“It’s a boy,” he said, voice caught between awe and relief. “A tiny, tiny boy.”
“What in hell’s name were you doing in there?” demanded Kate.
“I have a son,” he added, in a tone so casual that it was clear that he was overwhelmed by this discovery. Against his shock of black hair his face looked doubly pale.
In the stunned silence that followed this remark, he blinked, recalling something, and reached into the disheveled coat hanging over one arm to draw out a battered, dirt-stained letter. “Here.” He came forward to Julian. “I believe this is for you. It came from a Lady Laetitia Trent, through rather strange channels—from the Greater Heffield Correspondence Society to the Birwick Correspondence Society to the Endelby Tailors Guild and then through Felthorpe by way of the Cobbler’s Union to the Little Wrent Miners Letters Workshop who sent it on to Arrowroot Correspondents for Free Labor North, who sent a lass on a pony up here. You’d better read it.” He was so entirely discomposed by his new position in life that he was oblivious to the amazed stares directed at him. “She makes some quite serious allegations concerning the Regent.” As Julian, bemused, took the letter from him, he retreated. “Now if you will excuse me.” He paused. “What was it I was supposed to get?” He turned and disappeared back into the tent.
“Angel of death,” swore Kate after a suitable interval. “And I thought he was a bleeding saint—pure as the driven snow, as they say. It just goes to show—” She shook her head. “Hadn’t we better put Lucias down in one of the beds?”
“Use mine,” offered Julian.
“I have any number of questions,” said Julian after they had deposited Lucias gently on the bed, left the children to sit beside him, gotten a chair for Sanjay, and returned outside to sit impatiently in front of Charity’s tent. Paths of blackened grass scored patterns in the ground all around them. Smoke trailed up to shroud the morning sun. “Any number. But foremost among them is why Miss Farr would be searched so ruthlessly that she would—And for that matter, when in hell did this affair start, for the Lord’s sake?
“Your language, Julian,” admonished Kate.
His gaze rested on her for a moment too long. Both Chryse and Sanjay caught a glimpse of his expression before he recovered himself and looked away.
Kate frowned abruptly and broke away from the group, walking ten steps up, ten steps back, between the rows of tents. Her boots quickly acquired a sheen of ash.
“I’d better read this letter,” Julian said with a carelessness that was transparently an effort. He unfolded the sheets and began to read. Chryse rested her hands on Sanjay’s shoulders. Kate paced.
After some time Maretha emerged from the tent. “She’ll be fine.” Her voice was husky with relief. “Mistress Cook says she did very well, under the circumstances. But the baby is so very small. At least two months early, Mistress Cook says, and she’s been midwifing upwards of thirty years. But she says it’s strong for its—for his size.” She paused, aware of the expectant gaze of her four listeners. “Am I babbling?”
“No, no, not at all,” Julian assured her quickly.
“Yes, you are,” said Chryse at the same time.
“I suppose I am,” said Maretha with a weak smile. “But I had no idea. None. Charity, after all. And Thomas Southern—I would never have believed it of him.”
“Why was she searched?” asked Kate. “Why so roughly?”
Maretha frowned. “Do you remember the golden cup, in the room at the bottom of the central staircase? It seems—” She faltered. “It seems Charity took it. How the colonel guessed she was hiding it I can’t imagine. Evidently there was a bit of a struggle.”
“But why would Charity take the cup?”
“I don’t know,” said Maretha. “She’s sleeping now. I’ll ask her later, if she feels well enough.”
“Mother and Son!” swore Julian, looking up from his letter. “We’ve got to get to Heffield!”
“Quick! Quick!” It was Mog, jumping up and down outside Julian’s tent. “He’s awaked. He’s awaked. He says they goings to kill ’er Highness!”
For a moment they all simply stared at each other. Then Julian stuffed the letter into his coat pocket and strode across to the tent. Kate and Chryse followed.
“I think,” said Sanjay, “that I’ll just sit here a bit longer.”
“You ought to have that looked at,” said Maretha severely. “Here.” She beckoned to Mistress Cook as that individual came out of Charity’s tent. “Mistress Cook,” she called. “I have two more patients for you.”
