The Death of Dulgath (44 page)

Scarlett hadn’t moved. They found her curled up and lying on her side in the muddy path. Her beautiful hair was matted into the silt that had built up around her. Dirt smeared her face, and blood was everywhere. Some had already darkened as it dried but around her mouth, still bright red. Her eyes were closed and remained shut even as the horses charged toward her.

She didn’t move.

“Scarlett!” Hadrian shouted, jumping from his saddle and wincing with the impact as he rushed over. He fell to the ground alongside her body and slipped an arm under her neck. She didn’t react. One of her hands slipped off her lap and fell into a puddle, where it stayed. Hadrian cradled her head in his arm and put his hand to her lips.

“It’s too late,” he managed to say as his teeth locked together and he glared at Fawkes.

“No, it’s not,” Lord Fawkes said, climbing down from his horse. “Back, Derby,” Fawkes told the animal. The horse moved away, obeying as if she understood.

“She’s not breathing!”

“She’s still here,” Fawkes said. “I can feel her. She’s not down the river yet. I can pull her back.”

“What river?” he asked, exasperated. “What are you talking about?” But Fawkes had closed his eyes and started humming. “What’s he doing?”

Royce shook his head. The thief watched intently while the lord began making new sounds and speaking foreign words. Fawkes moved his fingers as if plucking strings in midair.

“Royce, what’s going on?”

“I don’t know.”

Hadrian brushed the hair from Scarlett’s face. Tears were welling on his lower lids, and his lips mashed themselves together as he held the woman tight.

Don’t you give up. You hear me? You wait! I’ll be right back!

But he hadn’t made it in time.

If you save her, she’ll save me.

But Nysa was dead.

I didn’t do it because of Royce.

The first tear slipped down Hadrian’s cheek. He let it fall. His stomach was tight, the muscles pulling on his ribs, but he no longer cared.

“It’s all Fawkes’s fault. Why didn’t you kill him?” Hadrian asked Royce.

“Because…” Royce looked embarrassed. “Because he spun on his heel.”

“What?”

“When we came in, Fawkes pivoted on his heel—his
left
heel.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“He’s never moved like that before.
He
didn’t—but I remember—”

Scarlett jerked violently in Hadrian’s arms. Her mouth flew open and she gasped a loud, gurgling breath. She coughed and bent over, retching blood and vomit. Then, sucking in a breath deeper than any Hadrian had heard before, she coughed again before another breath was drawn. Her fingers clutched at Hadrian and, finding his arm, clamped down and squeezed. Then she pulled him to her, hugged him tight. Her other arm, the hand that had fallen into the puddle, came around his neck.

She blinked several times and looked at Hadrian through clear eyes. “I waited,” she managed to whisper, clutching him. “It wasn’t easy, but I waited. I waited for you.”

Fawkes sat down in the mud, looking tired—more than tired; he looked drained. But he was smiling at Scarlett. Hadrian couldn’t make sense of anything. Couldn’t explain even to himself why the man’s look was so wrong. Such an expression didn’t belong on the face of Christopher Fawkes.

What in the name of Maribor is going on?

“We need to get her out of this mud,” Royce said. “Abbeys have healers, don’t they? Augustine should be able—”

“I’m fine,” Scarlett said, pawing at her stomach where her dress was torn and stained. Where the stab wound should have been, the skin was smooth. “Nysa saved me.”

“Nysa’s dead,” Fawkes told her.

Scarlett looked at the lord, surprised to see him. Then she glanced at both Royce and Hadrian before saying, “But…I don’t understand. Nysa came to me, she pulled me back.”

“That was me,” Fawkes told her.

Scarlett stared at him for a long time then finally said, “Like Maddie Oldcorn?”

Fawkes nodded. “Like Maddie Oldcorn.”

“Do you know what they’re talking about?” Hadrian asked Royce.

“They’re talking about squirrels living in bird’s nests.”

“Oh, of course,” Hadrian said. “Thanks for clearing that up.”

