Wren (The Romany Epistles) (24 page)

“They aren’t that much different than us,” I reassured him
as I relinquished the now bloodied cloth. “I will be right here if you need me,
Wren.”

Her eyes laughed when she seriously described her injuries
to the young man. The soldier pulled me aside.

“King Orac wishes you to attend the tribunal.”

I nodded. “I will come once I can move her.”

“But–”

“The tribunal and Hawthorne’s fate is just as much her
business as mine. Please request that they delay for a half hour.”

“By then it will be dark.”

I shrugged. “I think the king will be inclined to grant my
request for her sake. Just be sure to mention that it is for Lady Romany’s
comfort.”

The soldier obeyed, but made no effort to disguise his
skepticism.

~~~~~

My hip throbbed. The cold numbness of shock began to
dissipate and pain settled in its place. I attempted to ignore the healer’s
touch and movements. Despite my general lack of queasiness, I hated knowing
what he was doing to me. I preferred refusing to consider it and focusing on
something else.

Tourth and Svhen stood only a few feet away discussing the
situation. Keilvey disappeared. I wasn’t surprised. Tourth’s frustration at the
news translated into pacing.

“He has to be somewhere nearby. He couldn’t have gotten very
far.”

“He required a fast horse and a head start. Look around.
Horses aplenty.”

“But–”

The sensation of fire seared through my hip. I screamed. My
focus snapped back to my leg. Liquid pain cut deep into my flesh radiating
agony like a poison. Someone grabbed my free arm, enfolding my hand and lifting
my upper body off the ground. Before I gasped for air to replace the wind
knocked out of me, I was leaning against Tourth’s kneeling legs.

“Breathe through it, Wren,” Tourth’s voice burrowed through
the haze. I latched on to it, focusing with all my might. “It will pass.”
Someone brushed back my hair. I forced my lungs to do what they were designed
to do despite their momentary lapse in memory.

“What did you do to her?” he demanded of the healer.

“Alcohol, sir, I just pour it over to cleanse the–”

“Did you warn her?” Tourth’s grip on my fingers tightened.

“No, I don’t usually.”

“Lesson one in dealing with women: always tell them what you
are going to do before you do it. Prepare them.” Although the words were kind,
Tourth’s tone made it clear that the man better never forget the advice, or
else.

“Men, too,” Svhen added.

“What?” Tourth barked.

“Warn men also. That is painful. It is better to be able to
prepare for it first.”

I laughed. I couldn’t help it. “Give the man a break, he
just surprised me. It isn’t as though we are in the best of circumstances.”

I could barely see in the falling shadows. The healer worked
by the light of a heavy lantern, but its halo of light didn’t reach my head. I
couldn’t discern Tourth’s face, but I felt him tense.

“I still have to stitch it.” The poor healer’s voice
quavered uncertainly. “That is going to hurt as well.”

“Go ahead,” I said quickly before Tourth or Svhen could make
it worse.

“Are you sure?” Tourth asked.

“Let the man do his job.” Thankfully that seemed to convince
the healer. He resumed working. “Tell me about your confrontation with Hawthorne.
It will distract me.”

Tourth complied. As he finished, Dardon arrived.

“That Lord Portan is grumping because you two are late to
the tribunal. You better get over there quickly.”

“Can she be moved yet?” Tourth asked.

“One more stitch should do it. Then only the dressing
remains.”

“What happened to you?” Dardon squatted down to my level.
The lantern light threw his face into relief.

“Opponent took a bit out of my hip.”

“And the other guy?”

I refrained from speaking as the healer finished off the last
stitch. Tourth answered for me. Dardon whistled in appreciation.

“Done, my lady,” the healer pronounced a few moments later,
pulling my under tunic down to cover the bandage. “Change the dressing daily
and no walking on it for at least four days.”

I opened my mouth to protest the last, but Tourth cut me off
by promptly shifting me to the ground. Climbing to his feet, he yelled for
Svhen to bring a lantern. “Up you go,” was the only warning I received before I
was scooped up in Tourth’s arms. By the time I recovered my bearings and swung
an arm around his shoulders, he was striding across the night-blackened
battlefield with Dardon and Svhen scrambling to catch up, lantern swinging
wildly.

