CHAPTER 23

KIDNAP

 

 

 

Radix omnium malorum est cupiditas

 

Lust for acquisition is the root of all evil

 

 

 

“God forgive me,” Pieter says, “we did not hear him ’till he had her. He said if we follow, then she will die.”

“If I’d only had my bow – ”

“Silence, Piers!” Richard says. “Have your stupid bow.” He thrusts it at Piers and then turns to Pacificus. “What can we do? He has already shot his partner. Surely he will think nothing of killing Beth if he hears us?”

“He will not hear us – only the sound of his skull cracking.” Pacificus touches Pieter’s arm. “Do not despair. God will judge aright – isn’t that what you people say? Well then, let us do what we can. You, Simon and the others bring the boat back to Barton Broad, and we’ll find our way there through the woods and so be waiting for Sigismund to appear from Witch’s Dyke.”

“I should go with you…”

“No, you will be too slow in the wood; take the others.”

“And then?” Pieter says.

“If we don’t get him now, at the centre of the web, we may never find him or her again.”

“Only… only… dear God.” Simon has a thumb and forefinger on the bridge of his nose, deep in thought, then looking this way then that – but what other way is there? “Only, aim sure, brother, keep your powder dry.” And, dear God, bring her back to me.

Pacificus takes his arms. “Pray for me, brother, won’t you? Pray.”

Pacificus turns to go but Mark and Piers won’t leave him.

“I must be there, near as I can,” Mark says.

“And you’ll need me because I can climb those willows near the water’s edge and keep a lookout.”

“Piers!” Richard says.

“No, let him do as he says,” Pacificus says, “only let us go quickly.”

They separate and Pacificus leads the boys towards the woods east of them, where he hopes that somewhere further on will be Lime Kiln Dyke, the wide stretch of water leading to Barton Broad. It would be there or never, for in the open water of the broad it might be impossible to do anything with a matchlock. Down they go from the fields into the dense undergrowth, and on and on they push through birch, hazel and then alder and willow as the ground becomes wetter, then bog, then marsh. Mark and Pacificus tuck their habits into their belts, but even so, on occasions they sink in deep water above their knees. Piers keeps up and never once complains.

Pacificus thinks they have been going in the same direction; he’s done his best not to deviate but he knows how easily it can happen. After half an hour they appear to be lost. Surely they should be at the broads, or be able to at least see some light beyond these infernal, creeping, twisting willow trees. “Can’t be sure,” Pacificus says between breaths. “Just can’t be sure, damnation.”

“Send me up that tree. The light dawns – I will be able to see,” Piers says. “Give me a leg up, Mark. And hold my bow.”

Mark does so and Piers is up like a squirrel. The higher branches bend as he goes, but they do not break. He’s barely up for a moment when he scrambles down again in a feverish hurry. “Nearly there! I can see Irstead church spire, just a bit more to the right.” He takes the bow from Mark. “And I heard the sound of oars in rowlocks somewhere near; it must be them.”

“Come then, or we’ll be too late,” Pacificus says, pushing yet another branch to the side and wading out once more.

Soon they hear the sound of waterfowl dabbling, then catch sight of daylight beyond the branches, and then there’s the sound of a boat. “Quiet now,” Pacificus whispers, “and don’t shake the branches. They must not expect us.” But it is to no avail, for the wind has dropped now to a whisper for the dawn, and as they approach the reeds at the water’s edge, a family of moorhens scatter in all directions. A short way off, perhaps no more than a hundred yards, and happy at his oars, this commotion alerts Sigismund. He leaves the oars and stands behind Beth, whose hands he has tied about the mast. “Up, woman, on your feet.” He tugs at Beth, who is sitting on the lowered mast and sail. She stands unwillingly, sliding the rope as she rises. Sigismund holds the wheellock to her temple.

“Who’s there? That you, Pacificus? Oh, yes it is! Shouldn’t have come, you shouldn’t. Couldn’t keep away from the gold, eh?”

Pacificus already has the matchlock levelled at the monk’s head. “That’s right, brother. Do what you want with her, it’s the money you’ll have to share, or I’ll take the head from your shoulders, so help me I will.”

He says this, all the while wading out into the clearer water so that the reeds and trees do not obscure his range. Mark looks first at Pacificus in horror – does he mean it? – and then back into Beth’s eyes. Once or twice she tries to look away from the two different barrels aimed at her, but eventually she can only stare back towards Mark and her brother, who wait in horror in the reeds.

