The Widow and the King (2 page)

He crouched, with his heart still pounding, and groped. Nothing stirred. The room was empty. His fingers found the leg of the trestle table he had up-ended. In the doorway was a pottery bowl, broken. The remains of some liquid had spilled from it. He sniffed, and smelled the decay of food. No one had been eating
that
for days.

And Raymonde?

Carefully, deliberately, he checked the other rooms around the court. He found sleeping pallets, lamps, a child's writing slate, a crude cup-and-ball toy and the remains of a fire with ashes that were loose but cold. A small number of people had lived here – perhaps no more than two. They had lived not like the hill people, but in the manner of the Kingdom, down in the plains from which he had come. Then they had left.

Abandoned houses – or wrecked or burned or looted – were nothing new to the knight. There were so many now, in the fields of the Kingdom. But this house, and the hill village he had found across the valley, had been deserted only a few days ago. And a few days ago, Raymonde had been near this place.

Did that mean anything? There was no knowing. But if Raymonde had come here, he was gone again.

The knight cursed, wearily. He wrenched the great helmet from his head, and his pale, greying hair tumbled to his neck. He looked around him.

In the middle of the courtyard, facing away to the low wall and the mountains across the valley, was a throne. It stood on a platform of blocks. A flight of steps ran up to it from the far side. Faded carvings writhed upon its high back, obscure in the growing dusk. The thing was as large as the throne of the King in his city of Tuscolo, away in the heart of the Kingdom. But what king had ever sat here, high in the mountains, with not even a roof above his head?

The knight paced around it, half imagining that a man, maybe Raymonde himself, might even now be seated upon it, staring out at the peaks that were blackening with the night. But it was empty. There was space before it for a crowd to gather, to hear the words of their lord. Yet that, too, was empty, like all the house.

Darkness was gathering. The knight turned away. Now that he was sure the house was abandoned, the tension of his search was leaving him. After his surge of anger, the same heavy, empty weariness was stealing on him again, as it did time after time. He was exhausted, and lost. He had no idea where he would head tomorrow.

Near the throne was a fountain, with a wide bowl about waist height and a spout from which rose a thin stream of water. It must have been fed by some pipe from the higher ground much further along the ridge. He took his horse, patted it and led it to the fountain to drink. He
removed its saddle, its harness and his gear. Then he took a lamp that he had found in one of the rooms and lit it with flint and tinder from his saddle bags.

In the silence he began to hum to himself. He was not a singing man, but noise was what he needed now.

In the outer courtyard he checked each of the storerooms, finding a little grain, root vegetables, dried fish, dried meats, and firewood cut from the scrub of the hillside. He went on to the gate, which he heaved shut and wedged with small stones. His breath came in gasps that echoed in the gate-tunnel.

When he had finished he raised his lantern and peered at the walls. Above the inner arch something was carved upon the keystone – a coiling serpent that snaked around and around a disc. The disc itself was blank, except for a break upon its left-hand side where a gash had been cut by some chisel.

The man grunted. He knew it.

‘The Doubting Moon. Is that it, now?’

It was a sign to him, as sure as the dead horse had been.

‘Tarceny!’ he snarled.

It was the badge of an enemy ten years dead. And it meant witchcraft.

It meant the small, heavy book they had given him, with the moon upon the cover, the night the Count of Tarceny had died under the claws of his own demons.

Take the book into the south,
the King had said.
Keep it in your home, and let none approach it without my permission.

Poison of Tarceny! He could not read the thoughts his hell-beguiled enemy had written within it – nor would he
have ever wanted to. He had locked it in a chest in a high chamber, and had locked the chamber door. He had spoken of it to no one but his own sons. And so down the years he had kept faith with his monstrous charge – until the day when he was abroad and Raymonde had come creeping along the corridors with the iron keys of chamber and chest in his hand …

Had taken the book and …

… cut – Varens – down … … when the boy had stood in his way.

And the knight knew his honour was blasted. Men would damn him for what had happened in his house. And they would damn him again for what he must do to avenge it.

