Ravenheart (13 page)

A servant came out to meet him. Ramus recognized the old retainer Maldrak and greeted him with a smile. The pony picked up its paces as Maldrak approached. He knew the old man would feed him carrots or sweet apples.

“Good morning, Apothecary,” said Maldrak. “Are you well?”

“I am, sir. Is the nettle tisane still keeping the rheumatik at bay?”

“Mostly. Except when the weather is bad.”

Ramus nodded. “No herb can completely repair the ravages of time.” Maldrak took the reins, and the two men walked side by side toward the rear of the house. Some two hundred paces to the north, almost hidden by the trees, Ramus could see the blackened remains of the old house. Weeds had grown over the ruined walls, and a tree was growing through the collapsed roof. “You were here, were you not, when fire consumed the old house?” said Ramus.

“Aye. A terrible night that was. The screams of the trapped were terrible to hear. Even some of those who got out, their clothes on fire, died later.” Maldrak shivered at the memory. “We all thought the Moidart would die. But he’s tough, the man.”

Another male servant, a round-shouldered young man, met them at the side door. Ramus patted the pony’s neck, removed his small pack from the saddle, and followed the servant into the house, through the kitchen, and onto the stairs. His right hip ached as he mounted the stairs and continued his walk along the corridor toward the Moidart’s private rooms. The servant tapped on a paneled door, then, on hearing a command from inside, entered. He reappeared moments later. “The lord will see you in a few moments, Apothecary. Please be seated.”

Ramus gratefully sank onto a couch by the balcony rail and gazed up at the paintings adorning the wall. Mostly they were of the Moidart’s ancestors, dressed in martial fashion, shining plate armor, swords in their hands. There were occasional hunting scenes and, closest to where he sat, a stunning portrait of a young woman with golden hair. She was standing beside a tall horse and was dressed in riding garments of velvet and silk, a long split skirt that had been high fashion half a century earlier. Ramus always found himself captivated by her. He had first seen her as a real woman just before her death some ten years before. She had been old then, her
skin wrinkled and leathery, her eyes sunken. Here, in this portrait, she was young, and the artist had captured the fire of her spirit and the quintessential lure of her femininity. The face had strength and yet compassion, sensitivity allied with a steely determination. She was the Moidart’s grandmother, and people still spoke of her with reverence and love.

The door to the apartments opened, and a young officer stepped to the balcony. His face was flushed. “You may enter now,” he said, then walked stiffly to the stairs.

Ramus pushed himself to his feet and moved to the doorway. The room within was double-aspected, tall windows looking out to the north and east. Glowing coals burned within a red brick fireplace. A single armchair was set before it. Beneath the eastern window was a broad desk with yet another single chair behind it. No one else could sit in the Moidart’s presence.

The Lord of the North was standing by the northern window, hands clasped behind his back. Dressed all in black, his silver hair shining in the sunlight, he stood motionless. A distant gunshot sounded, followed instantly by another. Ramus remained in the doorway.

“Come in, Apothecary,” said the Moidart, his voice, as ever, without emotion. “And close the door. It is creating a draft.”

Ramus did as he was ordered and stood before the desk. The Moidart remained where he was for several seconds, then returned to his desk, seating himself. Then he looked up into Ramus’ eyes. Ramus thought he had prepared himself for this meeting of eyes, but it was always a shock. It was not that the man had a malevolent gaze or even that Ramus could see the cruelty and power of the lord. No, it was that the Moidart’s eyes were empty, devoid of emotion. The look seemed to say: “You are nothing, a speck, insignificant and disposable.”

“My scars have been causing me discomfort,” said the Moidart. “In cold weather the skin still cracks and weeps even after fifteen years.”

“Most men would have died, lord,” said Ramus. “The burns were severe.”

“I am not most men. Did you bring me salves?”

“I did, lord. They should be used sparingly, for they are most potent.”

Ramus waited, still unsure why the Moidart had summoned him. Usually a retainer—Mulgrave or one of the other officers—would collect the balms, salves, and powders required.

“You are an artist, I see,” said the Moidart.

“An artist, lord?”

