The Seventh Sigil Page 13

  The heart of Eudaine was Cathedral Square, a large open area of flagstone in front of the cathedral. The square was easy to find. The cathedral was the largest building in town, with spires that rose above the fabled wall. By long established custom, all the businesses in Eudaine closed their doors at noontime. People either went home to nap in the afternoon or dined in the restaurants and cafés around Cathedral Square.

  D’argent strolled impatiently about the town. When the enormous clock on the cathedral chimed noon, he followed the instructions in Stephano’s letter and took a seat near the statue of Saint Sebastian, the patron saint of fishermen. He had not waited long when two men approached him. They looked like tramps, seedily dressed in dirty coats and shabby wide-brimmed hats, which they kept pulled down low over their eyes.

  D’argent did not like the looks of them. He was glancing about for a constable when he was startled to hear one speak his name.

  “D’argent! What the devil are you doing here?”

  “Good God! Stephano!” D’argent exclaimed.

  “Hush! Not so loud,” said Stephano, glancing around. He eyed D’argent uncertainly. “I expected Benoit.”

  “He couldn’t travel,” said D’argent. “His heart. He’s fine,” he added, seeing Stephano’s alarm. “I thought it best if I came instead.”

  D’argent looked at the second man, who was standing behind Stephano. The hat covered the man’s face to such an extent D’argent wasn’t certain who was beneath it. He looked questioningly at Stephano.

  “Is that…”

  Stephano nodded.

  “Monsieur Rodrigo, I am so glad—” D’argent began.

  “Don’t speak my name!” Rodrigo whispered, ducking his head. “Someone from court might recognize me wearing these deplorable rags. I would never live down the shame. Bad enough you have to witness my degradation. Swear you will say nothing of this. Nothing!”

  “I swear,” D’argent promised.

  Both men were injured. Rodrigo had a cut lip, his jaw was swollen and bruised. He had his arm in a makeshift sling. Stephano had a large lump on his forehead and a gash across his nose.

  “I am so glad to see you both,” said D’argent, gripping their hands with unusual emotion. “When I heard that the yacht had not arrived at the Citadel, I feared the worst. What happened?”

  “We can’t talk here,” said Stephano. “Did you bring money? I was thinking we could travel to the dragon duchies. I have friends among the dragons who will let us live there while we plead our case with the grand bishop.”

  D’argent smiled. “I have brought money, but more than that, I have brought good news. You need not travel to the dragon duchies, nor fear being arrested. At the request of His Majesty, the grand bishop has granted you both pardons.”

  Rodrigo forgot he was hiding his face and looked up at D’argent in slack-jawed amazement.

  Stephano frowned. “I don’t understand. Why would the king intervene on our behalf?”

  “Never mind why!” Rodrigo flung his arm around D’argent, clasping him in a crushing hug. “Thank you, dear D’argent! Thank you! Thank you!”

  “Let us have some dinner and I will explain,” said D’argent, extricating himself with some difficulty from Rodrigo’s embrace.

  D’argent chose a café located in the shadows of the cathedral, selecting a table in the back beneath a large oak tree. A fine claret soothed Rodrigo’s feelings with regard to his shabby clothes.

  “Tell me what happened,” said D’argent.

  “The yacht was attacked by bat riders,” Stephano replied. “The monks never had a chance. The Bottom Dwellers seized the yacht and tried to sail it. The driver lost control and the yacht crashed into the forest somewhere south of here. We survived by playing dead.”

  “We’ve been walking ever since,” said Rodrigo. “Once we came to the river, we followed it to this town. I won’t tell you how we’ve been living. It’s been ghastly.”

  Both men ate voraciously, devouring a meat pie between them and asking for seconds.

  “I’ll say one thing for the Church, they build a damn fine yacht,” Stephano remarked, finally leaning back and throwing down his napkin. “It survived the crash mostly intact; saved our lives.”

  “We need to send a message to the red monks, tell them the location so they can find the body of their comrade,” said Rodrigo somberly. “We didn’t have any means to bury him.”

