I thought the heads would soon have company. The Knight Marshal pursued not merely loot and property, for he also sought out Clayborne’s adherents, and anyone who had sworn him an oath of allegiance or served him in any way. Those who had voted for his laws in the Estates were also in jeopardy, and it did not take long for the cells at the Hall of Justice to fill with Clayborne’s friends. The remains of Clayborne’s army were held in the old stadium across the river from town, awaiting Berlauda’s judgment.
And as for Queen Laurel and her purported child, the infant crowned Emelin VI, not a word was spoken, and nothing was known. They were believed to have been under guard in the palace when the army marched in, but no one seemed to know anything about their fate.
April was dwindling to its close when a letter arrived for Baron Havre-le-Creag, which I was happy to take from the messenger. It stated that the baron’s galleon Constantia had arrived at Bretlynton Head with a cargo of almond, pistachios, olive and safflower oil, and a small but valuable lading of precious myrrh, and that the master wished to know whether the cargo should be sold there, or carried somewhere else.
I was on the next barge down the Dordelle, on a boat which held a number of merchants and also, I suspect, a few refugees from the Queen’s justice. Within a week, I sailed into the city of Bretlynton Head, with its castle on its scarp overlooking the bay, and set out in search of Constantia and its master.
I had the honor of being the first to inform Captain Newbolt that the ship-owner had been executed following unsuccessful rebellion, and that the ship and its cargo would soon be confiscated by the Crown, a sad and discouraging end to a ten-month voyage. Neither the ship nor its crew would realize a penny of profit, and Newbolt himself, though blameless, might find himself imprisoned.
His only option, I said, was to flee the city at once, before royal officers could arrive. “But unless you want to turn pirate,” said I, “you should sail to Amberstone and say that you head a prize crew put aboard by the privateer Meteor. Report with the ship’s papers to the prize court established at Ethlebight, along with a letter from me as part-owner of the privateering commission. And when the ship is condemned, you and the crew will receive your share.”
“How big a share?” asked he.
So, we argued over that over the course of an hour, and in the end I wrote the letter, Newbolt took on a stock of fresh water, and was gone the next forenoon. I spent a few more days in Bretlynton Head, and acquainted myself with the city. It was in a near-lawless condition, for the Sea-Consuls who had pledged their allegiance to Clayborne had fled, the Warden of the Castle was nowhere to be found, and such aldermen as remained were not enough to establish a quorum. Privateers had been hovering off the coast for weeks, taking prizes, the news of which pleased me enormously. Eventually, I took passage back up the river. It was a slower journey, and I enjoyed the view, sitting on the foredeck with my copy of Bello’s Epics, the stately classical hexameters running through my head while I viewed the old robber-castles on their crags, the sheep in their pastures, the vineyards that ran down to the bank of the Dordelle, cherry- and apple-trees in blossom, the hills and mountains verdant with the new spring. Bonille well lived up to the promise of its false etymology, but by the end of the journey, I was burning to get off the boat and to my business ashore.
I arrived at Howel just ahead of Queen Berlauda, who was to make a grand entry into the city to meet with her lieutenants and review her army. The artillery were busy organizing a salute of gunfire, and the courtyard behind the baron’s residence was now covered with the gunpowder that had suffered the separation of its elements on its journey to the capital, and was being remixed by hand. I preferred not to be blown up, and kept my distance.
I amused myself by viewing the sights. Bonille had once been a part of the Empire, and many old imperial structures still stood. Most were temples, but there was also an aqueduct that still functioned, a theater that held two thousand people, a basilica filled with shops, parts of the city wall, and a stadium across the river. I saw everything I could but avoided the stadium, for this was where Clayborne’s army was being held under guard.
The day of the review came. The enormous guns that His Grace of Roundsilver had given to the Crown were deployed with the rest of the artillery in the grand review, and between those two enormous bronze weapons I sat on my savage horse Phrenzy, very martial in my battered armor. I lifted my sword to the salute as Berlauda rode by propped up in her carriage, her blond hair agleam in the May sunshine, her handsome face displaying its accustomed serenity. The Knight Marshal rode next to her, for once without his fur coat, and dressed in a brilliant outfit of sky blue, glittering with gems and silver thread. He had arrayed his lucky medallions all over his doublet, and no doubt thought himself very blessed to have had their protection. The tale in the army was that he would be made a marquess, and receive lands from the Duke of Andrian’s domaine. Neither he nor the Queen betrayed any sign they had recognized me.
Berlauda’s half sister Floria followed in the next carriage, along with a group of court ladies. The princess wore a gown of dark red, piped with the bright royal scarlet, and a scarlet cap tilted over one hazel eye. Her dark hair was braided atop her head. The eye passed over me, then snapped back to my face. She stood and craned toward me as the carriage moved past, her mouth open in surprise, and then she laughed and fell back into her seat, convulsed with mirth.
Doubtless, as she rolled away, she was gasping out a joke about frumenty.
The day after the review was Lord Utterback’s grand memorial. The Count of Wenlock set up the hero’s casket in the city’s largest temple, with its fluted pillars and boxy pediment, now desanctified and used as a setting for lectures, readings, and concerts. The royal standard I had taken from the Carrociro, the shield on white with its gold thread and braid, lay draped over the coffin. An abbot with a sonorous voice presided, the same who had addressed the crowd on the day Berlauda had been crowned. The Knight Marshal came in his sky-blue suit, with a grandson at each elbow. Her majesty attended the service for the victor who had secured her throne, as did many of the court. She wore the cream-white silken gown permitted to royalty as mourning dress.
The veterans of Exton Scales came, some of them wounded and supported by friends or by crutches. They wore their bandages defiantly, for these were the true laurels of victory. Most were not permitted in the confined space of the temple, but stood in a silent congregation outside.
I arrived with Lipton, and as he wore an officer’s sash, he was allowed past the door, and he took me with him. I wore my armor, and carried my sword at my side and my burgonet under my arm. As a token of mourning, I wore sprigs of rosemary on my collar. I did not care if the sight of me drove Wenlock to a fury, for I had come to say farewell to a comrade and a friend, and to honor his courage and his victory.
I stood in the back of the dark old temple as incense and a sonorous choir wafted over me, and the abbot, the Marshal, and Wenlock eulogized the hero of Exton Scales. I did not quite recognize the man they described, this decisive and infallible titan, so intent on bringing to a fulfillment the martial grandeur of his ancestors; and I thought that the man I remembered, with his sardonic wit and his philosophical discourse, was much more interesting, and perhaps more worthy of note than the ivory statue conjured by the speakers’ fulsome rhetoric.