· 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 Seventeen: Heavenward,
Unbound
**********
The Sea The River Epilogue, Part
1 Epilogue, Part 2
**********
Staunton Castle, Dragonspur, Kingdom
of Morland
4th of Winter, 801
Inside the dripping darkness there materialized a warm face
an oval jaw framed by its smoky beard, its brow furrowed, its lips widened
into a toothy smile to match a cantankerous wit. An old face. A wise face. A calm
one. Soothing. And Edward Bardshaw smiled back.
"Master..."
He wished he knew what to say to him. Thank you?
Thank you for taking me in, for showing me kindness, for opening my mind, for
giving my sword arm purpose? Sorry? Sorry for betraying your philosophy,
for taking up arms against the crown and spilling Morish blood, for desecrating
his own honour?
`And the headstone,' Thought Ed. `I never did get you
one.'
His head, so soon for the severing, was of fleeting concern
compared to the injustice of that the author of The Phantoma
and the founder of the Crow's Club, the inspirator of Equitism, that common man
of such uncommon intellect, Theopold Stillingford gone without so much as a
bit of chiselled stone to commemorate him.
"I'm sorry, master..." A sob. "...I'm so sorry..."
*
His turnkey fetched for him in the morning. Jangling keys
twisted the lock of his cell door, its deep clang waking Ed from fitful
slumber. His eyes blinked back at the sudden influx of light tongues of flame
crackling from a taper, and the burning sconces beyond, fixed into the mossy
walls. The turnkey, broad-backed and muscular, crouched down to his haunches
and waved his torch around the ragged sectors of Edward's body, inspecting it
for injuries. He found nothing to report. Just the customary cuts and bruises.
"Come along," said the gaoler. "Ser John is waiting."
It was his time then.
Time escapes you in the dark. No sun, no moon. Just the
black and the squeaks of its mice and the bite of its fleas and the stench of
the piss pot. One day blends into the next until time is measured only by the
meals your gaolers serve you or the movements of your bowels. Inside the
Oubliette nothing pierces deep enough to reach you, to pluck you from the utter
nullity of it all, nothing save the whims of your captors. Or death.
But the darkness was a familiar enemy to Edward Bardshaw.
His younger self endured it for a year under a far worse warden than John
Lolland. It could not break him.
His body was weak. He felt faint with hunger. But Edward
grit his teeth and forced himself up onto withering legs, chains grinding
against each other. He would meet his fate on his own two feet.
Outside, two Bannerets of the Bloom awaited him. He exhaled,
then padded out and surrendered himself.
*
The Bannerets took him to a small cell in the summit of the
eastern tower that was such a far cry from the black bowels of the Oubliette
that a simpler man might mistake his transfer for a kindness. It was a wider
space and fully floorboarded. There was a cot and a small table. There was a
chamber pot a clean one. There was a bowl of water to wash with and a change
of clothes to dress into a lockram shirt and woad-dyed hose. The guards
unlocked his shackles and ordered him to wash. Edward wondered why it mattered.
They cared not for the countenance of Stillingford or Rothwell when they carted
them off to the scaffold at Gallows Grove. But then he supposed: `A
sensibility I miss... commoner as I am.'
And yet is there anything in this world more barbarous than
a noble?
Edward complied. Peeled himself out of his frayed rags and
performed the proper ablutions. Cleansed his wounds of blood. Scratched out the
dirt clods marring his skin. Washed his hair thoroughly until it was blonde
again. Soaked his nails in the bowl until they were clean. He dressed himself
into his fresher clothes and the manacles were reapplied.
By then the new Constable of Dragonspur had made his way to
Edward's cell and by the saints was he dressed for the occasion. The delights
of his new station brought him a grey brocade doublet trimmed with gold, and a
satin half-cloak shouldered by a pelt of fox fur. Pearl-like beads were
embroidered into his hose and a basket-hilted sword (of the Gasqueri style)
swung from his belt. His perfumed gloves, scented with ambergris, reached up to
pluck a flamingo-feathered cap from his closely cropped grey hair.
`You look ridiculous,' thought Ed.
Ser John grinned at him. "Strikes like a whip, does it not?
This turnabout? When we came crawling out to you that day, myself and the
shepherd and the Lord Mayor, who amongst us would've dreamed it would come to
this?"
`Edith should've taken one of your eyes,' thought Ed, spitefully. But he said
nothing. There was nothing of value to say.
A slow trickle of footsteps took Ser John across the
creaking floorboards to Edward's face. The Constable took him by the chin and
checked him over like a merchant inspecting livestock. "I'll send a
barber-surgeon up to shave this beard. The court doesn't care to send scruffy
souls to the saints... at least not in their presence."
The Constable threw Edward's woolly jaw away and took a step
back. He returned his cap to its proper skull. "You have until noontide to make
your peace with them."
`Noontide. So that's when you'll kill us.'
Ser John took a mocking bow before he turned to leave. Ed
was glad to see the back of him. But then he stopped himself mid-stride and
turned back, smirking smugly. "Pardon me, master. I nearly forgot. As you've
proven yourself a model prisoner I've prepared you a small present..."
Ser John directed him to the sole window of the cell. And
Edward, in spite of himself, went over to it, chains shuffling behind him. It
was narrow just wide enough to fit a hand through and little else. But from
that height it bestowed a limited view of Staunton's upper rightmost courtyard,
a gravelled square enclosed by white-painted pillars chiselled with reliefs and
friezes of ancient Morish kings. A scaffold stood at its centre fronted by
ten rows of cushioned seats.
And upon that scaffold stood the chopping block.
Ser John's smarming voice curled down Edward's ear. "I had
them save you for last, boy."
*
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 back.
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. Heard the music of the gulls as they wheeled overhead, and the soft crash
of the tides against the golden shore. Tasted the salt of the air on the tip of
his tongue. Smelt the scrags of seaweed tossing up at his feet.
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
his emerald eyes full of joy, and his chestnut tresses waving in the wind.
There they giggled. Held hands. Built castles. Played with shells. Cooled their
feet in the sea.
And there, love blossomed.
*
"And now it dies with me."
*
Noontide.
Edward arose from the corner of his cell. All prayers said.
All thoughts subsumed. All memories consigned. The blonde man carried himself
across the groaning floorboards by one heavy, shackled step after the other
until his eyes fell upon the courtyard once more.
The nobles were gathered. Hundreds of them. The tower's
height made it impossible to tell who from who, but places of prominence
denoted station. The Duke of Greyford sat at the head of the party, flanked by
Emma of Wuffolk and Queen Annalena. The Earls Huxton, Edgemore, Wrothsby,
Lludmonton, and Gainsley too. Marquess de la More. The High Shepherds, perhaps.
Certainly Aldwyn. And Francis Gray, no doubt.
But it was the Lord Shepherd himself, Sygmus II, who stood
at the scaffold to officiate, clad in his robes of office, robes of purest
white decorated in gold, mitred, with the Holy Crozier of Rood in one hand and
the Book of Saints in the other. He read from its scriptures in the old tongue,
the Ancient Tongue, whilst castratos sung the death chants and a flock of
cassocked incense-burners marched in procession around the scene.
Edward never understood the holy solemnity with which the
Commonfaith blessed executions. What had the instruments of the saints to do
with this? Butchery. That was all it was. Why sully the faith by laurelling its
beauty upon butchery?
And then came the headsman.
A nameless masked figure mounting the steps to take his
position, his glinting axe perched upon his bare shoulder. The Lord Shepherd
blessed him, absolving the executioner of his coming sins with a simple tap of
the crozier. He stood aside and waited. A quietness then fell with only the
beating winds to scupper it.
And then they brought out Edith.
Edward clutched his fists.
It was the Constable of Dragonspur who led the way out of
the eastern tower into the damp gravel of the courtyard, with two
bardiche-armed Bannerets of the Bloom at his flanks, and a shackled Edith
Oswyke in tow, her bare feet trudging along beneath the swirl of a simple brown
dress. And Ed's eyes were just strong enough to make out the white band of
cloth knotted around her mouth.
The bastards gagged her.
Too afraid to hear her speak. Too afraid to kill her
publicly. Nothing but cowardice. Sheer cowardice. But Edward held his nerve as
he watched them escort her up the scaffold's groaning steps to the chopping
block. They commanded her to her knees.
