· 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, 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 Three: A Court of Ghosts,
Part 1
**********
Portrait of a Prince, circa 799 –
Woollerton Green – Prayers to the Lost – Negotiations
**********
Clemence Palace, The Midburghs,
Kingdom of Morland
19th of Spring, 799
TWO YEARS AGO
Young King Oswald stood upright. Centre of the room, eyes
up, chin high, arms folded tightly behind his back. There was much to say of
his poise and demeanour – small as he was, he always stood tall. Good back
muscles had he. The mark of a habitual rider.
His tutor, Ser Robert Mountjoy, set down his wooden cane and
shifted weight upon his good leg to from his seat and better observe his pupil.
Neither paid any mind to his grace of Greyford standing tersely within the
shadows of the drapery, with his prominent frown so like the glumness of a
white painted skull.
"`Salutations'," said Ser Robert, slowly encircling the boy
whilst his lame leg shuffled behind him. "Try that."
Oswald pursed his lips. "...`Groo-sa'."
"Grüße..."
"Groo-ser?"
A sigh. "You'll draw a snicker or too, but... adequate. Now.
Let's test you on your histories. Begin with the Republic."
The king cleared his throat into a loose fist. "Wallenheim
is the northwesternmost nation of the continental landmass. Historically an
archduchy of the Empire, ruled by the second sons of House Adolphus."
"Go on."
"In year 151 Archduke Krystus Adolphus dies childless. Via
the bloodline of his mother, Lady Freide of Wallenheim, King Edwulf II of
Morland exercises his claim to his uncle's archduchy and by year 153
successfully conquers it."
Ser Robert nodded. "And how long was Wallenheim a province
of Morland?"
"595 years."
"Until?"
"Until the Long Sea War of 750-60 when the province is taken
by the Imperial Army, and Magnus Adolphus, younger brother to late Emperor
Konrad III Adolphus, is proclaimed archduke. The second Archduchy of Wallenheim
lasts for another-"
A rattle. King Oswald shot his eyes right where sat the cage
of his pet capuchin, Pincher, grinning impishly behind its bars. Oswald smiled
back – until Ser Robert's cane smacked his leg.
"Focus!" Said the Lord Seneschal. "Resume where you were."
Another sigh. "The second Archduchy lasts for another 37
years until the year 797 when, during the wave of continental unrest that
followed the Empire's execution of Odo, rebel forces led by House Roschewald
overthrow and execute the Archduke to declare a republic." A third sigh. "Why
do we speak of Wallenheim when we are about to sign a peace treaty with the
Empire?"
The Duke of Greyford walked out of the shadows, stone-faced
and glowering, as per usual. "Because it is in the current Emperor's interest
to retake the republic some day and it is in our interest to assure him
of our neutrality."
Ser Robert hobbled over to his chair again to rest, easing
out his lame leg as Greyford took his place, standing mountainously over the
young king. But Oswald's poise failed him not. The regent's cold grey eyes did
not fluster him. And of that Ser Robert was proud – the boy was coming into his
own strength day by day.
The capuchin tittered.
"Are you certain you understand the import of this
treaty?" asked the Duke.
"Uncle Greyford," said the king. "I know well the diplomatic
labours you and Ambassador Ludolf suffered to finally bring about peace between
Morland and the Empire. Like you I wish only for the wealth and security of
this kingdom, and saints be praised, I have every faith this treaty will secure
both."
Greyford smiled.
"However."
Greyford's smile fell.
"Much of these negotiations were undertaken beyond my eye."
King Oswald stole a brief smirk at Pincher before he resumed. "I wish to see
the particulars before I depart."
"Why of course. Your majesty." Greyford smothered his frown.
"Would you also like me to fetch you the portrait of Lady Annalena? The
Ambassador assures me she is quite comely-"
"The particulars," said Oswald. Sharply. "Have the
preliminary agreements sent to my chambers."
Ser Robert smiled to himself.
The Duke of Greyford was not so amused. But he acquiesced
all the same. "Of course, your majesty, of course."
"Ser Robert?"
The Lord Seneschal looked up. "Majesty?"
"I'll take a ride before we resume," said he. "Some fresh
air might do my Imperial inflection some good."
Ser Robert chuckled. "I'll have your horse saddled and
readied."
"No need," the boy king clapped twice. From without their
chambers two Bannerets of the Bloom opened its doors. At the king's swift
instruction, they fetched Pincher's cage and followed him out as he sought to
make his way to the riding grounds of this his childhood house, Clemence
Palace. The doors sealed shut behind them.
Greyford growled lowly, snatching an ewer of malmsey from
the side table to pour cups for himself and his vassal, the Lord Seneschal.
"You have reared a wilful spirit, Robert."
"Headstrong is the word I would use," said he. He
took his cup with thanks – that and a letter, not recognizing the seal. "What's
this?"
"A letter for the king," said the duke. "From his mother,
the Queen Dowager."
"...He won't want it, your grace."
Grumbling, Greyford slumped heavily into a cushioned chair
bestride Ser Robert's, his ruby-encrusted livery collar clinking at his neck
and shoulders. "As regent I have served him and thus this realm some eight
years now. What means he by this wilfulness? To quibble at the prospect of
peace after centuries of open hostility with the Empire?"
"Your grace, I know your nephew as well as I do mine own
sons. His majesty does not question your judgment he only seeks to understand
it before he accepts it. Would we begrudge some portside merchant his
right to read a contract before setting his quill to it? It is not
weakness to consider both sides of a matter."
"It might be," said Greyford. "If it complicates your
ability to choose."
**********
Woollerton Green, The Midburghs,
Kingdom of Morland
35th of Summer, 801
PRESENT DAY
He was home. Finally, home. After ten whole years... and yet
Francis Gray felt so little love for his homeland. He was of course a Morishman
(and a Morishman to his core) but these places he now ambled through, the
unfurling emerald wave of meadows and pastures they called the Midburghs, or
the historied limestone sprawl of Dragonspur; these places were not `home'.
