Something must have prompted Weaver to join her outside, but he seemed reluctant to discuss it.
Alwenna broke the silence. “Does Marten know? About us?”
“He may have guessed. He’s an astute man.” Weaver drew a breath, then cleared his throat. “I ought not have followed you out here, my lady, but–”
“What – have you forgotten my name so quickly? I wonder you bother to speak to me at all.”
“No!” Weaver took a few paces across the yard, so there was a respectable distance between them. “I… wanted to tell you I didn’t believe Marten. If I’d known he told me the truth I’d never have…” He tailed off into wretched silence.
“The truth about what?” She wanted to make him say it.
“About the king.”
“Oh. You mean my dead husband?”
Weaver winced. “I thought we’d find some pretender here…”
“It wasn’t the most pleasant surprise.” She picked at a clump of moss growing from a joint between two stone slabs forming the fountain rim. “You might have warned me.”
“I did try, my lady.”
“How many days and nights were we on the road from Highkell? You could have tried harder.” She would never be certain what her choice would have been had she known Tresilian was rumoured to be alive. “I wish you had.”
“As do I, my lady.” Weaver rubbed the back of his neck. “We should go back indoors before we are missed.”
Alwenna shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. I’m sure Tresilian knows already. He doesn’t care – he’s too busy with his priestess to worry about what I’ve been up to.”
“But… my lady, it was a mistake. It can’t happen again.”
“So you sought me out to tell me this is our ending? You presume a great deal, Weaver. Do you imagine I’d return willingly to your bed knowing you lied to get me there in the first place?”
Weaver’s face was hidden in shadow. “No, my lady. I only sought to–”
The door clattered open and a strip of light darted across the courtyard. A moment later a gaggle of drunks spilled outside, laughing and joking. They were so preoccupied with their laughter they didn’t seem to notice Alwenna and Weaver standing in the shadows.
“Let me return you to your seat, my lady.” Weaver offered his arm.
“No. I need nothing from you. And I want nothing from you.” She left him standing by the fountain and stalked away, ignoring the pain that ground through her ankle at every step.
The great hall was even noisier and warmer than when she’d stepped outside with Marten.
Erin hurried over to her side. “Is all well, my lady?”
“Well enough, but I think I shall withdraw for the night. I have a headache.” There was no sign of Tresilian – not that she’d expected to see him there.
Curtis, however, stood up and came over to join them. “My lady, I will escort you to your lodgings.” He gestured to two guards who waited at the side of the room and they fell in step behind him.
“That is kind, but there is no need to trouble yourself.” Was she not to be granted a moment’s peace?
Curtis straightened up, puffing out his chest. “It is the king’s orders, my lady.” The tabard strained over his ample belly. Doubtless there hadn’t been time to make livery to fit the new King’s Man.
“Indeed? So thoughtful of him.” Alwenna led the tiny procession back to her lodgings as slowly as possible, leaning heavily on her walking stick all the way. She took a petty delight in the knowledge her armed guard must have looked ridiculous trailing behind her like so many ducklings. It was only a very little delight, and short-lived. When Curtis withdrew, promising she need have no fear for her safety, he left the two guards outside her door. She had little doubt she’d become a prisoner in her own rooms.
CHAPTER NINETY-TWO
The great chamber was thronged with people. Alwenna tried not to fidget too obviously in her seat as she eased her back, stiffened from sitting too long in the unyielding chair on the dais next to Tresilian. Her husband seemed to have developed a taste for kingly spectacle since being overthrown by Vasic. Much of the daily business he’d once been happy to carry on behind closed doors now took place in public chambers. Today he was hearing petitions from his subjects. Many sought redress for the depredations of Vasic’s troops along the borders; others sought remuneration for providing lodgings for the army that currently protected his new eastern court at the summer palace. Perhaps it made sense to be seen to be dealing with such matters. At Highkell he’d happily delegated such minor business to his steward. But if he hoped to inspire his people with his greatness, he might be doomed to disappointment. The whole business was deadly dull for onlookers. As she stifled a yawn Alwenna noticed movement at the doorway, then spotted the freemerchant pushing his way through the crowd. A head taller than most of the men there, he made a distinctive figure.
