The Widow and the King (50 page)

‘I can guess who told you …’

‘The truth! Or by the Angels, I'll use hot iron!’

Ambrose swallowed. ‘We didn't have any.’

‘None? No gold, no jewels? Buried anything? Careful, boy, I'm watching you, and I'll know if you lie.’

‘No.’

The men were grouping around him. He felt them willing him to tell of hidden gold. Wild stories gabbled through his head. He kept his eyes on the White Lion.

‘There was a purse of copper I had once. I don't know if that came from Tarceny. I spent it getting across the lake.’

There was a long silence.

‘We'd been fighting for two, three years after all,’ said
the man called Hob to his leader. ‘We were selling the furniture, by the end.’

‘All right,’ said the White Lion, suddenly. ‘I never had much faith in that part of it. And yet I have a strong feeling – let's say I've heard from someone who should know – that the real son of Tarceny does carry a treasure. What might that be, do you think, if not gold or jewels?’

Ambrose hesitated. ‘What do you mean?’

‘
Guess
what I mean,’ roared the White Lion.

Ambrose knew he had heard that voice before. It had bellowed out of the dark from the woods at Chatterfall, before Adam and Evalia had died.

He swallowed, and looked the Lion in the eye.

‘You might mean a cup …’

‘Good guess, but no. Try again.’

‘A book then,’ said Aun tightly, from behind him. ‘A book that came from his father.’

‘Not so good a guess. I heard that
you
had that, you moth-eaten old wolf. Try again.’

Ambrose was silent.

The White Lion stooped to look him eye to eye.

‘Are you sure,’ he said, ‘that you have nothing from Old Tarceny? Not – one – single – thing?’

Slowly, reluctantly, Ambrose reached for the hilt of his sword and fumbled at the strings that held the little pouch there. The White Lion stepped back, out of reach of a sword-swipe.

Into Ambrose's palm fell the last white stone. He held it out to the man. Deftly a great black gauntlet picked it from his hand. The White Lion held it close to his eyes, peering at it in the weak firelight.

‘That's one of them,’ said the man Hob, at his shoulder.

‘So that part's true,’ said the White Lion. ‘Is this all there is?’

‘There were more, but I lost them,’ said Ambrose.

‘Careless. But I'll believe your name is Tarceny. So where is your mother now?’

‘Dead,’ said Aun, quickly.

‘Somewhere else,’ said Ambrose at the same moment.

The White Lion grinned and the stone was swallowed in the fist of his gauntlet.

‘I do like the truth. But above all I like it to be simple.’

Ambrose watched him. If his men had believed in treasure, last season, he had not. It had been easy to convince him that none had existed. He had been hunting them for other reasons.

‘Tell me, boy – what is it a mother loves most in all the world?’

There was nothing he could do but answer.

‘Her child.’

‘So, now. There's not a man among us but lost everything he had the day she let the good Baron here and his cut-throats over our wall. We lost friends, too. There's a lot to remember. Let us suppose that a mother has offended us. What is the worst revenge a man could take on her?’

They were all around him, standing over him like the rim of a great bowl.

‘Come on. It's easy. I could do it now, and she would weep for the rest of her life. That's good revenge. Ask the Baron behind you. He knows.’

‘I – don't think you want that,’ said Ambrose, fighting to keep his voice steady.

‘Don't I? Sometimes a man finds it hard to know what he wants. Last season, now … There were definitely some things I wanted last season. And in a moment I'm going to remember why.’

He did not want to kill. But he probably would. He did not want his quarrel with Mother, but it was still with him. And so he would do what he did not want to do. And he still had the white stone.

Ambrose had known he could not have help without risk. Well, he had taken the risk.

‘I am going to the pool by the mountain of Beyah,’ he said.

‘I am going to fight the Prince Under the Sky. And I want your help.’

Did he mean ‘fight’?
Find
might have been closer. And the White Lion was unimpressed.