Home was the Isle of Gead. With its soft beaches, and the icy grey tides
crashing against them; with its high moon, its barnacled fishing weirs and
piers, its portside taverns, and its fisheries. Home was House Gray and all who
served her. Home was Edward Bardshaw.
And Fran ached for home.
But he could not let it distract him. Woollerton Green
awaited, and there was great work to do at court. Meetings to have, connections
to form. A great deal rested upon Gustave's initial meeting with the king, for
his plans as well as Fran's. `Home' and all its coming delights would have to
wait.
They were fashionably late of course. Before they
even left Dragonspur the wharfinger's personal porters were late dispatching a
precious piece of cargo from the Black Quay, House Roschewald's gift to King
Oswald, and Fran was sent down there with four halberdiers to see to the delay
(some dust up about an unpaid duty of a separate cargo in the Wallenheim
Delegation's keeping). Fran cleared the fee on the 34th, just a few
hours from daybreak, but the wharfinger hadn't the men at the ready to load and
dispatch the gift before the ambassador was due to leave – and so they struck a
bargain to meet their cortege on the road west towards the palace.
The roads also hampered their passage. Unlike the stone
paving or gravel tracts of Dragonspur, the sweeping Morish countryside was
navigable only by a sparse network of ancient and oft-trod highways and roads –
well, more dirt tracks, really – dating back to the reign of Edwulf the Great.
They were rough, rocky, and dangerous to ride through, particularly in the
forested reaches of the country. It was Fran's memory that there had been plans
to pave some of Morland's most important thoroughfares, particularly the
eastern coastal roads (which historically had always been at risk of foreign
invasion), the Holy Road interlinking the capital to the sacred city of
Greatminster, and the Old King's Road which interlinked the three major cities
of the three major provinces of the kingdom: Greatminster of Lowburghs to
Dragonspur of the Midburghs to Harcaster of the Highburghs. But those plans
clearly never came to fruition in his absence – another legacy of the Greyford
Regency, perhaps.
They were almost halfway to Woollerton Green when the
wharfinger's men finally caught up with them. Wolfrick had two of his
halberdiers inspect the king's gift for damages (there were none –
surprisingly) then took possession of their mule and cart before sending them
home with a purse of insurance (55 marks) to be repaid upon the safe return of
the wain.
A few miles further they sought respite at a wayside inn at
the edge of a ghastly wolf-infested forest. It stood protected by high stone
walls with paddocks and stabling enough for forty horses and twice as many beds
for its guests. The lady of the establishment was a mistress named Gursela who
had her serving girls, buxom and flea-bitten, bring them flagons of stale ale
and bowls of lukewarm chicken broth. The accommodations were... adequate. But Fran
did not begrudge them. Every single room with a double bed was already taken –
forcing him to sleep in a common room with Wolfrick and the ten halberdiers
they brought with them – and Gustave couldn't make sport
of his arsehole in that company. And so, despite the snoring and beer-soaked
flatulence that so befouled that room, and the bare-fanged beasts howling at
the moon beyond, Fran was treated to his first good night's sleep in a season.
At the first crack of daylight they set out again; carriage
and horses and mule-cart lumbering onto the dirt road bound west before
stumbling upon their last delay some five or six miles later.
It was a lulling carriage quarter-tipped into a pothole as
deep as a calf's head. Some landed banneret and his spindly son laboured to
push their cab out of the fissure, but its trammelled weight would not budge –
not for them at least.
Fran warned his master to leave them be. But Gustave was not
so unchivalrous as all that. He yelled for his coachman to stop and bade his
men aid the banneret in his labours, offering the refreshment of his wineskins
when the business was concluded.
The banneret thanked him profusely with wine-sweetened
breath, smothering his sighs as he lamented ill-fortune to break a wheel so
close to court; "And on this day, our eight-and-tenth year of Good King
Oswald's life! Why do the saints curse me so?"
"You are not cursed if I happened upon you," said Gustave,
smirking devilishly, for it pleased him to play the part of the benevolent
soul. With wide armed generosity he offered to bring the banneret and his son
with him to court, with only a "tale of himself and his land" as recompense.
Fran imagined his master's thoughts. `Neidhart's stone
cut soul would not charm this court' and `Let them speak of my
graciousness' or `What a tale this will make'. Eventually it would
dawn on him how little the court would care, but not quite yet.
Gustave allowed the banneret and his son into the carriage
and plied their ears with expectations for the king and his maturation feast.
Fran left them to it and busied himself with the coach window, watching the
forests and ferns roll by until the towering red-brick presence of Woollerton
Green rose from the panorama.
And that was a sight to behold.
From its red-bricked walls, flagged spires and crenelled
towers to its pristinely pruned hedge mazes, marbled water gardens and fragrant
rose-bed walkways; it was a joy for the eyes, constructed to conjure esteem and
delight within the dignitary. Piping grey clouds of hearth smoke drifted from
its spiral-patterned chimneys atop its many lavish apartments, thus signifying
the arrival of the king's guests (and their lateness). Its crenelled outer
walls stood high by ten feet, protected by a single east-facing gatehouse that
their carriage slowly rolled through. This took them into the palace's first
courtyard, where the carriages of other nobles and dignitaries were slowly
emptied of luggage and goods.
Gustave and Fran bundled out onto the gravel tract, as did
the banneret and his son. The grounds were awash with activity – lords
directing porters to fetch their items, guardsmen helping the noble ladies and
their handmaidens down from their coaches, pet birds chirping in their cages,
leashed spaniels and greyhounds barking, stewards directing each party to their
assigned lodgings. The morning skies had greyed, fit to break with a patter of light Morish rain, and the household staff worked
a frantic pace to get the king's guests indoors before it fell.
Gustave and Fran were taken to the Starlit Rooms, one of
three luxurious apartments specially designed to host foreign dignitaries. The
customizations were the king's own, for the palace was once his mother the
Queen Dowager's possession but had passed to him upon his maturation and would
serve as the high seat of the Morish court from here on out.
