Rebel's Cage (Book 4) (69 page)

‘Have I?’ McCauly was noncommittal.

‘Yes. And you’ve been writing books and papers, disseminating them throughout Lusara. You’ve been writing about sorcery and how the Church needs to question all we’ve been told about it. That there are questions about the old Empire and the Guilde’s ancient attitude to sorcery. That every priest must search his conscience and ask what it is we most fear, and how best we should address those fears. How simple prejudice only breeds more fear and hatred.’

Surprised, McCauly sat back. He put the cup on the side table and laced his fingers together. His expression gave nothing away. ‘You have certainly kept up with your reading. So tell me, why would this make you want to join me?’

‘Because, Your Grace, I … I am a sorcerer.’

There was nothing in McCauly’s gaze, not a hint in his movements; just a pause and no more. Then, abruptly, he got to his feet and moved away a little to poke at the fire. For the first time, John noticed the rest of the room, but he couldn’t take in details other than the warm ochre colours, the sparse furnishings.

‘You recall,’ McCauly began softly, ‘Everard Payne, Earl of Cannockburke?’

‘Of course, Your Grace.’

McCauly turned and faced him squarely. ‘He told me you had been instrumental in aiding my escape from prison. He never actually said, but I had to assume the only way you could do so was to use sorcery.’

‘I’m sorry, Your Grace.’

‘For what? For having the courage to take such a risk on my behalf? If you’d been caught, Father, you would have been burned at the stake! And now you’ve come all the way here – on foot – to help me?’

John was taken aback at the fierceness in the Bishop’s gaze. It lasted only a moment, then McCauly was calm once more, his hands folded again into his woollen sleeves. ‘By all means, Father, if you want to help, then I am not the man to dictate in what manner you give that help. For my part, I am glad to have the company of another priest. Tomorrow we will celebrate mass together. In the meantime, I ask that you get your rest. You will be sore tomorrow for your trouble.’

As he turned to go, he paused, showing John his face in profile. ‘And you being here has given me the opportunity to thank you personally for your part in my rescue. You are indeed a very brave man, Father John, and our cause is the stronger for your joining it. Good night.’

‘Good night, Your Grace,’ he breathed into the silence. Then the door was closed behind the Bishop and John lay there with a grin on his face, his aches and his sore eyes completely forgotten.

*

John had no idea what time it was when he woke. There was some daylight, a few misty clouds, and a gusty wind that whistled under his door now and then, but beyond that, he could only guess.

He got out of bed gingerly, his muscles protesting even that little effort. But he needed to relieve himself and was delighted to find a corner curtain hiding a garderobe. After that, he found a bowl of warmish water, a towel and some plain clothes – not clerical, but they were warm and since the Bishop hadn’t worn any kind of habit, John had to assume that was the wisest move.

He washed and dressed quickly, not wanting to lose this dearly won heat. Some kind soul had left him some food on a tray. He ate only enough to quell his grumbling stomach, then, a little excited, a little daunted, he opened the door of his room and peeked into the passage. It was dark except for a slit of weak sunlight from a narrow window further along which marked the wooden floor and half the opposite stone wall. He tried to get his bearings, to gauge from the smells and noises of this place his best
option for finding other people, but Bleakstone sounded horribly silent for a castle well-inhabited with rebels.

John closed his door quietly. Choosing at random he turned to his right, heading for the narrow window and what looked like a staircase beyond it. It wasn’t a staircase, but rather, an angled turn in the wall, which he followed. It was lit by more narrow windows which looked down onto a courtyard. An open door showed a room with two tables, one long, one round. The long table had piles of books, scrolls charts and other things lie recognised. The round table had a beautifully carved book stand, a thick tome resting upon it, and at the side, an inkwell, a pen, a sheaf of papers and a heavy eye-glass. Curiosity burned within him and, despite his years of discipline as a priest, he took a step inside.

‘Ah, there you are!’

John started at the Bishop’s voice coming from behind the door. There was a fireplace against that wall; McCauly had obviously been reading while warming himself. He was watching John with a smile. ‘I’m glad to see you up at last. Did you sleep well? Do you feel better for your rest? We were wondering if you’d even wake today.’

‘I feel well, Your Grace. Thank you.’

‘Did you have something to eat?’

