The Dread Wyrm (Traitor Son Cycle) (24 page)

D’Eu nodded, pursed his lips, and sat. “I will consider,” he said.

De Rohan frowned. He whispered a few words to his squire, D’Alace, and looked at l’Isle d’Adam. “If I am to be given the lie, perhaps I should not continue,” he said.

“I will continue,” the Archbishop of Lorica said. “And perhaps no lout will give
me
the lie. These people hate us. They are nothing but a nest of
heretics and rebels. And the so-called ‘Order of Saint Thomas’ is nothing less than a heretical cult. They harbour witches and Satan-workers, and they have never been approved by the scholastica.”

Patiently, as if dealing with a fool, D’Eu said, “Cousin, you must have been here long enough to know that the Albans follow the Patriarch in Liviapolis and not the Patriarch of Rhum. They care nothing for our scholastica or the theology of the bishop or the University of Lucrece.”

“Heretics,” Bohemund de Foi insisted. “The Patriarch of Rhum has never approved of them. And he, not the upstart infidel in Liviapolis, is the primarch of the world.”

D’Eu made a motion of his hand. The motion suggested that he wiped his arse with the bishop’s argument.

The bishop turned bright red. “You dare!”

D’Eu set his jaw. “What I see,
gentlemen
, is a small set of my countrymen determined to stop at nothing to create a civil war here. I will be kind and suggest that it is ignorance and not malfeasance that leads you, my lord archbishop, to say these things.”

De Vrailly tapped a thumb on his teeth. “The Order of Saint Thomas were, my lords, fine knights and good men-at-arms when fighting the Wild.”

“Oh, the Wild!” the archbishop all but spat. “All day I listen to this prattle. Weak minds deluded by satanic manifestations! The Wild is nothing but a snare of this world, like women’s wiles and gluttony.”

De Vrailly combed his twin-pointed beard with his fingers. “In this, my lord archbishop, I cannot agree. The Wild is—quite palpable. My angel says—”

The archbishop held up his hand. “Please, Monsieur de Vrailly.”

Silence fell for a moment as the two men glared at each other.

“I propose we move against this Order and suppress them,” the bishop continued. “I have recorded enough of their use of satanic powers to burn every one of them. They brag of their powers.” The archbishop turned on his cousin. “And you threaten your immortal soul every time you consort with them. Or the Queen and her witches.”

De Vrailly was not a man who enjoyed being spited, especially not at his own table and in front of his own squires. “You speak too forcefully for me, my lord archbishop,” de Vrailly said.

“I speak for the good of your soul,” de Foi replied. “The Queen is a witch and must die. The Order are her minions. Everyone in this room knows that what I say is true. If we are to save the souls of these Albans, we must begin by ridding ourselves of these two forces for evil.”

Gaston D’Eu snorted his derision. “I don’t know any such thing,” he said. “And I recommend that my lord archbishop take a dozen of his priests and some animals and ride west into the mountains. I would strongly
suggest that what he experiences there may change his mind. If he survives the experience at all.” D’Eu tapped his dagger on the table.

His lieutenant, D’Herblay, laughed with him. Even de Vrailly nodded.

The King’s Champion frowned. “As is often the way, there is merit in what my cousin the count says.”

De Rohan shook his head. “Do you deny that the Queen has committed adultery? We have shown you proof often enough. Are you suddenly a convert to her party?”

De Vrailly shook his head. “I am saddened that we are so divided on these matters. No—I know in my heart she is an evil woman. My angel has told me.”

At the word “angel” the archbishop slapped his hand to his forehead, as if in pain.

“I would at least like to order—in the King’s name—the arrest of this woman, Blanche Gold.” De Rohan took a scroll and handed it to de Vrailly. “She has consistently been one of the Queen’s go-betweens with her lovers. We have witnesses,” he said in a low voice.

Gaston D’Eu watched his cousin accept the scroll and he rose. “I cannot be party to this,” he said.

De Rohan shrugged. “Then take your divisive accusations and your treasonous talk and go, my lord.”

D’Eu shrugged. “I have already challenged you. I cannot do so again. That you ignore my summons to combat says all that needs to be said.”

De Rohan didn’t meet his eye.

“Coward,” D’Eu said.

De Rohan grew red.

“Caitiff. Poltroon. False knight.” D’Eu shrugged. “I see that my words cannot move you. I pity you.” D’Eu turned. “My dearest lord, I take my leave.”

