The Last Quarrel (The Complete Edition) (4 page)

“Highness, we have to do something now,” Niall said urgently.

Cavan looked up from the scroll to see the crowd surging forwards. He had been ignoring the shouts and screams but he could hear the anger and fear now and the guards had to work hard to keep the people back.

“Highness, if she wasn’t a witch, why do they hate her so? The people know something,” Niall said persuasively.

“Highness, she isn’t leaving this square alive. These people are not going to let her walk out of here. They’ll rip her apart – and us as well, if we try to stop them,” Eamon said, more calmly.

“But I can’t stand by and let a woman die for no reason!”

“Sometimes sacrifices have to be made,” Eamon said. “Something has happened and the people are terrified. If we don’t give them something, they will rip first Berry and then Gaelland apart. Besides, the King has spoken the words of her death. Will he go back on that?”

Cavan opened his mouth to declare King Aidan would, if the proof was found – but closed it again. His father had never changed his mind. Once he made a decision, that was it and woes betide any who disagreed with it.

“Highness, I beg of you. My life and the lives of my men depend on this. You must read your speech and then I must light the pyre,” the sergeant cried.

The noise of the crowd seemed to hammer at Cavan. He looked at Widow Eithne and she raised her hands to him, pleading. He glanced to his right and saw the sergeant there, his eyes begging. He looked back at Eithne. He wanted to lift her up into his saddle, ride out of here and then find the proof she was innocent, present it to the crowd and make them understand, then show his father … He closed his eyes. It was hopeless.

Hating himself, he held out his hand to Niall. “Give me the speech,” he said roughly. Every time he represented his father, he could not use his own words: he had to give the speech written for him. The one time he had tried to change it, he had been whipped.

“Thank Aroaril!” the sergeant cried. “Get the witch onto the pyre, boys!”

“I don’t think he will thank any of us for today’s business,” Cavan said, mostly to himself.

“Silence for the Prince! Hear the words of the King!” the sergeant yelled, his men echoing him, while Eithne screamed as they lashed her to the stake and packed the wood around her feet.

The crowd was calming down as they saw things happening and the shouts of hatred were replaced by a huge cheer at the sight of Eithne being tied to the stake.

“Silence! Silence for Prince Cavan!” the guards kept shouting, and the crowd began to quieten down, the word spreading across the packed square. Cavan turned his back on Eithne, feeling sick to the stomach. Eamon was right. No matter what he did, she was dead. All he could do was ensure no others followed her. He clung to that justification with all his might but the truth stuck in his throat and stole his voice. He cleared his throat.

“Good people!” he shouted, and more of them quietened, nudging each other and waiting for him. He held out his hand to Niall.

Niall rummaged in a bag and handed Cavan a crude scroll.

“Good people!” he shouted again. All his speeches started the same, so he knew he was safe with that. He also knew that somewhere in this crowd was a man with a copy of the speech and, unless he read it perfectly, his father would find out. The people were looking at him expectantly so he glanced down to see his next line, then looked up at Niall.

“
This Guild is the backbone of Berry
?” he hissed at Niall.

Niall snatched the scroll back, rummaged again and replaced it with another. “I’m so sorry highness, the noise …” he apologized, his face red.

Cavan snatched the new scroll and began to read. “We are troubled to hear stories of dark witchcraft in our bright streets,” he called, the words feeling like ash in his mouth and threatening to choke him with every sentence.

Behind him, Eithne wailed and cried; in front of him, people howled with anger.

“Every story that a child has gone missing, sacrificed to evil, tears at our hearts.” He paused and looked around the square.
I never knew Father had a heart.
“We thought that, years ago, we had banished the last traces of Zorva from our land, let the light of Aroaril shine into every last corner.”
Except the dark places Father didn’t want Him to see.
“But your King watches over you, like a fond father.”
How I managed to say that one without choking on it, or laughing bitterly, I’ll never know.
“He has acted swiftly, and justly. The witch will pay for what she did. And we pledge to you that you will be safe! Anyone else who tries to practice witchcraft will be hunted down and this shall be their punishment!”

