· 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 Four: A Court of Ghosts,
Part 2
**********
Thomas Wolner – The One Year Queen –
`Just you and me' – Lady Cecily – Meadow's Court – Ill Tidings
**********
The
Old Lioness, Dragonspur, Kingdom of Morland
36th of Summer, 801
There was an ale-induced stumble in Edward Bardshaw's step
as he ferried two frothing flagons of ale over to Basil Smeadon's table. It was
their third of the morning, but he held his balance just long enough to get
them over without a spilt drop. Ed set his friend's cup down then gulped a few
throatfuls of his own before sitting down to a well-earned belch.
It drew Smeadon's smirk. "Someone's in a good mood!"
"That man of yours did me a good turn," said Ed, thumbing
the ale foam from his lips. "Your ale's on me for the rest of the night,
Basil."
Smeadon's smile fell a little. Not much, but a little. "It
ain't a small thing to ask for, Ed. Five years' worth of star chart records?
Requests like that'll raise an eyebrow or two."
It was an odd request to be certain. Smeadon's man in the
Star Chart Chamber worked fast and had the facsimiles ready for him in a day,
whether in secrecy or in sight Ed could not say, but it gave him enough time to
hire a rider in the meanwhile – the documents would probably be in Fran's hands
by now. Ed couldn't speak to the purpose or the urgency, but of all people
asking it was Fran, not some stranger. How could Ed say no?
He slapped Smeadon's knuckles and thanked him. "I'll repay
you for this someday, friend."
Basil threw back a gulp of ale. "See that you do."
At the table behind them sat Will Rothwell and old man
Stillingford. As Old Meg sent some of her serving girls over to clear their
plates, Will watched, half-sceptically and half-expectant, as his old teacher
skimmed through the initial pages of his newly completed, ready to print work, The
Pauper's Rebuke: A Remonstrance with Regency Ten Years Prolonged. Or more
simply The Pauper's Rebuke. And Will did his merry best to pretend the
old man's verdict mattered not to him, idly filling his pipe before taking
another sup of wine.
"Too..."
"Too what?" Said Will. "Detailed? Urbane? Incisive?"
"Forthright." Said Stillingford. "Pedantic. Aggressive. Here
you say, `For that which is given to us by the saints is not land or title
or wealth but the blessing of a soul and of the laws that guide it – laws
infracted by the great rabble in their gilded roosts who laud earthly prize
over our heads, who mistake vice for virtue and feign their crumbs for our
feasts. But heaven has no hierarchies and'-"
Will frowned. "I fail to see your issue."
"You're rambling! And a rambling insult is like a toothless
dog, much bark and little bite. Every sentence is alike this. A treatise is not
a sermon, Will! Make your point and proceed."
There was a grumble after the frown. Will Rothwell, freezing
his snarl, did not bother to rebut his old teacher's claims. Will did what he
always did whenever he was in a bad mood – he lit his pipe. "You did not like
it."
"I never dispute anything you say or write, Will. It's your
tenor what rubs me wrong," A little of his commoner's drawl slipped out then.
It always did when Stillingford was angry. "You've even dedicated it to Edith
the Exile!"
Will exhaled a puff of smoke. "A simple show of solidarity
with our Odoist allies in the north. It's no more than that."
"Perhaps to you," Stillingford's eyes sharpened at
him. "But to others it could be seen as seditious. Take it out."
They glared at each other. The old scholar and his
precocious student. Mirrors of each other. Both common-born, who both so
excelled at their temple school tutelage they each earned a royal bursary to
attend the College of Dragonspur, sharing desks with some of the wealthiest
sons of the nobility.
What little Stillingford spoke of his studies he summarized
by its loneliness. Aristocratic heirs mocked his homespun tunic and his mottled
shoes and his fraying satchel and his common little street drawl. Pauper they
called him. Potboy. Goatherd. Swinekeep. But he suffered their taunts and jibes
with a stiff back, burying himself in his studies until he emerged top of his
peers, acquiring his masterates in Continental Law and Saintly Law.
After publishing The Phantoma Stillingford eventually
became a lecturer at the College and encouraged intellectual men of a similar
sort of background to pursue an education there. And so, when William Rothwell
came under his eye, the son of a successful guildsman yet so passionate with
regards to the plight of the poor, Theopold couldn't help but take to him, to
invest his philosophies and viewpoints in him, to train him up as the new voice
of the lowborn and downtrodden. In short?
William Rothwell was Stillingford's heir apparent.
`The next Phantoma will be written by Will's quill' he'd oft said. But time was ever
the ravager of concord, and across years the student and the teacher had
departed somewhat in their philosophies.
The old man was inspired by Sage Odo, and his sermons of
equality beneath the stars, the right to choose one's saint; the teachings
which formed the foundation of his own philosophy, Equitism. But as Stillingford had drifted from
Odoism, so Rothwell now drifted from Equitism. Will cared little for its
religious foundations, only its political applications, and he shared none of
his master's faith in the crown, a sentiment slowly laying the seedbed for a
newer philosophy to take Equitism's place – an angrier, sharper, more practically
applicable philosophy. It had no name yet. But to Stillingford's regret, The
Crow's Club was becoming a kind of cradle for it, and the old man feared its
implications.
Ed quietly joined their table to quell the tension.
And then those `implications' walked in through the Old
Lioness' doors.
His spurs clinked as he slowly made his way down the
underground tavern's dusty stone steps. Old Meg was first to spot him. Her good
husband the tavernmaster caught her eye and gestured to Edward, who turned from
the bickering pair to the sable-cloaked phantom stood darkly by the stairwell
archway.
Thomas Wolner.
The Constable of Dragonspur.
Ed's eyes shot open. His heart leapt into his throat, chest
pounding, as he set down his ale flagon and almost – almost – reached for his
sword. Yet by some miracle of discipline, he stayed himself and instead struck
his table with his fist repeatedly until every other table fell quiet. The club
members turned to Stillingford's table, then fixed their eyes where Edward,
Stillingford and Rothwell now glared, and the entire tavern plunged into tense
silence.
Wolner, nigh on seven feet tall, lowered himself by his
shoulders simply to pass through the bricked archway. He reached up and removed
the wide-brimmed hat from his head, setting it against his breast as his thin
lips broke into a long skeletal smile.
Edward's fist shook against the grain until Will's soft hand
palmed it. They looked at each other. Will smiled.
`It's alright,' he mouthed. `We will be alright.'
The tremors calmed.
Wolner's spurs clinked through the silence as he strode slow
and purposefully to Old Meg's countertop and called for a cup of cider. The
tavern mistress, shivering, nodded wordlessly then reached for fresh
silverwork. A hundred eyes followed the constable as he went from the counter
to Stillingford's table where he drew up a chair, took a seat, and set down his
wide black hat.
A dark smile fell upon the old man and Ed's blood ran cold
when he saw it, when remembrances of chains and beatings flooded his mind.
"Master Stillingford," snarled Wolner. "What a pleasure to
at last have met. Your infamy well proceeds you."
"As does yours," said the scholar.
The Constable threaded together his bone white fingers and
leaned forward with that broad-toothed smile of his. "Do you know... I once read
your treatise on new men?"
"...`New Men'...," said
Stillingford. "As I simplistically titled it. And how did you find it?"
Over by the counter Old Meg snapped her fingers. One of her
buxom blonde pot girls took a silver cup of cider to the table.
"Riveting. An inspiration, actually. Not merely the notion
that we men lowborn may yet rise beyond our lot... but that the very future may belong
to us... fascinating. It is a creed I myself have lived by. However else would a
man like me, a cobbler's son, rise to the rank of constable?"
Every eye in the tavern bore down upon them.
"Your talents are storied," said Stillingford.
And they were.
Talents like torment. A conjurer of lamentations and
night terrors fit to plague a man until his dying day, painting skulls with
recollections of their own destruction. Piss-stench befouling the breeks after
a beating. The salt-iron taste of bloody phlegm. The rattle of cold chains
knocking against mouldy brick. Flea-bitten bumps of flesh too far from gyved
hands to scratch. Taunts echoing in the ears. Scurrying mice. Screams from the
adjacent cell. That ugly, cowardly knot in your stomach as the sound of
clinking spurs drew closer and closer to your banded iron door.
"The stories are true," said Wolner. He drained his cup of
cider in a few short gulps and slapped it empty against the beer-stained grain.
"Do you know... how I have acquired my power, Master Stillingford?"
"By your talents?"
"By a display of my talents," said he. "When I
quelled the Greyford Manse unrest some four years hitherto. Do you recall?"
