The Charnel Prince - J. Gregory Keyes [146]
“I understand.” Fail’s eyes misted, and his head sagged. Sighing, she stepped forward and hugged him.
“Thank you, Uncle Fail,” she said.
He squeezed her arms. “Saints be with you, Meur,” he murmured.
Berrye caught her arm. “I’ll be back, after I’ve shown them the way.”
“No,” Muriele said. “Stay with them. Watch my son.”
When they were gone, she returned to her armchair for half a bell, to give them time to get started. Then, taking a deep breath, she rose and left her rooms and marched down the corridor to where Sir Moris Lucas, captain of the Craftsmen, was housed.
He answered her knock with a look of vast surprise.
“Majesty,” he said. “To what do I owe this honor?”
“Sir Moris,” Muriele began, “I have not treated you and your men well, these past months.”
“If you say so, Majesty,” he replied, sounding uncertain.
“That being said, I must ask you to bear a few direct and impertinent questions.”
“I will answer any question Her Majesty puts to me,” the knight assured her.
“Are the Craftsmen faithful to me and my son Charles?”
Moris stiffened. “We are faithful to Charles as king and to you as his mother,” he replied.
“And do you recognize any other claim to the throne?”
Moris’ frown deepened. “Princess Anne has a claim, but she is not, to my knowledge, present.”
“You have heard that Prince Robert has returned?”
“There is a rumor to that effect,” Moris said.
“What if I were to tell you that I think he slew my husband and the Craftsmen and Royal Horse who rode with him to the headland of Aenah?”
“I would call that a reasonable supposition, Majesty. And if you’re asking if I would follow Prince Robert, the answer is no.”
“And you trust your men?”
He hesitated. “Most of them,” he finally admitted.
“Then I lay this geis on you, Sir Moris, and on your men. I want you to leave this castle and this city, even if you must fight your way out.”
His eyes rounded like regaturs. “Majesty? We will stand by you.”
“If you do, you will die. I need you alive, outside of the castle, outside of Eslen, where you can find the support you need to enforce my justice. I want you to take Hound Hat, and I want you to dress one of your men in a heavy cloak and hood, so that it appears you have Charles with you.”
“But the king, Majesty—”
“Is still the king. He will be safe, I assure you.”
Moris absorbed that for several breaths. “Do you want us to leave now, Majesty?”
“Now and as quietly as possible. I want no blood spilled unless it’s absolutely necessary.”
He bowed. “By your command, lady. Saints be with you.”
“And with you, sir,” she replied.
She returned to her quarters, thinking that at least now she would know—once and for all—if the Craftsmen could indeed be trusted. Actions proved better than words.
She put on her circlet, collected the two escorts Fail had left her, and went to court.
CHAPTER THREE
SWORDSMAN, PRIEST,
AND CROWN
WHEN STEPHEN BROKE THE praifec’s seal, he knew he had severed himself from the Church. The seal was sacrosanct, to be opened only by the intended recipient. Punishment for a novice or priest who broke that sacred trust began with expulsion from holy orders. After that, they were subject to temporal punishment—which could be anything from a whipping to death by drowning.
But to Stephen, that was nothing. For the Church to prosecute him for the crime, they would have to know he had committed it, and if he wished to hide that from them, he probably could. No, the reason he broke the seal was because he knew in his heart the rot he’d found in the monastery d’Ef wasn’t just a bad spot on a pear—the whole fruit was rotten, through and through, along with the tree it grew on.
If the fathers of the Church were behind the waking of the Damned Saints, the implications were staggering. And if the Church itself was corrupt, he wanted no part of it—or, rather, no part larger than the one he had already played. He would serve the saints in his own way.
“Stephen?” Winna asked. “What does it say?”
He realized he’d been staring