The Dread Wyrm (Traitor Son Cycle) (19 page)

Gabriel paused.

“You still have a healthy element of small boy in you, shouting
I can do it myself.
And in many ways you can. But—”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Amicia, but you have no idea what you’re talking about. My mother is not—anyone’s friend. Even her own. She is a
Power.
”

Amicia nodded, lips pursed and eyes narrowed almost to slits. “Gabriel Muriens,
I am a Power.
” She stood. “Just when you begin to woo me successfully—and you do, the mere sight and sound of you, as God is my witness—your overbearing—” She stopped. “You do yourself no favours. I am not a girl. I am not witless. I can, in fact, heal the sick, and make fire rain from the sky.”

He looked away. “I am not the only arrogant fool here,” he said. He went to the doorway. “I thought we’d go for a ride. And perhaps kiss. And maybe you’d tell me why you’ve placed a working on me. And I’d forgive you.” He shook his head. “Instead, I have to at least consider that you and my mother are working together on whatever fool scheme she’s devised for my future as the messiah of the Wild. I find that hard to credit, but if it is the case—”

“Forgive me?” she asked. Despite her best efforts, tears burst from her eyes. “You would
forgive me
for
saving your life
?” She looked at him, shaking her head. “And you think I’m plotting with the
Wild
?”

“Yes,” he said.

“You idiot,” she said.

He took a trembling breath and stepped forward.

She straight-armed his advance. “Go,” she said.

She heard him mount his horse. And she heard him say, “Fuck,” quite loudly and distinctly, and then he rode away, and she gave vent to a year’s worth of frustrated tears.

Ser Gabriel appeared in the great hall just before noon. He was a trifle muddy and more reserved than usual, and Ser John beat him at chess so easily he felt the other man must be distracted.

“I’m not myself,” the Red Knight said, although the acerbity with which he said it made him seem very much himself. “I intend to take my household and depart in the morning.”

Ser John started. “By God, Ser Gabriel,” he said. “I had counted on you for the rest of the council.”

Ser Gabriel shook his head. “I need to get to Harndon. The tournament
is what—nineteen days away? I’d like to have a rest and a chance to do a little politicking before I cross lances with anyone. You can plan the logistics of the mobile force as well as I—better for knowing the suppliers. I need to be anywhere but here.”

Ser John raised both eyebrows. “I am sorry. Has my hospitality gone awry?”

Ser Gabriel managed a good smile. “Nothing of the sort. You are a fine host. I brought my own black mood with me.” He frowned. “I still need to discuss the agreement with the duchess.”

He sent young Giorgos, who went and returned.

In his flawless High Archaic, the young man said, “The
despoina
is closeted with the good sister,” he said. “The duchess is no doubt making her confession.”

“No doubt,” the Red Knight said. He rose, bowed and went out into the yard.

Bad Tom was cutting at a pell.

Ser Gabriel sent Giorgos for his war sword and went to the next pell, displacing a dozen other men who, in one look, decided to do their training elsewhere. He attacked the pell ferociously, and then, with a poleaxe, more pragmatically, raising splinters and then cutting them away.

Tom redoubled his efforts for a while, perfectly willing to compete at pell destruction.

But wood chips were not particularly satisfying, and Bad Tom grinned. “Care for a dust-up?” he asked.

The Red Knight tossed his weapon to Giorgos. Without further words, he stripped his doublet, opening the lacings as fast as his fingers would go.

Ser Michael came out of the back of the stables.

“Cap’n’s going to wrestle with Bad Tom,” Cully said. “Household’s marching tomorrow.” He raised an eyebrow. “His leg still hurt?”

Ser Michael nodded. “Not all that’s hurting, by all accounts,” he said. “We can’t leave tomorrow,” he said.

Out on the sand, Tom and Gabriel, naked to the waist, were circling.

They came together. The captain took one of Tom’s arms, and Tom wrapped him in a tight embrace and held him tenderly.

“You good?” he asked. He hadn’t even bothered to throw the smaller man.

Ser Gabriel leaped away. Then he attacked.

He landed a fist, and Bad Tom bent lower, and the expression of mild pleasure on his face changed to one of joyous ferocity.

“Uh-oh,” Ser Michael said to Toby.

Toby, who was packing armour, sighed.

Tom threw the captain, face first. Ser Gabriel rolled, but Tom was atop him, and caught an arm and forced him to the ground. “Yield,” Tom said.

