The Court of Ghosts Chapter 4
· 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, 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 Four: A Court of Ghosts, Part 2
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Thomas Wolner – The One Year Queen – `Just you and me' – Lady Cecily – Meadow's Court – Ill Tidings
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The Old Lioness, Dragonspur, Kingdom of Morland
36th of Summer, 801
There was an ale-induced stumble in Edward Bardshaw's step as he ferried two frothing flagons of ale over to Basil Smeadon's table. It was their third of the morning, but he held his balance just long enough to get them over without a spilt drop. Ed set his friend's cup down then gulped a few throatfuls of his own before sitting down to a well-earned belch.
It drew Smeadon's smirk. "Someone's in a good mood!"
"That man of yours did me a good turn," said Ed, thumbing the ale foam from his lips. "Your ale's on me for the rest of the night, Basil."
Smeadon's smile fell a little. Not much, but a little. "It ain't a small thing to ask for, Ed. Five years' worth of star chart records? Requests like that'll raise an eyebrow or two."
It was an odd request to be certain. Smeadon's man in the Star Chart Chamber worked fast and had the facsimiles ready for him in a day, whether in secrecy or in sight Ed could not say, but it gave him enough time to hire a rider in the meanwhile – the documents would probably be in Fran's hands by now. Ed couldn't speak to the purpose or the urgency, but of all people asking it was Fran, not some stranger. How could Ed say no?
He slapped Smeadon's knuckles and thanked him. "I'll repay you for this someday, friend."
Basil threw back a gulp of ale. "See that you do."
At the table behind them sat Will Rothwell and old man Stillingford. As Old Meg sent some of her serving girls over to clear their plates, Will watched, half-sceptically and half-expectant, as his old teacher skimmed through the initial pages of his newly completed, ready to print work, The Pauper's Rebuke: A Remonstrance with Regency Ten Years Prolonged. Or more simply The Pauper's Rebuke. And Will did his merry best to pretend the old man's verdict mattered not to him, idly filling his pipe before taking another sup of wine.
"Too..."
"Too what?" Said Will. "Detailed? Urbane? Incisive?"
"Forthright." Said Stillingford. "Pedantic. Aggressive. Here you say, `For that which is given to us by the saints is not land or title or wealth but the blessing of a soul and of the laws that guide it – laws infracted by the great rabble in their gilded roosts who laud earthly prize over our heads, who mistake vice for virtue and feign their crumbs for our feasts. But heaven has no hierarchies and'-"
Will frowned. "I fail to see your issue."
"You're rambling! And a rambling insult is like a toothless dog, much bark and little bite. Every sentence is alike this. A treatise is not a sermon, Will! Make your point and proceed."
There was a grumble after the frown. Will Rothwell, freezing his snarl, did not bother to rebut his old teacher's claims. Will did what he always did whenever he was in a bad mood – he lit his pipe. "You did not like it."
"I never dispute anything you say or write, Will. It's your tenor what rubs me wrong," A little of his commoner's drawl slipped out then. It always did when Stillingford was angry. "You've even dedicated it to Edith the Exile!"
Will exhaled a puff of smoke. "A simple show of solidarity with our Odoist allies in the north. It's no more than that."
"Perhaps to you," Stillingford's eyes sharpened at him. "But to others it could be seen as seditious. Take it out."
They glared at each other. The old scholar and his precocious student. Mirrors of each other. Both common-born, who both so excelled at their temple school tutelage they each earned a royal bursary to attend the College of Dragonspur, sharing desks with some of the wealthiest sons of the nobility.
What little Stillingford spoke of his studies he summarized by its loneliness. Aristocratic heirs mocked his homespun tunic and his mottled shoes and his fraying satchel and his common little street drawl. Pauper they called him. Potboy. Goatherd. Swinekeep. But he suffered their taunts and jibes with a stiff back, burying himself in his studies until he emerged top of his peers, acquiring his masterates in Continental Law and Saintly Law.
After publishing The Phantoma Stillingford eventually became a lecturer at the College and encouraged intellectual men of a similar sort of background to pursue an education there. And so, when William Rothwell came under his eye, the son of a successful guildsman yet so passionate with regards to the plight of the poor, Theopold couldn't help but take to him, to invest his philosophies and viewpoints in him, to train him up as the new voice of the lowborn and downtrodden. In short?
William Rothwell was Stillingford's heir apparent.
`The next Phantoma will be written by Will's quill' he'd oft said. But time was ever the ravager of concord, and across years the student and the teacher had departed somewhat in their philosophies.
The old man was inspired by Sage Odo, and his sermons of equality beneath the stars, the right to choose one's saint; the teachings which formed the foundation of his own philosophy, Equitism. But as Stillingford had drifted from Odoism, so Rothwell now drifted from Equitism. Will cared little for its religious foundations, only its political applications, and he shared none of his master's faith in the crown, a sentiment slowly laying the seedbed for a newer philosophy to take Equitism's place – an angrier, sharper, more practically applicable philosophy. It had no name yet. But to Stillingford's regret, The Crow's Club was becoming a kind of cradle for it, and the old man feared its implications.
Ed quietly joined their table to quell the tension.
And then those `implications' walked in through the Old Lioness' doors.
His spurs clinked as he slowly made his way down the underground tavern's dusty stone steps. Old Meg was first to spot him. Her good husband the tavernmaster caught her eye and gestured to Edward, who turned from the bickering pair to the sable-cloaked phantom stood darkly by the stairwell archway.
Thomas Wolner.
The Constable of Dragonspur.
Ed's eyes shot open. His heart leapt into his throat, chest pounding, as he set down his ale flagon and almost – almost – reached for his sword. Yet by some miracle of discipline, he stayed himself and instead struck his table with his fist repeatedly until every other table fell quiet. The club members turned to Stillingford's table, then fixed their eyes where Edward, Stillingford and Rothwell now glared, and the entire tavern plunged into tense silence.
Wolner, nigh on seven feet tall, lowered himself by his shoulders simply to pass through the bricked archway. He reached up and removed the wide-brimmed hat from his head, setting it against his breast as his thin lips broke into a long skeletal smile.
Edward's fist shook against the grain until Will's soft hand palmed it. They looked at each other. Will smiled.
`It's alright,' he mouthed. `We will be alright.'
The tremors calmed.
Wolner's spurs clinked through the silence as he strode slow and purposefully to Old Meg's countertop and called for a cup of cider. The tavern mistress, shivering, nodded wordlessly then reached for fresh silverwork. A hundred eyes followed the constable as he went from the counter to Stillingford's table where he drew up a chair, took a seat, and set down his wide black hat.
A dark smile fell upon the old man and Ed's blood ran cold when he saw it, when remembrances of chains and beatings flooded his mind.
"Master Stillingford," snarled Wolner. "What a pleasure to at last have met. Your infamy well proceeds you."
"As does yours," said the scholar.
The Constable threaded together his bone white fingers and leaned forward with that broad-toothed smile of his. "Do you know... I once read your treatise on new men?"
"...`New Men'...," said Stillingford. "As I simplistically titled it. And how did you find it?"
Over by the counter Old Meg snapped her fingers. One of her buxom blonde pot girls took a silver cup of cider to the table.
"Riveting. An inspiration, actually. Not merely the notion that we men lowborn may yet rise beyond our lot... but that the very future may belong to us... fascinating. It is a creed I myself have lived by. However else would a man like me, a cobbler's son, rise to the rank of constable?"
Every eye in the tavern bore down upon them.
"Your talents are storied," said Stillingford.
And they were.
