Rebel's Cage (Book 4) (16 page)

‘As I am sure you have surmised, I have not come to confess to sins I have never counted. Instead, I would ask of you a favour I have no right to. Please believe that I would not ask this if I had another, better option at hand.’

This comparative confession was enough to pique Godfrey’s curiosity. He glanced once at the pouch and said, ‘What is the favour?’

‘If you receive word that I am dead, I need you to open this pouch, extract the letter within and carry out the task described with the utmost dispatch. And you must never, ever tell anyone at all that you have it, or that you have spoken to me.’

‘Will you tell me what is inside the pouch?’

‘I don’t think that would be wise.’

‘Then,’ Godfrey kept his voice level, not liking the implications of this at all, ‘how am I to know if I am prepared to carry out your instructions?’

DeMassey moved a few steps away, turning to the leaded window which drew in the morning light, but gave no view of the cloister. ‘I know you will want proof, Archdeacon, but you are a man of faith, are you not?’

‘I will not give you my solemn vow without knowing what it is that I am promising. Would you in my place?’

‘I did,’ came the quiet response. ‘I can offer you nothing in the way of tangible proof – however, I may tell you this much: the man I … work for … is obsessed with the fulfilment of a Prophecy. The contents of that pouch may help you … pursue your own goals.’

Godfrey blinked hard, frowning before DeMassey could turn around and see. Was he honestly offering Godfrey a chance to foil Nash’s plans? Could this be so simple? No, not simple, perhaps, for if it came to pass, then this man standing before him would be dead.

‘I need you to promise.’

‘But why me? You don’t know me. You must know that I would oppose you and your kind if I could.’

DeMassey turned his head then, a wry smile on his face. ‘Yes. But I also know you to be a good man, Father. And a good man is what this task requires. I could trust no other. If you were a man who did not care, or who served his own needs before those of others, then we would not be talking.’ DeMassey came closer, his hands spread out before him. ‘I have … treated the pouch so that the contents will dissolve if anyone but you tries to open it. I do not ask this favour lightly, Father. Believe me, if there were no need at all for such precautions, I would be a very happy man. However, I do need your promise. I dare not leave without it.’

Godfrey could not be blind to the soft plea, nor the open and genuine expression on this man’s face. As far as he could tell, the Malachi was telling as much truth as he could. But as a priest, and as an honest man, Godfrey could not make any vow without meaning it.

‘I promise to do as you ask, on the condition that—’

‘No conditions, Father.’ DeMassey held up his hand. His gesture, his stance, everything about him warned that any conditions he made would be broken. ‘Instead, let me promise you something. If I am dead, you will
want
to carry out this task.’

‘Are you sure?’

The Baron replied, ‘Absolutely positive.’

And there was something in that simple response that Godfrey could not find it in him to refuse. He would probably regret it, but then, in the same way that he’d been around to help catch Osbert after his split with Nash, perhaps he could perform the same service here. It did not take a great man to form alliances, only one of faith.

‘Very well,’ Godfrey said, placing his hand on the pouch in benediction, ‘I give you my word. I will carry out your instructions.’

DeMassey held his breath a moment, then let out a heavy sigh. He looked up at Godfrey once more. ‘I hope it may never come to pass, but if it does, I will make sure you are quickly informed. And thank you, Father. You have given me … peace with this vow. I will take my leave.’

*

Long after dark, long after the shadows had melted into the night, DeMassey shifted in his bed once more and took Valena back into his arms. Her body remained stiff with anger, but he smoothed his hands down the soft skin of her back, soothing her fear and trepidation along with his own.

‘Oh, Luc,’ she hissed, not shifting away from him, but sharing her anger, as he needed her to. ‘Why
him!
You know who he is! You know how close he is to both Brome and Osbert.’

‘That’s exactly
why
I chose him. He’s kept Osbert’s head above water for almost a decade now – and he doesn’t do it for love of Nash. Godfrey is a man of integrity—’

‘He knows what Malachi are, Luc! How is he to be our ally? You must take back the letter and kill him!’

