The Briar King (25 page)

“I think you do, especially after the beating you took at the hands of my Craftsmen. You understand, of course, that they did not at first understand why you attacked Sir Argom.”

Neil glanced briefly at Vargus Farre, one of the knights who stood in the room. He owed Vargus a cracked rib.

“I understand, Your Majesty. Had I been in their place, and known only what they knew, I would have done the same.”

William leaned forward intently. “How
did
you know? That Argom was attacking the queen?”

“I didn't, at first. I thought he had seen some danger to her and was rushing to intercept it. But there was no one threatening the queen, and Sir Argom was preparing the reaper— that's what we call a low, flat stroke of the blade. It's for dealing with unarmed rabble, and well-bred knights do not care for it. If the queen were threatened by someone nearby her, he wouldn't have dared used
that
stroke. The chance of
hurting her in the bargain would be too great. So I reckoned that he wasn't truly a Craftsman, rather some pretender who had donned the livery.”

“All that, and in only a few heartbeats.”

“He's very quick about such things,” Sir Fail put in.

William leaned back on his throne. “Here is my problem, Neil, son of Fren. There was a day when your reward for saving the queen of Crotheny might well have been a small barony. Unfortunately, with things as they are, I shall require the good will of all my nobles, and to be frank, I cannot afford to anger any of them by giving lands to a man of mean birth.”

“I understand, Majesty,” Neil said. He had been preparing for this, but it still hurt an amazing amount. Much more so than the beating.

“Understand?
I
don't understand!” Fail bellowed.

“Come, Sir Fail,” Robert, the king's brother, said. “I know you are fond of theatrics, but allow the king to finish, will you?”

William himself remained unperturbed. His lips seemed to be moving slightly. Was he praying?

“On the other hand, we were all greatly impressed by you. My wife in particular, as might be expected. You are from her homeland, you have Sir Fail's trust and good word, which means oceans in itself, and you proved better at keeping her from harm than her own bodyguard. Indeed, since we do not yet know why such a seemingly loyal knight as the late Sir Argom would so violently go renegade, all of our Craftsmen are suspect.

“And so here is what we will do. We will give you the rose, and you will become the captain of the queen's personal guard, which will henceforth be named the Lier Guard. Like the Craftsmen, you must renounce your lands and possessions. Since you have none to renounce, the matter is already settled. This will make the queen happy, it will make me happy, and will only slightly annoy my more extreme nobles.

“The question is, will it make you happy?”

“Your Majesty?” Neil's head seemed full of a white-hot light.

“Come here, and kneel.”

Dumbly, Neil did so.

“Praifec, do you bless this young man to be a knight in my service?”

“I do,” the cleric said, “and bless him to the service of the saints. By Saint Michael, Saint Mamres, Saint Anne, and Saint Nod.”

“Very well.” William drew his broadsword, and two of the Craftsmen brought a large wooden block.

“Place your right hand on the block.”

Neil put his palm on the wood, noticing as he did so the deep cuts there.

William lowered his sword until the edge was resting on the bare flesh of Neil's wrist.

“Do you swear yourself to the kingdom of Crotheny?”

“I do, Your Majesty.”

“And to the protection of its king and castle?”

“I do.”

“Most especially, and above all, to the protection of the queen, Muriele Dare née de Liery?”

“I do, Majesty.”

“Do you swear yourself to obedience and to poverty?”

“I do, Sire.”

“Saint Nod gave his hand in sacrifice, so his people might live. Will you do the same?”

“My hand, my head, my life,” Neil answered. “It is all the same to me.”

William nodded and pulled the sword quickly along Neil's flesh. Blood started; Neil did not wince.

“Keep your hand for now, Sir Neil,” the king told him. “You will have need of it.”

A servant approached with a pillow. On it lay a red rose.

“You may add the rose to your standard, as ornament to your armor, sword, and shield. Rise up.”

Neil did so. His knees were trembling, but his heart was a war drum, loud, fierce, and proud.

He almost didn't notice when Sir Fail came up and clapped him on the arm.

“That was well done, son. Shall we find a bandage for your wrist?”

“To keep the blood from the floor,” Neil murmured. “But I shall not wrap it. Let it bleed as it wants. Am I really a knight?”

