Exile's Return

Book 1: The Books of Elita

by Kate Jacoby, M OILPHANT

Genres: Fantasy; Epic Fantasy

Synopsis

The first in a glorious epic of political intrigue, sorcery and romance: magic can no longer lie hidden when an ancient evil threatens the country, perfect for fans of Robert Jordan and Robin Hobb. Robert Douglas, Earl of Dunlorn, has returned to Lusara after three years of self-imposed exile to find that the Guild has spread its Halls throughout the land, bringing fear and tyranny to the people. The usurper King Selar is too busy planning to overthrow his brother, king of neighbouring Mayeene, to notice - or perhaps to care - what is going on in his country. Robert has sworn a vow never to oppose the king, but his brother Finnlay won't let him return quietly to his lands, for Robert, like his younger brother, is a sorcerer. Magic is outlawed in Lusara, and most believe it to have vanished from the land; but there are a few who still wield the power in secret for the good of the common folk. And when Robert and Finnlay rescue Jenn, running in fear of her life from Guildsmen, they discover a new kind of sorcerer: one whose powers, though different, may be as great as Robert's. And with Jenn come new possibilities . . .

Release date: August 22, 2013

Publisher: Jo Fletcher Books

Print pages: 416

Sample

In a tiny cove on the southern coast of Lusara an old man waited by the rocks for a signal. It was a black, bitter night plagued by howling winds which drove the rain on to his back and through his woollen cloak. His hands, wrapped up against the cold, were thrust under his arms while he shifted from one foot to the other to keep his blood moving.

The old man kept watch. His eyes darted from the cliffs opposite to the inky blackness out at sea. But there was nothing there, only the occasional white cap catching a splinter of moonlight as the stormclouds tumbled across the sky.

Though the fishing port of Aaran stood not half a league away, his little cove was hidden by the wall of cliffs which sheltered him from the worst of the wind. But while the cliffs protected him, they could not prevent the coastal patrol from riding this way – even on a night like this. And they had been here once already, not long after dark. They’d not seen the old man then, no – but they would be back. And if they came when …

‘Damn you, Dunlorn! By the gods, I hope you’re out there somewhere!’ He hissed in a breath, pulled his hood about his face, then began to chuckle. ‘Well, Dalzie Kerr, you old fool, now you’re beginning to talk to yourself as well. Things are getting bad indeed!’

Once again he squinted up at the cliffs. There was just enough moonlight to be sure he was completely alone. Not even the gulls were out tonight. There was no sign of the patrol.

His eyes then scanned the ocean. It was like looking into the pits of hell, where only the gods themselves could say what demons dwelt there. But as he watched, the unbroken gloom gave up a single, solitary offering. A bleak yellow lantern, almost invisible in the driving rain.

Without thinking, Dalzie started forward, leaving the shelter of the cliff. He stumbled across the sands to the water’s edge. Gradually, a blacker, more solid form emerged before him. A boat.

As it came aground he reached forward to grab the bow. There were five or six men in the boat, one of whom jumped out and helped him hold it firm. Then a voice called out to him, shouting over the wind.

‘Sorry to get you out in this weather! We would have been here hours ago but I think the ship’s captain got lost!’

Dalzie knew that voice. In a moment of panic, he turned again to peer at the ridge. If that patrol were to return now, all would be lost.

Someone landed on the beach beside him and Dalzie caught sight of the young face, the sunny smile. Micah Maclean. He smiled, but Dalzie couldn’t voice a welcome. Instead he turned back to the boat as a second figure jumped down. The man’s face was shrouded by the hood of a raven-coloured cloak which seemed immune to the wind. Dalzie knew he should turn now and lead them up the beach to the cave. The boat was leaving; he heard the splash of oars and felt the bow lurch away from his hands, but still he could not take his eyes from the second man. Hope and expectation tumbled together inside him, leaving his stomach cold and unsettled. Hope was tainted by apprehension.

Then he heard a voice speak low and clear under the storm, a voice both familiar and forbidding at the same time.

‘Come, old friend. Let us move.’

At that moment, the wind changed direction, lifted the side of the cloak hood. For just a brief second, Dalzie glimpsed a lean and weathered face.

He’d come back. After three years of self-imposed exile, Robert Douglas, Earl of Dunlorn had finally returned to Lusara.

Dalzie led them up the beach to the eastern cliff and the cave he’d used many times over the years. He had food waiting and a brazier lit. Maclean dumped the bags on the floor and warmed his hands by the blaze, but Dunlorn remained outside, his back to the cave, his face towards the heavens.