  Rodrigo sighed and pushed away his plate. Thinking it was time to change the subject, D’argent reached into his pocket and drew out the pardons. He handed one paper to Stephano, who took it doubtfully and began to read. Rodrigo read his and looked at D’argent with amusement.

  “So first I am to be burned as a heretic for studying contramagic and now His Majesty wants me to use my studies on contramagic to save the palace. I do so love intrigue.”

  Stephano read his pardon through once, read it through again, and looked at D’argent.

  “The grand bishop has pardoned me at the desire of His Majesty.” Stephano’s expression darkened. “The grand bishop arrests me for no reason and the king pardons me for no reason. This doesn’t make sense.”

  “Politics,” said Rodrigo in knowing tones. “It’s not supposed to make sense.”

  “Alaric wants something in return,” said Stephano grimly.

  He tossed the paper contemptuously on the table. Rodrigo snatched it up and held it close to his breast.

  “What if he does? Would you rather be thrown into a dungeon for the rest of your life?”

  “I might,” said Stephano.

  “The king does want you to do something for him, Stephano,” D’argent admitted. “I told the king about your idea for taking the battle to the Bottom Dwellers. His Majesty was impressed. He agreed to give you money and men to repair Fort Ignacio, and placed soldiers under your command. He would like for you to put your plan into operation as swiftly as possible.”

  “My plan…,” Stephano said, bewildered. “How did you know about my plan?”

  “Your friend, Dag, told me. I met him and your other friends back at your house. They are safe. They returned to the Cloud Hopper. They know about the pardons. Dag said to tell you they would meet you at the fort.”

  Stephano had tilted his chair back, listening with his arms crossed, his gaze fixed intently on D’argent. He brought his chair forward, landing with a thunk. Shoving aside his cutlery, he leaned his arms on the table.

  “I will not say you are lying, monsieur, for I know you better than that. But you are not telling me all the truth.”

  D’argent ordered another bottle of claret. “I am not?”

  “King Alaric hates me because I am my father’s son. Alaric is a man who clings to his hatred. He would happily toss me in a hole and forget about me. You cannot persuade me that he willingly granted me my freedom. My mother might have persuaded the king, but she is not in the palace. I am beholden to someone else. Who is that person? You?”

  “No, Stephano, not to me,” said D’argent. “I am merely your mother’s man of affairs. The person you have to thank is Prince Renaud.”

  Stephano was completely taken aback. “Prince Renaud! The lord admiral? How would he— I don’t understand.”

  “The prince is acting as adviser to his father during this time of peril,” said D’argent, choosing his words carefully. “You will be reporting directly to him. I had a private conversation with the prince before I left. He did not agree with his father’s decision to disband the Dragon Brigade. He will discuss the matter with you when he comes to inspect the fortress.”

  Stephano stared at D’argent. “I … I don’t know what to say.”

  “‘Thank you, Your Highness,’ would be appropriate,” said Rodrigo.

  “Do you know the prince?” D’argent asked.

  “I met him once, briefly, at a ceremony,” said Stephano. “I never served under him, but I know those who have. He is said to be a hard man, a martinet when it comes to discipline. B
ut he’s intelligent—unlike his dolt of a father—and a skilled naval officer. No one likes him, but everyone respects him.”

  Stephano drank his claret in thoughtful silence, then said, “If I am to pursue this plan with the fortress, I must abandon my search for my mother. Have you heard from her? Is she safe? Do you know where she is?”

  D’argent had known Stephano would ask this question and had determined how to respond. He knew that if he told Stephano about the letter the countess had written, gave Stephano the location and told him of Father Jacob’s theory that she and Sir Conal were in danger, Stephano would go in search of her and abandon his plan to attack the Bottom Dwellers. Stephano was wrong when he said D’argent would not lie to him. D’argent was perfectly capable of lying when there was need.

  “I have heard nothing from your mother,” he said. “You have a duty to your country now, Stephano. Your mother would want you to act on your plan.”

