Christopher Fawkes was the empathetic sort. While he had a long list of enemies—an actual written list he kept in the lining of his doublet—he could generally find something about each person to respect or at least pity. This annoying predisposition toward understanding and compassion frequently robbed him of the unencumbered enjoyment of victory. A notable exception was the King of Maranon. Lord Fawkes was certain the only reason for King Vincent Pendergast’s existence was to give Christopher something to hate without reservation.
Vince the Vile—as Christopher referred to him in the safe confines of his own head—embodied everything bad in the world sewn up in one awful package. He was short, which was unforgivable for a monarch, and also ugly, which was unforgivable for anyone. He took after the Pendergast line, with a huge, hooked nose hanging off his face. His deep-set eyes hid beneath a ledge of bone so wide that a stick of chalk could rest there. He had gaps in his teeth, not just between the center two like any normal monstrosity, but between all of them.
Why Vince the Vile didn’t grow a beard over his pockmarked skin remained a mystery, unless growing hair proved just as unmanageable as running his kingdom. His Majesty’s fingers were fat and stubby, little sausages complete with thin, stretched casings. The only difference? Christopher had never seen so much hair on sausages. The king’s fingers weren’t the only fat part of the man. Vince the Vile wouldn’t be able to wear a barrel without a cooper letting it out a stave or two. Perhaps the king’s worst aspect was his habit of spitting and his utter lack of skill at it. Vincent’s face was usually wet with saliva, and a gob of phlegm often decorated his chin. His personality matched his appearance.
“Chrissy?” the king said when spotting him in the courtyard. “I’m surprised to see you in Dulgath.”
“Your Majesty.” Christopher bowed with a smile on his lips as he pictured unleashing a quarrel into the fat, spittle-dripping crown-stand. Christopher had the arbalest—what Knox called the huge crossbow—hidden as best he could behind the wardrobe in his bedroom. Being the size of a bass violin, the weapon wouldn’t fit under the bed. Didn’t fit behind his wardrobe, either. The wingspan of the prod—what Knox called the bow part—stuck out on either side. He had put a sheet over it, making it look like a midget ghost with outstretched arms.
The morning after he’d sent the two thieves to Manzant, Christopher noticed that the ivy on the west tower had been removed. The gardener had ripped it down, by order of the countess, the evening he and Payne were in Brecken Dale. Either she was a fortune teller or the thieves had warned her. Why they would care, the lord didn’t know, but it didn’t matter.
Christopher had asked Knox to find a heavy crossbow and hoped the shooting-from-a-distance idea hadn’t also been thwarted. Seeing the arbalest with its steel prod, its hand crank, and its three-quarter-inch-thick ash quarrels, he couldn’t imagine anything stopping it. The giant bolt that killed Sherwood had entered his back, exited his chest, and flown out over the ocean without pause. The only challenge left was aiming the thing at Nysa Dulgath in such a way that neither she nor anyone else could see the assassin squeeze the trigger.
Christopher followed King Vincent and his retinue into the reception hall. The monarch left the bulk of his caravan—which if one included the men-at-arms might amount to more servants than in the whole of Lady Dulgath’s castle—in a miniature tent city just down the lane from the stables. Christopher was sorry to see that his friend Sir Gilbert hadn’t come. Instead, Sir Dathan and Sir Jacobus flanked His Majesty, along with Bishop Parnell and the usual set of hands for holding his cup, adjusting his collar, and kissing his ample arse.
Lady Dulgath waited with her entire staff lined up in their finest bleached whites and blues. Blue and white were the colors of House Dulgath, but the indigo dye was expensive. Still, each member of the household wore at least one article of blue. The scullery staff, dairymaids, charwomen, and stable boys all had light-blue neckerchiefs. The gardeners, woodcutters, and cooks donned blue belts, and the chambermaids and seamstresses draped sashes over their shoulders. The skilled servants, such as the scribe, tailor, and treasurer, sported blue vests. Chamberlain Wells, being in charge of the household, wore a tie and a long blue coat. The staff made a fine showing, backs and hair straight, eyes down, faces clean. The countess herself was stunning. Lady Dulgath was dressed completely in blue, a rich gown that matched the deep color of the sapphire around her neck.
Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. A shame she turned down my marriage proposal. Such a terrible waste to put a three-quarter-inch-thick quarrel through that breast.
She curtsied with her usual unrivaled grace, bowing her head. The king took her hand and kissed its back. Christopher knew what was on the royal pimple’s mind. Father dead. No suitors. The queen left at home in Mehan. And it got cold at night on the coast, even in summer.
He imagined exactly what Vince the Vile was thinking: I’m the king, after all, and so handsome! How can she resist?
The old wart is in for a frustrating night. If Nysa hadn’t personally told Christopher about her growing interest in Sherwood, he’d have guessed she was frigid.
But she didn’t actually name Sherwood, did she? And the painter looked so very surprised. Why? Should have been proud or at the very least guilty. Is it possible there’s someone else?
“So very sorry to hear about your father, Nysa,” the drooling magpie blathered without a dandelion tuft of sincerity. He was still holding her hand, mauling it with his own. “I would’ve come for the funeral, but the demands on a king’s time often prohibit me from doing what I want.”
How strange, Christopher thought, given that you attended the Swanwick Spring Derby during that time. A race where your horse, once again, came in first.
“I assure you that I have no intention of altering the fief. House Dulgath has always done a fine job of administrating its land. It would be a crime to change that after so many centuries,” he said while glancing at the bishop. “Can we hold the ceremony tomorrow? That way I’ll be out of your hair and you can resume your life.”
And His Royal Majesty will go hunting. If a handful of drunks riding through a forest while an entourage of soldiers herds a host of animals to the slaughter can be considered hunting.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Nysa was saying. “We can arrange that. You might have noticed the decorations on your way in. I thought we would hold it outside in the courtyard.”
“What if it rains?” Vincent asked.
This elicited several smiles from the line of servants.
“I don’t expect it will, Sire.”
“Why not?”
“Because…that would be unpleasant.”
Christopher had stopped listening to the conversation, but his attention returned when the king asked, “And where is Sherwood Stow?”
“We don’t know, Your Majesty. No one has seen him since yesterday,” Lady Dulgath explained.
“He left?”
“No, Sire—at least I don’t think so. His things are still here.”
Vincent rubbed his glistening chin. “I’ve been thinking of having him paint my daughter, Evangeline—her portrait, I mean. I want it done while she’s still young and pretty—before she starts looking like her mother. I spoke to Stow when he came through Mehan on his way here, but that was months ago.”