· Stephen Wormwood here. Thank you for clicking. Feedback and constructive criticism are always welcome at stephenwormwood@mail.com. As always hope you enjoy reading this and please consider donating to Nifty if you can (https://donate.nifty.org/), it's more than merited.
·
You
can find a map of the fictionalized setting of this novel here: https://imgur.com/JtpD8WU (this is my first time using Inkarnate
so it might be a little rough!)
·
If
you end up enjoying this, please read some of my other
stories on Nifty: The Dying Cinders (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), Wulf's Blut (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), The Harrowing of Chelsea Rice (gay,
fantasy/sci-fi), The Dancer of Hafiz (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), The Cornishman (gay, historical), A Small Soul Lost (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), and Torc and Seax (transgender, magic/sci-fi).
**********
Chapter Ten: Games at Watfield
**********
An Oath Anew – The Branding – A
Braised Heart for a Morish Dog – Tournament Day – Loyalty's Reward – As the Sun
Falls and the Moon Rises
**********
Old Hall, Fludding, Kingdom of
Morland
28th of Autumn, 801
A public show of obeisance.
To cement its legitimacy, it was King Oswald's pleasure that
the Earl of Harcaster deliver the acceptance of his terms before an audience of
their peers. It was not, as perhaps the Lord Earl might previously have
thought, to humble him. Lord Gainscroft (basking in the auspicious afterglow of
the night's proceedings) put to work his team of cooks and bakers for a morning
feast the likes of which even the Emperor would delight to wake to. And when
the roosters crowed and morning light broke at the parapets; word spread swift
from room to room, down the halls and up the corridors, that the King and the
Lord Earl had made terms, thus the court was to assemble at the banqueting
lodge of the Old Hall to celebrate the news.
The cloth-dressed long tables ran a surfeit of roast
partridge, braised mushrooms, pickled pike, buttered manchet, boiled asparagus,
pitted olives, sliced pears and apricots, pottage with saffron, and peacock
pie. Wine sloshed at the rims of silverwork ewers – Gasqueri whites and
Imperial reds – as servants brought by warmed bowls of red wine sauce to
complement their meals.
After the disaster of last night's banquet, the mood amongst
the nobility was much lightened, idle talk and laughter everywhere one could
look, all save for the `Greyford Faction' – the Duke and Duchess, and the Queen
Dowager. They broke their fast alongside Lord Gainscroft and Her Majesty Queen
Annalena, but the King's seat and the Lord Earl's both lay empty. They were
off, as Francis Gray would learn, finalizing the terms of their newfound
concord, their secretaries scratching at parchment with inked quill to cement
the particulars.
Bells sounded at noontide.
At Lord Gainscroft's request, his guests were to wash, rest,
and resume at his Temple of the Four Saints for the Earl of Harcaster's
symbolic gesture of submission.
Fran huffed a sigh as Gustave bade him follow to his
chambers. He'd had very little sleep since arriving at Old Hall, having spent
the prior night flitting between the King and Lord Earl's rooms, securing their
agreement only for Gustave to catch him in the hallway and drag him back to his
own rooms for a celebratory rut. Even so. It was a joyous moment. A victorious
one.
Suddenly, other courtiers were approaching him, him
and not Gustave. The young gallant Richard Mountjoy offered his compliments for
`the coup', as did the Gasqueri envoy and Lady Cecily. Even his excellency the
Imperial Ambassador offered Fran a begrudging congratulations as they passed
him by along the halls – although he could not help but barb his felicitations
with a subtle jab at Gustave: "Your master has little but you to thank for
his current successes."
Tired as he was Fran took some pride in his work. He was in
the King's good graces now, had the Duke of Greyford on the teat, and his
beloved Edward at his side. He was finally ascending the ladder he schemed ten
whole years to build, and once he was atop it, his revenge could begin. His
enemies abounded – his tormentor Gustavius von Roschewald, his usurper Lyonel
de la More, his malefactor the Duke of Greyford, even that wolfhound in human
clothing, Ser Thomas Wolner, even he someday would pay dearly for the abuses of
his heart's love. One day, and one day soon, Fran would accumulate his power,
augment it, and then serve bitter justice to each and every fucking one of them
– joint them like venison for The Fiend to devour – and when it was done, he
would lick his chops in delicious satisfaction. All that was left was for his nobility to be restored
and the road to vengeance would at last unfurl.
But that was all to come.
Tomorrow was for action, today was for the waiting. Today,
he washed. Today, he dressed. Today, he accompanied the court, in whose graces
he now rose, to the Temple of Four Saints to watch from a marbled balcony as
the fully armoured Earl of Harcaster slowly approached the dais where his King
stood crowned and robed in golden finery.
Harcaster's sparkling steel greaves clanged against the
stonework as he took a knee and lowered his head.
"I swear anew this oath to my sovereign," His voice was
hoarse but its tone true. "I swear to serve him loyally, to offer him counsel,
to work to his protection, to ensure him my sword. I shall know no authority
beyond his own save the stars and saints that ordained him. I shall abide not
his enemies nor abandon his allies. I shall be true to him and honour him in
all I do from this day and ever after."
Harcaster reached out his armoured hands.
King Oswald took them, flinching only a little at the cold.
"This oath, your fealty renewed, I do accept, my lord. Rise. Rise and be
welcomed at my side, Lord Osmund Vox, my Earl of Harcaster."
Up he stood.
And then the applause, thunderous, echoing through the eaves
and transepts. Gustave smiled down from his roost, clapping, yet focused not
upon the King and Earl, but rather the Duke and Imperial Ambassador, glaring
mutedly at the spectacle from the shadowed colonnades.
"You've done me proud, Francis," said the Wallishman. "His
Majesty has prepared some celebratory games for the afternoon. We shall attend,
then make ready to leave with the court for Dragonspur. With the Lord Admiral's
vote my policies are all but guaranteed to pass. I could not have done
this without you."
Fran clapped with the others. "Yes, master. Thank you."
A sudden hand seized his arse, hot and heavy, kneading it like
dough through the white cotton of his hose before it dipped inside of them. A
single thick digit slipped down the cleft, its fingertip crooked at a convulsing
arsehole as it slowly pushed through its tightness until knuckle-deep, swirling
and prodding at the viscous remnants of the prior night's seed.
The clerk froze.
Gustave, smiling, kept his eyes to the marble-tiled floor of
the nave where Aldwyn, the High Shepherd of Dragonspur now moved to lead the
court in prayer. "What you've done here at Fludding will draw more attention to
you, more ladies of the court and even a few males of St. Jehanne. All will
pester me for your hand... but I can trust you to keep a sober head. Can't I,
Fran?"
"Yes, master." His cheeks burned red. "Yes, of course you
can."
Gustave removed his middle finger and suckled at it with a
smirk. "I have a gift for you. I will give it to you later. For now, I have
letters and itineraries for you to draft. Come. Our part in this is done. Let
us leave them to it."
The Wallish ambassador turned for the door in a swirl of ruby
and ebon silks. Fran followed quietly, eyes darting to the other balconies but
fortunately, all eyes were directed to the temple floor for Aldwyn's rites. So
as not to disturb them Gustave quietly pushed open the arched wooden doors and
veered out into the columned corridor beyond, fires burning within brass
braziers, incense carrying on the air. Outside Edward stood watch, helm on,
fingertips clasped around the ash wood shaft of his halberd. His back was to
them, him looking over the stone balustrade to the rose gardens in the central
cloister below.
Gustave called to him, clapping his hands as if summoning a
dog from a bush. "What's this? Stand to attention, Captain Bardshaw."
He turned towards them, slowly, and when he did, he fixed
them with an icy glare that chilled Francis to the bone. Ed's beautiful grey
eyes thinned sharply beneath the shadow of his plumed morion, glaring starkly
at Fran with a coldness he scarcely thought Ed capable of. `Something is
wrong,' thought the younger boy, `Why are you looking at me like that,
Ed?'
"That's better," said Gustave. "Now. We are to attend the
King's Games at Watfield in a few short hours. You and a second will accompany
us. Ready yourselves, prepare the horses, then meet us at the gates by
noontide. Understood?"
Edward's hand trembled at his weapon.
"Did you not hear me?" Barked Gustave. "Go!"
Wintry cold grey eyes darted hard from Fran to Gustave, and
for a moment, just a fraction of an instant, it was as if a flash of steel
cracked a Wallish skull and split its contents across the granite – like a
vision, like a burst of will – but it passed as swiftly as it manifested. The
hard-eyed Edward thumped his fist against his breastplate in salute before
storming off down the corridor in a trail of pounding bootsteps.
Fran's heart raced.
Something was wrong, very wrong, he could feel it. "May I
away to the privy, master?"
A grumble. "You may. But do be quick about it, there is much
work to be done."
