The Dread Wyrm (Traitor Son Cycle) (20 page)

“You know, Mother, those may be things you want, but they are not things I want. If you want to destroy the king, you need to affect that on your own. I will not be your tool. And in the meantime, if you would like to please me, sign this agreement as the king’s vassal. In my turn, I’ll promise you—and your mate—my support as Duke of Thrake.”

Ghause pursed her lips. “No. I don’t give a fuck if you want to lie naked at his feet. Go—lick his arse for all I care.” She put a hand on the treaty, written out fine. “I will sign it, though. I’ll be a lickspittle and sign it as a
vassal. I can repudiate it any time I like. Only make me one promise, and I’ll comply.”

Gabriel braced himself. “Does it involve murder?”

“No, marriage.” She sat again. “Marry the girl of my choice. I promise she’ll be handsome and have a good dowry and power. Give your word to marry her at my whim and I’ll sign your paper.”

Gabriel drew breath.

Ghause leaned towards him. “Forget your little nun. Or tumble her to your heart’s content when you’ve got your bride in kindle. I admit, for all her low birth, I like the nun. I think I could fancy her for myself.” She licked her lips. “What was wrong with the princess Irene?”

“You are the second person to ask me that today,” Gabriel said, a little wildly.

“Well?” his mother insisted.

“She tried to kill her father?” Gabriel said. “She poisons people?”

Ghause shrugged.

Gabriel sat back and laughed. “I confess, you’d like her, and you two would have
so much
to talk about over your sewing.”

Ghause met his eye. “You think I’m crude and vicious,” she said. “But yon princess is what she is. She is what her court has made her, and if you were a good knight and a good husband, she’d ha’ no need to poison you, would she?”

Gabriel put his face in his hands. “Is that the measure of wedded bliss?” he asked.

“Pretty much,” Ghause said. “I’ve been with the Earl of Westwall for twenty years and more. And we ha’ not killed each other.” She snapped her fingers, and her maid returned and poured more wine. “Did the princess offer?”

Gabriel thought a moment. “No. Although I suspect that she will be offered—by her father. Soon.”

Ghause smiled. “And you have not said no?”

Gabriel thought again. “No.”

Ghause nodded. “You could be Emperor,” she said.

Gabriel nodded. “Yes. But no. The Empire does not transfer power by blood, and when the Emperor dies. Has it occurred to you that I don’t share your ambitions?”

She ignored him. “I’ll sign your paper, and you’ll take the bride I assign you. And no quibbles—I know you.”

Gabriel stood. “I’m tempted just to lie and agree. I think maybe I could save hundreds of lives by agreement. But you know, Mother, tonight I’m at my limit of being
used
by the powers of the world. So—no.” He picked up the parchment. “Won’t you just sign because you
are
the king’s vassal?”

She frowned. “It is nothing to you that he forced me—a chit of a girl, his own sister?”

Gabriel nodded. “Yes, Mother. For all that stands between us, I agree. I hate him, I think he’s false as a caitiff and that everything he’s ever done is poisoned by what he did to you.” He shrugged. “But—if all of us cling to our hates, we’ll never move forward. If that fool de Vrailly marches north this summer…”

“The earl will destroy him,” Ghause said with satisfaction.

Gabriel looked at her. Then he shrugged. “Very well, Mother. I think that you have chosen your road. And I have chosen mine.”

She frowned. “So you will not marry a girl for me?”

“Nor be party to any plot or plan of yours,” he said. “More, I’m going to go tell Ser John that I cannot accept command of the northern army. Given your stance, and the earl’s, the King would never agree to it.”

“Fine,” she said. “You won’t help me? Your own mother? Then go to hell, my son.” She blew him a kiss.

He went out through her solar with her curses ringing in his ears.

He went straight back to Ser John and dropped the parchment on his desk. “My apologies, Ser John. I cocked that up.”

The Captain of Albinkirk sighed. “She won’t sign?”

“She consigned me to hell.” Gabriel raised his hands.

“Damn. Your own mother.” Ser John shook his head.

Ser Gabriel spread his hands. “I must decline to be your commander, Ser John. I’ll leave you to puzzle out why.”

“Christ on the cross, your mother
wants
war with the king?” Ser John sat in shock.

Ser Gabriel said nothing. After a pause, he said, “As soon as the tournament is over, I’ll return to Morea. I promise you that if you call, the Emperor will send a force. I will probably not accompany it.”

