The Court of Ghosts Chapter 16

· 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).

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Chapter Sixteen: To The Boy I Once Loved

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A Noble Born – "And now it dies with me" – The Trial of Edward Bardshaw

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Staunton Castle, Dragonspur, Kingdom of Morland

43^rd of Autumn, 801

46 DAYS AGO

Fran kept his silence.

"I could always communicate with the Emperor directly, I suppose." Said the Duke. "But even if he acquiesced at the first letter, it would take half a season to muster the help I require. Edith could march on Dragonspur in days."

"Your grace?"

He frowned. "Your coy expression does not fool me. You know my desire. Those 3,000 troops stationed at Bunt. As the interim head of the Wallenheim Delegation... at this critical moment... they answer to your call. Summon them. Bring them to my aid and I will have you augmented to the Viscountcy of Thormont by the turn of the next tenday. So? What will it be?"

Fran swallowed. "It... it stuns that your grace is so willing to trust these Wallishmen, given the... plot to claim Gead..."

"It was Gustavius' plot, not Wallenheim's. The Council of Lords is too shrewd for such a device. And now Gustavius is dead. His plot dies with him. I want those soldiers. It is yes or no, boy. Speak."

**********

Staunton Castle, Dragonspur, Kingdom of Morland

89^th of Autumn, 801

PRESENT DAY

"...Francis? Francis...?" It began as a whisper at first, then a needling. Then it grew sharp. A buckled shoe caught his ankle. "Lord Viscount, wake yourself!"

He awoke. Startled. Blinked twice then thrice. Thumbed a bead of drool from the corner of his lips. He looked up and saw the Earl of Gainsley, as gaunt and garish as ever, frowning at him through his gold-capped ivory dentures.

`I fell asleep?' Thormont leaned up. "Apologies, my lord. I under-slept, perhaps."

Had anyone else noticed his little faux pas? Thormont's eyes ticked upward and scanned the anteroom. Amidst all its scrolled portraiture and satin drapery, the other members of the Council of the Masters of the Realm stood or sat in attendance with wine cups in hand and light banter upon their lips. Too enamoured with each other to notice him, his Lord of Gainsley's new Under-Secretary, despite being the only deputy in attendance.

Gainsley scoffed. "Straighten up and brace yourself, boy."

Thormont leaned upright, slumped as he was. He had the Lord Justiciar's papers in his lap. Prospective jury rolls, arraignment transcripts, witness statements. The only sheet of parchment that hadn't slipped out of his satchel was the act of attainder the good Lord Justiciar had him up all night drafting, all fourteen pages of it, entitled; In the Year Eight-Hundred and One from Edwulf First Crowned of His Name, With Provision of Consent Afore the Council of the Masters of the Realm, the Attainder of the Traitress, Edith.

Thormont quickly tucked them away.

The tall arched doors to the Great Council Chamber groaned open. All chatter ceased as a ruff-collared footman emerged, slipping past the two bardiche-armed Bannerets of the Bloom standing sentry bestride the narrow threshold. "His grace the Lord Regent has arrived, my lords. Please follow."

As they did.

Centred within that ancient and colonnaded chamber was a lacquered, oval-shaped long table decorated in gold with the sigil of the Royal House, the House of Oswyke, and to its six cushioned thrones sat the lordly stewards of that great house's bleeding demesne: The Earl of Edgemore – Lord Serjeant. The Earl of Gainsley – Lord Justiciar. The Marquess of Gead – Lord Treasurer. The Queen Dowager (newly augmented) – Lady Seneschal. The Earl of Lludmonton (otherwise known as Thomas Wolner, newly augmented) – Lord Marshal. And finally, His Grace of Greyford – The Lord Regent.

For his lordship of Thormont, the footman provided an additional chair to seat him by his senior (in age as well as rank), the Lord Justiciar. Thormont thanked him and alighted humbly at the Lord Regent's request.

"Thank you all for attending," said Greyford. His shoulders were broadened by a golden cloak pelted with ermine fur. "We haven't long to prepare for the coming trials so we shall make this as brief as possible. Lord Marshal?"

Thormont frowned.

Despite his plumed cap and grey doublet, Lord Lludmonton was still Edward's torturer, smiling like a bleached skull, a skull above his fellow counsellors in height. His manners were gruff but his speech precise. "We've been sent word that the secondary ducal army has now disbanded. With all Odoist uprisings in the south now crushed, the Standing Guard have garrisoned at Fort Caelish to quell the last remnants of unrest within the north."

"Good. And the mercenaries?"

He meant the White Ravens – that mercenary band that led the rebels to victory at the Battle of Brookweald. Thormont read all about them in the inquest papers; how the then Constable of Greyford, Ser John Lolland met their then deputy, Charl Brance, at Wuffolk... and bought him off. He'd demanded a small fortune of 10,000 King's Marks for their trouble – the same figure that bankrupted the Roschewalds – but for the realm it was a small price to pay. And as a portion of the Wallish troops defeated the Bloody Maid's mounted warriors at Gigod's Forest, the remainder marched with the White Ravens on their former allies at her rebel camp... and slaughtered them before their breakfast was boiled. Cannon fire bombardments, pike blocks. Thousands dead and thousands more taken prisoner.

"Seen off home to the Gasque Kingdom," said Lludmonton. "...The Lord Treasurer kindly facilitated the loans."

Lyonel de la More smiled, playing with a tuft of his long russet hair. His demeanour was tranquil, playful. His was the only demesne untouched by the unrest and according to the Lord Justiciar he'd not shied away from expressing as much to his peers.

YOUR DAY WILL COME, promised The Fiend.

Thormont warned it to keep quiet until the council session concluded.

Greyford kept his focus on Lludmonton. "What about Fort Silvermere?"

"Pacified. As you know, my lords, even news of Edith's capture would not loose Lord Bacon from his hold upon the fort, not until a few agents of mine pressed north..."

The inquest papers detailed the conflict at Fort Silvermere too. When Lord Bacon refused to surrender, Lludmonton saw fit to dispatch fifty of his King's Eyes agents to the northern Midburghs. The small team slipped into the fort under cover of dark, proceeded to the dungeons, then freed all men taken prisoner at Brookweald, four times the manpower Bacon could call upon. Within days the remnants of the ducal army seized control of the fort and put their rebel gaolers to death.

Lludmonton concluded his more elaborate description of events. "Bacon attempted upon himself along the road, but the King's Eyes returned him safely to Dragonspur for trial."

The (former) Lord Bacon was half the reason the trials were so long delayed. It was the ducal pleasure that all the ringleaders of Edith's Rebellion be brought to justice and tried in one fell swoop, even as the long process of restoring order to the country had yet to conclude. And so? The traitors lingered, deep beneath their feet in the ancient bowels of Staunton Castle.

`...I tried...'

One by one Lord Lludmonton listed their captives. First the Traitor Lord, Albert Bacon. Then that seditious dockside thug, Edward Bardshaw...

`...I tried to save you...'

Next, the excommunicated apostate, Shepherd Godwyn. The disgraced and heretical lawyer, Kenrick Thopswood. The so-called `Mistress Alyse', evil occupier of Ravensborough. That riotous anti-alienist guildsman Basil Smeadon, whose merry band did disgrace the whole nation by murdering the Wallish Ambassador in cold blood. But worst of all was the Bloody Maid herself, that treasonous whore known as Edith the Exile, who upturned the entire country in service of her own wicked ambition. They would've had Owayne mac Garrach for company had he not died from his wounds on the road south but even his head would not grace the spikes of Foxford Bridge until all his fellow malcontents met the block.

`...Oh, Ed...'

Thormont's gloved hands shivered. He clutched one with the other to settle his nerves, and when that would not work, he took a sip of wine for the task. Gainsley frowned at him, before moving to speak. "Your grace? Might we discuss, legally speaking, our current tools to proceed against these traitors?"

The Act of Attainder burned a hole in Thormont's satchel.

"We shall come to that particular sticking point later," spoke the Lord Regent. "My greater concern is the present state of our coffers. Lord Treasurer?"

The Marquess of Gead inclined his head. "Edith's Rebellion has undoubtedly strained our revenues. My commissioners were unable to collect the remaining half of the Guard Tax and this year's harvest was disrupted. Northern crop failures could prove a seedbed for further unrest which is why the Bank of de la More issued the aforementioned loans to the crown to buy off the White Ravens – we couldn't allow their kind to winter in Morland at such a time of heightened tension, after all – but it was a costly expense."

