The Fell Sword (37 page)

The Red Knight – the Duke of Thrake, now – inclined his head. ‘Majesty, your palace is riddled with spies and traitors, and I intend to be very careful to whom I disclose my plans.’

The princess frowned. ‘I agree that my palace has spies. Palaces generally do. But those in this room can be trusted. We are only twelve people.’

‘Jesus only had twelve,’ the Duke said. ‘Look how that came out.’

The Moreans had less experience of blasphemy than Albans, and they gasped. The princess looked physically pained.

The Duke shrugged. ‘At any rate,’ he said. ‘I intend to win over the Academy and build you a fleet. Since both of these will require a great deal of public action, there’s no sense in hiding my intentions.’

She pursed her lips. ‘The Academy is loyal,’ she said. It was the first sign she’d shown of hesitation.

The Duke paused. ‘The Academy has enough hermetical firepower to overthrow the Emperor and the church together, if that’s what they wanted. They allowed the Magister Militum to turn against your father. I suspect that they are unhappy with something.’

The princess looked away. ‘I have no money for a fleet.’

Her new Megas Ducas nodded. ‘I will borrow the money to build a fleet,’ he said.

Lady Maria spoke for the first time. ‘The Etruscans will burn your new fleet on the stocks.’

Bad Tom grunted. ‘Let ’em try,’ he said. He was never at his best without sleep – this morning, he looked like a black boar made into a man, with the hair at his brow curling up like a satyr’s horns.

Lady Maria leaned forward, interested. ‘I had assumed we would buy the Etruscans aid with trading privileges. It has worked before – offer Genua concessions, or Venike, and play them against each other like barbarian tribes.’

‘When you are yourself strong, you can afford to make concessions,’ the Duke said. ‘With a fleet to back your Imperial will, you can dictate your terms to the Etruscans. Right now, they are blockading your ports, shutting out your primary sources of Imperial revenue.’ He shrugged. ‘Besides, we will need a fleet to raid the traitor’s lands, as you call him, and to trade with Alba.’

‘We have no trade with Alba,’ said the princess. She paused, and for the first time, her hands fidgeted. ‘I suppose we have a little.’

The acting chamberlain spoke up hesitantly. ‘We do have trade, Majesty – over the mountains to Albinkirk. Only a trickle, I’m sure.’

‘And that cut off by the Wild,’ said the Duke. ‘Alba is richer and more vigorous than your father or grandfather imagined, Majesty. I, too, am a scholar, at times. And I have a friend who is a great merchant. I enquired at length before coming here. Your silks – some of the finest brocades in the world, made within the walls of this city – travel all the way to Venike before they come back to Harndon, which is just a few hundred leagues along the coast.’ He smiled. ‘And there are other things we share. The fur trade.’

‘A few bolts of brocade will not save the Imperial revenues,’ said the princess. ‘And the furs come from the north – Thrake lies between us and our border revenues. We will not see any furs this season.’

‘Will we not?’ the Duke asked.

Lady Mary put a hand on her mistress’s arm.

‘This is the whole of your plan?’ asked the Imperial princess.

‘No, Majesty. This is the very tip of my spear, and will itself serve to cloak my other activities.’ The Duke smiled. ‘If you’d rather, I suppose I can gather my bucellarii and ride away.’

She sighed. ‘You are the very barbarian mercenary I imagined. Your manners are better, and you speak the High Archaic, but your arrogance is staggering.’

‘Majesty, your arrogant barbarian mercenary would not have a plan to restore the Imperial revenues while maintaining the quality and numbers of the Imperial Army. For fifty generations, your forefathers have squandered their inheritance and purchased foreign soldiers to protect them and maintain the rump of their Empire – and now you think I am arrogant?’ The Duke met her eye squarely. ‘You should get out of this palace, Majesty, and see what the rest of the world is like.’

‘And you imagine that you can save me?’ she asked.

‘I believe I can defeat the traitor and rescue your father,’ he answered.

‘You failed today,’ she countered.

Lady Mary put her hand on the princess’s arm again, but Princess Irene brushed it off.

