The Court of Ghosts Chapter 17
· 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 (https://donate.nifty.org/), 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 Seventeen: Heavenward, Unbound
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The Sea – The River – Epilogue, Part 1 – Epilogue, Part 2
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Staunton Castle, Dragonspur, Kingdom of Morland
4th of Winter, 801
Inside the dripping darkness there materialized a warm face – an oval jaw framed by its smoky beard, its brow furrowed, its lips widened into a toothy smile to match a cantankerous wit. An old face. A wise face. A calm one. Soothing. And Edward Bardshaw smiled back.
"Master..."
He wished he knew what to say to him. Thank you? Thank you for taking me in, for showing me kindness, for opening my mind, for giving my sword arm purpose? Sorry? Sorry for betraying your philosophy, for taking up arms against the crown and spilling Morish blood, for desecrating his own honour?
`And the headstone,' Thought Ed. `I never did get you one.'
His head, so soon for the severing, was of fleeting concern compared to the injustice of that – the author of The Phantoma and the founder of the Crow's Club, the inspirator of Equitism, that common man of such uncommon intellect, Theopold Stillingford – gone without so much as a bit of chiselled stone to commemorate him.
"I'm sorry, master..." A sob. "...I'm so sorry..."
*
His turnkey fetched for him in the morning. Jangling keys twisted the lock of his cell door, its deep clang waking Ed from fitful slumber. His eyes blinked back at the sudden influx of light – tongues of flame crackling from a taper, and the burning sconces beyond, fixed into the mossy walls. The turnkey, broad-backed and muscular, crouched down to his haunches and waved his torch around the ragged sectors of Edward's body, inspecting it for injuries. He found nothing to report. Just the customary cuts and bruises.
"Come along," said the gaoler. "Ser John is waiting."
It was his time then.
Time escapes you in the dark. No sun, no moon. Just the black and the squeaks of its mice and the bite of its fleas and the stench of the piss pot. One day blends into the next until time is measured only by the meals your gaolers serve you or the movements of your bowels. Inside the Oubliette nothing pierces deep enough to reach you, to pluck you from the utter nullity of it all, nothing save the whims of your captors. Or death.
But the darkness was a familiar enemy to Edward Bardshaw. His younger self endured it for a year under a far worse warden than John Lolland. It could not break him.
His body was weak. He felt faint with hunger. But Edward grit his teeth and forced himself up onto withering legs, chains grinding against each other. He would meet his fate on his own two feet.
Outside, two Bannerets of the Bloom awaited him. He exhaled, then padded out and surrendered himself.
*
The Bannerets took him to a small cell in the summit of the eastern tower that was such a far cry from the black bowels of the Oubliette that a simpler man might mistake his transfer for a kindness. It was a wider space and fully floorboarded. There was a cot and a small table. There was a chamber pot – a clean one. There was a bowl of water to wash with and a change of clothes to dress into – a lockram shirt and woad-dyed hose. The guards unlocked his shackles and ordered him to wash. Edward wondered why it mattered. They cared not for the countenance of Stillingford or Rothwell when they carted them off to the scaffold at Gallows Grove. But then he supposed: `A sensibility I miss... commoner as I am.'
And yet is there anything in this world more barbarous than a noble?
Edward complied. Peeled himself out of his frayed rags and performed the proper ablutions. Cleansed his wounds of blood. Scratched out the dirt clods marring his skin. Washed his hair thoroughly until it was blonde again. Soaked his nails in the bowl until they were clean. He dressed himself into his fresher clothes and the manacles were reapplied.
By then the new Constable of Dragonspur had made his way to Edward's cell – and by the saints was he dressed for the occasion. The delights of his new station brought him a grey brocade doublet trimmed with gold, and a satin half-cloak shouldered by a pelt of fox fur. Pearl-like beads were embroidered into his hose and a basket-hilted sword (of the Gasqueri style) swung from his belt. His perfumed gloves, scented with ambergris, reached up to pluck a flamingo-feathered cap from his closely cropped grey hair.
`You look ridiculous,' thought Ed.
Ser John grinned at him. "Strikes like a whip, does it not? This turnabout? When we came crawling out to you that day, myself and the shepherd and the Lord Mayor, who amongst us would've dreamed it would come to this?"
`Edith should've taken one of your eyes,' thought Ed, spitefully. But he said nothing. There was nothing of value to say.
A slow trickle of footsteps took Ser John across the creaking floorboards to Edward's face. The Constable took him by the chin and checked him over like a merchant inspecting livestock. "I'll send a barber-surgeon up to shave this beard. The court doesn't care to send scruffy souls to the saints... at least not in their presence."
The Constable threw Edward's woolly jaw away and took a step back. He returned his cap to its proper skull. "You have until noontide to make your peace with them."
`Noontide. So that's when you'll kill us.'
Ser John took a mocking bow before he turned to leave. Ed was glad to see the back of him. But then he stopped himself mid-stride and turned back, smirking smugly. "Pardon me, master. I nearly forgot. As you've proven yourself a model prisoner I've prepared you a small present..."
Ser John directed him to the sole window of the cell. And Edward, in spite of himself, went over to it, chains shuffling behind him. It was narrow – just wide enough to fit a hand through and little else. But from that height it bestowed a limited view of Staunton's upper rightmost courtyard, a gravelled square enclosed by white-painted pillars chiselled with reliefs and friezes of ancient Morish kings. A scaffold stood at its centre – fronted by ten rows of cushioned seats.
And upon that scaffold stood the chopping block.
Ser John's smarming voice curled down Edward's ear. "I had them save you for last, boy."
*
The sea.
It was the sea that Edward thought of. That vast expanse. That sun-dappled stretch of azure waters. When he closed his eyes, he saw darkness. When he opened his eyes, he saw darkness. But when he opened his mind, and reached backwards in time across its annuls, it was the sea that reached back.
The sea.
He saw it clearly now. Felt the sea spray's cooling caress against his bronzed skin. Felt the warm sands bunching beneath his tiny toes. Heard the music of the gulls as they wheeled overhead, and the soft crash of the tides against the golden shore. Tasted the salt of the air on the tip of his tongue. Smelt the scrags of seaweed tossing up at his feet.
And there he ran.
Edward. With his little trail of footprints behind him, his favourite person in all the world up ahead, smiling back at him, with his emerald eyes full of joy, and his chestnut tresses waving in the wind. There they giggled. Held hands. Built castles. Played with shells. Cooled their feet in the sea.
And there, love blossomed.
*
"And now it dies with me."
*
Noontide.
Edward arose from the corner of his cell. All prayers said. All thoughts subsumed. All memories consigned. The blonde man carried himself across the groaning floorboards by one heavy, shackled step after the other until his eyes fell upon the courtyard once more.
The nobles were gathered. Hundreds of them. The tower's height made it impossible to tell who from who, but places of prominence denoted station. The Duke of Greyford sat at the head of the party, flanked by Emma of Wuffolk and Queen Annalena. The Earls Huxton, Edgemore, Wrothsby, Lludmonton, and Gainsley too. Marquess de la More. The High Shepherds, perhaps. Certainly Aldwyn. And Francis Gray, no doubt.
But it was the Lord Shepherd himself, Sygmus II, who stood at the scaffold to officiate, clad in his robes of office, robes of purest white decorated in gold, mitred, with the Holy Crozier of Rood in one hand and the Book of Saints in the other. He read from its scriptures in the old tongue, the Ancient Tongue, whilst castratos sung the death chants and a flock of cassocked incense-burners marched in procession around the scene.
Edward never understood the holy solemnity with which the Commonfaith blessed executions. What had the instruments of the saints to do with this? Butchery. That was all it was. Why sully the faith by laurelling its beauty upon butchery?
And then came the headsman.
A nameless masked figure mounting the steps to take his position, his glinting axe perched upon his bare shoulder. The Lord Shepherd blessed him, absolving the executioner of his coming sins with a simple tap of the crozier. He stood aside and waited. A quietness then fell with only the beating winds to scupper it.
And then they brought out Edith.
Edward clutched his fists.