“Wait!” de Vrailly said. “Ah, sweet cousin. Please await my pleasure.”

D’Eu bowed and left with D’Herblay at his shoulder.

“He will ruin everything we seek to build here,” de Rohan said, pleading with de Vrailly.

The King’s Champion looked at him with surprise. “How can you not respond to his challenge?” he asked.

De Rohan drew himself erect. “I serve a higher cause. I can ignore a private quarrel, no matter how unfair it is.”

De Vrailly pursed his lips. “I think you should fight him,” he said. “You are a great knight. I trained you myself. You are the match for any man but me.” He raised an eyebrow. “Otherwise, I have to wonder if he is right. Don’t I? And my lord archbishop, I can’t support arresting the Order of Saint Thomas. We’d have riots. And they help us hold the frontiers.”

The archbishop looked pleadingly at de Rohan.

De Rohan sighed. “If you have lost confidence in me, my lord, perhaps I should withdraw to the King’s court at Lucrece.” He bowed to the archbishop. “I agree that they are a nest of heretics. A woman saying mass? It’s an abomination.”

The bishop raised his eyes to heaven.

De Vrailly looked at them both for a long time, his expressive, wide blue eyes going back and forth between them. “Archbishop, I have every respect for the cloth, but I have difficulty separating your rank from your youth. De Rohan, if you do not feel that you can respond to my cousin’s challenge then you have my permission to withdraw to your estates in Galle.” He rose, his armoured legs making a slight
clack
as his legs went straight.

When he and his men-at-arms were gone, the archbishop put a hand on de Rohan’s arm. “I’ll deal with it,” he said. “I have a man.”

De Rohan shook his head. His hand on the table was shaking. “That he would dare!” he hissed.

The archbishop put a hand over de Rohan’s. “In a week—less, if the winds are fair—we’ll have three hundred lances, fresh from Galle. We will own this city, and we will have the whip hand we need.”

“He exiled me!” de Rohan said.

The archbishop shrugged. “Wait and see,” he said with a smile.

When the impromptu council broke up, de Rohan and his people went back to court, where the Count of Hoek’s new ambassador was due to be received by the King. Jean de Vrailly listened to his squire for a moment and followed the younger man into his private study, where D’Eu stood quietly.

“Cousin,” he said.

“I’m going back to Galle,” D’Eu said. “I’m sorry, cousin. These men are disgusting. I will not be linked to them. And there is word that…” He sighed. “There is word that the Wild is attacking Arelat. Even Galle.”

De Vrailly nodded. “I, too, have heard this. Bohemund and his people are full of it—because they have this foolish belief that there is no Wild but only the forces of Satan.” De Vrailly shrugged. “Perhaps they are correct.”

“I have lands in Arelat,” D’Eu said. “I am no good to you here, and I have knight service to perform at home. Please let me go.”

De Vrailly paced. “We are close, I think. When I have brought the Queen to trial—”

“An innocent woman,” D’Eu said flatly.

“And when the rest of my knights arrive—”

“A foreign army to cow the Harndoners,” D’Eu said.

“Cousin, my angel has told me—directly—that I must become King to save this realm.” Jean de Vrailly crossed his arms.

D’Eu came and embraced him. “You know I love you,” he said. “But I will not be party to this anymore. I wash my hands of it. I think you are
wrong—you
and
your angel. And I say that, in your delusion, you have unsavoury allies and you ignore your own beliefs.”

De Vrailly’s nostrils flared. “Name one!” he said.

“You preach the Rule of War. But you forbade me to kill that poisonous viper de Rohan.” D’Eu all but spat. “The Rule of War was made for this—when I know in my heart a man is false as black pitch, I kill him. Yet you—
you
have forbidden me to kill him.”

De Vrailly ran his fingers through his beard and turned away in frustration. “I was surprised,” he said. “But—my angel has told me—”

“Your angel may be a devil!” D’Eu said.

De Vrailly put a hand on his sword.

They faced each other. “Go,” de Vrailly said.

D’Eu bowed deeply. “I will be gone on the first ship of spring, my lord cousin,” he said.

An hour later, Jean de Vrailly was on his knees before his magnificent triptych of Saint Michael, Saint George, and Saint Maurice. He was in his full harness, and the lames around the kneecaps cut into his knees, even though he wore padded hose—bit into them savagely.

