The Court of Ghosts Chapter 5

· 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).

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Chapter Five: Speaker's Square

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The Tower of Penitence – Return to Manse de Foy – A King's Letter – The Hospice of St. Bosmund – The Bill & Bowman – The Spotted Hare – The Bloody Parley

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Greatminster, The Lowburghs, Kingdom of Morland

76^th of Spring, 801

FIFTY-TWO DAYS AGO

The bones tire over time.

Your proud height crumples. Your smooth flesh wrinkles. Your bright eyes cloud. Your loud voice croaks. His good wife, the Lady Mildred, said it was no small thing to age, and was ever swift to bemoan it. Oft she spoke of her aches and her pains, her swelling feet and her sagging teats. In years gone by Wrothsby would have beaten her for it.

But the bones do tire over time.

The Earl of Wrothsby was not the man he was – not that little boy racing to temple at the earliest notice for his morning prayers. Not the scholarly teen moulding himself in his saint's image, the diligent and studious St. Bosmund, in preparation for a lifetime of service as a Shepherd of the realm, second son as he was. But then plague took his brother, and his father, and his mother, and half the servants. Of his noble family only he remained, half his face's flesh scourged by pox, his mind teetering through the delusions of ravaging fever, his worse tendays spent abed at the precipice of his own demise.

And yet he survived.

Bones and flesh. Weak and transient. The good Lady Wrothsby, fickle as she was, knew as much... yet not enough to know it was naught to bemoan... for flesh, at its root, was naught but a prison for the soul, a vessel for evil humours, a monument to temptation.

Flesh is temporal.

All its pleasures corrupting.

All its agonies fleeting.

What mattered most, what his insipid wife could not countenance, was that the true greatness dwelt within. The true greatness was the immortal soul bestowed upon man by The Will of the Stars and nourished by the sacred teachings of the Four Saints! Once that wrinkled flesh decayed and those aching bones dissolved, all that mattered was the fate of the soul, for where was it bound? The embrace of the saints? Or the cold grasp of oblivion?

When the pox struck his household the Earl of Wrothsby was a boy, but when he found the will to forestall death's wanton scythe and live, he emerged from his sick bed a man reborn. The teachings of the Commonfaith were no longer lofty abstract passages etched with rote diligence into his brain, the holy teachings were branded into his very soul.

And when the day came for his immortal soul to tear free from its mortal moorings, he knew his was secure. But the Earl was not so certain in the security of his countrymen.

There was a different sort of pox abroad the Kingdom of Morland these days.

A cankerous contagion called Odoism.

The degenerate teachings of a great defrauder, a rebel Shepherd who broke his vows and stole into the sacred vaults of Strausholm, all to legitimise some phony document he called the `Tract of St. Hildes', the very foundation of his calumnies. The heretic claimed that his little forgery revealed a fifth saint, the so-called `first saint', Hildes, who `inspired' the sacred tetrad to follow in her footsteps. He taught such heresies as men being free to CHOOSE their own saint! What folly! It was the Will of the Stars that deigned one's saint! Yet according to Odo, all hierarchies are invalid, and all men are equal, from the lowest swineherd to the King himself.

What utter drivel.

The heretic's teachings were foul and fraudulent, profane lies spun up by a charlatan whose only desire in his blasphemous life was to re-shape the Commonfaith in his own treacherous image. The Emperor did well to behead him. Wrothsby saw right through him, had penned whole screeds against him, and yet the heretic's teachings continued to ulcerate throughout the realm and poison the souls of so many good loyal Morishmen. If the contagion was not stopped then it would doom them all to oblivion.

And that the Earl of Wrothsby would not abide.

As Defender of the Morish Kirk it was his holy duty to purge this hallowed realm of Odoism's foul pestilence. It was his holy duty to unearth Odoism's traitorous adherents, to light fire to their hovels and stamp them out like the dormice that they were.

And so, he rose from his bed of horsehair, tired bones popping at the joints as he took himself along the rush-covered floor of his Tower of Penitence, falling to his knees in praise of the saints. He offered them his love, devotion, and resolve and bade them empower him as he collected the scourge and thrashed the gnarled white flesh at his back, over and over until the sores tore and burst, until the welts wept, until the cleansing fires of salvation washed his mind anew and prepared him for the quest to come.

His servants brought him water to wash with – his daily ablutions – then water to drink. They brought stale bread and a mouldy egg. They brought his vestments, they brought his cane, they brought his charms and his talismans. They brought his half-mask, but he would not wear it. He might spare the nobility the sight of his face, gnawed down to the sinew by the ravages of pox, but not the heretics. Never the heretics.

Let them see the weakness of the flesh they so desperately clung to.

And so, Wrothsby walked, barefoot and clear of soul, up the stone steps of his tower to the darkened gaols where he kept his growing nest of pestilent little heretics. The Earl almost wept with joy as they filled his ears with their frightened wails, groaning behind iron bars with their crushed fingertips and cropped ears and severed noses and broken teeth and gored eye sockets.

"Rejoice in the saints," said Wrothsby to himself, "And lay their enemies low."

The worst heretic he'd saved for last.

Wrothsby cried for his turnkey and torturer, a deformed and musclebound halfwit he called Beagle, and bid him unlock the cell where the worst of the vermin now dwelt, piss-soaked and flea-bitten, shorn of his clothing. This one, this rebel shepherd called Godwyn, was an obstinate one. He'd burnt him with irons, lashed him with whips, beat him with clubs, mottled him with dung and flayed him by his toes. And yet still he refused to recant.

But Wrothsby had time.

The Four Sacred Saints always provide.

"Now," said the Earl. "Let us begin afresh."

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Dogford Bridge, Dragonspur, Kingdom of Morland

38^th of Summer, 801

PRESENT DAY

A little slap to the face woke him up. Gustave's hand. Fran's eyes fluttered open. He lifted his head from his master's shoulder and knuckled the drool out of his mouth as he peeped through the window to espy their whereabouts.

It was Dragonspur at star-encrusted night, with all its dirty streets and narrow laneways shrouded in mist with nothing to see by save for passing torches and crests of moonlight piercing through the clouds.

To his right flowed the rushing waters of the River Wyvern as their carriage ferried them along the northern side of its banks. Dogford Bridge soon passed them by. Which meant they were none too far now from Manse de Foy.

Gustave frowned; chin perched off his fingertips as he leaned against the armrest and gazed out at the passing manors and their gated gardens. "I will have dinner with Frogmoncke once he's appointed Lord Justiciar. It wouldn't hurt to keep a few Morish new men in our corner. I'll have you arrange it."

A nod.

And then? "...Master?"

"What?"

Fran sighed. "Should it meet with your approval I would like to be relieved of my duties for the morrow."

"To do what? What matters would require an entire day of your time?"

A blush. Fran felt his cheeks flush as a certain blonde-haired Geadishman walked temptingly into his thoughts – but he daren't mention Edward lest Gustave's suspicions be roused. "I want to buy a gift for someone special... and Dragonspur remains unfamiliar to me."

Gustave peaked a `brow. "Do I have something to worry about?"

"Not if you tell me your breast size?"

A wry chuckle. "Very well. Take the day. And I'm always partial to scarlet brocade."

Voices yelled up ahead of them – Wallish voices. The coach slowed as Wolfrick and his halberdiers guided it toward the chancery, where the remaining members of his retinue rushed to open the gates. The guardsman's horses broke left into the manse grounds before pulling slowly into a well-earned stop. Fran gathered his bearings and followed Gustave out of the coach onto the crunching gravel tract as Wolfrick and his accompanying halberdiers all dismounted. A few of the on-duty guards jogged over to greet them, lanterns swinging in hand, as did Inga (Gustave's personal cook) and Perrin the steward.

"Thank the saints for your safe return, ambassador." Said Perrin. "Your rooms are ready. Shall I ask the girls to prepare you a bath?"

Gustave nodded. "See to it. But before that? Wolfrick. We must speak."

