by Kate Jacoby
Surrounded by her ladies, Rosalind glanced up and saw George as he walked through the garden, bowing deeply before her.
“My lord, I thought you were to leave for Kandar this morning.”
“I was, Your Grace, but the King has called a Privy Council meeting for this evening and I must attend. My lands will have to wait a few more days for me.”
She nodded and waved him to take a seat. He noticed the eyes of the other ladies on him for a moment then they turned back to their respective tasks.
“I had not thought you would still enjoy the garden this late in the year. Surely it’s too cold?”
Rosalind spread her hands. “As you can see, we have not yet frozen to death. I feel we spend altogether too much time indoors in winter. Unless we’re out riding, we see nothing of the sun and you must agree, it’s a fine day to be out.”
“I just hope Your Grace will take no risks with your health,” George murmured, glancing once more at the Queen’s ladies. One, a dark-haired beauty of about sixteen, kept glancing at him then looking away in embarrassment.
“Come, my lord,” Rosalind murmured, “you must have some tale to tell me. I rely on your keen ears to bring me news of my country.” She placed her hands on her lap and regarded him with a steady gaze. There was little vitality in her today, no breeze in her conversation. It was as though she were talking to him only to relieve other thoughts.
George offered her a smile and nodded. “Well, I’ve been at court for the past two months. The only story I’ve heard recently has been about the hermit of Shan Moss.”
“A hermit?”
“Yes. It seems he had a vision. It was towards the end of autumn, I believe. The hermit was once a member of the order at St Cuthbert’s and returned there briefly to tell the Abbot his story. He left soon after and nothing has been heard from him since. There is a prophecy, ages old, which tells of a dark angel descending upon the land. He is evil and aims to strike at the very heart of the gods by tearing the Church in two. It appears this hermit had a vision which told him that day had come, that the dark angel was already walking the land and at work to bring the Church down.”
George had assumed the story would entertain her, but rather than smile, Rosalind’s eyes grew flinty, her voice a harsh whisper. “Can it be true? Is this hermit to be believed?”
He hastened to reassure her, “I know not, my lady. We have many prophecies—sometimes even visions like this do come true. However, I suspect this one is a little over-indulgent. This hermit had lived alone in the forest for twenty years. Who’s to say his mind had not become affected by his solitude? I’m sure there’s no truth to it.”
“There is much truth to be found in many prophecies, my lord,” Rosalind murmured, her gaze going inward. “And there is sometimes a truth we may never know about until it’s too late.”
He folded his hands in together and ventured another smile. He’d not managed to bring her any cheer at all. It was better that he go now. “With your leave, Your Grace, I will be on my way. I have some preparations to make before I return home.”
Rosalind nodded her consent and he backed away and out through the garden gate. Turning down the path which led towards the keep, he cursed himself for a fool. He always did when he left her. Cursed himself for going to see her—and for leaving her. But what could he do? She was his sovereign’s lady, his Queen. What hope was there in that hopeless situation?
But still he kept going back, and at least she did seem to enjoy his visits. She got precious few. Most of the court ignored her, at times failing even to acknowledge her existence. Her ladies were of the highest born, but that was more out of Selar’s duty to their families to find the women places at court than for any concern for his wife’s company. Selar himself had as much as admitted to George that he thought his wife an empty-headed child. He’d married her for state reasons, to get an heir that would belong both to Selar and Lusara.
George could not fault Selar’s wisdom. That small concession to the old Houses had done much to ensure the peace; even more so when Kenrick was born. The old Houses had long since reconciled themselves to living under Selar’s rule, and eventually, under the rule of his son.
But still, George could not help asking of the gods, why had Selar chosen the single brightest jewel in all of Lusara? Why did he have to choose Rosalind?
“Are you done with that yet?” Hilderic demanded, placing his hands squarely on his hips. “I would like to eat my dinner some time today, if you don’t mind.”
