“Hush,” Scarlett told him, “and help me up. She—he—healed me, but it’s not like—I mean, I did get a sword shoved through my gut.”
Hadrian helped Scarlett to her feet. She wavered slightly, leaning on him. He could still picture Knox shoving that steel into her stomach and was dumbfounded that she could stand at all.
“We have a lot of work still to do tonight,” Fawkes told them. “The king will want an explanation.”
“I know I’d sure like one,” Hadrian said.
“It really won’t help. The answer doesn’t make any sense.” Royce reached out for his horse’s reins and stopped. He flexed his right hand, then tore the splint off and flexed the fingers again. He pulled the splint off the finger on his left hand and felt it.
“I hope you don’t mind, Hadrian,” Fawkes said. “But I’ll have to deal with your ribs later. It has been a long day, and it’ll be an even longer night.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
The Fifth Thing
With its pillars, polished stone floor, and decorative pennants, the Great Hall was the only part of Castle Dulgath that Royce thought resembled a castle instead of an oversized, run-down house of crumbling stone. The chair helped—the way it sat alone on the dais—supporting the king. Kings made all the difference. This one had his full retinue turned out, along with the castle staff. What had once been the comfortable residence of a country lady had become an extension of the power and might of His Majesty Vincent Pendergast, King of Maranon.
Previously, Royce had only seen the imperfections of the place: the fallen tower, the overgrown ivy, the lack of proper fortifications. He’d completely overlooked its charm. The odd statues carved in the strangest of places alluded to stories no one understood; the encroaching ivy wrapped everything in a warm embrace; all of this lent a sort of enchanted whimsy to the home.
That’s it, Royce realized. It’s not a fortress; it’s a home.
Like all kings, Vincent didn’t look happy, visibly tired after his long ride the night before, which had resulted in him returning angry and empty-handed. He glared at Lord Fawkes, who acted as the spokesman for the group. Lord Christopher Fawkes stood at the center, and a full step ahead, of the group. Fawkes showed no sign of fatigue; he didn’t yawn, slouch, or sag in any way. Instead, he remained straight, even proud, before his liege.
“You expect me to believe this?” the king asked in a tone that showed he clearly didn’t.
“I do, Sire,” Fawkes replied in a strong, clear voice.
Vincent raised a brow. “You saw Sheriff Knox separate from the rest of us and followed him to the monastery?”
“I did, Sire.”
Royce and Hadrian had strict orders to stand still and remain silent. Above all else, they mustn’t talk. The two had been accused of the murder of Lady Dulgath and the attempted murder of the king—the latter being the far more serious charge. That Vincent himself was a witness to the crime made their situation untenable at best. The only reason they weren’t already hanging from a rope was because they had turned themselves in and had the backing of such respected men. They had willingly walked in with the venerable Bishop Parnell, Abbot Augustine, and Chamberlain Wells all proclaiming his and Hadrian’s innocence. Lord Fawkes had done so as well, but Royce wasn’t sure how much value the king placed on his cousin’s word.
Prior to sunrise, Fawkes had insisted, with a degree of confidence that appeared insane, that he could clear their names and protect them from harm. If anyone else had promised this, Royce would have ridden north as fast as his horse could carry him. But bones didn’t mend themselves in an instant, a woman dead on a muddy path didn’t awaken without a scratch, and there was no doubt that the person he had known as Lady Dulgath now resided in the body of Christopher Fawkes.
Standing in the Great Hall of Castle Dulgath, Royce flexed his right hand. Not even stiff. The finger on his left was also healed beyond the memory that it had ever been injured.
Not surprisingly, Hadrian was on board, especially after the pain from his ribs vanished after Fawkes had some time to rest. He’d also pointed out that Royce wasn’t actually guilty of anything for a change—as if that mattered. But perhaps more than anything, Royce agreed to stand before the king’s justice out of curiosity. He wanted to see what other miracles Christopher Fawkes could perform.
“And you say you witnessed Chrissy fight and kill the sheriff in defense of Lady Dulgath, who lay dying at your abbey?” the king asked Augustine.