The grey-haired guardsman demurred. No words were exchanged between the two since the incident at Woollerton Green. Negotiations with King Oswald were already off to a frosty start and there was no telling how badly Wolfrick's blunder might play out with the court once Georg Ludolf spouted off about it. But the day's ride from the palace to the capital had gone some way in quelling Gustave's anger and when he finally addressed Wolfrick there was little of it left. The ambassador clapped a thick arm around the guard captain's shoulders and led him back to the manse.

Fran frowned.

He knew that gesture. There would be words. Harsh words. And then after that? After that came laughter and wine. There would be reprimand but no punishment. Fran had hoped that just this once Gustave might show some spine and send Wolfrick back to Wallenstadt to face his brother's wrath, but no. Like a fool he would retain Wolfrick despite the risk of further offence in the doing of it.

The boy sighed and followed the others back inside the household. He did not stop to remove his coat or check in with Perrin for any letters, he simply brushed everyone by and hastened to his rooms to clear his mind. He slammed the door shut. Shrugged off his coat and doublet. Uncorked a hidden wine bottle. Then he noticed a note on his escritoire hidden in plain sight by the surrounding half-written missives and unsealed letters. At the corner of its folded page it bore Lothar's secretive seal, P&B: "Pussyfoot and Bullyfoot".

Fran opened it.

MEET ME OUTSIDE THE HOSPICE OF ST. BOSMUND

- L

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Harvenny Heath, Dragonspur, Kingdom of Morland

38^th of Summer, 801

Edward's wrists ached. He set them to soak in a bucket of freshly drawn well water, hoping to nip the sting off his bruised muscles, muscles made tender by acts of swordplay. A few yards ahead stood his dance partner for the morning, a six-foot tall training dummy armoured with rustic mantles of straw and hemp, nicked by multiple blows from Edward's sparring sword. He'd been at it for hours – mostly to take his mind off other matters – though now it was hard to tell which of them came off worse for it.

The waters sloshed as Edward withdrew his hands, wiped them dry, then gave each wrist a rub as he marched through the cottage's wind-beaten doors, passing through its little kitchen and scullery to its antechamber (or what passed for it) where a small but significant group of Crow's Club members surrounded the dinner table. There was the old man himself, as well as Basil Smeadon, Kenrick Thopswood, Old Meg and the Tavernmaster. The air was enriched with the scent of freshly brewed beer and piping hot steak pies. And the mood, despite Thomas Wolner's threats, was jubilant.

Why?

Because a gilt letter had come to Harvenny Heath that morning, hand delivered and sealed by the sigil of House Oswyke – the King's own seal. And Stillingford had grinned tearfully from the moment he first broke its wax.

"Call them all here, Ed!" Said the old man that morn. "Rothwell, Smeadon, Thopswood! Bring them here as fast as you can! Let them all hear it from me!"

Ed tossed their coachman Higgs an extra mark to run a trip into the city and fetch the club's most prominent members. Thopswood spared no delay and once Smeadon heard the call he roused Old Meg and her husband himself. But Will Rothwell, curiously, refused the carriage. This was expressed to Edward upon the coachman's return when Ed enquired of Will's whereabouts.

"There was a stark ale stench about his lodgings," said Higgs, half a day prior. "Master Rothwell then told me he would visit with Master Stillingford anon."

Anon came sometime that night when the victuals were almost dry. There was a knock. Ed answered it.

And there was Will, freckle-nosed and amber-chopped Will, stood softly in the doorway. His small hands clung to his sides beneath the russet folds of his sheepskin-shouldered cloak. And he wouldn't look Edward in the eye.

"May I pass?" He asked.

"May we talk?" Asked Ed.

Will frowned, eyes away. "You aren't a man for words if I recall correctly."

"Will. No insult was meant. You are my friend, I-"

"May I pass?" Exclaimed the scholar, this time more sharply than the last. A glint of anger lit his wintry eyes. There was no talking to him like this. And so, with a heavy breath, the

swordsman stood aside. William Rothwell brushed past him.

A half-drunk Old Meg and fully drunk Basil Smeadon lifted their flagons to him as he approached the centre table's last empty seat. Thopswood, the most sober of them all (him having withheld himself from the vigour of Old Meg's brews) passed Will a pie and knife and an empty mug that the tavern master saw fit to fill.

"Smells good," said Will. "Have I missed my own feast day?"

Stillingford grinned from ear to ear as he handed over the morning's missive. Edward sat to his own seat as the redheaded scholar read aloud; "To a guest most esteemed of the forum my subjects know as Speaker's Square. I, your King, Oswald II of the House of Oswyke, would be delighted to attend and lend an ear to its discourse two days anon."

A cheer.

Stillingford and Smeadon clinked their cups. Thopswood thumbed tears out of his eyes as Old Meg wrapped her arms around her ecstatic husband. Rothwell was dumbfounded. "By Bosmund's Brow... the ambassador pulled it off?"

Stillingford nodded proudly. "I told you! I told you the King would hear our pleas! He plans to come to Speaker's Square to hear the concerns of his people!"

"I must admit I had my doubts." Ed cupped the old man's shoulder. "But this is amazing news. This is everything you've ever worked towards, master."

"It could be. It very well could be."

Will looked less enthused. "Well, you know how I feel about the king, but hats off to you, master. Your communications with Roschewald brought this to pass."

The old man stabbed the table with a gnarled finger, eyeing his followers in the hearth light. "This is a golden opportunity to raise the plight of the people with the King, to petition him with our list of reforms! My only regret..." Stillingford's smile passed to William, "...is that your smug face will be the one to do it."

Rothwell paused. "Me? But-"

"Some things are more important than ourselves. I'm too old, Will. And I know you're no admirer of the King. But this is your task. You must be the voice of the people. Reflect their love for their monarch but bring to him, with dignity and verve what they have endured these hard ten years of regency. Be our voice! And by the saints we may yet set this country to rights! What say you?"

Will almost shrank in his doublet. He looked overwhelmed. Shocked. And yet, dutiful. A small smile broke across his pale lips as his compatriots looked to him for an answer.

"I will," he said. "I will do this thing for us. For our people. For the Folkweal."

"FOR THE FOLKWEAL!" They chanted back, pounding their chests in salute.

Cups clinked. Clay scraped the table. Ale sloshed by the ewer. The tavern master set about refilling each mug to its rim whilst Old Meg fetched more steak pies from the tin platter she'd set by the hearth to keep them warm. A smirking Stillingford huddled with Will to discuss his coming remarks for the forum and bid him spend the night to prepare them. Smeadon bade him speak to the influx of aliens miring the ports and docksides. Thopswood quietly reminded him of the persecutions suffered by their Odoist fellows in the Lowburghs – Wrothsby need not be named but his oppression could not go unspoken.

It was a triumphant night for the Crow's Club, and they chortled, debated, bickered, cheered, and cried their way through it. So much to do. So much to plan. So much to say. And as the night went on like that... there was another knock on the door. Ed set aside his flagon and stood to answer it, letting them all continue. `The coachman?' He wondered. `Another neighbour?' And then he opened the door.

Fran.

Smiling.

"How do you, ser?"

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ONE HOUR EARLIER

Hospice of St Bosmund, Dragonspur, Kingdom of Morland

38^th of Summer, 801

It was a dreary sight was the hospice. Iron gates. Piercing spires. Spikes festooned its white-painted walls to ward off intruders (and escapees, perhaps). Fran knew little of it or its history. Dragonspur was not a city of his knowledge. Shocking to say he was more familiar with the streets and laneways of Wallenstadt than he was of his homeland's capital.

But he did know some things about it, having reviewed Neidhart's dossier.