**********
Old Hall, Fludding, Kingdom of
Morland
28th of Autumn, 801
Bells sounded about town from its bustling ports to the
towering red brick walls of Old Hall. Morish bells only ever seemed to ring for
disaster – the death of a lord, the spread of plague, an attack on the horizon
– but for once their peals rung out for goodly reasons. The people of Fludding
took to the streets to celebrate a rare outbreak of good news from a quiet
night's negotiation at Lord Gainscroft's keep. If you listened closely, you
could hear them cheering beyond the parapets.
King Oswald and the Earl of Harcaster had made terms.
The north, it was said, was not like south. The Highburghs loved
their earl almost as much as the Midburghs detested their duke. It represented
the return of the northern voice to court and a seal's stamp to the welcomed
dawn of a new era.
But for Edward Bardshaw?
Those bells might as well have been the call to oblivion.
The balconied corridor broke left and left he went with it,
storming away from that Wallish bastard and his barked orders, down the scuffed
stone steps into the lower archway adjoining the Temple of Four Saints to the
wider manorial apartments. He couldn't see for the red in his eyes, the rage,
the fire in his chest, the heat of his breath. He wanted to scream at every
servile face that brushed past him along the halls, dutifully ferrying wine and
warmed cloth for the petty overlords that governed them. It was as if Theopold
Stillingford had never lived, as if William Rothwell had never spoken.
`Puppets and tools,' thought Edward, bitterly. `Puppets
and tools all...'
Another turn, another hall, another flight of steps, a voice
calling to him that he could not hear for the blood thumping like war drums in
his ears. Down in the servant's quarters, dusty and cobwebbed, crawling with
mice and sullied with damp; he found his chamber door and unlocked it, bundling
himself in, returning to the utter wreckage he'd wreaked the night prior.
The bed smashed to pieces. The chair broken into legs and
posts. The sheets sliced. The walls splattered with pottage and the floors
scattered with bowl fragments and the bitter slop of his piss bucket. A dead
rat lay flattened in the shape of a boot. A bloody fist-print cracked the wall
alongside dozens of slash marks carved into the stone by a halberd's point.
Edward tossed the weapon aside and swept his face into his gloved hands,
screaming into the leather.
And then a knock at the door.
"GO AWAY!" He roared.
A pause. You could almost hear the hurt in it. "...It's me,
Ed. Just me. Open the door."
A fist clenched.
To hear that voice, that soft voice, that voice that
enchanted your dreams and whispered `love' into your ear and woke you into
blessed day – and to only feel anger at it? What a thing that was. Oh, the
cruelty of fate's whip.
Edward unbolted the door.
He did not look at Fran when he did, he could not bear to,
he heard only the gasp as the clerk strode in and witnessed the ruin of his
room for himself. "Saints be, Edward! What happened here? What's wrong with
you? Are you hurt?"
Fran's hand reached out to touch him.
Ed slapped it away.
"Do... not... touch me." He heard the anger in his own voice,
punctuating every syllable. It did not remind him of himself.
"Edward..." The swordsman could not look at Fran as he spoke.
But he heard the tremors in the clerk's voice, the disquiet, the shivering
fear. "...Edward, you're frightening me. What is... what is going on...?"
Edward sighed through gritted teeth. His hands reached for
his morion and hurled it furiously into the carved-up wall, Fran jumping at the
bang and clatter. He threw his head back, exhaling, wishing to his saint and
star for strength as an ugly, hateful, heart-breaking memory slipped darkly
into his thoughts and refused to dislodge itself – Fran's face flattened to the
sheets, Fran naked, Fran bent over, Fran being fucked...
"Are you laying with Roschewald?" He asked.
Silence.
Cold, deadened, lifeless silence.
And then a stutter. Words stumbling over themselves to form
some desperate semblance of an explanation before coming up short. "E-Ed, I-"
"ANSWER ME!" He bellowed, fists trembling. "Is it true?!"
Snivels. A sob. The scuff of a ruffed sleeve wiping away a
pre-emptive tear. Still Edward would not look at him. "H-how did you...?"
Still, Fran could not say it. But Edward did not need proof. The
proof, the sight of his heart's love being pawed at and rutted like a whelping
bitch by that traitorous fucking Wallishman; that blighted sight was seared
into Edward's memories like a branding. He wouldn't be rid of it until he was
cold in his grave.
Edward felt his shoulders crumble. "Is it true?" He asked
again. Stolidly, this time.
A whisper of a response broke. "...Don't ask me that..."
`At least he isn't lying to me...' thought Ed, though it was scant
placation at best. "...Do you love him...?"
"...W-what? What?! No, of course not! Edward, look at me...!"
And he did that time. Fran's hand, that soft hand reached
out for his padded shoulder, demanding that he turn around and look him in the
eye. It felt like clogs shackled his feet. Yet Ed turned around in a slow,
singular motion. And there he was. Francis Gray. Chestnut hair tousled from
running the halls, greensward eyes overspilling with tears, lip quivering,
chest pumping with breathlessness.
"It's you," said Fran, tremoring. "You're the man I love."
How could words so soft cut so harshly?
Edward fought back tears as he watched Fran openly spill his...
and for a moment... he felt all the weight of his love crashing against him,
rocking his heart, buckling him where he stood. And then that fucking brand burned
his brain again; Fran face down in Roschewald's bedsheets, moaning and sweating
and...
It turned his stomach. "...Is he taking you against your
will?"
Fran, sobbing openly now, bit his lip. "...To a certain
extent, yes..."
"What does that mean, to a certain extent?!" Ed
snapped, his sight flashing red again, but Fran snapped back in defence of
himself, yelling, "I do not want him, I do not like him, he makes my skin
crawl! I DETEST him! But I...I needed his power, his influence, his access to the
nobles...I..."
So that was why.
It was not even a love match.
Just a transaction.
A transaction for status and land.
Fran reached out for his cheek, but Edward backed away
sharply, shying from his light touch as if it would scorch him.
And in a way it already had.
"I wanted to tell you..."
And then a knock came at the door.
Both of them, Edward and Fran together, yelled at the person
to be gone. But they would not leave. It was one of his men, one of the
halberdiers. "...Master Gray? His excellency was looking for you, he said to come
at once..."
Edward sneered, snatching up his halberd and his now dented
morion as he made for the door. Fran tried to pull him back, but his grasp
slipped the swordsman's wrist.
"Edward!" He cried. "Edward, please, if you would only listen
to me...!"
But he was done with listening. Done with excuses. Done with
tears. Indeed he thumbed them from his eyes as he fitted back his helm and
reached for the door.
"...No." He spat the word like a wad of venom. "Leave me. Go
see to your master."
**********
Old Hall, Fludding, Kingdom of
Morland
28th Autumn, 801
It is often said, by explorers, merchants, and mendicants,
and by however many others for whom travel made up such a significant portion
of their enterprise, that there are regions of the world in which the very
ground shakes beneath your feet.
Preceptor Gertzog, one of Francis Gray's tutors at the University
of Strausholm, called this phenomenon an earthquake. He said, "{In ancient
times it was believed that earthquakes were caused by St. Thunos to voice his
displeasure at the ways of man. Oh Ludwig, do be serious and listen! No horsing
around less I whip you! Now. We know better, of course. We now know that
earthquakes are caused by highly noxious gasses trapped within subterranean
caverns deep beneath our feet. When the gasses of one cavern leak into the
next, a ruction is produced, an explosion a thousand times stronger than the
strongest gunpowder. Earthquakes are simply the reverberations of those
ructions.}"
Was that what Fran just experienced?
A ruction?
Across the world these things called earthquakes smashed
statues, toppled homesteads, broke palaces in half and sunk whole civilizations
into the crust. And this, this agony in Fran's heart, this certainly felt like that.
Like the end of everything.
What was Edward Bardshaw if not all the happiness Fran could
want for, filtered into a man? And what was life worth when that man looked at
him now with hatred and disgust?
The Fiend was cold. Gustave's touch was cold. But nothing on
this earth, not even Wallish winter, was as cold as Ed's eyes had been outside
the temple. And he was so angry...
`I've never seen him like that before...' thought Fran, bitterly, eyes
fogging over again. `How did this happen? How did he find out? Why now when
everything was coming together? Why? Why? Why?'
The clerk gazed down the length of the corridor, past all
its steel suits and marble statues, blurs of themselves through the haze of his
tears. The boy knuckled them out of his eyes, then sobbed again, slumping at
the threshold of a locked door. Some servants passed him by and called him
`lord', asking if he was feeling unwell, asking if he required some water,
asking if they should fetch Lord Gainscroft's physician...
"I-I-I-I'm fine...!" He spoke. "Please leave me alone..."
They huddled away, the fussing two chambermaids, leaving him
be as he swaddled himself within the latticed shadows cast down by the
ensconced candleflames. Crying until it hurt to do so. And then, somehow, composing
himself. Stopping to think.
