Rebel's Cage (Book 4) (62 page)

And then Baron Luc DeMassey felt no more.

*

‘Forgive me, Your Grace.’

The words, once familiar from his own mouth, now fell sharp about his ears, like icicles in a winter storm. Godfrey
looked up from the desk strewn with papers and focused tired eyes on the monk before him. ‘Yes, Brother?’

‘There is a man to see you. He says the matter is of the gravest importance.’

Godfrey did his best not to sigh. Bishop barely two days and already the demands weighed on him. He’d been besieged with requests to see people since the announcement of Brome’s death had been made at mass yesterday morning. He’d tried to keep up with the interviews, but he’d had less than five hours’ sleep last night – and he still had no idea what that business with Osbert had all been about.

Then this morning he’d had his first audience as Bishop with Kenrick.

‘Did this man give you a name?’

‘No, Your Grace. But he insisted that he must see you immediately, tonight.’

‘Very well. Is he outside?’

‘Yes, Your Grace. Should I bring him in?’

‘Please.’ Godfrey reached out for his cup of brew, but it had gone cold since he’d last looked at it. The piles of papers on the desk had not budged since he’d sat down to go through them. Even with expert help in the form of Francis and Ohler and a dozen others, the work of the Bishop had been largely neglected for the last few years. Godfrey could only pray that he was up to tackling some of it.

The door opened again and the monk led a young man into his new study. The man came forward, bowed a little awkwardly, then glanced nervously at the monk.

‘How can I help you?’ Godfrey began, smiling a little, hoping to put the man at ease. He did look vaguely familiar; Godfrey was sure he’d seen him somewhere around at court.

‘Yes, Father … I’m sorry. I am unfamiliar with your ways. But I come on behalf of my master, on his instructions.’

‘Your master?’ Godfrey raised his eyebrows.

‘The Baron Luc DeMassey, Father.’

Godfrey felt faint. A flush of heat spread across his neck.

‘He asked me … to come see you. To ask you to say prayers for his soul.’

Without realising it, Godfrey had risen to his feet. ‘Then … he is dead?’

‘Yes, Father,’ the young man said, his expression grim, eyes dark with deep sadness. ‘He begged that I ask for your … intervention.’

‘Of course,’ Godfrey replied. He’d given it so little thought in the beginning, when there were so many questions that appeared to be without answer. Now the moment had come and he had no idea what he should do, or why.

DeMassey was dead.

‘Please, accept my condolences. I know the Baron was held in the highest regard.’

The young man narrowed his gaze then, as though deeply surprised to hear such words from a priest – especially one who would now know him to be a sorcerer – but Godfrey had gone beyond such things in the last few weeks, or months. Or probably years. Yes, that would be closer. Somewhere around the time he became friends with Robert. From that point on, his life had completely failed to be predictable.

Not sure that it would be welcome, Godfrey refrained from signing the trium in the air and blessing the young man. ‘I will order prayers said at mass tonight and in the morning. Also for the rest of the week.’

‘Thank you.’ The young sorcerer bowed again, then turned and left. When the door closed, Godfrey was once more alone.

In a daze, he moved to the fireplace and took down the wooden box he’d put there only that morning. He placed it on the desk and pulled out the key which hung around his neck. Unlocking the box felt wrong. Extracting the pouch felt terrible. Sliding out the letter and breaking the wax seal on it set off a wave of panic rolling in his stomach and he had to pour a healthy measure of wine and swallow half of it before he could bring himself to take the letter to one of the candles standing on the mantel.

He didn’t know what the letter contained. He knew only of its importance, that responsibility of another sort entirely had been left with him, courtesy of a now-dead sorcerer who had chosen Godfrey because he was a ‘good’ man.

Godfrey drained the rest of the wine, put the goblet down, then carefully unfolded the letter. There were two pages.

A vicious wind whipped around Nash’s legs as he went down the steps into the courtyard and he pulled his cloak out of the way to avoid tripping over it. Half a dozen of his Bonded Malachi were already mounted up and waiting, their horses stamping impatiently on the damp cobbles, feisty and ready for the morning’s adventure.

Nash took the reins held out to him by Taymar. ‘How long ago did he leave?’

‘Less than an hour, Master. He was waiting at the gates when they opened this morning.’

‘And you are certain he was alone?’

‘Positive. Saylin follows at a discreet distance. If you Seek for him, you will find the Bishop.’

Nash swung up into his saddle.

‘Master, what should I tell the King if he asks for you?’

Snorting with disdain, Nash looked up at the castle keep. ‘Tell him I’m busy.’ With that, he pulled on his reins, turning his horse for the gates. With a hard kick, he launched into a canter. He didn’t look to see if his men followed.

*

‘Are you
sure?’
Kenrick leaned forward, his elbow resting on the table, his body strung tight, his meal forgotten. ‘That’s what this man said? Exactly?’

‘Yes, Sire, that’s exactly what he said.’ Forb’ez stood before Kenrick, his shock of white hair cropped short, his face scarred, his body lean and more bent than he remembered. This man had once been his father’s most trusted aide, but his father had died alone on the battlefield, this man nowhere to be found.

Now, without warning, Forb’ez approached him with this story of how he had been drinking in the Two Feathers, had in fact made a habit of doing so, because that was where Malachi were to be found, and Forb’ez blamed those people for Selar’s death.

Kenrick could not begin to tell him how true that was.

So Forb’ez had overheard a conversation, repeated many times, voiced in shock. DeMassey was dead and greatly mourned, but also, there’d been a fight in the south and others had died.

A fight at Maitland, and amongst the dead was his own cousin, Andrew.

