The Widow and the King (38 page)

They passed through the hall. The King and his counsellors stood clustered around the great hearth, where logs were blazing. A few of them looked up as the Widow went by. Martin was with them, and Hervan. The rest all seemed to be young men, armoured, violent, who watched each other and the world around them like wild beasts. One of them was leaning on the wall a few paces apart from the others, kicking idly at the brickwork as though he was tense, waiting for something. He looked familiar.

She stopped and stared. He did not look up. He was deliberately not looking up at her, avoiding her eye. But she had seen him before. He was a young man, with coarse, brown hair that straggled around his face. She remembered that face, looking down at her. He had winked at her.

‘Sophia,’ called the Widow from the door, in a low voice.

Sophia picked up her skirts and hurried after her.

She had seen him before, she thought, as they climbed the spiral stairs in silence to the living quarters. He had been one of the company of riders that had passed her on the road the day she had met Chawlin. Someone had said that one of those riders had been a counsellor to the King. Who? Just a day or two ago …

He's one of Velis's counsellors. They want something from this house. You know what it is.

Luke. Ambrose of Tarceny. He had said it.

He had said that he had met this man. How and where? What did it mean?

As to what it was they wanted …

She followed her mother into the council chamber. The Widow turned to face her.

‘Something happened this morning in the hall, Sophia. It reminded me of the chest I keep here. I have not thought of it for months.’

The chest had been drawn out from under the Widow's seat. The little dark key from the secret drawer was already in the lock. The Widow lifted the lid for Sophia to see. The chest lay open, with only the bed of papers inside.

‘Only three people living know of the drawer where I keep my key. Myself. Hervan, whom on this I trust more than myself. And you, for your father showed you the trick when he played with you on his knee.’

The Widow was advancing on her. Her face was pale as a wall. Her eyes were dark. She must have borne this inside her for hours, and all through the interview with the King.

‘Where is it, Sophia?’

Sophia shook her head. She could not think. She knew it would be fatal to answer before she could think. And Chawlin would be in danger, too …

Could she deny it? She had no idea what her face had given away. Everything, perhaps …

‘Dear Angels – what are you doing with it? What are you doing to us?’

‘I – to keep it safe,’ she managed.

‘Safe? It is deadly! Safe? What do you mean?’

‘They want it – the King.’

‘The King? What talk is this?’

Feet were running in the corridor. Burne, one of the
house servants, appeared at the door, panting. A welcome distraction!

‘My lady …’

‘Outside, fool!’

‘My lady – the king's men. They've arrested Hervan.’

‘What!’

‘And Brother Martin, too. They took them into the courtyard.’

‘Arrested? What do you mean?’

‘They said it was for Treason!’

More feet were coming up the stairs. Armoured feet – many of them. Mail jingled. The Widow listened for a moment, appalled.

‘Out of sight, both of you,’ she said. ‘Quickly!’

Sophia hurried past her into the writing chamber. She looked back. Burne had not followed. He was gone somewhere – along the corridor, perhaps. The Widow was motioning her to close the door. She did so as softly as she could.

Feet scraped and clattered in the council chamber doorway. Armoured men were in the room. Sophia could not tell how many.

‘Swords, you fellows?’ said Mother. ‘For one old widow?’

‘You will come with us, my lady.’

It was the last time Sophia ever heard her voice.

mbrose stood by the river, watching the sun dip towards the crown of an oak tree on the farther bank. He was waiting for Chawlin, but Chawlin was late. He would wait another few minutes, then he would go.

The Widow had told him to stay with friends. Ambrose was not sure whether Chawlin was still a friend, but he was the nearest to a friend that he had. They still had practice bouts every week. Ambrose enjoyed them, because he knew his skill was improving and because they made him feel less helpless. So even after the terrible moments with the Heron Man in the hall, he had remembered that he was due to have a bout that afternoon, and had come to the riverbank as usual. But Chawlin was not there.

Time passed slowly. Ambrose began to fret. It would be a pity to miss the bout, but he could not stay much longer. He had to be in the Widow's chamber when she spoke with the bald monk about the Heron Man. He wanted to tell them about the fears that he had been carrying ever since he had fled the mountains, and of the new fears that had been piling within him since the Wolf had
come to him two nights before. He wanted to speak with people who had seen the Heron Man; and he wanted to hear what the bald monk had to say. For the man had said that he had heard Mother's voice, there in the hall.

Ambrose remembered him now. He had been in the castle the day he arrived. He had said, then, that he had known her, and been her friend. So did the monk mean that he had looked at Ambrose in the hall and been reminded of her, so clearly that it might have been a voice speaking to him? Or had she really stepped up from under the Angels' Wings, by some miracle that only happened to priests, and spoken in his ear to point out the Heron Man where he stood by her son?

The monk knew the Heron Man, too. He had seen him before.

He was someone who knew! Someone who could help – at last.

The sun had touched the top-most branches of the oak. He could see the glare flickering through the highest leaves. Chawlin was now late by over half an hour. There was no telling when the Widow might begin her conference. Ambrose turned to go.

That was when Chawlin finally appeared. He was leading a donkey, laden with sacks, along the river path. Ambrose called to him. He looked up, surprised. Then he frowned.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘We had a bout,’ Ambrose said.

It was obvious that Chawlin had forgotten. He did not seem pleased to be reminded.

‘Angels! I'm busy enough already.’

‘What are you doing?’ Ambrose could not imagine what mission for the castle or the school would bring a scholar to the riverbank laden with sacks; but there were still many things about Develin that he did not understand.