Sygmus II stepped forth. "Praise be to our saints. May they
bless us all as we dispatch unto them this benighted soul, who has strayed so
far from her path. The condemned is Edith of House Vox..."
`Whoresons...' Thought Ed. `...Even at the end of it all they refuse to
admit it...'
"...This woman was tried and found guilty of high treason and
heresy. And so we deliver her to the stars, to the bosom of the saints, where
they may sit in final judgment."
No last words.
The Lord Shepherd stepped aside. The headsman took his
place. As the Duke and Queen Dowager and all the other gilded jackals of the
court sat and watched, the Bannerets lowered Edith's head into the groove and
tucked aside that legendary mane of flame-gold hair to the right of her nape,
baring up the white of her neck for the executioners' stroke. She did not
shiver. She did not buck. Even at the precipice of death her bravery was
boundless. She was born beneath the Star of Strength, a Child of St. Thunos, but
hers was a courage worthy of St. Wynnry herself. And they knew it.
"Send her to the Saints." Said Sygmus.
A nod.
The executioner lofted his axe.
And then, with a single gleaming stroke, he took the head of
The Red Princess of Ravensborough. Shocked gasps rippled through the ranks of
the nobility as it tumbled through the cold noon air into a basket.
Edith Oswyke.
The Red Princess. Daughter of King Osmund and Queen
Katheresa. Rightful heir thereof. Dead.
Edward shut his eyes.
And then, one by one, they brought out the others.
First was their traitor lord, Albert Bacon, the man who
forsook his own birth-right to do right.
Beheaded.
Next went kindly Shepherd Godwyn, the hedge monk who
suffered so bravely throughout all the tortures that lunatic Wrothsby could
concoct... all to share the Sage's word with his countrymen.
Beheaded.
After him, the stout-hearted guildsman Basil Smeadon.
Beheaded.
Then Mistress Alyse, Steward of Ravensborough.
Beheaded.
And then finally they dragged out the noble lawyer himself,
Kenrick Thopswood. Edward never expected to care for him. But when the
bannerets brought him to the block, shivering and frightened, he realized he
wasn't merely losing an ally.
He was losing a friend.
Kenrick Thopswood.
Two strokes.
Beheaded.
And then there was only one left to execute.
He sighed. Thumbed the tears out of his eyes. Took a breath
to compose himself. `Steady now,' thought he. `Meet it with grace'.
Beyond the cell door a rush of footfalls scaled the dusted stone steps. He
heard the clank of their breastplates and the rattle of their side-arms. The
bannerets had come to fetch him for the block.
The prisoner turned to the door.
There was a rattle of keys and a twist of a lock. The wooden
door yawned open and in came his escort. Two Bannerets of the Bloom and a
cassocked shepherd to offer him right of last confession as well as
benediction.
The taller of the two bannerets, stoic as ever, addressed
him quietly. "Master. It is time to come with us. Will you take the right of
last confession?"
Confession.
The thought appealed: to unburden himself of all his sins
before he followed his friends and allies to the stars. But confessions are for
guilt. Confessions are for wrongs. And Edward did not rank the deeds that
brought him to that tower amongst them. He had done evil. He had
shed blood. And he was sorry for it. To his realm and his master and his
family. But all was done in the service of good. All was done in the
service of the realm and all its folk. All was done for a better world... and that
was what Edward Bardshaw would never regret.
"No." He said. "I have nothing to confess."
"Very well then." Said the second banneret. "Come with us."
Edward sighed and nodded. They would need to uncuff his
feet. He looked to thank the shepherd first and recuse him of his services. But
then the shepherd raised his hooded face and Edward blinked at a killer's cold
glare flashing back at him.
Russet cloak folds flew open. Two short slurps of steel rang
out through the cell's musty airs. Daggers. The cassocked man went for the
first banneret within a flickering instant and slashed clean through the apple
of his exposed throat, splattering the near wall in a glut of blood and felling
the taller man with a single punt of a boot. The second man, screaming, threw
down his bardiche to reach for his sword but the murderous shepherd sank his
jagged kidney spike into his neck before his fingertips even grazed the hilt. A
single shove took him into the wall and kept him there until his final
blood-gurgling breath. The banneret slumped to the floor dead alongside his
fallen partner.
Edward looked on, frozen and dumbstruck, as the assassin
slipped his bloodied daggers back inside their sheaths. He lowered his hood.
"...Lothar...?"
The Catspaw said nothing as he thrust his fist into Edward's
stomach, knocking the breath out of him. "Ugh!" He juddered. Stumbled. Felt
faint. The world blurred around him as he collapsed onto the floorboards.
Breathless. Chest heaving.
Through half-lidded eyes he saw Lothar bending to his
haunches to collect the manacle keys off the butchered banneret's belt.
And then the blurred world went black.
**********
Kirkfield, Outskirts of Dragonspur,
Kingdom of Morland
4th of Winter, 801
Thormont tightened the folds of his hood. There was a chill
abroad the fields and it cut right to the damn bone. His cloak was shouldered
with bear fur but even that could not fend off the shivers. As he stroked the
mane of the piebald horse (tethered to an alder) he watched its whickering
breath drift off into the fog that swirled over the grassy reaches. St.
Bosmund's winter was here, and it would not be a kind one to Morland.
A shivering Thormont huddled against the horse as closely as
he could to share its warmth which was scant. What he really wanted was a
fire. But fires mean smoke and smoke catches eyes.
Off to the foggy east the bells of Dragonspur rang out.
Every peal was frantic. Not since the autumn riots had they been struck so. He
found the sound terrifying, as it was intended to be, but it brought him
relief. A city-wide alarm meant the work was done.
It galled him to have to sit through the beheadings. Though
many nobles masked their amusement with false piety and solemness, there was a
palpable glee in that throng, a sort of bloodthirst for retribution. But he had
to be there. If this was going to work then Thormont needed to be seen within
that crowd. Unlike Lothar he had no flair for skulduggery, but he knew how to lie,
and like the others he did his best to look shocked and aghast
and affronted when word got out that the last prisoner to be executed,
Edward Bardshaw, had somehow escaped custody.
And there was uproar. Lludmonton was furious and
took all of it out on his successor in post, Ser John Lolland. `NEVER WOULD
THIS HAVE HAPPENED ON MY WATCH, YOU BLITHERING IDIOT!' He'd bellowed. `GATHER
THE CASTLE GUARD AND FIND HIM! NOW!'
Whilst the rebel dead were fetched away for the embalmers to
prepare their heads for spikes, Thormont and the rest of the nobility were
quietly led out of the castle and left to return to their city-based holdings.
From then he mounted his horse and rode for the eastern gate as fast as he
could. There was precious little time to go. Once Staunton Castle was scoured
from top to bottom (with nothing of Edward uncovered) it was only a matter of
time before Lolland had the city gates sealed to prevent escape. But Thormont
had been quick and rode out from the city unimpeded.
It was dangerous to travel without an escort of course. But
the fog was thick, and the Lord Viscount was too anxious to worry. He had his
poignard for protection if anything. Better to focus on the river.
The thunderous rains of yestereve had bloated the Wyvern's
banks and sped up the flow of its currents. Its waters were more dangerous now,
but faster, and at that moment speed was their greatest ally. Fran kept by the
horse and watched the river traffic wash by. And then within an hour of his own
arrival at the meeting point, a single wherry rowed through the fog toward his
position. A hooded figure manned its oars and ran it thudding into the muddied
banks. Thormont kept his hand by his dagger just in case, but the figure
lowered his hood.
It was Lothar.
A sigh of relief bloomed into a cloud of cold air. Thormont
would have thanked the saints if he still believed in them. Instead he raced
down the slope to his friend's side and helped him ferry onto the shore what
was made to look like a large hempen sack of potatoes. Together they carried it
up until the ground levelled out into wooded flatland.
Lothar cut open the sack.
Edward lay within. Unconscious. But alive. Thormont looked
away, catching his breath, blotting the Fiend's protestations out of his mind.
"Thank you, Lothar. From the bottom of my heart, thank you."
The espial grunted. "In the sewers I gave him a sedative
herb to keep him docile. He should soon wake from it."
And he did. To keep him warm Thormont fetched a spare cloak
from his saddlebags and draped him in it, but within a few moments of the act,
the swordsman's eyes fluttered open. He looked up and found a smile to wake to.