DeMassey rolled them to their sides, cradling her beautiful
face between his hands. ‘Godfrey is a priest. A man of integrity. He cannot reveal our secret – even if his life depends on it.’

‘Even if
our
lives depend on it?’ Valena paused, breathing hard. ‘Integrity or no, if Kenrick or Nash tortures him, he will tell, and you know it.’

‘And what can he tell Nash? That I asked him to do me a favour after I die?’

Her eyes widened then, her fingers instantly pressing against his lips, stilling his words. ‘Don’t,’ she whispered, shifting closer, using her body as she always had, to tell him how much she loved him. ‘Don’t say things like that, Luc, please.’

He held her close for a moment, kissing her temple, feeling her warm breath against his throat. ‘Are you saying you’ve changed your mind?’

‘No,’ she replied, her voice hopelessly vulnerable. He wanted to wrap her up, hide her and protect her and make sure nobody ever endangered her again. But she was who she was, and his protection would ultimately mean very little. And she wasn’t anywhere near as vulnerable as she often made out.

But on this subject she was. Which was why they’d discussed it, why DeMassey had gone to such lengths.

‘I know you don’t want this,’ he whispered into the night. ‘You know I don’t either.’

‘No.’

He shifted onto his back once more, taking her with him, landing in the place they’d begun.

‘I love you,’ she murmured against his chest.

‘I love you, too.’ He kissed her head and closed his eyes.

By the time Godfrey reached the Bishop’s Palace, enough snow had fallen outside to leave a layer of white on every flat surface. The grey sky had dropped, making it look like the roof of the world was coming down on them all. Wary, he climbed the stairs to the second floor and made his way unhindered along the Gallery. In the last crowded antechamber he was met by
Francis, who immediately took Godfrey’s arm and drew him to the courtyard window, away from the others waiting in attendance.

‘What’s happened?’ Godfrey asked. ‘Is he dying?’

‘Not that the doctors have said,’ Francis replied, obviously tired. ‘Still, you must talk some sense to him. Brome will listen to you. He … thinks he’s being poisoned.’

‘Is he?’ It was hard to believe anybody would bother. Brome’s health had been deteriorating for the last few years. How long he would last was anybody’s guess.

‘Well, he’s certainly not getting any better – but then, I’m not a doctor. Even so, he’s convinced somebody is trying to kill him.’

Godfrey looked at the closed bedroom doors. ‘Anybody we know?’

Francis shook his head impatiently, almost dislodging his cowl. ‘You must listen to me, Godfrey. He thinks he’s dying and he’s trying to make provision. That’s why he wants to see you.’

Godfrey turned back to the priest before him. ‘What do you want me to do?’

‘You must decide according to the dictates of your conscience, Brother,’ Francis replied, ominously. ‘But whatever you do, make sure he agrees to change the laws.’

Shocked, Godfrey took a step back. ‘What? But I thought you were completely against—’

‘It doesn’t matter what I’m against – what matters is the survival of the Church. For once in my life, I’m in agreement with that toad Osbert. He was right to make the change without hesitation. Do you have any idea how much attention Brome is getting from Kenrick at the moment? I wouldn’t be surprised if Kenrick did poison him, just to give him a fright.’

Godfrey let air into his lungs slowly, hoping to ease the knot of tension. Some days he really wished he was somewhere else. Anywhere but here.

‘He’s waiting for you.’

‘I’m sure he is,’ Godfrey replied dryly, ignoring the response
from Francis. It was all very well for his brother Archdeacon to hand him pat advice, but it was up to Godfrey to sell the idea to Brome in the end.

*

Almost the first thing Osbert had done when he’d returned to Marsay as Proctor after the Battle of Shan Moss had been to empty Vaughn’s old study with his own two hands. He’d taken some of the furniture and most of the papers and installed himself in the larger room a little further along the corridor, where windows faced both towards the castle and across the square to the Basilica. His bedroom was immediately above.

There’d been a need in him to make some obvious change to the way he viewed the Guilde and his Proctorship, determined not to walk in Vaughn’s shoes a single step further than he needed to.