The Duke nodded. ‘It didn’t help that the traitor knew I was coming, and had already placed his right flank nearest the gate,’ he said. ‘Nor was I warned that he had a most puissant mage waiting to cut my men’s bowstrings and fire the grass. Mmm? Majesty?’

She nodded. ‘I am not responsible for these things,’ she said.

The Duke shrugged. ‘To me and my men, you are entirely responsible. You are the Captain of your Empire.’ He met her eyes.

The princess had the look of a young man trapped in an alley by footpads. Brave enough to fight it out. But aware of the inevitable outcome. She rose. ‘You accuse me, for your failure, my lord Duke? Or you imagine that I
betrayed
you?’

He shook his head. ‘Let us deal with political realities, and not accusations. If you can rule – if you can hold the palace and the city – I can defeat the old Duke and the Etruscans. If you wish to be rid of me – let me stress this, Your Grace – you have only to bid me go.’ He met her, eye to eye. ‘There is no need to assassinate me.’

They looked at each other long enough to become lovers. The look stretched on and on, neither blinking.

Lady Maria stood. ‘The princess will withdraw. We thank you for your efforts on our behalf, my lord Duke. In future, you must use a little less familiarity in dealing with the Imperial presence. Princess Irene is not used to so much confrontation and finds it irreverent and confusing.’

The newly minted Duke stood straight, his hip screaming at him now and joined by an unsealy chorus of bruises, abrasions and pure fatigue. He ignored the polyphony of pain and knelt, took a handful of her hem as she swept by and kissed it.

The princess blushed. ‘You think me ungrateful,’ she said. ‘You find me defenceless, with a traitor at the gate. This Empire has been the bulwark of civilisation for more than a thousand years, and I fear—’ her hand toyed with the diamond cross at her throat ‘—I fear to be the cause of its fall.’

He smiled into her gown. ‘A knight can make a tolerable gate keeper,’ he said. ‘You are not defenceless. There is no chance that the traitor will take this city. Let us build on that.’

She smiled, reached down – cautiously – and touched his hand. Then she glided away.

Lady Maria paused in the doorway. Ser Alcaeus bowed deeply and kissed her hand. She smiled. ‘You have done brilliantly,’ she said to him. Then she turned to the Red Knight. ‘The patents of your appointments are being drawn up even now. I love the boldness of the idea of building a fleet.’ She shrugged. ‘I simply cannot imagine it succeeding.’

Everyone bowed, and the Imperial party swept away, leaving only the Captain of Ordinaries. He turned to the Duke. ‘She touched you!’ he breathed.

The Duke ignored the man. ‘Leave him, Tom,’ he said, without turning around.

Tom lowered his arms and spat at the Captain of Ordinaries’ feet. ‘Your turn is coming, dog,’ he said.

The man turned white and grabbed the cross at his breast. ‘I’m innocent!’ As soon as the Albans were gone, he turned to his lieutentant and murmured, ‘Barbarians.’

Bad Tom appeared in the Captain’s doorway. ‘You two fucking, or can anyone come in?’

Sauce was leaning over the writing desk, shaping the word
omega
with her mouth, tongue in her teeth. The Duke was holding her hand as it drove the sharp stylus into the wax.

Toby fled.

The Duke looked up without releasing Sauce’s hand. ‘Tom, do you know that some people could find your sense of humour offensive?’

‘Really?’ asked Bad Tom. He sank onto a camp stool, which groaned. ‘Jehan, as usual, thinks you are selling us down the river. Could you pat him on the head?’ The big man chuckled silently at Sauce’s discomfiture.

Sauce glared at Bad Tom like an angry cat. ‘You can go fuck yourself,’ she spat.

‘Does the truth hurt, baby?’ Tom asked, and his eyes were hard as flint.

Sauce took a breath and smiled. ‘Jealous? You just want him for yourself,’ she said.

Tom’s right hand shot to his sword hilt.

Their Captain had gone back to work, and ignored their exchange.

Master Random,

If you would be so kind – I need a loan of a hundred thousand ducats and two Master shipwrights. Also a table of values for brocades, silks, and northern furs on the dock at Harndon. In haste—

He tended to stick out his tongue slightly when he wrote too fast, and he sucked it in and clenched his teeth as he finished.