"Ed?" Thormont sighed. "Are you alright?"
No reply.
His silvery eyes were wide. Alarmed. Confused. He shirked
the arms propping him up and rolled onto his stomach, hoisting himself up by
his own arms but so swiftly he almost stumbled. He stilled. He caught his
breath. And then he looked to his wrists and ankles, all four of them raw and
bloody from the shackles and their rusty iron grind but the fetters were
gone. He blinked, pausing, processing his confusion, slowly recognizing his
freedom. And then his eyes widened as he pieced it all together.
And then?
He and his liberator caught each other's eyes and held
there for a moment that could have lasted an eternity giddy green to startled
silver.
And then?
Those beautiful silver eyes hardened.
"What did you do?" Said Edward, sharply.
Thormont's smile deflated. "I... I... we saved you..."
Lothar looked on, warily.
"Saved me?" Edward clenched his fists. "I chose to
die with honour!"
Thormont frowned. "Aye. And it was a stupid choice,
so I chose for you."
There was a spark of rage then, one so stark and hateful
that it took Thormont aback, an act of unreality beyond his ken. Edward
Bardshaw's eyes lit with fury, and a hoarse cry escaped him. Something bestial
and primitive. With every ounce of power left in his weakened body Edward
thrust a hand into Lothar's leathered chest and shoved him hard down the slope
of the riverbank.
Thormont watched the espial tumble through the mud until a
sudden hand snatched his throat and drove him backwards, slippered feet
skidding through the wet grass. A fist grabbed his poignard. When Thormont's
feet finally found purchase, the tip of its blade was dipped at his throat.
Frightened green trembled before incensed silver. Then green
ticked left. Behind them. Lothar. Leaping out of the mud, throwing off his
cloak, drawing his kidney spikes, racing towards Edward's open back.
"NO!" Screamed Thormont. "Stay back, Lothar!"
The espial stopped, mid-stride, jerking. Thormont stretched
a palm out to calm him. His poignard's tip drew a nip of blood. A single thrust
was death.
"It's alright." He spoke. "It's alright. Edward will not
hurt me... no matter how much he thinks he hates me... and he knows why..."
Edward trembled.
"...Because he loves me."
Edward sobbed.
His fingers loosened. The poignard slipped from his grasp
and pattered into the damp grass. Tears fell, wrenched up from a pit of despair
so deep you could not fathom it. Thormont bit his lip. Took his moment. Traced
his arms up the taller man's back and drew him close. Breast to breast. Cheek
to cheek. Held him tight. Held him close. Let him mourn. Mourned with him. The
pair of them lulling in each other's arms. A pair of roses wilting in the fog.
And yet? It finally felt like home.
Home.
"...Ed?"
The brunette peeled back, slightly, just enough to look at
the blonde, to take him by his flushed cheeks and stroke away the bitterness of
his tears.
"Edward..." They held each other's gaze as they spoke... as if
it were the first time since Fludding. Since it all fell to pieces. "Edward,
listen to me. Please. I love you. Come with me."
In Fran's flight from Dragonspur he'd run the numbers. It
was his guess that Lolland would put men on the road to search for Edward. Put
warrants out for his arrest. Put a bounty on him. Send espials into every
tavern, inn and waystation from the River Wyvern to the Bordermoors until some
stray piece of intelligence flushed him out.
But in Thormont he could be hidden. They could dye his hair.
Change his name. Keep him out of sight. Spread false rumours of him sailing to
the continent. And in a few years' time no one would even remember what he
looked like. And they could finally be free together. Free to love each other.
They could finally have what they always wanted.
But he looked to Edward, his sweet Edward, the blacksmith's
boy who stole his heart and never let it go. He looked into those transfixing
silvery eyes, quivering with his every touch. But eyes have a tell. A lustre. A
spark. A light. And in Edward's eyes... nothing was kindled. Neither lustre, nor
spark, nor light. `Please' did not move them. `Love' did not move them. Francis
Gray did not move them.
Edward stepped out of the embrace.
"No." He said simply. "No."
Thormont shivered, frozen in place, his heart sinking inside
himself. His mind raced with thoughts of protest, defiance, pleas, lies,
screams, anything that might make sense to utter. But no words escaped him.
It was too late.
"...Too much has happened..." Edward stepped back, breath
clouding around his lips, eyes darting to the tethered horse. "...That sweet boy
I once loved is gone... and the man he became is a stranger to me. Our paths,
they..." Ed paused until he found it in himself to resume. "...our paths are too
long diverged. They'll never meet again."
Thormont's head lulled. Arms set against his sides. Tears in
freefall. Chest throbbing. He heard Edward take a breath... then watched
powerlessly as Edward brushed past him towards the horse. Trembling hands
unstrapped its leather reins from the alder, then gathered them up as the
blonde man mounted the mare and set his feet into the stirrups. Lothar did not
move to stop him. Neither did Thormont.
"Goodbye, Fran."
The Lord Viscount did not look back. He could not
look back. He could only hear the snap of reins and the ebbing trickle of
hoofbeats that carried Edward Bardshaw away.
Away, with his heart, into the fog.
**********
EPILOGUE
**********
Kettingham, The Highburghs, Kingdom
of Morland
1st of Spring, 804
A feather slipped beneath Kit's nose and waggled there.
And it only took two waggles to make him sneeze, and when he sneezed, he woke
up, sniffling. He turned to his side. And there was James. Smirking. Giggling.
Tucking a little tress of his golden-brown hair behind his ear. And Kit snuck a
kiss from him before he pelted the little prankster with a pillow. He rolled
back over, yawning and muttering threats of slaughter if he did it again.
James shook him by the shoulder muscles. "Oh no. I'll not
have you wasting away the hours in bed. Not this day of all days!"
"...What day is it...?" Muttered Kit. He knew of course, but two
could play prankster. And in an instant, he felt a pursed-lip frown boring its
way into the back of his head.
"It's the Feast Day of St. Jehanne, and you damn well know
it."
"Oh?" A smirk. "...You never make this fuss on St. Thunos'
Feast Day."
James shoved him out of bed.
Kit's eyes flew open as he rolled sidelong off the edge,
tangled in the bedsheets, thumping onto the rushes and lavender lining the
floor. That woke him up. The blonde pate hauled himself upright,
frowning, as James scuttled back against the headboard, hiding his impish
little smile behind his knees. Roaring, grinning, Kit launched himself back
onto the bed and threw the little minx onto his back, the two of them jostling
together until James was too breathless and too over-giggled to tease him
anymore.
"Okay! Alright! Okay!" He said sweetly. "I yield!"
Kit smirked at him. James' spirits were up. They always were
on a feast day, particularly his own. `There's only four to a
calendar,' he'd say, `we should at least enjoy them.'
Every Feast Day, regardless of Saint, James was always the
first to wake. Always the first to share out presents and pay the tithes.
Always the first volunteer to mount the village garlands and decorate the
maypole, to help brew the beer or mull the wine. He cared not for hunting but
would happily prepare a hog for the spit or strip a pheasant of its feathers
for the butcher. But if you asked him and he was honest with you it was the
dances where James found most joy. Nothing of a feast day pleased him more
than the gathering of the village at the tavern house or McDalish's barn, where
circles were formed, laurels distributed, and cotton skirts swayed rhythmically
to the lyres, flutes and drums. Kit had never seen James happier than he was
upon the floor, swirling and prancing in step, bright eyed and bouncing with
joy.
And Kit paused a moment to admire James as he caught his
breath, those tiny wrists trapped within his grip. By St. Thunos he was
beautiful. With his hair like thick threads of dark gold and his eyes of
flaming amber, his bare breast rising and falling with each intake of air.
A sweet smile passed between them until their lips met again
in the dawn light, soft moans mingling with the oaken groan of the bedframe.
Tender hands snuck beneath Kit's lockram shirt and slipped smoothly up the
war-scarred musculature of his back. They broke their kiss only to tug it off.
James took him by the scruff of his blonde beard again, pressing their lips
back together, sighing, crossing his ankles over the small of Kit's back. Both
felt the other stiffen.
And then there was a knock at the door.
The pair broke off, lips smacking. A second knock. And then
a third. Kit rolled his eyes and cursed under his breath as James quickly
pushed him off and tidied himself. "C-come in, Larkyn!"
