The Death of Dulgath (35 page)

Scarlett picked up the basket and made a
pfft
sound as she swung her hair out of her face. “Seriously? Have you two even met?” Her face was incredulous. “You didn’t know he was in Manzant. You obviously didn’t know he’s the only person to have escaped, and you didn’t know he was an officer of the Diamond. What do you two talk about on all those long hours riding together?”

Hadrian started to laugh.

Royce shot him a glare. “Shut up.”

Chapter Nineteen
Pageantry

A fair breeze came softly across the breakwaters and up the grassy slope to the walls of Castle Dulgath. Christopher Fawkes stood on the cliffs above the sea and took a deep breath. He was wearing his best doublet, which was to say his only doublet. It was missing a button and had a small bloodstain on the cuff.

Sherwood Stow’s blood.

He stood only a few feet from where Sherwood was killed—or at least where he had been hit by the quarrel. Christopher didn’t know if the artist had died there, as his body fell, or whether he’d survived both the blow and the drop to drown in the sea. He didn’t much care. Luckily, Christopher didn’t believe in the vengeance of ghosts. If he did, returning to the scene of his—or mostly Knox’s—crime might have been worrisome. Standing on a high bluff overlooking a crashing sea could provide a perfect opportunity for an angry spirit to dispense justice. As unconcerned as Christopher was, the thought had at least crossed his mind, which said something about his confidence.

He had only a few hours left before his life would be forever changed. He’d come to the bluff early to clear his head. It hadn’t worked. The words were still there. Christopher had fallen asleep to an annoying mantra that continued to echo.

Don’t kick the milk pail!

The phrase had manifested itself as he lay awake most of the night. Christopher’s father had used it often, and so had his mother, as if the two of them were lifelong dairy farmers prone to losing their livelihood through awkward feet.

Standing on the bluff and looking at the clear sky above the sea, Christopher struggled to banish thoughts of his family—especially his father. They were the residue of a former and clearly insignificant life. He visualized tossing memories off the edge and watching them fall to the waves below.

If only it were that easy.

While the stable was fine for the likes of Wells, Knox, and Payne, he couldn’t have asked Bishop Parnell to meet him there, and he couldn’t risk meeting in any place more public. It wasn’t long before Parnell came striding through the high grass, his great cape and the ends of his stole whipping in the wind. He had one hand on his high hat and the other swinging his staff, a vexed glare on his face. Christopher expected a reproach for the location of the meeting, but instead the bishop planted the butt of his staff in the ground, looked around—most notably at the windowless walls above them—and nodded.

“This is your last opportunity, Christopher,” he said. “I’m growing tired of your inability to get this job done. Do you understand? The church can’t afford to back failures.”

If this was his way to welcome Christopher to the fold, it lacked faith, and for a clergyman that wasn’t an encouraging sign.

“I took you in, paid your debts, fed, clothed, and protected you. Now is the time of your reckoning. Your chance to repay my kindness. Fail, and I won’t know you. Do you understand?”

Guess the bishop is all out of carrots.

The bishop raised a hand as if to bless him, but instead declared, “You were a disgrace to your father and the king—to all of humanity. Worthless.”

Christopher gritted his teeth.
My father? Sure. The king? Perhaps. But all of humanity? Really?

Now he understood the point of the meeting—control. On the eve of Christopher’s ascension, Bishop Parnell was making certain the soon-to-be earl knew his place.

Melanie de Burke was to blame. He’d purchased the animal, which had cost a small fortune, from Hildebrand Estates with money he didn’t yet have. His plan had been to pay the debt with the proceeds from the Summersrule Chase. The beast was willful, ill mannered, and stubborn. No matter how much he used the whip, the horse just wouldn’t run as fast as it could and eventually stopped altogether. Back in the stable, she bit him once more, and Christopher lost his temper.

He hadn’t meant to kill her. Just wanted to teach the nag a lesson. The lesson went too far, and Christopher found himself with a bloody sword, a huge debt, and no chance of returning the animal. His father had refused to help, using the incident to wash his hands of his son. The king proved even less helpful, cousin or not. Christopher was on his way to Manzant, and genuinely frightened for the first time since being ambushed by the bees. Then the church entered his life. They removed one debt but added another.

“Hopefully, this is behind you now, and new opportunities await. But the church has a policy,” the bishop told him. “No man can be given a position unless he can obtain it through his own abilities. You must achieve this for yourself. I have redeemed you for our Lord Novron. Win this contest—kill Nysa Dulgath without implicating yourself—and the church will throw its support to you and insist that Vincent make you Earl of Dulgath. Fail, and I won’t know you.”

“My plan will work.”

“Your last three didn’t,” the bishop said. There was an incensed tone to his words, that airy, disappointed exasperation that came with age. And while Parnell was indeed old, somewhere in his fifties, he was young for a bishop. Most high-ranking clerics lived disturbingly long lives, adding credence to their claim of being favored by Novron.

“The church is not in the habit of failing. I’ve spent years—decades—shaping opinions and maneuvering individuals, here and in other provinces of Maranon. I have patiently redirected the course of this kingdom so it will be fertile for the return of the Heir of Novron. Succeed, and you’ll be part of that future. Now tell me, who will loose the quarrel?”

