The Lascar's Dagger (27 page)

“And Rampion?” Fox asked.

“I’ve had him taken to the Keep, without explanation to anyone as yet. He was still in his room. I suppose he relied on Mathilda to be too ashamed to say anything. He miscalculated.”

“Good. Then I shall handle this, if you so desire, sire. The more it is seen as a religious matter and the Prime’s concern with a rogue witan, the better able we’ll be to protect the Princess’s good name.”

The King nodded and waited for Fox to continue.

“I will have this Marten woman killed before she can talk.”

Ryce blinked, his heart sinking still deeper. Only the day before, after being told of the identity of her bridegroom, Mathilda had made it clear to him how much she relied on both her handmaiden and her maid, Aureen. “I will not go to Lowmeer without them both,” she’d told him. “I don’t ask much of you, Ryce, but I want you to make sure that in this I have my way. Understand?”

And he had understood. Mathilda was quite capable of wreaking revenge on him, and she knew more than enough of his affairs to embarrass him.

“I don’t think that would be a good idea,” he said quickly, before his father could reply. “Mathilda is very dependent on her handmaiden, and we want her to be amenable to the marriage arrangements. If she thinks we murdered this woman…” He allowed the rest of the sentence to trail away, knowing that his father would be picturing one of Mathilda’s rare but unforgettable tantrums.

The King nodded. “True. Ryce can put the fear of death by torture into Mistress Marten to keep her mouth shut. Think of something else, Fox.”

“Ah. In that case, there are some nuns from the cloisters at Comfrey who have taken a vow of perpetual silence. I’ll have several sent over here. We can put it about that Mathilda wishes to spend the time prior to her marriage in quiet prayer and contemplation. She can still have her dressmakers visit, or whatever she needs, but I’ll instruct the nuns to supervise. Their job will be more to keep an eye on the Marten woman. I’ll think of some plausible explanation for them. The handmaiden must not be permitted to leave the Princess’s chambers, or to have private access to anyone.”

“And Rampion?” King Edwayn asked.

“I’ll spread the word that he’s being charged with blasphemy. That’s serious enough to warrant his incarceration in the Keep for a while. In the meantime, I shall find evidence enough to convict him on something more serious. Something that carries the penalty of nullification.”

Fox’s calm sent a shiver through Ryce.

“Excellent,” the King said, in a voice that reminded Ryce of newly sharpened steel.

It was a further half-hour before the Prime left. In that time, the two men had refined their plan of action while Ryce listened and wondered. Everything was so … so devious. It wasn’t that he disapproved; it was more that he found it hard to think things through the way his father did.

I’ll never be a wise ruler
, he thought morosely.
If I’d been king when this happened, I would just have ordered Rampion’s head chopped off and been done with it.

He shuddered. The religious ramifications would have been horrible and he would have spent the better part of his reign straightening it all out.

“What are you being so lily-livered about?” his father asked, after Fox had left. “You look as sick as a squashed frog! Rampion deserves everything he gets.”

“Of course. What – what exactly is nullification?”

“Ah. Haven’t seen that used since my father’s day. It’s punishment for clerics who sin against the Faith. First they are branded on the cheek. Then they are taken out on the high moors and chained to an unattended shrine, without money, or water, or food, as bare-arsed as they came into the world. Should anyone pass by, they see the branding and the chains, so they leave the mercy, or otherwise, for Va to decide. That’s the whole idea: it’s up to Va. The sinner usually dies of cold or starvation or wolves. In this case, with winter coming on…” He smiled.

“Then why do you want
me
to kill Saker?”

His eyebrows snapped together. “Because a ruler never takes chances. You’re to make
sure
he dies once he’s been abandoned, and you do it alone. Understand? No one is ever to know what Saker Rampion did to Mathilda. She only has value to us if she’s assumed to be a virgin. I don’t want the Regal to have the slightest suspicion his bride was ravished. We
need
this treaty, thanks to the stupidity of our merchants, arguing among themselves while Lowmeer steals the wealth from under their noses. Regal Vilmar could use her lack of virginity as an excuse to void the treaty. He must
never
find out.”

“But – but won’t he, um, realise anyway?”

