‘Oh, what a nuisance. Still, she will show up, I’m sure. Even if she doesn’t, then she will be the next in line.’
‘She will not. It is the closest in blood to the dead husband. She is not related by blood. She became Lord five years ago because of the exceptional circumstances. The closest in blood is Gontal, as you know, but you declined on his behalf when Thenald died. If he were to accept this time, then he would be the successor, not her. In a very short time now I will have to say so, in public.’
Sometimes, if you fear the worst, then the worst is summoned. At midnight, neither Lady Catherine nor Jay had appeared and the Chamberlain — who acted with extraordinary calm, going through the prescribed routine without emotion — did as he said he had to do. He declared the lordship vacant and announced that it was to be filled with the next in line to the family of Willdon. The new Lord, he said in a loud voice which had only the slightest tremor in it, was Gontal, scholar of Ossenfud, should he choose to accept. That he should present himself; that he should announce his wishes; and that the domain should, on his arrival, acclaim him as their Lord.
Henary could not sleep. Events had moved so fast, so disastrously, that he could scarcely take them in. The catastrophe would shake the whole of Anterwold. If Ossenfud took possession of Willdon, then it would become the dominant power in the land. Henary liked Gontal, oddly. But only when he was powerless, a complaining voice on the sidelines, forever bemoaning the slackness of others. Possessed of the ability to do something about his complaints, he might not be such an easy colleague.
There must be a way through. Everything that had happened had followed a script, a reading of the laws as laid down. He was certain of that. But laws have loopholes, exceptions and alternative interpretations. He had to find those, and quickly. He had to win Catherine some time.
He searched for many hours. Before dawn, as sleep would not come, he was at his seat, occasionally going over to the boxes lining the walls and taking down books and scrolls of precedents and customs, trying to find something in the long history of Willdon which would serve. He worked in the way he had always worked, with the discipline of the years. The only difference this time was that his concentration was total. Nothing interrupted the way his mind played on the problem.
But even he could not shut out everything. By mid-afternoon he was hungry and thirsty. He arose and went for some bread and water, and was eating when he heard a noise in the courtyard which presented Willdon’s main face to the outside world, where the two sweeping arms of buildings reached forward, funnelling newcomers towards the main entrance and making all noise echo from wall to wall, louder than it actually was.
Henary walked over to the window. There in the courtyard was a large group of soldiers and others on horses, surrounding a single carriage. A grand carriage, of the sort you rarely see; Henary recognised it. The door opened, and Gontal got out and stretched himself. He had come to take possession with unseemly speed.
More to the point, how had he done it? Willdon was a good two days’ journey from Ossenfud. Gontal must have set out with his troupe of followers long before news of Catherine’s disappearance could possibly have reached him.
‘I was on my way to the south, when we came across a messenger,’ Gontal explained when Henary posed this very question. ‘So we came straight here.’
‘Is there some insurrection in the south that you are travelling with a bodyguard of — how many do you have there? — twenty people?’
‘Well, you know. There are tales of outlaws in the forest...’
He went off to consult with the Chamberlain, leaving Henary standing, worried and disturbed.
But worry mixes no ink, as the old saying went. Soon enough, he returned to his work. He now had until midnight before the process began. That wasn’t long.
Shortly before the appointed hour, Henary levered himself up and walked down to the courtyard for the ceremony. All was ready. The Chamberlain stood by the door through which the new Lord would enter. Below the shallow flight of stone steps leading up to it was the little group of people around Gontal, who was ready and prepared. He had waited for this for many years and now he was on the brink. He must be a happy man, Henary thought as he looked at the fat, unthreatening figure illuminated by the torches. You don’t have to look dangerous to be so, of course.
Then a bell sounded and the small crowd stiffened in anticipation.
‘Be it known to all that the lordship of Willdon must be filled for the good of all,’ the Chamberlain announced, speaking the prescribed words perfectly. ‘There is no Lord, and what must be done, shall be done. Only one person is of the family of Willdon, only one shall be Lord. If my statements do not conform to custom, then speak. If they do not conform to the truth, then speak. If my statements do not conform to the needs of all, then speak.’
There was a pause and a rustle of expectation from the crowd. The Chamberlain looked around, but had no chance to begin the next stage of the ceremony.
‘I wish to speak,’ said Henary in the loud voice that was reserved for the most thunderous moments of storytelling. ‘I will say you do not speak the truth. You do not conform to custom, and you do not conform to the needs of all.’
There was silence, absolute and shocked. Henary dimly saw Gontal with a look of stunned fury on his face. Whatever happened, he had just thrown away years of distant friendship.
‘You do not speak the truth, because the man here is not the closest in blood. You do not speak the truth, because there are other precedents which make this ceremony unjust. You do not speak the truth, because you are attacking the purity of the Story and undermining it with the temptations of power.’
That last was the most shocking of his statements, but Henary knew that it was the least substantial. This was not going to be a battle in which the good of all was going to be important. He had to hold the line on the law. He didn’t have much. But he was fairly certain he had enough to overwhelm the Chamberlain for a while.
‘If this man is not the closest, then who is?’
Henary paused. ‘Pamarchon, son of Isenwar, son of Isenwar. Convicted murderer and outcast, but never punished, and so never divested of his rights nor expelled from his family. Until that is done, he is the rightful heir, unless an assembly choose another, as they did five years ago. Pamarchon has the better claim, and you may not appoint anyone to the position by right except him. Should you do so, then you will become an abomination. You will bring disgrace to all if you ignore my words, for I speak as a scholar of the first rank, and this is my judgement.’
No going back now, Henary thought to himself.
Once the ceremony had collapsed into chaos, Gontal’s fury would have been overwhelming had not Henary been his superior in every way, and had Gontal not been well aware of this.
‘What do you think you are doing?’ he said in an icy tone when the two scholars confronted each other. ‘My rights are clear and absolute. You dare not challenge them. I am the rightful Lord...’
‘You are not,’ Henary said. ‘The case is clear, not your rights. I have spent all night reviewing the law. You would not be secure and you would be open to challenge and to discontent.’
‘How so? I have already—’
‘Already investigated? Just on the off-chance that this might happen?’
‘Of course not. As the long-standing heir, naturally I investigated my position.’
‘Naturally. I am sure you read the rules well. But you did not take into account mood. People. Life.’
‘What does that have to do with anything? I don’t know what you mean.’