The King's Hand (11 page)

He had no time to reason an answer: Leon entered the clearing. The wayfarer stopped, his own breath ragged as he searched the trees for his hidden quarry.

“I know you're here, Goodman!” he yelled. Eamon flinched at the rage in that voice. “Treacherous murderer! I know you're here!”

Eamon didn't answer. He looked across again. The hidden Hands watched Leon intently; one whispered to another. What were they saying?

Leon filled his lungs: “Out!” His words, yelled at the top of his ample voice, were full of wrath, and his hands trembled with uncontainable fury. Leon stared with ashen face about the clearing and summoned him again. “
Traitor!
Out!”

Eamon felt the words striking at him as he lay there. Then he saw the shadows move and suddenly he realized that either he must strike at Leon, or they would.

There was no time to think. With a terrible cry he rose to his feet and lunged at the King's man.

C
HAPTER
VI

T
he world slowed. Thorns ripped at his arms and face and then fell back from his terrible forward motion with rending snaps. He tore out of his hiding place.

Leon heard his cry and turned, rage ingrained on his face. Fuelled by terror, Eamon surged forward with all the speed and strength he had.

He grabbed Leon's arms and then, stepping to the side, kicked the back of the man's knees.

The King's man crumpled. Eamon snatched the dagger that glinted at Leon's belt and dropped on his back. He grimly drove his knees against the man's arms, pinning him down. Leon gasped for breath as Eamon brought the dagger round to his throat.

“Traitor!” he howled, trying to hurl him off. Eamon almost lost his grip, but held firm. He forced the blade closer to the man's neck.

“Lie still, snake,” he hissed, “or I'll slit your throat like I did that of your precious sunny princeling.”

In the silence that followed they both breathed heavily. Leon's chest heaved as he sought to regain his strength. Eamon knew that the King's man would be a capable fighter, and feared that he would lose his scant advantage if he delayed too long. Discreetly, he flicked his eyes to the Hands in the shadows. They had not moved. Indeed, he could no longer see them. As he held Leon pinned he tried to think.

What could he do now? He realized with a lurch that his plan had been only half thought through. Leon was held, that was true, but there was no telling whether, even now, there were other wayfarers charging over the River. If such men arrived and found this scene, they would cry traitor and run him through. How long would it take them to realize that Feltumadas was alive and well? About the same amount of time, Eamon imagined, as it would take them to realize that they had killed him without cause.

He looked back at the wayfarer beneath him. Leon seemed to have been following a similar train of thought to his own.

“Now what, Lord Goodman?” he asked grimly. “Kill me and have done with it! You have done your work.”

“Not quite.” Eamon smiled sweetly. “Not quite,
dear
Leon. But I think you must agree that the work I have already completed, I have done
extraordinarily
well.”

Leon gaped with utter hatred. “He trusted you.” His voice was grieved, barely more than a whisper.

“And you trusted him,” Eamon countered. “Which of you was more foolish?”

With a cry Leon tried to break free but, with an unpleasant chuckle, Eamon crushed him back hard.

“You must face the truth, Leon: you have been outdone!”

Leon fell silent. What could he say? Eamon was sorry to treat the man in such a way, but had no choice. He leaned in close to Leon's face. “Now you will have the honour of assisting me in the last stage of my work. It is more than you deserve!”

Leon gaped – and found no words to say.

Eamon was coming to the breaking point of his bluff; he drove himself forward. “But console yourself, Leon. It is difficult to match my genius. Wouldn't you agree, gentlemen?” He called the last loudly, to the silent woods.

For a moment nothing happened. Leon stared at him.

Eamon held his nerve. He needed the Hands out where he could see them. He gave an amused laugh.

“Ah! There are several explanations, dear Leon, why these lords might refuse my summons. The first charge is cowardice.” He cocked a sarcastic smile at the wayfarer. “Given as you are subdued, I cannot lay that against them. The second might be that they claim not to hear me. But I can hear them, so I find this solution as fault-ridden as the first. They may, of course, be in awe of my brilliance – something to which I have become modestly accustomed in the Master's city, Leon – but I find it more likely that they hide themselves for the simplest reason: that they were not to be seen by me.”