“You’re a bad liar, brother.” Sigismund grips Beth tighter. “I’ve seen your sort before. The bishop even said as much: all chivalry, ideals and fair play. That’s why he set me and Benedict to work; he knew you’d mess it up.”

“And that’s where you’re going now – to the bishop?” He draws the hammer back, click, click. Steady now, steady.

“What? That coxcomb? Pah. Beaten him at his own game, I have, and I’ll not beg, nor be lackey to any like him again. He’ll soon fall like the rest of them, like the abbeys – and when he does, I’ll not go wandering for my bread, pensioned off for five pounds, like you. I was a butcher, you know, so no scholar’s stipend for me; not ordained, so no cosy Chantry job either – a man must fix his own stars, Pacificus. You should know that!”

“Worth all that blood, is it, your soul?” Pacificus must take his chance soon, as the boat is drifting slowly further from him. He blinks the sweat from his eyes and re-tightens his grip on the trigger. Come on, man, do something – expose a bit more of that fat head for me.

“Wasn’t me that did the killings. Benedict saw to that – he had a taste for it, and anyway, there wouldn’t have been any if Bede had not been so stubborn.”

“How did you do it without detection?”

“Easy. We started that fire in the infirmary store when we heard Bede was alone counting swans upriver, and we slipped out to the abbot’s staithe while everyone was busy. Just a shame the lad wasn’t more forthcoming with the information we needed. We never intended to do more than just frighten him, get what we wanted and leave. But you know what idealists these young people are.”

“And Jary?”

“Oh, that were Benedict. I only found out later; he was a touched one, was Benedict.”

“And the player?”

“Us? No, that was those Augustinians, sick dogs that they are, doing that to a man.”

“And your brethren and prior?” Move, damn you.

“Of course we did them, but Wulfric had it coming; he was going to cut us out, like Benedict would’ve too. As I see it, it was them or us – me.”

Damn him, won’t he show me his head? A body shot would leave him free to discharge his own shot.

“And – and your deal with the bishop?” It is weak and he knows it.

Sigismund laughs. “Wouldn’t trust Rugge as far I could throw him myself, even if Benedict did. Known his sort all my life; soon as shop you as keep troth in matters of money. He’d have had us both disappeared. Probably would’ve asked you or Aeyns to do it – we knew too much, just like you, brother. Now there’s a thought. So lower your weapon, be content that you have the saint, or this maid’s blood will be on your hands. I mean it. I’m in blood too far now to care one way or the other.”

“Last chance to negotiate.” Pacificus’s breathing is down to nothing at this point, the last air being released from his lungs and his heart stilled as the words leave his mouth.

“Hah!” Sigismund cocks his head back in mockery. “You can negotiate over my dead b – ”

My pleasure, click, thud. Bang. The head movement gives Pacificus the only opening he is likely to get. The powder flares and an ear-splitting explosion of flame and smoke fly from the nozzle. Beth strains forward at the flash, pulling Sigismund with her so that his head passes behind the mast just as the ball strikes the side of it, sending splinters in every direction. When the smoke clears, Pacificus can see what Piers has already seen from his position on the bank. Sigismund has recovered his balance and is spluttering his revenge.

“Very well, you had your shot; now here is mine if that’s the way we are to play. On your head be it.”

He is repositioning the wheellock to her left temple, but before he can fire a shot or Pacificus do more than cry “No!” the twang of a bow, and an arrow whizzing across the water. Beth has seen him, sees it – coming like fury. It will hit her surely, so she yanks away from his grip on her arm just as the arrow strikes his shoulder. It is the arm with which he holds the wheellock, and Sigismund flings the weapon away in a spasm of agony. In so doing, he overbalances the boat, dragging Beth – and with her the mast – towards the water. The boat topples with a slapping and spraying of water across the calm surface. They hit the water struggling, she for breath, he for the two leather saddlebags with the gold. The boat is on its side, and the more Sigismund pulls and scrapes for his gold, the more the boat starts to turn over – taking Beth down with it.

She’s straining at the rope and kicking her legs, but there is little she can do to save herself.