‘Help? A strange word. Not service, then? Surely you think you are entitled to our service? You've a banner there – at least I think it's a banner – with the Doubting Moon on it. It's nearly as ragged as some of ours. Boy, we have grown
very
ragged in Tarceny's service. Fifteen of us, now. Do you know how many knights your father had in the March? Seventy. Seventy manored knights. I ride these paths with their ghosts at my heel. And I can ride quickly. When I hear that some pup has put up the Doubting Moon on Talifer's Knoll, I can ride very quickly indeed. What happened to that fathead Mar, then? That was just an accident, I suppose?’

‘He came,’ said Aun, ‘a little too close.’

The White Lion straightened. He was within reach of
Aun's sword, but this time he did not step back. Perhaps this stiff old man was as good in a fight as Aun was.

‘I didn't do it to claim Aclete,’ said Ambrose. ‘And I want you to leave Aclete alone.’

The White Lion looked down at him again. With a careless gesture, he dropped the white stone into the grasses. At once Ambrose put his foot on it, to be sure of finding it again.

‘I don't think you understand,’ said the White Lion. ‘You have come here with nothing. There's nothing for you to claim here, and nothing that you can give me. Anything that's worth having in the March, we can get for ourselves. There may be little. But there is Aclete, now. Mar's rabble can't keep us off without him. We can have that if we want. Or they can buy us off, if they want. But you can't. Not with a flag and a name.

‘The Prince Under the Sky, you said. Does it surprise you that it does not surprise me? I know who you mean. That's not a small thing you want at all. And you want help. In this world, help has to be paid for.’

He waited. Ambrose was aware of an important moment passing, and yet there was nothing he could say. The man was groping, hopelessly, for something. But they both knew there was no treasure. There was nothing to offer him.

‘Why should I do this?’ said the outlaw heavily. ‘No, don't wave your flag at me. Your house already owes us more than you can pay. I'm about to take the only thing you can give me. You've nothing else, have you?’

Revenge, said a voice wildly in Ambrose's head. Revenge on the Heron Man, for the death of their lord, your father!

‘Well?’

Ambrose drew breath, thought about it, and then shook his head.

‘No,’ he said.

‘No,’ repeated the White Lion.

‘But
I
have,’ said someone from the back of the circle.

Ambrose looked up.

The Lynx of Develin was standing at the edge of the firelight, in a peasant dress all tattered from briars.

Of all Sophia had ever gone through, the moments after finding Chawlin had vanished were the worst. For long seconds she looked into the night, her limbs locked and her breath freezing in her throat. She knew – she
knew
– that in the darkness something was watching her. And she had a terrible feeling that she had seen it before. She could not remember it; but when she saw it, she would do. And then she must scream.

She could see nothing. She could hear nothing beyond the water and the wind. And still the shadows watched her and her heart sprang within her ribs like a trapped animal.

‘Is … Who's there?’

There was no reply. Suddenly she felt sure that whatever it was would never reply. Perhaps it could not even speak. It watched her with a cold anguish. There was nothing she could do. So she stood up.

‘Chawlin?’

Chawlin was gone. The voice that had woken her was gone. She was outside the stockade of Aclete. The townspeople were abed. She did not remember which way along the stockade would lead her to the gate. And would they
open to someone screaming in the night? And what could they know about this?

Ambrose knew. He had always known.
There are things – you don't see them, or if you do … They can come into the house
. He had seen things she was blind to. She should have gone up the hill to him while it was light. But he was still there, and he could help her.

‘I'm going, now,’ she told the watching darkness.

Picking up her skirts, she began to make her way uphill.

She could not have said why she had spoken, or why she moved so slowly. She felt that it was very important that she should not show fear. Maybe, if she did, then whatever watched her would attack, like an animal. Panic was battering at her mind. If she cried out, or ran, then it would overwhelm her like a flood. She must not lose control. She must think. And she must listen.

Still there was no sound. If there was anything there, it had not moved when she had. (Maybe there had been nothing after all? But it did not feel like that.) She carried on upwards, trying to remember how long the slope was. A half hour's climb in the light, perhaps? How long would it take in the dark? It would take for ever, like this. Something – a briar – scored her ankle and caught her dress. She tore at the cloth, savagely, to free it.