Running the numbers.
In the narrow streets of snowy Strausholm, ancient by two
millennia, haunted by its own bloody history; its university stood above all as
a beacon to the brightest minds of a wider world yearning to leave the Empire
behind. Its teachings were cold and harsh as northern tundra. But they
sharpened you. Moulded you. Its histories taught you to predict. Its archmathematics
taught you to calculate. Its geographies taught you to chart. Its alchemies
taught you to meld.
The tutors there? They built you, disassembled you, and
rebuilt you; spring by spring, escarpment by escarpment, gear by gear, until
you ticked and hummed and thrummed like the clockwork monstrosity you were
always destined to be.
They taught you to run the numbers.
So? Once he collected himself? Once Fran picked himself up, dusted
himself off, wiped the tear tracks from his face and dragged himself through
the halls to Gustave's rooms – the gears began to turn.
Poison? No, a death too similar to Wolfrick and Comwyn's would
cause alarm. A dagger? No – any such wound invited investigation. A
fall down the stairs? No. With no guarantee of death, such a plan would
backfire. Lothar was skilled. Very skilled. But even he had no means to kill
Gustavius here at the heart of court. And what would the fallout be? Neidhart
aborting the trade proposals? No, it would damage his standing with the
Council of Lords, maybe even cost him his chairmanship, and doom Wallenheim to
unrest, leaving the way open for the Empire to invade. A recall of the
Wallenheim Delegation to Wallenstadt? With him and Lothar in it? Most
certainly. And what would Edward do? Kill Gustave now and visit the
headman later? Maybe. Or maybe Edward was wiser than that. He would fume and
vent. Seek solace. Get drunk. Brood in a tavern until he made his mind up to
some stupidity less self-destructive in the immediate sense – like
Ravensborough.
Fran had to think. Plot his course by synthesizing scenarios
and settling upon the most probable, build a stratagem around it, then see it
through.
`Get back to Dragonspur,' went the mechanisms of his thoughts.
`Let the Masters of the Realm seal the vote, secure Thormont, reach out to
Ed, spin lies like thread. It was once, he was drunk, I was powerless, it meant
nothing...'
The clerk stood upright. Brought himself to Gustave's door,
ventured inside and shut the door.
`Edward is yours,' Fran told himself. `He will not abandon you. Let
him cool, let him settle, work a trick to keep him from Gustave somehow...'
His master sat to a lacquered desk penning a letter to his
brother with a goose feather quill. He looked up to a feigned smile.
"Where were you?" Grumbled Gustave.
The numbers stopped.
`One day and one day soon I will cut out your fucking
heart and braise it and feed it to the hungriest Morish dog I can find,' thought Fran. "Apologies, master.
It will not happen again. Let us get to work, shall we?"
**********
Watfield, The Highburghs, Kingdom of
Morland
28th of Autumn, 801
It began as a great procession.
Lord Gainscroft had already played an outsized role in King
Oswald's first progress, hosting his travelling court at Old Hall and
facilitating the reconciliatory talks between the sovereign and the Earl of
Harcaster; but he threw himself into the organization of the King's Games at
Watfield with all the familiar vigour, working diligently with town officials
and guildsmen to make all the necessary preparations for the tourney.
It began as a great procession from the gates of Old Hall. A
host of Gasqueri musicians equipped with pipes, sackbuts, tabors and shawms,
and fronted by Blackthumb Aba, who led the way with a festive dirge.
Behind them rode the main competitors – the court's brave
gallants – Sers Richard Mountjoy, William Whitewood, Magnus de la More, George Sudley,
Thomas Drakewell, Sygmund Gainscroft, John Tunstull, Humphrey Ashwick, Percy
Polebrooke, and the `latecomer' Gerard Vox; the noble
sons of the most powerful lords in the kingdom. Fresh young men of budding
martial talent, hungry for honour and renown, trotting out atop powerful horses
dressed in fine caparison patterned after their house sigils, their rebated lances
aloft, the noontide sun glistening off the helms and vambraces of their
polished plate armour.
Behind them followed the first crop of the seniormost
nobles; the Earls Huxton and Harcaster, the Marquess of Gead, the Duke and
Duchess of Greyford, the Queen Dowager. Next, at the very centre of the
procession, surrounded by a liveried host of footmen, standard bearers, and
officers of arms – rode King Oswald and Queen Annalena of Morland – the happy
young couple crowned and swathed in golden robes of spotted fur.
The sloped road west ran from Old Hall's gates through the
centremost streets of Fludding to its tall semi-circular town walls, 1.5 miles
of dusty ground, and the town officials had cordoned off its entire length with
rope and post. And all along its expanse thousands of men, women, and children
came out to applaud the procession. Flowers and confetti tossed about the air.
Banners bearing the sigil of House Oswyke swung from perch to ledge to washing
line. Uproarious cheer shook the very ground as the King of Morland passed them
by, waving gently to his subjects with his lovely Queen – her gilded robes
carefully tucked back to highlight the swollen belly beneath her carefully
modified, pearl-woven corset.
The royal couple were closely followed by fifty mounted
Bannerets of the Bloom, flagged gisarmes resting upon their shoulders. And
after them followed all the lesser nobles, the dignitaries, the staff and
servants, the spare horses, the supply wagons and bundled carts.
Edward Bardshaw rode amongst them with a face of iron just a
few paces behind the Wallish Ambassador and his young clerk. Despite the
cheering and clapping, the flocking flags and banners, the clanging town bells,
the wind-tossed confetti and flower petals, the joy, the sheer elation of the
moment... Edward felt nothing.
He only looked ahead, eyes fixed upon Francis Gray as his smirking
master leaned over and whispered into his ear, some passing remark. A shivering
fist held his horse's reins tight. Ed was lost in himself, thinking too deeply
to think, enrapt with naught but a cold simmering rage.
The procession made its way through the town with all the
splendid pageantry Lord Gainscroft could muster, a sluggish serpent gilt with
finery as it slithered through the noisy streets to the town gates, passing
below an archway now festooned with tributary floral arrangements and bouquets
spelling out proudly, SAINTS LOVE YOU OUR FAIR KING.
It was a brilliant day.
The sun blazed brightly above them, unscuppered by cloud,
the sky a perfect pane of cerulean as the Mandelsea lay unstirred by all but
the gentlest waves. It was a scene fit to be painted as the procession made its
way out of Fludding towards the vast open heath of Watfield.
They were not one hour removed from the town before they
reached the tournament grounds – and what a sight they were.
A fresh tiltyard was cut from the ground, 600 yards long
along and 200 yards wide, both tilt and counter tilt adorned in the liveries of
House Oswyke and House Vox.
A little ways north of the tiltyard lay a smaller one, 300
yards long and 100 yards wide where twinned quintains of flail and shield were
erected.
A little ways east of that lay an archery butt, its
earthwork mounds ringed with targets at varying distances, with tables full of
longbows, leather quivers, spare strings, and many hundreds of arrows
segregated by length or fletching.
Just west of the archery butt lay the melee field, a
circular plywood paddock of levelled earth, its walls only two foot high, its
intended fixtures man on man and three on three.
Around all four arenas ran a massive track, a ring of earth
eight furlongs long, for King Oswald's two favoured sports, horse racing and
horseback archery, the former in which he was scheduled to compete with his beautiful
and powerful new horse, Stormwalker.
In the centre of all four arenas stood a massive circular
gallery, six rings high, large enough to seat 200 people, with the King's
canopied viewing box at its peak.
And beyond the tourney grounds lay hundreds of tents and
feasting tables set around the King's marquee, along with several dozen cooking
pits, latrines, stables, sheds, and a large gazebo designated as an infirmary
by Ser John Goodwyne, the King's own Sergeant Surgeon. Hundreds of yards of
land lay roped off for the commonfolk to watch the festivities unfold.
Lord Gainscroft's impromptu army of labourers toiled night
through day through night `till now to make ready the field for the King's
Games – and they had not disappointed.
As the procession poured into the tournament grounds they
burst afresh with activity as nobles climbed down from their horses and
carriages, servants brought forth refreshments of wine and sweets, heralds
prepared their cheques and quills, ushers directed nobles to their tents, stable
hands fetched horses to makeshift stalls for watering, cooks heated griddles
and grills, whilst footmen fetched chairs for the elders, and Bannerets of the
Bloom stood sentry or took patrol.
One of Gainscroft's dapper, ruff-collared ushers approached
Roschewald, fists at his back. "Greetings, your excellency, might I direct you
to your tent?"
"You may."
The usher begged the rest to follow – Fran, Edward, and one
of the halberdiers, Rieger. Through all the smoke, steam, clanking, and chatter
they proceeded after him to the camp beyond the tournament grounds where the
assigned tent of the Wallenheim Delegation stood, not six tents down from King
Oswald's own – a not insignificant fact. Roschewald dismounted. Fran, Edward
and Rieger did the same. The usher excused himself and promised to send a
stable boy to collect their horses. And then another servant approached them, a
page boy bearing the sigil of House Drakewell – Greyford's own.
