The King, page 9
part #4 of The Jester King Series
“Yes, Your Highness.” Fyrdan ran for the stairs.
The prince spun and marched to the ramparts of the high tower. As he came to a stop, his eyes caught movement to the south. There, on a lightly wooded, grassy knoll, seven figures appeared from the brush and made a run for a break in the hill. He scrutinized the party, and in a flash recognized the long red hair of Lady Myrredith.
“Wait!” the prince shouted.
The lady stopped and turned to look back. Her pale face tilted up until she was staring at the top of the south tower. There she stood, gazing at the prince with a taut expression. A moment later, the shortest of the men tugged on her arm, and she turned to follow him.
“Yes, Your Highness?” Fyrdan came back up the stairs. “I’m coming.”
Prince Hereweald watched as the Lady of Cyndyn Hall, still dressed in her nightgown, fled with the ragtag band of men through the gap in the hill and disappeared. He continued to scrutinize the rise, wondering when they might reappear.
Fyrdan approached the prince’s back. “I am here, Your Highness?”
“Stop there!” Prince Hereweald pointed a finger behind him.
Fyrdan froze several paces away and stood at attention.
Hereweald waited. He held his breath. Then a cluster of horses with riders burst out into the open from the far side of the hill and headed into the woods to the west. Halfway to the trees, Lady Myrredith slowed to look back.
“Your orders, Highness?”
Hereweald thrust his palm at the man behind him but continued to stare to the southwest. He stepped up into the crenel on the wall and watched as the last trace of red hair disappeared between the dark trunks of the trees.
“What is it, Your Highness? Do you see something?”
Hereweald still maintained his vigil on the distant wood. Though he knew she was racing deep into the heart of the forest, something held him in place, hoping for one more glimpse of the fiery Lady of Cyndyn.
“No, Fyrdan. It’s nothing.”
In that instant, the prince became aware that he was grinning. Hereweald slipped into his face of stone and stepped down from the wall. He strode past Fyrdan, leaving him flat-footed and confused.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The Wedding Gift
“Do you swear upon the Sword of Lyonesse to keep sacred your vows?”
“We swear,” Ergyfel and Maeven answered in unison.
The oak-priest continued. “Then seal your promise with a kiss.”
Ergyfel faced his bride and gave her a tender kiss on her lips.
“As your hands are bound together, so now shall your lives and spirits be joined in union of love. May your way be blessed.”
The royal couple turned to face the throng of lords, ladies, knights, guards, and commoners who packed Orgulous Chapel, by command of their king. The chandeliers, drawn up high to the arched ceiling and brimming with an overabundance of candles, shone like tiny suns over their heads.
Sir Feolaghe, as the king’s new champion, remained at his post, facing the crowd from the first step of the dais, bearing his broadsword across his thighs. Each wedding guest held a flickering candle, the light of which sparkled on Feolaghe’s polished armor, transforming him into a constellation. Even his furrowed brow glistened with candlelight. The effort of wearing the heavy armor required for wartime champions at such ceremonies showed.
The bride’s weeping mother sat in the first pew alone, save Hengest, who kept his distance from her, measured in spear lengths. Despite the festive occasion, the king’s brother reclined in the only shadows with his arms folded. He frowned at his candle, which lay unlit on the stone floor.
“Lords of Lyonesse,” the priest announced. “I present to you their Majesties, Ergyfel and Maeven, husband and wife, sun and moon, king and queen. Long may they rule!”
Feolaghe thrust his sword at the ceiling.
“Long may they rule!” the assembled guests cried.
The priest raised his hand. “Let us now withdraw, holding peace and love in our hearts until we meet again.”
Ergyfel and Maeven stepped through the wicker arbor erected on the dais where a stone cross once stood. They descended the steps to the flower-petal-strewn floor and paused before the Stone of Bally-Dun.
