Rebel's Cage (Book 4) (15 page)

Ohler tutted and shook his head. ‘The Hermit of Shan Moss, Godfrey. Have you heard the latest?’

Only self-preservation stopped Godfrey from rolling his eyes. At one time in his life, he’d given serious credence to anything the Hermit might say. But there had been a Hermit in Shan Moss Forest for more than a century – the role obviously passed from one monk to another – and with some of the things that had emerged over the last few months, he was no longer sure he could take any of it with more than a grain of salt. However, the same could not be said of his Brothers, nor of the country at large, which absorbed whatever hope it could, while sliding down the hill of despair.

‘No, I’ve not heard the latest. What have I missed?’

‘You would do well to listen carefully,’ Francis answered, noting Godfrey’s scepticism. ‘There are history books being written on the accuracy of this man’s visions. Do you wish to be noted down for posterity as the priest who ignored the warnings?’

‘I would be quite happy,’ Godfrey sighed, ‘to avoid posterity’s notice altogether.’

Ohler held up his hands to silence both of them. ‘The Hermit has seen her. Seen the incarnation of Mineah coming
amongst us. Surely we should take that as a cause for celebration. That’s eleven times this year he’s seen her. I went back over the old records and there’s never been that many—’

‘Did he say where we would find her?’ Godfrey interrupted, his mind on the work he had to get done today. ‘Or what we should do when we … do?’

‘No. Oh, come, Godfrey, you know his visions aren’t that specific.’

‘But they are that convenient. Is that all? I do have a lot of—’ Francis was laughing at him. Ohler was frowning. ‘What?’

Francis turned to his fellow priest, ‘Godfrey is too busy to see the future for the present.’

‘Doesn’t it strike you as strange,’ Ohler said, getting to his feet, ‘that such signs and portents have filled this year? And now we have this directive from Kenrick?’

Godfrey froze, then made sure the heavy doors were closed. But Ohler continued without pause. ‘And there have been other visions, those only communicated to the Bishop – and us. The Hermit has had recurring visions of the Battle of Shan Moss, of the fight between …’ he shuddered, ‘between His Grace of Haddon and the Guildesman, Nash. It is obvious to those who listen that all these disturbances lead to one thing: sorcery. What I want to know is, what you think we should do about it.’

‘Do?’ Godfrey’s eyebrows shot up. Quite deliberately, he ignored his involvement with Murdoch and, by extension, Robert Douglas. He could not speak about it, even if he wanted to – which he didn’t. ‘I’m not sure we can
do
anything. At least, not unless we’re prepared to declare a holy war against sorcerers – and may I remind you that our King is one of them, and since none of us holds the rank of Bishop, I would very much like to hear exactly what you
think
we should do. Personally, I’m all for getting on with our work and being ready to act when the time comes.’

‘Spoken like a true patriot,’ Francis laughed. He got to his feet and put a hand on Ohler’s shoulder. ‘But he’s right. Let’s just be thankful that Brome is indisposed and not likely to
declare that holy war in a hurry. We don’t want to hasten that day any more than necessary.’

Ohler’s frown remained secure. ‘I trust you will both take this a little more seriously when the crowds start banging on the Basilica door, wanting answers.’

‘No doubt,’ Godfrey said, ‘I’ll be out there with them.’

*

Osbert broke a last piece of bread between his fingers and dipped it into the milky porridge. There were pieces of apples and other fruits to sweeten the mixture and though many thought this was an invalid’s breakfast, the truth was, Osbert preferred it to anything else.

As his servant refreshed his cup, Osbert popped the piece of bread into his mouth and sat back, pressing his fingers into a square of raw linen. Before him stood one of his most trusted men. He had too few these days, but still, five had to be considered a luxury. The man waited, travel-stained and weary, his poor clothing at odds with the sumptuous furnishings of Osbert’s study.

Osbert swallowed and said, ‘And Nash hasn’t left Ransem Castle since then?’

‘No, my lord.’

Nodding, Osbert waved a hand at his servant to give the man a cup of something hot. Then he got to his feet and wandered towards the window which faced the castle gate. Flags snapped viciously in the same wind which battered his casements and gave the room an edgy chill. Between the flags were stationed long pikes, upon which were spitted the heads of men executed over the last year for treason – or rather, men accused of treason, which wasn’t the same thing at all.

