The King's Hand (53 page)

“That is my will, Cara.”

She fell silent, then looked up at him. “Yes, my lord.”

Eamon dismissed her with his best wishes for her continuing improvement, and asked Slater to escort her back to the servants' quarters to rest. As the servants left, Anderas stepped to Eamon's side.

“She's making a good recovery,” he said.

“Good.” Eamon wondered whether the girl held him responsible for what she had received, or if she knew how many lashes the Right Hand had planned to give her. His own back burned in discomfort and he involuntarily drew a sharp breath.

“Are you well, my lord?”

“Yes,” Eamon answered. He wondered whether Anderas knew that the Lord of the East Quarter had also once been flogged. “Thank you, captain.”

“Will you ride tomorrow?”

Eamon nodded.

 

That evening Eamon sat once again at his desk. Many of his papers had not moved, although he had at least dealt with the most important of them. He watched the first beams of moonlight touch the wooden bookshelves. They shifted between the branches of the trees beyond his window.

After a short while there was a knock at his door. He called to grant admittance and was surprised to see Marilio framed in the doorway.

“Mr Bellis,” he said. The man bowed, showing traces of white in his dark hair. He bore a broad tray.

“Good evening, my lord. Mr Slater was attending to another matter and asked me to see to your supper.”

“So I shall now have the chance to thank at least one of my cooks personally for what I am sure is a very fine meal indeed,” Eamon told him.

“Yes, my lord,” Marilio answered with a laugh, and laid the platter carefully down on the table. Eamon met his gaze again.

“Tell me, Marilio, how are you finding yourself in this household?”

The man smiled. “Well,” he answered, “you are a kind and noble master.” The use of the word chilled Eamon to his core, but it was true: he was the master of the household.

“I suspect that not everyone will hold so kind a view of me as that.”

“You worry much about what men think of you, my lord – too much!” Marilio told him. “I have heard no cause for such worry.”

“Would you tell me if you had?” Eamon challenged with a laugh of his own. He didn't leave the man time to reply. “That was an unfair question – I apologize for asking it.”

“You are very free with your apologies, my lord.”

“I err often enough to warrant it.” Eamon caught a glimpse of the ring on his finger and sighed. Lord Arlaith was right: he behaved so little like a lord of Dunthruik…

Marilio stood while he was silent. Eventually the man spoke again. “Can I be of further service to you, my lord?”

“No, I am well,” Eamon answered. “How is Miss Tenent this evening?”

“She is getting stronger,” Marilio answered. “She would not have admitted it herself, but she sorely needs the days of rest you granted her.” He paused for a moment. “My son visits her: he said that you had granted him permission to stay with her when he was not on duty.”

“He tells the truth in that,” Eamon answered, catching the tiniest flicker of concern on Marilio's face. “I found him sitting by her the night she was flogged. There was no harm in him to my mind, and he seems a very able guardian.”

“There is a great deal of good in it, my lord.”

Eamon looked at him with a questioning gaze. “How is that, Marilio?”

“My son met Cara about two weeks ago, my lord. He was not on duty and came to visit me. She was helping me to prepare a terribly unruly beast for your table.”

“Ah!” Eamon smiled. He understood.

“My lord, her recovery is much the greater for him being there – and for your grace.”

“Of that I am well content.”

“And I am more than well content with the honour that I have found serving in this house, my lord.”

An odd shot of grief ran through his heart. Could Marilio mean that? Could he mean that he was content to serve a bastard Hand, one belittled and humiliated by the Right Hand? Did he truly mean that he was happy to serve such a man when that service could so easily turn and strike him like a snake? Yet Marilio's face was unconcerned by such things, and every word seemed his true and very thought.

“You are an honour to this household and to me, Mr Bellis,” Eamon said quietly. Marilio beamed from ear to ear.

“I hope that you enjoy your supper. Mr Cook and I had some healthy debate as to how it should best be done.”

“And is the resulting dish predominantly of your hand, or his?”

“I bow always to the superior palate of Mr Cook,” Marilio replied, “but, should you find it lacking in herbs, that will not be for a want of trying on my part.”