Toby returned as if summoned, sanded the finished document and laid it on a side table.

‘You two done?’ the Red Knight asked.

Bad Tom tore his eyes away from Sauce. ‘You paying the archers after mass on Sunday? Also we need a cleric of some kind. A priest.’

‘We have two priests, I believe. Father Peter from Albinkirk and the mendicant friar—’

‘He’s wode – clean mad, lost his wits.’ Tom crossed his arms.

‘You ought to like him, then,’ said Sauce.

‘A regular chaplain. It’s been mentioned a fair amount by the lads.’ Tom looked at Sauce. ‘And the lasses.’

‘I’ll look into it.’ The Captain went back to writing.

‘I gather we’re to call ye Duke.’ Tom’s voice was itself a warning.

‘Yes. I like it. My lord Duke.’ The Captain sat back.

‘You ain’t our lord. Y’er our Captain.’ Tom shook his head. ‘I mislike it.’

The Captain met his eyes for a moment over his pen. ‘Your reservations are noted,’ he said coldly.

‘Like that, is it, boyo? Don’t get to big for yer braes.’ Tom got up and leaned over the table.

‘I’m not. I’m tired and injured and listening to two posturing idiots puts me in a foul mood.’ The Captain paused. ‘I had enough of it at the palace.’

Tom shrugged. ‘Aye. Well. So you’ll pay the lads on Sunday?’

The Captain met his eye. ‘Perhaps.’

Sauce shook her head. ‘Of course he’ll pay them – Tom? What are you on about?’

The two men were staring at each other.

‘He gave all our money to the fucking Easterners. We don’t have ten silver leopards together. Do we, my lord Duke?’ Tom put both hands on the table. The action was threatening.

The Duke smiled. ‘Tom, it is ten o’clock in the morning, and I’m tired and pissed off. Yes – if that’s what you want to hear – I spent all our money to buy the Vardariotes. It’s no matter. I can get more.’

Bad Tom shook his head. ‘For once, my lord Duke, I’m with Jehan. This is a tom-fool contract with no gold and no gain and too many enemies. Let’s go back to killing monsters.’

The Captain leaned back and put his hands behind his head. He closed his eyes and stretched a little, favouring his right hip. Then his eyes opened. ‘Want a good fight, Tom?’

Tom smiled. He looked at Sauce. ‘Anytime, baby.’

‘Would you settle for catching the spies in the palace?’ he asked.

Tom’s smile came more slowly.

‘Look around you, Tom. This is the richest city in the world. The diamond cross on the princess’s neck would pay the company for a month.’ The Duke stretched again. ‘I have the right to
tax
this Empire for our pay. Think a little bigger, Tom. There’s never been a contract like this.’

‘Best pay the archers on Sunday then,’ Tom said. He grinned. ‘Christ’s skinny knees, you bought me with hunting spies. Will there be fighting?’

‘You can kill anyone you catch, but Tom, how about we extract a little information from them first, eh? Gelfred will have the bulk of the fun but, before Christmas, we’ll have a good fight.’ He rose. ‘Friends, I have to go to bed.’ He handed three scrolls to Toby. ‘See these placed on the birds. Yourself.’ He turned back. ‘And while I’m handing out tasks: Sauce, I want you to learn everything you can about Aeskepiles. Start with the Nordikan, Derkensun.
Do not ask anyone connected to the princess.
’

Toby nodded gravely.

Sauce raised a dark red eyebrow. ‘We don’t trust the princess?’

The Red Knight sighed. ‘We absolutely do not trust the princess.’

Tom put his hands on his hips. ‘Sweet Christ, Captain my Lord High Duke Commander! We don’t trust
our employer
?’

‘I need sleep, sweet friends,’ the Duke said. ‘Our employer, for good or ill, is the Emperor. Not the princess. That’s our legal and quite possibly our moral stance, as well.’

Bad Tom caught his Captain’s arm. ‘I can’na wait to see how this comes out. But – you know I have to go in the spring.’

‘And drive the cattle? Of course you do, Tom. I’m counting on it.’ The Captain smiled. And vanished through the curtain to his sleeping room.

