The Fatal Tree (15 page)

“Who… ah” – Burleigh fumbled for words – “how is this possible? Who made this happen?”

Etzel nodded. “I have been speaking to the magistrate for many weeks. He has grown tired of my begging and has agreed to free the men.”

“So,” huffed Burleigh. “They can go, but I must stay.”

“The magistrate tells me that a crime has been committed and that someone must answer for this. Someone must be responsible.” The baker produced something new – a whole roast chicken – from his bag and added it to the other items on the cloth. “I have said to the magistrate that only one man was responsible. Locking up five men for the crime of one made no sense.”

“You told him this?” wondered the earl.

“I have told him a great many things. He listens to some of them.” Engelbert frowned. “But Herr Richter is an official of the empire. The magistrate listens more to the emperor than to me.” The big man cocked his head to one side. “This is the way of things.”

“So that is it? I just sit here until I die?”

“May God forbid it!” replied Engelbert quickly. “I have spoken to His Majesty on your behalf. I asked him to release you, but he also tells me that justice must be served. But no matter, I will go to him again and bring a strudel next time.”

“You spoke to the emperor for me?” Burleigh shook his head. “Why? Why do you care what happens to me? I hurt you. I
meant
to hurt you. I had no care for you – why do you care for me?”

The baker stood and moved to stand before the earl. “But I have told you this already.” Etzel placed his hand on Burleigh’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “Be of good cheer. The Lord is with you.”

Burleigh gazed at him, then shook his head. “I wish I could believe that.”

“It makes no matter,” Etzel assured him lightly. He turned and stooped to retrieve the empty bag. “I will believe enough for both of us.”

With that, he was gone again, leaving only the whiff of a strange fragrance behind – a scent like that of wildflowers, the scent of open spaces and sun-washed air. It lingered long in the cell, causing Burleigh to wonder whether he had indeed been visited by a bright angel.

This notion was so absurd that Burleigh had no argument against it; all he could do was stand and stare at the offering of food so carefully – one could say lovingly – arranged. As he stood there looking, a tear came to his eye. He did not know why; he did not feel sad, only mildly confused. But something deep inside him turned in that moment, and a single tear marked the occasion. Embarrassed, the earl swiped it away, smearing the wetness off his cheek with the heel of his hand. “Big bloody fool,” he murmured aloud. “You’re losing your mind.”

In the empty hours that followed, Burleigh found himself thinking not so much about his own sorry state and the monumental injustice that was keeping him locked in a stinking dungeon cell, but about the
reason
he was rotting in prison. From that moment, his thoughts now centred on the cruelty he had shown in the attack against Engelbert and the regret he now felt. This was a new thing.

Slowly, the circle of his meditations widened outward to include not only Engelbert but others he had wronged throughout his life: Cosimo Livingstone and Sir Henry Fayth; the sweet, trusting Phillipa, his one-time fiancée; Arthur Flinders-Petrie and his grandson, Charles; his Burley Men; Lady Haven Fayth – now, there was a woman after his own heart, someone he could have loved – whatever happened to her? And there were others… so many others – and all of them people he had used for his own selfish purposes, only to be ruthlessly cast aside when it suited him. He had earned his condemnation tenfold, a hundredfold, and he deserved the harshest penalty the law and heaven could decree, nothing less.

As he brought his appalling behaviour to mind, he encountered what was for him a strange sensation: a mingled blend of guilt, shame, and sorrow that, on further reflection, he decided must be remorse. This unusual emotion might have been allowed to fade, its potency diminished over time, but for the persistent example of Engelbert, whose virtue threw his own wretchedness into sharp relief. Etzel’s simple, uncomplicated goodness burned like a beacon on a distant hill. Burleigh had only to glance up to that shining hilltop to see just how very dark his squalid little valley had become.

Increasingly, Burleigh caught himself looking to that light and wishing he could move closer to it. Strange to say, this feeling did not produce the abhorrence and revulsion it might once have done; rather, in accepting his guilt and owning the blame for his actions, the earl felt more contented – as if something that had long been misaligned was now properly adjusted: the compass needle pointed true north once more.

But that was not all. On those occasions when the earl fixed his mind on the big baker’s shining example, he discovered that he was able to find a little respite from the ceaseless churning of his more troublesome thoughts. In contemplating goodness, he found – innocently, unexpectedly, blessedly – peace.

