"Only for that he did wrest such power from the Queen, who had thieved it from our sires!"
"The Queen was arrogant," D'Auguste admitted. "Yet King Tuan hath tempered her manner."
"Aye, she doth but spit sparks now, where before she breathed flames! What, wouldst thou serve such an one?"
D'Auguste's eyes kindled. "I would serve none, yet I would follow King Tuan."
"He hath made thee his lackey!" Ghibelli spat.
D'Auguste surged halfway up from his seat, then froze, glaring.
"And what doth halt thee?" Ghibelli taunted. "Dost thou fear the King's wrath?"
"Nay," Marshall purred. "He hath wed the fair Lady Mab, who will come to childbed presently. 'Tis not the King hath stolen his pride, but a woman who hath ta'en his manhood."
D'Auguste's glare swiveled to him, and his hand dropped to his hilt; but he felt Graz's hand on his, and checked himself. " 'Tis true I shall soon be a father," he said softly. "Nay, 'tis my boast."
"Thou are bridled," Marshall taunted. "Thou are bitted and saddled."
"That may be," D'Auguste admitted, and the words were gall on his tongue. "I have shouldered the burden that each of us must bear, or see his house perish."
"Thou hadst no need of great force to induce thee to take it up!"
"Nay, for my lady is beauteous." D'Auguste's eyes glowed, and he smiled. "And if I rejoice in my load, 'tis the happier for me. Yet it doth raise up care in my heart, to assure mine heir's holdings. Therefore do I peer down the road of the years, to judge where I must turn now, that I may make this whole land of Gramarye peaceful and bountiful—for as the land fares, so fares my house."
"And the Crown is thy surest means to so grand a view," Marshall said with contempt.
"The King's plans have merit."
"Say the Queen's, rather!"
"Mayhap." D'Auguste shrugged impatiently. "I care not if 'tis her scheme and his hand, so long as they bring about a smoother path for my child to walk."
"And if it doth diminish thy power? Or tarnish thine honor?"
"There is no loss of honor in following a prince I believe to be right! And if I lose some moiety of glory, what matter? As to loss of power, 'tis not so great as to trouble me."
"It did trouble thy sire!" Ghibelli's eyes burned. "He did fight to stay the Queen's hand, and though he lost, suffered defeat with honor! 'Tis the King and Queen whose escutcheons were blotted, for they hid behind a rabble of beggars and witches! What noble son could countenance such baseness?"
Graz started to answer, but Ghibelli overrode him. "What of thy grandsire? What of the noble Bourbon who founded thine house? Would they have brooked such meddling in their affairs? Would they have prattled of 'the good o' the people'?"
"Their day is gone," D'Auguste answered, tight-lipped. "Their sun hath set. 'Tis for mine own day I must care, and for my son's."
"Fair words, to excuse thy betrayal of thy house!"
"There is no betrayal in seeking the welfare of mine heirs and my line," D'Auguste answered, stung. "Each noble's house will be far more strongly warded by the King's peace than by his own army—for look you, there will be no more warring of lord against lord, and no more devastation of lands and murdering of peasants for the false god of Pride!"
"Pride?" Ghibelli's lip curled. "I am amazed thou dost know the word! Yet thou canst not have heard of Honor, for thou hast betrayed it!"
"There is honor only in doing as I believe right!" D'Auguste snapped. " 'Tis thou who art traitor—to the Crown!"
"What! Could I contemplate lifting mine hand against Their Majesties? Oh, for shame, sirrah, that thou couldst think it of me! For only a fool would dare think of treason, in a castle where tame witches do leap to do the chatelaine's bidding, and hearken to the thoughts of any and all!"
"And thou, I take it, art not a fool?" D'Auguste asked, with a skeptical smile.
"Nay, certes, for a man's not a traitor till he doth take up arms against his King."
"And when wilt thou do so?"
Ghibelli started to answer, but caught himself and glared at D'Auguste, his face crimson.
D'Auguste met that glare with a wolf's grin. "Thou wouldst but now have signed thine own death warrant, if Their Majesties did truly use their witches as thou hast said. Yet they do not; they do respect all their subjects' right to the privacy of their own minds; and they will not permit witches to hearken to the thoughts of any, without good and clear reason."
"If thou dost credit that," Ghibelli spat, "then thou art a fool; for no prince would e'er disdain the use of a weapon of such might."
D'Auguste reddened. "He would, as he did hold the law to be greater than his own whim or pleasure!"
"Dost thou truly hold so" Ghibelli said between his teeth. "Then thou hast the soul of a squire!"
D'Auguste blanched bone white, and his dagger leaped into his hand.
Ghibelli snatched out his stiletto, teeth bared in a fierce grin, and lunged at D'Auguste.
D'Auguste sidestepped, catching Ghibelli against his forearm and shoving him back. Ghibelli flailed for balance, and D'Auguste whipped the tail of his cloak about his arm before Ghibelli recovered and stepped in again, snarling and stabbing; but D'Auguste caught the blade on his padded arm.
All around the table, daggers flashed and young noblemen leaped at one another, shouting. Steel rang against steel; razor edges shredded cloth and drew lines of blood across flesh. Marshall slashed down at Chester's thigh, a foul blow, and as Chester faltered, swung his stool against Chester's head. The young man slumped, senseless. Ghibelli cheered at the sight and leaped back from D'Auguste long enough to swing his own stool at Graz. The stool cracked against Graz's head, but D'Auguste stepped over him as he fell, shielding his companion with his body. Ghibelli sneered, caught the edge of the table, and heaved it at D'Auguste, who stepped back, shoving
Graz's body aside with his heel as the table crashed over. Then the melee resolved into dueling pairs with stools for shields and poniards for swords.
The door boomed open, and a brass voice roared, "Hold!"
The young men all froze, but didn't look away from one another for so much as a second.
"In the King's name, put up your arms," the dwarf in the doorway thundered. He stamped into the hall, arms akimbo; behind him men-at-arms streamed in through the door to stand ready near each lord; alert, ostensibly only to serve, but wearing half armor and carrying pikes.
"For shame, milords!" Brom O'Berin boomed. "Noblemen, brawling like any rough peasants in a low tavern! Art thou not mindful that this is the King's castle in Runnymede? What shall he say to thy sires, as to why thou art naught but a brawling pack?"
Most of the young lords had the grace to look ashamed. But Ghibelli turned slowly to look directly at Brom with eyes that glittered. "And how, my Lord Privy Councilor, didst thou know we did battle?"
"But how if they do, Brother Alfonso? How then?" The Abbot whirled to confront his secretary, clenched fists trembling.
Brother Alfonso's lips pinched tight before he answered. "They will not, milord. Their Royal Majesties dare not arouse the anger of the people."
"Oh, the people!" the Abbot said, disgusted. "The people will not rise to slay a dog, unless there is one to lead them! The people count for naught in princes' plans!"
"Be not so certain, milord." Brother Alfonso's eyes glittered. " 'Twas the people aided Their Majesties to put down their barons' rebellion some thirteen years agone. The people become the armies; the people pay the taxes."
"Only if they are led, Brother Alfonso—only if they are led."
"Aye, but 'tis thy priests who lead them!"
The Abbot stilled, frowning. Then, slowly, he turned to look out the window.