Edward sneered at the allusion, as did others amongst the
Crow's Club, men like Basil Smeadon who were veterans of that `unrest'. The
year was 797, and the second payment of Greyford's bi-annual Guard Tax was due.
But as he sent his collectors out into the Midburghs, news of Sage Odo's tragic
fate swept across the countryside ahead of them, and when they finally arrived,
the reaction was like a torch to kindling. Commonfolk of every clime and
profession exploded onto the streets. They took up their fishing spears and fagging
hooks, their bills and bludgeons, their knives, hammers, and hoes, then went to
work against Greyford's bloodsuckers. Whole villages and towns were put to the
torch. But the hardest violence was seen in the merchant city of Greyford,
where the Duke's disgruntled subjects finally broke faith and bellowed for his
head, rallying behind the banner of a rebel lord, one Aemmon mac Garrach of
Castlegarron.
It was the local sheriff, Thomas Wolner, who stopped those
3,000 brave souls from storming the Greyford Manse and tearing it to its
foundations – by heading a small but deadly army of demi-lancers, 500 strong,
who tore across the surrounding fields and cut the resistance down like wheat.
Hundreds died. Most surrendered. All suffered. Aemmon mac Garrach was executed and his son disinherited by act of attainder. And
thus, Wolner's name was made. And the Duke of Greyford, despite his woeful
distaste for new men, installed him as Constable of Dragonspur, protector of
the capital and enforcer of its laws.
Wolner's smile darkened. "There are those who say that The
Phantoma is more threat than warning. There are even some who say that it
was not merely Odo's death that stirred those masses... but also the word of
agitators such as yourself. What would you say to those claims?"
Stillingford held firm. "To the former? I would say they are
mistaken. And to the latter? I might say, constable, that any small spark may
light a pyre... but never without the tinder."
A grin.
"Well said. And that is why I have come to see you.
It is my interest that the spark may never meet the tinder here in Dragonspur.
And I am certain that you have every interest in helping me prevent that."
Wooden chair legs scraped the stone floor as Constable Wolner stood and
retrieved his hat. He eyed the rafters. "I wish to quell some of the wretched
rumours wafting around this establishment... I simply have a few enquiries to
make before I cross it off my ledger."
Stillingford, terse and curt, nodded. "By all means. What
can we do to allay your concerns?"
Wolner's blithe smile faded. As did the pretence of
civility. "I'll require accounting records for every year of this
establishment's trade as well as its title deeds and licence to sell and serve
ale. I will also require two lists: one of your patrons and a second of your
suppliers. And they are to be delivered to my offices at Staunton Castle no
later than sunfall tomorrow. Is that understood?"
The old man nodded. "Indeed, master. We shall oblige."
"See that you do," said the constable. Once more he donned
his wide-brimmed hat, thanking Old Meg (by name) for her hospitality, and
making his way back up the scuffed stone steps whence he came, spurs ringing
with each footstep until he was gone.
The entire club burst into frightened chatter. Stillingford
released a breath as Smeadon and Thopswood came over to check on him. Will on
the other hand? He was more worried about Ed. Edward Bardshaw felt his worried
stare peering at him from the corner of his eye, but he ignored it, and set his
hand to his sword's grip as he quietly prayed to all four saints for some sweet
coming day where he might finally draw it and separate that bastard's fucking
head from its fucking shoulders.
**********
Woollerton Green, The Midburghs,
Kingdom of Morland
36th of Summer, 801
Shortly before daybreak arrived the rider who lightly
knuckled the apartment door. Fran crawled out from underneath Gustave's weighty
arm, peeled out of bed, and swathed himself inside the nearest cloak to stave
off the chill. He padded across of the bedroom by the tips of his toes to
receive what he thought would be a missive for his lord master.
Instead, it was something for him. A tome-shaped parcel
wrapped in onionskin and bound with twine.
"From an anonymous contact in the city of Dragonspur," said
the messenger. "The fee is paid."
He placed it inside Fran's hand and departed with a light
bow. The boy shut the door. Gustave yet slumbered as he unstrung the twine and tore
open the paper. It was a substantial sheaf of freshly copied star chart records
spanning the full breadth of a half-decade from 1st of Summer 779 to
91st of Winter 783. That and a letter.
To
a friend most beloved,
I
hope this finds you well and aides you.
And
I wish you home soon.
e.b
`Home,' the boy sighed. `I am home...'
Fran kissed the letter, daydreaming of its sender, then
quietly secreted both items into his satchel for safe keeping. Gustave would
wake in an hour or so and summon his groomsman to dress him (or, depending on
his morning lusts, ask Fran to do it) then ask a man to direct him and Fran to
one of Woollerton Green's four saintly shrines where (publicly) he would offer
prayer to St. Wynnry. Afterwards he would attend breakfast at the banqueting
hall to compliment the King's bouche and break bread with the great nobles of
Morland to forge the necessary alliances for his grand design here. And Fran
would follow him in kind, making observations and offering advice, then later
retreating to the ambassador's apartments to draw up the forthcoming letters
and contracts. That would be the day's itinerary.
Gustave permitted him scant time for recreation, but on
occasion he was generous, and later in the day allowed Fran a few hours of his
own to find recreation around the palace.
He found it in the water gardens.
There was a marble bench shaded by yews at the edge of the
reflecting pool, its tranquil waters casting rippled mirror images of the
palatial entranceway, its bubbling fountains, and the surrounding hedges. A
nymphic statue of Queen Katheresa stood at its foot, eight feet high, cut of
marble, its nose broken off and left unrepaired, its plinth overgrown with moss
and left uncleaned.
Fran took his seat there in its shadow and pulled the
satchel strap from his shoulder. He breathed deep, took in the rose scent, cast
his head back and looked up at cottony clouds roaming across a bright blue sky.
For today at least the summer rains had stopped. And there was a sense of
peace.
Handfuls of young, well coupled nobles strode the gravel
tracts arm in arm. Some ladies walked their spaniels. Other lords simply took
some air. The scene was idyllic. It almost reminded him of home... of Gead. And
thoughts of home had Fran fetch the little piece of it that made its way into
his possession that morning, Edward's letter, which again he read and again he
kissed.
He heard giggles.
Fran looked up from his shadowed bench. Two young ladies
strode by across the reflecting pool; petticoated dresses blooming beneath
their gild chemises by elaborate farthingales, their pretty parasols twirling
in silk-gloved hands, hands oh so slightly covering their pursed lips, rouged
to perfection, and curling with amusement. The young pair cast their eyes (and
smiles) at Fran as they strode idly by with two Bannerets of the Bloom at their
back, still and stolid, as all good guards were. They shuffled off.
"The ladies of the court do love a pretty face."
The accented voice came from his left, where the reflecting
pool ended, and the gravel trails wound off into the hedge mazes. Fran looked
up. It was Matthias he saw, Ambassador Ludolf's lank secretary. The Imperial
sauntered up to him with the terrible posture of his height, his lean upper
body hunched and curving forward in his dark black overcoat, its shoulders and
sleeves sown with bear-fur, for though the rains had stopped it was still
unseasonably cold for a summer – ever the sign of a bad harvest to come.
Matthias held up his hands, marred with parchment cuts. "I
come in peace. May I sit?"
Sighing, Fran gestured at the other side of the bench. "Be
my guest."
He sat and paused to savour the scent of the yews and the
roses. "Do you query my purpose here?"
"It would not be my business to do so," said Fran.
Matthias smiled. "Well spoken. We aides of great men are
here to serve not to speculate. But perhaps in moments like this, cut off as we
are from the vagaries of our world, perhaps here we might be more honest."
Fran eyed him. "If you have a purpose then state it."
"My master..." The Imperial turned to the Morishman. "...He sent
me here to befriend you. And in so doing would have me use you as an espial
upon Ambassador Roschewald."
Fran chuckled. "Ha! I must say then, Matthias, you're doing
a poor job of it."
"Mistake me not, Master Gray. I will not try because it will
not work. The trouble with great men is that they oft forget that the people in
their employ can be just as cunning."
Fran tucked his letter away. He was already bored with this.
"What do you want?"
The Imperial looked to the pool's crystalline waters. "I
bear you no ill-will, so I will state my purpose plain. The King is not so
foolish as to risk war with the Empire over Wallenheim, which many in this
realm still think of as the fifth demesne of Morland. Tell your master that
mine own master is an old hand at this game, and he will use any and all tools
at his disposal to protect the Emperor's interests."
Fran smirked. "So, it's a threat then, not subterfuge?"