Their bedroom door croaked open, and the boy sauntered in,
kicking away the rushes with his bare feet. He covered his eyes, playfully. And
there was a smug little smile on his face as he did it.
Kit frowned at him. "You can't half pick your moments, lad.
Well? What is it?"
"Don't be such a churl," said James. He turned to Larkyn and
broke into a cheerful series of facial expressions and hand gestures. The
language of the sign, he called it, a talent he'd picked up in Greyford. He'd
taught it to Larkyn who (clever boy as he was) took to it like a goose to a
pond. Kit on the other hand...?
Redhead Larkyn grinned at him.
"I don't care for his tone of smirk," said Kit. He saw the
signs for `separate' and `two', but the rest escaped him. "What's he saying?"
James signed something back to Larkyn, briefly, then
explained: "He says if the two of us can separate ourselves long enough to
breathe we have a visitor downstairs. I told him jealousy is an ugly aspect."
Kit threw a rush at the boy. "Aye, it is."
The boy threw it back and signed again. James giggled (as he
was wont to). Kit turned to him. "Enlighten me?"
"He says there are three signs for `mutton-wit' and if you
don't keep up with my lessons, he will use all of them on you."
"That's it, out!" Kit climbed out of bed. His shirt was gone
but his breeches were up and tied, luckily. "Go downstairs and give us a moment
to get ready." And then he paused in thought. "Wait. Who's the visitor?"
Larkyn signed by letters (which Kit could understand).
H.A.R.R.Y.
"...I see." Kit paused a spell. Frowning. Pondering. Ruffling
the boy's hair absently. "Fetch him something to drink, Larkyn. We'll be right
down."
The boy nodded briefly then exited the room, its door
clicking shut. Kit went for his shirt (which James had somehow thrown onto a
tool hook) and threaded his arms to tug it back down.
"Harry's back?" Said James. "How long has it been? A year?"
Since his wife died was the unsaid part.
Bella was her name. Bella Grover. A raven-haired seamstress
with a foul-mouth and a heart of gold. James' dearest friend. That day they'd
handfasted before the entire tavern was probably the happiest of Harry's life,
save for their wedding day.
11th of Autumn, 802.
The four of them took to a sacred grove in the hunting
forests beyond the fields of Kettingham where an Odoist shepherd married both
couples in a mutual ceremony Harry to Bella, Kit to James and all by the
ancient Morish customs, which Bella, as a northerner, still clung to. Larkyn
was their only witness. But the pox struck Kettingham hard last year's spring,
and it claimed her. Harry hadn't been the same since. And then, last year's
summer, he boarded up his farmhouse, sold his plot and livestock, packed his
saddlebags and said his goodbyes.
`Off to wander,' he'd said. `Off to find myself again.'
Kit grumbled at the memory. He'd begged Harry to stay or to
settle for a pilgrimage to Greatminster and return within the season, but he
wouldn't listen, and they did not part on good terms. "Come on, love. Let's go
down."
Once Kit and James dressed, they descended the wooden steps
of their farmhouse together, hand in hand, their marriage bands catching a
golden glint from the morning light that dappled the great room by its latticed
windows. Around the centre table sat Larkyn and Harry Grover, smiling over a
shared plate of gooseberry tarts and a mug of warm milk each. The tarts were
supposed to be for the evening's celebrations, but Kit was unmoved to complain.
Harry turned to them.
Saw their joint hands, sparkling. His smile declined. Just
for a moment. And then it regrew as he shot out of his chair and spread his
arms like a bear. "Ah! There's who I wanted to see! You didn't miss me too
much, did you?"
James wrapped his arms around the man.
"Oh, you absolute ghoul, of course we did! Wonderful to have
you back, Harry. Here, let me take a look at you..." He pulled back, evaluating.
"You look well, damn you! Far better than my woolly-jawed husband does."
Larkyn smirked with a face full of crumbs.
"If only to end your badgering I've made my date with the
barber-surgeon. And he couldn't arrange it before the revels so don't quarrel
with me on that score," said Kit.
He turned to Harry.
Harry Grover. His oldest friend. And by the thunder of St.
Thunos, he did look well. Clean-shaven, clear eyed, well fed. His cloak and
riding leathers were dirty from the road, but his was a picture of health, a
far cry from what Bella's death reduced him to yesteryear, a gaunt and
jaundiced shadow of himself, clutching to a gin bottle.
They paused for a moment, Kit and Harry, unsure of how to
react. Two seasons ago they were hurling curses at each other, and seasons lose
their length with age. But Harry smiled at him, that deep old smile of his, and
embraced him. Kit melted into it.
"It is good to see you again, Harry."
A nod. "You too, Ed."
They parted when Harry caught his blunder.
None of them knew an `Ed'. They weren't supposed to. Edward
Bardshaw was a wanted man, a legendary outlaw who rode with Edith the Exile
into the slaughter of Gigod's Forest and spirited himself out of the dark
bowels of Staunton Castle before the headsman's axe could catch him. Tavern
drunkards told tales of him, wastrel louts who'd pull farmhand Kit Whitehouse
to their shoulders with ale on their breaths, and brag about how they'd fought
shoulder to shoulder with Bardshaw at the Battle of Brookweald.
"Sorry. `Kit'." Harry's eyes narrowed. "Saints alive, of all
the fucking names you could've chosen for yourself. `Kit'."
Kit smirked at him.
James was less amused. "Harry, you're most welcome here, but
you must mind your language around Larkyn."
The boy was too distracted with his feast day treats to
listen to them.
"Oh, a few errant swears won't harm the boy, James. He's
seen war." Harry's eyes darkened beneath the weight of old memories. "Look at
him. He's the spitting image of his mother now, isn't he? He's got her fire
too. And her brains."
Kit and James exchanged a private frown. They were wary of
speaking about Edith around Larkyn, although it was almost impossible not to
these days. Up in the north she'd become every inch the martyr Kit predicted.
Men sung songs about her, raised toasts to her, even made shrines to her
memory. Little girls waved wooden swords in the forest vowing to assume her
mantle when they came of age.
There was no one in the Highburghs more beloved than Edith
the Exile, even set against the old Earl of Harcaster, Osmund Vox. Sometime in
winter last year word spread throughout the villages that the stout old boar
had died, and the Lord Regent allowed his son, Gerard Vox, to inherit the
earldom unopposed. A payoff, whispered some, for House Vox refusing to raise
the Spear of the North in Edith's aid.
"Come." Said James. "Let's sit a spell."
The three of them sat to the table with Larkyn. James asked
Harry if he was hungry. "We've still a half a pot's worth of chicken broth we
could wallop. Care for some?"
It was the prior night's meal. Neither James nor Kit knew it
at the time, but Larkyn picked the pot clean of its chicken hanks and dumplings
over the night. When the three of them brought a small pot of the broth (and a
tray of half-eaten gooseberry tarts) to the celebrations at the village square
later, and his little thieveries were aired out, he would sign: growing boys
need good food.
"No thank you," said Harry, patting his stomach. "I broke my
fast at Gregor's Inn before I came here. Bacon and eggs. Wouldn't want to put
you out."
"Ale?" Offered Kit.
James eyed him, sharply.
Then Kit recognized his blunder. "...Apologies, Harry."
"No, no..." Harry waved it off. "It is fine. I haven't touched
a drop since Greatminster."
"So you did go after all?"
The blonde man smiled, nodding. "...Aye. I did. I see why old
Thopswood swore by it, stars rest him. It does the soul some good to take
communion with the saints. I hadn't prayed to them in a long while. Not since..."
`Bella.' Thought Kit.
Larkyn signed: "(You should've brought me back a relic.)"
Smirking, Harry signed back: "(Cough me up a tithe and I
will next time, you cheeky demon.)"
Kit blinked, eying him. "You can sign?"
"What? You mean you can't?"
Larkyn tittered soundlessly, popping another tart into his
mouth as James patted Kit's resting fist. "Let us call him a work in progress,
Harry. Continue. You were speaking of your travels?"
"Right, right. Well. I needed some time alone to think. I
just... wanted to see something of the realm as I did so. I went to Fludding,
then Dragonspur, then Peaswyke, Greatminster, Lludmonton... even stopped by
Wuffolk to visit old man Stillingford's tombstone. Then on to Ravensborough...
and from there up to Harcaster. And now here."