O
n the third and last day, the feast celebrating the pact between the Bulgars and the Byzantines concluded with a service of prayer and thanksgiving for having come through the travails of war and been granted the peace in which the empire now rejoiced.The sun had just set over the Sea of Marmara when a bell tolled in the plaza tower. The emperor and several high-ranking officials departed the feast, and the entire celebration was moved to the Cathedral of Holy Wisdom located just beyond the imperial palace walls.

To enter the sanctuary of the great church was to cross the threshold into the largest enclosed area the world had ever seen: an enormous, airy expanse uninterrupted by pillars or columns of any kind, a single vast room large enough to swallow two or three normal-sized churches and still have room for a bell tower beneath its heroic domed ceiling. Gleaming mosaics adorned the upper reaches of the walls, and occupying every cornice and cranny of the many-domed ceiling were the colossal figures of saints and angels and winged seraphim with swords of fire. It was an interior to daunt and humble the most prideful worshipper and instil in everyone who entered a sense of the ineffable majesty of the King of kings and Lord of lords before whom mere human creatures – including earthly emperors and potentates – must bow.

The immense space swallowed sound so that only the hush of an eternal, unending tranquillity remained, punctuated now and then by the chime of a bell or the plaintive call of a chant. The floor and outlying columns were multicoloured marble; the high altar was covered in cloth of gold and flanked by twin candles larger than a human being. All that met the eye was smooth stone and gleaming gold. A multitude of scented candles lit the nave, sending up a fragrant silver cloud, the soft lambent light winking and shimmering from every polished surface.

As the imperial entourage arranged itself before the high altar, Haven quickly located Petar, who was standing behind the khan, and manoeuvred herself and Giles into places beside him. He acknowledged their presence with a slight nod. As soon as the royal celebrants were assembled, a score of acolytes dressed all in black entered from the rooms along the sides of the nave; junior clerics dressed in robes of white entered from the central aisle, each bearing a silver cross.

Acolytes and priests formed a ring around the altar, followed by more senior priests in red robes; the first among these held a bell, the second a psalm book. These two took their places on either side of the altar and the rest formed a row behind them. Once they were in place, a bell chimed loudly three times, whereupon the patriarchal procession entered the church. Led by three ranks of clerics in long white robes over which they wore blue chasubles, two bishops came bearing crosses of gold and pearl; directly behind the bishops strode Emperor Leo in a robe of scarlet silk – the holy
sakkos
– adorned with panels containing thickly embroidered plaques depicting scenes from the life of Christ. On his head the emperor wore a jewelled hat topped by a four-sided cross and on his hands were fine gauntlets decorated with seed pearls, rubies, and amber.

Hobbling in the emperor’s wake came an extremely old man. Swathed in rolls of purple silk and wearing a high-crowned, jewelencrusted, brimless hat, this elderly specimen had a long white beard that might have wafted in the breeze of his passing if it had not been held in place by the enormous pectoral cross hanging on a thick chain of gold around his neck.

“Tell me what is happening,” whispered Haven urgently. “Who is that?”

Petar rolled his eyes but grudgingly complied. “That is the Patriarch of Constantinople,” he said. “The highest priest of the holy church – second to none but the emperor, of course.”

The service began in much the same way as the Latin masses Haven had observed, and not far removed from the Holy Communion Khan Simeon’s priests performed in camp. But the trappings – the splendour of gold and silver and jewels, the multitude of candles and clouds of incense, the magnificence of the attendant priests – were unlike any other, and unparalleled in the West. Everything, from the impossibly ornate robes of the priests to the voluminous clouds of fragrant incense, appeared designed to astonish and delight and, ultimately, to awe. If bejewelled robes and purple billows failed to inspire, then the soaring, ethereal chanting of the priests and monks was sure to lift the worshipper to new heights of rapture.

Though Haven strove valiantly to keep pace with the service, she failed; it all washed over her in a tidal surge of sound and light and raw emotion. Before she knew it, the service concluded. The congregation was ushered outside where, in the square before the cathedral entrance, Khan Simeon prepared to take his leave of Emperor Leo and the city of his triumph. The two rulers gripped one another’s arms, exchanged the kiss of peace, and made their final farewells; respective attendants began to disperse and go their separate ways. Haven and Giles were drifting along with the rest of Khan Simeon’s retinue when they were approached by a thin, long-faced man with a bald head and large, sad eyes.