He knew it was a commission of the Morish Kirk and that its barber-surgeons employed treatments from around the known world – leeching, trepanning, lunar ray inundation, bloodletting, herbalism, humour re-balancing, alchemically-distilled draughts, miasmic purging, and so forth. He knew its enclosed grounds contained an orphanage, a leper colony, lodgings for the morbidly deformed, as well an old abbey repurposed as a college of the natural sciences. Its founder was a new man, Ser John Goodwyne, the king's own Sergeant Surgeon, an infamous secularist who was renowned for his belief that saintly law should play no role in medicine or science. That the Kirk should trust such a man to fulfil this commission spoke to his talents. But it was a foreboding place. There was something about the hospice that unsettled Fran, though he could not give voice to it.

`Why would Lothar call me here of all places?' Thought Fran.

The night sky pissed with rain. Fran observed the hospice from the waterlogged alley of a neighbouring townhouse. He cuddled himself for warmth beneath his fur-shouldered cloak, drawing up the hood to keep his hair dry. The chill of a soggy Morish summer could not compare to the icy climes of Wallenheim – but the rains were savage and foul in recent days.

A voice approached Fran from the shadows – "How do?"

The boy almost leapt out of his own flesh, spinning around in startlement. "Lothar? Saints be, you gave me a fright! How are you?"

Gone were the petticoats. Gone was the wig of flaxen locks. Gone were the corset and gable, the dresses and farthingale, gone was Lady Eleanora and once again there was Lothar, dressed only in his russet night leathers and hooded cloak. His brace of kidney spike daggers, Pussyfoot and Bullyfoot, rattled at his thighs. A courtly flower wilted into a thorny stem.

Lothar fixed his cold eyes to the hospice across the muddy cobbles. "I came down with Comwyn and the King's retinue. You should know from now – once he appoints the Masters of the Realm, he plans to attend Speaker's Square. The Constable of Dragonspur, Thomas Wolner, will serve as guardsman of the host."

Fran nodded. "I will inform Gustave."

There was something else too. A vial, small and transparent, stoppered with an even smaller cork. Lothar held it aloft.

"What is that?"

"Bitterblack poison, sourced from the same alchemist Lady Cecily purchases her laserwort. It is lethal and odourless. Three drops will destroy a man in as many minutes."

A sigh. "...Wolfrick."

"He drew his sword against the imperial ambassador, Fran. It was all the king's courtiers could talk about on the way here. One more blunder like that and all our plans will come to naught. If Gustave will not punish him, and I know that he will not, then we must be rid of him."

The Fiend tittered in Fran's ear. HE'S RIGHT, BOY. DO AWAY WITH HIM NOW BEFORE HIS INCOMPETENCE COMES BACK TO BITE!

The clerk shivered again.

Gustave was as mutton-headed and bullish as he was affable and lavish. He was a man who loved his friends and rewarded loyalty, even to a fault. He was savvy enough to see Wolfrick's blunder but too foppishly doting to penalize him for it. Gustave had to know that a lack of reprimand for his captain of the guard would earn him disfavour at court, but knowing him, he doubtless thought he could talk his way out of it or buy back their love with gifts and wine. It was a Wallish way of thinking and belied his ignorance of the Morish manner. `Better dead then unpunished,' thought Fran. `Wolfrick is a liability.'

"Do you want me to do it?" Asked Lothar, tucking the vial back into his hip pouch.

`Perhaps.' Thought Fran. It was not that he lacked the courage or the desire to kill Wolfrick himself – saints alive, the desire was there and pumping like a heartbeat – he simply did not want to make a blunder. Neither of them could afford it. "When can you return to Manse de Foy?"

"After the King's council at Staunton," said the assassin. "Comwyn is set to return to his lands in Thormont to settle some business. He's put me up in his local lodgings with a few attendants in the meanwhile. I can slip out at any time."

Fran nodded. "Then I'll wait for your return."

Lothar nodded back.

And then their eyes returned to the hospice and its dreary white walls.

"Why are we here, Lothar? Did you find something in the star charts?"

A grunt of affirmation. And a slight smile from a habitually stony face. "Yes. My birth is listed as `Lothar, 22^nd of Winter, 781, alien born.' No record of surname or parentage."

"Alien born? You mean to say... you are not Morish?"

Lothar shrugged. "Evidently not. But my star chart listing sourced my birth records to this place – the Hospice of St. Bosmund, surname redacted. And if my birth date is known to them... then I was not orphaned here. I was brought here, perhaps by my parents."

Now the meeting point made sense. "But why then would they abandon you?" Said Fran. "And withhold their names, at that?"

"I do not know. But whatever the truth is about me... it lies here. We are close."

Fran went silent. He glanced across the street again. Two tall men in long cloaks guarded the hospice' gates that night. No doubt there were more nightmen lurking about its grounds too. But from the outside looking in their numbers were far too small to trouble Lothar. "You want to sneak into their record chambers, yes?"

"Tonight," said the Catspaw. "The heavy rains will make for good cover."

"Be careful then. And good luck."

Lothar nodded, wishing him the same as he slowly stepped backward into the shadows of the alleyway and slipped away in a scuff of dust.

Fran sighed, tightened his cloak's folds, and doubled back to a whickering horse (borrowed from the stables at Manse de Foy) quickly mounting its saddle and drawing up its reins into his clenched fists. He coaxed the beast on and rode out into the rain-drenched street, following its cobbles to a road bending south towards Harvenny Heath.

The clerk was tired of skulduggery. This night? He wanted to be happy. And for Fran happiness brought to mind only one person.

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The Bill & Bowman, Dragonspur, Kingdom of Morland

38^th of Summer, 801

They rode north together, Edward and Fran, along the Old King's Way, back into the city and eventually into the city centre where its streets met the southern side of the riverbank, and they slowly made their way through the rain along the paved promenade of the Black Quay to a large tavern house called The Bill & Bowman.

A pot girl took Edward's sword at the door, then led them to the tavern keep's counter where he paid upfront – two meals and four ales for 25 & ½ marks – after which he and Fran were taken to a fresh table.

It was a sailor's haunt was The Bill & Bowman, a respite for men of the tides. Burning tallow candles and lit tobacco pipes thickened the air with their smoke. Scents of stale ale and white wine met with that of tartar and vinegar and fish. Bright tongues of orange flame lashed against the blackened logs charring within the tavern's twinned hearths, casting a low glow throughout the small hall, overflowing with guests. Dozens of them. All of them seated about oaken roundtables set with melting candlesticks and embroidered napkins. Fishermen, wherrymen, porters, drudgers, shuckers, traders, merchants, shipwrights, and salt wenches all. People of the river and sea. There were mugs of ale and cups of wine in every hand. Sauce-smattered plates of fish skins and fishbones (picked clean) littered the tables. Serving girls and potboys danced around the customers fetching crockery, each one catching a stray half-mark for their troubles. Some seamen sang songs by the hearths, shoulder to shoulder and arm in arm. Some played cards or dice games. Others arm-wrestled. But the atmosphere? Oh, so lively. The tavern boiled over with good cheer and revelry.

A serving girl came by and set two plates to their small window-side table. Grilled swordfish steaks and half a leek pie for Edward, fried potato slices with egg and garlic for Fran.

"Now I warn you these may not be as good as you're accustomed to, but this is as close to Geadish cookery as Dragonspur can offer," Edward set aside his ale mug and took up the brass spoon and knife by his plate. "The food as well as the patrons."

Fran smiled softly. He felt it too. This shoreside tavern, or The Bill & Bowman as it was called, felt so much like home. As the waters rushed against the seaweeded walls of the riverbank, so Fran was reminded of the tides crashing against the cliffs outside the Gray Manor, back home on Gead. The drunken wherrymen and their ribald songs reminded him of the drunken boatmen that went trawling from ale house to beer hall back in Stoneport. They were just boys at the time; Francis and Edward, but many a night had they snuck out of the manse into the town to make merry with the port boys on nights just like this.

"Gustave should die if he ever caught me in a place like this," said Fran.

Edward's nose twitched. "Tch."

"What?"

"I meant to insult your master... but he's done good by us in persuading King Oswald to attend Speaker's Square. That's worth holding a tongue or two."

