Devlin's Luck (43 page)

What a fool he had been. In hindsight it was obvious. No doubt she had deliberately tampered with his girth, then waited nearby so she could come to his aid, and win his trust. How she must have laughed at his gullibility.

It was small comfort to know that others shared his anger and sense of betrayal.

Lieutenant Didrik had reacted furiously to the news that one of the soldiers had attempted to take Devlin’s life. He and Ensign Mikkelson began wrangling over how the attack could have been foreseen and prevented.

Devlin was the calmest of them all. Perhaps he had faced death so often that he no longer feared it, even when it came in the guise of a friend. Or perhaps he was simply too weary to feel anything at all—for as always Devlin had driven himself harder than anyone else, until he stood on the ragged edge of exhaustion.

Stephen suddenly realized that he had never seen Devlin truly angry. He had seen Devlin when he was frustrated, short-tempered, and merely impatient. Yet even now, when faced with betrayal by one of his own, if Devlin felt anger he did not let it show. He wondered what it would take to rouse Devlin’s wrath.

Heimdall tucked in the ends of the bandage, then stepped back to admire his work. “That should serve, my lord. If you put no strain on the wound for at least a fortnight.”

“Thank you,” Devlin said gravely. He pulled the remnants of his bloody shirt back on and watched as Heimdall left the room.

“Enough bickering,” Devlin said, as the door shut behind Heimdall. “Tell me what you found.”

Devlin listened as Lieutenant Didrik recounted how they had discovered that one of the prisoners was Sigfus, the Baron’s clerk. Sigfus had served the former Baron of Korinth but apparently held little loyalty for the new Baron, who had inherited five years before, upon the death of his uncle. It had taken little prompting to get Sigfus to tell what he knew.

The tale he told was fantastic, almost unbelievable. But then Sigfus had led them to a cache of documents that confirmed all he said and more.

“I have not had time to read them all, but what we have read is damning,” Lieutenant Didrik said, finishing his recital.

Devlin rubbed his face with his hands, as if he were trying to wipe away the weariness. “What do we know? First, the Baron was levying taxes without permission and failing to pay the King’s share to the royal treasury.”

Stephen nodded. This had been the clerk’s chief complaint. He had shown little dismay over the Baron’s treachery, but had seethed with anger as he told how the Baron had ordered him to falsify the province’s accounts.

“Next, it seems that Lord Egeslic has been in correspondence with foreign allies, and with someone in the capital. They are plotting something, and you are convinced it is an invasion. Why?” Devlin asked.

“Because of the references to Queen Reginleifar,” Ensign Mikkelson explained. “Twice her name is mentioned in the scrolls we have examined so far. And in the last scroll it says ‘By summer’s end, the time of Queen Reginleifar will have come again.’ ”

“Who is this Reginleifar?” Devlin asked. The name sounded vaguely familiar.

“Reginleifar was Queen two hundred years ago, when Korinth was invaded by troops from Selvarat. She led the bloody war against the invaders and after three years finally succeeded in expelling them,” Ensign Mikkelson said.

“It is one of the most famous stories from our history,” Stephen added. Over a dozen ballads in his repertoire dated from that heroic era.

“Your history. Not mine,” Devlin corrected. “So you think the threat is from Selvarat?”

Stephen shook his head. “No, Selvarat is among our strongest allies now, and has been for generations. Many of the noble families have intermarried,” Stephen said. “Even now, my mother and sister are there, to set the seal on an alliance.”

“The raiders from Nerikaat have long troubled the western borders but have not succeeded in gaining a foothold. Yet should they send their armies by sea, they could easily overwhelm a weakened Korinth,” Ensign Mikkelson said.

“Or the attackers could be from the Green Isles, where the raiders are thought to be based,” Lieutenant Didrik countered.

“Enough,” Devlin said. “It does not matter where they are from. What matters is when they are planning to strike and what we can do to defend this province.”

“It is six weeks until Midsummer’s Day,” Lieutenant Didrik said. “So we have time to prepare.”