The words echoed about the room, dull and lifeless. His fingers felt numb and this taste swirled through his mouth of milk and sweet honey, some vague scent of spices on the air.

Andrew dead? How? Had DeMassey orders to protect Andrew? If so, why? From whom?

If not – then why had DeMassey been there in the first place?

‘Are these Malachi still in the Two Feathers?’

‘No, Sire,’ Forb’ez shook his head. ‘As far as I could tell, they planned to take the Baron’s body back to their home, wherever that is.’

Kenrick sat back. Why had the Malachi been there in the first place?

There was only one possible reason – Nash must have sent them, but why? To kill his cousin? To remove some imagined rival for the throne?

But to kill Andrew to do it? The boy was more harmless than his sickly milk drinks! What would be the point in killing him?

He got up from his chair and paced the length of the table, heading for the windows. He was missing something obvious.

‘Where is Nash?’ he demanded of his nearest guard.

‘Gone from the city, Sire.’

‘For how long?’

‘He did not say, Sire.’

Did not say? As though he answered to nobody – not even Kenrick?

Still, it was hard to believe that Andrew was dead, that anyone could want him dead, or even wish him harm. And if Nash
had
done something …

Kenrick turned from the window and gestured towards Forb’ez. ‘You will join my guard. I want twenty men saddled and ready to head south with me in an hour – but keep quiet about it. No fanfare, no warning. Can you manage that?’

The older man bowed deeply, obviously expecting just such a commission as reward for his information. ‘Of course, Sire. As you wish.’

*

Godfrey prayed as he rode, bitter, heartsick, hopeful prayers that did nothing to ease his conscience. He could almost feel the growing displeasure of the gods as he left the city, choosing the quickest route up through the hills and into a valley he’d never seen before, away from the trade roads, away from the river traffic. He could feel the gods in the wind which tore at him from every direction, biting into him with spring cold running deeper than any winter chill. He could hear it in the howl burning across his numb ears, snatching the breath from his mouth, freezing his hands on the reins, terrifying the skittish horse.

He shouldn’t be doing this. All the years he’d worked, all the
effort gone into keeping his position, into holding onto a place whereby he could work for the greater good without losing his own head, or that of anybody else. All that time, he’d been so sure it was the right path, because he’d felt it in his heart, known, from his first breath, what good was, what evil was, and which side he would always make his home on.

And now he was going to sacrifice one to fight the other. How had this happened? How had he allowed himself to believe that he, unlike anyone else, would come through this battle untainted by sin?

But what should he do? Turn back for the city, pretend he’d never read that letter, pretend that he didn’t know what would happen?

DeMassey had known what he was about, choosing Godfrey. Wise and perceptive. He’d known Godfrey would do this, get on his horse, hurry out here after memorising the directions, the story, the instructions, before burning them and crushing the ash left behind.

But even now, an hour into his journey, he still wasn’t sure …

He had to. If DeMassey was right – and he was, Godfrey was certain about that much – then he had no choice. This had to be done and Godfrey was the only man alive who could do this.

Nausea rumbled in his stomach, the same that had kept him awake all night, counting each shift of the secretive moon which had drifted behind one cloud after another, grey and distant. He’d swallowed one mouthful of water after another, praying his horror would die down and let him perform his task, but, fool that he was, he’d known all along that this horror would never leave him. It would stay until he’d done it, and remain with him to the end of his days.

The valley ended, turning him into a lane between fresh-sown fields which flattened out. Beyond were more low hills, trees on some of them, a house on another. He turned towards it, urging his horse to hurry, because for all that this was secret, there was no guarantee he had more than these minutes before he would be stopped.

His lips continued to move in prayer, but he could no longer focus on the words. He rode straight past the house and down the hill, heading for a stretch of ancient forest of gnarled trees swept by too many easterly winds.

Odd that this place should be so close, that DeMassey had taken the risk … But this place could simply be another in a long line of hiding places, designed to outwit Nash, to keep him from his greatest goal. For a moment last night, reading through DeMassey’s explanation, he
didn’t
believe. But a moment later, some scent in the air, some configuration of candlelight against the ceiling, had made him think of Robert, of how he’d stood amidst the ruins of Elita and admitted that it had been his power that had caused so much destruction in the space of a few moments.

Anything that could be imagined could be true.

And so he turned his horse into the forest, slowing, catching his breath, giving the animal its head to pick a path between knotty roots and mossy rocks covering the ground.

Not too much longer and he should be there. He looked once back the way he’d come, praying that he would still be alone on this journey. It was answered in the empty landscape behind him.

It was darker here, where some trees kept their leaves through winter. Godfrey found the stream. He crossed it, going up a steep slope littered with brown beech leaves scattered like thoughts across the barren ground. Further up the slope again, and then down the other side.

And there it was: the cottage, sitting alone. A thirsty stream of smoke rose from the chimney; a solid storehouse stood to one side, with a vegetable garden ranging out into a clearing in the trees, soaking up what sunlight this place could afford.

It all looked so peaceful.

Godfrey slid down from his horse and walked around the garden, approaching the house with great care, as he’d been warned. He left his mount to wander as he walked up to the door. He didn’t knock. Instead, the door opened for him, the shadows within initially hiding the face of the woman who
stared at him. Then she came forward, both hesitant and confident at the same time.

He knew her. Her face was one of extraordinary beauty, even now, hair of honey gold and eyes dark to contrast. She wore a gown of simple colours, though the quality of the cloth was high. The grace she had been so well-known for still shone from her eyes, visible in the gentle curve of her lips as she raised her eyebrows in question.