Treason, p.2
Treason, page 2
part #1 of Treason and Truth Series
“Yes, sir. A long piece of wood caught it.”
“Then, thank you; that could have been nasty.”
“Sire, if Pursuit had reared, you could have been killed,” said Simkins.
“Yes, quite. Sergeant, your face is familiar, but I can’t place you.”
“I worked for Lord Macaria when Lady Ira was young… Sorry, Sire, I should, of course, have said Her Grace.”
“If you worked for the family, Lady Ira will do,” replied Adeone distantly. “Although it’s now fifteen years since she carried that title. Where have they gone?”
“Into history, Sire. I was troubled to hear that she was so ill. I came to Oedran to hear news of her.”
Adeone pulled himself out of the past. “Then I think we can do better than that for you. Any link with her past is dear to her now. Come and see her.”
“It would not be right, Sire.”
“Sergeant, I’m the one asking; how can it ‘not be right’?”
The two men looked at each other. Adeone sensed a battle happening in the sergeant’s head: what he wanted to do against what he should do, what his superiors would say if they found out and what he would face if he accepted the offer.
“If you will not come, at least tell me your name so I can tell her of your concern.”
“It’s Wynfeld, Sire, but I would like, very much, to see her again.”
“Then meet me at Macarian House. You too, Simkins.” Without giving his manservant the chance to object, Adeone spurred Pursuit on and moved at a trot down the street.
“He’ll be heartbroken if the Queen dies,” said Simkins sadly and later wondered at his rare confidence.
“I don’t think he’ll be the only one, Master Simkins.” Wynfeld strode off through the crowds and momentarily wondered why the manservant didn’t join him.
* * *
A short while later, Simkins entered the entrance hall of Landis House via the front door, enquiring of the new doorkeeper if Lord Landis was at home.
The footman’s glance took in Simkins from his slightly disordered hair to his crisp white tunic, scarlet belt, loose white trousers and well-made leather shoes. He asked rather too pointedly who wanted to know.
Simkins told him, rather intrigued the footman hadn’t at least recognised his uniform: scarlet was the colour of kings, white the colour of menservants. It wasn’t difficult to deduce, that was the point.
Completely unabashed, Backery said that His Lordship was in the study. Simkins crossed the polished entrance hall and made his way to the old part of the house.
“Simkins? I thought you had a few days off. What’s happened?” asked Landis.
“Her Grace is at Macarian House, my lord, and the doc isn’t hopeful. The King’s returned but alone, without his guards. I thought you’d want to know.”
“Do you think it would help if I had Their Highnesses here for a couple of days?” enquired Landis, privately cursing his friend’s stupidity with the guards.
“No, sir. I think the King needs them near him.”
Landis nodded. “Lord Iris is presiding at Court for me today, just in case. I won’t come and disrupt things but, if you think I’m needed, please let me know. Also, send Jenner this way. Marsh will now be duty sergeant.”
“I understand, my lord. I’ll keep you informed. Oh, you should know that one Sergeant Wynfeld of the army saved the King’s life…” Simkins explained quickly and easily.
Landis raised an eyebrow. “Interesting. Thank you. I presume Fitz has decided he’s needed at Macarian House in the circumstances?”
“Yes, my lord. He arrived as I did this morning.”
Landis snorted. “There are days I wonder why His Majesty keeps Fitz as Captain of Intelligence when it’s clear he would rather be at their side.”
Simkins chuckled. “Privilege of being an Officer of the FitzAlcis, my lord. He delegates, the General can’t object and His Majesty trusts him.”
“That’s why he’s an Officer of the FitzAlcis,” observed Landis dryly. “All right, Simkins. You’ve given me plenty of work to do. You’d better go and make sure His Majesty has all he needs.”
Watching the manservant leave, Landis frowned to himself. Macarian House and Landis House were close but it was telling that the manservant had come to see him.