Tom turned and looked at Sauce. ‘He’s counting on it? What the fuck does that mean? I hate it when he does that.’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t really mind that he’s smarter than most folk,’ she said. ‘I just hate it when he rubs my nose in it.’

‘Amen, sister,’ Tom said.

Chapter Eight

Jarsay – Jean de Vrailly

T
he Captal arrayed his little army on the hilltop and watched the Earl of Towbray’s retainers form up on the opposite hillside. He’d sent his defiance to the Earl and then burned a swathe a mile wide down the Earl’s principal valley; looted four of his towns and wrecked his ripe crops, and killed more than a hundred of his peasants. And that night, his angel came again.

He fell on his face. The angel was even brighter; like sapphire and emerald fire.

You will defeat Towbray
, his angel said.

‘Of course,’ de Vrailly said into his prayer carpet.

Do your best to take Towbray alive
, the angel said.
Later, he will prove useful.

De Vrailly was human enough to feel that he didn’t need angelic visitation to see these truths.

You desire to be the best knight in the world. Your triumph is at hand. At the spring tournament, all will be as we have said.

De Vrailly smiled, even under the oppressive fear of his mighty ally. ‘Ah, the tournament,’ he said.

But there are other ways in which this kingdom must be brought to orthodoxy. The Queen must fall. She is a pagan adultress. You must have no pity on her or her people.

De Vrailly bridled. ‘Not even for the wrath of heaven would I make war on a woman.’

The angel could be heard to sigh.
You are the most arrogant mortal I have ever known.

De Vrailly smiled into the carpet.

Very well. You are my chosen servant, and I will allow you your will. But you must not stop her fall.
The angel sounded insistent. Almost wheedling.

De Vrailly shrugged.
As to that, I care nothing for the witch.

Good. Let us add some religious discipline. There is a monk – a pious man – in Lucrete. It is the will of God he become Bishop of Lorica. And restore these heathens to the way. He is a true apostle and he will stamp out the heresy of their witchcraft.

De Vrailly sometimes found talking to his angel was tiresomely like bargaining with a merchant for a horse
. . .

In the full light of dawn, armed and mounted, he turned to his cousin Gaston. ‘He won’t soon defy the King his master,’ he allowed, and laughed.

Gaston was waiting patiently while a squire fixed the buckle on his visor. ‘It appears to me that he’s defying you and the King right now. That’s his standard – and there are his knights.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘Quite a few more knights than we have.’

De Vrailly laughed. ‘I will defeat him easily – first, because his array is weak and his men fear to be taken as rebels, and second because I am a better knight.’

Gaston sighed and bent his head while Forwin buckled his visor. ‘As you say, cousin. Has your angel spoken to you?’

‘Yes. He told me I will soon be king,’ De Vrailly said. ‘And to summon my cousin Guillaulme to become Bishop of Lorica.’

‘The
angel
chose your cousin?’ Gaston knew Guillaulme for a difficult man, one in whom piety had replaced both common sense and common compassion.

De Vrailly held up a gauntleted hand. ‘I have told you before, cousin – to doubt my angel is blasphemy. This realm needs my cousin, so that they may be cured of their heresies and their tendency to accept things that should not be accepted.’

Gaston didn’t answer – merely closed his visor and leaned forward in the saddle to allow his squire to buckle it shut.

De Vrailly rode forward to his standard.

De Vrailly was not so contemptuous of infantry as he appeared, and he’d put the Royal Guard in the centre, flanked by Royal Foresters on each side – about sixty archers on either flank. Towbray had about three hundred knights and men-at-arms, and another two hundred footmen, most of whom were merely servants. Of course, all his archers had already served throughout the spring, in the north – and they were gathering in their harvests, or protecting them against de Vrailly’s raiders.

De Vrailly raised his lance and rode forward, and his knights followed him willingly. His standard bearer, Pierre Abelard de Rohan, shouted the Gallish war cry. All the Gallish knights took it up, shouting, ‘Saint Denis!’ at the Jarsayans, and Towbray’s knights charged.

