The Last Knight, page 4
“Eating your guests would be bad manners,” I agreed tartly.
But while the baron might not eat strangers, I wouldn’t bet a brass fract that he didn’t sometimes chew up his sons and spit out the bones. It was in Sir Michael’s eyes.
When we walked into the private dining room, I realized that a squire would be expected to serve—at least, they did back in the time when knights and squires existed. I had never served a meal, but I’d been served. I could probably handle it, but that meant I wouldn’t be able to eat till after the meal was over, and that was a really dismaying thought.
Sir Michael saw my hesitation and waved me to the third place at the table, set a little down from the other two. What was a squire’s social rank these days? Probably no one knew. As high or low as I cared to make it…which introduced some interesting possibilities.
Dinner was excellent, with a creamy chicken and potato soup, followed by goose with some sort of cider sauce and a tender saddle of roast mutton, several dishes of vegetables, and finally a pastry stuffed with minced apples, raisins, and whatnot.
The baron and I ate heartily, while Sir Michael picked at his food. The gleam of candles and firelight on polished wood made the silence less cold than it might have been.
The servants cleared away the dishes and brought in a heavy, sweet wine.
Testing my theory that I could make my job whatever I willed, I got up and took the tray from the maidservant and poured for the baron and Sir Michael. I had no particular desire to become a servant, but I hoped they’d be less likely to dismiss me if I was being useful. I could see that something was about to happen.
The baron saw what I was doing—he gave me a sardonic look, but he didn’t throw me out. I served them both and then settled in a chair by the door. The baron sipped his wine and set the goblet on the table. Sir Michael hadn’t touched his—neither of them wanted to be drunk. The wind rattled the casements, but the candles never wavered.
“Michael?”
“Yes, Sir. Have you decided what to do with me yet?”
“Not quite. But I think you should understand some of the factors I’m considering.”
“I set a killer free and it cost you five thousand gold roundels! There’s something else you have to consider?”
“I’m afraid so.” The baron leaned back in his chair, his ease a sharp contrast to Sir Michael’s stiffness.
“Ceciel Mallory, the woman you freed, poisoned her husband, Baron Herbert Mallory, in his home—Craggan Keep, which is on the coast. That’s where the new Mallorian Barony is.”
Sir Michael frowned. “The new Mallorian Barony? I thought…wait. Why was she under arrest in Lord Dorian’s fiefdom?”
“That’s part of the story. Mallorian, as you no doubt remember, is a smallish barony held from Lord Dorian.
“Many years ago, the old Baron Mallory quarreled with his elder son, Herbert. I never knew what it was about, and it no longer matters. Their enmity resulted in Sir Herbert’s swearing his fealty to Lord Gerald, instead of Lord Dorian.”
Sir Michael began to look interested. “Horn and hoof, that must have caused a furor! I can’t see Lord Dorian letting a barony, even a small one, slide out of his fiefdom that easily. Why didn’t I ever hear about this?”
“’Twas over before you were born. And you’ve never had much interest in local affairs, have you?”
There was a bite in those last words, and Sir Michael winced.
“In any event,” Baron Seven Oaks went on, “the old baron disowned Herbert, so his second son, Bertram, inherited Mallorian. Lord Gerald granted Sir Herbert a small barony—just a keep and the town it wards. Sir Herbert married Mistress Ceciel many years later. I understand she’s peasant stock, of a very Gifted line. But unfortunately for Sir Herbert, she had no children.”
I felt a reluctant flash of pity for the murderous Ceciel; a woman who couldn’t pass on her Gifts had a hard lot in life. Perhaps she had some excuse for doing Sir Herbert in, though poison…
“Sir Herbert and Sir Bertram remained friends. After their father’s death, Sir Herbert told his brother he wished to be buried in their family’s ancestral grove. So when he died, his wife shipped his body home—her first and only mistake. Sir Herbert was in his early sixties…”
I sat up straighter—the woman we’d rescued couldn’t have been more than forty.