Godfrey ignored the Archdeacon’s blustering and continued clearing the table of papers, pens and inks in order to make space for the tray Father John was holding. Godfrey could forgive the old man’s temper as easily as he could forgive the rain falling. To lose a close friend of many years was bad enough in itself, but that the same man had been your superior and spiritual father made it so much worse.
He completed cleaning up and stood back to allow Father John to lay the tray. As he did so, Godfrey placed himself on a chair opposite Hilderic.
The old man grunted down at the tray then held up his hand. “Don’t go just yet, John. There’s something I want to ask you.”
“Yes, Archdeacon?”
Hilderic reached forward and absently poured himself a cup of goat’s milk. It was the only thing the healers allowed him to drink these days. “You were in a better position to see yesterday, in the Basilica. Did the Proctor wear full formal regalia for the service, or was that just my imagination?”
“He did, Archdeacon,” Father John replied with a nod.
Hilderic bent his bushy grey brows together and puffed out his bottom lip. “Damned cheek! He’ll walk straight into the arms of Broleoch for that hypocrisy alone.”
“Was it not intended as a mark of respect?”
“Hah!” Hilderic broke a piece of bread and blew away the crumbs from his lap, “Vaughn doesn’t know the meaning of the word. But never mind. Thank you, John.”
The young priest bowed and left them alone. Godfrey leaned back in his seat and cast a measuring gaze over his colleague’s meal. “Personally, I don’t know how you can eat that. Baby’s mash and milk of all things!”
“I guess it all depends on how hungry you are.” Hilderic paused to swallow a piece of soft bread. “Well?”
“Well, what?”
“Don’t be an ass, man. How does the count go?”
Godfrey folded his arms across his chest. “But the election is not for some hours yet, brother. How would I know how the count is? The gods do not favour me with that kind of foresight.”
Lifting his cup to his mouth, Hilderic frowned. “Are you trying to annoy me—or are you just doing it from habit?”
“Funny thing to ask a priest.”
Hilderic drained his cup and placed it carefully back on the table. He turned a solemn gaze on Godfrey, then nodded slowly. “Then it’s not good, I take it?”
Godfrey lifted one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “It depends on what you define as good. On the one hand we have the old school, the abbots and monks who were never really happy with the changes Domnhall made and would only be too pleased to revert back to their former order. Then there are those who consider themselves moderates and would like to see further but small improvements to our structure—nothing, of course, that would take away any of their autonomy. Then there are the few zealots who believe we should embrace the new order and rejoin our brothers within the Guilde in support of the King. They are happy for the Guilde to take over the hospice work, believing it to be in the best interests of the Church as well as the people. That way they can return to the more contemplative life.”
“And the rest?”
“Isn’t that enough?”
“Fortunately, I think you’ve only scratched the surface.”
Godfrey did smile then, though belatedly. “I only wish I could. Actually, the vast majority don’t seem to have made up their minds yet. We’ve failed to stop the hospice takeover and few of them
have even considered the situation with the raiders. We don’t know what Selar plans and so we can’t tell them. They’re aware of what’s been happening since Domnhall died, they just don’t appear convinced of anything in particular.”
Hilderic stared in distaste at the remains of his meal then pushed the plate away. Glancing up at Godfrey, he said, “Our opinions differ, brother. I don’t count that as a bad thing. If, by this point, they were already persuaded towards Selar’s thinking, then I believe all would surely be lost. That they are still open to argument is at least a point in our favour.”
As Godfrey raised his eyebrows, Hilderic conceded, “All right, a small point, I admit.”
Standing, Godfrey stretched out his long frame. He laced his hands together and clasped the small wooden trium which hung around his neck from a silver chain his father had given him. “Actually, my thoughts are less on the election itself and more on what happens afterwards. Suppose we do get our way and neither Brome nor Quinn are elected. What happens then?”