Fran crunched a fried potato hank between his teeth and frowned. "Compliment him not. He merely posited an idea, and the King took well to it. No arms were twisted."

Ed smiled. "Is he as disagreeable to you as he is to me?"

"I do not wish to speak of Roschewald, I should not have brought him up." A soft smile followed. "I want to know about you, Ed. What have you been up to?"

Ed cut up a swordfish steak into five portions and popped each one between his teeth, one after the other. There was so little to say. "You'll find no daring tales here, Fran. I escaped the siege by a boat bearing southwest across the Mandelsea to Dragonspur. I slept at the docks for a few tendays hoping you might turn up on another escape ship, but... I couldn't find you. I found some work as a potboy for a time. Then some sailor went for my bollocks, and I broke his nose. The taverner punted me after that. Tried my hand at woodworking in the shipyards until I got into a scrap with a wright's son. I was an angry boy, I suppose. It was slow going finding work after that. Fell in with a rough crowd. Dockside Boys they called themselves. Villains and rascals all. Pickpocketing, they did. And housebreaking. And mule-thieving. They were good at it, and they taught me to be as well, but... we were caught on a run of the old wharfinger's whorehouse. Brought us up before the courts. The older lads, seven-and-ten, and the like, they were sent to the gallows. But we younger ones... someone put in a good word for us, and we received a `grant of clemency'. One year as a guest of the Constable in the Oubliette. And that was..."

Pale-pate Wolner's skeletal smile crossed Edward's thoughts. That and the echoes of his childhood-self, shivering inside his cell, up to his nostrils in the stink of his own excrement; or screaming himself hoarse as the gaolers drove a needle beneath his fingernail and refused to remove it until he gave them all he knew of the other `cutpurse gangs' befouling the local quays. He knew nothing of course but torturers don't often take `I know nothing' for an answer.

"...that was quite a time."

Fran frowned. "Oh, Ed. I'm sorry."

"No, no. Anyway. A year later and we were freed. And it was Master Stillingford who was there to greet us. He was the one who put in the good word, you see. He said that boys like us only ever end up doing what we do when money is short or when there's no fathers around to guide us. Which was true in all our cases. He brought us back to the Crow's Club and found us honest work with some of the members. I grew big for a lad, so Basil Smeadon put me to some stone breaking in one of his quarries. Horrible work that. But I kept up my swordplay, just like Ser Martyn taught me, and eventually the old man took notice and made me his sworn guard. Now I guard him and take care of him. Help him around. Bring him his food. Help him wash. Put him to sleep. It doesn't pay much, but... I owe him my life. Theopold Stillingford is as good a man as you'll ever meet."

"He seems it," said Fran. "But he looks to have taken care of you also. You can read now."

Ed chuckled. "Aye, Stillingford taught me how. I don't do it as often as I should I'm afraid! Barely made it through ten pages of The Phantoma, Will had to summarize it for me. These learned men might win themselves more followers if they ever wrote more plainly for us mudwits."

Then he watched Fran's mood dampen ever so slightly.

"I should've been the one to teach you," he said.

Almost guiltily.

Edward set his knife down and reached his free hand out to Fran's soft fingers. The touch was simple, ever so slight, and yet it sent whole currents of warmth up his arm and back.

`How many nights have I dreamt again I might hold this hand?' Ed thought. "We're ten years too late for regrets, Fran."

"But does it not anger you? To think of it? Of what was taken from us? And over what?"

Ed sighed. "We cannot go back. The only road is forward."

The swordsman watched the clerk force a smile back onto his lips, but it didn't fool Edward Bardshaw for a single second. Francis Gray had grown and grown comely, that much was certain. But he was nursing an anger in himself – much perhaps like the one Ed wrestled with in his dockside boyhood – anger at the world and the cruelty of its mistreatments.

"What about you, Fran? How have you fared these long ten years. What's been your doings?"

Fran's forced smile wavered. "Hardly bears repeating, really. When the cannon fire ceased, and the Emperor's ships moored in our docks, some of his men picked me out of the rubble. I was taken captive and held against my will until Greyford opened negotiations with the Imperials after King Osmund's death. I was sent to House Roschewald, back when Wallenheim was still part of the Empire, and raised as their household notary, account-man, and clerk. A few years later they sent me to study Continental Law in Strausholm where I received my masterate. After that I returned to my duties. I... I cannot complain, I suppose. I have lived better than any commoner has."

"We're both commoners now," said Ed. "But it isn't all drudgery, Fran. There's room in it for friendship and joy... and love."

They met eyes through the candle smoke.

A little lustre returned to Fran's smile. Someone passed their table by. They parted hands. Resumed their meals. Then Ed felt a shoe kick off underneath the table. A soft, socked foot crept up the length of his inner leg right up to his thigh. Almost like a caress. Edward's eyes shot up. Fran kept his own on his plate, shuffling the peppered eggs about the platter as his false smile transformed into a very real grin.

"You are no child of St. Jehanne," said Edward, smiling wryly.

Fran took a sip of ale and glanced at him over its rim. "Nor are you, Master Bardshaw. Ever St. Thunos' progeny you are, you and that big sword of yours."

"I dare say you've never seen me swing it."

The cottoned tip of Fran's toe found its way to a stiffened device bulging beneath his riding leathers. They glared at each other. The candles flickered. The heat was sweltering. Ed watched the beads of Fran's sweat drip teasingly down the slope of his pale brow, burnished by the glow of the hearth-fire, cascading down his cheek to the crest of his plush pink lips.

Then a potboy approached them. "Any more victuals, masters?"

The table rattled beneath them as Fran withdrew his foot from between Edward's legs, clearing his throat. "N-no, thank you. Thank you, kindly."

The potboy sallied away to attend another table.

Edward, flushed, wiped his brow. "Well, well, well. Haven't you changed?"

"Perhaps I am simply impatient."

"Oh, Bosmund's Bollocks you are. You're the most patient person I've ever known."

A pause. "...Not where you're concerned, Ed Bardshaw."

A deeper pause then. Recollections drifted into Edward's mind. Recollections of a lost birthday upon the roof at the highest point in the Isle of Gead, recollections of a kiss that never was. And the boy they both blamed for it.

"Harry," said Ed. "Harry Grover. Remember him? Ever hear anything of him?"

Fran shook his head no. "Oh, Harry. No one could make us laugh like he could. I feel certain he was holed up with my mother and the others right before the cannon fire rained down. But who can say with surety?"

Ed exhaled. Took another sip of ale. Put his mug down and helped himself to more swordfish. Then he burped (begging a pardon) and let his eyes drift off to the latticed window rattling with the patter of rainfall. "We might very well be the last surviving members of your father's household. Ten years after the Siege of Gead. And now your master's help might bring everything my master's ever dreamed of to pass. Too uncanny for a coincidence, don't you think?"

Fran looked on, cynically. "You see a saintly hand in all this?"

"Is that so ludicrous a thought?"

"Bosmund never answered my prayers," said the clerk. "I doubt Thunos has ever answered yours. We are here now of our own strength and will, Ed. Do not cede our resolve to the saints."

Edward cut a smile, broad and bright. Fran hadn't merely grown comely, he'd grown strong. It was a quiet sort of strength to be sure – but it was strength, undoubtedly. "You have changed, Francis Gray. What will you do with it? This newfound strength of yours?"

Edward hadn't meant it to be a loaded question, if anything, he'd said it idly. And yet Fran paused when he heard it, looking away as if to gather his thoughts and evaluate a response. `Something is bothering him,' thought Ed. `As if there's some great weight upon his shoulders...'

The slightly younger of the two tucked a tress of smooth chestnut behind his ear and darted his eyes toward the rain-pattered window. A pale orb of moonlight stuttered along its glass. "I had thought... to the reestablishment of my house. Somehow."

"Fran... a title doesn't grant a man his worth."

