Despite a truly stunning ugliness, he remained the King’s favourite. Or perhaps because of it. His ugliness couldn’t threaten the King, and some whispered that the King was a little too easily threatened – by his favourites, by his mother, and most of all by his wife and Queen.
The Horse glanced at the King, grinned wickedly, cleared his throat and went on.
Having earned the approval of the King of Alba and all the knights of his court, I accompanied the Alban King on campaign in the north country of this kingdom, where I encountered many worthy foes, to whit: daemons, Wyverns like small dragonets, irks, and a new species of adversary, called by Albans the boglin, a small creature, insignificant in arms but dangerous in great shoals and tides – and there did disport myself with such fearsomeness and prowess as to win a great victory over the forces of evil-
The King yawned. ‘Does he really expect us to believe this tissue of self-delusion?’
The Archbishop of Lutece frowned. ‘Irks and daemons are well-known servants of the Enemy, Your Grace.’
The King sneered. ‘Has anyone seen one alive this century?’ He glanced at Abblemont. ‘Is there more of the same?’
Abblemont shrugged. ‘Yes and no, Your Grace.’ He raised his eyes from the parchment. ‘I believe him.’
The King leaned forward on the arms of his throne. ‘You do?’ he asked, his voice suggesting delight.
Abblemont shrugged. ‘First, Holy Church requires me to believe – it is an article of faith. And not one as difficult as the trinity.’
His delicate blasphemy made the ladies blush.
‘Second, de Vrailly is a rash, dangerous fool, but he’s not a braggart. Or rather, he is – but he isn’t imaginative enough to invent this. Indeed, Your Grace, if you consider the report of the Seneschal of Outremer only this morning-’
The King shot back as if he’d received a blow. ‘Silence, Horse,’ he ordered.
The whole court fell silent. No lady simpered, much less tittered or giggled; no man sneered. Their faces had a certain vacuous sameness of expression. All waiting for the axe to fall.
It was hard to say if the King was young or old. He wore black – black velvet, relieved by touches of gold – a pair of gold earrings, the gold hilt of his sword, a single gold ring set with onyx on his finger, gold buckles on his shoes worth the value of a small village. Around his shoulders he wore a gold collar of linked suns. His skin was almost perfectly white, and his hair was the same impossible golden colour as de Vrailly’s, which was only reasonable, as they were cousins. But there the resemblance ended. The King was, if not the smallest man in the room, then nearly so; well formed, but shorter than many of the women who gathered near the centre of power. He was not given to the practice of arms; and his ascetic devotion to religion did more to keep him thin than his time in the tiltyard. He was handsome – indeed, more than a few troubadours found themselves able to sing of him as the handsomest knight in the kingdom.
The Duchess de Savigny had been heard to say that he was beautiful, if you liked children – but having been heard to say it, she no longer attended court.
The King whistled a moment, and then shrugged. ‘So – perhaps these improbable monsters exist,’ he said. He looked at Abblemont. ‘And perhaps there truly are witches who cast spells too?’ he added, giggling.
The Horse gave a very slight nod. ‘Perhaps there are, as you say.’
Conversation returned.
‘Go on,’ the King said.
Abblemont laughed. ‘Nay, I shan’t read it word for word,’ he said. ‘Only that they fought a great battle and slew thousands of these monsters, and now de Vrailly is named the Alban king’s champion.’
The King nodded, pulling his beard.
‘He says that the Queen of Alba is one of the most beautiful women in the world,’ Abblemont continued, his eyes scanning the page.
‘You might have mentioned that at the start,’ the King said with more interest. ‘Does he send a portrait?’
‘And she and the King are the most perfect example of wedded bliss.’ Abblemont glanced at his master, whose fist closed.
‘They will give a great tournament next spring, after Lent, to celebrate his victory-’
‘He’s a braggart. I suspect she’s beautiful as a poxed whore and just as faithful.’ The King looked down at his Horse, and the Horse gazed resolutely at his parchment.
‘He closes by mentioning his unshakeable loyalty to Your Grace, and stating baldly that he expects to take the kingdom for his own. And for your crown. Your Grace.’ Abblemont looked up and met the King’s eyes, and saw them flash almost red, as if lit by an inner fire – reviewed his last ten words and realised he’d misstepped. ‘Ah – my apologies, Your Grace.’
He should not have mentioned that de Vrailly intended to conquer Alba for the King in open court.
But the King was a consummate actor, and he stretched and smiled. ‘Perhaps Lady Clarissa would be kind enough to play for us, Abblemont?’
Clarissa was fifteen, pretty as a virgin in a book of hours, and a near-perfect player of the psaltery. She was shorter than the King by almost a head, and had a quiet, demure quality that affronted many of the other ladies.
‘The Queen has refused to permit her in her solar,’ whispered the Contesse D’Angluleme. She gave her cousin, the Vidame, a significant look.
‘Poor thing, she looks underfed.’ The Vidame watched her walk by, cradling her musical instrument. ‘I think the Queen is cruel,’ she said, her voice suggesting the exact opposite.
‘I don’t. The creature is brazen as a steetwalker, dear.’ She leaned close to her cousin and whispered in her ear.
The Vidame’s arched eyebrows still had a little room to rise, and they shot up – her handkerchief came out of her sleeve as if snapped by a crossbow, and she raised it to her lips. ‘No!’ she said, sounding too deeply satisfied.
If Clarissa de Sartres heard a word, it didn’t crease her dignity, and she crossed the black and white marble floor, her plain brown wool overdress gliding silently over it, her head down just a little, hiding her expression. She wore an intricate net of silk and beads in her hair with a pair of linen horns rising from a base of auburn hair and pearls, and from the front hung a linen veil so fine that it was possible to see the shape of her face without distinguishing, at least by candlelight, her expression. She held her instrument the way a proud mother might hold a baby. If she was aware of the unbridled hatred she received as the King’s first female favourite, she showed not the least sign of it.
And in fairness, it must be said that no woman in the whole of the great, cavernous throne room looked less like a royal favourite. If all the flowers of the field were not enough to adorn the rest of the women and most of the men, Clarissa de Sartres was as plain as a sleek brown mouse and about as noticeable. Without the magnificent headdress and the musical instrument, she might easily have been taken for an important female servant – complete to a small linen apron over her gown and set of keys with a pair of scissors tied to her apron strings.
Gossip and comment moved before her like a wind-blown fire in a dry forest.
She arrived at the base of the throne and curtsied so deeply that it seemed possible that she would collapse on the floor – yet so gracefully that no one ever imagined such a thing might happen.
‘Your Grace,’ she said.
The King smiled at her, and his gold and ivory face warmed to life. ‘Clarissa!’ he said. ‘I didn’t see you.’
‘Indeed, Your Grace, I considered staying away.’ Did she smile? The veil was so delicate that you thought you ought to be able to see her expression. Some imagined that she simpered, and some that she sneered, and a few thought she looked troubled.
‘May I play?’ she asked.