Warden of Time (The After Cilmeri Series Book 8) (6 page)

“Of course,” Acquasparta said. “I have no plans to travel for at least a fortnight. Your physician does not believe I could possibly be completely well before then.”

That meant I had two weeks to find a diplomatic way to refuse every one of the pope’s requests.

Chapter Six

“
D
id you believe anything Acquasparta just said?”

“I believe he won’t travel for a fortnight,” Callum said. “As to the rest, as to what he really cares about? I don’t know.”

“So it wasn’t just me.”

“It wasn’t just you.” Callum tapped the fingers of his left hand on the table in front of us. “I fear we can’t trust him at all.”

“I feel like I’m treading water and sharks are circling around my feet,” I said.

“He reminded me a little of a shark,” Callum said, “and I’m sure his bite is just as strong and impossible to dislodge.”

Carew, who was sitting beyond Callum, nodded. “We have to be very, very careful from this moment forward.”

“I thought we were being careful, but with Romeyn and Peckham in the room—” I glanced at the Archbishop of York, who was currently speaking quietly to his secretary in the doorway of the dining room. While I watched, Romeyn walked a few paces into the corridor with him.

The audience was over, along with an awkward meal. Peckham had departed with Acquasparta, who’d insisted he had to rest. The cardinal had picked at his food, barely eating or drinking anything, so I guess I had to believe him. That left Callum, Carew, and me as the only ones remaining with Romeyn. I rose to my feet and met Romeyn, who’d dismissed his secretary and returned to the doorway. It was time to speak frankly.

The Archbishop of York was near to my height and met my eyes briefly before lowering his head in a slight bow. “Sire.”

“That I haven’t spoken more than a few words with you before today was an oversight on my part,” I said.

“It was my honor to be present at this meeting, sire.”

“You took a risk on my behalf. I won’t forget it.”

Romeyn looked up, his features smoothing into an expression approximating detached concern. “I did only what I thought was right.”

I scoffed under my breath. “You aren’t that much of an idealist. Your speech was calculated down to the smallest intonation.”

Romeyn blinked but had too much composure to stutter a protest. In my mind, I was recasting him in the guise of Thomas Wolsey, the adviser to Henry VIII, who would one day follow Romeyn as Archbishop of York. Wolsey had been
de facto
king at times, with extreme intelligence, organizational skills, and drive. He’d gained enormous power before falling out of favor with the king because he couldn’t arrange the annulment of Henry’s marriage.

“You are far too worldly and intelligent to be impressed by me,” I said. “As you showed in there, you have a mind and thoughts that aren’t to be dictated by others.”

“If I have offended your majesty in some way, I apologize.” Romeyn bowed deeply.

“Stand up,” I said. “That’s not what I meant. You said what you thought needed to be said, and it happened to be in support of me. How can I be sorry about that? Next time, however, I’d like a little more warning of where you stand.”

Romeyn straightened. “Yes, sire.”

Aaron appeared out of a recess in the corridor behind Romeyn, reminding me that I needed to speak to him too. This whole thing with the pope and the papal legate had way too many moving parts. I glanced at Aaron, held up a hand to signal him to wait, and turned back to Romeyn.

“You, Peckham, and I need to have a talk in private. I’ll expect you both at the castle tomorrow.”

“Yes, sire.” He bowed again.

Callum and Carew had joined me, and I shrugged into the black cloak Carew draped again over my shoulders, glad of it now that we were in the chilly corridor and away from the fire. While Carew, Callum, and I headed towards Aaron, Romeyn reentered the dining room.

 “I am very glad to see you,” I said when I reached him.

“And I you, sire,” Aaron bowed his head.

“How ill is Acquasparta, really?”

“Ill enough,” Aaron said. “He hasn’t deceived you in that regard, even if he looked well today. I’ve just come from his chambers.”

I studied my mother’s old friend. Gray strands peppered his dark hair and his full beard was almost entirely white, but his brown eyes were just as bright and intelligent as ever. “But is he deceiving me in some other way?”

“I don’t know, sire, but I feel there is more here than meets the eye,” Aaron said. “I ask that you be very careful going forward.”

