Rebel's Cage (Book 4) (3 page)

‘Thank you.’

Robert said nothing, gave no sign that he was there. He waited for Micah to go back inside, then mounted the boy’s horse and rode into the morning with a fine sense of purpose.

He had a lot of work to do.

The field shimmered in a golden haze of autumn sun and sumptuous cloth. Huge pavilions stretched out to the north and west, rippling in the afternoon breeze: a statement of outrageous wealth and prosperity, and not a little audacity. Pennants of every colour ringed the field, their flapping drowned out by the constant movement of people in the background, cooks roasting whole sides of beef, bakers working a stone-built oven and, behind them, row after row of spit-fires over which fish and fowl were grilled on pikes. To the east, within the shadows of a tidy wood, minstrels and tumblers practised, making ready.

Osbert’s head ached. His feet hurt and his back tingled with the strain of standing for so long. He should never have made the long ride from Marsay in one day without giving himself some time to recover for this event. Better still, he should have had the courage to stay away altogether.

But courage had never been his greatest strength.

At least he was not alone in his suffering. Most of the court was there along with him: the King’s Council, magnates, lords, ladies, priests and his highest ranking Guildesmen. They stood there, in the cleared space between pavilions his Guilde engineers had spent six months creating, circling the long table at which the King sat, all bedecked in their best finery, glittering and glowing with the opulence the King wished to display to the visiting envoy from Mayenne.

But there was something so wretchedly transparent about the whole thing that made Osbert’s head ache more, gave his stomach a queasy sinking feeling; he knew he wouldn’t eat a mouthful of the feast even now being prepared.

‘Would you like some wine, my lord?’

Osbert refused to look at the priest who stood beside him, whispering to avoid drawing attention to himself. Kenrick sat no more than twenty feet away from them, engrossed in his conversation with the ambassador from Mayenne, almost his entire court watching the exchange. It would not do well to interrupt such a tense moment.

‘No,’ Osbert murmured, barely moving. ‘I would not like some wine. I would like to go to my bed, fall asleep and find this was all some sort of sick joke.’

‘I would imagine the King would find such an action mildly amusing,’ Godfrey replied. ‘He is indeed well known for his sense of humour.’

‘As is your good self,’ Osbert added dryly. Judging his moment, he glanced aside at the tall Archdeacon, recognising the familiar ironic expression on a face he’d grown to know almost too well over the years.

As Proctor of the Guilde, Osbert’s place at such events as this was unarguable. Godfrey, however, had won his by sheer determination. With Bishop Brome in frequent ill health, Godfrey was more and more often requested to stand in his place. Without doubt, Godfrey lent any occasion far more dignity than his superior ever could.

Lean and strong, Godfrey’s long face was framed with dark hair which showed little of the passing years, his tonsure still proudly shaved. He, unlike everyone else here, wore only the simplest of habits, black robes lightened by the silver stole draped around his neck, urged upon him by the Bishop himself.

On his better days, Osbert allowed that he and Godfrey had become friends through trials shared and survived. On his worst, he could only admit that they had formed the oddest of alliances, the rules of which had never been spoken aloud.

The only thing he could say for certain was that he trusted this man more than any other at court, even though he suspected the friends Godfrey had would not bear too much scrutiny.

On the other hand, with a King who openly practised sorcery, who was to say Godfrey’s friends were so bad?

‘How long do you think they will bargain?’ Godfrey stepped closer, keeping his voice low.

Osbert paused before replying, listening in to the exchanges between Kenrick and Ogiers, words about grain shipments, imports of cloth and wool. Even to his ears, the demands appeared hopelessly high, which, of course, would go some way to explaining the darkening expression on the young King’s face.

‘I don’t know,’ he replied softly, ‘I understand Ogiers himself is not agreeable to the match. Kenrick will have to convince him before he can convince the girl’s father.’

‘Tirone is afraid of Kenrick.’

Osbert paused, glanced at Godfrey and let out a long breath. ‘Yes, he is. Along with just about everybody else in this country. But Tirone is King of Mayenne and he’s lost two of his three sons over the last few years. If he should lose the third, then he will need a strong alliance with Kenrick or Mayenne will be overrun, and alliance means marriage between Kenrick and Olivia.’

