‘My horse thanks you for your kindness,’ said Alfric coldly. ‘And now I must go.’
Then he set off for the shore.
He was consumed by fury.
How dare they!
How dare they stoop so low!
And — what could he do to repair the damage?
Guignol Grangalet was a sober citizen, a man of impeccable reputation. Ninety-nine people in a hundred would believe him. And Alfric? Why, many people feared him to be a werewolf, because his father had long been thought to be such a shape-changer; and, besides, he was a banker, and hence had lived most of his life at a remove from his peers; and ‘Pox!’said Alfric. '
One of the Bank’s teachings came to him, but late, far too late:
‘First secure your lines of intelligence.’
Alfric should have had a spy in Saxo Pall. Who? It mattered not. A guard, a serving maid, a slave who went round collecting night soil. Anyone, anyone. Just one set of ears in the castle might have saved the day for him. He should have known where his father’s body was, and when the funeral was.
And now ‘Faster, blast you!’ said Alfric to his horse.
But the beast had its limits, and all Alfric’s strength of will could not extend them, and long before he got to the seashore he started to meet Knights returning from the bonfire.
‘So!’ said one, recognizing him. ‘Danbrog! You repent of your insolence, do you?’
‘I’ve nothing to repent of,’ said Alfric defiantly. ‘Guignol Grangalet told me the funeral was scheduled for the morrow. He lied as to my reaction.’
‘You call him a liar, do you?’
‘That I do,’ said Alfric. ‘I’ll say as much in public. If he wants to make a fight of it, then that’s fine by me.’
‘If you make a fight of it,’ said the Knight grimly, ‘you may well find that friend Grangalet has heroes to champion him.’
Then rode on, without listening to Alfric’s protestations any further.
Other Knights he stopped. Some, after listening to his explanations, were prepared to allow that there might have been a misunderstanding between Alfric and Grangalet.
‘Perhaps you were drunk,’ said one of them. ‘You sound a little drunk at the moment, if truth be told.’
But none would countenance the idea that Grangalet had deliberately deceived Alfric, or that Grangalet had wilfully besmirched Alfric’s reputation. The thought was too monstrous to be believable.
‘Drunk!’ said Alfric to himself. ‘So that’s what they’ll think, is it?’
Well, yes.
Once Alfric had worked long and hard at salvaging his reputation, the Knights of Galsh Ebrek might be prepared to forgive him for saying foolish things while drunk. That was the very best he could hope for.
And even to achieve that outcome would take time.
And time was of the essence.
‘I don’t have time,’ said Alfric.
At last, Alfric reached the shores of the Winter Sea, and found the funeral was at an end. All the Knights had departed. A huge pyre still smouldered in the dunes; and, by the firelight, Alfric saw the hoofmarks and footprints which spoke of a great gathering. Doubtless, speeches had been made and hearts hardened; doubtless, hard words had been said and curses had been heaped on his throat.
‘She plays hard,’ said Alfric bitterly, speaking of Ursula Major.
But what had he expected?
There had never been any love lost between the two of them.
But whose was the mind which had done the necessary malicious scheming? Who precisely had cooked up Grangalet’s breath-taking untruths? Who had the daring, the wit? Who was ruthless enough? Not Ursula herself, surely; for she was a woman of much beauty but little mind.
‘I’ll find out,’ said Alfric grimly. ‘I’ll find out. Then take revenge.’
Right then and there, he felt every bit the werewolf, a bloody outcast full of hate, rapacious and desperate, bent for revenge upon humankind. He sat down by the smouldering embers' of the fire and began to brood upon his misery.
Right now, Guignol Grangalet…
Right now, Grangalet was in Galsh Ebrek.
— And what would I do if I were Grangalet?
Belatedly, Alfric started to think.
— If I were Grangalet, I’d know young Danbrog had gone riding. I’d know he’d speak to as many Knights as he could. So I’d place myself or my ears at the Stanch Gates to meet the Knights as they returned to Galsh Ebrek. Myself would be best, for then I could meet truth with fresh lies.
— Stroth!
Alfric swore thus, then swore again. He began to suspect manoeuvres within manoeuvres. How had those men come to be outside his house? Had they come there spontaneously? Or had they been paid to go there and throw a brick through his window? And had they really been as drunk as they seemed?
‘Blood of the Gloat!’ said Alfric. ‘Maybe he planned this too!’
Whatever Guignol Grangalet had planned, the outcome was all in his favour. Here sat Alfric Danbrog by the ruins of a big bonfire, leagues away from Galsh Ebrek. Meanwhile, back in the city, Grangalet was free to tell, retell and modify his lies, to soothe doubts and extract pledges of loyalty and allegiance, to tell fresh lies, distribute forged documents, cast doubts upon Alfric’s part in the death of Herself, and do anything else he wished to do to secure Ursula Major’s position.
‘How are you feeling, horse?’ said Alfric, turning to his noble steed. ‘I hope you’re feeling fit and hearty, because we’ve a good long ride ahead of us.’
Then Alfric mounted up, intending to gallop back to Galsh Ebrek and plunge into the heart of the city’s turbulent politics.
But his horse gently subsided beneath him.
‘Get up!’ said Alfric, kicking the beast.
But kicking was no good, for the thing was dead.
Then Alfric remembered the guard at the Stanch Gates who had fed his horse an apple. A poisoned apple? Or was it just coincidence that his horse had dropped dead?
‘Apples, apples,’ said Alfric. ‘What’s the price of apples?’
He didn’t know.
Why didn’t he know?
For a very simple reason: he never did the shopping.
His wife Vanaletta had always bought in their provisions.
But Alfric guessed that, at this end of the cold weather, the price of apples was likely to be monstrous, even the price of dried-up time-shrivelled apples such as that which had been fed to the horse.
‘They haven’t missed a trick,’ said Alfric bitterly.
What should he do?
— Stop!
— Think, for once.
— What would Grangalet expect me to do?
— Why, walk back to the city, of course. A dead horse is no bar to locomotion.
Suddenly, Alfric realized that his position was somewhat precarious. He was all alone and far from the city.
He had no horse. Also, if he died tonight, there would be nobody in Galsh Ebrek to avenge him. Rather, the Knights would probably think themselves well rid of him.
‘A good time, then, for murder.’
Ursula Major and Guignol Grangalet had dared so much already that they were scarcely likely to shy away from acts of precipitate violence.
They would expect him to head back to the city. And they might well have arranged for an ambush along the way.
— So what should I do?
— Preserve my life.
— But how?
— Well…
— What would they think me least likely to do?
— Why, to stay here and do nothing.
So Alfric did just that, and sat long by the sea, alone with his thoughts and his sorrows.
Time and time again the suthering seas rose from the drenching depths of the ocean, ran up the beach then retreated. And Alfric was almost minded to cast himself into the waters of the Winter Sea and to be swept away by that power which playthinged wrecked ships and rubbled the rocks of sunken cities.