· 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 Eleven: Convocation
**********
Edith's Castle – A Letter in Both
Hands – The Training Pit – The Convocation of 801 – Shepherd Godwyn – `Time to
return home, Fran' – Edith's Standard – Uprising
**********
Ravensborough, The Highburghs,
Kingdom of Morland
32nd of Autumn, 801
They woke him with a water bucket.
A sudden burst of ice-cold water that shattered against his
torso and tore him from a hard, ale-induced slumber. Edward Bardshaw shot up
from his haybale bed for the night, sodden and spluttering, laughter ringing in
his ears.
`Harry?' He thought.
When Edward scrubbed the well water from his face he did
indeed find his old friend standing over him, banded bucket in hand and
chuckling to himself, but he was not alone. A woman stood with him. A tall
woman. Flame-haired. Eyes of smouldering cinnamon. Her calloused hands perched
upon the hips of a moth-eaten red dress.
She leaned into Harry's ear. "This is the one?"
"Afraid so."
The redhead sighed, chuckled a little, then took up a brush
from a nearby tool rack and scrubbed the golden mane of one of her horses. And
then Edward suddenly remembered where he was – the stables. Had he been carried
here? He didn't remember much. He remembered riding into town with Harry Grover
and his followers, he remembered being shown to his rooms and being given some
bread and salted meat to eat by a helper boy. And then he recalled inquiring after
the nearest tavern.
Edward clutched his pounding head. "How did I get here?"
"You drank yourself into a pissing stupor, I'd wager." Said
the redhead. "But I wouldn't cut myself up about it. My tavern mistress
proffers a mean brew. Let me guess. Sore head? Foggy eyes? Patchy memory?"
Ed lurched forward, dripping from the hair down. "All the
aforementioned."
Harry, grinning, waggled the bucket. "Fancy another?"
"The first was enough," Ed said. "Let me get myself in order
before I meet with Edith."
The woman smirked. "You just did."
Ed's eyes tore open. He scrambled to his feet, snatching the
haybale to steady himself before he stepped back, fist to his heart, head
lowered. "Saints be, my lady, forgive me, I meant no offense..."
Edith chuckled at him as she casually stroked the gelding's
mane. "If none was meant then none is taken. And I'm no lady, by the by. I'll
have no `milords' nor `miladys' `neath my roof. No ranks of birth. No fucking
kneeling. Understood?"
"...Understood."
In his mind it took Edward a moment to place who it was he now
stood before. Edith. Or as she was more commonly known – Edith the Exile. To
her sympathizers she was The Red Princess, and to her enemies, The
Bloody Maid. Never before had they met and yet Edward felt as though he already
knew her. Men sang songs of her deeds – whether real or imagined – from here to
Greatminster. Hers was the name that dared not speak itself in noble company,
the dark alternative to Stillingford's Equitism that whispered through the din
of the Old Lioness; the Imperial-slaying, poacher-gelding warrior woman of the
frozen north. Reputation is the world's oldest messenger.
And here she was.
`What would you have made of this, old man?' Thought he. `Is this me failing
you yet again? Or is she the only choice left?'
Edith's thoughts were none too far from Stillingford either.
She paused, mid-brush, frowning. "Are you thinking of your master?"
Silence.
"He was always cynical of me," Said she. "But I respected
him. I was a girl of four-and-ten when I read The Phantoma first, barely
understood the half of it, mind you. But long before me he marked the rot at
the heart of this realm – we only differed on the remedy. Stillingford thought
it a malady to be cured, but me? I see it as a canker that must be cut out at
any cost. As do you, I suspect."
He did now.
Edward saw that `canker' for himself throughout the royal
progress to the north. The constant feasts. The trivial games and hunting
parties. The sumptuous balls, banquets and masquerades. The waste. The
opulence. The indulgences. The callous disregard for the lower orders. King
Oswald's court was rife with it despite all his pretentions to reform.
Edward thought bitterly of Fran and his desperation to be
returned to that cloying world of luxury and decadence. The canker corrupted
even his once sweet soul. What was even left to salvage?
Edith resumed her smooth brush strokes. "Harry here tells me
you're handy with a sword?"
He blinked. "I... have been known to swing one from time to
time."
A grin. "That and other things, I imagine. Well come on. We
need all the swords we can get."
Edith returned the brush to the tool rack and had Edward and
Harry follow her. She strode out of the stables into the massive courtyard of a
decaying fort dating back to the Black Age. Banners of moss draped its squat
guard towers and battlements. Plywood walkways were fashioned where the parapet
walkways collapsed with age. Broken merlons lined its old battlements, the
spired rooftops of its towers lay in a patchwork of broken tiles. In the Black
Age, the age of giants and magic and chieftains, it was known as Fort Farren, built
atop the apex of a sloped hillock around which the town of Ravensborough slowly
grew, but nowadays its locals knew it by a different name. Edith's Castle.
"Welcome to my home, Edward Bardshaw!"
Ed blinked. "It... it's..."
"It's a fucking shack," She said proudly. "And it's home. It
could be your home too should it please you. If you bring some usefulness to
it."
Usefulness. That was the word that stood out as Edward eyed
his surrounds. Doubtless, Edith's Castle was a decaying relic, but the people
living within it could not have been more alive. In fact the entire courtyard burst
with activity. Roaring forges. Piping kilns. Mule-drawn carts wheeled through
the gatehouse ferrying supplies to and from the township. There were
blacksmiths hammering slabs of molten iron into blades and quenching them in
brine water slack tubs. Tanners prepared leather for scabbards, quivers, and waterskins
whilst dozens of seamstresses stitched linens and sowed sigils into the
forearms of gambesons and padded jacks. Teams of archers sat aground or at
table, some sharpening broadheads and bodkins whilst others carved cock-feather
into fletching. Bonneted washerwomen sung songs together as they plunged white
cloth into tubbed dyebaths of woad and weld, their mewling babes strapped to
their backs. Beneath thatched stalls bakers kneaded dough, butchers jointed
meat, cooks chopped vegetables whilst drums of broth were brought to the boil.
Hundreds of people slowly readying for war.
`They've been preparing for this,' thought Edward. `Long before the
King's death...'
Along the breadth of the western wall ran a long, thatched
canopy with dozens of plywood tables in its shade. Men ate there. Bowls of
pottage and strips of salted meat.
Edith pointed it out. "Go. Fill your belly and come back to
me. I want to see what that little sword of yours can do."
Ed wished to speak more with her but as he turned she was
already away, stalking off towards the timber-reinforced keep with a flock of
pages, clerks, captains, and well-wishers vying for her attention with a
rolling assortment of missives, reports, queries and prayers for her to sift
through. She bent down to collect a little spaniel running into her arms as she
addressed them all, one by one, with resounding and pointed detail.
"Take my messages to my chambers and I shall read them anon,"
and "Prepare the ledgers for review and I will speak to my paymaster," and "You
should send all pledges to the market square where they may swear to the cause
publicly," and "Many thanks to you, many thanks to you, with your love we may
save this realm yet."
She kissed the dog, gave it to an empty-handed clerk, then
yelled for a nearby man-at-arms for a review of the arrow stores as she toured
through her burgeoning encampment, inspecting armour quality and weapon
sharpness.
So much to countenance. So much to coordinate. So much to
bear. And yet Edith the Exile did not look the slightest bit flustered. If
anything it was the exact opposite. It was almost as if she was born for
this.
Harry curled an arm around Edward's shoulders and led him
away. "Not your typical woman, is she? Come. Let's eat. It's gonna be a long
day."
Men from all corners of the country crowded those tables;
Lowburghers, Midburghers, Highburghers, and even some Geadishmen. By trade they
were of many stripes: masons, hunters, fishermen, woodsmen, tenant farmers, shoemakers,
gravediggers, silversmiths, fruiterers, and so many more besides. All heeded
Edith's call.
Edward came to Ravensborough expecting dissenters... but he
never dreamed he might find such a panoply of them.
There were two seats held in reserve for Edward and Harry.
One of the cook-women sat them down whilst another brought by two trenchers of
boiled bacon and eggs and a cup of ale each. The latter girl gave Edward a
little wink as she sauntered away.
Harry grinned at him before tearing off a bit of bacon and
washing it down with a swig of ale. "Hm. Typical. You've been here but one day
and already you've a wife! Bastard."
Ed smiled, softly. "She's a beauty, but she's not the beauty
for me."
"You're not still arsing about, are you? I would've thought
you'd grown out of that by now."
Edward frowned at the question.
"Not to worry! You will get no complaint from me. We're all
Odoists here. Well, most of us." Then a thought dawned on him. The Hotfoot
looked up. "...It's not Fran, is it?"
The swordsman gave no reply and busied himself with his food
before it cooled.
"Heh, heh, heh! Well, you could do worse! But it's time to
leave off that now. Fran's made his choice. He's with them, the nobles."
It was a long ride from Fludding to Ravensborough, one that
took them through the rugged terrain of the Bordermounts all the way to the western
shores of Morland. He and Harry's men spent days on the road, moving in haste, sleeping
only to rest the horses. Throughout that journey Ed spoke little of his flight
from the Wallenheim Delegation, but he felt no need to keep secrets. He told
Harry much of what happened since the Hildegunnr first docked in the
Black Quay.
Much, but not all.
In truth Edward did not wish to think of Francis anymore.
His chest felt tight every time that soft smile crossed his mind. It soothed
him, even if only for a moment, and then Roschewald's grinning visage flashed into
focus... and then rolled thoughts of Wolfrick's assassination, of the secret bargain
with the Duke, of all the lies and deceits. All of it.
No, Edward did not wish to think of Francis anymore. That
sweet boy of his memories may as well have died with the Imperial cannons. The
man that boy became bore him no likeness.
Ed moved to change the subject. "Does anyone know what's
happening in the south?"
A nod. "The court returned to Dragonspur as of yesterday. The
young king is scheduled for committal to the royal tombs as we speak. Greyford's
holding a convocation for the regency as soon as Oswald's laid to rest. If the
Masters of the Realm vote for anyone other than the Earl of Harcaster, Edith's
sworn to raise her banner in the town square, titles be damned. Pledges of
support are already flowing in."
`Little surprise,' thought Ed. And it was. There was almost no chance
the council would elect Harcaster as regent, not with Robert Mountjoy and
Marquess de la More in Greyford's back pocket. It was all but assured that the
Duke would be elected regent again, and when he was, the Gates of Oblivion
would break open across Morland.
"How many men does Edith have so far?"
Harry answered whilst eating, his voice muffled by a full
and bouncing cheek. "At last count, well over 8,000. More pledge their support
every day."
"Weapons?"
"A few thousand swords, pikes, arquebuses. Mostly bills and
bows. Two cannons."
Ed frowned. "Saints be, Harry. That isn't nearly enough to
fight the Standing Guard, let alone a ducal army once one's mustered."
Harry frowned back over the rim of his ale cup. "The plan
ain't taking over the fucking country, it's to get Edith to Dragonspur and
install her as regent until Oswald's son comes of age."
"And does Greyford know this?"
Harry swallowed another gulp. "He'll learn soon enough."