At midday two Bannerets of the Bloom summoned Gustave and
Fran to the antechamber of the banqueting hall, a long rectangular reception
room lined by waterleaf pilasters and floored with chequered marble that echoed
at each footstep. Between each column alternated ornate portraitures and
sculpted busts of Morish kings both modern and ancient, from Edwulf the Great
to the late King Osmund. Hundreds of candles burned vibrantly within
crystalline chandeliers descending from the stucco ceiling, broadly luminating
the countryside frescoes and golden clockwork mounted over the arched white
doors leading into the hall.
There in that antechamber was where the king's guests and
courtiers slowly gathered; lords and ladies draped in lavish finery, their
clothes woven of the finest velvets and silks; their fingers, wrists and necks
adorned in gold, silver, pearls, and diamonds. There they mingled amongst
themselves in that carefully practiced manner of nobility, the short bows,
elegant curtseys, gentle chortles, and honeyed greetings and goodbyes. All were
elegantly mannered, even the footmen, sauntering through the throng, silver
platters in hand, with all their perfect poise and attentiveness, offering
refreshments of sweetened almonds and white wine.
Fran found himself in awe – at first – but then awe soured
into anger, a quiet little rage frothing inside himself. Scion as he was to the
now extinct House Gray, it dawned on him then just how much he had lost in the
wake of the Siege of Gead. He knew so little of the faces around him, the most
wealthy and powerful throughout the country.
In a just world he would be amongst them now as a peer or a
better, not as the humble clerk of some alien dignitary.
The Fiend's icy talons clawed their way up the boy's back
and chilled his very flesh until it goose pimpled. JUST LOOK AT WHAT WAS
TAKEN FROM YOU it spoke. YOUR RIGHTFUL PLACE AMONGST THEM! STOLEN!
STOLEN!
"...Be quiet!" whispered Fran.
Gustave threw a quizzical glance at him. "What?"
"I-"
They were interrupted before he was forced to explain
himself – by the first string in the web of contacts Gustave hoped to weave
during his time here in Morland – by the spry but aging Piers Comwyn, Viscount
of Thormont, grinning toothily as he welcomed them both to Woollerton Green.
And he wasn't alone. The older man had a younger woman on his arm, taller than
him by inches but comely in her own manner; modestly elegant in her dark green
trumpet-sleeve dress, studded about its angular collar and plumed beneath the
chemise by a hidden farthingale. Her hair, long and ivory blonde, fell loosely
from a pearl-woven caul to shawl-shrouded shoulders. Her smile was light and
her demeanour attentive. And for a moment she almost had Fran fooled. But then
he caught her dull eyes, narrow nose, and sharp chin, and recalled Gustave's
prior directives – blinking profusely as he did. And then finally, stupidly,
Fran realized who he was looking at.
`Lothar...'
"Allow me to introduce my guest for the banquet," said the
viscount. "This is Lady Eleanora of Stafforth."
Gustave, smiling wryly, took her delicate hand and kissed it
without skipping a beat. "A great pleasure to meet you, Lady Eleanora. The good
lord viscount must thank all the saints sevenfold for providing him with
such a beauty."
"You flatter me, ambassador." Eleanora smiled sweetly. "Let
me echo my lord's welcome and wish you good fortune in the negotiations to
come."
Thormont patted her hand. "Come, Eleanora. I have others I
wish to introduce you to. Masters, if you'll excuse us."
And with that Lady Eleanora and the Viscount of Thormont
sauntered away. Fran looked up at Gustave and hoped for all the world that his
growing disgust for his master did not wear upon his face. "...Does he know...?"
"Of course, that's the pageantry of it." Whispered Gustave.
"My Catspaw plays his part well, as he was trained to."
So. The viscount knew well that `Lady Eleanora' was
Gustave's boy, what he did not know was that Eleanora was given to him not as a
`thank you' for their reception at the Black Quay, but as a spy, an extra
window into the doings of the court and its nobles. Spilt seed made for loose
lips after all. That was Gustave's thinking, of course, playing at intrigue
with all the grace of a mastiff.
Fran looked to Lady Eleanora, giggling softly into her gloved
knuckles as Lord Comwyn told some ribald joke to her and the Earl of Huxton,
and rued his friend the nightly labours to come.
And then...
...and then another bastard found them. This one crept upon
them in slippered feet, enshrouded by a night black cloak mantled at its
shoulders with a decoration of peacock feathers. His flat black cap was equally
feathered, and his silverwork livery clinked against his breast.
Feathers and silverwork – the continental fashion. An
Imperial.
He approached them with a lank yet mousy young man at his
back, some sallow-skinned approximation of himself; hat, cloak, and all.
"An unfamiliar face at court..." said the Imperial. He broke
into a smile too bright by half, teeth as bright as a freshly polished pearl,
false teeth carved from ivory and set with gums of gold. He grinned. "Allow me
to guess... Lord Viscount Gustavius von Roschewald of Wallenstadt, no?"
"Indeed." Gustave eyed him. Warily. "And you are?"
"Myself, I am Georg Ludolf, Imperial Ambassador to Morland.
And this young man is my secretary, Matthias."
The tall, flat capped boy nodded. "Enchanted, masters."
Gustave paused. And for a moment, for the first time since
they set out upon this mission to Morland, Fran saw a true and genuine streak
of anger in his master – from furrowed brow to curtly pursed lips. For this
man, Ambassador Ludolf of Strausholm, was one of the primary architects of the
Treaty of Grace – the treaty that wrought the embargo that so crushed
Wallenheim – from both without and within.
The larger man clutched a fist, growled beneath his breath,
then released it, forcing a terse smile out of his face with a single leftward
jerk of the chin. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance, from one ambassador to
another. And I would also be pleased if you met my clerk, Francis Gray."
Fran bowed to both Ambassador Ludolf and his secretary,
slightly. "Masters."
"I have heard of you," said Ludolf. There was a little
velvet box in his pocket which he retrieved, and when he opened it, it was
filled with specially cured mint leaves. Ludolf took one and crunched it
between his false teeth. "An orphaned Morish noble taken in by the Roschewalds
as a ward. Thank the saints above for providing you with such... magnanimous
benefactors."
"I thank them daily," A lie. A lie well told. "...I consider
House Roschewald my own and strive to serve it accordingly."
