The Embers of Daylight, page 39
These ones said nothing. They shrank back and clustered together. Edward was disappointed. He'd wanted a bunch of yapping dogs to kick, not frightened does. He pointed at the cart with his sword.
“What have you got there?”
“Only grain and cheese for market,” one of the older monks said.
“We're taking it.” Edward looked each of the monks in the eye, daring them to argue.
“Will you only take half?” the old man pleaded. “We need the money for peat bricks to burn this winter. Our lord won't let us cut wood from his forest. At least spare us the cold.”
Edward walked over to the old man and kicked him hard in the shin. He toppled over with a moan of pain, but two of the others caught him before he hit the ground. The rest of the monks shied away fearfully.
Stephen and Michael started hauling sacks off the cart while Edward and the others watched the monks. They wouldn't be able to carry their plunder very far by hand, but that didn't matter. The point was to hurt the church, not stockpile stolen grain. They left most of their spoils to rot in the woods or tossed them away into a river.
“Have you got any money?” Arthur Loch, another one of Edward's companions, asked.
Again none of the monks answered. Edward saw that one of them was trying to hide behind the others, a younger man with sunken eyes that flitted about fearfully. Edward stepped forward, raising his sword to clear the way. The young monk stumbled back, clutching something to his side and turning so that his body hid it from view.
“Give that here,” Edward growled as he grabbed the front of the man's robe. He shook him hard. Some of the threadbare material tore beneath his fingers. The man's face had gone a pale, sickly colour. He'd frozen in fear. Edward shoved him to the ground and saw a purse hanging from his rope belt. Edward stepped on the purse and severed the strings with a deft flick of his sword. Then, deciding to have a little fun, he pushed the tip of his blade beneath the monk's belt and cut that, too. The touch of the sharp steel so close to his skin made the monk start. He scrambled to his knees and tried to crawl away, but Edward stepped on the hem of his robe. With a tearing sound, the garment split down the back. A laugh built in Edward's throat as the monk wriggled out of his torn garment and ran away with his undershirt flapping behind him.
“That one has a purse, too,” Michael of Rattinghorn said, pointing at the plump priest. The others had almost finished unloading the cart and were getting ready to leave.
“Grab it,” Edward said. The priest had a cord around his neck of the type people often used to hide purses down the front of their clothing.
Unlike the younger monk, the priest made no effort to resist as Michael grabbed the string and cut it. The purse he pulled out was far fatter than the one Edward had taken.
“Listen,” Stephen said suddenly, tilting his head and holding up a hand for silence. Edward and the others froze. It was faint, but the rattle of hoofbeats was coming from somewhere nearby, and it was distinct and frequent enough to indicate more than one horse. It was hard to tell whether the sound was coming from in front or behind them.
“Let's go,” Michael said, sheathing his sword and shouldering two of the sacks. They started back toward the copse, but Edward lingered a moment longer. He'd noticed that the fat priest almost looked relieved when Michael took his purse. All the time he'd had his arms crossed protectively over his body, and when he moved Edward saw the corner of something rectangular pressing up against the inside of his robe. He was hiding another treasure under there, perhaps a coffer full of silver.
“Wait,” he called to the others, afraid to stay but reluctant to let a valuable prize go. Market goods weren't much use to them, but money was. Edward could always use a little more silver, and he'd stolen enough of it over the past few months to offer Count Peter a fat bribe if he still needed convincing to let bygones be bygones. “Wait!” he called again, but the others were already hopping the ditch. With a grunt of frustration, he pointed at the object beneath the priest's robe. “Give me that!”
The priest backed away, his eyes wide and desperate. Edward didn't have time for this. He jabbed his sword at the man's chest. The priest cried out and moved his arms out of the way. The tip struck the object beneath his clothing and bit into something firm and solid. Edward yanked his sword back. A brown object fell out of the priest's robe and landed on the ground. To Edward's annoyance, it wasn't a box full of money, but a plain book with a picture of a flower burned into the leather cover. Plain or not, books were always worth a few silver shillings, so he made a grab for it. Astonishingly, the priest did as well. He was willing to fight for it. The man yanked the book out of Edward's grasp with both hands and tried to back away.
“You can't have it!” he shrilled. “Just go!”
The hoofbeats were getting closer, but Edward was angry now. He wanted to take the book just to teach the priest a lesson. He lifted his sword and threw a cut at the man's left arm. The priest moved to try and block it using the book. Edward's sword struck against the cover, opening a rent in the leather and clipping the priest's hand. He pulled back quickly, and the draw cut severed one of the priest's fingers. Once again the book fell to the ground, this time with blood spattering the cover. The priest wailed in pain and threw himself at Edward as they both fought to snatch up the book. The man's bloody hands clawed at the cover. He was insane. Why else would he risk his life over something so trivial? Edward no longer had room to use his sword properly, so he slammed his forehead into the priest's nose. He felt him let go of the book, but the headbutt knocked Edward's mask askew, pulling the eye holes out of place. His heart fluttered with panic. The mask was falling off, and he couldn't adjust it without dropping either his sword or the book. His moment of indecision was all it took for the sackcloth to slip. Edward turned away as the mask fell off his face, praying none of the monks had seen him. His companions were already gone. The hoofbeats sounded like they were right around the bend in the road.
