The Fatal Child (53 page)

Padry knew this in one part of his mind – in the part that remembered the twisting and turning of the court and all the things he had once revelled in as chancellor. But most of him knew only that he was weary, stupid, sick, and could have cried aloud for comfort if there had been anyone who might comfort him. He walked on, following the mother of the King.

On a cart track that ran across grazing fields a few hundred paces from the castle walls, he passed a half-dozen large objects by the way. In the dark they looked at first like hollow tree trunks, balanced along the backs of carts that were sturdy but far too small for
their load. They stood in a line, their open ends pointing towards the castle. He touched one idly as he walked by and found that it was not wood but iron. He could imagine that a faint warmth lingered in it and there was a scent on the air that he had never smelled before. Their mouths aimed a long, silent howl at the black shape of Trant.

Fifty paces further on he realized that they must have been Gueronius’s cannon – those demon things from Outland that had lit last night with fire. Their servants were captured and their master broken. They were quiet now. And yet they had already changed the world.

He followed the lantern to where the King lay.

ain was coming. Cold gusts of air stirred the olive groves as Melissa rode with Atti in a cart, guarded by armed knights. Each time the wind rose it drowned out the grinding of the wheels, the muddy step of the horses, the clink of armour around her. She could hear only the roar in the branches.
Run, run!
it said.
Jump from the cart and disappear among the trees!
The night would hide her. The wind would cover the sounds of her movements. They might chase her but they would not find her. The arrows would miss her in the darkness. She heard it and did nothing. The stillness of Atti beside her made it impossible.

The manor stood among trees. It was a hall surrounded by a stockade and outbuildings. Some of the sheds had been stripped by soldiers for firewood and the animals had either been driven into hiding or taken for the camp-pots during the siege. Armed footmen warmed themselves by a brazier at the stockade gates. There were more guards and another brazier at
the door to the house. The ground in the little yard was trampled and muddy.

The cart stopped. Atti and Melissa were made to get down. No one helped them. They were led into the hall. It was a small place, lit with torches, warm and close and sour-smelling after the ride through the windy night. It was full of faces that Melissa knew.

She saw the wolf-knight from the battlefield, still angry, still bloody. He paced restlessly and his face was that of his dead father.

She saw Padry, the chancellor, rubbing his hand across his brow. There were bruises on his cheek and forehead and a look like despair in his eye. And there were others Melissa had known from court, among them a woman who looked so tired and drawn that Melissa had to stare at her before she remembered Sophia, Lady of Develin, sweeping majestically through the corridors of Tuscolo on some visit from the south.

She saw Phaedra, mother of the King, dressed in a dull and shapeless gown with her bare feet peeping beneath its ragged hem. She saw them all. As in a dream, they turned to look at her – at her, and at Atti beside her. The faces ranged themselves in a close semi-circle around the pair of them. The room fell silent. Someone coughed, and a long low hiss came from the fire.

She saw the King.

He sat slumped in a plain wooden chair by the hearth. He was still in his armour but without either crown or helmet. His hair and beard were unkempt.
His skin was pale. His gaze was unsteady, as if he were drunk or fevered. Slowly he lifted his head and stared at Atti before him.

Atti looked round, proud in her silks within that circle of eyes.

‘Well?’ she said.

A man in livery cleared his throat. A herald. ‘Lady, thou art charged before Our justice. Thou hast betrayed Us, thy husband. Thou hast committed adultery against Us, which is also treason. It is known to Us that thou hast done this many times.

‘Also, with the traitor Gueronius thou hast now raised rebellion against Us, to whom thou sworest fealty as well as marriage oaths. Thou hast complied in the wrongful seizure of Our house and the murder of Our servants. Thou hast aided and abetted the raising of an army against Us. Thou hast ordered—’

‘Enough,’ said Atti.

The man stopped.

‘Will the King not address me himself?’ Atti said.