It was the Constable of Dragonspur who led the way out of the eastern tower into the damp gravel of the courtyard, with two bardiche-armed Bannerets of the Bloom at his flanks, and a shackled Edith Oswyke in tow, her bare feet trudging along beneath the swirl of a simple brown dress. And Ed's eyes were just strong enough to make out the white band of cloth knotted around her mouth.
The bastards gagged her.
Too afraid to hear her speak. Too afraid to kill her publicly. Nothing but cowardice. Sheer cowardice. But Edward held his nerve as he watched them escort her up the scaffold's groaning steps to the chopping block. They commanded her to her knees.
Sygmus II stepped forth. "Praise be to our saints. May they bless us all as we dispatch unto them this benighted soul, who has strayed so far from her path. The condemned is Edith of House Vox..."
`Whoresons...' Thought Ed. `...Even at the end of it all they refuse to admit it...'
"...This woman was tried and found guilty of high treason and heresy. And so we deliver her to the stars, to the bosom of the saints, where they may sit in final judgment."
No last words.
The Lord Shepherd stepped aside. The headsman took his place. As the Duke and Queen Dowager and all the other gilded jackals of the court sat and watched, the Bannerets lowered Edith's head into the groove and tucked aside that legendary mane of flame-gold hair to the right of her nape, baring up the white of her neck for the executioners' stroke. She did not shiver. She did not buck. Even at the precipice of death her bravery was boundless. She was born beneath the Star of Strength, a Child of St. Thunos, but hers was a courage worthy of St. Wynnry herself. And they knew it.
"Send her to the Saints." Said Sygmus.
A nod.
The executioner lofted his axe.
And then, with a single gleaming stroke, he took the head of The Red Princess of Ravensborough. Shocked gasps rippled through the ranks of the nobility as it tumbled through the cold noon air into a basket.
Edith Oswyke.
The Red Princess. Daughter of King Osmund and Queen Katheresa. Rightful heir thereof. Dead.
Edward shut his eyes.
And then, one by one, they brought out the others.
First was their traitor lord, Albert Bacon, the man who forsook his own birth-right to do right.
Beheaded.
Next went kindly Shepherd Godwyn, the hedge monk who suffered so bravely throughout all the tortures that lunatic Wrothsby could concoct... all to share the Sage's word with his countrymen.
Beheaded.
After him, the stout-hearted guildsman Basil Smeadon.
Beheaded.
Then Mistress Alyse, Steward of Ravensborough.
Beheaded.
And then finally they dragged out the noble lawyer himself, Kenrick Thopswood. Edward never expected to care for him. But when the bannerets brought him to the block, shivering and frightened, he realized he wasn't merely losing an ally.
He was losing a friend.
Kenrick Thopswood.
Two strokes.
Beheaded.
And then there was only one left to execute.
He sighed. Thumbed the tears out of his eyes. Took a breath to compose himself. `Steady now,' thought he_. `Meet it with grace'_. Beyond the cell door a rush of footfalls scaled the dusted stone steps. He heard the clank of their breastplates and the rattle of their side-arms. The bannerets had come to fetch him for the block.
The prisoner turned to the door.
There was a rattle of keys and a twist of a lock. The wooden door yawned open and in came his escort. Two Bannerets of the Bloom and a cassocked shepherd to offer him right of last confession as well as benediction.
The taller of the two bannerets, stoic as ever, addressed him quietly. "Master. It is time to come with us. Will you take the right of last confession?"
Confession.
The thought appealed: to unburden himself of all his sins before he followed his friends and allies to the stars. But confessions are for guilt. Confessions are for wrongs. And Edward did not rank the deeds that brought him to that tower amongst them. He had done evil. He had shed blood. And he was sorry for it. To his realm and his master and his family. But all was done in the service of good. All was done in the service of the realm and all its folk. All was done for a better world... and that was what Edward Bardshaw would never regret.
"No." He said. "I have nothing to confess."
"Very well then." Said the second banneret. "Come with us."
Edward sighed and nodded. They would need to uncuff his feet. He looked to thank the shepherd first and recuse him of his services. But then the shepherd raised his hooded face and Edward blinked at a killer's cold glare flashing back at him.
Russet cloak folds flew open. Two short slurps of steel rang out through the cell's musty airs. Daggers. The cassocked man went for the first banneret within a flickering instant and slashed clean through the apple of his exposed throat, splattering the near wall in a glut of blood and felling the taller man with a single punt of a boot. The second man, screaming, threw down his bardiche to reach for his sword but the murderous shepherd sank his jagged kidney spike into his neck before his fingertips even grazed the hilt. A single shove took him into the wall and kept him there until his final blood-gurgling breath. The banneret slumped to the floor – dead – alongside his fallen partner.
Edward looked on, frozen and dumbstruck, as the assassin slipped his bloodied daggers back inside their sheaths. He lowered his hood.
"...Lothar...?"
The Catspaw said nothing as he thrust his fist into Edward's stomach, knocking the breath out of him. "Ugh!" He juddered. Stumbled. Felt faint. The world blurred around him as he collapsed onto the floorboards. Breathless. Chest heaving.
Through half-lidded eyes he saw Lothar bending to his haunches to collect the manacle keys off the butchered banneret's belt.
And then the blurred world went black.
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Kirkfield, Outskirts of Dragonspur, Kingdom of Morland
4th of Winter, 801
Thormont tightened the folds of his hood. There was a chill abroad the fields and it cut right to the damn bone. His cloak was shouldered with bear fur but even that could not fend off the shivers. As he stroked the mane of the piebald horse (tethered to an alder) he watched its whickering breath drift off into the fog that swirled over the grassy reaches. St. Bosmund's winter was here, and it would not be a kind one to Morland.
A shivering Thormont huddled against the horse as closely as he could to share its warmth – which was scant. What he really wanted was a fire. But fires mean smoke and smoke catches eyes.
Off to the foggy east the bells of Dragonspur rang out. Every peal was frantic. Not since the autumn riots had they been struck so. He found the sound terrifying, as it was intended to be, but it brought him relief. A city-wide alarm meant the work was done.
It galled him to have to sit through the beheadings. Though many nobles masked their amusement with false piety and solemness, there was a palpable glee in that throng, a sort of bloodthirst for retribution. But he had to be there. If this was going to work then Thormont needed to be seen within that crowd. Unlike Lothar he had no flair for skulduggery, but he knew how to lie, and like the others he did his best to look shocked and aghast and affronted when word got out that the last prisoner to be executed, Edward Bardshaw, had somehow escaped custody.
And there was uproar. Lludmonton was furious – and took all of it out on his successor in post, Ser John Lolland. `NEVER WOULD THIS HAVE HAPPENED ON MY WATCH, YOU BLITHERING IDIOT!' He'd bellowed. `GATHER THE CASTLE GUARD AND FIND HIM! NOW!'
Whilst the rebel dead were fetched away for the embalmers to prepare their heads for spikes, Thormont and the rest of the nobility were quietly led out of the castle and left to return to their city-based holdings. From then he mounted his horse and rode for the eastern gate as fast as he could. There was precious little time to go. Once Staunton Castle was scoured from top to bottom (with nothing of Edward uncovered) it was only a matter of time before Lolland had the city gates sealed to prevent escape. But Thormont had been quick and rode out from the city unimpeded.
It was dangerous to travel without an escort of course. But the fog was thick, and the Lord Viscount was too anxious to worry. He had his poignard for protection if anything. Better to focus on the river.
The thunderous rains of yestereve had bloated the Wyvern's banks and sped up the flow of its currents. Its waters were more dangerous now, but faster, and at that moment speed was their greatest ally. Fran kept by the horse and watched the river traffic wash by. And then within an hour of his own arrival at the meeting point, a single wherry rowed through the fog toward his position. A hooded figure manned its oars and ran it thudding into the muddied banks. Thormont kept his hand by his dagger just in case, but the figure lowered his hood.
It was Lothar.
A sigh of relief bloomed into a cloud of cold air. Thormont would have thanked the saints if he still believed in them. Instead he raced down the slope to his friend's side and helped him ferry onto the shore what was made to look like a large hempen sack of potatoes. Together they carried it up until the ground levelled out into wooded flatland.
Lothar cut open the sack.