Perhaps she would do better to try the gates of Aclete after all. She paused, hands on her skirts, looking upwards and trying to work out how far she had come.

And then something did move, on the hillside below her.

It was a long rustling sound of a great weight lifting
itself from where it had been resting among dry grasses, a few yards from where she had been camped.

Then nothing – no growling, no sound of anything worrying among her blankets.

What could make such a noise, and not move again?

With her heart galloping, she forced herself up the slope. Still her mind cried out,
Don't Run, Don't Run
. If she ran she would fall. If she ran she would never hear how close it was. And how could she run anyway, in the dark on a slope like this?

She was striding, and gasping with the effort. And now she heard it again, over the sounds of her breath and her feet among the grasses. Again it was slow – a swishing, creaking step that made her think of long limbs that could not be a man's. And it was closer. Or it was no further away than it had been. It was following her up the hill.

A horrible, horrible image came to her of the way a spider moves, slowly at first, and then with sudden speed upon its prey. Her mind hovered on the fringes of panic.

She swallowed. And she turned.

It must have paused within thirty yards of her. She could not see it. She could not imagine it. She could not think what might move so.

And what was its face?

The cockerel! The cockerel!

She scuffed uselessly around in the grasses for a stick, or a stone to use as a weapon. If only there was something to throw – even a pebble – she would have felt less vulnerable. Yet in this darkness there might be armour and weapons piled only feet away from her and she would never find them. Her questing foot struck into a patch of
brambles. She swore under her breath, and ripped the hem of her skirt free again.

The thing had not moved since she had turned. It knew exactly where she was. But it was not trying to catch her. Not yet.

‘Go on then.’ she muttered to herself. There was nothing else to do.

Go on. The most horrible dreams she had ever had were like this – darkness, trying to get away, pursued and yet not seeing what pursued her. And yet she could think. She could turn if she wanted to. She knew where she was going. She could hold horror away with her waking mind.

The thing stirred again, below her, and she whispered a curse.

But the slope was easing. And there was light – yes, light on the hilltop. There was a fire, there.

‘Thank the Angels!’

Now she could hope. And now she had spoken of the Angels, she could pray as she went.

‘Warrior of Heaven,’ she whispered. ‘Guard me, for my enemies …’

Oh Angels – what
was
it? She gulped.

‘… For my enemies press close …’

The thing had paused again. Every step was taking her further away from it.

‘Friend of the Hapless, guide me through the deadly places. Light of the peoples, Gabriel, attend me …’

She had always believed in the Angels that the Godhead had sent into the world. But outside the chapel of Develin, she had never given them much space in her thoughts. And she had never called on them like this, or
felt the warmth of prayer in her struggling spirit. The fire was closer. She could see that there were people moving and standing by it. She could see horses. She could see the fringes of grass around her, lit by the faint glare.

She looked back. There was nothing. The sounds no longer followed her.

The ground was level at last, although still tussocky and difficult. She had reached the hilltop. She might run now, she thought, across the last fifty yards to the fire.

Then the night hissed at her elbow and she nearly shrieked.

‘Get down,’ said a man's voice.

‘Get down!’

‘Chawlin?’

She could just see the shape of him, sprawled full length on the ground.

‘Get down. They'll see you!’

She crouched. ‘Where have you
been
?’ she hissed back at him.

‘You've got to go back.’

She couldn't believe he had said that.

‘I'm not going back!’

‘You must!’

‘I'm
not
. Do you understand?’

She could feel him staring at her, and she stared at him. Metal gleamed as he rolled his body slightly. He must have his sword in one hand. He was lying here, staring at the fire. He had no idea what the night held behind him.

‘Those men would kill us,’ he said. He was trying to keep his voice low, but she could hear the force in it. ‘Or they'd kill me and kidnap you. And then you'd still be in danger. Go back!’

‘I'm going over to them. That's what we came for, isn't it? To find Ambrose and his friends. What are you waiting for?’