“She’ll be drowned! Quick!” Pacificus says, frantically stripping down to his undershirt. But Mark is ahead of him, already naked and plunging into the cold waters, going at it like an otter. Pacificus follows with the basilard dagger, starting out just as the boat lurches as one of the saddlebags is displaced by Sigismund. He is only just above the water now as he holds the gunwales, but when his fingers finally do move one of the bags it slides quickly towards him. He instinctively slings it over his good shoulder just as the boat finally flips on him. But the opposite gunwale strikes him unconscious, so that under the weight of gold he sinks to the peat bottom some twelve feet below him, never more to rise.

“Beth,” screams Mark, who is only halfway there.

“Go down, take the air she needs in your mouth,” Pacificus shouts from behind. “Quickly now.”

Marks rushes on with his head down, ploughing through the water until he sees the mast, not facing totally down, yet with the familiar blue dress, suspended and billowing in the murky half-light like a flag in slow motion. She is still tugging at the rope but by now her lungs are bursting within her. Mark takes a last breath above the surface and then descends. She sees him come, with eyes as wide and terrified as her own. She’s offering him her hands but he goes straight for her mouth, taking her by the head and hair, and closing his lips over hers before releasing the air. Her lips are cold and their teeth rub together, but when he returns with a second breath from the surface, they do it better: eyes wide open, and more calmly, his arm round her waist.

After that Pacificus is there with the knife, but even so it is Mark who takes her back to the surface, and Mark who keeps her afloat as she regains her breath, and perhaps even a little longer than he should as Pieter’s boat comes into view. Meanwhile, Pacificus is busy loosening the other saddlebag from under the seat. Let Rugge have his bodies, but not all the gold. There’ll be enough round Sigismund’s neck to finance his tournament and palace extension. No, let at least some of it go to the poor; some of this tragedy be redeemed.

It takes them little over half an hour to retrieve what they must. Mark is now awkward about Beth, and she him, though she gives him her thanks, which is more than she does to Piers, though she treats him differently from this day on. Yes, the shot was foolish, but saved her nonetheless. He sits on his own at the end of the boat, knees under his chin, the bow lying beside him.

He does not look up as Pacificus sits next to him. “Hit an apple at fifty yards, can you? It’s a good thing your sister moved when she did.”

Piers sees the monk smile. “Well, you did no better.”

“I’d’ve had him if she hadn’t unbalanced the boat.” He laughs but Piers does not, his face now frowning with earnestness.

“You said killing is not a sin in wartime – ”

“It was the gold that killed him, not your arrow. Likely thought he could make the near bank with it, but you can’t swim laden down with gold, can you?”

Pacificus lays a hand on the lad’s cheek, then his shoulder, speaking softly, “It would have been a sin to let your sister be murdered, when you had the power to act, which you did. There is no wrong, no sin in that – you did well.” He puts the bow back in Piers’s hand and as he does so, he’s thinking on it; strange, this old bow from Agincourt and perhaps even older things besides are not spent yet.

“And my mother? Would it be a sin to let her be burnt while – ”

“But if she is condemned,” he knows she will be, “if, if, then it will be for breaking the king’s peace, not – ”

“But aren’t there better laws, higher laws than the rules of men? It’s what you always say.” Piers has that fierce look in his eye again, like he would damn the very heavens to justify what he feels in his heart to be true. Pacificus knows that look, has known it his whole life. The world is crooked, the boy is right. “We’ll talk about it later,” is the best he can do for now. He hears Piers blow through his nostrils in discontent, but what else can he do for the lad? Why does everyone make me the solution to all ills in the world?

Pacificus sends Pieter, Beth, Richard and Piers the long way back to the cottage with the reliquary and the gold. “Keep away from Irstead, for the sheriff may be there by now. I will take the boat there with Mark, and we shall meet him. Simon, you go back through Horning, but brother, you must take the fields. People will be about their work soon and none of you must be seen.” He will not compromise them, not after all this.

He and Mark arrive at Irstead just after the sheriff and the reeve with their men at arms. Prior Thomas is also there with the outrider William Hornyng, a monk responsible for the outlying granges and abbey farms.

Pacificus chooses his words carefully, trying as often as possible to put the onus back on the bishop. It was the bishop who learned of a theft of gold from Binham Priory, goods not recorded in the 1535 Valor Ecclesiasticus; the bishop who had set Pacificus to discover which of the Binham monks was the thief; and the bishop who could verify all this. The truth is that all six were thieves, and all six now dead, killed by each other, the last drowned with the gold.