The King gave an unpleasant laugh. “Ah, the innocence of a young man. You think court women don’t know a dozen ways to cozen a man into believing she’s a blushing virgin bride?”

Ryce glanced at the door to the retiring room, feeling uncomfortable. “And Mathilda…?”

“Ah, yes. Damned if I know what to do about crying womenfolk. You fix it.”

He opened his mouth to protest, then realised there was no one they could ask to deal with this for them. He took a deep breath and opened the door to the adjacent room.

Somehow he’d been expecting to find Mathilda sobbing in agitation, and to see the Marten woman comforting her. Instead, the two women were standing on opposite sides of the room, both of them stony-faced and silent. If he hadn’t known it was absurd, he’d have said they’d just had a vicious verbal exchange. Both of them had the kind of reddened cheeks he usually associated with anger.

“Well, about time,” Mathilda snapped, crossing the room towards him. “What’s happening?”

He gaped at her, confounded by the lack of hysterical grief he’d expected. “Are you, er, all right?” he asked, at a loss.

“No, of course I’m not all right!”

“I’m terribly sorry, Thilda, for what happened. I never expected anything like that from Saker Rampion. He seemed so – so
decent
.”

Without warning, she flung herself into his arms and buried her face in his shoulder. “Oh, Ryce, it’s been horrible!” The words were muffled, interspersed with sobs. He patted her back while looking over her head at Celandine, whose eyebrows were drawn together in a glower. Her mouth was a grim line across her face, and as he watched, she folded her arms and turned her back on them both.

“Tell me, quickly,” Mathilda said, without raising her head. “What’s Father going to do?”

“Rampion has been thrown in the Keep. He’ll be tried for blasphemy or something. In due course, he’ll end up dead. What he actually did will be kept a secret. That way, your marriage to the Regal will go ahead as planned. It will be up to you to convince the Regal you are still, er, pure.”

He wasn’t sure what reaction he’d expected, but it wasn’t the one he received. The Marten woman turned abruptly to stare at him, with a sharp intake of breath.

Mathilda, still enfolded in his arms, jerked backwards to look up at him. “Oh no,” she said. He knew that expression, although he hadn’t seen it for years. She was working herself into a furious storm. “Father can’t do that to me. He can’t! I shan’t go through with the marriage after this. I
won’t.”

“I’m sorry, Thilda. I know it has been a terrible, terrible experience, but…”

Her glare indicated she thought him as low as a worm squashed under her slipper, and he knew he had somehow failed her. He floundered, miserably out of his depth, even as he wondered at her dry eyes. She hadn’t been crying into his shoulder as he’d thought. He didn’t understand that, but he banished the doubts skittering at the edge of his mind. He didn’t want to consider them; they were far too dark.

“I will
not
marry a withered old man who probably can’t father children, whose wives die surprisingly often and who presides over a court which seems to be as much fun as a funeral procession! For Va’s sake, Ryce.
Pity
me in this!”

“I – well, of course, but Thilda—”

“No buts, Ryce. Talk to Father about it. I’m no longer a virgin; the Regal will have me killed on my wedding night if he finds out!”

With one last look, she swept past him into the reception room to talk to King Edwayn herself. He looked back at the Marten woman. She’d seated herself in the nearest chair, straight-backed and unmoving, staring at the floor. He cleared his throat. “The King’s orders are that you’re not to speak to anyone about this, on pain of…” He halted, not sure how to word it.

She looked up to regard him steadily, waiting for him to finish.

“Er, torture was mentioned. And death.”

“I never doubted it,” she said. “You can tell him I know who puts the bread on my plate.”

He had never seen such bleak misery on a woman’s face.

From the next room, he heard his father roar, “Ryce! Get in here and talk some sense into your sister’s head!”

He obeyed, when what he really wanted to do was disappear in the direction of the nearest tavern and order himself a jeroboam of beer.

How can I have been such a fool?

After Mathilda left, Saker did not go back to sleep. As the first cold light of dawn crept in through an ill-fitted shutter that morning, the question echoed, over and over, at the forefront of his mind.
How can I have been such a fool?

Cool, calm Saker Rampion. Swordsman, scholar, spy – and gold-plated, loggerheaded
lout
. What if someone found out? What if Celandine Marten betrayed them?

