EXILE'S RETURN

by Kate Jacoby

  And what of the two men who stood beyond the table? Duke Donal McGlashen and the young Earl Payne. These two were all that was left of the old order, the last of the great Houses of Lusara still represented on the council. They watched her with a mixture of kindness and wariness; their own positions were too tenuous to afford Rosalind any hope.

  A swirl of bright yellow caught her eye and she turned towards the fire. There he was. Proctor Vaughn, resplendent in the formal robes of his beloved Guilde and with him, two of his governors, Osbert and Lewis. Vaughn’s long, hawklike face was creased in a smile but there was no warmth in there, merely the absence of soul. Rosalind felt nothing but repugnance and frantically tried to still the memory of those words he’d uttered behind that door.

  Other men, richly attired, stood with Vaughn by the fire, but her attention was caught by Selar, who strode across the room towards her, a smile on his striking face.

  “Rosalind, my dear, how kind of you to join us!” He took her hand and led her forward. “Come, allow me to present my brother’s emissary. His Grace, the Duke Ogiers, represents Tirone in these discussions and has travelled long and hard to do his duty.”

  Stunned, Rosalind held out her hand to the Duke. He took it, bowed over it, brushed his lips across her fingers—but all the while, Rosalind couldn’t take her eyes off Selar. Why had he greeted her so warmly? He’d hardly spoken to her over the last year! What game was he playing? Was she supposed to play along? And why.. .

  “My dear,” Selar continued, taking her hand and tucking it in the crook of his arm, “His Grace tells me he has brought gifts for us, you and my children. They arrive in his baggage train tomorrow. Do you not think that was most gracious of him?”

  Yes, she was expected to play along. With a distracted nod, Rosalind produced a smile from somewhere, “Yes, my lord. Most gracious.”

  Selar led her to a seat by the fire but kept hold of her hand. Rosalind wanted to snatch it from him, demand to know what was going on. The others knew, Selar’s councillors. Not one of them showed the slightest surprise. They must have been warned what to expect. But why?

  It was all a show for Ogiers—for Tirone. Selar was Tirone’s younger brother, but had despised him all his life. Blindly ambitious, Selar had made no secret of his desire to displace Tirone from the throne of Mayenne—which was why, when the opportunity came, Tirone had helped Selar to invade Lusara. With a new country to subdue and rule, Selar would stay out of Mayenne and leave Tirone alone. Once the conquest was complete, Tirone had severed all relations with his brother and a stiff silence had existed between them for the last thirteen years.

  So why this sudden embassy? Why was Selar trying to impress Ogiers with this facade of a happy and united family? What was he doing? Would Ogiers believe it?

  The discussions continued on around her but she couldn’t concentrate on their words. Powerless, Rosalind sat there, her skin crawling in Selar’s grasp. Now, more than ever, she must find a way to pass on what she’d heard.

  Selar’s voice intruded on her thoughts. She turned to look at him. His blue eyes were alight, his gestures animated. The cobalt robe he wore suited his blond colouring, his hair fashionably long, his beard neatly trimmed. The tallest man in the room, Selar dominated the conversation as he liked to dominate everything around him. His passion for power was surpassed only by his determination to achieve it.

  “And so, my lord, do you have any news for us regarding these raiders?” Selar took the cup of wine Payne offered and raised it in mock salute. “I must say, I was somewhat dismayed to find a Mayenne sergeant amongst their number. It was a pity the man died with the rest of his band. I had hoped to find out more about him.”

  The Envoy’s dark eyes glittered but he did not pause in his response. “I have no concrete information, Sire. Without a name, we are unable to trace his origins. I would suspect he is nothing more than a deserter, seeking his fortune by means of these raids which plague your borders. I assure you my King will do everything within his power to find out all he can.”

  “So I am not to believe the rumours I have heard?”

  “Rumours, Sire?”

  Selar took a sip of his wine, “That these raids are the work of your King.”