Talents like torment. A conjurer of lamentations and night terrors fit to plague a man until his dying day, painting skulls with recollections of their own destruction. Piss-stench befouling the breeks after a beating. The salt-iron taste of bloody phlegm. The rattle of cold chains knocking against mouldy brick. Flea-bitten bumps of flesh too far from gyved hands to scratch. Taunts echoing in the ears. Scurrying mice. Screams from the adjacent cell. That ugly, cowardly knot in your stomach as the sound of clinking spurs drew closer and closer to your banded iron door.
"The stories are true," said Wolner. He drained his cup of cider in a few short gulps and slapped it empty against the beer-stained grain. "Do you know... how I have acquired my power, Master Stillingford?"
"By your talents?"
"By a display of my talents," said he. "When I quelled the Greyford Manse unrest some four years hitherto. Do you recall?"
Edward sneered at the allusion, as did others amongst the Crow's Club, men like Basil Smeadon who were veterans of that `unrest'. The year was 797, and the second payment of Greyford's bi-annual Guard Tax was due. But as he sent his collectors out into the Midburghs, news of Sage Odo's tragic fate swept across the countryside ahead of them, and when they finally arrived, the reaction was like a torch to kindling. Commonfolk of every clime and profession exploded onto the streets. They took up their fishing spears and fagging hooks, their bills and bludgeons, their knives, hammers, and hoes, then went to work against Greyford's bloodsuckers. Whole villages and towns were put to the torch. But the hardest violence was seen in the merchant city of Greyford, where the Duke's disgruntled subjects finally broke faith and bellowed for his head, rallying behind the banner of a rebel lord, one Aemmon mac Garrach of Castlegarron.
It was the local sheriff, Thomas Wolner, who stopped those 3,000 brave souls from storming the Greyford Manse and tearing it to its foundations – by heading a small but deadly army of demi-lancers, 500 strong, who tore across the surrounding fields and cut the resistance down like wheat. Hundreds died. Most surrendered. All suffered. Aemmon mac Garrach was executed and his son disinherited by act of attainder. And thus, Wolner's name was made. And the Duke of Greyford, despite his woeful distaste for new men, installed him as Constable of Dragonspur, protector of the capital and enforcer of its laws.
Wolner's smile darkened. "There are those who say that The Phantoma is more threat than warning. There are even some who say that it was not merely Odo's death that stirred those masses... but also the word of agitators such as yourself. What would you say to those claims?"
Stillingford held firm. "To the former? I would say they are mistaken. And to the latter? I might say, constable, that any small spark may light a pyre... but never without the tinder."
A grin.
"Well said. And that is why I have come to see you. It is my interest that the spark may never meet the tinder here in Dragonspur. And I am certain that you have every interest in helping me prevent that." Wooden chair legs scraped the stone floor as Constable Wolner stood and retrieved his hat. He eyed the rafters. "I wish to quell some of the wretched rumours wafting around this establishment... I simply have a few enquiries to make before I cross it off my ledger."
Stillingford, terse and curt, nodded. "By all means. What can we do to allay your concerns?"
Wolner's blithe smile faded. As did the pretence of civility. "I'll require accounting records for every year of this establishment's trade as well as its title deeds and licence to sell and serve ale. I will also require two lists: one of your patrons and a second of your suppliers. And they are to be delivered to my offices at Staunton Castle no later than sunfall tomorrow. Is that understood?"
The old man nodded. "Indeed, master. We shall oblige."
"See that you do," said the constable. Once more he donned his wide-brimmed hat, thanking Old Meg (by name) for her hospitality, and making his way back up the scuffed stone steps whence he came, spurs ringing with each footstep until he was gone.
The entire club burst into frightened chatter. Stillingford released a breath as Smeadon and Thopswood came over to check on him. Will on the other hand? He was more worried about Ed. Edward Bardshaw felt his worried stare peering at him from the corner of his eye, but he ignored it, and set his hand to his sword's grip as he quietly prayed to all four saints for some sweet coming day where he might finally draw it and separate that bastard's fucking head from its fucking shoulders.
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Woollerton Green, The Midburghs, Kingdom of Morland
36th of Summer, 801
Shortly before daybreak arrived the rider who lightly knuckled the apartment door. Fran crawled out from underneath Gustave's weighty arm, peeled out of bed, and swathed himself inside the nearest cloak to stave off the chill. He padded across of the bedroom by the tips of his toes to receive what he thought would be a missive for his lord master.
Instead, it was something for him. A tome-shaped parcel wrapped in onionskin and bound with twine.
"From an anonymous contact in the city of Dragonspur," said the messenger. "The fee is paid."
He placed it inside Fran's hand and departed with a light bow. The boy shut the door. Gustave yet slumbered as he unstrung the twine and tore open the paper. It was a substantial sheaf of freshly copied star chart records spanning the full breadth of a half-decade from 1st of Summer 779 to 91st of Winter 783. That and a letter.
To a friend most beloved,
I hope this finds you well and aides you.
And I wish you home soon.
e.b
`Home,' the boy sighed. `I am home...'
Fran kissed the letter, daydreaming of its sender, then quietly secreted both items into his satchel for safe keeping. Gustave would wake in an hour or so and summon his groomsman to dress him (or, depending on his morning lusts, ask Fran to do it) then ask a man to direct him and Fran to one of Woollerton Green's four saintly shrines where (publicly) he would offer prayer to St. Wynnry. Afterwards he would attend breakfast at the banqueting hall to compliment the King's bouche and break bread with the great nobles of Morland to forge the necessary alliances for his grand design here. And Fran would follow him in kind, making observations and offering advice, then later retreating to the ambassador's apartments to draw up the forthcoming letters and contracts. That would be the day's itinerary.
Gustave permitted him scant time for recreation, but on occasion he was generous, and later in the day allowed Fran a few hours of his own to find recreation around the palace.
He found it in the water gardens.
There was a marble bench shaded by yews at the edge of the reflecting pool, its tranquil waters casting rippled mirror images of the palatial entranceway, its bubbling fountains, and the surrounding hedges. A nymphic statue of Queen Katheresa stood at its foot, eight feet high, cut of marble, its nose broken off and left unrepaired, its plinth overgrown with moss and left uncleaned.
Fran took his seat there in its shadow and pulled the satchel strap from his shoulder. He breathed deep, took in the rose scent, cast his head back and looked up at cottony clouds roaming across a bright blue sky. For today at least the summer rains had stopped. And there was a sense of peace.
Handfuls of young, well coupled nobles strode the gravel tracts arm in arm. Some ladies walked their spaniels. Other lords simply took some air. The scene was idyllic. It almost reminded him of home... of Gead. And thoughts of home had Fran fetch the little piece of it that made its way into his possession that morning, Edward's letter, which again he read and again he kissed.
He heard giggles.
Fran looked up from his shadowed bench. Two young ladies strode by across the reflecting pool; petticoated dresses blooming beneath their gild chemises by elaborate farthingales, their pretty parasols twirling in silk-gloved hands, hands oh so slightly covering their pursed lips, rouged to perfection, and curling with amusement. The young pair cast their eyes (and smiles) at Fran as they strode idly by with two Bannerets of the Bloom at their back, still and stolid, as all good guards were. They shuffled off.
"The ladies of the court do love a pretty face."
The accented voice came from his left, where the reflecting pool ended, and the gravel trails wound off into the hedge mazes. Fran looked up. It was Matthias he saw, Ambassador Ludolf's lank secretary. The Imperial sauntered up to him with the terrible posture of his height, his lean upper body hunched and curving forward in his dark black overcoat, its shoulders and sleeves sown with bear-fur, for though the rains had stopped it was still unseasonably cold for a summer – ever the sign of a bad harvest to come.