‘Tarceny!’ he cursed again, and felt his limbs ache with weariness.

And here was Tarceny's sign, cut into the gate of a house at the end of the world. That was not chance. Raymonde had been coming here. Something he had read in the book would have brought him. And what?

Again, there was no knowing.

Night had come. Around him the mountain-shapes rose like a huge, still sea. Treading in his bubble of light he made his way to where his horse stood. Company was company, even when it was four-footed and dumb. He found its nosebag and filled it with grain from the storehouse. Then he rooted in a sleeping room for more blankets, and lay down by the low wall with his head pillowed by his saddle and bags. He did not want to sleep indoors, here. If something came to the gate he had fastened, he wanted to hear it. If something disturbed his horse, he
wanted to see. He was uneasy. It was better to be aware.

At last, with an effort of will, he blew out his light. He sniffed at the smell of the wick, and wondered how even such a thing as ordinary lamp-oil had found its way to this place.

Above him the stars stood clear in the mountain sky. Somewhere the real moon, nearing its full, must already be rising. An hour or so would see it lift above the ridges to cover the world in dark silver.

‘Aun.’ It was a voice of a woman, calling softly. 'Aun.’

With a long, breathless struggle, like rising through dark water, he woke. Fragments of a dream still flitted in his mind: Varens, living, laughing; the hall at home; the book safe in his hand. But he was no longer dreaming. He was awake, in the courtyard of a ruined house, almost a week's march beyond the nearest living hearth.

And he knew, with the empty jolt of his heart, that Varens was dead.

In his dreams, the knight thought, he might go home; but in the waking world, maybe never.

He cursed and struggled to a sitting position. The moon was up, paling the stars and pouring silver light over the courtyard. The air was chilly and his breath hung like a frosted cloud before him. It was almost never cold enough for that, down in the plains.

He was sick with half-sleep.

‘Aun.’

It
was
a woman's voice, from somewhere close. He looked around. There was a figure, wrapped in a cloak, sitting on the lower steps of the throne. It took him a
moment to realize that she had used his given name, as an old friend might. He had not heard it spoken for so long.

The moon was on her face. He knew her at once, but did not believe it.

‘Am I still dreaming?’

She seemed to smile. ‘No, you are awake.’

He had not seen her for ten years. It was hard to tell if she had aged at all, in this light. A very little, he thought.

‘What are you … ?’

‘Hush!’ Her finger was on her lips. ‘Come away,’ she said, softly but urgently. ‘Come away.’

Enemies? Close? As softly as his swimming head allowed, he rose and made his way to sit beside her on the throne-step.

‘Speak low,’ she said. ‘And don't show yourself at the wall.’

‘What is it?’ he murmured.

‘What you would call witchcraft.’

‘Tarceny?’ he asked sharply.

She put a finger to her lips. He held his breath to listen.

Silence.

Then a scraping noise from below the walls, like stone drawn across stone.

That wasn't a man down there, he thought. No man moved like that. It might have been a beast. But – he could not imagine what sort of beast it could be.

The noises faded into stillness.

‘They are around the house,’ the woman said. ‘They know you are here.’

‘Will they come in?’

She shook her head. ‘Maybe not. I think their orders are to watch, only. But if they see us, it may madden them.’

He held his breath again, but now he could hear nothing.

Witchcraft. Raymonde had been coming here, with that book in his hands. What had he done?

And – and why was
she
here – she of all people, who had disappeared from the world ten years ago?

He bit his lip, and wondered if he was still dreaming. No, it truly was her: Phaedra, the bride of Tarceny, after all this time. Her skin, which he remembered as olive-coloured, seemed very pale under the moon. Her long dark hair was hidden within a hood, but the arch of her brow was clear upon her face: clear, and soft as a cold kiss.

She was still listening – listening for something moving beyond the wall. No sounds came. At last she sat back with a slight sigh, and the cloud of her breath silvered in the moonlight.

‘What are you doing here?’ he asked. His voice was hoarse.

‘I have been here since I left Tarceny,’ she said.