  Ogiers shook his head in confusion, “To what end, Sire?”

  “That he might bring about instability within my kingdom—in the same way the Troubles affected it fifteen years ago. It was that instability that let me conquer Lusara in the first place. Is it not possible that Tirone wishes to do the same to me now?”

  His face frozen, Ogiers bowed stiffly. “My King has no designs on your crown, Sire. My embassy here is, as I have said, primarily to extinguish all paths of misunderstanding between our countries. This has been his desire for several years but only now has Your Majesty permitted this visit. I assure you, my King wishes only peace between us.”

  “An admirable desire,” Selar replied curtly, then softened it with a smile. “To that end, I have decided to accede to his request on the matter of your embassy. You are indeed welcome to winter with us. When spring comes you may return to Tirone and assure him of our own desire for peace.”

  “Your Majesty is most wise ...”

  For the third time that day, Rosalind was stunned into silence—only now desperate denial stung her every thought. It could not be. She must have misread Selar, must have missed something vital in their conversation. Was he actually going to allow Ogiers—his brother’s spy—to winter within the walls of Marsay? What had come over him? And was this connected to what she’d heard earlier? Why even—

  By the gods!

  Selar was actually going to do it. After thirteen years, he was finally planning to go through with it. He must be mad!

  He must be stopped.

  Calmly now, Rosalind turned an attentive face towards the lords and listened carefully. She would find someone to tell, someone who could do something.

  With treason in her heart, she could only hope her courage ran as deep as her horror.

  The Guilde chapel fell almost silent as the last of the initiates filed out. In their absence, Osbert couldn’t help glancing up again at the south transept window, which glowed with the first sunlight they’d had for a week. The stained glass told the story of Saint Bartholomew and his work with the poor and sick. The saint himself had never interested Osbert, but the window, now over a century old, was made of some of the finest glass he’d ever seen, a tribute to the Guildesmen who had crafted it. With a smile, he turned back to the priest who remained behind the altar, putting the last of the ceremonial plate away.

  Deacon Godfrey was one of the few priests Osbert respected. By the age of thirty, Godfrey had worked his way to an enviable position within the Church, through hard work and not a little brilliance. His sharp dry wit was well known, as was his keen perception. He served the Church with a devotion not often found in these times; his tall, rangy figure was often to be seen at the side of the ancient Bishop Domnhall. But, much as he admired Godfrey, Osbert found it difficult to get to know him. Like most of the Church these days, Godfrey kept his distance from the Guilde.

  With a brief sigh, Osbert glanced once more up at the window of Saint Bartholomew then turned towards the altar. “I always forget how lovely they look until the sun comes out. A pity there’s no way we can make the sun shine all the time.”

  Godfrey shot a quick look at the window, then at Osbert. “If you could, Governor, I fear you would soon grow accustomed to the beauty and then nothing would be left to draw your attention to it.”

  Osbert chuckled companionably, drawing his yellow robes about him. “You’re right, of course. Still, it would be nice—if only for awhile.”

  “We do already have that while.” Godfrey gathered his things together and made to leave. “It’s called summer.”

  Osbert nodded with a smile then raised a hand, “I believe Bishop Domnhall is unwell. Please pass on my wishes for his speedy recovery.”

  Godfrey raised
both eyebrows above his dark eyes. Obvious disbelief wafted across his long, grim face. His reply however, was polite, “Of course, Governor. If you will excuse me.”

  Osbert watched him leave and as the door closed behind the priest, he turned to his left. “So, Gellatly, what have you got for me?”

  Two men appeared out of the shadows, both dressed in the grey day robes of the Guilde. The first, a man whose build could have him confused with a blacksmith, bowed as he approached Osbert. The second man was taller and younger, with a head of shiny black hair. He remained in the background, folding his hands together in a patient gesture as he waited for Gellatly to speak.

  “Unfortunately, my lord, we have very little. If there is anything going on, it’s being done under the greatest of cover.” Gellatly shrugged his massive shoulders. “Nash here disagrees but I doubt it will be possible to gain anything definite until the spring.”