“I was hoping you’d remember,” Fawkes told Royce. “All the words in the world couldn’t convince you if you didn’t believe. Come, we need to get back or Abbot Augustine will worry.”

“Well, we certainly wouldn’t want that,” Hadrian scoffed.

“Hush,” Scarlett told him, “and help me up. She—he—healed me, but it’s not like—I mean, I did get a sword shoved through my gut.”

Hadrian helped Scarlett to her feet. She wavered slightly, leaning on him. He could still picture Knox shoving that steel into her stomach and was dumbfounded that she could stand at all.

“We have a lot of work still to do tonight,” Fawkes told them. “The king will want an explanation.”

“I know I’d sure like one,” Hadrian said.

“It really won’t help. The answer doesn’t make any sense.” Royce reached out for his horse’s reins and stopped. He flexed his right hand, then tore the splint off and flexed the fingers again. He pulled the splint off the finger on his left hand and felt it.

“I hope you don’t mind, Hadrian,” Fawkes said. “But I’ll have to deal with your ribs later. It has been a long day, and it’ll be an even longer night.”

Chapter Twenty-Five
The Fifth Thing

With its pillars, polished stone floor, and decorative pennants, the Great Hall was the only part of Castle Dulgath that Royce thought resembled a castle instead of an oversized, run-down house of crumbling stone. The chair helped—the way it sat alone on the dais—supporting the king. Kings made all the difference. This one had his full retinue turned out, along with the castle staff. What had once been the comfortable residence of a country lady had become an extension of the power and might of His Majesty Vincent Pendergast, King of Maranon.

Previously, Royce had only seen the imperfections of the place: the fallen tower, the overgrown ivy, the lack of proper fortifications. He’d completely overlooked its charm. The odd statues carved in the strangest of places alluded to stories no one understood; the encroaching ivy wrapped everything in a warm embrace; all of this lent a sort of enchanted whimsy to the home.

That’s it,
Royce realized.
It’s not a fortress; it’s a home.

Like all kings, Vincent didn’t look happy, visibly tired after his long ride the night before, which had resulted in him returning angry and empty-handed. He glared at Lord Fawkes, who acted as the spokesman for the group. Lord Christopher Fawkes stood at the center, and a full step ahead, of the group. Fawkes showed no sign of fatigue; he didn’t yawn, slouch, or sag in any way. Instead, he remained straight, even proud, before his liege.

“You expect me to believe this?” the king asked in a tone that showed he clearly didn’t.

“I do, Sire,” Fawkes replied in a strong, clear voice.

Vincent raised a brow. “
You
saw Sheriff Knox separate from the rest of us and followed him to the monastery?”

“I did, Sire.”

Royce and Hadrian had strict orders to stand still and remain silent. Above all else,
they
mustn’t talk. The two had been accused of the murder of Lady Dulgath and the attempted murder of the king—the latter being the far more serious charge. That Vincent himself was a witness to the crime made their situation untenable at best. The only reason they weren’t already hanging from a rope was because they had turned themselves in and had the backing of such respected men. They had willingly walked in with the venerable Bishop Parnell, Abbot Augustine, and Chamberlain Wells all proclaiming his and Hadrian’s innocence. Lord Fawkes had done so as well, but Royce wasn’t sure how much value the king placed on his cousin’s word.

Prior to sunrise, Fawkes had insisted, with a degree of confidence that appeared insane, that he could clear their names and protect them from harm. If anyone else had promised this, Royce would have ridden north as fast as his horse could carry him. But bones didn’t mend themselves in an instant, a woman dead on a muddy path didn’t awaken without a scratch, and there was no doubt that the
person
he had known as Lady Dulgath now resided in the body of Christopher Fawkes.

Standing in the Great Hall of Castle Dulgath, Royce flexed his right hand.
Not even stiff.
The finger on his left was also healed beyond the memory that it had ever been injured.

Not surprisingly, Hadrian was on board, especially after the pain from his ribs vanished after Fawkes had some time to rest. He’d also pointed out that Royce wasn’t actually guilty of anything for a change—as if that mattered. But perhaps more than anything, Royce agreed to stand before the king’s justice out of curiosity. He wanted to see what other miracles Christopher Fawkes could perform.