Matthias held up his hands, marred with parchment cuts. "I come in peace. May I sit?"
Sighing, Fran gestured at the other side of the bench. "Be my guest."
He sat and paused to savour the scent of the yews and the roses. "Do you query my purpose here?"
"It would not be my business to do so," said Fran.
Matthias smiled. "Well spoken. We aides of great men are here to serve not to speculate. But perhaps in moments like this, cut off as we are from the vagaries of our world, perhaps here we might be more honest."
Fran eyed him. "If you have a purpose then state it."
"My master..." The Imperial turned to the Morishman. "...He sent me here to befriend you. And in so doing would have me use you as an espial upon Ambassador Roschewald."
Fran chuckled. "Ha! I must say then, Matthias, you're doing a poor job of it."
"Mistake me not, Master Gray. I will not try because it will not work. The trouble with great men is that they oft forget that the people in their employ can be just as cunning."
Fran tucked his letter away. He was already bored with this.
"What do you want?"
The Imperial looked to the pool's crystalline waters. "I bear you no ill-will, so I will state my purpose plain. The King is not so foolish as to risk war with the Empire over Wallenheim, which many in this realm still think of as the fifth demesne of Morland. Tell your master that mine own master is an old hand at this game, and he will use any and all tools at his disposal to protect the Emperor's interests."
Fran smirked. "So, it's a threat then, not subterfuge?"
"A sour truth is better than a honeyed lie," Mattias turned to the statue in whose shade they sat. "Do you know the history of this work?"
Fran almost scoffed. He knew the tale well. In fact – it could even be said that House Gray's downfall began with her...
...Katheresa Vox, The One-Year Queen.
The late daughter of Osmund Vox, the Earl of Harcaster, warded and reared in the Greyford Manse alongside the most eligible heiress of her time, Lady Emma of Wuffolk, sister to the Duke of Greyford. It was nearly 30 years ago that King Osbert I and his son Prince Osmund attended the Manse in the hope of marrying his young son to that self-same heiress – until Osmund shook the entire aristocracy from root to crown by choosing `plain faced' Lady Katheresa instead.
It was said Lady Emma never smiled again.
Within a year the two were wed as prince and princess, and upon the death of King Osbert in 774, were jointly crowned King Osmund I and Queen Katheresa in extravagant ceremony at the Sanctuary of Four Saints in Dragonspur. And after three short seasons the Queen gave her King a healthy bouncing daughter.
Edith.
However, almost instantaneously after the babe's birth, rumours began to spread of infidelity, spurred on by unknown tongues and fuelled by talk of the girl's hair – fiery red – as opposed to her mother's tow blonde and her father's ebon black. For there was another ward in the Greyford household bearing bright locks of a similar hue, the second son of a vassal house of Harcaster's based upon the Isle of Gead. Ser William Gray – Fran's noble uncle.
The rumours grew until even the commoners whispered. And then, in the bitter Winter of 775, barely a year since taking the second throne as queen, Katheresa and William Gray were arrested, tried, and found guilty on charges of adultery, and therefore, treason.
William was executed by beheading on the 78th of Winter 775. Katheresa and Edith were stripped of all possessions and titles and held at the Towers of White and Black whilst King Osmund considered their sentence. In the end, despite the advice of his counsellors calling for their execution, King Osmund chose the more `benevolent' punishment of exile – and the pair were banished from the realm. On the promise of protection from the Roschewalds they fled to a small villa in Wallenheim, but by 777 Katheresa died, poor and broken-hearted, barely even seventeen years of age. By then King Osmund had taken a second as his new queen, the jilted Emma of Wuffolk, who after a string of stillbirths eventually bore him a son, the current king, Oswald. Thus beginning the legend of the One-Year Queen.
"Of course," said the Morishman. "Everyone does."
Fran gazed up at her statue. It was uncrowned – thus likely commissioned before her accession – yet while no one saw fit to take it down, the statue was left in a state of utter disrepair. Its broken nose was no mere co-incidence either. Some 24 years dead and Katheresa Vox was still reviled by the court.
"A cautionary tale," said Matthias.
"About what?"
"About crossing the Greyfords," The Imperial smirked. "The patriarch of whom is most favourable to my master."
Fran glared hard at Matthias. Almost as if struggling to understand if he understood what he was implying, an imputation that bordered on the treasonous, that the Greyfords, the Duke and Queen Dowager Emma, played some role in Katheresa's demise. The Imperial clerk kept his curt smile as well as his silence. Then Fran reflected upon his words earlier. Words about sour truths.
Fran wished he was a fighting man. For if he was, in that moment, he would've slapped the smirk off that Imperial bastard's face. His fingers almost tremored with anticipation at the thought. And then-
"Master Gray?"
A coquettish voice called out to him, this time from his left. A young noblewoman sauntered towards them in dress of dark scarlet and gold brocade as a parasol's shaft twirled within her lace gloves, shielding her pale skin from the sun. She strolled about the water garden unchaperoned – which was unusual – but as she drew closer to them Fran caught sight of the face beneath that parasol's dark shade.
`Lady Eleanora'.
"Forgive me," Her curtsey was flawlessly apologetic as she smiled before Matthias. "But might I have a word with Master Gray? Alone?"
Matthias eyed them both – as if evaluating if this little meet and greet meant anything of use to his master, no doubt. But the fop stood upright and gave in, bowing graciously to them both before making his departure, his slippered feet crunching along the gravel.
Lady Eleanora took his place and sat down. She did so gently. Almost as if her posterior was sore. And it was. And at once Fran felt tears well in his eyes. "Oh Lothar. Are you alright?"
The espial nodded, expressionless. "I do my `duty' as you do."
"But still-"
"It doesn't hurt much. It doesn't really make me feel much of anything, this bumping about. I cannot understand why people like it so much."
Fran forced a smile. "...Sometimes the beauty of it lies more in the partner than the act itself." And then he remembered why he'd slipped a note underneath Lady Eleanora's door that morning. The star chart records. Fran bought them out of his satchel. "Go through them at your leisure."
A smile. Small, almost wisp-like, but palpable. "...Thank you."
"You're my best friend in the world, Lothar. What else could I do?"
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The Old Lioness, Dragonspur, Kingdom of Morland
36th of Summer, 801
Old Meg and the tavern-master had a bastard's way of keeping their papers. No rhyme, no rhythm, just chaos. Inventories stuffed into boxes, promissory notes rolled into twine and bundled into random cupboards, stock counts propping up old chairs by the sheaf, scattered documents splayed out and about the cellar floor matted with damp and rat dung.
"Shudder to think what their ledger looks like," japed Will. He was down in the muck too, him having forgone his cloak to roll up his sleeves, kneel down, and collect stray papers from the croaking floorboards of The Old Lioness' back room. Old Meg (rather cheekily) called them their `offices' but they were nothing of the sort, just a rotten old storeroom into which paperwork was thrown. It would be a nightmare to get it all into order.
"I know a few members with good access to clerks," said Will. He carried a leather bag off his shoulder half-full of soiled parchment as he spoke. "They should be here soon to render some order from all this. Will this be all?"
Ed nodded, pushing a table leg off another bundle of papers. "With any luck. Well, this and the lists. Old Meg's drawing up the suppliers. I told her to send some of her girls out to warn them ahead of time. Thopswood said he'd take care of the member's list and be back with it by sunfall."
Will paused. "Dear saints, Ed, do you think Stillingford's right? To play it straight with Wolner, I mean? To give him our real names?"
The swordsman shifted the table back. "He'll not take kindly to false names if he investigates them."
