The Death of Dulgath

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “And I’ll extend you the same courtesy. Leave now. Nysa has made her choice.”

  “I’ll stay. This should be fun; don’t you think?”

  “For one of us,” Sherwood retorted.

  Lord Fawkes swung first. Sherwood danced back, letting the blade sing through the air.

  He had most of his wind back, but he’d burned energy rushing to the cliff. Fawkes had the advantage of rest. On the other hand, the trip had warmed Sherwood, loosening his muscles. Fawkes could have been standing in the cool wind for who knew how long.

  Sherwood let him swing again. The same move, right to left with a downward angle. A power stroke, attempting to take advantage of Sherwood’s weak side. Or maybe the lord was just testing him, trying to get a feel for his ability.

  A good fight is a short fight, Yardley always had said. Show him nothing. Conserve your energy while burning his. Then, at the first opportunity, end it.

  Sherwood and Fawkes crashed blades, hard. Then, as fast as the artist could, he backstroked at an angle to catch Fawkes at the neck.

  The lord ducked.

  Damn!

  Sherwood was afraid Fawkes might take that moment of exposed chest to stab upward. That’s what he would’ve done, but Fawkes retreated three steps, bouncing on his feet.

  That’s the difference between an exhibition fighter and a survivalist, Sherwood thought.

  Fawkes was going for points, trying to look good: engage, withdraw, reset, circle left, circle right, lunge again. It made for a pretty show, but on a lonely cliff with lives on the line, and only seagulls and grass for an audience, no one fought that way.

  This might be Christopher Fawkes’s first real battle. That was Sherwood’s advantage.

  He’s never done this. I have him. But Sherwood had more than one voice in his head. The other one mused over how well Fawkes handled his blade. He has a lot more experience, He has held that sword as often as I’ve held a paintbrush. And his teachers were skilled swordsmen, not aging portrait artists.

  But he’s never killed. That reassuring rationalization was followed by a nagging thought. First time for everything.

  Another attack. This time Fawkes employed more finesse. He began with the same swing—and Sherwood saw now that he’d done it twice to set expectations—then he spun left and brought the sword blade up, hoping either to slice across Sherwood’s torso or—if he were really lucky—to catch the tip on his stomach and then thrust.

  Sherwood foiled Fawkes’s plan by spinning to his right. This wasn’t skill. He had no idea Fawkes was trying something clever. Sherwood had merely decided that if he tried the same swing again, he’d catch it on the other side and try to get in behind the man. As it turned out, they outsmarted each other, and each bobbed away, trying to conceal the surprise and concern they felt.

  “Impressive,” Fawkes said, selling a sense of confidence that Sherwood wasn’t buying.

  Earlier he might have been intimidated, but he realized that Fawkes was mostly bluster and wasn’t actually very good. In that instant, he realized he’d won.

  Believing you will be victorious, Yardley used to say, knowing it—not just in your head, but in your heart—is what will give you the ability to succeed. You lose the fear, and it’s the fear that kills you. Believe in yourself and you’ll triumph.

  Sherwood knew now that he was better than Fawkes. More importantly, he could see the fear in the lord’s eyes.

  Fawkes knew it, too.

  To look at Lord Christopher Fawkes was to see a dead man.

  Sherwood advanced this time. He held the sword more comfortably. He felt his muscles relax, his breathing slow. In through the nose, out through the mouth.

  The two voices in his head went silent, and he found his balance. The wind was in his hair, gulls were crying, the surf crashed below, but Sherwood focused on Fawkes, who had his back to the cliff. He took a shuffled step forward and raised his swo—

  Pain exploded across Sherwood’s back.

  Every muscle in his body seized. His breathing stopped. His eyes went wide.

  In front of him, Fawkes’s attention darted to something behind Sherwood, and His Lordship smiled. Not with sinister supremacy, but with relief.

  The tension in Sherwood’s muscles disappeared along with every ounce of his strength. He crumpled to the grass, limp, as if every bone in his body had dissolved. He needed air but couldn’t breathe through the unbearable pain.

  He wasn’t sure how long he lay there before footsteps approached.