He was young, as young as eight or nine, perhaps. "Master Gray?
Begging your pardon, but his grace the Duke of Greyford requests an audience
with you... before the games begin."
`...Greyford?' Edward frowned. `What does Greyford want with Fran?'
Roschewald nudged forth, casting his shadow over Fran as he
spoke in that mocking tone of his. "A chastisement? Our work has all but
side-lined him on the council, I suppose. Very well. Meet with him, Fran. But
say nothing that would imperil the coming vote."
A silence followed. Fran, hesitating, and not without due
cause. For a moment Edward wondered if he was frightened to go to Greyford's
tent and felt a twinge of sympathy. Then the branding burned inside his
mind again.
"Alright," said Fran. Ed felt him, six paces away, trying to
catch his eye before he life, but Ed would not look back. A sigh. And then he
shuffled away with the page boy.
Roschewald watched him go. "Rieger? Stay here with the
horses until they are collected. Bardshaw? With me."
The Wallishman punted open the tent flap and proceeded in.
Edward smothered a growl and followed him, the noise of the camp dampening into
a muffled thrum from within. It was pitched with five staves with its ceiling
only a foot or two above their heads. There were four beds, three chairs, two tables
and one chest for goods. The table was set with cloth, plate, two ewers (one of
wine and the other of water) and four cups, along with a short paring knife and
a bowl of apricots.
Roschewald, smirking to himself, shrugged off his
ermine-pelted coat and draped it over a chair. He turned his back to the
Morishman and set his hands upon his waist. He chuckled.
"Master Bardshaw. Do you know the precision it takes for a
clerk to serve a man of my standing? A man must be swift of quill, keen of eye,
diligent, and errorless. And for as long as he has served me Francis has been
all those things and more. He is a marvel beyond his own understanding, you
see. And so," Gustave pulled a small letter from his sleeve. "When Fran comes
late to my chambers and writes me a letter containing three errors and a
smudge, I might readily wonder what has troubled that keen mind of his."
Edward clutched a fist.
"And then some six hours after the fact, one of my own halberdiers
reports finding Fran with you in your chambers this morning. Crying. Why might
that be?"
`St. Thunos give me strength not to hack this fucking
Wallishman in half where he stands,' thought Edward, snarling. "Perhaps your halberdier is
mistaken."
Gustave chuckled again. "`Excellency.'"
"Begging your pardon?"
"`Perhaps your halberdier is mistaken, your excellency.' That
is what you meant to say, master. How soon your manners escape you. But it is
as they say. You can take a dog out of the street, but you cannot take the
street out of a dog."
Edward bared his fangs. "...Say that again..."
"Oh, has the dog had his ears cropped?" Roschewald turned
back to Edward with a grin. "You don't think I see the way you look at him?
Take heed, dog. Attempt anything upon Fran, even so much as a lick or sniff of
that gutter-stinking muzzle of yours... and I'll geld you myself."
St. Thunos failed.
A shuffle of frantic footsteps followed a dark snarl and the
slurp of unsheathed steel as Edward snatched Roschewald by the throat and
shoved him hard into the central tent post, sword tipped at the breast padding
of his doublet.
A single thrust would skewer that black, cankerous organ
Roschewald called a heart.
And yet?
And yet Roschewald only smirked in Edward's face. "I knew
it. You do desire him. But it matters not. Lower your sword, master.
Even a common little dog like you isn't stupid enough to kill me in my own
tent."
Edward tightened his grip around the bastard's neck, his
blade's tip poised at the breastbone. "Are you so certain of that,
Roschewald...?"
"Well, if the loss of your own life is not enough to
dissuade you, what of Fran's?"
Ed frowned. "-What?"
"I am the Ambassador of Wallenheim, you blithering idiot. My
murder would bring disgrace and disrepute to the Morish court. Even if only to
save face – King Oswald would be obligated to investigate it. You would be
caught easily enough, guileless thug that you are, but what of Fran? Your past
associations being what they are... how likely is it that he would not be
implicated in your misdeeds?"
The sword waivered.
"You see?" Roschewald's smirk deepened. "This is why I am
where I am, and you are where you are. It is not your low birth that makes you
unworthy of Fran... it is your dogged ignorance. The New Man is not the common
man. And when Stillingford's Phantoma comes to fruition... it will be to us
that your humble knee bends, not to nobles."
"...Damn you..." Edward choked it out through peeled teeth,
gritted and chattering. "Damn you to oblivion and back...!"
A hand released a throat.
Roschewald stepped back, rubbing his neck with a free hand,
his smirk wide, obnoxious, and victorious. "Heh. I've already foreseen your
punishment. You shall not be released from my leash, Master Bardshaw, you shall
continue your service like the dog that you are. Fran belongs to ME. And I will
make it my life's joy to remind you of that fact every fucking day from here on
out. You are dismissed."
Edward froze over in his fury, blade rattling in his fist,
every sinew of his sword arm poised to lop the head from the ambassador's
shoulders. And yet, in spite of himself, in spite of all the pent-up anger this
ghoul of a man seemed so uniquely capable of clawing out of Edward's heart, his
sword found its sheath again as he turned about his heels, fuming, and stormed
out of the tent.
**********
Watfield, The Highburghs, Kingdom of
Morland
28th of Autumn, 801
It was simply Fran's luck that Greyford's tent was none too
far from Gustave's (but curiously further from the King's). Two Bannerets of
the Bloom stood guard as the camp around them clanked and tinkered with
activity. The Duke's page bowed and excused himself. One of the bannerets
affirmed his entry with a nod. Fran, steeling himself, pushed through its door
flap.
The Duke's temporary lodgings were worthy of commoner's
permanent dwellings. By the providence of Lord Gainscroft's men it was
furnished with lacquered tables, studded chests, cushioned chairs, and gilt
panels. A brace of footmen stood at the ready, one with an ewer of wine and the
other with platter of baked bread and smoked fish. His grace sat to a
high-backed chair at the tent's rear, his lathered chin in the air with a ruff-collared attendant slowly shaving it down to the
grain.
"Master Gray," said the Duke. "How good of you to come."
Fran fell to a single knee. "How may I attend, your grace?"
The Lord Marshal made him wait until the foam was washed
from his freshly shaven jaw. He dismissed his attendants afterwards. His
groomer took away the water bowl, towel and shears, the footmen set aside the
Duke's refreshment and departed. When they were alone Greyford bid Fran rise
and approach.
"Take a seat," said the older man.
Fran drew a chair from the table and did so.
"Your report?"
A nod. "Gustavius von Roschewald has sent letters to his
brother, Chairman Neidhart, about the impending success of the vote. Now that
his lordship the Earl of Harcaster is to be promoted to Lord Admiral of the
Masters of the Realm, he believes this sixth vote all but secures the success
of his proposals," That much was truth. "He has also sent secret communiques to
Odoist thought leaders around the Highburghs, imploring them to treat with him
on potential strategies of conversion for the `more stubborn sort of
Morishmen'." That was a lie. But it served its purpose. Fran went on to explain
that he was unable to obtain facsimiles of these missives, but they were
confirmed to him by the ambassador's own lips.
Greyford's newly smoothed jaw, squared and jutting, soon clenched.
"What else?"
Fran pulled a letter from his pocket. It was a foolish thing
to carry around, but he knew the Duke would've called for him at some point
during these proceedings. And now here they were. Fran placed it in Greyford's
hand. "It is a letter of invitation sent to him by Edith the Exile. Nothing
implicates him in any plot, but-"
"The very act is implication enough," said the Duke. Then he
frowned. "...Or perhaps it would have been before Harcaster's return to court.
What was said between the two of you?"
`This is where I must be cautious,' thought Fran. "Little, your grace.
In truth I did little. I merely presented King Oswald's proposals to the Lord
Earl, the Lord Earl gave himself over to fury and a brief rant, but soon
relented. He said something about crop failures in the north?"
Fran spotted a twinkle of recognition in the Duke's eye.
That jewel of information was incentive enough for Harcaster to accept the
proposals as well as scupper any suspicions Greyford might have had about Fran
playing at both sides of this courtly rift. He had to make it clear that the
ducal faction was where he'd placed his bets. And so far, Fran was succeeding.
"Good work," said the Duke, frowning. Then he fetched
something of his own from a satchel of paperwork by his table. He gave it to
Fran.
The boy broke the wax seal and read it.
HEH, HEH, HEH, HEH, HEH, cackled The Fiend. A-HA, HA,
HA, HA, HA, HA!
"This..." Fran caught his breath. "This is..."
Greyford folded his arms. "A writ of ennoblement to the viscountcy
of Thormont and all lands and property under its ownership."