“Damn. Damn and damn. Can you tell me why the duchess hates the king?”

Gabriel shook his head. “No, Ser John.” He paused. “It’s not my story to tell.” He shook his head. “But she will not change her mind.”

Dinner in the great hall was a desperate affair. Sister Amicia sat silently, and her eyes never touched Ser Gabriel’s. The Duchess of Westwall alternated between crass and arch, and neither note struck home on her target, her son, who sat as isolated as a priest might be by an altar screen, alone with his thoughts. Ser John tried, and failed, to create a conversation. His efforts made it as far as the venison pie and then died, and the rest of the dinner passed in silence, punctuated by the duchess’s pro forma flirting with the now receptive Lord Wayland and her wilful ignoring of the Keeper’s son.

A pair of messengers arrived, both from Ser Ricar. Ser John went out to hear them, and the dinner broke up.

Gabriel watched Amicia for any sign he might speak to her. She chatted with the Drover as if she had no other need for company, and then she sat and played chess with her friend, the bishop.

His mother watched him with an intensity equal to the chess players.

Finally, Gabriel went to his room.

His leg hurt, and he hated everyone.

In the midst of undressing, he put a hand on Toby’s arm, and the young man mostly fought the urge to flinch.

“I’m sorry, Toby,” he said.

Toby flushed. And said nothing.

Morning—a cold, wet day that didn’t so much promise spring as hint vaguely at it. The rain seemed colder than snow, and the air was wet, and the wind bit through a wool cloak.

The Duke of Thrake rose early. He appeared in the great hall wearing a miniver riding gown that was worth a fortune—white wool embroidered in his arms on the outside and three hundred matched squirrel skins on the inside. He wore it over his harness.

Ser John’s squire, young Jamie, a Hoek boy, intercepted him. “Your grace,” he said with a bow. “The Captain of Albinkirk requests that you attend him. There is news.”

The Red Knight’s anger had leached away in a good night’s sleep and left him only throbbing pain and a nagging sense of loss. He bowed in return. “Lead me,” he said. He turned to Ser Michael. “Making my farewells won’t be quick. You might as well grab a sausage in the kitchen.”

Michael nodded, collected the Drover’s son, who wore his regalia over his harness, and found a side table covered in dishes.

Ser Gabriel followed Jamie out of the hall and into the barracks tower where the Captain of Albinkirk had his office.

Ser John was sitting in an old, black robe and was wearing spectacles. He had a bag on his desk, and opposite him sat a very young man wearing the golden belt of a knight.

The Red Knight smiled. “Ser Galahad!” he said. Galahad D’Acon had been one of the heroes of the fight at Lissen Carak.

“So kind of you to remember me, your grace,” the younger man said, rising so suddenly that his spurs tangled.

“Young Galahad comes as a royal messenger,” Ser John said. “He brought us several writs.” Ser John scratched his beard and straightened the spectacles on his nose.

“And to save my life,” Galahad said. He shook his head. “The queen’s knights…” He looked at Ser John. “She sent me herself. The Galles are killing our people, and the King does nothing to prevent it.” He clenched his fists. “They talk of arresting Lady Almspend.”

Ser John nodded. “You’ve had a difficult journey,” he said to the young knight. “Go get some food.”

As soon as Galahad was out the door and Jamie Le Hoek had closed it, Ser John turned, tapping a scroll on his teeth. “He was on the road for nine days. Bad weather and mud and too many convoys to pass.”

Ser Gabriel settled into the chair, still warm from the messenger’s heat.

“De Vrailly is going to formally accuse the queen of adultery,” he said. “As the king’s champion, he’ll accuse her.”

Ser Gabriel turned this piece of information over. And over. “I see,” he said.

“I doubt you do,” Ser John said. “This’ll be the war.”

“The queen is that popular?” Ser Gabriel asked, rhetorically.

“The King must have lost his wits,” Ser John said. “T’other scroll is a tax demand on the Earl of Westwall.”

Ser Gabriel smiled. “I see,” he said. Because he did.

“There’s more. The Archbishop of Lorica has called a council to investigate…” He looked down. “A range of charges of heresy,” he quoted. “Against the Order of St. Thomas.” He met the Red Knight’s eyes. “I have to tell you, your grace, that the nun’s preaching is listed on the charges.”

“Sister Amicia?” Gabriel asked.

“She’s virtually a saint, to the people hereabouts,” Ser John said. “There isn’t a man-at-arms in Albinkirk who hasn’t felt her healing. Or her wisdom.”