“I know who you are!” the priest cried behind him. “I know you! You'll hang for this!”
Edward had a mad thought of turning back and killing every last one of the monks to silence them, but even if they didn't overpower him, there was no time. He had to run. Breathing hard, he leapt the ditch and sprinted after the others. He ran to the end of the copse, waded through the tall grass of a meadow, jumped a patch of nettles, and was back in the woods again. He caught up with the others not long after. They ran until they were exhausted, then stopped to catch their breath.
Edward was afraid of what the priest had said. Had he really recognised him? It wasn't the first time he'd heard someone yell those words after they'd been attacked. Sometimes people threatened outlaws just to try and scare them. But Edward's mask had never slipped off before. What if the priest knew him from Rosepath? He breathed deeply, trying not to worry. The others were scattering the grain from the sacks they'd stolen and breaking up the cheeses to share. Edward refused the piece Stephen offered him. He shouldn't worry. Even if the priest went to the sheriff, it would be his word against Edward's, and Edward was a respected baron.
The priest did have witnesses, however, and the sheriff was a pious man. He'd interfered with Edward before when he threatened Stephen into giving up Harald Redcloak's whereabouts. Edward's hand was unsteady as he cleaned off his sword. Losing his mask had made his actions seem real. It wasn't a nameless outlaw who'd robbed those monks, it was Lord Edward. Lords didn't rob innocent people. If only that stupid priest hadn't fought back, everything would have been fine.
He looked at the book he'd stolen, wondering why the priest had been willing to risk his life for it. It didn't look like the books priests read from in church. Those were big and beautiful, with gold on the covers and coloured ink inside. Edward opened the damaged cover. He didn't need to be able to read to see that this book was plain and boring. There was no illumination or illustration of any kind.
“We should start heading back to Cairnford,” he told the others after they were done eating.
“Why?” Michael asked.
“The weather's getting cold. It'll be winter soon.”
“He's right,” Arthur Loch said. “We don't want to be doing this once the frost hits.”
Stephen nodded, going along with Edward's suggestion. “The bishop must have gotten the message by now.”
“Francis will send us back again in the spring if he hasn't.”
Michael was reluctant to stop before winter arrived, but in the end he went along with the majority. Living like outlaws wasn't comfortable, and most of them were more than ready to go home. Edward had enjoyed the feeling of freedom and power while it lasted, but he was worried now. He wanted to tell his father-in-law what had happened and be reassured that no trouble would befall him. Duke Francis knew how to make problems go away.
Edward wasn't sure exactly where in Tannersfield County they'd ended up after their months of banditry, but Stephen said they were about a week and a half's journey from Cairnford town, less if they stopped to get horses. Edward was nervous about going into large towns. Somehow, he felt like he would get in trouble if he showed his face in public before going to see Duke Francis. But he didn't want to seem cowardly in front of the others, so a few days later he accompanied them into Tannersfield. One of the stablers recognised Edward and rented them swift horses in exchange for some of their stolen silver. The weather held fair, and after a few more days of travel they arrived in Cairnford. Edward gathered up his share of the plunder and went to the castle early the next morning. He'd decided it would be wiser to offer Francis a bribe rather than saving it for Count Peter. If the priest really had recognised him, Francis would need something to take the edge off his temper when he found out.
The octagonal great hall was almost empty that morning. Only Duke Francis and a couple of his men sat at the high table while a handful of servants chattered in the doorway. Upon seeing Edward, whose hair was long and his beard thick from months of rough living, Francis sent his men to shoo the servants out. Edward sat down and put his bag of coins on the table. The book he'd stolen was in there too, along with a few jewelled ornaments and pretty rings. He had no idea how much they were all worth, but he suspected a lot.
“You've been doing well,” Francis said with a smile. “I'm told the bishop is at his wits' end. It won't be long before he starts begging Count Peter for aid. That'll be the end of his plans for reform. The cardinals will realise there isn't any hope for the church if it stands apart from the nobility.”
The praise pleased Edward. He hadn't known whether his attacks had been working, but now he felt vindicated. The news must have been finding its way back to the bishop for months. Reminding himself that it had all been for a good cause helped ease his guilt.
“And look what I have,” Edward said, opening up the bag. Francis reached in, ran his fingers over the coins, and withdrew a hollow metal statuette of one of the saints that had blue jewels encrusting the base. He put it down on the table and took out the book. The dried blood on the cover made him frown, but his eyes widened when he saw the picture of the flower.
“Where did you get this?”
“A priest had it.”
“In a church?”
“No, on the road with some monks from an abbey. I don't think he was one of them. He might've been a friar.” Edward was about to voice his worries about the priest having recognised him, but Francis spoke first.
“Damn Virgil. He has it going up and down the kingdom in the hands of friars now.”
Edward was confused. “What is it?”