“You will find him on the bottom, near the upturned boat at Lime Kiln Dyke. He has the gold – or perhaps more exactly, it has him – and also an arrow in his shoulder.”

“An arrow?” The sheriff looks older than last time by ten years at least; it has been a harder job than he thought. He hasn’t bothered to do half the buttons up on his doublet.

“He took the novice, Mark, as a hostage. The arrow did not kill him, be assured of that; it was the weight of gold.”

“I see.” He observes Mark’s bedraggled appearance. “He floated and the other sank. If this was trial by ordeal, we’d have a pretty mess, wouldn’t we?”

“All the same,” Pacificus tries to sound confidential, “I’d imagine the bishop would not want mention of the arrow in the report.”

“I answer to the justices, not your bishop.” He answers to the duke more like – everyone knows he’s in Norfolk’s pocket. But at least it will clear up what is turning into an infamous string of unsolved murders. Get these tied up and he might rise in the shire, get his wife that small manor she has had her eye on, more feathers for her silly bonnets.

 

Pacificus is there for the salvage; he doesn’t want the sheriff or Norfolk getting the money. Rugge sends people from Norwich to mediate at the assize. It is a strange business, but eventually he and Norfolk dedicate the money towards the tournament, with a small part going on the palace. Rugge is grateful for the duke’s largess in the matter, and promises him over dinner that “if anything should e’er befall the abbey, and if materials became available” he will remember the duke – who is always building something grand. It is the most the bishop has ever spoken about the future of the abbey; by now he has given up the idea of Saint Benet’s becoming a pilgrimage site. Chapuys was right, Pacificus was right. Rugge had gotten wind of the new injunctions which Cromwell would bring out in the following spring: no relics or veneration of images. But without that extra source of income, Saint Benet’s will never make him more than £600 per year.

It is a problem that will not go away, for much of the revenue is spent on the upkeep of the monastery buildings and the monks. In olden times, copying documents brought in revenue, but the printing press has put paid to that. The farms and tenants could pay their money straight to the bishopric, but for the abbey. It is an acute and imminent dilemma. He has played every card in his hand – well, almost.

Queen Jane has just given the king his first living son, Edward, but then she died two weeks later, poor girl. But this means a Protestant succession at any rate – not good news. The large Cluniac monastery at Lewes surrendered to the crown just last week; others will follow. He hates the pious resignation of those Calvinists. God’s breath, he’d publicly debated it with that heretic reformer Bilney, but if God wants the abbey open then he’ll have to do something himself at this rate.

 

His next proper meeting with Pacificus that October is strained. That “Binham business” is barely even discussed. Pacificus will hardly broach the subject himself for fear of losing his temper. Why didn’t you tell me Benedict and Sigismund were working for you? He knows the answer – Rugge doesn’t trust him. Perhaps he is right about me – that much anyway. He thinks of the great bag of gold angels they took, what Rugge wouldn’t give to have that for his palace, his new tapestries, velvets and Bruges silks.

The most said is that Rugge never intended there to be blood over it, and that if he had known that Benedict was so unstable, or Sigismund so avaricious, he’d never have spoken to them. They are standing together in the walking gallery on the south side of the palace, gazing out across the grass. His two gardeners are doing their best to stake out a maze from a vellum plan ready to be laid next spring, which they keep turning this way then that. Rugge rests his stout knuckles on the window ledge so that his ruby ring scrapes awkwardly on the glass pane.

He draws a long breath, sifting careful words from the air. “It was a goodly sum of gold, though I confess I was hoping for more.” He turns his head slowly to observe Pacificus’s reaction.

Best to look straight ahead and not seem concerned. “Did not Lord Hastings tell you the sum?”

“He is abroad, yet again. But I shall ask him. Oh, just look at those idiots, will you?” Rugge bangs on the window. “No, not sideways – hold it long-ways!” They cannot hear him, but he nevertheless gesticulates and shouts as if they should. “Two fools, can’t even get it right when the plan is in front of them!” What – not like us, you mean?

They spend the afternoon talking over the events for next summer. “It will do the king good, methinks. He is sore grieved at the queen’s death. He needs to be away from court, all that miasmic, Protestant air – let him celebrate his son and heir with us, let him see some good, Catholic pageantry – he’s no damned Lutheran, that’s for sure. Just needs to remember the old ways, see it, hear it. Will be goodly medicine for him.”

