Arcadia

43

The Abasement had been particular to Willdon, and it was both impressive and strangely moving. Other places had similar things, of course, but none were so complete, brutal even, in their display. Henary stood lost in thought as the little party disappeared into the woods, and, though he knew perfectly well why they had left, he still allowed himself a flicker of frustration. Couldn’t it have waited a day? Or even a few hours until they established what had happened to Rosalind? Well, no. It had to be on the precise day, at the precise hour, that Lady Catherine had ascended into her position as ruler of Willdon. Saying it wasn’t convenient, that there were more important things, would have been noted and resented. It would have sapped her power, undermined her position.

At least, before she vanished into the forest, she had set in motion a thorough search. Her retainers and servants were scouring the grounds but Henary had few hopes that they would find anything. The ancient manuscript told him. The girl had fallen in love, and he was certain she had gone after the man whose affections she sought. She had not been coerced or forced. She had not been kidnapped. He almost wished she had been.

Would searching accomplish anything? The manuscript did not say. The fragments he had translated spoke of her; the rest was too difficult for him.

What to do now? He had no right to interfere in the affairs of Willdon; now she was stripped of her authority, Catherine’s power lay in the hands of her Chamberlain. Until she returned, she was as good as dead, and her return would be greeted as a rebirth. But that would be in two days’ time.

Henary had only spoken to the Chamberlain once or twice and had found him too — even. Too careful to say exactly what was required. Efficient, and loyal, no doubt; the nephew of Gontal, who was, in turn, the man who was most likely to inherit the domain if she did die.

‘How is authority?’ Henary asked as he walked back to the main house with him after the ceremony.

‘I do as I am bidden,’ was his only reply. ‘As we all must do who serve.’

Witty conversation was not his strong point. ‘Well, if you need any assistance. The disappearance of this girl...’

‘Is a matter for Willdon. Not for visitors. Scholars must keep their minds on higher things, I’m sure you agree. I will endeavour to ensure that your thoughts are undisturbed.’

Mind your own business, in other words.

‘You have the Story Hall at your complete disposal. Now, I must attend to domain business. Do excuse me...’

With a bow he walked off, giving Henary his due as a scholar by taking the first few steps backwards, but with an empty expression which undermined any pretence of deference. The Chamberlain did not want him there. Well, perhaps he had a point, Henary reflected as he turned obediently to go to work.

At least the suggestion that he keep out of the way was a good one. Henary spent the next few hours doing what he loved most in the world, which was reading, slowly trying to decipher the document which was his obsession. He had many other things to look at; in the bag he had brought with him were the papers concerning Etheran which he had taken from the Story Hall and copied down, and the book which Jay had brought from Hooke. They were all, in their way, rebukes; they were all taunts, reminding him how flimsy his knowledge was. For the ones he could read made no sense, and the rest he could not read. But even ignorance and perplexity have their own peace.

On the next two mornings, Henary arose later than usual and ate quietly as he prepared himself for work. He had an empty time ahead of him until the return of Catherine and Jay, when life would get back to its normal course. There would be a ceremony to welcome her back — a blessedly short one this time, he hoped — and Catherine would be installed once more by acclaim. What else was taking place eluded him; there was no sign of the missing girl, or, if some news had been discovered, then it had been kept from him.

So he worked peacefully, if fruitlessly, until the time came to go down again to the point where garden and forest met, to await her return. A small party gathered and a larger group of servants and labourers, their families and friends, came together at a discreet distance, where they would watch the arrival, thrill to the sound of the trumpets and then take their share of wine and cake.

‘Should be any moment now,’ Henary said to the Chamberlain.

‘Indeed, scholar,’ he replied. ‘A stickler for detail is Lady Catherine. If she were so much as a second late I would be worried. But I must say I would be just as surprised if she were a second early.’

‘I suppose we are not allowed to eat or drink anything until she does appear?’ Henary asked. He had worked long and hard, and was hungry.

‘Oh, certainly. Go and help yourself. You are merely an observer. By all means, eat and drink your fill.’

So Henary passed the few remaining moments with a fine cake of nuts and honey in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. But no one came. Still, he thought, noon is a hazy notion. A few moments either way. It must be difficult to be precise when you are surrounded by trees.

After a while he walked back to the Chamberlain. ‘Should they not be here by now?’

‘I’m sure there is an explanation. Don’t worry.’

‘I am not. But you are. I can see it on your face.’

‘No, no. Is that...?’

But it wasn’t; just a breath of wind blowing through the undergrowth.

The minutes passed. Then, when still nothing had happened, Henary spoke again. ‘And now?’

‘In theory or in practice?’

‘Both.’

‘In practice, we keep on waiting until she returns to us. In theory... Well, that is a little more serious.’

‘How so?’

‘The ceremony fills the vacancy in the lordship. Lady Catherine arrives, and I ask if she wishes to have the post. She signals her assent. I ask if any challenge her. There should be silence. Then I declare her Lord and Lady of Willdon both by acclaim. If she is not here, then by midnight at the very latest I have to ask the question nonetheless. If none answer, then we must proceed to the person closest in blood to the family, and invite them to present themselves.’

‘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.’

‘We must assume that although she is missing, Lady Catherine—’

‘Catherine. Her name is Catherine. She has no position and so no title.’

‘We must assume that she is not dead. But you cite rules for the death of the incumbent. Moreover, two people have to assure themselves that she is dead. As far as I am aware, no one has even sent out a search party. She is liked and respected, and if you use a technicality to supplant her it will earn you the distrust of all here. You may not care about that, but you should. It is important.

‘Secondly, my statement was correct. Until he is expelled from his family, Pamarchon is the heir. He cannot be expelled until sentence is carried out. As long as he is alive and uncaptured, then your claim is invalid. You may in due course do as Catherine herself did, and be selected by the assembly. But you cannot take it by right and any presumption on your part would be challenged.’

‘By you, I suppose?’

‘By anyone who chooses to do so. Be patient. You must present yourself for election, as can anyone else. Besides, there is no alternative now I have spoken. Remember, I outrank you. My judgement is stronger than yours.’

Gontal’s face was a picture of frustrated rage, of confusion, and of calculation. Eventually he smiled grimly. ‘Well, Scholar Henary, you do always seem to be around to make my life that bit more difficult. Let us do as you say. Let us send out search parties. Let us call an assembly. Let us do everything properly so that you are satisfied. But bear in mind, when I am Master of Willdon, as I will be, I will remember this. The assembly will be in two days’ time, as it has to be on the fifth day after the vacancy is declared. I can wait until then.’

The fifth day, Henary thought. And Catherine had been ruler of Willdon for five years.