The Last Quarrel (The Complete Edition) (3 page)

Prince Cavan stretched and looked out across the city of Berry, capital of Gaelland and the heart of his father’s kingdom. Much like his father’s heart, it was mostly dark, rotten and stinking. Up here in the castle, he could glimpse the green farmlands beyond the city walls out of one window, and the sea out of the other. For most of the thousands of people living in the tight, twisted streets below, such sights were but a dream. It was late morning and the sounds of the city echoed up to his castle room. He had only just risen, having been at a Bankers Guild dinner until the early hours of the morning, listening to boring speeches, eating rich food and avoiding the wine and ale that the fat moneymen guzzled until they spewed.

“What have I got on today?” he yawned, wishing he could go for a ride in the countryside. But he knew that was a false hope.

“You are first required to represent King Aidan at a ceremony at the West Gate at noon,” his manservant Niall droned, reading off a parchment.

“What ceremony? What am I supposed to do?” Cavan turned sharply.

“I don’t know, highness. It does not say. King Aidan’s chamberlain just gave me this list to read to you,” Niall said nervously.

“Why me? Why can’t he go himself?” Cavan grumbled.

From across the other side of the room, his bodyguard Eamon laughed aloud. Cavan glared at the man, who sat back in a chair, his booted feet resting on the table, next to the remains of their breakfast.

“Take a look in the mirror, my friend,” Eamon said lightly. When Cavan did not move Eamon swung his legs off the table and dragged the bronze mirror around so Cavan could not help but see himself. “Now, doesn’t that explain everything?”

Cavan saw a tall man, his long blond hair held back from his face with a silver circlet. He had a square jaw, straight nose and clear blue eyes – even if they did feel reddened this morning after the long Bankers Guild dinner.

“Now, that is the image of a true prince, and the face of a man people can trust to be their king. Unlike your brother.”

“Hush! The walls have ears!” Cavan snapped.

Eamon chuckled. “They can report what they want about me. I’m the finest swordsman in Gaelland, which was why your father appointed me your bodyguard. I can call your brother ugly and deformed without fear. King Aidan trusts me with your life.”

Cavan sighed. It was true. His younger brother was revolting. He was fat, and his skin was marked with lumpen boils and scars. He was greasy-haired with a rat-like nose, and eyes that pointed in different directions. When he appeared in the streets of Berry the people bowed in fear. But when Cavan rode out, they rushed forwards and waved, followed him wherever he went.

“The people love you,” Eamon continued. “And your father knows you don’t have his temper, so it is safe to send you out to be his face, to bring him back the love the people will never feel for him.”

“I know,” Cavan sighed. His father was tall and stately but, while he looked fair, he had a temper that could heat the stones of the castle. Anyone who disagreed with him, dared to suggest something he didn’t like or simply failed to laugh hard enough at one of his stories had their head bitten off. And, afterwards, usually had it chopped off as well.

“So let’s get through the day’s list of foolishness, then go and get pissed somewhere.” Eamon dragged the mirror back around and admired himself for a moment. “Aroaril, I look good in these clothes!”

Cavan laughed at that. Eamon was his height but twice his size, with huge arms and shoulders dwindling to a slim waist and legs. He looked like the proper companion for a prince, with his strong chin, long red hair and twinkling green eyes. He had been born in the gutter but had risen far and fast because of his extraordinary skill with a sword. Most men hacked and slashed, using strength and speed to batter down opponents. But Eamon seemed to dance through anyone who faced him. Cavan matched blunted swords with him every day and still had no idea how to defeat the man.

“So, Niall, what is on after this mysterious ceremony at the West Gate?” Cavan asked.

“A couple of other little things, including dedicating a chapel, and then you will stand in for the King at the public audience until sunset.”

Cavan groaned. It would be an endless litany of minor thefts and complaints about dishonest shopkeepers, the culmination of a month’s worth of disagreements in a city where families were packed in on top of each other. If he had any way of contributing to the judgments, that would be one thing, but his findings for each case would be dictated by who had best bribed his father’s chamberlain.

“And then the Guild of Moneylenders have their dinner tonight, highness.”

“But I thought I went to that dinner last night?” Cavan protested.

