“I judge a man by the decisions he makes, and you proved once again that you value your job over all else. Siding against me would have jeopardized your position-and Barnes paid the price, just like Rose did. So why don’t you attend to your job, and I’ll do the same. Go protect the king and I’ll find the missing Rose from Medford House.”
Exeter left the room, his footfalls fading.
Left alone, Richard stepped to the window and laid a hand on the sill. This room was indeed haunted. He let his fingers slide across the stone and felt the tears come again. Grabbing a cup, Richard walked to the ale barrel and drank.
CHAPTER 6
Buckets were kicked from under the feet of the three men tied by their necks to the scaffolding. The whole structure lurched with the jerk and the crossbeam bowed with their weight.
Royce had seen many hangings and was always surprised by the silence. The cheering and insults stopped. No one spoke-certainly not the dangling men. The only sound they made was the soft flutter of their feet, which could be heard in the sudden quiet. Royce guessed it wasn’t reverence for the passing of life, and certainly not out of respect for the men. The crowd had been throwing rotted vegetables at them moments before. He could not prove it, but he suspected the silence came from the jolting thought that it would happen to them one day. Viewing death, this passage from breathing, thinking people into corpses, struck them dumb. They saw themselves hanging in their place and for the duration of those kicking feet, shuddered.
“Scary little town,” Hadrian whispered across saddles as the three rode on through the rest of the Gentry Quarter.
It had been a year since their first visit to the city of Medford. Arriving as fugitives in the back of a cart, they had wallowed in their own blood. Returning put Royce on edge, like visiting his own grave that bore the epitaph ROYCE MELBORN … ANY MINUTE NOW. But he had to come back. He’d left something important behind.
They avoided the crowd in the square with its fountain, which had a stone statue of a king rearing on his horse. Veering to the left of the castle, they aimed for the Tradesmen’s Arch and the artisan section beyond. A family of ducks splashed among cattails in the moat that ringed the gray walls of Essendon Castle. The water was a murky green with lily pads dotting the surface. Royce took note of the pair of guards who stood at the gate dressed in tabards of burgundy with the stylized image of a gold falcon on them. Two more stood on the far side of the bridge. A dozen more walked the battlements, their metal helms glinting in the morning sun. Just riding by, Royce noticed two blind spots on the walls where they could be scaled out of sight of the guards. Maybe there were more guards at night.
“Have you been here before, Albert?” Hadrian asked the viscount, who still rode behind him.
“Oh yes, many times. I have a good friend, Lord Daref, who used to live down that street.” He pointed. “He invited me to his niece’s wedding just four years ago-when I still had clothes-and to a spring social the following year, which I had to skip because I was poor and growing poorer by the day. The nobility are always having parties, and it looks like another is approaching.” He pointed at banners out in front of the castle gates that proclaimed CHANCELLOR’S GALA. “Sometimes I think they publically announce these things just to remind those who aren’t invited how miserable their lives are.”
The wide brick boulevards with their flower boxes and fountains turned into simple streets as they passed under the Tradesmen’s Arch. The sound of cart wheels on cobblestone and the bang of hammers on wood or steel came from all directions. Doors to workshops stood open as people passed in and out, carrying lumber, heavy buckets, and sacks. Unlike the Merchant Quarter, which was on the other side of the castle, there were no shop signs. Most of the buildings in the artisan district were anonymous. They didn’t need to hang signboards, as each workshop spilled their wares out onto porches and into the street. Wagon wheels, five deep, listed against posts, and stacked barrels formed small forests. A cobbler enjoyed the autumn sun, having dragged his table outside where he pounded the heel of a boot. Nearby he displayed a rack of the finished product. Down at the docks, a river barge had arrived and pulleys were hoisting up crates while net-covered boats dodged their way to the fishery. People moved quickly here. Workers walked fast, some even jogged. Merchants breezed through the throng of laborers. They were usually big men in brightly colored clothes. They did not jog but rather sauntered, pausing to study a barrel or bend a boot.
“This is the way, isn’t it?” Hadrian asked as they turned right onto Artisan Row.
Royce looked around, unsure.
“I thought you knew the way?” Albert asked.
“We know the way out better,” Hadrian said. “On the way in we didn’t see much. In fact, I was unconscious.”
“I’m guessing the two of you were caught stealing something?”
“Not really-that is, we were never caught. Stabbed and shot with an arrow, but not caught. And the job wasn’t here. It’s just where we ended up. What we’re looking for is a section of town they call the Lower Quarter.”
Albert shrugged. “As you might guess, I spent most of my time in Gentry Square, with the occasional foray to the Merchant Quarter. I never had occasion to come down this way.”
“I remember that carpenter’s shop.” Royce pointed. “That’s the one she did most of her business with.”
Each of the quarters had its own entrance gate, but vines suggested they had never been closed. By process of elimination they finally found the Lower Quarter and the streets narrowed dramatically once they entered it. Buildings rose to either side like canyon walls. Three-story shops with living quarters on the top floors jutted out over the street, casting the dirt lane in shadow. The buildings were stained and cracked, and instead of workers plying their trade on the street, the poor clustered in makeshift hovels. There were no sewers here, so the streets sufficed, giving the neighborhood a pungent odor.
The farther they went, the worse the conditions became. When they finally turned onto Wayward Street, they knew they had reached the bottom. The buildings were poorly built and leaned to one side or the other. Four rats enjoyed a feast of apple rinds, bones, and waste dumped from a window above. Three stories up, clothes hung on lines to dry, none without a patch, tear, or permanent stain. At the end of the street were two businesses that couldn’t have been more different. On the right was The Hideous Head Tavern and Alehouse. Without the badly painted sign that misspelled the word hideous, it would easily be mistaken for an abandoned shack. Across from it stood a beautiful building-as nice as any in the Artisan Quarter and as well cared for as any in Gentry Square. It looked like a quaint home with a broad porch complete with a bench swing and flowerbeds. The sign above the door simply read MEDFORD HOUSE.