Rebel's Cage (Book 4) (18 page)

Godfrey raised his hands, as though in prayer. ‘Forgive me, Sire, but even if he started this night, it would take more than
a week to change those laws in such a way as to make them legal.’

‘Very well,’ Kenrick snapped, his fury only abated, not extinguished. ‘How long
will
it take?’

Swallowing hard, Godfrey answered. ‘To make the changes would require at least two weeks. In order for them to be legal, they must be distributed to every church, abbey and monastery in Lusara, with a fixed date noted therein.’

‘Therefore?’

‘The laws could be in place by Caslemas, Sire.’ He couldn’t help it. Though he choked on the last words, there was still some part of him which rejoiced in the capitulation. Did he want the responsibility taken from him? Did he want to be forced into this, so his conscience wouldn’t plague him in his old age?

Or was that part of him rejoicing because he’d consented to undoing an injustice that had stood unchallenged for over five hundred years?

Kenrick saw only his own goals. ‘Very well. Caslemas it is – and no excuses. Osbert, when Brome’s documents are ready to go out, I want you to send a letter with them.’

‘To what end, Sire?’

The King paused, his gaze drifting off towards the other end of the gallery for a moment as a small smile graced his scarred features. ‘You will write on my behalf. Since it will no longer be illegal to possess sorcerer’s abilities, I wish to welcome to my court any man or woman who has such talents.’

‘What?’

Godfrey stared, but Kenrick didn’t seem to hear Osbert’s strangled response, nor see the way the man’s face flushed clean of colour.

‘Word it as genuinely as you can,’ the King continued, gesturing to a waiting serving boy to bring him some wine. ‘I want it clear that any sorcerer wishing to enter into my service will be well rewarded. What’s wrong, Osbert?’

‘Sire … I …’ Osbert’s mouth opened and closed, sounds issuing forth without form.

Kenrick took the wine brought to him, sipping on it.
Osbert’s rapidly contained shock was little more than a momentary inconvenience. ‘Look at your maps, Proctor. Go back to your library and pull out maps of the golden era of the Empire. Back then, every petty Prince, every King, every Guildehall had its own sorcerer. We lived together in harmony once before; I don’t see why we cannot now – especially as I am in a perfect position to bring about such peaceful agreement. Or would you deny me the opportunity to make Lusara as great as any Empire?’

Osbert’s expression might have been carved out of a block of wood. ‘No, Sire. Of course not.’

‘Good. You’ll write the letter and have it to me by tomorrow night. We will send copies with the same couriers who will deliver Brome’s law changes to every town in the country. That way, nobody will be able to say I am offering positions at court to sorcerers without the blessing of the Church. I charge you, Archdeacon, with ensuring the Bishop carries out my instructions. That is all.’

*

Osbert had bowed and backed away, turned and fled down the gallery before he realised he’d been holding his breath. At the bottom of the stairs, he turned and said to Godfrey, ‘Serin’s teeth!’

Godfrey didn’t react immediately. Instead, he looked back up the way they’d come and began to walk. His stance, his rigid shoulders spoke of a man close to the end of his tether – the exact opposite of the impression he’d given in front of Kenrick. Osbert knew this could only mean trouble, but within Kenrick’s castle was not the place to discuss it.

Glad to be out of it, Osbert walked alongside Godfrey as they wound their way through the castle and out into the main courtyard. There, Osbert’s guards awaited him. By the time they were clear of the door, the two men had fallen in behind and Osbert finally regained the power of speech.

‘Brome still refuses to make the changes?’

‘You’re asking me about Brome when you’ve just been told to betray the entire Sacred Trust of the Guilde?’ Godfrey said in disgust.

‘And what do you suggest I do to stop it?’

‘Hah! You sound like you don’t want to – which we both know is a lie.’

‘If I don’t give him what he wants, he’ll just find another who will.’

‘And you can still ask about Brome as though you care about his fate?’ Godfrey snapped back.

Osbert waved his arm towards the Sunset Tower, a black gash against the night sky, buried within the depths of the castle wall. ‘Look around you, Godfrey. Up there in cages hang the remains of good men arrested for no good reason. Do you think I want to see
any
more suffer the same fate?’ Osbert dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘He’s refusing to make the changes, yes?’

