The Fell Sword (58 page)

The priest watched him.

‘We don’t know, either,’ Alcaeus said.

Gavin followed his brother into the stable, up the long ramp to the second storey, and his footsteps echoed hollowly on the wooden floor. His brother was standing with a horse, in near darkness.

‘Only the Emperor would have a two-storey stable,’ he said.

Silence.

‘I’m sorry, but you know, if you have to be all strong and long-suffering and commanderly, none of us will ever know exactly why you are sad or angry or whatever in the devil’s name you are.’ Gavin smiled. ‘And may I point out that whatever your troubles, you don’t bear the actual mark of the Wild on your body? I have scales. Every day. Mary saw them and she—’ Gavin paused. ‘Are you listening?’

Gabriel reached out in the darkness and embraced his brother, and they stood there for the count of ten.

‘Do you at least like her?’ Gavin asked.

‘No,’ Gabriel whispered. ‘As you so astutely noted, I like someone else. I need more music. Thanks for coming in after me.’

In the morning, Wilful Murder was the first man on parade, while the sun was still below the horizon. He farted repeatedly, he had a hard head, and he’d done his share of dancing, but he was ready – his horse’s feed bag was full, his armour polished, oiled, and stored, his heavy winter cloak rolled behind his saddle, ready to march anywhere.

An hour later, when no alarm bells had rung, he cursed and went back to bed. In the next rack, Bent was too smart to laugh aloud.

The new week saw changes – small ones that heralded larger changes to come.

For example, a hoard of tailors descended on the company and cut new cloth delivered from the market stalls and suddenly the company had uniform scarlet hose and doublets, and new surcoats over their armour. Every man and every horse had Morean-style horsehair tufts in red, green, and white – one on each shoulder, and one atop their horse’s head. A set of standards appeared in the yard, made up outside the palace. One had Saint Katherine and her wheel, and the others had three lacs d’amour in gold – one pennon on white, one on green, and one on red. In the process of learning where they were to stand by the standards, the company learned that a substantial remnant of the mercenaries – the Gallish and Iberian mercenaries – who had served Duke Andronicus were now members of their company.

Ser Bescanon, for example, was now the second standard bearer, carrying Saint Katherine. Ser Milus carried the company banner – black, with three lacs d’amour. The company was divided into three parts, of unequal numbers; the first band, of one hundred lances, was commanded by Ser Jehan, with four corporals, Ser George Brewes, Ser Francis Atcourt, Ser Alfonse d’Este and Ser Gonzago d’Avia, the last two new men from the former Latinikon. The second band, of fifty lances, was commanded by Ser Gavin, and had Ranald Lachlan and Ser Michael as corporals. The third band, also of fifty lances on parchment but smaller in reality, was commanded by Gelfred, and had two corporals, one of whom was Ser Alison, and the other Ser Alcaeus. Ser Jehan’s band was white, Ser Gavin’s was red, and Gelfred’s was green. Each lance had a man-at-arms, a squire almost equally well armed and mounted, a page aspiring to become a man-at-arms, and an archer or two.

The new men were cursed, and nearly everyone on the rolls declared that the company would never recover – too many new faces, with bad attitudes and personal enmities and different languages and customs. The new archers weren’t any good, and the new men-at-arms were scarcely able to ride. Or so men said.

There were four new women among the new recruits – all Easterners from the steppes, all archers, on horse or foot. They kept to themselves and rebuffed any advances from Oak Pew or from Sauce. Or anyone else. The steppe men steered clear of them as well.

Bad Tom’s anodyne for new recruits was work.

Men with hangovers can survive being fitted by tailors. Mag led the seamstresses to work, and if she put her head on her knees once or twice and smiled a bright and brittle smile at the world, she also looked as happy as a woman can look – perhaps not quite as happy as Lady Kaitlin, who attended her wedding breakfast and then sat and sewed hose with the other skilled seamstresses under Lis the laundress’s command.

Count Zac delivered three hundred horses at the gates of the Outer Court – one he led himself. He presented it to the Megas Ducas, who accepted it with pleasure – a tall gelding, sixteen hands, jet black. Strong, but with clean lines and a fine head and a remarkably intelligent eye for a warhorse.

‘He can be a bastard,’ Zac said. He shrugged. ‘So can I. Is your Sauce single?’

If the change of subject took the Megas Ducas by surprise, he didn’t show it. ‘She virtually defines single,’ he said.

Count Zac cleared his throat. ‘She has had lovers – yes?’ His expression indicated that he was embarrassed to ask.

The Megas Ducas allowed himself the very slightest of smiles. ‘It is possible,’ he allowed.

