Voice Of The Demon (Book 2) (2 page)

‘I wonder if he’ll appreciate it as much as the handover of the hospices together with so much Church land,’ Hilderic growled. Godfrey tried to edge forward, but couldn’t do so without drawing attention.

Brome, however, got to his feet. His attendant pulled the grand chair back from the table, but Brome didn’t go far. ‘That is not a matter up for discussion. Hilderic, you will draft a letter pledging our support for the Guilde.’

‘I, Your Grace?’

‘Of course. You performed such duties for Domnhall – or would you rather I placed the task in the hands of someone else – along with other duties you feel you’re no longer able to perform?’ Brome drew himself up and clasped his hands together, affecting piety. ‘I did not bring you all here in order that you might question my authority. We will send a letter pledging our support for the Guilde and we will send it today. I will see it on my desk by sundown, Hilderic. That is all.’

*

Father John crossed the busy street and headed down the old alleyway to the Almsgate. Waving a greeting to the brother on duty, John continued on past the refectory and into the cloister. Here in the vaulted shade it was not so hot, but the cooler air did little to stifle John’s agitation. The conversation with Murdoch and the rumours flying around the capital for the last week had spoiled his sleep, his appetite and his work. If John didn’t find some calm from somewhere, Hilderic
would begin to notice his distraction – and begin asking questions.

Was it possible that Finnlay had been caught? Murdoch seemed sure. But the damage of such a revelation on a country so encompassed by a hatred of sorcerers would bring doom upon them all. Both he and Murdoch would have to be very careful – at least until Osbert came back with his report – and until they were sure no suspicion was directed at either of them. As John turned into a corridor towards Hilderic’s study, he sent up a silent prayer that the Governor would find nothing at all.

The corridor wasn’t silent. John was alone, but he could clearly hear voices from behind the study door. Hilderic was there and . . . Deacon Godfrey – and Deacon Godfrey was very angry.

John approached the door with caution, checking over his shoulder to make sure no one was behind him.

‘You have no idea of the problems you cause us all! By the gods,’ Godfrey’s voice seemed to smack against the door, ‘do you want to end up in a cell beside McCauly? At least he’s committed no real treason – but you? If you don’t learn to keep your own counsel they’ll find some excuse to execute you! Damn it, Hilderic! Are you even listening to me?’

‘You’ve turned, haven’t you?’ Hilderic snapped back. ‘Too many years as Chaplain to the Guilde. You side with them – and that worthless snake, Brome. Well, I won’t! Somebody has to stand against them and if I have to do it alone, I will!’

‘But you’ll achieve nothing but your own demise! There are other ways to help McCauly, Archdeacon. Quiet ways. I beg you, please refrain from this open resistance.’

John swallowed and strained to hear Hilderic’s response, but there was nothing more than a muffled echo through the door. After a moment, John reached up and knocked confidently, as though he had just arrived. A single word from Hilderic bade him open the door.

The two priests stood at either end of the room, the working table a wall between them. John swallowed and tried to look like he’d heard nothing of the argument.

‘Ah, Father John,’ Hilderic grunted. ‘Good. Take a seat. I
have a letter to draft for the Bishop. Thank you, Deacon. I’ll consider your advice.’

Godfrey’s jaw moved a fraction, then his mouth came together in a thin line. With a short sketch of a bow, he turned and left the study, closing the door behind him.

John took his usual seat at the table and laid out his paper, ink and pen. When he was ready he glanced up at Hilderic, who was watching him with thundercloud eyes.

‘To be addressed to the Proctor,’ he began with precision. ‘From our beloved Bishop. All the usual titles.’

John nodded and bent his head to his work. Hilderic continued dictating, pausing every few words for John to catch up. His tone was thick with irony, clipped and hard.

‘Suffice to say, my dear Proctor, we will of course do our utmost to aid whatever slaughter you see fit in the wake of your investigations. I hold no fear that you will act precipitously, and that all hands and heads cut off as a result of your greed and fear will have at least a token crime manufactured for them. By all means, shed blood with our blessing and know that in all matters, we grovel at your feet for any little trifle you care to toss in our unworthy direction.’ Hilderic took a deep breath and turned back to his desk.

