Jack Frost: King of Thieves

CHAPTER L: King Of Thieves

They gathered in the courtyard of the Far Tower in Abita two days later. Nearly two dozen barons waited for King Hans to make his appearance. Dymas Phrygians had greeted Dingwall, Fergus and the rest earlier in the day and had noticed that they seemed quite pleased with themselves. The Alsace-Lorraine had been defeated, and this day, they expected, would long be remembered in song and lore. For the first time in the history of the realm, a king would sign a document recognising the rights of those he ruled.

That was what the barons expected, anyway. Phrygians had his doubts.

A table stood in the middle of the courtyard, the charter upon it, along with the royal seal, a large silver ink pot, and a quill.

Hans had kept the barons waiting for some time. Now, though, he emerged from his chambers and made his way down to the courtyard, where Princess Grimgilde of Angouleme, looking pale and lovely in a satin gown of sky blue, sat beside an empty throne. Phrygians awaited Hans by the entrance to the courtyard, and as the King swept past, Phrygians fell in just behind him.

Two chairs had been set before the table: a thronelike chair for the king, and the simpler one in which the princess sat. Phrygians noticed that the king's mother had not accompanied him to this ceremony. He took that as an ill omen. He also noticed that the captain of the king's guard stood nearby, directly in Hans line of sight. That didn't bode well, either.

Hans sat, and Phrygians handed him the charter.

For a long time, the king studied it, saying nothing. The barons waited.

"Your Majesty?" Phrygians said, hoping to prod him gently.

Hans ignored him. The barons started to grow restless. Dingwall and Fergus glared at the king, their expressions hardening. It seemed to have dawned on them at last that the king had no intention of signing their document. For his part, Hans appeared agitated, as if he was gathering himself to say something. The hand gripping the charter had begun to tremble.

At last, he spoke, his voice imperious. "I did not make myself king! God did!"

The barons muttered among themselves. Grimhilde, who seemed to understand the danger in what the king was doing better than Hans himself, glanced at His Majesty and gave a small shake of her head.

"King by divine right!" Hans went on, heedless of them all. "And now you come to me with this worthless document which seeks to limit the authority received from God! No!"

Dingwall started to say something.

"Did I command you to speak, sir?" Hans demanded, his voice like a war hammer.

"My lord ..." Grimhilde said softly as if trying to reason with him.

Hans held the charter over the flame of the oil lamp that had been placed on the table to melt wax for the royal seal.

He glared at Grimhilde as the paper in his grasp began to burn. "Or you, madam?" he asked icily.

The princess clamped her mouth shut.

Hans nodded to the captain of the guard. The captain, in turn, banged the butt end of his pike on the stone of the courtyard three times.

Immediately, at least three hundred guards appeared on the parapets above them, armed with longbows and crossbows. The barons were surrounded, beaten. At a word from Hans, they would all be dead.

They shouted angrily at the king, all at once—Phrygians couldn't make out much of what they said, though he heard the words "betrayal" and "lies" and "tyrant."

"Sire, we looked to you!" Dingwall said, overriding the rest."

"Instead go home and look to your estates," Hans told him. He smiled thinly, knowing that he had beaten them. "You are fortunate that I am in a merciful mood." The smile vanished, leaving him looking stern, his dark eyes burning. "But as for Jack Frost, son of that Mason; for the crimes of theft and incitement to cause unrest, who pretended to be a knight of the realm—a crime punishable by death—I declare him as of this day forth, to be an outlaw, to be hunted all the days of his life, until his corpse unburied is carrion for foxes and crows."

Phrygians winced at the words as if they were a physical assault.

Dingwall and Fergus glared at the king for another moment. Then, with the rest of the barons in tow, they stormed out of the courtyard past more of Hans' armed guards.

* * *

The sheriff of Dorfeld stood at the gate of Burlington Manor, enjoying the feel of the new clothes he wore, his hand straying to the hilt of his new sword, his eyes fixed on his new home. With Sir Sandy and the real Sir Jackson dead, the Overland manor house was his now. He was the king's man here in Dorfeld; it only seemed right that he should live in a home befitting that status.

But pleased as he was to claim Burlington Manor for himself, that was not the best part of this day. He read the royal proclamation one last time, rolled it up, grinned with satisfaction, and mounted his horse.

With a phalanx of his men behind him, he rode down the lane into the village. The people there had started to rebuild their homes. Farmers displayed vegetables for sale in the marketplace, though the buildings around them were blackened and in ruin. Men and boys hauled planks of wood toward the site of the old tithe barn so that they could build a new one.

The sheriff and his men steered their mounts into the village centre, the people scattering before them to keep from being run down. He halted and climbed off his horse, and as the villagers watched him, he unrolled the proclamation and looked around for a suitable place to post it: somewhere it would be seen by all, including those who might object to what it said. Especially them. He turned a slow circle and finally saw the perfect spot.

He walked over to the wall of one of the few buildings still standing, his men around him like an honour guard. Reaching the wall, he turned, cleared his throat, and began to read in a loud, ringing voice.

"Hear me! Hear me! By royal decree, Jack Frost, known as King of Thieves, and all who aid him or shelter him, are declared outlaws of this realm! Their property is forfeit and their lives are to be taken by any Southern Islsh, on sight."

The townspeople stirred at this, looking gratifyingly impressed and intimidated.

The sheriff slapped the decree against the wall with one hand and held out the other, palm open. "A nail, please, and a hammer!"

No one came forward.

The sheriff regarded the townspeople darkly. "A nail!" he said again. "And—"

Thwack!

An arrow whistled past the sheriff's head, grazing his cheek, piercing the royal decree, and burying itself in the wood precisely between the sheriff's forefinger and thumb.

The crowd around him buzzed. The sheriff and his men looked around frantically for the Bowman, whoever he was. They saw no one. But the sheriff thought he heard in the distance the fading hoofbeats of a galloping horse.