"I am certain you serve in a great many ways, my boy."
Gustave's temple pulsed. If the trumpets had not blared
there and then Fran felt certain his master would've taken Ludolf by the throat
and thrown him teeth-first into the wall. As it happened the gilt doors of the
banqueting hall yawned open and out emerged two Bannerets of the Bloom,
razor-sharp halberds glittering in the candlelight, as the ruff-collared
trumpeters lowered their flagged instruments.
King Oswald's guests, now numbering in the hundreds, turned
to their instruction.
"My noble lords and ladies," addressed the first guard to
the throng. "The preparations for his majesty King Oswald's maturation banquet
are now complete. Please follow us to your designated seats."
The two bannerets stamped the shafts of their glaives, then
turned back into the banqueting hall. The king's assembled guests followed
suit. Fran (reluctantly) held close to Gustave as the nattering nobles filed
into the hall, which, if it were even possible, astounded him all the more.
Its high walls were frescoed (in parts) with nostalgic
rustic panoramas of noble hunting parties, hilltop moots and ancient
convocations. Gilded murals of old Morish kings and queens covered the ceiling,
from the nooks and crooks of which dangled crystal chandeliers to buttress the
illumination provided by the standing candelabras, as well as the high
wall-mounted brass sconces encased with glass.
The banqueting hall of Woollerton Green, almost four times
as long as it was wide, was then centred by two paralleled long tables dressed
in silken sheets embroidered with the royal seal; a downward facing broadsword
with a crowned pommel set against a purple poppy with gold trimmings, the seal
of House Oswyke. Both tables were large enough to seat a hundred, fifty to
either side. A third table sat at the head of the hall atop a raised plinth,
far smaller than the other two, but more ornately adorned and more chiefly
positioned. From there the king would sit.
The tabling was immaculate. Centrepieces of yellow roses and
white carnations, hearth-warmed cloths for the shoulder, tall glass ewers of
water and wine, embossed silver bowls and cutlery pieces so well polished you
could see yourself in them. Each chair was made of mahogany, lacquered to a
glint, carved with scroll, gilt with gold, cushioned with felt upon both seat
and armrest. Everything was set about to stun and impress.
More footmen emerged to see the high lords and ladies of the
court to their assigned seating, as per the directions of the Lord Seneschal of
the Realm, Ser Robert Mountjoy, who arranged their layout in accordance with
the old Morish custom of pride of place; those highest in the king's favour
seated closest to him. Gustave grumbled – for he and Fran's seats were those
closest to the door – but they were new at court, he reasoned, and Mountjoy was
a close ally of the Duke. There was more than time to sway all.
When the bulk of the king's guests were finally seated, the
two Bannerets of the Bloom guarding the door began to announce those of
greatest prominence, one after the other.
The Banneret stamped his glaive. "THEIR HONOURS THE MARQUESS
AND MARCHIONESS OF GEAD!"
DE LA MORE! Roared The Fiend.
Fran's heart thumped in his chest for that name and face he
knew well. That name, LYONEL DE LA MORE so adorned with the unearned
title MARQUESS OF GEAD the title that Fran might rightly have borne if fate
had fallen his way. And in crept he, that bloody banker, slinking low in his
dark blue doublet and even darker blue hose, and swan-feathered gold cap. The
Marquess kept his lovely lady's hand, some budding teenager of low repute and
broken maidenhead no doubt, as he led her down the tables to their seats.
The Banneret stamped his glaive. "THE LORD EARL AND LADY
COUNTESS OF WROTHSBY!"
The burner of Odoists and ravager of Greatminster's peace.
Crook-backed Wrothsby hobbled in at the Bannerets' call,
half his weight held aloft by a cane-shaped rood of sacred bark (and the other
half held up by his good wife, Lady Mildred) too aged to walk well but too
devout to deny himself the everyman's footsteps and be carried. His simple
russet cassock swung at his ankles as his sandalled feet shuffled stiffly
across the marble floor. Atop his livery collar swung four golden amulets and
talismans in the shape of the saints, tokens to ward off evil and evil spirits.
Beneath his fraying strands of grey one saw nothing of his face for the gilt
ivory half-mask encasing it. It was rumoured that the Earl had survived a
particularly vicious outbreak of smallpox in his distant boyhood, one that left
half his face hideously disfigured. But the experience transformed him, as he
took his narrow survival as a blessing from the saints themselves and became
fanatically devout: daily oblations and prayer, constant donations to the Kirk,
bi-annual pilgrimages to Greatminster, and now, the torment and destruction of
Odoists. A curtained veil obscured his good wife the Countess' face – for in
keeping with the ancient principles of his saint, Bosmund, no man was permitted
to see it but him. The Wrothsbys hobbled over to their seats.
The Banneret stamped his glaive. "HER MAJESTY THE QUEEN
DOWAGER EMMA!"
The hall's mood soured at the call of her name. Whispers
passed by. Fran overheard much of them. Talk of friction, of distance with the
king, of diminished favour. She emerged from the double doors attended by two
of her closest ladies in waiting, swathed utterly in the customary black of a widow
– her black dress trimmed with silver, her black gable hood studded with
pearls. She walked sombrely to the seat opposite Wrothsby's.
The Banneret stamped his glaive. "THEIR GRACES THE DUKE AND
DUCHESS OF GREYFORD!"
HIGH BASTARD! Seethed the Fiend. INWARD THE NEXT ENEMY SLINKS!
In strode Greyford, pale-skinned and gaunt, his stony visage
both stolid and foul, cracked with wrinkles and crow's feet. He walked arm in
arm with his good wife, the Duchess of Greyford, to whom the years had been
equally unkind. They were as sumptuously dressed as most of the court,
themselves both adorned at the shoulders by thick pelts of spotted grey fur,
the furs of the continental mountain lion, one of the rarest on the continent.
They took their two seats at the head of the left guest table, most noticeably
those closest to the king.
And yet, curiously, a seat remained unfilled. Almost
symbolically – as things often were symbolized in court (or so Gustave
assured). Even from their purposeful distance that empty chair could not escape
Fran's notice.