**********
Manse de Foy, Dragonspur, Kingdom of
Morland
32nd of Autumn, 801
The servants Perrin put to work on the windows did a
resounding job. They were so clear Fran could see his own pale reflection
jerking back and forth at him, eyes crystalline, face expressionless, Gustave
mounting him standing. The boy fixed his hands to the wall to brace himself
against the glass. His bare thighs bounced against the lacquered sill. His soft
cock flopped against the chilled pane as he pushed himself up by the tips of
his toes to meet each thrust with a gaping pink sphincter.
A rough grip held him firm by his hips. Wine-soured breath and
sweat-scent filled his nostrils. Coarse groans overfilled his ears. Rock hard
flesh, slickened with spittle, split him open from the rear, jutting
rhythmically as the taller man built himself towards his climax. Flesh slapped
flesh. His buttocks' small round cheeks flushed a darker shade rouge with each
stiff clap.
Fran's expressionlessness never wavered. Not when Gustave
bit his neck and earlobes, not when Gustave stroked his flailing hair behind
his ears, not when Gustave pinched his pink nipples, not even when Gustave took
his soft member and tried to flog it off – one of those rare instances where
Gustavius von Roschewald moved himself to consider another person's pleasure
before his own.
But it was no use.
When Fran's yard would not stiffen for him, Gustave set his
hands upon the boy's hips and ground him all the harder, almost knocking the
breath out of him, almost demanding a reaction out of him, some soft sigh, a
whimper, a grimace of pain, a cry of pleasure, something.
But Fran was expressionless.
He could not stop the tears from welling, but he would not
give Gustave the satisfaction of making him cry.
A few moments later he was done. Buried himself thigh-deep
right at the point of climax, growled like a hound, shot his seed in five short
bursts before catching his breath. Only when his lungs were full did he remove
his slickened person from Fran's stretched arse, holding its gaping shape.
Gustave backed away from the window and slumped onto his bed with a sigh, his
spent yard slinging over his hairy left thigh.
Fran did not move.
He kept his eyes to the glass and the scene unfurling beyond
the gates of Manse de Foy; an ambling crowd of weeping townsmen and women
marching along the cobbled promenade at the banks of the River Wyvern – all
hoping against hope to collect for themselves even the slightest glimpse of
King Oswald's gilt coffin as it passed them by onto Dogford Bridge, drawn by a 24-hoof
team of barded white horses.
The funeral procession of King Oswald II of Morland was led
by the Lord Shepherd of Morland, his holiness Sygmus II. Wreathed in flowing
vestments of white and purple, he held aloft his golden crozier and headed a flock
of singing castratos and incense bearers. Behind them marched three of the
realm's four High Shepherds. Only three. The fourth member of their quartet (High
Shepherd of the Lowburghs, Stephen Blount) was trapped in the south. Since
Watfield reports of unrest in the Lowburghs had flowed in. Rumour had it that
the Earl of Wrothsby swore to march an army down to Greatminster to liberate the
holy city from any and all rebellious heretics.
Behind the shepherd came the coffin, and behind the coffin
came the mutual carriages of Queen Annalena, the Duke of Greyford, and the
Queen Dowager. The realm's most prominent lords rode behind them; the Earl of
Wrothsby, the Earl of Huxton, the Earl of Harcaster, the Marquess of Gead. Lesser
nobles, dignitaries, and the Bannerets of the Bloom followed.
Onwards they proceeded to the Sanctuary of the Four Saints –
where the funeral would be held. After that, the late king would be interred
with his ancient ancestors in the royal tomb within Staunton Castle.
Gustave and the Wallenheim Delegation were barred from
attending the service – all except for Fran. In his heart he wanted to attend.
He did not know the king in the most intimate ways, he was not a parent or
sibling or advisor or friend or courtier. He was barely even an acquaintance.
But Fran had known him. The King of Morland had admitted to the poor
treatment of his family, had invited him to his maturation celebrations, had
taken him hunting, had sat him to conference with some of the most powerful men
in the kingdom, had made him intermediary in the talks with the Earl of
Harcaster. Fran and Oswald had drunk wine and eaten sweets together. How many throughout
this realm and beyond could say the same?
And now he was dead.
Fran's clothes lay in a heap around his ankles. Piece by
piece he dressed back into them. He thought back to the morning, when he
brought himself before a shrine of St. Bosmund for the first time in years and
lit a candle in the king's honour. It meant nothing to him, but perhaps it
might mean something to his late majesty? They shared the same saint after all.
Perhaps it would help bring him peace.
"Pour me some wine," ordered Gustave.
By now the Wallishman had also redressed himself, sitting to
the cushioned armchair between his bed and desk. The wine ewer sat by a silver
platter with a carving knife and six unsliced green apples.
Fran pictured what the knife might look like if he buried it
inside Gustave's throat.
Then he poured his master's wine.
"I need a letter written," The jewelled cup was perched upon
Gustave's lips as he spoke. "In both hands."
`In both hands'. In other words two letters – one formal,
one secret. Fran, silently, did as he was commanded and sat to Gustave's
escritoire. He fetched two ink jars from its draw, black and cobalt, then
unfurled a sheaf of parchment and inked his goose-feather quill in the
black.
Gustave recited,
32nd
of Autumn, 801
To You, Chairman
of the Council of Lords,
Master Chairman,
it is with great displeasure and tremendous sadness that I now write to you. I
do not doubt that a more official notification has been sent to you from the
royal household, but I pray you hear this terrible news first from me. His Majesty
King Oswald has tragically died – crushed beneath the weight of his horse in a
riding accident. His Majesty had organized a tournament to celebrate the
settlement of a long-standing enmity with one of his northern lords, the Earl
of Harcaster, who I made mention of in my previous letters. I hope you will
join me in grief for this great young monarch and all he had yet to accomplish.
As I write this letter the great lords of the realm are gathering to bless and intomb
His Majesty in the royal crypts. Tomorrow they will hold a convocation to
appoint a regent until Her Majesty the Queen's belly blossoms and its flower
nurtured into maturity. I suspect that the candidate chosen will be his most
serene grace, John Drakewell, the Duke of Greyford. His Grace is an economical
man and a man of frank disposition and due diligence, yet his allegiances and
loyalties, I fear, lie not with us but rather the Empire. To the matter
of our trade proposals? I fear they may not pass. I shall redouble my efforts
to stress to His Grace the great potential that a reinvigoration of our two
nations' ancient trade ties would engender and pray to the saints that this
message will resonate, but we must prepare for the possibility of a rejection.
When next we
speak,
Your most dutiful
servant,
Gustavius
von Roschewald.
Fran turned the page over, fetched a fresh quill, then
wetted and daubed it in the cobalt jar. And this time, Gustave recited...
32nd
of Autumn, 801
To my good
brother Neidhart,
The Morish king
is dead. The buffoon of a boy made a spectacle of himself and suffered the
consequences for it. Once he is interred the Duke of Greyford will hold another
convocation for selection of an interim successor, but he is all but guaranteed
to take back power.
The Duke is no
great lover of ours and thinks only of Morland's relations with the Empire.
None of our proposals will pass with him at the helm, this is my suspicion. But
in your wisdom you granted me a trump card, and I have sent orders for our troops
on Bunt to stand at the ready. Edith the Exile is stirring in the north. I've
heard reports that men are flocking to her in droves, which might play to our
advantage. I know that you expressed some reservations about their use, but I
assure you they might be the one card we have left to play. Pray to the saints
that our soldiers need never fire a shot. But should it come to that, we are
well placed to put the winning side in our debt.
I will keep you
abreast of all that follows.
Sincerely yours,
Gustave
Fran held the paper aloft and within moments the blue ink
disappeared at his fingertips. The clerk folded it into quarters, heated some
wax to pour over its folds, then pressed the wax with Gustave's own seal.
"I want that letter on the first ship bound for Wallenheim,"
said Gustave. "See it done, then go rouse Lothar. Put him on the streets, let
him gauge the mood amongst the city folk. And purchase something presentable –
we're to attend the convocation tomorrow at Staunton Castle."
Curiously, the Wallish Delegation had not been barred from that.
Fran eyed the letter, wagering if he had enough time to make
a facsimile of it. I have sent orders for our troops at Bunt to stand at the
ready - one last piece of evidence to add to Greyford's steadily growing
cache. With this the Duke had all the pretext he needed to expel Gustave from
court and country. It was only a question of when.
The clerk plastered on another false smile, gathered up his
things, and excused himself to set about his master's tasks.
Fran walked outside and shut the door. Shadows littered the
cold hallway from candle to candle, darkness warbling with every errant
flicker. He felt the urge to bathe and to cry, but there was no time for either.
The boy spent much of the journey home crying, lost in thoughts of Edward,
hatred festering at Gustave's every touch and glance. Fran wanted to scream
every time he saw that smirking bastard's face. And he was exhausted.
Maintaining the façade, playing at the role of kept lover, withholding his
disgust – he couldn't do it anymore.
Not after Edward.
In his waking fantasies he rode north to Ravensborough,
crossbow in hand, demanding Ed back at peril of Edith's life. But fantasies
were merely that. Fran thought of sending him a letter. A re-expression of his
love and ardour. Would he lie? Recant all he admitted to? Was it all too late?
Fran knew not. But he knew one thing.
He had to be rid of Gustave.
The King's death shook Morland to its core but for Fran nothing
had changed. He eyed the letter again. `Once the Duke has this Gustave will
be finished. Thormont will be mine. And then after that, Edward, I'll have you
back. One way or another.'
**********
Ravensborough, The Highburghs,
Kingdom of Morland
32nd of Autumn, 801
The men were green. Or at least... the bulk of them were. That
was Edward Bardshaw's guess. His third challenger of the morning came swinging
at him from the right, frantic and clumsy, sparring sword swirling into a
downward stroke that Edward simply repulsed with the flat of his blade. The
gathered crowds surrounding the training pit, dozens if not more, jeered at the
quick step and shove that followed Edward's swift parry, shunting the taller
man off his feet and into the dirt.
Ed brought the rounded tip to the man's throat and forced a
yield. The taller man – a farmer – nodded "aye" and gave the victor his hand to
help him up.
As the farmer passed the training blade over to the next
man, Edward caught his breath and mopped up his sweating brow with a loose
sleeve before pulling his shirt off entirely, catching a ripple of hoots and
giggles from the women amongst the crowds. Edith the Exile was there too, arms
folded and smiling, as she directed another man into the pit – this one with a
wooden weapon carved in the shape of a hafting axe.
The first swing was wide and wild, some ill-timed horizontal
stroke that Edward simply shuffled back to avoid. The `axeman' caught himself
and swung again, and again, and again, each time missing his mark until he
dropped his weapon and collapsed to his knees, lips pursed and blowing like a
forge bellows.
Edward lowered his blunted sword and smiled – not with
victory, but embarrassment. `These men are no soldiers,' he thought. `They
are passionate, but...'
And then he looked up as a fresh round of cheers encircled
the ring. Edward sourced the clamour to Edith, who grinned at him as she rolled
up her red sleeves, slashed open both sides of her dress from bodice to ankle
and yelled for someone to toss her a quarterstaff. She leapt over the rope
barrier and landed barefoot into the pit's soft sandy dirt.
"An impressive show, Edward Bardshaw," a six-foot staff of
solid hardwood flew into Edith's grasp. "But let me try my hand!"
A now wary Edward watched Edith advance at him in slow and
methodical footsteps, smirking all the way, as if this were all fun and games –
rather than what it was supposed to be – a trial of his martial ability.