The King looked at his Queen. He did not speak. His eyes travelled past her and away to where Melissa stood. Melissa saw the moment when he saw her, with a sudden clarity as if he, too, were living a dream. He looked at her and she looked back. His eyes said,
Melissa. What will you say?

Me? thought Melissa.

‘Thou stand’st accused, lady,’ said the herald. ‘Wilt answer nothing?’

Atti bent slightly and peered at the man in the chair. She drew a long breath.

‘Wilt answer nothing, lady?’

‘I answer that your King is dying,’ she said.

Dying!
The thought lurched into Melissa’s brain like a monstrous thing. She stared at Ambrose. The way he looked! The way he did not speak! She stepped forward, breathed deeply and – and … (No! Angels, please, no …)

‘He is dying,’ Atti repeated. ‘I can smell it. So can you. His flesh rots. He has a poisoned wound. Look – he is at the edge of delirium. What judgement can he give now?’

It was there, in the air. Among the woodsmoke and the sweat smells there was something else: a foul scent of dark pus that weeps from wounds. That was not a hurt he had had today. That must have been done many days ago. It must have been festering all the while the armies had been marching. Wounds like that did not mend. Melissa knew that. They got worse and worse, and the sufferer went into a fever. And then he would die.

‘Will you kill me, sirs?’ Atti said. ‘It will do you no good. You have already lost, because you are losing your King. Only Gueronius can claim the throne now. You will have to treat with him. Will he be the better pleased with you if my blood is on your hands?’

And the King was still looking at Melissa. Not at Atti, not at the lords and ladies and pages around him whose words seemed to be coming from so far away. He was looking at her as if there were no one else. His eyes were intent, fierce, gripping at her as if she were the last, the very last thing they could hold onto – as if
he had been waiting for her a long time, and was still waiting even as his death sickened in his limbs.

‘Why should we send to him?’ a man grumbled. ‘We have the whip hand. Should he not send to us?’

‘Could we trust him to keep his word?’ another said.

‘What does it matter?’ urged Atti. ‘You are the stronger and he knows it. More deaths will achieve nothing.’

‘At Bay I counselled a division of the Kingdom,’ said Padry. ‘Perhaps something along the same lines—’

‘By my blood, no!’ That was the knight of Lackmere, pushing angrily into the middle of the circle. And still the eyes of the King held Melissa, and they said,
What will you say?

What
can
I? she thought. In another time, another place, we could have been … If we had had our years again, and nothing like this had happened! But I’m what I am, you are what you are, and now it’s too late. Don’t you see? What can I say that would change that?

‘… I did not march my people here to see Gueronius crowned!’ The knight of Lackmere was jabbing his finger within inches of the Queen’s face. ‘Nor did I have them spill their blood to put
you
by his side! And how long would it be before Gueronius grew itchy on his throne, and thought it better to be rid of me?’

‘Gueronius is not caught yet, sir,’ said the Queen coldly. ‘Will you spill blood again tomorrow, for a cause that you know is lost?’

‘After your doings, lady, do
you
tell me to spare lives? My King is dying, you say. What of it? We have all been dying since the day we were born. My King lives yet. He will live longer than Gueronius, I swear to it!’

For a moment Atti looked back at him. Then she turned to the Lady of Develin. Her voice was still cold, but now it shook slightly. ‘Madam? Will you be counselled in policy thus? By – by a fratricide?’

‘The fratricide speaks well, it seems,’ murmured the Lady of Develin. ‘He may speak for me.’

‘There can be no peace with Gueronius,’ said Lackmere. ‘Nor can there be delay. We shall
not
send for a surrender! We shall
not
sit down and wait for Gueronius to starve! When it is light tomorrow we will climb the breach. And I claim the right to lead, since this is my counsel, and I would have Gueronius account for the blood of my father.’

‘Well enough,’ said another lord. ‘But if we offer no quarter it will be a stiff fight indeed.’