  “Hope you don’t mind,” Sheriff Knox said. “I got the crossbow you asked for. It’s huge, but it’s the only one I could find. I just wanted to see how well it worked.”

  “Not at all,” Fawkes said. “That thing is—it’s amazing.”

  “Isn’t it? Heavy as a boulder and not meant to be held while fired. Crossbows really aren’t my thing. I was aiming for dead center, and it should have killed him instantly. Little bugger is still wheezing.”

  “Made an incredible hole,” Fawkes said, his voice catching in his throat. “Help me throw what’s left of him off the cliff.”

  Sherwood couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, as they dragged him. He wondered what it would be like to fall from such a height.

  Will the impact kill me or will I drown?

  As it turned out, it was neither. Sherwood Stow died while still en route to the edge.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The Painting

  Christopher Fawkes was the empathetic sort. While he had a long list of enemies—an actual written list he kept in the lining of his doublet—he could generally find something about each person to respect or at least pity. This annoying predisposition toward understanding and compassion frequently robbed him of the unencumbered enjoyment of victory. A notable exception was the King of Maranon. Lord Fawkes was certain the only reason for King Vincent Pendergast’s existence was to give Christopher something to hate without reservation.

  Vince the Vile—as Christopher referred to him in the safe confines of his own head—embodied everything bad in the world sewn up in one awful package. He was short, which was unforgivable for a monarch, and also ugly, which was unforgivable for anyone. He took after the Pendergast line, with a huge, hooked nose hanging off his face. His deep-set eyes hid beneath a ledge of bone so wide that a stick of chalk could rest there. He had gaps in his teeth, not just between the center two like any normal monstrosity, but between all of them.

  Why Vince the Vile didn’t grow a beard over his pockmarked skin remained a mystery, unless growing hair proved just as unmanageable as running his kingdom. His Majesty’s fingers were fat and stubby, little sausages complete with thin, stretched casings. The only difference? Christopher had never seen so much hair on sausages. The king’s fingers weren’t the only fat part of the man. Vince the Vile wouldn’t be able to wear a barrel without a cooper letting it out a stave or two. Perhaps the king’s worst aspect was his habit of spitting and his utter lack of skill at it. Vincent’s face was usually wet with saliva, and a gob of phlegm often decorated his chin. His personality matched his appearance.

  “Chrissy?” the king said when spotting him in the courtyard. “I’m surprised to see you in Dulgath.”

  “Your Majesty.” Christopher bowed with a smile on his lips as he pictured unleashing a quarrel into the fat, spittle-dripping crown-stand. Christopher had the arbalest—what Knox called the huge crossbow—hidden as best he could behind the wardrobe in his bedroom. Being the size of a bass violin, the weapon wouldn’t fit under the bed. Didn’t fit behind his wardrobe, either. The wingspan of the prod—what Knox called the bow part—stuck out on either side. He had put a sheet over it, making it look like a midget ghost with outstretched arms.

  The morning after he’d sent the two thieves to Manzant, Christopher noticed that the ivy on the west tower had been removed. The gardener had ripped it down, by order of the countess, the evening he and Payne were in Brecken Dale. Either she was a fortune teller or the thie
ves had warned her. Why they would care, the lord didn’t know, but it didn’t matter.

  Christopher had asked Knox to find a heavy crossbow and hoped the shooting-from-a-distance idea hadn’t also been thwarted. Seeing the arbalest with its steel prod, its hand crank, and its three-quarter-inch-thick ash quarrels, he couldn’t imagine anything stopping it. The giant bolt that killed Sherwood had entered his back, exited his chest, and flown out over the ocean without pause. The only challenge left was aiming the thing at Nysa Dulgath in such a way that neither she nor anyone else could see the assassin squeeze the trigger.

  Christopher followed King Vincent and his retinue into the reception hall. The monarch left the bulk of his caravan—which if one included the men-at-arms might amount to more servants than in the whole of Lady Dulgath’s castle—in a miniature tent city just down the lane from the stables. Christopher was sorry to see that his friend Sir Gilbert hadn’t come. Instead, Sir Dathan and Sir Jacobus flanked His Majesty, along with Bishop Parnell and the usual set of hands for holding his cup, adjusting his collar, and kissing his ample arse.