He watched her slip into stance, left hand at the butt end and right hand at
the middle, feet splayed, eyes sharp. He eyed her forearms and thighs – not to
gawp – but to note the light contours of muscle beneath her bare white flesh. Markers
of honed skill.
"The realm just lost a king to these sorts of games," said
Edward.
Edith came into striking distance – and her smile suddenly
fell. "This isn't a game."
A thrust. Sudden. Forceful. Right for the head. Edward
swerved sideways, boots skirting the dust as a second blow swung overhead, a
swift russet wave of wood whipping about his blonde hair before a third
vertical swing flew downward toward its crown. It was a blow that would've
cracked his skull open had it landed. Instead, it sliced through the air and
landed in the dirty sands with a shallow thud.
Edward rolled up onto his feet, catching his breath, sword
at the ready, as Edith slipped back into sidewards stance – frowning. "Is this
your all? Flopping to and fro like a hooked trout? Come on, Bardshaw! Where is
your warrior's pride?"
"I hadn't come here for petty squabbles and sideshows! I
came here for-"
The quarterstaff shot forward and struck him square in the
guts. The crowd whooped with joy at the strike, but Edward was barely aware of
it, not as he doubled over and gasped for breath, nor when a second swing
struck him suddenly across the face hard. A rope of blood sprung from
his lips and lashed the sand. Ed's knees almost buckled. His eyes rolled back
to earth from the heavens where Edith was no longer Edith, but a flame-haired
dancer twirling about the sands in circles of crimsoned cotton and spinning
wood until the quarterstaff came careering for his head again.
Half Ed's face was already transforming into bulbous purple
as he seized back, forcing himself away on backward steps, dodging the deft
swing, its sheer force tossing up a sudden eddy of sand and pebbles.
Edward skated back from the dust cloud. And then the fruit
of Ser Martyn Morrogh's training ripened.
Growling, Edward lunged forth towards the silhouette of
Edith's presence. The sparring sword flew through the air into striking range,
blunt steel bouncing off hardwood, splinters tossed about the air, boots and
bare feet scuffling in the dirt at the sudden burst of strikes and counter
strikes that followed; downward stroke crashing into a high guard, rightward
swing parried by hanging right, inside left thrust repelled by vertical
counter, neither fighter breaking the other's defences, yet with each exchange
Edward inched a little forward and Edith a little back, verging towards the
ropes encircling the pit.
"EDITH! EDITH! EDITH! EDITH! EDITH! EDITH! EDITH! EDITH!
EDITH! EDITH! EDITH! EDITH! EDITH! EDITH!"
A swift parry tipped the quarterstaff into the dust. An
opening! The crowd gasped and went silent as Edward lifted his sword to strike,
steel sparkling in the bone pale sun, until Edith hawked up a wad of phlegm and
spat it in his eyes. Ed jerked back with disgust. A cyclone of hardwood spun up
the sands and dust until the quarterstaff struck his right ankle and tossed him
off his feet. Edward fell into the ground, eyes rearing up to the sky as his back
slapped the earth and drove the breath from his lungs.
He looked up, gasping, and found Edith standing over him
triumphantly, chest heaving for breath and smirk freshly renewed, her staff at
his throat. "Yield?"
Ed scrubbed her spit from his face. "...I yield."
Their watchers cheered, hats and fists in the air. Edith
extended her hand. Edward took it, grudgingly. He lowered the training blade.
"Not the most honourable method of combat, eh?"
"Do I look like I care one fuck for honour?" Edith
said, sharply. At once the crowds sensed her tone and quietened themselves. "Hotfoot
told you about the paucity of the northern harvests, did he not? A few hundred
thousand Morish children are set to starve to death this coming winter and his
disgrace the Duke of Greyford would sooner sell himself into a slave market
than see them fed. Do you think honour will defeat him? By the blood of
the fucking saints, I'd rather be a dishonourable victor than an honourable
corpse in the ground. Too many of our countrymen's lives depend upon it. Do you
understand, Bardshaw?"
Edward looked on. Unsure. He wanted to – understand, that
is. Yet dishonour ran counter to everything he was ever taught to believe in.
Worse still it was never his wish to take the field and spill good Morish blood.
And yet here he was at the precipice of it. He could not help but think of what
Ser Martyn would have made of this. Or Stillingford. Or Francis, for that
matter.
And then he looked at Edith.
Her strength, her passion, her daring, her grit. Good men
would follow where she led. Surely, she was better for the realm than Greyford?
Was his honour worth so much more than another ten years of ducal tyranny?
"I don't need honourable heroes and gallants I need fucking soldiers,"
Edith dropped the staff and took him by the shoulder. "I need war dogs brave
enough to keep their pikes up when the cavalry charges, and these men are just
that. They may not be your measure with a sword yet, but they're ready to fight
and die for a better realm. Help them live long enough to see it. Teach them a
little of your skills. You've got two or three days at most but a little can go
a long way; do you not think?"
"Perhaps."
Edith turned to her followers and held up Edward's hand
before them. "THIS MAN WAS FRIEND AND GUARD TO THEOPOLD STILLINGFORD! HE SAW
WITH HIS OWN EYES HOW THE NOBILITY CUT DOWN A MAN FOR THE SOLE `CRIME' OF
TEACHING EQUITY BENEATH THE STARS! AND HE WILL HELP US CORRECT MORLAND'S
SAINTS-FORSAKEN COURSE!" Edward looked around. And everywhere he looked the
crowd's spirit lifted higher and higher until they were at a fever's pitch.
Edith roared on, "EVERYONE HAS THE RIGHT TO CHOOSE THEIR OWN SAINT! EVERYONE
HAS THE RIGHT TO LIVE FREE FROM HUNGER! AND EVERYONE HAS THE RIGHT TO LIVE
UNBURDENED BY EXTORTIONATE TAXES WHILST THE WEALTHIEST IN THIS REALM GROW SOFT
AND FAT!"
Her hoarse voice yet carried over the din of the bustling
courtyard. Those unburdened by chores and preparations began to flock to it.
And suddenly, the dozens gathered around that training pit became hundreds.
"GREYFORD IS A TYRANT WHO WOULD SEE YOU BOW BEFORE
HIM AS HE BOWS BEFORE THE EMPEROR!" Cried Edith. "GREYFORD IS A COWARD
WHO STOOD IDLY BY AS IMPERIAL GALLEONS BOMBARDED OUR GEADISH BROTHERS AND
SISTERS! GREYFORD IS A TRAITOR WHO CEDED THE SAGE TO OUR ENEMIES, WHO SULLIED
MY MOTHER'S GOOD NAME WITH FALSEHOODS, AND WHO STRIKES DOWN ANY WHO DARE TO
CLAW THEMSELVES OUT OF MISERY! WILL YOU SUFFER TEN MORE YEARS OF THAT
TYRANNOUS, COWARDLY FUCKING TRAITOR?!"
The hundreds gathered roared back with a resounding NO.
Edward smiled to himself as warm memories flickered back to him. Memories of Firebrand
Will Rothwell stirring the masses at Speaker's Square. Memories of the Crow's
Club chanting and drinking at the Old Lioness. Memories of his master, the old
man, summoning up Ed's hopes and optimism with that distant dream of a Kingdom
of Equity. It was the old spirit of Morish rebellion.
And it was alive and blazing within Edith the Exile.
"FOR THE FOLKWEAL!" Cried she.
"FOR THE FOLKWEAL!" They cried back.
**********
Staunton Castle, Dragonspur, Kingdom
of Morland
33rd of Autumn, 801
How the tides shift.
When last the court convened, at least in these numbers, its
mood was jubilant. Enrapt. Triumphant. Triumphant with the burial of old
enmities and the establishment of new accord, a new horizon dawning for the
Kingdom of Morland. Or so it had seemed. All that joy and all that potential now
snuffed out like a candle – and what was left? This.
This quiet mood of dreadful trepidation.
Fran smoothed out the wrinkles of his fox fur-collared coat
and looked about the presenting hall, saturated with the rump of the late
King's court, those nobles and dignitaries of the highest esteem. The tension
in the room was unmistakable. Their tones were hushed, their glances wary,
their whispers errant. Whispers of the Bloody Maid amassing an army in the
north. Whispers of outraged Odoists flooding the streets of Greatminster in
protest. Whispers of unrest here in Dragonspur, of Thomas Wolner petitioning
the Masters of the Realm for a city-wide curfew. There was talk of unrest
throughout the provinces, of beacons being lit along the eastern foreshores and
border hills. Some nobles spoke of returning home to their burghs to secure
their properties and landholdings lest any of their tenants happened upon such
foul ideas as insurrection.
It was no idle talk, either.
Over by the portraitures hanging from the east wall, young
Ser Gerard Vox and a handful of his lord father's retainers stood isolated from
the rest of the nobility. No one wanted to associate with him – for many a
reason. The convocation, Morland's ancestral summons to the realm's key
magnates for the election of a new ruler in times of crisis, was coming to a
close in the council chamber... and the Earl of Harcaster was the Duke of
Greyford's only real contender in the race for the regency. Some shunned the Voxes
because they now seemed to symbolize the late king's ill-fated northern
progress. But most, at least by Fran's reckoning, no doubt resented them for
their dubious ties to Edith the Exile.
But Ludolf was popular. Fran watched as a flock of feather-capped
and doubleted noblemen surrounded the Imperial ambassador and assaulted him
with an array of breathless, quick-tongued enquiries about the Emperor's
standing, of the Queen's safety, of the healthiness of their alliance. And his
excellency did his best to calm them, humbly allaying their concerns and
reassuring them of his master's good will with his broad ivory smile.
Gustave watched the spectacle with an almost childlike
sullenness. Few of the Morish nobles spoke to him with such urgency, in fact his
treatment was more akin to the Voxes. He seemed to sense, Fran saw, the
pendulum between himself and Ludolf swinging back into the latter's favour.
Talk of new alliances with Wallenheim was all well and good with a strong king,
a secure heir, and an optimistic realm to buttress it – but those were all come
and gone. With Morland suddenly finding itself standing upon such unsteady
ground, it would not do to make an enemy of the Empire.
Fran kept his eyes moving.
From Georg Ludolf and his newfound admirers to his lordship
the Earl of Huxton, huffing and snarling in a tight circle of his retainers.
His smouldering rancour carried up to the hammerbeams. "...I say!" Spake he. "I
say I will not suffer these traitors to proceed unmolested and saints damn any troublemakers
who say otherwise!"
No one amongst them said otherwise by Fran's impression.
Somewhere close by he overheard one of the young gallants,
Ser Magnus de la More, whispering into the ear of his good friend Ser Humphrey Ashwick;
"Have you heard? Men are going mad in the Lowburghs. They're breaking open
gaols, burning burghal rolls, attacking aliens, sacking palaces, lynching our
tax collectors... whatever could've possessed them to act this way?"
Ser Humphrey sniggered. "By the stars and saints! It takes
little to rattle the cattle, Magnus. Let them rampage. You and I might finally
earn our spurs in battle by putting the feckless rustics back in their place.
Aren't you excited?"
A chill bit at Fran's spine. Not The Fiend this time,
though. A worry. A worry for Edward. Fran bit his lip, quivering, wondering
fearfully where this was all headed. He could stomach a world in which Edward
Bardshaw hated him... Fran could always win him back in such a world... but he
could not win Edward back from the grave. That Fran could not stomach.
