The Godspeaker Trilogy (76 page)

Tonight? Oh, yes, please, God . Grateful for the kerchief, she wiped her cheeks dry and handed it back. Then she frowned. “I’m sorry. Did you say we ? I don’t—”

He pressed his fingers to her lips. “Either you trust me, Highness, or you don’t. If you don’t then I’d best leave now.”

“Yes, I trust you,” she said, pulling away. “But—”

“And you can trust my friends.” His smile was warm, and reassuring. “We’re here to help you.”

Did she have a choice? Unless she freed herself from this place soon, freed herself from Marlan’s clutches, she was desperately afraid Helfred would be proven right.

I’ve always believed that as a princess I was inviolate. But it seems I’ve lived my life sadly mistaken. Any power I had came from my father and brothers. Without their protection I’ve no more power than—than a slave.

A sobering thought. Cold enough to freeze her, if she hadn’t been so hot …

“Highness?” said Mr Jones. “Are you all right?”

She shook her head. “Not really.”

He took her hands in his, another serious breach of protocol. But it felt so good, a friend’s kind touch. His face was thunderous. “If Prolate Marlan’s a true man of God then I’m an Icthian.”

She managed a watery smile. “You’re far too handsome to be an Icthian, Mr Jones. Tell me, how do you and your friends intend to—”

“I don’t know yet. But never you fear, I’ll find a way. In the meantime—”

“Hush!” she said, and turned towards the chapel’s open doors, wincing. “That’s Helfred’s voice. Mr Jones—”

But he was already diving across the aisle to conceal himself on the floor between the most distant pews.

God, don’t let Helfred see him. Do that much for me at least.

Helfred re-entered the chapel with Dame Cecily by his side. She faced them on her unsteady feet, one hand holding the end of the pew to forestall any embarrassing collapse, and fought the insane desire to look where Mr Jones was hiding.

Dame Cecily swept her head to toe with a single glance and said, “Chaplain, I can only think that you are blind. Princess Rhian is sick . Why did you wait before coming to me?”

“I was under strict instruction from Prolate Marlan,” said Helfred, muted. “She—she is wilful and disobedient, she must be brought to an understanding of her duty to God.”

“An understanding you wish her to demonstrate for him face to face?” said the Dame tartly. “This is my clerica, Chaplain. Nothing is done here without my authority.”

Helfred flushed. “Prolate Marlan—”

“Is not the one who will have to explain to the council how it is that Ethrea’s queen looks to follow her father and brothers into the grave!”

“She’s not queen yet, Dame Cecily,” said Helfred.

“Nor will she ever be if you have your way! I am not blind, I can see that much! Do you presume to dispute with me, Helfred? You, a chaplain, without even the authority to walk a mile unless you are granted leave and a direction?” She turned her back on him. “Your Highness—”

Rhian, torn between satisfaction at seeing Helfred so chastised and feeling as though she might faint with her next heartbeat, perilously released her grip on the pew. “Yes, Dame Cecily?”

“You will accompany me to the infirmary, where your discomforts shall be eased overnight.”

She felt a surge of triumph. Yes, they will be … but not in the way you think . Bowing her head, she said, “Thank you, Dame Cecily.”

The dame nodded. “But do not imagine it means you’ll be excused your penances for defying the prolate. Chaplain Helfred is right in one thing, at least: you must be brought to an understanding of your duty to God and Ethrea. Those born to high estate are not free to please themselves like common men are free. If that is something you have failed to learn, then shame on your father. But you will learn it now, child. God has sent you here that you may be taught.”

I know. But what he wanted to teach me was the truth about Marlan … and I’ve learned that lesson well, I promise you.

“Dame Cecily,” she murmured, outwardly obedient, inwardly seething, and followed her and Helfred out of the privy chapel. Walking was a torment. Every soft step jarred her shrieking flesh, made her vile headache worse, made her think she would retch her stomach onto the floor. She kept on walking, head low, hands demurely clasped before her.

I’m the queen of Ethrea. I can do this. I must. And tonight will see me out of this prison, out of Marlan’s clutches, on the road to Alasdair and the future I make, for myself and for my kingdom.

Dexterity waited a full quarter hour before daring to slip out of the small, beautiful chapel. He’d hardly taken ten steps along the corridor before he was accosted by a devout.

“You there! Stop! What are you doing here?” the woman demanded.