The clerk eyed the guardsman. "Aye. It grants him security. Property. Land. Rights. All the things a man needs to thrive in this speckled dung-hole we call a world. My father's legacy and lineage... the traditions he saw fit to pass down to me... should I simply leave them to rot and erode?"

Ed leaned in. "Neither legacy nor lineage require nobility. You are yet your father's son. This is an age of new men, Fran. Frogmoncke, Shakestone, even Wolner, saints damn him. Think of the power they accrue... and all without a drop of noble blood."

There was much talk of `New Men' these days, men of low birth catapulted into positions of great power by the nobility. Men accumulating great wealth by dint of business acumen – merchants and guildsmen and lawyers – these men, Stillingford believed, kept the keys to the future of Morland and the world beyond it. Perhaps not now, but soon.

"You are not alone in that belief," said Fran, rapping his fingers upon the table's ale-stained grain. "The Roschewalds rebuilt their power through law and trade when the Emperor scourged them of it. But offer the lowliest man his choice of lordship or masterate... we both know which one he would take. Power yet lingers in blood and titles."

There was a tenor to this discussion that Ed misliked. He slapped his hands to the table and pulled a grin. "Enough politics, I've a bellyful at home. Eat up. I want to show you something."

The smile returned to Fran's face. Even as a boy he was one for surprises – and little had changed on that score. He finished what was left of his plate (as did Edward) and together they shrugged on their cloaks, making for the door.

Out upon the promenade passers-by flocked for shelter beneath doorways and jetties as unseasonal rains broke like a torrent across the city, bloating the Wyvern. Flags and signposts billowed roughly against heavy winds. `Unsaintly weather,' thought Edward. `Who brooked their anger?'

"Let's get to the horses!" Yelled Fran. He had to yell to be heard over the rainfall.

"Aye!" Said Edward.

He led their way down the narrow, mud-soaked alley between The Bill & Bowman and the local smithy. At its end stood some stabling, rickety with wood rot and barely holding its own against the gales. There the two Geadishmen untied their horses' reins from their posts and mounted their saddles, trotting back out onto the stone promenade and breaking west along the river.

Ed whipped at Bessie's reins. "Follow me!"

From there the two rode westward, past the Black Quay and the wharfinger's offices down the length of South Bank Lane until the street broke south curling smoothly around the marble colonnaded grounds of the old colosseum. In ancient times the descendants of Edwulf I hosted great tourneys and jousts in that theatre – now it was owned by the guilds, sold off during the Greyford Regency for the use of mummers and bear-baiters. On the other side of the dirt path that encircled it stood the long strip of theatres, banquet halls, fairgrounds, racetracks, and pleasure houses the townsmen called the Street of Joy. Edward smirked to himself, thinking of those many occasions when he and Stillingford came up for the cockfights and dog races there, once every tenday.

`Oh, the times.' Thought he.

Where the Street of Joy ended, the slope of St. Wynnry's Hill began. Edward coaxed Bessie on (as she was poor with slopes) whilst Fran's Wallish fjord horse powered on up the grade until the dirt path levelled out towards a small community built up around the hillock. There were cottages and mills nearby, kilns and wells too, and an extensive cemetery. Edward and Fran followed its winding two-mile footpath to the towering structure that sat at its leafy summit – an abandoned abbey. Rivulets of rainwater flowed down from its jutting spires and crumbled walls.

Fran tilted back to take it all in. "Why are we here?"

"You shall see."

The clerk followed his old friend along the trail to the site, Old St. Wynnry's Abbey, as it was known. In centuries past it served as one of the four great temples of Dragonspur, occupying the city's highest hill as its exalted commissioner, Edwulf II did request. But the centuries were unkind to it. Much of its outer walls were broken, its stones long dislodged and harvested by locals. Three of its five bell towers had collapsed, and the roofs of the chapter house, servery and refectory had capsized. Weeds and thorny brambles overran the garth of its decaying cloister, its fountains and gargoyles similarly swathed in pelts of moss and ivy, as were its looted tombs and crypts. Nature was slowly reclaiming what man had built.

"What happened here?" Asked Fran.

They came to its entrance, a half-shattered stone archway, dismounting to walk their horses through it. Its fallen keystone sat idly in the high grass escribed with St. Wynnry's great epithet: CONQUEROR OF FEAR.

"Abandonment," said Edward, petting Bessie's mane as he went. "A few decades back this city suffered a ravenous bout of plague, and this place was one of the worst affected. The Lord Mayor had the abbey and its hamlet quartered off for years. Most of its villagers died. Folks called it haunted and stayed away. Some came back, those in need of the land, but it's never been what it was since. That's what I was told, anyway."

"And... why are we here?"

Ed grinned. "Master Gray. You aren't afraid of ghosts, are you?"

"...Ed..."

The swordsman chuckled. "Take my hand. I'll show you."

There was a moulding stake driven into the damp soil, ringed with splintered welts where other guests of the abbey had once tied their horse's reins. Fran and Edward did the same. And then, hand in hand, they walked across the rubble-ridden cloister to one of the last standing bell towers on the grounds. Up against its wall leaned a wooden ladder. Ed threw off his sword and went to climb it, bidding Fran to follow him (which he did after a laborious sigh of defeat) all the way into the empty belfry, long since stripped of its bell. From there they sat. And from there, Fran finally saw what Edward wanted him to see.

Dragonspur.

All of Dragonspur.

From its highest point, all of Morland's capital stretched out before them. All its markets and plazas. All its temples and manors. All its townhouses and tenements. Its cemeteries and water gardens, its wharfs and piers, its winding laneways, and cloistered farmsteads. The River Wyvern raced through its black heart, twinkling in the moonlight like a knife's blade. From there all three of its colossal stone bridges were in view – Foxford, Frogford and Dogford – The Three Beasts. The towering presence of Staunton Castle cast its murky shadow over the city centre whilst the surrounding townships of Harvenny Hearth, Alfriars and Merry Makepeace bloomed from the fringes of the outer city walls into a sweeping greensward panorama of forests, hills, and dales.

Dragonspur was the heart and soul of Morland.

And here they were, Francis Gray and Edward Bardshaw, at its very apex.

Even with the beating rains, howling winds, curdling clouds, and darkening skies... it was a beautiful sight to behold.

"Incredible," whispered Fran.

Edward looked to him and smiled. "Once upon a time you showed me all of Gead. Now that we've found each other again... I only thought it right to return the favour."

A pair of soft hands found him in the dark, soft as satin against the grain of his blonde beard, drawing him close until their lips met, seizing the kiss that was stolen from them all those years ago. Thunder broke above their ears. Ed shut his eyes, felt his heart thumping in his chest, his own mind falling from him, everything of worth in the world rendered unto this one last person, this one last piece of home, his beautiful Francis Gray. He wrapped his warrior's arms around the clerk, sweeping him into his embrace, until their lips did part.

Fran bit his lip, smiling softly, tears streaming. "I... I thought I lost you... I thought... I thought I had nothing left..."

"Aye. And yet..." Ed took Fran's little chin by the tip of his thumb and forefinger. "I see you now... and it's as if we never parted."

Dark green eyes looked up into pale grey ones. "Ed...? Is there somewhere we can go?"

**********

The Spotted Hare, Dragonspur, Kingdom of Morland

38^th of Summer, 801

The rains were stubborn that night. They, Francis Gray and Edward Bardshaw, thought to abide at Old St. Wynnry's until the grey clouds passed them by, but pass they would not, and so the two of them climbed down into the pouring rain – hoods up, cloaks tightened, hand in hand.

After returning to the grounds where their tethered horses awaited, they proceeded downhill along that coursing sludge of a road churned up by the belting winds and pissing skies until it returned them to the Street of Joy. Fran followed Edward's lead. He knew of a coaching house nearby called The Spotted Hare that he and his master had prior occasion to frequent. They rode swiftly for it, galloping up a beaten path into a wide paddock wedged between the stables and the inn.