In his mind he wanted to wish Edward luck – but what would luck look
like? Edith the Exile marching into Dragonspur with the Duke's head mounted on
her lance, the living embodiment of Stillingford's dark prophesy? How soon
would Fran's own head follow in such a circumstance?
Somewhere in the throng he caught Lady Cecily's eye. She
looked to him, draped as she was in lacework veils and black silks of mourning,
much as the other ladies of the court were. Across the room she cut him a
peculiar smile, a secretive, almost nihilistic sort of smile. Told you so,
it seemed to say. And now it all falls down...
The trumpets blared.
All fell silent as the fanfare rose above them to herald the
coming entrance. All eyes shifted to the arched doors. Two Bannerets of the
Bloom lowered their horns as two more opened the doors from without – and a
procession of the realm's highest lords entered.
The Lord Shepherd, Sygmus II. The High Shepherd of
Dragonspur. The High Shepherd of Stoneport. The High Shepherd of Harcaster. The
Earl of Wrothsby. Marquess de la More. The Earl of Harcaster (infuriated). Ser
Howard Frogmoncke. Ser Symon Shakestone. The Dowager Queen Emma of Wuffolk
(curiously). Queen Annalena. And then, finally, an exultant Duke of Greyford.
At the presenting hall's centre ran a walkway of crimson
carpeting that led directly to the dais where two gilded ironwood thrones stood
empty.
It was only a few tendays ago that King Oswald and Queen
Annalena sat to those thrones to announce their late northern progress. And
now? Now King Oswald laid dead deep beneath their feet in the royal tombs and
the Queen took to her throne alone. And by the saints, she did look
lonely.
The Queen of Morland reclined into her highbacked seat as
her handmaidens released the elongated train of her raven black dress. It was
her duty to lead the ladies of the court in mourning, but for the convocation
alone she forwent her lace veil for her pearl and ruby studded golden crown. Her
demeanour was calm, her cosmetics a perfection, but in her eyes – eyes still twinkling
with tears – she looked haggard, starved of sleep, and utterly downcast. A girl
of four-and-ten was Annalena of Gascovy, unrecognizable as a woman, still
playing with dolls (as rumour had it). And yet the weight of the realm now
weighed upon her dainty white shoulders.
Fran looked to her as she ran an unconscious hand over her
swollen belly where her late husband's heir slowly gestated.
Giving Morland a boy would bring great comfort in this time
of crisis, a distant yet foreseeable end to the coming regency. But if it were
a girl...
There was a little paper chit in the Queen's painted hands,
some prepared remarks. Despite her poor command of the Morish tongue, she read
them aloud. "M-my... my n-noble... l-lords... a-and la-la-ladies. It... is... it is... it
is m-my p... priv-privilege? My privilege to...
con-conf-confirm... the deliber... ation
of-of-of the lords of the r-realm as per-pertains to... oh meine
heiligen... th-these
matters of... regency. It has been de-decided... that... the Duke of Greyford..."
Sighs amongst the crowd. Breaths of relief. Light mutterings
and coughs. Harcaster's teeth gnashed within his frown.
"...sh-should re... re... resume his
d-du-duties as regent of-of Morland un-until such time as-as-as the heir is
born and c-come of... age."
She stopped.
A round of applause followed as the Duke, beardless chin
held high, shoved off the flap of his half-cloak and ascended the dais to thank
his Queen before slowly lowering himself into his late nephew's seat.
Fran kept eyes upon Greyford throughout his applause. `The
most detested man in the realm now back at the reins of power,' thought he.
As he looked about the room there was (save for Gustave and the Voxes)
seemingly unanimous support for this. Perhaps they supposed that a familiar
hand better suited these unfamiliar times. And yet... Francis Gray saw it for
what it was.
The Morish nobility throwing a lit taper into the thatch.
Greyford held a hand aloft, each finger ringed with golden
signets of onyx and diamond. The applause slowed into its end.
"My noble lords and ladies," he began. "I thank you all from
the depths of my heart. I thank the Lord Shepherd, my Lord Earls, and the high
councilmen of the realm for entrusting me with this great responsibility. I do
not take it lightly."
The Duke paused to clear his throat with all eyes upon him.
Fran sneered. `You take to this so well, your grace, one could almost see a
calculation...'
He couldn't be the only one at court who thought it.
Their late king was a surefooted rider and famed for his horsemanship.
He'd raced and hunted with Stormwalker dozens of times since Ludolf gifted the
beast to him. So how on earth was he so easily buckled? And who stood
best to gain in the wake of Oswald's death if not the Duke?
HEED HIS EXAMPLE, BOY... Mulled the Fiend.
But the Regent of Morland resumed. "His late majesty was no
mere king to me. He was my beloved nephew. My blood. But as we mourn for him,
the miscreants and malcontents scurry like rats behind the boards. They see a
moment, in our sorrow, to seize the advantage. They are profoundly mistaken. In
my sweet nephew's name I shall expunge these irritants once and for all and
make Morland whole again. And to that end..."
A single finger pointed out a series of men from the crowd.
"My Lord Earls of Huxley, Gainsley, and Edgemore. Ser Robert
Mountjoy. Your honour the Marquess of Gead. All of you, step forth."
The crowds parted as all five men stepped out and amassed at
the foot of the dais. Every man took his knee, even lame-legged Ser Robert.
"As Regent of Morland it is my duty to appoint a new Council
of the Masters of the Realm. Each of you has served these lands sagely and
dutifully in the past. I would have you do so again. My Lord of Huxton."
The stout old stoat stood up with a grin, doffing his cap
then placing his fists upon his hips triumphantly. "Yes, your grace."
"I am restoring you to the position of Lord Marshal. I see
plain your zeal in quelling this unrest, and I know no man more apt to lead our
armies than you. You will escort the Queen Dowager to my manse then assume
command of the burghal militias and press north to intercept the traitress
Edith at the borders."
Huxton's sallow cheeks went pink with glee. "Nothing would
give me more pleasure, your grace. Once I smash the Bloody Maid's armies I'll
truss the little harlot, stuff her lying mouth with an apple and drag her bony
arse back to the capital for due punishment. Myself I'd favour a noose for her
pretty little neck."
Fran watched Harcaster sneer.
The Duke nodded his affirmation, then turned to the Marquess.
"Your honour of Gead."
Fran sneered again as Lyonel de la More rose from bended
knee. "Your Grace?"
"You shall continue your service as Lord Treasurer. The
bills his late highness put to you must be shelved and the collection of the
Guard Tax resumed. The coming campaign will place a burdensome toll upon our
coffers. I leave it to you to make the necessary arrangements."
The Marquess bowed. "Certainly, your grace."
"My Lord of Gainsley?"
The emaciated yet lavishly dressed Earl arose. At
eight-and-seventy he was one of the oldest men at court (and one of the
richest, barring the Drakewells and the de la Mores): "Your Grace."
"Once more you shall serve as Lord Justiciar. When these
rebels are crushed their leaders must suffer the full weight of their crimes
and you must oversee the burghal courts to prevent any rebel from escaping
justice. This is a task solely for a man of your legal calibre."
A grateful smile crossed Gainsley's powdered face. "As
always I am both honoured and humbled to serve, your grace. The hammer of the
law is once again at your right hand."
Then came Edgemore. The Duke called out to him, and he stood
to a bow, then went upright, barely able to contain his inner glee. "Your Grace
of Greyford, as ever, I stand at the ready."
"I am most pleased to hear it. I restore to you the position
of Lord Serjeant. Your advice has been impeccable across the years. No one is
more capable of bringing the crown's directives to pass than you. Be prepared.
This coming winter you shall have much to do."
Finally came Ser Robert. The regent bid his old friend
stand. He did so (with some help from an attendant). "Ser Robert. You shall
continue your role as Lord Seneschal. Once the unrest is quelled a household
shall be formed for Queen Annalena and the heir at Clemence Palace. Yourself
and the Queen Dowager shall govern it. Until such time your task will be to
reconstruct my own household here in Dragonspur. You have all the resources
necessary. See it done."
Ser Robert nodded. His mood was as downcast as that of the
Queen and Queen Dowager, which in and of itself was hardly surprising. Robert
Mountjoy was not merely the steward of the royal household,
he was late King Oswald's lifelong mentor. Losing him must have been like
losing a son. Indeed, as Fran looked then to the late king's favourite, young
Ser Richard Mountjoy, red-eyed and snivelling within the crowds, it was as if
he'd lost a brother.
"Your grace," Ser Robert sniffled. "I shall do my duty."
He then dismissed his newfound Masters of the Realm – which
in truth was merely the old guard of his first regency restored. Oswald's new
men, Ser Howard Frogmoncke and Ser Symon Shakestone were out; the Earls Huxton,
Gainsley and Edgemore were back. Morland's chief legislative body was once
again under Greyford's thumb.
Uncontested power.
"My lords, my ladies. These are dark days. But though the
saints may test us... we have always met their trials with strength, dignity, and
resilience. May we do so again," The Duke clutched a fist. "I have sent word to
all of the northern Midburghs. Our burghal militias shall muster at the city of
Greyford and proceed north under his lordship of Huxton's command. Once and for
all Edith the Exile shall be brought to heel. The Standing Guard shall proceed
south into the Lowburghs to suppress the Odoist uprisings at the Earl of
Wrothsby's direction. The heretic scum shall at last be scoured from the
streets of the holy city. As for Dragonspur? I will grant Thomas Wolner leave
to enact a curfew upon the city whilst he roots out the last remnants of that
seditionist Crow's Club and all their nascent sympathizers. It will be a hard
season and there will be losses. But for our dear King Oswald, and his dream of
a better Morland, we shall fight, and we shall win!"
Resounding cheers and applause. Hundreds of hands clapping
together afore their chests – all except for the Voxes. As the applause droned Fran
flicked a glance at the Earl of Harcaster who by that point had had enough. With
a furious swirl of his yellow and black tabard, the greybeard made for the
doors whilst his son Ser Gerard and their six retainers followed suit.
But the Duke was wise to it. He gestured to the Bannerets at
the doors who crossed their bardiches to bar the way.
The applause stopped.
Nobles murmured amongst themselves as four more armed
Bannerets emerged from the sidewalls and surreptitiously surrounded Harcaster's
retinue.
The greybeard turned heel, directing his voice across the
presenting hall to the dais. "What is the meaning of this?!"
A smile found its way to the normally stone-faced Duke of
Greyford. Up he stood, clasping his hands, descending the dais. "My Lord Earl.
As most of us bore witness you spoke an oath of obeisance to my late nephew.
You swore to be true to him and to abide not his enemies. Well, my lord, Edith
the Exile was very much his enemy and now that enemy moves to march upon this
city. Will you take up arms against her?"
Harcaster boiled with rage. From the look of him it was all
he could do not to draw his sword. "I... am loyal to this realm...! I would
not have it bleed!"
"And yet it is your insurrectionist granddaughter who holds
the knife..." said Greyford, soberly. "What assurances do we have that you would
not slink off north to join forces with her? How can we trust you?"
Gerard, the younger and more diplomatic of the two Voxes,
stood ahead of his father to speak. "Your grace. My father and I are loyal
subjects of the crown and Edith acts with impunity in these proceedings. My
niece does not speak for my house."
