“You’re mine for as long as I need you. I didn’t pull all those strings to get you attached to the Princess Catherine as her bodyguard just so you could come home. You can still be useful to me.”
“Of course,” said the Sombre Warrior. “Your orders, First Minister?”
“You must keep the Princess alive and unharmed, at all costs. At least until after the wedding. We only really need a marriage ceremony to get the Peace agreement signed. Catherine herself may yet prove to be an encumbrance.”
“The Princess has enemies here, inside the Castle?”
“Of course. From the Forest, and from Redhart. Keep your eyes open. Trust no one.”
“I wouldn’t know how,” said the Sombre Warrior.
The First Minister looked at him sharply, and then turned away, his face disappearing from the mirror. To be replaced, almost immediately, by a second, different face, a second spy master. King William of Redhart stared grimly out of the glass, nodding abruptly to the Sombre Warrior’s bare face. And like the First Minister before him, King William showed no surprise at what he saw.
“I’ll keep this short,” said the King. “My sorcerer Van Fleet doesn’t know how long he can keep this line of communication open. Have you made contact with the First Minister?”
“Yes,” said the Sombre Warrior. “He still thinks I’m his man. He has no suspicion that I serve you, my King, and that he only knows those secrets you want him to know. He really should have understood: live in a country long enough and you learn to love it. And you have been a very generous master, Sire.”
“I have other agents inside Forest Castle,” said King William. “Some a lot closer than you think. I’ve arranged for some of them to make themselves known to you. They will identify themselves with the phrase red meat is good meat.”
“Just once I’d like a code phrase that might actually crop up in real conversation,” said the Sombre Warrior. “Aren’t you going to ask if your daughter reached the Castle safely?”
“You would have said, if there’d been any real problems,” said the King. And his face vanished from the mirror.
The Sombre Warrior stood there for a while, studying his own face, and then he smiled slowly. “I didn’t come back here to serve you, William. Or Peregrine de Woodville. I am only here to take care of my own unfinished business.” He put the chalk white mask back on and tightened the leather straps, and then he looked at himself again. “Whose man am I? I am my own man, now and always.”
• • •
Sir Jasper the ghost went wandering through the wide stone corridors of Forest Castle. Catherine and Gertrude were busy preparing for their appearance at the Welcome Banquet. He didn’t need anyone to tell him that; he just knew. He supposed he could have gone along with them, if he’d wanted, but he didn’t do that sort of thing anymore. He didn’t eat or drink, though he sort of remembered what that was like. He couldn’t smell the smoke from the flaring torches he passed, or feel the cold stones under his feet. He felt more solid, more real, than he had in a long time, but his physical presence tended to come and go according to how much he concentrated. And how much he cared.
He was the memory of a man, not the man himself, and he forgot that at his peril.
He walked up and down the corridors, studying everything with great interest. Some things pleased him, and some disturbed him; and now and again some small thing would seem to tug at a long-buried memory . . . but none of it held any real significance. Nothing meant anything; nothing mattered. So on he went, up the corridors and through the chambers, along the empty stone galleries, looking at the portraits on the walls with only vague interest. On the few occasions when he seemed about to encounter actual people, he turned invisible so he wouldn’t have to talk to them. Partly because he was preoccupied with his own business, but mostly because he was shy. He hadn’t been around people for such a long time . . . He didn’t know what to say to them. And then he stopped, abruptly, before one particular old portrait hanging in an alcove. Very old and faded, with cracking paint, but the face was still clear and distinct. Sir Jasper looked at it for a long time.
“I know you,” he said finally. “King Eduard, who loved the fearsome Night Witch. But why do I know you? Did I serve you while I was still alive? And if so, why don’t I remember, now I’m back? Did I do something . . . bad? So bad, I had to make myself forget everything?”
The face in the portrait stared silently back. It had no answer for him. Sir Jasper nodded slowly and walked on, a small and lonely ghost in a large and empty Castle.