Edward lay within. Unconscious. But alive. Thormont looked away, catching his breath, blotting the Fiend's protestations out of his mind. "Thank you, Lothar. From the bottom of my heart, thank you."
The espial grunted. "In the sewers I gave him a sedative herb to keep him docile. He should soon wake from it."
And he did. To keep him warm Thormont fetched a spare cloak from his saddlebags and draped him in it, but within a few moments of the act, the swordsman's eyes fluttered open. He looked up and found a smile to wake to.
"Ed?" Thormont sighed. "Are you alright?"
No reply.
His silvery eyes were wide. Alarmed. Confused. He shirked the arms propping him up and rolled onto his stomach, hoisting himself up by his own arms but so swiftly he almost stumbled. He stilled. He caught his breath. And then he looked to his wrists and ankles, all four of them raw and bloody from the shackles and their rusty iron grind – but the fetters were gone. He blinked, pausing, processing his confusion, slowly recognizing his freedom. And then his eyes widened as he pieced it all together.
And then?
He and his liberator caught each other's eyes – and held there for a moment that could have lasted an eternity – giddy green to startled silver.
And then?
Those beautiful silver eyes hardened.
"What did you do?" Said Edward, sharply.
Thormont's smile deflated. "I... I... we saved you..."
Lothar looked on, warily.
"Saved me?" Edward clenched his fists. "I chose to die with honour!"
Thormont frowned. "Aye. And it was a stupid choice, so I chose for you."
There was a spark of rage then, one so stark and hateful that it took Thormont aback, an act of unreality beyond his ken. Edward Bardshaw's eyes lit with fury, and a hoarse cry escaped him. Something bestial and primitive. With every ounce of power left in his weakened body Edward thrust a hand into Lothar's leathered chest and shoved him hard down the slope of the riverbank.
Thormont watched the espial tumble through the mud until a sudden hand snatched his throat and drove him backwards, slippered feet skidding through the wet grass. A fist grabbed his poignard. When Thormont's feet finally found purchase, the tip of its blade was dipped at his throat.
Frightened green trembled before incensed silver. Then green ticked left. Behind them. Lothar. Leaping out of the mud, throwing off his cloak, drawing his kidney spikes, racing towards Edward's open back.
"NO!" Screamed Thormont. "Stay back, Lothar!"
The espial stopped, mid-stride, jerking. Thormont stretched a palm out to calm him. His poignard's tip drew a nip of blood. A single thrust was death.
"It's alright." He spoke. "It's alright. Edward will not hurt me... no matter how much he thinks he hates me... and he knows why..."
Edward trembled.
"...Because he loves me."
Edward sobbed.
His fingers loosened. The poignard slipped from his grasp and pattered into the damp grass. Tears fell, wrenched up from a pit of despair so deep you could not fathom it. Thormont bit his lip. Took his moment. Traced his arms up the taller man's back and drew him close. Breast to breast. Cheek to cheek. Held him tight. Held him close. Let him mourn. Mourned with him. The pair of them lulling in each other's arms. A pair of roses wilting in the fog. And yet? It finally felt like home.
Home.
"...Ed?"
The brunette peeled back, slightly, just enough to look at the blonde, to take him by his flushed cheeks and stroke away the bitterness of his tears.
"Edward..." They held each other's gaze as they spoke... as if it were the first time since Fludding. Since it all fell to pieces. "Edward, listen to me. Please. I love you. Come with me."
In Fran's flight from Dragonspur he'd run the numbers. It was his guess that Lolland would put men on the road to search for Edward. Put warrants out for his arrest. Put a bounty on him. Send espials into every tavern, inn and waystation from the River Wyvern to the Bordermoors until some stray piece of intelligence flushed him out.
But in Thormont he could be hidden. They could dye his hair. Change his name. Keep him out of sight. Spread false rumours of him sailing to the continent. And in a few years' time no one would even remember what he looked like. And they could finally be free together. Free to love each other.
They could finally have what they always wanted.
But he looked to Edward, his sweet Edward, the blacksmith's boy who stole his heart and never let it go. He looked into those transfixing silvery eyes, quivering with his every touch. But eyes have a tell. A lustre. A spark. A light. And in Edward's eyes... nothing was kindled. Neither lustre, nor spark, nor light. `Please' did not move them. `Love' did not move them. Francis Gray did not move them.
Edward stepped out of the embrace.
"No." He said simply. "No."
Thormont shivered, frozen in place, his heart sinking inside himself. His mind raced with thoughts of protest, defiance, pleas, lies, screams, anything that might make sense to utter. But no words escaped him.
It was too late.
"...Too much has happened..." Edward stepped back, breath clouding around his lips, eyes darting to the tethered horse. "...That sweet boy I once loved is gone... and the man he became is a stranger to me. Our paths, they..." Ed paused until he found it in himself to resume. "...our paths are too long diverged. They'll never meet again."
Thormont's head lulled. Arms set against his sides. Tears in freefall. Chest throbbing. He heard Edward take a breath... then watched powerlessly as Edward brushed past him towards the horse. Trembling hands unstrapped its leather reins from the alder, then gathered them up as the blonde man mounted the mare and set his feet into the stirrups. Lothar did not move to stop him. Neither did Thormont.
"Goodbye, Fran."
The Lord Viscount did not look back. He could not look back. He could only hear the snap of reins and the ebbing trickle of hoofbeats that carried Edward Bardshaw away.
Away, with his heart, into the fog.
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EPILOGUE
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Kettingham, The Highburghs, Kingdom of Morland
1st of Spring, 804
A feather slipped beneath Kit's nose – and waggled there. And it only took two waggles to make him sneeze, and when he sneezed, he woke up, sniffling. He turned to his side. And there was James. Smirking. Giggling. Tucking a little tress of his golden-brown hair behind his ear. And Kit snuck a kiss from him before he pelted the little prankster with a pillow. He rolled back over, yawning and muttering threats of slaughter if he did it again.
James shook him by the shoulder muscles. "Oh no. I'll not have you wasting away the hours in bed. Not this day of all days!"
"...What day is it...?" Muttered Kit. He knew of course, but two could play prankster. And in an instant, he felt a pursed-lip frown boring its way into the back of his head.
"It's the Feast Day of St. Jehanne, and you damn well know it."
"Oh?" A smirk. "...You never make this fuss on St. Thunos' Feast Day."
James shoved him out of bed.
Kit's eyes flew open as he rolled sidelong off the edge, tangled in the bedsheets, thumping onto the rushes and lavender lining the floor. That woke him up. The blonde pate hauled himself upright, frowning, as James scuttled back against the headboard, hiding his impish little smile behind his knees. Roaring, grinning, Kit launched himself back onto the bed and threw the little minx onto his back, the two of them jostling together until James was too breathless and too over-giggled to tease him anymore.
"Okay! Alright! Okay!" He said sweetly. "I yield!"
Kit smirked at him. James' spirits were up. They always were on a feast day, particularly his own. `There's only four to a calendar,' he'd say, `we should at least enjoy them.'
Every Feast Day, regardless of Saint, James was always the first to wake. Always the first to share out presents and pay the tithes. Always the first volunteer to mount the village garlands and decorate the maypole, to help brew the beer or mull the wine. He cared not for hunting but would happily prepare a hog for the spit or strip a pheasant of its feathers for the butcher. But if you asked him – and he was honest with you – it was the dances where James found most joy. Nothing of a feast day pleased him more than the gathering of the village at the tavern house or McDalish's barn, where circles were formed, laurels distributed, and cotton skirts swayed rhythmically to the lyres, flutes and drums. Kit had never seen James happier than he was upon the floor, swirling and prancing in step, bright eyed and bouncing with joy.
And Kit paused a moment to admire James as he caught his breath, those tiny wrists trapped within his grip. By St. Thunos he was beautiful. With his hair like thick threads of dark gold and his eyes of flaming amber, his bare breast rising and falling with each intake of air.
A sweet smile passed between them until their lips met again in the dawn light, soft moans mingling with the oaken groan of the bedframe. Tender hands snuck beneath Kit's lockram shirt and slipped smoothly up the war-scarred musculature of his back. They broke their kiss only to tug it off. James took him by the scruff of his blonde beard again, pressing their lips back together, sighing, crossing his ankles over the small of Kit's back. Both felt the other stiffen.
