11
The verdict echoed in the rafters like a death knell, and Fletcher supposed it might as well have been. Silence weighed heavily on the room; some people were shocked, others waited for his reaction.
Then a string of curses erupted from the very back of the hall. Fletcher turned and saw the familiar, lopsided figure of Sir Caulder stomping down the centre of the court. His wooden leg clunked against the stone floor as he made his way to the front of the room, never ceasing his tirade of expletives.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ Rook yelled, banging his gavel. ‘Guards, expel him from the court at once!’
‘Dammit, I have something to say and I’ll hamstring any guard who comes near me,’ Sir Caulder growled, unsheathing a short sword from a scabbard at his waist. He was in his old uniform – steel chainmail with the silver and blue surcoat of the noble house he had once served. The guards hesitated, instead raising their muskets.
Zacharias Forsyth shook his head in disgust, then sprung to his feet and turned to address the crowd.
‘Would you give this foulmouthed old man a platform to spew his ramblings? The trial is over – let us leave him to his mad thoughts.’
But Zacharias had clearly misjudged the crowd. Eager for more entertainment, they ignored him, some even calling for him to be seated. King Harold stood and glared out at the onlookers, until silence reigned once again.
‘I am inclined to agree with Zacharias,’ he announced.
Fletcher’s heart sank. Why would Harold take Zacharias’s side? Had this all been a ploy, to get him to confess?
‘But …’ the king continued, ‘I knighted Sir Caulder and appointed him as weapons master at Vocans Academy myself. He is a good man, and of sound mind. Out of respect for a knight of the realm, we shall hear him out.’
He sat down with finality, and Zacharias was forced to join him, unable to publicly contradict his king. Fletcher sighed with relief and turned his gaze back to the old weapons master.
‘Thank you, my king,’ Sir Caulder said, inclining his head. He cleared his throat, then began to speak in a loud, clear voice.
‘Twenty-one years ago, I entered the service of the Raleigh family, protecting their ancestral homeland of Raleighshire. The estate was on the outskirts of a village which bordered the jungle and suffered frequent raids from the orcs, but was easily defensible. There was only one way the orcs could enter into our territory – a mountain pass, where my fifty men could hold off an army of orcs if need be. For years I defended that pass, with nothing more than a few skirmishes.’
His voice hitched and he paused, taking a moment to compose himself. Fletcher didn’t get it. Sir Caulder was buying time, but for what, Fletcher did not know. Was he stalling, so that Uhtred could get his dwarves into position? Fletcher glanced at the entrance doors, hoping against hope that they had not gone ahead with such a foolish plan.
‘It was a night like any other. The sentries were awake, the sentinel torches were lit. There was no movement from the tree line. We didn’t know it was happening until a dying servant staggered through the back entrance of our mountain camp with a javelin in his belly. He told us that orcs had appeared out of nowhere, slaughtering the entire county. By the time we arrived it was too late. The family and villagers were dead or dying and a hundred orcs were bearing down upon us. I was the only survivor of the attack.’
Sir Caulder brandished his hooked hand, for all to see.
‘I lost a hand and a leg, but that was nothing compared to the loss of life that night. Every man, woman and child in the village beheaded, their skulls piled in the village square. The Raleigh family and their servants, impaled on spikes and left to rot on the jungle border, a warning to the Empire to stay out of orc lands. They were barely recognisable by the time they were cut down and laid to rest.’
Inquisitor Rook groaned aloud and stared up at the ceiling in exasperation.
‘We have all heard this story before, Sir Caulder, it is the event that set the war in motion, after eight years of bad blood. I have no patience for an old man reminiscing over his past failures. Get on with it.’
Sir Caulder glared up at the pale-faced Inquisitor, but with visible effort turned back to the courtroom.
‘That mountain pass was the only obvious way to enter Raleighshire. But there was another. A secret passage under the mountain, known only to the Raleighs and their friends. Someone betrayed them. They are probably in this room right now.’
His words were quiet, without accusation, but they caused the room to fill with the low buzz of whispered debate.
Zacharias leaped to his feet, his finger outstretched at Sir Caulder like a loaded pistol.
‘You dare stain the memory of Edmund and his family with your lies?’ he hissed, the fingertip glowing blue. ‘I should kill you where you stand!’
King Harold laid a hand on the angry lord’s shoulder and gently pressed him down into his seat.
‘Please, Zacharias. Let the man finish – he was the only witness to our best friend’s death.’ He turned to the audience. ‘It is true what Sir Caulder says. Many noble children played in that secret tunnel. I remember, we would dare each other to see who could go deepest into the jungle before running back to the safety of the hidden entrance. Edmund always got the furthest.’
He smiled at the memory, and Fletcher could see nods of agreement from some of the other nobles. It didn’t seem much of a secret to them.
‘It was my fault that we did not leave enough men to protect the passageway,’ Sir Caulder lamented, rubbing his eyes as if he were holding back tears. ‘Hell, it should have been blocked up years ago. It was my fault. That is why I never denied the accusations levelled at me, that I had been derelict in my duty.’
There was a murmur of sympathy for the old man, and Fletcher could not help but feel pity for him. It was an easy mistake to have made.
‘I’m glad you were able to get your failings off your chest – I really do hope it makes your miserable life more bearable,’ Rook said, spreading his hands wide. ‘But this has nothing to do with this trial. Leave, before I have my Minotaur drag you out by the hair.’
‘Oh, but it has everything to do with Fletcher. This trial has been a farce from the beginning,’ Sir Caulder said, stomping up to the witness pulpit. ‘The Inquisition have no authority over the boy. A jury cannot charge a noble-born with a crime; only the king can judge them.’
He took his place and looked expectantly at Charles, who was advancing on the wiry old man and beginning to speak.
‘You are, if I am not mistaken, referring to Fletcher’s claims that he is the illegitimate son of my father, and my—’
‘I claimed no such thing!’ Fletcher yelled.
‘My half-brother. A preposterous assertion that, even if it were true, would not make Fletcher a noble-born. Just a bastard.’
Sir Caulder shook his head and laughed, then swatted at Charles with the flat of his blade, sending the Inquisitor stumbling out of reach.
‘As much as I would love to expose your father’s indiscretions, Fletcher is not one of Lord Faversham’s bastards – if you’ll forgive the term, Captain Arcturus.’
Arcturus, who had finally managed to extricate himself from Jakov’s clutches, simply shook his head, ashen-faced.
‘No. I will admit that, for a while, I believed Fletcher might very well have been your half-brother, Inquisitor. But it was only after I spoke with his adopted father, Berdon, that I discovered his true heritage,’ Sir Caulder said, raising his voice so the entire crowd could hear.
‘I was told last night that Fletcher was found naked in the snow, just outside of this very village. There was no note, no blanket or basket. What parent could leave their child like that, to die of exposure? Why outside a village as remote as the village of Pelt, so far removed that it lies on the elven border? What I am about to tell you will explain all of these things, and more.’
For the first time, Sir Caulder looked at Fletcher. There was sorrow in his eyes, even a hint of regret.
‘As I lay with my limbs shattered in the mud beside the Raleighs’ home, a demon flew from their bedroom window. Lord Raleigh’s Gryphowl, clutching something in its claws.’
He looked at Fletcher expectantly, but all Fletcher could return was a confused shake of his head.
‘What was it? A letter? Money? A Gryphowl is barely larger than the bird it is named after, it couldn’t be carrying much else,’ Charles scoffed.
Sir Caulder gave Fletcher a rueful smile.
‘A baby boy. No more than a week old and naked as the day he was born.’