Hawkwood and the Kings: The Collected Monarchies of God (Volume One) (50 page)

"It is a wondrous place, sire, so different from our crowded old Abrusio. Like something from one of the old courtly tales."

"You look pale. Are you well?"

Jemilla was wearing a loose robe of deep scarlet encrusted with pearls and gold thread. Her dark hair was bound up on her head with more pearl-headed pins, and her face was as white as sea-scoured bone.

"Quite well, sire. I am a little tired, perhaps."

Mark ignored her. He had been rather scandalized by Abeleyn's bringing her to the conclave, especially since the Hebrian king was officially, if secretly, betrothed to his sister.

"You should keep out of the sun. It is very bright on the eye in this part of the world. There is no dust to blunt its passage."

"I am waiting for my barouche, sire. Will you walk me to the corner? My maids seem to have deserted me for the moment."

"By all means, my lady. Cousin, you will await my return?" Mark flapped a hand affably enough and buried his nose in his glass.

"He doesn't like me," Jemilla said when they were out of earshot.

"He is attracted to you, but Mark is an austere sort of fellow at times. He loves his wife, and is prone to guilt."

"You and he behave like a pair of 'prentice ensigns out on the town. Have you no attendants with you?"

Abeleyn laughed. "My bodyguards - and Mark's - are very discreet, and Cadamost no doubt has people watching us also. You need not fear for my safety in Vol Ephrir. If anything happened here it would reflect badly on Perigraine's king."

Jemilla leaned on his arm. She was walking more slowly than her usual brisk pace.

"Is anything the matter, my lady?"

She leaned close to him, spoke into his ear. "I am with child."

They halted in the street, curious folk glancing at the pair as they passed by.

"Are you sure?" Abeleyn asked in a voice gone toneless and cold.

"Yes, sire. It is yours. There has been no one else in the time we have been together."

Abeleyn stared at her. The bright sunlight brought out the lines at the corners of her eyes, accentuated the whiteness of her skin, the shadows under her cheekbones.

"You are not well, lady," he murmured.

"I can keep nothing down. It is a passing thing."

"Does anyone else know?"

"My maid will have guessed." Jemilla caressed her stomach through the thick, loose robe. "It is hardly noticeable as yet, but my flow has been -"

"All right, all right! I don't want to hear about your woman's mechanisms!" Like most men, Abeleyn knew little and cared less about that particular subject. It was bad luck to couple with a woman at that time, an offence against God. That was as far as he cared to enquire.

"You're sure it's mine, Jemilla?" he demanded in a low voice, taking her by the arms.

Her eyes filled with tears. "Yes, sire." She bent her head and began to sob quietly.

"Saint's teeth! Where is that blasted cart? Dry your eyes, woman, for God's sake!"

The covered carriage came trundling along the street and Abeleyn hailed it.

"Will you be all right?" he asked as he helped her inside. He had never seen her weep before and it disconcerted him.

"Yes, sire, I will be fine. But I cannot - I cannot perform the same services that I have undertaken up until now."

Abeleyn coloured. "Never mind that. We'll get you back to Hebrion by sea. You won't be climbing the Malvennors in your state. There are a few things I must arrange. You will be looked after, Jemilla."

"Sire, I have to say - I want to keep this child. I will not have it... disposed of."

Abeleyn stiffened. For a second he bore an uncanny resemblance to his severe, rigidly pious father.

"That is one notion that never entered my mind, Jemilla. As I said, you will be looked after, and the child also."

"Thank you, sire. I never doubted it."

He closed the door and the carriage sped away to the palace where she had a suite of her own. He followed its departure with a grim set to his mouth.

A bastard child, and not by some strumpet either. By a lady from a noble house. That could cause problems. He would have to be careful.

"Anything wrong?" Mark asked when Abeleyn rejoined him.

"No. Women's inquisitiveness. I sent her on her way."

"A handsome woman, if rather on the mature side."

"Yes. She's a widow."

"And nobly born," Mark noted unsmilingly.

Abeleyn gave him a piercing look. "Not nobly enough, cousin, believe me. Not nobly enough. Order some more wine, will you? I'm as dry as a summer lane."

I
N THE CLOSED
carriage, the lady Jemilla's face was bright and hard, the tears dried. The carriage was well-sprung, the motion easy, for which she was grateful. She had never borne a child to full term before. She was not entirely sure about what awaited her. But that was not important.

He had believed her - that was the main thing. What would he do now? What prospects had a bastard son of Hebrion's king? It remained to be seen. She did not like the way Abeleyn was so friendly with Mark of Astarac. As a bachelor he might secretly welcome a son, even one from the wrong side of the blanket, but were he to marry and make an Astaran princess his queen...

It was not Abeleyn's child, of course; it was Richard Hawkwood's. And it would be a boy - she could feel it in her marrow. But Hawkwood was no doubt dead by now, fathoms deep in the waters of some unending ocean. And even if he were not, he was not nobly born. He must never know that he had a son. No, this child of hers would grow up a king's son, and one day she would see that he claimed what he was owed. He would not be cheated of his birthright, and when he claimed it his mother would be there to guide him.

Twenty-Three

T
HEY FOUND
B
ILLERAND
halfway through the middle watch, down in the cable tiers in the fore part of the hold. He had gone below to check on the eight-inch cables that served the anchors. The boy Mateo had been with him; of his body there was no trace. The soldiers said they had heard nothing.

A file of arquebusiers fired a volley as what remained of his corpse was slipped over the side in recognition of the soldier he had once been, then they went back to their posts, in fours now instead of pairs, and with lanterns burning throughout the hold to try and keep the shadows at bay.

