Fortress of Mist (5 page)

The Earl of York had departed with his twenty men to the main battle camp—a half-day’s ride east—to a valley adjoining the territory of Magnus. Thomas now paced in the privacy of his room of slumber on the highest floor of the castle keep.

Every morning for seven years, Thomas had woken to one thought: conquer Magnus. Before her death, his mother had given him the knowledge to conquer the mighty kingdom. And a reason to do it.

Every night for seven years, the same thought had been his last before entering sleep: conquer Magnus.

War. Again.

Unlike the earlier battle for Magnus, it would be impossible to succeed without a single loss of life.
Will I be numbered among the dead? Or alive, will I see through the mist that seems to surround the strange symbol of evil that the Earl of York wears on a ring of gold?

The Scots, perhaps, would be an easier enemy to conquer than others hidden in the kingdom itself. Thomas clenched his jaw with new determination. One answer, he suddenly realized, might wait for him in the dungeon.

“Our prisoner fares well?” Thomas asked the soldier guarding the dank passageway to the cells.

“As well as can be expected. As ordered, each day he is granted an hour of sunshine. But he speaks to no one.” The guard’s voice held faint disapproval at such kind treatment.

Thomas knew a proper lord would discipline a guard who, even in tone, questioned orders. But Thomas smiled instead. “Tell me, I pray, who is crueler? The oppressor, or the oppressed people who, when finally free, punish the oppressor with equal cruelty?”

The guard blinked, the movement barely seen in the dim light of smoky torches. “The oppressor, my lord. ’Tis plain to see.”

“Is it plain?” Thoughtfulness softened Thomas’s voice. “The oppressor, cruel as he may be, cannot feel the effects of his methods. The oppressed, however, know full well the pain of cruelty. To give the same in return, knowing its evilness, strikes me as the crueler conduct.”

Slow understanding crossed the guard’s face. “Your own time in the dungeon, my lord, gives you this wisdom?”

“Yes,” Thomas said. “You will continue, of course, to ensure a fresh bedding of straw each day?”

“Certainly, my lord.” This time the guard’s voice reflected full approval.

Thomas waited for his eyes to adjust to the hazy torchlight beyond the guard. He then continued behind the guard through the narrow passageway.

The same rustling of bold rats, the same feeling of cold air that clung damply. Thomas hated the dungeon, hated that he had need to use it.

There were four cells with iron-barred doors. Another guard stood outside the only occupied room, containing the sole prisoner of Magnus, the candle maker who had attacked Isabelle to stop her from uttering secrets that Thomas wanted so badly.

Isabelle. Who had died in front of his eyes. Yet had appeared in his bedchamber as if by magic.

“I wish to see the candle maker,” he told the guard.

The clanking of keys, and the screech of a wooden door protesting on ancient hinges.

“Wait outside,” Thomas said to the guards as he stepped into the cell. He felt the same despair he did each day as he faced the prisoner there. So much to know, so little given.

The prisoner was a sharp reminder of the dawns that Thomas faced alone when he rose to take what little peace he could find in the early hours, when the wind had yet to rise on the moors and the cry of birds carried from far across the lake surrounding Magnus. It was the time of day when Thomas wondered about the prisoner and searched what answers he’d given for any clues to the secret of Magnus. Now, inside the candle maker’s cell, Thomas took stock of his queries and wondered which ones the prisoner might be able to answer.

An old man once cast the sun into darkness and directed me here from the gallows where a knight was about to die, falsely accused. The old man knew Isabelle was a spy. The old man knew my dream of conquering Magnus. Who was that old man? How did he know? Will he ever reappear?

A valiant and scarred knight befriended me and helped me win the castle that once belonged to his own lord. Then departed. Why? Did he do so at the request of the old man?

A crooked candle maker remains in the dungeons of Magnus, refusing
to speak, held here because of his need to silence Isabelle. What conspiracy was she about to reveal?

And what fate has fallen upon dear Katherine? How is she able to survive, she with her horribly scarred face hidden behind bandages and whose heart of goodness helped me win Magnus? Who will help her, care for her?

And my books, filled with priceless knowledge, able to give a young man the power to conquer kingdoms. How will I bring them safely to the castle?

And what is the secret of Magnus?

The man who might know, Geoffrey the candle maker, now sat against the far wall, chained to the rough stone blocks. He was a tiny man, with little rounded shoulders and a wrinkled, compact face. He grinned in mockery at his visitor.

Thomas did not waste a moment in greeting. “Answer truth, and you shall be free to leave this cell.”

The mocking grin only became wider.

Thomas began his usual questions. “Why did you and the girl Isabelle share the strange symbol?”

The usual reply. Nothing.