But Rugge is also using the tournament as a remedy for himself, to stave off the decision he’ll be forced to make about the abbey. He does not mention this to Pacificus of course; no need to risk problems sooner than need be.

 

Business done, Pacificus pays a visit to Elizabeth at the castle with some keepsakes from the children and more books. He finds her out of sorts and her cell cold. What comfort is Wace’s poetry, what comfort is anything in this world, now she will die? The date for her trial is announced already; she will be tried at the feast of the Visitation along with other heretics and treasonous persons, as part of Rugge’s “pageant” for the king. What could be more fitting than to show His Majesty the loyalty of the bishop, of the duke – nay, the whole shire – by the execution of the king’s real enemies: these radical left-wing reformers, the stepchildren of the Reformation? Rugge will show the king how to nip it all in the bud before London becomes like Geneva, Norwich like Wittenburg or – God save us – Munster or worse if that were possible. The Great Chain of being can survive intact with a few of the lower links severed. Let the king’s justices try these heretics during the tournament, and let the king himself, like an Angevin monarch, sentence them. He’ll like that.

Pacificus places the few gifts on the table and then sits himself in silence. What can he say – he of all people? Does he believe her sort should be allowed to go free – to smash Christendom into a thousand shards? Soon he himself will be forced to make an oath to the king’s sovereignty in religion; it is already happening. Can he take this oath now in conscience, a pinch of incense on the altar, say Caesar is lord? But if the king’s church is too little a thing, then maybe even Christendom is too small. Maybe it is these heretics, in having the smallest conception possible of the church, their internal kingdom of conscience, that have found the biggest thing of all – perhaps the only thing. His thoughts run in a perverse progression, but only as a man who travels to convince himself that his own town is the best.

But today, on returning, Pacificus will not dare look at his own town, let alone his own house. He has not done so since the failure of the rebellion, since Aske’s death. So he sits at table with her, observing her hand on the book, his own near it; her slight fingers reaching for life, his for truth and meaning.

“When…” He clears his throat. “If they find you guilty, you may still plead with the king; he can be merciful.”

“You are kind, sir, but I think the summer too far spent.” She smiles half-heartedly but does not look at him, rather at the worn skin on the back of her hand. But when she finally meets his gaze, the movement loosens some hair from her coif and it trails like a golden waterfall down her cheek.

“If the queen were alive, I would plead as the men of Calais did before Queen Philippa, plead as a mother – I would not be as proud as you think – but I have little with which to appeal to the king. I don’t think he is that merciful.”

“But… you will try, won’t you?” Dear God, I would be – I’d forgive you murder! And why do tears come so readily these days when I’m near her? “I mean, you will do it for the children’s sake? That much at least would not be a sin for you, would it?”

“No,” she whispers, “it would be no sin.” And then she takes his hand and squeezes it hard. “Promise me you will not let them see me die, you will keep them away – promise me. They should remember me as I was.”

He stares at their hands for a moment, speechless. Why are women so practical? The words on his lips, though he dare not utter them, are that she will not die at the gibbet while he has breath in his body; he will not permit it. Should he say it? Is it right to? Should she be one more exception to the rule, just because Piers, or indeed he, would have it so? The words would sound knightly, for sure, and would flow naturally from his sanguine humours when their skin is touching as it is now, but is it more the influence of courtly love – the romances he was fed on his mother’s knee, rather than the harder truth of the true church? He closes another hand on hers, her skin is quite cold. Poor woman, she is not as strong as she seems.

“I will do as you ask.” He leaves his hand there on hers, savouring the guilty moment. He shouldn’t take advantage of her pain. God knows, life would be simpler if she were not here, but what life would that be now? How many hours have they sat in this cell talking, knowing each other. Could even matrimony be better than those hours? Is it a great enough thing in itself? All his life he has strained at great things, yearned for them, given himself to them: the knights, the cause, Christendom, Ranworth, the northern rebellion, on and on, on and on, each smaller and frailer than the last. To be a father, to love one woman, any woman, make her happy, nay, just to look at a woman; is that a small thing or a large one? Everything about these Fentons turns the world on its head. And she is about to do it once more.

“Before I leave you, there is one more thing that you must know.”

“Say on.”

