Bad Tom bellowed in real rage and hooked Ser Gabriel’s foot, kneed him ungently in the balls and dropped him on the ground. In the process he put his knee behind the captain’s knee.
“You stupid fuck,” Bad Tom bellowed, sweat and spittle dripping off him. “I could ha’ maimed you for life. I had your fewkin’ head in a lock. I might hae snapped your fewkin’ neck. And you would na’ yield. What sport is that?”
Ser Gabriel lay on the sand, face up, his hands clasped between his legs, panting. His right leg lay at an odd angle.
“Damn me. I didna’ mean to hurt you, you loon.” Tom reached down and grabbed the captain’s hand.
Ser Gabriel allowed the Hillman to drag him to his feet, and then he screamed and fell.
He came to almost immediately.
Gabriel gave Tom a shaky smile. “Oh, yes. Let the punishment fit the crime.”
Ser Michael brought him cold water, and he drank.
He met Michael’s eyes.
“You had that coming,” Michael said.
“What’s the matter?” Bad Tom asked. “The little nun? She’s coming.”
Before he was done speaking, Sister Amicia bustled into the yard, her wimple flapping like the wings of a sea bird. She had two other sisters at her shoulders.
She glared about her with disapproval. Bad Tom shrank away. Ser Michael stood his ground.
“Ser Gabriel has re-broken his leg,” he said.
Amicia knelt by the Red Knight, who lay on his back. She ran her hands over his leg and leaned down.
“I must have your word that you will not endanger my healing or refuse God’s gift,” she said, quite clearly. “For a week.”
Gabriel’s face worked, and no sound emerged.
Ser Michael leaned in. “He agrees,” Michael said.
She joined hands with the other nuns, and the three of them sang—a polyphony. And Amicia’s voice soared over their quieter, lower voices, up and on.
When she was done, every man in the yard was on his knees. She smiled. “Don’t let him break it again,” she said.
She rose. Gabriel watched her silently.
In his memory palace, she stood by Prudentia. “I have healed you. But you can’t be so foolish.”
He nodded.
“I’m sorry, Gabriel. I—”
He raised a hand. “I’m sorry, too. But I’m not ready to talk more.”
Her head snapped back. But she continued to smile at him. And slipped away with her two serving sisters.
With Bad Tom on one side and Ser Michael on the other, Gabriel made it to his feet and hobbled to the bench.
“She’s a force,” Bad Tom said, placing his charge on the bench.
“She’s not so little,” Gabriel said. He felt better—for no reason.
Tom laughed. “Not where it matters, anyway. If you’d taken my advice during the siege—”
“The advice that I rape her?” the captain asked. Ser Michael caught his breath.
“Rape is a strong word,” Bad Tom said. He scratched his beard. “Some ladies like a little persuading. Like horses.”
Ser Gabriel drank a dipper full of cold water and spat a little blood. “I don’t think that would have worked,” he said.
Bad Tom looked out over the great north woods. “Aye. It doesn’t always work.” He grinned. “But it can save a mort of time.”
Ser Gabriel looked at his friend. “Tom, what would you do if a lady pushed you to the ground and stuck her tongue in your mouth?”
Ser Michael snorted.
Tom snorted. “Is this something philosophical? Because by our lady, I promise you that will never happen here in the world.” More soberly, he sighed. “But I take your point.”
They sat in silence for a moment. Michael took Toby by the elbow and hauled him out of the small side-yard where the pells stood.
“She said no,” Tom said, with a glance at Michael’s retreating back.
“She’s working with my mother,” Gabriel said.
Tom shrugged. “Who cares? You love her?”
Gabriel nodded.
“Well, then, bide your time.”
Gabriel laughed. “I’m getting advice on love from a Hillman.”
Tom raised an eyebrow. “Well, laddy, I might point out that I have a fearsome record of lovers and you, as far as I know, seem to miss more than you make. You might do better than take my advice.” He looked at the smaller man. “I reckon there’s been mayhap twenty nights in the last hundred I haven’t had a woman to warm my bed. Most of them would do’t again. Hae you done as well?”