The Moidart opened a drawer at the front of his desk and removed a glazed jar. It was from the apothecary, and upon it was a hand-painted label showing the leaf and flower of a honeysuckle. Beneath it in delicate script were written the instructions for preparing the tisane. “You drew this?”

“Yes, lord. I am a sketcher. No more than that.”

“One of my retainers is also a … sketcher.” The Moidart rose and moved around the desk, gesturing for Ramus to follow him. He walked to the rear of the room. A framed painting had been hung on the western wall. Light from the window shone upon it. Ramus gazed at it, awestruck. He had never seen the like. It was a winter scene of mountains and pines laden with snow. There was no delicacy in the brush-work, which was vibrant and swift, creating an elemental power that was both immediate and stunning. Ramus stood before the canvas. The trees were breathtaking for their depth. Ramus felt he could step into the canvas and walk in that winter forest.

“What do you think?” asked the Moidart. “Does the man have talent?”

“It is majestic,” whispered Ramus. “One can almost feel the cold emanate from the mountains and hear the birdsong within the trees. And the light shining on the pines. Oh, sir, this is exquisite. How did the man create such depth?”

“Lighter layers upon darker backgrounds,” said the Moidart,
“then further highlighted with just the corners of a two-inch brush.”

Ramus glanced at the Moidart, knowing in that moment that he was the artist. The Moidart saw the realization in his face. “You did not guess?” he asked.

“No, sir. Not until you spoke of method. It is an amazing piece. How long have you been painting?”

“Many years. You are the first to see my … efforts.”

“I am honored, sir. More than I can say.” The words were spoken with genuine feeling, for Ramus was not skilled in the art of flattery.

“The hardest part was the water upon the lake and obtaining the reflection of the mountains and trees. I discovered it by error. One merely pulls the bristles of a dry brush down in sharp motions. Would you like this painting?”

“I could not afford such a … a masterpiece, lord,” Ramus said, astonished.

“I am not some peasant who needs to sell his wares. It is finished. I have no more use for it.”

“Thank you, lord. I don’t know what to say.” He paused. “Are there others? I would love to see them.”

“No.”

“But what of the paintings you have completed over the years?”

“Time for you to go, Master Apothecary. I have much to do. I will send the painting to you.”

Ramus bowed deeply. The Moidart ignored him and returned to the window.

The little apothecary walked to the door, then realized he had not unpacked the salves from his sack. With a sigh he left it behind and stepped from the room.

His mind was reeling as he descended the stairs.

In the town center of Eldacre twelve corpses were hanging from the Moidart’s gibbets. Three of the men had been tortured, their eyes burned out before their execution.

And the man who had ordered such brutality was an artist
of exquisite talent who could capture the beauty of a moment and the raw majesty of nature in a few brushstrokes.

As Ramus emerged into the light, he saw the young Gaise Macon and the soldier Mulgrave approaching the house. He stopped and bowed.

“Good morning, Apothecary,” said Gaise Macon. The young man seemed suddenly concerned. “Are you all right, sir? You seem very pale.”

“I am well, lord. I heard you practicing,” he said, pointing to the two silver-embossed flintlock pistols in the young man’s hands.

“Yes, they are fine pieces.”

The old servant Maldrak came into sight, leading the pony. Ramus bowed once more to Gaise Macon. The young man stepped in. “Allow me to assist you, sir,” he said, cupping his hands and helping Ramus into the saddle.

“Thank you, lord. Most courteous,” said Ramus. The sun broke through the clouds, its light shining on the young man’s face. His strange green and gold eyes glinted in the sunlight.

Just like the portrait in the gallery. “You have your great-grandmother’s eyes,” said Ramus.

“So I have been told, sir,” answered Gaise Macon. “I wish I had known her, but I was a small child when she died and remember only a stern woman who dressed in black.”

“She was greatly loved,” said Ramus. “During an outbreak of the lung sickness she and her ladies-in-waiting worked in a hospital, tending the sick. She was a woman of great courage and compassion.”

“Compassion is not a word one hears often in talk of my family,” Gaise said with a bitter smile. “It was good to see you, Apothecary.”

Maev Ring closed her book of accounts and replaced it in the bottom drawer of the pine cabinet. There was ink on her fingers, and she walked out into the sunlight, drawing up a bucket of water from the well. Dipping her hands, she washed her fingers but could not quite remove the stains.