Count Zac sighed. ‘May I court her?’ he asked.

‘Will you always bring me horses like this if I say yes?’ asked the Megas Ducas. He vaulted onto his new horse, bareback, and shot away.

An hour later, still bareback, he pulled up by Sauce, who was still being fitted for her hose by some very straight-faced tailors. She had just offered to strip to her braes.

‘Alison? I’ve traded you to Count Zac for three hundred horses,’ he said. ‘It’s not a bad deal – he’ll marry you.’

She frowned, and then nodded. ‘Three hundred sounds like a good price,’ she agreed. ‘He’s short, but I fancy him.’

He grinned at her. ‘Long time since you fancied anyone,’ he said.

‘Besides you,’ she said.

He flushed, and she laughed in his face.

‘Well, I’m glad it’s mutual,’ he said. ‘Be nice to the tailors.’

He rode to find Ser Michael, who was running the remnants of a small wedding breakfast while checking the company accounts with the notary.

The Captain came in, bowed to the remaining ladies, kissed their hands and their cheeks, and took Michael by the shoulder. Michael was instantly alert.

The two men walked out of the guardroom where the guests were drinking wine, followed by Father Arnaud, who walked with them, chatting pleasantly and in an extremely artificial way until they were inside the Captain’s rooms.

Ser Michael looked around. Toby poured him hot wine from a jug by the fire and walked out, closing the door.

The Captain took a deep breath. His chin went up – one of his rare signs of nerves.

‘I’m sorry, Michael,’ he said. ‘It’s not good, and I’ve hidden it from you so you could enjoy your wedding.’

Michael looked around. ‘Sweet Jesu, what is it?’

Father Arnaud shook his head. ‘Gabriel, that was not well done.’ He nodded to Michael. ‘Your pater has been taken as a traitor by the Captal de Ruth, acting for the King. There has been a battle, and your father lost. Badly. If he is attainted—’

Michael sat down, hard, face unmoving.

The Captain glared at the priest, who smiled beatifically.

‘I’ve called him a traitor a hundred times,’ Michael said. He looked up. ‘And he used your name.’

The Captain twitched like an angry cat. ‘I knew it was a mistake to get a chaplain.’ He looked at the priest, and then said, ‘The prior sent me a set of messages. He says Father Arnaud is to be trusted. Despite playing fast and loose with my identity. In fact, since I’ve discovered that my brother has written to my mother I suppose it doesn’t matter any more.’ He looked at Michael. ‘I’m babbling. Michael, I
need
you. I plan a winter campaign here – you know what that means.’

‘Par Dieu, have my pater’s troubles driven you to
share
your plans?’ Michael said. But he felt numb. ‘I have to help my pater.’

‘The King and the Constable have sent every Jarsay knight away from court,’ Father Arnaud said. ‘It was not done with ill will. There is some question as to whether the Captal’s actions are actually within the law, or done with the King’s sanction. The King is, not to put too fine a point on it, trying to keep the lid on the situation by keeping your pater’s supporters away from the Galles and the men who arrested the Earl.’

The Captain poured himself some wine. ‘In this, for once, I must support the King, Michael. If you insist on going – well, I won’t arrest you or use force to stop you, although I did consider it. But short of force, I’ll use any argument to keep you from going.’

Father Arnaud nodded. ‘When I left, the rumour was that your father was going to demand trial by combat. At the tournament in the spring.’ He glanced at the Duke. ‘The other matter is the new Bishop of Lorica. He’ll be elevated tomorrow and he has made his views plain – about the use of hermeticism, about the Patriarch here, about my order.’ The priest shrugged. ‘De Vrailly may be virtual master of the kingdom by summer. The Queen is virtually under siege by the Gallish faction. They hate her, and we don’t even know why.’

The Captain leaned forward. ‘We’ll be finished here by then. We could go to the tournament.’ He smiled, and it was a wicked smile. ‘Visit all together, so to speak.’

Ser Michael took a deep breath. ‘You plan a winter campaign, and you’ll escort me to Alba in the spring?’ he said. ‘You don’t plan to marry the princess and make yourself Emperor?’

The Captain looked out the window, wrinkling his nose in frustration at having to reveal anything of his plans. But he finally looked at Michael and grinned. ‘It may yet come out that way,’ he admitted. ‘But it’s not how I want it to go.’

Ser Michael chewed on that for a moment. ‘It’s not?’ he asked. He looked at Father Arnaud, who looked equally surprised. In fact, he looked like a man who’d just made an important connection.