“Knox has a man picked out. Shervin Gerami. He’s a net-maker from Rye, a village down the coast a few miles. Not a smart man, but he has a keen eye and steady hands.”

“Do you trust he can accomplish the task?”

“We’ve practiced,” Christopher said. “Nine out of ten shots were lethal, and he’s fast. He was able to fire an aimed quarrel every thirty seconds. If he misses, he should be able to try again before trying to escape. He won’t get far. Knox will kill him during the apprehension.”

“And if Knox fails, and the assassin is captured? What will he say?”

“That he was hired by Royce Melborn, the very man who came up with the plan in the first place. He might also claim he killed Lady Dulgath because she’s a demon.”

“Why would he say that?”

“He’s local stock, and an avid believer in ghosts, ghouls, faeries, and witches. Spouting such nonsense will make it even less likely anyone will listen to a word he says.”

“Very well.” Parnell nodded, reaching up to prevent the wind from stealing his hat. “We shall see if our Lord Novron deems you worthy of power, Christopher. For his judgment is the true test. You will be either an earl, a vagabond, arrested, or dead.” He turned and sailed back through the sea of grass.

Christopher remained a moment longer, looking out over the edge of the cliff, thinking, if only for a moment, that Novron didn’t give a damn about him.

The courtyard of Castle Dulgath—which was usually little more than a lawn, yard, and garden surrounded by the shaky arms of stone walls—had been transformed. Everything that could be moved out had been; this included the smokehouse, the henhouse, the gardener’s shed, the smith’s anvil and workbench, and most of the azalea bushes. Where it all went to, Christopher had no idea. Carpenters had raised a stage of bright fresh-cut wood, which was now covered in bunting and streamers of white and blue.

Chairs had been placed on the stage, seeming out of place on the unfinished blond decking. The big chair from the Great Hall, where the late earl had sat during meals, was center stage. Today the king would sit there. A smaller, more delicate chair sat to the right of the larger one. This seat was for the lady of honor, Nysa Dulgath. On the king’s left, another chair was reserved for Bishop Parnell. Not even King Vincent would want to snub the church in such a public display.

More chairs faced the stage, with an aisle between them. Who sat where indicated their significance and marked their place in the nobility’s hierarchy. Christopher would be sitting on the aisle in the last row, which was better than no seat at all.

He had been briefed by Wells, who, as chamberlain, was responsible for every aspect of the ceremony. Of course, his wasn’t the final voice. Even Lady Dulgath didn’t have authority in the presence of the king.

Now that the time was at hand, Christopher worried about Bishop Parnell’s ability to pressure the king into making him earl.

Why wouldn’t Vincent give the fief to Sir Gilbert? The man is the best knight in Maranon. Or the king could choose one of his hunting buddies, like Baron Linder. Heck, why not award the title to my father, for that matter.

Christopher had no idea what leverage Parnell would use to influence the king’s decision, but that wasn’t his concern, at least not yet. And with that thought, he allowed himself a good long stare across the length of the yard, up toward the wall that was elaborately—and strategically—decorated. A large pair of heraldic banners were displayed over the parapet. Between the king’s own colors and those of Dulgath, a massive arbalest was hidden, along with an insane, hairless man without a single fingernail. Christopher couldn’t see him or the weapon but knew both were there—his gift for the newly pledged countess.

The people of Dulgath had been arriving all morning. He’d seen them from his window on the third floor. They had come in farm wagons, buckboards, and on horseback, but most had arrived by foot. Huge masses of people dressed in their finest colorful cloth brought a roar that drowned out the sea. They had formed small camps outside the castle walls, laughing, shouting, singing, and dancing.

Christopher was on the porch when Wells gave the signal and the gates were finally opened.

The sweaty-faced crowd tumbled into the courtyard where, in the absence of any real constabulary, the king’s own men were acting as guards. With outstretched arms and loud voices, they funneled the surging crowd toward the far wall and directed the onlookers to form orderly rows until the whole courtyard was full. Those who hadn’t arrived early enough found themselves outside the walls, but they were still excited to be present. This was a holiday for them, as good as an annual fair—no, better, as this happened but once in a lifetime. Or so they expected.

There had to be thousands. Men in variously colored cowl hoods to protect them from the sun; women holding babies in their arms, jostling and swinging in an effort to keep them quiet; wide-eyed children constantly tapping and pointing; everyone with smiles of excitement and anticipation. They wanted a show, and they would get one.

A trumpet sounded.

“That’s us, My Lord,” a mostly bald but otherwise white-haired man said. He was the king’s scribe, and Christopher thought his name might be Robank or Robant.

They walked out together. Wells had orchestrated the event like a wedding, and in a way that’s exactly what it was. Nysa was about to pledge her loyalty to her liege lord, and he in turn would grant her stewardship of Dulgath. The two would be bound to each other—and just as in marriage, she would be far more bound to him than he to her.

As Christopher and the scribe made their way through the crowd to their seats, he caught a fleeting glimpse of a black hood, so out of place in all the oranges, yellows, blues, reds, and browns. Like the fin of a shark, it cut through the assembly, slicing away from the stage, where everyone else was pushing to be, and heading toward the far wall—the distant one where the large set of heraldic banners hung.

Christopher froze, trying to follow the path of the dark hood that reminded him of—but that was impossible. Royce Melborn would be in Manzant by now locked away in that terrible hole of no return.