Gaston snapped out of his reverie to find that a dozen mounted Royal Foresters had a pair of men on horseback, seething with outrage. The older man had a hawk on his fist.
‘By what right do you ride armed in Jarsay?’ the hawker asked.
The Captal de Ruth smiled like the image of a saint. ‘By the order of the King,’ he said.
The hawker shrugged. ‘Best send a rider to request my uncle’s leave, then.’ He leaned forward with adolescent arrogance. ‘You’re the foreigner – eh? De Vrailly? You probably don’t know our ways-’
Jean de Vrailly’s face grew red. ‘Silence, boy,’ he said.
The hawker laughed. ‘This is Alba, sir, not Galle. Now,’ he said, looking at the Royal Foresters on either side of him, ‘I’ll trouble you to order these fine men to release me, and I’ll be back to my sport.’
‘Hang him,’ de Vrailly ordered the two Foresters.
The senior man, who wore royal livery, baulked. ‘My lord?’ he asked.
‘You heard me,’ de Vrailly snapped.
Gaston touched his spurs to his mount.
‘Touch a hair on my head and my uncle will have you roasted alive with your prick in your mouth,’ snapped the hawker. ‘Who is this madman?’
‘Insolence,’ said de Vrailly. ‘He is insolent! Hang him.’
The liveried forester took a deep breath and then put out a hand, restraining his companions. ‘No, my lord. Not without a writ and due process.’
‘I am the King’s commander in Jarsay!’ spat de Vrailly.
Gaston had his hand on his cousin’s bridle.
‘And he insulted me! Very well – I see where all this is heading. You – young man. You wear a sword. I’ll do you the honour of assuming that you can use it – yes? I challenge you. You have insulted me and my honour, and I will not live another moment without wiping that stain from the world.’
The hawker suddenly understood the gravity of his situation, and now he was scared – his face blotched red and white. ‘I don’t want to fight you. I want to go home.’
De Vrailly dismounted. ‘As you are foolish enough to ride abroad unarmoured, I will take off my harness. Squire!’ he called, and Stephan appeared. He ordered up two pages and a cart, and the Captal’s armour began to come off – gauntlets first, then shoulders, arms, breast and back, then sabatons and finally the legs in two pieces.
The hawker finally dismounted. His companion, obviously a servant, hissed something at him, and he shook his head.
‘Fuck him,’ said the young man. ‘I’m no coward, nor is my blade a lily wand.’
Gaston decided to try to penetrate his cousin’s stubborn arrogance. ‘Cousin,’ he said softly. ‘Do you remember how much trouble you caused killing the squires of Ser Gavin?’
‘Eh?’ de Vrailly asked. ‘I didn’t kill them, Gaston. He killed one, and you, I believe, killed the other one.’
Rage flared in Gaston, and he fought it down. ‘On your orders.’
De Vrailly shrugged. ‘There was no consequence, at any rate.’
Gaston was stung. ‘No consequence? Did you not see the position in which you placed the King with his people in Lorica?’
De Vrailly shrugged. ‘It is no business of mine if he is weak. I only act for my own honour today, no man can do more.’ He was stripped to an arming jacket and hose but he still looked like an angel come to earth – or perhaps fallen to earth. ‘Now leave me to this.The maintenance of my honour is my sacred duty. You would do the same.’
Gaston shook his head. ‘I would not put myself in a position-’
‘Are you suggesting that this is my doing? Let me tell you, cousin, that I have not found you to be as loyal as I have reason to expect as your liege.’ De Vrailly met his eye.
Gaston shrugged. ‘Perhaps you’d like to fight me, too?’
‘Do you doubt that I am the better man?’ de Vrailly asked.
Gaston stood very still, and he considered a dozen replies. Finally, he nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said, very slowly.
De Vrailly reacted by smiling and putting his hand on Gaston’s shoulder. Gaston flinched. De Vrailly smiled. ‘God has made me the best knight in the world. I am no more worthy than any other, and it is natural that even you, who love me best, should – shall I say it? – be jealous of the favours I receive. I forgive you.’
Gaston bowed his head and withdrew, as carefully as he could. His hands were twitching.
The servant was pleading with the hawker, but the boy would have none of it. He stripped off his peasant’s cote – like most nobles, he dressed in simple, dull colours to hunt – and stood forth in a fustian doublet, hose, and thigh-high boots. He unbuckled his sword belt and dropped it into his man’s waiting hands, and drew the sword.
The liveried Forester was shaking his head. He looked at the company of foreign knights, and then at the royal Guardsman, and finally his eyes settled on the Count of Eu.
‘My lord,’ he said formally. The man’s hands were shaking. ‘Duelling like this is illegal without express permission from the King.’
Gaston pursed his lips. ‘How does the King manage to prevent duelling?’ he asked, genuinely curious.
The Forester watched the preparations. ‘It happens all the time, my lord, but it is proscribed and I am an officer of the law. I’ll lose my place, my lord. That boy is the Earl of Towbray’s nephew. My lads were foolish to pick him up, but this duel is insane.’
Gaston shrugged. ‘My cousin is defending his honour.’ He spoke very carefully, and his jaw was more clenched than he could control. ‘I tried to stop it.’
The boy set himself in a good stance with his weight back over his hips, his riding sword in one hand, held back and across his body. Gaston knew the garde – it looked ungainly but it allowed a weaker man to block almost any cut from a stronger.
De Vrailly took his own riding sword, drew it, handed his squire the scabbard, and then walked out onto the trampled, green-brown summer grass of the crossroads. He walked towards the boy purposefully, flicked his sword up into an overhead garde and threw a cut as he entered into range – the boy covered with a rising swing. Only de Vrailly’s blow was a feint, and his sword flicked around and bit deeply into the boy’s unprotected neck, killing him instantly.
Without breaking stride, de Vrailly walked back to his squire and handed him the sword. Stephan produced an oily linen rag and wiped the blade clean. His face showed no trace of emotion – he might have been wiping furniture clean.
The retainer fell on his knees by the corpse and put his face in the dirt.
The liveried Forester shook his head.
De Vrailly began the process of getting back into his armour.
The Royal Forester followed Gaston back down the column. ‘You know what this means, my lord? Instead of merely collecting the Earl’s back taxes, and he meekly handing us the silver because we’re here in force, he will instead raise his retainers and fight. He’ll have to. Honour will demand it.’
Gaston sighed. ‘I think that will suit my cousin perfectly. A nice little war to occupy the late summer.’
The Forester shook his head. ‘I’m sending a rider to the King,’ he said.
Harndon – The Queen
The Queen of Alba stood in front of her mirror, looking for signs of her belly swelling.
‘I’m sure,’ she said to her nurse, Diota, who shook her head.
‘You had your courses-’
‘Forty-one days ago, you hussy. I can tell you where I conceived and when.’ She stretched. She loved her own body, and yet she was content to see it pregnant. More than content. ‘When can I know if it is a boy?’
‘Womenfolk aren’t to be despised, mistress,’ Diota snapped.
Desiderata smiled. ‘Women are infinitely superior to men in most respects, but the peace of this kingdom needs a sword arm and a prick with a brain behind it. Besides, the King wants a boy.’ She grinned.
Diota made a clucking noise. ‘How did you get a baby off the King, sweet?’
Desiderata laughed. ‘If I have to tell you, I suppose I will. You see, when a woman loves a man, she-’