"A sour truth is better than a honeyed lie," Mattias turned
to the statue in whose shade they sat. "Do you know the history of this work?"
Fran almost scoffed. He knew the tale well. In fact – it
could even be said that House Gray's downfall began with her...
...Katheresa Vox, The One-Year Queen.
The late daughter of Osmund Vox, the Earl of Harcaster,
warded and reared in the Greyford Manse alongside the most eligible heiress of
her time, Lady Emma of Wuffolk, sister to the Duke of Greyford. It was nearly
30 years ago that King Osbert I and his son Prince Osmund attended the Manse in
the hope of marrying his young son to that self-same heiress – until Osmund
shook the entire aristocracy from root to crown by choosing `plain faced' Lady
Katheresa instead.
It was said Lady Emma never smiled again.
Within a year the two were wed as prince and princess, and
upon the death of King Osbert in 774, were jointly crowned King Osmund I and
Queen Katheresa in extravagant ceremony at the Sanctuary of Four Saints in
Dragonspur. And after three short seasons the Queen gave her King a healthy
bouncing daughter.
Edith.
However, almost instantaneously after the babe's birth,
rumours began to spread of infidelity, spurred on by unknown tongues and
fuelled by talk of the girl's hair – fiery red – as opposed to her mother's tow
blonde and her father's ebon black. For there was another ward in the
Greyford household bearing bright locks of a similar hue, the second son of a
vassal house of Harcaster's based upon the Isle of Gead. Ser William Gray –
Fran's noble uncle.
The rumours grew until even the commoners whispered. And
then, in the bitter Winter of 775, barely a year since taking the second throne
as queen, Katheresa and William Gray were arrested, tried, and found guilty on
charges of adultery, and therefore, treason.
William was executed by beheading on the 78th of Winter 775.
Katheresa and Edith were stripped of all possessions and titles and held at the
Towers of White and Black whilst King Osmund considered their sentence. In the
end, despite the advice of his counsellors calling for their execution, King
Osmund chose the more `benevolent' punishment of exile – and the pair were
banished from the realm. On the promise of protection from the Roschewalds they
fled to a small villa in Wallenheim, but by 777 Katheresa died, poor and
broken-hearted, barely even seventeen years of age. By then King Osmund had
taken a second as his new queen, the jilted Emma of Wuffolk, who after a string
of stillbirths eventually bore him a son, the current king, Oswald. Thus beginning
the legend of the One-Year Queen.
"Of course," said the Morishman. "Everyone does."
Fran gazed up at her statue. It was uncrowned – thus likely
commissioned before her accession – yet while no one saw fit to take it down,
the statue was left in a state of utter disrepair. Its broken nose was no mere
co-incidence either. Some 24 years dead and Katheresa Vox was still reviled by
the court.
"A cautionary tale," said Matthias.
"About what?"
"About crossing the Greyfords," The Imperial smirked. "The patriarch
of whom is most favourable to my master."
Fran glared hard at Matthias. Almost as if struggling to
understand if he understood what he was implying, an imputation that
bordered on the treasonous, that the Greyfords, the Duke and Queen Dowager
Emma, played some role in Katheresa's demise. The Imperial clerk kept his curt
smile as well as his silence. Then Fran reflected upon his words earlier. Words
about sour truths.
Fran wished he was a fighting man. For if he was, in that
moment, he would've slapped the smirk off that Imperial bastard's face. His
fingers almost tremored with anticipation at the thought. And then-
"Master Gray?"
A coquettish voice called out to him, this time from his
left. A young noblewoman sauntered towards them in dress of dark scarlet and
gold brocade as a parasol's shaft twirled within her lace gloves, shielding her
pale skin from the sun. She strolled about the water garden unchaperoned –
which was unusual – but as she drew closer to them Fran caught sight of the
face beneath that parasol's dark shade.
`Lady Eleanora'.
"Forgive me," Her curtsey was flawlessly apologetic as she
smiled before Matthias. "But might I have a word with Master Gray? Alone?"
Matthias eyed them both – as if evaluating if this little
meet and greet meant anything of use to his master, no doubt. But the fop stood
upright and gave in, bowing graciously to them both before making his
departure, his slippered feet crunching along the gravel.
Lady Eleanora took his place and sat down. She did so
gently. Almost as if her posterior was sore. And it was. And at once Fran felt
tears well in his eyes. "Oh Lothar. Are you alright?"
The espial nodded, expressionless. "I do my `duty' as you
do."
"But still-"
"It doesn't hurt much. It doesn't really make me feel much
of anything, this bumping about. I cannot understand why people like it so
much."
Fran forced a smile. "...Sometimes the beauty of it lies more
in the partner than the act itself." And then he remembered why he'd slipped a
note underneath Lady Eleanora's door that morning. The star chart records. Fran
bought them out of his satchel. "Go through them at your leisure."
A smile. Small, almost wisp-like, but palpable. "...Thank
you."
"You're my best friend in the world, Lothar. What else could
I do?"
**********
The Old Lioness, Dragonspur, Kingdom
of Morland
36th of Summer, 801
Old Meg and the tavern-master had a bastard's way of keeping
their papers. No rhyme, no rhythm, just chaos. Inventories stuffed into boxes,
promissory notes rolled into twine and bundled into random cupboards, stock
counts propping up old chairs by the sheaf, scattered documents splayed out and
about the cellar floor matted with damp and rat dung.
"Shudder to think what their ledger looks like," japed Will.
He was down in the muck too, him having forgone his cloak to roll up his
sleeves, kneel down, and collect stray papers from the croaking floorboards of
The Old Lioness' back room. Old Meg (rather cheekily) called them their `offices'
but they were nothing of the sort, just a rotten old storeroom into which
paperwork was thrown. It would be a nightmare to get it all into order.
"I know a few members with good access to clerks," said
Will. He carried a leather bag off his shoulder half-full of soiled parchment
as he spoke. "They should be here soon to render some order from all this. Will
this be all?"
Ed nodded, pushing a table leg off another bundle of papers.
"With any luck. Well, this and the lists. Old Meg's drawing up the suppliers. I
told her to send some of her girls out to warn them ahead of time. Thopswood
said he'd take care of the member's list and be back with it by sunfall."
Will paused. "Dear saints, Ed, do you think Stillingford's
right? To play it straight with Wolner, I mean? To give him our real names?"
The swordsman shifted the table back. "He'll not take kindly
to false names if he investigates them."
Rothwell frowned. "I suppose you're right. Besides, we've
broken no laws. Wolner would've gaoled us all by now if we had, no? Perhaps he
only means to intimidate us?"
He was worried.
Give William Rothwell a fiery speech to read, or some poorly
written diatribe to debunk, and he was a man of almost ferocious temperament.
But put him in a room with a loose dagger or a place where drunken fists were
flying, and he was an altogether meeker man. It was no cowardice on his part –
Will was a man more than ready to die for his beliefs – but violence was never
his sport, he had no heart for it. And nothing grieved him greater than to see
his loved ones in agony.
In time gone Edward's habit would've been to soothe Will's
fear, to take a moment to calm him and assure him that none of this was as bad
as it seemed, but they were too late in the day for lies. If the Constable of
Dragonspur was investigating them, it wasn't without the Duke of Greyford's
leave. Perhaps the Club's rhetoric and bullishness was finally finding its way
back to him. If that was the case, then there was no telling how far this could
go...
...but it wouldn't do to panic. Will had it right about
one thing. The Crow's Club had broken no laws. Better yet, there was a strength
of feeling for them in the city, even by Wolner's reckoning – the `torch' to
their `tinder' as he put it. Wolner would have to be as careful in his handling
of them as they would need to be in their handling of him. It
wasn't an advantage – but it was something.
"The Crow's Club should suspend its meetings for a time,"
Edward gathered together a stack of papers and lifted them onto the wooden
table. "Let's see out the investigation and await Roschewald's return from
court before we reconvene."
Will nodded, silently. It was the logical thing to do. Yet
still... "When next shall I see you?"
A pause.
"I cannot say."
Ed looked to Will and saw a frown deepening. "...How goes it
with your... friend?"
`...Fran...,' A simple thought of him drew the swordsman's smile. "He is
well."
By then most of the paperwork had been gathered up in the
centre of the room, mounted into stacks upon the centre table. Much of it was
sullied and there was no telling if it was complete or not, but it was for the
clerks to work through now.
Ed threw a thumb over his shoulder, pointing at the door. "A
quick drink before we depart?"
"I would speak with you," said Will. "If you'd allow it."
"Speak then."