“We’d best be getting you laid down.” Mistress Cook frowned with a decided air of disapproval as she peered through spectacles at the stained white cloth that bound Sanjay’s thigh. “Then I’ll have a look.”
“I would be grateful,” he replied.
“Sanjay!” Chryse had come back. “Are you really all right? Let me help you.”
He limped into their tent, leaning heavily on his wife. Inside they found chaos—their trunks open, clothes scattered, Chryse’s music paper strewn across the floor.
“My sketchbooks,” Sanjay gasped. He sank down onto the bed, looking for the first time as if he was in intolerable pain. “They took my sketchbooks.”
“Oh, sweetheart.” Chryse embraced him, eased him down onto his back as Mistress Cook came up to the bedside.
“Barbarians,” she said succinctly with a glance around the tent. “We’ll have to have those trousers off, now.”
“Do you want me to stay?” Chryse asked.
“Actually,” said Sanjay in a faint voice, wincing, “I’d rather you left.”
She frowned, but kissed him and went outside. Maretha was gone. Next to Julian’s tent, Kate and Julian stood arguing.
“I fail to see,” Kate was saying, “what purpose it will serve for you to ride off now alone. The colonel’s men could easily pick you up and then where would you be?”
“You can scarcely expect me to forget that my aunt is in danger—” He broke off, seeing Chryse.
“Chryse.” Kate waved her over. “Perhaps you can talk sense into him.”
“I don’t know,” said Chryse judiciously. “How is Lucias?”
“Incoherent,” answered Julian. “Rambling on about the treasure of the labyrinth and a plot by the Regent to do away with Princess Georgiana and claim the throne for herself on the princess’s birthday, which I believe is the Festival of Lights. Which would seem perfectly ridiculous, ravings brought on by the shock he sustained, except that I have confirmation of the whole story here—” He patted his pocket. “—in this letter from Aunt Laetitia. Including the fact that Colonel Whitmore’s regiment was sent north by the Regent to claim the treasure if it was found.”
“How did they find us?”
“Our trail can’t have been so hard to follow. And in any case, I can only suppose that the Regent must have had an agent planted among us, to report to her or to the colonel.”
“But if she wanted the treasure, why didn’t she just finance the expedition, instead of the Earl?”
Julian shrugged. “I don’t know that she has the resources, at least so readily available. And if this talk of a plot is true—and I have no reason to doubt my aunt—it would scarcely have behooved her to advertise her intentions so clearly. She has not ever been a popular figure, you know.”
“She must have been worried, then,” said Kate, “to send the colonel and one hundred men. Hardly a discreet act.”
“To so isolated a place as this? They’ll be back, Kate.”
“But how does Lucias fit in?” asked Kate.
Julian shook his head.
“I see,” said Chryse slowly. “Just as the earl sought this treasure, thinking it part of the ritual, to enhance his power, so did—does—the Regent, except that she believes, like the rest of us did, that the treasure is an object. So does—” She halted abruptly, flushing as she recalled that only she and Sanjay knew of their mission for Madame Sosostris. But both Julian an
d Kate were frowning pensively at the tent.
“I’ve heard rumors,” said Julian thoughtfully, “of the means by which the Regent—ah—channels her sorcery. But it still doesn’t make sense. How would he know about her plot?”
“It explains why he was shut up in that factory,” answered Kate.
“Just what I was about to say.”
Chryse caught the look he exchanged with Kate, surprised by the intimacy it suggested—and equally surprised by Kate’s quick, dismissive gesture.
Julian turned away abruptly. At the same moment, Thomas Southern emerged from Charity’s tent. “I’d better talk to Southern about this.” Julian bowed to the two women and walked away.
“Kate,” said Chryse in a suspicious tone, “I thought you said that Julian had never propositioned you.”
Kate responded with a quite uncharacteristic reaction: she blushed. “I’m afraid,” she said, barely above a whisper, “that I’ve—ah—mis-read Julian all these years.” She looked a little ashamed, and a little apprehensive.