John finished scratching down the last few words and managed to hide his shock. Was the Archdeacon serious? Did he really want this letter written out for the signature of the Bishop?

‘There’s no rush, Father,’ Hilderic murmured without turning around. ‘Brome merely wants to read it over his supper. You may deliver it yourself. I trust you to give him a faithful copy.’

‘Of course, Archdeacon.’ John rose to his feet, gathering his things with trembling hands. Hilderic had as much as signed his own death warrant.

He was outside in the corridor again before he dared glance at the words he’d scrawled. He couldn’t give Brome a letter like this! But John didn’t have the authority to change it.

Taking a deep breath, John turned and walked down the passage until he reached the tiny chapel of Saint Catherine.
The door was open and inside, seated on a chair before the altar, his head in his hands, was Godfrey.

John should have moved on. It wasn’t polite to disturb a brother’s prayer – but he couldn’t. There was something of desperation in Godfrey’s demeanour, worn frustration and weariness. For someone so competent and brilliant, Godfrey looked to be facing the end of his world.

After a moment, John moved and Godfrey glanced up. Their gaze met for a long minute, then, straightening up, Godfrey waved John into the chapel.

‘How bad is it?’

Without hesitating, John held the page out and watched Godfrey read. The Deacon reached the end of the page, then came to his feet. He crossed to the votive candle suspended above the altar and touched the paper to the flame. As it took light, Godfrey glanced back at John. ‘The first draft is never the best, is it, Father?’

‘No, Deacon.’ John sighed with relief. ‘Never.’

*

The Guilde Hall echoed with the clamour of a hundred voices. The noise rose to the vaulted roof and rattled around, gaining strength, before descending again. Vaughn raised his hands and came to his feet. Slowly the noise diminished as all attention focused on the dais. Vaughn clasped his hands together and gazed across the vast room at all the faithful faces turned towards him. They were afraid and shocked and completely unready for what faced them – but face it they would.

‘It should come as no surprise to you that we might find sorcery again within our shores.’ Vaughn lifted his voice above their heads, clear and full. ‘Five hundred years ago we stood alongside the old empire and battled against the evil that had worked its way into our lives. We won that war, defeating our enemy. We chased them across two continents and dedicated our sacred duty to the complete eradication of all those who dabbled in the arcane. Why do you find the prospect of a similar battle horrifying? Have we grown weak over the centuries? Is our sacred duty less than that of our ancestors?’

Vaughn put his hands on the table before him and leaned forward. ‘The Guilde never made the assumption that we were successful in our bid to destroy every single sorcerer. Certainly the people believed it, but we’ve all heard the stories of reputed sightings a century and more ago. Hope would have us believe that there are no more sorcerers – but simple sense insists we must expect some survivors, perhaps even a whole community of them!’

The Hall erupted. Guildesmen rose to their feet and cried out, but Vaughn didn’t hear the words, just the sentiment. This time he raised only one hand and allowed them to see a smile. And why shouldn’t he smile? In weeks, perhaps even days, he would have the evidence he’d been waiting years for. Evidence so he could prove to everyone that sorcery was real – and that Robert Douglas was guilty of the most awful of crimes. How delicious, too, that young Finnlay should be the one to be discovered, that he should be the instrument of his own brother’s downfall. Years before, when Robert had been on Selar’s council – already an enemy – Vaughn had paid particular note of young Finnlay as he visited his brother in Marsay. It hadn’t taken Vaughn long to work out that he was a sorcerer, but Robert had stopped him before he could do anything about it and cast some evil spell on him. Vaughn had found himself unable to speak of the incident since, which only fuelled his hatred for Robert Douglas. But this was something different entirely and Vaughn had no trouble speaking it aloud.

‘We will be facing evil in its darkest form, but we are not unprepared. We will find a way to identify those sorcerers amongst us and how to fight them. When the time comes, we will make our stand once more – and this time we will triumph completely!’

Applause burst across the Hall. Vaughn smiled, nodded, and sank back into his seat. He steepled his fingers together and glanced to his left and right, collecting the gazes of his board of Governors. Only Osbert was missing. Osbert – and Nash. Samdon Nash, Alderman and favourite of the King. Perhaps already the most influential man in the country.