“…and in excellent health. Sir Bertram asked an herbalist to examine his brother’s body, and she found traces of not only poison, but magica poison. The Lady Ceciel is an expert herbalist, so when she came to attend her husband’s interment, Baron Mallory had her arrested.”
Sir Michael frowned. “Then she was never tried?”
“No—though I believe her flight confirms her guilt. Lord Dorian forbade any man of hers or Lord Gerald’s to set foot in his fiefdom on pain of death, and set guards on the main roads to enforce it.”
Which accounted for her man Hackle’s ragged clothes. He was in disguise.
“He also imprisoned her in Sorrowston Tower, because it was more defensible than Willowere’s jail. He hadn’t reckoned on knights errant.” The baron’s mouth twitched wryly. “So you see, ’tis a matter of honor with Lord Dorian now.”
Sir Michael froze as the implications crashed home. No wonder it had cost the baron five thousand gold roundels to redeem his son. Sir Michael had offended Lord Dorian…who was also his father’s liege lord.
Poor Sir Michael.
Early the next afternoon we rode into Seven Oaks. Sir Michael was sunk in gloom, but the baron looked far too cheerful for someone whose son had cost him five thousand gold roundels, and displeased his liege lord.
The house was ten minutes’ ride from the river. I had expected one of those impressive, but hideously uncomfortable, stone keeps—the kind almost everyone abandoned the moment they realized their neighbors were no longer likely to attack them. But most nobles are still holding on to their dark, damp fortresses, generations after the first High Liege put a stop to such nonsense. Perhaps they liked to fight with their neighbors more than the rest of us.
Someone in the Sevenson line had been smarter than that. I guessed the manor to be about a hundred years old, with a stone foundation and upper floors of plastered timber. The ivy growing up the walls was stout enough for a burglar to reach any window he chose, but ivy is noisy to climb. Give me a lock pick or a glass cutter any day.
The seven oaks, which made the estate’s name inevitable, stood three on each side of the house, with one massive ancient in the front. Oaks lose their leaves later than most trees, and these glowed wine red in the sunlight.
Someone must have spotted us shortly after we left the river road, for servants scurried about and grooms came out to take our horses. As we rode up to the manor, two nobles, a man and a woman, emerged from the door at the top of the short flight of steps. The woman was middle-aged, but she had Sir Michael’s light brown hair and even features.
The young man beside her—Rupert, no doubt—was a scaled-down version of the baron, shorter, stockier, the hatchet face blunted. Unfortunately, he hadn’t inherited the baron’s good taste—the old-style slashed doublet was too fancy for the country, and someone should have told him that high-complexioned men shouldn’t wear red.
Mother and son both stared down at Sir Michael with cool disapproval. This didn’t surprise my employer; his expression was resigned as he dismounted and started up the steps. He’d only climbed two of them when the big carved door burst open and a girl hurtled out and tumbled down to throw her arms around him. Sir Michael grabbed her and staggered back down the stairs.
“Michael, Michael, Michael!” Her voice was muffled by his doublet.
“Kathy, Kathy, Kathy!” Sir Michael replied, laughing, as he regained his balance. “Let me look at you.”
He had to hold her away to do so, and I saw that she was at the hobbledehoy stage, thirteen or fourteen, all knees and elbows. Her tangled hair was darker than Sir Michael’s, which made it mouse brown, and gold spectacles slid down a long, thin nose. But the shining joy on her face made up for any amount of plainness—and the right Gifts and dowry can make the downright ugly attractive, much less the merely plain.
Sir Michael hugged his sister again and climbed the steps with an arm around her shoulders. His mother took his free hand and tipped up one cheek for his kiss, carefully keeping her wide skirts uncrushed. Rupert relented enough to clasp his brother’s shoulders and look him over, rather anxiously, for damage.
I followed the family into the entryway. It was pretty much as I’d expected, except that the inlaid wood of the floor was unusually fine. The gold leaf running down the roof beams was patterned in a chain of oak leaves. Several of the plastered walls held faded tapestries, which probably came from the old keep.