“The audience was certainly unusual,” Carew said.

Aaron and Carew were old acquaintances. Both had stood at my side since before King Edward’s death. “In what way?” Aaron said.

I, too, was interested in why Carew thought so. Other than the four years I’d been King of England, I had no experience with affairs of state at the level of dealing with a papal legate. Carew hadn’t had much either, but he’d at least been to court and seen the way things were done.

“He asked three things of the king, none of which he is likely to accede to easily.” Carew looked at me. “And offered nothing in return.”

“He thinks I’m weak,” I said.

“Pope Boniface thinks you might be weak,” Callum said. “I can’t read Acquasparta well.”

“A good emissary transmits the message without ever conveying his own thoughts,” Aaron said, “but it’s more than that. I think—”

Aaron didn’t get a chance to finish his thought. A sudden commotion—shouts and chanting beyond the walls—had the four of us swinging around to face the front doors, which were just visible from the corridor through the anteroom that led to the main courtyard of the palace.

“Stay here, my lord.” Carew strode towards the large doors.

Romeyn reappeared out of the dining room doorway and hastened past until he was at Carew’s heels. Upon reaching the entryway, Callum wrenched one of the great doors open. Sound exploded into the palace. In a moment, I was at the doors too. The rain had turned to mist, and with the waning of the day a fog had risen—but I could see beyond the erect postures of my guard of thirty who were standing between me and the gates of the Archbishop’s palace. The commotion lay beyond them: a crowd in the street looked determined to batter down the gate.

“What’s happening?” Peckham hobbled towards us from the western wing of his palace. Acquasparta followed, though he leaned heavily on the arm of another man, who was dressed in red as he was, but much more simply. I didn’t recognize the man but guessed him to be the cardinal’s secretary, who hadn’t been at our meeting, though I supposed he could have been hiding behind a curtain in a corner to take his notes.

“I don’t know,” I said.

Carew hovered in the doorway, taking in the scene, and then he and I together went down three steps to stand on the stairs, the better to get a sense of what was happening outside the gates. The chanting and shouts grew louder as a young man in his early twenties was hauled up to the gate by four men wearing the livery of the Archbishop of Canterbury. The crowd was growing by the second, and hands reached out to press them forward.

One of the men in livery shouted, “Let us in!”

Wide-eyed, the two men who manned the gatehouse moved to the gate. Justin, the captain of my guard, started forward with his hand up. “Stop!” he said, but it was too late. One of the guards had already released the lock. The four guards and their prisoner squeezed inside the courtyard, and then the two guards at the gate struggled to close it again.

With the help of Justin and two more of my men, who’d followed him, they finally managed to slide the bar home, locking out the crowd. It had grown to easily a hundred strong. And it was still growing by the second, every single member calling for the prisoner’s head. The man’s hands had been tied behind his back, and his face was bloody from a beating. If not for the gate between the courtyard and the crowd, this could have turned into a lynching.

The prisoner wore dirty brown breeches and a shirt of an indeterminate color. Perhaps it had once been blue, but the front was smeared with mud, soaked with rain, and torn at the left shoulder. His dark brown hair was wet from the rain and plastered to his head with a darker fluid that might have been blood. Justin hastened back towards me, his face a thundercloud, and one of the four soldiers followed. His three companions stayed nearer to the gate, holding the prisoner, who swayed on his feet but managed to remain upright. My own guard was blocking the path to the steps, but at Justin’s signal, my men parted to let the Archbishop’s soldier through.

He didn’t look at me. Perhaps he didn’t know who I was. “We found him, your eminence.” He spoke to Acquasparta.

I was standing on a lower step, three down from the doorway, and turned to look up at Acquasparta, unaware that he’d taken up a position behind me. The double doorway into the palace was now fully open, with a half-dozen men, from servants to churchmen, gaping at the crowd at the gate.

Acquasparta nodded sagely. “You have done well.”

Peckham edged his way into the doorway to Acquasparta’s side. “What … what have you done?” He looked from Acquasparta to the crowd, and then his hand clutched at the robes at his chest.