Yes, Vaughn nodded as the applause died down. It was definitely time to do something about that.

*

Godfrey felt quite naked without his clerical robes. The old shirt and worn tunic felt ridiculous and uncomfortable – and one of his boots had a stone in it. How had he ever worn secular clothes happily? Had so many years as a priest spoiled him this much?

He felt like such a thief, sneaking into the old tavern deep in the bowels of Marsay like this, a hood pulled up around his face. It was more to hide his tonsure, but still he cringed beneath the smelly hessian. It was no act, shrinking down inside it. It made his flesh crawl.

But at least Payne was there, waiting for him, dressed casually in nondescript clothes. Payne was a good man, like Duke Donal McGlashen: Lusaran born and true. Between them they were the only two such left on Selar’s council. His face might be known, but nobody would expect a high ranking Earl – a member of the King’s council at that – to frequent a place like this. A place where no questions were asked, where even the innkeeper didn’t look up when the door opened.

‘I thought you’d changed your mind,’ Payne murmured as Godfrey sat down. Their booth was well back from the pathetic fire and, despite the warmth of the summer evening, Godfrey shivered.

‘I was detained.’ A jug of ale landed on the table, making Godfrey jump.

‘Relax; you’ll make yourself noticed with all this twitching and shaking. Try to look as if you were born in those clothes.’

‘One would hope by now that I had done something to get out of them.’ To hide his discomfort, Godfrey pulled the jug closer and peered over the lip. Even in the dim rushlight he could see grease marks and breadcrumbs floating on the surface. With a sneer of distaste, he began to push the thing away.

‘Take a drink,’ Payne grunted. ‘You’re supposed to be used to this.’

‘Well, I’m not,’ Godfrey hissed, but took a mouthful anyway.

‘If we’re going to meet like this again you’ll have to learn to be more flexible about small details like a clean cup. You should remember that most of the people in this country live like this all the time – many more now than ever before. You’d be surprised how quickly the finer things in life disappear under such circumstances.’

Godfrey forgot his ale and gazed steadily at the handsome young man. It was amazing how, even in these blighted surroundings, Everard Payne still managed to look at ease. Had he done this kind of thing before?

‘Tell me,’ Godfrey left his hands around the jug of ale, ‘when you took my letter to Robert last year, did you see any possibility then that he might decide to do something?’

‘About what?’

Godfrey dropped his voice. ‘McCauly.’

‘Would you have him storm the dungeons and wrest the man from Selar’s hands?’ Payne leaned closer. ‘Why this sudden interest in Robert? Is it because of the rumours?’

‘No, my interest is in McCauly.’ Godfrey frowned. ‘I fear I may have a problem developing and I just don’t know what to do about it.’

Payne sat back again, once more relaxed. ‘Hilderic?’

‘What have you heard?’

‘Oh, this and that. He’s becoming noted for his outspoken opinions – none of which do his reputation any good.’

‘He won’t stay quiet. He blames himself for McCauly’s arrest. If he’d not told Selar about Robert’s return, Selar wouldn’t have felt so threatened.’

‘Selar would have found out sooner or later.’

‘But that’s just it – the timing. Hilderic believed that passing on the news would distract Selar from McCauly, but it achieved the opposite. Now Hilderic’s obsessed with getting McCauly free, but because he has no means to do so, he takes out his frustration on Brome. I fear for his life, Payne.’

The young Earl folded his arms across his chest and glanced around the room. Nobody was paying them any attention. The tap room was half-full of grim individuals,
all hunched over their own greasy mugs, while an extraordinarily bad fiddler was groaning away in the corner.

‘I can’t promise you anything,’ Payne said after a moment. ‘And even if I could I wouldn’t advise you to tell Hilderic a word about it. Nevertheless, I’ll have a word, see what we have before us, test out the possibilities. I believe we have the time. No move against McCauly has been made in months and I believe the King is content to leave it as such. He’s voiced no plans to the council.’

‘But do you think you can do something?’ Godfrey’s voice was hushed against Payne’s confidence. ‘You won’t risk your own position, will you?’

He received a charming smile in response as Payne leaned forward and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘I’ll risk nothing until I know what we’ll be up against. Drink up, we’re supposed to be having a good time.’