Rebel's Cage (Book 4) (39 page)

Of course, there was no reason he couldn’t do both, was there?

Andrew Eachern, Duke of Ayr, Earl of Elita. Only fourteen years old, the same age Kenrick had been when Nash had bargained for their alliance. While Kenrick had been brought up with his ruthless father and learned many wily skills along that road, Andrew was being brought up by his aunt and uncle. Bella and Lawrence had taken the boy in and treated him as their own. All the reports he’d gathered of Andrew told him of
the boy’s gentle nature, his pleasant demeanour, his earnestness in keeping the comfort of those around him.

A
good
boy, just as his mother, the Ally would produce. But he’d been damned difficult to spy on. Nash had sent people down to Maitland to work, to report back to him – and every single one of them had, within a week, lost their positions for one reason or another. There had never been any unpleasantness, no strong words or threats. No accusations. Often there were even attempts made to find these people places elsewhere. But whatever the cause, Nash, despite all that, had no spies inside of Maitland Manor. Instead, he’d had to make do with watching the boy when he came to court.

Nash pulled up a chair and sat, shifting his useless arm so that it rested on the table before him, reminding him.

A dozen and more times over the years, Nash had tested Andrew. If the boy had any powers, they were so well buried, they’d never see the light of day. But he was sure there was nothing there, despite the odd way Andrew had behaved the day he’d first met Kenrick, as though he’d known Kenrick had abilities.

How hard would it be to take that good boy and turn him into the tool that Nash needed? How quickly could he do it? And what would happen if he did? Would his mother emerge from the void into which she’d disappeared?

Oh, yes. She would do that and more. But if he was ready for her …

The risks were incalculable. As were the rewards.

Nash stood abruptly, kicking his chair back out of the way. ‘Taymar!’

The young man arrived within seconds, breathless and ready. ‘Yes, Master?’

‘DeMassey and Dusan left with the King, didn’t they?’

‘Yes, Master.’

‘How many unBonded Malachi have we here now?’

‘A working pair, Master.’

That had been DeMassey’s doing, his blatant display of distrust. Though Nash had vowed not to use Malachi to regenerate, DeMassey had ordered his people only to work in
pairs, believing that in his current state, Nash would be unable to overcome two Malachi in one go, in order to get what he wanted.

An illusion, like so many other things. One he was about to shatter.

He’d run out of time.

‘I have reports here that there has been some anti-Guilde protests in a town north of here. Send the pair to investigate.’

‘Yes, Master.’

‘Then send my four best Bonded Malachi after them. I want it to look like the pair were killed in a fight with the townspeople. I want them brought back here, unconscious and bound – but not drugged. Understand?’

He looked up to find Taymar with a faint frown on his face – a rare occurrence. ‘I understand, Master. But—’

‘But what?’ Nash turned and faced him.

‘If the Baron DeMassey discovered you have regenerated using Malachi blood …’

‘These two are not powerful enough to help me fully regenerate, only enough to heal these wounds, to allow me to move around. DeMassey may suspect, but he will never know, and without being certain, he will say and do nothing about it. But regardless of what he thinks, I can no longer afford to sit around here watching things from afar. I will heal these stinking wounds and then I will move my base back to court, where I can keep a closer eye on the young King. Once you have given DeMassey’s men their orders, you can begin making preparations for moving me back to court.’

Wide-eyed, Taymar asked, ‘When will you leave?’

Nash sank into his chair, almost enjoying the pain and weariness this ancient and battered body forced him to endure. But in a few hours, he would push risk aside and take what he needed from men who trusted far more than they should.

‘As soon as I have absorbed the blood of the Malachi.’ Nash smiled. ‘Prepare to leave in four days.’

The wan morning light filtered through rain-speckled windows to splash over the piles of paper and vellum, books and journals stacked on Godfrey’s desk, giving them a dirty grey colour that only served to feed his distaste for what he was doing. Doing his best to ignore it, as he had been doing for the last few weeks, he dipped his pen in the ink once more and finished transcribing the next line.