From the shelter of the cave mouth, Dalzie watched him, not knowing what to do. Then the young Maclean joined him, his curly red hair dripping with rain. As he rubbed his hands and face with a slip of rough linen, Maclean said, ‘Don’t worry about him. It’s just that … well, he never thought he’d come back.’

Dalzie nodded slowly. ‘Then he’s not the only one. What will the King say? And the Guilde? The Proctor still wants your master’s blood. Does Dunlorn think they will welcome him so easily back to court? Does he believe he can return to his favoured position? If he does, then he’s mistaken. The Guilde will hound him to his grave the moment they know of his return. I should warn you too, there is still some talk about the death of his lady wife. By the gods, Micah,’ Dalzie turned to the young man beside him, ‘Dunlorn challenged the Guilde before the King and lost his seat on the council as a result. But there are still some who say that his hasty departure was more to do with the curious manner in which the lady died. Tell me, my friend, is Dunlorn blind?’

Maclean raised his eyebrows at that. With callused hands he smoothed the hair away from his face and replied with a shrug, ‘My master is many things, Dalzie, but he is not blind. He has determined to have nothing more to do with the court or the Guilde. He believes they will be content to leave him be. As to Lady Berenice? You know my master and you know there’s no truth in those stories.’

The old man knitted his brows together and only grunted. Caution drew his eyes back to the cliffs outside and the man who stood in full view of them. ‘This is ridiculous,’ he hissed, then raised his voice in competition with the storm. ‘Come inside, my lord! The patrols could return at any minute!’

Dunlorn turned slowly, his face in shadow. Then he was at the cave mouth, pulling the hood back, removing his cloak.

He had changed, Dalzie noted with little surprise. Dunlorn was still a young man, only twenty-eight, but it was sometimes difficult to remember he was not older. His dark hair was shoulder-length now, tousled by the wind. The straight nose, full mouth and firm jaw were animated by the faintest hint of a smile. That smile, however, did not reach to the cool green eyes which studied Dalzie. Dalzie shifted under such scrutiny, feeling more than a little uncomfortable. He remembered that gaze more precisely than anything else about the legendary Earl.

Dalzie jutted out his jaw and tried hard not to be intimidated. ‘You had to choose a night like this, didn’t you, my lord. You know how bad the autumn storms get. You could have drowned crossing the gulf. Why couldn’t you wait until spring?’

Dunlorn rewarded him with a smile, abruptly changing his whole face. The deep lines which had been there moments ago vanished. In their place was the familiar easy charm, the quiet confidence Dalzie remembered. He moved further into the cave. ‘Spring was not suitable. We’ll need horses and supplies, Dalzie, if you can help us a bit more. I want to leave tomorrow. We have a long way to go if we’re to cross the mountains before the first snow.’

‘Of course,’ Dalzie nodded absently. He moved closer to the brazier but didn’t take his eyes from Dunlorn. ‘You must know they won’t leave you alone. Hatred is a bitter thing for the likes of Vaughn. And things have changed since you left.’

‘How?’

‘The Guilde has spread its Halls throughout the country. You cannot help but encounter them on your way back to Dunlorn. Every day their grip tightens on Lusara. The people will expect you to …’

‘I know, old friend, I know.’ Once again, Dunlorn smiled. ‘But they’ll have to expect help from somewhere else. I have already done all I can. What little I did do only made things worse. Do not fear, Dalzie, you will hear no more stories about me.’

Dalzie was not comforted at all, but as the wind beat across the cave opening, he turned his mind to hot food and wine and tried to forget the shadow around Dunlorn’s eyes.

Outside, the rain thundered on to the beach. When the patrol passed by moments later, they were weary and wet and harassed by the storm. They travelled along the top of the cliffs with thoughts only of home and warmth and so did not notice the glow from the cave and never discovered who was hidden inside.

‘Your Grace?’

Rosalind gave no sign that she’d heard, even though the voice had startled her. Other words, sinister and secret, still echoed in her mind. A whispered conversation overheard through the door behind her. A conversation she was never supposed to hear.

Numb with shock, Rosalind kept her eyes on the view from the window. The knotted garden below had paid the price of autumn. Servants swept along the rows of lavender, under the peach trees in the north corner and around the old well. Once teeming with a confusion of summer colour, the garden was now grey, its life sapped away into the cold earth. In a few weeks even the grey would be gone, wiped clean with the first snows of winter.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Your Grace, but I came to look for you. There are but a few minutes before the reception and you are not yet dressed to meet the ambassador from Mayenne. You must not be late.’