Devlin frowned. “I think not. Did not Sigfus also say that Lord Egeslic was expecting foreign guests to arrive any day? Could these guests not be members of an advance party, preparing for the invasion? No doubt this explains the Baron’s confidence and lack of cooperation.”

“Then we must send for reinforcements. At once,” Ensign Mikkelson said.

“I agree,” Lieutenant Didrik added.

“From where?” Devlin countered. “Rosmaar has its own troubles. The nearest sizable force is the Royal Army garrison in Kallarne. And Duke Gerhard is hardly likely to release them, no matter what message I send.”

His words held the ring of bitter truth. The Duke’s animosity toward the Chosen One was well-known. Any message coming from Devlin would be ignored.

Devlin rose to his feet and began to pace in the small chamber. “We must find a way to convince the King of the need to send troops. And we must make sure his allies have no chance to liberate the Baron. So we will send the Baron to the capital, under guard. They can question him, and see the proofs of his treachery themselves.”

“We are to leave then?” Lieutenant Didrik asked. “What of Korinth and of these folk?”

“We are not leaving. You are,” Devlin said. “You, the Baron, and the three most reliable guards you can find.”

“If you stay, you will need every hand that can hold a sword,” Lieutenant Didrik protested. “I cannot leave, nor can I take those you need.”

“You can and you must,” Devlin said. “Four swords more or less will not ensure success. Only the arrival of the Royal Army can do so.”

“But why me? Why not him?” Didrik asked.

Ensign Mikkelson stiffened. “I would be glad of this honor,” he said.

“No. I need you here,” Devlin said. “You and your soldiers are trained as archers. They will be of more use to me here in the keep than on the road guarding the Baron.”

Devlin’s words made sense, and Lieutenant Didrik eventually agreed. But Stephen could not help recalling the words Ensign Mikkelson had spoken back in the village. That Devlin kept the Ensign close because he did not trust him. Today Ensign Mikkelson had saved Devlin’s life, and yet even now he must wonder how far Devlin trusted his loyalties.

Devlin heard the sound of running feet, then the guard Behra burst into the Baron’s chambers.

“It worked,” Behra said, holding one hand to his side as he bent forward, gasping for breath. “Ensign Mikkelson is bringing their leader here.”

“Good,” Devlin said. “Now catch hold of yourself or get out of sight. We must show no signs of haste or panic.”

“Yes, sir,” Behra said. Then, with a nod, he ran off to take up his post.

Devlin, who had been pacing, now took his seat behind the massive desk that had once resided in the castellan’s quarters.
Stay calm
, he reminded himself.
We must convince these envoys that Korinth is securely within our control
.

The news that Baron Egeslic had been sent to the capital to be tried for treason had worked wonders on the spirits of those left in the keep. Servants, officials, and even a few armsmen came forward to offer their services to the Chosen One and to prove their loyalty to the King.

With their numbers swelled by these new followers, Devlin and Mikkelson had conceived a plan that was one part daring and three parts desperation. The Baron’s keep was to give every impression of normalcy. To that end, soldiers wearing the Baron’s colors patrolled the parapets, while two others guarded the main gate.

The central courtyard was decorated as if for a celebration, with a great ox roasting on a spit, booths dispensing wine or offering games of chance, and a strolling minstrel entertaining those gathered.

From a distance one could not see the strain on the faces of these supposed merrymakers nor taste the heavily watered wine. Only Stephen entered into the pretense with any enthusiasm.

The plan was to lure the envoys into the courtyard. Once they were inside, a ring of bowmen would rise from the surrounding parapet, trapping the party and forcing them to lay down their arms. There would be sixty bowmen in all, most of whom were but servants wearing borrowed uniforms. In a fight they would be of little use, but as he had watched them rehearse, Devlin had to admit that they looked impressive.

For three days they had performed this play, with nothing to show for it. Then on the morning of the fourth day the watchers had sighted the approaching party. Devlin had been grateful. He was heartily sick of eating roast ox.