Hawkwood and Murad spent what was left of the night drinking good brandy in the nobleman's quarters and racking their tired brains for something to do, some course of action that would help. Hawkwood even suggested asking Ortelius for aid, but Murad vetoed him. Bad enough that the priest seemed to be winning more and more influence among the soldiers and the sailors, but for the ship's officers to go running to him for help was intolerable.

Bardolin joined them, bad news written all over his face. "Ortelius is addressing a meeting of sorts on the gundeck,' he told them.

"The gundeck!" Murad exclaimed.

"Yes. It would seem he has made it his mission to win over the poor lost souls of the Dweomer-folk to his way of thinking. There are many of the soldiers there, and some of the mariners too."

"I'll get Sequero to break up their little party," Murad said, beginning to rise from his chair.

"No, Lord Murad, I beg you do not. It can only do harm. Most of your men are still at their posts, and the majority of your sailors, Captain, but I noticed one of your ship's officers, Velasca. He was there with the rest."

"Velasca?" Hawkwood exploded. "The mutinous dog!"

"It would seem," Murad drawled, "that our subordinates are evolving minds of their own. Have some brandy, Mage. And take that thing out of the front of your robe for the Saint's sake. I have seen familiars before."

Bardolin released the imp. It hopped on to the table and sniffed at the neck of the brandy decanter, then grinned as Murad chucked it gently under the chin.

"Good luck, an imp aboard ship," Hawkwood said quietly.

"Yes," Bardolin said. "I remember Billerand telling me once, back in Abrusio."

There was a heavy silence. Hawkwood downed his brandy as though it were water. "What have you found out?" he asked the wizard at last, eyes watering from the strong spirit.

"I have been doing some reading. On werewolves. My collection of thaumaturgical works is pitifully inadequate - my home was ransacked ere we left Hebrion - and I have had to be discreet in enquiring as to whether any of the other passengers have similar works in their possession, you understand. But according to what meagre researches I have been able to carry out, shifters do not like confinement of two kinds. Gregory of Touron reckons that the longer the man who is the shifter retains his human form, the more violent the actions of the beast once he transforms. Hence if shifters do not intend to run entirely amok once in animal form, they must change back and forth regularly, even if the beast form only lies motionless. It is like lancing a boil. The pus must be let out occasionally. The beast must breathe."

"What's the other form of confinement?" Murad asked impatiently.

"That is simple. Any prolonged period of incarceration in close quarters, such as a house, a cave -"

"Or a ship," Hawkwood interrupted.

"Just so, Captain."

"Brilliant," Murad said caustically, flourishing his glass. "What good do these priceless nuggets do us, old man?"

"They tell us that this shifter is suffering on two counts. First because he is in the confined space of a ship, and second because he cannot change back and forth with the frequency he might desire. And so the pressure builds up, and the frustration."

"You're hoping he will make a mistake, lose control," Hawkwood said.

"Yes. He has been very careful so far. He has murdered our weather-worker and left us becalmed, thinking perhaps that will be enough. But the wind has struck up again and still the ship is pointed west, so he strikes again - at a ship's officer this time. He is starting to sow the seeds of panic."

"They know it was a shifter that killed Pernicus," Murad said, his eyes two slits in his white-skinned face. "It's hard to say who are the most terrified, the soldiers or the passengers."

"He hopes to ignite a mutiny, perhaps," Hawkwood said thoughtfully.

"Yes. There is one other thing Gregory tells us, however. It is that the shifter who has recently killed is not sated - quite the reverse, in fact. Often he finds he must kill again and again, especially when he is in these confined conditions I have mentioned. He loses more control with every murder until in the end the rational part of him recedes and the mindless beast gains control."

"Which perhaps is what happened to the shifter aboard the
Faulcon
," Hawkwood put in.

"Yes, I am afraid so."

"The
Faulcon
did not carry a complement of Hebrian soldiers, nor arquebuses with iron bullets," Murad said stoutly. "No, this thing is becoming afraid, is my guess. If the wizard is correct then the shifter is beginning to succumb to his more bestial impulses. It may work to our advantage."

"And in the meantime we await another death?" Hawkwood asked.

"Yes, Captain, I think we do," Bardolin said.

"I don't think much of your strategy, Mage. It is like that of the sheep as the wolf closes in."

"I can think of nothing else."

"There is no mark, no sign by which the beasts can be recognized in human form?"

"Some old wives say there is something odd about the eyes. They are often strange-looking, not quite human."

"That's not much to go on."

"It is all I have."

"Where will he strike next, do you think?" Murad asked.

"I think it will be at what he perceives to be the centre of resistance and the source of authority. I think that next he will strike at one of those sitting about this table."

Murad and Hawkwood stared blankly at one another. Finally the scarred nobleman managed a strangled laugh.

"You have a sure way of ruining good brandy, Mage. It might be vinegar in my mouth."

"Be prepared," Bardolin insisted. "Do not let yourselves be found alone at any time, and always carry a weapon that will bite its black flesh."

T
HE CARRACK SAILED
on with its twin cargoes of fear and discontent. Velasca, Hawkwood noted, was slow to obey orders and seemed perpetually ill at ease, even when the splendid north-easter continued steadily, breezing in over the starboard quarter and propelling the ship along at a good six knots. Two leagues run off with every two turns of the glass, one hundred and forty-four sea miles with every full day of sailing. And west, always due west. The carrack's beakhead bisected the sinking disc of every flaming sunset as though it meant to sail into its very heart. Hawkwood loved his ship more than ever then, as she responded to his attentions, his cajolings, his lashing on of sail after sail. She seemed unaffected by the feelings on board, and leapt over the waves like a willing horse scenting home in the air ahead.