The Death of Dulgath (28 page)

Why Vince the Vile didn’t grow a beard over his pockmarked skin remained a mystery, unless growing hair proved just as unmanageable as running his kingdom. His Majesty’s fingers were fat and stubby, little sausages complete with thin, stretched casings. The only difference? Christopher had never seen so much hair on sausages. The king’s fingers weren’t the only fat part of the man. Vince the Vile wouldn’t be able to wear a barrel without a cooper letting it out a stave or two. Perhaps the king’s worst aspect was his habit of spitting and his utter lack of skill at it. Vincent’s face was usually wet with saliva, and a gob of phlegm often decorated his chin. His personality matched his appearance.

“Chrissy?” the king said when spotting him in the courtyard. “I’m surprised to see you in Dulgath.”

“Your Majesty.” Christopher bowed with a smile on his lips as he pictured unleashing a quarrel into the fat, spittle-dripping crown-stand. Christopher had the arbalest—what Knox called the huge crossbow—hidden as best he could behind the wardrobe in his bedroom. Being the size of a bass violin, the weapon wouldn’t fit under the bed. Didn’t fit behind his wardrobe, either. The wingspan of the prod—what Knox called the bow part—stuck out on either side. He had put a sheet over it, making it look like a midget ghost with outstretched arms.

The morning after he’d sent the two thieves to Manzant, Christopher noticed that the ivy on the west tower had been removed. The gardener had ripped it down, by order of the countess, the evening he and Payne were in Brecken Dale. Either she was a fortune teller or the thieves had warned her. Why they would care, the lord didn’t know, but it didn’t matter.

Christopher had asked Knox to find a heavy crossbow and hoped the shooting-from-a-distance idea hadn’t also been thwarted. Seeing the arbalest with its steel prod, its hand crank, and its three-quarter-inch-thick ash quarrels, he couldn’t imagine anything stopping it. The giant bolt that killed Sherwood had entered his back, exited his chest, and flown out over the ocean without pause. The only challenge left was aiming the thing at Nysa Dulgath in such a way that neither she nor anyone else could see the assassin squeeze the trigger.

Christopher followed King Vincent and his retinue into the reception hall. The monarch left the bulk of his caravan—which if one included the men-at-arms might amount to more servants than in the whole of Lady Dulgath’s castle—in a miniature tent city just down the lane from the stables. Christopher was sorry to see that his friend Sir Gilbert hadn’t come. Instead, Sir Dathan and Sir Jacobus flanked His Majesty, along with Bishop Parnell and the usual set of hands for holding his cup, adjusting his collar, and kissing his ample arse.

Lady Dulgath waited with her entire staff lined up in their finest bleached whites and blues. Blue and white were the colors of House Dulgath, but the indigo dye was expensive. Still, each member of the household wore at least one article of blue. The scullery staff, dairymaids, charwomen, and stable boys all had light-blue neckerchiefs. The gardeners, woodcutters, and cooks donned blue belts, and the chambermaids and seamstresses draped sashes over their shoulders. The skilled servants, such as the scribe, tailor, and treasurer, sported blue vests. Chamberlain Wells, being in charge of the household, wore a tie and a long blue coat. The staff made a fine showing, backs and hair straight, eyes down, faces clean. The countess herself was stunning. Lady Dulgath was dressed completely in blue, a rich gown that matched the deep color of the sapphire around her neck.

Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. A shame she turned down my marriage proposal. Such a terrible waste to put a three-quarter-inch-thick quarrel through that breast.

She curtsied with her usual unrivaled grace, bowing her head. The king took her hand and kissed its back. Christopher knew what was on the royal pimple’s mind. Father dead. No suitors. The queen left at home in Mehan. And it got cold at night on the coast, even in summer.

He imagined exactly what Vince the Vile was thinking:
I’m the king, after all, and so handsome! How can she resist?

The old wart is in for a frustrating night.
If Nysa hadn’t personally told Christopher about her growing interest in Sherwood, he’d have guessed she was frigid.

But she didn’t actually name Sherwood, did she? And the painter looked so very surprised. Why? Should have been proud or at the very least guilty. Is it possible there’s someone else?