And there it was.
Everything he had been working towards. Everything he had
suffered for. Everything he needed to make Edward happy. Here it was, in his
hands, and stamped with the seal of the Duke of Greyford. And there was his
name.
FRANCIS GRAY.
"Loyalty does not go unrewarded with me," said Greyford.
"Upon our return to Dragonspur I will have the King confirm it. But..."
Greyford took the documents back.
"First, I plan to inform him of the 3,000 Wallish troops you
mentioned and raise a claim of conspiracy against Roschewald. Wolner will
arrest him, and your testimony will give evidence of his treachery. Am I
understood?"
Plainly. The Duke wanted to squeeze the utility out of him
before delivering his reward, every last drop into the bucket. But after these
ten long years of glorified exile his words were a melody of retribution. Fran
had no qualms lying to the bench if it was Gustave standing trial. He could
almost see himself weeping to King and court about the heinous plots the
Wallishman did hatch to seize his beloved Gead – if it ever got that far.
Would it?
King Oswald was a magnanimous young man; he would not risk
war with Wallenheim by arresting Chairman Neidhart's brother and throwing him
into a gaol. No, not at all. Fran's guess? Gustave would simply be expelled.
There would be consequences of course. The trade talks would
collapse which would force the King to maintain the Guard Tax until such time
as he could replace the revenue, which would not go down well with the commons
or Harcaster, but Emperor Adolphus would be mollified, and doubtless, that was
the Duke's prime objective. None of this was beyond Greyford's comprehension.
All of it played into his hands. It was why he was so ready to grant Fran the
viscountcy of Thormont. All of it hinged on him, after all, the Lost
Lord of Gead.
Finally.
It was all falling into place.
And yet?
`Would that this had happened but three days sooner,' thought Fran. `Or two.'
If only this had happened before Ed learned the truth. But
all was not lost. Fran refused to give up. He ran the numbers. Edward
Bardshaw would not abandon Francis Gray, not now, not ever. Ed could bleat and
cry all he liked but Fran's place in his heart was secure – they both knew it.
Gustave's degeneracy changed nothing and when next they were alone Fran would stop
at nothing to make Edward see it. If ten years divided could not break them
then what hope had Gustave?
The boy moved to speak, but the trumpets blared, a rousing
little fanfare rising over the encampment.
Greyford cut a wry smile. "The games are about to begin. Get
back to your master and we shall speak anon."
The clerk nodded, stood upright, then bowed as his once
malefactor (and now benefactor) tucked his and Edward's future safely away into
the folds of his leathered satchel. He excused himself.
Fran punted open the tent flap, flashing past the Bannerets
of the Bloom out into the beautiful sky-blue day as the nobles of Morland
flooded out of their tents to make their way to the newly erected tournament
grounds. Horses galloped by as ladies in waiting fetched up their mistresses'
dress trains and led their leashed spaniels away.
Fran doubled back to his tent and found it empty. Gustave
was gone. Edward was gone. Only Rieger was there, dismissed until further
notice by their master and idling his time sharpening his short sword with a
whetstone. Fran inquired about Gustave and Ed.
"The master's gone ahead to the games," said Rieger. "As for
the captain? Who can say? I saw him leave when I was off having a piss but
other than that..."
`Some guard you are,' thought he. "If you should see the
captain then tell him to come and find me later."
Rieger grunted yes.
Fran left him to his sword. Back outside the nobles now
flowed towards the tournament grounds and he joined them, blending into their
nattering crowds as they ambled along in a cloud of silk and taffeta and
brocade, silver buttons and gold brooches sparkling in the sunshine.
As they made their way out of the encampment a host of Lord
Gainscroft's hired ushers approached to direct them all to their assigned seats
upon the central gallery. Fran was taken to his seat, second row down from the royal
box, with the main tiltyard laid out along the right and the barricades of
melee arena to the left. It was a good seat – one with a better view of the
games and a closer proximity to the senior nobles.
In this as in any other function of note... closer proximity
to the King meant the higher you were in royal favour. For the Lost Lord and
Ambassador Roschewald to be seated on the second rung, above even the likes of
Lord Huxton, was an encouraging sign.
The royal box, however, was absent of King Oswald. No doubt
he was off by the stables preparing that treasured white horse of his,
Stormwalker, for the races. The box was occupied by Queen Annalena, fanning
herself from the day's sudden heat. Next to her sat the Queen Dowager, Emma of
Wuffolk, frowning regally at the proceedings, and finally the Duke of Greyford,
who was carefully guided to his seat by one of Lord Gainscroft's men.
The guest of honour, the Earl of Harcaster, sat to the top
rung rather than the main box, surrounded by a small retinue of courtiers
bearing his house sigil. His smile was bright and cheering, wide from
mutton-chop to mutton-chop. He clapped vigorously for his son and the other
competitors as they filed out onto the tournament grounds – as did the commons.
Hundreds of them. Seated and cheering along Watfield's open grassland, clapping
and whooping and hollering from a `respectful' distance. And their cheers only
grew more pronounced as King Oswald emerged at the rear end of that procession
of noble gallants out to entertain court and commonfolk alike for the next two
days.
But no Gustave.
Blackthumb Aba's drummers and trumpeters played another
burst of fanfare at the King's shimmering emergence, his riding leathers dyed
white and patterned with golden stars. Diamonds studded Stormwalker's saddle
and harnesses. The King raised his hand to speak. The music stopped. The
cheering stopped. A deferential silence overtook the hundreds there gathered.
King Oswald guided his horse in the direction of the
commonfolk. "TODAY IS NOT MERELY A DAY FOR GAMES AND REVELRY! TODAY IS THE
FIRST DAY OF A SHINING NEW ERA! THE COURT OF MORLAND IS WHOLE AGAIN! AND WITH
THE EARL OF HARCASTER AT MY SIDE WE ARE POISED TO MAKE OUR REALM STRONGER THAN
EVER! SAINTS BLESS YOU ALL, LONG LIVE THIS REALM, AND NOW, MAY THE GAMES
BEGIN!"
Hundreds roared from the commons to the heavens. The nobles
clapped. Down by the lists, Ser Gerard Vox raised his iron visor and blinked a
cheeky wink in the direction of his beaming Lord Father. It was then, as the
heralds clutched their cheques and quills and scrambled into place, only then
did Gustave emerge, picking his way up the gallery steps to take his seat
amongst the noble throng.
Glowering.
A prominent herald trod the steps of a dais raised with the
banner of House Oswyke as the King galloped off down the length of the tiltyard,
closely followed by the other mounted competitors. The herald's booming voice then
bellowed, "WELCOME TO THE KING'S GAMES! FOR TWO OUTSTANDING DAYS YOU SHALL BE
ENTERTAINED BY THE FINEST WARRIORS IN ALL OF MORLAND! AND NOW – WE BEGIN WITH
THE MELEE!"
Once King Oswald and the other riders were gone those
competitors left within the tiltyard, those on foot and fully dressed in their
ornate plate armours, split into two groups of three and seven. The three
consisted of Ser Richard Mountjoy, Ser William Whitewood, and Ser Percy
Polebrooke.
"THE KING'S DEFENDERS HAVE STEPPED FORTH! NOW! WHO IS SO
BOLD AS TO CHALLENGE THE CREAM OF THIS MORISH CROP?!"
Of the remaining seven – Ser Magnus de la More, Ser George Sudley,
Ser Thomas Drakewell, Ser Sygmund Gainscroft, Ser John Tunstall, Ser Humphrey Ashwick
and Ser Gerard Vox – it was Duke of Greyford's son, Ser Thomas, who stepped
forth and brought his challenge to Ser Richard Mountjoy – the King's favourite.
`Even in these silly games there is politics,' thought Fran.
"SER THOMAS OF HOUSE DRAKEWELL WISHES TO CHALLENGE SER
RICHARD MOUNTJOY!" Cried the herald. "DOES HE ACCEPT?"
Ser Richard answered by thumping his heavy armoured fist
against his embossed breastplate and pointing out the melee arena. A wide burst
of applause rung out as their audience of hundreds watched the pair trundle
weightily from the tiltyard into the melee field, where two attendants brought
them each their chosen weapons – a blunted longsword and crested kite shield
for Ser Richard, a tasselled pernach and buckler for Ser Thomas.
"BEGIN!"
Gustave leaned into Fran's ear. "What did the Duke want with
you?"
Cheers raised as the clangs and pummels of combat began,
sabatons shuffling in the dirt, young men huddling into defensive posture,
jockeying for position, teasing out their openings before charging in for the next
strike.
Fran leaned away from his master for the briefest, failing
to mask his discomfort, before quickly correcting himself and offering up a
tight smile. "It was nothing important, master. He only wished to congratulate
me upon the success of the talks."
