The Fell Sword (17 page)

An hour later, dinner was served. The two men shared the wine.

The assassin looked up after a sip, and shook his head. ‘Shit,’ he said. ‘Poison.’

The old man crossed himself. ‘Really?’ he said.

Derkensun stood up, but the assassin was already beginning to foam at the mouth in his iron cage. He babbled a bit, and Derkensun grew pale listening to his words.

And then he died.

So did the blasphemer.

An hour later, as the almost full moon rose, casting a pale white-grey light over the tents, throwing black shadows on the ground, and making armour move like liquid metal, the company had formed up. After a month on the road, even the rawest younger son knew his place in the line. They had a hundred lances, which was to say, a hundred fully armoured men-at-arms, with another hundred squires almost as well armed; two hundred professional archers, most of them carrying the great yew or elm bows that made Alba famous, but a few with Eastern horn bows or even crossbows in the mix, depending on the tastes of the archers and their knight. And another two hundred pages, for the most part unarmoured but carrying light spears, swords, and, in some cases, bows or latches. Recent successes meant that the older pages had some armour, and almost every man had a good helmet with a chain aventail.

Birds had flown back and forth from the city for the last hour – the city itself was less than fifteen miles distant. But Alcaeus had to approach the Captain and shake his helmeted head.

‘No word from the Vardariotes,’ he admitted. ‘The Empress has sent a delegation to them but it may be hours before we hear.’

The Captain nodded. ‘I don’t have hours. Let’s ride.’

‘What if they decline?’ Alcaeus asked.

The Captain shrugged in the darkness, and his harness rustled. ‘Then an opportunity is lost, an easy victory sails through our grasp, and we have to do everything the hard way.’ He shrugged. ‘And we’re out a night’s sleep. Let’s ride.’

Chapter Five

Jarsay – Jean de Vrailly

T
he Count of Eu watched his cousin’s gleaming, steel-clad back as a heavy column of knights and men-at-arms moved down the Royal
Highway from Harndon through Jarsay. Behind, twenty of the Queen’s
new carts rolled along guarded by fifty Royal Foresters and as many Royal Guardsmen in their long hauberks, axes over their shoulders, singing. It was a small army that his cousin commanded, but it was composed of the King of Alba’s finest troops, now acting as tax collectors.

Gaston scratched at the base of his beard and wished he were home in Galle. Unbeknown to his knightly cousin he’d written a letter to Constance D’Aubrichcourt’s father, the Comte D’Aubrichcourt, asking for her hand in marriage. By implication, he’d have to go home to wed her. Once home, and away from his cousin’s endless quest for glory, he’d pull her into bed, close the hangings, and spend the rest of his life . . .

Images of her naked body diving into the pool of icy water drove across his consciousness. All the troubadours said that good love – love with an edge – made a man a better knight, and Gaston had to admit that the image of her naked body poised to dive—

‘Halt!’ called his cousin.

Gaston snapped out of his reverie to find that a dozen mounted Royal Foresters had a pair of men on horseback, seething with outrage. The older man had a hawk on his fist.

‘By what right do you ride armed in Jarsay?’ the hawker asked.

The Captal de Ruth smiled like the image of a saint. ‘By the order of the King,’ he said.

The hawker shrugged. ‘Best send a rider to request my uncle’s leave, then.’ He leaned forward with adolescent arrogance. ‘You’re the foreigner – eh? De Vrailly? You probably don’t know our ways—’

Jean de Vrailly’s face grew red. ‘Silence, boy,’ he said.

The hawker laughed. ‘This is Alba, sir, not Galle. Now,’ he said, looking at the Royal Foresters on either side of him, ‘I’ll trouble you to order these fine men to release me, and I’ll be back to my sport.’

‘Hang him,’ de Vrailly ordered the two Foresters.

The senior man, who wore royal livery, baulked. ‘My lord?’ he asked.

‘You heard me,’ de Vrailly snapped.

Gaston touched his spurs to his mount.

‘Touch a hair on my head and my uncle will have you roasted alive with your prick in your mouth,’ snapped the hawker. ‘Who is this madman?’

‘Insolence,’ said de Vrailly. ‘He is insolent! Hang him.’

The liveried forester took a deep breath and then put out a hand, restraining his companions. ‘No, my lord. Not without a writ and due process.’

‘I am the King’s commander in Jarsay!’ spat de Vrailly.

Gaston had his hand on his cousin’s bridle.

‘And he insulted me! Very well – I see where all this is heading. You – young man. You wear a sword. I’ll do you the honour of assuming that you can use it – yes? I challenge you. You have insulted me and my honour, and I will not live another moment without wiping that stain from the world.’

The hawker suddenly understood the gravity of his situation, and now he was scared – his face blotched red and white. ‘I don’t want to fight you. I want to go home.’