Chapter 3
A QUEEN’S PASSING
Early Afternoon
Oedran
WYNFELD STROLLED THROUGH OEDRAN, completely unaware he was a person of interest. He’d never intended to return, but events and his conscience had overtaken him. Claiming all the leave he could, he’d made the long journey to Oedran from Garth in Bayan. He’d saved leave in the hopes of retiring early when his time in the army ended; however, this was more important than those extra few weeks in a few years’ time.
He hadn’t expected to see his King, or to be invited to see Queen Ira again. He’d been leaning on the wall of the gatehouse to prolong the time until he had to face the past. Surveying the diverse and bustling city had helped calm his troubled mind. Oedran had survived battles and fire, famine and feasting, fevers and festivals. Limestone walls sparkled in the sun or glinted in the light of the two Erinnan moons. The wide cobbled streets with their smooth pavements invited the traveller in. Magnificent and domineering, crafted throughout centuries, Oedran’s alluring and terrifying character overawed visitors. It was the living, breathing heart of the FitzAlcis’ empire, which stretched from the northern coast to the southern mountains and from the western seas to beyond the eastern isles.
As he walked to Macarian House, the familiar sights and smells of home assailed his senses, bringing nostalgia with them: cookshops sold foods from all over the empire; spices from Serpent Isle vied with herbs from Lufian; roasting lamb from the Low Plains fought with pies from north Anapara; Bayan stews with large floury dumplings faced off against Macian seafood; the long slow-cooked meats of Denshire sold next to the sausages of Terasia and the fresh vegetable dishes of Gerymor; Pale Landian soups of all varieties complimented new-baked bread, made with Traderian and Arealian grains. As he passed a butcher’s shop, he caught the metallic scent of blood before passing a cheesemonger where the earthy, ripe and musty tones were less disturbing, but he preferred the redolence of herbs and spices. The aromas mixed, providing a patchwork of variety for the senses marred by the pervading stink of humanity.
The buildings hadn’t changed and people still moved with purpose or idled along the street, stopping to examine trinkets or essentials, to pass the time of day with friends or dodge aside to avoid others. Apprentices watched the wares at the front of the shops as their masters served within. Amongst the bakers and butchers, the cookshops and cobblers were the cloth traders and leather workers, chandlers and facilitators; there were the smiths and farriers, saddlers and tailors, inns and taverns, brothels and schools, all entwined together.
He passed a mail lodge with riders bringing news and despatching it to all places in the empire. Around the gates, people gossiped, trying to pick up the latest information; some would sell it on, others merely wanted to hear it to liven up their day. Wynfeld caught the eye of a boy who pretended he hadn’t been about to slice a pouch from a distracted merchant. Truly, the city never changed. Reassuringly, it was still the boiling pot it had always been. The words of an old man from his youth came to mind: be watchful, be careful but, above all, be alive for the city lives.
His feet found their own way to the servants’ entrance of Macarian House and a friendly word to the guards saw him through into the yard, though he was aware they watched him as he knocked at the kitchen door.
A rosy-faced lady opened it. Hands on her hips, she said, “You’ve got a cheek, young man!”
Instinctively stepping back, Wynfeld shrank inwardly. “Aunt Maria, you’re looking well.”
“Humph. Never wrote, did you! What you turned up now for, like a bad talence?”
“Our King invited me. I—”
“He asked you to come here? Now?”
“It sounds unbelievable, but I assure you it’s true,” replied Wynfeld, placatingly.
“I’ve heard that before! You never were much good at sweet-talking. Wait there.” With that – and all the family feeling she could muster – she shut the door abruptly and firmly in his face.
Wynfeld, his back against the doorpost, surveyed the kitchen yard. A grin slowly suffused his features; this was his childhood home and haunt, the flagged yard with the wall separating it from the stables, the outer wall to the street with its wrought-iron gate and the troughs of herbs against the house wall for easy picking. Chewing on a leaf of mint, as he had as a child, he grinned, glad he’d returned. Even his aunt berating him was worth it. Had he really been gone so long? It felt like no time at all.
Running feet and a spontaneous burst of laughter from the stable entrance heralded two boys with the familiar looks of their parents. They stopped abruptly when they spotted him. The elder took half a step forward, shielding his brother.