‘That’s right.’ Godfrey replied, his voice hard, his face set.

‘How are you going to get around that?’

‘Why? Have you a suggestion?’

‘Forgive me, you’re right. Church business is Church business. But I am curious. I recall, many years ago, a Guilde Governor in the depths of trouble, and a careful priest who offered the comfort of a listening ear. That Guildesman would now like to offer the same in return.’

Godfrey grunted in something that sounded like bitter laughter. ‘As I remember it, that Governor chose not to reveal his problems to the priest.’

‘Have we not come some distance since then?’

‘You know as well as I do what will happen if those laws are not changed by Caslemas. You heard the King. You saw what—’

‘Then my advice, if you care to take it, is to use whatever means necessary to ensure Brome begins work tonight.’

‘And what if I am not able to convince him? What then?’

Osbert waited until they’d passed through the castle gates before putting his hand on Godfrey’s arm, halting the priest in his stride. ‘The King’s Council has no power to halt this. Kenrick has deliberately stacked the numbers so that he has absolute control, so there is no level of appeal. You have no choice. The laws against sorcery
must
be changed.
Forget Brome’s safety – Kenrick has now made it
your
responsibility!’

Godfrey looked at him with an unreadable expression.

Osbert wanted to laugh – would have done, if the entire subject didn’t make him sick to his stomach. ‘I find it amazing Brome has held out so long.’

‘Why? Because you thought yourself so much stronger and yet you gave in without a fight? Just as you did tonight?’

‘What do you want from me? Do you want to see me sacrifice my life for the sake of a principle?’

‘What would you have done if Vaughn had still been alive today, in Brome’s position? You know what a harridan Vaughn was on the subject of sorcery. With Kenrick breathing down his neck, Vaughn would have refused to make the required changes and dared the King to do something about it. So if Vaughn was still alive—’

‘We don’t know he’s dead. He vanished, remember?’

‘But if Vaughn was here and he was asking you for guidance, what would you tell him? You hated him. Would you let him die, or advise him to capitulate?’

‘I would have told him to make the changes. Just as you have done with Brome.’

‘You don’t know I told him that.’

‘No?’ Osbert pulled in a sharp breath. ‘Just as I don’t know that you secretly hope for the Outlaw to bring an army against Kenrick one day, destroy Nash and relieve us all of this problem once and for all?’ Osbert paused to watch the expression on Godfrey’s face change so subtly, nobody else would have noticed. Then he went on, ‘I received word last night that one of my grain shipments headed for Mayenne was waylaid somewhere near Shan Moss, vanished into thin air. I can only assume that the Outlaw had something to do with it – but I dare not go to Kenrick with my suspicions. We can wait all our lives for Robert Douglas to do something. I don’t know what he plans or how soon he intends to act. I can tell you the people will be behind him – they always have been, damn them. But what I would really like to know is, why is he taking so damned long? When we are being forced into one terrible
position after another – and you and I are arguing about something we agree on?’

‘Do we agree?’ Godfrey’s voice dropped to a murmur and, for the first time, Osbert became aware of the fact that they were standing in the middle of the square and another light drift of snow had begun to fall. None of that disguised the fact that Godfrey was expecting him to answer, to decide once and for all whether he was prepared to take the Douglas’s side or not.

But how could he, when he had no more chance of survival at that man’s hands than with Nash?

Instead of replying, he held up his hands, beginning to feel the cold. ‘I’m sorry, Godfrey, the issue remains the same. You must convince Brome to change the laws. I strongly urge you to go now and do exactly that.’

Godfrey opened his mouth to speak, but an enraged voice from behind them bellowed, echoing through the stone square. ‘Traitor!’

Stunned, Osbert could not move in time to avoid the blow that fell towards him from his own guard, but Godfrey could. With one swift shove, Osbert went flying. By the time he scrambled to his knees, he caught a flash of steel, three bodies engaged in battle and a dark lump sprawled close by. Scurrying towards it, Osbert carefully reached out a hand to roll Godfrey over. His face was too pale, but after a moment, the eyes flickered open.

