The Death of Dulgath (45 page)

They had gone over the story to make sure each had answers to anything the king might ask. Yet after an entire night of discussion, this question had never been raised.

Why did the sheriff do it?

A certain amount of sloppiness was understandable given the exhaustion Fawkes had exhibited after healing Scarlett Dodge and then Royce. But this was a pretty important point to overlook. Like everyone else gathered before the king, Royce watched Lord Fawkes with great anticipation.

Fawkes hesitated. He inspected his feet for a moment, then glanced warily not at the king, but at Bishop Parnell. Then he straightened, and, looking directly at Vincent, he said, “I believe the Nyphron Church is responsible.”

The bishop’s eyes nearly fell out, and the chamberlain gasped, clamping a palm over his mouth to stifle it.

“That’s a serious charge,” the king said, and Royce noted that for the first time the insulting tone was missing.

“And utterly absurd!” Parnell shouted.

“I have no proof, Your Majesty,” Fawkes admitted. “And yet I’m sure this is so.”

“Your Majesty, I—” Parnell started.

The king silenced the bishop with a hand. He kept his focus on Fawkes and said, “Explain your reasoning.”

“My belief is the church is seeking to take control of Maranon. The newly appointed Earl Woodrow Braga of Swanwick is a self-professed Imperialist, replacing Earl Purim—an ardent Monarchist. Manzar has always been a bulwark for the church. And I suppose you could say my own father has had a spiritual awakening, as he, too, has shifted his allegiance, nodding in favor of the Imperialists.”

“There is nothing
unseemly
about men of good standing taking a greater interest in their church,” Parnell snapped.

“No,” Fawkes said. “But there is when the church pressures and threatens nobles if they don’t agree to side with them against their king. I spoke to Lady Dulgath several times after arriving here. She explained how her father had received repeated threats from the church. Beadle had remained strong and was able to weather their intimidation, but it seems they were taking a stronger stance with Lady Dulgath. She was told that if she refused to comply with their wishes, she would be replaced. I suspect if Knox had lived, there would have been a convincing argument for him to act as steward. As you so keenly pointed out, he’d already been appointed by Beadle himself and so would have been a likely candidate for the earl’s successor.”

“Who did she say was the source of those threats?” the king asked, allowing his eyes to flicker toward the bishop, who glared at Fawkes so hard he looked on the verge of exploding.

“She didn’t,” Fawkes replied without the slightest glance at Parnell. “Lady Dulgath was the very embodiment of discretion, Your Majesty. Nor could she trust me, given that my father is an Imperialist. I tried to explain how I had broken ties with him because I saw my father as a traitor to his king, but she only had my word. As you well know, that means nothing these days.”

“I see.” The king continued to stare at Fawkes with a fascinated expression, as if he were witnessing a magic trick and trying to figure out what he had overlooked.

“This is all a lie!” the bishop nearly screamed. He was red, and sweat beaded on his face.

In a perfectly calm and sensible tone, Fawkes said, “At best, I’m merely speculating. I’ve already explained I have no proof. I’m not accusing anyone of anything. His Majesty asked to understand my reasoning, and I’ve stated it.”

The bishop gesticulated with hands that formed fists. His face looked as if he could chew through rocks. The king appeared oblivious as he stared with continued fascination at Fawkes.

“The church took you in after your financial fiasco, did it not?” Vincent asked Fawkes.

“They did.”

“And what have you become but an ungrateful cur!” Parnell shouted.

“If it is true, that the church has backed you financially, why do you now stand before me, denouncing them?” Vincent asked Fawkes as if the bishop weren’t there.

“I am my own man, Your Majesty. That should have been obvious when I left my father’s house. My loyalty is to my king, and it cannot be bought with blood or gold.”

“But it didn’t prevent you from borrowing money falsely, using my name as collateral.”

Fawkes faltered, and Royce thought he might finally have been tripped up, but then he realized this was no more than a dramatic pause. “For that I have no excuse, Your Majesty. It is a transgression that has long weighed on my heart and on my soul. I admit my wrongdoing and wish to make amends, to prove myself through deeds rather than words.”

