Exile's Children (76 page)

As she did that, he lifted Benjamyn. The old man's corpse was light as he carried it toward the kitchen. Over his shoulder he said, “Close the door. And do any come, we were neither of us near the study.”

Flysse obeyed as if she were a puppet, her strings tugged by his voice. A dreadful numbness gripped her. Her limbs felt heavy, her heart
seemed to beat sonorous against her ribs, filling her with sluggish blood. Like that, she thought, that welled from Benjamyn's shattered skull. She marveled at Arcole's calm, and at his sacrifice. She thought she could not let him make it.

She followed him to the kitchen and watched as he set the corpse upon the clean-scrubbed floor. A welling of blood came from the head, pooling slow and thick.

Arcole surveyed his handiwork and said, “So. He came in and slipped. You”—he gestured at Flysse's chair—“were sitting there. You dozed, and when you woke, it startled him. He slipped and fell.” He took the candle holder from her and set it close by Benjamyn's head. Then thought to light the candle and drip wax over the floor; pinch out the candle and drop that nearby. “It may be enough.”

“And is it not?” Flysse asked.

“Then he found me at Wyme's brandy.” Arcole crossed to where that was kept and swilled a mouthful. “He threatened me and we struggled. He fell.”

“Arcole, I cannot let you do this.”

He took her face in hands then and said, “Flysse, you can. You must! Do you not see it?”

She shook her head. He took the incriminating paper from his tunic and gave it her. “Is this found,” he said, “then all is lost.
We are lost
. You and Davyd and I, all our dreams. If Wyme suspects we were in his study, then, like Benjamyn, he'll likely remember I can read. And then he'll find those other papers, the maps, and we shall both be found guilty. And Davyd will have no one, nor hope of escape from this place.”

“Should that be so bad?” she asked.

“Do you forget Davyd's dreams?” he asked in return. And when she helplessly shook her head: “No? Then I beg you do as I say.”

“You're sure?”

He nodded. “I've killed enough men that my hands are already bloody. Can I not escape this charge, then perhaps it's a kind of justice. But I can at least know you and Davyd go free. And do you follow our plan, then you can likely use those maps to escape.”

“Not without you,” she said.

“If you must,” he replied. And when she shook her head: “You once extracted promises from me, no? Now I ask the same of you. As you love me, I'll have your word you
will
flee this place if you safely can, and with Davyd. Your word, Flysse?”

Brown eyes locked with blue: his intense, hers blurred by tears. Finally she nodded and said, “Is that your command, Arcole?”

“No. My wish.”

“Then,” she said, “I shall seek to fulfill your wish.”

Then Chryselle entered the kitchen and began to scream when she saw her husband's body.

“Coffee, by God!” Governor Wyme gestured irritably and Nathanial sprang to fill the extended cup. “And brandy.”

Wyme took the decanter and spilled a generous measure into his coffee. He sipped, then closed his eyes and sighed gustily. His head hurt abominably; and as if Danyael Corm had not delivered sufficient bad news the preceding night, he must now face the demise of his majordomo. He did not appreciate the disruption of his sleep or his household, and that did no more than the throbbing of his skull to improve his mood. He tugged his dressing gown tighter across his ample belly and surveyed the scene.

It was, he thought with irritable amusement, rather like one of those tableaux the common folk found entertaining.
The Death of the Old Retainer,
or some such trite title. Benjamyn was the centerpiece, and most assuredly dead. Chryselle sobbed—the sound threatening to hurt Wyme's ears—in Dido's arms. Young—what was her name?—yes, Flysse, stood pale-faced beside her husband. Fredrik, Wyllem and Gylbert stood like guards to either side. Nathanial stood wide-eyed, staring at the corpse. The other servants hung back, still and silent as waxworks.

Most definitely, Wyme decided, a tableaux. But of whose making?

He studied Benjamyn's body and the candle holder close by. Arcole had offered an explanation that was superficially plausible, but Wyme was not a stupid man and by nature suspicious. He hooked a finger in Nathanial's direction and said, “Bring me that candle holder.”

Nathanial obeyed, wincing as he saw the blood that discolored the dented edge. Wyme took the thing without qualms and turned it in his hands.