“By command of the emperor, you are both instructed to come with me,” the man informed them in somewhat stilted Latin. Two armed soldiers from the emperor’s bodyguard accompanied the servant to lend weight to the summons should any further convincing become necessary.

“I do beg your pardon,” replied Haven, and she felt Giles’ hand on her back as he moved in close beside her, “but I believe there is some mistake. Khan Simeon is about to leave. We are members of his entourage and must go with him.”

“No,” the courtier told her curtly. “You are to attend the
basileus
. You will follow me.” With that he turned and started away, pausing only long enough to ensure that the two foreigners took their places behind him.

Though Haven begged to be told where they were being taken, no further explanation was forthcoming. The soldiers, gripping the hilts of their short swords, indicated that it was time to move. “I think we must do as he says, Giles.”

“I do not see that we have a choice in the matter,” Giles replied. Taking Haven’s arm, he moved to follow the servant. The two soldiers fell into step behind them. “Perhaps His Majesty merely wishes to speak to us.”

Haven cast a worried glance at the two soldiers behind them. “No doubt,” she replied, but her tone lacked conviction.

The two were led to the great palace and ushered into an audience chamber, a room well furnished with a number of the low chairs and couches for which the Byzantines showed a marked partiality. There were several tables of various sizes and a number of very ornate jars and containers and candle trees set around the perimeter of the room. A heavy curtain at the single large window was pulled to one side to allow the soft twilight to spill across a floor of polished brown marble.

The courtier made a swift inspection of the room, then turned to the visitors. “You will wait here,” he told them.

“Are we allowed to sit?” asked Haven.

Their guide flapped a hand at one of the couches and departed; the soldiers pulled the doors shut behind him and stationed themselves on either side. Haven moved to the nearest couch and sat down; Giles made a quick survey of the room, paused to look out the window, and then took a seat next to Haven. They spoke to one another in English, keeping their voices low; the guards watched them impassively, bored expressions on their faces.

After a time, the door opened and four men entered. One of them was the official who had brought Haven and Giles to the palace; three others, each of them dressed in long grey robes with white sashes over one shoulder, came to stand before the visitors and exchanged a few words amongst themselves while glancing at the visitors from time to time.

“What are they saying?” whispered Giles.

“I cannot understand a word,” Haven replied. “Greek.”

Then one of the men gestured for the visitors to stand. As Haven and Giles rose, the door opened again and two more men entered – one of them Emperor Leo himself. The courtiers bowed low and the visitors copied them, then rose to find the supreme monarch of the empire standing over them. Gone were the splendid ecclesiastical robes, the chain of gold, and the elaborate headgear; instead, he was dressed in a simple floor-length tunic of cream-coloured satin with a wide black belt and a matching
chlamys
over one shoulder, fastened at the neck by an enormous red brooch of carnelian carved in the shape of a lion.

Leo addressed them in Greek, and when this brought no response, he switched effortlessly to Latin, saying, “Do you know who I am?”

“Yes, Majesty,” replied Haven. “You are Leo,
Imperator
of the Romans. May God grant you serenity and long life, sire.” This last she added because she had heard Petar sometimes address Khan Simeon that way.

Her reply produced an instantaneous result. The emperor clapped his hands. “Excellent!” He beamed with delight. “You have been well schooled.” He turned to Giles. “And you, friend – are you equally schooled in courtly manners?”

Giles understood most of what was said and made his standard reply. “I am as you see me, sire – a servant, nothing more.”

“Ha!” laughed Leo, clapping his hands again, and turned to smile upon his attendants. “Most excellent! Would you not agree?”

“Assuredly, sire,” replied the long-faced fellow who had first approached the two. “It is, as you say, most excellent. Your wisdom is, as ever, above reproach.”

Leo turned to his visitors and raised his hands. “Henceforth you are to be members of the royal house,” he declared, his voice taking on a more formal note. “You will be given lodgings within the palace precinct and a stipend, which you may spend at your own discretion. In exchange for these benefices, you will assume duties according to your abilities.”