  Stephano twirled his glass and brooded.

  D’argent continued: “I have been reading the reports from your mother’s agents. The Bottom Dwellers are launching an all-out assault. The Estaran coast is in flames. Travia is on the verge of economic collapse. The Bottom Dwellers hold the refineries of Braffa, as you know. The Freyans attempted to recapture them, but their navy was defeated in a terrible battle.”

  “I wonder if Sir Henry Wallace survived,” Rodrigo mused.

  “If he didn’t, we can be grateful to the Bottom Dwellers for something,” said D’argent drily. He continued more somberly. “We must find a way to stop this foe. To be brutally honest, the world is losing this fight. The Bottom Dwellers won’t expect an attack on their home base. Your plan to carry the battle to the enemy may be our only chance.”

  “And that chance is a slim one,” said Stephano. “I have no idea if we can even survive the descent.”

  D’argent paid the bill and the three left the square. Stephano walked with his head down, his arms folded. He was obviously still worried, still having doubts.

  “Your mother is a strong woman,” said D’argent, reading his thoughts. “She can take care of herself.”

  “If anything, I would be worried about those who try to cross her,” Rodrigo added.

  Stephano half smiled and then said bitterly, “I made no secret of my loathing for my mother. I still do not know what happened between her and my father, how they came to be married. But I know enough to be ashamed of the way I treated her and I fear I will never have a chance to tell her. I would not want her to die thinking me a wretched, selfish, ungrateful child.”

  D’argent thought of the danger into which the countess and Sir Conal were unknowingly walking and his heart failed him.

  “Your mother loves you, Stephano,” he said, but he said it with a catch in his voice. “You two wait here. I will go see to the carriage.”

  He hurried off, feeling Stephano’s troubled gaze on him.

  8

  A lady should always rise to the occasion.

  —Lady’s Book of Deportment and Propriety

  Sir Conal and Cecile followed the road for several days. They rode long hours, not stopping until darkness fell and they could no longer see the trail. Sir Conal found other sites where the three had made camp. Pointing to Sophia’s footprints and those of the little dog, he noted that the princess appeared to purposefully walk in muddy patches, in the hope, he said, that someone was searching for her.

  “Do you think her abductors know they are being followed?” Cecile asked worriedly.

  “I have wondered the same,” said Sir Conal. “I do not believe they do. They keep to the trail and make no effort to conceal their campsites.”

  Cecile smiled, as he intended. He was glad that his logic made her feel better. Despite his belief that the abductors had no idea they were being pursued, Sir Conal deemed it prudent that he and Cecile should take turns sleeping and keeping watch.

  “I am not being very chivalrous, asking you to stay awake while I slumber, my lady,” said Sir Conal, half jesting, half in earnest.

  “I am surprised at you, Sir Conal,” Cecile returned, with mock rebuke. “The truly chivalrous man would remain awake three nights running, then pitch headfirst off his horse and break his neck, leaving me to fend for myself.”

  Sir Conal laughed, as she intended.

  Cecile would take first watch, promising to wake Sir Conal after midnight. She had never required much sleep. She often stayed up late into the night to read or write letters.

  Making herself comfortable against a tree trunk, Cecile would smile to think what the courtiers of the royal palace would say if they could see the elegant Countess de Marjolaine sitting under the stars on a cushion of pine needles, a loaded pistol beneath her hand, listening to the sound of Sir Conal’s snoring and the quiet snufflings of the ponies.

  The thought would come to her every night that she was happier in the wilderness, eating stale bread and dried meat, than enduring the rigors and subtle dangers of a royal banquet. She had never known until now how much she truly detested her court life: the intrigue, the pettiness, the jealousies, the rivalries. Here she feared being ambushed. There she lived daily with the fear of being stabbed in the back. If it were not for her fear for Sophia, Cecile would have been at peace.