The Captain propped his chin on his hands, elbows on his knee which was in turn propped on a stool, and looked surprisingly human. ‘Sometimes I have to change my plans,’ he said. ‘This is one of those times. For various reasons, I’d say that yes, we’re going to the Queen’s tournament, and no, I don’t think I’ll marry the princess.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m sorry about your pater. I liked him.’

Michael shrugged. ‘I left for many reasons. I’m here because of them, and I shan’t go running off. I
think
I am glad you didn’t tell me until my wedding was over.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I think I’ll go and tell my wife,’ he said. He rose, found that the world was stable, and bowed. At the door he paused. ‘May I call you Gabriel?’ he asked.

‘No,’ said the Duke.

‘Yes,’ said the priest. ‘At every opportunity.’

Ser Michael nodded. ‘Got it,’ he said, and withdrew.

The priest turned to his new charge. ‘To the best of my understanding, you’ve chosen to be a human being again. Having a name is part of that.’

The Captain’s face was still balanced on his hand. He was looking out the window. ‘Is it an act?’ he asked. ‘Or do you think that if I spend enough time pretending to be a human being, I’ll become one?’

Got it in one
, muttered Harmodius – his first comment in days.

The priest came and stood by him.

‘Who gave you power over me?’ Gabriel asked, but his voice was not unfriendly.

‘The
Bon Soeur du Foret Sauvage
sends her greetings,’ he said.

The second day after the party, the army – now including almost two hundred local Morean stradiotes – rode into the hills towards Thrake. The Nordikans had ponies, and the entire company was remounted. They moved fast, covered almost twenty miles, and returned through the hills to the west without meeting any opposition. Selected men were counted off and practised storming a small castle that had been built to the purpose – it was only waist high, but rooms were laid out clearly.

Watchers noted too late that they went out without Gelfred’s men and returned with them, as well as a wagon and twenty prisoners.

On the following day, the feast of Saint George, they drilled in the Great Square – even the stradiotes. There were sword drills, and spear drills, and tilting by the mounted men. The Vardariotes came and shot from horseback, joined by a handful of Gelfred’s men and some pages who had become interested in mounted archery – or had been ordered to take an interest. Gelfred’s men vanished for two hours and returned to announce that they all had new hose and new doublets – all green, not red.

Workmen came and built a toy castle – just two towers and a timber hall. None of the buildings had walls – just skeleton structures, so that the crowd could watch all the fighting inside. Forty picked men stormed the castle, to the cheers of the onlookers.

The newly recruited knights jousted with the likes of Bad Tom and Sauce and the Captain, to the satisfaction of all the old company men. Ser Bescanon was unhorsed so hard that he was knocked unconscious – Bad Tom was the culprit.

Thousands of citizens of the city watched, and cheered.

The stradiotes tilted at rings and cut fruits in half with their swords and did some trick riding.

The Nordikans cut through their drill posts with their real axes so fast that the crowd laughed to see pages and Ordinaries running about trying to fit new posts.

The Scholae demonstrated their skills, from wrestling to swordsmanship, and then a team of six of them jousted in borrowed armour. Giorgios Comnenos, who had received a fair amount of private coaching from Ser Michael, managed to keep his seat and score against Ser George Brewes. Ser Alison unhorsed Ser Iannos Dukas, deftly knocking his lance to the ground in a display of perfect martial control, and the crowd cheered her and threw flowers. Moreans were growing used to a female knight.

Morgan Mortirmir, in borrowed armour, ran three courses with Ser Francis Atcourt, scoring on the older knight’s helm in the first pass, exchanging shattered lances on the second, and being unhorsed on the third. Out of practice, he fell badly.

The twenty prisoners sat alone and untended in solitary cells beneath the palace. They were not tortured on the feast of Saint George. They were merely kept awake.

Kronmir had seen the wagon coming back into the city, and he knew what that meant.

He sat thoughtfully with his fingers steepled for some time. He contemplated how long it would take for the foreigners to break his agent, and what that agent could tell them. He reviewed his message system, and assured himself from his code book that he knew the ‘cease all activity’ messages for his three most important agents. Then, when his inn had fallen quiet, and even the lowliest serving maids were asleep, he emptied his room, packed his valise, and pondered the deaths of the innkeeper, his wife, and the young woman Kronmir had slept with from time to time. Killing the three of them would leave the enemy with no witnesses to his presence, but he disliked such waste and he had his own rules. He smiled wryly and admitted to himself that he liked the girl and he couldn’t really muster the
sang froid
to kill her. Instead, he carefully blocked the chimney in the inn’s common room with flammables and relaid the fire for morning, taking care to relay it exactly the way the night maid had put it down.