There was a silence as everyone paused to consider this.
“It’s likely the son was in league with the father,” Saldur said.
“Did he perish in the fire as well?” Amrath asked.
Braga said, “He escaped but suffered severe burns and is being cared for by a healer. It may be days until we know what really happened. He’s unconscious and under guard.”
“But if he was in league with his father, why did he save Arista?” Amrath asked.
“We don’t know.”
“I say he should be executed,” Saldur said. “I’ve seen this many times, the poison of the father infects the son. Likely the boy’s guilt drove his actions, and it was only fear of Novron’s judgment that motivated his saving of the princess. Such a tragedy.” Saldur shook his head. “If only you had listened to me, sire, the queen might yet live.”
There it was again, the accusation that all this was his fault. Amrath pulled the great sword of Tolin Essendon from its sheath. The huge blade came out easily and the king wanted nothing more than to sever the bishop’s head from his shoulders.
He took a step forward, raising the blade and watching the bishop’s eyes widen in horror as he inched backward. An instant later, Leo’s shimmering blade lifted his own and forced it aside. “Amrath … he didn’t mean it.”
The king fumed, his chest rising and falling with his breath, which hissed through his teeth. He stared at Saldur, who fell backward, tripping on the blackened timbers, rain splattering his grandfatherly face. That fall saved his life.
“Go on, Sauly, say this is my fault one more time!” This wasn’t a bear growl; this was a roar. “I’ll cleave you in half and string you up in the square so the peasants can have a new corpse to gawk at!”
“Forgive me, Your Majesty. I only—”
“Shut up, Bishop,” Leo said, still holding the massive Tolin blade with his own slender rapier. “If you want to live to draw another breath, just be quiet and leave.”
Saldur got to his feet, surprisingly fast given his age, and retreated out of the ruined room.
Leo put his sword away, and the great Essendon blade lowered until the tip touched the floor. Then in a sudden burst of rage, Amrath raised it again and with a shout he cleaved through one of the more substantial oak beams, only partially chewed by the fire. The massive blade rang as it slew the wood in two. The king struck again and again in a mad fury, chipping hunks of wood, such that both Leo and Braga backed away. In a few minutes the fit ended and Amrath stood heaving in a shower of sweat and rain. He dropped his sword, fell to his knees, and covered his face. “I should have been here.”
“You would have only died along with her,” Leo said, his voice as soft as the patter of the rain.
“I should have. It would be better than this.”
“The land would be without a king.”
“Bugger the land! My son would rule.”
“Your children are too young.”
“Then Percy would rule until they came of age, but I … I wouldn’t have to feel this way.” He looked up at Braga. “I don’t know how you managed. How did you find the will to breathe after Clare died?”
“I just did.”
Amrath nodded. “We have a lot in common now, you and I.”
“I’m here for you, sire. I’ll help take care of everything.”
The rain continued.
Royce slipped back inside The Hideous Head without a word and went to stand at the window, soaked and dripping. He’d been going in and out all night. Hadrian had no idea where. Maybe he visited the castle trying to find Gwen, maybe he checked up on Albert, or maybe he just wandered the streets in frustration.
Outside, the rain poured on Wayward Street. Hadrian didn’t know why they called it a street. Even in good weather the dirt lane was little more than a path between shacks, and at that moment it was on its way to being a lake.
Hadrian never left the Head. With four full kegs behind the bar, he typically would have spent the night drinking and the morning sleeping, but he hadn’t had another drop since Royce knocked over his cup. He never said anything, but he knew Royce’s plan wasn’t going to work. Not that it wasn’t worth a try, but what were the odds that Maribor would smile on the likes of them? In the past the gods had always demanded blood.
It was midmorning and Royce was back to pacing, leaving a stain of rainwater on the otherwise dull floor when Hadrian spotted Albert. The viscount was in a fullout run and he suspected it wasn’t because of his desire to get out of the rain.
This is it. Battles always start early.
Hadrian frowned and slipped the big sword over his shoulder as he called out, “He’s coming.”
Royce halted and spun, his face tense.
Albert opened the door, breathing hard and wearing a grin. “It worked!”
“Details!” Royce snapped.
“Heralds have gone out and edicts are posted. The castle announced that the women of Medford House have been cleared of all charges and are now under official protection of the crown. Chancellor Percy Braga signed the proclamation himself. I don’t know how, or what you did, but whatever it was it worked!”
“Where are they?”
Albert shrugged. “In the process of being let out I suspect. You said to run right back here the moment I heard anything.”
For the first time since Albert had left with Lord Exeter’s finger, Royce finally sat. He ran hands over his face, and Hadrian noticed they were shaking.
Going behind the bar, Hadrian pulled out a bottle of rum, a bottle of wine, and two glasses. Adding a fresh pulled mug of ale for himself, he joined Royce and Albert at the table.
“Sorry, it’s not Montemorcey,” Hadrian said, pulling the wine bottle’s cork. He motioned to Albert and the rum.
“Are you sure?” he asked, looking to Royce.
“To Gwen.” Hadrian lifted his mug.
“Can’t argue with that,” Royce said, and nodded at Albert, then poured his wine.
“To Gwen,” Royce and Albert echoed together as they clinked their drinks.
Royce drank and set the glass back on the table. Smiling, he said, “Wow.”
“Grue had good wine? Really?”
“Huh?” Royce looked up, confused. “Oh … no. I’m amazed the plan worked. I never … I mean, it was just too easy, you know? Maybe we should try doing this sort of thing more often.”
“I’m always up for anything that requires less blood.”
Royce nodded and took another sip and grimaced. “Oh damn—yeah, this stuff is hideous.”
“Hence the name.”
Royce left the table as if needing to put distance between him and the wine and went to the window to look out at the street.
“Do you see them?” Hadrian asked.
“Not yet,” Royce replied.
“I wouldn’t worry. Streets are flooded, hard to walk in skirts,” Albert mentioned.
Hadrian stood up. “Who’s hungry?”
“Since the barn, I don’t think I’ll ever pass up the offer of a meal,” Albert said, pouring a second glass of rum.
“Let’s see what Grue has in his pantry.” Hadrian searched the shelves. Grue might not have sold food, but he certainly had plenty. Hadrian found some stale bread, several bags of flour, and a kettle of something. He spotted a hunk of smoked ham on a cutting board and half a waxed round of cheese and hauled them out.
Hadrian returned to the table and set the food down.