The Lord Regent frowned. "An expense that the crown shall meet when matters abroad the realm are reordered."

"Of course, your grace. But we must also consider the other costs. There are arrearages of pay for the Standing Guard and the surviving officers of the first ducal army. Several burghal lords and magnates have dispatched petitions of redress for damaged property, stolen goods, and requisitioned livestock. We have numerous fortifications in dire need of repair, particularly in the Lowburghs. There are also the losses your grace incurred via the looting and razing of the Greyford Manse, which the crown must of course recoup. Not to mention the munitions fees, armorers fees..."

Lord Serjeant Edgemore heaved a plush sigh. "...If only to expedite these proceedings, Lord Treasurer, might we abbreviate these costs into a more general figure?"

"...fine then." A shuffle of papers followed. "I put it at 0.9 million marks."

The entire table scoffed.

"My best estimate, gentlemen."

"Saints blood!" Said the Lady Seneschal. "And the costs are to be recouped how, exactly?"

The Lord Treasurer turned a cool glance at Thormont, though the young lord heeded him not. "We are to proceed with the late Gustavius von Roschewald's consortium proposals. I've also had congress with the newly installed Wallish ambassador, Viktor Beckert, as well as with Chairman Neidhart Roschewald and various members of the Council of Lords to draft articles for a new treaty. Renewed trade ties with Wallenheim will boost our tax revenues in the mercantile sector, and in the interim, we've been promised additional food stores for the north as well as a few low interest loans to replenish the coffers."

The Lady Seneschal frowned, sceptically. "...We should be more wary of indebting ourselves to the Wallish. What of the Guard Tax?"

The Lord Treasurer moved to speak but it was the Lord Regent who responded to his sister. "...We cannot allow the cattle to stampede again. The Guard Tax is unenforceable. We should not be seen to repeal it, not as yet, but no further collections will be made."

"And what of the Empire?" Said the Lord Marshal. "Surely they will not take kindly to fresh dealings with Wallenheim?"

The Lord Regent's furrowed brow darkened with talk of his ancient ally to the east. "The Lords Serjeant and Justiciar assure me that The Consortium does not violate the Treaty of Grace. And even if it did, the Empire has proven itself an unworthy confederate. If Emperor Adolphus is displeased then let him make his overtures. I will not bend to alien whims."

`...anymore.' Thought Thormont.

"Your grace," began the Lord Justiciar. "We must speak to the coming trials."

The Lord Regent growled to himself. It was the `sticking point' earlier alluded to. The prisoners were in place. The ringleaders of Edith's Rebellion would be tried and if found guilty (and there was no question they would be) put to death. But there was a rift amongst the Masters of the Realm about what to do with the chief ringleader – Edith the Exile.

The Lord Justiciar bade his Under-Secretary pass him his paperwork. Thormont complied. It was the Act of Attainder for Edith – and he distributed it to the Lord Regent under the Lady Seneschal's pitiless eye.

"We've drafted the bill," said he. "All that's required is a majority of signatures-"

A satin-laced hand slapped the table.

All eyes turned to the Lady Seneschal, who in turn eyed the Lord Justiciar, balefully. "I will not entertain an accelerated end to that... that demoness. I want her tried! I want her cross-examined and convicted before a court of law! I want her bowels gored out and burned before her eyes! I want her to die screaming!"

Awkward glances wafted about the table. The Masters of the Realm mulled about themselves, shuffling their papers or pouring themselves more wine. No one was enthused by her demands, but no one was willing to quibble with them either. No one except her lord brother.

He bade her be of peace. "My Lady Seneschal. No one at this table has suffered worse at the Bloody Maid's hands than you. I share your anger-"

"My Lord Regent, it does not sound as if you do!" She spat. She looked around the table. "Must I remind you all what was done to me? What she threatened to do to me?"

From tavern house to workman's scaffold half the realm was probably speaking of it.

"...Your Highness."

It was Thormont who addressed her. He was in no great mood to speak, his focus already shifting to the man he was next due to visit, his heart pounding at the thought. But if he was ever to have a seat at this table again, he needed to ingratiate himself with the others.

He needed to stand out.

"I speak for everyone when I say that what was done to you was reprehensible," said Thormont. "Should the Bloody Maid die a thousand torturous deaths it would not nearly be enough to compensate your unjust treatment. But there are still people abroad this realm who call this woman Queen of the Commons. There are those who still believe she is the legitimate heir to King Osmund, and the rightful successor to your late son, that sweet noble monarch amongst monarchs, King Oswald II. If we put her on trial, then legally, she would be permitted to speak..."

"The trials are not to be public-"

"Indeed, Your Majesty, yet word still spreads. I implore Your Majesty to consider this. Word travels faster than fire. If the... `demoness' is given a voice to proselytize with, it will credit her growing renown amidst the commonfolk, which in turn might spur her devotees to further rebellions. The Lord Justiciar's bill would allow the Masters of the Realm to legally proceed to execution without trial. This way you blunt her tongue and forgo any risk of incitement."

The Lady Seneschal – The Queen Dowager – smouldered at him. Upstart said the look. Lordship newly minted and yet you address me thus. But the look did not translate to speech.

The Viscount of Thormont's grace period within court had yet to wane. His clever device with the Wallish troops turned the tide against Edith and her nascent rebellion, and his rewards were manifold; his new viscounty and all the land and properties that came with it, a new post as Under-Secretary to the Lord Justiciar, not to mention a parcel of smallholdings in the capital with rent and crop yields worth around 600 King's Marks per annum, Wormsleigh Manor, suitable enough to support him whilst conducting his affairs in Dragonspur. He was now a full member of the Morish court.

Perfectly placed to begin taking his revenge.

"Thank you for your remarks, Lord Thormont. We shall schedule a vote on the bill anon, but now, we must prepare for arranged trials." The Lord Regent rose from his chair. The Masters of the Realm did the same. "All of you. Dispatch. Justice begins with St. Bosmund's winter."

Murmurs.

The assembled lords took up their paperwork as they left. The Lady Seneschal called for her ladies-in-waiting to fetch her train as she arose, glaring querulously at her lord brother as she departed. The Lord Justiciar said: "Come along, Young Francis, there is work to be done!"

But it was when `Young Francis' retook the Act of Attainder into his possession that the Lord Regent said: "Hold. Away with you, Gainsley. I would speak with Thormont alone."

A long, gaunt face pulled a wiry frown. More of startlement than impertinence, perhaps. Nevertheless. The Lord Justiciar of the Realm inclined his head and saw himself out of the chambers. The narrow oaken doors slammed shut.

Thormont and Greyford were alone.

His Grace reclined into his high-backed seat. "You would do well not to antagonize the Lady Seneschal."

`Your sister sent my uncle to his death on a lie,' Thought Thormont. `You parcelled me off to the Roschewalds and left me to rot. You and yours have sat to this table plotting my Edward's demise...' A breath. "Apologies, Your Grace. I had not meant to do so."

"I know what you meant," Greyford paused to take a long sip of Wallish white. The cup's golden rim obscured a smirk. "You meant to impress the others. I see you, boy. I see your ambition. You remind me of myself at your age..."

Thormont's stomach soured.

"...but you must play your cards carefully. Bosmund is your saint, is he not? Look to his patience. It will be the making of you."

A nod.

Greyford smiled at the gesture, as if analysing its pretences, then shrugging them off. "Hm. I wonder. Was I too unkind to this concept of the New Man? In Morland's hour of need it was New Men such as yourself and Wolner who came to its rescue."

Thormont suppressed a frown. "I am a noble born, Your Grace."

"Ah! Indeed."

The Lord Viscount took a bow. "Will that be all?"

"One last thing. Those documents you kept implicating the old ambassador. Burn them. The realm cannot afford a rift with Wallenheim at present." And then the Duke raised his cup, smirking lowly. "That will be all."

Thormont saw himself out.

**********

Staunton Castle, Dragonspur, Kingdom of Morland

90^th of Autumn, 801

The sea.

It was the sea that Edward thought of. That vast expanse. That sun-dappled stretch of azure waters. When he closed his eyes, he saw darkness. When he opened his eyes, he saw darkness. But when he opened his mind, and reached backwards in time across its annuls, it was the sea that reached out to him.

The sea.