And then the Banneret stamped his glaive one last time. What
little chatter there was quieted, and everyone save Wrothsby and Ser Robert
Mountjoy rose from their seats to welcome "HIS MAJESTY KING OSWALD AND HER
MAJESTY QUEEN ANNALENA!"
The King and Queen of Morland entered the banqueting hall to
thunderous, rapturous applause. And despite his anger, despite Lyonel de la
More, despite Gustave, despite The Fiend; Fran couldn't help but be swept up in
that tide when first he saw his king, the newly maturated Oswald II.
The boy's handsomeness struck first – his kind green eyes
contrasting with his fiery russet-blonde hair, closely cropped, with that
seaside complexion that so spoke to good humours. His oval jaw and soft cheeks
attested his youth, but he possessed all the height and stature of manhood.
There was clearly muscle beneath that red-gold doublet (as he was notoriously
gifted at horsemanship, hunting, and falconry) but his demeanour was graceful
and restrained.
Young King Oswald carried himself with quiet confidence down
the length of the hall, arm in arm with his lady wife, the even younger Queen
Annalena of Gascovy, a girl of four and ten summers, and an Imperial – niece to
Emperor Konrad IV Adolphus himself. According to Neidhart's dossier, their
marriage was one of the more unpopular stipulations of the Treaty of Grace,
particularly with the commoners. But the foundations of beauty were there. In
time, Fran supposed, she would come into her features – faint jaw, high cheeks,
stark eyes. A raven's beauty awaited her.
Neither of the pair wore their crowns (as the maturation
ceremony dictated) but instead they wore more symbolic laurel wreaths and
together they walked up the short three steps of the plinth to the main table
where they then sat. A Banneret of the Bloom followed close behind with a caged
capuchin which he set upon a high stool just behind the king's scrolled throne.
Then he dismissed himself.
Oswald lifted his hand and the applause stopped.
A smile. "My lords and ladies. I wish to extend to you my
thanks, my thanks for both your attendance and your love. And as a sovereign...
it is your love that comforts me most as I now stand to navigate the needs and
demands of this realm. I wish to thank his grace the Duke of Greyford, my
beloved uncle, for his many years of diligent service to this country. It is my
greatest hope that I may live up to his aspirations."
Rounds of "here, here" resounded. Greyford lifted his cup,
his smile small and tight, to acknowledge the compliment. But the moment was
terse – and though they were several seats away, Fran and Gustave both sensed
it. There were rifts in this court despite its many pleasantries.
"In ancient scripture it is said that mine own saint,
Bosmund, walked the path of ignorance before he walked the path of wisdom,"
continued the king. "And for all I know of wisdom, the more you accumulate the
more you realize how little of it you possess. There are challenges ahead of
us, great challenges, both within and beyond our shores. Yet rest assured – all
will be met with the finest minds and talents Morland has to offer. Tomorrow I
shall announce my new Council of the Masters of the Realm and I will hold talks
with Ambassadors Ludolf and Roschewald as regards our foreign relations. My
lords and ladies, there is much work to be done. But with your love and faith,
I hope not merely to continue the good works of my father and uncle, but to
expand upon them and bring about a new golden age for our times." The king
raised his cup. "For the realm!"
His guests raised their cups to him. "FOR THE REALM!"
"But for this day," the king smiled upon his wife, who
smiled back lovingly. "My queen tells me you've all brought gifts?"
Laughter and applause. King Oswald took his seat and so
everyone followed, a raucous clatter of chair legs and chatter as dozens of the
king's footmen swarmed about the tables to fill each noble guest's cup with a
wine of their own choosing, either Morish white or Gasqueri red. A succession
of gifts were brought before the king's table, one after the other.
The Earl of Huxton gifted King Oswald an ornate pair of
watered steel sabres from the finest swordsmiths of the Sandsea Plateau.
The Marquess of Gead, Lyonel de la More, gifted the king a
signet ring of rarest onyx engraved with the sigil of the royal house.
The Earl of Wrothsby gifted the king with the complete and
illuminated Testaments of the Four Saints, perfect facsimiles of the most
sacred texts of the Commonfaith.
The Queen Dowager gifted the king with a specially
embroidered set of coats, each one sown with a different type of fur (mink,
ermine, bear, etc).
Ser Robert Mountjoy's gift was a golden half-cloak similar
to his own, said to have been stitched and enchanted by wood witches to grant
the king everlasting fortune.
Queen Annalena's gift was an opulent Imperial-style crossbow
specially customized for hunting large game (which earned her a sweet little
kiss as a reward).
Gustave's gift came somewhere in the middle. For its great
weight two Bannerets of the Bloom were required to bring it out upon a wheeled
stand and unveil it before King Oswald – a massive glass-encased brass
clockwork device whirling internally with a complex mechanism of spokes,
pinions, wires, gears, and escapements. There was a hand-shaped imprint upon
the brass latticework of its encasings.
When the king looked confused, Gustave took it upon himself
to explain. "It is called an Astral Prognosticator, your majesty, one of the
finest inventions of my people. It tracks the star cycles of the soul it is
calibrated to and grants them `readings' of the fate that awaits them. One can only
imagine the extraordinary things it will speak of your fate."
"A most impressive devise, Ambassador Roschewald." The King
smiled. "Thank you for this."
Gustave smiled back with a nod and a bow and a round of
applause followed. Fran's master took his seat, small victory in place, setting
the wine cup to his lips and savouring the moment.
Ambassador Ludolf came next. Up he stood, his seat closer to
the king than Gustave's by half, his hands tightly cupped together as he
smirked dazzlingly amongst the courtiers as he spoke; "Your Majesty's love and
skill for horsemanship is well known. In that spirit, I present you with this..."
Two Bannerets walked into the hall – and a round of gasps
rippled through the room as they brought with them a pair of whickering
silver-backed stallions, a powerful breed virtually unknown on this side of the
continent; one for the king and one for the queen. King Oswald looked upon his
new gift with utter delight, and Gustave's triumphant little grin evaporated
into a frown.