“He was most heroic, Your Majesty,” the abbot replied, his hands clasped before him in a perfectly pious posture.
The king raised an eyebrow. “Chrissy, heroic? I can’t say I’ve ever seen that side to him before.”
“If I may, Sire.” Bishop Parnell stepped in. “You underestimate the man. He has changed over these last few years under the tutelage of the church.”
“Yes, I’m sure he has,” Vincent grumbled, then began a slow shake of his head as his eyes focused on Royce. “But I saw this one aim an arbalest at me, with my own eyes. Why’d you do it?”
Remembering the rules, Royce remained silent.
“I want an answer, or I’ll have your head here and now!”
Royce glanced at Fawkes, who nodded.
“If I wanted you dead,” Royce replied, “we wouldn’t be having this conversation. I was simply trying to save Lady Dulgath.”
The king showed his teeth as his face flushed.
“He’s right, Sire,” Fawkes intervened. “A single squeeze of that lever and you would be dead. You’re looking at a man who could have, but didn’t, kill you.”
“Lady Dulgath wasn’t dead,” Royce said. “But Knox had said that he’d finish the job the moment she was taken to the infirmary. He’d pointed his finger my way, and everyone in that courtyard wanted a rope around my neck. You weren’t going to listen—no one was—certainly not until after Hadrian and I were dead and the lady along with us. I took the only possible route. Everyone believed I was a killer, so I used that to my advantage to try to save Lady Dulgath. It almost worked.”
The king’s face softened. He still looked angry, maybe more than before, but he believed the explanation. Royce was a good liar, but telling the truth was even more convincing.
Vincent leaned back in the big chair that had once belonged to Nysa Dulgath and her father before her. He steepled his fingers and shifted his sight to the bishop, who remained in the regalia he’d worn the day before. The bishop represented the most reputable of those gathered. “And it’s your testimony that Sheriff Knox was the one who hired Shervin Gerami?”
“I can only report what I saw, Your Majesty, and that was Knox speaking to this Gerami fellow early on the morning of the ceremony. After they spoke, the sheriff handed over a purse. At the time, I thought nothing of it. I figured Knox was hiring him to be a sentry or for some other duty. Of course, when the bald man was found on the wall, beside the arbalest, it became clear to me that Knox was paying the man for a more despicable task.”
“And the arbalest? Can anyone shed light on how Knox got that weapon?”
Chamberlain Wells looked to Fawkes, who nodded his permission. “I think I can, Your Majesty. The sheriff came to me with the specific request for a heavy crossbow.”
“Did he say why?”
“No, but like the bishop, I had no reason to question his motives. Knox was the high sheriff and in charge of Dulgath’s security. If he needed an arbalest, I figured there had to be a good reason.”
They had gone over most of this at Brecken Moor the night before. Fawkes had explained his plan to hang the whole affair on Knox, claiming the sheriff had hired Royce and Hadrian as consultants while secretly planning to pin the murders on them. When Fawkes had grown suspicious of Knox he had warned the thieves. Then Fawkes and the thieves had worked to thwart the sheriff’s plot. Augustine had been an eager supporter of the plan, and Royce thought he knew why.
The abbot had been in the room when Nysa changed nests. He�
��d seen the whole thing. Augustine might have been privy to the secret for years.
When it was Augustine’s time to speak, the abbot embellished his version, painting Fawkes as a swashbuckling champion who fought the evil sheriff in a pitched battle, an epic sword fight that lasted “at least an hour.” But then again, maybe that was how the abbot imagined it happening. His sort was prone to aggrandizing tales to advance their own agendas.
“One thing still escapes me,” the king said. “Why would Sheriff Knox, an immigrant from Warric whom Beadle Dulgath appointed, want to kill Lady Dulgath? What could he possibly gain? Can you tell me that, Chrissy?”
They had gone over the story to make sure each had answers to anything the king might ask. Yet after an entire night of discussion, this question had never been raised.
Why did the sheriff do it?