The king chuckled this time. “You do impress me, Christopher. I’m certain most of what I’ve heard is unadulterated codswallop, but…well done. Perhaps politics is more your talent than horse racing.” Vincent crossed his arms and cast his sight across the assembled group. “Given so many witnesses of good standing, it’s impossible for me to simply reject your explanation of recent events. That means, of course, I’m indebted to you, Christopher. You are to be rewarded. What would you ask of your king?”

This time Fawkes didn’t hesitate. “These men were promised compensation for coming here.” He gestured at Royce and Hadrian. “As they were instrumental in saving your life, and at considerable risk, I ask that you grant them the payment they were offered. I would pay them myself, but…” Fawkes pretended to reach for a purse that wasn’t there.

“Yes, yes, of course, but what for yourself?” the king asked.

“For me? Nothing, Sire.”

“Nothing?”

“I don’t believe a man should be rewarded for doing his duty to protect his king.”

The king smiled. Not a sneer, not an expression of mockery or amusement, but one of true approval.

He’s done it,
Royce thought, and couldn’t have been more impressed if Fawkes had palmed the crown right off the old man’s head.

“You say you want to prove yourself through deeds?” Vincent asked. “Very well. It seems I have a province without a ruler.”

“Your Majesty, no!” Bishop Parnell exclaimed.

The king ignored him. “Christopher Fawkes, son of Oddsworth, I hereby appoint you Steward of Dulgath, in which capacity you will serve for three years. Should you, at the end of that time, prove a worthy administrator of these lands, I will bestow on you the title of earl.” The king looked over at his scribe, who nodded.

He then faced Royce and Hadrian. “Now, what do I owe the two of you?”

“Fifty gold tenents,” Royce said before Hadrian had the chance to open his mouth.

“Fifty?” Bishop Parnell said, shocked.

“It’s what
Sheriff Knox
promised us,” Royce told the bishop. “Being a clergyman, I wouldn’t expect you to know the going rate of a quality assassin consultant.”

Parnell bit his lip.

“You’ll be paid,” the king said, “but I must insist the two of you leave Maranon. I won’t abide thieves and assassins in my kingdom, no matter what service they might have provided me.”

Royce considered asking if he planned to exile Bishop Parnell as well but then thought better of it. He and Hadrian weren’t on their way to the gallows and were being paid twice the agreed amount. Fawkes’s advice to keep his mouth shut seemed wise after all.

Hadrian exited the castle, feeling better the moment the sun hit him. Being in the Great Hall with so many robes and crowns had felt like being underwater; pressure was everywhere. Leaving as soon as they were paid was the smart thing to do. They shouldn’t give the king time to come to his senses and reconsider, but as the reception broke up, Royce had lingered. Fawkes did as well.

I’ll be out in a minute,
Royce had told him.
I have a few things to talk to Lord Fawkes about before we go.

This was fine with Hadrian. He had at least one question of his own to deal with, and, like Royce, he wanted to do so alone.

The courtyard was still a mess of storm-tossed banners and toppled chairs. The Dulgath standard still lay in the courtyard where Knox had pulled it down. The arbalest was gone. Vincent had likely ordered it secured moments after they’d left. Having one of those pointed at you was tantamount to looking through a big open door into the next world, an experience anyone—much less a king—wouldn’t want to repeat.

Hadrian walked out the front gate, which was still wide open and lacking a guard.

Nothing changes here.

Hadrian looked up at the perfect sky with its perfect sun and puffball clouds.

Nothing at all.

Scarlett waited down the slope and a few yards off to the side with their horses. She was petting Dancer, stroking her neck and letting her tear up thin grass. As he approached, Scarlett looked up, saw him, tilted her head, and leaned out to peer around the horse. She smiled. “No one chasing you this time.”

Hadrian glanced over his shoulder. “Nope.”

“And Lord Fawkes?”

