“It is clear that this outlander has hobbled us one and all,” the king said, fuming. “How is this, Sir Gar? I am to ask my lords’ permission for every little command I wish to issue?”
The dukes turned to Gar with a new, speculative gleam in their eyes.
“No, Your Majesty,” Gar returned, “only for every law you would make, and every major action you would take. It is still for you to enforce the laws and conduct the affairs of your kingdom, as it always has been.”
The king turned thoughtful. “So all is as it was, save that my lords can stop me from making laws or judgments they dislike?”
“And this without the risk of our knights or their soldiers?” Trangray asked.
Gar nodded. “In fact, it would be wise for you to set a definite month in which to meet on the plain outside the King’s Town, so that the dukes and earls can discuss matters of common interest, and the king can consult with you on measures he needs to take for the welfare of the realm.”
The king gave Gar a black glare, but the giant only said, “Such a meeting gives you an opportunity to explain your policies to your lords, Your Majesty, and to persuade them to support your course of action.”
“Persuade!” the king exclaimed with indignation. “Persuasion costs much less than fielding an army,” Gar pointed out. “You might also reserve a month for consulting with the soldiers’ councils and village councils from all over your kingdom—a meeting of councils, for talking. Call it a parliament.”
The king’s eye fired, and the dukes leaned forward in avid attention.
“Be aware that the spokesmen will not be the commanders,” Gar told them. “They will be just that, spokesmen, people who speak for the councils, but not themselves in any position of authority. The real commanders of the councils will send minstrels to speak for them—messengers, if you will.”
The dukes leaned back with looks of disappointment, and the fire in the king’s eye died to be replaced by pure hatred, but Gar went on, unruffled. “The minstrels will not have the power to bargain—only to say ‘no,’ but not to say yes.”
“Then what’s the point in talking with them?” the king said in disgust.
“Because if you don’t convince the lords, you may be able to convince the parliament—and they can forbid the lords’ policies, or speak to their dukes in favor of your plans.”
The dukes broke into an uproar, but the king’s eye gleamed again. As the clamor subsided, he nodded. “So they will be able to forbid my laws, but their own peasant councils will be able to prevent theirs—or even to insist they accept my ideas.”
“Not to insist,” Gar said quickly, “no more than the lords can insist you adopt their course of action.”
The lords exchanged a glance; they hadn’t thought of that, but they were thinking of it now.
“The councils can petition their lords to do as Your Majesty suggests,” Gar went on.
“Clever, Sir Gar, clever.” The king leaned back in his great chair. “I begin to see some merit in your scheme after all.”
“Then let the dukes draw up a charter, making clear their rights and your obligations to them,” Gar said, “and let all of you sign it, so that it becomes the law of the land.” The dukes all spoke in loud agreement. “Yes, indeed!”
“An excellent idea!”
“Only what is right, after all!”
The king scowled, not at all certain he liked having something in writing—but with so much feeling among the dukes, he had little choice. “Very well,” he said grudgingly. “Let them bring me a draft of their charter tomorrow, that we can begin to haggle over its wording.”
They had it there bright and early the next day, of course—Gar had handed them an example from another world, one called the Great Charter. They made a great number of changes, but they had the draft ready to spread out before the king when the sun rose. They argued about it for a week, first about the ideas, which really did little more than guarantee the dukes’ liberties and rights, obligating them to fight for the king in return and to obey his laws—but their parliament had to approve those laws. Then they argued about the words, and finally about every comma and capital—but nine days after it began, the king and all his dukes and earls signed their own Great Charter. The soldiers went wild with joy, and so did the lords. The king grumbled, but his new sense of the importance of public support moved him to order his cooks to bring out whole carcasses of oxen and hogs and set them to roasting, while his butlers broached barrel after barrel of ale. The soldiers, the people of the town, and all the farm folk roundabout had a roaring party. But Gar, Dirk, and Coll made sure that one soldier in every ten stayed sober and vigilant, and that the king’s men drank as much as the dukes’ soldiers. The party ended without either side attacking the other, and the next day, when the dukes’ soldiers had recovered from their hangovers, they packed up and began the journey home.
The dukes arrived back in their own demesnes in fine fettle, feeling that they had taught the upstart king his place—without spending a single soldier! They went up to the ramparts of their castle towers and surveyed each his own petty kingdom, reveling in a sense of power.
When they came down to their great halls, they found the spokesmen of the village councils waiting for them with charters of their own.
They signed them, of course—after furious rages and long bargaining sessions, after haranguing and bellowing and draft after draft after draft—but in the end, they signed their charters with the common people. They had no choice, for the spokesmen of the soldiers’ councils stood right behind the villagers, and the soldiers behind their spokesmen.
When the charters were signed and the laws amended, the outlaws began to come out of the forests to accept the amnesty they offered.
Coll, though, didn’t go back to his home village. He didn’t even stay on Earl Insol’s estates. He went back to the inn with Dirk and Gar right behind him, to find the players—and Ciare.
They arrived just as Enrico came limping up to the door on his crutch, and Dicea flew out of the inn to sail into him with a cry of joy. Enrico staggered back, trying to hold on to his crutch and hug Dicea both at the same time. Coll ran forward to catch him and steady him, then stood back, grinning—and looked up to see Ciare coming toward him, arms wide, with tears streaming down her face.
When they were done with frantic kissing and deep long kissing, she demanded, “Never leave me again! Never, never! ”
“Never,” Coll assured her, looking deeply into her eyes with a smile, “but do you really think I can become a player?”
Ciare stared at him as the meaning of his words sank in. “I had thought I would have to become a village wife to keep you,” she whispered.
Coll shook his head. “A wild songbird might not die in a cage, but half the beauty of its melody would be gone. I’ll go where you go, sweeting.”
Dirk nodded approvingly as they embraced again, their lips too busy for speech, and commented to Gar, “Might be good cover for the leader of a secret government, at that.”
“An excellent cover,” Gar agreed. “He can travel around the countryside without anyone wondering why—and who would suspect a vagabond of being a beggar king?”
“Always harder to find a moving target,” Dirk agreed. “Now all we have to do is get him to agree.”
That turned out to be the toughest part of the job altogether. “The lords will wipe out all the councils if somebody isn’t working constantly to keep them going,” Dirk argued. “Somebody has to take the ultimate responsibility for them, Coll—which means somebody has to be boss.”
“If there’s someone at the top of the pyramid of cells to give orders and keep them active,” Gar explained, “the system will maintain itself. Now that the serfs have learned that they can unify and fight back, they won’t forget.”