De Vrailly dismounted. ‘As you are foolish enough to ride abroad unarmoured, I will take off my harness. Squire!’ he called, and Stephan appeared. He ordered up two pages and a cart, and the Captal’s armour began to come off – gauntlets first, then shoulders, arms, breast and back, then sabatons and finally the legs in two pieces.

The hawker finally dismounted. His companion, obviously a servant, hissed something at him, and he shook his head.

‘Fuck him,’ said the young man. ‘I’m no coward, nor is my blade a lily wand.’

Gaston decided to try to penetrate his cousin’s stubborn arrogance. ‘Cousin,’ he said softly. ‘Do you remember how much trouble you caused killing the squires of Ser Gavin?’

‘Eh?’ de Vrailly asked. ‘I didn’t kill them, Gaston. He killed one, and you, I believe, killed the other one.’

Rage flared in Gaston, and he fought it down. ‘On your orders.’

De Vrailly shrugged. ‘There was no consequence, at any rate.’

Gaston was stung. ‘No consequence? Did you not see the position in which you placed the King with his people in Lorica?’

De Vrailly shrugged. ‘It is no business of mine if he is weak. I only act for my own honour today, no man can do more.’ He was stripped to an arming jacket and hose but he still looked like an angel come to earth – or perhaps fallen to earth. ‘Now leave me to this.The maintenance of my honour is my sacred duty. You would do the same.’

Gaston shook his head. ‘I would not put myself in a position—’

‘Are you suggesting that this is my doing? Let me tell you, cousin, that I have not found you to be as loyal as I have reason to expect as your liege.’ De Vrailly met his eye.

Gaston shrugged. ‘Perhaps you’d like to fight me, too?’

‘Do you doubt that I am the better man?’ de Vrailly asked.

Gaston stood very still, and he considered a dozen replies. Finally, he nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said, very slowly.

De Vrailly reacted by smiling and putting his hand on Gaston’s shoulder. Gaston flinched. De Vrailly smiled. ‘God has made me the best knight in the world. I am no more worthy than any other, and it is natural that even you, who love me best, should – shall I say it? – be jealous of the favours I receive. I forgive you.’

Gaston bowed his head and withdrew, as carefully as he could. His hands were twitching.

The servant was pleading with the hawker, but the boy would have none of it. He stripped off his peasant’s cote – like most nobles, he dressed in simple, dull colours to hunt – and stood forth in a fustian doublet, hose, and thigh-high boots. He unbuckled his sword belt and dropped it into his man’s waiting hands, and drew the sword.

The liveried Forester was shaking his head. He looked at the company of foreign knights, and then at the royal Guardsman, and finally his eyes settled on the Count of Eu.

‘My lord,’ he said formally. The man’s hands were shaking. ‘Duelling like this is illegal without express permission from the King.’

Gaston pursed his lips. ‘How does the King manage to prevent duelling?’ he asked, genuinely curious.

The Forester watched the preparations. ‘It happens all the time, my lord, but it is proscribed and I am an officer of the law. I’ll lose my place, my lord. That boy is the Earl of Towbray’s nephew. My lads were foolish to pick him up, but this duel is insane.’

Gaston shrugged. ‘My cousin is defending his honour.’ He spoke very carefully, and his jaw was more clenched than he could control. ‘I tried to stop it.’

The boy set himself in a good stance with his weight back over his hips, his riding sword in one hand, held back and across his body. Gaston knew the garde – it looked ungainly but it allowed a weaker man to block almost any cut from a stronger.

De Vrailly took his own riding sword, drew it, handed his squire the scabbard, and then walked out onto the trampled, green-brown summer grass of the crossroads. He walked towards the boy purposefully, flicked his sword up into an overhead garde and threw a cut as he entered into range – the boy covered with a rising swing. Only de Vrailly’s blow was a feint, and his sword flicked around and bit deeply into the boy’s unprotected neck, killing him instantly.

Without breaking stride, de Vrailly walked back to his squire and handed him the sword. Stephan produced an oily linen rag and wiped the blade clean. His face showed no trace of emotion – he might have been wiping furniture clean.

The retainer fell on his knees by the corpse and put his face in the dirt.

The liveried Forester shook his head.

De Vrailly began the process of getting back into his armour.

The Royal Forester followed Gaston back down the column. ‘You know what this means, my lord? Instead of merely collecting the Earl’s back taxes, and he meekly handing us the silver because we’re here in force, he will instead raise his retainers and
fight.
He’ll have to. Honour will demand it.’

Gaston sighed. ‘I think that will suit my cousin perfectly. A nice little war to occupy the late summer.’

The Forester shook his head. ‘I’m sending a rider to the King,’ he said.

Harndon – The Queen

The Queen of Alba stood in front of her mirror, looking for signs of her belly swelling.