Betrayed? That was a joke –
he
was the one who’d betrayed Mathilda. And himself. He was older, supposedly wiser, a cleric. He was her spiritual adviser, dammit!

True, unlike the Way of the Flow of Lowmeer, the Way of the Oak did not promote the celibacy of the clergy, although they did emphasise the importance of constancy within marriage. But still, he was supposed to
guide
a pupil, not seduce her. Or assist her seduction of him.

And then, to compound his crime, by refusing to accompany her to Lowmeer, he’d walked away when she needed him most. He was in love – but not enough to make a sacrifice for her.

Useless to tell himself there was no way a Shenat witan would ever have been welcome at the court there; useless to tell himself that the Pontifect would never have allowed it either; useless to know it would have been an impossible situation for both Mathilda and himself anyway. He was as guilty as a hornswaggling pickpocket, and he knew it.

Earth and oak, how he loved her! Her compassion. Her quick wit. The way her smile lit up her face like the glow of a candle through frosted glass. The feel of her, the perfume of her body, the passion within, the absence of shame when she’d shown him her need…

Dear Va
.

What have I done?

And how could he possibly undo any of it?

He was fully dressed, ready to go to the chapel for morning prayer, when a rapping at the door rattled the wooden planks. On opening it, he was surprised to see the sergeant of the Prince’s personal guard standing there in uniform, with several others behind him. His greeting was a respectful, “Good morning, Witan Rampion.”

“Yes, er, Sergeant Horntail, is it not? Good morning. What’s the problem?”

“Here to detain you, I regret to say, witan. At the King’s pleasure.”

For a moment he stood, stunned.
They can’t have found out already what we did last night, surely?
No, of course not. Maybe they knew about the night he eavesdropped from a window ledge on a meeting between the Secretary for the Navy and the Chancellor of the Exchequer. Or maybe the Prime had discovered that he’d broken into his office in Faith House…

Finding his voice, he asked, “On – on what charge?”

“I couldn’t say, master witan,” the Sergeant said.

“What are your instructions, Sergeant?”

“To deliver you to the Keep, witan.”

The
Keep
? That wasn’t good. For one mad moment he considered fleeing, but there was nowhere to run. He shook his head, as if that would bring clarity to his thoughts, but it didn’t help. “Can I take anything with me?”

Dear Va, if someone knows about last night, I’m a dead man.

“Bit chilly down yonder, so bring a blanket. My men’ll help you carry whate’er you want. No weaponry, of course.”

Almost overcome by his sense of unreality –
Blister it, this couldn’t be happening!
– he gathered as much as he could. Paper, ink, quill, a change of clothes, his prayer book, his cloak, the acorn he had taken from the King Oak shrine, money. He knew enough about jails to know he’d need all the coins he had for bribes, or to buy luxuries like decent food. He looked at his Pashali sword hanging in its scabbard behind the door and wondered if it would still be there when – if – he returned. There was no lock on the outside of his door.

You beef-witted fool. You deserve everything that happens to you…

Arriving at the Keep, Sergeant Horntail wished him luck and turned him over to the chief jailer, who apparently answered only to his title, Master Turnkey. The cell contained a table, a chair and a raised stone platform for a sleeping pallet. A slit through the thick outer wall, less than a hand-span wide, let in a little light and air. Unfortunately, the flagstoned floor was covered with filthy straw smelling of mould, rat droppings and roaches. The pallet hadn’t been changed in years. The blanket was so ancient he thought it would disintegrate if it was washed.

After a glance around the tiny room, he turned to the turnkey and handed him the guildeen he’d just dug out of his purse. “Take this for you and your men, in appreciation. Would you be so kind as to tell one of your underlings that I would be mightily pleased if the cell were to be cleaner by nightfall? There’ll be another guildeen in it…”

The turnkey, whose wizened face spoke of an age of experience just as much as his sizeable paunch announced his acquaintance with hearty meals and ample wine, glanced at the coin and smiled. They were both aware that jailers were largely dependent on contributions from their prisoners. “Sure and indeed, if it can be arranged, witan, ’twill be. I’m a reasonable cove, though a man with a large family and many expenses. For as long as the coinage dribbles in, I’ll see to it that your stay will be comfortable, whether it be long or short. How it ends is – sadly – not up to me.”