‘Yes, I did.’

McCauly took one more look at the paper he was holding, then moved to the long table, placed it on a particular pile and turned his attention on John. ‘So. You’ve decided to become a rebel.’

John didn’t need to answer.

‘You know,’ McCauly continued, ‘the others have questions regarding the wisdom of embracing you into our circle. I’m sure you understand that what we are doing here is very…’

‘Sensitive?’

‘Exactly.’

John swallowed hard. ‘Do you wish me to leave?’

‘No – and besides, that wouldn’t make them feel any better.’

John took a fortifying breath. ‘Then the only other alternative you have is to imprison me here.’ He folded his hands together. It was not what he had wished for, nor what he had hoped, but if this was the only way he could serve, then so be it. ‘I can act as scribe for you as easily from a cell as anywhere else. I am also proficient in a number of ancient languages and although I have not practised as well as I might, I am a fair Seeker and can scan on an hourly basis to warn if there are Malachi in the near vicinity. I also have some skills in treating minor wounds, though I hope that won’t be necessary.’

When McCauly said nothing, John went on, ‘I assure you I have no abilities to bend metal bars or burrow through stone. If I am to be imprisoned – which I think is your only option – then the sooner I am secured away from sensitive material—’

‘That won’t be necessary.’ McCauly picked up a log from the rack and placed it on those burning in the fireplace. ‘The others have questions – I do not and, for what it’s worth, my word carries some weight in this place.’ He turned back, his serious expression softened by a smile. ‘Now, suppose I show you around Bleakstone and introduce you to your fellow rebels? There are not that many of us here as yet, but there are reasons for that.’

‘And Robert? He is not here?’

‘No – and please don’t ask me where he is. I understand he is in Lusara, but I have no idea where. More than that I think should wait until you’ve got your bearings. Come, this way.’

*

Aiden couldn’t help watching the younger priest as he showed him through the castle. He was so very earnest, so serious, Aiden was tempted to deliberately say something to make him smile at least, if not laugh. There was an innocence to Father John Aiden hadn’t seen outside St Julian’s, the kind of innocence usually found only in children and cloistered monks.

But he had seen things, this priest. He’d been Jenn’s Chaplain at Ayr during her marriage, giving what support he could when the Duke had beaten her. He’d helped Robert get Jenn and the boy out of there and safely to Maitland. He’d stuck faithfully to Andrew ever since; Robert had often said how glad he was that John had chosen to stay at Maitland, that they had somebody they could always trust inside the house.

Of course, the others at Bleakstone weren’t actually suspicious of John; they were just naturally wary of any newcomer at a time like this.

Aiden took him through the rooms in the main keep, mostly accommodations currently empty. He did show John the tower room Robert normally used when he came here, but following a brief walk across the courtyard, and an even briefer wander through the barren castle gardens, Aiden finally took him to the council chamber.

This room was not the biggest in Bleakstone, but it was probably his favourite. The walls were covered in rich wood panels, the carvings depicting hunting scenes and dances with the gods. The floors were tiled in roan and white marble, cool in the summer, icy in winter but for the thick Alusian carpets thrown down, their colours adding to the warmth. The painted ceiling panels were decorated with key moments from the lives
of previous dukes of Flan’har and, together with the rich furnishings, the deliberate light from north- and south-facing windows, there was not a day when this room was not welcoming.

Aiden spent a lot of time here, working with men who now looked up as he entered, John a step behind him. Aiden didn’t tarry with the introductions. ‘Father John Ballan, you remember Payne, Earl of Cannockburke?’

‘Of course.’ John bowed as Payne got to his feet and approached.

The Earl was taller than John, young and handsome; his eyes appraised the man. ‘It’s good to see you again, Father. You are well after your … er, trip?’

John blushed a little, but matched Payne’s smile with a hesitant one of his own. ‘Yes, thank you, my lord.’

Aiden turned to the oldest man in their group. ‘This is Sir Owen Fitzallan.’ Owen had a patch over one eye, lost fighting at Robert’s side at the Battle of Shan Moss. He’d been a servant of the House of Douglas since a boy; now an old man, he lent his wisdom, along with his ability to read the weather.