“You should listen to some of your own advice, Tourth. I
would have liked a warning.”

Svhen reached his side at that moment, lantern raised above
his head. I gained a close view of Tourth’s tightly clenched jaw. I was tempted
to touch his face to get his attention. I pushed the thought aside. Not now.

He grunted, hefting me higher. “We have a lot to talk about
once this is over. First we deal with Hawthorne. Then we need to discuss the
future.”

We reached the king’s camp before I could think of what to
say.

Dardon pointed at the center tent displaying the king’s
crest. “They are meeting in the main tent. Lord Portan–” Tourth didn’t wait for
him to finish. He strode up to the men standing guard at the entrance.

“Mynth and Romany for the tribunal.”

The guards bowed us inside without a word.

King Orac sat in all the trappings of his position. Gone
were the trappings of simplicity. From opulent robes to ornate crown he
appeared every inch a king. However, his disquiet as he sat on the small throne
communicated clearly that he hadn’t been born to the position. Portan, standing
at his right hand, offered a sharp contrast. Ease born of life-long privilege
flowed from his shoulders like the heavy brocade of his mantle. The tilt of his
head, chin slightly elevated even in repose, clearly indicated his heritage. I
suddenly realized I had more in common with Orac than I realized.

“Put me down.” Wren pushed gently at my shoulder.

I complied, carefully, but keeping an arm around her waist
once her feet were planted on the grass. She made one attempt to step away from
me. I felt her reflexive reaction to the pain of the movement. Thankfully she
didn’t try again.

“My liege.” I bowed from the waist without releasing my grip
on her.

“I understand you are one of the wounded, my lady,” Orac
observed.

“I am, my lord,” she replied. “I would bow, but….”

“Understood.” Orac nodded toward a heavily padded chair. “I
took the liberty of preparing for your arrival. You have my permission to sit
in my presence for this tribunal only.”

“Thank you, your majesty, but I prefer to stand because of the
nature of the injury.”

King Orac nodded and turned to Portan as I half-carried her
over to rest beside Philon and two of his brothers, who were waiting off to the
right side. A handful of other men stood along the opposite side of the tent. I
didn’t know all of them, but a few of the faces chilled me. They were men I had
met in battle or knew of by reputation during the war.

“How is Hiller?” Wren asked as soon as she composed herself.
Pain and exhaustion etched shadows in her pale face. I was conflicted as to
whether or not she belonged there considering the loss of blood and I doubted
that she had eaten or slept much in the past two days.

“Bruised, but he will live without any physical scars,”
Iscarus replied.

Warrick leaned over to whisper. “This bastard has a lot to
answer for.”

Philon silenced him with a frown as Hawthorne was led in,
hands chained, broken fingers swathed in linen.

Lord Portan greeted him. “Step forward and face your fate,
prisoner.” Turning to a man kneeling at a wooden table to the left of the
throne, he held out his hand. “Read the charges prepared by the king’s council
brought against this man.”

The man rose, vellum in hand, and read out the contents in a
steady monotone.

“Twyford Hawthorne, former enforcer of Iselyn Valley, you
are charged with the following crimes: violation of feudal law by pressing the
residents of the domain under your safekeeping into unpaid labor and by
committing an act of war against a noble of the crown in the king’s name by
invading his borders and performing raids on his lands. You are accused of
treason against the crown on two counts. The first was by enlisting
mercenaries, a sovereign right of the king alone. The second was a physical
assault upon the king himself.

“You have been found guilty of these crimes based on the
evidence of a great host of witnesses. However, based on the articles of feudal
agreement set down at the foundation of the Kilanore Mountains, you have been
granted opportunity to speak to the charges.” The scribe peered over his document
at the prisoner.

Hawthorne stood silent. His mouth drawn in a pale line
against his teeth and his shoulders hunched, he glared at Wren. The hatred in
his eyes made my skin crawl. I inched forward, blocking her from his vision.
She must have been more weary than I guessed because she leaned her head
against the back of my shoulder.