The steward called for order. “As noon approaches, if there are any more petitioners, let them speak up now.”
Marten’s voice rose above the crowd. “Yes, here! I bring documents relating to matters discussed previously with his highness. I would beg his signature this day.” Alwenna straightened in her seat, her discomfort forgotten. This was what he’d mentioned the night before, in the garden. His face was drawn and his eyes heavy; he appeared to have been working all night on the papers. From the corner of her eye she could see Weaver. Stationed on guard duty at one side of the dais, he stood to rigid attention as he had throughout the morning. On the bench against the wall at the opposite side of the dais the priestess sat, once again in that meek pose, her grey eyes focused on nothing at all. Alwenna was aware of the slight lifting of the girl’s head as the freemerchant approached.
Marten bowed as if he’d spent all his days gracing royal courts. The steward took the documents he held out and carried them up to Tresilian, bowing as he presented them. Alwenna longed to push the fat fool off the dais. He reminded her too much of Hames. The thought set the same dull echo running through her mind. Was the sight warning her this man was another such? She couldn’t afford to yield to the assumption the sight was doing her any kind of service. It hindered her more often than it helped, disturbing her senses and clouding her judgement when she needed to be sharp and alert. As now, for she’d missed Marten’s words.
Tresilian made a show of perusing the documents, although he could only have given them the most cursory glance.
“You will find it all as we discussed, your highness,” Marten prompted.
Tresilian handed the papers back to the steward. “I shall study these at length later.” He frowned towards Marten. “I need not study them to find one glaring difficulty: Vasic remains on my throne at Highkell and controls the bulk of my treasury. Until the cuckoo is removed, I fear you have not upheld your side of the bargain.”
Marten’s eyes narrowed but he maintained his composure. The crowd behind must have seen nothing.
“Highness, granting these rights now will cost your administration nothing. We do not expect you to buy our land for us: we will do that ourselves. We seek only for you to repeal a damaging law – one which serves no purpose in these modern times.”
Tresilian glanced sideways to the priestess before he replied. Almost imperceptibly, she shook her head. Alwenna would not have noticed had she not followed her husband’s eyes to the girl at that precise moment.
Tresilian raised his voice as he addressed Marten. “Do not presume to tell me my business, freemerchant. The terms of our agreement were clear: you have not yet fulfilled your part. I am not prepared to discuss this further until you have done so.”
The freemerchant straightened up, his jaw clenched. “As you wish, your highness.” He turned and strode from the chamber, head held high and back stiff. He had no need this time to push through the crowd of onlookers for they parted to let him pass, a buzz of excited conversation rising in his wake.
“And the business of this court is completed for today.” Tresilian rose and walked away to his private chambers, gesturing towards the priestess, who stood and followed after him, looking neither to the right nor to the left.
Years of training from the succession of tutors her uncle had provided enabled Alwenna to maintain a mask of indifference. The irony was not lost on her, but she might have found it more amusing had her husband attempted even a modicum of discretion. With the aid of her walking stick, Alwenna made her way to the steps leading down from the dais. There, as she began to descend them, Weaver stepped forward and supported her.
“Allow me, my lady.” He released her arm as she reached the stone floor of the great hall.
“Thank you, Weaver.” She smiled, but he averted his eyes. The murmur of conversation rose up as the room emptied.
Weaver spoke again, his voice toneless and correct. “If it please your highness, the king has requested I escort you safely back to your chambers.”
“Indeed? His consideration for my wellbeing surprises me more each day.”
A momentary stiffening of his shoulders was the only sign from Weaver to suggest her sarcasm hadn’t been wasted this time. They walked in silence through the hall, with only a few servants remaining to witness their progress. She purposely did not speak until they reached the open – and empty – cloister.
“Tell me, Weaver, what do you make of our king?”
He mis-stepped. “I beg your pardon?”
“Do you find him much altered?”
Weaver hesitated. “He has been driven from his rightful place – he will not be the same as the man who believed himself secure there.”
