Durstan’s frown cleared. “The former King’s Man? Are you sure of it?”
“Yes, sire. I am sure. My brother made up a story that the soldier was our father – he is prone to such imaginings – so I knew the man’s face immediately. I pray you don’t think too harshly of my brother for his disobedience. He has formed an attachment to the soldier, I think, but I fear the man is close to death and in need of the most skilled healers.”
“And this man is to be found where?”
“He is lying in the deepest storeroom off the sculleries.”
The prelate nodded. “Very well. This information is valuable. Find Curwen and send him to attend me at once, with two priests to assist.”
“Yes, my lord.” She curtsied as low as she could without overbalancing, then hurried to do the prelate’s bidding. For the first time since Tresilian’s death something promised to be going right for her.
Vasic made no attempt to conceal his impatience as he watched Marwick approach along the length of the throne room. The old man had taken the death of his nephew and heir badly. But it had at least stirred him into action at court – and he was a more astute creature than his nephew ever had been. Stanton had traded a great deal too much on his looks. Old Marwick was made of sharper stuff, but the trouble was just that – he was old. Some of the younger nobles had distanced themselves from Vasic’s court since that disastrous wedding. Their excuses were fluent and florid: there was unrest on the borders of their estates; their proximity to the Marches meant they needed to keep a high profile at home; they were all as predictable as they were apologetic. And he had all their names on a list. He would not forget. And when he had overcome recent setbacks either they would step into line, or he would deal with them much as he had dealt with his own cousin. In the end they would be happy to comply with his wishes. Once the first example had been made, there would be little doubt as to the outcome. In the meantime he was watching their activities more closely than they realised. Oh yes, Vasic had been made for kingship. Tresilian hadn’t understood the half of it, with all his prosing on about the love of the people. Just like his fool father before him – and only look where that had ended: cut down quelling some minor rebellion in the east.
“Sire, pray forgive my tardiness.” Old Marwick’s voice was wheezy. He’d lost a deal of the excess weight he’d carried when he returned to court after his nephew’s death, but it had already taken its toll on his health. “I was unable to return immediately as the quarter-sessions were not complete. There has been some difficulty over tax collection, as I am sure you are already aware, and I felt it incumbent on me to ensure order was maintained and to make an example of the worst offenders.”
The old man’s voice caught every few words, and Vasic felt a growing urge to clear his own throat. Greater still was the urge to throttle the old fool, but, damn him, he needed every loyal man right now. Rumours about the Lady Alwenna’s death flew about the kingdom. Some said she had ascended to the Goddess’s side to receive her blessing and would return to free her people from the yoke of southern rule. Some said she had not died at all, that she was merely biding her time in the wilderness and waiting for the right moment to strike.
Whichever was the truth of it, Vasic was heartily sick of hearing her name. He doubted she could have survived the collapse of the tower. If she had survived, then there could be no accounting for the way her curse upon him had lifted. It was the only thing that made sense. She must have been trapped in the rubble for days before the end. Such a waste.
He realised Marwick had finally ended his monologue. He needed to keep these northerners sweet, and Marwick’s family was one of the oldest and most highly regarded. If they’d been a bit more fecund it might have made Vasic’s job rather easier. One old man could only stretch his influence so far. It remained to be seen how court loyalty would shift now Stanton was gone – the younger man’s sword arm would have been a more useful deterrent for malcontents than any amount of the old man’s prosing. But Vasic had to work with the materials he had to hand.
“And is that an end of it?” Vasic studied the old man; for a moment he appeared confused.
“An end of what, sire?”
An end to your endless prating, Vasic thought. But he kept his vexation in check. “Your difficulties in collecting our dues.”
“Time will tell, sire. I believe my response to have been adequate.”
“Northerners are legendary for their dislike of parting with taxes.” It was one of the reasons for the importance of the stronghold at Highkell. A stronghold that was in sorry state right now, thanks to the collapse of the tower and the road bridge with it.
“I cannot deny it, sire. But I have a suggestion to make, if I may be so bold?”
Vasic steepled his fingers and surveyed the old man just long enough to put him out of countenance. “I appointed you to my privy council so you might offer counsel. What is this suggestion?”