The whole hall plunged into a silence so loud it made echoes
of Greyford's slippered feet as he walked along the `aisle' towards the ring of
bannerets surrounding the Voxes. "So you say. And if I sent you north into the
Highburghs with a dagger in hand – would you indulge me by driving it into
Edith's heart?"
Gerard paused.
And then he said – "I would fulfil my duty."
"Ah!" The Duke smiled. "Your duty to me, I presume.
Well. Nevertheless. I am not so heartless as to command you to slay your own
kin. But I must also secure assurances of your fealty. A token. A gesture of
goodwill."
Gerard frowned. "What sort of token?"
"You," said Greyford. "Your father is free to go but
you, Ser Gerard, you will remain a guest of Staunton Castle until Edith's
little rebellion is quelled. You shall be my token."
Harcaster would have gone for his sword if Ser Gerard did
not turn to him, calm him, and kiss his forehead in all its hot pink flesh.
The son smiled, soberly. "Father. Father? Look at me. I am
your son. I will be fine. Go home and stay in stillness until his lordship of
Huxton brings these matters to a close. For his late majesty the king, and his
heir soon to be... do this thing and show them all our unbending fealty."
A heavy, gloved fist physically tremored beside Harcaster's
leathered shanks. Everyone at court stood transfixed by the scene. The old
soldier of the north let out a harsh wrathful sigh like the purging of a
choler. He lowered his head, collected his thoughts, then looked up at his son
and grabbed him by the neck, knocking their foreheads together and squelching
his tears.
"I am so proud of you, my boy," said he. "If any harm should
come to you... so much as a hair out of place..."
Greyford crossed his arms. "No harm will come to him if you
maintain your neutrality. You have my word. Now go."
Harcaster's reply was naught but a growl. He didn't even
grace `his grace' with a frown. Instead he looked to his son, kissed his pimpled
pate, then turned heel once more. The Bannerets of the Bloom uncrossed their
weapons and broke away, allowing him and his retainers to pass as he stormed
off into the cavernous halls of old king Edwulf's ancient keep. Two of the
Bannerets then quietly escorted Ser Gerard Vox away.
Murmurs laced the crowds as the regent returned to his
throne to resume his remarks. Fran listened in. There were cynics abroad the
court who wondered if it was wise for the Duke to let Harcaster go. But they
were simpletons who, unlike Fran, had not ran the numbers.
Killing Harcaster all but guaranteed the Highburghs would
fall in behind Edith, and then it was the Morish Civil War all over again. But
by keeping his beloved son hostage? The Duke had given the old Earl every incentive
to keep the north in line.
The Duke of Greyford was once again the most powerful man in
the realm... and he never could've gotten there without a little shrewdness in
his pocket.
`Edward,' thought Fran. `For your own sake do not make an enemy of
this man... not this way. Please. Stay alive.'
**********
Ravensborough, The Highburghs,
Kingdom of Morland
34th of Autumn, 801
The training began at dawn.
At Edith's discretion Edward Bardshaw spent much of the
previous day in the pit, instructing her men by the dozens in swordcraft. There
was so much to learn and so little time to do it – not besides the fact that
most of the army would bring bills and bows rather than swords to the
battlefield, but each man was intended a sidearm, be it long knife, hammer or
club, and if it came to close quarters combat, it would not hurt to learn a few
tricks.
"Choose your guard well," He told them. "Don't overexert yourselves,
no wild swings, you'll only tire yourselves out. If their weapon beats yours in
reach, close the gap. If it's the reverse, do the reverse. Keep your eyes on
the other man's chest that way everything he does will be in view. And whatever
you do don't hesitate. Hesitation is your enemy's opening – never give it to
them."
Edith's conscripts were of varying age. Some as old as sixty,
others young as twelve, most middling in their years, men of thirty and forty,
from account keepers to cordwainers. Many were husbands and fathers. They had
precious ties in this world to lose. But they were united in one desire – to
free Morland from Greyford's yoke once and for all. And Edward had to admit some
trepidation in teaching these men, most of whom bearded at his birth, the art
of combat.
Older men sometimes bristle at the instruction of their
youngers. And yet they were all so willing to learn, soaking up each lesson
with energy and passion. These men were the newest of Edith's recruits – those
who came to her in the wake of King Oswald's death – arriving roughly at the
same time he did. Once they were armed and armoured, they would be assigned to
a company and taken out into the fields beyond Ravensborough for training
drills.
`Convocation or no,' thought Edward. `This army would
march south.'
He disbanded them at noontide.
"Go and fill your bellies," he commanded. "We resume in an
hour."
One of the younger boys came up to him – a freckled little blonde
boy, barely three-and-ten in his years, in padded practice armour. "Are you
coming too, Captain Bardshaw?"
`Captain? Is that what they're calling me now?' Ed chuckled. "I shall join you
anon. Go on. Off you trot."
He nodded, shucking off the padded jack and scampering out
of the sandy pit. As the men dispersed Edward set aside his blunted sword and
made his way towards the keep. He had things to discuss with Edith, things he'd
noticed amidst the frantic bustle and preparations throughout her castle. But
then he noticed something. A gathering.
Off by the southern wall of Edith's Castle stood (or
half-stood) a section of the curtain wall partially collapsed onto itself and
replaced by ironwood fortifications hammered and lashed into a small gatehouse.
Edward watched a large crowd form and pour through it, converging in a grassy outer
courtyard filled with crop gardens and kilns. A circle of spectators, dozens
deep, had formed around a cassocked figure seated upon a small, cushioned stool
in its centre. A shepherd. Two children sat upon his lap, giggling, as he
cuddled them and addressed those gathered to see him.
Edward drew through the crowds. He did not know why, for
this shepherd was but one of many from across the realm come to bless Edith's
coming campaign, but this one caught his attention. And as Ed barrelled through
into the centre of the conventicle – he soon saw why.
Shepherd Godwyn.
Edward knew him not by the face. That was not the tell. The
tell was his disfigurements – the peeled flesh of his bare toes, the welts and
weals scattered about his hands and neck, his cropped ears; a packet of
wrinkled flesh within the socket where once his right eye might've sparkled
with the sight of his coalesced flock. Saints only knew what other horrors that
frail body had been subjected to. And all of it the handiwork of the Earl of
Wrothsby.
Ed had heard rumours of the rogue shepherd's escape from the
Earl's `tower of penitence', but he never thought to see him here...
Godwyn's Lowburgher accent whistled through his broken
teeth, almost accentuating it as he spoke. "Oh come ye, oh come ye, and eat of
rotted fruit. I am ye Duke I say, `till ye give me the boot."
Snickers.
Then silence again.
Reverence.
"Ye tables merit more than rotted fruit," said he. "Look
well upon me and mark what ye see. For what ye see is what comes for ye. They
trample and trollop and fetch for ye tithes, despoiling ye land as ye yet
abide. Or would they? Stem ye their tide?"
Godwyn's sole eye blinked slow as his flock – and Edward –
hung from his every word. He bounced the children at his lap with stubbed
fingers. "One rotted fruit yet rots the bushel. A worm called `blood' eats well
of it. His blood be high yet ye be low. For him the sceptre and ye the hoe. And
yet? Say I this – take they ye land or ye liberty, should they trap ye `hind
bars – all men are equal `neath the stars."
Edward smiled.
"Cast off ye rotted fruit," said the shepherd. "Make merry
with full bellies, and worship who ye will. Ye've a realm to save – so take up
ye bill."
A crush of roars swallowed up the conventicle. Hundreds
cheered with swelling pride, pumping their fists into the air as Godwyn's
fatherly smile fell softly upon them all.
Edward saw plain why Wrothsby worked so tirelessly in his
persecutions of this man. For he, like Edith, inspired the commonfolk. Ed
looked around himself. Saw all their faces. Young. Old. Male. Female. Tall and
short. Thin and fat. All animated by the same zeal. Godwyn's words lit a flame
within them. A purifying flame set to sweep across Morland and burn its broken
order to ash.
A hand took his shoulder.
Edward turned around, thumbing the tears out his eyes, and
found a familiar face at his back. The lawyer.
Kenrick Thopswood.
Tall as ever and equally as thin, his worn doublet and hose
well-hidden beneath a sheepskin cloak. He looked tired and pale. Dark circles
rounded his eyes, but his eyes burned with the same passions as those cheering amidst
them now.
Ed smiled, recognizing his compatriot in an instant, then he
froze, remembering how they left each other. Him drowning his sorrows at the
tavern in Harvenny Heath, drunkenly dismissing Thopswood's coming trek to the
north, cruelly threatening to chop off his mitts for laying hands on him.
Thopswood hadn't forgotten.
They stood staring at each other, wordlessly, waiting for
the moment to shape itself into what it should be. And then they wrapped their
arms around each other.
"I'm sorry," Ed said. "I am sorry, I-"
Thopswood cradled his head. "All is forgiven, boy. You are
here now, aught else matters not. It is as Shepherd Godwyn said. We have a
realm to save."
"Aye."
"Come," said the lawyer. "Edith's holding counsel. You, me,
and the shepherd are summoned to attend."
**********
Staunton Castle, Dragonspur, Kingdom
of Morland
34th of Autumn, 801
Since the twilight of The Black Age the convocation was a
grand sort of affair. It drew from the ancient custom of the moot – an
assemblage of high chieftains and shepherds to discuss matters of critical
import to a burgeoning realm. Over the years its character and purpose slowly
transformed into a massive occasion spanning the tendays, a summoning of lords,
ladies, shepherds, guildsmen and scholars typically for one purpose – to elect
leaders during a succession crisis.
Greyford's convocation, his second, was not such an event.
Invites were sent only to those of highest rank. The public was barred from the
petition hearings. No courts were held to give evidence of precedent. No
citations of saintly law. No mass conventicles. No caucuses. Only a small
assemblage of earls and high shepherds in the bowels of Staunton Castle.
And now the second regency of their times had begun.
It occurred to Fran, even as he and Gustave were summoned by
an escort of Bannerets to attend the Lord Regent's private audience chambers, that
the Duke's re-empowerment had lengthened his road to revenge. But it was a
fleeting thought. Fran's mind, sharpened to a knife's edge by the finest tutors
in Strausholm, envisaged not such far flung goals this day.
This day Francis reserved his thoughts only for the man
swaggering down the hall ahead of him, Gustavius von Roschewald, and the
well-merited fate that awaited him at the Duke's hand.
Gustave's arrest, the delicious and long overdue prospect of
it, was the only thing keeping the boy from unleashing Lothar's icy wroth upon
their master. Two quick, clean slashes to the throat from Pussyfoot and
Bullyfoot served up a tempting image, but Fran had played his cards too well to
get this far only to risk it all with a murder he could not readily cover up.
No matter how deserved it was.
Fran's fist tightened. He thought of his dear Edward, lost
in the north and wracked with disgust for him. To this day he still did not
know how Edward learned the truth, but he was certain that Gustave had
something to do with it. He was the source of it all, all Fran's woes and
misery these past ten years, and now finally his hour had come.
Fran felt the Fiend stirring inside him like a baying hound as
the Bannerets led them to the scrolled double doors of the Duke's audience
room, shoving them open after a brief knock and "enter".