“Steward.”

Scarlett looked puzzled and a bit disappointed. “Not earl?”

“He will be.”

She thought about this and nodded. “Did you get paid?”

“We did indeed.”

She smiled; then the expression vanished. “So you’ll be leaving, then?”

He stopped beside Dancer, clapping her on the shoulder. The horse took no notice of him as she ate the grass. He looked over the horse’s back at Scarlett. “Yes, but I was thinking…”

“A dangerous thing for you, I suspect.” She grinned.

“You’ve been hanging around Royce too much.” He pretended to sound hurt.

She dropped the grin. “Tell me, what have you been thinking?”

“You’re a northern girl; you don’t belong down here. I can’t imagine you enjoy entertaining drunks in Wagner’s tavern for thrown coins.” He softened his tone. “You’re smart, too. Good in a tight spot and incredibly brave. Took a sword to the stomach and only cried a little.”

She scowled. “Didn’t cry—eyes just watered.”

“That’s what crying is.”

“I didn’t
blubber,
didn’t sob. It just hurt is all.”

“I know it hurt, and I didn’t mean to…” Hadrian sighed. “How did me complimenting you turn into—look, my point is, I was wondering if you’d like to come with us, back to Medford.”

“And do what? Be what? Part of your little thieves’ guild? I’ve already gone that way. Didn’t work for me, remember?”

“Might be different this time.”

She frowned at him.

“So you’re just going to stay with Wagner and dance in his bar?”

“Actually…” She looked up at the walls of the castle. “Last night Lord Fawkes told me that if the king made him earl—and he was pretty sure he might—he planned on cleaning house. Getting rid of the ones he thought might be disloyal. The first to go would be Chamberlain Wells.”

“And?”

“And he said if that happened, the job was mine.”

Hadrian blinked. “Really?”

“You don’t have to look so shocked.”

“Sorry—I just—wow, that’s huge.”

She shrugged, embarrassed. “I told him I don’t know anything about running a castle. Lord Fawkes said anyone could learn, but there were only a rare few he could trust. Have to admit…” Her eyes became glassy, and she reached up to wipe them clear. After a cough to clear her throat, she continued. “It felt good to be recognized like that. To be rewarded for something—for doing something good, you know?”

Hadrian’s hopes collapsed, one by one, in rapid succession. A series of optimistic dreams, which had only started to take root hours before, winked out with painful pricks like a dozen nasty needles. A faint pressure squeezed his chest as muscles tightened. He nodded and continued to nod, buying himself time to swallow.

“You should definitely do that.” He took another breath. “That’s an incredible opportunity.”

“It is, isn’t it?”

He couldn’t help thinking that she wanted him to convince her of something.

“I mean, I’m a daughter of a poor farmer, turned thief, turned failed wool spinner, and I’m going to be the chamberlain of Castle Dulgath. It’s insane.”

“I think you’ll make a wonderful chamberlain.”

She stared at him for a long moment as tears welled once more in her eyes. “Thank you for saying that.”

“No—no, I mean it. I really do. Bet you look really good in blue, too.”

“Aren’t you just full of shoot and sugar.”

“Maybe—I don’t even know what that means.”

“Neither do I. It’s a local thing.” She wiped her eyes again. “Look, Dulgath is missing a sheriff, and as chamberlain I bet I could convince the new steward to give you the job. You did okay as a constable.”

“I was a lousy constable.”

“Just don’t drink the ale.”

Hadrian smiled, but the edges of his lips turned downward as he did. “The king—your king—ordered us out of Maranon.”

She looked as if he’d slapped her. “But you saved his life!”

Hadrian nodded. “Turns out he’s prejudiced against thieves and assassins. Can’t really blame him, I suppose.”

Scarlett looked away then. Her hands found Dancer’s neck again, and she stroked the horse while looking at the ground as if it had moved in an unpleasant and unexpected direction. Hadrian knew the feeling and gave her a moment. He clapped Dancer again. “You’re spoiling my horse.”