• • •
The huge ceremonial Banquet of Welcome took place in the Great Hall. Everyone who was anybody, or thought they were, or that they ought to be, had fought and bullied and spread a lot of money around to be sure they got invitations to attend the banquet. Because this was the social gathering that everyone would be talking about for years. The first appearance of Redhart Royalty for an arranged marriage! And quite possibly the last—though no one was saying that out loud. A great many people were already placing substantial wagers on how long the marriage would last, or even if it would take place at all.
The Great Hall was full of tables, standing in long rows the whole length of the space, packed from wall to wall, from the entrance doors to the dais at the far end, where the King and his family and guests would be seated. In fact, those at the doors would have to stand on their chairs and peer through a telescope just to make out who was sitting at the King’s table. Every table was covered with a cloth of gleaming white samite, and set with all the best dinner services, and the most delicate cutlery, all of it cleaned and polished to within an inch of its life. Everything had to be just so, for an occasion such as this. (Although with so many people present, the Seneschal had run out of the good service and the best cutlery, and had been forced to make up the difference with whatever he could scrounge from abandoned rooms in the rest of the Castle. He dumped the poorer items on the tables by the doors and hoped no one would notice—or at least no one who mattered.) The candles had all been removed from the chandeliers overhead, to avoid the possibility of wax dripping down on the honoured guests. The chandeliers were now stuffed with foxfire moss, which produced a gentler light but was much more dependable. And less drippy.
It took more than an hour simply to get everyone seated, while whole armies of servants bustled back and forth, bearing massive platters of food, endless glasses of wine, and anything else a guest might care to ask for. And since it was all free, some of the guests were taking advantage. (Once again, the Seneschal had run out of real servants, and had press-ganged soldiers, cooks, grooms, and anyone else who didn’t run away fast enough. It meant that some of the servants’ manners were a bit on the rough side, but as long as they had two legs and were breathing, that was enough for the Seneschal.)
A small orchestra crammed into a far corner played rousing patriotic airs, heavier on the strings than the more usual brass, so the guests could still hear themselves talk. Flags and banners fluttered the length of the hall, hanging from the ceilings and the chandeliers and anything else that would support their weight. And armed guards, in full dress armour, with not at all ceremonial weapons at their sides, stood to attention all along the walls. Saying nothing but watching everything and everyone with cool professional eyes, ready for action at a moment’s notice. After the attack on Princess Catherine’s carriage, no one was taking any chances.
One guest decided it would be amusing to make the guards jump by popping a champagne cork at them. After what happened to him, everyone left the guards strictly alone.
King Rufus sat at the very centre of the head table, arrayed in his finest robes, with his crown set squarely on his head. He looked fine and wise and noble, as long as he didn’t actually talk to anyone. He knew how important the banquet was, and was on his best behaviour; but his attention did tend to wander. The Seneschal hovered constantly at the King’s side, standing to attention in his best ceremonial regalia, making sur
e Rufus ate his food in the correct order, and with the proper utensils. Mostly the King went along, but occasionally his basic stubbornness would kick in and he’d slap the Seneschal’s helping hand aside.
“I am not eating my nice boiled potatoes! Hate boiled potatoes! Who the hell thought they were suitable for a banquet? Take them away and mash them up and drown them in the good gravy. And what is that? I am not touching that until someone can tell me what it is!”
The Seneschal gestured for the offending boiled potatoes to be taken away, and then leaned in close. “That, Sire, is bread-and-marrowbone-jelly pudding. You like it. It’s good for you.”
“If it’s that good, you eat it,” said the King cunningly.
Princess Catherine was seated at his right hand, dressed in her most opulent attire, hearing every word and pretending not to. She’d been briefed on King Rufus before she left Redhart. One of the first things Royalty learns about appearing in public is how to notice only those things that are officially approved. Prince Richard was seated on her other side, also magnificently dressed, and doing his best to keep her entertained with charming conversation. Something else Royalty are taught from an early age, till they can practically do it in their sleep. But since all Catherine would do in response was nod and smile, and address herself to the food before her, Prince Richard was finding it all rather hard going.
