The Inquisition (Summoner, #2)(25)

There was a murmur of sympathy for the old man, and Fletcher could not help but feel pity for him. It was an easy mistake to have made.

‘I’m glad you were able to get your failings off your chest – I really do hope it makes your miserable life more bearable,’ Rook said, spreading his hands wide. ‘But this has nothing to do with this trial. Leave, before I have my Minotaur drag you out by the hair.’

‘Oh, but it has everything to do with Fletcher. This trial has been a farce from the beginning,’ Sir Caulder said, stomping up to the witness pulpit. ‘The Inquisition have no authority over the boy. A jury cannot charge a noble-born with a crime; only the king can judge them.’

He took his place and looked expectantly at Charles, who was advancing on the wiry old man and beginning to speak.

‘You are, if I am not mistaken, referring to Fletcher’s claims that he is the illegitimate son of my father, and my—’

‘I claimed no such thing!’ Fletcher yelled.

‘My half-brother. A preposterous assertion that, even if it were true, would not make Fletcher a noble-born. Just a bastard.’

Sir Caulder shook his head and laughed, then swatted at Charles with the flat of his blade, sending the Inquisitor stumbling out of reach.

‘As much as I would love to expose your father’s indiscretions, Fletcher is not one of Lord Faversham’s bastards – if you’ll forgive the term, Captain Arcturus.’

Arcturus, who had finally managed to extricate himself from Jakov’s clutches, simply shook his head, ashen-faced.

‘No. I will admit that, for a while, I believed Fletcher might very well have been your half-brother, Inquisitor. But it was only after I spoke with his adopted father, Berdon, that I discovered his true heritage,’ Sir Caulder said, raising his voice so the entire crowd could hear.

‘I was told last night that Fletcher was found naked in the snow, just outside of this very village. There was no note, no blanket or basket. What parent could leave their child like that, to die of exposure? Why outside a village as remote as the village of Pelt, so far removed that it lies on the elven border? What I am about to tell you will explain all of these things, and more.’

For the first time, Sir Caulder looked at Fletcher. There was sorrow in his eyes, even a hint of regret.

‘As I lay with my limbs shattered in the mud beside the Raleighs’ home, a demon flew from their bedroom window. Lord Raleigh’s Gryphowl, clutching something in its claws.’

He looked at Fletcher expectantly, but all Fletcher could return was a confused shake of his head.

‘What was it? A letter? Money? A Gryphowl is barely larger than the bird it is named after, it couldn’t be carrying much else,’ Charles scoffed.

Sir Caulder gave Fletcher a rueful smile.

‘A baby boy. No more than a week old and naked as the day he was born.’





12


Fletcher could barely think with the noise that erupted around him, the shouts of angry men and women drowning his thoughts. He fell to his knees and covered his ears, trying to understand Sir Caulder’s story. With a racing heart, he turned over each fact, ignoring the clatter of the gavel and Zacharias’s roaring.

He knew it was nothing more than a last ditch attempt to save him, but he couldn’t help entertaining the idea for a moment. If he was Raleigh’s son, it would explain his ability to summon – found so rarely in commoners who were unrelated to the nobility. The timelines added up, more or less. But that was all. Just like Arcturus’s theory that he was his half-brother, there were huge holes that needed to be explained … as Rook was eager to point out.

‘This is laughable,’ Rook said, as the noise died down under the steely gaze of King Harold, who had stood once again to silence the crowd. ‘Even if we were to believe you – and we have reasons to suspect you would lie to protect Fletcher – why would that baby have ended up on the northern border, when Raleighshire is the most southern point of Hominum? What possible reason could Edmund Raleigh have to send his child there?’

‘Because he didn’t know who to trust!’ Sir Caulder growled, slamming his fist against the pulpit. ‘Somebody wanted his family dead, some ally of theirs had led the orcs right to their door. Lord Raleigh knew his son wouldn’t be safe anywhere in Hominum, so he sent him to the only place he knew that even the king himself couldn’t touch. To the elves.’

‘And then? The demon left him in Pelt because it got lost?’ Charles scoffed.

‘Lord Raleigh had died. The gryphowl was fading back into the ether, as all demons with dead masters do, no longer tethered to our world. It wasn’t going to make it to the elven border; I bet it was lucky to get as far as the Beartooth Mountains,’ Sir Caulder stated plainly, and Fletcher could see several nobles nodding in agreement. ‘So it left the boy as close to the border as it could, in a place where he would be discovered – just outside the gates of Pelt. Naked and alone, but crying loudly enough for a local blacksmith to find him.’

It made sense, Fletcher realised, if you took a leap of faith. But the boy could have been sent anywhere – an orphanage, a friend’s house. Would Lord Raleigh truly have sent his son to the elves? And that was if Sir Caulder was telling the truth in the first place. Fletcher shook his head. It was not enough, even if he hoped in his heart of hearts it was true.