The king, as well as his many guests, clapped vigorously. "Most generous,
ambassador, most generous!"
Ambassador Ludolf resumed his seat. And when he did, he shot
a very broad smile across the hall to his counterpart from Wallenheim.
Gustave's frown became a snarl.
And Fran, observing the exchange, began to realize that this
man Ludolf would be a problem.
**********
The Necropolis, Dragonspur, Kingdom
of Morland
36th of Summer, 801
The summer rains had cleared, at least for the day, and for
that Edward Bardshaw was grateful. Prior visits to the Necropolis after a hard
night's rainfall made for rough going: its cobbled footpaths sodden with sludge
and horse dung, its underground crypts waterlogged to the knee, but not this
day, thankfully. This time its cobbled footpaths were clear of mud (if not a
little straw and bird scat) and the crypt keepers were free to keep the candles
and braziers lit. Broad-shouldered grave
diggers worked teams of oxen along the southern side of the field by the Lord
Mayor's order, just beyond the Necropolis' walls, to expand its perimeter.
The graves were almost full.
So truthfully Edward was lucky at all to get a little patch
of earth for his memorial (if you could call them that). It rested in the
south-eastern corner of the complex, far too close to the burial grounds of the
unclaimed poor and dishonoured dead for Edward's liking, but affordable.
Four small stone slabs with four treasured names chiselled deep into them.
EGBERT BARDSHAW
His father, that kindly blacksmith, with his big black beard
and sweaty skin and oil-stained smock and bear-like hug, who taught him that a
man's fate is determined not merely by saints or stars or omens but by his own heart.
BRETWALDA BARDSHAW
His mother, that stern disciplinarian, chief attendant to
Lady Gray and one of her closest confidants. Edward saw her now in his mind –
blonde hair bobbed beneath her caul, garbed in her homespun cotton dress and
sandals, impressing upon him with that deep abiding frown to better himself and
live by principle.
HARRY GROVER
His childhood friend and companion, one of the most fun
loving and humorous souls Edward ever met. An orphan warded
to the horsemaster of House Gray, Berron Grover, and one of the finest young
riders of his day. There was no such
thing as an unhappy day in his company.
SER MARTYN MORROGH
His swordmaster and childhood hero, captain of House Gray's
personal guard and a Banneret of the Bloom. Whatever small skill Edward had
with the blade, all was the work of his tutelage, his drills, and his
discipline. He was the man who taught Edward to always walk with honour, and to
hold his head high in the doing of it, for that was what made a
man.
Edward took a knee and said a prayer for each one.
He would never recover the bodies. Sometimes he dreamed of
going back to the Isle of Gead to find and bury them, but it was too late. Ten
years was a long time. His memorial to them was not enough, not even a fraction
of what they deserved, but it was all he could do and all he could afford.
Edward stood up again. Dusted off his knees, smoothed out
his cloak, adjusted his sword belt. Then he spoke. "Apologies to you all. I... I
have not visited as much as I aught have, but... I bring good news this time.
It's Fran, he's... he's alive! Just like I always thought... just like I'd always
hoped... I felt it. I always felt it."
It was why Edward never gave him a stone.
"He is well and thriving," said the swordsman. "In the service
of some foreign ambassador from Wallenheim. You'd hardly recognize him now. No
longer the apple-cheeked son of Lord Gray, but a man grown." Ed swallowed. "I'm
going to protect him. Him and Master Stillingford both. I... don't know why but
somehow, I feel their import, not merely to me but to everyone. I will
be the sword and the shield that protects them... in all the ways I could not
protect you, my nearest and dearest."
A sigh. And a tear. Edward wiped away the latter, and then
reached inside his doublet and undershirt for the locket of relics tucked
beneath them. And he opened it for the first time in ten years.
It contained three items – a lock of Fran's hair (which he
once cut from the boy's hair as he slept); two of Ser Martyn's teeth blown from
his very jaw as he dove to protect Edward from the cannon fire of those blasted
Imperial ships; and finally, his mother's wedding band, still smeared in the
copper-colour traces of her blood.
The bounty and tragedy of home.
Edward sighed again, then sealed it shut and tucked it back
beneath his lockram shirt.
"I will come and visit again soon," said he. "But for now?
May the saints keep you all in sweet, sweet rest."
And then he departed. Swift bootsteps trudging along by the
dusty trails weeded over from the cracks between the cobbles, Edward hurried
past teary mourners and smocked grave keepers to the outer edge of the
Necropolis' stone walls where Stillingford's coach awaited. He climbed inside
and seated himself next to the surly old scholar, scratching his beard as he
eyed the adjacent window.
"Where to first, master?" Said Ed.
Stillingford frowned at him, albeit with a chuckle. "That
mischievous Club of yours, where else?"
**********
Woollerton Green, The Midburghs,
Kingdom of Morland
36th of Summer, 801
King Oswald (as Francis Gray and a good many others were
soon to know) was very much a man of twinned temperaments. On the first, the
man of the banquet, sumptuously dressed and well dispositioned, courteous, and
affable, a delight to converse with, and a man to admire from afar. But as Fran
came to see the king was also a man of industrious bureaucracy, so told by the comings
and goings of the antechamber to his offices that day.
Whilst the king's courtiers nursed themselves through the
flatulent revenge of the prior night's feasting and drinking, King Oswald was
up at the early hours of the day, those hours yet lit by candlelight; head
down, fingers splayed, quill scratching, sealing wax warmed, and parchment at
the ready. And that was how Fran and Gustave first found him. Hunched over the
lacquered breadth of his scrolled mahogany desk with papers splayed at every corner.
Clerks buzzed in and out of his offices with bulging satchels. Two of his
Bannerets of the Bloom stood guard as hour after hour, more of his personal
servants brought missives and messages from across the country, freshly arrived
by riders of the night. Pleas for aid and favour, no doubt, as well as
invitations, updates on the conditions of royal properties and the reports of
his espials.
There would be no rest for the freshly empowered monarch,
but to see him and his diligent vigour, one might not assume he needed it.
