The Death of Dulgath (9 page)

Castle Dulgath consisted of three unadorned square towers perched on a precipice of stone. A small rock wall bordered the front, while the backside was a sheer and mortal drop to the sea. Inaccessible
except to seagulls, the promontory offered limited space for luxury. The castle’s foundation took up most of the narrow point, leaving little room for the courtyard, which had been foolishly given over to uncontrolled azalea bushes. They grew to a surprising size along the stone wall. And there, among the pink and purple blooms, Royce, Hadrian, and Knox found Pastor Payne, waiting.

“How did it go?” he asked.

“Not well,” Hadrian said.

“You should have expected as much,” Royce added, shaking his fist that still held the bottle of pigment. He hadn’t meant it as a rebuke, but he was irritated.

The pastor took a step back into the blossoms, his eyes big as goose eggs.

“Perhaps you should have come in with us,” Sheriff Knox said. “Why didn’t you?”

“Lady Dulgath isn’t what I would call a supporter of the Church of Nyphron. Since my arrival, I’ve tried to keep a safe distance between us. Is there a problem?”

“It’s all right,” Sheriff Knox said. He was calm, but wore a sour look. Then he turned to Royce, and asked, “You don’t need her cooperation to do this, right?”

Royce nearly laughed but wasn’t in the mood, even in the face of such absurdity. “You might be surprised to learn, Sheriff, that I never obtain the cooperation of those I plot to murder.”

Everyone stared at him in a palpable silence. Even Hadrian had his brows up.

Royce rolled his eyes. “I didn’t mean—oh, never mind.” He turned to Payne. “Look, are you planning to pay me extra to
actually
kill her?”

The pastor took another step into the bushes, the blossoms starting to swallow him. “No—of course not!”

Royce looked back at the others. “There—see?” Remembering the young woman’s glare as she threatened to imprison him, he glanced back at Payne. “Are you sure?”

“You’re here to
protect
Countess Dulgath!” Knox admonished, spraying Royce with saliva as he spat out the word
protect.

“Might have told
her
that.” Royce leaned toward Hadrian and said, “What did I tell you about spoiled nobles—spoiled noble
women
? Maybe we should forget this whole thing.”

“If you do,” Payne put in, “I’m sure the church will insist on withholding payment, including the funds for travel expenses. Since you don’t need to interact with the lady, why not just follow my example and keep your distance? Speaking of which…” The pastor looked toward the castle entrance nervously. “I’ve done my part, and there’s little else I can accomplish here. I should be going.” Payne bowed curtly, and, with his usual stale smile, withdrew.

As the pastor exited the courtyard, Hadrian turned to Knox. “It couldn’t hurt to look around a bit, right?” He was standing closer than usual to Royce, with that everything-is-going-to-be-all-right smile on his face. “Why not fill us in on some of the failed attempts. What
exactly
has happened? What made you think the countess is in danger?”

“I’ll show you.” Knox waved for them to follow.

The sheriff led them up a set of stone steps to one of the rear parapets. Royce scanned the length. No guards, no sentries posted. Down in the courtyard, not a single soul was visible. Tilting his head up, he noted the numerous windows, tiny dark holes in the face of the rising towers.
I could walk in on a cloudless day, dressed to kill, and no one would notice.

“Here.” Knox pointed to a missing merlon.

Royce spotted grooves and gouges where someone had used a pry bar. Peering over, he saw the road hugged the wall just below. The square, two-foot block of stone stood out pale against the green grass, lying where it had rolled after crashing down.

“Missed Her Ladyship by inches,” Knox said.

After giving Royce some time to examine the area more closely, Knox led them back down to the grassy common.

“What time of day?” Royce asked.

“Pardon?” Knox replied.

Royce rolled his eyes. “When the great big rock nearly crushed the pretty lady, what time of day was it?”

“Oh, midday or thereabouts.”

“And no one saw anything?” Hadrian asked.

Knox shook his head and spread out his arms. “As you can see, Castle Dulgath isn’t a busy place.”

“Nor very well protected,” Royce added with an insinuating glare.