That almost made sense. “Do you think that sufficient to account for the change in his manner?”
“My lady, I cannot presume to answer that. He is my king and I am sworn to serve him.”
“Without question? Have a care, Weaver. Something is seriously awry.” They had almost reached the door to her rooms. “His little priestess – have you any thoughts about her?”
“He… tells me she is from a healing order.”
“Is that what they call it now?”
Whatever reply Weaver might have made was lost as footsteps hurried up behind them, accompanied by the metallic clatter of plate armour. Weaver spun around, setting himself between Alwenna and whoever approached, his hand on the pommel of his sword. Alwenna recognised the livery of the King’s Man, flanked by two men-at-arms carrying long pikes. Curtis. Affable, bumbling Curtis, whose most important business of the day had once been securing his next meal.
“We have orders to search your rooms, my lady.” He wore his new dignity with an uneasy air.
Weaver took a half step forward. “Orders from whom?”
“From the king.” Curtis squared his shoulders.
If Weaver challenged Curtis’ authority, no good would come of it. Alwenna spoke up. “I have nothing to hide. What is it you seek? I may save you some trouble.” In truth she had so few possessions it would take them next to no time to rifle through the lot.
Curtis stepped towards the door, keeping a wary eye on Weaver. “I am not at liberty to discuss my orders, my lady.” Finding the door bolted from inside, he knocked loudly.
Weaver’s shoulders tensed and Alwenna set her hand upon his arm to still him, hoping it was not visible from where Curtis stood. Marten’s warning the evening before was already being borne out.
“Then please, be my guest.”
From within Erin opened the door, eyes widening as she took in the scene.
“Erin, please admit these gentlemen. They wish to search my rooms.”
Erin stood back, allowing Curtis and the two soldiers to enter. Weaver was about to follow them in, but Alwenna closed her fingers about his arm. “Did you know of this?”
He spoke over his shoulder, his face grim. “No. Nothing.” He would have moved away then but she delayed him a moment longer.
“And Curtis? Why is he King’s Man in your place?”
“A reward for services to the king’s cause.”
“For rescuing you?”
“For that.” Weaver nodded. “And for who knows what else besides.”
She released his arm. “So you were ordered to escort me back just now? And Curtis ordered to follow us in turn?”
“Quite so, my lady.” Weaver stepped aside so she might enter her rooms, while he waited outside the open door.
Curtis was watching as the two soldiers flung clothes and bedding out of the heavy chest against the wall. Erin watched, too, hands on hips and lips pursed as carefully folded items were strewn over the bed. A bundle of cloth fell from beneath one armful and landed on the floor with a solid clunk.
“Hand me that.” Curtis pointed to the bundle and one of the soldiers picked it up, the fabric unwinding in his hands. The ornate dagger fell from it with a clatter.
“Have a care,” Curtis muttered. “That is a precious item.” He bent and picked up the dagger with finger and thumb, examining it closely. The gemstones were dull in the cool light of the chamber.
Dull and lifeless. As if the thing waited for the right hand to claim it, the right voice to command it. Alwenna shivered. Weaver would say that was fanciful nonsense, but she couldn’t shake off her sense of foreboding. No one spoke, all in the room gazing at the dagger. Curtis took the fabric from the soldier’s hand and wrapped it up once more. Alwenna let out the breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding.
Curtis stowed the bundle inside his leather jerkin. “This rightfully belongs to his highness.”
Again that sense of foreboding. “He need only have asked and I would gladly have brought it to him,” Alwenna said. Unless Tresilian had very specific reasons to not want Alwenna to bring the dagger to him herself. How much did Tresilian know about Garrad’s death? He didn’t have the sight, surely. She would have known, wouldn’t she? She had too many questions and no answers.
The only certain thing was that she would learn nothing from Curtis and his men. They’d found what they were looking for and now withdrew, Curtis bowing politely with something of his former good humour. She surmised he might have been uncomfortable about carrying out this commission. Weaver, after a brief nod in her direction, followed after them. He might have more luck learning something from his comrade in arms. Whether he would share what he learned with her was another question entirely.