He saw it clearly now. Felt the sea spray's cooling caress against his bronzed skin. Felt the warm sands bunching beneath his tiny toes. Tasted the salt of the air on the tip of his tongue. Smelt the scrags of seaweed tossing up at his feet. Heard the music of the gulls as they wheeled overhead, and the soft crash of the tides against the golden shore.

And there he ran.

Edward. With his little trail of footprints behind him, his favourite person in all the world up ahead, smiling back at him with emerald eyes full of joy and chestnut tresses waving in the wind. There they giggled. Held hands. Built castles. Played with shells. Cooled their feet in the sea.

`There,' thought Ed. `...love blossomed.'

A brass key twisted into a lock. An iron door clanged open. A blazing flame flittered through the darkness. Squeaking rats scurried away.

`...and here it came to die.'

Light.

Ed blinked, furiously, his eyes unaccustomed after so many days bereft. His flea-bitten hands reached up to shield them from the flame, iron cuffs rattling, but the flame was warm, and his fingers were frozen. He reached out. The light pulled away.

A snigger.

"Cold, are we?"

Ed knew the voice. It was the loyalist. The new Constable of Dragonspur – Ser John Lolland.

"W-what...?" His throat was raw. "What do you want?"

"What do I want?" Slow bootsteps approached him through the dank black pit, fouled with the stench of the river. The flame's warmth drew close again. Edward did not move. "What I want is the headsman's pleasure. What I want I will not get, you vile little traitor."

One of those boots caught Edward in the ribs.

He coughed blood.

"Get up!" Barked Ser John. "The Lord Justiciar's Under-Secretary has a few questions for you."

Edward's back was to the wall. He slid himself up. Tried to. Then the bones popped, and the muscles burned. His legs buckled. Four gloved hands caught him before he fell. Two hands to either arm. Guards. Together, they lifted him up. Together, they dragged him out. Out into the corridor, graced with more light, wooden torches burning in iron sconces nailed to the walls. Down the corridor and up the damp stone steps, upward and upward, Ed's dirty feet hovering beneath him, shaggy blonde hair dangling in clotted tresses, his unshorn beard speckled with dung and breadcrumbs.

Ser John followed.

Flight after flight. Encirclement after encirclement. And then they came to a door. Wood, not iron. A knock. A familiar voice beckoned. The guards pushed in and brought Edward with them.

Ser John inclined his head. "My Lord Thormont, I bring you the prisoner, as requested."

"...Many thanks, Constable. Please seat him here."

`...You...' Thought Ed.

Rough hands ferried him around. Wood skidded against a stone floor. Rushes rustled. His weight declined, thumping weakly onto a cold seat. The guards' grip fell away. A command issued forth. "Kindly give us the room, masters. I am in no danger. Bar the door."

A bow. "Yes, my lord."

Six boots scuffed out. The wooden door swung shut. Jangling keys. Iron slipped inside a lock. Twisted. A wooden plank lowered into metal clasps. Movement ceased. Outside voices ebbed away. A cough.

"...Ed. Ed, look at me."

Edward looked up.

Francis.

Lord Francis Gray. Thormont's newly minted viscount. In all his beauty. Pristine. Immaculate. Black doublet. Pearl hose. Leather belt, gold-buckle. Ruffed sleeves. Livery collared shoulders, with pearls set in sparkling silver. Doeskin gloves. Sable half-cloak. Skin powered into porcelain. Mahogany tresses? Closely cropped beneath the flamingo-feathered cap. The lordliest of calibres. And yet those eyes. Those emerald eyes. Suddenly haunted with pity, with sadness...

...with guilt.

"Oh Ed," A whimper. "W-what have they done to you...?"

Gloved fingers reached out to touch him.

Edward jerked away.

"Touch me not," said he.

Silence.

The swordsman's skull sunk. Tangled locks of oily blonde hair lulled across his eyes. He saw the oaken table beneath him. Francis sat to it. Parchment was laid out – empty. An ink jar – full. A row of goose-feather quills – arrayed. Much like before. When men took him into a similar cell. How many days ago? He'd forgotten. Five? Ten? Twenty? Then the questions came. Thick and thunderous. "When did you come to meet Edith the Exile?" "What was your affiliation with Theopold Stillingford?" "How did you know Basil Smeadon?" "Tell us about your involvement in the Bloody Parley..."

Edward bared his teeth, grinning. "What is this? You're my... interrogator now?"

"Ed..."

A roar. "DON'T FUCKING CALL ME THAT!"

The candles shivered.

"...Edward."

"What is this?" The prisoner's chains rattled, his rust-chafed wrists lulling in his lap. "What do you want with me now? Hm? To gloat?"

He watched Francis calculate what to say next. Was that always his manner? To think and re-think then toss out the perfect line for his manipulations? Was that always him? Or was that Roschewald's doing?

Francis leaned forward, threading his fingers together, the amber glow of the candleflames chasing the shadows away from that beautiful fucking face. "You were last questioned by The Lord Serjeant and his secretaries. But the Lord Justiciar had other queries he felt went unprobed."

`...No. No, you serpent...' Thought he. "You lie. You're here... to see... if I will implicate you..."

Silence.

"Why?" Said Edward. "Why?"

Francis' candlelit face hardened. "Even with the Wallish, you hadn't the numbers or the firepower to besiege Dragonspur. You had neither the provisions nor the backing. Even the Spear of the North would not back you."

"Aye!" Barked Ed, chest boiling. "Because your Duke held Ser Gerard hostage!"

"The Duke had a card and he played it! Better than Edith played hers!"

The cell fell quiet again. Echoes of the exchange filled Edward's ears. His mind raced backwards to Gigod's Forest and the storm of arrows pelting their men and horses. Further back then, back to Brookweald, tasting blood and intestines on his tongue as he carved from man to man to man, breaking bones and bisecting flesh, salting the earth with Morish blood. Good Morish blood.

All for nothing.

"...because of you..." seethed Ed.

Fran exhaled. Tucked his eyes away. He was angry too, in his own way. "Nothing changes with you, Edward Bardshaw. How comfortable that must be. To see nothing but white and black through the prism of your own righteousness. Did Stillingford teach you that?"

A glare. "Don't you dare say his-"

"He gave you a vision. A vision beyond our past, whereas I..." The boy paused, sniffled, tried to compose himself and failed. "...whereas I've had to sit with it for ten long years. Whilst you plotted out your comfortable little revolution, I was reared in the cold fucking north, a vehicle for another man's pleasure, an enforced conscript to my own systemic rape, so excuse me if I fail to coddle you in the fact!"

And once more the room descended silence.

Fran caught his breath.

Edward exhaled. Felt his eyes sting. Tears, perhaps. He thought of the dockside version of himself, the angry little boy washed up in Dragonspur without a mark to his name. Had he but known of Fran's fate, that angry little boy would have pilfered the best dagger he could find, snuck onto the first galleon bound for Wallenstadt, and crossed the Mandelsea to find him. There was no throat that angry little boy would not slit, no bone that angry little boy would not snap, if it took him to Fran's side. He would have burned Roschewald alive to set Fran free.

But they weren't boys anymore.

They were men.

And the man that Lord Gray's sweet son became... he was...

"...That letter..." Ed spoke. "...The one Harry gave me in Greyford. Did you mean any of it?"

Francis fixed a glare on him. Hard. Tears welling in his emerald eyes. "...Of course I did! Every word! I love you. I've always loved you. I'll never stop loving you."

His wrists were heavy and sore. But Edward raised them up somehow. Buried his face into his palms. Screamed himself empty into them. Let his cracked flesh soak up the salt of his tears. He wept. He wept and wept and wept. And then he sighed, opening his face like a clamshell. He knuckled his grey gaze dry. Swallowed each subsequent breath in slow succession. Steadied himself.

"...Edward...?" Francis called to him. "...Please say something to me..."

`...Breathe, Ed Bardshaw. Just breathe...' Thought he. "What was it... that Ser Martyn said? That every man... writes the book of his own life? How was mine written... thusly?"

Francis cast an empty smile at the row of goose feathers aligned before his fingers. "...Perhaps... though we hold the quill... we govern not our own stories..."

"...Aye." Edward eyed the other man. "And who is destined to be the `Fran' of yours?"

A pause.

And for all his anger, Edward saw a look of hurt in Francis' face that jolted him. Like the nip of a knife. Like the punch of an arrow. He thought himself devoid of feeling for this man. And now Edward... Edward could not look at him. He had to look away.