“You’re just looking to make all kinds of new friends today, aren’t you?” The sheriff licked his lips. “You know, I told the bishop we didn’t need outsiders coming here to tell me how to do my job. Dulgath isn’t Colnora. We don’t have people like
you
around here. This is a peaceful province.”

“Really? Then why am I here?”

“I honestly don’t know.”

“I imagine that’s a list that’s grown uncomfortably long by now, hasn’t it?”

Knox reached to shove Royce, who took a step back and to the side, causing the sheriff to fall on his face. “You son of a bitch…” The sheriff came off the ground with a look in his eye that told a story.

Hadrian read it as well and moved in to block. He had a tendency to do that—get in the way—but this time Royce appreciated it. He hadn’t traveled four days and ridden a hundred and twenty-five miles to kill a province sheriff. Royce wasn’t sure Hadrian would be able to douse the sparked fire, so he shifted the bottle of pigment to his left hand then reached inside his cloak for the handle of Alverstone, his dagger.

“Sheriff Knox!” a man called from the front doors of the castle. He walked quickly toward them. “Why don’t you introduce me to your new friends?”

Knox violently brushed bits of grass off himself while baring his teeth at Royce.

“Hugh, please!” the man shouted, breaking into a jog. “Don’t be rude. It’s not proper to introduce oneself.”

The sheriff took a breath, then another. “This is Lord Christopher Fawkes, second cousin to King Vincent.”

“Hello, gentlemen!” the lord exclaimed in a jubilant voice. He clapped his hands together and rubbed briskly, giving the appearance of a man about to embark on some great work. “You must be Royce Melborn.” He extended a hand, then drew it back, exchanging it for a raised finger. “Ah—no, you’re probably not the handshake sort, are you? That’s fine. Artists need to be mindful of their tools.”

He turned to Hadrian. “But you’re a different sort altogether. Mister Hadrian Blackwater, isn’t it?” The hand went out again and, once clasped, Lord Fawkes pumped it soundly two times, then clapped Hadrian on the shoulder. “Nice sword! Spadone, right? Quite the antique. Don’t see many of those anymore. My friend Sir Gilbert—he’s the senior knight of my cousin Vincent—never uses one. Says they went out of style centuries ago…back when knights actually fought in wars!”

Fawkes laughed loudly at his own joke.

No one else did, but the lord either didn’t notice or didn’t care. “Oh, Hugh, these two are a wedge of sharp cheese, aren’t they? Please, allow me to give them the tour. I’m certain you have better things to do,
don’t you?
” The last two words lacked the gaiety of the others, and were punctuated with authority.

“Certainly, Your Lordship.” Knox gave Royce a parting scowl. He adjusted his sword belt and strode toward the front gate.

“Excitable fellow, that Hugh,” Fawkes said, his tone quieter, calmer. “Hails from somewhere in Warric, if memory serves. I’m sure he has a bloodstained past. He’s hiding down here, I imagine.”

Royce’s eyes followed Knox’s back until he disappeared from sight.

“So, you are the men Bishop Parnell has picked to properly plan Lady Dulgath’s murder.” Fawkes grinned and winked at them.

Royce wasn’t certain if the man was a fool or a genius. He displayed signs of both. Neither made him comfortable, but over the course of his life he’d been at ease with only four people. None of them was a well-dressed noble with a loud voice who winked. No one ever winked at Royce. The fact that this man, with his black goatee and expressive hands, did so was a curiosity worthy of further scrutiny.

“It’s all right,” Fawkes told them, spreading his hands out and fanning his fingers. “I’m privy to what’s going on. Brilliant, really, like that adage about fighting fire with fire. And from what I’ve heard, you two know how to handle yourselves in heated situations.” He moved in closer. Lowering his voice, he added, “Rumors say a rather high-profile noble was assassinated up north. I suspect you know a little about that.”

“Rumors can’t be trusted,” Royce told him.

“No, of course not.” Fawkes glanced toward the front gate. “Still, I doubt our good sheriff knows about that incident or realizes he may owe me his life. As I recall, that dead noble was a high constable. Knox should be more careful. One doesn’t buy poison and handle it without gloves. A fine and dangerous instrument deserves respect. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Absolutely.” Royce nodded. “And now that you mention it, I do seem to recall something about that rumor. Happened in Medford, didn’t it?”