“She spoke of a conspiracy before you attempted to stop her through death,” Thomas continued. He was not going to tell the prisoner about his midnight visit from Isabelle, real or not. “Who conspires and what hold do they have upon you to keep you in silence?”

Only the dripping of condensed water from the ceiling broke the silence that always followed a question from Thomas.

“Your answers no longer matter,” Thomas shrugged. “Just today, I have pledged loyalty to the Earl of York.”

Thomas watched the prisoner carefully to see how the news affected him.

Geoffrey laughed. Thomas had not expected that. Yet a reaction to give hope. Either the Earl of York did not belong to those who held the symbol, or the candle maker excelled as an actor.

“The earl has as little hope as do you when already the forces of darkness gather to reconquer Magnus,” Geoffrey snorted. “You are fools to think Magnus will not return to—” The candle maker snapped his mouth shut.

“To …?” Thomas pressed. It was as much progress as he had made since capturing Magnus.

That mocking grin shone again in the flickering light.

“To those of the symbol,” Geoffrey said flatly. “You shall be long dead by their hands, however, before those behind it are revealed to the world.”

T
homas stood at the rear of the cathedral in the center of Magnus. Late-afternoon sun warmed the stone floor and etched shadows into the depths of the curved stone ceiling above.

Once, during the anguish of doubt and uncertainty shortly after he’d conquered Magnus, Thomas had finally broken a vow to reject God and the men who served Him. That morning, he had entered the church and found a man who could hear and answer his questions. The questions Thomas had asked that morning, and the answers that been had provided in return, proved a strange but enjoyable beginning for a friendship. Thomas had made it a habit to return frequently for companionship and wisdom.

He waited until the man approached near enough to hear him speak softly.

“I leave tomorrow,” Thomas told the man. “I wish to bid you farewell.”

The gray-haired elderly man leaned against his broom. “Yes. I have heard. You will lead the men of Magnus into battle against the Scots.”

“The procession leaves at dawn—” Thomas stopped himself, then blurted, “How is it you knew?”

Gervaise laughed. Deep and rich. His voice matched the strong lines of humor that marked his old skin. His eyes, however, had prompted Thomas to immediately trust the man at their first meeting.
They held nothing of the greed too often seen in priests and monks who took advantage of their power among superstitious peasants, fearful of God’s wrath.

“Thomas, you should not be amazed to discover that men find it crucial to put their souls in order before any battle. I have seen a great number enter the church today for confessions. Many of whom I haven’t seen in months.”

Not for the first time did Thomas wonder at the wisdom of the older man, who served instead of seeking servants.

“Again the disbelief,” he chided with a wry smile, mistaking Thomas’s amazement for doubt. “Simple as these men may be at times, they have the wisdom to acknowledge our heavenly Father. Someday, Thomas, the angels will much rejoice to welcome you to the fold.”

“Ah, but you well know I am not convinced there are angels.”

The smile curved farther upward in response. “Despite the legend you so aptly fulfilled the night you conquered Magnus?”

“Gervaise …”

“ ‘Delivered on the wings of an angel, he shall free us from oppression!’ I shall never forget the power of that chant, Thomas. The entire population gathered beneath torchlight by the instructions of a single knight. The appearance of a miracle on white angel wings. Yet you yourself doubt angels?”

“Gervaise!” Thomas tried to inject anger into his voice. And failed.

“Tomorrow you’ll be gone, Thomas. Have you any other miracles to astound the Scots?”

“Gervaise! Are you suggesting I arranged the miracle of angel wings?”

“Of course. Our heavenly Father has no need to stoop to such garish dramatics.”

Thomas sighed. “You would be kind to keep that belief to yourself. As it is, I am able to hold much sway over the rest of Magnus despite my youth. Leaving this soon would be much less safe for me were it otherwise. I do want to be welcomed back as rightful lord.”

“Rightful lord? This is indeed news. Has it to do with a certain visitor who entered Magnus earlier in the day?”

“Little escapes you,” Thomas commented, then explained much of his conversation with the earl. But Thomas did not mention the symbol, or his fear of it. Some secrets could not yet be shared.

Gervaise listened carefully. When Thomas finished, the elderly man spoke with simple grace. “And what of your prisoner, my friend? Has Geoffrey revealed why he bludgeoned the former lord’s daughter?”

Thomas shook his head. He could not escape the ache that hit him when he was reminded of what he had once felt for Isabelle, and how searing her betrayal had been. Would he see her again?

“Time will answer all,” Gervaise said. “It was kind of you to visit during a day that demands many preparations.”

“I could not have done otherwise,” Thomas replied. The truth in his words surprised him.

Gervaise walked with Thomas to the cathedral doors. “I shall continue praying for you, Thomas. I will rejoice with all of heaven when you accept His most holy presence in your life.”