He turned. “Oh, forgive me, forgive me!” he whined, cringing. “I’m looking for my mistress, she’s here seeing Dame Cecily. She and the dame are dear friends, bosom companions from childhood.”

The angry devout hesitated, some of her ire fading in the face of such a pedigree. “Indeed? Well, neither Dame Cecily nor your mistress is here, man. And you should not be here either, this is a privy place. Be off with you at once.”

He knuckled his forehead. “Yes, devout. God forgive me for a sinner.”

The devout sniffed, still suspicious, and watched him out of sight round a bend in the corridor. He ducked through the same door that he’d entered by, out into the afternoon sunshine and the clerica’s well-tended gardens.

Breathing more easily, he made his way back to the extensive herb-beds where Zandakar still toiled. It was their excuse for being here, Ursa’s need for particular leaves and buds for her physicking for which the clerica at Todding was particularly famous.

Of course she had pots and pots of the wretched things growing in her greenhouse at home, but Dame Cecily wasn’t to know that, was she?

Zandakar turned at the sound of his name. His freshly shaved head gleamed in the warm light and his still-thin frame was disguised by a fresh set of clothes: roughspun wool trousers, a heavy cotton shirt, stout leather half-boots laced firmly round his ankles. He didn’t look quite so out of place dressed like that. Not quite so foreign, despite his brown skin.

“Dexterity,” he said, dropping fuzzy red-leaf herbs into the woven reed basket at his feet. “All right?”

Oh dear, oh dear! That betraying accent! “Hush!” he said, alarmed, and waved a finger under Zandakar’s nose. “No talking, Zandakar. Remember?” He pressed the finger to Zandakar’s lips. “Wei. Wei.”

Zandakar rolled his eyes, and pushed aside the finger. “Tcha.”

“ Wei tcha!” he snapped, and looked around to make sure they were still alone. They were, but for how much longer there was no way to know. He put the finger again to Zandakar’s lips. “Shhh! Shhh!”

Something of his urgency at last made an impression. Zandakar nodded. His eyes were resigned.

Poor chap. How hard this must be for him, living at the mercy of strangers, barely understanding a word we say, bullied and prodded into following us about.

He sighed, his conscience pricking, and patted the man’s shoulder. “ Yatzhay, Zandakar. I hope soon we’ll share enough words so I can explain.”

Zandakar pointed. It was Ursa, threading her way through the herb-beds and trellises.

“Well?” she said, reaching them. “How did you go, Jones?”

“I found the princess,” he said. “How about you?”

“Cecily and I were having a fine old chinwag until some gormless little chaplain interrupted us and dragged her away.”

“That was Helfred. He’s Marlan’s nephew.” Remembering, he felt the rage stir again. “Ursa, they’ve beaten Rhian. They’ve beaten her bloody . When I found her she was weeping as though her heart would break. She’s so unwell from her mistreatment she’s been taken to the infirmary.”

“Who’s beaten her? What are you—”

On a deep, ragged breath he caught hold of his temper. “Who do you think? The prolate and this Chaplain Helfred.”

Ursa stared. “What? Oh Jones, that’s nonsense.”

“It’s not nonsense! Rhian told me herself. And your friend, Dame Cecily, she’s in on it too! I had to hide in the chapel when they came for the princess. I heard them talking.”

“But Jones—”

“No!” he said fiercely. “It’s the truth. We have to get Rhian out of here tonight, before they hurt her again. And they’re going to, Ursa. All they care about is that she does what Marlan wants, because he’s the prolate and she’s just a girl. I was nearly sick, listening to them. No wonder she was weeping. No wonder she’s so desperate to run away. I’d run away from them and I’m a man grown!”

Now Ursa looked distressed. “It’s hard to think Cecily could be like that,” she murmured. “She was always so gentle when we were girls.”

“Power changes people, Ursa. And let a man get it into his head that his power comes from God, well . Will there be any stopping him? Or her, for that matter? Only with a great deal of difficulty.” He sighed, not indifferent to the pain in her eyes. “I’m sorry if your friend’s become a disappointment. That must be hard. But hard or not—”

“I know, Jones! Don’t try teaching your grandmother to suck eggs.”

That was better. Ursa all prickly was an Ursa he could recognise, and manage. “The princess will be in the infirmary all night. It’s probably our best chance to get her out of here. Has the dame invited you to dinner, like we hoped?”

“Yes. A private supper. You and Zandakar are to eat with the lay servants in their hall.”