Cavan finished the last with a flourish and unrolled the last piece of scroll – except there was no more. He turned it over, then looked accusingly at Niall – then saw the soldiers advancing on the stake, torches in their hands.

“No!” Cavan roared, leaping down from his horse and standing between the torches and the pyre. “This is wrong. I cannot let it happen. Set her free and follow me. I shall protect you – tell my father that I insisted. I am the Crown Prince. How could you disobey my orders?”

The sergeant’s face was a mask of terror and Cavan felt his certainty falter in the face of that. His father never accepted excuses.

“Burn the witch!” the crowd screamed and chanted.

“Highness, they will never let you out of here. And we will not kill them to protect her,” the sergeant said.

“I don’t care,” Cavan said. “I can’t let this happen.”

“You have to,” Eamon told him. “If you try and stop things now, there will be a riot. We shall be lucky to get away alive and many of these people will die. Do you want one death on your hands, or many?”

“I don’t want any!”

“It is too late for that. There must be a death,” Eamon warned. “You have to learn to only fight the battles you can win.”

Cavan looked around at the frightened soldiers and the furious and hysterical faces of the crowd and felt like sobbing himself.

“Highness, step aside. It is too late for Eithne. All you can do is make sure this never happens again,” Eamon persisted.

Cavan looked away and saw a pair of yelling women knocked to the ground by a scared soldier. The crowd looked ready to rush over and tear Eithne limb from limb. He felt frozen. He could not stop this terrible deed but neither could he step away from the widow.

Eamon seemed to recognize Cavan’s dilemma, for he signaled and the soldiers rushed forwards, hurling torches onto the pyre.

“No – wait!” Cavan began but it was already too late.

Eithne’s sobbing turned into a cry of pure terror; the crowd cheered but also backed away a little as the oil-soaked wood burst into flame in an instant.

“Why?” Cavan asked, bile thick in his throat.

Eithne was on fire now and the screaming tore at his head.

“It had to be done, highness. Otherwise they can come back to life,” the sergeant cried.

Cavan rubbed his hands down his trousers, trying to wipe away the clammy feeling of shame and horror at what he had let happen. Eamon put an arm around his shoulders and guided him back towards his horse.

The screaming reached a pitch, then cut off abruptly. The smell of wood smoke was tainted by the stench of burning flesh, not unlike the roast pork Cavan had been served the night before …

A sigh seemed to go through the crowd, then Cavan turned aside and vomited.

“Time to get out of here.” Eamon pulled Cavan upright and handed him a skin of water. “Spit and then drink.”

Cavan washed his mouth out and spat towards the fire, where a twisted figure still seemed to writhe in the flames, then drank deeply. He let Eamon help him back onto his horse and guide him through the crowd. The anger had gone out of them and they parted silently, letting him through. Already some of them at the back were splintering away, going back to homes or work or their shops.

Cavan cuffed at his face with his sleeve, trying to wipe away the tears.

“Once you’re out of the smoke, it will feel better,” Eamon promised.

I don’t think it will ever be better.
Cavan did not tell him the tears were not from the stinging billows of smoke but from his shame. He had let an innocent woman be burned and had read out some foul speech that told everyone they were safe now.

“We have to go to her house,” he said hoarsely.

“Highness, we don’t have the time. We also have a chapel to help dedicate at the harborside house of the Baron of Maeyo,” Niall said. “We have to be there in a turn of the hourglass.” He held up his hourglass as if it were proof.

“I’m not going inside a chapel until I know if she really was guilty,” Cavan said fiercely.

“How are we going to find her house? We could be wandering around here all day,” Eamon pointed out.

Cavan laughed humorlessly. “There are a thousand people around here who just saw her burn to death. And I bet most know where Widow Eithne’s house of evil is.”

As Cavan predicted, the third man they asked directed them down a long, stinking alley to a ramshackle wooden home, the windows all broken and the front of the house splattered with both rotten fruit and dung. A dead cat had been nailed to her front door.

“Well, at least she doesn’t have to worry about cleaning up this mess,” Eamon said, as they picked their way through the alley.

Cavan glanced at him fiercely and the bodyguard shrugged. “I’m just trying to lighten the mood. I’ve never seen anyone burned to death before.”