Rothwell frowned. "I suppose you're right. Besides, we've broken no laws. Wolner would've gaoled us all by now if we had, no? Perhaps he only means to intimidate us?"
He was worried.
Give William Rothwell a fiery speech to read, or some poorly written diatribe to debunk, and he was a man of almost ferocious temperament. But put him in a room with a loose dagger or a place where drunken fists were flying, and he was an altogether meeker man. It was no cowardice on his part – Will was a man more than ready to die for his beliefs – but violence was never his sport, he had no heart for it. And nothing grieved him greater than to see his loved ones in agony.
In time gone Edward's habit would've been to soothe Will's fear, to take a moment to calm him and assure him that none of this was as bad as it seemed, but they were too late in the day for lies. If the Constable of Dragonspur was investigating them, it wasn't without the Duke of Greyford's leave. Perhaps the Club's rhetoric and bullishness was finally finding its way back to him. If that was the case, then there was no telling how far this could go...
...but it wouldn't do to panic. Will had it right about one thing. The Crow's Club had broken no laws. Better yet, there was a strength of feeling for them in the city, even by Wolner's reckoning – the `torch' to their `tinder' as he put it. Wolner would have to be as careful in his handling of them as they would need to be in their handling of him. It wasn't an advantage – but it was something.
"The Crow's Club should suspend its meetings for a time," Edward gathered together a stack of papers and lifted them onto the wooden table. "Let's see out the investigation and await Roschewald's return from court before we reconvene."
Will nodded, silently. It was the logical thing to do. Yet still... "When next shall I see you?"
A pause.
"I cannot say."
Ed looked to Will and saw a frown deepening. "...How goes it with your... friend?"
`...Fran...,' A simple thought of him drew the swordsman's smile. "He is well."
By then most of the paperwork had been gathered up in the centre of the room, mounted into stacks upon the centre table. Much of it was sullied and there was no telling if it was complete or not, but it was for the clerks to work through now.
Ed threw a thumb over his shoulder, pointing at the door. "A quick drink before we depart?"
"I would speak with you," said Will. "If you'd allow it."
"Speak then."
"Not here. Not now. Privately. Tomorrow, at my apartments after we deliver Wolner's paperwork. Will that do?"
Edward Bardshaw took one look at William Rothwell's eyes and knew well what this was about. He felt a squeamishness in himself then that he misliked, a fear of hurting this man. Will was his friend. Why wasn't that enough? "Perhaps we should talk. Just you and me."
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Woollerton Green, The Midburghs, Kingdom of Morland
36th of Summer, 801
The Lord Seneschal, Ser Robert Mountjoy, had in his employ a team of men ready tasked with the business of clearing out the Banqueting Hall for the festivities of the night. They had drawn away all the long tables and scrubbed the silver candelabras free of molten wax before returning them to the hall. They had hung wondrously embroidered curtains of purple velvet trimmed with gold and white lace and had even taken the time to help the carpenters construct a small stage of lacquered mahogany for the musicians to play from. A smaller table and five scrolled seats were carried in and assembled at the far wall – the king's table – with pride of place to Queen Annalena and Ser Robert to his left, and the Duke of Greyford and the Queen Dowager to his right. Fran knew this because Gustave insisted on being the first to arrive, some hours before the dance, and he had seen the Lord Seneschal's men put to work to prepare for the night to come. His master had hoped to be clever and seed his influence within the palace by `befriending' some of its servants, and though his reasoning was not entirely unsound (well-bribed servants made for very effective espials after all) he hadn't thought at all that those men might not have the time or the will to engage in idle banter with a noble when there was work to be done. So, when they refused to speak with him, he found them rude for it.
When the other nobles and notable guests of King Oswald arrived at the Banqueting Hall it was at last ready made for their celebration. Ruff-collared footmen in pearl-buttoned doublets stood with silver platters full of wine, oysters, grapes, peaches, dates, cakes, and cheeses. The flutists, lutenists and drummers had already taken position from their assigned stage as feather capped trumpeters manned the arched doors. Hundreds of fresh candles stood lit and flickering whilst chatter and laughter slowly filled the room as the Morish nobility sauntered into the hall and mingled amongst themselves, dressed in garments laid with the richest silks and pearls money could buy. For the first time Fran was grateful for the rude-fingered Imperial tailor that Gustave had hired before they left Wallenheim – for he owned no clothing outside of his design which bore any match to the opulent fineries currently on display.
Fran held to Gustave's side, away from the growing crowd as his master struck up conversation with one Ser Howard Frogmoncke, a renowned Morish man-at-law widely rumoured to be the realm's next Lord Justiciar.
Each man amongst their small circle bore a bejewelled wine cup sloshing at their rims with a sweet Imperial white. The clerk sipped a little whilst his master conversed, him eyeing the guests and putting names to faces: the portly Earl of Huxton with his face so like a boiled ham, the gaunt old Earl of Gainsley, the narrow-eyed Ser Symon Shakestone, not to mention Lyonel de la More.
The Fiend stirred.
Lyonel de la More. Once one of Lord Gray's most trusted advisors and financiers, now risen in rank to the Marquess of Gead.
HOW UTTERLY CONVENIENT... whispered The Fiend. THINK, BOY. WHO STOOD BETTER TO GAIN FROM YOUR FATHER'S DEMISE?
Fran frowned, eying the marquess and his wife from across the hall. He had wondered on occasion if de la More had any deeper involvement in the Siege. It had been the contention of Ser Martyn Morrogh, Lord Gray's ennobled quartermaster and captain of the guard, that it was the de la Mores who engineered the Siege by secretly inviting Sage Odo to the isle under a pretence of refuge from Imperial oppression, when in truth what they intended was the end result – Imperial galleons besieging the isle for nearly a year, demanding Odo's head, shutting down trade and driving the Geadish people to the very brink of starvation. Chaos followed. And as the Emperor ordered the bombardment of the isle, its islanders rose up in rebellion against House Gray...
`Chaos', Fran shuddered at the memory and The Fiend chuckled down his ear. DO NOT RUN FROM THOSE MEMORIES. BURN THEM INTO YOUR MIND. IT IS DE LA MORE AND GREYFORD AND THAT FECKLESS KING OSMUND WHO BROUGHT YOU TO THIS! THEY ALONE BEAR RESPONSIBILITY FOR YOUR FATHER'S DEATH! THEY TOOK ED FROM YOU! WHEN DOES OUR FUCKING REVENGE BEGIN, BOY? WHEN? WHEN? WHEN? WHEN? WHEN? WHEN, DAMN YOU, WHEN?
"Fran?" Gustave eyed him. "What troubles you, you look pale."
The boy darted his eyes from Marquess de la More lest he unwittingly caught his attention. "Apologies, excellency, tired is all. My thoughts run away with me."
Frogmoncke smiled softly. "It's a common thing for a boy with a mind for numbers and law. Mine own clerks are much the same, away with the fairies, all the time."
"It was a hard day's ride here, master." said Fran.
"You rode? Oh, even at this time of year it's slow going by the roads. Better to sail upriver by The Wyvern. Next time you make the trip inform me. I'll loan you use of my barge."
Gustave smiled at the offer, perhaps sensing another thread forming in the web of Morish contacts he oh so slowly weaved. "A generous offer, Lord Justiciar, one I gratefully accept."
Frogmoncke flushed. "Oh, ambassador. I am no Justiciar yet."
"A formality, no? The court is awash with talk of King Oswald's coming appointments."