He thought about that. “So … you can slip the sleeping potion into the dame’s dinner and I can take care of the servants, but what about the devouts? We can’t have them wide awake and prowling the corridors while we’re trying to steal Rhian out of the infirmary.”

“No,” said Ursa, eyebrows pinched in a frown. “We can’t.” She shook herself. “I’ll just have to wangle my way into the kitchens. I can dose the devouts’ supper when the cook’s back is turned.”

It sounded tricky. “Wangle how?”

She smiled, briefly. “I’m an old friend of Cecily’s. Leave that to me.”

Dinner in the clerica was eaten after the evening Litany. Dexterity, with Zandakar wide-eyed and uncomprehending beside him, sat at the back of the main chapel as Chaplain Helfred led the gathering in worship.

It was the first time he’d set foot in church or recited the sacred words since Hettie’s funeral.

Ursa, a privileged guest, sat right up in the front of the chapel with Dame Cecily and the clerica’s resident chaplain who’d been demoted to make way for the prolate’s nephew. Dexterity smouldered at Helfred, his guts tied into knots.

Call yourself a man of God? God should strike you dead for what you’re doing to Rhian. Hettie, can you see him? Can you send him some boils to keep his pimples company? You knave. You gribbet. I’d like to beat you bloody, I’d like to do that.

On and on the nasty little man maundered, but at last the service came to an end. Dexterity waited respectfully at the rear of the chapel as the devouts filed out, led by the chaplains, with Zandakar beside him and remembering not to speak. He knuckled his forehead as Ursa and the dame approached.

“Mistress,” he said ingratiatingly.

“My servants,” said Ursa to the Dame, her tone dismissive. “Useless lumps the pair of them, but I’m not rich enough to pay for better wits.” She turned. “You, Doggell. When you’ve eaten in the servants’ hall—and mind you don’t gobble a mouthful more than your share—see the horses hitched to the van and wait in it for me at the front gates.”

“You’re certain you can’t stay the night, Ursa?” said Dame Cecily. She almost sounded wistful. “Your servants can sleep with mine, there are pallets to spare.”

Ursa’s expression folded into regret. “Oh, I wish I could, Cecie. Alas, duty calls me back to Kingseat. I shouldn’t really be staying for supper but how could I refuse your kind invitation?”

“You’ll be travelling nigh three hours in pitch darkness,” the dame protested. “It won’t be comfortable.”

“No, but I’ll survive it,” said Ursa. “God didn’t put us here for our comfort, did he?”

Dame Cecily nodded. “Very well. If you’re sure. Perhaps another time. You could come for a short retreat, a few days of worship and peaceful reflection.”

“I’d like that,” said Ursa. “We’ve let too many years slide away from us, haven’t we? Doggell!”

Dexterity jumped. “Mistress?”

“Do you understand my orders?”

He knuckled his forehead again. “Yes, Mistress.”

“Then obey them,” she said, and left with the dame.

Smothering a smile, he tugged at Zandakar’s sleeve. “Come along!” he said, loudly and slowly as though to a man as thick as a tree. “Food now. Come along!”

Zandakar nodded and followed him out.

As servants of an important guest he and Zandakar were invited to serve themselves first from the cauldron on the servants’ hall sideboard. Gesturing Zandakar to stay on the bench at the long wooden table, Dexterity ladled a modest helping of the fragrant leek and mutton stew into their bowls then, his heart thudding, emptied the vial of Ursa’s strong sleeping powder into the rest. A quick stir with the ladle and the deed was done.

“It’s not any kind of potion that’ll raise suspicions in the morning,” Ursa had promised. “They won’t wake late or any such nonsense. But it’ll keep them soundly snoring while we’re about our business.”

If she said so, he believed her. Nobody knew herb lore better than Ursa.

When he and Zandakar had finished eating, Dexterity made their excuses with thanks and a smile. They returned in silence to the stables and hitched the two muscular brown cobs to the cosy peddler’s van he’d purchased—oh dear, all that gold!—and they trundled out of the clerica to sit in silence beyond its front gates.

It was a cool night, with clouds drifting across the moons. Rain tomorrow, most likely. A mixed blessing. It was always a misery travelling in rain, but it meant folk would be preoccupied with their own discomforts and less likely to pay attention to others on the road.

With Zandakar stowed in the back of the van among the bits and pieces they’d brought with them for the long trip to duchy Linfoi, Dexterity huddled in a blanket on the driver’s seat and tried not to let his imagination run away with him.