And then there was a knock at the door.
The pair broke off, lips smacking. A second knock. And then a third. Kit rolled his eyes and cursed under his breath as James quickly pushed him off and tidied himself. "C-come in, Larkyn!"
Their bedroom door croaked open, and the boy sauntered in, kicking away the rushes with his bare feet. He covered his eyes, playfully. And there was a smug little smile on his face as he did it.
Kit frowned at him. "You can't half pick your moments, lad. Well? What is it?"
"Don't be such a churl," said James. He turned to Larkyn and broke into a cheerful series of facial expressions and hand gestures. The language of the sign, he called it, a talent he'd picked up in Greyford. He'd taught it to Larkyn who (clever boy as he was) took to it like a goose to a pond. Kit on the other hand...?
Redhead Larkyn grinned at him.
"I don't care for his tone of smirk," said Kit. He saw the signs for `separate' and `two', but the rest escaped him. "What's he saying?"
James signed something back to Larkyn, briefly, then explained: "He says if the two of us can separate ourselves long enough to breathe we have a visitor downstairs. I told him jealousy is an ugly aspect."
Kit threw a rush at the boy. "Aye, it is."
The boy threw it back and signed again. James giggled (as he was wont to). Kit turned to him. "Enlighten me?"
"He says there are three signs for `mutton-wit' and if you don't keep up with my lessons, he will use all of them on you."
"That's it, out!" Kit climbed out of bed. His shirt was gone but his breeches were up and tied, luckily. "Go downstairs and give us a moment to get ready." And then he paused in thought. "Wait. Who's the visitor?"
Larkyn signed by letters (which Kit could understand).
H.A.R.R.Y.
"...I see." Kit paused a spell. Frowning. Pondering. Ruffling the boy's hair absently. "Fetch him something to drink, Larkyn. We'll be right down."
The boy nodded briefly then exited the room, its door clicking shut. Kit went for his shirt (which James had somehow thrown onto a tool hook) and threaded his arms to tug it back down.
"Harry's back?" Said James. "How long has it been? A year?"
Since his wife died was the unsaid part.
Bella was her name. Bella Grover. A raven-haired seamstress with a foul-mouth and a heart of gold. James' dearest friend. That day they'd handfasted before the entire tavern was probably the happiest of Harry's life, save for their wedding day.
11th of Autumn, 802.
The four of them took to a sacred grove in the hunting forests beyond the fields of Kettingham where an Odoist shepherd married both couples in a mutual ceremony – Harry to Bella, Kit to James – and all by the ancient Morish customs, which Bella, as a northerner, still clung to. Larkyn was their only witness. But the pox struck Kettingham hard last year's spring, and it claimed her. Harry hadn't been the same since. And then, last year's summer, he boarded up his farmhouse, sold his plot and livestock, packed his saddlebags and said his goodbyes.
`Off to wander,' he'd said. `Off to find myself again.'
Kit grumbled at the memory. He'd begged Harry to stay or to settle for a pilgrimage to Greatminster and return within the season, but he wouldn't listen, and they did not part on good terms. "Come on, love. Let's go down."
Once Kit and James dressed, they descended the wooden steps of their farmhouse together, hand in hand, their marriage bands catching a golden glint from the morning light that dappled the great room by its latticed windows. Around the centre table sat Larkyn and Harry Grover, smiling over a shared plate of gooseberry tarts and a mug of warm milk each. The tarts were supposed to be for the evening's celebrations, but Kit was unmoved to complain.
Harry turned to them.
Saw their joint hands, sparkling. His smile declined. Just for a moment. And then it regrew as he shot out of his chair and spread his arms like a bear. "Ah! There's who I wanted to see! You didn't miss me too much, did you?"
James wrapped his arms around the man.
"Oh, you absolute ghoul, of course we did! Wonderful to have you back, Harry. Here, let me take a look at you..." He pulled back, evaluating. "You look well, damn you! Far better than my woolly-jawed husband does."
Larkyn smirked with a face full of crumbs.
"If only to end your badgering I've made my date with the barber-surgeon. And he couldn't arrange it before the revels so don't quarrel with me on that score," said Kit.
He turned to Harry.
Harry Grover. His oldest friend. And by the thunder of St. Thunos, he did look well. Clean-shaven, clear eyed, well fed. His cloak and riding leathers were dirty from the road, but his was a picture of health, a far cry from what Bella's death reduced him to yesteryear, a gaunt and jaundiced shadow of himself, clutching to a gin bottle.
They paused for a moment, Kit and Harry, unsure of how to react. Two seasons ago they were hurling curses at each other, and seasons lose their length with age. But Harry smiled at him, that deep old smile of his, and embraced him. Kit melted into it.
"It is good to see you again, Harry."
A nod. "You too, Ed."
They parted when Harry caught his blunder.
None of them knew an `Ed'. They weren't supposed to. Edward Bardshaw was a wanted man, a legendary outlaw who rode with Edith the Exile into the slaughter of Gigod's Forest and spirited himself out of the dark bowels of Staunton Castle before the headsman's axe could catch him. Tavern drunkards told tales of him, wastrel louts who'd pull farmhand Kit Whitehouse to their shoulders with ale on their breaths, and brag about how they'd fought shoulder to shoulder with Bardshaw at the Battle of Brookweald.
"Sorry. `Kit'." Harry's eyes narrowed. "Saints alive, of all the fucking names you could've chosen for yourself. `Kit'."
Kit smirked at him.
James was less amused. "Harry, you're most welcome here, but you must mind your language around Larkyn."
The boy was too distracted with his feast day treats to listen to them.
"Oh, a few errant swears won't harm the boy, James. He's seen war." Harry's eyes darkened beneath the weight of old memories. "Look at him. He's the spitting image of his mother now, isn't he? He's got her fire too. And her brains."
Kit and James exchanged a private frown. They were wary of speaking about Edith around Larkyn, although it was almost impossible not to these days. Up in the north she'd become every inch the martyr Kit predicted. Men sung songs about her, raised toasts to her, even made shrines to her memory. Little girls waved wooden swords in the forest vowing to assume her mantle when they came of age.
There was no one in the Highburghs more beloved than Edith the Exile, even set against the old Earl of Harcaster, Osmund Vox. Sometime in winter last year word spread throughout the villages that the stout old boar had died, and the Lord Regent allowed his son, Gerard Vox, to inherit the earldom unopposed. A payoff, whispered some, for House Vox refusing to raise the Spear of the North in Edith's aid.
"Come." Said James. "Let's sit a spell."
The three of them sat to the table with Larkyn. James asked Harry if he was hungry. "We've still a half a pot's worth of chicken broth we could wallop. Care for some?"
It was the prior night's meal. Neither James nor Kit knew it at the time, but Larkyn picked the pot clean of its chicken hanks and dumplings over the night. When the three of them brought a small pot of the broth (and a tray of half-eaten gooseberry tarts) to the celebrations at the village square later, and his little thieveries were aired out, he would sign: growing boys need good food.
"No thank you," said Harry, patting his stomach. "I broke my fast at Gregor's Inn before I came here. Bacon and eggs. Wouldn't want to put you out."
"Ale?" Offered Kit.
James eyed him, sharply.
Then Kit recognized his blunder. "...Apologies, Harry."
"No, no..." Harry waved it off. "It is fine. I haven't touched a drop since Greatminster."
"So you did go after all?"
The blonde man smiled, nodding. "...Aye. I did. I see why old Thopswood swore by it, stars rest him. It does the soul some good to take communion with the saints. I hadn't prayed to them in a long while. Not since..."
`Bella.' Thought Kit.
Larkyn signed: "(You should've brought me back a relic.)"
Smirking, Harry signed back: "(Cough me up a tithe and I will next time, you cheeky demon.)"
Kit blinked, eying him. "You can sign?"
"What? You mean you can't?"
Larkyn tittered soundlessly, popping another tart into his mouth as James patted Kit's resting fist. "Let us call him a work in progress, Harry. Continue. You were speaking of your travels?"