Then he pointed at the corpse and said, “Fredrik, turn him over.”

The head groom obeyed, his face impassive. Wyme said, “Drag him over here.”

He ignored Chryselle's renewed weeping as the corpse was hauled across the floor and leant forward to survey the wreckage of Benjamyn's skull. Then he turned the candle holder around again and looked at Arcole.

“He slipped, eh?”

Arcole nodded.

“And fell?”

Another silent nod.

“Onto this?” Wyme held up the candle holder.

“I suppose so.” Arcole shrugged.

“Because he was startled when Flysse woke.”

Arcole nodded again.

“And where were you?”

“I was …” Wyme saw Arcole's eyes dart round, and Flysse stiffen beside him. “I was … sampling your brandy.” He gestured to where the decanter was usually kept.

Wyme sipped more of the fortified coffee. There was more to this affair than met the eye, but for now he had troubles enough to occupy him. It was definitely time Grostheim had an Inquisitor, he thought. An Inquisitor could unravel this in moments: his own magic did not extend so far. God, he was not even sure his hexing powers extended to protecting the walls from the promised arrival of the demons. But those were thoughts for another day; he shook his head and groaned regret of the movement. If he settled this affair swiftly, he might manage an hour or two's more sleep.

“You were stealing my brandy,” he said. And even as Arcole voiced an affirmative: “And Benjamyn caught you at it. You killed him, no?”

Arcole said, “No. He slipped and fell.”

“Either way.” Wyme reached under his dressing gown to scratch his chest. “You are responsible.”

Flysse said sharply, “No!”

Arcole said, “Flysse …”

Wyme looked from one to the other. The woman was involved in this, and by God she was a pretty thing. He wondered he'd not noticed her before. Likely Celinda had, and kept her from him. He glanced at Chryselle and a notion shaped: Had Benjamyn perhaps come seeking Flysse? And Arcole objected, and the two men struggled, and Arcole slain Benjamyn? Or perhaps it was all about stolen brandy. God knew, old Benjamyn was—
had been
—a disciplinarian, likely to castigate a man for small theft, but a most excellent majordomo. It would be hard to replace him—which irked the governor; and the more for the notion that Arcole should have been ideal as a replacement when Benjamyn died of natural causes or grew too old. He had the finesse, the manners: Wyme had entertained high hopes of Arcole.

And now they were all dashed at the worst possible time. God, who could take Benjamyn's place? The household would be in chaos; Celinda would undoubtedly blame him.

The governor scowled and said, “I believe you killed him. I pronounce you guilty …”

“Without trial?”

Wyllem and Gylbert grasped Arcole's arms as he lunged forward. Fredrik stood before him, a hand raised ready to strike. Praise God for loyal servants, Wyme thought.

“Take him.” Wyme looked to Fredrik. “There's a secure place? A shed or suchlike, that can be locked?”

Fredrik nodded. “Do I clear out some tack, 'sieur.”

“Then take him there and lock him in,” Wyme said. “Make sure he can't break out, and I'll deal with him later. Now the rest of you go to your beds. Nathanial—my crutches.”

Nathanial hurried to obey as Wyllem and Gylbert took firmer hold of Arcole and Flysse began to sob. She clutched at him and Fredrik pushed her away. She could only watch and weep as he was led out.

She turned to Wyme as Nathanial lifted him onto the crutches. “What shall happen to him, 'sieur?”

Wyme halted, looking at her, and smiled. “Why, my dear,” he said, “having been found guilty of murder, he must be hanged.”

Flysse could hardly believe what had happened. She had known Arcole took risks in his clandestine mapmaking, but she had never thought it might come to this—to sentence of death. She wept as he was taken out and locked in the tack room, and wept as she returned to their chamber. She latched the door and flung herself on the bed, her mind racing. It seemed that all their dreams of freedom were shattered and she must stand helplessly by as her husband was hung. She thought she could not bear that, especially not now, when they had mended their love.

She could not, and so she would not: there had to be something she could do. She dried her eyes and willed herself to think calmly, and as the sun rose pale in a hard blue sky, she knew what she would do. It should be dangerous, but she could not leave Arcole to his fate.