Ser Gabriel flushed.

Ser John frowned. “It’s as if the King is working to destroy the kingdom.” He shook his head. “De Vrailly’s accusation will no doubt take place at the tourney.”

“And de Vrailly will be the accuser,” Ser Gabriel said.

“Can you take him?” Ser John asked.

Ser Gabriel sighed. “Mayhap,” he said. “I hesitate to stake the future of Alba on it.”

Ser John shrugged. “They say he’s the best knight in the world.”

The Red Knight smiled. “Ah, well. They say I’m the spawn of Satan.” He laughed. “Tourney is eighteen days away.”

The two men sat in a companionable silence. Finally Gabriel rose. “I need to say farewell to my lady mother.”

Ser John nodded. “You won’t change your mind?” he asked.

“I may yet, Ser John. In a way—an odd way—the King has just played into the duchess’s hands.” He rose.

Ser John shook his head. “I still can’t believe he’d take such foolish counsel.”

Ser Gabriel nodded. “Ser John—I suggest to you that the Galles at court do not have the king’s best interests at heart.”

Ser John nodded.

Gabriel went out, with the sound of his armour ratcheting along the corridor.

Gabriel knocked at his mother’s outer door, and then, after some time had passed, he worked a
praxis
and opened it.

“Don’t you dare!” his mother shrieked.

Gabriel opened the inner door. The bronze-eyed girl slipped from the bed, her body blushing her embarrassment from nose to navel, and passed behind the hanging that concealed the garde de robe.

“I need to speak to you, Mother,” Gabriel said. His voice was cheerful. He was fully in command of himself. “I see we really do share some tastes.”

His mother sat up, her body barely concealed by a shift. “You always were an impetuous lout,” she said.

“The King has sent you a summons, ordering you to pay twenty years of back taxes. And threatening war if you don’t.” Gabriel leaned back and settled his right pauldron into a dent in the stone of the wall.

“The fool,” Ghause spat.

“In more ways than one, Mother. I’ve changed my mind. I’ll accept a bride, in exchange for your seal on this alliance.” He handed his mother the scroll. “How do you manage to stay so young?” he asked.

“Murdered virgin’s blood,” she said, her eyes on the document. “Powdered unicorn horn.” She looked up. “Poppycock. It’s just exercise, my dear, and good breeding, and a little sorcery.” Without any fuss, she slipped out of the bed and lit a taper by
ops.
She took sealing wax and affixed her personal seal. “You won’t regret this.”

“I suspect I will, Mother. But it occurred to me that I didn’t actually think a thousand lives were a fair trade for my connubial bliss. I reserve only your maid. I won’t marry her.” He smiled. “Though I might want her after I have my new bride in kindle.”

His mother smiled and then bit her lip. “You’re hiding something,” she said. “I know you.”

“I am,” he said. “But if we’re both lucky, you’ll never know what. I’m off for Harndon.” He bent, and quite formally kissed her hand.

She laughed. “You are being foolish, my boy. But I am glad to have you back at my side.”

He nodded. But in his new-found wisdom, he chose not to answer her.

The southbound convoy formed by the outer gates of the town. The Red Knight was leaving many of his best men and women behind, and taking only his household. Ser Michael rode at the head, carrying the new banner—the banner of Thrake, a golden eagle on a ground of dark red. Ser Phillipe de Beause, Ser Francis Atcourt and the young Etruscan, Angelo di Laternum, and Chris Foliak were resplendent even in the rain. Behind
them came their squires and pages, and two wagons of baggage and harness, under Sadie Lantorn, whose career as a woman of the company was apparently unaffected by her sister’s marriage into the highest ranks of the gentry. Sukey had other duties for a few days.

As a rearguard, the Duke of Thrake had six Morean lances under Ser Christos—his first command in the company, although he had once been the
strategos
for the former duke. With him were five other magnates of Thrake, and if they objected to having to ride into the frigid delights of an Alban spring, they kept their views to themselves. Ser Alcaeus, who might have been expected to stay with his banda, was instead riding with them.

Out on the plain that stretched to the river, the Hillmen could be seen forming their flocks and herds and moving them across the water at Southford. The process had been going on for two days.

The Red Knight looked around for the one face he missed, and gave up. He drew his sword and flicked a salute at the gate guard, who returned it more formally, and Ser John, mounted on a pretty bay, came out and locked hands with the Red Knight.