Another bellow of rage and Osbert looked up. His two guards were fighting with a third man, an expert swordsman by the look of him, except that …

‘By the gods,’ Godfrey said as he scrambled to his feet, reaching to Osbert for a steadying hand. Even as they watched, one guard stumbled and fell. The other quickened the pace of his blows, but their saviour had weight and skill on his side. With a sickening thud, the second guard fell to his death. In the silence, Godfrey spoke again. ‘DeMassey?’

The man turned slowly. He knelt down and wiped his blade on the cloak of one of the dead guards. ‘I heard them talking of assassination before you came out. I wasn’t sure if they were
serious or not and thought it best to follow them.’ DeMassey got to his feet, his gaze flickering over Osbert, to pause on Godfrey. ‘I suggest you get to your apartments now, my lords. Some nights these streets aren’t safe.’

With that, DeMassey sketched a short bow, then turned and headed back towards the castle.

‘In Serin’s name, what is
he
doing saving our necks?’

‘I don’t know,’ Godfrey murmured, still watching the man as he walked away. ‘But I can make a good guess. You do realise he heard every word you said?’

Osbert swallowed hard. ‘I … oh, hell!’

‘There’s your door, Osbert. Go inside and start looking to your own advice.’ Godfrey began walking towards the Basilica.

‘What are you going to do?’ Osbert called after him.

‘I’m going to bed,’ Godfrey replied, without pausing. ‘It’s been a very long day.’

*

Godfrey got inside the door of his room, turned the key in the lock and rested back on it, drawing in breaths deep and cleansing – or at least, that was the plan. In reality, they did nothing to ease his fright, nor the worry which now coursed around his insides like a whirlpool, stirring up too many troubles he’d hoped never to see again.

These were the times the Church needed a man like Aiden McCauly as its Bishop. His courage, his intelligence, his character was something the Church lacked terribly, and try as he might, Godfrey knew he was not the man to step into that breach.

But McCauly was not here. He was somewhere safe, over the border, where Kenrick couldn’t find him and execute him. Some place where he worked alongside Robert.

What would McCauly make of this dilemma? Godfrey had raged against Osbert for his path of expedience – but wasn’t
he
demanding Brome do the same thing, for much the same reasons?

So much for all his grand principles now.

Godfrey’s gaze drifted, for comfort, over the simple furnishings in his room, the clean lines and plain designs he had
chosen deliberately for their ability to help him think without clutter. Finally, as though directed there by some unknown force, he found himself looking at his desk, at the pile of books on one corner, the papers on the other, the ink stand and the chair behind.

Without thought now, he went straight to it and sat down. He pulled a sheet of fresh paper towards him, dipped his pen in the ink and set about writing a letter to Robert.

By Caslemas, Kenrick had said. By midwinter, the King planned to start gathering young sorcerers from around the country, offering them gold and a place in his court in exchange for their skills to be at his service. What Kenrick would want with them Godfrey could only imagine – but he knew it couldn’t be anything good.

His only hope was that he could get a warning to Robert in time for him to do something to stop it.

Bishop Aiden McCauly remained kneeling as the last notes of the
Te Deum
floated up into the roof of St Julian’s Chapel. Light flooded through the smooth-arched windows high above, but it was more the ancient stone of worn rose red that gave this place its atmosphere of welcome. Soft incense still hung in the air and despite the winter chill, this place held a warmth he hadn’t found anywhere else.

He’d been made to feel very welcome by the Brothers here. The Abbot of St Julian’s had given him his own apartments, allowed him access to libraries and scribes, and accorded him all the respect due his rank. It didn’t seem to matter to the Abbot that Aiden was not a native of Flan’har and would one day – hopefully – return to Lusara. In return, the Abbot merely asked that Aiden not make any attempt to sway the monks on the touchy and sometimes volatile subject of sorcery. So far, this request had been easy to fulfil.

Of course, Aiden knew he was here largely because Flan’har’s Duke, Grant Kavanagh, had insisted upon it. Even so, Aiden
had only ever felt at home in this place, and every day said prayers of thanks that he’d been so fortunate in his exile.

As monks filed out of the quire in solemn procession, serene in their quiet, dignified faith, Aiden’s gaze followed them. Had he once appeared so sure? Had he once been so arrogant?