“What of the Merduks?” Alembord asked with round eyes.
“I am assuming they are on the move even as we speak. If they force march, they can be here in four or five days at most. That does not give us much time. This thing must be crushed by tomorrow at the latest if we are to take the field in time.”
“Very well,” Macrobius said, his chin out-thrust. “It shall be as you say. Monsignor Alembord, rouse the entire abbey. I want everyone in their best habits, the Knights in full armour and mounted, with every flag and pennon they can find. We shall make a spectacle of it, give Fournier something to distract his mind. See to it at once.”
As the unfortunate Alembord hurried away, Macrobius turned back to Corfe. “How do you intend to get through to your men?”
“With your permission, Holiness, I will retain the disguise I’ve been given. I will be a cleric desiring only to offer spiritual succour to the beleaguered soldiers. For that reason, I will go to Formio’s Fimbrians first. The idea of a priest offering comfort to my Cathedrallers would not stand up.”
“And will you go alone?”
“Yes. Albrec here is too easily recognizable, even by these bumpkins from the south. He will have to remain here in the abbey.”
“And what about the Queen, Corfe?”
“She, also, will have to be left to her own devices for a while. For now it is soldiers I need, not monarchs.”
Count Fournier’s beard had been tugged from its usual fine point into a bristling mess. He paced the room like a restless cat while his senior officers stared woodenly at him.
“Escaped? Escaped? How can you be telling me this? The one man above all who must be contained, and you tell me he is at large. Exactly how could this have happened?”
Gabriel Venuzzi’s handsome face was sallow as a whitewashed wall. “It seems he managed to lever up a grating and make his way into the sewers, Count. He and that nose-less monk who was incarcerated with him.”
“That is another thing. I specifically said that the prisoners were to be confined separately.”
“There are not enough cells in the waterfront dungeons. By my last estimate, we have almost four-score prisoners down there. Some of them are even three to a cell now. Every officer above the rank of ensign is being picked up. Perhaps we could relax the rules a little.”
“No! We must cut off the head if the body is not to crush us. Every man on the lists must be arrested. Start using the common jails if you have to, but take every name on the list!”
“It shall be as you say.”
“What of the Queen?”
“Still confined to her chambers.”
“Have the guards look in on her every few minutes.”
“Count Fournier!” Venuzzi was shocked. “She is the Queen. Do you expect common soldiers to tramp in and out of her chambers like gawking sightseers?”
“Do as I say, damn it. I don’t have time for your lace-edged court niceties, Venuzzi. Our heads will all be on the block if this does not come off. How in the world could he have got away? Where would he go? To his men, obviously. But how to get through the lines? By subterfuge, naturally. Venuzzi, inform our officers that no-one- no-one-is to be allowed through the lines to the Fimbrians or the Cathedrallers. Do you understand me, Venuzzi? Not so much as a damned mouse.”
“I am not an imbecile, Count.”
“I thought that also until you let Cear-Inaf slip away. Now get out and set about your errands.”
Venuzzi left, his formerly pale face flushed and furious. Fournier turned to a beefy figure who lounged by the door. “Sardinac, get some more men up here in the palace, and some artillery pieces.”
The man called Sardinac straightened. “We don’t have too many artillerists to spare, Count. These are hired retainers we’re working with, remember, not Torunnan regulars.”
“Don’t I know it! Take some of the guns which they have deployed about the Fimbrian quarter. And send another courier in to treat with that ass Formio. His position is hopeless, and it’s not his fight. Safe conduct out of the city-the same as the last one.”
Sardinac bowed, and exited in Venuzzi’s wake.
Fournier wiped his brow with a scented handkerchief. He was surrounded by fools, that was the problem. Such a beautiful plan, but it had to work in all things or it would work in none. There was so little margin for error.
Out on to the balcony his restless feet took him. You could see a corner of City Square from here. It was like glimpsing a slice of some odd carnival. He could see Knights Militant bedecked with banners, richly robed priests-and a milling crowd of several thousand of the city lowly who had braved the curfew to see what was going on. That also had to be contained. His men were like butter scraped across too much bread. Who would have thought Macrobius would issue out of his lair and get up on his hind legs to preach, the old fool?
There was a lit brazier in the room, the charcoal red and grey with heat. Fournier went to the table, unlocked a small chest and took out a battered scroll with the broken seal of the Merduk military upon it. He studied it for a moment thoughtfully, and seemed about to consign it to the brazier, but then thought better of it. He tucked it into the breast of his doublet and patted it with one manicured hand.
“Sergeant! We’ve a priest here wants to go and talk to the Fimbrians,” the young soldier said. “That’s all right, ain’t it?”
The sergeant, a corpulent veteran of many tavern brawls, marched ponderously over to the barricade where the black-robed Inceptine stood surrounded by half a dozen nervous young men with the slow-match smouldering balefully on the wheel-locks of their arquebuses. He drew a sabre.
“New orders, Fintan lad. No-one to go through the lines. Courier arrived just this minute. Father, your time has been wasted. You might want to say a prayer for us, though, out here facing those damned Fimbrians.”
“By all means, my son.” The priest, his face hidden in the cowl of his habit, raised his hands in the Sign of the Saint. As he did, the wide sleeves of his raiment fell back to reveal badly cut wrists. The soldiers had bowed their heads to receive his blessing, but they snapped upright when a clear young voice shouted out: “Sergeant! Bring that man to me at once!”
Colonel Aras was standing outside a nearby grain warehouse surrounded by a crowd of other officers and couriers. He stalked forward. “The priest! Grab that priest and bring him here!”
The Inceptine tensed as he found the barrels of six arquebuses levelled at him. The sergeant looked him up and down quizzically.
“Looks like someone else is in need of a prayer, Father.”
“It seems so, Sergeant,” the priest said. “Be careful of those Fimbrians. They collect the ears of their enemies, I’ve heard.”
“Bring him into my quarters, Sergeant, and be quick about it!” Aras barked, white-faced. “Enough chatter.”
The Inceptine was escorted past the crowd of staring soldiers and into the cavernous interior of the warehouse. There was a little office within, divided off from the rest of the building. They left him there. Some young noblemen were bent over a map. They straightened and nodded at him, looking a trifle bewildered. Aras ordered the room emptied.
“You can throw back your hood now, General,” he said when they had gone.
Corfe did as he was told. “I congratulate you, Aras. You have quick eyes.”
The two men looked at one another in silence for a long moment, until Aras stirred and reached for a decanter. “Some wine?”
“Thank you.”
They drank, each watching the other.
“What now?” Corfe said. “Will you turn me over to your master-and the kingdom over to the Merduks? Or will you remember your duty?”
Aras flopped down into a chair. “You have no idea what this has cost me,” he whispered.
“To do what? Betray your country?”