Fran took another sip of wine as he feigned interest in the conversation. Gustave was correct of course. The Masters of the Realm (or as they were more officially known – The Council of the Masters of the Realm) were the monarch's chief advisors as well as overseers of the key offices of state, a cabal consisting of five special seats: The Lord Justiciar, master of the courts; The Lord Treasurer, master of the coffers; The Lord Marshal, master of military affairs; The Lord Seneschal, steward of the royal house, and The Lord Serjeant, the king's personal legal advisor. With King Oswald finally coming of age it was his duty to appoint fresh blood to the Council and send a signal of rejuvenation and new direction to the realm.
Talk at court was boisterous but certain.
Ser Symon Shakestone, new man and man-at-law, would replace the Earl of Edgemore as Lord Sergeant. Ser Howard Frogmoncke, with his keen legal mind, would replace the aging Earl of Gainsley as Lord Justiciar. The Earl of Huxton would be replaced as Lord Marshal by the Duke of Greyford (effectively a demotion, retaining a seat on the Council was scant placation). Only two seats would remain unchanged, with Marquess de la More and Ser Robert Mountjoy as Lord Treasurer and Lord Seneschal respectively.
Then the trumpets blared.
All chatter ceased and there was a collective clatter of shoes against marble as the throng parted into two along what would soon be the dance floor, paving the way for their sovereign, King Oswald II of House Oswyke, to take his seat.
The King sauntered in as regally as any monarch could, dressed marvellously in a black and gold striped velvet jerkin. A sheathed short sword lulled alongside ebon black trunkhose adorned with silver-threaded embroidery. Two Bannerets of the Bloom followed him, and behind them, a ruffed footman carried the rattling cage of his pet capuchin, Pincher.
All eyes fell upon King Oswald as he approached his table, where the Duke of Greyford, Ser Robert, and the Queen Dowager Emma were ready seated, but curiously the Queen herself, Annalena, was absent. "To the lords and ladies and... distinguished guests here gathered. Tonight heralds a shining new dawn. It is a night to offer thanks to our forebears who delivered us and to the Four Saints who watch over us. But most of all... tonight is a night for celebration!"
The king's guests broke into applause.
Frogmoncke, joining them, leaned into Gustave's ear. He spoke just loud enough for Fran to hear. "How did you find His Majesty?"
`Obstinate,' thought the clerk on his master's behalf.
"Headstrong," said Gustave, tactfully. Wisely.
Frogmoncke nodded, smiling. "A diplomatic way of putting it, yes. The King bears wisdom his young shoulders belie and strength to match it. He will not be easy to sway. But there is a chink in his armour if I may say so."
"A chink, you say?"
"He loves his subjects," said Frogmoncke, still clapping. "And desires their love in kind. If you can convince him that your proposals are in the better interests of the people, he will bend."
The King continued when the applause slowly abated. "I am sorry to say that the queen is... feeling unwell at present. And so, I cede the honour of the first dance to you all." He clapped his hands together. "Music!"
Assembled lutes, flutes, and drums struck up a tune. A rush of footsteps overtook the banqueting hall as the king's hundred or so guests split in twain and cleared the floor. Fran watched the handsomest of the Morish nobility saunter into that space, a group of twenty in total, ten men and ten women, forming up into parallel lines to perform The Hilde, a sumptuous new dance from the Empire. Amongst their number was the Lady Eleanora, standing opposite the Lord Comwyn, performing their reverences to each other before the musicians took their cue.
`You are too well trained, Lothar...' thought Fran.
As the dance began Gustave cleared his throat. "Speaking discreetly, Ser Howard, how likely is it that the incoming Lord Sergeant might accept my proposal?"
"Shakestone?" Frogmoncke smiled. "A common-born, like me, though his Geadish father has accrued some wealth as a guildmaster. If there are no infractions of the Treaty of Grace in your consortium proposals, he would be amenable to it. As would I, based on what I've seen."
Gustave smiled.
"However, excellency, our two votes would not be enough. Greyford would oppose it, as would his man, Ser Robert, and the man he elevated, Marquess de la More. You'd have to sway one of them in order to pull it off. I'd say de la More's the more likely candidate, but only if it meant garnering favour with the king. All begins and ends with His Majesty."
They spoke like that most of the night, paying little attention to the dances and music, stopping only for refreshment of wine and cheeses from passing servants. Past a point Fran made no business of keeping up with their discussions. He yawned, swilled wine, ate cheese, and swallowed his disgust as a drooling Piers Comwyn laid lusty hands upon his friend in plain view of the court. He was disgusted at Gustave too, for playing out with it. And deeper still... he was disgusted with himself for not doing more to dissuade his master from it. Worst still...
...Fran could not help but wonder what secrets Lothar might learn that would aide him in his plans.
"Ahem!"
The boy snapped out of a reverie he hadn't recognized falling into. He stood upright, reflexively, as a young lady of the court approached him. The sparkling little rubies of her caul jingled like a purse as she greeted him with a graceful curtsey and a broad smile.
She held out her hand.
Fran paused for a moment, forgetting his manners, until Ser Howard Frogmoncke cleared his throat with a light fist. Fran suddenly found himself again, apologized, then took the lady's hand and kissed it.
Gustave frowned.
"Ah! Lady Cecily," said Frogmoncke. "Might I say you look delightful this evening, a blessing to the eyes!"
`Lady Cecily...' The name suddenly jogged a memory of one of the names in Neidhart's dossier. Lady Cecily Ashwick, daughter of the Earl of Huxton, the regency's long serving Lord Marshal. Lady in waiting to Queen Annalena. Age ten-and-seven, born of the Star of Courage, and thus a child of St. Wynnry. Unmarried. As her father's unwed daughter, she is one of the most eligible heiresses in the Midburghs.
"Masters," said she. "It is the fourth song of the night and I feel it reprehensible that no man has yet asked me to dance."
Gustave's frown darkened.
"What a state of affairs!" Said Frogmoncke. "Master Gray! Why not take the honour, my knees are too old for the task."
Fran looked to his master for approval and found a painted smile. Neither Frogmoncke nor Lady Cecily could see the rage curdling beneath it.
Gustave was always prone to jealousy. Two years ago, during an audit of one of his brothels, The Bonnie Bee, he took aside one of his own working boys and beat his left eye to pulp inside its own socket – his crime? Daring to flirt with Fran. He was a new lad, Imperial, spoke barely a word of Wallish, probably didn't even know who Fran was. And yet Gustave half-blinded him for his `temerity'.
But Lady Cecily was not one of his whores.
Gustave clenched his jaw, forcing soft words through a tight smile. "Go ahead."
Fran knew that smile well. He'd seen the spite it withheld first-hand. Yet still he took Lady Cecily by her perfumed gloves and asked her to dance in the most respectful tone he could muster.
"I would love to," she replied.
Gustave's glare burned a hole in the back of Fran's skull as the young pair drifted off towards the formation of guests at the centre of the dance floor. There were thirty of them now, fifteen couples, one of which was Lord Comwyn and Lady Eleanora. Lady Cecily's smile faded as she strolled into place with the other fourteen ladies of the court so aligned, taking the middlemost position amongst them. A line of fifteen men approached, Fran amongst them, shuffling across the echoing marble to perform their reverences, as the musicians awaited their cue.
`The Allegan,' thought Fran. `At least I know this one.' His mind recited the movements as he took his place two paces ahead of Cecily.
The flutes came first. Fran, exhaling, ate his nerves and stepped forth, pulling ahead of his partner with single stride forward and a quick turn back, right arm up, as lute strings followed and Cecily, smiling, swirled and stepped forth, arm up, until the tips of their fingers touched.
Eye to eye they transitioned into a forward step, drawing them parallel to each other. Fran slid to his right, as did Cecily, switching hands from right to left, palm flat and by the tips, eyes apart, with only the briefest glance upon each other as they turned together, encircling the spot until shifting to their original positions and gliding back, face to face.
