terrified. And Anavar.”
“Yes, now that Rust—no one’s left to restrain me.”
“Don’t be daft. It’s that you’re near unhinged with grief, and hold it within. You can’t ... my king, forgive me.”
I regarded her warily.
Gently, she pulled my head to her breast. “He was everything to you, Roddy. Don’t deny him.”
“I have no need to show—” I couldn’t say more.
“Oh, my king.” She held me tighter.
Presently, I stirred, pulled my head from her dampened blouse. “I’m sorry.”
“Whatever for?” She sat beside me. “Roddy, think you it’s unmanly to mourn a companion?”
“Rust was more.”
“A guide. A vassal. A bed-friend.” Her calm acceptance nearly undid me. “I’m glad you had him so long.”
“Long?” Our time was but a vanished instant.
“Time enough to evoke your wisdom, your grace.”
“Hah.” My tone was bitter. “Not a fortnight past, he beat me.”
“No matter. He loved and respected you.” A moment’s hesitation. “I summoned a ritemaster for the mourning.” A rite of mourning preceded burial. “We await you.”
The King (Rodrigo of Caledon Book 2) Page 13