“And you say you witnessed Chrissy fight and kill the sheriff in defense of Lady Dulgath, who lay dying at your abbey?” the king asked Augustine.

“He was most heroic, Your Majesty,” the abbot replied, his hands clasped before him in a perfectly pious posture.

The king raised an eyebrow. “Chrissy, heroic? I can’t say I’ve ever seen that side to him before.”

“If I may, Sire.” Bishop Parnell stepped in. “You underestimate the man. He has changed over these last few years under the tutelage of the church.”

“Yes, I’m sure he has,” Vincent grumbled, then began a slow shake of his head as his eyes focused on Royce. “But I saw this one aim an arbalest at me, with my own eyes. Why’d you do it?”

Remembering the rules, Royce remained silent.

“I want an answer, or I’ll have your head here and now!”

Royce glanced at Fawkes, who nodded.

“If I wanted you dead,” Royce replied, “we wouldn’t be having this conversation. I was simply trying to save Lady Dulgath.”

The king showed his teeth as his face flushed.

“He’s right, Sire,” Fawkes intervened. “A single squeeze of that lever and you would be dead. You’re looking at a man who could have, but didn’t, kill you.”

“Lady Dulgath wasn’t dead,” Royce said. “But Knox had said that he’d finish the job the moment she was taken to the infirmary. He’d pointed his finger my way, and everyone in that courtyard wanted a rope around my neck. You weren’t going to listen—no one was—certainly not until after Hadrian and I were dead and the lady along with us. I took the only possible route. Everyone believed I was a killer, so I used that to my advantage to try to save Lady Dulgath. It almost worked.”

The king’s face softened. He still looked angry, maybe more than before, but he believed the explanation. Royce was a good liar, but telling the truth was even more convincing.

Vincent leaned back in the big chair that had once belonged to Nysa Dulgath and her father before her. He steepled his fingers and shifted his sight to the bishop, who remained in the regalia he’d worn the day before. The bishop represented the most reputable of those gathered. “And it’s your testimony that Sheriff Knox was the one who hired Shervin Gerami?”

“I can only report what I saw, Your Majesty, and that was Knox speaking to this Gerami fellow early on the morning of the ceremony. After they spoke, the sheriff handed over a purse. At the time, I thought nothing of it. I figured Knox was hiring him to be a sentry or for some other duty. Of course, when the bald man was found on the wall, beside the arbalest, it became clear to me that Knox was paying the man for a more despicable task.”

“And the arbalest? Can anyone shed light on how Knox got that weapon?”

Chamberlain Wells looked to Fawkes, who nodded his permission. “I think I can, Your Majesty. The sheriff came to me with the specific request for a heavy crossbow.”

“Did he say why?”

“No, but like the bishop, I had no reason to question his motives. Knox was the high sheriff and in charge of Dulgath’s security. If he needed an arbalest, I figured there had to be a good reason.”

They had gone over most of this at Brecken Moor the night before. Fawkes had explained his plan to hang the whole affair on Knox, claiming the sheriff had hired Royce and Hadrian as
consultants
while secretly planning to pin the murders on them. When Fawkes had grown suspicious of Knox he had warned the thieves. Then Fawkes and the thieves had worked to thwart the sheriff’s plot. Augustine had been an eager supporter of the plan, and Royce thought he knew why.

The abbot had been in the room when Nysa changed nests. He’d seen the whole thing.
Augustine might have been privy to the secret for years.

When it was Augustine’s time to speak, the abbot embellished his version, painting Fawkes as a swashbuckling champion who fought the evil sheriff in a pitched battle, an epic sword fight that lasted “at least an hour.” But then again, maybe that
was
how the abbot imagined it happening. His sort was prone to aggrandizing tales to advance their own agendas.

“One thing still escapes me,” the king said. “Why would Sheriff Knox, an immigrant from Warric whom Beadle Dulgath appointed, want to kill Lady Dulgath? What could he possibly gain? Can you tell me that, Chrissy?”