"Do you...?" A sob. "...Do you truly hate me this much, Edward...?"

`This is too much,' Thought Ed. `Saints above, just... just let it end.'

The beaten swordsman drew in breath. Exhaled it. It was done. He was done. They were done. Let them say it all and be done. "...If I look at you... even now... all I wish to do... is run away with you."

A gloved hand reached across the table.

Took his own in its soft grip.

Edward did not move.

"Then run...!" The voice was soft and yet so drawn and desperate. "Run away with me! I have the Lord Regent's ear, I could work a device, I could have you... indentured to my household as punishment, but after a few years you'd be a free man again! By then I swear I could reclaim my old lands! We could go back to Gead! Run the beach together as we once did! Everything could be as it once was! We could be together!"

He saw it then.

Again.

The sea.

And amidst its backdrop he saw the boy he once loved.

But that boy was gone.

Gead was gone.

Gone for him.

Edward took his hand away, chains clanging. "...No. No, I will not run from this. Not even towards you. When you kill Edith... as I know you will... you'll make a martyr of her. And hers will be the name us commoners sing when we finally tear down this evil court. History will vindicate her, Fran. It will vindicate Stillingford. It will vindicate me. But you? I shudder to think what it will speak of you. It won't remember the boy I once loved... it will remember the man he became. A traitor to his own realm."

That word clung to the air in all its venom.

Traitor.

"I cannot do what you would have me do. I will not flee from fate. I will meet it head on. Call me obstinate, call me old fashioned, call me cruel, but... I'd rather die honourably than live dishonourably. So, die I will."

The candles flickered.

Mice scurried.

The stones above groaned beneath the weight of the river.

Silence again.

The last they would share.

Francis flicked his tears away. And then, a sad smile of defeat. He knew it now. There was no changing it.

This was where they parted.

"Cry `honour' all you will." Whispered he. "It is purpose that that fills your emptiness... not honour. But you never found it for yourself, did you? When it came to the book of your life... it was always easier to just... place the quill in some other hand, wasn't it? First Stillingford, then Edith. Their dreams became your dreams. Their purpose became your purpose. Have you never had a dream of your own?"

Edward's smile was rueful. Bitter and rueful. "...My dream was you, Fran. My dream was you."

Francis bit his lip, eyes shaking, crystalline with tears.

A breath. "And now it dies with me."

**********

Staunton Castle, Dragonspur, Kingdom of Morland

1^st of Winter, 801

"Francis?" His Lordship of Gainsley beckoned him forth with a gesture of his knobbed fingers. His Lordship of Thormont rallied to the bench. "Do you have the indictments?"

A suppliant nod. Thormont threw open the buckled flap of his satchel and surrendered the documents. One transcript each for seven of the eight prisoners, seven transcripts bound into one sheaf, one intended for each judge. The Earl of Gainsley thanked him kindly, laying down the staff of office to mount his spectacles and share them out amongst his fellow councilmen.

Thormont inclined his head and withdrew.

A chorale of murmurs abounded the Banqueting Hall, their collective tone giddy and wearisome in equal measure as the attendees filed into the galleries by the hundreds. Thormont picked his way through the throng as they mulled about the marbled floor in packs, nattering amongst themselves as the footmen and ushers directed them to their proper seats. And yet a handful stopped him. Introduced themselves.

"Lord Thormont? A pleasure to make your acquaintance, I am-" "Ah! My Lord of Thormont! Congratulations on your augmentation, we simply must dine!" "Thormont! Have we not been introduced? Alack the impropriety. I-"

`How the tone shifts...' Thought Thormont.

When he rode into Woollerton Green that summer, he was a stranger to them, an ignored shadow clinging to the heels of the preening Wallish ambassador, an attaché only to be acknowledged once the proper introductions between his social betters were made. And now? And now the noblemen flocked to him – with invitations to dine, to sit to supper, to hunt. Noblewomen made their reverences and received his in kind, fawning welcomes supplanting their once high-nosed dismissals. Inductors to the brood.

One such was the Earl of Huxton – Humphrey, Lady Cecily's younger brother.

Thormont was making his way to the galleries when the young lord, newly bequeathed with his late father's heirdom, called over to him. As was obligatory, the Under-Secretary proffered his best bow and his unyielding service.

A smirk. "I hear you did us all a good turn at Gigod's Forest. I suppose I should offer my congratulations too."

`Congratulations,' Thought Thormont. `Not thanks then.'

The falseness and bitterness beneath Huxton's tone was unmistakable. Unmistakable and understandable. Between his late father's humiliating defeat at Brookweald and the ignobility of his subsequent execution, the reputation of his house was at a low ebb. And Humphrey himself, one of the court's young gallants, was personally stained by those events. He languished in captivity until Ser John Lolland and the White Ravens routed the rebels occupying the city of Greyford, rescuing him. All his talk of `earning his spurs' during the convocation was now discounted as bluster, and his father's post as Lord Marshal (which should have gone to Humphrey after his death – by custom if not law) was given to the Earl of Lludmonton – a commoner by birth. In truth? Young Huxton had much to rue.

Thormont thanked the earl before he forgot himself.

"Hm," A sly grin. "...They say you're friendly with my good sister, Lady Cecily. Keep it up, Thormont. Who knows? You might even make an honest woman out of her!"

`Translation – pluck her from my hair and scupper the foul rumours about her once and for all.' Thought he. "I should be honoured, my lord, though I would not dare presume."

"Oh. What a diplomatic answer. Away with you then. The games must begin."

By then almost all the attendees were seated and the twin galleries full. Thormont withdrew from Huxton and took his own place as a pair of trumpeters lifted their horns to a sudden blast of fanfare. The oaken framework groaned as everyone suddenly stood and in strode the Lord Regent, passing beneath the archway in his golden cloak of office. Behind him walked the Queen Dowager, deeply sombre and yet somehow utterly furious, the embroidered train of her silvery-ebon dress ferried by her newly re-assembled ladies in waiting. Silence held as they took their seats. As members of the Council of the Masters of the Realm, they had the right to adjudicate in these proceedings, but both abstained.

The reasoning was sound. There had to be at least some degree of impartiality about the trials, or at the very least a certain pretence of it, and House Drakewell was too centred in the rebels' ire for that. And as Under-Secretary Thormont was privy to much of the particulars. There were witnesses that the Queen Dowager was far too close to for her to sit the bench. So she sat with her brother, just a few short yards from the dock, her gable-hooded visage weathered with righteous fury.

Thormont scanned the room.

He looked to the bench, to the judges, where his new master the Earl of Gainsley presided. Alongside him was the Earl of Lludmonton, the Marquess of Gead, and alarmingly, that withered fanatic, the Earl of Wrothsby, sitting to judgement in place of the Lady Seneschal.

At the bottom row of the right wall gallery sat the jury. By face none of the selected twelve were known to Thormont, but he knew of them. They were city men. Guildmasters, aldermen, and magnates drawn from both Dragonspur and Greyford, the two cities hardest hit by Edith's Rebellion, as by design. Each man was handpicked by the Lord Serjeant, the Earl of Edgemore; each man bore a grudge. Lost goods, damaged property, a defiled wife or mistress, disrupted income. As by design. Edgemore himself would serve as the prosecutor. He had the temperament for it as well as the knees (unlike old Gainsley).

And then it began.

Silence thickened the room until it broke with the rattle of chains. Clink. Clink. Clink. Clink. And in walked the first of the prisoners to be tried, led by Ser John Lolland and flanked by two Bannerets of the Bloom.

Edward Bardshaw.

Clink. Clink. Clink. Clink.

Thormont's chest tightened.

STEADY YOURSELF, BOY... Barked The Fiend. STEADY!

Edward's countenance was as filthy and ragged as it was when Ser John fetched him from the Oubliette. Torn tunic. Bare feet. Unshorn hair. Overgrown beard. Sunken eyes. Bruised flesh. Weakened gait. Lacerations. They escorted him to the dock where he was made to stand, where Ser John withdrew but the Bannerets remained, stamping their bardiches to confirm that the prisoner was secure. Silence.

Thormont watched Edward draw his tired eyes to the bench, ignoring a thousand furious faces for the four that would seal his fate.

Gainsley cleared his throat. "Will the prisoner please state his name and saint?"

"My name... is Edward... Bardshaw..." His voice was hoarse, even worse than before. "And I... am a Child of St. Thunos..."