A quiet knock on his door interrupted further work. He got up and opened it. Archdeacon Francis stood there, a questioning look on his face, a tray of cups and fresh, steaming brew.

‘I thought you could use this.’

‘Thank you.’ Godfrey stepped back to let the priest in, then closed the door. Francis placed the tray on the table before the fire, poured a cup then handed it to Godfrey.

‘I noticed you missed morning mass again.’

Godfrey took a sip and headed straight back to his desk. ‘I’m behind schedule. I don’t have time for—’

‘You are a priest first, Godfrey,’ Francis reminded him, not ungently.

‘And a murderer second?’ Godfrey looked up, the weight of too many nights without sleep sitting badly on him, not to mention a conscience that would not let him alone. ‘You know what will happen to Brome if I don’t get this finished by tomorrow night. Kenrick wanted this by Caslemas. I did not want this task, nor this responsibility – but both the King and Bishop have forced me into this. I can hope the gods will forgive me for missing mass as I’m not sure they will forgive me the work I do instead. Please, Francis, you were one who
told
me I should do this!’

Francis stood there with his hands clasped together, the hood around his head softening his otherwise hard features. ‘You haven’t spoken to Brome yet, have you?’

‘No, I haven’t!’ Godfrey snapped, then held his hands up in apology. He closed his eyes a moment to ease the sting of tiredness, then faced Francis once more. ‘Forgive me. This is not your fault. No, I haven’t told the Bishop what I’m doing yet.’

Francis nodded, accepting the apology. He poured himself a cup of brew. ‘When do you plan to tell him?’

‘I’m not sure I can.’

Francis turned with surprise on his face. ‘Then how will you get him to sign?’

‘I …’ Godfrey looked down at the papers on his desk, at the work he’d put into rewriting the Church’s laws on sorcery and the crimes therein. ‘I intend to forge his signature.’

‘What?’ The cup in Francis’s hand fell to the floor, shattering. The priest leaped back and stared down at the mess before looking once more to Godfrey. ‘Are you …’

‘Mad? Yes, probably. Just stand there and I’ll get a cloth.’ Now that he’d admitted to his intended crime, Godfrey felt much more calm about it – though really, it wasn’t fair to force Francis to share his sin.

He picked up a towel from the wash-basin in the corner and mopped up the worst, collecting the broken shards and placing them on his desk. Francis stepped closer, dropping his voice in case somebody should be listening.

‘I understand why you want to do it that way – but it won’t be legal. We’ll be passing out laws that have no foundation in—’

‘Brome asked me to do it in exactly this manner – he was just expecting me to do it
after
he died. And this way, if I do end up …’ Godfrey swallowed down the horror even as he said the words, ‘if I end up taking his place, then I can ratify the new laws with my own signature. I promise you, Brother, there is no other way to do this. He fears for his immortal soul and believes signing his name to this will consign him to the flames of hell. How can I argue with that?’

Francis folded his hands beneath his surplice. ‘I see.’ He wandered towards the door, but without intent, his head angled as if in thought. ‘In that case, when you are ready to
send the papers out, let me know. I will make sure his doctors and those who attend him say nothing of what is happening. As his senior secretary, I can ensure that no document mentioning it goes before him and can intercept anyone who would wish to discuss it. You will, however, need to field all such enquiries until other members of the Bishop’s staff are as familiar with the laws as yourself. Until then, may I ask, as a fellow monk, that you try to get as much rest as you can. I myself will say prayers on your behalf should you need to miss mass again.’

Godfrey was touched by this unbidden support; a tide of relief flooded through him. He’d been in this struggle alone for too many years. He’d forgotten that while he had secrets to keep, in principle, he had many people who were on the same side as he was.

‘Thank you, Brother,’ Godfrey managed, though his voice came out thickly. ‘I appreciate your help.’

Francis just smiled, a rare gesture for him, then he let himself out, closing the door gently behind him.

*

The muted light of a dozen different colours washed across the floor of the Basilica, streaming from stained-glass high in the walls. Each window depicted some event in the lives of the gods, some lesson to be learned, some grain the faithful could take away with them. These windows were famed across Lusara for their unique beauty and the depth of their wisdom, but sitting in his seat, gazing up at them, Osbert couldn’t remember ever having really looked at them before.