Rosalind turned away from the window and folded her hands together. Years of harsh lessons learned at this unforgiving court kept her hands steady, her face calm. But stern-faced Camilla was waiting, Lady Camilla Murray; gentlewoman to the Queen – and spy for the King.

With an obedient nod Rosalind led Camilla down the passage. She didn’t hurry, even though a voice inside her screamed to run before anyone came through that door and found her there. That same voice urged her to warn them, now, before it was too late. Tell someone, do something …

Who? Who could she tell? Who would listen to her?

It was a short walk to her apartments, a walk that gave her too little time to think, to plan. But who was she to trust? Certainly none of her ladies, nor even her Confessor. All those served Selar and her warning would be deemed nothing less than treason.

The fire in her dressing room was built up against the chill wind rattling the window casements. Camilla wasted no time, immediately bringing water for Rosalind to wash, a comb for her hair, the finest clothes for her to wear. She was diligent in the execution of her duties – all of them. If Rosalind gave the slightest sign that something was amiss, she would be lost.

She stood still as Camilla and the other ladies fussed over her. If only she had more time, more help. So much depended on her – and yet she had no one. Of course, Selar had arranged it so. Twelve years as Queen in name only. By the gods, even her friends had deserted her over the years. It didn’t matter that she was born of the great House of MacKenna, was mother of the heir to the throne. She was nothing to this court, nothing more than a symbol of unity between Lusara and the man who had raped her country and stolen the crown. She was a traitor Queen, her son a bastard heir.

‘Is my sister still with the children?’ The words were out before she thought them through. But no matter, her instincts guided her – perhaps Samah could get word to somebody.

‘Lady Samah is in the nursery, Your Grace,’ Camilla replied with a frown.

‘Will you ask her to join me for supper, after this reception?’ Yes, that was it. Samah would not leave for her priory until tomorrow. She would have time to help before then. But could Rosalind endanger her with this?

‘Certainly, Your Grace.’ Finished with her work, Camilla stood back and held up a polished mirror.

Rosalind barely glanced at the mirror at first – then paused to take another careful look. At twenty-seven she was still young enough to be seen as an adornment. Her auburn hair shone with glints of gold, her hazel eyes retained the clarity of her father’s gaze. She’d once been pretty, but Rosalind felt those days were long gone. Now, perhaps, she was merely handsome and soon – soon she would be old and plain. But plain or no, she was still Queen and would hold herself with pride, impress upon this loathsome envoy from Mayenne the dignity which still dwelt within the hearts of all true Lusarans.

Even if it seemed the gods had finally deserted them.

Sweet Mineah, help me through this. Help me face that man!

With two of her ladies following, Rosalind descended through the castle until she reached the great hall. It was all but deserted since this first reception was to be a small gathering without the full court as witness. In silence, Rosalind passed under the heraldic banners hanging from the vaulted roof and paused before a carved ebony door. The guards on either side bowed and pushed the door open, then stood aside for her to pass. Respect for the crown she wore and nothing else.

There were a dozen men in the room beyond and all eyes turned to her as she entered. Almost the full council. Chancellor Dai Ingram, a small, mousy man, stood by the window, the Duke of Ayr, Tiege Eachern, at his side. A maternal cousin of Selar’s, Eachern had followed him into the first battles of the conquest, distinguishing himself on the field as a ruthless and bloodthirsty warrior. Eachern’s courtly clothes were of the finest quality, brutally at odds with his stocky neck and bullish head. With hair cropped close for battle, the Duke would never look anything other than what he was – in direct contrast to the man who stood beside him. George, Earl of Kandar, was Eachern’s cousin but, with the exception of his grey eyes, looked nothing like him. Tall, fine and fair-haired, George was every inch the courtier – and the only person at court who treated Rosalind with any respect. But respect or no, Rosalind could never trust him with her secret. His whole career was bound up with Selar, his allegiance devoted.

And what of the two men who stood beyond the table? Duke Donal McGlashen and the young Earl Payne. These two were all that was left of the old order, the last of the great Houses of Lusara still represented on the council. They watched her with a mixture of kindness and wariness; their own positions were too tenuous to afford Rosalind any hope.