King Oswald's offices were minute in size and comfortable –
with a noisy hearth and towering bookcases, all centred by his desk and its
guest chairs, as well as a wider table where lay a woven map of the Kingdom of
Morland, its four key regions dyed in four distinct shades of jade threaded
with gilt borders and highways: the Highburghs, the Midburghs, the Lowburghs
and the
Isle of Gead. Each region was studded with an onyx jewel representing
its chief city – Harcaster, Dragonspur, Wrothsby, and Stoneport respectively.
Bleached buck skulls ran the narrow space between the case tops and the low
ceiling, along with escutcheons chequered in silver and blue and painted with the
royal sigil. Black iron latticework protected the wide rear windows overlooking
the centremost of the three great courtyards of Woollerton Green, with all its
gravel tracts, water fountains, nymphic statues, marble plinths, rose gardens,
hedge mazes and yews.
Gustave folded his arms behind his back. Fran did the same.
They both bowed, but only one of them spoke.
"Your Majesty...," said Gustave.
The King looked up from his work, fingertips smattered with
ink, and smiled. "Ah! Ambassador Roschewald. Thank you for accepting my
invitation, your excellency. Come, sit, let us talk."
With silent respect both sat to the King's desk.
"Wine, perhaps?" Offered Oswald. "I have a Wallish red at my
disposal, much matured."
Gustave smiled. "Your Majesty is most gracious, but we
reluctantly refuse. Perhaps some water might suffice?"
There was a ruff-collared footman
stood nearby, posted next to the king's desk within arm's reach of three
separate ewers upon a silver platter. King Oswald bade him pour and serve three
glasses of water for them. And then his quill resumed its scratchings. "A man
after my own heart, ambassador. A clear head serves well."
"Strong negotiations merit as much, Your Majesty."
Scritch, scritch. "There will be no negotiations."
"Majesty?"
His quill paused. Then he smiled. "Not at present, anyway."
Then he turned to Fran. "Ambassador. Who have you failed to introduce me to?"
"T-this is my aide, Your Majesty, Francis Gray of-"
Francis Gray wondered if he should hate this king. After
all, it was the dithering of his lord father King Osmund that allowed Imperial
ships to lay siege to one fourth of the Morish demesnes for nigh on a year, its
people starved and bombarded with not a single skiff or wherry of relief from
the crown...
...but the son was not the father. And the king's quaint smile
ebbed when he heard the name. Francis Gray of House Gray. He knew not the face,
but certainly the name.
"Gray," said Oswald, softly. "Lord Gray... or the son of him,
at least. I met him once... as a boy. He was a good man. May I offer my
condolences."
`Your condolences are hollow,' thought Fran. Condolences made him
think of cannon fire and screaming, of guard towers reduced to rubble, of blood
smears along the footpaths, of stray limbs shorn from their sockets. His pity
was not compassion – and a far cry from justice. But as Fran was forced to
remind himself, the son was not the father. Saints help Stillingford if
he was. "Thank you, Your Majesty. My father held your own in great esteem."
"Lord Gray was the Earl of Harcaster's vassal, was he not?"
A nod. "Yes."
"I see," a whisp of a smile played upon the young King's
lips. Almost as if he had deduced something – or found a use for something.
"Your house was poorly served by my late father, Master Gray. That I admit to
you. As I understand it you were warded to House
Roschewald after the siege?"
"Yes-"
"At His Grace the Duke of Greyford's behest," interjected
Gustave. "And since turning eight-and-ten I have returned Francis' services
with fair wage."
Young Fran watched even younger Oswald's eyes shift curtly
to Gustave, his still expression shifting swifty from polite curiousness to
restrained irritation. "I would rather hear the boy speak of himself,
excellency."
"Apologies," Gustave demurred. "Of course."
Oswald returned to Fran. "You've no inheritance?"
"...None. Your Majesty." In the wake of the Siege the lands
once ruled by House Gray were parcelled off to the de la Mores, the Morish
descendants of an old Gasqueri merchant-banking family granted royal licence to
mint coins upon the Isle. Both Fran's wardship to the Roschewalds and the
accession of Lyonel de la More to the newly founded `Marquisate of Gead' were
but two of the Duke's many stratagems to cement Morish ties to the continental
mainland, with the Treaty of Grace as the crowning glory of his regency.
"And poorly served by my Lord Uncle besides," mused the
King. His affection for the continent remained to be seen. "Nevertheless.
You are most welcome at my court, Master Gray. And now," the King fixed his
smile to address Gustave. "Ambassador. You spoke of negotiations?"
"Negotiations," repeated Gustave. "I can only compliment
Your Majesty on his graciousness and diplomacy. You are a reflection of your
great people."
"Have you met many of my people, excellency?"
The question struck Fran's ear as sarcastic. And yet when he
looked to the king he saw more of that calm curiosity upon his face... almost as
if he was genuinely curious what Gustave made of his people, or, if Gustave's
understanding of the Morish matched his own – almost as if that understanding
was in question, somehow.
"I have communicated with a handful, yes."
Nevertheless, once `negotiations' were uttered, Fran reached
into his satchel and fetched quill, ink, and parchment to take minutes. King
Oswald summoned his own notary from the antechamber and bade him pull a chair
from the corner and sit with them all as the discussion resumed.
"And your impression?"
Gustave held his breast and smiled. "That your people are a
strong, brave, resilient sort. The mood amongst the Morish I have met is one of
tremendous love, excitement, and expectation for your true regnancy, though
they have confided in me some... misgivings about his grace the Duke of
Greyford's regency."
A frown. "What misgivings?"
"There is talk of persecutions and burnings at the hand of
the Earl of Wrothsby," Gustave nervously fingered the rings of his free hand.
And Fran paused because he'd never known his master to be nervous in anything
he did.
`So, you are taking this seriously,' thought the boy.
Perhaps Neidhart's warnings rang loudly even over his own
braggadocio? Or perhaps Gustave was simply perceptive enough to understand that
King Oswald was not enamoured with him?