He found the colours calming. Though the Basilica could never truly compare with his own Guildehall, this building did have true beauty: the smooth stone walls and the high dome above the altar, tall sweeping spaces captured within arches and shadows, breathing air into the soul. Support pillars, gilded and carved, stood like massive giants’ legs, holding up the buttressed roof. Red and white tiled flagstones covered the floor, cool and hard, soft and measured: an atmosphere of contemplation amidst a soaring display of material faith. There were things in the Basilica the Guildehall could not claim as its own.

Today the Basilica was filled to capacity, a quietly seething mass of living faith, compressed together, silent, watching each step of the sacraments of Caslemas with an awe Osbert could not quite match.

What was it about faith that caught so many people up in it? Or were the hundreds of common folk crowded in the back of the building there for the same reasons as those like himself – for the preservation of some kind of hope. Kenrick was trying to do his best not to look bored. Most of his court looked equally disenchanted. They were obviously here for appearances only.

Osbert believed in the gods, in the divine beings of Serinleth and Mineah, whose day this was. That he believed in the evil Broleoch he had no doubt at all. But could these celestial creatures be swayed by the worship and prayers of these people? Or did some people have more influence than others; people such as priests or Kings?

Or sorcerers?

The gods knew how Osbert had been praying for years, all to no effect. And in a very short time, when he had his next audience with the King, his most recent prayers would prove a failure.

Or perhaps he was just praying for the wrong thing.

*

Andrew did his best to sit still through mass, but the Basilica and its shadows, even the smell of incense, made him uncomfortable. There were memories in this place, going back to some time when he was much younger. To when his father had died and his mother had vanished from his daily life.

He didn’t recall very much of that day, but he could still see himself sitting almost in the same place as today, Aunt Bella on one side of him, holding his hand tightly, Uncle Lawrence on the other side, both pretending that Jenn was in one of the caskets before the altar, and that they mourned the man in the other.

Everyone had hated his father. Even those most loyal to Tiege Eachern had sighed with relief to know he was dead.

Restless again, he shifted for the tenth time and was rewarded with a look from Kenrick at his side.

‘A few minutes more, Cousin, that’s all. If I can manage that, surely you can too.’

‘Sorry,’ Andrew whispered out the side of his mouth. Kenrick shook his head in resignation.

Incense rose thickly from the thuribles swung by two attending priests and with a final bow towards the altar, the seven Archdeacons turned and began their procession back along the nave, heading for the huge west doors that were even now being opened for them.

Along with the rest of the congregation, Andrew rose to his feet, following a step behind Kenrick, eager to escape this place for the open air.

Outside it was cold, but the sun was shining in the square where hawkers had set up stalls preparatory to the evening’s entertainments. Andrew knew he shouldn’t look forward to all this, because it was, after all, a religious day, but even so, there was a tangible atmosphere he couldn’t entirely ignore. He almost bounced from one foot to the other, eager now to be rid of his official duties to the King and be about the best part of the day.

‘Oh, be away with you!’ Kenrick sighed. ‘You make me feel old just looking at you.’

Andrew grinned. ‘How old?’

Kenrick loomed close, his voice heavy with mock warning. ‘Let me count the years out with my whip.’

‘I’m going, I’m going.’ Andrew sketched a quick bow and darted into the crowd. Now that he was away from the royal party, the press of people made it hard to move, but he wanted to see Godfrey and headed towards the east door of the Basilica where the Archdeacons traditionally gave Caslemas greeting and blessing to those who wished it.

Godfrey saw him coming, his long face creasing into a smile both ironic and pleased at the same time. ‘Well, it’s about time you came to see me. I thought you’d decided to shrug off all your old friends in favour of the new.’

‘What new friends?’ Andrew paused, puzzled.

‘You mean you haven’t made any?’

‘Oh, er, no.’ The admission was softly spoken. Andrew did his best, but a lot of the time, such things were beyond his abilities. He quickly changed the subject. ‘You know Father John has … gone away for a while?’