A swirl of bright yellow caught her eye and she turned towards the fire. There he was. Proctor Vaughn, resplendent in the formal robes of his beloved Guilde and with him, two of his governors, Osbert and Lewis. Vaughn’s long, hawk-like face was creased in a smile but there was no warmth in there, merely the absence of soul. Rosalind felt nothing but repugnance and frantically tried to still the memory of those words he’d uttered behind that door.

Other men, richly attired, stood with Vaughn by the fire, but her attention was caught by Selar, who strode across the room towards her, a smile on his striking face.

‘Rosalind, my dear, how kind of you to join us!’ He took her hand and led her forward. ‘Come, allow me to present my brother’s emissary. His Grace, the Duke Ogiers, represents Tirone in these discussions and has travelled long and hard to do his duty.’

Stunned, Rosalind held out her hand to the Duke. He took it, bowed over it, brushed his lips across her fingers – but all the while, Rosalind couldn’t take her eyes off Selar. Why had he greeted her so warmly? He’d hardly spoken to her over the last year! What game was he playing? Was she supposed to play along? And why …

‘My dear,’ Selar continued, taking her hand and tucking it in the crook of his arm, ‘His Grace tells me he has brought gifts for us, you and my children. They arrive in his baggage train tomorrow. Do you not think that was most gracious of him?’

Yes, she was expected to play along. With a distracted nod, Rosalind produced a smile from somewhere, ‘Yes, my lord. Most gracious.’

Selar led her to a seat by the fire but kept hold of her hand. Rosalind wanted to snatch it from him, demand to know what was going on. The others knew, Selar’s councillors. Not one of them showed the slightest surprise. They must have been warned what to expect. But why?

It was all a show for Ogiers – for Tirone. Selar was Tirone’s younger brother, but had despised him all his life. Blindly ambitious, Selar had made no secret of his desire to displace Tirone from the throne of Mayenne – which was why, when the opportunity came, Tirone had helped Selar to invade Lusara. With a new country to subdue and rule, Selar would stay out of Mayenne and leave Tirone alone. Once the conquest was complete, Tirone had severed all relations with his brother and a stiff silence had existed between them for the last thirteen years.

So why this sudden embassy? Why was Selar trying to impress Ogiers with this façade of a happy and united family? What was he doing? Would Ogiers believe it?

The discussions continued on around her but she couldn’t concentrate on their words. Powerless, Rosalind sat there, her skin crawling in Selar’s grasp. Now, more than ever, she must find a way to pass on what she’d heard.

Selar’s voice intruded on her thoughts. She turned to look at him. His blue eyes were alight, his gestures animated. The cobalt robe he wore suited his blond colouring, his hair fashionably long, his beard neatly trimmed. The tallest man in the room, Selar dominated the conversation as he liked to dominate everything around him. His passion for power was surpassed only by his determination to achieve it.

‘And so, my lord, do you have any news for us regarding these raiders?’ Selar took the cup of wine Payne offered and raised it in mock salute. ‘I must say, I was somewhat dismayed to find a Mayenne sergeant amongst their number. It was a pity the man died with the rest of his band. I had hoped to find out more about him.’

The Envoy’s dark eyes glittered but he did not pause in his response. ‘I have no concrete information, Sire. Without a name, we are unable to trace his origins. I would suspect he is nothing more than a deserter, seeking his fortune by means of these raids which plague your borders. I assure you my King will do everything within his power to find out all he can.’

‘So I am not to believe the rumours I have heard?’

‘Rumours, Sire?’

Selar took a sip of his wine, ‘That these raids are the work of your King.’

Ogiers shook his head in confusion, ‘To what end, Sire?’

‘That he might bring about instability within my kingdom – in the same way the Troubles affected it fifteen years ago. It was that instability that let me conquer Lusara in the first place. Is it not possible that Tirone wishes to do the same to me now?’

His face frozen, Ogiers bowed stiffly. ‘My King has no designs on your crown, Sire. My embassy here is, as I have said, primarily to extinguish all paths of misunderstanding between our countries. This has been his desire for several years but only now has Your Majesty permitted this visit. I assure you, my King wishes only peace between us.’

‘An admirable desire,’ Selar replied curtly, then softened it with a smile. ‘To that end, I have decided to accede to his request on the matter of your embassy. You are indeed welcome to winter with us. When spring comes you may return to Tirone and assure him of our own desire for peace.’