‘I’m
sure
,’ she said to her nurse, Diota, who shook her head.

‘You had your courses—’

‘Forty-one days ago, you hussy. I can tell you where I conceived and when.’ She stretched. She loved her own body, and yet she was content to see it pregnant. More than content. ‘When can I know if it is a boy?’

‘Womenfolk aren’t to be despised, mistress,’ Diota snapped.

Desiderata smiled. ‘Women are infinitely superior to men in most respects, but the peace of this kingdom needs a sword arm and a prick with a brain behind it. Besides, the King wants a boy.’ She grinned.

Diota made a clucking noise. ‘How did you get a baby off the King, sweet?’

Desiderata laughed. ‘If I have to tell you, I suppose I will. You see, when a woman loves a man, she—’

Her nurse swatted her affectionately.

‘I know how to make the beast with two backs, you little minx. I know how to find the sap and how to make it rise, too. None better!’ Diota stood with her hands on her hips – a big woman with breast and hips ample enough to make her waist seem small. When Diota laughed, she filled a room. And there was something indescribable to her manner that led men to find her desirable, even when she belittled them.

The Queen smiled. ‘I never doubted it.’

‘But the King—’ Diota paused, and frowned. ‘I’m sorry, mistress. It’s not my place.’

‘Now you have me going, you coarse old woman. What do you know?’

‘No more than half the court knows. That the King incurred the anger of a woman. And she cursed him to father no children.’ Diota’s voice grew quieter as she spoke. It was treason to speak of a curse on the King.

Desiderata laughed. ‘Nurse, you speak nothing but nonsense. He has no curse. Of that, I can assure you.’ She beamed. ‘When he came back from the battle—’ She stared dreamily off into time.

Her nurse smacked her on the rump. ‘Get dressed, you strumpet. If you’ve kindled, you might as well enjoy these summer kirtles while you still have a flat tummy and a maiden’s breasts.’ But she squeezed her mistress’ hand. ‘I meant no harm,’ she said.

‘Do you think I hadn’t heard the rumour?’ Desiderata asked. ‘Heard it, and heard other whispers, too. Two years in the King’s bed and no baby?’ She whirled on her nurse. ‘Ugly stuff. Hurtful, ugly rumours.’ She looked away, and her face settled into its habitual look of open pleasure at the world. ‘But my powers are as great as any challenge. Or curse.’ Her voice lowered a little, and Diota shivered. ‘Who was she, Diota? This woman who cursed my King?’

Diota shook her head. ‘I’d tell you if I knew, mistress. It was long ago. When he was young.’

‘Twenty years ago?’ the Queen asked.

Diota shrugged. ‘Perhaps, sweeting. I was nursing you, not listening to court gossip.’

‘And who got you with child, that you were my nurse?’ Desiderata asked.

Diota laughed. ‘Weren’t exactly the King, if you take my meaning,’ she said.

Desiderata laughed aloud. ‘My pardon, I meant no such thing, and I am being indiscreet.’

Diota put her arms around her mistress. ‘You’re scared, sweeting?’

Desiderata shivered. ‘Since the arrow struck me,’ she said, ‘the world seems darker.’ She shook herself. ‘But my baby will make it right.’

Diota nodded. ‘And your tournament?’

‘Ah!’ said the Queen. ‘My tournament – oh, my sweet Virgin, I had forgotten! I will be big as a sow at Pentecost.’ She shrugged. ‘Well, some other girl must be the Queen of Love. I’ll be a mother.’

Diota shook her head. ‘Are you growing up, pipkin? The knights will still come for you – not for Lady Mary or any of your other girls, pretty as they are.’

‘I hear that the Empress’s daughter is the most beautiful woman in the world,’ the Queen said.

‘Well,’ said Diota, ‘she will be in a few months, anyway.’

‘Oh, fie!’ said Desiderata, and smacked her.

And they both gave way to laughter.

Harndon – Edmund the Journeyman

Edmund the Journeyman – as his peers now called him – sat on a workbench with his feet dangling. He was facing three younger men, all senior apprentices. His anxieties were mostly caused by the fact that for two years he’d eaten and slept with them, and pulled pranks, stolen pies, wrestled, and been bested or triumphed, swaggered sticks, swashed and buckled—

And now they worked for him, and he wasn’t sure how to reach across the sudden gulf between them.

‘I see three ways of approaching the problem,’ he said. ‘We can cast them, like hand bells. We can cast blanks, and bore them – and that’s dead slow.’

The youngest, a white-blond boy named Wat, but whom every other apprentice called ‘Duke’ for his aristocratic looks, laughed. ‘You mean
we’ll
bore it while you sit in the yard and think lofty thoughts.’

Edmund had learned a thing or two from Master Pye and he looked mildly at Duke, and said nothing.