  “The spring!” Osbert exclaimed with a deep frown. Waving his hand for the men to follow him, he strode down the length of the chapel until they reached the door at the end. “Have you any idea what the Proctor would say if I told him that? By the gods, Gellatly, Vaughn will have you flayed alive if he finds you at fault in this matter. I will accept no excuses, do you hear?”

  “Yes, my lord.” Gellatly’s response was little more than a growl and Osbert turned to face him.

  “And I want to hear no more of your dissension over the King. I don’t care if you do hate him, Gellatly. We still serve Selar, regardless.”

  Gellatly stuck out his jaw. “I was taught the Guilde’s sacred duty was to serve the gods.”

  “Don’t start arguing semantics with me, man or I’ll flay you myself!” Osbert snapped, his previous good humour gone. “You’re no good to me if you can’t follow my orders. Whether you hate the King or not, this matter affects the future of Lusara and it would do you good to remember that.”

  Nash placed a hand on Gellatly’s shoulder to forestall any further comment. He bowed his head with noble dignity and murmured, “We do remember, my lord Governor. It is merely out of concern for Lusara’s security that my friend speaks in this manner. He means no disrespect.”

  Osbert’s gaze narrowed as he looked from one man to the other. He knew he could trust Nash, but Gellatly was becoming a problem. Perhaps it was time to replace him. He nodded abruptly. “See to it that it stays that way. There is something else I need you to do. Ogiers of Mayenne. He’s to stay at court for the winter. For form’s sake, the King has allowed it. But you must know he would rather Ogiers were anywhere else—and by his own choice. The King cannot send him away.”

  Gellatly nodded. “What would you have us do?”

  “Use your imagination, if you have one!” Osbert snapped. “Watch him, find out all you can of his real intentions. Report to me in two days. By then I may have worked out how to get rid of him. But use discretion, I warn you. I know Ogiers of old and he’s no fool. If he finds you’re watching him he’s sure to make use of it.”

  The two men bowed obedience and Osbert turned for the door. He had an appointment with Vaughn and he didn’t want to be late.

  Godfrey returned to the Basilica and spent a few minutes putting away the things from the Guilde chapel. He didn’t hurry, there was still some time before the others would arrive and Father John would surely have the dining table set in Hilderic’s study. He could change out of his vestments and be with Hilderic before the first guest.

  He placed the plate and chalice inside the sacristy cupboard and locked it with the key hanging from his belt. Taking a taper, he lit two candles against the encroaching dusk and placed them on the robing table. He was about to remove the embroidered stole from around his neck when there was a brief knock on the door.

  “Come.” Godfrey turned and waited, but nothing happened. “Who’s there?” he demanded.

  Now the door opened and a woman entered, dark cloak drawn dramatically around her face. She came forward only far enough to close the door behind her then stood silent, her hands beneath the folds of her cloak.

  His patience wearing thin, Godfrey took a deep breath, “How may I help you, daughter?”

  The voice beneath the hood was muffled. “I am in need of confession, Father.” The hands reappeared and drew the hood back from her face. As she looked up at him, Godfrey sank to his knees.

  “Your Grace! I had no idea! But why are you ...”

  “Forgive me, Father,” Rosalind whispered, taking an indecisive step towards him. “I have very little time before I am missed. You are the only one I can trust.”

  “But surely your Confessor is qualified to help you?”

  Rosalind stopped him with a sharp shake of her head. Her eyes went back to the door and in response, Godfrey rose to his feet, moved around her and locked it. Her eyes smiled gratitude but her hands twisted together in agitation. She paced up and down a little then stopped and faced him again. Godfrey didn’t need to be a priest to see she was deeply troubled.

  “I see you wear the stole, Father,” Rosalind began, her voice hesitant. “May I ask ... can you hear my confession without it on?”