“Not much, I should imagine. Oh, I’m sure Selar will fume and make mighty noises, but what can he do—in reality, I mean? He can’t exactly bring the Church down and have us all executed, can he? He’s no fool. He knows he’d have a civil war on his hands in no time. There is no way he can afford a direct move against the Church.” Hilderic must have read the sour expression on Godfrey’s face. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know. I just don’t like the feel of this. I don’t think Selar would take defeat lying down. He waited a long time for Domnhall to die. It’s no coincidence he chose this moment to give the hospices to the Guilde. He knew Domnhall was too weak to thwart him. It’s obvious Brome and Quinn are essential to his plans. Somehow I just can’t see him being philosophical about being beaten again.”
“Surely you’re not about to suggest we support the King in the election? For the sake of our own skins?”
Godfrey glanced at the old man, then at the trium in his hand. He shook his head slowly. “Never that. I just can’t help wondering if there is another way out of this. Remember the story about that hermit? About some dark angel tearing the Church apart?”
Hilderic laughed. “You listen to gossip too much, brother. Besides, Selar has nothing to do with it. He has fair hair, not dark—and before you mention it, Vaughn’s is almost white, what there is left of it. I fear that little vision must concern some other dark angel, of which I am sure there are many. Come, let us make our way to the Chapter House.”
Godfrey moved to the door and put his hand on the latch.
“We’ll be a little early, but I don’t mind. I do want to get a good seat.”
The cold morning air hit Nash’s face like a slap and he sucked in a deep breath. A timid sprinkle of rain drifted down, but barely touched him. The atmosphere within the Chapter House had been stifling and more than once he’d had trouble staying awake. The debates had gone on for hours, but Nash, in disguise, had not even been able to get up and walk around for fear of being discovered. As his feet now hit the cobblestones of the small courtyard, he spread his arms and stretched. Vaughn would be breathless to know the outcome of the election, but Nash was in no hurry to tell him.
How much longer would this go on? How many more months was he to abase himself before the Proctor? Oh, Osbert trusted him completely and even Selar had noticed him, requested his attendance at court functions. But Vaughn?
Damn it all! If only he didn’t need that pompous idiot—if only he didn’t need any of them!
But he did. He needed Vaughn’s support, and more especially, his library. Most of all, however, he needed Selar. And he had to be so careful. He could not afford to fail again. He wouldn’t have the energy left to try a third time. He must succeed. He would succeed where his father had failed. Five generations was enough to sacrifice on the altar of any ambition, no matter how great the goal.
And he had already come so far. Further than any before him. This time he’d planned properly, taken care of both the Enemy and the Ally. The dangers now were few: all that remained was for him to be patient.
Nash sighed and stilled the warring factions in his mind. There would be time, time to achieve it all, to regain what was lost so long ago.
At the moment, however, it was time to go and tell Vaughn the news.
Nash yawned again and ran his hands through his thick black hair. Then with a smile, he began walking across the courtyard.
Father John tucked the package of letters under his arm and thanked the courier. Then he turned and made his way quickly across the cloister, trying to dodge the rain. He ducked through the doorway to his master’s chambers and scurried along the corridor, wiping a hand over his damp hair as he went. He arrived before the door and pushed it open.
Hilderic stood by the washstand rubbing a linen towel over his face. He glanced up as John entered.
“Archdeacon! The synod is over?”
“As you can see. We’ve just come out. It’s all over. Now I must dress and go and see the King.”
“I will help you, of course. But, surely you must rest first. You’ve been in there for almost twelve hours. You must be exhausted.”
Hilderic only nodded wearily and let John help him.
“There’re letters for you, but they can wait. The courier must have a: rived moments before you came out of the synod. He was from my own part of the country and I couldn’t help talking to him for a bit.”
“And?”
“Archdeacon?”
“You’ve obviously got something to tell me.”
John paused and swallowed. Should he tell Hilderic? Would he want to know? Probably. “Well, the man just told me the most extraordinary story.”