Kit was anxious to ask, but... "How fares the realm?"
A sigh. "...The people are yet restless. There's tension with
the Wallish at the ports, between Odoists and traditionalists too. The harvest
in the Lowburghs was poor. And there are rumours abroad that the Emperor is
dead."
Kit mused. He and James heard the same rumour on their last
market run. If the Emperor really was dead without an heir then the
implications could reverberate back toward Morland. Little King Oswald III,
though only a clutch of years young, was by blood half-Imperial, a grandnephew
of the late Konrad IV Adolphus, and thus a potential claimant to the Imperial
throne...
He shook his head. Kit was averse to politics these days,
ever since Edith's Rebellion. There was a jug of water nearby, flavoured with
apple drops. He poured himself a mug and raised it to his lips. Better to busy
himself with that than politics.
"Harcaster is raising the Spear of the North." Said Harry.
For a single moment in time the table and everyone around it
froze. For a single instant. And then the blunt reality of those words Harcaster
is raising the Spear of the North broke through the self-inflicted silence.
And then he looked into Harry Grover's eyes and saw it again for the first time
in over three years. The spark. That spark he saw when first they conferred at
the Golden Cockle. That spark he saw when he rode back from Dragonspur with
those fate-sealing letters. That spark of rebellious fury.
A mug full of water slapped the table's oaken grain.
"...Larkyn." Kit turned to him. "We're drawing a chill. Fetch
some firewood for us. Chop it up if you need to."
The boy paused. Looked around the table and sensed the mood
going sour. He did not argue. Abandoning a half-eaten gooseberry pastry, he
stood up, backed away from the table, fetched a fresh cloak and made his way to
the farmhouse doors. Not a word was uttered until they slammed shut behind him.
"Listen to me," said Harry. "Harcaster's secured the support
of all burghal lords north of Fort Caelish. He's sent advance riders to all the
northern aldermen and mayors. I'm one of them. By this time tomorrow every man,
woman and child in the Highburghs will know. Gerard is set to raise his banner
in three days."
War.
Kit's fist trembled. James took it between his hands and
kissed it. Peace was the meaning. Peace, husband. Then James
turned to their guest. "Harry? Why are you telling us this? Why are you really
here?"
"Because..." He heaved a sigh. And then? Turned a resolute
glare at Kit Whitehouse. "...Because I want you to join me."
James sneered. "Are you out of your mind? I-"
"Do they know?" Said Kit, sharply. "About Larkyn?"
"No."
Harry said it quickly. Too quickly. The implication?
Not yet.
Larkyn Whitehouse, or rather, Edwulf Oswyke. Son of Edith
Oswyke. Grandson of King Osmund and Queen Katheresa...
...and rightful King of Morland.
`If... if we fail...' Edith's voice pierced his mind through the mists of
time as keenly as if he could reach out and touch her now... `...or if I die in
battle... and you survive... I want you to take Larkyn and go as far north as
possible. Don't take him to my grandfather. Just go north.' She made him
swear. Swear to keep him safe. And for nearly three years he did just
that. And now Harry Grover, his greatest friend in all the world, would bring this
to his door?
Harry pressed on either unknowing or uncaring of the rage
simmering inside Kit with every word spoken. "There's to be a meeting.
Harcaster and the northern lords are calling it a counter-convocation. They're
looking for someone to declare for. Some want Gerard to split the north from
the southern Bordermoors upward. Start a new Wulfsson dynasty. Others want to
march on Dragonspur and install a new Lord Regent in Greyford's place like
Edith wanted to. But I-"
"I know what you want!" Barked Kit.
Silence.
They glared at each other.
And then James intervened. He took Kit's hand into his own,
threading their fingers together and fixing his eyes on Harry. "Harry Grover?
Listen to me. Neither words nor deeds could repay the debt I owe to you. When
you rode into Edith's camp..." A tear found its way to his eye. He thumbed it
away. "...when you saved me from those soldiers... hid Larkyn and I away... got us to
safety... you put me on a path that led me to my family..."
Kit tightened their grasp.
"...I owe all I have to you. I do. But this man is my husband,
Larkyn is our life, and saints be damned before I permit either
of them to seek out the same fucking carnage we barely escaped!"
Harry stilled.
Kit, despite himself and his anger, took a breath. "Harry, I
love you as a brother loves a brother. But this? This I will not abide. Edith
never wanted a crown for that boy... and you know it. So, no. No. If you
wish to ride south then go. But you won't be taking Larkyn with you."
The doors swung open.
Larkyn emerged, arms full of chopped wood, staggering over
to the depleted tinder stack by the hearth. He dropped the logs and tossed a
few into the dying embers of the flame. Got it roaring again. Kindled fires
brought a fresh glow of amber to the table as Harry Grover rose from it with a
deflated smile. A defeated smile. He tightened his cloak folds. "...I've
overstayed my welcome. I... should be going."
"...Harry..."
It was only then, when the joy of Harry's return gave way to
the rancour of his devices, that Kit noticed the weapon at his friend's belt. A
war pick. Simple to learn and use. The messenger hid it beneath his cloak folds
as he moved towards the hearth to say his goodbyes to the boy. `He truly
means to fight...' Thought Kit. `He truly means to...'
A gloved hand ruffled Larkyn by the crown of his red hair as
he poked into the flames with a rod.
"Hey," said Harry. "Don't give your Uncle Kit too much
grief, hm?"
The boy rose up, turned to the rider and threw his arms
around him. Held him close. And then he peeled back with his mother's boundless
grin and signed: "(I never do.)"
Smiling, Harry Grover commanded him to stick by the fire
until he was warm again, and promised that when next they met, he would bring a
relic and some candied almonds back with him. Larkyn signed thank you.
Harry went for the doors to take his leave.
Both Kit and James rose from the table to follow him out,
ordering Larkyn to stay put.
Harry's horse was a black stallion. He had it tethered to a
post at the outskirts of the Whitehouse Farm, just beyond its posted fencing.
To its rear swung a rolled-up pallet and a rig of bulging saddlebags. He untied
its reins and mounted up, fitting his boots into the stirrups.
Kit called out to him. "Hotfoot!"
"Hotfoot?" He smiled to himself. "No one's called me that in
a long time."
As Kit caught his breath, James clasped their hands
together, tight as a shell. "Harry! Know you this should you change your
mind, should you seek peace, our roof is always yours."
Harry smiled.
Sadly, somehow. "I know. Thank you."
He kicked his heels. The stallion broke into a slow trot
down the idle path towards the woods beyond the village. And then, with a tug
of the reins, he stopped. He paused. Harry Grover turned back, glancing over
his shoulder at the friend he knew since childhood, the friend he rode to war
with, the friend with whom they'd married the loves of their lives.
"Ed?" He sighed at himself. "...Kit. Do you... still
dream of a better realm?"
Kit smiled.
He turned his smile to James.
James smiled back.
He raised their conjoined hands and kissed them, breathing
in the northern pines, picturing Larkyn's impish smile as he received his first
feast day present of the year. "...I've already found it."
"Aye." The Hotfoot gave them a nod. "Well then. Good fortune
to you both. And take good care of the boy."
They promised to do so.
And together, they watched Harry Grover ride away to war.
**********
Wormsleigh Manor, Dragonspur,
Kingdom of Morland
10th of Spring, 804
"Ah!" Panted Thormont. "Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah!"
The mahogany headboard struck a white-painted wall with each
sharp thrust. Ser Warwick was ruthless with him that night. It was not in his
manner to be, or at least not in the bedroom, but by now he was a man attuned
to Thormont's needs and desires.
If he proposed a bill to the Masters of the Realm that
raised the Justiciary's obligatory share of all ready cash confiscated in the
burghal courts by 2% and saw it pass the vote; then Thormont's mood would be
light and elated, and so he liked his lovemaking to match that temperament. He
would have Warwick lay him out and spread him wide, sweat-sodden back to the
sheets, eye to eye, limbs entangled, teeth biting down the muscle of those
broad seafaring shoulders.
But should his bill fail the vote? Should he be forced to
seek other means of plugging the fiscal leaks his late predecessor ignored?
Then his mood was dour and foul. So ought the lovemaking be. A hump not a
ravishment.