Fran cupped a hand over his eyes. Through the rain he made out the candlelit windows lining the inn's walls as Edward climbed down from his horse to strike a bell at the gatepost. A pair of cloaked ostlers emerged (grudgingly) from a side house.

"Good eve, masters...!" Ed yelled over the rain. "Have you room to spare for the night...?"

The hour was late. But "aye" they said and waved the pair toward the inn. "We'll attend your horses whilst you see yourselves inside...!"

Fran dismounted and surrendered the reins. And then Ed's hand found its way into his again. Their smiles found each other amidst the downpour... and then they made their way inside, shaking the rainwater from their cloaks at the stone threshold.

The Spotted Hare's inn was a cosy sort of place. They found it aglow with candlelight, as weary travellers and coachmen sat to tankards of ale and plates of pigeon pie, though most had retired for the night. Pipe smoke salted the air. The hearth was warm and roaring, its heat tingling to their flesh freshly fetched from the cold.

The innkeeper was a maid of considerable years, perhaps fifty or more. She stood behind the counter, smocked and coifed, scrubbing ale stains out of the grain as she croaked out commands to her potboys – her grandsons – to collect the empty plates and tankards and take them out back. A wrinkled smile captured her face upon Edward's approach.

"Is that our Stillingford's boy?" Said the old woman, spoken with a Lowburgher's slow drawl. "Ed Bardshaw?"

He smiled back. "Gytha. You remember me?"

"Half my washerwomen remember ye."

"The rain caught us out," said Ed. "You couldn't spare us a room, could you? One will do."

Gytha eyed Fran. "...To the dismay of me washerwomen I reckon I might. Fret not for the hour if ye have the marks."

Edward slipped her a purse. Thirty marks. Gytha, as wily as she was amiable, bit each coin in succession until each was counted. Her grin was wide and toothy as she tossed Edward a key from the mounted rack behind her. "Take the third room."

They thanked her. She offered them victuals. Having already eaten, they refused, and took their leave of her to make their way up the stairs for the third room, only a flight away, where they bundled themselves inside and locked the door. They lit its lantern. Shed their cloaks. Fran held his breath. And there he was after a decade apart. The blacksmith's boy. Ser Martyn's finest pupil.

His Ed.

Fran closed the space between them until there was none. He slid his palms up the smooth leather breast of Edward's russet jerkin and unbuttoned it, tugging it free. Then he unlaced the collar of Edward's lockram undershirt and lifted it off his shoulders. It flapped softly to the boarded floor.

Fran went for his belt.

"...Wait," said Ed. He looked away. "I... I've never..."

Edward Bardshaw was never what anyone would call a complicated man. That was the beauty of him. His simplicity. His earnestness. And yet, for a moment, Fran could not make sense of him. Then it dawned on him. Ed's meaning. I've never laid with anyone.

The clerk bit his lip. "Never?"

"...Never."

Fran did not believe in fate or omens or saints. Not anymore. And yet? If he had... if he did... in that moment... he might've seen the puppet strings of providence at work. That this broad strapping man so solely and utterly beloved by his boyhood self might yet return to him, perfect, untouched by others. And in his eyes, those beautiful pools of Geadish grey, unbridled passion and devotion.

"You were made for me, Ed Bardshaw..." Fran's voice broke into a whisper as he inched up by the tips of his toes to meet Edward at his lips. "For me and no other..."

**********

The Spotted Hare, Dragonspur, Kingdom of Morland

39^th of Summer, 801

It was hours into the day before Edward Bardshaw woke from the deepest, most peaceful sleep he'd had in nigh on a decade. He yawned. He stretched. His eyes fluttered open and cast themselves down at the young clerk slumbering oh so peacefully in his arms.

`So beautiful,' thought Ed.

And he was. From his tousled chestnut tresses to his tiny curling toes Francis Gray was an enrapturing sight. A joy to hold and behold. Edward kissed him as he slept, running his fingers through those russet locks, admiring the freckled contours of his sweat-dried chest as dust-speckled sunlight poured in through the latticework and drenched the room in a golden swath. It felt like the briefest of moments to Ed. But it could have been hours.

He could only imagine what it would feel like to wake up with Fran in his arms every morning for the rest of their lives. What a thing to dream... what was happiness if not that? The warmth of a shared bed after a cold night and the drunken rapture of your life's greatest love nestled safely in your arms?

`We were cheated of each other ten years ago,' thought Edward. `But now we're here.'

Fran stirred.

His little waking moan was like a purr, kittenish and luxuriating, bottle green eyes floating open over a delectable smile. They kissed softly in the dawn light. "Good morning, Master Bardshaw..."

"Good morning, Master Gray. Was the night as kind to you as it was to me?"

"Kinder, I dare say." Fran sighed. "Like I've waited a lifetime for it."

Ed smiled. "It's only the first of many to come. We're together now. We-"

Edward stopped himself mid-sentence when he saw Fran's eyes dart back and forth urgently. He asked for the time. Ed said the roosters had long crowed. And then a look of panic crossed Fran's face. "Oh no! Oh, saints and stars, I have to be back at Manse de Foy!"

He quickly kissed Ed again before shunting himself out of bed and hunting about the floor for his clothes as they lay strewn about the floor in discarded fragments. A now grumbling Edward looked on as Fran scrambled to piece his outfit back together.

"Must you rush off?" He asked. "Roschewald can't need you that urgently, can he?"

Fran inched the hose back up his legs as he answered. "My master is a curt man when it comes to timekeeping."

"You're two-and-twenty summers grown, Fran. You aren't a ward anymore. You aren't beholden to him."

After Fran's hose came his undershirt and velvet doublet (which he buttoned frantically) before slipping his leather hornbills back on. "I am in his employ now, Ed. Nothing I do is free. Do not sulk, I promise you we shall see each other again and soon. Besides, you have your own duties to attend to today, remember?"

`Speaker's Square...' thought he. "Saints damn you. I always hated it when you were right."

His cloak and cap came last. Fran quickly fitted on both and approached the naked swordsman with a lusty smile.

"Where I'm concerned you'll just have to accustom yourself to that, master." Fran brought their lips together with a parting kiss. "I shall see you anon. Good luck with the King, he's twice as stubborn as he is young."

Edward stole another sweet kiss before he left, grinning like a well-fed child. "Very well then, away with you."

And with that Fran slipped away. The door clicked shut behind him. Edward, yawning, crawled out of bed, his spent cock swaying side to side as he approached the window. Within a few long moments Fran emerged from the adjacent stabling, seated upon the leathered saddle of his Wallish fjord horse as it trotted off up the straw-ridden cobbles to the main road. After that Edward followed suit and dressed himself for the day to come. Once his dark cloak had resettled his shoulders and his sword's scabbard swung back from his belt, the guardsman departed the inn and collected Bessie from the paddock at its flank – fortunately the ostlers were kind enough to water her for him.

Edward rode out from there.

His stomach grumbled along the way, and he considered breaking his fast with some fish and bread in a nearby tavern, then thought better of it. Will Rothwell, Basil Smeadon and Kenrick Thopswood had all agreed to take Master Stillingford to the Square themselves if Ed did not return to Harvenny Heath before morning, he'd need to meet them there, and no delays could be afforded. He decided to press on instead.

Edward took shortcuts to the city centre, riding into puddled back alleys and muddy laneways beneath the shadows of rainwater buckets and cloth-ridden washing lines until he found himself back on the main thoroughfare of the Old King's Way.

He was half a mile's ride from Speaker's Square when he noticed the gathering crowds. Initially it was only a few dozen who took to the streets – others simply opened their latticed windows and peered out to see the forming procession. But soon those dozens became hundreds of townspeople filing out into the muddy dirt paths and roads. Some carried banners bearing the royal sigil. Some flew cloth placards demanding the Duke of Greyford's abdication. Some sang songs praising Old King Osmund and as well as Young King Oswald. Groups of women walked with baskets of flower petals and tossed them about the streets. Fiddlers jigged along the cobbles. Preachers stood at street corners begging the reverence of the saints to `deliver the people' from Odoism – and some passing Odoists threw rotten fruit and faeces at them as they did. Sooty-cheeked potboys and powdered working girls watched the crowds grow and grow until naught of the cobblestones was seen save for the throng of hundreds filing across them, chanting and cheering and bellowing with excitement all the way up to the clouded heavens.