“I am not who you think; nay, not whom I appear.” He swallows hard. “This is difficult. Prithee bear with me, for I am not altogether unknown to you. That is to say, one time long ago you knew my brother – ”

“Your brother!” She almost jumps. “Upon my word, you are Cecil’s brother! I should have guessed it – the eyes!” She straightway withdraws her hands towards her breast. “And where is he? Is he yet alive? Is he well?” She cranes her neck to catch his words, his meaning, but when she sees his face crestfallen, says, “Ah, so he did not fare as well as you with the knights. Poor Cecil. I did hear tell of the Great Siege; I am sorry. But did he ever talk of me? Our parting was… well, it was unexpected.”

“I – I – er, I cannot say – ” This is trickier than he thought. She has taken it that he is dead, and perhaps that is best for now.

“Well, either he mentioned me or not while you were abroad.”

“He did not. I have known only recently.” That much is the truth.

“And so all this kindness is a guilt offering of some kind, a brother debt?”

“Why no, by no means – ”

“Or peradventure to step in where the brother left off, then?” Her voice has become sharpened with the pain of very many nights of anguish on this abandonment.

“Elizabeth, please – ”

“Avaunt, do not use my name thus, and do not look at me thus either. Your family has done me a great wrong, a very great wrong.”

“Prithee – ”

“Go now, anon, leave me!”

He lingers a moment longer until he sees her rage turn to grief. “Just go” is all he hears after that through her tears; words that follow him down the corridor. He feels he is in the right – at least he thought he was – wasn’t he? Why couldn’t they talk it out, argue it out, like men? These thoughts go with him out of the keep, along with a secret resolution that he has made despite it all. Or between the space of four steps Sir Hugh Erpingham has hatched a plan.

He passes guard after indifferent guard, locked door after locked door, passes down the steps of the inner keep, along the crenellated wall, and down the inner steps to the castle yard at the back of the smithy. Tom Short brings him his mule. The lad has grown like a bean stalk this summer, but he has lost none of his wit for that. “That was quick. Would she not see you?”

“Mind your manners.” Pacificus glances across to the forge. “Your father busy?”

“Not busy enough with winter coming, and rents up again. He says I’ll need to look for work in London. Mother ain’t happy.”

“I would speak a word with him.”

They enter the orange glow of the forge where Vulcan stands astride his craft, sparks scattering on the dirt floor. Beads of sweat fly from his forehead to sizzle on the anvil at regular intervals. His face is fixed as he hammers away with no evident love for it, or so it seems at first glance. Pacificus discerns in the pinching of the mouth that all too familiar melancholy. Will Short catches a glimpse of Pacificus when he turns briefly to plunge the shoe in water. He raises an eyebrow to his son, and then turns back to his work. “The one you talked about?”

“Aye, he would talk with you.”

“I heard you were trained with the Almains at Greenwich,” Pacificus begins.

“What of it?” He’s putting the shoe back in the coals and applying the bellows.

“I’m surprised you left for this.”

“I had my reasons.” The bellows send the coals into a flare and flurry of sparks.

“Perhaps you weren’t up to it.”

The smith turns with the red-hot shoe in mid-air between himself and the monk’s face. His eyes twitch with rage. “Perhaps they were jealous.” And then, sardonically, “Why? Are you buying?” He takes the shoe back to the anvil and starts to beat it again as if it were a thousand German faces.

“Can you acid etch and fire gild?” Pacificus waits for the reaction, but the smith merely stops hammering. It’s been years since he even heard those words spoken inside his own head.

“Aye, and blueing too, if I had somewhere to get the heat right.”

“Aye and the rest,” young Tom says. “They used to say Pa could make a knight blaze like a phoenix in the sun – hands of an artist and fingers of a clockmaker.”

“Silence, boy,” Will Short snaps gruffly, but he turns to Pacificus with a proud eye. “What do you want from me, monk? State your business.”

“Suppose you could have armour that you designed and built at the tournament next summer?”

“What?”

“You heard me – the best you can make. To go up against the best Almain armour; nay, the king’s at that.”

He looks to his son for a moment and then back again. “For you?”

Pacificus shakes his head. “For another, but it must be done privily, you hear? None should know of it.”

“But – ” He’s starting to breathe heavily now, blinking and licking his dry lips. “But where would I get the steel, the silver – ”

“Gold. The inlay will be gold. I will see you have all you need.” Pacificus looks at him steadily, and says, “This knight will blaze like a phoenix from the flames.” By my oath, he’ll have to.