Now his study had the appearance of order and calm, but also of comfort, with nothing of the gaudiness of Vaughn’s taste. The oval table in the middle of the room had been made especially at his order, designed to be as unalike the King’s Council table as possible.

He would
not
follow in Vaughn’s footsteps. He would not make the same mistakes, commit the same follies.

Instead, he would make a host of his own.

He had each of the twin fireplaces blazing as the evening air descended on the city. He’d pulled the curtains as soon as he’d seen the snow begin to fall. It was too depressing to count how many months of gloomy weather would come before he dared step outside again without fifteen layers of wool between him and the world.

There’d been another reason why he’d cleared Vaughn’s study with his own hands. Some of the papers he’d discovered had shocked him. Some of them hadn’t surprised him at all. Even so, he hadn’t found what he’d been looking for – and alone, he’d had to hide his relief from no one.

Vaughn had said to him, under the influence of a drug Osbert had given him, that the secret Guilde library, containing books dating back to the Empire, had been hidden in a
place where
none shall seek and none shall find.
It had been a great comfort to Osbert to know those books, as far as he could tell, were no longer anywhere within the Guildehall. Nash would never get his hands on them, nor put the sorcerous lore contained within to his evil use.

Osbert listened idly to the sounds of paper being shifted from one place to another. Lyle had returned and Osbert had immediately put him to work. It only remained now for the man to read to the end and give Osbert his honest opinion. He would trust no other.

He said, ‘Will you be finished inside the hour?’

Lyle looked up. ‘No, my lord. There are a few papers here that I would like to read a second time, to ensure I understood them correctly. Perhaps another two hours in total.’

Osbert nodded. He had an appointment with the King shortly. ‘Have you found anything of value so far?’

Lyle glanced down at the piles of letters Osbert had received from Guildesmen all over the country over the last few weeks. ‘From what I can see, the letters fall into three different categories. The first group feel wounded and hurt that you could make such changes to traditional Guilde law without following the correct procedure and consulting your brothers. While they appreciate your position, they still feel that proper respect was not given to them in the process and they feel an apology is due.’

‘From what I’ve seen, those number the bulk of the letters I’ve received.’

Lyle continued, ‘The second group are horrified that you’ve done such a thing. They are not only hurt that you didn’t consult them, but that if you had, they would have done everything within their power to stop you. Their trust in you as Proctor has been sorely tested and there is a hint there that any future radical changes you intend to make will be met with the strongest resistance wherever possible. I would call this group the troublemakers.’

‘I would as well,’ Osbert felt thoroughly vindicated at asking for Lyle’s opinion in the first place. The man was a soldier, experienced in subterfuge, spying and gathering of
information. If any man could recognise a genuine threat, it was Lyle.

‘The final group are what I would call fanatics. These are men who were at the Battle, saw the sorcery with their own eyes and feel that not only should the laws
not
be changed, but that you should increase the punishments tenfold. They are quick, I might add, to assure you that they don’t believe the King is a sorcerer—’

‘Though he admits it openly,’ Osbert added dryly.

‘—in an attempt to avoid propagating treason. However, any number of curses are called down upon your head and each one demands that you either reinstate the old laws or resign your position as Proctor. Many of the letters are unsigned. A man who is not prepared to accept the responsibility of his own words is doubly dangerous in return. You were right to be concerned.’

Concerned indeed. There had already been trouble over the last five or six years, mostly in outlying towns and villages. So many little insurrections here and there, certain to have the Douglas involved with them somewhere – and Guilde soldiers were always involved in keeping that peace. And now these dissenters. To many, it would appear that the Guilde had given up completely, that the powers of darkness, of evil – of
sorcery
– had finally claimed their victory.

There would be more trouble, there was no doubt at all. He would have to send word to all his Halls to put on extra guards as this news travelled further, as the full import was felt.

Pursing his lips, Osbert reached for the cloak he had thrown over the back of a chair. He swung it over his shoulders and turned back to Lyle. ‘Do you think these men would have written these letters if Vaughn had still been Proctor?’

‘I doubt Vaughn would have changed the laws.’