“So very sorry to hear about your father, Nysa,” the drooling magpie blathered without a dandelion tuft of sincerity. He was still holding her hand, mauling it with his own. “I would’ve come for the funeral, but the demands on a king’s time often prohibit me from doing what I want.”

How strange,
Christopher thought,
given that you attended the Swanwick Spring Derby during that time. A race where your horse, once again, came in first.

“I assure you that I have no intention of altering the fief. House Dulgath has always done a fine job of administrating its land. It would be a crime to change that after so many centuries,” he said while glancing at the bishop. “Can we hold the ceremony tomorrow? That way I’ll be out of your hair and you can resume your life.”

And His Royal Majesty will go hunting. If a handful of drunks riding through a forest while an entourage of soldiers herds a host of animals to the slaughter can be considered hunting.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Nysa was saying. “We can arrange that. You might have noticed the decorations on your way in. I thought we would hold it outside in the courtyard.”

“What if it rains?” Vincent asked.

This elicited several smiles from the line of servants.

“I don’t expect it will, Sire.”

“Why not?”

“Because…that would be unpleasant.”

Christopher had stopped listening to the conversation, but his attention returned when the king asked, “And where is Sherwood Stow?”

“We don’t know, Your Majesty. No one has seen him since yesterday,” Lady Dulgath explained.

“He left?”

“No, Sire—at least I don’t think so. His things are still here.”

Vincent rubbed his glistening chin. “I’ve been thinking of having him paint my daughter, Evangeline—her portrait, I mean. I want it done while she’s still young and pretty—before she starts looking like her mother. I spoke to Stow when he came through Mehan on his way here, but that was months ago.”

“Two months and three days, Sire,” Perkins Fallinwell, the king’s body man, replied. Fallinwell had one of the most hilarious names Christopher had ever heard. There had to be a story behind it, but Perkins, being the pinched-nosed, prune-lipped tosser that he was, refused to divulge a word of it.

“Yes, that’s right—
two
months. How long does it take to do a portrait? That’s what he was here for, correct?”

“Yes, Sire,” Nysa replied. “My father had commissioned him, but Mister Stow hasn’t yet completed it.”

“Slow bugger, but I’ve heard he’s the best. And I want the best for my little E-line. You say you haven’t seen him in days?”

“One day, Sire,” Perkins Fallinwell corrected.

Vincent clapped Fallinwell on the back. “He carries the royal purse. Can you tell?” The king laughed—a sluggish, honking sound like an influenza-stricken goose. When the king gathered himself, he coughed and then spat on the floor, barely missing Fallinwell’s shoe. A long elastic string snapped to his chin, where it stayed, a shimmering beacon to everyone watching, but the king was utterly oblivious. “Is the painting any good?”

“I, ah…” Nysa bit her lip. “I haven’t actually seen it.”

“You haven’t? Not at all?” The king looked at Wells and then the handmaiden. Each in turn shook their head.

“Sherwood is very protective about works in progress.” Nysa tried to make up for her ignorance with a smile.

“But two months?”

Nysa clasped her hands together. “I think he wants it to be a surprise unveiling. I’m inclined to grant him that pleasure.”

“All fine and good, but I want to see if the man is worth waiting for or whether I should hire someone else. After two months, it must be nearly finished. And I don’t think a painter of portraits will mind if the King of Maranon takes a peek. Where is it?”

“In his room. I’ll have it brought down to the study.” She nodded toward Rissa Lyn, who scurried off. “This way. Let me show you.”

When Bishop Parnell started to follow, the king held up a hand. “Your Grace, your presence won’t be necessary. I’m sure you have better things to do. Perhaps you could have some tea with Pastor Payne. I’m sure this won’t take long, and I will join you shortly.”

Lady Dulgath escorted Vincent down the corridor to the little room across from the stairs. Christopher watched them go, then followed. He wasn’t interested in Sherwood’s painting but was suspicious about Vincent wanting to speak to the lady in private.

Christopher waited outside the door while Rissa Lyn scurried past, carrying the large, covered canvas. He knelt down and fussed with the buckle on his shoe, and she curtsied in his direction after reemerging from the study, then scampered down the hall.

“How long has Christopher Fawkes been here?” the king asked in a tone far softer than he’d employed earlier.

“Since the funeral.”

His Majesty spat. Christopher knew the sound. His memory conjured a vivid, disgusting image, and he grimaced.

