Rebel's Cage (Book 4) (17 page)

‘That much is a given. Even so?’

Lyle rested his elbows on the table and folded his hands together. ‘Even so, Vaughn largely kept our brothers in check by use of fear. For the most part, the brethren were terrified of him. They don’t have the same fear of you.’

‘This has to be a secret between you and me. I have no desire
for the rest of the Guilde to learn of such dissent within the ranks. I should be back in two hours.’

*

The moment Godfrey stepped into Brome’s bedroom, the smell hit him, as it always did. Brome’s bed dominated the room. Four tall posts were draped in rich red velvet, the floor entirely covered in rugs of green, blue and gold. An enormous fireplace to his left hosted logs blazing brightly while the window to the left was draped with curtains, shutting out the bleak dusk. A table was covered in potions and dressings and two doctors leaned over the bed where Brome lay, his static bulk enlarged by layers and layers of bedding.

Godfrey gathered himself. ‘You sent for me, Your Grace?’

Two red eyes turned towards him and a hand waved the doctors away. ‘Godfrey? Come.’

Deliberately breathing through his mouth, Godfrey came to a halt at the bedside. Through years of overindulgence, Brome had whittled away the natural health he’d been born with. He’d not moved from the Palace for almost two years, from this bed for more than six months. His breath came out as a wheeze when he shifted his position and Godfrey had seen the blackened sores which were rotting away the flesh on his legs.

But was he being poisoned? By anything other than his own greed? Or was the sickness now reaching his mind, clouding it with fake realities?

‘Godfrey, you must talk to these doctors.’ Though ill, Brome’s voice still had the hand of command to it. He’d not won his position by skill or piety, but through subservience to King Selar. As a result, he’d spent the last fourteen years living a life of luxury, making decisions for a Church that had never wanted him as its Prelate. And all the while, Aiden McCauly, the man rightfully enthroned in that role, had lived the life of a rebel, in exile and in constant fear of his life.

McCauly would never have abused his position so. On the other hand, McCauly, had he been allowed to keep his mitre, would probably have been dead by now, executed for defiance.

As Brome was likely to be soon. Who would have thought the man would find courage so late in the day?

‘Your Grace, the doctors are well-skilled, the best in the country. I am sure they are doing all they can to help you.’

‘Send them out, Godfrey, now!’

Suppressing a sigh, Godfrey nodded to the doctors. He waited until they were gone and the doors closed again before he turned back to Brome. ‘I beg Your Grace to remain calm. You need your rest.’

‘Godfrey, you’re the only one I can trust.’

‘Your Grace?’

‘Sit. Sit.’

Godfrey drew a chair by the bed and sat. How was it that it was always he who ended up with these tasks? Was it some curse? Or perhaps retribution from the gods for the double life he led?

‘Godfrey,’ Brome wheezed, turning to face him, his flesh a sickly grey and rolled around his chin like a fresh-baked pastry. ‘Kenrick demands I provide him with papers by the end of the month. I have put him off as long as I can but I fear he will wait no longer. I …’

There was a pause while Brome lifted himself a little, sitting so he could face Godfrey better. He coughed a little, dabbed at his mouth with a pristine lace cloth. He looked as if he had a list of things he had to say, prepared long before. ‘You must understand, he is determined to change the very fabric of the Church, and in doing so, will destroy us all. Proctor Osbert has already succumbed to the pressure and has made the necessary changes to Guilde Law – but I fear I cannot do the same.’

Godfrey was torn, deeply. The priest in him longed for the power to stop Kenrick forcing such a radical change on a Church so ill-prepared. The man in him, the Lusaran hoping for help from those very quarters, longed for Brome to give in and change the laws, allow Robert even the smallest amount of help.

‘Your Grace, if you are sure you wish to …’

Small eyes darted to him, almost buried within a face overwhelmed by fat. Red blotches had grown here and there, turning Brome into something young children would run away
from. ‘Have you heard the news from Shan Moss? About the Hermit?’

‘Yes, Your Grace.’ It was all Godfrey could do not to sigh. He had a pain developing at the back of his neck.

‘Then you must be able to see that Mineah will soon walk amongst us again, perhaps even does so now. When the day comes, we will be ready to fight alongside her and extinguish the evil of sorcery once more. Once, the Guilde took on this sacred duty. Now it has fallen to us.’ Brome reached out to grab his sleeve. ‘We must be ready when she comes, Godfrey. You must …
you
must be ready!’