"Not here. Not now. Privately. Tomorrow, at my apartments
after we deliver Wolner's paperwork. Will that do?"
Edward Bardshaw took one look at William Rothwell's eyes and
knew well what this was about. He felt a squeamishness in himself then that he
misliked, a fear of hurting this man. Will was his friend. Why wasn't
that enough? "Perhaps we should talk. Just you and me."
Woollerton Green, The Midburghs, Kingdom of Morland
36th of Summer, 801
The Lord Seneschal, Ser Robert Mountjoy, had in his employ a
team of men ready tasked with the business of clearing out the Banqueting Hall
for the festivities of the night. They had drawn away all the long tables and
scrubbed the silver candelabras free of molten wax before returning them to the
hall. They had hung wondrously embroidered curtains of purple velvet trimmed
with gold and white lace and had even taken the time to help the carpenters
construct a small stage of lacquered mahogany for the musicians to play from. A
smaller table and five scrolled seats were carried in and assembled at the far
wall – the king's table – with pride of place to Queen Annalena and Ser Robert
to his left, and the Duke of Greyford and the Queen Dowager to his right. Fran
knew this because Gustave insisted on being the first to arrive, some hours
before the dance, and he had seen the Lord Seneschal's men put to work to
prepare for the night to come. His master had hoped to be clever and seed his
influence within the palace by `befriending' some of its servants, and though
his reasoning was not entirely unsound (well-bribed servants made for very
effective espials after all) he hadn't thought at all that those men might not
have the time or the will to engage in idle banter with a noble when there was
work to be done. So, when they refused to speak with him, he found them rude
for it.
When the other nobles and notable guests of King Oswald
arrived at the Banqueting Hall it was at last ready made for their celebration.
Ruff-collared footmen in pearl-buttoned doublets stood with silver platters
full of wine, oysters, grapes, peaches, dates, cakes, and cheeses. The
flutists, lutenists and drummers had already taken position from their assigned
stage as feather capped trumpeters manned the arched doors. Hundreds of fresh
candles stood lit and flickering whilst chatter and laughter slowly filled the
room as the Morish nobility sauntered into the hall and mingled amongst
themselves, dressed in garments laid with the richest silks and pearls money
could buy. For the first time Fran was grateful for the rude-fingered Imperial
tailor that Gustave had hired before they left Wallenheim – for he owned no
clothing outside of his design which bore any match to the opulent fineries
currently on display.
Fran held to Gustave's side, away from the growing crowd as
his master struck up conversation with one Ser Howard Frogmoncke, a renowned
Morish man-at-law widely rumoured to be the realm's next Lord Justiciar.
Each man amongst their small circle bore a bejewelled wine
cup sloshing at their rims with a sweet Imperial white. The clerk sipped a
little whilst his master conversed, him eyeing the guests and putting names to
faces: the portly Earl of Huxton with his face so like a boiled ham, the gaunt
old Earl of Gainsley, the narrow-eyed Ser Symon Shakestone, not to mention
Lyonel de la More.
The Fiend stirred.
Lyonel de la More. Once one of Lord Gray's most trusted
advisors and financiers, now risen in rank to the Marquess of Gead.
HOW UTTERLY CONVENIENT... whispered The Fiend. THINK, BOY.
WHO STOOD BETTER TO GAIN FROM YOUR FATHER'S DEMISE?
Fran frowned, eying the marquess and his wife from across
the hall. He had wondered on occasion if de la More had any deeper involvement
in the Siege. It had been the contention of Ser Martyn Morrogh, Lord Gray's ennobled
quartermaster and captain of the guard, that it was the de la Mores who
engineered the Siege by secretly inviting Sage Odo to the isle under a pretence
of refuge from Imperial oppression, when in truth what they intended was the
end result – Imperial galleons besieging the isle for nearly a year, demanding
Odo's head, shutting down trade and driving the Geadish people to the very
brink of starvation. Chaos followed. And as the Emperor ordered the bombardment
of the isle, its islanders rose up in rebellion against House Gray...
`Chaos', Fran shuddered at the memory and The Fiend chuckled down
his ear. DO NOT RUN FROM THOSE MEMORIES. BURN THEM INTO YOUR MIND. IT IS DE
LA MORE AND GREYFORD AND THAT FECKLESS KING OSMUND WHO BROUGHT YOU TO THIS!
THEY ALONE BEAR RESPONSIBILITY FOR YOUR FATHER'S DEATH! THEY TOOK ED FROM YOU!
WHEN DOES OUR FUCKING REVENGE BEGIN, BOY? WHEN? WHEN? WHEN? WHEN? WHEN? WHEN,
DAMN YOU, WHEN?
"Fran?" Gustave eyed him. "What troubles you, you look
pale."
The boy darted his eyes from Marquess de la More lest he
unwittingly caught his attention. "Apologies, excellency, tired is all. My
thoughts run away with me."
Frogmoncke smiled softly. "It's a common thing for a boy
with a mind for numbers and law. Mine own clerks are much the same, away with
the fairies, all the time."
"It was a hard day's ride here, master." said Fran.
"You rode? Oh, even at this time of year it's slow going by
the roads. Better to sail upriver by The Wyvern. Next time you make the trip
inform me. I'll loan you use of my barge."
Gustave smiled at the offer, perhaps sensing another thread
forming in the web of Morish contacts he oh so slowly weaved. "A generous
offer, Lord Justiciar, one I gratefully accept."
Frogmoncke flushed. "Oh, ambassador. I am no Justiciar yet."
"A formality, no? The court is awash with talk of King
Oswald's coming appointments."
Fran took another sip of wine as he feigned interest in the
conversation. Gustave was correct of course. The Masters of the Realm (or as
they were more officially known – The Council of the Masters of the Realm) were
the monarch's chief advisors as well as overseers of the key offices of state,
a cabal consisting of five special seats: The Lord Justiciar, master of the
courts; The Lord Treasurer, master of the coffers; The Lord Marshal, master of
military affairs; The Lord Seneschal, steward of the royal house, and The Lord
Serjeant, the king's personal legal advisor. With King Oswald finally coming of
age it was his duty to appoint fresh blood to the Council and send a signal of
rejuvenation and new direction to the realm.
Talk at court was boisterous but certain.
Ser Symon Shakestone, new man and man-at-law, would replace
the Earl of Edgemore as Lord Sergeant. Ser Howard Frogmoncke, with his keen
legal mind, would replace the aging Earl of Gainsley as Lord Justiciar. The
Earl of Huxton would be replaced as Lord Marshal by the Duke of Greyford
(effectively a demotion, retaining a seat on the Council was scant placation).
Only two seats would remain unchanged, with Marquess de la More and Ser Robert
Mountjoy as Lord Treasurer and Lord Seneschal respectively.
Then the trumpets blared.
All chatter ceased and there was a collective clatter of
shoes against marble as the throng parted into two along what would soon be the
dance floor, paving the way for their sovereign, King Oswald II of House
Oswyke, to take his seat.
The King sauntered in as regally as any monarch could,
dressed marvellously in a black and gold striped velvet jerkin. A sheathed
short sword lulled alongside ebon black trunkhose adorned with silver-threaded
embroidery. Two Bannerets of the Bloom followed him, and behind them, a ruffed
footman carried the rattling cage of his pet capuchin, Pincher.
All eyes fell upon King Oswald as he approached his table,
where the Duke of Greyford, Ser Robert, and the Queen Dowager Emma were ready
seated, but curiously the Queen herself, Annalena, was absent. "To the lords
and ladies and... distinguished guests here gathered. Tonight heralds a shining
new dawn. It is a night to offer thanks to our forebears who delivered us and
to the Four Saints who watch over us. But most of all... tonight is a night for
celebration!"
The king's guests broke into applause.
Frogmoncke, joining them, leaned into Gustave's ear. He
spoke just loud enough for Fran to hear. "How did you find His Majesty?"
`Obstinate,' thought the clerk on his master's
behalf.
"Headstrong,"
said Gustave, tactfully. Wisely.
Frogmoncke nodded, smiling. "A diplomatic way of putting it,
yes. The King bears wisdom his young shoulders belie and strength to match it.
He will not be easy to sway. But there is a chink in his armour if I may say
so."
"A chink, you say?"
"He loves his subjects," said Frogmoncke, still clapping.
"And desires their love in kind. If you can convince him that your proposals
are in the better interests of the people, he will bend."
The King continued when the applause slowly abated. "I am
sorry to say that the queen is... feeling unwell at present. And so, I cede the
honour of the first dance to you all." He clapped his hands together. "Music!"