Nevertheless, the Wallish Ambassador kept his word and
delivered Stillingford's tidings with ill ease. "Some of the Wallishmen settled
in Dragonspur speak of attacks against them by Morish labourers. One of my own
men was attacked not two days after our landing. Some speak of the sky-high
price of bread and grain. I say none of this to offend or accuse, Your Majesty.
Only to inform."
The young king became stolid, reclining into his throne-like armchair.
He took a moment to think and to evaluate Gustave's words,
before replying, rather dispassionately, "Speak to my clerks later and tell
them of this offence to your man. I will have Constable Wolner look into it. As
for the Lord Earl and his campaign in the south, he assured me the most
stringent measures are reserved only for the worse criminals and
recalcitrants."
"Perhaps the reports embellish," offered Gustave. "Still,
Your Majesty, when thunder rumbles lightning falls. I would only ask a
consideration of the claims. And, to that point, there is a forum in Dragonspur
called Speaker's Square where such matters are oft discussed. All who attend it
love you. Perhaps if you were to visit and assay their claims..."
The King smiled then. Curtly. "You speak of the agitators."
"I speak only of proud Morishmen who love you and their
country."
"...It was the Duke of Greyford's belief that such men should
be paid no heed, and that Constable Wolner, his own hire, keeps them in check.
And masters, my good uncle is not well-disposed to New Men, so... one could only
imagine my concern that the Duke is so wary of these agitators as to violate
his own morals and conscience in the fact."
"Your Majesty is well loved by these `agitators'," affirmed
Gustave. "You are their king. And they trust you to look to your own
judgement."
Oswald's dismissive smile faltered. Slightly. And Fran saw
at once that Gustave finally struck the right tone with him.
"Negotiations," muttered the monarch.
His notary took up his quill. As did Fran. And both their
instruments scratched as Gustave addressed the Morish King. "Indeed. I will be
frank. Our peoples struggle, Morish and Wallish alike, under the weight of this
embargo. Wallish produce cannot find its way to Morish ports. Our trading
guilds have worked side by side for centuries and now they decline. This can
only lead to enmity between our two nations, and I strive to avert that. My
nation and I implore you to re-open trading relations with Wallenheim."
The King reclined, threading his inky fingers. "My Lord
Uncle and I acceded to this embargo only as a consequence of peace between
Morland and the Empire. What you ask is in affect a violation of the Treaty of
Grace."
"I would not consider it so, though I acknowledge there are
some who would."
Oswald frowned. "The Emperor would. Make no mistake,
ambassador, my countrymen bear little love for the Imperials – but I need not
love them to know that peace with them better suits my countrymen's interests.
And so. What do you propose that would give me cause to threaten a peace so
hard won?"
"A consortium," There were legal documents in Fran's
satchel. Without ushering, Fran set aside his quill, popped open its buckle and
handed them to his master, who, with the king's leave, rolled them out afore
him by his knight and deer shaped paperweights. "A joint trading organization of
Morish and Wallish guilds, traders and merchants authorized by royal licence
yet operating independently of both the Kingdom of Morland and the
Republic of Wallenheim. Such an organization would not violate your treaty with
the Empire, and all our resources would return to your nation's disposal. Our
wheat. Our corn. Our potatoes. Our furs. Our wines. Our ironwood."
The Morish King paused. He looked intrigued. "...And you say
this `consortium', in precept at least, would not violate the treaty?"
"The Council of Lords employs some of the finest legal minds
in Wallenheim and my brother had them review the stipulations of the treaty in thorough
detail. They assure us that the consortium proposal is not in breach of any of
its clauses."
"...Perhaps not the letter. But the spirit...?"
The king sighed. "Very well. I will ask my incoming Lord Serjeant to review
this proposal as it relates to the treaty. If your attestations prove true, I
will put it to my Masters of the Realm for a vote. If they should accede, the
proposal will be sent via envoy to the Emperor. And if the Emperor raises no
objections, then I will consider approving it."
Fran was too busy with his quill jotting down every detail
of their dialogue to gauge his master's reaction but there was little need. A
review, then a vote, then an envoy, then a consideration? That was tantamount
to an objection! Certainly nothing Wallenheim or the Brothers Roschewald could
rely on.
Fran peeked a glance out the corner of his eye and spotted
Gustave's large fist tightening beneath the ruffed white sleeves of his
silver-black doublet, his very nails digging into the thread of his hose to
suppress his anger. And that dour smile of deference he'd worn since setting
foot into the King's offices? It clung to his lips by a whisker.
"Your Majesty is most kind," uttered Gustave, tersely.
Gustavius von Roschewald, Viscount of Wallenstadt, was not a
deferential man. He could play the part of the charming courtier all he wished
(and play it well) but he was not a man for submission. But his opponent that
day was a king, and that king did not blink. Young Oswald was strong, wilfully
strong, far beyond Fran's expectations. He would not be so easy to bend.
"However," said Oswald.
Gustave's brow peaked.
"Your invitation to Speaker's Square intrigues me. And I am...
pleased to hear of the strength of feeling for me amongst my subjects. I will
contemplate attending upon the considerations of my counsellors. And... I will
speak candidly with the Earl of Wrothsby about the accusations I have heard. Now,"
Oswald stood smiling with a single clap of his inked hands. Both Gustave and
Fran stood after him, respectfully lowering their heads. "With respect I must
cut our initial meeting short as I have other appointments to keep. We must
talk further of other strategies to strengthen the ties between our two nations
in the near future. I'll speak to my clerks to arrange it. In the meanwhile, it
would gratify me if you would attend the court dance this evening. You and
Master Gray."
Gustave, with his teeth so tightly clenched, bowed. "We
would be delighted to, Your Majesty."
"Very good." Oswald resumed his seat. "Now if you'll excuse
me."
They were dismissed. Fran gathered up his materials, slipped
the satchel strap back over his shoulder, then returned his feathered cap to his
head and followed his master's heavy footsteps out into the echoing antechamber
of the King's Offices, where two more guests sat scheduled for their own
meeting with the king – Imperial Ambassador Ludolf and his secretary, Matthias.
The two dignitaries met eyes.
And a slow, victorious smirk crept across Ludolf's face.
**********
·
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).