"Will the prisoner please confirm that he has been appraised of the charges levied against him?"

"...I have."

"Good," Gainsley mounted his spectacles as he drew up the sheaf of indictments. "The prisoner stands accused on nine counts. Count 1 – High Treason. Count 2 – Conspiracy to Commit Acts of High Treason. Count 3 – Misprision of High Treason. Count 4 – Sedition. Count 5 – Conspiracy to Commit Acts of Sedition. Count 6 – Misprision of Sedition. Count 7 – Heresy. Count 8 – Conspiracy to Commit Acts of Heresy and Count 9 – Misprision of Heresy."

Edward rolled his eyes.

"How does the prisoner plead?"

And then a small smile found the prisoner's cracked lips.

"...Not guilty," he said. "On all counts."

Murmurs. Anger. Sneering.

`Saints be, Ed...!' Thought Thormont. `Do not make this any worse for yourself!'

It was a stupid thought. He paused. Thought more deeply. Chided himself as the onlookers chided Edward with their foul gazes.

This could not get any worse.

Gainsley lowered his spectacles. He spoke slowly, giving the liveried clerks behind him an opportunity to catch their quills up with the proceedings. He sighed. "Will the prisoner explain his reasoning?"

Edward fixed a gaze upon the Lord Justiciar, sharp and defiant. Alarmingly defiant. "...By Morish law, when a ruler dies, we hold a convocation to select a new one as we have since the chieftains of old first bent the knee to Edwulf the Great. To every convocation lords, shepherds, nobles and guildsmen are summoned. But from what I was told... when the convocation was held for that man..."

Edward jerked his head towards Greyford, who sneered at him.

Lludmonton, Edward's skull-faced torturer, frowned. "That man you refer to is his grace the Lord Regent. You will show the proper respect."

"...when the convocation was held for that man," continued Edward, "...you summoned only the Masters of the Realm, the Lord and High Shepherds, and the two queens. What you called a convocation... was no convocation. And if there was no convocation... then Greyford's second regency is illegitimate... and it is no treason to take up arms against an illegitimate regime!"

Uproar.

A hail of boos and jeers filled the hall. Lludmonton pounded the bench with his fist, fluttering up its papers, its lacquered wood reverberating. The sound was loud enough to cut through the din. The simmering murmurs subsided.

Someone Thormont didn't know leaned against his ear. "Is... he right in that, Under-Secretary?"

"...No." Thormont frowned. `Convocations are formalities. Legally, it's the proclamation of the Masters of the Realm that makes a ruler legitimate. And he knows that...'

Thormont eyed the clerks behind the bench taking minutes.

`...but the commonfolk don't...'

There was a raised dais that stood between the bench and the rightward galleries. It was built of mahogany, scrolled and lacquered, draped with a satin banner bearing the royal sigil of House Oswyke. A Banneret of the Bloom entered the quietened court with an aging, mutton-chopped man and bade him ascend the steps of that dais. And with some slight help his worn knees were able to manage it. Thormont did not know the man. But the look of recognition on Edward's face suggested he did.

"Will the first witness state their name and saint?" Said the Lord Justiciar.

The old man trembled. He was nervous. And he could not look Edward in the eye. "Higgs, milords. Me name's Higgs. Me saint? That'd be Wynnry, rest her."

"Swear on your saint the truth of your testimony." Said Gainsley.

"...I swear on St. Wynnry the truth of me testimony, milord."

"Thank you. Would the Lord Serjeant care to examine the witness?"

From there Edgemore took the lead. The Lord Serjeant put aside his papers and crossed the chequered marble into the space between the dais and the dock.

Edgemore was a stocky man, squat and stout, with a pinched pink mouth barely hidden beneath the chops of his rusty blonde beard. He cut the look of a butcher or a woodsman rather than a peer of the realm, but he was a man of law to his bones and wielded it as skilfully as he would a cleaver or a hatchet.

"Thank you, Lord Justiciar." Edgemore's voice was high-pitched, grating, mismatched with his brawler's build. "And thank you, Master Higgs, for your courage. Kindly inform the court of your vocation?"

Higgs looked fitfully at all the noble faces bearing down upon him. He pulled off his cap and fiddled with it. "A coachman, milord. I-I-I have a team of mares. A bit taken with colic but good horses."

Some of the nobles sniggered at him.

Thormont looked on, stoic.

Edgemore pointed out Edward. "Do you know this man?"

A nod. A guilty nod.

"...If you know him, master, then say so." Commanded the Lord Treasurer. Noticeably quiet, he sat to Lludmonton's side with a bored smirk. "You cannot expect our clerks to write `he nodded'."

More sniggers from the galleries.

Higgs crumbled, lips quivering. "Yes, milord. Sorry, milord. I... I do know him. Ed Bardshaw. That's Ed Bardshaw."

Edward frowned.

"In what capacity knew you this man?" Asked Edgemore.

Higgs squinted at him. "C-capacity, milord?"

"Oh for saints' sake, you simpleton!" Barked Wrothsby. "How do you know the prisoner!?"

One of Huxton's retainers snuck an elbow into his ribs to keep him from tittering, as Higgs bit back his nervousness to speak. "I... I served as his coachman for s-some years, milords. Well... I suppose I was more Stillingford's coachman than Ed's."

Edward's expression was blank.

The Earl of Edgemore strolled around the dais. "I see. And whilst you served in this cap... manner, overheard you any talk of the nobility?"

"Uh... well... I try not to eavesdrop on me customer's conversations, but... it were only talk about the king, mostly. They hoped he'd be a good king, and he was, for what little time we had him."

A sympathetic silence interrupted the muted snickering.

"Anything about his grace, the Lord Regent?"

Higgs clammed up, pink as a plum.

"Master Higgs, I will remind you that you swore an oath upon your own saint to give honest testimony, and we mean to have that testimony," Edgemore pointed at Edward again. "Did you ever hear this man speak of his grace the Lord Regent?"

"...Y-yes, milord."

"And what was said?"

"That..." Higgs wiped the sweat from his brow. "...That the Duke of Greyford was a tyrant..."

The murmuring restarted. Nobles leaned into each other and whispered amongst themselves. The Lord Regent and the Queen Dowager glowered in their seats. Edward kept his focus on the bench. Thormont watched him do so as Edgemore resumed his pointed badgering of Higgs upon the dais. The line of questioning had a bent.

Sedition.

"State your name and saint," said the Earl of Gainsley.

It was a woman on the dais this time. Young. Fair-skinned. Beautiful. A northern girl, a Highburgher, but with all the good breeding and etiquette of a Midburgher reared at the Morish court. She stood in a simple chamlet gown frilled with white petticoats, her shoulders shrouded by a shawl of fox fur, her strawberry blonde hair netted by a cotton caul embroidered with the liveries of the Queen Dowager.

"My name is Mary," said she. "I am a Child of St. Jehanne."

"Swear on your saint the truth of your testimony."

"Of course." A curtsey. "I swear by St. Jehanne herself to the truth of my testimony."

Edgemore strolled again by the dais. "Well met, madam. Can you state for us your vocation?"

Mary cut a sidelong glance at her noble mistress before she spoke. "I am a lady-in-waiting to her majesty, the Queen Dowager. We care for our good mistress. We tend her fires, bathe and dress her, fetch her letters. Our mistress is very kind to us. Some commoners speak ill of her, but they do not see how well she treats us."

A seat behind Thormont someone giggled to themselves and whispered aloud: "A Gasqueri mummer could not recite her lines half so well...!"

Thormont ignored the idle talk.

Down below Edgemore thumbed out Edward. "And do you know this man, madam?"

"I had the displeasure of meeting him," Mary's powdered face soured at the sight of the swordsman. "This man who calls himself a Child of St. Thunos."

Edward kept his expression blank.

"And what can you tell us of that day?" Said Edgemore.

Mary took a breath to compose herself. "There was a fury. Talk of the Bloody Maid's army marching on Greyford. In the morning The Lord Mayor and the Constable, Ser John there, they came to visit with Her Majesty. They said they would surrender the city to spare the slaughter, and that Her Majesty should take the opportunity to escape. But she refused. She said: `We have nothing to fear from a pack of ruffians. They have no authority.' She was so brave, my lords. And so we proceeded as ever we would. And then..."

Edgemore frowned. "And then?"

"And then him," Mary threw a sharp finger at Edward. "Him and his footpads and the Bloody Maid! They stormed into the manse, robbed it of its jewels and treasures, and then up they came to our good madam's chambers where they murdered our guards...!"

