The Fatal Child Read online

  ‘How long, sir?’

  ‘Heaven knows. But not long, I hope.’

  And that was all he could do. All, except to calm himself as far as he could, and wait.

  He took himself to the old school building. Automatically his feet climbed the stair to the first floor where the library of Develin was housed. The library was the same: a long chamber with rows and rows of great open cupboards and a passageway down the middle. The scholars at the benches looked up as he entered. Their eyes held no recognition. He was a stranger here. Yet some of the best hours of his life had been spent in this very room. He paced fretfully up and down, peering at the books chained to their places. Some were new. Others were like old friends whom he was seeing again after years of exile, and yet with no time to renew their acquaintance. Some, indeed, were ones he himself had recovered from Tuscolo or Velis, where they had been taken by the men who had pillaged Develin. Yet others were still missing. There were many gaps in the shelves.

  A woman’s voice sounded in the stairwell behind him. Footsteps were approaching – dozens of footsteps, crossing the landing from the living quarters. They were entering the library in a great bustle. Students were rising from the benches, startled by the sudden invasion. He turned.

  ‘Well! Thomas Padry!’ cried the Lady of Develin as her councillors crowded in behind her. Padry bowed. She came to take his hand.

  ‘Now I give thanks to Michael that he has guarded you,’ she said formally. ‘And to Raphael, for he has guided your way. For you are safe come. Padry, I could hardly believe it when they told me you were here.’

  ‘Nevertheless, my lady, it is true. And I am grateful indeed that you are able to receive me.’

  He straightened and looked at her.

  She was the same. She might have been just that bright, fair, wilful sixteen-year-old who had driven him to exasperation twice a week seven years ago. The Lady Sophia Cataline diCoursi Develin. The same, except that like her mother before her she now wore black.

  And … He looked more closely.

  There was – perhaps – the slightest fullness to her face, the slightest strengthening of her features, that hinted at a much greater strength within. This was no longer a girl who was becoming a woman. This was a woman in full. There was steel in her now. (Perhaps there was too much. But how could it be otherwise?) And there was something else in the way she looked at him, pleased but wistful, which hinted at a quality he did not remember. He knew it at once. That was grief: grief for all of lost Develin, and also for a man who had died.

  Grief, too, at the passing of the years.

  ‘You are older, Padry.’

  ‘Less fat, but more grey,’ he said, smiling ruefully. ‘And a martyr to my teeth, my lady.’

  ‘You are great in the Kingdom, too.’

  ‘Not that. I am suffered to use my skills for one who has them not, but who has become great in spite of it.’

  ‘Indeed. And is it for his sake that you are here? I presume so.’

  Padry spread his hands disarmingly. ‘I cannot say so much, my lady. It is more on my own account. I have brought – a gift.’

  ‘A gift? Oh, Padry! Have you found another? Have you?’

  Padry’s smile broadened a little. ‘Not just any other, my lady.’

  He had carried it here himself because he would trust no other with it. Now he took it from his satchel reverently, and lifted it in both hands. The council of Develin – all men in rich doublets – clustered round to see. He saw their eyes and heard their indrawn breath. They knew at once that its value was immense. Its vellum pages were made from the hides of three hundred calves – a princely sum by itself. But the worth of the words written on them was far more.

  ‘It’s Croscan’s book!’ said someone.

  ‘It is the Arc of the Descent,’ breathed Padry. ‘The Path of Signs Illuminating the Arc of the Descent of the Spirit. “The First Sign is Fire. Fire is bright, and yet it is formless, ever-changing. It gives light, and light is truth. Therefore …” ’

  ‘“Therefore Fire is a sign to us of Heaven, of the unknowable Godhead that lies beyond the world,”’ said the lady. ‘How you dinned it into me! And where did you find it, Padry? Where was it?’

  ‘It was in Velis, as we supposed. Forgive me that I have not returned it sooner. I have had copies made so that it is no longer the only one. Now it is my privilege to bring it home.’ And he passed it to her.

