‘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.’
Almspend’s hand paused.
The King laughed. ‘A stiff-necked drover? He’d never accept it from me. He has to go win it for himself – aye, and he’ll be a better man for it, and you’ll bloom all the more.’
Almspend finished her task. ‘As Your Grace says, of course,’ she breathed.
The King frowned at Lady Almspend. ‘Do you know as much of religion as you do of history, my dear?’
Almspend bowed in her chair. ‘Your Grace, religion is nothing but history.’
Ser Richard laughed aloud, but the Queen frowned.
‘Why do these gentlemen disapprove so strongly of the Captal’s cousin Guillaulme as Bishop?’ the King asked.
Almspend raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m sure I am not the one to discuss this with the King and privy council,’ she said.
The Queen put a hand on her back. ‘The King asks you.’
Almspend shrugged. ‘Guillaulme Le Penser is one of the leaders of an intellectual movement.’
The King nodded. ‘Come, that sounds promising.’
Almspend raised both eyebrows. ‘He is a teacher at the University of Lutece. He and the other Scholastics – as they call themeselves – believe that the use of hermeticism is connected to the worship of Satan; that the miracles of God are of an entirely different order; that those who use power should be burned as witches.’
There was a stunned silence.
The King leaned forward. ‘Why would they believe such a foolish thing?’ he asked.
Almspend shrugged. ‘I can give a politic answer, an intellectual answer, or a pragmatic answer, Your Grace.’
The King nodded. ‘Let’s have pragmatic, for all love.’
Almspend tried to meet the Queen’s eye before she went on. ‘Your Grace, the University of Lutece follows the Patriarch of Rhum. As the Academy – the centre of learning, especially hermetical learning – is in the grasp of the Patriarch of Liviapolis, it serves the needs of the Patriarch of Rhum to make his rival appear a witch. Further to that all of the Scholastics are men and none of them have access to power. They seek to create a world that they can dominate – after all those capable of using power are burned away.’
The Count of the Borders shook his head. ‘Sweet Saviour, then how will we stop the Wild?’
‘Lutece is a long way from any battlefront with the Wild,’ Almspend replied.
The King nodded. ‘Well, best to know. I’m sure he’ll be difficult – look at the Captal and his heavy-handed policies. But he does get things done. Perhaps his cousin is from the same mould.’
The Queen looked baffled. ‘My dear, you just heard Becca say he’ll try to rid the realm of all hermeticals?’
The King patted her hand. ‘Fear not, love – I know what’s best for the realm. Random wants a new bishop. This man sounds very intelligent. He’ll be a help at council, and we’ll simply have to show him the kindly light of our hermeticals.’ He nodded, dismissing the women. ‘Lady Almspend, your learning lights my court like a hundred candles.’
She curtsied. ‘My lord, it would be a good thing for the realm for Magister Harmodius to be replaced. A new magister could help us persuade the Bishop.’
The King nodded and waved a hand.
When they were gone, Gareth Montjoy shook his head. ‘Was that poised young woman with the lovely ankles my daughter?’ he asked. ‘Need they pluck so much of their foreheads and show quite so much leg?’
The King laughed. ‘When I was coming to manhood women wore sacks in layers. I prefer the modern taste.’
Montjoy shook his head. ‘Your Grace is not a parent,’ he said, and then stiffened. He’d come close to the unsayable.
The King looked at him mildly. ‘I suppose someday God will bless me with a child,’ he said, and his face grew tight. His sigh was heavy.
‘Your Grace, I am sorry.’ Gareth bowed. Reminding the King of his childlessness was not a good start to a day.
The King waved him off. ‘Never mind, Gareth,’ he said. ‘God will provide.’ He turned to Ser Richard. ‘Why so long-faced, Dick?’
Ser Richard shrugged. ‘I think I may need to ask a leave of absence from Your Grace and go ride about on errantry until my worth is ranked higher.’
The King frowned. ‘You were at my side at Lissen. Indeed, you stood by me to the end. No man here doubts your worth, and your hand was reckoned mighty that day.’
Ser Richard bowed. ‘It is kind of Your Grace to say so – but many men fought valiantly at Lissen.’
The Count nodded. ‘Aye, and to brag about it, carping on all day. And every one of them Galles.’ He looked at Ser Richard. ‘Are you really proposing to leave court for a while?’ he asked.
Ser Richard met the King’s eye. ‘Yes, if I have leave.’
Montjoy looked at the King. ‘De Vrailly is on his way back here with the Earl, isn’t he?’ he asked.
The King shrugged. ‘Yes.’
‘We need to get all the Southerners – all the knights from Jarsay and their retinues – away from court before there is blood.’ Montjoy leaned forward.
The King sighed heavily. ‘Yes,’ he admitted.
‘And what if he gets above himself?’ asked Ser Richard. ‘Don’t you need the Southerners to balance the Galles?’
‘By Christ I hate all these factions,’ said the King. ‘And I’m the King, not the head of a rival faction myself. I need nothing to curb the Captal but my word.’
Montjoy’s eyes met those of Fitzroy. But after a long unspoken message – pleading – he nodded. ‘I’ll go. Where do you have in mind, my lord Constable?’
‘Albinkirk,’ said the Constable, ‘needs new men for the garrison, and Ser J
ohn has been fighting. He’s virtually alone, and he deserves better of us.’ He turned to the King and squared his shoulders as if entering combat, and said, ‘Is Your Grace determined on this new bishop? I feel it is an error to give de Vrailly another boon.’
The King set his face. ‘I will have nothing to do with factions,’ he said.
‘Your Grace, I have not asked you for anything. I stand for the kingdom. And I say that de Vrailly has too many men-at-arms and too much power already, and that this man should be sent back to Galle as soon as his ship touches the shore.’
‘I’ll consider it,’ the King said.
The Queen led the way down the corridor. ‘That was easier than I expected. Why do you think that the old King’s writs and letters are closed, Becca?’
Almspend was already regretting her fashionable gown with its high collar – managing it required the very skills she’d spurned when other girls were learning them, so that she could instead master High Archaic. Her beautiful deep-blue slippers offered no protection at all against the cold of the stone.
Why is it the Queen never seems to be affected by these things? Almspend wondered. The Queen seemed to float along, never hot, never cold, never troubled by cramps or headaches or even a runny nose.
‘My lady, I would guess that the old King said some outrageous things in his time. He certainly had lovers – women and men both, according to my father. He played favourites and while he was an excellent king, my lady, one rather has the feeling that he was not a particularly good person.’ She shrugged.
The Queen laughed. ‘How exciting! For the first time, I understand your interest in history. Where are we?’
‘My lady, this is the donjon – we are entering by what would have been the secret passage, back in King Uthaneric’s day. But when the New Palace was built—’
‘Becca, is there anything you don’t know?’ asked Lady Mary. ‘By the Virgin! I thought the New Palace had been here two hundred years and more.’
‘Yes, Mary,’ Almspend said, in the voice she reserved for the great number of otherwise intelligent beings who seem to have no interest in history. ‘The New Palace is almost exactly two hundred years old. I can show you a foundation stone with the date. Sixty-two sixty-three.’