“Why, sire, if you will forgive my presumption. You may recall my youngest sister went in marriage to the Lord Convenor of the Outer Isles?”
Now there was something to catch his attention: the Outer Isles boasted a wealthy ruling family. Fishing fleets and merchant vessels that paid their way and more. “Can’t say I do recall. Your sister, you say?”
“My youngest sister. She was blessed late in life by the Goddess, but her daughter – my niece, and their only child – will be of marriageable age now. When last I saw her she was a fair child, very fair indeed. By all accounts she’s a beauty now.”
“Marriageable age and never yet been presented at court, Marwick? That’s lax. Or she’s not as fair as you’d have me believe – I have a memory for fair faces.”
“Sire, I am convinced you would not find her lacking. She was, I believe, unwell last year when they might have brought her to the mainland. I can assure you there was no slight intended.”
“And none taken, unless she turns out to be as ugly as a bucket of rusty nails.”
“Of course, sire, as her uncle I am far from impartial, but I can assure you she favours her mother’s side of the family for looks.”
And her father’s as far as wealth might be concerned? Such a paragon would be too good to be true. “Then she should without doubt be presented at court without delay.”
“I shall write to my sister immediately, sire.” Marwick hesitated, rubbing his hands together. “They are keen now, I understand, to make an eligible match for their daughter.”
Vasic steepled his fingers again and surveyed Marwick. It didn’t do to seem too eager. It helped a great deal that his last venture into matrimony – one which he’d anticipated all too keenly – had culminated in disaster. A man did not endure calamities like that without acquiring a certain amount of caution. “If they are keen as you say, then they will let the girl be seen at court that we may judge her worthiness.”
“Then I shall write to my sister, sire.”
“Write by all means. We will discuss her future as we find most fitting.”
“I thank you, sire.” Marwick bowed, his effort less than elegant thanks to lumbago, and backed away from the throne in suitably subservient position before Vasic waved him away.
Marriage. Vasic had developed a certain distaste for that particular institution. Perhaps a fresh-faced innocent from the furthest corner of the Peninsular Kingdoms might cure a jaded palate. And perhaps not. If the girl were unsuitable he would doubtless find other uses for her.
He watched Marwick’s retreating back thoughtfully. The fellow wasn’t so decrepit, acted older than his years. He might be glad of a young bride to lighten his twilight years. With his heir dead, he might be ready to reconsider his unmarried state. Vasic was acutely aware of the need to recover lost ground. A rash of marriages throughout the court might be just the thing to cement his new peace. And to secure funds for rebuilding the damaged bridge, at the very least.
Brett didn’t feel good about following his father like this, but sometimes it was the only way to find out what was happening. From the room he shared with his brothers, deep at the back of the cave, he’d heard his parents talking, long into the night. What with the snuffling of his younger brother and the snores of his older one, he’d not been able to catch many words, but he knew they hadn’t been in agreement over something. And he guessed that something was the Lady Alwenna.
She was the most exotic creature to have been seen at Scarrow’s Deep. He’d been thrilled beyond measure to learn she was an actual royal queen – and true heir to the throne of the Marches, too. His father would set her back on her throne and he, Brett, would become a knight of her court. She would smile upon him for his bravery…
He was pretty sure his stepmother didn’t agree with his father’s plans, and wouldn’t agree with his own plans if he told them to her. But for many years he’d simply elected not to tell her what was in his head, that way his dreams couldn’t be trampled under her proficient feet. Yet she wouldn’t have him travelling about the country with his father, learning the trade, either. He was old enough, and then some – plenty of his friends had been on the road with the caravans since they were twelve. Here he was nearly sixteen and knew nothing of what it truly meant to be a freemerchant. He knew his father went to places other freemerchants wouldn’t venture, and handled business other freemerchants saw no value in. That was why he’d brought the deposed queen here, after all. And Brett was burning to find out everything he could. About her, about his father’s world, about… Well, everything. Everything beyond the arid confines of Scarrow’s Deep.