‘Your Majesty is most wise …’

For the third time that day, Rosalind was stunned into silence – only now desperate denial stung her every thought. It could not be. She must have misread Selar, must have missed something vital in their conversation. Was he actually going to allow Ogiers – his brother’s spy – to winter within the walls of Marsay? What had come over him? And was this connected to what she’d heard earlier? Why even—

By the gods!

Selar was actually going to do it. After thirteen years, he was finally planning to go through with it. He must be mad!

He must be stopped.

Calmly now, Rosalind turned an attentive face towards the lords and listened carefully. She would find someone to tell, someone who could do something.

With treason in her heart, she could only hope her courage ran as deep as her horror.

*

The Guilde chapel fell almost silent as the last of the initiates filed out. In their absence, Osbert couldn’t help glancing up again at the south transept window, which glowed with the first sunlight they’d had for a week. The stained glass told the story of Saint Bartholomew and his work with the poor and sick. The saint himself had never interested Osbert, but the window, now over a century old, was made of some of the finest glass he’d ever seen, a tribute to the Guildesmen who had crafted it. With a smile, he turned back to the priest who remained behind the altar, putting the last of the ceremonial plate away.

Deacon Godfrey was one of the few priests Osbert respected. By the age of thirty, Godfrey had worked his way to an enviable position within the Church, through hard work and not a little brilliance. His sharp dry wit was well known, as was his keen perception. He served the Church with a devotion not often found in these times; his tall, rangy figure was often to be seen at the side of the ancient Bishop Domnhall. But, much as he admired Godfrey, Osbert found it difficult to get to know him. Like most of the Church these days, Godfrey kept his distance from the Guilde.

With a brief sigh, Osbert glanced once more up at the window of Saint Bartholomew then turned towards the altar. ‘I always forget how lovely they look until the sun comes out. A pity there’s no way we can make the sun shine all the time.’

Godfrey shot a quick look at the window, then at Osbert. ‘If you could, Governor, I fear you would soon grow accustomed to the beauty and then nothing would be left to draw your attention to it.’

Osbert chuckled companionably, drawing his yellow robes about him. ‘You’re right, of course. Still, it would be nice – if only for a while.’

‘We do already have that while.’ Godfrey gathered his things together and made to leave. ‘It’s called summer.’

Osbert nodded with a smile then raised a hand, ‘I believe Bishop Domnhall is unwell. Please pass on my wishes for his speedy recovery.’

Godfrey raised both eyebrows above his dark eyes. Obvious disbelief wafted across his long, grim face. His reply however, was polite, ‘Of course, Governor. If you will excuse me.’

Osbert watched him leave and as the door closed behind the priest, he turned to his left. ‘So, Gellatly, what have you got for me?’

Two men appeared out of the shadows, both dressed in the grey day robes of the Guilde. The first, a man whose build could have him confused with a blacksmith, bowed as he approached Osbert. The second man was taller and younger, with a head of shiny black hair. He remained in the background, folding his hands together in a patient gesture as he waited for Gellatly to speak.

‘Unfortunately, my lord, we have very little. If there is anything going on, it’s being done under the greatest of cover.’ Gellatly shrugged his massive shoulders. ‘Nash here disagrees but I doubt it will be possible to gain anything definite until the spring.’

‘The spring!’ Osbert exclaimed with a deep frown. Waving his hand for the men to follow him, he strode down the length of the chapel until they reached the door at the end. ‘Have you any idea what the Proctor would say if I told him that? By the gods, Gellatly, Vaughn will have you flayed alive if he finds you at fault in this matter. I will accept no excuses, do you hear?’

‘Yes, my lord.’ Gellatly’s response was little more than a growl and Osbert turned to face him.

‘And I want to hear no more of your dissension over the King. I don’t care if you do hate him, Gellatly. We still serve Selar, regardless.’

Gellatly stuck out his jaw. ‘I was taught the Guilde’s sacred duty was to serve the gods.’

‘Don’t start arguing semantics with me, man or I’ll flay you myself!’ Osbert snapped, his previous good humour gone. ‘You’re no good to me if you can’t follow my orders. Whether you hate the King or not, this matter affects the future of Lusara and it would do you good to remember that.’

Nash placed a hand on Gellatly’s shoulder to forestall any further comment. He bowed his head with noble dignity and murmured, ‘We do remember, my lord Governor. It is merely out of concern for Lusara’s security that my friend speaks in this manner. He means no disrespect.’