But he was a second too soon. Ser Gabriel turned inside the grab and spun under Tom’s arm, avoiding the dislocation of his shoulder.

Tom locked his arms around the captain’s head and rocked him back and forth gently. He took a step back. “Yield,” he said again.

Ser Gabriel swung his feet forward in a way that made his friends wince for his neck, got a purchase, and tried to free his head.

Tom let him go.

Quick as a viper, the captain got an arm under Tom’s left arm, passed his head through, and went for the throw.

Bad Tom bellowed in real rage and hooked Ser Gabriel’s foot, kneed him ungently in the balls and dropped him on the ground. In the process he put his knee behind the captain’s knee.

“You stupid fuck,” Bad Tom bellowed, sweat and spittle dripping off him. “I could ha’ maimed you for life. I had your fewkin’ head in a lock. I might hae snapped your fewkin’ neck. And you would na’ yield. What sport is that?”

Ser Gabriel lay on the sand, face up, his hands clasped between his legs, panting. His right leg lay at an odd angle.

“Damn me. I didna’ mean to hurt you, you loon.” Tom reached down and grabbed the captain’s hand.

Ser Gabriel allowed the Hillman to drag him to his feet, and then he screamed and fell.

He came to almost immediately.

Gabriel gave Tom a shaky smile. “Oh, yes. Let the punishment fit the crime.”

Ser Michael brought him cold water, and he drank.

He met Michael’s eyes.

“You had that coming,” Michael said.

“What’s the matter?” Bad Tom asked. “The little nun? She’s coming.”

Before he was done speaking, Sister Amicia bustled into the yard, her wimple flapping like the wings of a sea bird. She had two other sisters at her shoulders.

She glared about her with disapproval. Bad Tom shrank away. Ser Michael stood his ground.

“Ser Gabriel has re-broken his leg,” he said.

Amicia knelt by the Red Knight, who lay on his back. She ran her hands over his leg and leaned down.

“I must have your word that you will not endanger my healing or refuse God’s gift,” she said, quite clearly. “For a week.”

Gabriel’s face worked, and no sound emerged.

Ser Michael leaned in. “He agrees,” Michael said.

She joined hands with the other nuns, and the three of them sang—a polyphony. And Amicia’s voice soared over their quieter, lower voices, up and on.

When she was done, every man in the yard was on his knees. She smiled. “Don’t let him break it again,” she said.

She rose. Gabriel watched her silently.

In his memory palace, she stood by Prudentia. “I have healed you. But you can’t be so foolish.”

He nodded.

“I’m sorry, Gabriel. I—”

He raised a hand. “I’m sorry, too. But I’m not ready to talk more.”

Her head snapped back. But she continued to smile at him. And slipped away with her two serving sisters.

With Bad Tom on one side and Ser Michael on the other, Gabriel made it to his feet and hobbled to the bench.

“She’s a force,” Bad Tom said, placing his charge on the bench.

“She’s not so little,” Gabriel said. He felt better—for no reason.

Tom laughed. “Not where it matters, anyway. If you’d taken my advice during the siege—”

“The advice that I
rape
her?” the captain asked. Ser Michael caught his breath.

“Rape is a strong word,” Bad Tom said. He scratched his beard. “Some ladies like a little persuading. Like horses.”

Ser Gabriel drank a dipper full of cold water and spat a little blood. “I don’t think that would have worked,” he said.

Bad Tom looked out over the great north woods. “Aye. It doesn’t always work.” He grinned. “But it can save a mort of time.”

Ser Gabriel looked at his friend. “Tom, what would you do if a lady pushed you to the ground and stuck her tongue in your mouth?”

Ser Michael snorted.

Tom snorted. “Is this something philosophical? Because by our lady, I promise you that will never happen here in the world.” More soberly, he sighed. “But I take your point.”

They sat in silence for a moment. Michael took Toby by the elbow and hauled him out of the small side-yard where the pells stood.

“She said no,” Tom said, with a glance at Michael’s retreating back.

“She’s working with my mother,” Gabriel said.

Tom shrugged. “Who cares? You love her?”

Gabriel nodded.

“Well, then, bide your time.”

Gabriel laughed. “I’m getting advice on love from a Hillman.”

Tom raised an eyebrow. “Well, laddy, I might point out that I have a fearsome record of lovers and you, as far as I know, seem to miss more than you make. You might do better than take my advice.” He looked at the smaller man. “I reckon there’s been mayhap twenty nights in the last hundred I haven’t had a woman to warm my bed. Most of them would do’t again. Hae you done as well?”