The common people called the engraved chunk of marble the “Rock of Fate,” and held that it would denounce any false claimant to the throne who dared set foot upon it. Ergyfel had managed to avoid this observance previously, by holding his unorthodox coronation in the great hall, but Maeven’s mother had insisted on a “church wedding” and her father on Orgulous Chapel “for security,” and so here he was, staring at the inescapable step. The new grout surrounding the rock attested to the success of Hengest’s secret assignment, and should have allayed his fears. Ergyfel’s head told him it was a lifeless stone, and yet he held his breath as he and Maeven stepped onto its broad white surface. Ergyfel exhaled with a grin as the stone silently sanctioned their marriage and dominion.
The king’s new father-in-law handed him a silver longsword. “To defend the home and the homeland.”
His new mother-in-law then approached and handed her daughter a light, broad basket of wheat. “To feed the home and the homeland.”
Ergyfel hooked the sword on his belt, and then continued down the aisle with his bride. When they reached the center of the sanctuary, the two knights, whose duty it was to keep the main doors sealed during the ceremony, pulled the locking pins from the heavy oaken bars.
At that moment, there came a loud bang on the doors and muffled shouts from outside. The guards posted to either side of the enormous carved doors looked at each other and their king. Ergyfel and Maeven stopped. The shouts became more distressed. The guards drew their swords, and Ergyfel stepped in front of his bride. Another bang knocked dust from the doorframe. The king signaled for his warriors to open the doors.
The men lifted the heavy wooden bars and stood back.
The giant doors blew open, and a breath-like zephyr snuffed out the candles of the sanctuary with a snarl. Light from the newly risen full moon flooded into the chapel with extraordinary brilliance.
The guardsmen stationed outside maintained their positions with their backs to the chapel. They held their pole arms locked behind their sergeant, supporting him as he shouted at someone and struggled to push the person back from the doors.
“I’m tellin’ you, you can’t come in here with that ...”
All at once, the sergeant and his men fell back onto the floor of the chapel with a clatter of arms. All eyes trained on the silhouetted man, who crouched, panting in the doorway, carrying a long and unwieldy bundle draped over his arms. The sergeant’s helmet spun to a stop on the floor, leaving only the sound of the man’s labored, raspy breathing.
The stocky, ragged figure shambled through the door and stumbled over the feet of the fallen guards. The warriors on either side of him raised their weapons and stepped forward. He collapsed to his knees, shifting his load to his lap, and cradling it close with one arm. He cringed from the oncoming swords and raised one trembling hand above his head in surrender.
“Stop!” Ergyfel shouted, though his instincts said not to.
The king’s warriors halted their attack. They lowered their weapons to a guarded attitude and looked to Ergyfel for direction.
“I want no stain of blood on my wedding day.” Ergyfel studied the man.
He glanced to the side and saw that Hengest was almost to the rear of the crowded chapel. He caught his brother’s eye and those of the two armed knights near the door and signaled them to remain ready to attack.
“Let him come forward.”
The cowed man opened his lopsided eyes and relaxed his pose. He flashed a grin at Ergyfel, and eyeing the armed men around him, slipped his free arm back under his bundle and heaved up to his feet with a grunt.
The bright moonlight from behind the man reflected off a large puddle of water at his bare, big-toed feet, and it became clear that he and his bundle were dripping wet. He was a short, broad-shouldered man with dwindling straggled hair smeared feverishly about his head. His clothing was little more than dirty rags—the tattered ends of which trailed behind in his watery footsteps. As Ergyfel took in this wretch, he noticed the wet trail left in the man’s wake.
Purposefully, the ragged man limped his way towards the king, grumbling in rhyme as if singing to his weary bones was habit. The crowd recoiled as he advanced. Then gasps and disdainful oaths rippled through the guests as they became acquainted with the stench of dead fish that preceded him. The foul odor impacted Ergyfel’s senses and stiffened his neck while the man was still fifteen feet away.
The uninvited guest staggered to within ten feet of the king, and then dropped to the floor, exhausted. With labored breath, he laid his bundle gently on the floor between himself and the king and straightened it. At first, it looked like a large bundle of sailcloth, but then the stranger flung open the wrapping and exposed the pale body of a young girl. The body of Caenne.