Godfrey read the urgency. ‘What do you need me to do?’

A frown appeared on Brome’s forehead. ‘I have heard a whisper of an attempted assassination. I am sure Kenrick is poisoning me. If I don’t give him the new laws by the end of the month, he will make sure I die, and then put another man in my place who will do his bidding. Godfrey, I want that man to be you.’

Godfrey froze. For terrible seconds, he couldn’t muster the will to breathe, let alone move. Then Brome’s grip on his sleeve shook him a little, forcing his gaze down to the ringed, pudgy hand where new sores had begun to open up.

Bishop? Godfrey?

Sweet Mineah, no, anything but that!

‘You must do this, Godfrey. You must write the new laws. You have the mind to do it, the wit to outsmart Kenrick and his sorcerer cronies. Write the new laws for us in such a way that their meaning is inoffensive to the gods and can easily be overturned. Give Kenrick as little as you can and keep the rest back for the day when we can return to our former glory.’

‘Your Grace, you must change the laws yourself!‘ Godfrey leaned forward, his mind made up. ‘You have provided as much opposition as you could – far more than Osbert mustered. The gods will understand. By all means, I will help you write the laws, but let it be your hand which signs them. Let Kenrick see you are worth keeping alive.’ Was he more afraid for Brome’s life, or of taking his job once he was gone? And what kind of priest was he to be asking such a question?

Brome laughed a little, closed his eyes and leaned his head back, ‘I am dead, whether Kenrick kills me or no. But my conscience wears me down. I have … wronged … my predecessor. I wish to make amends now, before I submit my soul to heavenly judgement. I cannot give Kenrick what he asks.’

Godfrey almost swore aloud at that. It was fine for Brome to think about his immortal soul now that he was on his deathbed, was happy to consign Godfrey’s to hell in order to avoid a little dirty work.

Just as he’d learned to expect from this man. No, Brome had not learned courage; instead, he’d reformed cowardice.

He would help all he could, but he would never be Bishop, not as long as McCauly lived. No matter what Brome wanted, the title of Bishop had far more meaning than Brome had ever understood. Godfrey had no desire to sully the sanctity of the primacy simply to fill in where Brome’s courage had left off.

Besides, he wasn’t worthy.

‘Promise me, Godfrey. Vow that you will stand in my place when I’m gone. I have already made letters up, informing our brethren that there will be no election to replace me. I have nominated you as my successor. You have only to give me your word and I may die in peace. Will you swear?’

Godfrey closed his eyes, aching inside at what he was being forced into. This was so very wrong. He was not made to be Bishop. He was too selfish, too rebellious to hold such a position of responsibility. He had enough trouble caring for his own soul; how should he care for those of every Lusaran?

He should have gone with Robert when he had the chance, to spend his days working alongside McCauly for the freedom of Lusara. Instead, he had to play the hypocrite, placing his feet in shoes he had no desire to wear.

And the terrible truth was if
he
didn’t do this, somebody else would. At least if he agreed, he would have some control over what happened next. It would be his hand which framed the new laws and not another self-serving Brome.

Assuming Kenrick approved the appointment.

‘Well? Damn it, Godfrey! Will you promise?’

With a sigh of deep dread, Godfrey said, ‘Yes, Your Grace, I promise.’

Brome dismissed him then, and Godfrey, relieved to at least be free of that room, emerged into the antechamber to find Francis waiting for him. Before Godfrey could even open his mouth, Francis held up a cloak for him, his expression dark.

‘I’m afraid your day is not over yet. Kenrick has sent for you. He’s expecting you directly.’

This time Godfrey successfully refrained from swearing. It appeared superficial expressions of dissatisfaction were only irritating the gods, and he was being held to account. He tied the cloak laces at his throat and headed for the gallery. Francis kept pace at his side, saying, ‘Well? Are you going to tell me what happened?’

‘He won’t make the changes,’ Godfrey said without preamble. ‘He thinks he’s dying. He intends to leave his reputation intact and hand the issue of the changes to his successor once he’s gone. His decision is, of course, tantamount to suicide.’

‘Oh, by the mass,’ Francis groaned. ‘And who is his successor to be?’