A certain amount of sloppiness was understandable given the exhaustion Fawkes had exhibited after healing Scarlett Dodge and then Royce. But this was a pretty important point to overlook. Like everyone else gathered before the king, Royce watched Lord Fawkes with great anticipation.
Fawkes hesitated. He inspected his feet for a moment, then glanced warily not at the king, but at Bishop Parnell. Then he straightened, and, looking directly at Vincent, he said, “I believe the Nyphron Church is responsible.”
The bishop’s eyes nearly fell out, and the chamberlain gasped, clamping a palm over his mouth to stifle it.
“That’s a serious charge,” the king said, and Royce noted that for the first time the insulting tone was missing.
“And utterly absurd!” Parnell shouted.
“I have no proof, Your Majesty,” Fawkes admitted. “And yet I’m sure this is so.”
“Your Majesty, I—” Parnell started.
The king silenced the bishop with a hand. He kept his focus on Fawkes and said, “Explain your reasoning.”
“My belief is the church is seeking to take control of Maranon. The newly appointed Earl Woodrow Braga of Swanwick is a self-professed Imperialist, replacing Earl Purim—an ardent Monarchist. Manzar has always been a bulwark for the church. And I suppose you could say my own father has had a spiritual awakening, as he, too, has shifted his allegiance, nodding in favor of the Imperialists.”
“There is nothing unseemly about men of good standing taking a greater interest in their church,” Parnell snapped.
“No,” Fawkes said. “But there is when the church pressures and threatens nobles if they don’t agree to side with them against their king. I spoke to Lady Dulgath several times after arriving here. She explained how her father had received repeated threats from the church. Beadle had remained strong and was able to weather their intimidation, but it seems they were taking a stronger stance with Lady Dulgath. She was told that if she refused to comply with their wishes, she would be replaced. I suspect if Knox had lived, there would have been a convincing argument for him to act as steward. As you so keenly pointed out, he’d already been appointed by Beadle himself and so would have been a likely candidate for the earl’s successor.”
“Who did she say was the source of those threats?” the king asked, allowing his eyes to flicker toward the bishop, who glared at Fawkes so hard he looked on the verge of exploding.
“She didn’t,” Fawkes replied without the slightest glance at Parnell. “Lady Dulgath was the very embodiment of discretion, Your Majesty. Nor could she trust me, given that my father is an Imperialist. I tried to explain how I had broken ties with him because I saw my father as a traitor to his king, but she only had my word. As you well know, that means nothing these days.”
“I see.” The king continued to stare at Fawkes with a fascinated expression, as if he were witnessing a magic trick and trying to figure out what he had overlooked.
“This is all a lie!” the bishop nearly screamed. He was red, and sweat beaded on his face.
In a perfectly calm and sensible tone, Fawkes said, “At best, I’m merely speculating. I’ve already explained I have no proof. I’m not accusing anyone of anything. His Majesty asked to understand my reasoning, and I’ve stated it.”
The bishop gesticulated with hands that formed fists. His face looked as if he could chew through rocks. The king appeared oblivious as he stared with continued fascination at Fawkes.
“The church took you in after your financial fiasco, did it not?” Vincent asked Fawkes.
“They did.”
“And what have you become but an ungrateful cur!” Parnell shouted.
“If it is true, that the church has backed you financially, why do you now stand before me, denouncing them?” Vincent asked Fawkes as if the bishop weren’t there.
“I am my own man, Your Majesty. That should have been obvious when I left my father’s house. My loyalty is to my king, and it cannot be bought with blood or gold.”
“But it didn’t prevent you from borrowing money falsely, using my name as collateral.”
Fawkes faltered, and Royce thought he might finally have been tripped up, but then he realized this was no more than a dramatic pause. “For that I have no excuse, Your Majesty. It is a transgression that has long weighed on my heart and on my soul. I admit my wrongdoing and wish to make amends, to prove myself through deeds rather than words.”
The king chuckled this time. “You do impress me, Christopher. I’m certain most of what I’ve heard is unadulterated codswallop, but…well done. Perhaps politics is more your talent than horse racing.” Vincent crossed his arms and cast his sight across the assembled group. “Given so many witnesses of good standing, it’s impossible for me to simply reject your explanation of recent events. That means, of course, I’m indebted to you, Christopher. You are to be rewarded. What would you ask of your king?”