Osbert’s gaze narrowed as he looked from one man to the other. He knew he could trust Nash, but Gellatly was becoming a problem. Perhaps it was time to replace him. He nodded abruptly. ‘See to it that it stays that way. There is something else I need you to do. Ogiers of Mayenne. He’s to stay at court for the winter. For form’s sake, the King has allowed it. But you must know he would rather Ogiers were anywhere else – and by his own choice. The King cannot send him away.’

Gellatly nodded. ‘What would you have us do?’

‘Use your imagination, if you have one!’ Osbert snapped. ‘Watch him, find out all you can of his real intentions. Report to me in two days. By then I may have worked out how to get rid of him. But use discretion, I warn you. I know Ogiers of old and he’s no fool. If he finds you’re watching him he’s sure to make use of it.’

The two men bowed obedience and Osbert turned for the door. He had an appointment with Vaughn and he didn’t want to be late.

*

Godfrey returned to the Basilica and spent a few minutes putting away the things from the Guilde chapel. He didn’t hurry, there was still some time before the others would arrive and Father John would surely have the dining table set in Hilderic’s study. He could change out of his vestments and be with Hilderic before the first guest.

He placed the plate and chalice inside the sacristy cupboard and locked it with the key hanging from his belt. Taking a taper, he lit two candles against the encroaching dusk and placed them on the robing table. He was about to remove the embroidered stole from around his neck when there was a brief knock on the door.

‘Come.’ Godfrey turned and waited, but nothing happened. ‘Who’s there?’ he demanded.

Now the door opened and a woman entered, dark cloak drawn dramatically around her face. She came forward only far enough to close the door behind her then stood silent, her hands beneath the folds of her cloak.

His patience wearing thin, Godfrey took a deep breath, ‘How may I help you, daughter?’

The voice beneath the hood was muffled. ‘I am in need of confession, Father.’ The hands reappeared and drew the hood back from her face. As she looked up at him, Godfrey sank to his knees.

‘Your Grace! I had no idea! But why are you …’

‘Forgive me, Father,’ Rosalind whispered, taking an indecisive step towards him. ‘I have very little time before I am missed. You are the only one I can trust.’

‘But surely your Confessor is qualified to help you?’

Rosalind stopped him with a sharp shake of her head. Her eyes went back to the door and in response, Godfrey rose to his feet, moved around her and locked it. Her eyes smiled gratitude but her hands twisted together in agitation. She paced up and down a little then stopped and faced him again. Godfrey didn’t need to be a priest to see she was deeply troubled.

‘I see you wear the stole, Father,’ Rosalind began, her voice hesitant. ‘May I ask … can you hear my confession without it on?’

‘Of course. It merely symbolizes the seal placed on your confession.’

‘And if I do not wish my confession to be sealed?’

Her eyes searched his. What was she asking? Was this some kind of trap set by the King? No, Rosalind was Selar’s prisoner – not his pawn.

Godfrey nodded slowly and crossed the room. He stood before her, his impatience gone. ‘Your confession is as sealed as you wish it to be. If there is something you wish me to discuss with my brothers then you have only to say so.’

‘Then I do say so, Father,’ Rosalind replied emphatically. ‘I am afraid that …’

She paused and Godfrey took her hands in his, willing her calm. ‘Tell me, daughter. What troubles you?’

‘I … I’m sorry, father, but this is difficult. I do not know if I am doing right coming to you like this. If the King should find out …’ she paused again and took a deep breath. When she spoke this time, her voice was firmer, as though she’d finally made her decision.

‘I have discovered something you must know, Father, but the conclusions I have drawn fill me with fear. I hope I am mistaken. Yesterday I overheard a conversation which directly concerns the Church.’

‘Who was speaking?’

‘Vaughn and … the King.’

Godfrey felt the breath sucked out of him. It was treason for her to be telling him – and treason for him to listen. But he didn’t stop her. It had cost her a lot to come here. ‘And what did you hear?’

‘In return for some favour, the King has agreed to support Vaughn in a new enterprise. He … intends to take hospice work away from the Church. He says that such science belongs to the Guilde and has no place among the holy. Vaughn is quite determined, Father and it scares me. If they …’

‘If the Guilde takes on this work, they will deny it to the poor for they would be unable to pay, yes, I know. They would also take away great amounts of Church land in the process.’ Godfrey turned away, his mind reeling. Where had the traditional brotherhood gone between Church and Guilde? For a thousand years, the two had worked together, side by side for the common good. Now it seemed Vaughn was willing to sacrifice that ancient bond for his own ends. This was terrible!

‘Do you know what the favour is? What did the King want in