It was logical, though quite what they had been doing, he did not know. Had they been sent to watch him in the camp? His heart chilled. How long had they spied on him?

They would have had something to watch now, at any rate.

Turning his gaze to the shadows he raised his voice again. “And if they don't reveal themselves to me now, Leon, do you know what I shall have to do? I will have to report their indiscretion to the Master. He will not look kindly on them for that – because, unlike me, they will have failed.”

“You are mad, Goodman,” Leon countered, disgusted.

“You would find that satisfying, I am sure, but I must disappoint you,” Eamon returned. For the shadows moved, the threat of shame forcing his enemies to play their hand. “See what a snake this is, lords? He would like to excuse me my allegiance on account of madness. Do you not think that generous of him, Lord Febian?”

“Yes, Lord Goodman.” Febian's face was downcast. Eamon didn't recognize the three Hands with him, but he did not need to; he would know them again in the city.

Leon froze.

“A pleasure to see you, gentlemen,” Eamon told the Hands, offering them his warmest smile. “How have these last few days been treating you? Well, I trust?” He glared straight at Febian – the Hand who had incited the massacre on the return from Pinewood. His tone hardened. “I want rope, Lord Febian.”

Febian started. “Lord Goodman, we cannot –”

“Cannot what?” It was not hard to make his tone harsher.

“ –
interfere
. The Right Hand commanded that we observe.”

The Right Hand? Eamon glared; the Hand flinched. Eamon felt a chill within.

The Right Hand – not the throned?

He cast the thought as best as he could from his mind. Eamon knew that performing the will of the Right Hand was as vital to Febian as performing the will of the throned was to him – both of them had to make amends for their failures at Pinewood. He needed rope to bind Leon so that he could take him back to the King's camp – he had to get Leon safely away from the Hands. But he also needed a plausible reason to do so…

As he glared irately at Febian, the answer came to him: what better reason to go back than for the head he had been sent to obtain?

He made a harsh sound at the gathered Hands and rose suddenly to his feet, dragging Leon with him. He yanked one of the wayfarer's arms painfully up behind his back, all the while keeping the blade firmly to Leon's neck. The King's man made no sound and, though defiant, complied.

“Give me rope, snake,” Eamon told him.

“Will you hang yourself with it?” Leon asked acridly.

“I fear not.”

“Then I am afraid that I have none I can spare.”

Eamon tensed his muscles as though to knife across the throat; Leon gasped. Eamon laughed cruelly.

“Next time you will not have the chance to gasp. Get the rope,” he commanded.

Leon drew a length of rope from where it was wound about his belt. The gesture was slow and cumbersome, for Eamon allowed him to use only one hand.

At last the coil of rope was in Leon's hand. “Good,” Eamon told him. “Hold it, and kneel down.”

Leon stiffened.

“Kneel!” Eamon hissed.

Leon knelt. Setting his foot heavily on one of the man's legs to keep him from bolting, Eamon tucked the knife into his belt before binding Leon's hands together so tightly that the man winced when the knots were drawn firm. Eamon regretted it, but it had to be done.

The Hands watched him with strange awe as he stood back from his work. Leon knelt, bound, on the ground before them. Though the sight sickened him, Eamon smiled. He turned pejoratively to the Hands.

“You may go back to the Right Hand,” he said smoothly, “and tell him that I shall be in the city with my charge before nightfall tomorrow. For with Leon's most genteel assistance guaranteed, the Serpent cannot but give me what I ask.”

“I will take no part with you, traitor!” Leon tried to leap to his feet, but Eamon struck him back harshly.

“Down, snake!” he snarled, and turned back to Febian. “I will discharge my business and you may yours.”

As he turned his back on the Hands and their pale and astonished faces, he trembled. He looked at Leon with a sarcastic smile.

“When you're ready,
snake
.”

Leon answered him with a look that might crack stone, and rose in silence to his feet. Eamon seized his hands where they were bound behind his back, and pressed the blade of the dagger between the man's shoulder blades.

