The Widow and the King (64 page)

And Orcrim had been trying to talk to her for much of the day. He wanted to hear about Develin – about who on the manors might support her, about the attitudes of the towns, their status, and their relations with her mother – all the things he needed to know for his campaign. And of course she should tell him. All that would matter, soon, to all of them. Her hours and days would be full of it. She would no longer be able to remember Chawlin as he should be remembered.

She had woken knowing that he was dead.

Somewhere ahead of her lay his grave, under a pile of stones in the foothills. She did not know when they would pass it. She had an idea that it might be days before they reached it, and yet already she was looking at each new view that the mountains showed her, trying to pick out where it might be. Flowers would not grow on it, on that bare hillside. The best that she and he could hope for would be sunlight, and perhaps a gentle covering of moss on the shaded side of the cairn, as the fist of the world closed over him for ever. Such a poor grave, for the man
who had lit her life. And already the tides of politics would bear her beyond it, hurrying her on to errands in the south. She would pass, unable to improve what he had been given, or even to stay and weep.

The days ahead of her would be meaningless – busy, and smiling for the sake of the people around her, but meaningless. She would go back to Develin, if she could. She would gather and protect the people she had left behind. She would have men repair the fire-damage, find what remained of the dead and bury them. She would see that her mother and the others who had been lost were remembered. She would re-found the school, for their sake. And perhaps there were still men in the Kingdom who, as masters and counsellors, could speak the things that would help her bear the disorder of living. But still Chawlin would lie out here, beyond the lake, beyond the March, in a little lost valley where few came and none understood whose story had ended under the cairn of stones.

Ahead of her, the leading rider called and pointed upwards. Immediately behind him Orcrim rose in his stirrups and, shading his eyes, studied the skyline. She looked up. The path they were on was rising slowly to the crest ahead. They must have seen something up there, against the sky. She glanced upwards, but there seemed to be only rocks. Nothing moving. No life.

Orcrim was looking back at her.

‘What is it?’ she asked.

‘Someone on the path ahead of us. He's gone over, now.’

Someone on the path ahead. Well, one person was not
going to be a threat. And very likely whoever it was would run off and hide when they realized that a troop of armed men was following them. She saw Orcrim and the leading rider watching the rocks by the path as they approached the skyline. They had a habit of expecting ambushes, these men. She supposed that was good. As usual, it was needless. The rocks were empty. The path was safe. They crossed the ridge and looked down into a new valley, shallower and narrower than the last, with a stream running in the bed of it. The shadow of the hillside filled it almost to the brim. Only the rocks on the far ridge burst once more into the gold sun. Evening was coming. Sophia guessed that Orcrim would want to camp somewhere along the stream below them.

The ridge lifted like a curtain behind them as they began to pick their way down. It cut out the view of Beyah at last.

Almost at once the men were pointing again. Looking forward, she could see what they had seen – a man walking along the track ahead of them, some way down the hill. They would overtake him before long. Orcrim was looking back at her. He was expecting her to say something. He was waiting to hear what she wanted to do about the man on the path. She thought, and realized why.

It would be Raymonde of Lackmere.

Had he seen them? He was not acting as if he had. He would have quickened his pace at least, or taken to the hillsides where the horses could not follow him. But he must hear them soon. The clipping and scraping of sixty hooves on stone, the repetitive clatter of pebble after pebble rolling away beneath them – he would have to be deaf not to know that they were coming.

She knew what judgement Ambrose had given on him, when they had caught him the evening before. But surely he was not counting on that to protect him.

He had brought Velis's men to do murder in her home.

He had done other things, too. He had killed his own brother. Did Ambrose have the right to forgive that?

He had done no good that Sophia could think of. Worse, he had lived, where Chawlin had not. It should have been the other way around.

They were getting nearer. He would reach the valley floor before them, but not by much. Surely he had heard them by now. He had not looked back.

Orcrim was looking over his shoulder at her again. His question was clear on his face. A word, even a nod of her head, and this man would pay with his life for all he had done. She needn't even watch while they did it. She could just ride on, and let them catch her up. It seemed a very little thing, his death – too little, to pay for the grief of Develin, for Chawlin, and all the rest. But it was all that there was to be had.

Chawlin. Could she bury his memory beneath the bodies of enemies?

She could do it. She could do it, because she could.

She did not even have to do it. She could simply have her troop ride past him as though he were not there. They would leave him his life, but treat his life as if it was nothing. Because it was nothing. He did not seem to be carrying anything – food, blanket or even a weapon. She had no idea how he planned to live on his way through these mountains. And probably, after they had passed, Orcrim would nod secretly to one or two of the men; and they
would drop back and finish him anyway. And she would never know or need to know that it had been done.

Her mind was shut like a box, and she did not know herself what answer lay within it.

The man limped on before them. He did not look strong. He was cradling one arm as if it had been hurt. He knew they were coming up behind him. He knew who they were, and that they might kill him if they chose. He was trying not to look around at them, but in a moment he would. There! He had done it. He was too weak to rule himself. And yet he did not care enough to try to save his skin.

They were on level ground now, by the banks of the stream that ran with the opaque grey-blue of glacier water. The bright faces of snow-fishers showed in clumps along the banks as the colours around them dimmed in the mountain-shadow. For a moment the horses could ride alongside one another on this ground. Orcrim and his leading rider pulled back, and let her come up to them. They were still waiting for her command. It would be her first order for them in her service. Her first order would tell them much about the woman they now followed. Was she ruthless? Was she weak? They would watch what she did, and draw their conclusions.

But her mother had never let that sort of opinion sway her. Why should she?

She steered her horse around the limping man, wide enough to be well out of reach, and looked down at him. He was making what pace he could on the level ground. He kept his eyes ahead of him. He was ignoring her.

‘Look up,’ she said to him, irritated.

He looked up. His eyes and cheeks were hollow, his long hair all tangled. He was glaring at her. He would not ask for mercy.

But there were snow-fishers on the banks beyond him, bright as the tears that the world wept at evening. Her answer came like a drawer at the touch of a hidden spring.

‘Bring him one of the spare horses,’ she said to Orcrim, without looking around. ‘He can ride and eat with us, as far as the March. After that, he may go where he wills.’

She kicked her mare on, riding ahead while her orders were passed down the line. She did not want to look at the man she had saved. This evening, when they camped, she would have to speak with him. Heaven alone knew what she would say.

She did not think she could forgive him. But she supposed she did not have to.

That had been done for her.