Lackmere shrugged. ‘We have a breach, and we have numbers. And tonight we will fashion ladders – as many as we can. I shall send my footmen to climb the wall. We shall come at him from every side.’

The footmen, Melissa
, said the eyes of the King.

The footmen! Into her mind jumped the image of Puck, marching eagerly with his fellows in a leather cap and coat, and his silly face pursed up in a howl. And now she understood what they were talking about, even as their King died among them. Puck! Were they going to take him, too? Were they going to
take
everything?
She tore her eyes from Ambrose and looked around her.

‘So tomorrow we begin again,’ said someone.

‘It will be bloody, in the breach,’ said another. ‘And worse still on the walls.’

‘The price must be paid,’ said Lackmere. ‘With the strength he has left, I do not think he can guard all points. We shall have the castle soon enough—’

‘Sir!’ said Melissa.

The word was forced from her by her lungs and heart. She dropped to her knees before the Knight of Lackmere. ‘Sir, please. There’s no call for more of this, is there? You’ve won, haven’t you? Why get more men killed?’

The man turned away as if he had not even heard her.

‘Please, sir! Don’t get them killed! Please!’

‘Angels’ Knees!’ she heard him mutter. ‘Get her off me!’

From behind, an armoured hand grasped at her shoulder. She shook it off and reached out again. She was following Lackmere on her knees, clutching at his armoured leg.

‘Sir, if you must fight, then – then don’t send the footmen! My lord – it isn’t right! What are they? Young boys – that’s all! They don’t
know
anything. Don’t send them to the wall! They’ll just…’

Eyes all around the room were staring at her. Lackmere had his back to her. Someone in mail was pulling at her arm. ‘Come,’ said a voice in her ear. ‘This is unseemly.’

Unseemly? Melissa did not care. She could see Puck – her Puck – in his leather jacket and little iron helmet, trying to climb a rickety ladder while men shot arrows and dropped stones on him from above, and the walls were painted in blood!

He mustn’t go!

And all the eyes, all the world was watching her. She felt it. She felt almost as if she had broken into two people, one still Melissa, begging for what Melissa wanted, and one that was another woman, crying to another armoured man for a child Melissa did not know. Her words were coming with a force that startled her. As if they had started from somewhere far away, even before she had been born.

‘Sir, there is one … He is not yours, sir, but I saw him with your men. He brought your father’s message to you.
Please
, sir, don’t send him!’

The knight looked at her for the first time. And although he did not answer her, she saw a moment’s hesitation in his eye. She fought the arm that dragged her back, and her voice rose.

‘He
isn’t
yours. He’s … he’s mine.
I
sent him to you. Don’t make him go tomorrow!’

‘Quiet, damn you!’ said someone, and cuffed her. Her head sang with the blow.

Above her she heard the knight say, ‘I can spare none. I am bidden not to.’

‘Sir!’ she begged. But the knight shook his head. The brief flicker in his face was gone. In agony she cast around for someone who knew her – someone who could speak for her in that room. Atti was looking
down at her. Her eyes were very hard and bright. Melissa lifted her hand in appeal.

Then she realized what she had said.

He brought your father’s message
. Atti had heard that. And
I sent him to you
. Atti would guess what that meant. She knew now who it was who had betrayed her; who it was who had been so close to her all the time, and yet had betrayed her in the end. She saw the knowledge settle in Atti’s dark eyes. She saw Atti draw a long breath.

But she did not speak to Melissa. She spoke to the knight, in a voice that was stony and small. ‘Sir? You have heard. Will you not spare even one?’

‘Each will have as good a chance as any. But I may spare none.’

‘Not one? Do you even know the man you condemn, sir?’ said Atti.

‘Lady, I know every face of every man who came with me from Lackmere. Aye, I mind the boy well enough. But if I hold back one, then another must fall in his place. And what shall I say to that one’s sweetheart?’