“Mr Cook is resistant to herbs?”

“Yes, and a great pity it is, too; there are a great many traditions of cooking that make ample use of them in our province.” Marilio smiled and bowed. “Good evening, my lord.”

“Thank you, Mr Bellis. Please thank Mr Cook also.”

Nodding, Marilio bowed and left. Eamon applied himself to his meal – a slim cut of meat accompanied by various vegetables and an impeccably presented fruit.

Eamon ate, slowly at first, but soon the feel of the food and his memory of Marilio's words encouraged him. His appetite grew, and he ate heartily.

When he went to bed he read, with clear eyes and an astute sense, until long into the night.

C
HAPTER
XXVIII

H
e woke slowly with the coming dawn, the emerging light gently touching his eyelids and summoning him back from the realms of his sleep. As his senses slowly returned, he felt the weight of the Edelred Cycle on the bed beside him, still gathered in the curve of his hand. Blinking sleep from his eyes, he sat up and held it in front of him, bringing into focus the neatly scribed words. He had read a good deal of the poem now, scrutinizing every page, but he still had not found what he sought – not a single reference to the Nightholt. Just as it had been in Ellenswell, the Master's book was well hidden.

Would he find reference to it at all?

Eamon sighed. He could not allow himself to become discouraged. He looked down at the book again. More pages had been irrevocably creased and folded while he slept. For a moment he pitied the torment to which Ashway's volume was subject. At least the book would not have to endure it much longer.

Knowing that he was up earlier than was usual, he went down to the kitchens, seeking breakfast. As he moved through the corridors, footsteps approached him from behind. Turning, he saw a sleepy and pale-looking Callum stumbling down the hall with wood in his hands. The little boy rubbed at one eye; the child seemed not to have seen Eamon.

“Good morning, Callum,” Eamon said.

The boy jumped and looked up before bowing hastily. “Good morning, my lord.”

“How are you, Callum?”

“She's getting better, my lord –”

“I asked how
you
were faring.”

The boy looked up with round eyes. “Me, my lord?”

“Is your name still Callum?” Eamon asked with a small laugh.

“Yes…”

“Then I think I was asking you.”

“I am well, my lord,” Callum told him.

“Are you sure?”

“I'm upset about what happened to Cara,” the boy added. Eamon watched him.

“And angry?”

“Yes.” The confession took an enormous amount of restraint. The boy struggled to keep back the tears in his eyes.

“I'm sorry,” Eamon said. “She will get better.”

Callum nodded quietly. In silence they went together to the kitchens, arriving just as Cook and Marilio broke a collection of eggs on the side of a wide pan.

“Good morning, Lord Goodman!” Marilio called, as cheerful as ever.

“You're up early, my lord,” Cook added. “Mr Slater didn't tell me that you were to be up early, else I would have brought you something.”

“Contrary to popular belief, Mr Slater is unable to control the hours of my waking and sleeping,” Eamon answered with a smile. Callum took the wood across to the grate where the fire burned. Cook stepped to one side to let him feed the fire and then looked at Eamon again.

“I've heard no such superstition, my lord,” he answered.

“You should grow larger ears, dear cook,” Eamon replied, and sat down at the table. There were no other servants in the kitchens – Eamon realized that they had likely already been and gone on to their daily tasks. Not long later the cook brought a plate of cooked eggs and a thick slice of bread across to him on a tray.

“Your breakfast, my lord,” he said.

“I'll take it here,” Eamon answered.

“At the servants' table?” Cook asked.

“I also am a servant.” Eamon took the plate from the astonished cook and set it by the boy. “Come and eat, Callum,” he called as the child was about to leave the kitchens. Reluctantly, Callum came and stood by him. Eamon pushed the plate to him. “When you've eaten you can take some to your sister.”

“Will you be wanting some more eggs, my lord?” Cook asked uncertainly. Eamon watched as Callum ate, and smiled.

“I believe I will,” he answered.

 

When Eamon had finished eating, and Callum was well equipped with food for his sister, Eamon made his way to the main hall.