This time Fawkes didn’t hesitate. “These men were promised compensation for coming here.” He gestured at Royce and Hadrian. “As they were instrumental in saving your life, and at considerable risk, I ask that you grant them the payment they were offered. I would pay them myself, but…” Fawkes pretended to reach for a purse that wasn’t there.
“Yes, yes, of course, but what for yourself?” the king asked.
“For me? Nothing, Sire.”
“Nothing?”
“I don’t believe a man should be rewarded for doing his duty to protect his king.”
The king smiled. Not a sneer, not an expression of mockery or amusement, but one of true approval.
He’s done it, Royce thought, and couldn’t have been more impressed if Fawkes had palmed the crown right off the old man’s head.
“You say you want to prove yourself through deeds?” Vincent asked. “Very well. It seems I have a province without a ruler.”
“Your Majesty, no!” Bishop Parnell exclaimed.
The king ignored him. “Christopher Fawkes, son of Oddsworth, I hereby appoint you Steward of Dulgath, in which capacity you will serve for three years. Should you, at the end of that time, prove a worthy administrator of these lands, I will bestow on you the title of earl.” The king looked over at his scribe, who nodded.
He then faced Royce and Hadrian. “Now, what do I owe the two of you?”
“Fifty gold tenents,” Royce said before Hadrian had the chance to open his mouth.
“Fifty?” Bishop Parnell said, shocked.
“It’s what Sheriff Knox promised us,” Royce told the bishop. “Being a clergyman, I wouldn’t expect you to know the going rate of a quality assassin consultant.”
Parnell bit his lip.
“You’ll be paid,” the king said, “but I must insist the two of you leave Maranon. I won’t abide thieves and assassins in my kingdom, no matter what service they might have provided me.”
Royce considered asking if he planned to exile Bishop Parnell as well but then thought better of it. He and Hadrian weren’t on their way to the gallows and were being paid twice the agreed amount. Fawkes’s advice to keep his mouth shut seemed wise after all.
Hadrian exited the castle, feeling bett
er the moment the sun hit him. Being in the Great Hall with so many robes and crowns had felt like being underwater; pressure was everywhere. Leaving as soon as they were paid was the smart thing to do. They shouldn’t give the king time to come to his senses and reconsider, but as the reception broke up, Royce had lingered. Fawkes did as well.
I’ll be out in a minute, Royce had told him. I have a few things to talk to Lord Fawkes about before we go.
This was fine with Hadrian. He had at least one question of his own to deal with, and, like Royce, he wanted to do so alone.
The courtyard was still a mess of storm-tossed banners and toppled chairs. The Dulgath standard still lay in the courtyard where Knox had pulled it down. The arbalest was gone. Vincent had likely ordered it secured moments after they’d left. Having one of those pointed at you was tantamount to looking through a big open door into the next world, an experience anyone—much less a king—wouldn’t want to repeat.
Hadrian walked out the front gate, which was still wide open and lacking a guard.
Nothing changes here.
Hadrian looked up at the perfect sky with its perfect sun and puffball clouds.
Nothing at all.
Scarlett waited down the slope and a few yards off to the side with their horses. She was petting Dancer, stroking her neck and letting her tear up thin grass. As he approached, Scarlett looked up, saw him, tilted her head, and leaned out to peer around the horse. She smiled. “No one chasing you this time.”
Hadrian glanced over his shoulder. “Nope.”
“And Lord Fawkes?”
“Steward.”
Scarlett looked puzzled and a bit disappointed. “Not earl?”
“He will be.”
She thought about this and nodded. “Did you get paid?”
“We did indeed.”
She smiled; then the expression vanished. “So you’ll be leaving, then?”
He stopped beside Dancer, clapping her on the shoulder. The horse took no notice of him as she ate the grass. He looked over the horse’s back at Scarlett. “Yes, but I was thinking…”
The Death of Dulgath Page 32
