The Dread Wyrm (Traitor Son Cycle) (26 page)

The mounted lists were more complicated; a central barricade the height of a horse’s haunches, walled in oak boards, the whole length of the course, with another oak fence all the way around the outside, a hundred and fifty feet long and forty feet wide.

Both lists were nearly complete. At the foot lists, a dozen pargeters and painters had begun hanging painted canvas and leather decorations that looked, for all the world, like solid gold and silver pedestals holding magnificently decorated shields.

The Master Pargeter already had a master roll of every knight and squire expected to fight. On the ninth and tenth pages, shields had been added to indicate the late entries—Galles who had not yet arrived, and Occitans who were rumoured, even now, to be en route.

The royal arms decorated the royal pavilion—the King was a noted jouster and had every intention to participate—and the stands.

The Master Pargeter had narrow red lines through a number of coats of arms, as well, from the original roll. The Earl of Towbray was no longer included. The Count of the Borders had been ordered to take a force of Royal Foresters into the west country in response to raids from the Wild. Edward Daispansay—the Lord of Bain—had taken his retainers and left the court a month before. Only his son Thomas remained, and the difference on his arms—an eight-pointed star—was, thankfully, an easy correction to paint.

The Count D’Eu, the Champion’s cousin and a famous lance, had just withdrawn that morning.

But the biggest change was that the Queen’s arms had been ordered stricken from the record. Desiderata’s arms—the Royal Arms of Occitan, quartered with Galle and Alba and supported by a unicorn and a Green Man, were well known throughout the kingdom, and her knights had, on other occasions, been the most cohesive team after the King’s. Now her arms were banned, which led to a great deal of speculation among the workmen, and not a single one of her knights was to break a lance or swing a sword in the lists.

Ser Gerald Random, the King’s “merchant knight,” stood on his wooden foot, supported by a thick ebony cane with a head of solid gold, watching the workmen. Around him stood most of his officers for the tournament, and with him was the new Lord Mayor of Harndon, Ailwin Darkwood, and the past mayor, Ser Richard Smythe.

A dozen sailors were rigging an enormous awning over the bleachers.

“I saw ’em do it in Liviapolis,” Ser Gerald said. “Mind you, they had a magister to seal it.”

The Lord Mayor made a hasty wave of his hand. “God between us and evil. Until we’re rid of the new bishop, don’t even speak of such things.”

Random spat in annoyance. “Gentles,” he said, “among us, we control most of the flow of capital in this city.” He looked around. “Are we going to stand for this?” He pointed his elegant cane at the two pargeter’s apprentices who were carefully taking
down
the Queen’s arms from the central viewing stand over the mounted lists.

“What choice do we have?” Ser Richard asked. “I don’t have an army. Nor am I much of a jouster.”

Ser Gerald looked around carefully. “There’s Jacks moving into the city,” he said. “And there’s Galles coming. And a tithe of fools who ape the Galles.”

Darkwood spoke very quietly. “And Occitans. The Queen’s brother won’t just stand by and let her be arrested.”

Ser Gerald looked around. “Let’s speak frankly, gentles, as it becomes merchants. Leave lying to the lords. The King’s champion and his cronies are leading us into a civil war, as sure as the wind blows.”

The other two men shifted uncomfortably.

“And if they fight here, in our streets—” Ser Gerald narrowed his eyes. “Imagine fire in our houses. And soldiers. Looting.”

“Sweet Christ, we’d all be ruined.” Ser Richard shook his head. “It would never happen here.”

Ser Gerald looked around again. “Since my adventure last year among the Moreans,” he said with some authority, “I have friends among the Etruscans.”

“So I’ve noted, to my discontent,” admitted Darkwood. “There were Venike and Fiorian merchants who got their furs before I did!”

Ser Gerald raised an eyebrow. “There was fur eno’ for every house,” he said. “And one of my principal backers asked that I make sure the Etruscans weren’t cut out. Any road—the Venike captain, Ser Giancarlo, what docked Thursday last—he’s brought me news.” He looked around again. “He says the King of Galle has ordered all this. That it is a plot—that de Vrailly works for the King of Galle. That he will seize the kingdom and hold it for his master.”

Ailwin Darkwood tugged his beard. “I’ve always thought so. Since the assault on our coinage started.”