  Lady Dulgath waited with her entire staff lined up in their finest bleached whites and blues. Blue and white were the colors of House Dulgath, but the indigo dye was expensive. Still, each member of the household wore at least one article of blue. The scullery staff, dairymaids, charwomen, and stable boys all had light-blue neckerchiefs. The gardeners, woodcutters, and cooks donned blue belts, and the chambermaids and seamstresses draped sashes over their shoulders. The skilled servants, such as the scribe, tailor, and treasurer, sported blue vests. Chamberlain Wells, being in charge of the household, wore a tie and a long blue coat. The staff made a fine showing, backs and hair straight, eyes down, faces clean. The countess herself was stunning. Lady Dulgath was dressed completely in blue, a rich gown that matched the deep color of the sapphire around her neck.

  Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. A shame she turned down my marriage proposal. Such a terrible waste to put a three-quarter-inch-thick quarrel through that breast.

  She curtsied with her usual unrivaled grace, bowing her head. The king took her hand and kissed its back. Christopher knew what was on the royal pimple’s mind. Father dead. No suitors. The queen left at home in Mehan. And it got cold at night on the coast, even in summer.

  He imagined exactly what Vince the Vile was thinking: I’m the king, after all, and so handsome! How can she resist?

  The old wart is in for a frustrating night. If Nysa hadn’t personally told Christopher about her growing interest in Sherwood, he’d have guessed she was frigid.

  But she didn’t actually name Sherwood, did she? And the painter looked so very surprised. Why? Should have been proud or at the very least guilty. Is it possible there’s someone else?

  “So very sorry to hear about your father, Nysa,” the drooling magpie blathered without a dandelion tuft of sincerity. He was still holding her hand, mauling it with his own. “I would’ve come for the funeral, but the demands on a king’s time often prohibit me from doing what I want.”

  How strange, Christopher thought, given that you attended the Swanwick Spring Derby during that time. A race where your horse, once again, came in first.

  “I assure you that I have no intention of altering the fief. House Dulgath has always done a fine job of administrating its land. It would be a crime to change that after so many centuries,” he said while glancing at the bishop. “Can we hold the ceremony tomorrow? That way I’ll be out of your hair and you can resume your life.”

  And His Royal Majesty will go hunting. If a handful of drunks riding through a forest while an entourage of soldiers herds a host of animals to the slaughter can be considered hunting.

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” Nysa was saying. “We can arrange that. You might have noticed the decorations on your way in. I thought we would hold it outside in the courtyard.”

  “What if it rains?” Vincent asked.

  This elicited several smiles from the line of servants.

  “I don’t expect it will, Sire.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because…that would be unpleasant.”

  Christopher had stopped listening to the conversation, but his attention returned when the king asked, “And where is Sherwood Stow?”

  “We don’t know, Your Majesty. No one has seen him since yesterday,” Lady Dulgath explained.

  “He left?”

  “No, Sire—at least I don’t think so. His things are still here.”

  Vincent rubbed his glistening chin. “I’ve been thinking of having him paint my daughter, Evangeline—her portrait, I mean. I want it done while she’s still young and pretty—before she starts looking like her mother. I spoke to Stow when he came through Mehan on his way here, but that was months ago.”

  “Two months and three days, Sire,” Perkins Fallinwell, the king’s body man, replied. Fallinwell had one of the most hilarious names Christopher had ever heard. There had to be a story behind it, but Perkins, being the pinched-nosed, prune-lipped tosser that he was, refused to divulge a word of it.

  “Yes, that’s right—two months. How long does it take to do a portrait? That’s what he was here for, correct?”

  “Yes, Sire,” Nysa replied. “My father had commissioned him, but Mister Stow hasn’t yet completed it.”

  “Slow bugger, but I’ve heard he’s the best. And I want the best for my little E-line. You say you haven’t seen him in days?”

  “One day, Sire,” Perkins Fallinwell corrected.