The galleries grumbled.

Thormont looked to Edward as Edward looked away from the dais, his gaze darting towards the bench. `She isn't lying, is she, Ed?'

By now there were tears in the good lady's eyes. The Lord Serjeant (gentleman that he was) fetched a kerchief from the folds of his scarlet brocade doublet, a kerchief embroidered with the sigil of House Drakewell. Edgemore chivalrously handed it to Mary and bade her "take whatever time is necessary" to compose herself and resume. All the while the Queen Dowager looked on haughtily, chin in the air, frowning.

"At your liberty, mistress." Said Edgemore.

Mary, sniffling, resumed. "After they butchered the men at the door they stole into Her Majesty's chambers. The other ladies and I, we... we were so frightened! But Her Majesty told us not to fret. She said she would not dignify their impudence with her fear."

Thormont frowned. He sensed that if the Queen Dowager ever commissioned an encomium of her life, that moment, that quote, would figure prominently. Quills scratched their way through the subsequent silence.

Edgemore said: "And then?"

"And then The Bloody Maid had her hairy villains escort us out. They fetched us to the wherries as their compatriots despoiled the manse. They tried to... to buy us off with their pilfered goods but we ladies all refused... and then they held us for a time and then... and then..."

"...Madam," Edgemore feigned his sympathies. "...However much it may gall or offend to recollect, we simply must have your testimony."

Mary composed herself.

"And then those thuggish rebels dragged Her Majesty down to the shoreline... stripped to her bare nakedness...!"

Gasps rang out from both galleries like a choir. Murmurs followed. Hundreds of horrified faces turned empathetically to The Queen Dowager, who sat through her lady's testimony with her face half-hidden beneath a nose-high veil of stark ebon lace. She kept a kerchief about her person, noticeably damp to the touch. Thormont sensed that her tears were genuine – but they were tears of outrage rather than sadness.

"They insulted her! Employed base language to demean and intimidate her! Called her all manner of foul names that no man of repute would ever utter! By the blood of the saints I have never seen conduct so unbecoming! Those were not men! Those were monsters ferried from the very pit of oblivion!"

Jeers. Loud ones. All directed at the prisoner, whose defiance and guilt wore heavily upon his shoulders. As they ranted and bellowed Lludmonton struck the bench again, calling for quiet.

Edward did not move to deny the accusation. He couldn't. There were witnesses. Word had spread. And from Lowburghs to High the tavern goers sang bawdy songs of the Queen Dowager's despoilment. There was nothing to deny.

"And afterwards?" Said Edgemore. "After the looting of the manse and the abject humiliation of Her Majesty, what did the prisoner and his fellow rebels do?"

Mary eyed Edward then, hatefully, her tears in freefall. "The wretched scoundrels set light to the Greyford Manse...!"

Jeers became boos. Hisses. Once more Lludmonton roared for quiet as a `humbled' Edgemore thanked the good lady for her remarks and asked one of the Bannerets to take her hand and fetch her down from the dais. Edward's flat gaze looked towards nothingness.

Thormont bit his lip.

`The Lord Regent's property looted in service of rebellion,' thought he. `An act of arson construable with misprision. Despoilment of the crown in the person of the Queen Dowager, murder.' The middle counts were all but sown up.

Treason.

The Lord Justiciar directed the third witness to state his name and saint.

"Barrick," said he. "And a Child of St. Bosmund."

A tall man, broad-shouldered, smoothly dressed in his pelted coat and the pearl-broached cap that pressed in his greying red hair. Judging by his apparel he was a man of means. And yet there was something unsavoury about him, even by Thormont's reckoning.

Gainsley threaded his fingers. "Swear on your saint the truth of your testimony."

"By St. Bosmund's bones swear I to the truth of my testimony."

With that Edgemore took over, clapping his hands together in stride. "Master Barrick. Please inform the court of your... ahem... vocation."

The witnesses pursed his lips, dithering. "...Business owner."

"And what sort of `business' is it that you own?"

"...a brothel."

Light laughter echoed from the galleries until Lludmonton fixed his skeletal glare upon the offenders. Silence resumed. But the Earl of Wrothsby was aghast.

"A whoremonger?" He said dumbfounded. "A whoremonger! What self-respecting Child of St. Bosmund would deal in so base a trade?!"

Barrick frowned (to himself, mostly). And understandably he did not meet the Earl's eye. At Wrothsby's command the Standing Guard purged Greatminster of all rebels and Odoists with furious zeal. Thousands died. But if the reports were accurate then the punishments meted out to the surviving offenders were a fate worse than death. The Earl of Wrothsby, Protector of the Kirk, was the most feared man in the realm... and with good reason.

But his question was not rhetorical.

"Well?!" Barked Wrothsby. "Explain yourself!"

Barrick kept his eyes low. "I... only deal in trades permitted by law, my lord, and... there are no laws civil or saintly that forbid whoring."

More sniggers about the galleries.

"Not yet," sneered Wrothsby.

The Lord Justiciar gave the nod (discreetly) for the Lord Serjeant to move on. Edgemore cleared his throat. "Master Barrick, do you recognize the prisoner?"

Barrick eyed Edward. "I know him not by face. But his name I'm familiar with. Edward Bardshaw."

Thormont frowned.

Edward looked on, blankly.

"And how was his name known to you prior to today?"

Barrick loosened his collar. "When I heard his name first was back when the Butcheress... I mean, Edith... took over the city of Greyford. She came to my establishment and... requested my finest boys and girls to help her captains celebrate their victory at Brookweald."

"So you supplied whores to the traitress' armies?"

Two rows below Thormont the young gallants of the court were beside themselves with laughter. All except Young Huxton. Every utterance of `Brookweald' made him flinch.

"...Aye."

Edgemore paced before the dais. "And did you supply the prisoner with one of your bawds?"

Thormont grabbed his breast. It felt tight. It felt gouged. It felt like someone was stabbing him in it.

CALM YOURSELF! Snapped The Fiend. YOU ARE BEING WATCHED, BOY!

Barrick nodded. "His name was James."

Marquess de la More, unable to contain his overt boredom, interjected with: "One of the more popular fillies, I take it?"

Laughter from the galleries. Full-throated. Both the Lord Regent and the Queen Dowager frowned at the jape, cutting harsh eyes at Gainsley to corral the mood. Gainsley, sighing, whispered something to de la More which caused him to throw up the palms of his hands and `back away' from the comment, masking his snickers – poorly. Wrothsby and Lludmonton glared at him.

Edgemore sighed. "If you would continue, Master Barrick?"

"Yes, my lord. I sent James off to the tavern where Bardshaw and his men were holed up for the night. I didn't see him again until morning."

"I laid not one hand on James!" Snapped Edward. "Not all Morishmen are made in your like, Barrick!"

Gasps abounded. As did chuckles. Disbelief and amusement brewed throughout the galleries as eyes shifted from Barrick to Edward then Edgemore and back again. Thormont's heart thundered beneath the breast.

"Quiet!" Cried Lludmonton. He raised a single iron finger toward the prisoner. "You will not speak unless spoken to! You will not speak unless directed to! So hold your tongue!"

Edward sneered back him.

"...Master Barrick," began Edgemore. "Is there any way to confirm that your molly engaged in acts of carnal knowledge with the prisoner?"

Barrick shrugged. "...The boy came to me the next day and said he did his duty. I received no complaint from Edith or Bardshaw so... I have no cause to assume otherwise."

Thormont tried to focus. Tried to think. But the blood in his ears was throbbing and he stumbled to catch himself. He had to pause, to breathe, to give himself space to regain his wits. And when his surroundings came into focus again, the dais was absent of Barrick and everyone around him rose from their seats. The Lord Justiciar had called for a recess.

Nattering abounded.

"The rebels actually stripped the Queen Dowager? Can you imagine?" "His Honour of Gead is such a rogue!" "Oh poor Mary, what a dear heart!" "Why is the Lord Serjeant hearing testimony from whoremongers?" "Fancy a cup of wine?" "That Lludmonton's rather ghastly, is he not? Small wonder how he ran off the rebels so swiftly!" "Will you mind yourself, master, you almost trod my feet!"

As they spoke Thormont collected his leather satchel and smoothed out the brocade of his doublet. Theirs was mostly idle chatter and gossip. But there was a meaningful question hidden amongst it all. Why is the Lord Serjeant hearing testimony from whoremongers? They could not see the throughline. But Thormont's Strausholm-educated mind could.

