“He’s local stock, and an avid believer in ghosts, ghouls, faeries, and witches. Spouting such nonsense will make it even less likely anyone will listen to a word he says.”
“Very well.” Parnell nodded, reaching up to prevent the wind from stealing his hat. “We shall see if our Lord Novron deems you worthy of power, Christopher. For his judgment is the true test. You will be either an earl, a vagabond, arrested, or dead.” He turned and sailed back through the sea of grass.
Christopher remained a moment longer, looking out over the edge of the cliff, thinking, if only for a moment, that Novron didn’t give a damn about him.
The courtyard of Castle Dulgath—which was usually little more than a lawn, yard, and garden surrounded by the shaky arms of stone walls—had been transformed. Everything that could be moved out had been; this included the smokehouse, the henhouse, the gardener’s shed, the smith’s anvil and workbench, and most of the azalea bushes. Where it all went to, Christopher had no idea. Carpenters had raised a stage of bright fresh-cut wood, which was now covered in bunting and streamers of white and blue.
Chairs had been placed on the stage, seeming out of place on the unfinished blond decking. The big chair from the Great Hall, where the late earl had sat during meals, was center stage. Today the king would sit there. A smaller, more delicate chair sat to the right of the larger one. This seat was for the lady of honor, Nysa Dulgath. On the king’s left, another chair was reserved for Bishop Parnell. Not even King Vincent would want to snub the church in such a public display.
More chairs faced the stage, with an aisle between them. Who sat where indicated their significance and marked their place in the nobility’s hierarchy. Christopher would be sitting on the aisle in the last row, which was better than no seat at all.
He had been briefed by Wells, who, as chamberlain, was responsible for every aspect of the ceremony. Of course, his wasn’t the final voice. Even Lady Dulgath didn’t have authority in the presence of the king.
Now that the time was at hand, Christopher worried about Bishop Parnell’s ability to pressure the king into making him earl.
Why wouldn’t Vincent give the fief to Sir Gilbert? The man is the best knight in Maranon. Or the king could choose one of his hunting buddies, like Baron Linder. Heck, why not award the title to my father, for that matter.
Christopher had no idea what leverage Parnell would use to influence the king’s decision, but that wasn’t his concern, at least not yet. And with that thought, he allowed himself a good long stare across the length of the yard, up toward the wall that was elaborately—and strategically—decorated. A large pair of heraldic banners were displayed over the parapet. Between the king’s own colors and those of Dulgath, a massive arbalest was hidden, along with an insane, hairless man without a single fingernail. Christopher couldn’t see him or the weapon but knew both were there—his gift for the newly pledged countess.
The people of Dulgath had been arriving all morning. He’d seen them from his window on the third floor. They had come in farm wagons, buckboards, and on horseback, but most had arrived by foot. Huge masses of people dressed in their finest colorful cloth brought a roar that drowned out the sea. They had formed small camps outside the castle walls, laughing, shouting, singing, and dancing.
Christopher was on the porch when Wells gave the signal and the gates were finally opened.
The sweaty-faced crowd tumbled into the courtyard where, in the absence of any real constabulary, the king’s own men were acting as guards. With outstretched arms and loud voices, they funneled the surging crowd toward the far wall and directed the onlookers to form orderly rows until the whole courtyard was full. Those who hadn’t arrived early enough found themselves outside the walls, but they were still excited to be present. This was a holiday for them, as good as an annual fair—no, better, as this happened but once in a lifetime. Or so they expected.
There had to be thousands. Men in variously colored cowl hoods to protect them from the sun; women holding babies in their arms, jostling and swinging in an effort to keep them quiet; wide-eyed children constantly tapping and pointing; everyone with smiles of excitement and anticipation. They wanted a show, and they would get one.
A trumpet sounded.
“That’s us, My Lord,” a mostly bald but otherwise white-haired man said. He was the king’s scribe, and Christopher thought his name might be Robank or Robant.
They walked out together. Wells had orchestrated the event like a wedding, and in a way that’s exactly what it was. Nysa was about to pledge her loyalty to her liege lord, and he in turn would grant her stewardship of Dulgath. The two would be bound to each other—and just as in marriage, she would be far more bound to him than he to her.
As Christopher and the scribe made their way through the crowd to their seats, he caught a fleeting glimpse of a black hood, so out of place in all the oranges, yellows, blues, reds, and browns. Like the fin of a shark, it cut through the assembly, slicing away from the stage, where everyone else was pushing to be, and heading toward the far wall—the distant one where the large set of heraldic banners hung.
Christopher froze, trying to follow the path of the dark hood that reminded him of—but that was impossible. Royce Melborn would be in Manzant by now locked away in that terrible hole of no return.
“Lord Fawkes?” the scribe said while tugging on Christopher’s arm. “We’re supposed to proceed together. Is anything wrong?”
Christopher scanned the throng of jostling, cheering townsfolk but had lost track of the phantom.
I’m just nervous.
He shook his head and replied, “No, no. Everything is fine. I was just overwhelmed with the pageantry and the splendor. Let us proceed, my good man.”
The two continued to their seats but remained standing. No one would be allowed to sit until the king did. Next came the king’s valet, and then the only other woman to be granted a chair. The king called her Iona, but Christopher had heard her real name was Bessie. She was His Majesty’s mistress. Christopher was surprised she’d been granted a place at all, but then old Bessie had lasted longer than any previous courtesan. By his reckoning she was going on her seventh month in the royal bed.
Next came the esquires and the knights, Sir Dathan and Sir Jacobus, their crests emblazoned on formal tabards. Another trumpet blast and Bishop Parnell took his place on the stage, looking rather dignified.
The horn sounded again, and Lady Dulgath left her castle. She exited alone, and at the sight of her the crowd went so silent that Christopher could hear the swish of her long blue gown across the steps as she climbed onto the stage. She reached her chair and pivoted on her left heel to face the crowd. As she did, three more trumpeters joined the first, and together all four proclaimed the coming of the king.
The crowd before the stage, including the people granted chairs, went down to their knees at the brassy sound. Heads bowed, the trumpeters knelt as well, and nothing but birdsong, the wind in the banners, and the distant rush of waves accompanied King Vincent to the center of the stage.
“People of Dulgath,” he said, “His Lordship, Earl Beadle Dulgath, is dead. I mourn his loss and pray to Maribor and Novron that his spirit is at peace. Today I’m here to appoint his successor—his daughter—Lady Nysa Dulgath.”
The king took his seat, and like springs set free, the crowd popped up and cheered.
Christopher, along with the others who’d been granted a chair, took his seat amid the roar of the crowd. He leaned out and caught the eye of Lady Dulgath. He smiled at her, and she smiled back.
Everything’s going to be fine, he tried to convince himself, but he didn’t really believe it.
The hood didn’t bother him nearly as much as the smile on Lady Dulgath’s face. She’d never smiled at him before, and he didn’t know what that meant.
Chapter Twenty
Assassin