“I most humbly beg your pardon, Your Majesty, but my command of Latin is limited,” said Haven. “Am I to understand that we will be staying here?”

“Your understanding is exceeded only by your beauty, madam,” answered Leo. “By what name do you wish to be known?”

“I am called Haven,” she answered.

“Perfection!” cried Leo happily. Turning at once to Giles, he said, “And you, my excellent friend? How are you to be known?”

“I am Giles, sire.”

The sound of this name provoked an immediate response from the emperor and his attendants, who fell to discussing it among themselves.

“What are they saying about me?” Giles whispered to Haven, who, mystified, could only shake her head.

A conclusion was quickly reached, however, and Leo turned once more to address Giles. “In this house and in my presence, you shall be called Gaius,” he declared. “Do you know this name?”

Giles turned to Haven for translation. “I think Giles was too hard for them to understand or pronounce,” she explained.

“Pot calling the kettle black, I’d say,” sniffed Giles.

“He says you are to be called Gaius instead.”

“Gaius?” he wondered, turning to the emperor.

“It is a noble name,” Leo told him. “A name worthy of emperors, many of whom have worn it with pride. It is your name henceforth.”

Although he did not understand much of what had been said to him just then, Giles knew better than to argue. “Thank you, sire,” he said simply. “I am in your debt.”

Leo clapped his hands yet once more, this time as a signal that the audience was finished. “You will be taken to your apartment, and tomorrow the skills you possess will be evaluated for your placement within the royal household.” He smiled, satisfied with his decision, and then backed away. “I wish you a pleasant night.”

Haven opened her mouth to speak, but was warned off with a frown and a stern shake of the head from the sad-eyed courtier. The emperor and his attendants swept from the room as quickly as they had arrived, leaving Haven and Giles alone to contemplate the strange turn fate had thrown them. “Well,” suggested Haven, “that was most unexpected.”

“We have been taken into the royal household – we are to live here? In the palace?” wondered Giles.

“It certainly seems that way.”

“What about the khan? Doesn’t he have anything to say about this?”

“Oh, Giles,” sighed Haven. “I think we have become part of the peace settlement – a gift to celebrate the treaty. Something of the sort at any rate. The khan has given us to the emperor to do as he sees fit.” The reality of their situation broke full upon her then. Her lower lip quivered and her eyes filled with unshed tears. “I begin to fear that we shall never see home again!”

Giles reached out and folded Haven into his arms and held her close and tight – a natural impulse and action that would have been unthinkable a few months before. Haven came willingly, accepting the comfort his strength and warmth offered. She pressed her head against his chest. “What are we going to do?”

Giles considered this for a moment before answering. “I suppose it could be worse. His emperorship might have decided we would make good farmhands or kitchen slaves.” He paused, then said, “Though I can readily see you in a field with a spade in your hand and a basket of turnips on your head.”

Haven stiffened and pushed away, suddenly defiant, holding him at arm’s length to look him in the eye. “Think you this is a cause for jest?”

“
There
is the Haven I know.” He smiled.

“You will forgive me if I do not share your sense of low japes,” she huffed, though still clinging to him.

“Perhaps not,” he allowed and gathered her in once more. “But think you now, we are members of the emperor’s royal retinue and will live in the palace. That is better than looking at the back of a horse all day and sleeping in a smelly tent.”

Haven was silent for a time, then said, “I can well imagine you,
Gaius
– in the cookhouse, red-faced and up to your elbows in goose fat and feathers.”

“Or standing knee-deep in muck in a pigsty.”

She gave a little laugh and dabbed at her eyes. “We would make a pretty pair, would we not?”

The door opened just then, and they were summoned by a servant and led through a maze of corridors to a wing of the palace where high-ranking servants and lower court officials and retainers resided. The servant stopped at a door at the end of a long, narrow passageway. “All has been made ready for you,” he said. Pushing open the door, he ushered them into a suite of rooms consisting of two smaller chambers – one of them containing a bed – either side of a larger room containing a simple table, some chairs, and three low couches. There was a small window covered by a wooden lattice that could be opened onto a view of one of the palace’s many walled gardens. An interior door led out to the garden so that they might come and go as they pleased.