“Did he say why?”
“No, but like the bishop, I had no reason to question his motives. Knox was the high sheriff and in charge of Dulgath’s security. If he needed an arbalest, I figured there had to be a good reason.”
They had gone over most of this at Brecken Moor the night before. Fawkes had explained his plan to hang the whole affair on Knox, claiming the sheriff had hired Royce and Hadrian as consultants while secretly planning to pin the murders on them. When Fawkes had grown suspicious of Knox he had warned the thieves. Then Fawkes and the thieves had worked to thwart the sheriff’s plot. Augustine had been an eager supporter of the plan, and Royce thought he knew why.
The abbot had been in the room when Nysa changed nests. He’d seen the whole thing. Augustine might have been privy to the secret for years.
When it was Augustine’s time to speak, the abbot embellished his version, painting Fawkes as a swashbuckling champion who fought the evil sheriff in a pitched battle, an epic sword fight that lasted “at least an hour.” But then again, maybe that was how the abbot imagined it happening. His sort was prone to aggrandizing tales to advance their own agendas.
“One thing still escapes me,” the king said. “Why would Sheriff Knox, an immigrant from Warric whom Beadle Dulgath appointed, want to kill Lady Dulgath? What could he possibly gain? Can you tell me that, Chrissy?”
They had gone over the story to make sure each had answers to anything the king might ask. Yet after an entire night of discussion, this question had never been raised.
Why did the sheriff do it?
A certain amount of sloppiness was understandable given the exhaustion Fawkes had exhibited after healing Scarlett Dodge and then Royce. But this was a pretty important point to overlook. Like everyone else gathered before the king, Royce watched Lord Fawkes with great anticipation.
Fawkes hesitated. He inspected his feet for a moment, then glanced warily not at the king, but at Bishop Parnell. Then he straightened, and, looking directly at Vincent, he said, “I believe the Nyphron Church is responsible.”
The bishop’s eyes nearly fell out, and the chamberlain gasped, clamping a palm over his mouth to stifle it.
“That’s a serious charge,” the king said, and Royce noted that for the first time the insulting tone was missing.
“And utterly absurd!” Parnell shouted.
“I have no proof, Your Majesty,” Fawkes admitted. “And yet I’m sure this is so.”
“Your Majesty, I—” Parnell started.
The king silenced the bishop with a hand. He kept his focus on Fawkes and said, “Explain your reasoning.”
“My belief is the church is seeking to take control of Maranon. The newly appointed Earl Woodrow Braga of Swanwick is a self-professed Imperialist, replacing Earl Purim—an ardent Monarchist. Manzar has always been a bulwark for the church. And I suppose you could say my own father has had a spiritual awakening, as he, too, has shifted his allegiance, nodding in favor of the Imperialists.”
“There is nothing unseemly about men of good standing taking a greater interest in their church,” Parnell snapped.
“No,” Fawkes said. “But there is when the church pressures and threatens nobles if they don’t agree to side with them against their king. I spoke to Lady Dulgath several times after arriving here. She explained how her father had received repeated threats from the church. Beadle had remained strong and was able to weather their intimidation, but it seems they were taking a stronger stance with Lady Dulgath. She was told that if she refused to comply with their wishes, she would be replaced. I suspect if Knox had lived, there would have been a convincing argument for him to act as steward. As you so keenly pointed out, he’d already been appointed by Beadle himself and so would have been a likely candidate for the earl’s successor.”
“Who did she say was the source of those threats?” the king asked, allowing his eyes to flicker toward the bishop, who glared at Fawkes so hard he looked on the verge of exploding.
“She didn’t,” Fawkes replied without the slightest glance at Parnell. “Lady Dulgath was the very embodiment of discretion, Your Majesty. Nor could she trust me, given that my father is an Imperialist. I tried to explain how I had broken ties with him because I saw my father as a traitor to his king, but she only had my word. As you well know, that means nothing these days.”
“I see.” The king continued to stare at Fawkes with a fascinated expression, as if he were witnessing a magic trick and trying to figure out what he had overlooked.
“This is all a lie!” the bishop nearly screamed. He was red, and sweat beaded on his face.
In a perfectly calm and sensible tone, Fawkes said, “At best, I’m merely speculating. I’ve already explained I have no proof. I’m not accusing anyone of anything. His Majesty asked to understand my reasoning, and I’ve stated it.”
The bishop gesticulated with hands that formed fists. His face looked as if he could chew through rocks. The king appeared oblivious as he stared with continued fascination at Fawkes.
“The church took you in after your financial fiasco, did it not?” Vincent asked Fawkes.
“They did.”
“And what have you become but an ungrateful cur!” Parnell shouted.
“If it is true, that the church has backed you financially, why do you now stand before me, denouncing them?” Vincent asked Fawkes as if the bishop weren’t there.
“I am my own man, Your Majesty. That should have been obvious when I left my father’s house. My loyalty is to my king, and it cannot be bought with blood or gold.”
“But it didn’t prevent you from borrowing money falsely, using my name as collateral.”
Fawkes faltered, and Royce thought he might finally have been tripped up, but then he realized this was no more than a dramatic pause. “For that I have no excuse, Your Majesty. It is a transgression that has long weighed on my heart and on my soul. I admit my wrongdoing and wish to make amends, to prove myself through deeds rather than words.”
The king chuckled this time. “You do impress me, Christopher. I’m certain most of what I’ve heard is unadulterated codswallop, but…well done. Perhaps politics is more your talent than horse racing.” Vincent crossed his arms and cast his sight across the assembled group. “Given so many witnesses of good standing, it’s impossible for me to simply reject your explanation of recent events. That means, of course, I’m indebted to you, Christopher. You are to be rewarded. What would you ask of your king?”
This time Fawkes didn’t hesitate. “These men were promised compensation for coming here.” He gestured at Royce and Hadrian. “As they were instrumental in saving your life, and at considerable risk, I ask that you grant them the payment they were offered. I would pay them myself, but…” Fawkes pretended to reach for a purse that wasn’t there.
“Yes, yes, of course, but what for yourself?” the king asked.
“For me? Nothing, Sire.”
“Nothing?”
“I don’t believe a man should be rewarded for doing his duty to protect his king.”
The king smiled. Not a sneer, not an expression of mockery or amusement, but one of true approval.
He’s done it, Royce thought, and couldn’t have been more impressed if Fawkes had palmed the crown right off the old man’s head.
“You say you want to prove yourself through deeds?” Vincent asked. “Very well. It seems I have a province without a ruler.”
“Your Majesty, no!” Bishop Parnell exclaimed.
The king ignored him. “Christopher Fawkes, son of Oddsworth, I hereby appoint you Steward of Dulgath, in which capacity you will serve for three years. Should you, at the end of that time, prove a worthy administrator of these lands, I will bestow on you the title of earl.” The king looked over at his scribe, who nodded.