“No.” Longbeard shook his head slowly, with infinite sadness. “He will not change his mind.”
“Then we must take matters into our own hands,” shouted someone from across the room.
“Tell us what to do,” said another.
Longbeard held up his hands. “It is not for me to tell you what to do. I am a simple man like yourselves. I know not the ways and minds of gods or kings.”
The knowledge stung Ronsard like the blow from the flat of a sword. The King! He was talking about the King! Quentin was the “he” this Longbeard mentioned.
But how was this possible? It was improbable that this white-bearded old stranger had been allowed to see the King. The Dragon King had shut himself in his rooms and would see no one-not even his closest friends, as Ronsard well knew. Yet, the implication was plain: I have been to see the King and he will not change his mind. Change his mind about what? What game was this twisted old coot playing? What was his aim?
I must speak to him alone, thought Ronsard. I must get him out of here some way and take him where we can talk without being overheard. There are too many people here. The situation could get out of hand.
But before Ronsard could form a plan in his mind, someone shouted, “Tear the King’s temple down!”
“By all the gods, yes! Tear it down!” answered another.
Other voices took up the shout and added their agreement. Benches were thrown over as men jumped up. In an instant every man in the room was on his feet, fists in the air, crying for the destruction of the King’s Temple.
This, then, is the spark that ignites the flame, thought Ronsard. But there must be a way to stop it. He glanced around for a place to stand, saw an empty table nearby, and jumped up on it.
“Friends!” he cried in his sternest, most authoritative tone. “Friends, listen to me!” The clamor which shook the inn died down somewhat. “Listen to me!” He held up his hands for silence and looked around him at the upturned faces. He had their attention now.
“Friends, what you propose to do is wrong. It is very dangerous as well. Some of you could get hurt-hurt very badly. Maybe even killed. It is no small thing to go against the King. Do you think he will not defend his temple? How many of you would make your wives widows this night?”
Ronsard noticed that some of the eyes slid away from his uneasily. Good, he thought, this is working. But I must give them something now.
“Let us instead send a petition before the King,” suggested the knight. “We will demand that he account to us for the raising of this temple. The petition can be our voice.”
There were mutters of agreement all around. Hot heads were cooling under Ronsard’s sobering logic. He drew a sleeve across his face to wipe away the sweat.
“Please,” he continued in a more reasonable tone, “for your own sakes, and for your families, let us all sit down together and draw up the petition.”
“When?” said someone close by.
“At once-here and now!”
“And then?” the same voice asked.
“And then I will take it to the King personally.” Yes, thought Ronsard, this is working. A disaster has been averted tonight.
But just as he framed the thought, there came a shout from across the room. He glanced up to see old Longbeard standing on a table pointing at him.
“Lies!” Longbeard screamed. “Lies!” Before Ronsard could speak the old man shouted, “Do any of you know this man?”
The crowd grumbled its answer: no one knew him.
“Ah, you see!” shouted Longbeard. “He is one of the King’s men. I saw him when I went to see the King this evening. He was there. The King has sent him here as a spy among us!”
“No! It is not true! I only want to help you.”
“King’s man!” a burly peasant shouted behind him.
“It is true, I am a friend of the King. But I am no less your friend. I am warning you: do not go against him in this matter. Do not take th-”
Before Ronsard could finish speaking, he felt the table on which he was standing rise up, tilting away from him.
“Lies!” they shouted. “Liar! We’ll do for you!”
The table tipped, and Ronsard was pitched to the floor. He landed on his side, and the fall knocked the wind out of him. He rolled to his knees, gasping for breath.
A boot lashed out and struck him in the ribs. A fist caught him behind the ear. He struggled for his feet.
The room spun crazily. The air was heavy, and Ronsard found it hard to breathe. Loud voices buzzed in his ears, but he could not hear what they were saying. Feet and fists pummeled him.
Ronsard rolled into a ball to protect himself, throwing his arms over his head. A table crashed to the floor nearby, scattering ale jars. A heartbeat later, light exploded behind his closed eyelids. His limbs jerked convulsively, and he lay still.
THIRTY
THE MEAL had been simple, wholesome fare: brown bread and white cheese, braised meat, early vegetables and fruit. Esme, enraptured with Dekra, thought each dish a delicacy, and savored every bite.
She spoke little during the meal, but listened to all that was said around her. There was a quality to the voices she heard-a song which rang in the air, faintly but noticeably; it was music to charm her soul. Upon reaching their rooms in the visitor’s quarters of the Governor’s Palace, they had bathed in fresh, sun-warmed water and changed clothes, accepting clean new gowns of white with light summer mantles of blue, tied at the waist with long blue sashes. They had rested then on clean featherbeds, awaking refreshed when their young guides came for them.
When they reached Elder Jollen’s dwelling, the stars were beginning to light the twilight sky, and the sound of laughter and music drifted out of the courtyard adjoining his home. Many of Dekra’s people had been invited to make welcome the important visitors. There were candle lanterns all around-lining the tops of the walls and hanging from the trees. A long table had been brought outside where they could sit; others made themselves comfortable on cushions or benches along the wall. After they had eaten, songs were sung and the Elders told stories to the amusement of all.
The evening passed like a dream, a dream of happiness and light, of fullness and peace. Flowing peace, thought Esme, like a river. Not merely the absence of care, but a deeper all-absorbing trust in the ultimate rightness of things. Like a river that runs along its course, be it rocky or smooth, accepting both with equal ease, never allowing the rocks to stanch the flow, filling the deeps and shallow places alike, covering all and flowing on.
All this Esme received from looking and listening: looking at those around her and listening to her heart.
When at last they were alone with the Elders-the little Princesses were carried back to their beds sound asleep-Bria began to tell them why they had come. Esme waited to see how the Elders would receive this news, and what they would do about it.
They were unusual men, these elders, she thought as she watched them nodding their heads gravely; their very presence invoked an aura of wisdom and trust. Only moments before they had been telling funny stories and laughing the loudest of any. They sat or moved among their people without regard for their exalted position-indeed, more like servants than leaders. But now they sat in solemn council, entering into the troubled events that Bria described with empathy and compassion. Not as judges, but as sympathetic friends, they listened with all attention, sometimes nodding, sometimes shaking their heads sadly, but listening until the Queen was finished.
“… And that is why we have come to you,” Bria was saying. “We did not know what else to do.”
Elder Orfrey, the man chosen to replace Yeseph, spoke gently in answer. “You have done well to come here. We will help you all we can.”