The regent's rooms were small, barely large enough to hold twenty
people, topped with a low frescoed ceiling and backed by a wide fretted window
providing full view of Staunton Castle's grassed inner courtyard. Afore that
sat the newly empowered Duke of Greyford; enthroned and imperious. A massive
crimson cloak pelted by the spotted fur of a mountain lion draped him from
shoulder to shoe. A golden livery collar encrusted with diamonds, rubies and
onyx now replaced his old ducal one. Two bardiche-armed Bannerets stood guard
at either side of his gilt throne.
Fran and Gustave's armed audience excused themselves whilst
their charges fell each to a knee, lowering their heads and doffing their feathered
caps. The doors groaned shut behind them.
After a long pause Greyford bade them rise. He snapped his
fingers and summoned seats for them. A pair of footmen emerged from an anteroom
with two cushioned mahogany stools. "Please sit," said one as the other arrayed
the furniture behind their backs. Fran and Gustave took their seats. The
footmen withdrew.
"Wine?" Offered the Duke.
"Thank you, no." Said Gustave. "Your hospitality resounds,
your grace, but wine muddies the mind."
A smile. A cool one. "Why, excellency, you speak as if we
are here to negotiate."
The Wallish Ambassador played the game of deference as well
as any child enrapt with a shiny toy... until it finally lost its lustre. As
Fran's patience with Gustave ran thin, so too did Gustave's patience with
kowtowing to others.
Still.
The Ambassador held his tongue behind a set of well gritted
teeth. "My purpose in this great country has always been a matter of negotiation,
your grace. To the mutual benefit of Morland and Wallenheim, of course."
"Of course. And indeed, I was a first-hand witness to
the swiftness with which you wheedled your way into the good auspices of my
nephew's court. It was quite a thing to behold and all in such a short amount
of time. Thanks in part to Master Gray here, I'd imagine."
BURN HIM! Cried the Fiend. "Your grace is most kind."
The Duke's smile levelled out. "I will cut to the quick.
There is great tension within this country at present. Until such time as those
tensions have cooled, and all dissidents and heretics fully suppressed, it
would be foolish to negotiate any policies that might fracture the Treaty of
Grace."
HANG HIM! Bellowed the Fiend.
Fran darted a quick glance at his master. The Wallishman's
jaw twitched. One could almost see him calculating the responses in his mind. `Your
Grace cannot mean to divert from the path his late Majesty the King wished his
realm to tread?' `Your Grace, surely you can see the financial benefits of a
subtle trading agreement between our two nations?' `Your Grace, in this time of
crisis for Morland, surely you would not risk making an enemy of Wallenheim
either?'
He would never give voice to any of them. Not by Fran's
reckoning. But what he did say did end up surprising the boy. Gustave forwent
calls to duty, greed, or threats.
Instead he went for empathy.
"Your Grace, I came here not to enrich myself or play petty
political games or invite Imperial wroth to your shores. I came here because my
countrymen suffer for lack of trade with Morland, and my brother and I fear
what will become of the Republic without intervention. This I make plain to
you. For the sake of both our peoples, intertwined by blood, culture and
history, please reconsider."
It was not a heartfelt plea (Gustave was too coldblooded for
such things) but it was an earnest one. But the germ of conspiracy Fran
planted in the Duke's mind had grown and blossomed into a blood red rose of
rebuke. Greyford was unmoved.
His reply, sharp.
"No."
He said it so sternly and simplistically it gave the
impression of a command. "All trade negotiations with Wallenheim are hereby
suspended. Furthermore, until the unrest abroad this land is quelled, your
delegation shall be placed under indefinite protective confinement."
Gustave blinked. "Under what grounds, your grace?"
"My people cannot stomach aliens," said the Duke. His lips
barely suppressed his little smirk in the saying of it. "I do this not to
punish you, your excellency, I have taken the same measures with Ambassador
Ludolf and my good sister, the Queen Dowager, whose name is besmirched amongst
the commoners by foul and baseless slander. I will write formally of my
decision to the Council of Lords and your brother, Chairman Roschewald. Until
further notice you are not to leave your quarters at Manse de Foy. I cannot otherwise
assure your safety."
Cold rage brought the shivers to Gustave's meaty fist. Fran
watched it quake in his lap as he fixed his eyes to the Duke of Greyford's hard
iron stare – redoubtable and obdurate. He would not bend. He would not break.
And Gustave knew it.
A tight, curt nod. "Your offer of protection is most
generous, your grace."
"Good. Now leave us, I will speak with Master Gray alone."
A pause. Gustave leaned back, eyes wide, shooting from
Greyford to Fran and back again. His lips parted, almost as if to protest, and
then he caught himself. Barely. Incredulous but utterly powerless to express
it, the Wallish ambassador arose and offered the Duke the humblest of bows
before taking his leave. Greyford commanded his two guards to follow him out –
clearing the room save for himself and the lost lord.
Privacy.
The Duke of Greyford sighed, leaning deep into his throne,
hands peeking out of his cloak to grip its gilded rests. "Give me your report."
`So it's the part of espial again?' Thought Fran. "Roschewald has sent a
missive to his brother. He understands he cannot sway you and speaks of `playing
at both sides' with the garrison at Bunt, to which he has already sent orders
to standby, prior to my knowledge. I have a facsimile of the letter with me
here if you require it?"
The Duke turned right, eying the snapping tongues of the
hearth's flame. "No. I believe you. Edith has already made overtures to him. It
is not beneath Roschewald's guile to sail his little army to my shores and join
forces with the Bloody Maid. I see his plan clearly. Install Edith as
queen and you as overlord of Gead, then bring forth the bill: renewed trade
ties with Wallenheim. I see right through the swaggering bastard's complots."
"When will he be arrested?" Asked Fran.
Greyford blinked, catching the impatience of Fran's tone,
but he stilled. He collected himself. "Your hatred for him is frank, boy. And
fully warranted, doubtless. But I caution you to patience. War is afoot. I have
Odoist uprisings in the south to contend with, as well as Edith the Exile's
swelling rebellion in the north – I cannot risk opening up a third front to my
east. For now, confining Roschewald ought to be enough to stymie his schemes.
Keep your gaze on him. Take facsimiles of all his letters and ensure none of
the originals reach the ports. Make ready a war chest of evidence and in time
my Lord Serjeant will crush him with it."
`He means not to act? He means only to confine him?
To gaol me with my rapist?' Fran's stomach curdled. Not simply with disgust but fear. "Your most
serene grace, I beg you. I have laboured and lost much to come this far.
I-"
"And you've only a little further to go," said the Regent.
"So go. Continue your service to me and be as useful as you have been so far.
Our nation may depend on it."
It was a dismissal. He would hear no further entreaties. The
orders were given – continue your service. YOU BASTARD! Raged The
Fiend. YOU BASTARD! BASTARD! BASTARD! BASTARD! BASTARD! BASTARD!
BASTARD! BASTARD! BASTARD! BASTARD! BASTARD! BASTARD! BASTARD! BASTARD!
BASTARD! BASTARD! BASTARD! BASTARD! BASTARD! BASTARD! BASTARD! BASTARD!
BASTARD! BASTARD! BASTARD! BASTARD! BASTARD! BASTARD!
Fran rose from his stool, plastered upon his lips the
falsest of dutiful smiles, made his polite bow, and excused himself. Quietly.
He made for the scrolled arch doors that clutched shut behind him as he strode
out into the carpeted corridor beyond. Gilded portraitures and frog-mouthed
suits of armour bore down upon him, angry glares all, as if punctuating his
failure, his doubts, his fears.
A guard of Bannerets passed him by. Fran turned a corner.
And then, from the shadows, a hulking figure snatched him into the shade of
King Osbert I's legendary jousting armour – out of sight and earshot.
Gustave.
The taller man shoved the shorter into the wall, snatching
Fran's throat with a sneer. "What is this?!" He hissed. "For the second time
now the Duke convenes with you privately, beyond my eye! Why? Why does he show
you this favour? What is he saying to you? Answer me!"
Fran could not answer because he could not breathe – so
tight was the towering ambassador's grip around his throat.
Fran moved to speak as his cheeks flushed red and his mind
fogged over, but a drooling rasp was all that left his mouth, all until a trembling
hand reached towards his master's codpiece and squeezed the girth locked
within.
Gustave tensed up, shivering at the sudden stroke of
pleasure, releasing his grip, more unconsciously then all else.
Fran gasped for dear life, swallowing up gluts of air like
handfuls of water at an oasis, heart and lungs beating in his chest until
speech found him again. "M-master... please. I... there is no wrongdoing... I am
loyal to you, all I want is you, all I need is you... I would never risk that..."
Within the shadows a towering red countenance, contorted
with anger, slowly calmed and steadied itself. The colour drained from
Gustave's cheeks. He caught his breath. The glint of rage departed his eye. And
then his lips found Fran's in the darkness.
The boy froze.
He felt nothing at it, not even the briefest spark of
pleasure, nothing but revulsion and anger. Fran waited, as silent and
stationary as the armour and sculptures standing sentry around them, until
Gustave finally pulled that thick lizard's tongue out of his throat.
They caught their breaths.
"...This is hopeless," admitted Gustave. "Oswald could be
moved but Greyford cannot. I will write to my brother again and bid him recall
us to Wallenheim. Time to return home, Fran."
**********
Ravensborough, The Highburghs,
Kingdom of Morland
34th of Autumn, 801
It was the biggest map of Morland that Edward Bardshaw ever
saw. A massive woodcut a four yards long and two yards wide, carved from
cherrywood into the shape of the nation. Edward traced his fingertips along its
lacquered surface as his eyes darted from key city to key city, from Harcaster
to Stoneport, from Stoneport to Greyford, from Greyford to Dragonspur, from
Dragonspur to Greatminster, from Greatminster to Wrothsby. Long, winding
grooves represented the four main highways of the realm, and points of key
fortification were also represented – Edith's Castle, Fort Caelish, The Towers
of White and Black, Staunton Castle, and so on. Alongside the woodcut's edge
rested a series of flat painted marbles, each one representing a military host
of 1,000 men – white for allies, red for enemies. Eight white marbles lay upon
Ravensborough. A further ten white marbles lay scattered about the main
townships of the Lowburghs; three around Peaswyke, another three around
Wrothsby, a final four around Greatminster – where three red marbles also sat.
Four more red marbles were placed upon the holy road bearing south towards
Greatminster, whilst a single red marble sat atop Dragonspur.
From a distance – it was almost as if Edith had the advantage.
Edward looked up from the table and beheld those gathered
around it, each one serving some central purpose, some of whom he knew. There
was Kenrick Thopswood – Edith's legal advisor; Harry Hotfoot –
Edith's herald and first messenger; Shepherd Godwyn – Edith's spiritual
director. But there were others he did not know. An aging, beady-eyed matron in
a moth-eaten kirtle and overgown called Mistress Alyse – Edith's
steward; and a towering man of muscular build, raven-haired and grim-faced,
cross-armed and morose in his simple black doublet and trunkhose; Owayne mac
Garrach – Edith's commander.
And Edith?
The Red Princess stood at the foot of the table, cup in
hand, frowning broadly at the lacquered demesne of her forebears. Sharp blue
eyes cut upwards to take in each of her advisors – and Edward. She went to him
first.
"How goes the training, Ed Bardshaw?"
He paused a moment, flustered, thinking himself a guest rather
than a member of the inner circle. And yet here he was... "Uh... well. I-I admit
wishing for more time with them, but for what precious little time we have...
your men make good use of it. They learn well."