“Has father found out we come into the kitchens this way?” asked Prince Arkyn with an odd strain in his voice.
Wynfeld considered standing straighter but they probably had enough formality in their lives. “No, Your Highness. I am merely waiting for my Aunt Maria to verify some information.”
“She made you wait outside?” enquired the bright-eyed, black-haired, nine-year-old incredulously.
“I’m afraid so, Prince Tain. Women can be so hard-hearted.” He got no further before the door reopened and Maria said,
“You’re to go to them in the gardens.”
He pushed himself away from the wall. “Thank you. Now, is there any love left in that cold heart? Can you find a resting place for my kit bag? I also think Their Highnesses were on the scrounge for something.”
Saluting smartly, he left, ruining the impression with a broad wink. He didn’t see the way his grinning Princes watched him go or the way that his aunt shepherded them into the kitchen, but he did feel her suspicious glare and chuckled to himself. He’d pay for not having kept in contact, but he was glad to see her.
He idled through the grounds, lost in thought. Near the steps onto the lawn was a daybed with his King sitting on the bench beside it. Stopping a couple of steps up, he once more saluted and waited. His heart beat quickly against his ribs and he was sure his King would see it and wonder why.
Adeone glanced up, oblivious of Wynfeld’s nerves. “Ah, you’re here. My dear…” Adeone turned to Queen Ira. “Sergeant Wynfeld just saved my life. He used to work for your family, apparently. I thought you might like to see him.”
Ira gasped. “Wynfeld? But… Truly… is it… you? I thought… No… matter…” There was so much light in her wan voice that both Adeone and the sergeant knew they had done the right thing.
“Yes, my lady, I’ve changed a bit though.” His voice betrayed none of his angst as he stepped forward and saw how starkly her ashen skin contrasted with her black hair.
“No, you never could… Are you still… as skilled with horses?”
“I should say he is,” remarked Adeone. “Calmed Pursuit down with a couple of words. Wynfeld, sit down; don’t stand on ceremony, not today.”
They spent the afternoon happily reminiscing, bringing up numerous anecdotes that kept Adeone chuckling. Halfway through the afternoon, the Princes joined them, listening to the stories. As the evening drew ever closer, Wynfeld contemplated how to excuse himself before he’d outstayed his welcome.
Ira said, “I’m tired; I think… I’ll go in… for a while.”
Adeone got up. “I’ll find your chair.”
“No, my dear… I’ll walk. I’ll be fine if Wynfeld and you… support me. I’m sick… of the chair.”
“I’d much rather carry you – less chance of an accident.”
Wynfeld caught the King’s eye but kept quiet. They both knew Ira wasn’t going to be walking anywhere.
“You can’t …” chided Ira, tiredness catching her words. “The doc has… said you must watch… watch your back, and I’m guessing… you rode recklessly… and harmed… more… than helped.”
“My dear…”
“Why can’t Sergeant Wynfeld carry mother?” asked Tain.
“Because, my prince, it would be inappropriate,” replied Wynfeld quietly.
“Nonsense! Please do, if you can,” requested Adeone.
Wynfeld smiled as he lifted Ira. Her head rested on his shoulder and he was surprised at just how light she was. As he carried her up the steps, he glanced at her.
She was watching his face. “Just like… that… last… day,” she murmured with a wry smile.
“But no sprained ankle, my lady.”
So quietly that Wynfeld thought it was only he who’d heard, she whispered, “No, just… a… sprained… heart… Look… after… them, Lex. I’m… so… so… tired.”
Her eyes closed as she left them.
Entering the house, Wynfeld glanced at King Adeone to see tears in his eyes. He knew.
“Arkyn, which room has the Queen been using?” asked Adeone, hiding behind formality.
“Her childhood one, sir,” whispered Arkyn, not wanting to disturb her.
Once they reached the room, Wynfeld laid Ira gently down and would have left if Adeone hadn’t stopped him with a hand on his arm.