The whore – James – was a male. So too was Edward. But Edward's saint was St. Thunos and only Children of St. Jehanne are permitted to take lovers of the same sex. What would cause a man to violate saintly law? Lust, perhaps. Ignorance, perhaps. But perhaps he might reject guilt or wrongdoing if he believed he had the right to choose his own saint – as Odoists do. And Edith's Army was a known nest of them.

`Third set of counts,' thought Thormont, sullen. `Heresy.'

There was a table before the dock. Thormont caught the Bannerets moving it there as the galleries slowly refilled, the attendees now refreshed with cups of water and wine from the anterooms – even for the commons. The judges of the bench were last to return (after speaking privately with the Lord Regent during the recess) but their mood was stolid and sombre as ever when they did. Even de la More had calmed himself somewhat.

Thormont found his seat again with the help of an usher. Then he looked to Edward. Tired Edward. He'd been on his feet for over an hour and looked fit to collapse. But he held on. Unblinking. Unbroken. The flesh was weak, but the will was iron-forged. Edward would not buckle.

Lludmonton called for quiet once everyone was seated. And once they were quiet, Gainsley directed Edgemore to resume the proceedings.

The Lord Serjeant affirmed him with a nod and approached the dock. "Will the prisoner direct his attention to this table?"

Edward, stone-faced, looked at it. There was a parcel of twine-bound documents on it.

"Do you recognize those documents?" Asked Edgemore.

The prisoner shrugged. "...Cannot say that I do."

"Oh? I'll enlighten you, shall I?" Edgemore paced. "Those documents were delivered to this very castle on the 37^th of Summer this year, requested by his lordship the Earl of Lludmonton during his tenure as Constable of Dragonspur. Do you recall them now?"

A sigh. "Yes."

"Specify the nature of them, please."

Edward's chains clinked as he shifted his legs. "Ledgers. Bills. Promissory notes. A list of suppliers. A list of patrons."

"A list of patrons for what?"

"...The Old Lioness."

"The Old Lioness..." Edgemore brooked a wide smirk. "That notorious drinking ground of heretics and seditionists. I tried two of them here in this very room, you know. They were stood roughly where you are now. Can you recall their names?"

Edward glared darkly at Edgemore as if to strangle him by the manacles. "William Rothwell... Theopold Stillingford."

Murmurs.

"William Rothwell and Theopold Stillingford," Edgemore's buckled shoes echoed off the chequered marble up to the hammerbeams as he strode back and forth, flexing his furred shoulders, jutting his jaw, working himself up for his next antagonizations. "Men who, if the court will recall, were executed this summer on charges of sedition."

Edward's fists trembled.

"I'd like to read an excerpt from a transcript of a speech given by the late Master Rothwell, if I could."

Gainsley grunted. "Proceed, my lord."

Edgemore slipped his fingers into his coat sleeve and fished out a folded slip. He opened it out and recited: "Ten long years have we suffered beneath the pittance-grubbing reign of the dear old Duke of Greyford. How many marks has he robbed of our purses with his bastard Guard Tax? How many of our loved ones have hungered to death by these sky-high wheat prices of his own making? How many of his advisors and nobles have hoarded our wealth for their own luxury and comfort? Look to their manors and furs and thoroughbreds, their jewelled gold, to all their fineries. All was built on our backs."

Edgemore paused to take a breath. A clerk fetched him a cup of water. He threw back a few gulps, handed back the drained silverwork, then resumed:

"Whilst Greyford and his kind grow fat upon lavish feasts of boar and pheasant and foreign wine, what does he leave for you? What scraps are left to you? Greyford breaks bread with the imperial bastards who executed Sage Odo the Martyr and you? He sees you as nothing more than a hungry dog at his table, gnawing at the errant bones he tosses you – if you're a good boy."

The Lord Regent frowned.

The galleries shared his disgust. Faces full of venom bore down upon the gyved prisoner. Thormont watched as the nobles simmered fitfully at the speech, the resonance of its passion outlasting its rotting orator. He felt those words stir something in him. Memories. Memories of Basil Smeadon and his angry band of rebels swarming over Manse de Foy, smashing windows, scaling fences, hurling missiles...

Edgemore put away the paper. "Well. What ill-tempered associates you kept, Bardshaw. With speeches like that it's no small wonder the malcontents didn't rise up a season sooner!"

"Why would we?" Said Edward, bluntly. "Back then we had a king. A king who loved us... and who we loved in turn. It's funny how you left out that part of the speech."

Over at the bench Lludmonton fumed. He moved to silence Edward until Gainsley palmed his shaking fist, cautioning him against action with a shake of that wintered skull. Let Edgemore handle it, said the expression.

The Lord Serjeant smirked amidst stride. "You claim to love His Majesty the late king, yet why is it, master, that when my clerks and I were given leave to review those documents from the Old Lioness, we found ciphered writs of donation from its tavernmaster to Edith the Exile?"

Gasps from galleries.

Whispers.

Scowls.

That, Edward had no answer for. And his silence resounded louder than all those gasps and whispers combined.

"You claim to have loved the late King Oswald and yet your compatriots funnelled money to the woman who attempted to overthrow his kingdom! The woman who had her soldiers debauch and debase his own Lady Mother! The woman who had you burn down his Lord Uncle's ancestral home! It's a queer sort of love that provokes a man to devastate his beloved's kin, is it not?"

Edward growled, frustrated. "You twist words, master! I-"

"... `Lord'. The word to address me by is `Lord', not `master'... master. Kindly mind your manners. Ah! Though I suppose it is a bit late for that. A treasonous rebel nurtured in a nest of seditious heretics! What other horrifying thoughts run animate through the black recesses of your mind? Was it those unsaintly thoughts that led you to practice carnal knowledge in defiance of your own saint?"

James.

"Heretic!" Wrothsby's rotting yellow teeth grinded behind his ivory half-mask, his bony finger pointing out the man in the dock. "HERETIC!"

Edward's gaze swung sharply for Wrothsby; all pretence of composure lost to him. Malice boiled behind the prisoner's eyes. "You cast that word at me? YOU? You who garlanded holy Greatminster with corpses? You who lit faggots beneath the feet of his own countrymen?"

Wrothsby scoffed. His thin turkey-fleshed lips curled into a dark smile. "I contend there is no scent so sweet as the flesh of a burning heretic."

The court fell into a deathly muteness.

It was Edgemore who broke it. "You are a child, master. You do not understand the true nature of the world or your place in it. And for that you have my pity. But even a child must accept the responsibility of his errs. And which could be greater than the bloodletting of his own realm?"

Rancorous chains echoed through the hall. "I am no child! And you will not bait me! The people rose up against your oppressions! Their blood is YOURS to rue, not ours!"

"...Child..." goaded Edgemore. "The Bloody Maid had a list of ten demands, did she not? Allow me to recite the key articles for you and the court."

The Lord Serjeant cleared his throat.

"The formal declaration of Edith the Exile as Regent of Morland. The repeal of the Guard Tax. The abdication and arrest of the Duke of Greyford. The abdication and arrest of the Earl of Wrothsby. The establishment of a burghal council. A permanent cessation to Odoist persecution. The canonization of Odo. The posthumous exoneration of Katheresa Vox. The expulsion of all Imperials. The general manumission of all bondsmen and women. Do you acknowledge that Edith made these demands?"

Rushing heartbeats thundered one after the other beneath Thormont's brocaded breast. CALM YOURSELF, cried The Fiend. CALM YOURSELF! But his body listened not. For his mind sensed the trap that the Lord Serjeant laid for his beloved Edward and there was nothing he could do to prevent him from stumbling into it.

"...Yes!" Said the prisoner. "We fought to save this realm from you and your ilk, and I will not apologize for it!"

Gainsley broke a wily old smile from the bench.

"So then..." Edgemore adjusted his belt, tightening his grin. "You acknowledge the legitimacy of the Masters of the Realm?"

A blink.

Edward paused. "...I..."

"Odd. I seem to recall you denying the legitimacy of the second regency earlier on. And yet here you are, admitting before all gathered, that one of your primary goals was to have the Masters of the Realm, myself included, elect Edith the Exile as regent. But we received our appointments from the Morish ruler, master. So if you acknowledge the legitimacy of our appointments, then by default you must also acknowledge the legitimacy of our appointee..." Edgemore pointed to the Duke. "The Lord Regent!"