  She took it, and turned it in her hands. ‘We are more grateful than we can say. But – the other volume, Padry? The Ascent?’

  Padry shrugged. ‘Alas. Some other looter must have taken it. We must go on looking.’

  ‘They separated the two? How could they?’

  ‘Ignorance, my lady.’

  Quite possibly the brute men who had squabbled over the loot of Develin had not been able to read at all. To them a book was a book, valuable, sellable, but no more. (I’ll have this one, you have that one, and you can have the pretty dress off the woman who we—) So one half of the great work of the sage Croscan, describing the descent of the sparks of Godhead from the very highest to the very lowest order of creation, had been found. But its companion volume, which told how each spark then yearned upwards, guiding the soul on its long path to reunion with Godhead, was still lost and might be lost for ever. And without it the book in the lady’s hands held only half of the truth. Less than half, for in its final chapter the Path reached the Abyss, the last place of all where the soul should leave it, for in the Abyss all hope was lost and faithfulness was brought to nothing.

  Padry had known the Abyss, here in Develin before the end. He had returned to it more than once in the grim years that followed. And now he was near to it again, treading on the very lip, refusing to look down only because he knew that it was there.

  ‘We must continue to hope, my lady. We must,’ he said.

  She looked at him. He realized that he had spoken with more emphasis even than the fate of the lost work might justify. To cover himself, he added, ‘If all else fails I could write it from memory – if I had the time.’

  ‘You may be the last man in the Kingdom who could. And yet… time is so precious, is it not? Especially for the King’s chancellor.’ She passed the book to a man who stood behind her. ‘Padry, you shall sit at my right hand at table tonight. We will talk of happy memories. And – of anything you wish.’

  Ah, Sophia! No longer the pupil! He had dangled the great work of Croscan before her eyes and she had not been fooled. Chancellors did not come long distances just to return stolen goods. Any gift they brought would just be an excuse, or more likely a bribe. We shall talk of anything you wish. So, Thomas Padry, you want something. It shows in your face and your voice. What is it? Why are you really here?

  He coughed. ‘There is, um …’

  She waited for him.

  ‘… a matter on which I would speak in private. And as soon as may be.’

  She raised an eyebrow. Then she looked around at the staring scholars and at the councillors behind her.

  ‘Very well,’ she said.

  She led them all out of the library, across the stairwell and down the passage to the keep and the living quarters. The corridor was busy. People crowded out of the lady’s way and stared at Padry as he passed. Guards saluted. An elderly, round man in a rich doublet waited at the antechamber door.

  ‘My lady—’

  ‘I am occupied, Hob. Is it Gisbore?’

  ‘It is the bailiff from Gisbore.’

  She looked around at the expectant faces of the men who had followed her and gave a little exasperated sigh. ‘Beg him to wait yet a quarter-hour. The lord chancellor himself has come to see me.’

  ‘Very good. And the council?’

  ‘The council must wait also.’

  ‘Very good, my lady.’

  They withdrew. The guard opened the door to the antechamber. A maid was in there, making up the fire.

  ‘Leave us,’ said the lady.

  T
he maid went. At a jerk of the lady’s head the guard followed her. Padry looked around the room that had once been the centre of his world. The tapestries had changed but the new ones had the same red colours as their predecessors. There were the old silver candlesticks. The chair – not the old one, but one much like it – stood in just the right place by the window. Empty.

  The Widow’s daughter settled herself into it.

  ‘So,’ she said, fixing him with a look. ‘Shall I guess? When Orcrim returned from Velis two years ago he brought with him a story of something you had said. You had made a proposal about the King and myself. He was minded to advise me to accept. I must tell you that I was not pleased, either with him or with you.’

  Embarrassed, Padry looked at his feet.

  ‘I hope you have not come to revive the possibility, Thomas.’

  He shook his head. ‘I have not, my lady.’ And, a little insistently, he added, ‘As I said, it is a private matter.’

  ‘What is it?’

  He swallowed. His fists tightened at his sides.

  ‘Where may I find the Hidden King?’

  ‘Who is he, Uncle Thomas?’ Atti had asked him.

