“He’s unhinged. Oh, not in a foaming-at-the-mouth kind of way, but something has gone awry in his head. It was the west that did it.”
“And the girl-shifter, Griella.”
“Bardolin told you of that? Yes, perhaps. That was a queer thing. He felt something for her, and she for him, but it harmed them both.”
Isolla came back with pewter mugs of chilled wine. “Your Majesty,” Hawkwood said as he took his, eyes dancing.
She frowned. “Not yet.”
“Not for several weeks.” Golophin grinned. “I think she grows impatient.”
“With you, yes. Sometimes you are like a little boy, Golophin.”
“Is that so? Abeleyn always thought of me as an old woman. I am a man for all seasons it seems.”
Hawkwood dragged his gaze away from Isolla and set aside his tankard after the merest sip. “I’ll be going. I just wanted to make sure all was well with Bardolin.”
“I’ll speak to the King on your behalf, Captain. We’ll see you are recompensed for your losses, and your achievement,” Golophin promised.
“That won’t be necessary,” Hawkwood said with stiff pride. “Look after Bardolin; he’s a good man, no matter what that bastard wizard turned him into. I can take care of myself. Goodbye, Golophin.” He bowed slightly. “Lady.” And left.
“A proud man for a commoner,” Isolla said.
“He is not a common man,” Golophin retorted. “I was a fool to phrase it so. He deserves recognition for what he did, but he’ll turn his back on it if he thinks it smacks of charity. And meanwhile Lord Murad is no doubt standing on his hind legs as we speak, relating the marvells of his expedition and reaping as much of the credit as he can. It’s a filthy world, Isolla.”
“It could be worse,” she told him. He glanced at her, and laughed.
“Ah, what it is to be in love.” Which made her blush to the roots of her hair.
“You’ll make him a grand wife, if our stiff-necked Captain doesn’t steal you away first.”
“What? What are you saying?”
“Never mind. Hebrion has her King again, and will soon have a worthy Queen. The country needs a rest from war and intrigue for a while. So do I. I intend to immure myself here with Bardolin, and lose myself in pure research. I have neglected that lately. Too much of politics in the way. You and Abeleyn can run the kingdom admirably between you without my help. Just be sure to keep an eye on Murad, and that harpy, Jemilla.”
“She’s finished at court. None of the nobles will give her the time of day now.”
“Don’t be too sure. She still bears a king’s child who, although illegitimate, will always be older than any you have.”
“We had best hope she has a girl, then.”
“Indeed. Now get back to the palace, Isolla. There is a man there who has need of you.”
She kissed the old wizard on the cheek. In Hebrion she had found a husband, and a man who had become like a father. Golophin was right: the worst was over, surely. The country would have its rest.
PART TWO DEATH OF A SOLDIER
Soon a great warrior
Will tower over the land,
And you will see the ground
Strewn with severed heads.
The clamour of blue swords
Will echo in the hills;
The dew of blood
Will lace the limbs of men.
Njal’s Saga
SEVENTEEN
T HE Papal palace of Macrobius had once been an Inceptine abbey, and was now bursting at the seams with all manner of clerics and office-seekers, armed guards and inky-fingered clerks. Their numbers were augmented today by richly dressed Torunnan soldiers, a bodyguard fit for a queen. And in their midst, like a scarlet spearhead, eight Cathedrallers in all their barbaric glory. The military tailors had quickly run up some crimson surcoats for them—it would not do for them to tramp into the Pontiff’s presence in their battered armour—and though they were, sartorially speaking, smarter than they had ever been before, their tattooed faces and long hair set them apart.
Queen Odelia and her commander-in-chief had come to call upon Macrobius, and they must needs be received with all the pomp and ceremony that embattled Torunn could muster. Two thrones had been set up—that reserved for the Queen noticeably less ornate than Macrobius’s—and to one side there was a stark black chair for the sable-clad general.
Corfe was far and away the most sombre-looking member of the cavalcade that had made its way through Torunn’s packed streets to the Papal palace, but it was he who elicited the most excitement from the gathered crowds. They cheered him to the echo, and some of the more effusive pushed through the cordon of troops to touch his stirruped boot or even stroke the flank of his restive destrier. Andruw, who rode at his side, thought it all immensely funny, but for himself he felt like a fraud. They called him the “Deliverer of his country,” but that country was a hell of a long way from being delivered yet, he thought.
The cavalcade dismounted in the main square of the abbey. The balconies which surrounded the square were lined with cheering monks and priests—a weird and somewhat comical sight. Then Corfe took the Queen’s arm, and to a flourish of trumpets they were ushered into the great reception hall of the palace, running the gauntlet of a throng of clapping notables. These were most of what remained of Torunna’s nobility, and their greeting was markedly less enthusiastic than that of the crowds beyond the abbey walls. They eyed the tattooed tribesmen with distaste, the black-clad general with wonder and dislike, and the ageing Queen with guarded disapproval. Corfe’s face was stiff as wood as he stood before the Papal dais and looked once more on the blind old man who was the spiritual leader of half the western world.
Monsignor Alembord had barely cleared his throat to announce the eminent visitors in his stately fashion when Macrobius cut him short by hobbling down from the dais and reaching out blindly.
“Corfe.”
Corfe took the searching hand. It felt as dry as an autumn leaf in his grasp, frail as thistledown. He looked at the ravaged face and remembered the long cold nights on the Western Road on the retreat from Aekir.
“Holiness. I am here.”
The chamber fell into silence, Alembord’s proclamation strangling into a muted cough. All eyes swivelled to the general and the Pontiff.
Macrobius smiled. “It has been a long time, General.”
“Yes. It has.”
“I told you once your star had not yet stopped rising. I was right. You have come a long way from Aekir, my friend. On a long, hard road.”
“We both have,” Corfe said. His throat burnt. The sight of Macrobius’s face brought back memories from another world, another time. The old man gripped his shoulder. “Sit beside me now, and tell me of your travells. We shall have more than burnt turnip to share this time.”
The chair which had been set aside for Corfe was hurriedly moved closer to the Papal throne and the trio took their seats after Macrobius had greeted the Queen with rather more formality. Musicians began to play, and the crowd in the hall broke into a loud surf of conversation. Andruw remained standing at the foot of the dais with the Cathedraller bodyguards and found himself next to a man of about his own age in the robes of an Inceptine.
“What cheer, Father?” he said brightly.
“What cheer your grace, soldier. I’m a bishop, you know.”
Andruw looked him up and down. “What shall I do—kiss your ring?”
Avila laughed, and took two brimming glasses of wine from an attendant who passed by with a tray. “You can kiss my clerical backside if you want. But have a drink first. These levees are liquid occasions, and I hear you’ve been working up quite a thirst in the north, you and your scarlet barbarians.”