Sir Fail laughed. “You are indeed,” he said, “and in deed.”

A cough from behind summoned their attention. Neil turned to see Vargus Farre towering over him.

“Sir Neil,” Vargus said, bending slightly at the waist. “Let me be the first of the Craftsmen to congratulate you. You are deserving. When we were asleep, you were awake.”

Neil returned the bow. “Thank you, Sir Vargus. I much appreciate it.” From the corner of his eye, Neil saw Sir James Cathmayl approaching.

“So it really
is
Sir Bumpkin now,” he said. His voice sounded a bit forced.

“By Lier, man!” Fail snapped. “What cause have you to insult my charge? I'll have you on the field, for this.”

Sir James shrugged. “That's fine, sir. But I've a date with your charge first. He swore that when he took the rose, he would put on spurs and kill me.”

“And I am your charge no longer, Sir Fail,” Neil reminded him. “I can fight my own battles.”

“James, stop this nonsense,” Vargus snapped. “The lad— er, Sir Neil doesn't know you're joking. He's sworn now to protect the queen; would you put your pride against that? You're a Craftsman! The household guards do not fight in their own ranks.”

“It was his challenge,” Sir James said. “If he wishes to withdraw it, I would not be opposed.”

“I do withdraw it, if you will withdraw your insults, sir,” Neil replied.

For a long, icy moment, Sir James regarded him. “Some insults come from haste and poor judgment,” he said at last. “Some come from knowledge and consideration. Mine were spurious, and I apologize. Still, let me state my position. I remain disapproving of your promotion. Knighthood should be reserved for the gentle of birth. But my king has spoken, and
my queen has a protector, and I find that I am unable to lay the blame at your feet—Sir Neil.”

He made a face. “Sir Neil. It gripes my tongue to say that. But I shall.” He looked levelly at Neil. “Do we still have cause to fight, sir?”

“No, Sir James, we do not. And I'm glad. My duty is to the queen now, and it would be frivolous to engage in combat that would lessen the royal guard by one—however the contest went—especially when nothing more important than my own honor is at stake. You've been truthful in stating your objections, and I find no fault in you.”

Sir James gave a small, stiff bow. “Very well,” he said. “Another time, then.”

As he left, Vargus winked at Neil. “You'll be fast friends in no time,” he said. “And now, if you would care, I'll show you where our armory and provisions are. Whilst you're a guard of one, you shall need to share ours, I think.”

“That is very kind of you, Sir Vargus. Very kind indeed.”

“Well, that was awfully touching, brother,” Robert said, once they had removed themselves to William's outer chambers.

“I think it will work well.”

Robert shrugged. “Some will be incensed, I'm sure. But you keep Fail's good will—the old fart—and anyway, the boy is very popular with the common folk. Never hurts to let 'em know one of their own can occasionally make good, does it? Any more than it hurts to remind the nobles who their king is.”

“Not at all,” William agreed. He waved the whole matter away with the back of his hand. “This situation with Hansa, though,” he said. “Do you think the praifec will take our side?”

“Why should he?” Robert said, holding his nails up for his own inspection. “You've spent the last five years making it infinitely clear that you want no interference by him and his church in domestic affairs. Now you want him to commit himself to your cause? No, he will wait, and make you sweat. Withhold his endorsement until you
really
need it. Then he'll
ask you for something. Perhaps he'll ask you to name a male heir.”

“You'd like that, wouldn't you? Because I would have to name you.”

“Nonsense. That would suit the praifec no better than having you remain on the throne. But your son could rule, with the proper guidance—if you know what I mean.”

“Ah. Holy guidance, you're suggesting.”

“Indeed.”

“How do you know Hespero will ask for this?”

“I don't. It's just a guess. But I believe Hespero always imagined that one day he would rule this empire in all but name. You've spoiled his plans by naming your daughters as heirs. Fastia is too strong willed, and would besides have her husband to come between. Elseny, while a little less forceful, will soon be enspoused, as well. Anne—well, who can tell Anne what to do?”

William furrowed his brow. “Enough of Hespero and what he wants. Have you learned anything of the attempt on my wife? My spies tell me nothing.”