At one time, to be accused of being a sorcerer would have brought such a fate – despite the fact that there had been no way to prove such a thing back then. Nowadays, a man could be a traitor without so much as a shred of evidence, and despite his protestations of innocence, the testimony of both friends and enemies, his head would still appear upon a pike, his fate to stand witness to further executions, his purpose to warn others against trusting the Crown.

Bitter lessons for a people trapped in a bitter season.

‘Tell me,’ Osbert continued, turning from the bleak sight back to the warmth of his study, ‘What do you think Nash is up to?’

‘I could not say for certain, my lord,’ Lyle replied. ‘So much of what he does we cannot observe, and what we can observe often makes no sense.’

‘That’s true, but is that enough to cause a rift between Nash and Kenrick?’

Pursing his lips, Lyle said, ‘Alone, no. At least, not yet.’

Osbert nodded. He had no desire to plot against Nash – at least, not directly – but still, survival required that he keep tabs on the man who held his life in his hands.

‘My lord, you do realise there could be some trouble over this change in our laws?’

‘Have you heard anything I need to do something about?’

‘Not exactly. However, I have heard many whisperings. Some about you, some about the King. Many of our brothers are unhappy with the situation.’

‘As are we all, Lyle. You will keep me informed if you hear anything else.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘Very well,’ Osbert waved his hand in dismissal. ‘You may go and get yourself something to eat. Get some decent rest before you go back – and try to find something warmer to wear, will you? You’ll be no good to me if you turn to ice while you’re on watch. And return to me tomorrow. I have something I would like your opinion on.’

‘As you wish, my lord.’ Lyle bowed and left the room, closing the door behind him. Absently, Osbert returned to his window and gazed once more at the bodiless heads.

They’d all had ambitions to survive as well, hadn’t they? They’d all believed in their own ability to remain one or more steps ahead of the King, sure that such a fate could not possibly befall
them.

And perhaps that’s why they’d all died. Osbert, however, believed exactly the opposite. In some part of his mind, he
knew
that fate awaited him, regardless of what he did to avoid
it. The best that he could hope for was to ride the fear and put the day off for as long as possible.

He’d lived with the fear so long now he wasn’t sure he could breathe without it.

*

Godfrey lowered himself to his knees and clasped his hands together, allowing his eyes to lift towards the trium high on the chapel wall. Against the pale stone the ebony was stark, the twisted frame of the triangle linked forever to the gods Serinleth, Mineah and the evil Broleoch.

Even thinking that last name made him shiver. Superstition maintained that to utter the evil one’s name was to invoke his influence upon a man’s life. There was just enough of the old soul in Godfrey to resist the temptation to try the theory.

Thick candles placed upon the altar flickered and danced, creating weird shadows on the trium, suggesting the carving could, given the right provocation, actually come to life. Incense drifted in the air, counterpoint to the gentle murmurings behind him as each of the Guildesmen finished off their private prayers before leaving.

Lately there had been more of them attending mass each day. While expected to be duly pious and respecting the Church, the Guilde had no specific rules governing individual worship. Even so, as Guilde Chaplain, Godfrey said mass every morning and prayers every evening and made himself available for confession one day a week. His duties in the Guilde Chapel had always been light – until recently. Now, fifty or sixty Guildesmen resident in Marsay would come to each service he conducted, more than twice the usual number. In their faces he could see concern, fear, confusion. He could only treat them with compassion. Their trust, their faith in the Guilde had been shaken to the foundations and too many of them floundered, not knowing where to turn.

Not that Godfrey had any answers for them. More than five hundred years ago, the old Empire and the Guilde had been allies with the Cabal sorcerers. Back then, times had changed too, bringing the sides together in a great battle on the plains of Alusia. The Empire had won and handed the Guilde its sacred
duty to the people: to crush all sorcery, to put to death anyone found to have such powers. Sorcerers could not be trusted. Their powers were evil; those who would wield them, evil incarnate. Since that victory on the battlefield, the Guilde had lived up to its sacred duty, right or wrong.

And now that duty was gone, extinguished by a brush of ink upon vellum, propelled by the hand of the Proctor, Osbert, forced there by the King.