If the Earl of Towbray had expected a chivalrous encounter, he was wrong. He was the first man to discover how wrong he was when his horse tumbled into a small pit that one of the archers had dug and its guts were ripped out on a stake. In a few heartbeats, the ‘battle’ was over, and the Earl’s surviving knights were riding for home. His footmen, such as they were, cowered in their camp or broke and ran.

De Vrailly took the Earl himself, dismounting and knocking the stunned traitor unconscious with his heavy war sword before leading his knights in hunting the footmen through the camp and into the dales beyond. They killed or captured every man they could catch, burned the crops, and took their prisoners back to their own camp.

De Vrailly had the Earl put in chains, in a wagon.

Gaston d’Eu found him standing on a low bluff, looking out over the burning fields and small hamlets of Jarsay.

‘You have to take him to the King,’ d’Eu said.

De Vrailly pursed his lips. ‘Why, when I can punish his serfs all autumn?’

Gaston sighed. ‘These people are innocent of anything but having a bad lord. And they are the King’s subjects. If your angel speaks you true – hear me, cousin, and don’t interrupt – they will soon be
your
people.’

De Vrailly motioned out at the fields of fire and smoke stretching off into the sunset. ‘But – is this not beautiful?’ He smiled. ‘Our knights are flush with victory and richer with the loot of this traitor’s lands. He’ll pay a huge ransom – and it’s all mine. The King can collect his taxes from the man while he is my captive.’

Gaston shook his head. ‘All those payments will be extracted from these rich valleys – where your men have killed the men, raped the women and burned the crops. So who will pay this ransom? The crows?’

De Vrailly waved his hand in dismissal. ‘You have grown soft here in Alba. This is what war is. We are servants of war. If you do not like it, strip off your spurs and become a monk.’

Gaston shook his head. ‘Take Towbray to the King. Immediately, before it gets worse.’

‘Ahh!’ De Vrailly rubbed his beard. ‘But— No. I could simply kill him. I can take his lands and make them my own.’

‘That’s not how Alba works,’ Gaston said. ‘And he has a son.’

‘Bah.’ De Vrailly laughed. ‘He’s no threat at all. A boy playing at being a knight.’ De Vrailly shook his head. ‘You really think that the King will not take my part in this?’ he asked.

‘I think he could argue you made the traitor revolt when you killed his nephew in an illegal duel.’ Gaston shrugged. ‘Eh?’

De Vrailly spat. ‘You ruin everything,’ he said. ‘And I was so happy. I cannot understand this place. Everywhere, their rule of law means the strong must give way to the weak. I hate it.’

Gaston shrugged. And, wisely, said nothing.

Harndon – The King and Queen

‘He did what?’ roared the King. He stared balefully at the messenger, who stood woodenly before him.

The captain of the Royal Guard – and the old King’s by-blow – Sir Richard Fitzroy, raised his eyebrow at Gareth Montroy, widely known as the Count of the Borders, who cleared his throat.

‘The Captal can be precipitate,’ the Count said quietly.

‘He fought a battle with Towbray and captured him,’ the King said, reading the letter. ‘By Christ’s passion, he burned a swathe through Towbray’s lands – my lands!’ The King looked at his new constable, the Count. ‘He says he will set Towbray’s ransom at three hundred thousand silver leopards.’

The Count struggled to maintain a straight face. ‘There’s not that much coin in the world,’ he said.

Sir Richard made a face. ‘That’s roughly the value of Towbray’s entire demesne. I have no love for the Gallish thug, but Towbray’s been a burr under Your Grace’s saddle throughout your reign. That’s why you sent de Vrailly to deal with him.’

The King paused and pulled on his beard.

The Count shook his head in disagreement. ‘Your Grace, I believe that the Earl is a dangerous man and as changeable as a weathercock. He served you well this spring, but your other peers would not take kindly to seeing this foreigner displace one of our oldest families.’ He looked at the captain of the bodyguard. ‘I could see us being well rid of Towbray.’