Gabriel shook his head. “I’m not sure this is a matter where a high score indicates victory, but very well. Your advice is?”
“This castle is full of lasses who would jump in the blankets with ye for a song. For a look and a smile. The bronze-eyed vixen as waits on your lady mother…”
“Your advice is that I can win the love of a nun by fornicating with my mother’s maid?” Gabriel asked.
Tom smiled lazily. “Aye. That sums it up nicely.”
Gabriel shook his head. “I need to talk to my mother. I’m just avoiding my duty.” He got up. “Thanks for the fight. I’m sorry I cheated. I’m angry.”
“Oh, aye,” Tom said. “I’d never hae guessed.” He put an arm around the younger man. “Best rid yourself o’it.”
“Of what?” Gabriel asked.
“Father Arnaud’s death,” Tom said. “He’s dead. He died well. All glory to him. And you know what’s wrong wi’ you? You want to be God. You want to hae saved him. An’ you did not. He died.”
Gabriel sighed.
“Let him go. And while yer at it, stop trying to be God.” Tom smiled. “I confess ye do it better than many. But Arnaud went his own road. He’s gone.” Very softly, he said, “You want me to find you a willing lass?”
Gabriel laughed. He wheezed a little, and finally rose to his feet. “Is that your cure for everything?” he asked.
Tom nodded. “Pretty much. Sometimes…” He shook his head. “Sometimes ale helps. But not as much as a wench who wants ye.”
Gabriel got a step away when Tom rose. Gabriel turned.
“I read your plan,” Tom said.
“And?” Gabriel asked.
“I’m in. I don’t think I want to be Drover, anyway. I think that should be for Ranald.” He nodded. “I’ll sell the herd in Harndon. And then I want my job back. Do I need to kill Bescanon?”
Gabriel smiled. “No,” he said. “No, but Tom, sometimes I find it awfully refreshing to see the world from your eyes.”
“Aye,” Tom said. He grinned. “I like to keep things simple.”
He found his mother in her solar. She made him wait again, but she was alone.
“The nun won’t have you,” his mother said. “And you’ve ruined my lute. It was tuned to a casting pattern and now it is banal.”
Gabriel smiled and kissed his mother on the cheek. “The sele of the day to you, too, Mother.”
The bronze-eyed maid came in with wine and curtsied. Gabriel watched her with an appreciation whetted by Tom’s comments. She was remarkable. Gabriel had a suspicion that she had been prepared for him.
She blushed when her lowered eyes happened to intersect with Ser Gabriel’s.
“She won’t give up her vows. She’s after Sophie’s title.” Ghause laughed.
“What, to be the king’s mistress?” Gabriel asked. “I’m surprised. She’s never mentioned it.”
Ghause glared at her son, her eyes slightly mad, like the griffon’s. “She intends to be Abbess.”
“She told you this?” Gabriel asked. He was fascinated—mostly because his theory that Amicia was working with his mother was being shredded. By his mother. She could be a fine actress, but he didn’t think she could pull this off.
“Not in so many words,” his mother said, pouting.
Gabriel sat back. “You mean, Mother, that if you were in Amicia’s place, the only reason you would stay out of my bed would
be to acquire more power.”
Ghause snarled, but her snarl became a laugh. “Fair eno’, my son. Now—you never came here of your own will.”
Gabriel nodded. “I want you to agree to the alliance—as vassals of the king.”
Ghause swore and stood. “Christ’s bloody crown of thorns, boy. I will not be my brother’s vassal for anything.”
“Even if doing so would avert civil war?” Gabriel asked.
“Better and better,” Ghause said. “Let him rot. Let him die.”
Gabriel sat back and crossed his legs. “I told him,” he said simply.
Ghause paused. She looked at her son for a long time, and then said slowly, “You told him—what?”
“I told him that I was your son. By him.” He put his hands behind his head and looked at the ceiling.
Ghause rose slowly. “You what?”
Gabriel sighed. “I told him. I felt he needed to know.”
Ghause’s mouth moved, but no words came out.
Gabriel watched her. “I could go to court and present myself as the king’s bastard by his sister,” he said. “I suspect that would have an effect. I might even prevent the civil war. Perhaps he’d make me his heir!”