The Sombre Warrior was seated at the King’s left hand, because he refused point-blank to be seated any farther away from the Princess. He didn’t eat, or drink. Or talk much, for that matter. He just sat there, in full ceremonial armour, watching the banquet from behind his porcelain mask, perfectly still, like a cat at a mouse hole. People kept sending over various exotic dishes and tempting titbits, in the hope that they might tempt him into lifting his mask, just for a moment; but he declined them all. One wag sent over a bottle of champagne and a paper straw, and the Sombre Warrior wouldn’t even look at it.
Seated beside him was Lady Gertrude, in a party dress that was as fashionable as she could manage, given that it was all in black, because she was still in mourning for her lost love. She ate and drank everything put before her with a healthy appetite. Sitting beside her was the First Minister, Peregrine de Woodville, who did his best to pry some useful information out of her concerning matters at Redhart Court. Gertrude happily fed him complete nonsense, and hoped he choked on it. She wiped her plate clean with a piece of bread, then called for a second helping. Gertrude did like her food.
Every now and again, Rufus would remember his position and try to make pleasant small talk with Catherine. But sometimes he would call her father William, and sometimes Viktor. He had moments when he seemed perfectly sharp, and would discuss the history and politics of their two Lands with insight and clarity, and not a little wit . . . and then he would drift off, in midsentence, and talk about things and people long gone, as though he’d only talked to them yesterday. He was decent, and kind, and Catherine did her best to go along. She was actually a little relieved he was nowhere near as bad as she’d been told to expect.
It helped that there was a lot of really excellent food, everything from whole roasted swan stuffed with corn and apple and walnut, to something called a telescope, in which several kinds of birds were stuffed one inside the other and then cooked together. Catherine was quietly impressed by it all, in spite of herself. In fact, though she was loath to admit it, she was having quite a good time. Banquets at her father’s Court tended to be formal, solemn affairs. And some of the wines brought up from the Castle cellars were so old they actually dated from a time when the Forest Land, Hillsdown, and Redhart had all been part of the same nation. Catherine had to wonder whether that was deliberate, and even symbolic.
There were many loyal toasts as the evening progressed, and it seemed everyone present wanted to stand up and say a few encouraging words to the young Royal couple. Catherine and Richard would just smile and nod, and lift their glasses without actually drinking from them, because otherwise they would have been blotto before the desserts. Until finally one half-drunk minor aristocrat lurched to his feet, and the whole hall fell suddenly quiet. And not in a good way. People looked determinedly at their food, or at one another in a Now what do we do? sort of way. Catherine looked quickly about her, and turned to Richard.
“Who is that?”
“That,” said Richard, “is Lord Adrian Leverett, and a pain in the arse. We invited him because we had to, but we were rather hoping he’d have the good sense and common decency not to turn up. Bit of a loose cannon, the Leverett. But he has a right to be here. He spent many years fighting in the border skirmishes, won distinctions in several major battles. There are even a few popular songs about him, if you like them fierce and brutal.”
Lord Leverett was a man in his late forties who looked ten years older. He was wearing old-fashioned formal clothes, and looked hard worn and worn down. He stood tall, if a trifle unsteady, with food and wine stains down his front, and glared stubbornly about him. When no one would meet his eye, he turned his glare on King Rufus, who stared impassively back. Catherine slowly realised that though most of those present were sincerely embarrassed by the man, there were some who were quietly nodding, in anticipation of what he was about to say.