The flutes paused a moment then resumed.
In almost perfect accompaniment, Fran and Cecily slid left by a single step, raising their right arms to touch at the fingertips.
A smile. "You dance well, Lord Gray."
A frown. "I am no lord, Lady Cecily."
The pair cast their eyes forward and resumed the encirclement. They twirled apart in formation, Lady Cecily's pearl-studded black brocade dress swirling slightly about her ankles, before they met again at the fingertips, throwing glances over their shoulder until face to face, side-stepping into the next movement.
"Fie, only a highborn could dance the Allegan so well," said Cecily, whispering sweetly between the steps. "They call you The Lost Lord, ser. Or haven't you noticed the other unwed ladies practically salivating at the thought of turning your eye?"
Fran smiled, curious. "Is it becoming for a lady of the court to speak so forthrightly?"
The pair backward stepped and slid left, to meet again at the fingertips and encircle each other. "We maidens may play our parts, master, but they are only parts. See through the smoke of the façade and we are not so dissimilar, you'll find."
"Oh? How so?"
As the melody slowed Fran and Cecily came shoulder to shoulder exchanging smiles. The younger woman leaned into his ear and whispered, "There's not a soul in attendance whose fooled by your Lady Eleanora."
Fran stilled.
"But Comwyn was born to the right saint," said Cecily, as Fran lifted his arm for her pirouette. "And so, we all play our parts, no matter the disgust unspoken. For example..."
The two came apart, then twirled into each other, joining shoulder to shoulder again. Cecily's smile darkened as she leaned into Fran's ear again. "There are parts of the world where the sun produces virile men with skin as dark as tree bark, and sometimes, their ships berth in Dragonspur. What courage it would take to fuck them..."
*
Age ten-and-seven, born of the Star of Courage, and thus a child of St. Wynnry. Unmarried.
*
Fran, stunned, lifted his arm for the second pirouette. And a grinning Lady Cecily came spinning back into his arms. "Why are you telling me this...?"
"Have you read The Phantoma?" Asked Huxton's daughter. "It speaks of a shroud of opulence that waxes our noble eyes to the burdens of the ignoble masses. And of the fate that awaits us when the masses finally recognize it..."
The pair went shoulder to shoulder again.
"I've come to believe that we live in such an age," said Lady Cecily. Her words were so grim and yet she smirked as she uttered them. Smirked.
As if it were all a game.
"They like to pretend, you see," The lady threw a nod at the surrounding nobles. "Deny its reality as we bask in our own splendour. The king, saints bless him, seeks to avert the tide. But deep down he must know the hour is too late. We are a court of ghosts, Lord Gray. Bejewelled phantoms floating upon borrowed time. None of it will last. So, before the chattel finally wake up... take what you can and revel in it."
They stopped when the lutes stopped, shoulder to shoulder, breasts pumping, eyeing each other with both confusion and exhilaration, heedless of the curious attention they'd both drawn. All fifteen couples drew apart, performed their reverences, and struck up a round of applause beneath the king's watchful eye.
No one noticed a page slipping along the far walls and racing up to the king's table. One of the Bannerets of the Bloom stopped him, waiting for Ser Robert's permission to pass (which came quickly thereafter). The young messenger approached the Lord Seneschal and slipped a missive into his hands, which he then passed over for the king to read. His eyes brightened.
King Oswald, jubilant, leaned into Ser Robert's ear – not the Queen Dowager's – and his childhood tutor rose from his seat by his cane. He called for silence. The chatter ceased. The music came to a stop. The dancers caught their breaths and the assembled guests turned towards the king's table as the newly empowered monarch arose with joyous news:
"My lords and ladies," said he. "The saints have blessed me with wonderful tidings! Her Majesty the Queen, my beloved wife, is with child!"
Thunderous applause. Roars of joy. Shouts of acclimation. Tears. A surprised Fran (and an unsurprised Cecily) joined them, clapping furiously for the king and queen and their coming heir before his eyes wandered back to Gustave, matching the elated mood with applause of his own alongside a tearful Ser Howard. But there was no joy or lustre in his eyes. Only anger.
**********
The Old Lioness, Dragonspur, Kingdom of Morland
37th of Summer, 801
By morning break the clerks had systematically organized all of The Old Lioness' documents by type and year, bound them with twine, and left them ready for Edward Bardshaw to collect. By his horse Bessie he rode to the tavern before dismounting at the rear and descending its steps to find it shuttered. All its tables were drawn into the centre and its chairs turned upside down and stacked on top of them. The side rooms were sealed by wooden boards nailed to the door frames. The ale barrels and wine casks were stoppered and secured inside the locked cellar and the noticeboard was cleared of its open letters and bills.
The freshly swept floorboards groaned beneath Edward's boots as he arrived, and he felt at once the sadness in the air. The Old Lioness had been a home away from home for so long, a bastion of free thought, and here it was – closed for business and silent, its patrons gone, the jolly scent of roasting pork and frothing ale already drifting away.
Old Meg and two of her serving girls loaded the papers into a brace of leathered saddlebags. Will Rothwell was there too, deathly pale, smoothing out the folds of his riding cloak as he spoke with the tavernmaster about the fate of the Club, assuring him that it would be safe to reopen after Wolner's investigation ran its course. He was unhappy about it, of course. But the Club's collective purse ran deep. They could cover the costs in the interim.
"Six days at most," said Will. "We'll account for it."
The tavernmaster folded his beefy arms across his chest. He did not look assured. "He's an unchained molossus that Wolner. What if he harasses our suppliers? Convinces them not to sell to us?"
Thoughts of bedridden Knorris sprung to Edward's mind, still trapped in his sick bed after Wolner's thugs worked him over. He heard the poor man was going blind.
Ed went over to them. "There is nothing to be done but to wait and to hope for the best. We've committed no crimes, Wolner grasps at straws."
"Ed's right," said Will. "You'll be back up and running as soon as this boils over."
Old Meg came over then, leaning into her husband's warm embrace. Her greying black hair was tousled and unkempt, and her smock was still stained with wine and sauce smears from last night's rounds. From the look of her she'd been up all night. "Peace, good husband. We won't starve. My girls'll find other work in the meantime. How's the old man, Ed?"
`Foul,' thought he. Stillingford was mortified. Though he held himself bravely against the Constable yesterday, Wolner's visit was all the confirmation the old man needed that the Crow's Club had gone too far: `Too many feathers have been ruffled now, Ed... and now there's no telling how far this could go.' The swordsman sighed. "Shaken but resting. I've asked one of our neighbours to watch him whilst Will and I see to this business."
"What about Speaker's Square?"
"I will continue to speak," said Will. "Our supporters must be shown that we will not be bowed. For the Folkweal."
The tavernmaster struck his fist to his chest, smiling. "For the Folkweal. Saints' speed to you both, everything is ready."
Then it wouldn't do to tarry any further. Will nodded his agreement. Time to go. They all said their goodbyes and wished each other well, promising to see each other soon in safer times, then Edward and William took up the bulging saddlebags and departed. Once above ground they strapped those saddlebags to Bessie's rump, having forwent Higgs (Stillingford's coachman) for the delivery. Edward mounted his horse and pulled Will up with him. The freckle-faced scholar shuffled uneasily in the large saddle (poor rider as he was) until Edward told him:
"Take hold of me. You've nothing to fear."
A thin pair of arms wound around the swordsman's waist and gripped him firm. And then a head settled on his back, right between his shoulder blades. Tenderly. William settled down. "Shall we go?"
