Camber of Culdi (17 page)

The inn where they had met was not far from Cathan's Tal Traeth, which was ostensibly why Coel had asked Maldred to join him here this evening—to discuss what he had learned of Cathan's alleged actions so far, and to inspect the area for themselves. Maldred, who did not often have the opportunity to indulge in personal investigations anymore, had leaped at the chance to get involved again. For the past hour, he and Coel had been trading tales of their younger days. Maldred even had stories told him by his grandfather, who had fought at the side of the first Festillic king some eighty years before.

Coel drained off the rest of his ale with a hearty swallow as the Watch cried the second hour of the night, then slapped the tabletop lightly and pushed back his chair.

“We'd best take our positions, my lord,” he said, standing and tugging his swordbelt in place. “My informant said that a man came shortly after Curfew last night. If he comes again, we ought to be there.”

Maldred grunted and tossed off the rest of his tankard as well, then wiped his beard across his sleeve and lurched to his feet. With Maldred's height and build, it would have been foolish to think that Maldred was drunk, or even a touch fuddled. An old military man like himself would have learned to hold his drink long ago in order to have reached his present station. Nonetheless, Coel suspected that the ale had taken the edge off Maldred's alertness—and that was precisely what Coel intended. Controlling a self-indulgent smile, he led the way out of the inn.

It was dark and cold outside—it would likely snow before midnight—and the grooms waiting beside the horses were huddled around a torch stuck in the ground, hunched down in their warm winter cloaks. They snapped to attention as Maldred approached and gave them some low-voiced orders, then melted into the black beyond the circle of torchlight.

Maldred took up the torch and strode back to Coel, his manner quite matter-of-fact.

“I've sent Carle and Joseph around the side to join your men. Where do we go from here?”

“This way,” Coel murmured, leading down a dark, narrow side street.

Coel's shadow was harsh before him as he walked; Maldred's footsteps echoed close behind. A few turns, and they were moving along an ever darker alleyway, the glow of other torches at the far end making a beckoning haven a few hundred yards away. Senses attuned, Coel forced himself to move briskly, confidently, with Maldred unsuspecting at his heels—for who would attack two armed men?

The slightest scuff of boot on gritted stone, and it was begun!

As the torch fell from Maldred's fingers, Coel whirled, cloak swirling to conceal the dagger he now clutched in his hand, the blade tucked close along his forearm. Maldred made no outcry—could make none. His assailant was a dark shadow close against his back, sinewy arms pinioning struggles as Maldred clawed frantically, futilely, at the fine cord biting into his neck.

But Maldred's silent struggle was for naught, and quickly finished. In seconds, the assassin was lowering his lifeless body to the ground, knotting the cord, which had disappeared into a thin, bloody crease in his victim's neck.

Coel reached to his belt with his empty hand and withdrew a small, weighty pouch, which he tossed to the ground with a golden clink as he stepped closer to the torch guttering on the ground.

“Let's be quick about it,” he whispered, drawing his sword and laying it quietly beside the torch. “Finish up and get out of here. I haven't got all night.”

Quickly, stealthily, the assassin glided to the pouch and stooped to pick it up, never seeing or even sensing the dagger which spun from Coel's hand to bury itself in his heart.

As the man toppled soundlessly to the ground, Coel darted forward and seized the pouch, jamming it into his tunic and withdrawing instead a piece of parchment, burned across the top, a pendant seal attached below. This he placed very near the torch beside the slain assassin. Then he drew the assassin's dagger and laid the blade against his own thigh, steeling himself before plunging it deep into the muscles of his left leg. As the pain swept over him, he screamed.

To the Watch's credit, they were not long in coming. But they were too late to save the illustrious Earl Maldred from the assassin's garrotte, or to get any information out of the assassin himself. They found Lord Coel half fainting in a pool of his own blood, trying to beat out the smouldering edges of a piece of parchment which was signed and sealed with an all-too-familiar name.