The baron led Sir Michael and Rupert off in one direction, and the baroness summoned Kathryn with an imperious wave of her hand and set off toward the back of the house. An elderly manservant showed me to my room and told me, politely, that I would like to rest after my journey.
It was one of the lesser guest rooms, holding a bed, a chest, and a wardrobe cupboard. The pitcher and basin on a table beside the bed and the discreetly covered chamber pot were the only other amenities. But it was clean and snug, and the bed was canopied with a patterned linen that must have cost quite a bit for a lesser guest room.
I lay on the bed for ten minutes before I became bored with resting, and set out to explore the house. If anyone asked, I planned to say I was looking for Sir Michael—but I hoped I wouldn’t find him.
Most of the rooms on this floor were bedrooms, though I found a sewing room with two embroidery frames in a sunny corner chamber. The presence of a clock on the mantel indicated that someone spent a lot of time here, and also confirmed that the household was rich—you seldom find clocks in women’s rooms. The work in one frame was impeccable; the work in the other showed signs of being picked out and redone several times.
Behind the next door I found the library. It was large enough, as private collections go, but the selection was uninspired. Only two sections held books that had been used—the first contained a well-chosen, and surprisingly varied, collection of history books that probably belonged to the absent Benton. The other held books of ballads and legends, usually the most popular section in any library. Sir Michael had obviously read them.
Besides books, and a row of windows that looked out over the gardens, orchards, and stables, the room contained a long table and a desk with a tapestry behind it. The tapestry caught my eye, for the colors were bright. Instead of one great scene from some ancient legend, it displayed many small scenes, which chased each other around the edges, then inward in a spiral that ended in the center. Drawing closer, I saw it told the story of a group of adventurers on some quest. I was snickering over the first scene, which showed a farmer with many daughters dragging a startled soldier toward his house, when a soft voice spoke behind me.
“Delightful, isn’t it?”
I jumped, but I’d already recognized Lady Kathryn’s voice before I turned.
“It’s better than that. If your mother made this, she is very talented indeed.”
Even as I spoke, I knew the cool woman I’d seen on the steps couldn’t have created this. Perfect embroidery, yes, but not the joyous laughter that began this tale.
Kathryn shook her head. “I’m afraid not. It was woven by a woman called Mistress Kara, who lives down the coast in Granbor. Her tapestries are very popular, despite the unusual style.”
My eyes went back to the tapestry. “I don’t recognize the story.”
“You wouldn’t.” Kathryn pushed up her spectacles. “Mistress Kara doesn’t use the old legends, she makes up her own.”
“Really? I’ve never heard of a weaver doing that.”
Kathryn took a deep breath. “They asked me to look for you. Well, Michael did. Father’s holding court tonight. He sent off riders, inviting every neighbor who could arrive by evening.”
“How many is that?” I asked, wondering why she looked so glum.
“Only five,” she said. “But they all have big families.”
I smiled despite myself. My youngest sister would now be very close to Kathryn’s age.
Kathryn visibly gathered her courage. “Anyway, there’s going to be a feast and then Father’s going to…to pronounce on Michael, with witnesses, you see? ’Twill all be desperately uncomfortable, but you’re to come, and Michael told me you haven’t any other clothes so I’m to lend you some of Benton’s because he won’t mind.”
Her face was scarlet by the time she finished, but her embarrassment was for my pride rather than hers.
“Thank you,” I said. “That’s very kind.”
She nodded and went over to the window to let her cheeks cool, but when she looked out her back stiffened.
I went to stand beside her. My employer walked through the fallow gardens toward the orchard, a lady’s hand resting on his arm. From where we stood I could see only her hair, which was red-gold, and her dress, which was the color of wild roses.
Then she turned, laughing at something Sir Michael had said, and my breath caught at the perfection of her features. Her face was so lovely, I didn’t even glance at her figure.
“That’s my cousin, Rosamund.” Kathryn’s voice was colorless. “She’s an orphan, in Father’s ward, but she’s very well dowered. She’s…” Her stiff shoulders slumped. “She’s all right, in spite of her looks. A little silly.”