Ser Gerald was surprised. “But—”

Darkwood shrugged. “I take my own precautions. What do you suggest we do?”

Ser Gerald raised an eyebrow. “Nothing against the King,” he said.

Ser Richard looked furtive. “This is treason.”

Ser Gerald shook his head vehemently. “Nothing against the King, I said.”

Master Ailwin and Ser Gerald both glared at Ser Richard. “What do you have planned?” Ser Richard asked, but his body language clearly said that he was not with them.

An hour later he was sharing wine with the Archbishop of Lorica, who affected unconcern.

“Fear nothing, good Ser Richard. Some of your countrymen are traitors, but the King is safe. Indeed, I think I can tell you that in the next few hours, a plot will be revealed that will do much to allay your fears.”

Ser Richard rose. “Random and Darkwood and Pye, between them, control most of the militia—the Trained Band. They will use it.”

The archbishop laughed. “Peasants with pitchforks? Against belted knights?” He laughed heartily. “I hope they try. In Galle, we encourage them—it thins the herd.”

Ser Richard knew little about war, but he tugged his beard in agitation. “I think your knights may find them formidable, ser. At any rate, I must away. I cannot have my hand in this. After this unpleasantness is over, I’ll need to do business with these men.”

The archbishop escorted him personally to the door of his chamber, saw him handed out the door, and returned to his desk. To his secretary, Maître Gris, a priest and doctor of theology, he said, “That man imagines that when we are done, he can go back to his business.” He shook his head. “Usury and luxury and gluttony.”

His secretary nodded, eyes gleaming.

“We will have the richest church in all the see of Rhum,” the archbishop said.

“And you will be Patriarch,” his secretary said.

They shared a glance. Then the archbishop shook himself free of his dreams and leaned back.

“Fetch me my Archaic scribe,” he said.

The secretary frowned, but he went out, his black robes like a storm cloud.

The archbishop concentrated on a letter explaining—in measured tones—that no priest of the church was subject to any civil or royal law, and that the Manor Court of Lewes had no jurisdiction nor right to hear any case against their reverend father in Christ.

His secretary returned. In tones of quiet disapproval, the man said, “
Maître
Villon.”

A thin figure in the threadbare scarlet of a lower caste doctor of law bowed deeply.

The archbishop could smell the wine on him. “Maître,” he said sharply.

The red man stood solidly enough. “Your eminence,” he said.

The archbishop gestured sharply at his secretary. “I will handle this,” he said.

His secretary nodded sharply.

The archbishop sat back. “Maître Villon, you understand, I think, why I brought you to Alba.”

Maître Villon’s bloodshot eyes met his and then the doctor of law looked at the parquetry floor in front of him. “I am at your eminence’s will,” he said softly.

“Very much so, I think,” the archbishop said. “Need I go into particulars?”

Maître Villon didn’t raise his eyes. “No, Eminence.”

“Very well. I wish a certain set of events to come to pass. Can you make them happen?”

The man in red nodded. “Yes, Eminence.”

“I wish a man to die.” The archbishop winced at his own words.

“By what means?” the doctor of law asked.

“By
your
means, Maître Villon.” The archbishop spoke sharply, his voice rising, like a mother speaking to a particularly stupid child.

“By the hermetical arts,” the doctor of law said softly.

The archbishop half rose. “I have not said so!” he said. “And you will keep a civil tongue in your head. Or you will have no tongue at all.”

The red-clad man kept looking at the floor.

“Can you effect this?” the archbishop asked.

The red-clad man shrugged. “Possibly. All things are possible.”

“Today.” The archbishop leaned forward.

The man in red sighed. “Very well,” he said. “Can you have someone get me something he wears? Something he wears often?”

The archbishop seemed about to expostulate, but then paused. “Yes.”

The man in red nodded. “If, perhaps, someone could steal his gloves? I assume he is a gentleman.”

The archbishop was looking elsewhere.
“Pfft,”
he said.

The man in red ignored him. “And then, later today, we could return his gloves, as if they were found in the street.”

“And you can work your hideous perversion in that little time?”

The man in red bowed. “In your eminence’s service.”

“You try me, Maître Villon. Yet I hold you and all you think dear in my hand.” The archbishop fingered the amulet he wore with his cross.

The man in red shrugged. “It is as you say, Eminence.” He sounded tired, or hopeless, or perhaps both.