Even as I watched, Peckham’s face paled, and he staggered slightly. Callum was standing behind him and caught him as he fell. “Aaron!” Callum called the doctor’s name as three servants helped to half-carry, half-drag the Archbishop back into the recesses of the palace.

A moment later, I was in front of Acquasparta, my hands clenched, wanting to wipe the smirk from his face, but having to do it with my voice instead of my fists. “Answer the Archbishop’s question!”

“We had word that a heretic had come to live in Canterbury and was gaining followers. Our only recourse was to arrest him. With the proper motivation, it may be that we can return him to the fold, guide him to the better path as Archbishop Romeyn said.” Acquasparta spoke these words with a nod at Romeyn, who had come to stand on the steps too. “At the very least, he can tell us who his compatriots are and we can root out this infection before it spreads.”

Acquasparta appeared to believe every word he said.

I stabbed a finger in the direction of the crowd. “Those people aren’t here to question your prisoner. This is a mob. They want his head.”

Behind me, the volume had risen as the people strained forward, more and more of them pressing against the gate. History told me I wasn’t exaggerating. The people of Canterbury had slaughtered their Jewish neighbors in a mass riot only thirty years ago. It was easy to see how it had come about. I didn’t want them to do the same to this heretic.

“Let me through! Let me through!” A palace guardsman on horseback approached the gate. The people gave way for him, but to my horror, the palace gatekeeper moved to the gate with the clear intent to open it.

As had been the case with Justin, even if he’d heard my call of “No!” over the noise of the crowd, it was too late. He’d already pulled the bar across. The gate swung open and the crowd surged past the horseman, overwhelming the guard, who stumbled backwards, his mouth wide and protesting.

“Idiot,” I said to myself under my breath. “What did he think was going to happen?”

This was going to get out of control really quickly, and I didn’t know if I could do anything about it. For the moment, those in the front line of the crowd seemed a bit uncertain now that they were actually inside the palace—a place none of them had probably ever been. They milled around, filling in the space between the gatehouse, the stable, and where the three guards still stood with the prisoner. Most still hung back, some of their anger dissipating now that they’d achieved their goal of entering the palace grounds. At any second, however, the volatile crowd could become violent again.

Carew stood at my right shoulder, half a step in front of me. Without weapons, all my own men could do was defend me as best they could, and they formed a tight semi-circle around the steps, buttressing and protecting the palace entrance. The commotion would eventually catch the attention of the city garrison and my other men, but it hadn’t yet. They were busy with a murder and, undoubtedly, had assumed I was safe inside the Archbishop’s Palace.

Acquasparta seemed either to have no idea how dangerous the situation was, or it had become exactly what he wanted, because he didn’t move, just stood on the top step with a slight smile on his face.

Then Acquasparta threw fuel on the fire. “Take him to a cell!”

How anyone could hear the papal legate’s words over the noise coming from the crowd I didn’t know, but as soon as those in the forefront realized that the prisoner was only to be arrested, not hanged, they gave a roar and stormed forward.

A moment later, the prisoner was ripped from his guards’ hands. I lost sight of him and thought he’d gone down under their feet, but then I spotted him again, another twenty paces away, wrestling with his captors. With mounting horror, I watched them drag him through the gates of the palace. Someone had already placed a rope around his neck in a noose.

I swung back to Acquasparta and hissed, “This is your fault. Do something!”

But Acquasparta’s lips were white around the edges as he gaped at his handiwork. I wanted to shake him. His secretary was urging him to reenter the palace proper, for his own safety, but then Acquasparta surprised me by waving him off.  He raised his hands in motion of appeasement and said, “Stop! Stop this madness!”

His words were barely audible to me, much less to the crowd, which was no longer facing the palace entrance anyway. Certainly, they had no effect. Then his secretary spoke urgently to him again in Italian, and Acquasparta retreated back into the palace, looking frailer than ever. As he left, the mist turned again to a light rain, and a gust of wind blew the fine droplets into my face.

Justin had backed up the steps to stand beside Carew to better protect me. “They’re going to kill him,” he said.

Chapter Seven

I
snarled at Justin, “I know they’re going to kill him!” I spun this way and that, looking for a way out of this, looking for ideas.