A nod. "I hear the new recruits have taken a shine to you.
This is good. Form up a unit of the most promising men and take to the fields
tomorrow for battle drills. I may have a special task for you."
"Me?" Edward blinked. "Edith, I've... I've never led men to
battle before... I've never fought a battle before."
She smirked. "And neither have I... at least not to this
scale, anyway. Let's learn together, eh?"
There would come a day, Edward was sure, when the
chroniclers would ask themselves how Edith the Exile could amass such a
following of men in such a short amount of time. One of those men would
(correctly) credit that blazing magnetism of hers – but even then he would
undersell it. To understand, fully, one had to be in her presence. One had to
see the world through her eyes – and if you did? You would follow her to the gates
of Oblivion.
Ed nodded to her, warmly, smiling to himself. "Understood,
Edith."
"Good," Next came Alyse. "Mistress? How are we looking?"
Mistress Alyse, steward of Edith's Castle and household, had
been a follower of the Red Princess since her days of exile in Wallenheim.
Stout and motherly, she cast a tender eye about the room. "Ravensborough bloats
but we haven't met capacity yet, my dear. Our sympathizers abroad the realm
send us marks, arms and supplies where they cannot spare us men. Our stores
remain full, and our coffers grow."
"Excellent," said Edith. "These men abandoned their crop
fields for my service at the height of harvest season, I want every man repaid
with fair wage for his troubles. Tell my paymaster – five marks per day per
billman, seven per archer, ten per horseman, four per auxiliary. And make ready
the baggage trains. The requisitions I sent to the surrounding burghs have
fetched us 300 mules, 150 oxen, and as many wagons for ready use. We'll need
arrows, gunpowder, armour, boots, potatoes, ale, livestock, tenting, you name
it."
Alyse nodded. "I shall see to it."
Edith looked to the map again. "Until we make inroads into
the Midburghs, Ravensborough will be our chief point of re-supply. I want you
to remain here to coordinate it, Alyse. The men respect you as they do me, they
will not buck in my absence. Thopswood?"
The lawyer nodded. "I have done as you asked and drawn up a
provisional list of demands to be issued to the crown..."
Ed watched him fish out a folded onionskin slip from the
pleats of his sheepskin coat. Thopswood opened it up and read it aloud...
"Point One: The installation of Edith Oswyke as
Regent of Morland until such time as the unborn heir comes of age."
"Point Two: An immediate repeal of the Guard Tax."
"Point Three: The abdication and arrest of the Duke
of Greyford by force or will."
"Point Four: The abdication and arrest of the Earl of
Wrothsby by force or will."
"Point Five: The establishment of a duly elected
burghal assembly, two seats per burgh; one shepherd, one common."
"Point Six: A permanent end to all persecutions of
Odoists throughout all four demesnes of the realm."
"Point Seven: A general convocation of the Morish Shepherdry
to canonize Sage Odo without reference to foreign powers."
"Point Eight: A posthumous exoneration of the late
Queen Katheresa Vox."
"Point Nine: The expulsion of all Imperials and
Imperial sympathizers from all four demesnes of the realm."
Then finally,
"Point Ten: The manumission of all Morish bondsmen
and bondswomen with immediate effect."
Harry smirked. "Think his grace will bite?"
"Tch. `His Grace' would sooner take a running shit through
the streets of Strausholm than bite," said Edith. She looked to her lawman
again. "Draw up the clauses then send facsimiles of that list to every city,
town and village we've horses enough to reach. Let the people see the rightness
of our cause and watch them rise up with us against this cankerous court."
Thopswood tucked the slip away, smiling. "It will be done,
Edith."
"Hotfoot?" Edith eyed Harry then. "What news from abroad the
realm?"
Edward watched his friend eye the woodcut map afore them
all, in turn. "Missives reach us from as far afield as the Giant's Neck. Our
brothers and sisters in the Lowburghs have already risen up and banded
together, converging on Greatminster as we speak. High Shepherd Blount has been
captured and Lord Shepherd Sygmus II shelters at Staunton Castle with the Duke.
The Standing Guard marches for the holy city with the Earl of Wrothsby at the
helm, with any luck our Lowburgher allies will take Greatminster before the
Guard can intercept them."
"Pray they do, and that no conflict should come to the holy
city in their wake." Edith made the sign of the saints. "What of the
Midburghs?"
There was a small fortress on the southern side of the
Bordermoors, Fort Silvermere, that Harry moved a white marble onto. "Lord
Albert Bacon has overthrown the royal contingent at Fort Silvermere and vowed
you his support. According to his letter he's gathered up a force of one
thousand pledged men for your disposal. But..."
Harry then moved four red marbles onto a spot of the map
that marked the city of Greyford, the Duke's namesake and the cornerstone of
his landholdings. "There are reports of a general muster for a ducal army at
the city of Greyford, no doubt under Huxton's command. My espials had it at
4,000 men by last headcount but that was three days ago. It may have tripled
since then. All ports south of the Bordermoors are blockaded. We cannot
resupply by ship until we take a seaport or join with Bacon's men at Silvermere."
Edith eyed the map, one hand palming her elbow, the other
wrapped around her chin. "And the Highburghs?"
"There are uprisings in the city of Harcaster, Mowbrey upon
Moor and Tuckbridge. Their respective treasuries and jewel houses have been
broken open and their contents assured to us, which'll be a great help. It
ain't all glad tidings, though. The royal garrison at Castlegarron `declines
to surrender' to the rebel forces, the Sheriff of March has suspended all
southbound traffic through Fort Caelish, and your grandfather's standing army,
the Spear of the North, refuses to march without the Earl's express command."
"So then," she whispered. "I have fewer allies to my north
than I would've liked. Very well. Let's see which side the coin lands on when
my grandfather returns north. Owayne? What of our armies?"
Edward would learn much of Owayne mac Garrach over the
coming days; a former lord stripped of his holdings by act of attainder for his
father's involvement in the Greyford Riots of 797 – he went east to the
continent where he found fortune and glory in the internecine Gasqueri Wars.
He'd formed a free company of 2,000 highly skilled and seasoned warriors known
as The White Ravens – and he represented the backbone of Edith's forces. But it
was not for coin that Owayne and his White Ravens would take the field – it was
for revenge, and eventually, the liberation of Castlegarron.
The stolid soldier – known by his men as The Maul – set his
palms flat upon the smoothened tabletop and moved two white marbles onto the
fields outside Ravensborough.
"My White Ravens are fully provisioned and ready to march.
As for the recruits? This man Ed Bardshaw has it right, the men are raw but
stalwart. They've responded well to the drills and my captains are already
forming them into bands. Between my company and your pledged men, you have
nearly 10,000 souls at your back. No doubt more will follow once Greyford is
declared regent."
Harry clutched a fist. "If the reports are accurate then
that's double Huxton's men, right? Once we join with Bacon's men we'll have the
biggest army in the country!"
"...We need more than numbers," said Ed. "Our boys may have
stomach, but from what I've seen they don't have the arms or armour to match a ducal
army."
"Aren't you fun at feasts?" Quipped the Hotfoot.
Edith frowned. "...He has the right of it, Harry. One seasoned
demi-lancer is more than a match for ten half-trained farmers and their rusty
fagging hooks. Anyone we cannot properly arm must be held in reserve. What
would that pare our ready forces to?"
"6,000 or so," said Owayne. "Probably fewer."
Edith slapped the table. "Not enough. Not fucking enough!
Our numbers have to be overwhelming or a direct strike against
Dragonspur is doomed for failure."
The mutilated shepherd, Godwyn, who for the most part had
stayed bitterly quiet so far, finally found his voice to interject. "Is speed
not ye ally? If ours be the bigger host, strike not ye now, `afore Greyford striketh ye?"
The logic was unsurprising for a man of the Commonfaith,
Edward supposed. No doubt the good shepherd wished for a swift end to
hostilities before too much Morish blood was spilt.
Harry concurred. "Why not strike now before the Duke has
the chance at a counter offensive? We've the initiative."
But Edith, wisely, was unmoved.
"We've only two cannons and no siege weapons," said she.
"Dragonspur has thick walls and a fortified river. We do not have the numbers
to take it directly or force a surrender."
She looked to the map.
"When we march south we'll need some sort of foothold in the
Midburghs, somewhere to rally support and grow the army, somewhere we can
provision and coordinate."
Thopswood eyed the map. "Fort Silvermere?"
"Too small," she said. "There!"
The Red Princess pointed out a river-borne city, the second
largest in the realm. A city deeply intertwined with the history of her family
and its ultimate destruction.
It was the city of Greyford.
"The Duke's backyard? His ancestral manse?" Harry grinned at
the irony, like a dog licking its chops. "Do we dare?"
Edith grinned back. "Indeed we fucking do. Greyford's our
target. It's just three days march from the borders. It has armouries, treasuries,
larders, grain stores, gun foundries, and better still it'll serve as a blow to
the Duke's pride. It will symbolize his weakness, bring courage to the
dissident."
Edward shifted his gaze to the Lowburghs. "It could work.
And if the Lowburghers take Greatminster and bog down the Standing Guard with a
siege, then Dragonspur has no armed support from the south..."
But Owayne did not look as enthused. "...We'd still have
Huxton's ducal army to contend with."
"And so we will," said Edith. "Huxton won't fortify Greyford,
he's too hot-headed. I'll bet my tits he's planning to meet us in the field. So
be it. We make our stand against him."
A sigh. Owayne's sword rattled in the candlelit darkness as
he poured his eyes over the table's marble armies and waypoints. "We are
leaving too much to chance. We assume the Lowburghers will entertain the
Standing Guard long enough for us to take Dragonspur. We assume we have
the manpower and weapons to defeat Huxton. We assume no threats beyond
our shores..."
"Threats beyond our shores?" Harry spoke his thoughts aloud.
And then it dawned on him. "You mean the Empire?"
A nod. "Queen Annalena is the Emperor's niece, and he has the
Duke of Greyford in his back pocket. The Empire has every incentive to keep
Greyford at the reins. That means ships, arms, supplies, money, perhaps even
soldiers."
Edith sighed at the thought, shooting her eyes up to the
cobwebs lulling from the ceiling's beams. "...Noted. You're no fun at feasts
either, Owayne."
The soldier smiled at her. Tenderly. "Aye."
"Still..." She returned to the map. "It would take the Empire dozens
of days to dispatch any aid, and the Duke doesn't have that sort of time. But
then I suppose... neither do we."
"Well, what about Wallenheim?" Said Thopswood. "The
ambassador was sympathetic to old Stillingford, perhaps he might..."
"I requested a parley with Roschewald tendays ago, no reply
was offered. Similarly so with his brother Neidhart. Wallenheim no longer has
an ear for us."
The very utterance of that name made Edward's flesh crawl.
It kindled the branding, the fucking image of Fran moaning into
bedsheets whilst his master bashed away at him from the rear, grunting and
sweating and heaving and...
"Ed?" Harry palmed his shoulder. "You alright?"
Not for no reason did those memories flock to his mind.
Bunt. The garrison there. Fran's offer. `There are 3,000
Wallish troops stationed a few days sail from the eastern coast,' he'd
said. `With the right planning I could command them, I would only need
Gustave out of the way-' Edward did not allow him to finish the sentence.
That was how much it disgusted him. And now...?