  They had been sitting together in the cloister of the convent in Tuscolo. It had been a warm, late summer day. A pigeon had been cooing somewhere among the orange trees.

  ‘Truly, my dove,’ he said absently, ‘I do not know. Why do you ask?’

  She sat like a little statue beside him, her back rigid. She was even paler than usual today. There were marks below her eyes. Nevertheless it was pleasing to see her: her face framed in her novice’s hood, with the fullness of her long black hair in the shadow within. He looked at the delicate curves of her cheeks and lashes and eyes and his mind played with thoughts such as: O Powers that framed the Dome of Heaven/No greater work didst then or now/Than trap the (something) starlight’s glisten/And set it on a child’s brow! (Well – some work needed perhaps, but in moments such as these he felt nearer to poetry than at any other time of his day.) It was a while before he realized that she had not answered him.

  ‘Why do you ask, my dove?’

  ‘He spoke to me,’ she said.

  ‘Oh? When?’

  ‘Last night, when I was asleep.’

  ‘I see. Do you want to tell me about it?’

  ‘No.’

  No. She never did.

  ‘I’m sorry you still have nightmares,’ he said. ‘You must try to remember that you are safe. No one here will harm you.’

  She said nothing. Her face was solemn, her thoughts secret. Brown eyes, pale skin, all in the dark surround of the hood – what did her young mind see when it turned in on itself so? Something was in there, some idea or plan forming in her brain. It might be a new way of avoiding the attentions of the convent mothers. It might be some revenge upon another girl, for something silly or spiteful that had been done. And one day soon it would become action. He knew her well enough to be sure of that. But she would not share it with him until it did.

  Poor thing, he thought. She needed comforting, yet it was always difficult to comfort her. He said nothing but reached across to take her hand.

  In the cloisters the hillwoman maid Gadi was coughing – a light, plaintive sound. They had told him that Gadi was not well these days. She was often feverish and lay in bed. Nevertheless she seemed to have dragged herself from her pallet and put on her convent servant’s gown to come and watch over them. That was proper, he supposed.

  It was quite unnecessary of course. He would never dream of harming Atti. But it was proper all the same.

  He pointed upwards. ‘Look,’ he said.

  Above them, hard against the blue of the sky, the walls and roofs of Tuscolo castle rose one above another to the keep, where the banners of Gueronius hung in the windless air.

  ‘Count along from the end of the big hall-building. One, two, three windows. That’s mine. That’s the room in which I work. I’m always there, looking over you.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ she said.

  ‘So you are quite safe, you see.’

  Her hand rested in his own like a thing with no life. ‘This one wasn’t a nightmare,’ she muttered.

  ‘That’s better then, isn’t it? No more screaming in the night, eh?’

  He looked at her anxiously, wondering if the convent mothers were still beating her each time she woke the dormitories. By the Angels! If they were, after all he had had to say on the subject, he’d make them wish they had paid better attention! Convents were convents and rules were rules, but there were things a chancellor could do with his pen that made even bishops tremble.

  ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘That’s better, then. Even so …’ he mused. ‘Cloisters may cloy, orders be odious and nuns none. I have been wondering if this is the best place for you. I do not think you are happy here. I will look around for something better. There is never any space up at the castle but – well, maybe you could lodge with me for a while.’

  She did not answer. Behind those beautiful cheeks and lashes her face showed nothing. Maybe her hand tensed a little and pulled slightly against his fingers, but that was only Atti being Atti. He held her wrist, leaned back and looked at the sky. Really, these visits to the convent were the only oasis in his waking hours. Up there in the castle, behind that impassive façade, all his time and energy was given to others. All the muttering and copying and scurrying – all the piles of paper heaving on his tables within! In a few minutes, just a few minutes, he must be back to it. Heigh-ho! One day, maybe, the King would appoint him Bishop of Tuscolo, or Jent, or one of the other great sees. He could take the vows, have a tonsure and become not only a priest but a prince overnight. It was something to know the worth of what you did, but it would be nice to have a reward for it, too.