Chryse hid a grin and laid a sympathetic hand on Kate’s arm. “We’d better go discuss this with Maretha and the earl.”
“Julian’s proposition?” Kate demanded. “I don’t think so!”
Chryse could not help but laugh. “I meant this business about the Regent. Remember, Kate, they took our Gates. Without them, Sanjay and I haven’t a hope of getting home. I agree with Julian—we’d better go as soon as we can.”
“Bloody hell,” said Kate without heat. “I’m touchy, ain’t I? You’re right—let’s see what the earl has to say. But I’ll let you ask him. He probably doesn’t much care who rules, and won’t take kindly to interruptions. You saw how mad he was.” She scuffed at a black patch of grass, still warm from the fire.
“You don’t know what happened yet, do you?” said Chryse as they walked across to the earl’s tent. “He meant it, when he said Maretha got the power. You saw it. I think you’ll find that things have changed.”
Chapter 27:
The Prisoner
“I SEE NO NEED for such haste,” said the earl to his wife after Chryse and Kate had left the tent. He had declined to read Lady Trent’s letter. Maretha had suggested in the end that those who could ride would leave within the hour, while Charity, the baby, Lucias, and the children would be escorted to the nearest safe manor by slow stages along back paths the locals knew, and wait there until they could be safely sent for. But none of this could be accomplished unless the earl agreed to it, since he owned the horses and carriages that made travel possible. Only Julian had brought his own mount.
“How can you mean that?” Maretha stood amidst the disorder left by the troops. The earl reclined in a chair, still maintaining the air of studied indifference that he had held throughout the conference. “It will take us at least five weeks to return, perhaps more with the weather as it is now. And after the turn of the year and the Festival of Lights, it will be too late.”
“Mother and Son, Maretha,” he swore, abruptly losing his temper and standing up. “These matters of succession have never made any difference to me. I fail to see why they should now. Or do you suppose they must, since I am now bereft of any other purpose?” His expression bore the old hauteur, but flushed with the heat of anger rather than pale and chill.
Maretha held her ground. “Do you care so little for the concerns of others? Lady help us if you will not even assist Sanjay, who saved your life, and now needs to recover his deck of Gates. Are you really so selfish?”
For a moment the earl froze, his expression as hard and unfeeling and cold as it had ever been. “You would not have dared speak like this to me before.”
“Not only selfish,” she cried, “but full of self-pity. I cannot believe that after so many years learning the arts that they can have utterly vanished beyond any hope of retrieval. And do you suppose that I have any idea at all how to control all the power I received? Do you even suppose I want it? I didn’t ask for it. If you will remember, you forced it on me, and quite by accident.” A hard gust of wind shook the tent, echoed by a tremor in the ground whose rumbling was felt rather than heard. “I would gladly give it to you if I could. Gladly.” Her voice caught. Spatterings of rain sounded on the canvas over their heads. One of the lanterns, unlit, sparked and began to blaze brightly.
The earl took three steps forward and grasped her by the arms. “Control it, Maretha! The entire place reflects you. You could destroy this whole camp.”
So close, she could see tiny lines at the corners of his eyes. His expression was utterly, strangely human: anger, a trace of fear, perhaps, even some concern. Only twice before had she stood so intimately with him: once dancing at the Harvest Fair celebration, the second—
As if the same thought occurred to him, he released her precipitously just as she jerked away. “How dare you ever touch me,” she breathed, “after what you did to me?” The wind died; the lantern guttered out.
“What do you want of me?” He sounded tired.
“You know we need the horses and carriages.”
“Then take them.”
“And you, to go with us,” she added, softly.
“Why? How can it matter if I go as well?”
She turned her face away and did not reply.
After a bit, he coughed in a way she would have described in any other person as self-conscious. “If we need leave so soon,” he said at last, “we had better prepare. There’s little enough to salvage here in any case. The colonel has apparently no respect for either law or rank.”
“I’ve had no time to check,” said Maretha, “but I suppose that my father’s journals and all my notes and catalogs were taken as well.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, a little stiffly, as if compassion did not come easily to him.
