‘I summon and I dismiss, Horse,’ he said.
‘Of course, Your Grace,’ Abblemont said. ‘But the matter is urgent and of importance to our policy and the kingdom.’
‘I was not through with her!’ the King shouted. Abblemont’s blank-faced indifference angered him as much as his mother’s and his elegant wife’s did. He seized the first thing to hand – the stool – and threw it across the room where it struck the wall and exploded, sending shards of Umroth bone in all directions.
‘Your Grace,’ Abblemont said, carefully.
As usual, when the King had destroyed something, he felt much better. ‘My apologies, Horse,’ he said. ‘You may, of course, dismiss your own niece. What is this business?’
‘I want to send more knights to de Vrailly – and more men-at-arms. He is to lead an expedition on behalf of the King of Alba, so we have it in our power to place a complete army inside that kingdom’s borders while appearing to be the best of friends.’
The King crossed his arms. ‘The Captal? Must we? That lackwit braggart . . .’ He looked away.
‘Your Grace must see him as the tool to hand,’ Abblemont said. ‘While I have your private ear, I have a report that the King of Alba’s Privy Council has openly accused us of counterfeiting their coin.’
He was unprepared for the King’s shriek of rage. ‘How dare he! As if I am some common criminal?’
Abblemont spread his arms and decided that this would be a poor time to remind the King that they were, indeed, conterfeiting Alban coinage. He stifled his sigh because it was becoming more difficult, not less, to manage the King.
‘Tell me – Horse, tell me exactly – why I need to support de Vrailly’s pretensions?’ The King didn’t shriek these words. He seemed in control of himself again.
‘Your Grace, if de Vrailly can become the King of Alba’s mailed fist, the kingdom will fall into our hands whenever we choose to claim it. As it is, the King of Alba is about to anger two of his key noblemen. He may drive them into a position where they are available to join us – or he may eliminate them, and thus reduce his own fighting power. In effect, he will be using our army to crush his own.’ Abblemont was careful not to add that he was using de Vrailly to promote cracks in the Alban court and discredit the Alban Queen. It seemed the simplest way.
‘Very well. Send more men to de Vrailly.’ The King sounded like a sulky boy, and he furthered that impression by chewing on the end of his thumb.
‘I had thought to send more knights to aid Messire de Rohan,’ Abblemont said.
‘That loathsome gossip?’ the King said. He nodded. ‘Perfect.’ He walked over and looked at the wreckage of the stool. ‘Please see that this is removed and get me another – perhaps ebony. I like to surround myself with beautiful things,’ he said.
Abblemont kept his eyes down. And you like to break them, he thought.
Liviapolis – The Princess
Harald Derkensun hated being on duty in the prison. It was demeaning. In Nordika, no one was ever put in prison. Any Nordikan would prefer to die.
The assassin, however, was a model prisoner. He was not a contemptible weakling but a man, and Derkensun found him a pleasant surprise. He nodded pleasantly to Derkensun when he came on duty, and was otherwise silent.
At some point, a pair of men from the Logothete’s office came and tortured the assassin. He said nothing – nothing at all.
The more senior of the Logothete’s men shrugged. ‘Early days yet. Heh – Nordikan. No sleep after this point, eh?’
Derkensun shook his head. ‘Eat shit and push off,’ he said. ‘I do not take part in such things.’
The Logothete’s men seemed immune to his anger, and the more junior man remained. He saw to it that the assassin was placed in an iron cage and he rattled a spear shaft against the bars periodically. The only other prisoner, an old man who had been taken for public blasphemy, complained about the noise.
Derkensun put a hand on the shoulder of the Logothete’s interrogator. ‘This is against the law,’ he said.
The interrogator shook his head. ‘There is no law,’ he said. ‘Not for animals like this one. He’s a professional killer. Hired man. And his officer escaped. When he betrays his officer, we’ll let him go.’ He grinned. ‘When we threaten to remove his feet, he’ll talk. Today was like our formal introduction; don’t be such a- Hey!’
‘Come back with a warrant,’ Derkensun said. He took the interrogator to the great iron-bound door. ‘This man is certainly a criminal. So get a writ from the princess – anything. Until then, stay out of my way.’ He was angry – angry to be made part of something so deeply dishonourable. And his actions had, at least, bought them all a night of sleep.
An hour later, dinner was served. The two men shared the wine.
The assassin looked up after a sip, and shook his head. ‘Shit,’ he said. ‘Poison.’
The old man crossed himself. ‘Really?’ he said.
Derkensun stood up, but the assassin was already beginning to foam at the mouth in his iron cage. He babbled a bit, and Derkensun grew pale listening to his words.
And then he died.
So did the blasphemer.
An hour later, as the almost full moon rose, casting a pale white-grey light over the tents, throwing black shadows on the ground, and making armour move like liquid metal, the company had formed up. After a month on the road, even the rawest younger son knew his place in the line. They had a hundred lances, which was to say, a hundred fully armoured men-at-arms, with another hundred squires almost as well armed; two hundred professional archers, most of them carrying the great yew or elm bows that made Alba famous, but a few with Eastern horn bows or even crossbows in the mix, depending on the tastes of the archers and their knight. And another two hundred pages, for the most part unarmoured but carrying light spears, swords, and, in some cases, bows or latches. Recent successes meant that the older pages had some armour, and almost every man had a good helmet with a chain aventail.
Birds had flown back and forth from the city for the last hour – the city itself was less than fifteen miles distant. But Alcaeus had to approach the Captain and shake his helmeted head.
‘No word from the Vardariotes,’ he admitted. ‘The Empress has sent a delegation to them but it may be hours before we hear.’
The Captain nodded. ‘I don’t have hours. Let’s ride.’
‘What if they decline?’ Alcaeus asked.
The Captain shrugged in the darkness, and his harness rustled. ‘Then an opportunity is lost, an easy victory sails through our grasp, and we have to do everything the hard way.’ He shrugged. ‘And we’re out a night’s sleep. Let’s ride.’
Chapter Five
Jarsay – Jean de Vrailly
The Count of Eu watched his cousin’s gleaming, steel-clad back as a heavy column of knights and men-at-arms moved down the Royal Highway from Harndon through Jarsay. Behind, twenty of the Queen’s new carts rolled along guarded by fifty Royal Foresters and as many Royal Guardsmen in their long hauberks, axes over their shoulders, singing. It was a small army that his cousin commanded, but it was composed of the King of Alba’s finest troops, now acting as tax collectors.
Gaston scratched at the base of his beard and wished he were home in Galle. Unbeknown to his knightly cousin he’d written a letter to Constance D’Aubrichcourt’s father, the Comte D’Aubrichcourt, asking for her hand in marriage. By implication, he’d have to go home to wed her. Once home, and away from his cousin’s endless quest for glory, he’d pull her into bed, close the hangings, and spend the rest of his life . . .
Images of her naked body diving into the pool of icy water drove across his consciousness. All the troubadours said that good love – love with an edge – made a man a better knight, and Gaston had to admit that the image of her naked body poised to dive-
‘Halt!’ called his cousin.