Ser Richard shrugged. ‘I’d like to have seen Towbray’s face when he found himself a captive of yon loon. But Your Grace has to consider sending him back to Galle for this. The commons openly say he’s a spy for the King of Galle.’ He glanced around the room. ‘And my lord, if we attaint Towbray, the other lords will be very afraid. Scared men make foolish choices. And they are already scared of de Vrailly and his Galles.’ Ser Richard looked at the King and shrugged, as if to say that this wasn’t his fault. ‘And Your Grace appointed him to choose the next Bishop of Lorica,’ he said. ‘He has chosen his cousin – a member of the University of Lutece. A priest famous for his harsh interpretation of God’s word.’

‘Did I ask for your opinions?’ said the King, eyes afire. ‘Did I ask you—’ He paused. The Queen was coming into the room, and he rose and bowed.

She had two of her ladies with her, Lady Rebecca Almspend, her secretary, in a deep blue overgown with midnight-blue stockings that she rather daringly showed through a slit of her gown, and Lady Mary Montroy, the richest heiress in the realm and the Queen’s chief maid, who wore a gown of red and black check pinned with a golden dragon – her gown revealed one red leg and one black leg, and contrasting slippers. As she had black brows and deep red hair, the contrast was maintained over her entire body – a body worthy of review.

The three women curtsied, and the men bowed.

The Count smiled at his daughter. ‘You may be the first woman to grace this court in a Northern tartan.’ Even the King smiled.

The King leaned forward. ‘By God, though, Montroy. I thought the Muriens colours were green and gold?’

They all laughed, and the Queen leaned forward, a hand on her chest, and said, ‘My lord must know that the Northerners have an ancient style – a set of colours that is a badge and a vaunt all at once.’

The King smiled. ‘Any man who has hunted a bear in the Adnacrags knows about tartan, my dear. And Becca – we are all informal today, I find – you are dazzling. Which, if I may, is not how I am used to see you.’

‘Fie, Your Grace! And yet my stockings remain blue.’ She said this with a fetching lift of her hem to show her ankles and a hint of dancer’s legs. The comment was so at odds with her usually severe demeanour, downcast eyes, and profusion of stylus ends and wax tablets that the King snorted and Sir Richard, who had been quite enamoured of the secretary from time to time, felt his former feeling rush back.

The Queen smiled. ‘Having a worthy lover maketh a woman bloom like a rose in summer – isn’t that what the poem says?’

The Count, a simple man with simple tastes and a devoted wife, nonetheless found his throat a bit tight and his face flushed. Ser Richard caught himself leering like a gowp and shut his mouth. The King beamed at his wife with adoration. ‘That might be the highest compliment you’ve ever paid me,’ he said, voice husky.

Her lips brushed his. ‘How clever of you to see that,’ she said. ‘The three of us are on our way to the library, but it appears that we require Your Grace’s permission to open your father’s letters.’

‘By Saint Martin’s cloak!’ said the King. ‘Whatever for? Be my guest. Here – Becca, write it out for me and I’ll seal it.’

‘Your Grace,’ said Lady Almspend, and she produced, not her usual horn inkwell, but instead a young page clad in livery, who had a heavy leather bag on his shoulder. He knelt and offered her a lap desk. She received a nod from the King permitting her to sit – it was an informal day and place and not high court – and she perched on a chair meant for a man in armour and wrote in her round, clear Gothic hand. She then produced royal red sealing wax and melted it from a device.

‘Is that hermetical?’ asked the King.

Lady Almspend nodded. ‘Approved by the old Bishop of Lorica, Your Grace. Made with the sun’s energy harnessed in a matrix of prayer and held—’ she produced the item ‘—in a cross.

They all passed it around.

‘We live in marvellous times,’ said Ser Richard, looking for some little contribution to catch her attention. It was widely known that she loved a barbarian drover – a member of the royal bodyguard named Ranald Lachlan. Paradoxically, Ser Richard held Lachlan in the highest esteem, and did what he could to further the Hillman’s career.

Almspend looked at him and shrugged. ‘I expect all times are marvellous to those who live in them, Ser Richard.’

The King was notoriously insensitive to the feelings of his men about the ladies of court, and he leaned over to watch her seal the order and asked, ‘What of your handsome drover, eh, Becca? I want my Ranald back at my shoulder.’

The Queen, in a rare display of temper, said, ‘Then Your Grace has but to make him a knight and offer him a dowry.’