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‘Commons will have to approve it,’ said the Lord Mayor. But then he shrugged. ‘O’ course the commons asked us to bring this to council in the first place, so they’ll approve.’

‘Why does my cousin the King of Galle attack my coins?’ asked the King. ‘Much less the Count of Hoek?’

Every man present turned and looked at de Vrailly. He crossed his arms. ‘This is absurd,’ he said. He looked around. ‘If you are short of funds, why not collect from those who owe? I hear your Earl of Towbray is very much in arrears.’

The Lord Mayor smiled. ‘Great nobles are not great tax payers,’ he allowed. ‘Who can collect from them?’

‘I can,’ said de Vrailly.

Ailwin Darkwood looked at the Gallish knight with something like respect. ‘If you could, my lord, this kingdom would be in your debt,’ he said.

‘Towbray’s taxes alone would pay for the tourney,’ allowed the Lord Mayor. ‘And any of the northern lords’ taxes would cover the cost of the war. The Earl of Westwall alone owes more taxes than all the Harndon merchants would generate in ten years. But he never pays.’

The Count of the Borders, hitherto silent, nodded. ‘But it would take another war to persuade Muriens to pay his tax,’ he said.

The King leaned forward. ‘Gentlemen, you are on dangerous ground here. My father gave the Earl certain tax concessions for maintaining a heavy garrison in the north.’

Rebecca Almspend had sat throught the meeting in silence. Small, dark, and pretty, in a detached and somewhat aethereal way, she, in the Queen’s words, looked like a beautiful mouse and dressed like one too.

She was not the Chancellor, but through the Queen she had access to all of that worthy man’s papers. The Bishop of Lorica had died at the great battle and had not yet been replaced. Lady Almspend rattled two scrolls together and spoke in a very small voice.

‘The Earl of Westwall’s subjects still owe a number of taxes. None has been paid,’ she looked up, ‘since Your Grace’s coronation.’

The Count of the Borders sat back. ‘He hides behind your sister, Your Grace.’

The Captal nodded, his helmet moving heavily, more like a horse’s head than a man’s. ‘Towbray is closer, but a campaign in the Northern Mountains would suit me very well.’ The Captal, who was not known for his smiles, beamed at the thought. ‘What adventure!’

‘There!’ said the King, obviously delighted. ‘Master Pye is to be master of our mint, and the Captal shall collect taxes in Jarsay with a royal commission and a strong retinue. And I shall send a strongly worded letter to my sister’s husband, suggesting that he might be next. Done! Now, before I forget – Random? Can you kneel?’

Master Random smiled, gritted his teeth, and got down on his knees. ‘I pray Your Grace’s mercy,’ he said.

The King reached out to his new squire, young Galahad d’Acre. ‘Sword!’

Galahad presented the King’s sword, hilt first. It was very plain, and the gold that had once decorated the cross-guard was mostly worn off. It did have the finger joint of Saint John the Baptist set in the hilt, and it was said that no man who bore the sword could ever be poisoned.

The King drew, and the blade whistled through the air to settle like a wasp on the shoulder of Gerald Random, merchant adventurer.

‘Rise, Ser Gerald,’ said the King. ‘No one deserves the buffet more than you. I insist you take the head of a wight as your arms. And I intend to charge you to be the master of this tournament we are planning; find the money, and account for it to the Chancellor.’

Ser Gerald rose like a man with two feet, and bowed. ‘I would be delighted, Your Grace,’ he said. ‘But you’ll need a Chancellor for me to account to.’

‘Now that the Count here is Constable, I can’t have him acting as Chancellor, too. And Lady Almspend cannot continue to fill the role.’ The King smiled at her. ‘A woman as Chancellor?’ He looked at her, and for a moment, his intelligence outshone his indolence. ‘Not that you haven’t been the best Chancellor I’ve known, my lady. But it’s not talent I need, but someone with enough interest in Parliament to make my laws and my coinage and my wars run smoothly.’

The Captal looked around. ‘Your Grace, if-’

‘Let’s have Master Ailwin, then,’ said Master Pye.

‘A commoner fulfilling the highest office of the land?’ asked the Captal. ‘Who would trust him? He’d most likely steal money.’

‘As a foreigner, the King’s champion is no doubt unaware that the last Bishop of Lorica was born a commoner,’ the Queen said, her voice light but her eyes steady. ‘Captal, by now you must be aware that such statements give offence to Albans.’

The Captal shrugged, his shoulder armour rising and falling to show the strength of his shoulders and back. ‘They should challenge me over it, then. Otherwise-’ he favoured them with his most beatific smile ‘-I assume they all agree.’

As always, Jean de Vrailly’s statements brought silence – in this case a stunned one as men sought to understand. Did he just say what I think he said?

‘As this has become an impromptu meeting of the King’s Grace and his private council – may I say a word?’ asked the Count of the Borders. ‘There are many ways in which the north has not returned to normal since the fighting in the spring. Ser John Crayford reports that the woods are full of boglins, and worse.’

The King nodded. He smiled at his Queen.

She smiled back, but nodded graciously to the Count. ‘It is important to replace all the crown officers who were slain,’ she said. ‘Lorica needs a new bishop. His presence at our council is much missed.’

The King nodded. ‘He was a good man. A fine knight.’ He looked around. ‘He was with us for as long as I can remember – like old Harmodius.’ He looked around. ‘My pater appointed him.’

De Vrailly’s head shot back. ‘A king, no matter how favoured by God, cannot just appoint a bishop!’

The King shrugged. ‘Jean, perhaps I have the wrong of it.’

The Count of the Borders shook his head. ‘Captal, our king holds the right to appoint his own bishops under the approval of the Patriarch in Liviapolis.’

De Vrailly sighed. ‘The Patriarch is no doubt a worthy man, but not the rightful heir of Peter.’

Every Alban present either bridled at the words or settled his weight in boredom. The habit of Arles, Etrusca, Calle and Iberia had been to turn religious squabbles into open conflict – the investiture of bishops and the primacy of the Patriarch of Rhum were two particularly sore points. By virtue of distance and isolation, the Nova Terra was immune to such conflicts ‘Perhaps-’ The King grinned. ‘Perhaps we might find a candidate agreeable to both worthy fathers, and thus make all men happy.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘Would that not be the wisdom of Solomon?’

Master Ailwin’s eyes met those of the newly minted Ser Gerald.

Ser Gerald bowed from his seat. ‘Your Grace – that might seem like sense, but you are abrogating a royal prerogative and asking two men who rarely even recognise each other’s existence to reconcile.’ He looked around, ignored a grunt from the Captal and shrugged. ‘Lorica and the north need a bishop now.’

The King smiled into his wife’s eyes. ‘I’ll look into it. Appoint a committee. Captal – you seem to know so much of religion. Will you manage this?’

‘I’d be delighted, Your Grace,’ said the knight, bowing with a clash.

The King whispered to his wife, and stood. ‘That’s enough business for one afternoon, gentles.’

The pages bustled about and the room emptied, leaving Ailwin and two servants with Gerald Random and Master Pye.

‘That was well said. The Bishop of Lorica was the friend of the little man.’ Pye shook his head.

‘I fear the Captal will find us a Gallish candidate,’ Ailwin said.

Random shrugged. ‘We got the mint. We won’t get the bishop. This is the life of court.’ He got to his feet and tottered into the hall supported between two servants.

The Captal was there already, attended by a pair of his omnipresent squires and his new lieutenant, fresh from Galle – the Sieur de Rohan. All three were big men in full armour.