Assembled lutes, flutes, and drums struck up a tune. A rush
of footsteps overtook the banqueting hall as the king's hundred or so guests
split in twain and cleared the floor. Fran watched the handsomest of the Morish
nobility saunter into that space, a group of twenty in total, ten men and ten
women, forming up into parallel lines to perform The Hilde, a sumptuous new
dance from the Empire. Amongst their number was the Lady Eleanora, standing
opposite the Lord Comwyn, performing their reverences to each other before the
musicians took their cue.
`You are too well trained, Lothar...' thought Fran.
As the dance began Gustave cleared his throat. "Speaking
discreetly, Ser Howard, how likely is it that the incoming Lord Sergeant might
accept my proposal?"
"Shakestone?" Frogmoncke smiled. "A common-born, like me,
though his Geadish father has accrued some wealth as a guildmaster. If there
are no infractions of the Treaty of Grace in your consortium proposals, he
would be amenable to it. As would I, based on what I've seen."
Gustave smiled.
"However, excellency, our two votes would not be enough.
Greyford would oppose it, as would his man, Ser Robert, and the man he
elevated, Marquess de la More. You'd have to sway one of them in order to pull
it off. I'd say de la More's the more likely candidate, but only if it meant
garnering favour with the king. All begins and ends with His Majesty."
They spoke like that most of the night, paying little
attention to the dances and music, stopping only for refreshment of wine and
cheeses from passing servants. Past a point Fran made no business of keeping up
with their discussions. He yawned, swilled wine, ate cheese, and swallowed his
disgust as a drooling Piers Comwyn laid lusty hands upon his friend in plain
view of the court. He was disgusted at Gustave too, for playing out with it.
And deeper still... he was disgusted with himself for not doing more to dissuade
his master from it. Worst still...
...Fran could not help but wonder what secrets Lothar might
learn that would aide him in his plans.
"Ahem!"
The boy snapped out of a reverie he hadn't recognized
falling into. He stood upright, reflexively, as a young lady of the court
approached him. The sparkling little rubies of her caul jingled like a purse as
she greeted him with a graceful curtsey and a broad smile.
She held out her hand.
Fran paused for a moment, forgetting his manners, until Ser
Howard Frogmoncke cleared his throat with a light fist. Fran suddenly found
himself again, apologized, then took the lady's hand and kissed it.
Gustave
frowned.
"Ah! Lady Cecily," said Frogmoncke. "Might I say you look
delightful this evening, a blessing to the eyes!"
`Lady Cecily...' The name suddenly jogged a memory of one of the names in
Neidhart's dossier. Lady Cecily Ashwick, daughter of the Earl of Huxton, the
regency's long serving Lord Marshal. Lady in waiting to Queen Annalena. Age
ten-and-seven, born of the Star of Courage, and thus a child of St. Wynnry.
Unmarried. As her father's unwed daughter, she is one of the most
eligible heiresses in the Midburghs.
"Masters," said she. "It is the fourth song of the night and
I feel it reprehensible that no man has yet asked me to dance."
Gustave's frown darkened.
"What a state of affairs!" Said Frogmoncke. "Master Gray!
Why not take the honour, my knees are too old for the task."
Fran looked to his master for approval and found a painted
smile. Neither Frogmoncke nor Lady Cecily could see the rage curdling
beneath it.
Gustave was always prone to jealousy. Two years ago, during
an audit of one of his brothels, The Bonnie Bee, he took aside one of
his own working boys and beat his left eye to pulp inside its own socket – his
crime? Daring to flirt with Fran. He was a new lad, Imperial, spoke barely a
word of Wallish, probably didn't even know who Fran was. And yet Gustave
half-blinded him for his `temerity'.
But Lady Cecily was not one of his whores.
Gustave clenched his jaw, forcing soft words through a tight
smile. "Go ahead."
Fran knew that smile well. He'd seen the spite it withheld
first-hand. Yet still he took Lady Cecily by her perfumed gloves and asked her
to dance in the most respectful tone he could muster.
"I would love to," she replied.
Gustave's glare burned a hole in the back of Fran's skull as
the young pair drifted off towards the formation of guests at the centre of the
dance floor. There were thirty of them now, fifteen couples, one of which was
Lord Comwyn and Lady Eleanora. Lady Cecily's smile faded as she strolled into
place with the other fourteen ladies of the court so aligned, taking the
middlemost position amongst them. A line of fifteen men approached, Fran
amongst them, shuffling across the echoing marble to perform their reverences,
as the musicians awaited their cue.
`The Allegan,' thought Fran. `At least I know this one.' His mind
recited the movements as he took his place two paces ahead of Cecily.
The flutes came first. Fran, exhaling, ate his nerves and
stepped forth, pulling ahead of his partner with single stride forward and a
quick turn back, right arm up, as lute strings followed and Cecily, smiling,
swirled and stepped forth, arm up, until the tips of their fingers touched.
Eye to eye they transitioned into a forward step, drawing
them parallel to each other. Fran slid to his right, as did Cecily, switching
hands from right to left, palm flat and by the tips, eyes apart, with only the
briefest glance upon each other as they turned together, encircling the spot
until shifting to their original positions and gliding back, face to face.
The flutes paused a moment then resumed.
In almost perfect accompaniment, Fran and Cecily slid left
by a single step, raising their right arms to touch at the fingertips.
A smile. "You dance well, Lord Gray."
A frown. "I am no lord, Lady Cecily."
The pair cast their eyes forward and resumed the
encirclement. They twirled apart in formation, Lady Cecily's pearl-studded
black brocade dress swirling slightly about her ankles, before they met again
at the fingertips, throwing glances over their shoulder until face to face,
side-stepping into the next movement.
"Fie, only a highborn could dance the Allegan so well," said
Cecily, whispering sweetly between the steps. "They call you The Lost Lord,
ser. Or haven't you noticed the other unwed ladies practically salivating
at the thought of turning your eye?"
Fran smiled, curious. "Is it becoming for a lady of the
court to speak so forthrightly?"
The pair backward stepped and slid left, to meet again at
the fingertips and encircle each other. "We maidens may play our parts, master,
but they are only parts. See through the smoke of the façade and we are not so
dissimilar, you'll find."
"Oh? How so?"
As the melody slowed Fran and Cecily came shoulder to
shoulder exchanging smiles. The younger woman leaned into his ear and
whispered, "There's not a soul in attendance whose fooled by your Lady
Eleanora."
Fran stilled.
"But Comwyn was born to the right saint," said Cecily, as
Fran lifted his arm for her pirouette. "And so, we all play our parts, no
matter the disgust unspoken. For example..."
The two came apart, then twirled into each other, joining
shoulder to shoulder again. Cecily's smile darkened as she leaned into Fran's
ear again. "There are parts of the world where the sun produces virile men with
skin as dark as tree bark, and sometimes, their ships berth in Dragonspur. What
courage it would take to fuck them..."
*
Age ten-and-seven, born of the Star
of Courage, and thus a child of St. Wynnry. Unmarried.
*
Fran, stunned, lifted his arm for the second pirouette. And
a grinning Lady Cecily came spinning back into his arms. "Why are you telling
me this...?"
"Have you read The Phantoma?" Asked Huxton's
daughter. "It speaks of a shroud of opulence that waxes our noble eyes to the
burdens of the ignoble masses. And of the fate that awaits us when the masses
finally recognize it..."
The pair went shoulder to shoulder again.
"I've come to believe that we live in such an age," said
Lady Cecily. Her words were so grim and yet she smirked as she uttered them. Smirked.
As if it were all a game.
"They like to pretend, you see," The lady threw a nod at the
surrounding nobles. "Deny its reality as we bask in our own splendour. The
king, saints bless him, seeks to avert the tide. But deep down he must know the
hour is too late. We are a court of ghosts, Lord Gray. Bejewelled phantoms
floating upon borrowed time. None of it will last. So, before the chattel
finally wake up... take what you can and revel in it."
They stopped when the lutes stopped, shoulder to shoulder,
breasts pumping, eyeing each other with both confusion and exhilaration,
heedless of the curious attention they'd both drawn. All fifteen couples drew
apart, performed their reverences, and struck up a round of applause beneath
the king's watchful eye.
No one noticed a page slipping along the far walls and
racing up to the king's table. One of the Bannerets of the Bloom stopped him,
waiting for Ser Robert's permission to pass (which came quickly thereafter).
The young messenger approached the Lord Seneschal and slipped a missive into
his hands, which he then passed over for the king to read. His eyes brightened.
King Oswald, jubilant, leaned into Ser Robert's ear – not
the Queen Dowager's – and his childhood tutor rose from his seat by his cane.