“No highness. That was the Bankers,” Niall corrected gently.

“And there is a difference?”

“Of course. The Moneylenders hand over cash to anyone. The Bankers only lend to those worthy.”

“It might be amusing,” Eamon said. “That’s where I came from. I started out as a Bruiser for the Moneylenders guild.”

“A Bruiser?” Cavan asked.

“If you can’t pay your debt to the Guild, they send in the Bruisers to remind you to find the money while you still have time. Every Guild has them, to enforce the rules. But the Moneylenders offer the most coin.”

“So you would hurt people to make them pay?” Cavan asked angrily.

“We usually didn’t have to do anything.” Eamon shrugged. “Once they saw us, they paid up. But I admit it, we lived up to our names. When you grow up in the streets, you do what you can to eat. I didn’t enjoy it, but if I hadn’t done it, someone else would have. Still, that’s how I came to your father’s notice and into your service, so it was not wasted.”

“How did that happen?” Cavan asked. He had not known Eamon before the man was appointed his bodyguard, and the swordsman had never spoken of it before.

“By then I was more than just a Bruiser. I was the one the Guild called in for the real problems. The merchants who were refusing to repay money and had hired guards to stop the Bruisers. One of your father’s lieutenants had run up a gambling debt and then tried to use his position here to avoid paying it. I was sent in to talk to him and he ordered three of his men to kill me. Your father saw me defeat them and then made me a better offer,” Eamon said, his eyes staring into the distance.

“There’s more to that story than you are saying!” Cavan said with a smile.

“Aye, there is,” Eamon admitted.

“Well, go on then, tell me!”

“It is a long story,” Eamon warned.

“Highness, if we are to be on time for the ceremony at the West Gate, we need to leave now,” Niall interrupted respectfully.

“Of course. Lead on, Niall,” Cavan sighed. “I’m looking forward to it already.”

Cavan took a deep breath as they rode out of the castle and down the main road towards the West Gate. Berry had been, at least initially, laid out carefully. The eastern side faced the sea, towards the far-distant lands of the Kotterman Empire, while the King’s castle sat in the very center of the capital, roads running out north, south and west to three gates in the crude stone wall that bounded the city. But then all the planning ended, with homes and shops and markets crowded into every available space. The homes near the sea were bigger and more spacious, belonging to the nobles and Guilds. But the further west you got, the smaller and tighter the roads became, until they were just a series of twisted alleys. The homes were built almost on top of each other, leaning out over the street so the second stories were almost touching, plunging the alleys below into shadow even in the brightest sun.

“I love the smell of the city in the morning,” Eamon declared.

“Really?” Niall was holding a perfumed handkerchief to his face to try and combat the stench of the streets.

“It reminds me of where I came from – and how lucky I am to be sleeping in the castle every night.” Eamon grinned.

Even though it was only the three of them, the crowds parted for them as soon as they saw Prince Cavan’s face, people waving and cheering as he went past.

Cavan fixed a smile on his face and waved gently as he rode, although he could feel his cheeks aching by the time they reached the West Gate.

“Looks like it’s going to be a popular ceremony, whatever it is,” Niall commented, as they rode out into a small square before a gate that was packed with people.

Cavan looked around carefully. “Something is not right here,” he said. “Hardly anyone is noticing me.”

Eamon laughed. “At last! You are finally developing the right attitude. No more of this foolish modesty!”

Cavan waved him down. “I’m serious. Look – all they care about is something over there.”

They stood up in their stirrups but couldn’t tell what was going on because of the press of people. The crowd also felt wrong to Cavan. He was usually bathed in their warmth when he rode through them but this was different. All he could sense was a mixture of fear and anger. He was tempted to turn and ride away, when a squad of his father’s guards saw him and began to force a path through the crowd towards him.

“Prince Cavan! Thank Aroaril you are here, highness. I don’t know how much longer we can keep them back,” their sergeant said with relief. “Please, highness, follow me.”

“Keep them back from what?” Cavan asked, but the guards were already moving and he, Eamon and Niall had to follow or be swallowed up by the crowd as well.

