Exile's Return (Book 1) (27 page)

‘Osbert, I have a task for you.’

‘Yes, my lord?’ Osbert hovered close by the fire, his hands behind his back.

‘I need someone inside the chapter house tomorrow night. I must know how the vote goes – who will stand with us and who against.’

‘My lord?’

‘Don’t be a fool, man, you know what I’m talking about,’ Vaughn snapped. ‘You know the King and I have discussed Domnhall’s successor. Selar has made his wishes quite clear to the synod. It is to be either Brome or Quinn. Now I need someone in there to make sure they understand that.’

Osbert shook his head. ‘But the only man I have who could get in there without being discovered is Nash and he’s on his way out of Marsay tonight.’

‘Then stop him! Go, now. I don’t care if the election is closed.’ Vaughn drained his wine and slammed the cup down on the desk. ‘I will know what happens!’

*

*

The stone floor was cold beneath Rosalind’s knees. It made her joints burn, her back ache. She took the pain in, dwelt on it, drowned in it. Fire and ice, agony and isolation. Alone, she prayed.

The Basilica was almost empty now; the last of the court had faded away. The Church guard stood waiting for her to leave before lifting Domnhall’s body and taking it away. When they did, they would take her hope with it.

Selar meant to do it. He would start a war with Mayenne. He would tear Lusara apart, bring the Church to its knees, and all because of his desire for bloody revenge. Revenge for being born younger than Tirone, for being favoured by his father and then cast aside when his ailing brother grew stronger. Revenge for having to support Tirone when the barons of Mayenne revolted after their father’s death. Revenge for Tirone pushing him out of Mayenne and into Lusara. Revenge for leaving him there to live or die alone, for trying to kill him.

Simple revenge, and yet it would cost the lives of thousands of Lusarans. It would destroy the country her son would one day rule. Dear, sweet, wounded Lusara. In agony. Isolated. Those who saw her pain could do nothing about it. The rest were blind.

And Rosalind saw it all, felt it all, but now that Domnhall was dead, there was no one left to stop it, no voice to rise above the rest. No saviour.

She let her folded hands drop to her sides. Inside her a voice cried out for her to have faith, but she was deaf to its call. Stiffly, she rose to her feet, glanced briefly at the trium then turned around and walked away.

*

He fell.

Slipping, screaming, tumbling down the slimy riverbank. Icy water sucked away his breath, crashed in on his skull, blinded him, deafened him. Only the old man’s triumphant laughter echoed in his mind. Then the pain. The agony of the cold driving into his bones, his clothes full of water, dragging him down, the blade of betrayal slicing the air from his lungs. Inky
darkness swirled around him as the river pushed him along. His mouth opened, filled with freezing poison. He struggled, flailed his arms around, crashed into rocks and logs, his cloak, sword. Nowhere could he find the surface. There was nothing to grasp, nothing but the torrent shoving him further towards hell. Pounding in his ears, pain in his chest. He had to breathe but there was only the water. He was drowning.

Something hit his arm. He could hardly feel it, his flesh was so numb. He stopped moving. His chest ached and he knew he would have to draw breath now. It was time to die.

Then he was moving again and suddenly his head came free of the water. More pain in his arms as something gripped him hard, held his head high. Like a cry, he gasped in real air, coughing and choking – but it was not water and he gulped in again.

There was a voice. Somewhere in the darkness, someone was talking to him. Calm. Comforting. Solid. Strong. He caught hold of the voice, focused on it. Steadily he was dragged forward until he felt a hard surface behind his back. He was lifted up on to the river bank. He lay there, exhausted. In the night, he opened his eyes and saw the stars above, dusted across the sky.

Then the voice again. ‘How do you feel? Can you speak?’

He turned his head as a cloak was laid over him. He looked up at the man who had saved his life. But this was no man. This was a boy. Perhaps fifteen or sixteen. Concerned eyes gazed down at him, eyes of a green so deep it was visible even in the darkness.

He nodded and tried to sit up, unable to take his gaze from those eyes. Then suddenly the young face changed, shifted and shimmered and, abruptly, it was Carlan kneeling there beside him. The old man’s black eyes laughed at him, his white hair a mockery of the night, the wizened face creased in a triumphant sneer.

‘Now I have you! Now you are mine!’ the old man screeched …

*

Selar sat bolt upright in bed, gasping in air. For a second he couldn’t remember where he was. He turned his head this
way and that until his eyes caught the glimmer of pre-dawn light through the window and things shifted back into their familiar places.

His breath steady now, he reached up and pushed hair back from his sweat-drenched face. He leaned over to the table by the bed and grabbed the wine cup which always sat there. But it was empty. Cursing and bone-weary, Selar shoved back the bedclothes and swung his legs over the side of the bed. From there he stumbled to the cabinet by the window and drained the flask of wine which sat there.

Damned nightmare!

There was another flask, this one full. He took that, grabbed a blanket and headed for the window. He pushed the shutter wide open and sank down on the padded seat. Outside a frail mist had settled on the valley and would last until the sun had risen properly. The air was cold, but Selar drank it in, even as it reminded him of his twisted dream.

It wasn’t the truth. Just a perversion of it. He’d only been in the river a minute or so before Robert had pulled him out. And Carlan hadn’t been there. Not then. Not afterwards. Carlan had only been there to push him into the water.

Selar took another mouthful of the wine, letting the bitter flavour wake his mouth and warm his stomach. He pulled the blanket up around both shoulders but he didn’t feel cold. No. He felt empty.

The battle of Seluth, almost fourteen years ago. He’d been looking for Carlan. Just as the battle had edged towards victory, the old man had wandered off. Selar had gone searching for him, wanting to share the triumph with the man who had been instrumental in achieving it. Although it had been Selar’s idea to invade Lusara, it had been Carlan who had first pointed out the instability of the warring Houses, the weakness of the King. Without those, Selar would never have dreamed of taking arms against Lusara. She was too strong, always had been.

And he’d found Carlan. By that river. The old man had stood there, his black eyes glinting in the evening light. He’d
stood there, held out his grizzled hand and said Selar was now his creature. Like a frightened child, Selar had recoiled, and in response, Carlan had pushed him backwards into the river.

Betrayal. Like all the others, Carlan had betrayed him. All of them had betrayed. All except …

But Robert had left. Deserted him. Left him drowning as surely as if he’d walked away from that river all those years ago. He’d gone because he wouldn’t break his oath of fealty. Because he wouldn’t bend, wouldn’t give in to those who battled against his ideals. And Selar had needed him to bend.

Yes, it was best that Robert was gone. Selar was alone now – but alone, no one could stop him.

*

George, Earl of Kandar and Knight of the Realm, paused by the garden gate, his hand on the latch. In summer this was easily one of the most beautiful places in the castle and even now, in the depths of winter, it still held a certain charm. But it was not the beauty of the garden George had come to see, it was the fur-cloaked presence seated on a bench by the pond.

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?’