"Right, right. Well. I needed some time alone to think. I just... wanted to see something of the realm as I did so. I went to Fludding, then Dragonspur, then Peaswyke, Greatminster, Lludmonton... even stopped by Wuffolk to visit old man Stillingford's tombstone. Then on to Ravensborough... and from there up to Harcaster. And now here."
Kit was anxious to ask, but... "How fares the realm?"
A sigh. "...The people are yet restless. There's tension with the Wallish at the ports, between Odoists and traditionalists too. The harvest in the Lowburghs was poor. And there are rumours abroad that the Emperor is dead."
Kit mused. He and James heard the same rumour on their last market run. If the Emperor really was dead without an heir then the implications could reverberate back toward Morland. Little King Oswald III, though only a clutch of years young, was by blood half-Imperial, a grandnephew of the late Konrad IV Adolphus, and thus a potential claimant to the Imperial throne...
He shook his head. Kit was averse to politics these days, ever since Edith's Rebellion. There was a jug of water nearby, flavoured with apple drops. He poured himself a mug and raised it to his lips. Better to busy himself with that than politics.
"Harcaster is raising the Spear of the North." Said Harry.
For a single moment in time the table and everyone around it froze. For a single instant. And then the blunt reality of those words Harcaster is raising the Spear of the North broke through the self-inflicted silence. And then he looked into Harry Grover's eyes and saw it again for the first time in over three years. The spark. That spark he saw when first they conferred at the Golden Cockle. That spark he saw when he rode back from Dragonspur with those fate-sealing letters. That spark of rebellious fury.
A mug full of water slapped the table's oaken grain.
"...Larkyn." Kit turned to him. "We're drawing a chill. Fetch some firewood for us. Chop it up if you need to."
The boy paused. Looked around the table and sensed the mood going sour. He did not argue. Abandoning a half-eaten gooseberry pastry, he stood up, backed away from the table, fetched a fresh cloak and made his way to the farmhouse doors. Not a word was uttered until they slammed shut behind him.
"Listen to me," said Harry. "Harcaster's secured the support of all burghal lords north of Fort Caelish. He's sent advance riders to all the northern aldermen and mayors. I'm one of them. By this time tomorrow every man, woman and child in the Highburghs will know. Gerard is set to raise his banner in three days."
War.
Kit's fist trembled. James took it between his hands and kissed it. Peace was the meaning. Peace, husband. Then James turned to their guest. "Harry? Why are you telling us this? Why are you really here?"
"Because..." He heaved a sigh. And then? Turned a resolute glare at Kit Whitehouse. "...Because I want you to join me."
James sneered. "Are you out of your mind? I-"
"Do they know?" Said Kit, sharply. "About Larkyn?"
"No."
Harry said it quickly. Too quickly. The implication?
Not yet.
Larkyn Whitehouse, or rather, Edwulf Oswyke. Son of Edith Oswyke. Grandson of King Osmund and Queen Katheresa...
...and rightful King of Morland.
`If... if we fail...' Edith's voice pierced his mind through the mists of time as keenly as if he could reach out and touch her now... `...or if I die in battle... and you survive... I want you to take Larkyn and go as far north as possible. Don't take him to my grandfather. Just go north.' She made him swear. Swear to keep him safe. And for nearly three years he did just that. And now Harry Grover, his greatest friend in all the world, would bring this to his door?
Harry pressed on either unknowing or uncaring of the rage simmering inside Kit with every word spoken. "There's to be a meeting. Harcaster and the northern lords are calling it a counter-convocation. They're looking for someone to declare for. Some want Gerard to split the north from the southern Bordermoors upward. Start a new Wulfsson dynasty. Others want to march on Dragonspur and install a new Lord Regent in Greyford's place – like Edith wanted to. But I-"
"I know what you want!" Barked Kit.
Silence.
They glared at each other.
And then James intervened. He took Kit's hand into his own, threading their fingers together and fixing his eyes on Harry. "Harry Grover? Listen to me. Neither words nor deeds could repay the debt I owe to you. When you rode into Edith's camp..." A tear found its way to his eye. He thumbed it away. "...when you saved me from those soldiers... hid Larkyn and I away... got us to safety... you put me on a path that led me to my family..."
Kit tightened their grasp.
"...I owe all I have to you. I do. But this man is my husband, Larkyn is our life, and saints be damned before I permit either of them to seek out the same fucking carnage we barely escaped!"
Harry stilled.
Kit, despite himself and his anger, took a breath. "Harry, I love you as a brother loves a brother. But this? This I will not abide. Edith never wanted a crown for that boy... and you know it. So, no. No. If you wish to ride south then go. But you won't be taking Larkyn with you."
The doors swung open.
Larkyn emerged, arms full of chopped wood, staggering over to the depleted tinder stack by the hearth. He dropped the logs and tossed a few into the dying embers of the flame. Got it roaring again. Kindled fires brought a fresh glow of amber to the table as Harry Grover rose from it with a deflated smile. A defeated smile. He tightened his cloak folds. "...I've overstayed my welcome. I... should be going."
"...Harry..."
It was only then, when the joy of Harry's return gave way to the rancour of his devices, that Kit noticed the weapon at his friend's belt. A war pick. Simple to learn and use. The messenger hid it beneath his cloak folds as he moved towards the hearth to say his goodbyes to the boy. `He truly means to fight...' Thought Kit. `He truly means to...'
A gloved hand ruffled Larkyn by the crown of his red hair as he poked into the flames with a rod.
"Hey," said Harry. "Don't give your Uncle Kit too much grief, hm?"
The boy rose up, turned to the rider and threw his arms around him. Held him close. And then he peeled back with his mother's boundless grin and signed: "(I never do.)"
Smiling, Harry Grover commanded him to stick by the fire until he was warm again, and promised that when next they met, he would bring a relic and some candied almonds back with him. Larkyn signed thank you.
Harry went for the doors to take his leave.
Both Kit and James rose from the table to follow him out, ordering Larkyn to stay put.
Harry's horse was a black stallion. He had it tethered to a post at the outskirts of the Whitehouse Farm, just beyond its posted fencing. To its rear swung a rolled-up pallet and a rig of bulging saddlebags. He untied its reins and mounted up, fitting his boots into the stirrups.
Kit called out to him. "Hotfoot!"
"Hotfoot?" He smiled to himself. "No one's called me that in a long time."
As Kit caught his breath, James clasped their hands together, tight as a shell. "Harry! Know you this – should you change your mind, should you seek peace, our roof is always yours."
Harry smiled.
Sadly, somehow. "I know. Thank you."
He kicked his heels. The stallion broke into a slow trot down the idle path towards the woods beyond the village. And then, with a tug of the reins, he stopped. He paused. Harry Grover turned back, glancing over his shoulder at the friend he knew since childhood, the friend he rode to war with, the friend with whom they'd married the loves of their lives.
"Ed?" He sighed at himself. "...Kit. Do you... still dream of a better realm?"
Kit smiled.
He turned his smile to James.
James smiled back.
He raised their conjoined hands and kissed them, breathing in the northern pines, picturing Larkyn's impish smile as he received his first feast day present of the year. "...I've already found it."
"Aye." The Hotfoot gave them a nod. "Well then. Good fortune to you both. And take good care of the boy."
They promised to do so.
And together, they watched Harry Grover ride away to war.
**********
Wormsleigh Manor, Dragonspur, Kingdom of Morland
10th of Spring, 804
"Ah!" Panted Thormont. "Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah!"
The mahogany headboard struck a white-painted wall with each sharp thrust. Ser Warwick was ruthless with him that night. It was not in his manner to be, or at least not in the bedroom, but by now he was a man attuned to Thormont's needs and desires.
If he proposed a bill to the Masters of the Realm that raised the Justiciary's obligatory share of all ready cash confiscated in the burghal courts by 2% and saw it pass the vote; then Thormont's mood would be light and elated, and so he liked his lovemaking to match that temperament. He would have Warwick lay him out and spread him wide, sweat-sodden back to the sheets, eye to eye, limbs entangled, teeth biting down the muscle of those broad seafaring shoulders.