“The Book of Roses.” Francis lifted open the cover and pointed to some words on the first page. “It's what Virgil's been preaching from ever since he became bishop. Apparently he wrote it himself. Half of that man's troublesome ideas come from this book.” Though he was clearly perplexed, the duke also sounded fascinated. Edward felt like he was starting to understand why the priest had tried to hold on to the book so desperately. “I've been trying to get my hands on a copy,” Francis continued, “but the church has it under lock and key. You've done well, Edward. Very well.”
“What news of Count Peter?” Edward asked. “Is he still upset that I beat him?”
“That's all forgotten. Cristiana has spent most of her time at Tannersfield Castle while you've been away.”
The offhand way Francis spoke of Edward's wife staying at another man's castle rankled him, but he tried not to let it show. Francis seemed to be in a good mood so far.
“The priest I took this from said he recognised me,” Edward said.
“And do you think he did?”
Edward folded his arms. “I didn't recognise him.”
“But?”
“My mask slipped off for a moment. He might've seen my face.”
Francis looked up from the book and regarded him sternly. “He saw an unkempt outlaw who just happened to resemble you. Have my barber trim your hair and give you a shave. Nothing will come of this.”
Edward let out a relieved breath. The duke was right. The priest hadn't seen him, just someone who looked like him. Nothing bad was going to happen. Nothing could happen. He was a baron, and priests couldn't accuse barons and get away with it.
“Shall I go back to Rosepath?”
Francis nodded, leafing through the pages of the book. “Yes, and I think I shall accompany you–at least as far as Tannersfield. We can pay Bishop Virgil a visit. It's time to see how much more nudging he needs before he breaks, and we can make sure his priests haven't been telling tales about you while we're there.” A troubled look came over the duke's face. “I must speak with my son as well. You won't know; he recently found a way to get his marriage annulled.”
Edward tried not to snort with laughter. Was Isaac stupid? Emilia was beautiful, and her father was a rich and powerful marquess. It was almost like Isaac wanted to be a peasant. Well, that was all the better for Edward. There was no way Francis would let Isaac be his heir after a blunder like this.
Francis gave him a sharp look. “He wants to marry his merchant girl.”
That wiped the smirk off Edward's face. Isaac marrying a nobody didn't bother him, but the thought of Elizabeth being elevated to a position of status rivalling his own was mortifying. What if she became the countess of Cairnford one day? All of Edward's old bitterness returned in an instant. The servant wench was still trying to make a fool of him. Hadn't she learned her lesson in Kinedwyn? He felt like he had to do something about it, but he didn't know what. Francis's mood had turned terse, and he didn't want to anger the duke. Perhaps it would be best if he kept his mouth shut for now. Surely Francis would never let Isaac marry someone like Elizabeth. It was absurd.
Yet the idea enraged Edward. He sat up rubbing the scar between his knuckles that evening, his head filled with thoughts of revenge. He wished he'd killed Elizabeth when he had the chance.
Chapter 27
Edward had never been to the bishop's palace before. It was a fine manor, but not as impressive as a castle. It reassured him to know that he lived in a mighty stone fortress while the bishop made do with this strange little compound built upon the ruins of the old bailey overlooking Tannersfield. He and Francis left their horses with a stabler before climbing the long set of steps that led to the palace. Francis was breathing heavily by the halfway point. Edward was weary from the ride, too, but he didn't let it show. Despite his tiredness, he privately hoped that Francis would let him ride on to Rosepath once their business with the bishop was done. If not, he would be expected to join his father-in-law at Isaac's manor that night. Edward's dislike of Isaac had grown bitterly potent since learning that he planned to marry Elizabeth. He'd convinced himself on the trip from Cairnford that it was all part of a plot to get back at him. If he sat down for supper in Isaac's hall that evening, his brother-in-law would be gloating the whole time.
Despite having spent days racking his brains for an answer, he couldn't think of any way to stop Isaac and Elizabeth from marrying. Every time he tried, his thoughts always returned to the same place; the easiest thing would simply be to kill her. He could wear a mask, and nobody would know it was him. But he remembered the gang of bodyguards she'd had with her when they crossed paths on the road to Saint Saina's Mill. Those men had looked like they knew how to fight. The prospect of tangling with them again made him afraid. And what if his mask slipped again? Francis would disown him, he would be put on trial, and if he was found guilty he would be maimed or executed.
Revisiting those thoughts undermined his confidence as he climbed the steps. He worried again that the friar might have told the bishop about him. What if he entered the palace only to find a group of men-at-arms waiting to arrest him? It had been stupid of him to insist on taking that book. Not only had it risked revealing his identity, but Francis's mood had become brooding ever since he began reading it. Each night when they stopped to rest he sat up studying its pages by candlelight. It was in his satchel right now, bumping against his thigh with each step.
“What's in that book, anyway?” Edward asked, feeling the need to talk to take his mind off things.
“A great many convincingly-articulated ideas,” Francis replied. He stopped for a moment to catch his breath. “They worry me, Edward. The theology is sound enough to appeal to educated men, yet the arguments are presented in a way that even a peasant could understand. It's no wonder Virgil uses it for his sermons.”