  Vincent clapped Fallinwell on the back. “He carries the royal purse. Can you tell?” The king laughed—a sluggish, honking sound like an influenza-stricken goose. When the king gathered himself, he coughed and then spat on the floor, barely missing Fallinwell’s shoe. A long elastic string snapped to his chin, where it stayed, a shimmering beacon to everyone watching, but the king was utterly oblivious. “Is the painting any good?”

  “I, ah…” Nysa bit her lip. “I haven’t actually seen it.”

  “You haven’t? Not at all?” The king looked at Wells and then the handmaiden. Each in turn shook their head.

  “Sherwood is very protective about works in progress.” Nysa tried to make up for her ignorance with a smile.

  “But two months?”

  Nysa clasped her hands together. “I think he wants it to be a surprise unveiling. I’m inclined to grant him that pleasure.”

  “All fine and good, but I want to see if the man is worth waiting for or whether I should hire someone else. After two months, it must be nearly finished. And I don’t think a painter of portraits will mind if the King of Maranon takes a peek. Where is it?”

  “In his room. I’ll have it brought down to the study.” She nodded toward Rissa Lyn, who scurried off. “This way. Let me show you.”

  When Bishop Parnell started to follow, the king held up a hand. “Your Grace, your presence won’t be necessary. I’m sure you have better things to do. Perhaps you could have some tea with Pastor Payne. I’m sure this won’t take long, and I will join you shortly.”

  Lady Dulgath escorted Vincent down the corridor to the little room across from the stairs. Christopher watched them go, then followed. He wasn’t interested in Sherwood’s painting but was suspicious about Vincent wanting to speak to the lady in private.

  Christopher waited outside the door while Rissa Lyn scurried past, carrying the large, covered canvas. He knelt down and fussed with the buckle on his shoe, and she curtsied in his direction after reemerging from the study, then scampered down the hall.

  “How long has Christopher Fawkes been here?” the king asked in a tone far softer than he’d employed earlier.

  “Since the funeral.”

  His Majesty spat. Christopher knew the sound. His memory conjured a vivid, disgusting image, and he grimaced.

  “I would be remiss if I didn’t warn you that he wishes to become the next Earl of Dulgath. If he has expressed interest toward you, I suspect it has more to do with winning your la
nd rather than your heart.”

  “I appreciate your concern, Your Majesty.”

  Vincent went on. “As I said, I have no intention of changing what is working so well. Maranon has always been a lush, rich kingdom, but Dulgath is the icing on the cake. On the way in, I saw how every field was planted, every plant vibrant and strong. Your roads are without holes and the houses are in good repair. Your people are well fed, smiling and laughing. It’s good to see, so I have no doubt about renewing Dulgath’s tenure. You should know that I never had any, although many advised otherwise. Now, let’s take a look at that painting.”

  “Oh, I assumed you merely wanted to speak in private. We really shouldn’t—”

  “Nonsense, I’m sure it’ll be fine. Even if it’s not finished, it’ll give me an idea of the man’s skill. I really am thinking of having him paint my Evangeline.”

  “I’ll just stand over here,” Lady Dulgath said.

  “Don’t you want to see?”

  “No, thank you, Sire. It would be…rude.”

  “Suit yourself. Okay, so—ah, here we are…By Mar! That’s…that’s—no, that’s not right at all. I can certainly see why he wouldn’t let you see it, Nysa. This is most disturbing. Insulting is what it is. Utterly—I can’t believe…damn! This must be some kind of joke, and it’s not a funny one. No, I don’t believe he’ll be painting my daughter after all. Absolutely not! And if I were you, I wouldn’t pay the man for this—this…excuse me.”

  The king hurried out of the study, his expression a twisted frown. Vincent the Vile strode past Christopher as if he weren’t there. Nysa Dulgath didn’t follow.

  “Where’s the Great Hall?” the king asked Wells as the chamberlain came through the main entrance.

  “This way, Your Majesty,” the chamberlain said.

  “And get me a drink!” Vincent bellowed.

  “Of course, Your Majesty. Right away, Sire.”

  Christopher lingered in the hall, watching the open door to the study. After several minutes, when Lady Dulgath still hadn’t emerged, he peeked in. Nysa was at the easel, gazing at the painting and crying. In all the time he’d spent in Dulgath, he’d never seen her display any emotion.