‘She is a child of twelve! They are cousins,’ Godfrey hissed with thinly veiled contempt. ‘It is not right that Brome should consent …’

As Godfrey pulled up, Osbert had to suppress a smile. Godfrey had worked his way up to the highest echelons of the Church by virtue of his honesty, integrity and obvious intelligence. He had survived this long because he had an uncanny ability to keep his often outspoken opinions largely to himself. But every now and then, one would slip out.

‘If you were in Brome’s place,’ Osbert replied, not ungently, ‘would you have refused Kenrick his request for a dispensation?’

Godfrey didn’t reply, leaving Osbert to return his attention to the long table set out before him, sitting on a thick woollen rug from Alusia. Ogiers sat at the opposite end, his secretary and lieutenants a step behind him. Ogiers was certainly a man equal to the task at hand. Lusara and Mayenne had been at odds for twenty-five years. It took a great deal of courage to travel across a land so openly hostile to meet a King whose
father had once tried to kill you. But Ogiers was Tirone’s man, loyal to the end. His skills at negotiating were renowned throughout the northern continent; Kenrick was not finding it so easy going.

At twenty-two, Kenrick was every inch his father’s son. Tall, fair-haired, broad-shouldered, with a nasty scar on the left side of his face that had never been explained. Clever in a devious way, determined and wholly self-absorbed. He ruled Lusara with an almost vengeful hatred, giving nothing and taking everything. In so many ways, he made his father, the conqueror, appear soft and benign in comparison – a bizarre concept to any who had known Selar. Kenrick pursued his ambitions without appearing to have any idea of how he was viewed by those around him, by the people of Lusara, or Mayenne.

His council was corrupt, his advisors terrified and he relied far too heavily on a man whose name alone had the power to give Osbert nightmares.

And Kenrick was negotiating a marriage to the twelve-year-old daughter of an honest and noble King in order to further the ambitions of that man.

Osbert suppressed a shudder.

Abruptly Kenrick slapped his hand on the table and got to his feet. He gathered together the documents before him and thrust them towards Osbert, who stepped forward and took them quickly, ignoring the glitter in Kenrick’s eyes, the heightened colour in his cheeks.

‘You have given us many things to think about,’ Kenrick began, addressing both Ogiers and the gathered courtiers. His voice was hard and clipped, giving away more than he probably desired. ‘I pray you take rest and refreshment, Ambassador, while I consider your … requests. My Lord Proctor will play host.’

Osbert caught another flash in Kenrick’s eyes before the King turned and left them, heading for his pavilion, his bodyguard close behind.

Osbert was not the only one in that gathering who sighed in relief.

*

Kenrick could only stand still a few moments once he gained the privacy of his pavilion. He could still hear voices from outside, his court relaxing their silence now that he had departed and, by the gods, the cooks and servants were ringing up a clatter in preparation for the feast he would have to preside over.

He had to get out, get away from that look, that glint in Ogier’s eyes, that … that self-satisfied repulsion which had fringed everything the old man had said.

He should never have met the man face to face. He should have handled it all with his own envoys, clerks, priests and perhaps a personal visit from Osbert himself. Dealt with it all at a distance so he wouldn’t have to see that … look.

Thank the gods that the only scar visible was the one on his face.

But what would he do if the marriage went ahead? How could he bed his new wife … with a body that … when she saw it …

Assuming, of course, Ogiers, and by extension, Tirone, would ever allow the match. Judging by the demands laid out in the marriage contract, they saw the entire proposal as little more than a joke.

A joke? He was a King! How dare they face him with such scorn?

Yelling for his guard, he strode through the pavilion to the door on the other side. There his men stood, a horse already saddled for him. Without pausing he swung up, gathering the reins and kicking the stallion before he’d even settled properly.

As he rode away from the gathering, he didn’t bother looking back. He didn’t need to see Ogiers’ contempt in order to feel it.