And so Ser Warwick was with him then. His strong hands,
calloused with years of rope burn from the rigging of his schooners, held the
younger man's hips firm as he punched his slickened girth inside the gaping
arsehole he called his `rosebud'.
"Let it bloom for me," Said Ser Warwick, bending over
Thormont's freckled back until his ale-sodden lips were at his ear. "Yield it
up to me my young Lord! Ah! There you have it! There! There!"
Thormont grabbed fistfuls of the bedsheets. He felt his toes
curl in the white tangle of them. Beads of sweat dripped down his face and
flushed pink neck, his gritting teeth seething out grunts as his stiffened
manhood slapped back and forth between his aching hips. The slap, slap,
slap, slap of Ser Warwick's woollen thighs bruised his arse rouge like the
strike of a paddle. And then a fist snatched Thormont's cropped chestnut hair
and wrenched him up until they were both upright as they were, muscled chest to
bare back. Further still Ser Warwick pulled at Thormont's hair until the lordly
head rested firmly against his bouncing shoulder, all the while never missing a
thrust or beat of his prising yard.
A meaty tongue slithered between Thormont's pursed lips. He
tasted the Gasqueri blood wine of their evening dinner, as well as the pork and
potatoes and the leeks and carrots and oranges and tobacco and every other
precious treat his staff could afford the lecherous privateer. Emerald eyes
shot open. The kiss was coarse and its taste noxious, gagging, like a panting
cur slavering at his chops. Ser Warwick sensed his discomfort. It amused him.
Offended moans mingled with lewd chuckles, muffling each other against the slap,
slap, slap of thigh against thigh and the clatter of the headboard whacking
the wall in rhythmic succession until one last thrust. Ser Warwick broke the
kiss, released the fistful of hair, set his hands back to Thormont's hips as he
cried out "Augh!" as his sweaty body shivered with delightful climax.
Thormont's legs gave out.
The younger man landed on his belly, panting feverishly, as
the older man fell on top of him, whoofing and growling in his ear. They laid
there together for a moment, catching their breaths until Ser Warwick's
slickened girth slithered out and Thormont felt the ooze of his seed slop out
of his blinking sphincter. And then a shiver of two emotions pleasure and
disgust as the privateer spread open the councilman's sore cheeks and lapped up
his own seed with a stroke of the tongue.
"Oh, the miracle of that rosebud...!" Muttered Ser Warwick
between breaths. "Tight as a cabin boy and yet you take it like a dockside
sally. What is your secret, my lord?"
Thormont tried to shove him away, but Ser Warwick climbed up
his back, snatched him by the jaw and kissed him again, roughly, possessively,
thick hands slithering over the younger man's body. The air was ripe with wine,
sweat, seed and Ser Warwick's briny after-stench. The candleflames flickered.
Thormont caught himself moaning, intoxicated, enthralled and repulsed in equal
measure. And The Fiend? He was quiet.
Docile.
Satisfied, perhaps.
*
The Lord Viscount of Thormont now Lord Justiciar of the
Realm was not long returned to Wormsleigh Manor, his Dragonspur holdings.
He'd spent much of the winter recess upcountry with his handpicked team of
commissioners, braving the atrocious roads to conduct his annual review of the
burghal courts. It was a customary practice for the Lord Justiciar of the
Realm, one demesne per year, but one that went unfulfilled in his forerunner's
time. The last thorough review of the Midburgh assizes was carried out by Ser
Howard Frogmoncke in early summer of 801, that hellish year. In the intervening
three the courts were backlogged with untried cases and unheard petitions
dating back to Edith's Rebellion, much of which the previous Lord Justiciar
the late Earl of Gainsley, saints rest him refused to aid with.
`They attempt to thrust their rightful cases upon
us,' said Gainsley
to him, once. `They elevate the severity of the charges to raise it to the
crown court, so WE have to deal with it! High treason for theft of a chicken?
What nonsense! I say I will not be
browbeaten by these trifling judges!'
Three years later and there were still lingering
cases from the Rebellion left to be tried. Some men had died engaoled waiting
for their final sentencing. Thormont resolved to clear them all before the next
round of cases bloated the Justiciary's ledgers now that that the Earl of
Harcaster, slowly proving himself to be every bit the tempestuous blackguard
his late father was had raised his banner in the north.
`What was he thinking?' Thought Thormont. But there was no
great riddle to it.
Despite the insurrection of his traitorous granddaughter,
the late Earl of Harcaster had kept his word and refused to summon the
ancestral standing army of the Highburghs, the Spear of the North, in service
to her doomed revolt. After the executions were complete the Lord Regent
displayed uncharacteristic clemency, not only by releasing Ser Gerard, but by
allowing him to inherit the title of Earl of Harcaster in the wake of his
father's death. But then he was fool enough to reach above himself and declare
that all promises made by King Oswald II to his late father be upheld
restitution for the loss of Gead and a seat on the Council of the Masters of
the Realm, the Lord Admiralty. The Lord Regent refused, explaining (reasonably)
that his nephew's edicts were not his own and awarded the seat of Lord
Admiral to Lord Callahugh Ramsey, 5th Viscount of Castlegarron, Ser
Warwick's father. And apparently that snub had sent Harcaster into a spin.
THERE HAS TO BE MORE TO IT, said The Fiend. GERARD MUST
KNOW SOMETHING WE DO NOT!
`There are whispers along the wind that say the
Bloody Maid sired a pup...' Thought Thormont. `But these are only whispers.'
INVESTIGATE IT. LEAVE NOTHING TO CHANCE.
Thormont took a sip of wine. `You should know me well
enough by now. I shall put it to Greyford's ear at the council session.'
Four days ago summons reached him in Greyford that an
emergency session of the Masters of the Realm was to be held on the 12th
of Spring 804, and he had only just arrived at the capital this morning.
Nevertheless he'd sent word ahead for his household staff at Wormsleigh to
prepare for his return and for their coming guest.
Thormont eyed him now, Ser Warwick Ramsey, stretched out
across one of his cushioned armchairs. He crushed some tobacco into his pipe
and lit it with a taper, breathing and spewing smoke clouds from each puff. And
he was yet naked. Thormont had commanded him away to his own rooms, but the
good captain pleaded against it, citing his own sense of sexual chivalry in
that; "I am not the breed of lover who skulks away in the dead of night. Who
will tend to your yard when your blood is up? Who will tend to mine?"
HE GROWS TOO FAMILIAR, growled the Fiend. HE MUST BE
REMINDED OF HIS PLACE!
`We need Warwick to further our plans,' thought Fran. `Until then he is
little more than a cock to ride. Fear not.'
As that backlog of cases once awaited him in the burghal
courts, so too did a backlog of letters at Wormsleigh Manor. Thormont saw to
them once Ser Warwick finished seeing to him, pouring himself another
glass of wine as he read them, resolving to draft his replies in the morning.
The first was from Ser Sebastian de Pallasch, son of Baron
de Pallasch of Cuthryke's Keep, the Morish Ambassador to the Empire. He wrote:
To His Lordship
of Thormont, the Lord Justiciar of the Realm,
I write to you
now with ill ease. All is not well in Strausholm. The death of his Imperial
Excellency, Emperor Konrad IV Adolphus, has loosed a tempest of unrest across
the realm. Wallenheim has fortified its land borders with the Empire. There are
reports of revolt in the eastern regions, bands of marauding rebels butchering
their margraves and tax collectors. A sect of radical Odoist separatists is
said to have captured and occupied a town called Grόndelheim, holding a High
Shepherd prisoner. And on the subject of succession the Imperial Senate is
deadlocked; 50 votes for his grace Archduke Gerhard Adolphus, 50 for her grace
the Duchess of Luzberg. And of course some senators whisper of His Majesty King
Oswald...
`Let them whisper,' thought Thormont. The Morish King Oswald, third of
that name, was only a potential claimant to the Imperial Throne if his cousin
the Archduke (a boy of two-and-ten) died without an heir, and young Oswald III
was but a babe in the cradle. Thormont turned the page:
As you know, his
grace the Lord Regent takes the young king's claim seriously and has refused my
request to be recalled. I ask you this as a friend, Thormont. Please reason
with his grace. Aught is to be gained here except a dagger in the back. I
entrust myself to your discretion.