But should his bill fail the vote? Should he be forced to seek other means of plugging the fiscal leaks his late predecessor ignored? Then his mood was dour and foul. So ought the lovemaking be. A hump not a ravishment.
And so Ser Warwick was with him then. His strong hands, calloused with years of rope burn from the rigging of his schooners, held the younger man's hips firm as he punched his slickened girth inside the gaping arsehole he called his `rosebud'.
"Let it bloom for me," Said Ser Warwick, bending over Thormont's freckled back until his ale-sodden lips were at his ear. "Yield it up to me my young Lord! Ah! There you have it! There! There!"
Thormont grabbed fistfuls of the bedsheets. He felt his toes curl in the white tangle of them. Beads of sweat dripped down his face and flushed pink neck, his gritting teeth seething out grunts as his stiffened manhood slapped back and forth between his aching hips. The slap, slap, slap, slap of Ser Warwick's woollen thighs bruised his arse rouge like the strike of a paddle. And then a fist snatched Thormont's cropped chestnut hair and wrenched him up until they were both upright as they were, muscled chest to bare back. Further still Ser Warwick pulled at Thormont's hair until the lordly head rested firmly against his bouncing shoulder, all the while never missing a thrust or beat of his prising yard.
A meaty tongue slithered between Thormont's pursed lips. He tasted the Gasqueri blood wine of their evening dinner, as well as the pork and potatoes and the leeks and carrots and oranges and tobacco and every other precious treat his staff could afford the lecherous privateer. Emerald eyes shot open. The kiss was coarse and its taste noxious, gagging, like a panting cur slavering at his chops. Ser Warwick sensed his discomfort. It amused him. Offended moans mingled with lewd chuckles, muffling each other against the slap, slap, slap of thigh against thigh and the clatter of the headboard whacking the wall in rhythmic succession until one last thrust. Ser Warwick broke the kiss, released the fistful of hair, set his hands back to Thormont's hips as he cried out "Augh!" as his sweaty body shivered with delightful climax.
Thormont's legs gave out.
The younger man landed on his belly, panting feverishly, as the older man fell on top of him, whoofing and growling in his ear. They laid there together for a moment, catching their breaths until Ser Warwick's slickened girth slithered out and Thormont felt the ooze of his seed slop out of his blinking sphincter. And then a shiver of two emotions – pleasure and disgust – as the privateer spread open the councilman's sore cheeks and lapped up his own seed with a stroke of the tongue.
"Oh, the miracle of that rosebud...!" Muttered Ser Warwick between breaths. "Tight as a cabin boy and yet you take it like a dockside sally. What is your secret, my lord?"
Thormont tried to shove him away, but Ser Warwick climbed up his back, snatched him by the jaw and kissed him again, roughly, possessively, thick hands slithering over the younger man's body. The air was ripe with wine, sweat, seed and Ser Warwick's briny after-stench. The candleflames flickered. Thormont caught himself moaning, intoxicated, enthralled and repulsed in equal measure. And The Fiend? He was quiet.
Docile.
Satisfied, perhaps.
*
The Lord Viscount of Thormont – now Lord Justiciar of the Realm – was not long returned to Wormsleigh Manor, his Dragonspur holdings. He'd spent much of the winter recess upcountry with his handpicked team of commissioners, braving the atrocious roads to conduct his annual review of the burghal courts. It was a customary practice for the Lord Justiciar of the Realm, one demesne per year, but one that went unfulfilled in his forerunner's time. The last thorough review of the Midburgh assizes was carried out by Ser Howard Frogmoncke in early summer of 801, that hellish year. In the intervening three the courts were backlogged with untried cases and unheard petitions dating back to Edith's Rebellion, much of which the previous Lord Justiciar – the late Earl of Gainsley, saints rest him – refused to aid with.
`They attempt to thrust their rightful cases upon us,' said Gainsley to him, once. `They elevate the severity of the charges to raise it to the crown court, so WE have to deal with it! High treason for theft of a chicken? What nonsense! I say I will not be browbeaten by these trifling judges!'
Three years later and there were still lingering cases from the Rebellion left to be tried. Some men had died engaoled waiting for their final sentencing. Thormont resolved to clear them all before the next round of cases bloated the Justiciary's ledgers – now that that the Earl of Harcaster, slowly proving himself to be every bit the tempestuous blackguard his late father was – had raised his banner in the north.
`What was he thinking?' Thought Thormont. But there was no great riddle to it.
Despite the insurrection of his traitorous granddaughter, the late Earl of Harcaster had kept his word and refused to summon the ancestral standing army of the Highburghs, the Spear of the North, in service to her doomed revolt. After the executions were complete the Lord Regent displayed uncharacteristic clemency, not only by releasing Ser Gerard, but by allowing him to inherit the title of Earl of Harcaster in the wake of his father's death. But then he was fool enough to reach above himself and declare that all promises made by King Oswald II to his late father be upheld – restitution for the loss of Gead and a seat on the Council of the Masters of the Realm, the Lord Admiralty. The Lord Regent refused, explaining (reasonably) that his nephew's edicts were not his own – and awarded the seat of Lord Admiral to Lord Callahugh Ramsey, 5th Viscount of Castlegarron, Ser Warwick's father. And apparently that snub had sent Harcaster into a spin.
THERE HAS TO BE MORE TO IT, said The Fiend. GERARD MUST KNOW SOMETHING WE DO NOT!
`There are whispers along the wind that say the Bloody Maid sired a pup...' Thought Thormont. `But these are only whispers.'
INVESTIGATE IT. LEAVE NOTHING TO CHANCE.
Thormont took a sip of wine. `You should know me well enough by now. I shall put it to Greyford's ear at the council session.'
Four days ago summons reached him in Greyford that an emergency session of the Masters of the Realm was to be held on the 12th of Spring 804, and he had only just arrived at the capital this morning. Nevertheless he'd sent word ahead for his household staff at Wormsleigh to prepare for his return – and for their coming guest.
Thormont eyed him now, Ser Warwick Ramsey, stretched out across one of his cushioned armchairs. He crushed some tobacco into his pipe and lit it with a taper, breathing and spewing smoke clouds from each puff. And he was yet naked. Thormont had commanded him away to his own rooms, but the good captain pleaded against it, citing his own sense of sexual chivalry in that; "I am not the breed of lover who skulks away in the dead of night. Who will tend to your yard when your blood is up? Who will tend to mine?"
HE GROWS TOO FAMILIAR, growled the Fiend. HE MUST BE REMINDED OF HIS PLACE!
`We need Warwick to further our plans,' thought Fran. `Until then he is little more than a cock to ride. Fear not.'
As that backlog of cases once awaited him in the burghal courts, so too did a backlog of letters at Wormsleigh Manor. Thormont saw to them once Ser Warwick finished seeing to him, pouring himself another glass of wine as he read them, resolving to draft his replies in the morning.
The first was from Ser Sebastian de Pallasch, son of Baron de Pallasch of Cuthryke's Keep, the Morish Ambassador to the Empire. He wrote:
To His Lordship of Thormont, the Lord Justiciar of the Realm,
I write to you now with ill ease. All is not well in Strausholm. The death of his Imperial Excellency, Emperor Konrad IV Adolphus, has loosed a tempest of unrest across the realm. Wallenheim has fortified its land borders with the Empire. There are reports of revolt in the eastern regions, bands of marauding rebels butchering their margraves and tax collectors. A sect of radical Odoist separatists is said to have captured and occupied a town called Gründelheim, holding a High Shepherd prisoner. And on the subject of succession the Imperial Senate is deadlocked; 50 votes for his grace Archduke Gerhard Adolphus, 50 for her grace the Duchess of Luzberg. And of course some senators whisper of His Majesty King Oswald...
`Let them whisper,' thought Thormont. The Morish King Oswald, third of that name, was only a potential claimant to the Imperial Throne if his cousin the Archduke (a boy of two-and-ten) died without an heir, and young Oswald III was but a babe in the cradle. Thormont turned the page:
As you know, his grace the Lord Regent takes the young king's claim seriously and has refused my request to be recalled. I ask you this as a friend, Thormont. Please reason with his grace. Aught is to be gained here except a dagger in the back. I entrust myself to your discretion.