“Do I really have to remind everyone?” Leverett said loudly. “My brother Thomas died eight years ago, in a border skirmish. Died, fighting for his country, protecting the Land he loved from invading forces! Are we really going to go through with this nonsense? This treason? Throw away the moral high ground, give up our ancient Forest territory, for a dishonourable Peace?” He looked around him, as though genuinely expecting an answer, but no one said anything. The King looked sadly at Leverett. And then the Sombre Warrior rose unhurriedly to his feet, and all the guards turned sharply to face him, their hands at their sides. But the Sombre Warrior just stood where he was, keeping his hand well away from his sword. He turned the porcelain mask to stare calmly at Lord Leverett, and when he spoke into the strained silence, his voice was calm and dignified.
“We all lost friends, and family, in the border skirmishes. That’s why it’s time to put an end to it.”
Lord Leverett sneered at him. “Peace, at any price? Never! If we give up, then it was all for nothing. All our brave young men died for nothing!” He glared about him. “Not all of us want this Peace! Or this marriage! To some spoilt foreign bitch, unworthy of our Prince!”
Richard stood up and let fly with the apple in his hand. It shot through the air and hit Lord Leverett so hard on the forehead it knocked him right off his feet. He fell backwards, unconscious before he hit the floor. Guards rushed forward to pick him up and carry him outside. There was a certain amount of polite applause, and a lot of laughter. The Sombre Warrior bowed to Prince Richard, who bowed back, and then both of them sat down again.
“Nicely done, son,” said King Rufus. “Shut the man up without hurting him or giving his allies anything they could use to take offense. Now, Seneschal, where’s my dessert?”
• • •
Sir Jasper was still walking back and forth in the Castle, wandering in and out of walls and rooms as the mood took him, mostly invisible, so as not to bother anyone. There was hardly anyone about, because of the banquet. Sir Jasper knew that. And so many of the rooms were empty, abandoned. Nothing but dust and shadows. The ghost felt strangely upset at finding Forest Castle so empty, so seemingly down on its luck. Unwanted, and uncared for. Just like him.
He finally found his way to the Castle Armoury, and stood for a while before the huge closed doors. Something about the two massive slabs of beaten metal, covered with centuries’ worth of engraved glyphs and runes and magical protections, seemed to tug at his memory. He had been here before; he knew it. Somewhen . . . The whole place meant something to him. It meant so much that he half wanted to just turn away and leave, rather than find out why; but he raised his ectoplasm to the sticking point and walked straight forward, ghosting through the massive metal doors
. All kinds of security spells flared and sputtered harmlessly on the air, unable to get a hold on him.
Sir Jasper stopped just inside the doors, and looked hopefully around. An almost overbearingly large hall stretched away into the distance, its far boundaries lost in the gloom beyond the limited foxfire lighting. Swords and axes, maces and morningstars, in all shapes and sizes and designs, filled ancient weapons racks on both walls, hung in proud display. Many of them in simple leather and metal scabbards, perfectly preserved by the still air and subtle protective magics laid down generations before. Famous blades with honourable and even legendary names, each in its own special niche, with plaques beneath them to commemorate some great battle or triumph, alongside weapons of war so powerful or brutal that no one had dared use them for years. And none of them meant anything to Sir Jasper. He sighed heavily, and his shoulders slumped, just a little. He’d been so sure he would find some answers here.
“If I was a knight, surely I would have been here, wouldn’t I?” he said, his ghostly voice not echoing at all. He was used to talking to himself. “Was I a warrior when I was alive? And if so, which King did I serve? Which King did I let down so badly? What did I do, or leave undone, that I’m not allowed to rest? What terrible crime did I commit to earn a punishment like this?”
He broke off, as he heard footsteps approaching. He hesitated, ready to turn and leave, but something held him in place as a dim figure came pottering forward out of the gloom. Tall and elongated, and of indeterminate age, wearing formal clothes that were well out of date and had almost certainly never been fashionable, the stick-thin figure beamed happily at Sir Jasper as he trotted forward to join him. He wore huge owl-like spectacles perched on a hawkish nose, dominating a pinched face under an entirely unconvincing curly wig. The striking figure finally came to a halt before Sir Jasper and clasped his bony hands together over his sunken chest. His smile was bright, and his eyes were brighter.