  She and Sir Conal continued to follow the princess and her abductors. The farther they traveled, the more difficulty they had following the trail. More than once the road dumped them in a ravine or left them stranded on an outcropping of barren, windswept rock. Sir Conal would have to spend precious time searching for where the road picked up again. Once, they came to a place where several trails meandered off from the road. These trails wound down the mountainside and appeared to be well traveled.

  “They don’t lead to the village,” said Sir Conal, puzzled. “They are not used by shepherds. We have left sheep-grazing land far behind us. I wonder where they go and who walks them.”

  On the fourth day, they were riding slowly along the torturous, winding trail when, topping a rise, Cecile looked through an opening in the pine trees and called sharply for Sir Conal.

  “The monastery,” she said, pointing.

  Drawing out his spyglass, Sir Conal peered through it. His expression grew grim. He handed the glass to Cecile.

  The monastery, located at the edge of the tree line, was simple in design, consisting of one main building made of stone and several outbuildings of wood, all surrounded by a stone wall. The stone wall was low, only six feet high, designed to keep out beasts rather than men. A wicket gate set in the wall provided entry.

  The main building was rectangular in shape, plain and unadorned except for a tall bell tower. The monks had not built a cathedral, nor was there a church that Cecile could see. What appeared to be a small shrine stood with its back against the mountain about half a mile from the main compound. The shrine had no spires, no steeple. Two large wrought-iron gates in the front stood open. The monastery was busy. People were everywhere, walking from the main building to the shrine, milling about the gate.

  Cecile stared until her eyes began to ache from the strain. She lowered the glass.

  “Those are not monks,” she said. “They are soldiers.”

  “I fear you are right, my lady,” Sir Conal agreed. “Judging by the account Sir Ander sent to the Mother House, these soldiers are the same as those who attacked the Abbey, Westfirth, and the Citadel.”

  “Bottom Dwellers,” said Cecile, adding in soft dismay, “There are … so many of them.”

  The shaggy pony, Jean, bent his head to nibble grass. Cecile sat in the wooden saddle and gazed at the monastery, the bustling activity going on all around it.

  “Is this a military base, Sir Conal? Out here in the middle of nowhere? That doesn’t make sense.”

  “I doubt it, my lady. Ships can’t navigate safely in these mountains,” said Sir Conal. “The place is too small to billet an army and, as you say, it doesn’t make sense. What would be the point? Yet the fiends do app
ear to be well established here. By the looks of it, the soldiers have been occupying the monastery for some time.”

  “And that is where they have taken the princess,” said Cecile.

  “So the signs indicate, my lady,” said Sir Conal.

  Cecile sat in silence for a long time, gazing at the monastery through the gap in the pine trees.

  “I wonder what they did to the monks who lived here,” she asked with a shiver.

  “Best not to think of that, my lady,” Sir Conal replied somberly.

  Both of them again sat in silence. The ponies grazed, unconcerned over the strange affairs of men.

  “What do we do now, Sir Conal?”

  “The two of us cannot storm a fortress,” he said. “I suppose all we can do is return posthaste to Evreux and report what we have discovered.”

  “That will take weeks. And what becomes of the princess? You said yourself warships cannot navigate through these mountains. We could come back here with army, but that would cost even more time…”

  An idea came to mind. She considered it, studied it logically, rationally as she would have studied a business proposition. Once she had made up her mind, she set her jaw in resolve and clamped her hands determinedly over the pommel of the saddle. Her brows contracted. She straightened in the saddle, her back rigid.

  “I have a plan, Sir Conal.”

  “I thought you might. I saw that look in your eye,” said Sir Conal.

  “You won’t like it…”

  Sir Conal chuckled. “I’m not likely to naysay you, my lady. I’ll wager when you give him that look, even His Majesty quakes in his boots.”

  Cecile glanced at him in some astonishment and then began to laugh. She couldn’t remember when she had laughed like this. Given the danger and her fear for Sophia, Cecile was almost ashamed of herself.

  “You should laugh more often,” said Sir Conal approvingly.

  “Apparently I laugh only in the face of desperation and despair, Sir Conal,” said Cecile.

  “And what is your plan?” he said.