Edward cracked Bessie's reins and guided her from the rickety stabling back down the narrow laneway into the hurried streets of Dragonspur. They rode north along Leg o' Lamb Lane past the slattern shacks and stalls of bone workers, butchers, grocers, and fishermen. It took them as far as the city's main thoroughfare, the Old King's Way, winding like a serpentine spine up from the southern gate of the city walls through the felonious warrens and crumbling mudbrick tenements of Rat's End all the way up to the city centre, where the River Wyvern split the capital in two and where the sobering presence of Staunton Castle loomed darkly over the poor southern side.
The castle's crenelled towers and piercing spires rose high into the morning sky as Bessie drew closer to it. The ground beneath her hooves sloped up the further they went, passing along the leaning taverns, inns, waystations, stablers and blacksmiths of Ironworker's Hill. At its peak the dirt road levelled out and shot north straight to the stonework bridgehead of Foxford crossing over the rushing waters of the River Wyvern.
Staunton Castle stood at its centre.
A chill raced up Edward's back as he cast his glare up at the ancient fortress, at its limestone curtain walls and crenelled battlements, its whitewashed towers lined with embrasures and barred iron slits. Its central keep, the High Spire, stood 100 feet tall, the second highest point in the city save for the slopes of St. Wynnry's Hill. The castle was almost as ancient as the city, first commissioned in 142 by Edwulf the Great and finally completed in 199 with four subsequent expansions. It was built atop a giant eyot at the centre of the River Wyvern and forded on both sides by the Foxford Bridge. It had been besieged three times in its 600-year history but had never fallen, and up until the Morish Civil War, served as the palace and abode of the Royal House. But in years more recent it served far darker purposes than the protection of Edwulf's descendants.
It served as both the offices of the Masters of the Realm, the high counsellors of the monarch, and the headquarters of the Constable of Dragonspur himself, Thomas Wolner. There were even rumours that deep beneath the castle's foundations lay a secret prison – The Oubliette – where the worst criminals, miscreants, traitors, and seditionists were held. Edward Bardshaw knew it well. He'd been a guest of its delights.
That was why his spine was shivering.
He did his best to ignore it.
The mood about the castle was joyous that day. The belfries rung loud as hundreds of cheering townsfolk gathered at Foxford Bridge from one balustrade to the other, completely suspending traffic from either side of the river, all of them whooping, all of them dancing and singing and chanting and throwing flowers. Mounted cannons were shot from the parapets one after the other and each blast was met with a roar of cheers from the jubilant populace there gathered.
Will asked a passer-by what was going on as Edward carefully threaded Bessie through the crowds towards the castle drawbridge. She told him triumphant news, "Have you not heard? Queen Annalena is with child! O joyous day! An heir to the new king! Saints be, here's hoping for a prince! A prince!"
Edward barked at the celebrants to get out of his way. A few did but most would not budge until he shouted at the very apex of his lungs GET OUT OF THE WAY YOU FOOLS GET OUT OF OUR WAY and so forth. They started to move then. And as they peeled aside the blonde man coaxed Bessie ahead to a small gatehouse built into the edge of the bridgework, where the heavy oaken and iron-banded drawbridge of Staunton Castle's east-facing barbican lowered into place. It was the only point of entry into the castle – a hallmark of its notorious impregnability.
A group of glaive-armed guards stood watch around that gatehouse. Mailed men in feathered pot helms and embossed steel breastplates, sheathed swords dangling next to their tunics, but they did not interfere with the furore. Better to let the people enjoy glad tidings for once.
Edward dismounted and led Bessie by the reins. One of the guards stamped his polearm at the approach.
"Halt," said he. "Crossings only. Move along."
"We do not seek entry, masters. Constable Wolner only commanded us to deliver his offices' paperwork." Before he left the Old Lioness, Wolner left the Club a writ protected by his own personal seal and commanded them to present it to the guardsmen (to assure them of their right surrender documents to the castle authorities.) Edward fished it out of his pocket and gave it to the guardsman at post.
He cracked open Wolner's seal and read it for himself.
"...Very well. We'll take it off your hands then. Men!" Three of his men put aside their glaives and surrounded Bessie, unstrapping her swollen saddlebags, and confiscating their contents. After that they were dismissed. Edward held his frown and thanked them for their `help' before wheeling Bessie around and picking their way back crowds of cheering citizens until she was free to take a gallop at the bridgehead.
Will held on tight.
His apartments lay none too far from Staunton. Just further west along the riverbank, perhaps a mile west of the castle, was Meadow's Court; a small complex of two-floor stone buildings built around a communal acre of enclosed cropland. They rode west until the dirt path veered off the main road into a narrower lane cutting through a row of jettied townhouses that ended in a tall stone archway securing the court. Edward slowed Bessie to a trot and cantered around the shared garden, old women and children tending to the crops whilst men took hoes to untilled patches of land recently leased. There was a communal stable nearby with some thirty other horses tethered to its posts. Edward brought Bessie beneath its thatched shade, dismounted, and found a fit post for her. Then he helped Will climb down.
"The stable boys will bring her water and apples whilst you're here," said he. "Come."
Will took Ed's hand. The blonde man almost flinched but caught himself at the last. `Don't offend him,' Ed thought. `Just have it out once and for all'.
Instead, he let Will lead him to his lodgings at the northern side of Meadow's Court. He unlocked the heavy wooden door then coaxed Edward in, sealing it behind him. And, despite its blackened slag hearth and croaking rafters, it was a cosy little place. There was a desk nearby with all Rothwell's musings and drabbles collected into tall stacks. On one side of his bed sat a chest of goods filled with neatly bundled changes of clothing and on the other a small wooden table with his snuff box and pipe set atop it. In the rear wall above the bed stood a wide latticed window offering a good view of the river, close enough to hear the gull-song that so punctuated its charm. A cosy place it was. A place that ill-fit the son of so wealthy a father. But it suited William Rothwell all the same.
Will shrugged off his cloak and hung it from a hook by the doused hearth. He offered to take Edward's. Edward politely refused. "I'll not be stopping long," said he.
There was a pair of tin cups and a cask of wine near William's bedside – a three-year red from a local vineyard producing some of the finest affordable wine that side of the Wyvern – until it was claimed by the crown during the regency. He offered Edward a cup. Edward politely refused.
"Save it for a better occasion," said he.
Will poured himself a cup and took a seat upon his bed... then asked Edward to join him there. Edward refused. Instead, he said...
"Why did you call me here?"
Will smiled softly. "Can't you tell?"
"Talk plainly."
William Rothwell threw back his cup of wine with a single gulp and set it aside. The floorboards croaked as he stood upright, and then again and again as he took slow, careful steps toward the broad-shouldered blonde brooding silently in his lodgings. Will didn't stop until his feet stepped between Edward's. Their breaths played upon each other's lips until heartbeats began to race. And for the slightest moment Ed couldn't help but be transfixed by Will – how the cold weather brought the freckles out of his face – like ground hazelnut sprinkled over a mug of milk.
"I'm tired of talking," said Will.
He took the taller man by the scruff of his blonde beard and thrust their lips together. A shared moan, brief and passionate, joined the gull song and waves crashing against the riverbank as Will pressed himself against Edward until they were chest to chest, tilting into the kiss, almost willing the bigger man to seize hold of him, to strip the clothes from him, until the blonde backed away suddenly, lips breaking with a smack.
Edward caught his breath.
"What is it, Ed?"
His cheeks felt flushed. "I... I can't..."
