Exile's Return (Book 1) (2 page)

‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Your Grace, but I came to look for you. There are but a few minutes before the reception and you are not yet dressed to meet the ambassador from Mayenne. You must not be late.’

Rosalind turned away from the window and folded her hands together. Years of harsh lessons learned at this unforgiving court kept her hands steady, her face calm. But stern-faced Camilla was waiting, Lady Camilla Murray; gentlewoman to the Queen – and spy for the King.

With an obedient nod Rosalind led Camilla down the passage. She didn’t hurry, even though a voice inside her screamed to run before anyone came through that door and found her there. That same voice urged her to warn them, now, before it was too late. Tell someone, do something …

Who? Who could she tell? Who would listen to her?

It was a short walk to her apartments, a walk that gave her too little time to think, to plan. But who was she to
trust? Certainly none of her ladies, nor even her Confessor. All those served Selar and her warning would be deemed nothing less than treason.

The fire in her dressing room was built up against the chill wind rattling the window casements. Camilla wasted no time, immediately bringing water for Rosalind to wash, a comb for her hair, the finest clothes for her to wear. She was diligent in the execution of her duties – all of them. If Rosalind gave the slightest sign that something was amiss, she would be lost.

She stood still as Camilla and the other ladies fussed over her. If only she had more time, more help. So much depended on her – and yet she had no one. Of course, Selar had arranged it so. Twelve years as Queen in name only. By the gods, even her friends had deserted her over the years. It didn’t matter that she was born of the great House of MacKenna, was mother of the heir to the throne. She was nothing to this court, nothing more than a symbol of unity between Lusara and the man who had raped her country and stolen the crown. She was a traitor Queen, her son a bastard heir.

‘Is my sister still with the children?’ The words were out before she thought them through. But no matter, her instincts guided her – perhaps Samah could get word to somebody.

‘Lady Samah is in the nursery, Your Grace,’ Camilla replied with a frown.

‘Will you ask her to join me for supper, after this reception?’ Yes, that was it. Samah would not leave for her priory until tomorrow. She would have time to help before then. But could Rosalind endanger her with this?

‘Certainly, Your Grace.’ Finished with her work, Camilla stood back and held up a polished mirror.

Rosalind barely glanced at the mirror at first – then paused to take another careful look. At twenty-seven she was still young enough to be seen as an adornment. Her auburn hair shone with glints of gold, her hazel eyes retained the clarity of her father’s gaze. She’d once been pretty, but
Rosalind felt those days were long gone. Now, perhaps, she was merely handsome and soon – soon she would be old and plain. But plain or no, she was still Queen and would hold herself with pride, impress upon this loathsome envoy from Mayenne the dignity which still dwelt within the hearts of all true Lusarans.

Even if it seemed the gods had finally deserted them.

Sweet Mineah, help me through this. Help me face that man!

With two of her ladies following, Rosalind descended through the castle until she reached the great hall. It was all but deserted since this first reception was to be a small gathering without the full court as witness. In silence, Rosalind passed under the heraldic banners hanging from the vaulted roof and paused before a carved ebony door. The guards on either side bowed and pushed the door open, then stood aside for her to pass. Respect for the crown she wore and nothing else.

There were a dozen men in the room beyond and all eyes turned to her as she entered. Almost the full council. Chancellor Dai Ingram, a small, mousy man, stood by the window, the Duke of Ayr, Tiege Eachern, at his side. A maternal cousin of Selar’s, Eachern had followed him into the first battles of the conquest, distinguishing himself on the field as a ruthless and bloodthirsty warrior. Eachern’s courtly clothes were of the finest quality, brutally at odds with his stocky neck and bullish head. With hair cropped close for battle, the Duke would never look anything other than what he was – in direct contrast to the man who stood beside him. George, Earl of Kandar, was Eachern’s cousin but, with the exception of his grey eyes, looked nothing like him. Tall, fine and fair-haired, George was every inch the courtier – and the only person at court who treated Rosalind with any respect. But respect or no, Rosalind could never trust him with her secret. His whole career was bound up with Selar, his allegiance devoted.

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, hawk-like 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 façade 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 a while.’

‘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.