As Dido prepared the mistress's breakfast tray, and those servants not engaged in their duties ate, Flysse approached Nathanial.

“What shall happen now?”

Nathanial wiped crumbs from his chin and shrugged. “Why, he'll be hung, of course. In the town square, most likely.” He smiled speculatively. “I expect we'll get time off to watch.”

“When?” Flysse asked, thinking that she'd like to strike him.

Nathanial glanced at Fredrik, who said, “When the gallows is ready.”

Flysse gulped, blinking tears away. “When shall that be?”

Fredrik drank tea, studying her quizzically, then turned to Nathanial. “How long d'you think?”

“For God's sake!” Dido turned angry eyes on the two men. “Must you torment the poor girl? Surely she's suffered enough.”

They had the grace to look somewhat embarrassed then, and Fredrik said, “Well, there's not been a hanging in a long time, and the old gallows was dismantled. I suppose the master'll order a new scaffold built, and that'll take a day or two.”

“It's Saturday today,” Nathanial said, “an' the master won't ask the carpenters to work Sunday, so I'd reckon it'll be Monday.”

Fredrik nodded in silent confirmation; Flysse swallowed and took the tray Dido proffered. There might be enough time. She prayed there be enough.

When she returned to the kitchen, she asked Dido if she might visit Arcole. The cook hesitated, then patted Flysse's hand and said, “Well, I suppose he is your husband. But not long, eh? Just a quick visit, and then it's back to your duties.”

Flysse blurted out her thanks and hurried away.

The tack room was located at the rear of the stables. There were no windows, and the door was padlocked from the outside. The floor was hard dirt and the room smelled of ancient leather and horses. Fredrik grudgingly allowed she might spend a few moments with her husband and locked her in, promising to return in a while.

Arcole was disheveled, but his smile was bright as he took her in his arms.

“You've not suffered? Has Wyme said anything to you?”

“Only sour looks, and I've not seen the master.”

“I shall miss you,” he said, and sighed.

“Listen”—Flysse drew back so that she could see his face—“Fredrik says you'll be hung on Monday. He thinks the master will order the gallows started today, but tomorrow's Sunday …”

Arcole laughed. “And a God-fearing man like Wyme wouldn't hang anyone on Sunday, eh? Shall he allow me to attend services?”

She thought he put on a brave face, but there was no time for bravado now. She motioned him to silence, saying, “I'll have a chance to speak with Davyd in church.”

“Bid him farewell for me,” Arcole said, “and tell him I'm sorry our plans end this way.”

Flysse said, “Perhaps they don't. Listen …”

•   •   •

Their conversation was necessarily brief. Before long, Fredrik came to unlock the door and advise Flysse she'd best return to her duties, and she must hug Arcole and turn away, praying all go well. It seemed to her that a clock ticked in her head, marking out the moments left them.

It was almost impossible to attend to her tasks. She was unusually clumsy, earning reprimands from Celinda and even Dido, though the cook's were gentler than the mistress's, and she showed Flysse a degree of rough sympathy.

Around the mid-part of the morning, Wyme ordered his carriage be readied. “He'll be goin' to order the gallows started,” Nathanial declared, then fell silent under Flysse's scowl.

“You'd best say a special prayer for him tomorrow,” Dido said.

Flysse nodded, thinking that she most definitely would, albeit not the kind Dido had in mind. That night she could barely sleep, and when the servants assembled for their walk to the church, she was the first ready.

As they crossed the square to the church, she saw that Nathanial's guess had been correct. A platform was already built, and timber lay about its sides, long beams that would support a man dangling from the shorter cross-piece. Flysse stared at the half-finished construction and shuddered, then grit her teeth and walked straight-backed into the church.

Davyd found her as usual, and she thought at first he must have heard the grim news, for his face was pale and drawn, reminding her of his expression aboard the
Pride of the Lord
.

“You've heard?” she asked.

He shook his head impatiently, speaking in an urgent whisper before she could amplify. “Flysse, we must go soon. My dreams are worse, and I think the demons are coming fast. I think they'll be here before long.” He broke off, frowing. “Where's Arcole?”