Yours humbly,
Sebastian de Pallasch
The de Pallasches were of Wallish blood. Thormont always found it odd that his grace the Lord Regent selected him for the position of Morish Ambassador to the Empire. His task was to soothe relations with the Imperials after Morland's de facto breach of the Treaty of Grace. Lucky for the realm that the ancient Empire's current instability made it incapable of offering a response that amounted to more than the conventional sabre-rattling. Saints help them if otherwise.
Sebastian was one of the dullards of the court, one of the young gallants, more suited to the tourney fields than the treaty table. A dagger in his back was no great loss to Morland.
The second letter (Thormont smiled) was from Lothar. He wrote:
Dear Fran,
All is well at Laud Hall. I am in health, as is Luther. There is a tutor in the neighbouring burgh that Doctor Beecham believes can help my brother to speak. I will update you of his progress. The rents will not be short this season. Please come to visit us when the Lord Regent and your lady wife can spare you.
Regards,
Lothar
Simple and to the point as always. Thormont missed Lothar. When last had they seen each other? Perhaps not since the 803 Feast of St. Thunos. It pleased him to provide the retired espial with roof, warmth, and victuals... but in truth... he missed having his friend at his side. The Catspaw was once his confidant and protector, his right hand and his dearest ally. None of the guardsmen currently serving in Thormont's retinue inspired the same sense of safety as Lothar did. Even so. He'd more than earned a life of peace with his brother. Thormont smiled, tucking the letter away and promised to himself that he would visit Laud Hall as soon as his affairs in Dragonspur were attended to.
"Is that a smile?" Ser Warwick smirked at him from across the room, bathed in the amber glow of the hearth, pipe smoke wafting into the air. "Hardly thought you capable of such."
Thormont ignored him and took up the next letter. Its wax bore a modified sigil of House Gray, a laurelled grey dove set against a `C'. It was his wife's sigil, the Viscountess of Thormont, Lady Cecily Gray. He broke the seal and opened it.
To My Beloved Lord Husband,
I pray this letter finds you well. I am safely delivered. The saints have blessed us with a healthy boy, an heir to your house. We've named him William Oswald Gray, as per your wishes. Send for us soon. I should very much like to visit the capital again. Perhaps you and I might avail ourselves of its delights as once we did? With love and affection, I await eagerly your reply.
Your good and faithful wife,
Cecily Gray
The letter drew Thormont's hearty chuckle. Lady Gray (two years wed now) had an espial's talent at the hidden word. Only those who knew her well could see through the cipher.
`To My Beloved Lord Husband' = How fares my accomplice in crime?
`I pray this letter finds you well' = If my mutton-witted riders should do the job...
`I am safely delivered' = Thank the saints this fucking baby did not kill me...
`The saints have blessed us with a healthy boy' = Lucky him and lucky you, he is possessed of a cock!
`An heir to your house' = Better `Gray' than `Ashwick' since Brookweald...
`We've named him William Oswald Gray, as per your wishes.' = Oh, the vanity of you...
`Send for us soon' = Motherhood is a burdensome bore that I cannot delay to divorce myself of.
`I should very much like to visit the capital again' = My emptiness needs its pleasure...
`Perhaps you and I might avail ourselves of its delights as once we did?' = How many southlanders might we find to fuck this time?
`With love and affection' = I've held up my end of our bargain, you cutthroat bastard...
`I await eagerly your reply' = Hurry up and fetch me to Dragonspur before I hurl your `heir' through the nearest window...
`Your good and faithful wife' = Your reluctant broodmare...
`Cecily Gray' = How ridiculous does that sound?
Motherhood would not become her. But Cecily's was a well-constructed household, and she would want for nothing at Wharton House. She had Gasqueri cooks and bakers at her disposal; Imperial seamstresses and washerwomen; Wallish chambermaids and scullery girls; Morish gardeners and guards. William would have a wetnurse and a matron to take care of him, and eventually, a tutor to instruct him in the sciences. He would learn to ride and to hunt, to joust and to calculate, to balance ledgers and hunt game, to draw a bow and draft a bill. Yes, this was how he would craft his son: a highborn with all the education and business acumen of a new man. William would learn to navigate the Morish court because one day he would inherit Thormont's place in it.
Thormont was none the wise as to the true father's identity. Not that it mattered much. Thormont's only stipulations to the `broodmare' were for her to pick a stallion of no note and good teeth, a nice brown-haired Morishman.
Thormont had a house to rebuild, and since her brother Humphrey's survival at Brookweald left her with nothing to inherit, Cecily needed a well-placed husband to maintain her place at court, which she was soon to return to after her birthing bloods had dried. Theirs was no love match but a mutually beneficial arrangement and it had served them well... so far.
"That's your wife's seal, is it not?"
Ser Warwick snatched the letter out of his hands and read of it. Sneering. And Thormont saw, for the first time, that little streak of green in his dark amber-brown eyes. "Hm. Well then. Congratulations on your new-born."
Thormont suppressed a childish sort of smile. "Thank you."
A frown.
Amidst the candlelit darkness Ser Warwick Ramsey cut an imposing figure. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his sun-bronzed skin littered with nips and welts of battle-made scar tissue. His stout chest and abdomen were packed with muscle honed from his years at sea. His face was sharp and angular, jutting jaw, narrow nose, high cheekbones; framed by a forked black beard and a grey-black widow's peak.
Ser Warwick was a bad mix of dispositions; quick to act but slow to understand. His whole soul was war-like – for him disembowelling a man came as easily and remorselessly as crushing a spider. He sailed where he wanted, he took what he wanted. He knew no authority over his own.
Thormont sat in stillness as Ser Warwick leaned over his lacquered desk and draped him in shadow. Tobacco-stained teeth prised open the seams of a sneering frown. Ser Warwick seized him by the chin. Brought them eye to eye. Their lips close enough to kiss.
Thormont did not flinch.
"What if I told her about us?" His fanged frown twisted into a smirk. "About how I fuck you into fits of screaming?"
`She already knows...' He thought. `...and she rues my taste.'
"Ser Warwick..." Thormont smiled up at him, darkly. "...Do I sense a note of jealousy?"
Ser Warwick snarled back – and snatched Thormont by the throat. The younger man's jadestone eyes ticked southward at a seed-encrusted cock swinging about a curtain of greying black hair. The good captain was getting hard again. And Thormont wrapped his fist around it. A shiver of delight followed. Ser Warwick's eyes rolled into the back of his skull. The stink of pre-seed saturated the air between them.
"...That rosebud..." He muttered it more to himself than to Thormont. "...I want that rosebud again..."
They had a dinner guest to prepare for, proposals to table, ventures to plot. But men like Ser Warwick had two brains – one above and one below – and the one below did all the thinking when its blood was up.
"If you want me, I am yours..." Said the Lord Viscount. "But you'll have me on my terms, captain. Mine and mine alone."
*
Noontide.
Thormont snapped his fingers. The ruff-collared attendant posted behind his dining chair hurried to his master's side and lowered an ear. A whispered command followed. "Fetch the next course, will you?"
The attendant bowed politely and shuffled out of the luncheon hall by his slippered feet. Across the table a second attendant refilled the ebbing wine cup of Thormont's dinner guest, Ser Reginald Gervase, the Lord Mayor of Greyford. A third attendant approached the table to clear their smattered plates.
"Heavenly," said the Lord Mayor. He stopped to admire the bouquet. "Is this an Imperial red?"
Thormont smiled gently. "Indeed it is. Yours is a taste most refined, master. As I was informed."
"You are too kind, my lord. And I must once again thank you for agreeing to host me during my brief visit here in Dragonspur. I-"
A sudden burp split his sentence. The Lord Viscount and the Lord Mayor turned their gazes towards Ser Warwick (who failed to excuse himself) huffing at the far end of the dinner table, one arm slung over the mahogany crest rail, and the other stretched out across the silken tablecloth. His stubbed fingers wrapped the rim of his brass wine cup. And then he yawned. Rudely.