Lord Coel, as they stanched his wound, was able to tell them how he and Maldred had been beset while they walked through the alley, and that the assailant had tried to burn the piece of parchment as he died. But Coel urged them not to let news of Maldred's death or the parchment become known until he had a chance to tell the king in the morning. And then he passed out.

The Watch, well-trained men that they were, obeyed his orders without question, conveying him swiftly to his working quarters at the castle, where his own body squire tended to his wound and bandaged him. It was not too serious a wound, the squire assured them—not even serious enough to warrant a Healer's efforts—though his lordship had lost a great deal of blood, and would surely be walking with the aid of a stick for a week or so.

Shooing them all out of his master's chamber, the squire gave orders for the two bodies to be held at a nearby abbey, then assured the men that Lord Coel would give further orders when he awoke in the morning. Coel, when he was certain he was alone, opened his eyes and glanced around the room triumphantly, then closed them and promptly went to sleep.

It was still very early the next morning, when Coel made his way, with the help of a staff and leaning on the arm of a servant, to the entrance to Imre's suite. He was dressed soberly but tastefully in gray velvet lined with fur, his thigh heavily bandaged under its thick woolen hose. One of the watchmen who had shared the previous night's misadventure was hovering anxiously at his elbow, clutching the piece of parchment which Coel had rescued from the torch.

A guard challenged them at the door, but there was something about Coel this morning which forbade resistance.

“I must speak with His Grace,” Coel said.

“His Grace is still abed, my lord. I shouldn't disturb him, if I were you.”

“I'll be the judge of that,” Coel said, and with a weary sigh reached past the guard and opened the door.

The guard stood aside in confusion, not daring to stop him, and Coel and the watchman passed into the room. Imre's sleeping chamber lay beyond another door on the other side of the room, and one of the king's body servants ran to announce him as Coel limped across the polished floor.

“Sire, Lord Coel is here to see you.”

“What?”

A rustling of bedclothes and muffled protests sounded from within the room, emphatic but unintelligible, and then: “Coel? What's he doing here at this hour?”

Coel stepped into the doorway and addressed the closed curtains of the royal bed. “A thousand pardons, Sire, but it was unavoidable.”

He hobbled into the room, his staff echoing hollowly on the lozenged tiles.

Abruptly, the royal head was thrust through an opening in the bed curtains, the brown hair disheveled.

“Coel, what the devil?”

As Imre's eyes took in the staff, the limp, the bandaged thigh, then flicked beyond to the watchman standing guard at the door, Coel bowed deeply from the waist, spreading his empty hands in an apologetic gesture.

“I fear I suffered a mishap during the night, Sire. Fortunately, I was not badly injured. The wound appears far more serious than it actually is.”

“But what happened?” Imre nearly shouted. He threw back the curtains of his bed and started to leap out, then thought better of it as he realized how cold it was, and pulled the bedclothes around himself instead. “By God, Coel, don't just stand there. Bring a stool and tell me what happened. You mustn't fatigue your leg.”

Coel did as he was bidden, settling painfully with his leg outstretched before him, cradling his staff against his knee.

“We were beset by an assassin, Sire,” he said, letting a hint of real pain touch his voice. “Earl Maldred is dead. I'm sorry.”

“Maldred dead!” Imre drew the bedclothes more closely around himself and huddled down, stunned at the news. “How?”

“Garrotted,” Coel said in a low voice. “We were cutting through an alley, and the man came at him from behind, got him before I could even turn around. I drew my sword, but the man was fast—cursed fast. He got me in the leg with his dagger before I could more than clear the scabbard. When he tried to rob my money pouch, I stopped him with my throwing knife. I'm afraid I killed him.”

“You're afraid—” Imre was at once delighted and horrified. “Well, my God, Coel, he was trying to
kill
you!”

Coel lowered his eyes. “True, Sire. But now we can never be absolutely certain who hired him to make the attempt.”

“What?” Imre scrambled to the edge of the bed and leaned toward Coel eagerly, the long hair falling in his eyes. He pushed it behind his ears with an impatient gesture, clutching the bedclothes around himself with his other hand. “You mean, you think he was a hired assassin? Do you have any idea who hired him?”