As he went out, the secretary glared at him with unconcealed hate.

“How can you allow such a man to live?” he asked.

“Tush, Gilles. That is not your place to ask.” The archbishop frowned. “Have you not asked yourself whether Judas was evil, or whether he was bound to deliver our lord to the cross? And thus merely a tool of God?”

The secretary shrugged. “The scholastica tells me that it was a matter of God using Judas’s evil for His own purposes.”

The archbishop sat back. “If God is free to use evil to further His ends, so then am I.” He looked over his steepled hands. “What of the Almspend woman?”

The secretary shook his head. “She went to a house she has in the country. I sent men. They did not return.” He shrugged. “It has become difficult to hire sell-swords, Eminence. The King’s Guard has hired every armed thug in the city.”

“That’s de Vrailly, preparing for a fight with the commons,” the archbishop said. “We need our own swords. Some swords that don’t wear our livery.”

The secretary nodded. “A man was recommended to me, Eminence. A foreigner, from the far north.”

“Well?” The archbishop was not renowned for his patience.

“I will see if I can contact him. He is very—careful.” The secretary shrugged.

The archbishop smiled. “He sounds Etruscan. Etruscans are the only professionals in these matters. I wish I’d brought a team from Rhum. If he seems suitable, retain him.”

The secretary bowed.

The Count D’Eu was moving briskly about Harndon, paying his debts. Tailors and grocers and leatherworkers and all the trades who supported his household, he visited in person and paid in silver.

Many a Harndoner who cursed Galles every day had reason to bless him, and Gerald Random shared an embrace. “It’ll turn,” he said, somewhat daring. “You should stay.”

The count met his eye. “No,” he said. “It will not turn. Ward the Queen. They mean her harm. And the King, in time, I think.”

“And you will just leave?” Ser Gerald said. He held up a hand. “I know—”

The Galle shook his head. “No, Monsieur. I know you are a good homme d’armes and an honest merchant. So I will only say this: the rumour from my home is that the Wild is coming to my doorstep. I wish to go home and do the work for which God has chosen me.”

Ser Random bowed. “Can’t say fairer than that,” he said.

At the door, the Count D’Eu slapped his magnificent gold plaque belt and turned to his squire, Robert. “Young man, what have I done with my gloves?”

Robert looked around wildly. “You had them, my lord. You wore them when we were in the tailor’s. With the bishop’s men.”

The count frowned. “Eh bien,” he said.

The sun was setting over the distant mountains when the Gallish ships appeared in the firth. Word spread up through the town—almost every man from the corner beggars by the Order of Saint John’s almost empty hostel to the Royal Guards on the walls knew what the ships contained. Men and women went to evening mass with their eyes on the firth.

They made the riverside docks only at first light—the packed men onboard had had to endure one more damp, cold night. But in the bright sunshine of a spring morning, the first day of Holy Week, the ships unloaded onto the same quays where the Venike round ships had unloaded and marketed their wares. But whereas the Venike brought silk and satin and samite and spices, the Galles brought more than three hundred lances of Gallish chivalry—big, tall, strong men. Each Gallish lance contained a knight and his squire, also armoured, and a rabble of servants and pages, in numbers that varied according to the social status of the knight.

The Sieur Du Corse, a famous routier, led the Galles down the gangplanks, and then stood, a baton in his hand, as the ships disgorged his men, their armour, their weapons, and all their horses. The horses were not in good shape, and some were unable to stand.

The King’s Champion, Jean de Vrailly, came in person, mounted and in a glittering new harness, the one of blued steel he would wear for the tourney. He was cheered in some streets.

He dismounted easily and embraced Du Corse, and they mimicked friendship with the slippery grabs of men covered in butter—steel arms grappled steel breasts. But the display seemed genuine enough.

“I asked for a company of Genuans. For some bowmen—or Ifriquy’ans like the King of Sichilia uses.” De Vrailly pursed his lips. “But your lances look fine, Blaise. Magnificent.”

Blaise Du Corse was as tall as de Vrailly, with hair as black as de Vrailly’s was white-gold. He was from the southern mountains of Galle, where the Kingdom of Arelat and the Kingdom of Galle and the Etruscan states all came together in a region of poverty and war and uncivil society. A region famous for soldiers.