Thormont frowned. The captain of the Serpentes hadn't a drop of wit or refinement in him. Fuck, fight and sail were his only drivers. Fortunately for them, Ser Reginald sensed the tenor of his impatience – business over pleasentries.
Ser Reginald adjusted his eyepatch. "...Ser Warwick. Is it true what they say about these new lands across the ocean? That they are in fact the Great Idyll?"
The privateer's smile returned. "Ah! I couldn't tell you. Not much for theology, myself. What I can tell you is that this realm's fortunes could be made there – unless we allow Wallenheim to beat us to it."
It was almost three years ago when word first spread of new lands discovered across the Frozen Sea.
In 799 a Wallish galleon bound for the Sandsea Sultanates, The Leafcutter, was blown off course by a sea storm and presumed lost. In 802, The Leafcutter, sparsely repaired and barely afloat, hobbled back into the Port of Wallenstadt with less than half its crew and a world-changing story to tell. They spoke of a new world of lush flora and unknown fauna, populated by a new race of men. But by far their greatest discovery was gold, and according to the haggard crew of The Leafcutter, the new continent practically dripped with it.
By 803 the Morish-Wallish Consortium raised a fleet of 22 Wallish galleons and a single Morish ship, Serpentes, to set sail for the new Continent to establish a toehold there. A colony of sorts. When Serpentes returned by winter of 803, its captain, Ser Warwick Ramsey, petitioned the crown for sufficient funds and men to establish a Morish settlement on the newfound continent – and found an enthusiastic cohort in the Lord Justiciar of the Realm.
Ser Reginald clasped his hands. "You have a proposal, I assume."
Thormont snapped his fingers again. One of his attendants collected the documents from him and brought it around the table to the Lord Mayor. It was marked:
THE GREYFORD COMPANY
"It would be a joint-stock venture," said Thormont. "With Harcaster raising his banner in the north, the Lord Regent and Lord Treasurer believe that the crown cannot spare the expense. The necessary costs are admittedly substantial so this would be a convenient workaround. Each investor would own stock in the company relative to his contribution which minimizes risk by individualizing it. If the settlement failed then they only lose what they put in."
Ser Reginald retrieved a monocle from his doublet of green-gold brocade. "And the dividends?"
"A land grant relative to stock share," said Thormont. "And a relative share of any cash profit earned through mineral sales."
Ser Reginald flicked a thumb through the pages. "Company structure?"
"At the disposal of the shareholders would be a general council of twelve overseers including a treasurer, secretary, and a bookkeeper. A governor would be selected to oversee the settlement itself."
"Which would be Ser Warwick?"
He grinned.
"Initially," said Thormont. "But he would govern under the council's directives and ultimately the council is obliged to the shareholders. All purchased stock would be five-years terminable with a reinvestment option. I leave it to you to review the particulars."
"And the name?"
Thormont smiled back with a shrug. "We plan to base the company in your city, ser. I have also written a provision into its bylaws that would cede 10% of overall turnover to two external sources. 8% to the crown and 2% to the offices of the Lord Mayor."
Ser Reginald smiled.
THERE YOU ARE! Said The Fiend.
`The worm is not on the hook yet,' thought Thormont. "And of course there is the matter of..."
The Lord Mayor pre-empted him. "...the natives?"
Ser Warwick poured himself another cup of wine. "Ignorant and poorly equipped. Easily subduable with sufficient arms and manpower. We'd quickly put them to use in the mines and farms we'll establish. All we need is capital, Lord Mayor. All we need are backers."
"Right you are," said Ser Reginald. "But my associates will require some form of proof that such a venture as this would be a viable one."
Ser Warwick cut another grin, wine cup at his lips. He soon shouted out "Thomasine!" and one of the side doors opened. An `attendant' emerged. Not one of Thormont's household staff but a young girl under Ser Warwick's command.
A native.
Thormont watched Ser Reginald marvel at her as she shyly padded into the luncheon hall. A brown-skinned girl, young and blossoming, with ebon hair as fine as silk, her eyes of almond shape and silver of colour.
Eyes angled at the floor.
Eyes quivering with fear.
Ser Reginald blinked. "Is that...?"
"A foundling," said Ser Warwick. "Cast off by her tribe. My crew surgeon teaches her the Morish tongue in preparation for our return. Come now, girl. Show the Lord Mayor the fruit of the west."
The girl (who Ser Warwick redubbed `Thomasine') carried a small chest with her. She went to her master's side with it, but he pointed her towards the Lord Mayor. `Thomasine' approached Ser Reginald, expressionless and silent, then opened the chest... full to its brim with gold nuggets.
The Lord Mayor ran his fingers through them.
`Now the worm is hooked,' thought Thormont.
It was not happenstance or chanciness that caused the Lord Viscount to pitch this to Ser Reginald Gervase of all people. He (and his city with him) had suffered since its occupation by the Bloody Maid's marauding army. By running out the Imperials and destroying their enclaves, their liberties, Edith's Rebellion cost the Lord Mayor's office a key source of tax revenue – as well as souring feeling with the city's continental trading partners. He had to replace that income somehow if he wished to retain his position. And so...
"This is an exciting proposal." Said Ser Reginald. "I will find you the necessary backers."
IT BEGINS... murmured The Fiend.
Ser Warwick's yellow smile matched the Fiend's fervour as he waved away the native girl with his chest of gold.
"Outstanding," Thormont rose up from his high-backed mahogany seat. "This is the beginning of a bright new future for all of us, masters. If you'll excuse me a moment."
Sers Warwick Ramsey and Reginald Gervase proceeded to natter between the two of themselves (about the newfound continent mostly) as Thormont excused himself through a side door to make for the privy.
The first hurdle was cleared.
The Lord Regent had granted his ascent and the Lord Mayor of Greyford would provide the capital. With Ser Warwick's father as Lord Admiral (which was, after all, a posting of Thormont's recommendation) he had all the connections necessary to build a new fleet of ships. Men unwilling to fight and die in the Highburghs against the Spear of the North could be conscripted to seek their fortunes abroad. And a saintly blessing was not out of the question if he could convince the Lord Shepherd Sygmus II that converting the natives to the Commonfaith was of the utmost priority – lest their heretical Odoist-Wallish rivals beat them to it.
And Thormont?
Thormont would be chief amongst the shareholders of The Greyford Company. He would have a seat on the council, propose himself as treasurer or bookkeeper, and in time as the dividends paid out... he would cement his power within the Morish court and twist the knife of vengeance inside the crooked back of his next target – Lyonel de la More, the Marquess of Gead. After all. He had a son now. And what sort of father would Thormont be if he did not do all in his power to furnish his children with their ancient birth rights?
The Isle of Gead belonged to House Gray by right... and Thormont would accumulate as much power as necessary to seize it back.
Up ahead of him, at the other end of the corridor, his ruffed footmen emerged from the kitchens of Wormsleigh Manor with the next course of their meal: honey-roasted partridge served with peppered potatoes, steamed carrots, leeks, and red wine sauce. He gestured them to the luncheon hall, assuring them he would be back soon. They nodded back, each with a hearty "yes milord" as they passed him by.
And then, as Thormont turned the corner of the hallway towards the privy, he caught sight of a mirror. Wall-hung. Oval. Gilded. An antique. The Lord Justiciar paused there. He did not mean to. And yet all the same he peered into it... like a child at the edge of a stream gazing at the ripples of a tossed coin. And there Thormont saw him.
The Fiend.
The drowned boy, the lifeless boy, he of bloated flesh and suppurating wounds, his skin clustered with barnacles, his hair matted into treacly threads as barbarous as twine, his bloodless blue face dripping with brine. His skeletal smile widening, tooth by broken tooth, his breath a belch of subterranean gases. The begrudged victim of all his enemies. The creature Edward Bardshaw could not slay. Thormont's irritant and perpetual companion. His muse and his tutor. His guiding black light in a tempest of blinding white.
GOOD BOY, he said. FINALLY YOU BEGIN TO LISTEN, AND LOOK AT THE FRUIT YOU REAP...
`Indeed,' thought Thormont. They smiled darkly at each other. `We're going to conquer the world, you and I.'
**********
END
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· And that all she wrote, folks! Thanks again for reading everybody! 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).