‘And this is your rescuer, Sir Alexander Deverin.’ As John bowed to the big man, Deverin clapped the priest on the shoulder. Like Owen, Deverin had been with Robert’s family since a boy. Now with a new family of his own, Robert’s Master at Arms was anxious to be able to return home to Lusara, to settle down and enjoy the peace they all craved.

‘There is one more of us,’ Aiden continued as John finished thanking Deverin for pulling him from the snow. ‘Lord Daniel Courtenay, but he is away visiting family and isn’t due to return until the end of the week. Everyone who works at Bleakstone is a refugee from Lusara, and we stay here thanks to the beneficence of Grant, Duke of Flan’har.’

‘He is a good man,’ John offered.

‘He’s a brave man.’ Payne added dryly, turning back to his seat at the table. ‘I’m not yet convinced Kenrick won’t one day bring an army over the border, though I suppose the cost might be enough to make him pause. So, Bishop, have you told him yet?’

The others looked equally enquiringly at Aiden, who said, ‘I wanted to ensure I had your agreement before I said anything. Do I?’

Payne looked once at John, then nodded. ‘Aye, you do.’ With that, he sat down again and drew the book he’d been reading towards him. The others took that as a signal. Owen returned to his window seat where he picked up a tally sheet and a marking board. Deverin sat at the table opposite Payne and resumed sorting through a pile of papers.

Recognising that their behaviour was anything but a dismissal, Aiden
ushered John to the opposite end of the room and explained, his voice low enough not to disturb them, ‘This is where we do most of our work.’

‘What about your study upstairs?’

‘That’s my own work – this is … I suppose you could say Robert’s work, the work of Lusara’s rebellion.’ Aiden pulled out a chair and gestured for John to sit. ‘The last time he was here, he charged us with these responsibilities. He’d been years planning this and he left us with the paperwork and detailed instructions of what we are to do for the rebellion. He will come when he is ready for the men gathered here, and for all our other plans to be put in motion. If another comes in his place, then we will know he is dead and we must go on without him. Our role will tie in closely with his – though he has insisted we not cross the border until he gives the word.’

John frowned a little, and looked at the others. ‘Why not? Surely he would need his strongest allies to help—’

‘His plan,’ Aiden continued carefully, ‘is not to wage a war, but to fight a battle – with Samdon Nash.’

‘But what about Kenrick? He has powers and he supports Nash completely. How does Robert plan to—’

Aiden could see the questions flash across the priest’s face, along with concern, worry, ideas and, he was pleased to note, only a little fear. Already this newest recruit was thinking of solutions. Aiden answered as many of those unspoken questions as he could at once, summing them all up with one sentence. ‘Robert’s ultimate goal is to remove Nash and Kenrick and place another on the throne.’

For a moment, John didn’t move, though his eyes widened in surprise. Moments later, his face drained of colour as his agile mind got to work. He rose slowly to his feet, and whispered, ‘Andrew? He’s going to put Andrew on the throne, isn’t he?’

‘Yes.’ Aiden stood too, John’s deep shock setting off alarms in his own mind. This was more than mere surprise. ‘Why? Is there something we don’t know?’

‘But he can’t! He doesn’t—’ Abruptly, John’s mouth shut and his eyes snapped to the others, who were now staring at him openly. He blushed and dropped his gaze. ‘Forgive me, I …’

Aiden moved quickly, taking hold of John’s elbow and ushering him from the room, not pausing until they were outside in the brown and lifeless garden. ‘Tell me, Father. Whatever it is, you must say. Thousands of lives depend on your honesty.’

‘Forgive me, Your Grace.’ John held up his hands, then clasped them together, gathering himself. ‘I was just surprised. I thought he knew … but obviously— By the gods, what am I to do? What am I to say?’

Steeling himself, Aiden took a few steps away from the distressed priest, keeping his hands joined behind his back. ‘Is it something held under the seal of the confessional?’

‘No, no, that’s not the problem. I’m not supposed to know this, but it never occurred to me it could be a problem, though of course, I was blinding myself really.’

‘Father?’ Aiden insisted gently.

John shook his head. ‘You must understand, Robert can’t put Andrew on the throne.’

‘Why not?

‘Because …’ John paused, steadying himself. Then he looked up, his eyes dark with worry. ‘Because, Your Grace, Andrew is Robert’s son.’