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Chapter 28. a Servant Shot out of Radwulf's Chamber in a Whirl Of Chapter 28. A servant shot out of Radwulf’s chamber in a whirl of flailing arms and legs, slammed the door behind him, and bolted down the corridor like a rabbit for its hole. Ten seconds later, something smashed against the other side of the door. Anred, the steward, winced. Whatever that was, it sounded expensive. “In a good mood,” said the other occupant of the antechamber, without irony. “He let the servant get out first.” “He’s mad,” Anred said, voicing the thought shared by everyone in Mickleburg. “Yes,” Frealaf of Higher Sutton agreed. “Are you going to tell him so?” Anred glared across at him. He had always disliked Frealaf, and latterly he had come to fear him too. Frealaf stretched and yawned. “Enough to drive anyone mad, all this waiting. He wants to fight. As do we all! Except you! ” “Someone needs sense, in this den of hotheads,” Anred retorted. “There is no need to fight! Those savages will quarrel among themselves, and the rebellion will fall to pieces.” “You said that six months ago.” “That woman is cleverer than I gave her credit for,” Anred conceded, grudgingly. “If only we could get rid of her! They would collapse in hours.” “If only, if only,” Frealaf mocked. “I believe in action, not wishes. We should fight! What have the Lords of Carlundy to fear from a rabble of bog-trotters led by a whore?” “Who have beaten every force we sent against them.” “Oh, puny armies led by half-wits!” “Ten thousand men under your brother,” Anred reminded him, and Frealaf swore savagely. “Miserable turncoat! He was always sweet on that bitch. No doubt she has added him to the stud by now.” “On that I could not comment,” Anred said smoothly. “But that is not what the survivors said. Guthrum was beaten in the field before he turned his coat. Bog- trotters they may be, but someone among them knows how to fight.” “Not against our full strength! Not against the King himself!” Frealaf drove his fist into his palm. “We could crush them like a snail underfoot!” Downloaded from: www.carlanayland.org 451 Copyright © Carla Nayland, 2006 “Always the direct approach,” Anred sneered. “Has it not occurred to you that that is what they want? Even a king can be slain by a stray arrow. Think of that!” Frealaf turned away before Anred could see the secret flame kindling in his eyes. He had thought of that. Radwulf, with his moods that flickered between maudlin infatuation and black fury, was a nuisance and an embarrassment. Frealaf had his own ideas on who should be King of Carlundy. Anred thought Frealaf had conceded the point. “While the King stays here, they cannot win without storming the castle. This castle! If they try, they will be wrecked like a ship on the rocks.” “Aye, and we will all be too old to do more than watch from our armchairs,” Frealaf snorted. “I warn you, Anred, we will not stay much longer in idleness.” “Idleness?” said Anred, stung. “I am not idle merely because I decline to strut with a sword.” Frealaf whipped back, with the lightning speed of a cat at a mousehole. “Indeed? I hope His Majesty is fully aware of your activities, Anred. You know how he dislikes secrets. Remember poor Ligulf? I do hope your head will not soon be keeping his company over the gate.” He smiled like a wolf. “Pretty Alina would be so disappointed, when finally she returns from the country -” As luck would have it, the sergeant of the guard chose that moment to stump into the room, towing a young man in travelling clothes, dust-covered and weary from a long ride. “Messenger for you, Lord Anred, sir!” boomed the sergeant, saluting. “All t’way from Higher Shipton, sir! Any orders?” “No, sergeant,” Anred said, with a cautious glance at the door to Radwulf’s chamber. “No orders. You may go.” The messenger stumbled forward. “Sir -” he began urgently, but the steward cut him off with a gesture. “Not here. Come -” “Secrets, Anred?” bellowed Frealaf at the top of his voice, also casting a sly glance at the closed door. “The rebels are in Higher Shipton!” He drew a deep breath, and extracted another few decibels. “Why would you be receiving a message from the rebels?” Anred glared at the drooping courier, to no effect. The young man was too exhausted to pay attention to anything other than delivering his message. “Sir, my lord - it failed -” Downloaded from: www.carlanayland.org 452 Copyright © Carla Nayland, 2006 “What failed?” bawled Frealaf, getting hoarse. “What are you plotting, Anred? Treachery -?” He stopped, coughing, but he had his reward. The