‘It's no business of yours,’ said Chawlin, shortly. He began to unfasten the sacks from the donkey's back. Ambrose watched him. For a while Chawlin ignored him, but when he had all the sacks in a row on the ground, he seemed to think again.

‘Ho, well. Since we are both here, and since we've promised it to one another, I suppose we should at least cross sticks once or twice before we go our ways. In fact’ – he began to undo the tie around one of the sacks at his feet – ‘I remember saying I would show you some iron. What do you think of this?’

From the sack he drew a short sword. The blade was dull, the hilt unadorned, but he swung it and swished it in quick, smooth strokes as though he knew exactly what he was doing. The donkey sidled a little away from him.

‘Do you have one for me?’ asked Ambrose.

‘No. It took me enough begging and wheedling to get this one. We must take turns. One with the staff, the other with the sword. It's uneven, but then most fights are uneven. You try the staff first, since you know a bit about that now. I'll show you how I block with the sword …’

Ambrose picked his rough-cut staff out of the reeds where they left it after each bout. The sword was much shorter than a staff, but the way Chawlin held it made him look very dangerous. Ambrose did not like it. He understood the staff, and how it hurt if you were hit. This was different.

He swallowed. He did not like the look settling on Chawlin's face, either. It seemed like the face of an enemy.

‘I can't be long,’ Ambrose said. ‘I have to be within the walls by sunset.’

‘We've time for a few passes. Be careful, now. The sword is slower than the staff, but not much. And you may be surprised what I can reach.’

Ambrose advanced, holding his staff two-handed in the way he had been taught. Chawlin waited for him, balanced, with the sword held across his chest.

Ambrose stopped. Chawlin was quick – so quick Ambrose almost never touched him in practice. He did not think he had yet found out how quick Chawlin could be. He did not want to attack. He was – yes – he was afraid of Chawlin, and the sword.

He knew he was scaring himself. This was just a bout. That was all. Chawlin might have been angry with him at first, for asking for it. But he wouldn't
do
anything …

A rising sound from the roadway distracted him. Relieved, he stepped back a pace or two with his eyes on his opponent as Chawlin had taught him. Then he turned to look. Chawlin turned, too.

A small knot of horsemen were on the roadway, riding at full canter. A great banner danced over them. The long light of the evening showed the device clearly.

‘It's the King,’ exclaimed Chawlin.

The King himself ? Not some messenger? ‘What's he doing?’

‘Riding from the castle. Why, I don't know. And he's left nine-tenths of his men behind him. Why this?’

If you don't get it for me, I've another way.

‘He's going because he's already done what he came to do,’ said Ambrose slowly.

‘What is that?’

‘He's got his men inside the walls.’

They stared at one another, and the shadow of the oak tree lay around them.

‘They're going to do what they did at Bay,’ Ambrose said.

That was what the Wolf had meant. That was the ‘other way’ he had spoken of in the night of Ambrose's cell!

Chawlin glanced at the road, and at the castle again. He hadn't accepted what Ambrose had said. He did not know what to do.

‘I don't like this,’ he said at last. ‘We should go back, perhaps.’

‘She'll be in the council chamber,’ said Ambrose.

‘Who?’

‘The Widow. We can warn her.’

‘Oh … yes.’

Chawlin hung where he was for a moment more. Then some thought, or conviction, came to him, and he swore. He started walking towards the castle, striding quickly. Ambrose had to jog to stay alongside him.

Then Chawlin began to run.

Ambrose hurried after him. He could not keep up. Chawlin was bigger, and far more powerful. He was getting further and further ahead. Ambrose's breath began to come in gasps, forcing itself out of his lungs as he tried to keep running. He had gone more than a hundred yards before he realized that he had dropped his staff.

He ran on, empty-handed, and the walls of Develin reddened with sunset.

Chawlin was not making for the gate. He was keeping to the river side of the castle, rounding the great corner tower and heading for the postern that stood concealed in its shadow. As they passed under the walls Ambrose could hear only his own feet, his breath, gasping with the run, and the endless ripple of the river. The towers and the wall-tops were silent. No sound came from within.

Chawlin had reached the postern, and was prising at it. He still had the sword.

‘It will be locked,’ panted Ambrose, as he came up.

‘It looks it,’ muttered Chawlin. ‘But it's not. I've fixed the bolts from inside, so I can come and go without using the gate.’

‘Why?’

‘It's none of your business.’

The door cracked open. Inside, the passage was dark. They listened. Still there was no sound.

Chawlin led, sword in hand. They groped their way in. Ambrose did not know where he was in the castle. Chawlin did, it seemed. There were dark openings on either side of him, which might have been cellars. There was a light ahead – filtering in down a flight of steps. Chawlin hurried up them – one flight, two. They met no one. They heard nothing. They reached the level of the living quarters.

In the passage a woman was standing. It was one of the Widow's chamber-maids. She was doing nothing, going nowhere. She was holding her hand to her head, as if she was suffering a migraine.

‘They've killed them,’ she said. ‘They've killed them.’

Somewhere, someone screamed.

Chawlin pushed past the woman and flung into the council chamber with an oath. It was empty. He passed on into the Widow's rooms beyond it. From the way he called and banged the doors Ambrose knew that there was no one there.

Ambrose stood in the council chamber, listening. He had not set foot here since the day he had come. The Widow's chair was empty. Someone had pulled a chest out from behind it and rifled it, leaving the lid open. The hearth by which he had crouched to warm himself was dead. The window that looked out over the hills was darkening with night.

A clamour of voices rose from somewhere – dreadful sounds, full of rage and terror. Feet were running, people sobbing, crying out. From the inner chambers he heard Chawlin exclaim.

‘Michael's Knees! They're amok – the king's men!’