“You wouldn’t dare! I don’t want anything given by that bastard! I want him brought low!” Ghause was on her feet, her voice rising.
“You know, Mother, those may be things you want, but they are not things I want. If you want to destroy the king, you need to affect that on your own. I will not be your tool. And in the meantime, if you would like to please me, sign this agreement as the king’s vassal. In my turn, I’ll promise you—and your mate—my support as Duke of Thrake.”
Ghause pursed her lips. “No. I don’t give a fuck if you want to lie naked at his feet. Go—lick his arse for all I care.” She put a hand on the treaty, written out fine. “I will sign it, though. I’ll be a lickspittle and sign it as a vassal. I can repudiate it any time I like. Only make me one promise, and I’ll comply.”
Gabriel braced himself. “Does it involve murder?”
“No, marriage.” She sat again. “Marry the girl of my choice. I promise she’ll be handsome and have a good dowry and power. Give your word to marry her at my whim and I’ll sign your paper.”
Gabriel drew breath.
Ghause leaned towards him. “Forget your little nun. Or tumble her to your heart’s content when you’ve got your bride in kindle. I admit, for all her low birth, I like the nun. I think I could fancy her for myself.” She licked her lips. “What was wrong with the princess Irene?”
“You are the second person to ask me that today,” Gabriel said, a little wildly.
“Well?” his mother insisted.
“She tried to kill her father?” Gabriel said. “She poisons people?”
Ghause shrugged.
Gabriel sat back and laughed. “I confess, you’d like her, and you two would have so much to talk about over your sewing.”
Ghause met his eye. “You think I’m crude and vicious,” she said. “But yon princess is what she is. She is what her court has made her, and if you were a good knight and a good husband, she’d ha’ no need to poison you, would she?”
Gabriel put his face in his hands. “Is that the measure of wedded bliss?” he asked.
“Pretty much,” Ghause said. “I’ve been with the Earl of Westwall for twenty years and more. And we ha’ not killed each other.” She snapped her fingers, and her maid returned and poured more wine. “Did the princess offer?”
Gabriel thought a moment. “No. Although I suspect that she will be offered—by her father. Soon.”
Ghause smiled. “And you have not said no?”
Gabriel thought again. “No.”
Ghause nodded. “You could be Emperor,” she said.
Gabriel nodded. “Yes. But no. The Empire does not transfer power by blood, and when the Emperor dies. Has it occurred to you that I don’t share your ambitions?”
She ignored him. “I’ll sign your paper, and you’ll take the bride I assign you. And no quibbles—I know you.”
Gabriel stood. “I’m tempted just to lie and agree. I think maybe I could save hundreds of lives by agreement. But you know, Mother, tonight I’m at my limit of being used by the powers of the world. So—no.” He picked up the parchment. “Won’t you just sign because you are the king’s vassal?”
She frowned. “It is nothing to you that he forced me—a chit of a girl, his own sister?”
Gabriel nodded. “Yes, Mother. For all that stands between us, I agree. I hate him, I think he’s false as a caitiff and that everything he’s ever done is poisoned by what he did to you.” He shrugged. “But—if all of us cling to our hates, we’ll never move forward. If that fool de Vrailly marches north this summer…”
“The earl will destroy him,” Ghause said with satisfaction.
Gabriel looked at her. Then he shrugged. “Very well, Mother. I think that you have chosen your road. And I have chosen mine.”
She frowned. “So you will not marry a girl for me?”
“Nor be party to any plot or plan of yours,” he said. “More, I’m going to go tell Ser John that I cannot accept command of the northern army. Given your stance, and the earl’s, the King would never agree to it.”
“Fine,” she said. “You won’t help me? Your own mother? Then go to hell, my son.” She blew him a kiss.
He went out through her solar with her curses ringing in his ears.
He went straight back to Ser John and dropped the parchment on his desk. “My apologies, Ser John. I cocked that up.”
The Captain of Albinkirk sighed. “She won’t sign?”
“She consigned me to hell.” Gabriel raised his hands.
“Damn. Your own mother.” Ser John shook his head.