“There is talk of shinecraft and encrotacnia,” Robert replied. “Sir Argom served us loyally for ten years. I can trace no allegiance to our enemies, nor can I imagine anything for which he might have been blackmailed or bribed.” He shrugged. “Then again, blackmail works only
because
a certain thing is secret. No, I cannot tell you any more than you already know, brother.”

“Well.” William ticked his fingers against the wall. “It tasks me. Why Muriele? If a Craftsman can be turned, then he could as easily have killed me. Or you. Or one of the children.”

“A grieving king can be of more use than a dead one. Or perhaps it was Liery they were striking at, not you.”

“
Who
was striking at?”

Robert laughed. “Brother! We cannot be
that
different. We don't know
how
Sir Argom was turned from protector to assassin, nor precisely why, but we assuredly know
who
accomplished it.”

“Hansa?”

“They mean to take your throne, that much must be clear, even to you. They'll nibble at first, but soon their appetite will lead to larger bites. Small wars on our frontiers, assassinations and sabotage here in the capital. It's the way Marcomir
thinks
.”

“How are you so certain?”

“Because I understand him. Marcomir is a practical man, undeterred by notions of honor or scruple. He is an able ruler, and a most dangerous enemy.”

“He is, in other words, like you.”

“Precisely, brother.”

“Then what would
you
have me do?”

“Have Marcomir killed,” Robert said promptly. “As soon as possible. His heir, Berimund, may not prove as able.”

“Have Marcomir killed,” William repeated incredulously.

Robert rolled his eyes. “For the teats of Saint Anne, brother! He tried to have your
wife
murdered. At your daughter's
birth day
party.”

“I do not
know
that,” William said.

“Of course you do. And even if I'm wrong, how can a dead Marcomir be
bad
for Crotheny?”

“If an assassin should be traced to me, that will bring war for certain.”

“Yes. It will bring war with Berimund, a war we can
win
. Brother, in this room, let's you and I be honest. Hansa is too strong. If they are willing to pay a high enough cost, they will take Tier Eslen, your crown, and our heads. Marcormir is willing to pay that cost, and has the strength of will to force it upon his nobles. Berimund does not have that potence.”

“If we have the support of the church—”

“If. Maybe. How long has it been since holy troops have been used in war between two kingdoms of the church? They are not heretics in Hansa, at least not to appearances. Brother, nip this candle at the quick. Have Marcomir killed.”

“No.”

“William—”

“No. That is an end of it. Not because I am prudish, as I'm sure you suspect, but because I am prudent. Marcomir is well
protected, and not just by swords. Who could we send who would certainly succeed?”

“Lady Erren.”

“She serves my wife, and would never be parted from her.”

“Another coven-trained, then.”

“Again, the risk. The coven-trained report to the church.”

“I could find you one who would not.”

“Stop this, Robert. If you wish to help, think of ways to win Hespero, instead of ways to anger the church toward us.”

Robert sighed. “As you say. But at least do this—send Muriele and your children to Cal Azroth.”

“Cal Azroth? Why?”

“They'll be easier to protect there. It's our most perfect fastness, without a city full of murderers and witches on its doorstep. No one can come or go there without being seen. Our sister Elyoner controls the countryside, and of all of us she is the one who has no political aspirations whatsoever.

“There is much moving here, William, much that even I cannot discern. Someone has chosen to strike at you through your family. You will make better decisions if they are safe.”

William nodded reluctantly. “I will consider it.”

“Good.”

“Robert?”

“Yes, brother dear?”

“Don't be upset with Lesbeth because she did not come to you first for permission.”

“She did not ask me at all,” Robert said, in a strange, small voice.

“She feared you would not approve it.”

“Of course. Why should I give my twin sister in marriage to that Safnian oaf ? After the slight he paid me?”

“You see?”

Robert exhaled. “No. If she had asked, I would have protested, cajoled, extorted, but had she held firm, I would have assented.” He looked up at William, and like his voice, his eyes had gone strange. “None of you think the least good resides in me,” he murmured. “None of you can think even one
generous thought on my behalf. I thought
she
of all people—” He broke off, his face pale. “Are we done, brother?”