“Thank you. It has been the ending she would have wanted: laughter, family and friends.”
“I am truly sorry, my king.” He glanced at his Princes’ pale faces, took a breath but words failed him; he left the family together, making his way to the kitchens where Maria snapped at the potboy to get a tankard of beer for him.
“You’ve been privileged, haven’t you?”
“Aunt Maria, not now,” replied Wynfeld, drained of emotion.
She quietly retreated from recrimination and moved with him to one side of the busy kitchen.
“Lady Ira died in my arms. I’m so sorry, aunt.”
“No!” Maria’s anguished cry silenced the kitchen.
Wynfeld held her close as her eyes filled with tears and her face drained of colour.
“Nice to see you, young Wynfeld, but what’s happened?” asked one of the cooks.
Wynfeld swallowed. It wasn’t his place to tell them, but he had little choice. “Queen Ira has started her journey to the ancestors.”
Gasps and sobs shattered the stillness.
“May they greet her kindly and protect those she loved,” intoned the cook. “Come on, we’ve still got a job to do. You sit yourselves there. No, Maria, take time whilst you can. The Princes won’t need anything for a while.”
Wynfeld persuaded his aunt to sit down and accepted a replenishing tankard of ale. A plate of food appeared next to it and someone squeezed his shoulder in mute support. The business of the kitchen carried on around them: the staff silent. There were tears in eyes and hands that shook as they prepared the evening’s meals.
Long after dinner was served and cleared, Maria said, “Come on, I’ve made you a bed up. I ought to see that—”
“Aunt, have I ever told you what a wonderful woman you are?”
“No, but with the amount you’ve drunk I’m sure I’ll be hearing it a lot.” When they got to the privacy of a bedroom, she chided gently, “Why did you come home, lad? Your heart will just break again.”
Wynfeld murmured something so softly that Maria couldn’t hear it. When she did catch anything, it was impossible to decipher.
She whispered, “Drown your sorrows in sleep, lad; it’s better for your liver.”
Chapter 4
REACTION
Evening
Landis House
TAKING THE LETTER his manservant held out, Landis ran his thumb over the plain seal. The lack of a cachet spoke a thousand words that Adeone’s hand alone could not.
“Who delivered this, William?”
“My son, sir.”
Dreading the contents, Landis broke the red wax. Moments later he was staring at the page, unseeingly. Ira had been his friend as much as his cousin, more than his Queen. Folding the letter carefully, he went to find his wife.
His face must have told a thousand stories, for as soon as she and their eldest children saw him, she asked,
“Ira?” When he nodded, she said, “May our ancestors welcome her.”
Glancing between her parents, Julia let out a small sob. Landis simply hugged her tightly. Julius blinked back his tears. Men didn’t cry. His mother held out an arm and he shook his head.
“It’s fine to be upset. We are.”
Julius hesitated but crossed to her. Realising she really was distressed, he returned her enveloping hug. The silence lasted for many minutes before Julia dried her eyes.
“How’s Uncle Adeone?”
Landis said, “I didn’t speak with him, but I expect he’s emotionally shattered.”
“Can we see him?”
“It may be better to wait for a time. Let him and your nearcousins adjust.”
“Can you tell them we’re thinking of them?” asked Julia.
“Of course. He’s never in doubt about that.”
“Can we write?” suggested Julius.
“If you want to. Just give them a couple of days.”
A few minutes later, Cornelia persuaded the twins to go to bed. When she returned, she found her husband pale and drawn.
“How’s His Majesty really?”
“I don’t know. Honestly, Cornelia, I don’t. He wrote, his hand wasn’t steady and he didn’t seal the letter properly. So, I can guess that he’s not good. I saw her yesterday. I knew she was weak but I didn’t think it would be today.”
Cornelia sat on the arm of his chair and held him. He pulled her onto his lap, hugging her tightly as he let the realisation of loss wash over him.
“She’s with Ella now.”
Cornelia swallowed. “Yes, but the boys will miss her so much.”
“She’ll see Aelia as well.”