Ser Gabriel spread his hands. “I must decline to be your commander, Ser John. I’ll leave you to puzzle out why.”
“Christ on the cross, your mother wants war with the king?” Ser John sat in shock.
Ser Gabriel said nothing. After a pause, he said, “As soon as the tournament is over, I’ll return to Morea. I promise you that if you call, the Emperor will send a force. I will probably not accompany it.”
“Damn. Damn and damn. Can you tell me why the duchess hates the king?”
Gabriel shook his head. “No, Ser John.” He paused. “It’s not my story to tell.” He shook his head. “But she will not change her mind.”
Dinner in the great hall was a desperate affair. Sister Amicia sat silently, and her eyes never touched Ser Gabriel’s. The Duchess of Westwall alternated between crass and arch, and neither note struck home on her target, her son, who sat as isolated as a priest might be by an altar screen, alone with his thoughts. Ser John tried, and failed, to create a conversation. His efforts made it as far as the venison pie and then died, and the rest of the dinner passed in silence, punctuated by the duchess’s pro forma flirting with the now receptive Lord Wayland and her wilful ignoring of the Keeper’s son.
A pair of messengers arrived, both from Ser Ricar. Ser John went out to hear them, and the dinner broke up.
Gabriel watched Amicia for any sign he might speak to her. She chatted with the Drover as if she had no other need for company, and then she sat and played chess with her friend, the bishop.
His mother watched him with an intensity equal to the chess players.
Finally, Gabriel went to his room.
His leg hurt, and he hated everyone.
In the midst of undressing, he put a hand on Toby’s arm, and the young man mostly fought the urge to flinch.
“I’m sorry, Toby,” he said.
Toby flushed. And said nothing.
Morning—a cold, wet day that didn’t so much promise spring as hint vaguely at it. The rain seemed colder than snow, and the air was wet, and the wind bit through a wool cloak.
The Duke of Thrake rose early. He appeared in the great hall wearing a miniver riding gown that was worth a fortune—white wool
embroidered in his arms on the outside and three hundred matched squirrel skins on the inside. He wore it over his harness.
Ser John’s squire, young Jamie, a Hoek boy, intercepted him. “Your grace,” he said with a bow. “The Captain of Albinkirk requests that you attend him. There is news.”
The Red Knight’s anger had leached away in a good night’s sleep and left him only throbbing pain and a nagging sense of loss. He bowed in return. “Lead me,” he said. He turned to Ser Michael. “Making my farewells won’t be quick. You might as well grab a sausage in the kitchen.”
Michael nodded, collected the Drover’s son, who wore his regalia over his harness, and found a side table covered in dishes.
Ser Gabriel followed Jamie out of the hall and into the barracks tower where the Captain of Albinkirk had his office.
Ser John was sitting in an old, black robe and was wearing spectacles. He had a bag on his desk, and opposite him sat a very young man wearing the golden belt of a knight.
The Red Knight smiled. “Ser Galahad!” he said. Galahad D’Acon had been one of the heroes of the fight at Lissen Carak.
“So kind of you to remember me, your grace,” the younger man said, rising so suddenly that his spurs tangled.
“Young Galahad comes as a royal messenger,” Ser John said. “He brought us several writs.” Ser John scratched his beard and straightened the spectacles on his nose.
“And to save my life,” Galahad said. He shook his head. “The queen’s knights…” He looked at Ser John. “She sent me herself. The Galles are killing our people, and the King does nothing to prevent it.” He clenched his fists. “They talk of arresting Lady Almspend.”
Ser John nodded. “You’ve had a difficult journey,” he said to the young knight. “Go get some food.”
As soon as Galahad was out the door and Jamie Le Hoek had closed it, Ser John turned, tapping a scroll on his teeth. “He was on the road for nine days. Bad weather and mud and too many convoys to pass.”
Ser Gabriel settled into the chair, still warm from the messenger’s heat.
“De Vrailly is going to formally accuse the queen of adultery,” he said. “As the king’s champion, he’ll accuse her.”
Ser Gabriel turned this piece of information over. And over. “I see,” he said.