OOOOOOOOHHHHHH went the galleries and commons as a single
pernach strike smashed open Ser Richard's wooden shield, breaking it in two,
splinters flying. A second strike whirled through the air and pounded the earth
as the King's favoured courtier dove out of the way, clanking in his armour as he
tossed the shattered remnants of his shield and scrambled for his fallen longsword.
Gustave eyed him, sceptically. "Congratulations, he offered?
No reprimand? No bribes? No veiled threats?"
Ser Thomas pressed the attack and lunged at Ser Richard,
buckler first, which the taller man was forced to parry as a mace swing looped
overhead and crashed into the young Mountjoy's shoulder. Up above the Duke of
Greyford roared "YES, BOY!"
It was such a ridiculous thing to ask there of all
places, surrounded as they were by so many prying eyes and ears, regardless of
the spectacle. But Gustave never was a man for patience. "I think he only meant
to be courteous. He said that he expects to see more of me at court from here
on out."
Ser Robert cheered on his son as the younger Mountjoy
retreated from Ser Thomas' wide swings of the pernach. One strike missed its
mark and punched a hole through the wooden planks of the palisade – and with
that Ser Richard took his chance. The young nobleman leaned back, longsword
lofted into doubled hands for a single strike to the back of Ser Thomas' neck,
straight to the gorget, rattling the smaller man so greatly his steeled fingers
slipped from the pernach's grip, leaving it lodged in the wall as he dropped to
his armoured knees.
"A ploy," said Gustave. "He sees the tide turning and seeks
an advantage. We must be very careful with him, Fran."
Ser Thomas, on his knees now, threw up his arms to shield
his head and neck from blow after blow rained down upon him by Ser Richard
until he called out, "I yield! I yield!"
"I understand, master." Said Fran.
A herald marked off his check as Ser Richard clasped Ser
Thomas by the hand and helped him up. They raised their joint arms before the
galleries then turned towards the commons. Good sportsmanship.
"THE WINNER IS SER RICHARD MOUNTJOY!"
The melee proceeded on like that – challenges offered from
one faction to the other and answered by contest within the arena. Ser George
against Ser Percy, sword to sword, Ser William against Ser Gerard, flail to
flail, Ser John against Ser Richard, sword to mace, until the King's Defenders
emerged victorious.
In the meanwhile other games unfolded. Off by the butts, men
of common birth competed shoulder to shoulder with highborns in the archery
contest. Fletched arrows shot through the air and thumped into upraised mounds
of earth stamped with targets. Over by the smaller tiltyard the lesser noblemen
tried their hand at the quintains or running at the rings, galloping at speed,
honouring their cheques with all the skill and vigour that the favours of the
ladies of the court could summon. And then, at the end of the melee, came the
horse races. These games were but trifles for the main event to come, the
jousts, tomorrow's coming highlight. But King Oswald was known to love a good
race and some of the finest riders in the kingdom would have the honour of
competing against him in the first round.
A gigantic counter-tilt was stamped into the long outer ring
surrounding the tournament grounds, and there was an oaken archway garlanded by
wreaths of white rose and lavender to serve as the starting point – high by
nine feet and wide by twenty. Another herald scrambled into position as King
Oswald led his competitors to their marks amidst the roars and applause of his
people.
"AND NOW FOR THE FIRST RACE OF THE DAY!" Yelled the high
herald. "LORD TUNSTALL UPON LADY BESS! SER RODHAM UPON THE DARK GABLE, SER
GREGORY UPON SCARLET PRIDE, LORD JAENUS UPON MILDRITH OF THE VALE, AND HIS
MAJESTY KING OSWALD, SECOND OF HIS NAME, UPON STORMWALKER!"
All five horsemen lined up as called beneath the archway as
a second herald drew up with his white flag, stitched with the royal sigil of
House Oswyke. He lowered it. And in a burst of mighty hoofbeats the five horses
bounded off down the track, pounding clouds of dust into their sundered wake. King
Oswald took the lead.
"By the way," said Gustave. "I had words with that little
Geadish friend of yours. I've put him back in his place."
Fran blinked, thinking for a moment that he meant Harry
Grover. Then another blonde crossed his mind. `Ed?' He thought. `Is
he talking about Ed?'
"Master?"
Gustave frowned. "Do not be coy. That man you bade me hire,
Stillingford's old guardsman, Edward Bardshaw. I know he approached you in ways
most foul, and he has been corrected. He will trouble you no further."
Fran felt his spine shiver.
`What have you done...?' Thought he. "Master, I-"
A scream split his sentence in half. A scream, and then a
crash of wood and a startled whickering before a chorus of gasps shook the
tournament grounds from every direction. Fran and Gustave stopped where they
were. The galleries fell still. The commons fell into shocked silence. Everyone
froze.
All eyes went to the racetrack.
Two horses had stumbled together and fallen against a broken
section of the counter tilt. One was Lady Bess, whickering away its dying
breaths... and the other was Stormwalker. Already dead. Lord Tunstall lay in the
grass, gasping for breath, his leg gored by a shard of wood, whilst the other
rider laid across from him, bleeding from his ears, fingers twitching, trapped
beneath the girth of his lifeless horse from the abdomen downward.
King Oswald.
"BY THE BLOOD OF THE SAINTS SOMEONE HELP MY SON!!" Screamed
the Queen Dowager.
And then all of Watfield broke into chaos.
Fran stood as everyone else did, all shooting out of their
seats to see what was happening. All games stopped across the fields as the
Bannerets of the Bloom raced towards the fallen king, glaives in hand, skirts
fanned and pelting. The other tournament riders stopped where they were,
realizing what had happened, and doubled back along the racecourse, the first
to reach the crash site. Sers Gregory and Rodham leapt from their saddles and
rushed to the King's side, checking his pulse before Lord Jaenus climbed down
and screamed for them to help him lift up the toppled horse. The three men set
their backs against the lifeless creature and heaved, Oswald screaming in agony
as they did so, screaming and screaming until the pain was so great it robbed
him of his consciousness. By now the Bannerets had reached him. Three of them
threw down their polearms, two took the monarch by either arm whilst the other
assisted the others in lifting up Stormwalker.
They counted "One! Two! THREE!" and heaved up the horse
corpse by half a foot, just high enough for the two Bannerets to drag the young
king's body out of the sodden crevice and lift him into their arms, his torn
and soiled clothes dripping in thick crimson rivulets.
By now the commons had gone wild. The Bloody Parley in
redux. Men and women of all ages leapt from their grassy seats and raced toward
the broken racecourse to help their king, or to help those helping him, or to
ascertain his wellbeing, but they grew into a crush of bodies charging at the
grounds, forcing the forty Bannerets of the Bloom at hand to level their
glaives and push them back, yelling for calm, begging them to control
themselves.
By then the galleries stood abandoned as the nobles climbed
down its steps and crowded behind the two men ferrying their broken sovereign away
to the infirmary tent where the Sergeant-Surgeon, Ser John Goodwyne and his
team of royal physicians scrambled to attend him. Ser John held open the way
for the Bannerets carrying King Oswald, and then Lord Tunstull, his impaled leg
dangling beneath him as two of Gainscroft's footmen carried him into the tent,
then finally for the Duke of Greyford and the Queen Dowager, who had their
guards shove their way through the throng to be at their kindred's side.
After that, orders were barked at the guards to hand to bar
the way, to cross their glaives and let no man through. Now nearly 200 nobles
and servants shouted and cried around the tent, whilst a thousand shocked
commoners waited upon tenterhooks for news of their dear child king.
Fran's head bobbed somewhere in the centre of the throng. He
and Gustave had lost each other amidst the tumult, just before the king was
taken in, just as they caught a glimpse of the monarch; soiled, bloodied,
barely breathing, his pelvis crushed, his legs mangled, black blood trailing
across the grass from what was left of his feet.
`How did this happen?' Thought Fran. `How on earth
could this have been allowed to happen?'
A hand reached out to him.
Fran almost slapped it away, thinking it to be Gustave, but
it was Edward, shoving his way past the frightened gathered and throwing his
arms around the boy. Fran, aghast and breathless, practically melted into the
embrace. For the slightest of times he thought he might never feel it again.
"Are you alright?!" Ed took Fran by the cheeks as he asked.
"Are you hurt, what happened here?!"
Fran shook his head. "I am fine, it is the King, he... he had
some sort of accident on the racetrack and then... it all happened so fast...!"
All around them was naught but shouting, crying, prayers,
and questioning. "What happened on the course?" "Did the King collide with Lord
Tunstall?" "Was there some kind of foul play?" "Was the sun in his eyes?" "What
is taking so long?" "Where is Her Majesty?" "Can we not send for more help?"
"Someone give the Bannerets a hand keeping those fucking commoners in check!"