Devlin had gone to the parapets to watch the foreigners’ approach, and to count their number. Twelve in all. So the clerk Sigfus had been correct. This was a delegation, not the vanguard of an invasion.

Then Devlin had retired to the Baron’s chambers, pacing impatiently until Behra brought the word that the trap had been successful.

Even now, Ensign Mikkelson was escorting the foreign leader through the corridors of the keep, making sure he observed the carefully posted sentries and the many folk wearing the uniforms of the Guard or the Royal Army, engaged in purposeful duty.

There was a knock on the door.

“Enter,” Devlin called.

“My lord, you have a guest,” Ensign Mikkelson announced, bowing low. With a courteous wave of his hand he indicated that the foreigner was to enter the study.

Devlin’s first impression was of a man of middle years, with brown hair and tawny skin, wearing the robes of a Selvarat noble. But that should be impossible. Selvarat was firmly allied to the Jorskian empire. What was one of their nobles doing mixed up in this scheme? Then again, if a Jorskian noble could turn traitor, why not one of theirs?

Devlin rose from his seat. “Thank you, Ensign. You may leave us.” Then he gave a court bow. “I am Devlin, the Chosen One of Jorsk. It is an honor to make your acquaintance.”

“The honor is mine,” said the man, bowing with an elaborate sweeping motion of his hand. When he straightened up, there was an ironic smile on his face. “Tell me, do you greet all your guests with drawn weapons?”

Devlin shrugged and spread his hands wide. “I apologize if you were discomfited. My troops tend to be somewhat protective of my safety. I am certain they meant no offense. Please be seated. May I pour you some wine?”

At the envoy’s nod, Devlin crossed over to the sideboard and poured red wine into the two goblets that had been placed there earlier. He carried them back to the desk, then placed both goblets in the center before resuming his own seat behind the desk.

The envoy took the glass on his left, but he did not drink.

Devlin took the other glass and tossed back a healthy swallow. “The vintage is not the best, but it is neither poisoned nor drugged,” he said.

“The thought had never crossed my mind,” the envoy said, as he took a small sip from his own glass.

“I did not catch your name?” Devlin said.

“I am called Quennel.”

It was but half a name, and Devlin would wager that there was a noble title attached to the other half. If indeed Quennel was this man’s given name. Still, it would serve for now.

Devlin smiled affably. He let the silence stretch between them, until at last Quennel spoke.

“I must admit, I am surprised to see you here. I would have expected to see the Baron of this keep. Lord Egeslic, I believe he is called.”

Quennel said the name casually but his eyes betrayed his interest.

“The Baron has proven an unworthy steward of this province,” Devlin said. “He is on his way to Kingsholm to face judgment for his shortcomings.”

“Ah,” Quennel replied. “Then you are in command here?”

“I have secured this province in the King’s name. My troops control the keep, and even now they guard the coast.” It was the truth of a sorts. Henrik and Oluva were part of his troops, and they did guard the coast. Not that two guards and half-trained villagers could do much against an invasion.

“From our reception, I assume that you intend to keep me and my party here as prisoners? If so, I must—”

“On the contrary,” Devlin interrupted. “I simply wished to meet with you, to clear up this misunderstanding. Once we have spoken, you and your party will be escorted to the coast, and your weapons returned to you.”

Quennel put down his wineglass and raised his eyebrows in disbelief. “Indeed? And what misunderstanding is this?”

Devlin laid both of his hands flat on the desk and leaned forward, catching the envoy’s gaze with his own. “Korinth is no longer a plum ripe for the picking. Any invaders will be met with cold steel. I advise you to think carefully whether or not you wish to pay this price.”

“You did all this just to warn me?”

“I have no wish to bring back the days of Reginleifar.”

Quennel’s face flushed, and Devlin knew he had scored a hit. So Quennel had been one of those who had been in correspondence with the Baron. Or at the very least he had been privy to the contents of those letters.