inner door opened and Radwulf appeared in the frame. His clothes were disordered and his face flushed, but he was not yet drunk. His gaze swept the antechamber like a searchlight, and fastened on the luckless courier. “Who comes here disturbing us at this time of night? You, boy! Who are you?” “A courier of no importance,” interposed Anred smoothly, “misdirected by the guard. I will take him away. Come on, boy -” “A courier of no importance from rebel territory,” Frealaf croaked, undeterred by Anred’s venomous glare. “From Higher Shipton, Sire.” Radwulf’s blue eyes kindled to a steady flame, and at that moment Anred knew he had lost. “Indeed?” Radwulf said. “Here, boy, look at me! What is your message?” The young courier swayed, thinking: I knew I’d drawn the short straw, but I didn’t know it was as short as this. “Er - it was for L-Lord Anred, Your Majesty -” he began, sensing something amiss. “I am sure Lord Anred has no secrets from me,” Radwulf said, smiling with his mouth but not his eyes. “Tell me, boy! Anred, be silent! Let him speak for himself.” The messenger was a simple youth, unaccustomed to intrigue. He knew he could not make up a cover story and stick to it under even gentle questioning. And there was something hypnotic about the stare of those blue eyes. He suddenly saw a vision of his future stretching out ahead of him. It did not stretch very far, and contained a lot of sharp steel things and a view from the battlements. He gulped. “The - the assassination failed,” he said, mechanically. “He - he missed. Struck the leader, the one they call Gyrdan -” “That might do as well,” muttered the steward. “He is the brains of the rabble. Was he slain?” “No, my lord. Hurt, and carried into the hall. But he was seen walking on the walls in the evening, and rode on with them the next morning. Sir - the assassin - he was caught. And hanged.” “Serves him right for incompetence,” Anred muttered. “Planned with your usual skill, I see,” Frealaf declared, to no-one in particular. Radwulf’s words were coated in ice. Downloaded from: www.carlanayland.org 453 Copyright © Carla Nayland, 2006 “Who was the intended target?” The courier looked puzzled. Anred shut his eyes. “Th-the Lady, Your Majesty -” The messenger’s knees suddenly gave way beneath him. Radwulf’s expression was to rage what rage is to mild annoyance. “My wife!” Radwulf thundered. He advanced on Anred, ignoring the quaking messenger, who took the opportunity to flee. “You tried to murder my wife!” “For you, Sire! She is the keystone of the revolt -” “I wanted her captured!” Radwulf roared. “Captured and returned to me! Not slain! Not murdered!” “We tried. But she is too closely guarded. And they will not take bribes. It was the only way -” “Guards! Seize him!” Anred knew it was futile and undignified to struggle, and did not try. Radwulf drew a dagger from his belt and held it poised lightly in his hand. “So,” he said. His voice was deadly calm now, but he was breathing hard. “So. This is what you do. You counsel me to hide here like a coward, for the whole country to laugh at. And behind my back, you plot to murder my wife! My loving wife -!” Here we go, Anred thought, behind his terror. The maudlin fool, can he really not see that the woman hates him, always has and always will? The dagger was at his throat now. He felt it prick the skin, felt the tickle of blood - or was it sweat? - running down inside his collar. “You disobeyed my orders,” Radwulf said, conversationally. “I could kill you. Now.” Whatever Anred’s faults, cowardice was not among them. “You can, Sire. No-one can stop you.” “Go on, Sire,” Frealaf urged, his eyes alight with triumph. “Kill him! He is a coward and a fool and he has held you up to ridicule -” He broke off, and backed away. “Hold your tongue,” Radwulf advised, “if you want to keep it. No-one tells me what to do! No-one!” He jerked the dagger away from Anred’s throat. “I do not choose to kill you - yet. You may be useful.” He sheathed the dagger and turned away. The sudden rage was gone and now he was cool, calculating, decisive. “Couriers. To every vassal in the Lowlands. Within the hour. Summon a full muster. In six days we ride to war.” Downloaded from: www.carlanayland.org 454 Copyright © Carla Nayland, 2006 Anred stood on the castle battlements, gazing northwards. Untroubled by war, driven by the implacable force of nature, the country was blossoming into the rich beauty of summer. The fragrance of lilac and honeysuckle hung heavy on the still air. Trees sprouted thick with new green.
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