"Pore some wine upon his wounds!" "Where are the other barber-surgeons?" "This
is Tunstall's fault! Was Tunstall drunk? I think Tunstall was drunk!" "Oh, poor
king, our poor king!" "What is happening in there?" "Do be calm, do be calm, do
be calm you all!" "Saints save the king!" "Get off my shoe!" "Oh, no, no, no!"
And then, perhaps a quarter of an hour since the tent was
first barred, the defending Bannerets uncrossed their glaives and the flap
punted open. Ser John emerged, haunted at his eye, his hands and smock soiled
with royal blood. The huddled nobles and servants fell silent as he addressed
them all. His lip trembled. His tears dripped down the sallow bend of his
cheek.
`Oh no...' Thought Fran. `Oh no!'
"My good lords," Ser John wept. "Our king is dead."
**********
Fludding, The Highburghs, Kingdom of
Morland
28th of Autumn, 801
That day was the hardest Edward ever rode a horse. The
Wallish fjord horses the Delegation brought with them were not the fastest of breeds,
but they were strong, and kept up a strong pace for vast stretches. Edward
huddled down, close to the creature's mane, reins spread, boots buckling at the
flanks as his steed galloped along the beaten dirt track highway veering off
from the Old King's Way downslope toward the shore – towards Fludding.
Fran rode to his left. Roschewald to his right. Rieger took
up the rear. Watfield lay miles behind them, the royal camp quickly
disassembling itself as an emergency meeting of the Council of the Masters of
the Realm was scheduled to be held at Old Hall. Everyone was in a blind panic.
Servants, footmen and messengers ran back and forth from tent to tent whilst
wagons and horses were loaded with goods and made ready to return.
When the commonfolk gathered for the tournament were
informed of the King's fate they extolled a great woe, a wailing and weeping torn
from their very throats. They cried. They jeered. They yelled at their betters
for allowing him to race, they got to their knees and begged the saints to keep
his soul close to their hearts. Some snuck past the guards to fetch pieces of
the broken tilt, others dug up clumps of earth from the dirt patch where the
late king was crushed, as if his royal blood had blessed it somehow. Over time
the Bannerets of the Bloom drove them away and bid them return to their homes.
And what a story they'd bring back with them.
Word travelled fast in Morland.
As the camp was unmade and the procession readied to return
to Fludding, riders galloped ahead bound for all the key cities of the realm –
Dragonspur, Greyford, Wrothsby, Greatminster, Harcaster, Stoneport, and
Castlegarron. By noontide tomorrow the whole realm would know that King Oswald
II of the House of Oswyke was gone to the saints.
And Roschewald, knowingly, was in a blind panic.
As the sun fell and the moon rose the Wallishman whipped his
horse raw, racing ahead of the court by hours, knowing full well the
implications of this. This changed everything. For everyone.
"This is a disaster!" Roschewald shouted to be heard over
the rapid series of hoofbeats. "We have to get back to Manse de Foy! I have to
write to my brother and prepare!"
This was worse than a disaster.
King Oswald's death had implications far beyond the scope of
Gustavius von Roschewald's personal benefit. The King of Morland was dead.
DEAD.
And his sole heir was an unborn child of unknown gender, and
until that heir came of age (some eighteen years from now) it would fall upon a
regent to rule the realm in their stead...
"The Masters of the Realm will hold a convocation to choose
a new regent!" Fran said, almost as if picking up on Ed's thoughts. "And
judging by the current Council I cannot see it being anyone but the Duke of
Greyford!"
Roschewald cut a sneer. "Leaving my trade proposals dead in
the water!"
Edward bit his tongue, for all he was hot to do was separate
that man from his head. `Trade proposals?' Thought he. `The most
hated man in the realm is poised to retake the reins of power and he speaks of
fucking trade proposals?'
"This will split the country in two!" Yelled Fran.
"And so we ride!" Barked Roschewald. "We collect our things,
rouse the men, then return to Dragonspur!"
Off in the distance, past the rushing boughs and deepening
shadows quickening by with each pounding stride, rose the high stone walls of
Fludding. Night was fallen. And yet a cloudless sky bore no starlight, so high
rose the smoke that still piped from all Fludding's chimneys, hearths, and
braziers. Bells chimed from within, but not the jubilant peals that blessed
them on their way to Watfield at the cusp of King Oswald's new era just that
morning past, but the foreboding peals that signalled his era's ruin, and in so
doing, signalled yet darker days to come.
From a distance Edward spotted the spearpoints of additional
guards posted to the watchtowers and ramparts.
Roschewald, Edward, Fran and Rieger bolted on down the dusty
path towards the guarded gatehouse where the city wardens had already
marshalled a checkpoint. Twenty local spearmen stood to defence, stopping every
traveller in or out and questioning them, taking names and purposes (and
bribes) before sending them on their way. Roschewald did not bother with
pleasantries. He did not dismount nor reason nor flatter. He simply barked his
lofty name and demanded they stand aside – and they did.
The four of them galloped through the gatehouse and out into
the town's main highway before it veered toward the manor of Old Hall. From
there Edward saw the streets and found a town in mourning. Old women weeping by
the roadside, drunk men crying foul, shepherds leading public prayer, loyalists
waving the King's banners -- torn from the decorations around the central
laneway and tied to their broomsticks and bills and fagging hooks. For all the
tension in the north, the late king still had supporters here. But now the king
was dead...
The four riders pushed on until Old Hall's red brick walls
verged over the slope of the horizon. A hundred paces from the gates they rode
into the forecourt, where some others of the court, dignitaries and lesser
noblemen, had already beaten them to it; their servants mounting chests, casks,
food and furniture into hired wagons and carts.
Roschewald, Fran, and Rieger all galloped ahead for entry.
Edward made to follow them – until he noticed a shadowed face lurking beyond
the trees, watching the foot traffic pulse in and out of the manor. For a
moment Edward thought it was Lothar. Instead, as he edged his horse over to the
woodland strip and dismounted, he found Harry Hotfoot waiting for him instead.
The two old friends embraced.
"Is it true?" Asked Harry. "Is he...?"
Ed nodded yes.
Harry looked away, frowning. "He won no love from me.
Neither him nor his feckless father. But still. A king is a king. Saints rest
him."
Over by the gates, Roschewald was dismounting. A stable boy
came to collect his horse as he threw an angry glance at the pair from across
the paved forecourt. "BARDSHAW! By the Stars and Saints, carry yourself along!
We have work to do!"
Ed's sword rattled as he clutched its hilt.
"I'm riding west for Ravensborough," said Harry, slipping
his cloak's hood back over his ears. "My offer still stands. Meet me outside
town at Oxdyke's Rock along the Old King's Way when the moon is highest. If you
wish it."
A sigh escaped Ed as he looked at this man, Harry Grover,
one of his oldest and dearest friends. Alive and well, kept safe into the
present by saintly providence. Only back in each other's lives a couple of days
and now look. Look at what they were on the cusp of.
Ed cupped his shoulder. "I have something I need to do. Take
care, Harry."
The Hotfoot smirked. "And to you, old friend. Tell the same
to Fran, saints bless him. I'll make him laugh yet."
With that he slipped away, turning tail and vanishing beyond
the shadowed trunks of the long row of white-barked birch trees lining the
forecourt.
Edward made his way to the gates of Old Hall, past the
guards (who did not question his approach by dint of his uniform). Rieger was gone, most likely to the barracks. Fran
was gone too – perhaps to his rooms. And Roschewald was off with a foreign
emissary or some other, perhaps hoping to salvage some benefit from his
ill-fated jaunt to Morland.
`King Oswald might've objected to me killing you,' thought Edward, fist rattling his
sword. `But the coming Lord Regent wouldn't care a damn.'
With every bone in his body, every drop of his blood, every
thread of his sinew, Edward Bardshaw wanted nothing less than to draw his steel
and sink it so deep into Roschewald's back that it burst out of his belly. But
there was work to do.
To oblivion with Roschewald.
The swordsman brought his horse not to the stables, but a
secluded spot near a stone archway. Tucked away and safe, Ed went for her
saddlebags. One was fattened to the brim by two full wineskins, three days'
worth of food and a spool of rope, all pilfered from the encampment at
Watfield. The second was empty. Edward unbuckled it and brought it with him as
he entered the manse, descending its stone steps and corridors into the
servant's quarters. Once he came into his rooms (still torn to shreds) he
packed as much of his things as he could: spare clothes and boots, his purse of
wages, a dagger, a whetstone, parchment, ink jar and quill, etc.
After that he made his way out, shrugging the saddlebag onto
his armoured shoulder, bounding back up the steps to the manor's stately
corridors. They were abuzz with activity. Attendants ferried chests of clothing
and goods out of rooms to ready for transport. Chambermaids whispered about the
King's death. Nobles freshly returned from Watfield wondered openly who should
rule in Oswald's place.
He ignored it all.
Merely followed the corridors.
All the way to Fran's rooms.