Eventually the crowds grew too copious to ride through and so Edward detoured through more backstreets to inch closer to Speaker's Square – and even then, he was forced to tether Bessie by the reins and proceed on foot the rest of the way, picking through the masses and finally forcing his way through to the forum – where a gathering of thousands had now formed. Their collective roar was deafening. The atmosphere was joyous and exhilarated. It was as if the entire city had descended upon the Square that day. A sea of Morish faces as far as the eye could see.

The marble hardscape called Speaker's Square (though surrounded on all sides by thousands) was almost empty save for a single mahogany throne, carved with scroll, lacquered with resin, and painted gold at its fringes; and the man that stood next to it – the Constable of Dragonspur himself.

`...Wolner...'

From where Ed was, he spotted the senior most members of the Crow's Club at the foot of its steps; Stillingford (for whom a chair was provided) and William Rothwell (scroll of parchment in hand, his list of demands no doubt). Thopswood and Smeadon he could not see but they had to be somewhere about. Ten pole-armed Bannerets of the Bloom stood guard around the Square and another forty guarded a narrow 100-foot path from the Square to the cul-de-sac's entranceway, lined with velvet rope and dozens upon dozens of wooden stanchions.

From there, no doubt, the king would emerge.

A second perimeter of guards (a hundred strong) encircled the staging area to keep back the swelling crowds. Edward fought his way through until one of the Bannerets blocked his way, barking "HALT!" at the top of his lungs like some straining beast, but Stillingford shouted a call to him, and Ed was allowed through.

The swordsman joined his friends.

"Can you believe this?" A grinning Stillingford had to yell to be heard. "Look at this! Thousands gathered that their king might hear them! I've dreamt of this day, boys!"

William Rothwell, barely acknowledging Ed's approach, somehow looked both amazed and underwhelmed. "The king is late."

"A royal prerogative!" Said Stillingford. "And a footnote of what's to come!"

Edward felt the old habits spring to him as he eyed the crowds for trouble. There were too many faces in that crowd to judge the good from the bad. He then looked to the rooftops and alleys. There were armed men stationed at every opening and juncture – skull-capped men in beaten iron breastplates and flowing russet cloaks, longswords and daggers lulling at their belts. By Edward's eye there were at least eighty of them dotted around the cul-de-sac. Each man bore a golden badge engraved with the image of Staunton Castle.

They were Thomas Wolner's men – The King's Eyes.

Edward ignored the pit in his stomach and espied the good constable as he stood watch by the throne atop the forum.

Wolner's barren eyes darted sharply from corner to corner. One could almost see the scenarios running through his mind as he swept his dark frown across the crowd.

Then – at the entrance of the cul-de-sac – trumpets blared.

Edward, Will, Stillingford, and Wolner all turned towards the walkway.

There was a brief moment of smouldering, cough-ridden silence. A brief silence that was followed by an absolute deluge of triumphant cheers. A hail of roses and sunflowers flew into the air as a strapping young man rode into the walkway on the back of a cantering white stallion. He waved to the thousands in glorious red velvet, from doublet to trunkhose, embroidered with golden thread. A brace of peacock feathers bounced from the rim of his cap, and from his back swayed a flowing white half-cloak bearing the sigil of House Oswyke – a downward facing sword with crossed pommel set against a purple poppy trimmed with gold. At his back rode four Bannerets of the Bloom and each of held aloft standards bearing the same sigil, as well as the king's own personal coat-of-arms.

King Oswald II.

The cheers thundered for miles around them.

Will leaned into the old man's ear. "I may have miscalculated the people's love for him."

"I didn't," said Stillingford. "People yearn to believe in something bigger than themselves, it gives them purpose."

A frown. "He is a king, not a symbol. He must be held to account."

Edward expected Stillingford to snap at Will for that remark. Instead, he reached up and patted his student's shoulder. "And that is exactly what you are here to do. You may have their best interests at heart – but he has their love. Proceed wisely, Will. History will speak of this day... and you."

Will stood upright. Took a breath. Adjusted his clamshell-studded flat cap and smoothed out his buttoned grey tunic. Edward took him all in and smiled. Firebrand William Rothwell had come for the King of Morland today and there was not an ounce of fright in all that freckled frame.

The King and his standard-bearers rode slowly along the crunching footway to the very steps of Speaker's Square. Edward took a knee as did Wolner and Stillingford (with some help). Rothwell was the last to bend – but bend he did. King Oswald dismounted, his horse ferried away by a nearby King's Eye, and he smiled graciously to his subjects upon approach. He parted his lips to speak, and the roaring crowds began to sober.

"Rise," he said to them.

All four men stood. Ed helped Stillingford upright.

"Thank you for your invitation," spoke the monarch. "Master Theopold Stillingford, yes?"

Tears welled in the scholar's eyes. His smile trembled. As if he stood at the very gates of that Kingdom of Equity he'd dreamt of his entire life. "Aye, Your Majesty, aye. From my lips to the very saints, blessings and thanks to you for accepting it."

"Have your man seat you, Master Stillingford. It will be a long day."

And so, accordingly, Edward helped Stillingford back onto his seat as King Oswald stepped past them and climbed to the top of the plinth. The applause and hoorays of his adoring subjects, arrayed for him by the thousands, finally dampened as he turned to address them as loudly as his voice could carry.

"GOOD PEOPLE OF DRAGONSPUR!" He declared. "MY PROUD MORISH KIN! I THANK YOU FOR YOUR PRESENCE HERE TODAY! I THANK YOU FROM THE BOTTOM OF MY HEART! BUT MISTAKE ME NOT! I COME TO YOU TODAY NOT AS YOUR MONARCH – BUT AS YOUR COMPATRIOT! I COME TO YOU AS A FELLOW CHILD OF MORISH SOIL EAGER TO SEE ITS GREAT PROGENY THRIVE AND FLOURISH. HERE, I GIVE MY EAR TO YOU, SO THAT MY REIGN MAY BEGIN IN EARNEST, AND THAT THE SEEDS OF OUR GREATNESS MAY GROW! LONG LIVE THE REALM!"

LONG LIVE THE REALM! Shouted they back.

Oswald nodded to them all with a gentle smile then sat to his ligneous throne. His standard bearers formed a line behind it, strong and stolid. Will, unperturbed, cleared his throat to ascend the steps. And then he spoke.

"Your Majesty has been most kind in attending today," said he. "And may I express both for myself and for the many thousands duly gathered, the supreme and unshaking love we bear for you: Flower of Oswyke, Sovereign of our Souls, Defender of the Realm. LONG LIVE THE KING!"

LONG LIVE THE KING! Bellowed they back.

King Oswald nodded his thanks.

Stillingford's veiny hand quivered as it grasped the armrest of his seat.

Wolner fixed his eye to the thousands.

Edward looked on.

William drew a deep breath. "However, your subjects are gathered here today not merely to express their deep held love... but to disclose the great concerns countenanced these long ten years of regency. Your noble uncle, the esteemed Duke of Greyford, is a man of undoubtable honour and wisdom. But we fear there are matters that have alluded his care and we look to you, Your Majesty, to take up where he left off in shepherding this great nation into the glorious future it deserves."

A slow, victorious smile grew across Stillingford's wrinkled lips. Edward watched the pride of a father light up his features. The right tone was being struck.

`Keep it up, Will.' Thought the swordsman. `Keep it up.'

King Oswald's smile thinned. "Go on."