Brett peered out from behind the pile of boulders. His father stood by their mother’s grave, his head bowed. Brett wondered if he was actually talking to her. His heart sank – it looked as if his father was not after all engaged on some mysterious business. He felt a twinge of guilt for eavesdropping on a private moment, but it was not long-lived as he heard the footfalls of someone approaching along the path from the settlement. Hastily he checked over his shoulder to be sure his hiding place was secure, and breathed a sigh of relief. One of the elders was making his way along the path, leaning on a wooden staff to keep the weight off an ageing hip.
The grizzled beard marked him out as old Brennan. Brett’s father raised his head and turned away from the grave.
“Ah, Brennan, I should have known you’d be the first.” Smiling, he walked over to meet Brennan on the path, and accompany him to the area where various stones had been set out as rudimentary seats. Marten helped him settle on a boulder, but remained standing himself, pacing restlessly. There was no sign of anyone else on the path. Were they waiting for more?
“Jenna said she would join us if she could, but Virrin’s time is close and she’s far from well.”
“I’m sorry, I did not know. May the Hunter and the Goddess together protect her.”
“Your good wishes are welcome, Marten, but your apology is unnecessary.”
“No, I should have known. I’ve been away too long. I’ve returned to find my children grown into full men I scarce recognise. And all for what, Brennan? Was it worth it?”
Brennan tilted his head. “The lady queen is safe, is she not? You hold an important card, however the gods deal the next hands.”
“But Brennan, was it worth it?” Marten turned about again, moving closer to the boulder where Brett crouched in hiding. “I took her into such a nest of vipers at the summer palace. I could not have lived with myself had I left her there. And even at the end I was fool enough to believe Tresilian might be persuaded to honour his word. No, I will admit to you things there went from bad to worse so swiftly I was caught badly unprepared. I count myself fortunate to have escaped with my life.”
“You know there are many who will say it is what you deserve for treating with the landbound.”
“But they still have all the advantages, Brennan. We cannot fight them by traditional means, so we must persuade them by other methods.”
“Again, there are those who will say we need neither fight nor persuade them, but simply carry on as we have been.”
“What, have they talked you round to their way of thinking in my absence?”
Brennan laughed. “I’m not such an old relic, Marten, as well you know. If we do not embrace change, the freemerchant ways will be as nothing in another generation. We will be swept away like sand from the rock face here, leaving no trace but the dust of our passing.”
Marten paused in his pacing to and fro. “Some would say that would be better than changing.”
“I never shall. And nor will you. Plenty agree change is necessary.”
“And have any agreed to have their children taught to wield an edged weapon?”
The old man shook his head. “You might have led them by example there.”
“Rina wasn’t keen. I would have taken the boys to Highkell to be fostered there a while, but… she wasn’t keen on that, either. I confess as things worked out it is as well they were safe here. My friend, it’s such a mess.”
“Rina will come round eventually. She always does – her bark’s worse than her bite.”
“Not this time. She thinks a broken queen is a poor gift to bring her after such a long absence. I cannot help but see her side of things.”
Brett had never heard his father sound defeated before. He was used to hearing laughter, larger-than-life plans and ambition to match. But he had a bit more insight into what his parents had been talking over in the night – and the tense time before his father had left the year before. There had been much talk about travelling to Highkell and seeing how the landbound lived there. He’d been bitterly disappointed when the time came for the caravan to depart and he and Malcolm were not part of it. Hearing that may have been Rina’s doing… No, he didn’t want to dwell on that.
His father and Brennan continued to speak in low voices, but a slight breeze picked up, sending sand across the ground and making just enough noise to prevent him hearing what they were saying.
Not long after that the two men made their way back up the slope towards the settlement together. Brett remained behind his boulder, brooding over what he had heard. If things had been different, he might have been at Highkell now. He might have been caught in the collapse of the tower. Or he might have been squire to some knight by now, and safe away from all that. So many ‘might have beens’. Instead, here he was, hiding behind a boulder at Scarrow’s Deep in order to get some hint of what was really going on. Almost sixteen years old and still treated like a child. He’d done everything that was required of him, proved himself responsible in every way he’d been given the opportunity, yet… Surely he was old enough to be told something of the adults’ concerns? And how would he prove himself worthy if he was never given the opportunity?