He knocked.
The door yielded. Fran's sweet little face peeked through
the gap at the threshold. His eyes widened, then softened, then he pulled Edward
inside and barred the doors. His rooms were already half stripped; his unused
parchment, quills, ink, and paperweights bundled into one chest. His other
clothes, vests, doublets, jerkins, hose, ruffs, undershirts and linens bundled
into a second. His important documents and letters he stuffed into his satchel.
Refreshment and wine he left behind half-eaten and undrunk. He was as frantic
as the other servants as he cleared the desk and riffled through the drawers.
"Stop," said Edward.
"I cannot! This changes everything, I have to think. I have
to fucking think! But first we must make ready to leave. Oh, saints love
him but damn him all the same, why was the King so foolhardy as to race?
Which buffoon whispered in his ear to do so? What on earth did he seek
to prove?"
"Stop it," Edward held him this time, turning him from the
desk until they faced each other. "Where are you going?"
The clerk blinked. "We are returning south to
Dragonspur, where else?"
"Listen to me, Fran..." Ed took Fran by the shoulders and held
him fast. "We cannot go south. You said it yourself! When the convocation is
held Greyford will retake power as Lord Regent... and if that happens then half
this fucking country will rise up against him! It will be war and with
Dragonspur at its centre! We are safer in the Highburghs, and you know it!"
Fran frowned. "...And my lands?"
"Fuck the land! Fuck the titles! Let the past lie and build
something new! Build it with me..."
Fran's frown deepened. Those sparkling emeralds he called
eyes narrowed. He was angry. Suddenly Fran shirked from Edward's grip and poked
an accusatory finger at the taller man's breastplate. Suddenly, Fran was
spoiling for a fight.
"How easy you make it sound!" He jabbed. "To turn your back
on everything that makes you great, everything your family wanted for you,
everything that grants you security and stability in this hateful world!"
"I could give you ALL of those things!" Yelled Edward. "I do
not need title to keep you safe!"
A scoff. And then a wry laugh. Fran's gaze drifted to the
saddlebag slumped near Edward's feet. "You speak of safety as you plot your way
west to Ravensborough. That is where you wish to go, is it not? Be
honest. What do you think Edith will do when she learns that her half-brother
the king is dead?"
Edward puffed out his chest to fire back, but there was no
rebuttal. Silence deafened. The swordsman could only think, think back to when Harry
Grover met with the two of them at The Golden Cockle to express Edith's
virtues, entreating with them to meet her. He thought of Stillingford's dream
of a Kingdom of Equity, where all Morishmen regardless of birth, are
equal beneath the crown. If Stillingford's death did not throttle that dream in
its infant crib, then King Oswald's death buried it six foot deep. Then he thought
about The Phantoma, Master Stillingford's nightmare put to print, his
prophecy of noble ignorance to the plight of the people dooming the realm to a
blind dirge toward bloody epochal shift.
Edward thought back to all the gluttony and avarice he saw
at court since this progress began. He thought back to his master's execution,
how a simple call to reform was twisted into charges of sedition.
Fran was right. The Phantoma dawned, and Edith's shadow
loomed over the horizon.
"You promised me," said Fran. "You promised me you would
stay away from her."
He did.
And then the branding was seared into his brain.
Ed clutched a fist to steady himself as the memory of it re-poisoned
his mind, the memory of his life's love being rutted at over silken sheets. "...Whatever
we find west will be better than what you have south with that bastard
Roschewald."
Fran's eyes teared over.
"...It is not forever..." He whispered to himself.
A silence
Edward forgot himself. Brought his hands to Fran's cheeks
and thumbed his tears away. Watching Fran cry was like stabbing yourself in the
heart. He hated it. He hated seeing it. Fran caught his thumb, wet with tears,
and kissed it. And Ed felt himself swelling anew with need for this man, to
sweep him into his arms and steal him away to any compass point that would
grant them leave to live as they would, together, and in peace.
And then the branding again. It burned and smouldered
inside his mind. But it was not the hateful memory of Roschewald tupping at
Fran in candlelit darkness this time, it was the memory of that icy ghoul
Lothar metastasizing from the shadows bearing daggers and keys.
And what was it he said?
`Go and see for yourself how he celebrates his
victory. And later, when you get the chance, ask Fran what happened to
Wolfrick.'
And then, sharply, ugly gears began to turn. Pernicious
thoughts. Thoughts Edward once believed unthinkable. Like how convenient it was
that Roschewald's old guard captain fell to `consumption' after Edward's own employment
came to an abrupt and unwarranted end.
Edward stepped back.
"What happened to Wolfrick?" He asked.
Fran blinked. "W-what?"
"What happened to Wolfrick?" Said Ed. "I won't ask again."
Francis turned away from him, biting his lip, ambling across
groaning floorboards to the latticed window bearing out into the courtyard.
"Why do you ask me about him of all people? Did you ever meet him? He
was hateful! He was violent and cruel, ever quick to judgement, he raised his
fist to me! Why should you care one whit for him?"
Edward frowned.
That inner aspect of himself that fractured when he peered
inside Roschewald's chambers last night – he felt it breaking again. A gentle,
sylvan monument carved and cleaved over ten long years of distant adulation,
built up by the mortar of his memories and made flesh through saintly
providence... now its beloved countenance crumbled by the instant, like a shell
cracking, like the silver-painted fragments of a beautiful mask falling away
from an all too human mien.
The ugly gears clicked into place.
Edward's shoulders deflated.
A sigh.
"You had him killed, didn't you?"
Fran froze at the window, his back to Edward, sobbing. But
the swordsman was done with games and pretences. He marched over to Fran, took
him by the shoulder, turned him around, and held him firm by the chin.
"Tell me everything," he said.
And so Fran did.
Everything. From the moment he first landed on Wallish
shores as a frightened boy of two-and-ten, to the moment Edward knocked his
door a moment ago. Everything. Roschewald's vices. Magnhilda's cruelty.
Wolfrick's spite. His loneliness. How Lothar had been his only friend. How an
evil creature called `The Fiend' convinced him to retake his place amongst the
Morish nobility by any means necessary, and how he and Lothar had plotted
together to that end for the better part of a decade. How he ferreted away his
wages like a war chest. How he went behind his master's back and bribed his way
into the Wallenheim Delegation. How he bid Edward secure star chart records to
placate Lothar in the quest for his true parentage, only to learn that he and
his mentally crippled brother were Roschewald's own sons. How Roschewald
whored out one of those sons as `Lady Eleanora' to whet Lord Comwyn's foul
appetites and secure favour. How he bid Lothar poison Wolfrick when his tempers
threatened their plans. How he bid Lothar assassinate Comwyn to release
the viscountcy of Thormont...
...how he bargained with the Duke of fucking Greyford to
obtain that viscountcy for himself. How he now served as Greyford's espial in
Roschewald's household and how the Duke planned to arrest the ambassador upon their
return to Dragonspur.
And when he was done?
Edward felt like he was staring at a stranger.
Perhaps he was.
"...Still a noble..." Ed whispered, dumbfounded. "To the core of
your core. To the heart of your heart..."
The saddlebags were behind him. Edward shook away his tears,
fetched it, and made for the door. Francis, openly sobbing now, raced around
him in a frantic stumble and blocked his path, desperately, crying, "Do not go!
Please, do not go! I love you, I need you, I want to
build a life with you, Ed! As viscount I could help your cause, I could-"
"My cause," said Edward, flatly. "Not ours?"
Francis placed his hands upon Edward's breastplate. "Please
listen to me, Edward." A sob. "There are 3,000 Wallish troops stationed a few
days sail from the eastern coast, with the right planning I could command them,
I would only need Gustave out of the way-"
"Out of the way how, Lord Gray? How? By unleashing
that pet bloodhound of yours, Lothar? By assassination? Listen to yourself! You
sound just like the rest of them... you're everything that's wrong with this
world..."
Francis froze. Wide-eyed. Shocked. Hurt. Profoundly hurt.
But Edward could not allow himself to care and in that dark moment he was no
longer sure that he did. For the first time since they found each other again
at the flagstones of the Black Quay, Edward Bardshaw wanted away from
this person.
Edward put Francis aside, gently, and took up his saddlebag.
His set his hand to the door. "I am going to Ravensborough with Harry. Go south
with your whoremaster if you wish. And if we ever see each other again...? Pray
to the saints it's not as enemies."
And then he left.
**********
·
Thanks
again for reading everybody! Stay tuned for more. Feedback and constructive
criticism are always welcome at stephenwormwood@mail.com .
·
Please
read some of my other stories on Nifty: The Dying Cinders (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), Wulf's Blut (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), The Harrowing of Chelsea Rice (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), The Dancer of Hafiz (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), The Cornishman (gay, historical), A Small Soul Lost (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), and Torc and Seax (transgender, magic/sci-fi).