“Why, yes, I believe that was the place.”

“I can see why you were concerned about the sheriff, but just so we understand each other…the man killed wasn’t just a high constable; he was also the king’s cousin.”

Lord Fawkes escorted them inside Castle Dulgath’s stables, which were situated beyond the cleft wall and down the road where the land flattened out enough to be safe for horses. Made to appear like a fancy cottage, the stables had twelve-paned windows and an interlocking-brick floor. The place was cleaner than Wayward Street—even cleaner than The Rose and the Thorn despite Gwen’s hard work. The building didn’t smell like a stable. There wasn’t a trace of manure nor a glimpse of straw. Chandeliers hung from a high ceiling, and the doorways benefited from decorative molding. Horses lounged in stained oak stalls with black-painted metal gates. Each wore a tailored blanket, and in front of every bay sat a large, beautifully crafted trunk.

“Nice barn,” Hadrian remarked, looking up at the tongue-and-groove ceiling.

“Adequate,” Fawkes said with a bulging lower lip and a curt dip of his head. “Dulgath doesn’t have the resources, talent, or inclination to indulge in serious equestrian endeavors. I realize you meant it as a jest, Hadrian, but in Maranon,
this
is hardly impressive.”

Lord Fawkes strolled along the long row of gates and stopped outside the stall where a horse stood cloaked in a beige warming coat. Large, black eyes spotted Fawkes, and a white head poked out through the opening in the bars designed specifically for that purpose. The lord cooed, made kissing sounds, and scrubbed the horse’s neck. “This is Immaculate—she’s mine.” Fawkes opened a small pouch on his belt and palmed out a sugar cube. The horse snatched up the treat, smacking her lips with a loud, hollow thumping clap of appreciation.

“Why are we here?” Royce asked.

Annoyance flashed across Fawkes’s face but was instantly stripped and replaced by a warm smile. “Not a fan of horses?”

“I like riding more than walking, but I prefer women for the friendlier stuff.”

“Ha! Well said. Still, a good horse can be a blessing from Novron.” He patted Immaculate’s neck fondly. “No one understands our love, do they?” he whispered loud enough for them to hear, then turned away with a grin.

Fawkes moved to the next stall, which housed an entirely black horse, this one with a snow-white velvet blanket. The horses were so perfect, so uniform in color; Royce wouldn’t have put it past these pretentious people to dye the animals. Even the horse’s hooves were pitch black. Fawkes reached down and flung open the chest. Inside, a saddle rested on a stand beside a folded blanket, a bridle, and a lead. The saddle was two-toned, tooled leather with an embroidered suede seat and shiny brass fittings. It had the fixed head and lower leaping head of a sidesaddle, which accounted for its plush luxury, although Royce imagined Lord Fawkes’s saddle to be just as ostentatious.

“This is Derby, Lady Dulgath’s mare. And this”—he lifted the sidesaddle—“is Her Ladyship’s as well.” He held it up to them.

“It’s very nice,” Hadrian said.

Fawkes chuckled. “Look at the cinch.”

Royce tilted his head to peer at the fabric band that dangled down. Unlike the dual D-rings he and Hadrian tied leather straps to, this one had a set of buckles hidden under the saddle flap. Made of wool, this girth band was bright white.

“Again, very pretty,” Hadrian said.

“It’s new,” Royce noted.

The lord grinned. “Good eye.”

Fawkes dropped the saddle, closed the chest, then walked to the far wall, where an open barrel stood. Reaching inside, he withdrew a near-identical girth strap. This one was sweat-stained and lacked the fluff of the other.

Royce took it from Fawkes and examined the edges—crisp and clean up to a point and then ragged where the wool banding had torn. Hadrian looked at him expectantly. “Someone cut it a little more than halfway through. The rest tore while riding.”

Fawkes nodded. “Lady Dulgath was shifting from a three-beat canter to a four-beat gallop when it happened. She took a nasty spill. Thankfully, she wasn’t jumping at the time, although she was setting up to do so. The strap broke during her practice ride for the Dulgath Steeplechase of Roses.”