Hilderic raised an eyebrow. “It didn’t concern some dark angel, did it?”
“No, Archdeacon! Actually, it’s about a girl—a child, really. You know the Earl of Elita?”
“Before the war, yes. I haven’t seen him for years. A good man.”
“Do you remember his daughter? The younger one? I believe he had two.”
“Yes, Bella was the older. She married young Lawrence Maitland a few years ago. Well, get on with it, boy. The King will want to see me some time this year.”
With a chuckle, John placed the cope over his master’s shoulders. “You won’t believe this, but the younger daughter was thought to have drowned in a river when she was about three or four. But apparently she survived. She never drowned at all, but was in fact abducted during the Troubles!”
“The Troubles? How do they know that?”
“Because someone found her—living way on the other side of Lusara. They found her and took her back to her father! Isn’t that a miracle, Archdeacon?”
Hilderic paused and pinned John with a steady gaze. “Do you mean that literally, my son?”
John began to shrug, then stopped himself, “Well . .. er, I don’t know. I suppose it could be.”
Hilderic smiled. “Yes, I suppose it could almost qualify. And how wonderful for Jacob to have his lost daughter returned—though I suspect it opens up a few questions as to where she’s been all this time, and, for that matter, where those other children are. Still, at least one returned is better than none.”
“It certainly is, Archdeacon. But that’s not all.”
Pausing by the door, Hilderic turned. “More?”
John moved around him and opened the door to let him through. “I thought you might want to know. It’s something else the courier told me. Something important. It’s only hearsay, of course, but somehow I don’t think this is only a rumour.”
“They did what?” Vaughn slammed his hand down on the table and whirled around to face Nash, his dark robes floating after him. The fire chose that moment to spit and crackle. Vaughn took the goblet he held and threw it at the flames, making them sputter and turn bright blue. With two strides he crossed the room and yanked the door handle. “Lewis! Osbert!” he yelled, then turned back to Nash.
“What the hell
does Hilderic think he’s playing at, eh? Does he think this is a game?”
Nash kept still, lacing his hands beneath the folds of his robe. “The Archdeacon had very little to do with it—at least directly. What had been said and done beforehand, however, is anyone’s guess.”
“Oh, yes,” Vaughn snapped, “and I think I can guess very well what that old fool is up to. He thinks we’ll all just sit back and take no notice. Does the King know?”
“Archdeacon Hilderic is very probably preparing to go and tell him as we speak.”
“Well, good luck to him!”
Taking a breath, Nash ventured, “My lord, surely we cannot lose the hospices now?”
Vaughn stood by the door, an inward look on his face. His gaze narrowed for a moment as though he had forgotten Nash was there. Then he looked up and, with a frown, said, “The hospices have nothing to do with it. No, this is about something far more important. Blast and damnation, but I’ll make them pay for this!”
At that moment, Lewis and Osbert appeared at the door, their faces betraying their curiosity, but Vaughn couldn’t wait to tell the story. He jerked his hand towards Nash, then reached for his cloak.
“Go ahead, ask him,” he growled. “Ask him where he thinks we’ll all be in a year from now. I’m off to see the King.” He threw his cloak around his shoulders and headed for the door, then paused. “On second thoughts, Nash, come with me. The King may want to ask you a few questions.”
Nash shook the rain off his cloak and helped the Proctor remove his own. Vaughn had raged and fumed all the way to the castle, but Nash had kept silent, despising the man’s inability to control his temper. A pair of guards showed them through the castle and into one antechamber after another. By now, Nash noted, Vaughn had calmed himself considerably and managed to set his expression as though in stone.
They emerged into a round chamber within the great keep itself. To the left a fireplace big enough to roast an ox hosted flames of furnace proportions. Before it was a long ebony table, around which were scattered a number of chairs. There were no tapestries on the walls and only a single window opposite the fireplace, draped with fine Esterian velvet.