The galleries rallied, thumping their seats and armrests and jeering and applauding. Greyford's hard features softened with a small smile of victory.

Thormont choked back a sob.

It is not for the Crown to prove guilt, but for the accused to prove their innocence. Customarily. But call into question the legitimacy of the crown and the burden shifts, politically if not legally. It isn't clean anymore. The charge must then be counteracted with opposing arguments, objections, any stray stipulation the barrister can muster. Offense becomes defence. The verdict need not change when juries are so frequently for purchase – but it isn't clean. And when the facts roll down to the commonfolk... suddenly they have a counter-narrative they can propagandize. And that was why The Council of the Masters of the Realm wouldn't dare put Edith where Edward was now.

That was why they did not fear Edward Bardshaw.

"Lord Serjeant," spoke Gainsley. "Have you anything further to ask?"

Edgemore backed away from the dock. "No, Lord Justiciar. I believe I am done."

The galleries on both sides of the hall undulated with gossip. Noblemen with no concept of law, only dignity, waging on a foregone outcome. They were ignorant and Thormont saw that much plainly. Only the wisest amongst them knew the truth – they were not here to ascertain guilt, but to assuage their own violated sense of being. That was why it was so important to have rounded up the ringleaders. The dirty, miserable, stinking commoners who dared to frighten them, to rile up the rump of the herd, to upset the great order of things; it was not enough to merely boil or behead them. The rebel leaders had to be paraded and mocked and jeered. They had to be seen fighting for their lives and dignity. They had to have the fear of the saints chiselled into their souls before the end. Before the end...

...the nobles needed to see these commoners squirm.

Within less than an hour all twelve jurors returned from their deliberations in the allotted anteroom. It was their foreperson who brought the sealed verdict to the bench, where it was kindly received by the Lord Justiciar. The attendees settled back into their seats. As did the foreperson who re-joined his fellow jurors. Ser John Lolland returned with two fresh Bannerets in anticipation of the escort.

The sense of finality dawned. On the attendees. On the bench. On Thormont. On Edward. The prisoner stood silent. Unmoved. He looked at no one as Gainsley raised his staff of office to signal for attention. The whole hall collapsed into a blunt quietness, marred only by the odd cough or shoe scuff.

"Does the prisoner have any final words?" Asked Gainsley.

Edward raised his brow and turned to his grace.

The Lord Regent.

The Duke of Greyford

The malefactor and benefactor of Francis Gray.

A cough.

"Lay me low," said Edward. "As low as you wish. Send me to the saints if it please you. But the people I fought for will always rise. All I did, I did for them, and their children, and this hallowed soil that nurtures them. I did it all for the Folkweal. And in a heartbeat... I'd do it all again."

Greyford glared back but uttered not a single word.

He had no need to.

The Lord Justiciar broke the verdict's seal and mounted his glasses to read it aloud: "On the 1^st of Winter in the Year 801, this court finds the prisoner Edward Bardshaw guilty-"

Jubilant roars burst out of the galleries and shot up to the ceiling beams. Hats and kerchiefs flew into the air. Beaming faces hurled insults and cackled at the condemned man, who did not move, did not blink, did not cry or hang his head.

No.

Edward Bardshaw held his head high.

But when the eruption of giddy cheers refused to abate, an angered Lludmonton launched out of his seat and thumped his gloved fists into the grain. "SILENCE!" He bellowed. "SILENCE!" His imposing baritone rose over the dissident din, booming, resonating throughout the hall as if it were built to magnify him. "THE LORD JUSTICIAR HAS NOT CONCLUDED HIS REMARKS! YOU WILL BE SILENT, ALL OF YOU!"

The cheers ebbed into memory.

Lludmonton seated himself.

Gainsley resumed forthwith. "This court finds the prisoner Edward Bardshaw guilty on the following counts. Count 1 – High Treason. Count 2 – Conspiracy to Commit Acts of High Treason. Count 3 – Misprision of High Treason. Count 4 – Sedition. Count 5 – Conspiracy to Commit Acts of Sedition. Count 6 – Misprision of Sedition. Count 7 – Heresy. Count 8 – Conspiracy to Commit Acts of Heresy and Count 9 – Misprision of Heresy. Guilty on all counts."

Thormont scrubbed away his tears before anyone caught them. DO NOT CRY, BOY! Barked The Fiend. DO NOT CRY! DO NOT BE SEEN TO CRY! He composed himself. Cut a counterfeit smile. Pretended his heart was not breaking all over again.

He failed.

"The sentence is death." Uttered Gainsley. "By beheading."

A brutal wind swept through Staunton Castle that night. A howling, baleful, rain-swept wind. Even from the height of the northern tower where Thormont had been assigned his new offices, he could hear it pattering against the flagstones dozens of feet below. He paused at his desk to watch the particoloured glass shake inside the latticework of the windows, as if the elements themselves gave substance to the tempest swelling inside his heart, as if they saw in all their majesty some terrible injustice afoot and strained at the bounds of reality to manifest their protestations.

A teardrop fell from Thormont's eye and daubed the corner of a death warrant. Shepherd Godwyn's warrant. The Under-Secretary pushed the parchment aside lest more fell and stained it. The Lord Justiciar, utterly worn out after three long days of adjudication, gave Thormont the task of drafting the warrants. By his instructions they were to be ready for signing by the next council session of the Masters of the Realm – which would be tomorrow at dawn.

Executions to commence at noontide.

Thormont had a little wine left to hand – not good for his penmanship but without it he could not bring himself to scribe. And there was yet more to be done. Communiques with Wallenheim to draft. A new household to plan for. There were clerks to be hired and if needs be a steward. The wine made for sloppy work, but if he didn't settle his nerves he might smash that glass ewer against the wall and find a bloodier use for its biggest shard.

Thormont threw back the last mouthful of his wine.

And then a knock at the door.

He snivelled. Knuckled his eyes dry. "C-come in."

A serving girl slipped inside and begged him to eat some of the beef and black bread she'd brought with her. Thormont offered her no greeting. He didn't even look at her. Just: "Set it down here and leave me, please."

The door clicked shut – with her inside.

Thormont frowned. Was he being disobeyed? The brunette threw down his quill and swerved to chastise the girl as she stood gawking at the doorway, awkwardly, silver platter in hand, bound from bodice to petticoats in a simple cotton apron.

And then `she' spoke. "It's me, Fran."

Thormont paused. Recognition. Once the voice was placed the bone structure followed. What a wonder the espial was. "...Lothar. Oh, apologies, sometimes you are too good at this. Did you see what you need to?"

Lothar set the platter to Thormont's desk. For the first time in his life he looked intimidated by the task asked of him. "My observations are done, but this is an old castle, Fran. And a big one. Difficult to make sense of. As I said before, I need some sort of layout or floor plans."

There was a chest of goods beneath Thormont's desk. He flipped off its lock, pulled a bound scroll, then handed it to the Catspaw, who untied it and availed himself thusly. Diagrams. Measurements. Scales. Schematics.

"How did you acquire this?"

"Gainsley's petitioning the Duke for final renovations of his offices here in Staunton. Credit it to luck." Thormont took a pause. "...Can you do this?"

Lothar's eyes lifted from the page to him. The cynicism was manifest. "It will not be easy."

With all Lothar had done for him, Thormont felt like a churl to ask. He had his brother Luther now – his family – and that was all he wished to focus on. Asking him to risk his life on this was selfishness personified. But what choice did Thormont have?

The Under Secretary launched out of his chair and threw his arms around the espial. The Fiend would not like it, but it was safe to cry in Lothar's arms. His best friend. His only friend.

"This is the last task I will ever ask of you," said Thormont. His voice was a whisper of itself. "After this, we go down to my new lands. We set Luther and yourself up at Laud Hall. There will be attendants and cooks. Forests full of game and firewood. A steady flow of income from rents. You will be safe and cared for. No more lurking or scheming. Just happiness."

A flash of lightning lit the room, chasing off the shadows for an instant before receding back into candlelit darkness. A crack of thunder rumbled afterwards.

Lothar folded up the parchment and slipped it inside his bodice. Then the voice of the doting Morish serving girl returned. A curtsey. "Will that be all, milord?"

"That will be all." Thormont bit his lip to keep himself from sobbing again. "Thank you."

**********

· 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).