Godfrey could well understand the confusion of these men. He felt more than a little of it himself. Though he was under similar orders, so far Bishop Brome had procrastinated about abolishing Church laws against sorcery – an oddity itself, considering what a slave Brome had been to Kenrick on all other matters, and Selar before him. That was, after all, why McCauly had been imprisoned and Brome put in his place.

With practice born of many years, he framed words, let them fall silently from his lips, prayers to Mineah and Serinleth, prayers for peace, for calm, for wisdom. Prayers for those who could not be here, fulfilling the roles they’d been born to, those like Aiden McCauly.

Prayers for deliverance.

It must come, one day.

Whispering one final prayer for Robert’s health and safety, Godfrey signed the trium over his forehead and shoulders, then got to his feet. Once again, he clasped his hands together, allowing his vestments to drop back into place. Only then did he turn for the sacristy. He could hear the men behind him climbing to their feet, the hum of conversation building as they left via the western door.

He could easily guess what they were saying.

‘Archdeacon?’

Godfrey paused, feeling something itch across his skin. Taking a breath to ready himself, he turned towards the dark alcove whence the voice had come. A figure, framed in dappled light threading through the stained-glass windows above. The man stepped forward, a grim smile on his face, a veiled threat in his demeanour. Godfrey knew this man and his stomach clenched with fear.

‘Good morning, my lord.’ He was ridiculously proud of the way his voice remained steady as he drew himself up, prepared to face this new challenge.

This man was a Malachi.

Baron Luc DeMassey was around Godfrey’s own age, and they were about the same height – but there the similarities ended. Where Godfrey had spent his life serving the gods and the Church, DeMassey had but one master: Nash.

‘Can I help you?’ Godfrey added, determined not to show his fear to this man. He could not be intimidated by the rich clothing and natural good looks and instead concentrated on the texture of the dark blue eyes, and how the light on his auburn hair turned it almost a blood-red.

Or was that just Godfrey’s imagination?

‘I hope that you can help me, Father.’ DeMassey’s voice was quiet and brisk. He came a step closer, then continued, ‘I wish to make confession.’

Godfrey blanched and swallowed hard. DeMassey must have read his reaction correctly as he immediately held up his hand. ‘Father, I have a need of your priestly services. I am
asking
for your help.’

‘Are you telling me that if I refuse, you’ll leave me alone?’

DeMassey raised his eyebrows in surprise, then slowly shook his head. ‘I thought to ask you. I had believed it was your duty as much as anything else. Of course, the choice is yours.’

Since the Malachi said nothing else, made no other attempt at persuasion, Godfrey had no choice but to agree.

‘But not here. I would be more comfortable speaking within the Basilica, if that is permitted.’

Not entirely sure what was being asked of him, Godfrey nodded again and turned for the door. DeMassey followed behind.

*

Godfrey picked up the taper and lit two candles standing on the prie-dieu. He signed the trium in the air once before turning to face the Malachi Baron, not believing for one moment that this was a genuine and penitent confession he was about to hear. Men had been known to use the confessional for their own
purposes before, and the Malachi were not known for their overwhelming piety.

Of course, they might find other ways to show their devotion, ways that Godfrey wasn’t aware of. Robert had told him too little about these people, only enough to ensure his survival. However, how much could Robert know when the Malachi were his sworn enemies?

Godfrey cleared his thoughts. He picked up the purple stole he’d left on the prie-dieu, kissed it gently, then placed it over his shoulders, symbolic of the seal of the confessional. DeMassey stood waiting for him, hands clasped together in front of him, no longer perhaps as arrogant as usual, but certainly not penitent.

‘Very well, my lord. Do you wish to sit? Or kneel?’

DeMassey studied him for a moment, then shook his head slightly. He turned and waved a hand over the door in a gesture Robert had once explained was a warning. DeMassey would know if anyone approached.

The Malachi then reached inside his jacket and extracted a slim leather pouch, stiff-sewn up two sides and dressed in dark green wax worn and thick with age. Whatever rested inside was expected to last. Solemnly DeMassey laid the pouch on the prie-dieu before Godfrey, his fingers remaining on it until the last. Then his gaze lifted and he smiled a little.