The crowd grew angrier and, strangely, more frightened the further they pushed through, until they emerged into an open space before the gate being kept clear by the spears of guards. At its center was a stake sunk deep into the hard-pressed earth. Stacked around the stake were faggots of wood, rising almost half of its height. Next to the stake was what Cavan at first thought was a bundle of rags. But then, at a kick from a guard, it rose into a thin woman dressed in a cheap black dress.

“What is going on here?” Cavan demanded.

“We’re going to burn this witch, highness. Just as soon as you give your speech to the crowd,” the guard sergeant said stolidly.

“But I don’t have a speech,” Cavan began, then realised just what the man had said. “What do you mean, burn a witch?”

“Well, highness, it’s the only way to be sure we’ve killed her. Some folk say you can cut off their heads and throw it into running water but we want to be sure,” the sergeant said.

“But how do you know she’s a witch? And how did you find her?”

“Highness, we had men searching for these missing children and the people pointed her out to us. She lives alone with cats and two people heard her curse a merchant whose cart ran over one of them. The merchant’s donkey died after it was cursed, the moment he put the whip on it. Then, when we went into her house, we found herbs hanging from the rafters and some small bones in a cooking pot.”

“Children’s bones?” Cavan gasped.

The sergeant hesitated. “Not sure, highness. They might have been. But the rest of it shows how guilty she is.”

Cavan looked at the so-called witch, who was sobbing pitifully.

“Highness, please save me! We know you are wise and kind and good! I’m just a widow who makes poultices for sick children to earn a little money! I never did anything!”

“She brews up potions for children! You heard it yourself, highness: she admitted she is a witch!” the sergeant shouted.

“Kill the witch!” someone in the crowd screamed, and next moment they were all howling it and pressing forwards so the guards had to use the butts of their spears to keep them back.

“Our children will never be safe while the witch lives!” someone howled.

The woman rushed towards Cavan and grabbed at his boot, tears pouring down her face. “Highness, I am innocent! I never did nothing! You must believe me! I would never hurt a child!”

“Get away, witch!” Eamon guided his horse in and kicked her away from Cavan’s legs, sending her sprawling on the ground.

“Eamon! She was just talking!” Cavan protested.

“Highness, she could be a witch. It is my job to protect you. I cannot risk it. King Aidan would have my head if a witch cast a spell on you.”

Cavan shook his head. “But we don’t know she is really a witch. A merchant ran over her cat and she swore at him. Then the merchant beats his own donkey to death and looks for someone to blame. It worries me that children are going missing but finding some herbs in a kitchen and bones in a pot is hardly good enough reason to burn someone alive! Aroaril, if that was the case, we should slaughter half the cooks in the castle!”

“Highness, we aren’t going to be able to control this crowd for much longer. You need to give your speech and then let me burn her,” the sergeant said.

“I am not letting you burn her! There is no reason! I shall explain that to the crowd and then we shall all go and get to the truth of this matter,” Cavan insisted.

“Highness, I am sorry but I have an order from King Aidan himself to burn this witch. If I don’t do it, I shall join her on the pyre,” the sergeant said, sweat running down his face.

“Show me this order,” Cavan snapped.

The sergeant fished in his belt pouch and then reluctantly handed over a small scroll. Cavan glanced at it quickly. There was nothing to it: just a simple order to burn the Widow Eithne publicly for the crime of witchcraft. It had the King’s seal and he knew only too well the penalty for disobeying his father’s orders. Yet he could not stand by and let this woman be burned alive on the flimsiest evidence. Now the mystery around not being told what this ceremony was became clear. His father knew he would have found some excuse to avoid being there and he was needed to make it look good. The popular Prince Cavan would not burn an innocent woman, so she had to be a witch.

But where had this all come from? He had not heard of children going missing, let alone of witchcraft. If a woman had magic, she hung a shingle outside her door and charged money for using it. There were a dozen such in Berry that he knew of. Witches were only tales to frighten children. A person without magic who gave their soul to the Dark God Zorva in exchange for power, power bought with blood. The more innocent the blood, the greater the power. He had listened to those tales with a delicious shiver of fear when he was a boy, never thinking they could ever come true. He looked over at the Widow Eithne. She was weeping, her arms wrapped around herself, rocking back and forth. Somehow he could not imagine a witch doing that.