  “Of course. It merely symbolizes the seal placed on your confession.”

  “And if I do not wish my confession to be sealed?”

  Her eyes searched his. What was she asking? Was this some kind of trap set by the King? No, Rosalind was Selar’s prisoner—not his pawn.

  Godfrey nodded slowly and crossed the room. He stood before her, his impatience gone. “Your confession is as sealed as you wish it to be. If there is something you wish me to discuss with my brothers then you have only to say so.”

  “Then I do say so, Father,” Rosalind replied emphatically. “I am afraid that...”

  She paused and Godfrey took her hands in his, willing her calm. “Tell me, daughter. What troubles you?”

  “I ... I’m sorry, father, but this is difficult. I do not know if I am doing right coming to you like this. If the King should find out. ..” she paused again and took a deep breath. When she spoke this time, her voice was firmer, as though she’d finally made her decision.

  “I have discovered something you must know, Father, but the conclusions I have drawn fill me with fear. I hope I am mistaken. Yesterday I overheard a conversation which directly concerns the Church.”

  “Who was speaking?”

  “Vaughn and ... the King.”

  Godfrey felt the breath sucked out of him. It was treason for her to be telling him—and treason for him to listen. But he didn’t stop her. It had cost her a lot to come here. “And what did you hear?”

  “In return for some favour, the King has agreed to support Vaughn in a new enterprise. He .. . intends to take hospice work away from the Church. He says that such science belongs to the Guilde and has no place among the holy. Vaughn is quite determined, Father and it scares me. If they. ..”

  “If the Guilde takes on this work, they will deny it to the poor for they would be unable to pay, yes, I know. They would also take away great amounts of Church land in the process.” Godfrey turned away, his mind reeling. Where had the traditional brotherhood gone between Church and Guilde? For a thousand years, the two had worked together, side by side for the common good. Now it seemed Vaughn was willing to sacrifice that ancient bond for his own ends. This was terrible!

  “Do you know what the favour is? What did the King want in return for this support?”

  “I was unable to hear clearly, but I fear it has something to do with the embassy from Mayenne. You know the Duke is to stay the winter in Marsay? I am unable to believe this is innocent, Father. It is not widely known but the King has always secretly desired to take back the throne he was cheated out of—that of Mayenne. I ... believe his decision to embrace Ogiers is purely to put Tirone at ease over their relationship in order that he might better prepare himself for war.”

  Godfrey met her gaze. She was serious. She believed it with all her heart. The worst part was, it made sense—too much sense.
If Selar intended war against Mayenne then taking Ogiers in and treating him with all honour would be a natural first step. Lull Tirone into a deeply false sense of security. Then, when the moment came, Selar could strike. ..

  “But the King must know that the people of Lusara would never go to war for him,” Godfrey objected, clinging on to the first thread of logic that came to him. “And certainly not to invade Mayenne.”

  Slowly, Rosalind nodded, “Yes, you must be right. I have misunderstood. He would not make so grave an error as that when there is so much at stake. But still, Vaughn is determined to succeed with the healing work. I beg you to tell Bishop Domnhall. He is the only one who can stop it.”

  “And I will keep your name out of it, Your Grace. You have already risked much to tell me this. Now you must go, before you are missed.”

  Rosalind actually smiled and for a moment, she was a young girl once again, untroubled by her fate and her future. Then it was gone, the hood replaced about her face. Godfrey opened the door for her and checked that the corridor was empty. In a second she was gone, leaving nothing but her scent.

  Minutes later Godfrey was on his way to Hilderic’s study.

  He was late and the old man favoured him with a frown as he slipped into the room. The others were already present: McGlashen, Payne and the stalwart abbess of Saint Hilary’s, Eluned. Mumbling apologies, Godfrey drew the archdeacon into a corner and, in a few moments, apprised him of what Rosalind had said.

  Hilderic’s eyebrows shot up. “You can’t be serious! Dammit, Godfrey, if this is one of your jokes ...”