"In the wake of the Siege of Gead, his grace marshalled a levy known as the Guard Tax. The purpose of this tax was to fund our nation's coastal defences for fear of Imperial invasion. Yet despite the Treaty of Grace effectively ending hostilities between our two nations, this tax has yet to be repealed. And many of your humble subjects are overburdened with this tax, particularly in the Lowburghs."

"And you call upon me to end it?" Said the King.

"We do. We consider a man a mason with his tools. And who has more tools than you? Who better to build than you? But rest assured, Your Majesty, we do not request this out of selfishness or greed. All trueborn Morishmen must pay their fair share to sustain our nation's greatness. We simply wish for fairer means by which to do so." Will held the parchment in his hand aloft. "I have here in my hand a proposal of tax reforms, read and signed by three-hundred and ninety-seven thousand, five-hundred and fifty-three of your subjects. We kindly request that Your Majesty and his Masters of the Realm review this document... for the good of our realm."

Silence.

Edward watched as King Oswald gestured for William to bring the document to him. Will approached the young monarch, bowed, then presented it to him. But the King did not open it. Instead, he handed the document over to Thomas Wolner who slipped it beneath his cloak.

"Your request is granted," said Oswald. "I shall review these proposals myself before presenting them to my newly appointed Lords Sergeant and Justiciar. You have my word that they will be given fair consideration. Now. I had been told that the attendees of Speaker's Square have other concerns they wish me to address?"

Another bow. "Thank you, Your Majesty, of course. Again, we must turn to matters of the south. The teachings of Sage Odo have spread wide across the continent ever since his execution by the Imperials. Some of our Morish brothers and sisters are followers of his teachings... and there are many more who hold true to the old teachings. We believe that Morland is at its core a land of freedom. And that freedom must include the freedom of worship. Yet... there are horrifying reports of the mistreatment of Odoists by his lordship the Earl of Wrothsby..."

Oswald frowned.

"We hear of burnings. Beatings. Confiscations. We hear of humble pilgrims driven out of Greatminster for the sin of their Odoism. Your Majesty, Odoism is no sin. We are all children of the stars; we are all followers of the saints. Some of us simply believe that it is within one's own rights to choose one's own saint. How is that heresy?"

The King leaned back. "Your words are heard, master. Yet is it not written in the Book of Saints, verse 21:7 They whose soul is cleaved to the flesh must know it by its true maker – thy star, thy saint – this, no law of man shall waiver."

Grumbles amongst the crowd. Whispers of doubt.

"Your Majesty is well learned in the Commonfaith," said Rothwell. "But regardless of his faith, a Morishman is a Morishman, whether he is Odoist or traditionalist. Faith need not tear us asunder. On behalf of our countrymen, we ask only for a reprieve from the Earl's Sacred Inquest."

Silence by the thousands.

Stillingford looked on, hanging off every word.

King Oswald ruminated. Then he spoke. "The Kirk is the bedrock of the Kingdom of Morland, and our Lord Shepherd is the bedrock of the Kirk. It is he who proclaimed this Sacred Inquest and declared the Earl of Wrothsby Protector of the Kirk. I have no cause to doubt his holy word."

Will frowned.

"However. I agree that a man should not suffer the flames for his right to worship... however misguided it may be. It has been communicated to me that such punishments are reserved only for apostates of the worst ilk. If it is the case that some punishments were mishandled, then I shall commission an investigation of my own to conclude as much. Until then... I will make no fore-judgements on the matter."

`That won't be the response Thopswood would want,' thought Ed. He looked to Stillingford – he was unhappy with it too. But the evidence was there. If the king kept to his word and investigated the matter fairly then the truth would shine through. Nevertheless, William continued.

"...Your Majesty, again, is... most gracious in his consideration of this matter. We will look to your good judgement for the correct course."

"Aye. Continue."

Will caught his breath. There was so much more to propose and debate. A lessening of Kirk tithes. The Canonisation of Odo. Re-opening trade links with Wallenheim. An expansion of the courts. More formalized regulation of the guilds. Ease of royal charter grants. A burghal council directly elected by the people to give them some say in the governance of state.

But as Will moved to the next proposal, Edward felt it. An unease. A sense of something coming. A `feeling' in the air. And try as he might he could not shake it off. And then he looked to Wolner. Po-skinned, grim-faced, tombstone-toothed Thomas Wolner. All his alertness afore was gone now. Just a hard craggy glance ahead at the empty footpath ahead of the Square.

`Why aren't his eyes to the crowds?' Thought Ed.

A gesture. Wolner, drawing his meat-hook hands across his face as if to wipe spittle from his lips, but oddly, with his two fingers outstretched and his thumb tucked beneath both. And then something else.

A glimmer, off in the corner of Ed's eye, too bright for the sun in that overcast sky. Edward turned to the source and spotted a man perched upon the chimney stack of a tiled rooftop. A hooded man, face shrouded, with something lulling in his right hand. Something Edward couldn't make out. A King's Eye? A rogue? And then came the shout. A single male voice booming from the heart of the crowds...

"UNHAND ME!" He cried. "UNHAND ME!"

And then a shot was fired.

The BANG cut through the din. Ed's eyes darted back to the rooftop where a puff of gun smoke now wafted in the air, but the hooded man was gone. Then came the shouts, a chorus of frightened screams ringing out in every direction. William and King Oswald froze where they were as a blind panic spread amongst the crowds. Their fright spread like ripple along the waters. More screams, more shouts, more fright as a collective of panicked footfalls rumbled from the western side of the cul-de-sac, and what was once a commotion became a full-blown stampede of hundreds desperately tearing away from the epicentre of a mad crush.

And then chaos.

Absolute chaos.

"PROTECT THE KING!" Cried Wolner, drawing his sword. Oswald, frightened, launched out of his wooden throne as his standard bearers formed up around him, shoving Will Rothwell out of their way. As the crush spread throughout the square, terrified townspeople scrambled towards the forum to get clear of the stampede, only to be shoved back into the throng by Bannerets of the Bloom forming the outer defensive line around the plinth, desperate Morishmen and woman crashing against their glaives. A horrified Ed Bardshaw watched from the base of the plinth as that first line buckled against the multitude of gnashing, screaming townsfolk, and then at once it broke, like a levee smashed to pieces in the deluge. A stream of screaming men and women poured through the breech, crushing three fallen Bannerets to pulp beneath their feet.

Edward screamed his master's name and swept his small bony form into his arms, scrambling up the square behind the second line of bannerets as they braced themselves to fend off the crush.

But then came the riders. Wolner's own men, The King's Eyes – nearly a hundred of them – capes flocking through the wind in a cacophony of thunderous hoofbeats as they tore around the cul-de-sac entrance and collided head on with brunt of the panicked crowds, cutting them down with ruthless volleys of arquebus fire and trampling them beneath their iron horseshoes.

It was Will who spotted them first and screamed for Edward, who clutched Stillingford's frail body to his own as Wolner's sudden cavalry rode through a flock of stampeding citizens to the Banneret formation around the square, drawing their swords with their free hands to chop down any man who dared breach the second line.

Blood splattered the stone. Screams overwhelmed Ed's ears. He felt himself falling, the old man in his arms, and twisted his back toward the floor with a hard thud to protect him from it. The fall was like a blow, like a thunderclap up the spine, Ed gritting his teeth to weather the pain.

"GET UP, ED!" Someone cried. "GET UP, GET UP NOW!"

Edward opened his eyes.

And... for the briefest moment... he thought he saw Fran above him. But it was William Rothwell, now seated upon the rear end of a gunner's saddle. And behind him King Oswald sat the rear of another mount shouting orders for his men to gather up the agitators. Gruff hands snatched Stillingford from Edward's grasp, then Edward himself, blood dripping down his jaw as he was hurled onto the rear of a saddle and bellowed at to "hold tight" as the King's Eyes galloped off down the pathway of shot and trampled corpses it had cut through the desperate mob, making off to safety.

The day was the 39th of Summer in the Year 801.

But history would come to call it – The Bloody Parley.

**********

· 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).