“Who’d do this?” Alain said.
“Who indeed?” Guillot said. Coincidence and mystery, he thought. Montpareil, perhaps? But why? The Prince Bishop? He needed to have another chat with dal Sason.
Dal Sason was eating soup when Guillot walked into the tavern. Beside his bowl was a bottle of the wine Jeanne had sworn she did not have. Guillot cursed under his breath as he strode over. Dal Sason watched him approach, spoon paused mid-air, soup dripping back into the bowl.
Guillot sat down at dal Sason’s table. “I’m having trouble with a coincidence.”
“Really?”
“You turn up the day after something very unusual happens on my land.”
“What was that?” dal Sason said.
“You tell me. Did you bring some soldiers with you? Hungry ones, perhaps? What’s going on?”
“I came here alone,” dal Sason said. “As fast as my horse could carry me. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Guillot sat back and scrutinised him. He didn’t appear to be lying.
“I was going to call on you again later,” dal Sason said. “I’m not one to run home a failure. The Prince Bishop was emphatic in wanting you back in the city.”
“Why does he want me?”
Dal Sason shrugged. “I’m only the messenger. I’m not privy to the reasoning behind my orders.”
“You have no idea what the Prince Bishop, or the king, want of me?”
“None.”
Guillot swore. Jeanne humphed from behind the bar.
“You’d be making my life a lot easier if you simply agree to come back to Mirabay with me.”
“And if I don’t?”
“I return alone, and who knows? Perhaps they’ll send a regiment to fetch you,” dal Sason said.
“The Prince Bishop wants me to come back that badly?”
“The king wants you to come back.”
Guillot drummed his fingers on the table and studied dal Sason once more. “Look me in the eye and tell me you don’t know anything about the burned sheep.”
Dal Sason frowned, looking confused. It was enough to be certain he had no idea what Guillot was talking about.
“There’s no need to answer,” Guillot said. “There’s some trouble with one of my tenants, so it’s not a good time to be thinking of heading off on a jaunt. I don’t want to come back and find them all at war with one another. I’m sorry if breaking the bad news goes hard on you, but I’m not going back with you. Tell the Prince Bishop to send a regiment if he wants me that badly.”
Guillot woke to hammering on his door. He put on a robe and gathered up his sword. It occurred to him how quickly old habits returned as he reached the door. It was long after dawn, and the bright light hurt his eyes. He had fallen asleep on the couch, without a bottle, which was in danger of becoming the norm. Unfortunately, it felt as though he had been drinking—all the hangover, none of the fun. His head pounded and his body felt drained. All he wanted was to crawl into bed and sleep the day away. Or to lay hands on a bottle. Either would do. He opened the door, torn between feeling the need to be polite and welcoming and the desire to vent his foul humour.
“I’m sorry for disturbing you so early, m’Lord,” the woman at the door said.
Her name was Celeste, a farmer’s wife, although he struggled to remember exactly where their farm was. Somewhere down the valley? he thought. Guillot did a double take at once again being called “m’Lord.” Was it the sword?
“What’s the problem?”
“Philipe, my husband, sent me to fetch you. Our herd was attacked during the night.” If the farm was down the valley as he thought, it was as far from Alain’s as you could get while remaining on Guillot’s land.
“Give me a moment,” he said. “I’ll come and take a look.”
He went to his room and dressed quickly, then joined her. They walked side by side in uncomfortable silence, she no doubt unsure of how to make small talk with a nobleman, while he had no idea of how to make small talk with one of his vassals. They had not gone far before sweat beaded on his forehead, though it was not a hot day. His head throbbed and his stomach complained with all the characteristics of a hangover.
They passed through the village and along the lane that led to the farms farther down the valley. Philipe waited for them by a large scorch mark in his pasture that looked very similar to the one in Alain’s. At its centre were the carcasses of two cows.
Guillot’s stomach turned over, an odd feeling considering the air was filled with the delicious smell of freshly roasted beef. What had happened was not an isolated incident, and it stood to reason that it might happen again. Unless someone stopped it. That someone would have to be him. The thought made the throbbing in his head escalate to pounding. It was not proving to be a good day for sobriety.
“Do you have any idea what happened?” Guillot said, not hopeful of getting anything useful from the farmer or his wife, who stood behind him.
“I … I … I don’t know,” Philipe said.
“Tell him,” Celeste said between her teeth.
Guillot raised an eyebrow.
“I was out in the yard last night taking a p—” His wife backhanded him across the arm. “I was out last night … doing my business,” Philipe said, “when there was this whistling noise. Not too loud, mind, just like a gust of wind. Then this great big ball of fire appears and smashes down into the pasture.”
The local grapes might produce more bad bottles than the average, but that didn’t stop anyone from drinking it, least of all Guillot; so he was in no position to criticise, but his initial reaction was that Philipe had been in his cups the night before. There must have been something very wrong with Philipe’s bottle to cause that kind of hallucination, however.
“You’re certain?” Guillot said. “A ball of fire?”
Philipe nodded hesitantly.
“That’s not all,” Celeste said. She nudged her husband.
“After the fireball hit the ground, and my cattle, there was something else. A shadow. A great, dark shadow came down from the sky. It ate them.”
Guillot frowned and turned back to the burnt remains. There was barely any meat left on the bones, as had been the case with Alain’s sheep, but Guillot had assumed there that the flesh had been burned away and hadn’t investigated further. He walked up to these remains and gave them a proper look. Here and there he could see white, rather than burnt black, bone. The pale patches looked as though they had been hit with a large, heavy blade. An axe, or a great sword, perhaps. The rapier strapped to his waist could not have caused marks like them. What kind of animal could leave a mark like that?
He shook his head. The answer had to be far simpler: the Prince Bishop was toying with him. He must already have men in the area, and soldiers needed to be fed. He had sent men to wreak havoc on Guillot’s demesne to convince him to agree to whatever he wanted from Guillot. It was infuriating, but there was little Guillot could do. The further he had fallen, the higher the Prince Bishop had risen. Guillot could raise his levies and patrol the farms at night, but they would need weeks of training to stand a chance against soldiers, and like as not his force would only arrive after an attack had occurred.
The Prince Bishop knew all that, of course. It was galling to know the man could still reach out from Mirabay and play with Guillot’s life. Perhaps Guillot was being too sensitive—after all, it had been many years since he had left Mirabay and he had not spoken with the old king since the day he’d left, nor the new one. He had no influence, no career, no fame. What did he have that might make the Prince Bishop jealous? Could the man’s old hatred still burn so deeply?