Yours humbly,
Sebastian
de Pallasch
The de Pallasches were of Wallish blood. Thormont always
found it odd that his grace the Lord Regent selected him for the
position of Morish Ambassador to the Empire. His task was to soothe relations
with the Imperials after Morland's de facto breach of the Treaty of Grace.
Lucky for the realm that the ancient Empire's current instability made it
incapable of offering a response that amounted to more than the conventional
sabre-rattling. Saints help them if otherwise.
Sebastian was one of the dullards of the court, one of the
young gallants, more suited to the tourney fields than the treaty table. A
dagger in his back was no great loss to Morland.
The second letter (Thormont smiled) was from Lothar. He
wrote:
Dear Fran,
All is well at
Laud Hall. I am in health, as is Luther. There is a tutor in the neighbouring
burgh that Doctor Beecham believes can help my brother to speak. I will update
you of his progress. The rents will not be short this season. Please come to
visit us when the Lord Regent and your lady wife can spare you.
Regards,
Lothar
Simple and to the point as always. Thormont missed Lothar.
When last had they seen each other? Perhaps not since the 803 Feast of St.
Thunos. It pleased him to provide the retired espial with roof, warmth, and
victuals... but in truth... he missed having his friend at his side. The Catspaw
was once his confidant and protector, his right hand and his dearest ally. None
of the guardsmen currently serving in Thormont's retinue inspired the same
sense of safety as Lothar did. Even so. He'd more than earned a life of peace
with his brother. Thormont smiled, tucking the letter away and promised to
himself that he would visit Laud Hall as soon as his affairs in Dragonspur were
attended to.
"Is that a smile?" Ser Warwick smirked at him from across
the room, bathed in the amber glow of the hearth, pipe smoke wafting into the
air. "Hardly thought you capable of such."
Thormont ignored him and took up the next letter. Its wax
bore a modified sigil of House Gray, a laurelled grey dove set against a `C'.
It was his wife's sigil, the Viscountess of Thormont, Lady Cecily Gray. He
broke the seal and opened it.
I pray this letter finds you well. I am safely
delivered. The saints have blessed us with a healthy boy, an heir to your
house. We've named him William Oswald Gray, as per your wishes. Send for
us soon. I should very much like to visit the capital again. Perhaps you and I
might avail ourselves of its delights as once we did? With love and affection, I
await eagerly your reply.
Your good and faithful wife,
Cecily
Gray
The letter drew Thormont's hearty chuckle. Lady Gray (two
years wed now) had an espial's talent at the hidden word. Only those who knew
her well could see through the cipher.
`To My Beloved Lord Husband' = How fares my accomplice in
crime?
`I pray this letter finds you well' = If my mutton-witted
riders should do the job...
`I am safely delivered' = Thank the saints this fucking
baby did not kill me...
`The saints have blessed us with a healthy boy' = Lucky
him and lucky you, he is possessed of a cock!
`An heir to your house' = Better `Gray' than `Ashwick'
since Brookweald...
`We've named him William Oswald Gray, as per your wishes.' =
Oh, the vanity of you...
`Send for us soon' = Motherhood is a burdensome bore that
I cannot delay to divorce myself of.
`I should very much like to visit the capital again' = My
emptiness needs its pleasure...
`Perhaps you and I might avail ourselves of its delights as
once we did?' = How many southlanders might we find to fuck this time?
`With love and affection' = I've held up my end of our
bargain, you cutthroat bastard...
`I await eagerly your reply' = Hurry up and fetch me to
Dragonspur before I hurl your `heir' through the nearest window...
`Your good and faithful wife' = Your reluctant broodmare...
`Cecily Gray' = How ridiculous does that sound?
Motherhood would not become her. But Cecily's was a
well-constructed household, and she would want for nothing at Wharton House.
She had Gasqueri cooks and bakers at her disposal; Imperial seamstresses and
washerwomen; Wallish chambermaids and scullery girls; Morish gardeners and
guards. William would have a wetnurse and a matron to take care of him, and
eventually, a tutor to instruct him in the sciences. He would learn to ride and
to hunt, to joust and to calculate, to balance ledgers and hunt game, to draw a
bow and draft a bill. Yes, this was how he would craft his son: a highborn with
all the education and business acumen of a new man. William would learn to
navigate the Morish court because one day he would inherit Thormont's place in
it.
Thormont was none the wise as to the true father's identity.
Not that it mattered much. Thormont's only stipulations to the `broodmare' were
for her to pick a stallion of no note and good teeth, a nice brown-haired
Morishman.
Thormont had a house to rebuild, and since her brother
Humphrey's survival at Brookweald left her with nothing to inherit, Cecily
needed a well-placed husband to maintain her place at court, which she was soon
to return to after her birthing bloods had dried. Theirs was no love match but
a mutually beneficial arrangement and it had served them well... so far.
"That's your wife's seal, is it not?"
Ser Warwick snatched the letter out of his hands and read of
it. Sneering. And Thormont saw, for the first time, that little streak of green
in his dark amber-brown eyes. "Hm. Well then. Congratulations on your
new-born."
Thormont suppressed a childish sort of smile. "Thank you."
A frown.
Amidst the candlelit darkness Ser Warwick Ramsey cut an
imposing figure. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his sun-bronzed skin
littered with nips and welts of battle-made scar tissue. His stout chest and
abdomen were packed with muscle honed from his years at sea. His face was sharp
and angular, jutting jaw, narrow nose, high cheekbones; framed by a forked
black beard and a grey-black widow's peak.
Ser Warwick was a bad mix of dispositions; quick to act but
slow to understand. His whole soul was war-like for him disembowelling a man
came as easily and remorselessly as crushing a spider. He sailed where he
wanted, he took what he wanted. He knew no authority over his own.
Thormont sat in stillness as Ser Warwick leaned over his
lacquered desk and draped him in shadow. Tobacco-stained teeth prised open the
seams of a sneering frown. Ser Warwick seized him by the chin. Brought them eye
to eye. Their lips close enough to kiss.
Thormont did not flinch.
"What if I told her about us?" His fanged frown twisted into
a smirk. "About how I fuck you into fits of screaming?"
`She already knows...' He thought. `...and she rues my
taste.'
"Ser Warwick..." Thormont smiled up at him, darkly. "...Do I
sense a note of jealousy?"
Ser Warwick snarled back and snatched Thormont by the
throat. The younger man's jadestone eyes ticked southward at a seed-encrusted
cock swinging about a curtain of greying black hair. The good captain was
getting hard again. And Thormont wrapped his fist around it. A shiver of
delight followed. Ser Warwick's eyes rolled into the back of his skull. The
stink of pre-seed saturated the air between them.
"...That rosebud..." He muttered it more to himself than to
Thormont. "...I want that rosebud again..."
They had a dinner guest to prepare for, proposals to table,
ventures to plot. But men like Ser Warwick had two brains one above and one
below and the one below did all the thinking when its blood was up.
"If you want me, I am yours..." Said the Lord Viscount. "But
you'll have me on my terms, captain. Mine and mine alone."
*
Noontide.
Thormont snapped his fingers. The ruff-collared attendant
posted behind his dining chair hurried to his master's side and lowered an ear.
A whispered command followed. "Fetch the next course, will you?"
The attendant bowed politely and shuffled out of the
luncheon hall by his slippered feet. Across the table a second attendant
refilled the ebbing wine cup of Thormont's dinner guest, Ser Reginald Gervase,
the Lord Mayor of Greyford. A third attendant approached the table to clear
their smattered plates.
"Heavenly," said the Lord Mayor. He stopped to admire the
bouquet. "Is this an Imperial red?"
Thormont smiled gently. "Indeed it is. Yours is a taste most
refined, master. As I was informed."
"You are too kind, my lord. And I must once again thank you
for agreeing to host me during my brief visit here in Dragonspur. I-"
A sudden burp split his sentence. The Lord Viscount and the
Lord Mayor turned their gazes towards Ser Warwick (who failed to excuse
himself) huffing at the far end of the dinner table, one arm slung over the
mahogany crest rail, and the other stretched out across the silken tablecloth.
His stubbed fingers wrapped the rim of his brass wine cup. And then he yawned.
Rudely.
Thormont frowned. The captain of the Serpentes hadn't
a drop of wit or refinement in him. Fuck, fight and sail were his only drivers.