“The accused refrains.” The scribe nodded to his assistant.
“So note.” The young man complied. “Now the floor opens to the tribunal. If my
lord king grants, others are allowed to speak to the charges.”

“I allow,” King Orac immediately replied.

Philon stepped forward. “Wish to add to the charges, my
liege.” His shoulders squared, face solemn, and noble seal hanging across his
chest, he reminded me of his father. A wave of grief for my own father swept
through me.

“Do you have the evidence to support your claim?” Lord
Portan asked.

“Aye.”

Orac nodded.

“I submit that Hawthorne did murder a noble of the realm and
his wife willfully and without remorse while they were unarmed and reposing
within the safety of their bedchamber.”

Orac leaned forward. “Have you evidence of this beyond the
battlefield conversation we both witnessed?”

“Aye, my liege, the victims’ daughter, Katerina Mynth.”

“Bring her forth.”

One of the guards at the door pulled back the canvas and
motioned to someone outside. Katerina entered. She took my breath away. Dressed
in a heavy blue and silver embroidered brocade, she glided smoothly into the
center of the gathering, chin held high and confidence in every graceful
motion. She resembled our mother, all golden hair and dignity. Homesickness
turned my gut. Adding to my unease, I noted Orac’s marked attention. He had a
reputation for liking women.

“Your name?” Lord Portan asked.

“Katerina Mynth, daughter of the late Lord Iselyn.”

“You have evidence?”

“Yes. I saw that man descend the stairs from my parents’
bedchamber bloodied knife in hand the night of their death.” She pointed at
Hawthorne’s bent head.

“But you told me you weren’t there that night.” The words
escaped my lips before I could catch them. Once committed, I needed to finish.
“You told me you were visiting a friend.”

Kat turned anguished eyes on me. “I spread the story because
I was afraid. Tourth, he murdered our parents and laughed about it. He–” She
swallowed, forcing the reluctant words out. “He said Father pled for Mother’s
life, offered his own in her place. Father died thinking she would live, but
he–” A sob tore through her. She struggled to regain her composure, but
obviously losing the battle.

Wren shoved me hard in the back. I stumbled the first step,
but continued under my own volition. Wrapping my arms around my sister I held
her close as years of isolated grief finally found release.
Oh, Deus, how
could I have been so blind. So wrapped up in my own pain that I failed to see
hers. Please help me to make it up to her.

“I think we have heard enough.” Orac rose to his feet. He
lifted his staff of office, which resembled a club more than a staff. “I, King
Justus Orac, pronounce you, Twyford Hawthorne, guilty of treason and murder. As
the law requires, you shall be taken from this place and punished to the full
extent allowed, death by hanging, followed by decapitation. Upon declaration of
death, your body will be–”

He didn’t get a chance to finish. Hawthorne uttered a
barbaric howl, raised his chained hands before him, and charged Wren.

I released Kat, reached for my sword, and lunged to intercept
him, but Warrick moved faster. The villain’s crazed attack ended on the edge of
Warrick’s blade. The howl stuttered into a choking gurgle in the shocked
silence of the room. Hawthorne’s body fell to the ground.

“It is done,” Warrick pronounced without emotion.

Lord Portan knelt to check the body, but I turned away,
seeking Wren.

I found her gripping Iscarus’ shoulder in an effort to stay
upright. Her features took on a bit of a greenish hue.

“I have her, Iscarus.” I slipped an arm around her waist and
pulled her good hip against my leg. If she fainted, she would go nowhere.
“Could you see to Kat?”

“I will take her back to Arthus, if the king allows.”

He stepped away.

“I never pegged you for someone with a weak stomach.”

Wren’s face hid in the fall of her loose hair so I couldn’t
read her reaction. “It hasn’t been the typical day and I am not my usual self.”
She took a steadying gulp of air. “To be completely honest, the pain is making
my stomach rebellious.”

“Warn me if you need to heave. I don’t relish having to
clean my gear again.”

She lifted her face enough for me to glimpse her weak smile,
but she avoided my eyes.

“Your attention!” Lord Portan stood in the center of the
tent. “The king has one other item of business to conduct before releasing you
to your duties.”