“Unfortunately, I do,” Coel murmured.

He gestured to the watchman, who approached and bowed, keeping his eyes averted. Imre stared at him, then at Coel, sensing that he was about to learn more than he had bargained for.

“Watchman, please tell the King's Grace what you saw.”

The man swallowed and nodded his head. “An' it please Your Grace, I was the Watch of the Guard in the sou'western sector of the city last night. It was nearly Curfew, and I and my partner was walking our rounds, when we hears this scream from one of the alleys. We runs toward the scream as fast as we can and finds His Lordship wounded, with the two bodies beside him. He was trying to stop this from burning in the torchfire.”

The man held out the piece of parchment, and Coel took it from him and extended it toward Imre. The king started to reach for it, then withdrew his hand and sat up straighter, a sudden foreboding flashing across his mind.

“What is it?” the king asked.

Coel swallowed. “Your Grace will not be pleased to see this, but justice must be done. I myself do not even remember doing what the watchman just described.”

“What is it?” Imre repeated, his voice edged with impatience and a little apprehension.

Coel signalled the watchman to leave, then moved his stool closer to the royal bedside. “Apparently the assassin was trying to destroy this as he died, to keep it from being discovered. I can only conclude that he was trying to protect whomever had hired him to attempt the assassination. He nearly succeeded.”

“Who do you think it was?” Imre asked, his eyes wide.

“You won't like it, Sire.”

“Damn you, Coel, I already don't like it!” Imre shouted, slamming his fist into the bed beside him. “Who was it?”

Coel held the parchment down where Imre could read it.

“Cathan MacRorie,” he said in a low voice.

There was no mistaking the signature or the seal.

C
HAPTER
T
EN

Wine is a mocker, strong drink is raging: and whosoever is deceived thereby is not wise
.

—Proverbs 20:1

“Cathan!” Imre whispered, after he had resumed breathing. “But, that's not possible. There must be some mistake. He would never …”

Coel nodded slowly, closed his eyes as though unwilling to believe it himself. “I know, Sire. Now you will understand my reluctance to tell you. In light of the rumors concerning Cathan and the Willimites—Well, the apparent connection is rather incriminating.”

“A connection …” Imre repeated, lying back on the pillows and staring up at the canopy for a long moment. “How—how do you see this connection?”

Coel cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Well, it was Maldred who was responsible for the execution of Cathan's villagers. If Cathan
is
in league with the Willimites, as they say, then Maldred would have been an extremely likely next target.”

“But, Maldred was acting on
my
orders.
I
ordered the executions,” Imre said plaintively. “If Cathan wanted revenge for the villagers, he should have struck at m—Oh, my God!”

He broke off suddenly, realizing what he had almost said, then brought a clenched fist to his mouth in horror, turned his face to the wall. For a full minute he remained that way, Coel longing to know what he was thinking but not daring to attempt to touch the royal mind.

Finally, Imre turned his face upward again, studying the ceiling of the canopy with eyes that were cold and dry. His voice, when he spoke, was a deadly monotone.

“Bring me my robe.”

Coel, not daring to disobey, did as he was bidden, holding the fur-lined robe until Imre climbed mechanically out of the bed, shrugged bare shoulders into it, and knotted the cord around his waist. The king strode to the fireplace and stood there staring into the flames for a long time, the firelight reflecting redly off his tousled hair. Then he turned his face slightly toward Coel. The older man had not moved from his place near the curtained bed.

“If Cathan has done this thing, he will be punished. Do you understand?”

Coel nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

“But I will not have any official action taken against him. Is that also understood?”

Coel looked across at Imre carefully, trying to discern the reason behind the statement. “No official action, Sire?”

“None,” Imre replied. He turned back to the fire. “If Cathan is guilty of the crimes which you have suggested, he is clearly a traitor and shall meet a traitor's fate. But I will not have him come to public trial, do you understand that? Cathan MacRorie will never bow before the headsman's ax.”