He mastered the pain, and remained kneeling.

And he prayed.

His cousin’s stinging words had hurt him. The more so as, in the privacy of his own chamber, he had doubts—severe doubts.

So he knelt, punishing himself for his doubt, and begging his angel for an appearance.

An hour passed, and then another. The pain in his knees was now such as to make it past the guards of his experience and his immunity to the minor pains of wearing his harness. Now he had to admit to a niggle of fear for his knees—how long could mere flesh stand to be tormented by steel?

And his hips—the weight of his mail, of his breast and back, ground into the top of his hips as if he was being pressed to death. If he was standing or riding, the straps on his shoulders would have distributed the weight.

A theologian would have told him that he was committing sin. That by forcing himself to the point of injury, he was testing his angel, and hence, God.

De Vrailly was untroubled by such thoughts.

And eventually, his angel came.

“Ah, my true knight,” the angel said, his voice like the bells of high mass and the trumpets of the King’s court, all together.

De Vrailly bowed his head. The angel was so
bright.

“My child, you must want something,” the angel said sweetly.

De Vrailly’s head remained down.

“You have doubts,” the angel said, amused. “Even you.”

“My lord,” de Vrailly said.

“The Queen is most certainly a witch,” the angel said. “She uses the powers of darkness to entrap men.” The angel’s voice was the very essence of reason.

“My lord—”

“You, de Vrailly, must be King here. Only you.” The angel spoke the words softly, but with great force.

De Vrailly sighed. “I like the King.” He shook his head. “And I am not sure that the Queen…”

The angel smiled. “Your conscience does you credit, good knight. And de Rohan surely rivals Judas as a scheming betrayer.”

De Vrailly’s head shot up. “Yes! To think that work was one of mine—”

“The King of Kings must use the tools that come into his hand,” the angel said. “Even de Rohan.”

De Vrailly sighed. “As always, Puissant Lord, you put my mind at rest.” De Vrailly paused. “But I loathe de Rohan.”

The angel nodded. “So does God. Imagine how He felt about Judas.”

The angel put an insubstantial hand on de Vrailly’s head, and his power flowed through that hand and over de Vrailly, so that for a moment he was suffused in rich, golden light. “You will have much sorrow in the coming days,” the angel said. “This is no easy task I have set you. Beware the snares. When the King is gone—”

“Where will he go?” de Vrailly asked.

“When the King is gone to death, then you will know what to do,” the angel said.

The appearance of an Ifriquy’an in the yard was made even more exotic by his being with Ser Ricar and the beautiful Blanche, whose tall, wide-shouldered good looks were admired—from afar—by every apprentice at Master Pye’s. More boys had been injured swashbuckling to win her attention than any other girl’s in the square.

Edmund, who had charge of the yard for most purposes these days, had the gates opened to admit them and never gave it a thought. Ser Ricar had saved almost every one of them from the increasingly violent attacks of the King’s enemies. His sister Mary had been attacked, knocked down, and kicked—and then saved by Ser Ricar. Nancy had been forced to decline service in the palace—the dream of her youth—because their mother would not allow her to walk unaccompanied through the increasingly dangerous streets.

There was a rumour that Jack Drake was back.

Spring was bringing more ills than reliefs, except for frozen young men whose numb fingers caused accidents during the winter. And as the tournament was coming apace, the yard was overflowing with work.

Blanche was taken into Master Pye’s house, where his wife put her in a
small room with its own fire and waited on her as if she was the Queen in person.

In the kitchen, Ser Ricar drank mulled ale against the cold rain.

The black man drank only water.

Up close, Edmund found him handsome in a disconcerting and alien way. His features were regular, his eyes large and well spaced and deeply intelligent.

Nor did he appear to be under a vow of silence. At the table, when he broke bread, he inclined his head and spoke—some foreign words that sounded like a prayer.

Master Pye came in with his spectacles dangling around his neck. He glanced at the black man as if he saw such in his wife’s kitchen every day and poured himself a cup of the warmed ale.

“Aethiope?” he asked the black man.

The man rose and bowed, his hands together as if praying. “Dar as Salaam,” he replied.

Master Pye nodded. “Allah Ak’bhar,” he said.

The infidel nodded.

“You speak the pagan tongue?” Edmund asked his master.