Ten years – here? What kind of living could she have had here, scraping her keep from these rocky hillsides? After what she had done to bring down Tarceny, she could have been Queen. Or she could have been his own lady. And if she had chosen that, he would have pushed every damned obstacle out of the way to make it so. Instead she had come here.

Why
here
?

‘Sometimes,’ she continued, ‘when the winters were
rough, we would go down to the plains. I still have good friends at Chatterfall, you may remember.’

Remember? Yes he did. But …

‘We?’

‘My son Ambrose and I,’ she said. ‘You knew I had a son, Aun.’

He had known, of course, but he had forgotten. Perhaps he had forgotten deliberately. That
she
should have had a son – the son of the Count of Tarceny!

His fingers had begun to fidget in his lap.

‘And you, Aun. Is it well with you?’

What could he say?

‘No.’

‘You came here looking for someone,’ she murmured.

He put his head in his hands and grunted, briefly.

‘He has been here?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

When? How long ago? Why didn't she say? ‘He has read the book, Aun,’ she said.

Such a gentle reproach, for what had happened in his house! But he had not yet spoken about Varens. He did not want to.

‘Do you know what was in it?’ she asked.

‘You know I cannot read.’

‘But he can.’

‘I came – I came to stop him.’

He could not tell her what he was planning to do. ‘It is too late, Aun.’

‘Too late?’

‘Listen.’

For a long moment they sat side by side. Then he heard
the noise again. Out on the hillside, below the low wall that bounded the courtyard, something was moving: something that slithered across the rocks. It was a heartless sound. It made him think of blind evil under the moon.

He half-rose to his feet, but her hand on his arm stopped him. When she spoke again, it was in a whisper.

‘I had bound them, Aun. I came here and trapped them and their master near this place, after Tarceny died. I lived and raised my child here, so that I could be sure they could not escape. But your son read of them in the book. That is why he came …’

She hesitated. The knight looked sharply at her. For a moment he thought she must have begun to weep.

But no, she was not weeping. She was frowning; and concentrating, as though for some reason her words had begun to give her difficulty.

After a moment she said: ‘Tarceny had written of them. That is why your son came …’

She was repeating herself. Did she think he hadn't heard?

He knew he was awake, now – fully awake; and she was there and solid beside him. She looked as clear and collected as ever he remembered her. And yet there was something very dream-like about this. She had begun to force her words, still in an undertone, but at the same time as if she feared he was not hearing her properly.

What was this?’

‘It was a week ago,’ she was saying. ‘Maybe it was more. I find it – hard to count time, now. He came up the path. He spoke well …’ She seemed to smile, briefly. ‘He would not say why he had come. But I was pleased to see
him, because it is lonely here, and maybe because he reminded me of you. We gave him supper. He talked about the Kingdom, and the troubles that poor Septimus is having, holding onto the crown that you and I won for him …’

You and I, you and I, she was saying: those days of broken meanings, ten years ago, when she had vanished, and joy had vanished, and left him a sour, rewardless man who beat his own sons: a man to whom laughter and her voice returned only in his dreams.

But was he dreaming, or was she? The way she spoke made him feel as if
he
might be in
her
dream, a thing wavering on the very edge of her mind.

‘But when I woke …’ She was stammering now. ‘When I woke he was gone. The door to my house was open. I remembered – that it was to you that the book had been given when Tarceny was killed. Then I followed him. I saw him on the skyline. I tried to stop him, but he struck me. He let them out, Aun. He let them out!’

‘Who? What has he done?’

She gave a helpless gesture, as if this were something she had already explained, or had thought he understood. ‘Them! Him!’ she said, pointing to the low wall. Then she put her hand over her face.

‘Ambrose fled,’ she said. ‘I had told him he should.’

An ugly, hollow feeling was growing inside him. What was it Raymonde had done here? Witchcraft, no doubt of it! Bad enough to drive a boy from his mother – and to empty the village across the valley too, maybe. He had been dreading what his son might do with that book in his hands. Now it had begun.