The swordsman dragged his fingers from his forelocks. He
sighed. This was not about him – it was about Morland. He cleared his throat.
"The ambassador has a host of 3,000 men at his command. Their galleons anchor
at Bunt. At his command they could dispatch to any eastern Morish seafront
within the next tenday. This I know."
Everyone – Edith, Harry, Owayne, Thopswood, Alyse and even
Shepherd Godwyn turned to him then – turned and stared as if a third arm
sprouted up between his shoulder blades.
"And how long have you been sojourning on that little
pallet of knowledge?" Asked Thopswood.
Edward looked away.
And Edith, sharply, looked to her lawyer. "Kenrick? Draft me
a letter for the ambassador. Explain that if he lends me the support of those
men, I will take my place as regent and tear up the Treaty of Grace with my own
two hands. Tell him a free Morland will have no use for an Imperial yoke and
that Wallish ships may once again return to our lands."
"Yes, Edith."
Then she turned to Harry. "Hotfoot? I need that lightning
speed of yours once again. As soon as the letter is ready I want you to take
the fastest horse you can find and ride hard for Dragonspur. Seek out
Ambassador Roschewald in stealth and deliver it by your own hand. Swaying him
to our cause might just be the edge we need."
Edward did not meet his friend's eye, but he could feel Harry
turn towards him, pausing with unease, yet understanding the gravity of the
task to come – and how much bigger it was than all of them. Some things are
bigger than ourselves, Stillingford always said. Edward knew in both his
heart and his mind that this was one of them.
"So we're agreed?" Asked Thopswood. "We march at first
readiness for the borders, intercept Huxton's army, proceed to Greyford, seize
it, bolster our forces, then converge on Dragonspur?"
"Aye," Said Edith. "With any luck my grandfather's army and
Roschewald's forces will be brought to bear, but Owayne has the right of it, we
can assume nothing. Let us make-"
The chamber doors croaked open. All Edith's counsellors
turned to them as a young redheaded boy ran over the threshold, gasping for
breath. Ed would come to know him well. Edith's page – Larkyn.
"Saints' blood!" Barked Owayne mac Garrach. "Whatever's the
matter, boy?"
There was a missive in his tiny hand. The boy caught his
breath and surrendered it to Edith. She cracked it open. Edward, and the other
counsellors there assembled, watched her ice blue eyes tick side to side, digesting
its contents until she crushed it inside her fist.
"Edith?" Shepherd Godwyn plucked his thick beard. "What says
it, my child?"
The flat of her hands slapped the woodcut map. The balled-up
missive rolled along its expanse to the Vale of Squalls, where Owayne picked it
up and peeled it open.
He frowned. "Dispatches from Dragonspur. The convocation has
declared for the Duke of Greyford. Once again he is the Regent of Morland."
A single fist banged the table. Everyone cast their gaze
south to the Red Princess, eyes down, shoulders trembling. And then up came her
brow – and her expression?
Smouldering with bloodlust.
She stormed off, crimson dress folds swirling around her,
bounding off with forceful pace down the cold stone halls of her keep. By
instinct alone Edward moved to follow her, first him, then Harry, then Owayne,
and then Thopswood. As Edith stalked down the dusty stone steps of her keep, advisors
at her back, she snatched into her calloused hand a burning torch from one of
the iron sconces, making for the limestone archway into the wind-swept bailey.
A shrine to the four saints stood in its centre, the primary
place of prayer for her men. And atop its plinth flocked her standard –
quartered into four fields, two green and two white, a pair of leopards courant
upon the green, the sigils of House Oswyke and House Vox upon the white.
Edith snatched it loose with her free hand and pressed on.
Some of the recruits, slumped and slumbering along the
courtyard walls, rose to attention as Edith the Exile swept past them, worn
shoes crunching through the sandy dust, torch aloft, flag flittering behind.
They followed her. As did others about the castle as she stormed her way
through the gatehouse out into the town.
It was the dead of night.
Ravensborough slept peacefully.
But then, perhaps at Shepherd Godwyn's utterance, the castle
bells sounded. Women stirred from their beds, men from their cots, children
from their bunks. Candlelight lit up the jettied townhouse windows one by one
as each bell peel tore across the night sky and roused the citizens from their
slumber. Doors opened. Hatches parted. Hushed little voices nattered. And all
the while Edith the Exile paced through the streets with her standard and torch,
her followers swelling into the hundreds at her back, some shirtless and some
in small clothes, each with a lantern or candlestick or torch in hand – an army
of light peeling back the darkness – until finally she reached the town square.
And at its centre there stood a tall marble pedestal as high as twelve feet, a
mural dedicated to the four saints, decorated with their likenesses in
quatrefoil patterns and scroll. A plywood scaffold encircled it.
Edith's followers stood back and watched in awe as the Red
Princess scaled the steps of that scaffolding until she took to the pedestal's
peak – and there she planted her standard, jamming it between the planks. And
as it flocked against the night winds, Edith the Exile lifted up her blazing
torch and yelled out to her people...
"THE DUKE OF GREYFORD HAS BEEN DECLARED REGENT! FOISTED UPON
THE REALM AND HER GREAT PEOPLE BY A CORRUPT COURT! WE ENDURED TEN FUCKING
YEARS OF THAT BASTARD'S TYRANNY! AND WE REFUSE TO GO BACK!"
The crowds roared back at her, chanting with concurrence,
cursing the Duke's name, stamping their feet, lifting their light sources. Their
sheer collected rage rattled Edward to his bones. For by the four saints above...
he felt it too.
The Phantoma was nigh.
"SOME OF YOU FOLLOW ME FOR REVENGE," said the Exile. "SOME
OF YOU FOLLOW ME FOR MY BLOOD – THE BLOOD OF WULFSSON AND OSWYKE. I CARE NOT A
WHIT FOR BLOOD! FOLLOW ME NOT FOR BLOOD NOR RANK NOR STATION! NOT EVEN FOR
REVENGE! FOLLOW ME FOR YOUR FREEDOM!"
Their roaring reply was heard for miles across the
burgh.
"FOLLOW ME FOR YOUR RIGHT OF WORSHIP! FOLLOW ME FOR YOUR
FAMILIES! FOLLOW ME FOR A BETTER MORLAND! FOLLOW ME AND WE'LL TEAR THE
TYRANT DOWN FROM HIS FALSE FUCKING THRONE AND MOUNT HIS TRAITOROUS HEAD ON A
PIKE! FOLLOW ME FOR THE FOLKWEAL!!"
"FOR THE FOLKWEAL!" They bellowed back, a storm wind fanning
the flames of rebellion. They cheered and roared, mobbing their leader as she
climbed back down the scaffold and landed on her feet. "FOR THE FOLKWEAL! FOR
THE FOLKWEAL! FOR THE FOLKWEAL! FOR THE FOLKWEAL! FOR THE FOLKWEAL! FOR THE
FOLKWEAL! FOR THE FOLKWEAL! FOR THE FOLKWEAL! FOR THE FOLKWEAL! FOR THE
FOLKWEAL! FOR THE FOLKWEAL!"
Thopswood picked his way through the crowds and found his
way to Edward and Harry. "Time is of the essence," he said. "We need to send
pigeons and riders in every compass point. Rally the masses."
"Agreed," Said Ed. "Our time is now."
**********
Manse de Foy, Dragonspur, Kingdom of
Morland
34th of Autumn, 801
The moon hung at its peak. Francis Gray had the window ajar,
to release the scent of wine and fornication from his rooms. He sat at his
escritoire then, unfurling parchment before himself and weighing it in place with
a set of pewter figurines each forged in the visage of a banneret. With one
hand he inked his goose-feather quill, with the other he knuckled away spilt
tears; then he took up his wine cup and poured its last dregs down his hoarse
throat. The ewer was already empty. No more wine for the night. All the better,
he supposed. He wanted to write.
Dearest Edward,
How can you abandon me, he wanted to write. How can you
leave me? Can you not see how much I care for you? How I burn for you? How I
want and need you? I love you; I love you; I LOVE YOU! Come back to me!
But his quill was heavy.
And Fran's mind raced. `What if the Duke has other
espials in this household? What if Wolner intercepts all the riders and
postmasters? What if Gustave got wind of it?'
Fran threw it down.
And then there was a knock at the door.
The clerk did not freeze this time. Gustave was away and asleep
in his rooms, having come and gone for his nightly rut between the sheets. It
had to be Lothar. "Come in."
The mahogany door squeaked open then clicked shut. And
indeed, it was Lothar, draped from scalp to toe in the thick folds of his sable
cloak. The espial peeled back his hood and shook his silvery hair free. "Are
you alright?"
`No', he thought, simply. "I am fine, Lothar. What news of the
city?"
Silence.
"Lothar?"
He did not speak. Instead Lothar pulled a freshly printed
paper pamphlet from his cloak folds and set it atop Fran's abortive letter.
Upon its cover it read,
CAST OFF YOUR
YOKE! SAY NO TO TEN MORE YEARS OF TYRANNY! RISE UP, ALL TRUEBORN
MORISHMEN! EDITH THE EXILE IS LEGITIMATE! LONG LIVE THE TRUE QUEEN!
And at its back?
A copy of a charter, signed in the Summer of 774 by his lord
father and uncle, William Gray, the accused lover of the One Year Queen,
Katheresa Vox – Edith's mother. It was the charter that Harry Grover told he
and Edward about in that portside tavern in Fludding. The charter that
disproved the accusations of adultery levied at Katheresa. Which made the
Bloody Maid legitimate...
Fran turned to his friend. "Where did you find this?"
"There are thousands of them nailed to doors and posts and
waystations across the city," said Lothar. "The citizens are flooding the
streets. They are setting fires, looting, attacking royal officials and
aliens..."
They both stopped when they smelt something distinct waft
into the bedroom, ferried by the river air. Fran and Lothar went to the open
window and peered out across the manse grounds and the rushing waters of the
River Wyvern, to the sundered nightscape of the city's southern half. The
poorer half.
The city was burning.
At every compass point south of the river burned bonfires
and flaming homesteads. Black clouds of smoke wafted up into the air so thick
and viscous they almost blotted out the stars. If you listened well you could
even hear the roar of the growing mob across the water baying for the blood of
their enemies – the Duke of Greyford and his tax collectors, Thomas Wolner and
his King's Eyes, the Earl of Wrothsby and his torturers, Ambassador Ludolf and
his Imperial aliens, Ambassador Roschewald and his Wallish aliens...
Fran shivered.
"It's happening..." He whispered softly to himself. "Edward
was right. Stillingford was right..."
Lothar eyed the burning city, ever aloof. His brother Luther
was out there, but safely tucked away in the confides of the Hospice of St.
Bosmund. That was not where the danger lay. The real danger was on its
way. "So, what now? Should we make our escape?"
To flee would be sensible. It would also violate Wolner's
curfew as well as Greyford's confinement order. But that was not what Fran saw
as he beheld those lambent flames tracing up to the blackened heavens. He
ran the numbers. And what Fran eventually saw... was opportunity. The
one opportunity they might ever get.
The clerk clutched his hands into a pair of fists so tight
his knuckles went white. His eyes sharpened. The Fiend's venom oozed down his
ears. Resolve steeled his cold spine.
"No," said Fran. "We will not run."
"What then?"
`Our time is now,' thought Fran. "...Gustave dies."
**********
·
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).