Maretha shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. My father’s theories were basically wrong, and in any case, I can read the hieroglyphs now. I’ll simply come back next year, if we aren’t all dead by then.”
“Dead?”
She met his gaze. “I mean, my lord, that I intend to stop the Regent. If she is as powerful a mage as I have heard it rumored, I don’t know if I will be able to.”
“There is no doubt that you have the power. It is the mastery of it that you lack.”
“Well then,” she replied, “I will have to do what I can. It can hardly matter to you if I die trying.” She waited, staring at him until he looked away. Then, as if the victory had been hollow, she sighed and frowned. “And I have to do something with Charity before we can leave.”
The earl had moved to stand by his table, where his papers and books lay as neatly as they ever had, the only objects in the camp not ransacked. “Isn’t it usual in such cases to have the—sinning parties marry?”
“But he’s a common laborer!” She paused. “You don’t suppose,” she said slowly, “that he’s the least bit ambitious. He seems so austere, so—I don’t know, so above such things. After all, if he married Charity, it would be a great step up in the world for him, and especially for his children.”
“One might well suppose it. Even clergymen have their vanities.”
“But he isn’t a clergyman.”
“He could be made one. I still have power enough, of position, at least, to do that much.” His voice was bitter, but he looked at her as he spoke. “But don’t be so foolish as to mistake it for a—a kindness, for Miss Farr or Southern. If you mean to meet the Regent, I cannot let you be burdened by such concerns.”
“You cannot let me …” Her voice trailed away in astonishment. She merely stared as he rummaged in one of his trunks, lifting out a coat, and in a few efficient minutes made himself more or less presentable. He was, she realized, vain of person—it would never have occurred to her before to ascribe any such human failings to him.
When he had done, he offered her his arm. “We shall go to see Miss Farr.”
Outside, they saw Kate, Julian, and Chryse standing in the entrance of Julian’s t
ent in intent conference with Mistress Cook. In Charity’s tent, it was dim. A tiny, bundled shape lay on Kate’s bed, stirring now and again in infant sleep. Charity lay on white sheets, her hair spread out around her head like a halo. She looked tired, but still beautiful. Thomas Southern sat in a plain wooden chair beside her, reading in a low voice a passage from an old, worn copy of the scriptures.
“‘Turn thee unto me, and have mercy upon me; for I am desolate and afflicted. The troubles of my heart are enlarged; O bring thou me out of my distresses. Look upon mine affliction and my pain; and forgive all my sins.’”
“‘Consider mine enemies,’” said the earl, “‘for they are many; and they hate me with cruel hatred.’”
Charity moved her head on her pillow, her eyes widening. Southern stopped reading and stood up.
“My lord,” he said. “My lady.” He inclined his head.
The earl escorted Maretha to a chair, returned to stand at the foot of the bed.
“I am not remotely interested,” he began in a cool voice, “in the particulars that led to this turn of events. But in the interest of Miss Farr, and for the sake of my wife’s peace of mind, I am prepared to settle a sizeable dowry on Miss Farr—” At this, Charity’s face lit with an expression of mingled hope and triumph. “—contingent on her marriage to Mr. Southern.”
Like an alchemical transmutation, Charity’s expression changed to shocked outrage, while Southern’s face took on the look hers had previously held.
He knelt beside her, grasping one of her hands in his. “It’s what we always wanted, my love.”
Charity was not even looking at him. “You must be mad! He’s a common laborer! I am a gentlewoman’s daughter.”
“Such dowry,” continued the earl, “to be used for the necessities of life and upkeep, and to provide the wherewithal to buy Mr. Southern an education and a position in the church. In which case, Miss Farr, you will not be married to a common laborer but a respectable clergyman.”
Southern was so stunned that he released Charity’s hand and stood up. “My … my lord!” he breathed.
“I take it your great wish is to become a minister in the church,” said the earl drily. “It is as well you have made some effort to educate yourself, because with your background you will not be easily accepted in such a position. However, if you are diligent, I feel sure you will succeed.”