He called for silence. The chatter ceased. The music came to a stop. The
dancers caught their breaths and the assembled guests turned towards the king's
table as the newly empowered monarch arose with joyous news:
"My lords and ladies," said he. "The saints have blessed me
with wonderful tidings! Her Majesty the Queen, my beloved wife, is with child!"
Thunderous applause. Roars of joy. Shouts of acclimation.
Tears. A surprised Fran (and an unsurprised Cecily) joined them, clapping
furiously for the king and queen and their coming heir before his eyes wandered
back to Gustave, matching the elated mood with applause of his own alongside a
tearful Ser Howard. But there was no joy or lustre in his eyes. Only anger.
**********
The Old Lioness, Dragonspur, Kingdom
of Morland
37th of Summer, 801
By morning break the clerks had systematically organized all
of The Old Lioness' documents by type and year, bound them with twine, and left
them ready for Edward Bardshaw to collect. By his horse Bessie he rode to the
tavern before dismounting at the rear and descending its steps to find it
shuttered. All its tables were drawn into the centre and its chairs turned
upside down and stacked on top of them. The side rooms were sealed by wooden
boards nailed to the door frames. The ale barrels and wine casks were stoppered
and secured inside the locked cellar and the noticeboard was cleared of its
open letters and bills.
The freshly swept floorboards groaned beneath Edward's boots
as he arrived, and he felt at once the sadness in the air. The Old Lioness had
been a home away from home for so long, a bastion of free thought, and here it
was – closed for business and silent, its patrons gone, the jolly scent of
roasting pork and frothing ale already drifting away.
Old Meg and two of her serving girls loaded the papers into
a brace of leathered saddlebags. Will Rothwell was there too, deathly pale,
smoothing out the folds of his riding cloak as he spoke with the tavernmaster
about the fate of the Club, assuring him that it would be safe to reopen after
Wolner's investigation ran its course. He was unhappy about it, of course. But
the Club's collective purse ran deep. They could cover the costs in the
interim.
"Six days at most," said Will. "We'll account for it."
The tavernmaster folded his beefy arms across his chest. He
did not look assured. "He's an unchained molossus that Wolner. What if he
harasses our suppliers? Convinces them not to sell to us?"
Thoughts of bedridden Knorris sprung to Edward's mind, still
trapped in his sick bed after Wolner's thugs worked him over. He heard the poor
man was going blind.
Ed went over to them. "There is nothing to be done but to
wait and to hope for the best. We've committed no crimes, Wolner grasps at
straws."
"Ed's right," said Will. "You'll be back up and running as
soon as this boils over."
Old Meg came over then, leaning into her husband's warm
embrace. Her greying black hair was tousled and unkempt, and her smock was
still stained with wine and sauce smears from last night's rounds. From the
look of her she'd been up all night. "Peace, good husband. We won't starve. My
girls'll find other work in the meantime. How's the old man, Ed?"
`Foul,' thought he. Stillingford was mortified. Though he held
himself bravely against the Constable yesterday, Wolner's visit was all the
confirmation the old man needed that the Crow's Club had gone too far: `Too
many feathers have been ruffled now, Ed... and now there's no telling how far
this could go.' The swordsman sighed. "Shaken but resting. I've asked one
of our neighbours to watch him whilst Will and I see to this business."
"What about Speaker's Square?"
"I will continue to speak," said Will. "Our supporters must
be shown that we will not be bowed. For the Folkweal."
The tavernmaster struck his fist to his chest, smiling. "For
the Folkweal. Saints' speed to you both, everything is ready."
Then it
wouldn't do to tarry any further. Will nodded his agreement. Time to go. They
all said their goodbyes and wished each other well, promising to see each other
soon in safer times, then Edward and William took up the bulging saddlebags and
departed. Once above ground they strapped those saddlebags to Bessie's rump,
having forwent Higgs (Stillingford's coachman) for the delivery. Edward mounted
his horse and pulled Will up with him. The freckle-faced scholar shuffled
uneasily in the large saddle (poor rider as he was) until Edward told him:
"Take hold of
me. You've nothing to fear."
A thin pair of
arms wound around the swordsman's waist and gripped him firm. And then a head
settled on his back, right between his shoulder blades. Tenderly. William
settled down. "Shall we go?"
Edward cracked
Bessie's reins and guided her from the rickety stabling back down the narrow
laneway into the hurried streets of Dragonspur. They rode north along Leg o'
Lamb Lane past the slattern shacks and stalls of bone workers, butchers,
grocers, and fishermen. It took them as far as the city's main thoroughfare,
the Old King's Way, winding like a serpentine spine up from the southern gate
of the city walls through the felonious warrens and crumbling mudbrick
tenements of Rat's End all the way up to the city centre, where the River
Wyvern split the capital in two and where the sobering presence of Staunton
Castle loomed darkly over the poor southern side.
The castle's
crenelled towers and piercing spires rose high into the morning sky as Bessie
drew closer to it. The ground beneath her hooves sloped up the further they
went, passing along the leaning taverns, inns, waystations, stablers and
blacksmiths of Ironworker's Hill. At its peak the dirt road levelled out and
shot north straight to the stonework bridgehead of Foxford crossing over the
rushing waters of the River Wyvern.
Staunton Castle
stood at its centre.
A chill raced
up Edward's back as he cast his glare up at the ancient fortress, at its limestone
curtain walls and crenelled battlements, its whitewashed towers lined with
embrasures and barred iron slits. Its central keep, the High Spire, stood 100
feet tall, the second highest point in the city save for the slopes of St.
Wynnry's Hill. The castle was almost as ancient as the city, first commissioned
in 142 by Edwulf the Great and finally completed in 199 with four subsequent
expansions. It was built atop a giant eyot at the centre of the River Wyvern
and forded on both sides by the Foxford Bridge. It had been besieged three
times in its 600-year history but had never fallen, and up until the Morish
Civil War, served as the palace and abode of the Royal House. But in years more
recent it served far darker purposes than the protection of Edwulf's descendants.
It served as
both the offices of the Masters of the Realm, the high counsellors of the
monarch, and the headquarters of the Constable of Dragonspur himself, Thomas
Wolner. There were even rumours that deep beneath the castle's foundations lay
a secret prison – The Oubliette – where the worst criminals, miscreants,
traitors, and seditionists were held. Edward Bardshaw knew it well. He'd been a
guest of its delights.
That was why
his spine was shivering.
He did his best
to ignore it.
The mood about
the castle was joyous that day. The belfries rung loud as hundreds of cheering townsfolk
gathered at Foxford Bridge from one balustrade to the other, completely
suspending traffic from either side of the river, all of them whooping, all of
them dancing and singing and chanting and throwing flowers. Mounted cannons
were shot from the parapets one after the other and each blast was met with a
roar of cheers from the jubilant populace there gathered.
Will asked a
passer-by what was going on as Edward carefully threaded Bessie through the
crowds towards the castle drawbridge. She told him triumphant news, "Have you
not heard? Queen Annalena is with child! O joyous day! An heir to the new king!
Saints be, here's hoping for a prince! A prince!"
Edward barked
at the celebrants to get out of his way. A few did but most would not budge
until he shouted at the very apex of his lungs GET OUT OF THE WAY YOU FOOLS GET
OUT OF OUR WAY and so forth. They started to move then. And as they peeled
aside the blonde man coaxed Bessie ahead to a small gatehouse built into the
edge of the bridgework, where the heavy oaken and iron-banded drawbridge of
Staunton Castle's east-facing barbican lowered into place. It was the only
point of entry into the castle – a hallmark of its notorious impregnability.
A group of
glaive-armed guards stood watch around that gatehouse. Mailed men in feathered
pot helms and embossed steel breastplates, sheathed swords dangling next to
their tunics, but they did not interfere with the furore. Better to let the
people enjoy glad tidings for once.
Edward
dismounted and led Bessie by the reins. One of the guards stamped his polearm
at the approach.
"Halt," said
he. "Crossings only. Move along."
"We do not seek
entry, masters. Constable Wolner only commanded us to deliver his offices'
paperwork." Before he left the Old Lioness, Wolner left the Club a writ
protected by his own personal seal and commanded them to present it to the
guardsmen (to assure them of their right surrender documents to the castle
authorities.) Edward fished it out of his pocket and gave it to the guardsman
at post.
He cracked open
Wolner's seal and read it for himself.
"...Very well.