Screams and fainting followed the unveiling, and Maeven dashed to the floor in front of her sister’s body. She grabbed the girl and pulled her to her chest. “Caenne! Caenne! No! Caenne.”
Ergyfel stared, shaken by the unpardonable wounds on her body. What sort of monster could do such a thing?
“I’m sorry, milady,” the cruel deliveryman said. “I foun’ ‘er in the loch while I was fishin’ this evenin’.”
Caenne’s mother and father appeared next to Maeven and huddled over their baby, sobbing and clutching her, rocking back and forth on their knees.
“Oh God! Take it back! Take it back!” her mother shrieked. Her cries quieted as fast as they erupted, becoming thin wavering sobs. “Oh God, no. Not my baby. Take it back.”
Despite the growing stench the guests crowded in, attempting to get a look at the body and feeding some ancient appetite. Tighter and tighter, they packed in around the little drama, unable to restrain their morbid curiosity even when movement and breathing became difficult, even when the air grew heavy with the reek of death.
Again, the crude fisherman spoke. “I heard the bells of the chapel, all the way down on Loch Nyraval, callin’ everyone to service ...”
The crowd hung on every word of the fisherman. He stole a gap-toothed smile and continued to draw them in with his tale.
“And then, pop! There she was. Come right off the bottom of me favorite fishin’ hole.”
Ergyfel sensed the air grow close. “Quiet, you!”
“Had a bit o’ trouble draggin’ her into me boat.”
“I said, quiet!”
“Lass was so waterlogged she dragged me in with her.”
“I said, shut up!”
With this, a tiny eel came out of the wound on the corpse’s neck and slithered onto the wet, slimy floor.
The throng erupted in panicked screams as the guests nearest the body struggled to escape the human trap they had built for themselves, and those in the rear continued to push forward like cattle driven into the slaughter pens. Men and women fell and were trampled on by their spouses and friends as they tried to get away.
Ergyfel’s ears rang and his chest tightened. His heart beat irregularly, in opposition to his resolute will. The more he fought to remain calm, the harder it became. At that moment, he noticed that a thin layer of water covered the floor of the chapel. The air was thick with decay. … Decay laced with magic. He focused on the fisherman, whose lips curled on the verge of laughing.
“Stop it!” Ergyfel struck at the beastly man.
The fisherman caught the king’s fist and turned his skewed eyes up to look at him. He put his free hand into his clothing and drew out a black iron knife. Ergyfel tried to pull away, but the fisherman’s grip was adamant.
He held the blade out. “I found this on the shore near her body.”
Hengest appeared and swung his heavy Saxon blade at the fisherman. The blade sliced through the air, then stopped abruptly. The room fell silent, and the light dimmed.
“That’s enough from you, fierce one.” The fisherman’s voice took on a different timbre. He then flicked the edge of Hengest’s weapon, which hummed like a tuning fork.
Ergyfel glanced about at the mob. All were frozen, like fish caught in ice, their mouths and eyes flung open in untamed terror. Water droplets, splashed up by their frantic feet, floated motionless in the putrid air.
“You’re welcome, Ergyfel.”
The king looked down at the fisherman and found him staring back. His eyes were now bulging red orbs, and a black stain that originated from his lips bled into his face in tiny sprawling tendrils.
“I knew you would want to thank me for bringing your wife this unsurpassable wedding gift.” The fisherman showed his ice-like teeth and the inky inside of his mouth.
“Dheumon?” Ergyfel stared, wide-eyed.
The demon grinned. “Good. I’m gratified that you still remember me.”
The demon tossed the iron dagger to the feet of Sir Feolaghe. It struck the floor with a curt chime, and then froze with the blade lodged under the knight’s boot.
Ergyfel’s mind reeled. He didn’t know how he knew Dheumon. His diligent research on the ancient altar in Loch Nyraval had only recently yielded that particular name. Though he had meant to, he had not yet drawn upon its power.
“I don’t understand. I did not summon you.”