Godfrey didn’t pause at the staircase. He just put one foot in front of the other, determined to get to the other side of this day with his patience and sanity in one piece. ‘Me.’

*

There was an escort waiting for him outside the Bishop’s Palace – just two footmen with pikes, wearing Kenrick’s livery, but their presence alone was enough to set his teeth on edge.

He would spend tonight in confession and then on his knees in prayer. Every ungenerous, selfish, untidy and insensitive thought he’d had today would need to be accounted for. How in Serin’s name could he call himself a priest and still react and think the way he did?

He was ashamed. And so, with his face burning a little in the cold evening, he marched towards the castle, a footman on either side of him, keeping silent, but making the pace quick and brisk.

He passed into the castle, taken through the main courtyard
and hurried up into the long gallery which faced the river. Normally the view below would be filled with river boats lit by colourful lanterns, splashing life against the dead of night. But these days, people had trouble trading safely on the river and so spent less time docked around Marsay. Instead they came to the island city in daylight, exchanged their goods, then headed back downriver, where it was safer.

Godfrey wanted to go with them, because it wasn’t safe here any more. He wanted to go someplace where his life didn’t depend on him saying a word wrong here, or looking at the wrong thing there. Where the people he loved and trusted weren’t outlaws and rebels. Where his very thoughts weren’t infected by the secrets he needed to keep, and wounded by the guilt of keeping them.

Being a priest had turned out to be so much more complicated than he’d ever thought possible.

‘Come, Father,’ a guard motioned to him to hurry. ‘You’re late. The King is impatient.’

Some small creature of defiance in Godfrey stopped his feet from hurrying. Instead, he kept his pace steady as he was led along the gallery to the other end, determined to assume the dignity of a priest, even if he didn’t feel it. He passed tables and chairs, where young men of the court played at dice, and young ladies watched and laughed, generally entertaining themselves without an eye to their country’s future. Those older folk who would normally provide some balance here were either dead or banished – or too afraid to come to court for fear of what would happen to them.

‘Archdeacon!’ The King’s voice sliced across his awareness like a sword drawing blood. ‘I sent for you an hour ago. Why have you kept me waiting?’

Godfrey clasped his hands together so they wouldn’t shake. Kenrick stood with his back to a blazing fireplace, looking none too happy. Osbert was there also, his expression bland, hiding a wealth of fear beneath it.

‘Forgive me, Sire,’ Godfrey bowed low, showing as much contrition as he dared. ‘I was summoned by the Bishop. He wished to give me instructions.’

Kenrick’s gaze narrowed, as though figuring this into finely balanced calculations. He lifted his chin slightly and said, ‘Instructions on changing Church law, I trust?’

For a moment, Godfrey’s throat closed up, refusing to let him answer. But then, from the corner of his eye, he saw Osbert’s hand clench, and from somewhere, Godfrey found the strength to both lie and tell the truth, to betray Brome, and keep his faith. ‘Yes, Sire.’

‘And?’

‘There are difficulties, Sire.’

‘I’m not interested in difficulties.’

‘No, Sire. Only, His Grace suffers very poor health …’

‘I take it, then,’ Kenrick watched Godfrey now like a hawk with talons ready to strike, ‘that the Bishop is too unwell to compose the law changes?’

If Kenrick knew there would be no answer from Brome, then the Bishop was a dead man. His only hope was for Godfrey to buy him some time – the time they would need to make the changes. ‘I would not expect his health to allow him such work for some weeks yet. His doctors attend him, but their best advice is continued rest.’

‘Oh, I can arrange a
very
long rest for him, if he wants it!’ Kenrick sprang forward, bristling energy and a loathing that almost soaked into the plush rug at his feet. His words echoed around the hall, making everybody else look up with the same flash of fear in their eyes.

Godfrey waited, trying not to hold his breath.

‘He’s doing this deliberately! Can you gainsay me that, Archdeacon? Can you?’ Kenrick glared at him. ‘You can tell that Bishop of yours that if I don’t have those laws repealed within the week, I’ll have him arrested for treason. We’ll see how long his poor health keeps him alive when I throw him into the same cell where his predecessor rotted for two years. I doubt there would be too many men in the country willing to rescue
his
putrid carcass the way they did McCauly!’