We'll take it off your hands then. Men!" Three of his men put aside their
glaives and surrounded Bessie, unstrapping her swollen saddlebags, and
confiscating their contents. After that they were dismissed. Edward held his
frown and thanked them for their `help' before wheeling Bessie around and picking
their way back crowds of cheering citizens until she was free to take a gallop
at the bridgehead.
Will held on
tight.
His apartments
lay none too far from Staunton. Just further west along the riverbank, perhaps
a mile west of the castle, was Meadow's Court; a small complex of two-floor
stone buildings built around a communal acre of enclosed cropland. They rode
west until the dirt path veered off the main road into a narrower lane cutting
through a row of jettied townhouses that ended in a tall stone archway securing
the court. Edward slowed Bessie to a trot and cantered around the shared
garden, old women and children tending to the crops whilst men took hoes to
untilled patches of land recently leased. There was a communal stable nearby
with some thirty other horses tethered to its posts. Edward brought Bessie
beneath its thatched shade, dismounted, and found a fit post for her. Then he
helped Will climb down.
"The stable
boys will bring her water and apples whilst you're here," said he. "Come."
Will took Ed's
hand. The blonde man almost flinched but caught himself at the last. `Don't
offend him,' Ed thought. `Just have it out once and for all'.
Instead, he let
Will lead him to his lodgings at the northern side of Meadow's Court. He
unlocked the heavy wooden door then coaxed Edward in, sealing it behind him.
And, despite its blackened slag hearth and croaking rafters, it was a cosy
little place. There was a desk nearby with all Rothwell's musings and drabbles
collected into tall stacks. On one side of his bed sat a chest of goods filled
with neatly bundled changes of clothing and on the other a small wooden table
with his snuff box and pipe set atop it. In the rear wall above the bed stood a
wide latticed window offering a good view of the river, close enough to hear
the gull-song that so punctuated its charm. A cosy place it was. A place that
ill-fit the son of so wealthy a father. But it suited William Rothwell all the
same.
Will shrugged
off his cloak and hung it from a hook by the doused hearth. He offered to take
Edward's. Edward politely refused. "I'll not be stopping long," said he.
There was a
pair of tin cups and a cask of wine near William's bedside – a three-year red
from a local vineyard producing some of the finest affordable wine that
side of the Wyvern – until it was claimed by the crown during the regency. He
offered Edward a cup. Edward politely refused.
"Save it for a
better occasion," said he.
Will poured
himself a cup and took a seat upon his bed... then asked Edward to join him
there. Edward refused. Instead, he said...
"Why did you
call me here?"
Will smiled
softly. "Can't you tell?"
"Talk plainly."
William
Rothwell threw back his cup of wine with a single gulp and set it aside. The
floorboards croaked as he stood upright, and then again and again as he took
slow, careful steps toward the broad-shouldered blonde brooding silently in his
lodgings. Will didn't stop until his feet stepped between Edward's. Their
breaths played upon each other's lips until heartbeats began to race. And for
the slightest moment Ed couldn't help but be transfixed by Will – how the cold
weather brought the freckles out of his face – like ground hazelnut sprinkled
over a mug of milk.
"I'm tired of
talking," said Will.
He took the
taller man by the scruff of his blonde beard and thrust their lips together. A
shared moan, brief and passionate, joined the gull song and waves crashing
against the riverbank as Will pressed himself against Edward until they were
chest to chest, tilting into the kiss, almost willing the bigger man to seize
hold of him, to strip the clothes from him, until the blonde backed away
suddenly, lips breaking with a smack.
Edward caught
his breath.
"What is it,
Ed?"
His cheeks felt
flushed. "I... I can't..."
William held
Edward's eyes. He did not blink. He did not stop. Instead, he took a single
step back to unbutton his doublet and pull it off by its sleeves. Edward looked
on, dumbfounded, as Will kicked off his shoes, tore off his undershirt and
pulled down his russet breeks and white hose until all his clothes were
gathered about his naked ankles.
And Edward saw
him then.
Firebrand Will
Rothwell. Young, lean, and fit despite his scholarly upbringing and bookishness.
Light outlines of muscle formed along his breast and stomach, smattered by
those deep brown freckles which ran the length of his torso from shoulders to
neck to chest. And below that? A hard five inches of manhood jutted out of a
small curtain of fire red under-hairs, its tip already dripping with
pre-emptive seed.
Will took Ed's
hands and set them upon his bare hips. "I'm yours to take, Edward Bardshaw. So
take me."
He leaned in
for another kiss.
Edward looked
away. "I'm sorry. But... I can't." He pulled his hands away.
Will's hopeful
smile fell. Like something dawned on him. And it did. "...Is there another?"
A nod.
"...Your
`friend'...?"
A second nod.
"Well then,"
The hopeful smile became a curt one. A tear slipped William's eye, slight and
sudden, as he backed away, leaning down to collect his clothes. "I am sorry to
have embarrassed us both. I might... warn you about what a beautiful liar the
past is... or not to let what was be the enemy of what could be...
but I'd only be wasting my breath, wouldn't I?"
"Will, I-"
Crystals formed
in his eyes. "Please... just go."
There was so
much to say in that moment and yet Edward had none of the tools to express it.
He felt an urge to reach out to his friend and apologize, but to what end?
Better to stop. Better to go. Better to leave him to think.
Edward left in
silence.
**********
Woollerton Green, The Midburghs,
Kingdom of Morland
37th Summer, 801
Francis Gray grabbed fistfuls of the bedding and held them
tight until his knuckles went white. Blood rushed to his face and neck. Beads
of sweat dripped free from his naked breast and soiled the embroidered golden
sigils of House Roschewald meticulously sown into the sheets. His shoulders,
equally drenched, pumped to and fro as a stern hand grasped its left and held
him steady at the edge of the bed. Slaps of flesh against flesh rang up to the
rafters, mingling with his master's angry grunts of exertion, and his own soft
wails and whimpers. Fran tried to speak, to ask Gustave to slow down and be
gentler with him, and in reply his master shoved his face into the bedding and
smothered his little protestations into muffled gibberish.
Fran bit into the fabric and grit his teeth as Gustave's
thick girth punched in and out of his arse with all his weight and strength,
spreading him wide and splitting him open. His master was rougher than usual
that night.
They'd returned from the banqueting hall in the early hours
too drunk to do ought except slump into bed, but when Fran woke the following
morning, unkempt and half-dressed at the edge of Gustave's bed, he found the
ambassador at its edge, wide awake and furious. Fran, realizing he'd fallen
asleep in his master's room (and how that might look) apologized and offered to
fetch him some wine. Gustave said nothing. But when Fran stood up to tidy
himself and call for one of the servants, an angry hand snatched his shoulder
and threw him back onto the bed, face down, stomach flat. His clothes were torn
from his body and thrown about the room – and then Gustave fucked him.
There were none of the usual pretences: no compliments, no
kisses, no feigned intimacy. Just a dollop of spit and a sudden thrust in the
morning light.
Only when it was over, when Gustave's slickened yard pulled
itself free from his puckering red sphincter, dripping with seed, did Fran
catch his breath long enough to recall why his master was so angry with him. He
thought back to the dance. To Lady Cecily. And to that look of smouldering
jealous rage that Fran caught amidst their turns. This was his punishment. His
reminder for whom he really belonged. Just in case he happened upon any
`ideas'.
"The court is returning to Dragonspur," said Gustave. There
was a basin of water at the bedside. He leaned over it and washed his face.
"King Oswald wants to establish his new appointments. After that he's off to
the Queenswood to celebrate his coming heir with a boar hunt – or so Frogmoncke
told me."
Fran wiped the tears from his eyes. He leaned up from the
bed when his legs were strong enough to support him. The Fiend's icy black
talons inched up his red raw spine. YOUR WHOREMONGER SPOKE, BOY. ANSWER HIM!
"We are to follow?"
"We'll ride ahead," said Gustave. The rose-scented waters
sloshed at his fingertips. "It's back to Manse de Foy to think up a new
strategy. Make the arrangements."
"Yes, master."
He could not wait to leave that room. As his skin flushed
red and Gustave's sallow seed oozed down his thigh, he felt a sudden urge to
wash himself, to plunge into the nearest lake and burn the filth from his flesh
with the roughest nettles he could find. But he was his master's clerk. And a
thought occurred. And despite himself and his urge to flee his master's bed, he
voiced it. "...Matthias approached me in the water gardens."
"Saying what?"
"A not so hidden warning. We should be wary."
Gustave threw back his dampened hair and smoothed it dry,
reaching for the cloth. "The day I fear Ludolf's braying ass of a clerk will be
the day the saints return. Ignore him. What of Lothar?"