Glancing up at the sky, she saw that rain clouds were bunching over the mountains. Shula Achbain emerged from the main building and curtseyed as she saw Maev. She was painfully thin, but Maev was pleased to see some color in her sallow cheeks.

“I have cleaned the rooms upstairs, ma’am,” she said.

“I told you to rest, Shula. And do not call me ‘ma’am.’ I am Maev Ring, a clanswoman by birth.”

Shula gave a shy smile, curtseyed again, and went back into the house. Maev sighed. Shula was Varlish, albeit “kilted Varlish,” as the poorer people were known even among their own kind. Even so, it would normally be unthinkable among her people to call a clanswoman “ma’am.” No wonder Morain and the other Varlish women hated Shula. She had no sense of place. Bad enough, they would think, to marry a highlander without treating them as your betters. But then Maev knew that Shula’s sense of self-worth was almost nonexistent. She had no confidence.

However, questions of Shula’s broken personality were not uppermost in Maev’s mind as she stood by the well. Following the assassination attempt on the Moidart’s life, twelve men had been executed—all of them clansmen. That was not in itself surprising, but three of them had been successful businessmen in Eldacre. Maev had known two of them well and doubted they would have taken part in any such murderous enterprise. No, their crime had been to be too successful in the Varlish world. One, Latimus Esher, had run a pottery enterprise, his wares shipped as far south as the capital. That burgeoning enterprise was now owned by the Moidart.

Best be careful, Maev, she warned herself. Her own businesses were booming, and she had now invested in three cattle farms in the far north. It seemed that anything she turned her mind to became profitable. Already she had more than five hundred pounds in gold hidden in the house.

There was movement on the hillside, and shielding her eyes, she saw Jaim, Kaelin, and young Banny returning from
the high meadows. Her mood softened as she thought of Jaim. Born out of his time, he was a true clansman no matter what she said to his face. He was strong, proud, and angry, and his heart chafed constantly against the Varlish yoke. One day his temper would get the better of him, and he would do something even more rash than usual and be walked to the gallows.

The thought made her shiver. There had been a time when she had believed Jaim Grymauch desired her, when they had both been young. She had waited for him to approach her, but he never had. Then Calofair had wooed her. He had been a good and kind man, brave and strong. Though she had loved him, she had never felt as easy in his company as she did with Grymauch. Whenever Jaim was absent—which was often—Maev would find herself gazing out over the hills, longing for his return. Yet whenever he did come back, she would find herself becoming angry with him, often for no reason that she could fathom later.

Kaelin idolized him. For Maev this was double-edged. There was much to admire about the big man, yet she did not want Kaelin to imitate him. The thought of her child with a rope around his neck was more than she could bear.

He is not your child. The thought was a surprising one. No, Kaelin was born of Gian, but Maev had raised him from a babe. I could not love any child of mine more, she thought.

They reached the house. Kaelin waved at her and took Banny inside. Jaim strolled across to the well and dipped a gourd into the bucket. “I have washed my hands in that,” said Maev.

“Then it will taste all the sweeter,” Jaim answered with a grin. He took a long drink. “He will be quite a swordsman,” he said. “He moves well, and he is fearless.”

“A useless talent for a clansman these days,” she observed.

“Times change,” said Jaim. “There’s talk of unrest in the south. The king is not popular in all quarters. Only last month I heard merchants talking of the risk of civil war. A nice thought, eh, all those Varlish killing one another?”

“It is never nice to think of killing. I only ever killed one man, and I can still see his face.”

“He deserved killing,” said Jaim, his face darkening. “He murdered Gian.”

“Aye, he did. Let’s talk no more of killing. So will you be coming with us to the feast?”

“You want me to?”

“I don’t care, Grymauch. But I’ll not have you shaming me again by getting drunk. If you come, you must promise to avoid the brandy tents.”

“I shall give you that promise, Maev. There’ll be little time for drinking. I plan to enter the bouts.”

Maev took a deep breath, seeking to calm the angry words she felt clawing their way toward her throat. “Do you never learn, Grymauch? There’ll be Varlish in the tourney this year. Champions, I’m told. Men who make their living by stalking the circle.”