Catherine didn’t know what to say but asked, “Where are you going, Noyes?”
“I can’t reveal the king’s business, Your Highness. But I’m confident that I’ll soon catch the traitor I’m after. I always do. And I can assure you I’ll deal with him in the harshest manner.”
You always do, Catherine thought.
MARCH
JUST OUTSIDE CALIA, CALIDOR
MARCH STOOD on the grass and watched the stream run by. Waiting again. But this time not for the prince but for Holywell.
Since the death of the prince’s wife and sons, Holywell had insisted on seeing March once a week, and he always asked about the prince, who he met, and when he would remarry. Everyone expected that: a new bride for the prince and nine months later a new heir. Only a few weeks after the funeral, March had heard the chief counselor say to the prince, “We all grieve for your terrible loss, sire, but it’s never too soon to consider a new marriage. Without an heir, Calidor could fall back under Aloysius’s rule. No one wants that. The lords are already beginning to wonder when this mourning will end.”
But March had heard the prince’s reluctance in his voice as he replied, “How can I not mourn? My wife is dead. My sons are dead. I want an heir too, but who’s to say more of my children won’t die?”
The prince had fought a war with his brother, but the loss of his own family had taken a bigger toll on him. He had lost three girls before his sons, all from different illnesses, early in their lives. The two boys had been cared for as carefully as if they were precious jewels and still they had been struck with the fever, and this time his wife had been taken as well.
The prince had even blamed himself in a conversation with Lord Regan just a few days before.
“Is it my fault? Am I being punished?”
“It’s not punishment. It’s disease. The doctors are useless.”
“But all my family? Everyone dead except me. It has to be because of my blood, Regan.”
“The disease may attack the blood, but you are strong and you must stay strong, sire.”
“I’m not talking about disease, or doctors. I mean my blood.”
“You’re tired. The doctors were—”
“Can’t you listen! I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about my true blood. My s—”
“Out!” Regan had barked at March. “Leave us!”
March had hesitated and looked to the prince.
“I said, get out! Now!”
Regan had dragged March to the door and pushed him out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
March had remained there, his thoughts tripping over themselves.
“My blood” meant family, real family, by birth, not by marriage. So “my true blood” had to mean another blood relative. “True” because they were . . . what? Honest? First? And, before Lord Regan had cut him off, surely the prince had been about to say “my son.” Which meant . . . Prince Thelonius, the noble leader of civilized Calidor, the man who had wept for days over his dead wife, had fathered another son. A bastard!
March couldn’t stop smiling. No wonder Regan had wanted him out. Indeed, before he’d even had a chance to pass his suspicions to Holywell, yesterday’s meeting all but confirmed them. The prince had given his ring to Lord Regan along with instructions that Regan didn’t like. March had an idea what those were too: to find the prince’s son and bring him home. The lawyers would do the rest, legitimize the bastard. The prince wouldn’t have to remarry and father more children to die; the bastard would take the throne. The ring, the prince’s seal, was a sign of the truth of the message.
Was it too far-fetched? Could it be true?
“Brother, it’s good to see you. Though you need to keep a little more alert.” Holywell had arrived by his side while March was lost in thought. “You have news for me?”
March tried to look serious and not too keen. “I do,” he said. “Much news.”
The telling took little time, and at the end Holywell sat on the grass and thought for a few moments before saying, “You’ve done well, March. Very well. Your theory seems sound. Even if there is no son, Regan is up to something important, news of which has a value to my master in Brigant. But where is Regan now?”
March smiled inwardly at his opportunity to again prove his worth. “I followed Regan when he left the castle this morning. It was early, not even dawn. He went down to the docks. Alone. He boarded a ship bound for Pitoria.”
“Pitoria? You think that is where the prince’s bastard is?”
“Prince Thelonius went there as a young man. He talked about it once.”
Holywell gave a gentle laugh of surprise. “You know much, my friend. Did he mention fathering a child by any chance?” he added with a sly smile.
“No. He talked of the politics. He admired the country. Its wealth and tranquility. He was disappointed that they didn’t openly join in the fight against Aloysius, but he said they supported Calidor by sending food by sea. He told me that the soldiers color their hair to show which lord they are loyal to.”
“Ah yes, I’ve seen their colored hair.”
“You’ve been to Pitoria?”
“And it seems I must go again.”
Holywell was already standing as if he was going to leave there and then.
“What will you do?”
“Find the prince’s son, if I can. King Aloysius will pay handsomely for him. I will find him and”—Holywell smiled—“use my talents to prevent Regan bringing him back here, and instead find a means to take him to my Brigantine master.”
March wasn’t surprised by the answer. In fact, it was what he had been hoping to hear.
“I want to come with you.”
Holywell smiled and shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“I want to help.”
“You are helping, my friend. You have a unique access to the prince. You have given me priceless information.”
“It has a price, and that is me coming with you.”
Holywell shook his head again.
March bunched his fists. “I can’t stay here any longer. I’m going mad. You know what it’s like to be a slave. Well, I’m no more than that, and a slave to a man I detest, my enemy, the man who caused the death of all my family and of my country.”
Holywell didn’t laugh as March thought he might, but he put his hand on March’s shoulder. “March. To work best against your enemy, our enemy, you need to stay here. No one else could do what you’ve done.”
March shoved off Holywell’s hand. “And now I’ve done it. But I won’t do more. Either I come with you or I’ll go somewhere else. I’m not going back there to pour more fucking wine.”
“You get very Abask when you’re angry.”
“Fuck you.”
Holywell chuckled. “I imagine you pour wine beautifully.”
“I pour it fucking perfectly all the fucking time but I’m not doing it anymore.”
“Working with me is a little harder than pouring wine and carrying a platter of fruit.”
March didn’t know what else to say. “I won’t go back there. I’ll follow you on my own if I have to.”
“March, brother. Calm yourself. I see you’re serious about this, so perhaps we can agree on something. I’m not used to working with anyone, but I admit it does occur to me from time to time that I could use an assistant. Following and watching is tiring work. Two can do it better than one. But only if the second person is quiet and quick and doesn’t talk too much.”
March looked at him and didn’t dare say anything. He could do not talking.
Holywell laughed.
“I won’t get in the way. I will help.”
Holywell now went quiet.
“I’ll do anything that needs to be done. Anything that fucks them up.”
“That look in your eye is quite dangerous, March. And I have to say it intrigues me. I wouldn’t work with any up-their-own-arse Calidorians or mad Brigantines, but you’re Abask. You’re Abask through to your bones. We are brothers.”