A vision of `Lady Eleanora', soft-spoken and sombre, sprung
to Fran's mind. "He told me he would report back to you today if the
opportunity allowed. After that, perhaps... perhaps you might recall him from his
duties-"
"No," said Gustave. "Let him play the whore a little longer.
We must make it our business to accumulate allies here, and Piers Comwyn is a
good start. Go, Fran. Go and make the preparations."
So, he did.
First however he took to his rooms and scrubbed his skin raw
at the wash bowl, washing the tears out of his eyes. He dressed quickly then
located to the privy to squat and purge himself of Gustave's seed. In times
past it was one of his master's favourite little games to make him retain that
seed, post-coitus, as he saw about his duties. `Oh, how I delight in it, my
sweetling, to see the stain of myself dripping down your hose as you write my
letters.' But there was no time for such games in the court of King Oswald.
Afterwards he sought out the clerks of the Lord Seneschal's
office and announced their early departure to Dragonspur, citing some cock and
bull about a `sickly attendant' to whose affairs Gustave was required to
attend. Fran offered his personal apologies to both Ser Robert and King Oswald
and vowed their return at the coming Queenswood hunt. No apology was required
but any offence was not worth the risk. It was of no benefit to Fran's plans
for Gustave to suffer disfavour at court so soon after their arrival.
Next, he rallied their coachman and bid him fetch the horses
from the stables whilst Fran returned to Gustave's apartments to collect what
little paperwork the ambassador brought with him from Manse de Foy. They were
letters mostly, missives intended for his Wallish countrymen nestled throughout
the capital, itineraries for his retinue upon his return, an official dispatch
for the Council of Lords and a less official letter for Neidhart back in
Wallenstadt.
After that he roused Wolfrick and his men. They'd quartered
in a makeshift barracks erected near the banks of the River Wyvern, at an
outpost where the royal barges were kept ready for any swift excursion the King
might make toward the capital. Fran made the journey on foot, wandering through
the bustling township nearest the palace grounds before hauling up at the
riverside shack and knocking its plywood door. Wolfrick emerged, shirtless and
two days unshaven, whilst his halberdiers leisured behind him – playing cards,
sharpening swords, drinking ale, or gnawing at their morning bread and chicken.
"And what do you want?" Spat their captain. "Your
king hasn't made for the capital yet, has he?"
Fran handed him a missive. "Gustave wishes to return ahead
of court. His discussion with the King did not go well. He needs time to plot
another strategy."
Wolfrick's lip wrinkled. Even he saw the lack of
necessity. But Gustave was his master, and he would be obeyed. Fran stood aside
and waited for Wolfrick to rouse his men, get them dressed and armed to
retrieve their Wallish fjord horses from the stabling down the lane.
When they were ready to depart one of the halberdiers,
Edrick, hauled Fran up to the rear of his saddle and together they rode off
down the highway back to the grounds of Woollerton Green. And when their shoed
hooves clopped beneath the gatehouse into the first of the palace's gravelled
courtyards, the carriage was ready, horses bridled and neighing, whilst two
porters of the royal house fetched Gustave's luggage into the rear. The
ambassador himself stood nearby, freshly dressed, and prepared for the coming
journey, fitting on his greyed leather gloves as he idled in chatter with his
coachman. Wolfrick, Fran, Edrick and the nine other halberdiers dismounted.
"Your boy brought ill tidings," said Wolfrick.
Gustave waved it off. "Neidhart misjudged the king's youth
for naivety. I will not make that mistake again. I simply need time to think up
a different approach. Are your men ready to depart?"
"Aye." Said Wolfrick. "We await your word."
They made ready to leave. Back to the capital.
Back to Edward.
And then footsteps approached them.
Gustave, Fran and Wolfrick all turned towards the crush of
gravel and found Ambassador Ludolf, flanked at his left by his towering clerk
Matthias, and accompanied by two Bannerets of the Bloom, their steel bardiches
gleaming in the sunlight, almost as brightly as the ambassador's sterling ivory
teeth. Pungent with mint scent, no doubt.
He grinned. "Ah! Ambassador Roschewald! Once again am I
granted the pleasure. Oh! What have we here? Riding ahead of court? Such rudeness
will be well noted."
Fran watched Gustave force a tight smirk. It was easy to
tell when he disliked someone. "Perhaps I'm off to consider a gift for Her
Majesty now that she is with child. `Tis joyous news, after all. Motherhood is
a great honour. An honour that Her Imperial Majesty the Empress Maximilliana
has yet to know, as I recall."
Ludolf frowned.
Hard.
The court of Emperor Konrad IV Adolphus was tight-lipped and
guarded, that much was known of it, and few secrets escaped its confines. But there
was no hiding the Emperor's lack of an heir. The current Empress, Maximilliana,
was the fourth wife of his eight-and-fifty years of life, and none of them had
yet given him an heir – not even a stillbirth. What was an open secret for the
Empire was much the source of gossip for the rest of the world, that the most
powerful man walking its crust was a lame-membered barren.
But to say it to one of his senior-most diplomats...
The mood amongst them all soured. Fran watched the smirk
return to his master's face as Ludolf's own curdled with loosely checked
outrage. Flecks of spittle and crushed mint leaf flew from his lips as he spat
back, "His Imperial Majesty is a man of piety who bears precious little desire
for the pleasures of the flesh... a great counter to YOUR household, I hear,
rotting to its core with vice so foul it drove your good wife to her
self-inflicted grave!"
And then it came.
A sudden slurp of unsheathed steel that froze both
ambassadors where they stood. Fran glanced right and saw Wolfrick, sword
outstretched, nostrils flaring, eyes peeled back with rage. The two Bannerets
of the Bloom pushed forth and crossed their polearms before the Imperial
Ambassador as the Wallish halberdiers formed up behind their captain, their
gloved hands at the basket hilts of their short swords. And what was once a
moment of verbal joust transformed into a hair-breadth step from violence.
"Hold!" Yelled Fran, forgetting himself. "There can be no
bloodshed here lest it foul both our causes! Stay thy hands!"
Silence.
And then...?
Ludolf sneered. "Your catamite is wise beyond his years..."
Gustave did not blink. "...Wolfrick. Lower your sword and
apologize."
The Bannerets did not budge. Nor Ludolf (though Matthias did
cower somewhat behind the three). Fran eyed their captain of the guard, his
lupine teeth practically gnashing with rage at Ludolf's petulant jab. Only when
Wolfrick looked to Gustave and his stone-faced expression did he realize the
severity of his mistake. Only then did his anger sober. The old soldier huffed
out a ragged breath, shoulders deflating, then sheathed his steel and stepped
back, lowering himself to a knee. The halberdiers released their sword hilts
and stood down.
"My... my humble apologies, your excellency." Said he. "That
was most unbecoming of me. I can only beg your forgiveness."
Ludolf's snarl did not abate. "The Duke, and no doubt the
King, will soon hear of this." He raised his hand. The two Bannerets uncrossed
their weapons and stood back as the Imperial dabbed his sweating white brow
with a kerchief and pulled ahead, shoving past Gustave and his retinue.
Matthias and the guards followed suit – until Ludolf stopped again – and a slow
smile returned to his lips.
"I suppose you've heard the news," whispered he. "Before the
Queenswood hunt, the King plans to attend that forum they call Speaker's
Square. I wonder who enticed him to parley with the rabble?"
Gustave didn't bother looking back at him. "A king's mind is
his own."
"It is the only concession you'll ever get," replied Ludolf.
And then; "Du hast einen Fehler gemacht, mich zu
provozieren. Good day, masters."
Ludolf excused himself and his clerk and his two guardsmen.
Together they trundled off across the courtyard and disappeared into a
holly-shrouded archway beneath their designated apartments. Fran sighed.
Noticed his wrist shaking. Grabbed it to calm himself. Then he looked to
Gustave – his meaty hands balled into fists ready to explode at the first face
in his line of sight. Instead, he merely hissed his anger and bellowed at them
all to ready themselves to depart, bundling himself into the carriage and
snapping at Fran to follow.
The once bullish Wolfrick now mounted his horse in guilty
silence. Even he recognized the stupidity of his mistake. `Drawing his
fucking sword at one of the chief diplomats of the Empire? Whilst under the
protection of the King's own men? In the King's own palace? Idiot!' Fran
followed his master into the coach and drew his coat tight as a sliver of cold
crawled up his spine.
The Fiend.
WOLFRICK'S A LIABILITY, did it whisper to Fran. AND
IT'S TIME TO DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT.
**********
·
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).