“Some moods can’t be lightened,” Cavan said. He was about to step down from his horse when movement to his right made him stop and turn. A pair of men eased out of the shadows. They were dressed in rags but the knives they held in their hands were bright and sharp.

“Who are you?” Cavan demanded.

“Just looking for a little food sir,” one said. “Or maybe a little gold, if you don’t have food.”

“Time to go lads. Walk away now and nobody gets hurt.” Eamon deftly moved between Cavan and the group.

“We’re just asking,” the leader said. “Times are hard. Our families are starving.”

“And I’m telling. Walk away or don’t walk again.” Eamon jumped down from his horse and drew his sword. It had been a gift from Cavan and it was a polished piece of steel as long as a man’s arm, with a beautiful jeweled hilt.

The men’s eyes glittered as they stared at it.

“Leave us the sword and we’ll let you live,” one said.

“There are only two of you,” Eamon said flatly.

“You can’t count,” the man said and whistled softly. Another pair stepped out of the shadows, forcing Eamon to take a step back.

“Eamon. Leave the sword. I can buy you another,” Cavan said urgently.

But Eamon was smiling. “This is my favorite sword. I’m not leaving it anywhere.” As he spoke he jumped forwards and thrust it into the throat of the one who had been doing all the talking. Blood sprayed high across the wall behind and the man collapsed, choking. Before his partner could defend himself, Eamon whipped his sword back down and across, tearing open a huge wound in his arm. The man screamed and nerveless fingers dropped his knife. Eamon spun on his heel to where the other pair had raced at Cavan and Niall.

Cavan fumbled his sword out, silently listing all the things Eamon had tried to teach him about fighting with a sword, but they were too close.

Niall kicked his horse around, its flank thumping into them and driving them back and away from the Prince. They pushed forwards again but stopped when Eamon, his sword dripping blood, blocked their path.

“You should run now,” Eamon told them.

But they still advanced, their hungry eyes on the sword.

“Last chance. Is your hunger really worth dying for?” Eamon asked.

They hesitated and then he was among them. His sword sliced into one’s chest, then reversed smoothly to knock away a crude stab. Eamon swiveled slightly, foot stamping down on the cobbles, to drive his sword through the fourth man’s throat and paint blood across the houses behind.

He turned once more, still in balance, but the man with the ripped arm raced away down the street, leaving a trail of blood behind him, hunched over against the pain.

“Well done.” Cavan let out his breath slowly, sheathing his sword on the second try. “Although you didn’t have to kill them.”

“It is my job. And I love it,” Eamon said, wiping his sword clean on a dead man. “At least it hasn’t made the smell much worse.”

“Highness, we should get away from here before more of them come,” Niall said.

“They won’t be back,” Eamon assured them.

“Good. Because I am not done here,” Cavan said. He climbed down from his horse and pushed open the remains of the smashed door, using his foot so he did not have to touch the dead cat, nor its blood, which had spilled down the rough wooden door.

Judging by the front of the home, he expected the interior to be wrecked. But it seemed nobody had been in, instead preferring to throw things from a distance. It was a simple enough home, a large room downstairs with a fireplace, rough cupboards along the walls, a comfortable chair by the fire and another wooden chair at a large table. At the back, a crude ladder led upstairs to her bedroom. Bunches of herbs hung from the rafters, ranging from dried brown to fresh-picked.

“The people must have been too scared to step inside, thinking they were about to be destroyed by a witch’s magic,” Eamon said.

“Then we should leave,” Niall said immediately.

“Are you afraid she was a witch?” Cavan asked sharply.

“I’m just concerned for you, highness,” Niall said hastily. “After all, our lives depend on your safety.”

Cavan looked into the cooking pot that hung over the dead fire. It was empty and the smell of the ash brought back painful memories, so he turned aside from there.

“Go through the cupboards. If she was taking children, then she had to leave something of theirs behind, like clothes.”

“Or bones,” Eamon said darkly.

“Or bones,” Cavan agreed. “Niall, you go upstairs, we’ll search down here.”

“Upstairs!” Niall squawked. “I should search a witch’s bedroom by myself?”