Gabriel shook his head. “I’m not sure this is a matter where a high score indicates victory, but very well. Your advice is?”

“This castle is full of lasses who would jump in the blankets with ye for a song. For a look and a smile. The bronze-eyed vixen as waits on your lady mother…”

“Your advice is that I can win the love of a nun by fornicating with my mother’s maid?” Gabriel asked.

Tom smiled lazily. “Aye. That sums it up nicely.”

Gabriel shook his head. “I need to talk to my mother. I’m just avoiding my duty.” He got up. “Thanks for the fight. I’m sorry I cheated. I’m angry.”

“Oh, aye,” Tom said. “I’d never hae guessed.” He put an arm around the younger man. “Best rid yourself o’it.”

“Of what?” Gabriel asked.

“Father Arnaud’s death,” Tom said. “He’s dead. He died well. All glory to him. And you know what’s wrong wi’ you? You want to be God. You want to hae saved him. An’ you did not. He died.”

Gabriel sighed.

“Let him go. And while yer at it, stop trying to be God.” Tom smiled. “I confess ye do it better than many. But Arnaud went his own road. He’s gone.” Very softly, he said, “You want me to find you a willing lass?”

Gabriel laughed. He wheezed a little, and finally rose to his feet. “Is that your cure for everything?” he asked.

Tom nodded. “Pretty much. Sometimes…” He shook his head. “Sometimes ale helps. But not as much as a wench who wants ye.”

Gabriel got a step away when Tom rose. Gabriel turned.

“I read your plan,” Tom said.

“And?” Gabriel asked.

“I’m in. I don’t think I want to be Drover, anyway. I think that should be for Ranald.” He nodded. “I’ll sell the herd in Harndon. And then I want my job back. Do I need to kill Bescanon?”

Gabriel smiled. “No,” he said. “No, but Tom, sometimes I find it awfully refreshing to see the world from your eyes.”

“Aye,” Tom said. He grinned. “I like to keep things simple.”

He found his mother in her solar. She made him wait again, but she was alone.

“The nun won’t have you,” his mother said. “And you’ve ruined my lute. It was tuned to a casting pattern and now it is banal.”

Gabriel smiled and kissed his mother on the cheek. “The sele of the day to you, too, Mother.”

The bronze-eyed maid came in with wine and curtsied. Gabriel watched her with an appreciation whetted by Tom’s comments. She was remarkable. Gabriel had a suspicion that she had been
prepared
for him.

She blushed when her lowered eyes happened to intersect with Ser Gabriel’s.

“She won’t give up her vows. She’s after Sophie’s title.” Ghause laughed.

“What, to be the king’s mistress?” Gabriel asked. “I’m surprised. She’s never mentioned it.”

Ghause glared at her son, her eyes slightly mad, like the griffon’s. “She intends to be Abbess.”

“She told you this?” Gabriel asked. He was fascinated—mostly because his theory that Amicia was working with his mother was being shredded. By his mother. She could be a fine actress, but he didn’t think she could pull this off.

“Not in so many words,” his mother said, pouting.

Gabriel sat back. “You mean, Mother, that if you were in Amicia’s place, the only reason you would stay out of my bed would be to acquire more power.”

Ghause snarled, but her snarl became a laugh. “Fair eno’, my son. Now—you never came here of your own will.”

Gabriel nodded. “I want you to agree to the alliance—as vassals of the king.”

Ghause swore and stood. “Christ’s bloody crown of thorns, boy. I will not be my brother’s vassal for
anything.
”

“Even if doing so would avert civil war?” Gabriel asked.

“Better and better,” Ghause said. “Let him rot. Let him
die
.”

Gabriel sat back and crossed his legs. “I told him,” he said simply.

Ghause paused. She looked at her son for a long time, and then said slowly, “You told him—what?”

“I told him that I was your son. By him.” He put his hands behind his head and looked at the ceiling.

Ghause rose slowly. “You what?”

Gabriel sighed. “I told him. I felt he needed to know.”

Ghause’s mouth moved, but no words came out.

Gabriel watched her. “I could go to court and present myself as the king’s bastard by his sister,” he said. “I suspect that would have an effect. I might even prevent the civil war. Perhaps he’d make me his heir!”

“You wouldn’t dare! I don’t want anything
given
by that bastard! I want him brought low!” Ghause was on her feet, her voice rising.