Why would that depress the girl? Then I saw Sir Michael’s expression and my heart chilled.
Worship. The pure, stupid devotion of a knight for a fair lady—as chaste as calf love, and every bit as painful. Beautiful, rich, and probably Gifted, she would never be given to a fourth son. And judging by her unconcerned expression, she probably wouldn’t want to marry him even if it had been possible.
Sir Michael and his lady vanished under the orchard’s boughs, and Kathryn and I regarded each other in perfect, grim understanding.
“Master Fisk, I don’t know what father’s going to say tonight, but…you’re my brother’s friend. Watch over him. I’m afraid he’s going to need it.”
This didn’t seem the right moment to mention that I intended to get free of Sir Michael at the first opportunity.
Mistress Kathryn and I spent the rest of the afternoon going through the absent Benton’s wardrobe. I chose a good doublet of heavy, dark brown linen to wear that evening, and with Kathryn’s cheerful permission, pinched several of his older, rougher outfits as well.
The neighbors began arriving shortly before sunset—and they did have large families. The table in the cavernous dining hall was set for almost fifty.
There were enough candles to heat the room, even without the hearth fires that crackled at both ends of the hall. The neighboring families had dressed up for the occasion—glowing velvets, damask, and brocade—and their avid gossip rang from the stone floor to the rafters. Moving among them, I learned that Sir Michael was well liked, even if they did think this “knight errant business” was insane and “look where it got him, my dear.” I heard one man offer the opinion that no good came from putting too tight a rein on your sons, but most people felt that no father deserved this.
The feast was lavish, eight full courses, and my respect for the baroness’s ability grew. The neighbors ate heartily, but after the third course my appetite deserted me. Sir Michael, seated on his father’s right, ate less than he had the night before, and even the baron dined lightly, though he drank more than I’d expected.
The baroness, seated on her husband’s left, ate well, spoke politely, and never showed a scrap of emotion, either then or through what followed. Rupert sat at the foot of the table, looking important. Kathryn was evidently too young to attend.
The meal wore on, and as the final course (a plum custard cake coated with honey and powdered sugar) was served, the expectation that had hovered over the room all evening settled like a soaked blanket. Pockets of silence formed, and when people spoke their voices were too loud, their laughter too shrill.
When the baron pushed back his chair and stood, the conversation died as if its throat had been cut.
“Michael Sevenson, come thou and stand before me.”
A chill passed over my skin at the sound of the old, high speech. It still flavored the vocabulary of the nobility, but these days it was used only for legal decrees. The baron’s use of it now made whatever he said a legal requirement, and neither argument nor appeal was accepted when high speech was used. Which was doubtless why the baron used it—before witnesses.
“All gathered herein know what thou hast done. All gathered know that I have redeemed thee, and at what price. ’Tis the price of thy redemption to me that I now decree and declare.”
Sir Michael nodded, his face sober and self-contained in the flickering light. His hands were clasped behind his back. Were they as cold as mine? Probably colder.
“The terms are these. First, thou shalt pursue Ceciel Mallory, capture her, and return her to Lord Dorian’s justice. Thus thou shalt right the wrong thou hast done, both to the law and to the dead. I am certain”—irony glinted in the baron’s voice—“that this will be within the power of the ‘knight’ who was able to free her under the noses of the sheriff’s men.”
I was by no means certain of this. Depending on how far she fled, and how well she covered her tracks, we could spend years just trying to find the accursed wench!
But the neighbors nodded approvingly. Sir Michael showed no surprise, though his lips flattened at his father’s ridicule.
“The second term of thy redemption is that thou shalt go to the kinsmen of the murdered man, and offer them apology.”
Sir Michael grimaced at that. Facing the man whose brother’s killer we’d set free wouldn’t be pleasant, but I had to admit it was fair. The neighbors were nodding like silly sheep.
“The third and final term is this: When the first two tasks are accomplished, thou shalt return to this house and take up the position of estate steward of Seven Oaks, under the governance of Baron Seven Oaks, whoever he may be. Thou shalt serve him for as long as he wills, even to the end of thy days.”