“I would be remiss if I didn’t warn you that he wishes to become the next Earl of Dulgath. If he has expressed interest toward you, I suspect it has more to do with winning your land rather than your heart.”

“I appreciate your concern, Your Majesty.”

Vincent went on. “As I said, I have no intention of changing what is working so well. Maranon has always been a lush, rich kingdom, but Dulgath is the icing on the cake. On the way in, I saw how every field was planted, every plant vibrant and strong. Your roads are without holes and the houses are in good repair. Your people are well fed, smiling and laughing. It’s good to see, so I have no doubt about renewing Dulgath’s tenure. You should know that I never had any, although many advised otherwise. Now, let’s take a look at that painting.”

“Oh, I assumed you merely wanted to speak in private. We really shouldn’t—”

“Nonsense, I’m sure it’ll be fine. Even if it’s not finished, it’ll give me an idea of the man’s skill. I really am thinking of having him paint my Evangeline.”

“I’ll just stand over here,” Lady Dulgath said.

“Don’t you want to see?”

“No, thank you, Sire. It would be…rude.”

“Suit yourself. Okay, so—ah, here we are…By Mar! That’s…that’s—no, that’s not right at all. I can certainly see why he wouldn’t let you see it, Nysa. This is most disturbing. Insulting is what it is. Utterly—I can’t believe…damn! This must be some kind of joke, and it’s not a funny one. No, I don’t believe he’ll be painting my daughter after all. Absolutely not! And if I were you, I wouldn’t pay the man for this—this…excuse me.”

The king hurried out of the study, his expression a twisted frown. Vincent the Vile strode past Christopher as if he weren’t there. Nysa Dulgath didn’t follow.

“Where’s the Great Hall?” the king asked Wells as the chamberlain came through the main entrance.

“This way, Your Majesty,” the chamberlain said.

“And get me a drink!” Vincent bellowed.

“Of course, Your Majesty. Right away, Sire.”

Christopher lingered in the hall, watching the open door to the study. After several minutes, when Lady Dulgath still hadn’t emerged, he peeked in. Nysa was at the easel, gazing at the painting and crying. In all the time he’d spent in Dulgath, he’d never seen her display any emotion.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

She didn’t reply. With one hand over her mouth, she ran out of the study.

Stunned, Christopher watched her go. Nysa had more in common with the many statues in the castle than with its people. But she had been reduced to tears by a painting.

How bad could it possibly be?

Christopher listened to Lady Dulgath’s receding footsteps, then crept forward to the easel and lifted the cloth.

At first, he wasn’t certain what he saw. A face certainly—a pair of eyes looked back at him with stunning, even disturbing, clarity. But it wasn’t Nysa’s face. This person was bald, cheekbones high and sharp. The eyes themselves were mesmerizing, but even they failed to be the most striking feature.

The ears! The ears are pointed!

The face in the portrait wasn’t human—it was elven. But unlike any elf Christopher had ever seen.

Every elf he’d ever encountered was covered in filth and wore the most wretched, downtrodden expression. Driven from respectable society, they were forbidden in many towns. When tolerated, they could only be found in the worst sections. The males were notoriously lazy, while the females were known to neglect their children. The one thing the genders shared was incessant begging. Dirty hands were constantly outstretched while they mumbled something indistinguishable, and yet their intent was obvious.

Sherwood had portrayed one of those vile creatures dressed in Lady Dulgath’s clothes. However, the most disturbing detail wasn’t the subject’s race but the expression on its face. The eyes bored straight into him, wide and clear. She wasn’t begging, and her expression displayed no hint of shame. What was truly troubling was how the elven female in the portrait appeared to consider herself superior. Christopher could see it in her haughty stare, the square of her shoulders, and that hint of a smirk that declared she knew something he didn’t. This elf was laughing at him, looking out from that canvas with painted eyes and judging
him
as unworthy.

Christopher snatched up the canvas without thinking. He couldn’t concentrate with those eyes upon him—glaring with disdain, belittling him, insulting his existence, questioning his very right to exist. He smashed the canvas against the wall, splintering the frame. He pulled and wrenched at the thing, trying to tear it in half, but the canvas was stronger than it appeared. He hurled it to the floor and reached for his dagger.

I’ll cut those miserable eyes from your—