Fortunately for them, Ser Reginald sensed the tenor of his impatience business
over pleasentries.
Ser Reginald adjusted his eyepatch. "...Ser Warwick. Is it
true what they say about these new lands across the ocean? That they are in
fact the Great Idyll?"
The privateer's smile returned. "Ah! I couldn't tell you.
Not much for theology, myself. What I can tell you is that this realm's
fortunes could be made there unless we allow Wallenheim to beat us to it."
It was almost three years ago when word first spread of new
lands discovered across the Frozen Sea.
In 799 a Wallish galleon bound for the Sandsea Sultanates, The
Leafcutter, was blown off course by a sea storm and presumed lost. In 802, The
Leafcutter, sparsely repaired and barely afloat, hobbled back into the Port
of Wallenstadt with less than half its crew and a world-changing story to tell.
They spoke of a new world of lush flora and unknown fauna, populated by a new
race of men. But by far their greatest discovery was gold, and according to the
haggard crew of The Leafcutter, the new continent practically dripped
with it.
By 803 the Morish-Wallish Consortium raised a fleet of 22
Wallish galleons and a single Morish ship, Serpentes, to set sail for
the new Continent to establish a toehold there. A colony of sorts. When Serpentes
returned by winter of 803, its captain, Ser Warwick Ramsey, petitioned the
crown for sufficient funds and men to establish a Morish settlement on the
newfound continent and found an enthusiastic cohort in the Lord Justiciar of
the Realm.
Ser Reginald clasped his hands. "You have a proposal, I
assume."
Thormont snapped his fingers again. One of his attendants
collected the documents from him and brought it around the table to the Lord
Mayor. It was marked:
THE GREYFORD COMPANY
"It would be a joint-stock venture," said Thormont. "With
Harcaster raising his banner in the north, the Lord Regent and Lord Treasurer
believe that the crown cannot spare the expense. The necessary costs are
admittedly substantial so this would be a convenient workaround. Each investor
would own stock in the company relative to his contribution which minimizes
risk by individualizing it. If the settlement failed then they only lose what
they put in."
Ser Reginald retrieved a monocle from his doublet of
green-gold brocade. "And the dividends?"
"A land grant relative to stock share," said Thormont. "And
a relative share of any cash profit earned through mineral sales."
Ser Reginald flicked a thumb through the pages. "Company
structure?"
"At the disposal of the shareholders would be a general
council of twelve overseers including a treasurer, secretary, and a bookkeeper.
A governor would be selected to oversee the settlement itself."
"Which would be Ser Warwick?"
He grinned.
"Initially," said Thormont. "But he would govern under the
council's directives and ultimately the council is obliged to the shareholders.
All purchased stock would be five-years terminable with a reinvestment option.
I leave it to you to review the particulars."
"And the name?"
Thormont smiled back with a shrug. "We plan to base the
company in your city, ser. I have also written a provision into its bylaws that
would cede 10% of overall turnover to two external sources. 8% to the crown and
2% to the offices of the Lord Mayor."
Ser Reginald smiled.
THERE YOU ARE! Said The Fiend.
`The worm is not on the hook yet,' thought Thormont. "And of course
there is the matter of..."
The Lord Mayor pre-empted him. "...the natives?"
Ser Warwick poured himself another cup of wine. "Ignorant
and poorly equipped. Easily subduable with sufficient arms and manpower. We'd
quickly put them to use in the mines and farms we'll establish. All we need is
capital, Lord Mayor. All we need are backers."
"Right you are," said Ser Reginald. "But my associates will
require some form of proof that such a venture as this would be a viable one."
Ser Warwick cut another grin, wine cup at his lips. He soon
shouted out "Thomasine!" and one of the side doors opened. An `attendant'
emerged. Not one of Thormont's household staff but a young girl under Ser
Warwick's command.
A native.
Thormont watched Ser Reginald marvel at her as she shyly
padded into the luncheon hall. A brown-skinned girl, young and blossoming, with ebon hair as fine as silk, her eyes of almond
shape and silver of colour.
Eyes angled at the floor.
Eyes quivering with fear.
Ser Reginald blinked. "Is that...?"
"A foundling," said Ser Warwick. "Cast off by her tribe. My
crew surgeon teaches her the Morish tongue in preparation for our return. Come
now, girl. Show the Lord Mayor the fruit of the west."
The girl (who Ser Warwick redubbed `Thomasine') carried a
small chest with her. She went to her master's side with it, but he pointed her
towards the Lord Mayor. `Thomasine' approached Ser Reginald, expressionless and
silent, then opened the chest... full to its brim with gold nuggets.
The Lord Mayor ran his fingers through them.
`Now the worm is hooked,' thought Thormont.
It was not happenstance or chanciness that caused the Lord
Viscount to pitch this to Ser Reginald Gervase of all people. He (and his city
with him) had suffered since its occupation by the Bloody Maid's marauding
army. By running out the Imperials and destroying their enclaves, their
liberties, Edith's Rebellion cost the Lord Mayor's office a key source of tax
revenue as well as souring feeling with the city's continental trading
partners. He had to replace that income somehow if he wished to retain
his position. And so...
"This is an exciting proposal." Said Ser Reginald. "I will
find you the necessary backers."
IT BEGINS... murmured The Fiend.
Ser Warwick's yellow smile matched the Fiend's fervour as he
waved away the native girl with his chest of gold.
"Outstanding," Thormont rose up from his high-backed
mahogany seat. "This is the beginning of a bright new future for all of us,
masters. If you'll excuse me a moment."
Sers Warwick Ramsey and Reginald Gervase proceeded to natter
between the two of themselves (about the newfound continent mostly) as Thormont
excused himself through a side door to make for the privy.
The first hurdle was cleared.
The Lord Regent had granted his ascent and the Lord Mayor of
Greyford would provide the capital. With Ser Warwick's father as Lord Admiral
(which was, after all, a posting of Thormont's recommendation) he had all the
connections necessary to build a new fleet of ships. Men unwilling to fight and
die in the Highburghs against the Spear of the North could be conscripted to
seek their fortunes abroad. And a saintly blessing was not out of the question
if he could convince the Lord Shepherd Sygmus II that converting the natives to
the Commonfaith was of the utmost priority lest their heretical
Odoist-Wallish rivals beat them to it.
And Thormont?
Thormont would be chief amongst the shareholders of The
Greyford Company. He would have a seat on the council, propose himself as
treasurer or bookkeeper, and in time as the dividends paid out... he would cement
his power within the Morish court and twist the knife of vengeance inside the
crooked back of his next target Lyonel de la More, the Marquess of Gead.
After all. He had a son now. And what sort of father would Thormont be if he
did not do all in his power to furnish his children with their ancient birth
rights?
The Isle of Gead belonged to House Gray by right... and
Thormont would accumulate as much power as necessary to seize it back.
Up ahead of him, at the other end of the corridor, his
ruffed footmen emerged from the kitchens of Wormsleigh Manor with the next
course of their meal: honey-roasted partridge served with peppered potatoes,
steamed carrots, leeks, and red wine sauce. He gestured them to the luncheon
hall, assuring them he would be back soon. They nodded back, each with a hearty
"yes milord" as they passed him by.
And then, as Thormont turned the corner of the hallway
towards the privy, he caught sight of a mirror. Wall-hung. Oval. Gilded. An
antique. The Lord Justiciar paused there. He did not mean to. And yet all the
same he peered into it... like a child at the edge of a stream gazing at the
ripples of a tossed coin. And there Thormont saw him.
The Fiend.
The drowned boy, the lifeless boy, he of bloated flesh and
suppurating wounds, his skin clustered with barnacles, his hair matted into treacly
threads as barbarous as twine, his bloodless blue face dripping with brine. His
skeletal smile widening, tooth by broken tooth, his breath a belch of
subterranean gases. The begrudged victim of all his enemies. The creature
Edward Bardshaw could not slay. Thormont's irritant and perpetual companion.
His muse and his tutor. His guiding black light in a tempest of blinding
white.
GOOD BOY, he said. FINALLY YOU BEGIN TO LISTEN, AND LOOK AT THE
FRUIT YOU REAP...
`Indeed,' thought Thormont. They smiled darkly at each other. `We're
going to conquer the world, you and I.'
**********
END
**********
·
And
that all she wrote, folks! Thanks again for reading everybody! 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).