  ‘Is he here, in the city?’ murmured the girl suddenly.

  ‘Who? The Prince Under the Sky? No. If he is real at all, he is on the other side of the lake. Or so I believe.’

  ‘Is it a long way?’

  ‘A very long way, my dove.’

  Silence again, in the cooing air. They sat side by side until the bell chimed the hour. He felt her hand slip from his own.

  ‘You must go now,’ she said. ‘There is a service.’

  She said it as though it were an instruction. But, alas, it was indeed time to go. The King’s business waited for no one.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Cheer up. I will come again tomorrow, and we will talk some more about where we might place you.’

  And he had come, smuggling some forbidden sweetmeats in the folds of his robe. Rules were rules, but he had wanted to see her smile.

  He had come, but she had not been there.

  The Lady of Develin searched his face. ‘She dreamed of him?’

  ‘So it appears. We could find none among the sisters or servants who had spoken to her of him.’ Not though the convent mothers had plied their canes with a will.

  ‘And now she has run off in search of him.’ She frowned at the fire. Her fingers were drumming on an arm of the chair. ‘I find this disturbing. For more than one reason.’

  Padry nodded. ‘You see the urgency of my mission.’

  ‘My reasons may not be yours. This dream – what did she see?’

  ‘I know only that she thought he spoke with her.’

  ‘And what does Gueronius know of this?’

  ‘The King? Nothing, my lady. He is in Velis.’

  ‘So I had heard – and this disturbs me also! The Kingdom is barely won. Two summers of peace do not make men forget war. Yet the King plays shipwright and dreams of adventure beyond the seas. Is it true he will captain this expedition he plans?’

  ‘Oh,’ said Padry (noting how firmly she had changed the subject), ‘we will persuade him from it, my lady. The Kingdom cannot afford his absence.’

  ‘It cannot. I hear he would make the lords Joyce and Seguin co-regents in his absence. We would have power struggles and blood spilled within six months of his goi
ng. Such … folly in a man for whom I have given the lives of my soldiers! The Kingdom cannot be his plaything, to be left on the shelf while he amuses himself with other toys! It tries me, Thomas. And it tries me that you do not see it so! You should be there, not here. You are the one man he has the wit to listen to for more than a minute at a time!’

  ‘I will go to him, my lady,’ he said soothingly. ‘As soon as I have finished—’

  ‘Thomas Padry!’ she cried.

  Padry jumped.

  ‘Do you forget what men are? After what you have seen in this very house? And I have been giving thanks every evening that it is you who advises the King! But now I see you have dropped your pen and run off in a direction opposite to the one in which you are most needed – on a goose-chase here in the south after some brat of a dead lord! Men have not changed in two summers, Thomas. Feud breaks out like pox wherever I look. Faul’s men raided a village of mine last month – under this King’s peace! Must I go to war with Faul because neither King nor chancellor can tear themselves from their fancies?’

  ‘All men know the value of peace, my lady—’

  ‘Do they? Yet they take up iron whenever there is dispute. We are cursed with it – cursed by Heaven, and blessed with too few who are willing to heal it!’

  Padry was shocked by the blasphemy. ‘My lady,’ he said slowly. ‘If you ask me from my heart, I say that I do not believe we are cursed. Although I do believe that we must know evil as well as good, so that we may know the difference when we go to the Angels. It would be a terrible crime to return to Paradise as innocent as when we were sent from it.’

  ‘A dry answer, sir. I thought your heart had grown since you left this house.’

  ‘I hope that it has, my lady. But it still tells me the same. As for my request to you …’

  He noted the flicker in her eyes as he returned to the subject she had avoided.

  ‘… I can only say that it is of great importance. I ask for your trust in this.’

  ‘A matter of state? Yet you have not spoken to the King of it.’

  ‘You will forgive me for my presumption, my lady. I had thought that I might more readily obtain your help if I came to you in secret. And also if I promised you that I would neither harm this “Hidden King” nor tell anyone else of his whereabouts, so long as I might safely return with the child.’