*

The land enveloped him. Ancient rock peeked through dried and tufted grasses, fought with blackened heather, creating a patchwork quilt that looked soft but was, in fact, harsh. Here and there stands of moss-covered rock rose like towers, or tumbled down a grassy hillside like toys abandoned mid-play.
In the dips between, small lakes of brackish water collected, undrinkable, feeding what little life survived in this place.

Ransem Castle broke up this untrammelled wasteland with walls of rigid stone the colour of a blood-red rose withered with age. More than once, Kenrick had fancied that the place had not been built, but had risen from the moor, whole and complete, and yet rotten at its core.

He hated coming here. Hated having to.

*

Gates were opened for him, servants appearing from nowhere to attend his guard, take his horse. High walls surrounded him, square and fat; a tall round tower dominated each corner of this square. The moment the gates were shut behind him, the world outside ceased to exist and old, familiar fears once again rose up inside him, feeding him the energy he required to mount the steps to the hall, to stride through the door opened for him.

Lofty beamed ceilings shut out the daylight, leaving slim windows here and there to illuminate that which should be kept only in darkness. The room had changed little since he’d last seen it; fireplaces at either end of the hall gave out more heat than he required; chairs and a long table gathered at one end, giving the impression that this place hosted a warm and popular lord.

Samdon Nash was a master at deceit.

Before he could move from the doorway, the stench hit him.

Amazing how he always forgot the smell of this place, as though his memory had no desire to hold onto something so appalling.

‘Good afternoon, Sire.’

He turned to look at the man who bowed before him. Taymar, one of the many Nash had Bonded to him, so that they obeyed his every order, so that their loyalty was to him alone, so that they would die for him if he said the word. The removal of individual will was replaced with slavery. The very sight of those dull eyes was enough to make him sick to his stomach.

‘Where is he?’

Taymar waved a hand towards the far fireplace and a tall chair with its back to the rest of the wall. The table before it was covered in huge papers and three thick, weeping candlesticks.

The slave raised his voice. ‘Master, the King is here to see you.’

*

Flames shifted around the fireplace, oily and slow, as though afraid of burning the logs too quickly. Kenrick kept his eyes on them, preferring to watch this perversion of nature rather than set his gaze on the man seated to his side, shifting distractedly through his papers.

‘I take it you have not come here to report complete success.’

‘Tirone asks too much.’

‘Of course.’

‘Things I can’t begin to give him. He’s doing it deliberately.’

‘Yes.’

‘He won’t negotiate. I’ve tried.’

‘You didn’t also try to intimidate Ogiers, did you?’

Kenrick sighed, holding his exasperation in. It wasn’t as though they hadn’t had long discussions as to what he could say and what he couldn’t. ‘That would be impossible. The man barely stopped talking about the rumours and reports he’d had about lawlessness in Lusara and how I wasn’t able to keep the peace the way my father could. And then he launched into tales of his noble master, the King, and Tirone’s perfect children, their scholarly attributes, their achievements, how strong and healthy they are. How … flawless.’ Flawless, yes. And unscarred.

‘And he made you feel insignificant?’

Kenrick couldn’t answer that, couldn’t think about how it had felt to hear such things over and over without his skin crawling and a not uncommon desire to kill something almost overwhelming him. Ogiers had vexed his father. With luck, the bastard would die of old age soon and vex Kenrick no more. Or perhaps …

He stuck his chin out and changed the subject. It didn’t do
to give too much of his thoughts away to this man. ‘Well? So what do you suggest now? Have you had any further word on the remaining Prince?’

‘I would have told you if I had.’

And not kept it secret, like he did so much else? Kenrick grunted, turned away from the fire and pulled a chair out from the table. He sank into it, sitting at an angle to Nash, keeping the man’s face out of his line of sight. He didn’t look at the papers and what might have been maps. He’d learned long ago that Nash was jealous of his knowledge and was prepared to enforce secrecy. ‘So? What do I do now? We’ve removed two of Tirone’s three heirs. The last one has been spirited away for safety – and your … your slaves, despite their Bonding, haven’t been able to find him, leaving me with an intractable King, a stubborn envoy and a princess I can’t—’