“It is such a beautiful camp – it would be a shame not to see it one more time,” he said. “Good day, gentlemen. To his glory!”

“His glory!” the Hands answered. One laughed nastily as Leon stumbled before the blade. Eamon knew that they watched as he made Leon walk back to the edge of the woodland, towards the River and the camp perimeter.

“When you see your men, you will tell them not to come near,” he told the King's man. “Do you understand?”

“Perfectly.” Leon's voice was harsh. What must the man be feeling? As far as Leon was concerned, he was in the hands of a traitor and was going to be used against the King, a man whom Eamon was sure Leon loved. He could imagine the agony of being made a weapon against his lord; he knew that pain himself. How often he had known it! He was sorry that Leon had to endure it, but he could not say a word – the Hands were watching. Leon had to believe that it was a traitor who drove him pace by pace to the camp.

Eamon forced Leon a little downstream to where the Easters had erected a small bridge over the tributary. He had avoided it in his flight, fearing to be trapped on it. A group of men stood guard there. As they approached, the first soldier saw them and cried out:

“Leon!” Then he saw Eamon.

The man's hand flew to his sword. “Archers!”

“Tell him to stop,” Eamon growled in Leon's ear, pressing the blade closer.

“No.” Leon's response was calmly defiant.

Eamon swore. The bridge guards were readying their weapons. He stopped and drove the blade distressingly close to Leon's neck.

“Disarm!” he called. “Disarm, or he dies.”

The guards hesitated and then fell back. Eamon forced Leon across the bridge. The soldiers stared.

“You,” Eamon called to one of them, “go to your Serpent and tell him that I demand to see him. If he does not grant me my request, this man will pay for it.”

The soldier looked at Leon. The wayfarer shook his head slightly. The soldier paled. Eamon cursed. Damn Leon's nobility!

“Go
now!”
he yelled.

Terrified, the soldier ran.

The moments while he waited there by the bridge, surrounded by men who thought him an enemy, were excruciating. Eamon kept Leon close by him and the knife tight by the man's throat. The soldiers watched him in silence. He smiled. He had to give the Hands something to see. He did not know how long they stood there. A group of men approached. At the head walked Hughan, Anastasius by his side. Eamon sought the King's eyes; he saw strain on the man's face and felt grief in his heart, for he felt sure that he was the cause of it. Even so, as they met gazes, a weary, welcoming look passed the King's brow.

“Eamon,” he called. “All is well.”

Eamon turned cold. If Hughan knew some of what had really happened, and announced it, all was lost.

“You can let him go,” Hughan continued, “these men will not –”

“Stay back! Stay back, or I will kill him.”

Hughan frowned, and Eamon saw Anastasius stare at him. He laughed sharply.

“Are you insane?” he snapped.

“Eamon,” Hughan began softly. The King had come to within a few yards. “You will not be harmed. You can let him go.”

“Sire, you must not do as he asks,” Leon called suddenly. “There are Hands just beyond the perimeter. This man is working some new mischief –”

“There are indeed Hands in these woods, Serpent,” Eamon rejoined with a laugh. But then he looked straight at Hughan. He spoke again, quietly; his affected arrogance disappeared. Leon fell still in his hands.

“There are Hands here. I'm sure they were sent to watch me. I'm sorry, Hughan, for now they know where you are. You may be strong enough to stave off their attacks, but you are cut off from your convoys and you will have to be alert and cautious in the days ahead.”

“Thank you,” Hughan answered. He also spoke quietly. Had he already understood what was happening?

“Sire –” Leon began again.

“Leon is one who would go to the very ends of the earth in your service,” Eamon said, and Leon fell quiet. “I am glad that such men are with you.”

“You really are insane.” Leon struggled with the ropes about his hands. “Sire, don't trust him!”

Eamon looked back up at them and raised his voice. Again, he changed it.

“Bring me the body.”

His demand resounded coldly over the field. The gathered men stared incredulously.

“Are you simpletons?” Eamon sneered. “Or do you want this man to die? Bring Feltumadas's body, and lay it before me.”