“I come and go as I please, Earth-bound.”
Ergyfel’s eyes went to his wrist where the fisherman’s fingers had become squid-like tentacles, which bit into his flesh with sharp-edged suckers. They squeezed and twisted, and Ergyfel went to his knees.
“Oh.” The demon gave a euphoric grin. “Your pain is exquisite.”
The king pulled his wits together and spoke. “Is that why you’ve come, demon? To torture me?”
“Ergyfel …” Dheumon mocked dejection. “I come bearing gifts.”
“How can you be here?”
Dheumon glanced about the chapel in a casual manner. “You and your brother desecrated this temple long before I did.”
“What do you want?”
“Look here, mortal.” Dheumon pulled Ergyfel near. “I am under no compulsion to answer your questions, but since this is your wedding day, I am inclined to consent.”
Ergyfel looked into the demon’s callous eyes. “My wedding day means nothing to you.”
Dheumon smirked. “Right you are. And why should we have lies between us—such good friends.”
“Why do you say we are friends?”
“Because it pleases me. I learned a great deal about human pleasantries from our last meeting, and how much I appreciate them.”
“Our last meeting?”
“Yes. But one thing I do not appreciate is lies.”
“Lies?”
“Yes, Ergyfel. Lies.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I have no patience for lies.”
“What lies?”
“Lies the mortal tongue should never speak.”
“What lies?”
“Lies between one such as you and one such as me.”
“I have not lied to you.”
“I think it is time you received your gift. This is my wedding gift to you, Ergyfel. I give you ... the truth!”
At that, Ergyfel felt a jolt arc up his arm and sear his brain. A blinding light shone as if a curtain had been torn from a sunlit window, and then memories flooded into his mind. Memories of a hunting trip, of tapping the power of the altar rock, of a midnight ride through the woods, of Caenne staring up at him from the stone, and a cold iron knife in his hand ...
Ergyfel flung open his eyes with a scream. His heart raced. He gasped for breath. He wanted to scream again, but all that came out was a kind of sob. He gulped down another breath of air as Dheumon continued to speak.
“You pledged to me the daughter of Feolaghe, and yet there she is beside you, newly bound to you as your bride!”
Ergyfel looked to his side, where Maeven kneeled next to her sister’s body, her face buried in her mother’s shoulder. Dheumon then pointed to Caenne.
“That is a poor substitute, a cheap trick, a forgery, a swindle! You think you can appease me with a clever mincing of words when I can read what is in your mind and smell what is on your heart?”
Ergyfel once again examined Caenne. The knowledge that he had inflicted her wounds magnified the horror. Now, feeling awakened, he realized he had been living a dream. He struggled to stabilize his mind as it caught up to his restored reality. It was jarring, and yet fascinating to Ergyfel how easily a few memories could rearrange his self-image. He remembered, now, the alchemist and his elixir of forgetting. Then, a terrible thought crossed his mind.
“Have you come to take Maeven?”
“You may keep her.” Dheumon waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. The demon then turned to leave. “My interest in our little game is over.”
Dheumon moved with surprising ease through the twisted mass of frozen wedding guests. He oozed between them with a squishing sound, changing shape as needed to fit through the tiny gaps, yet overall maintaining the unpleasant appearance of the fisherman. Ergyfel rose to his feet.
“Is Billy dead then?”
“Recovered your wits already?” Dheumon continued for the door. “I admire your resilience, your quick acclimation to your true identity, Murderer of Innocents.”
“Is he dead?”
Dheumon reached the rear of the chapel and caught himself on the doorframe. On the threshold, he turned to face the king. His face was submerged in shadow, but it was obvious that he smiled from ear to nasty ear.
“That one?” Dheumon chuckled. “He is the reason I am leaving you alive.”
The demon ducked through the doorway, and the chapel plunged back into chaos. Hengest’s sea-axe came down on the stone floor with a clang, and the mob surged in around Ergyfel. It surrounded him and tossed him side to side to side. Even his bodyguards had become part of the feral, undulating throng.