For once, he had to wait for Anderas. Eventually the captain appeared, and Eamon watched him climb the steps.

“Good morning,” he called.

Anderas looked up in surprise and then smiled. “Good morning.”

They took horses from the stables and rode as usual. Eamon noted wryly that after a few days without practice his muscles ached far more than was usual when they clattered back in through the North Gate.

“You rode well this morning, my lord.”

“Really?” Eamon groaned, while trying to stretch his sore limbs.

Anderas laughed. “Truly.”

They walked back through the streets that began to teem with Dunthruik's daily business. Passing Gauntlet watches greeted them.

They continued together into the Ashen, where a large group of men were gathered in one of its corners. Some were Gauntlet officers, and they stood about a person. Eamon heard raised voices and looked up at the group. He could not make out what was said, but as he watched, one of the ensigns moved as though to strike someone.

“Come with me, captain.” He tugged at the reins and moved his horse closer to the disturbance. Anderas followed.

“Good day, gentlemen. I trust all is well?”

“Lord Goodman! Captain Anderas!” The men of the Gauntlet jumped to attention. As the men drew back, Eamon saw a man on horseback, whom he recognized as one of the quarter's knights. Near him the ensigns surrounded a young man, bound by ropes. A woman wept beside him.

“Lord Goodman!” The woman, her greying hair pulled back in streaks about her head, called to him. She ran to his horse.

Two ensigns grabbed her arms to keep her back from him. “How dare you address the Lord of the East Quarter?” demanded the knight. “Back to your hovel, peasant!”

“Lord Goodman, please!” she called again. The ensigns pulled her away from Eamon.

“Wait,” Eamon commanded. “Let her speak.” The two ensigns stopped dragging her away, but kept their heavy hands upon her shoulders. “What is the matter, madam?”

“My lord, they have arrested my son!” The woman gestured to the young man, who was bound hand and foot. One of the ensigns struck him. Another spoke:

“My lord, he is guilty of theft. He was taken at Sir Patagon's manor this morning.”

“Madam,” Eamon said, meeting her distraught gaze, “if your son is guilty of theft then he must face the consequences of that action.”

“He is not guilty!” the woman cried. One of the ensigns tried to silence her but she carried on. “He is not guilty! Lord Goodman, they will not let him speak for himself, they will not listen! He has done no wrong. Lord Goodman, please!”

“I have heard you, madam,” Eamon told her, “and I will hear these men also.” He turned to the ensigns, and nodded.

“We have the testimony of Sir Patagon, my lord. He saw the servant fleeing his halls. He demands the death penalty.”

“Does the law not require at least two witnesses?” Eamon asked quietly.

The ensign before him drew breath. “Sir Patagon expects a full confession, my lord.”

Eamon turned his steed and drove it forward to the group of ensigns that guarded the woman's son.

The knight – Sir Patagon – gestured in disgust at the prisoner. “A servant from my own house, thieving and scheming against me!” he cried. “Surely you would deal severely with such a one in your own house, Lord Goodman!”

“He would receive the proper penalty should his offence be proven,” Eamon replied. “What has your servant to say about the charge against him?” The knight's face puffed with indignation.

“I have the witness of my own eyes, Lord Goodman!”

“On that basis alone you would so swiftly condemn a man? Eyes can be deceived.”

“The miserable wretch deserves no less than death!” the knight persisted. “His word cannot stand against mine.”

“If such is the case, then why require him to make a confession?” Eamon asked quietly.

“His kind are born with lies on their tongue. Only the pain of torture extracts the truth.”

“Nevertheless, would it not be prudent to hear him first and perhaps save us all some hassle?” Eamon asked.

Patagon glared at him, but dared not gainsay the Lord of the East Quarter. Eamon looked across at the young man. “Are you guilty of that with which Sir Patagon charges you?”

“No, Lord Goodman.”

Eamon looked back at the knight. “Already the situation is more complex, Sir Patagon.”

“Meaning no disrespect to you, my lord, but what else did you expect him to say?” Patagon erupted. “He is guilty, and he will confess to what he has done before he dies.”