William held Edward's eyes. He did not blink. He did not stop. Instead, he took a single step back to unbutton his doublet and pull it off by its sleeves. Edward looked on, dumbfounded, as Will kicked off his shoes, tore off his undershirt and pulled down his russet breeks and white hose until all his clothes were gathered about his naked ankles.
And Edward saw him then.
Firebrand Will Rothwell. Young, lean, and fit despite his scholarly upbringing and bookishness. Light outlines of muscle formed along his breast and stomach, smattered by those deep brown freckles which ran the length of his torso from shoulders to neck to chest. And below that? A hard five inches of manhood jutted out of a small curtain of fire red under-hairs, its tip already dripping with pre-emptive seed.
Will took Ed's hands and set them upon his bare hips. "I'm yours to take, Edward Bardshaw. So take me."
He leaned in for another kiss.
Edward looked away. "I'm sorry. But... I can't." He pulled his hands away.
Will's hopeful smile fell. Like something dawned on him. And it did. "...Is there another?"
A nod.
"...Your `friend'...?"
A second nod.
"Well then," The hopeful smile became a curt one. A tear slipped William's eye, slight and sudden, as he backed away, leaning down to collect his clothes. "I am sorry to have embarrassed us both. I might... warn you about what a beautiful liar the past is... or not to let what was be the enemy of what could be... but I'd only be wasting my breath, wouldn't I?"
"Will, I-"
Crystals formed in his eyes. "Please... just go."
There was so much to say in that moment and yet Edward had none of the tools to express it. He felt an urge to reach out to his friend and apologize, but to what end? Better to stop. Better to go. Better to leave him to think.
Edward left in silence.
**********
Woollerton Green, The Midburghs, Kingdom of Morland
37th Summer, 801
Francis Gray grabbed fistfuls of the bedding and held them tight until his knuckles went white. Blood rushed to his face and neck. Beads of sweat dripped free from his naked breast and soiled the embroidered golden sigils of House Roschewald meticulously sown into the sheets. His shoulders, equally drenched, pumped to and fro as a stern hand grasped its left and held him steady at the edge of the bed. Slaps of flesh against flesh rang up to the rafters, mingling with his master's angry grunts of exertion, and his own soft wails and whimpers. Fran tried to speak, to ask Gustave to slow down and be gentler with him, and in reply his master shoved his face into the bedding and smothered his little protestations into muffled gibberish.
Fran bit into the fabric and grit his teeth as Gustave's thick girth punched in and out of his arse with all his weight and strength, spreading him wide and splitting him open. His master was rougher than usual that night.
They'd returned from the banqueting hall in the early hours too drunk to do ought except slump into bed, but when Fran woke the following morning, unkempt and half-dressed at the edge of Gustave's bed, he found the ambassador at its edge, wide awake and furious. Fran, realizing he'd fallen asleep in his master's room (and how that might look) apologized and offered to fetch him some wine. Gustave said nothing. But when Fran stood up to tidy himself and call for one of the servants, an angry hand snatched his shoulder and threw him back onto the bed, face down, stomach flat. His clothes were torn from his body and thrown about the room – and then Gustave fucked him.
There were none of the usual pretences: no compliments, no kisses, no feigned intimacy. Just a dollop of spit and a sudden thrust in the morning light.
Only when it was over, when Gustave's slickened yard pulled itself free from his puckering red sphincter, dripping with seed, did Fran catch his breath long enough to recall why his master was so angry with him. He thought back to the dance. To Lady Cecily. And to that look of smouldering jealous rage that Fran caught amidst their turns. This was his punishment. His reminder for whom he really belonged. Just in case he happened upon any `ideas'.
"The court is returning to Dragonspur," said Gustave. There was a basin of water at the bedside. He leaned over it and washed his face. "King Oswald wants to establish his new appointments. After that he's off to the Queenswood to celebrate his coming heir with a boar hunt – or so Frogmoncke told me."
Fran wiped the tears from his eyes. He leaned up from the bed when his legs were strong enough to support him. The Fiend's icy black talons inched up his red raw spine. YOUR WHOREMONGER SPOKE, BOY. ANSWER HIM! "We are to follow?"
"We'll ride ahead," said Gustave. The rose-scented waters sloshed at his fingertips. "It's back to Manse de Foy to think up a new strategy. Make the arrangements."
"Yes, master."
He could not wait to leave that room. As his skin flushed red and Gustave's sallow seed oozed down his thigh, he felt a sudden urge to wash himself, to plunge into the nearest lake and burn the filth from his flesh with the roughest nettles he could find. But he was his master's clerk. And a thought occurred. And despite himself and his urge to flee his master's bed, he voiced it. "...Matthias approached me in the water gardens."
"Saying what?"
"A not so hidden warning. We should be wary."
Gustave threw back his dampened hair and smoothed it dry, reaching for the cloth. "The day I fear Ludolf's braying ass of a clerk will be the day the saints return. Ignore him. What of Lothar?"
A vision of `Lady Eleanora', soft-spoken and sombre, sprung to Fran's mind. "He told me he would report back to you today if the opportunity allowed. After that, perhaps... perhaps you might recall him from his duties-"
"No," said Gustave. "Let him play the whore a little longer. We must make it our business to accumulate allies here, and Piers Comwyn is a good start. Go, Fran. Go and make the preparations."
So, he did.
First however he took to his rooms and scrubbed his skin raw at the wash bowl, washing the tears out of his eyes. He dressed quickly then located to the privy to squat and purge himself of Gustave's seed. In times past it was one of his master's favourite little games to make him retain that seed, post-coitus, as he saw about his duties. `Oh, how I delight in it, my sweetling, to see the stain of myself dripping down your hose as you write my letters.' But there was no time for such games in the court of King Oswald.
Afterwards he sought out the clerks of the Lord Seneschal's office and announced their early departure to Dragonspur, citing some cock and bull about a `sickly attendant' to whose affairs Gustave was required to attend. Fran offered his personal apologies to both Ser Robert and King Oswald and vowed their return at the coming Queenswood hunt. No apology was required but any offence was not worth the risk. It was of no benefit to Fran's plans for Gustave to suffer disfavour at court so soon after their arrival.
Next, he rallied their coachman and bid him fetch the horses from the stables whilst Fran returned to Gustave's apartments to collect what little paperwork the ambassador brought with him from Manse de Foy. They were letters mostly, missives intended for his Wallish countrymen nestled throughout the capital, itineraries for his retinue upon his return, an official dispatch for the Council of Lords and a less official letter for Neidhart back in Wallenstadt.
After that he roused Wolfrick and his men. They'd quartered in a makeshift barracks erected near the banks of the River Wyvern, at an outpost where the royal barges were kept ready for any swift excursion the King might make toward the capital. Fran made the journey on foot, wandering through the bustling township nearest the palace grounds before hauling up at the riverside shack and knocking its plywood door. Wolfrick emerged, shirtless and two days unshaven, whilst his halberdiers leisured behind him – playing cards, sharpening swords, drinking ale, or gnawing at their morning bread and chicken.
"And what do you want?" Spat their captain. "Your king hasn't made for the capital yet, has he?"
Fran handed him a missive. "Gustave wishes to return ahead of court. His discussion with the King did not go well. He needs time to plot another strategy."
Wolfrick's lip wrinkled. Even he saw the lack of necessity. But Gustave was his master, and he would be obeyed. Fran stood aside and waited for Wolfrick to rouse his men, get them dressed and armed to retrieve their Wallish fjord horses from the stabling down the lane.
When they were ready to depart one of the halberdiers, Edrick, hauled Fran up to the rear of his saddle and together they rode off down the highway back to the grounds of Woollerton Green. And when their shoed hooves clopped beneath the gatehouse into the first of the palace's gravelled courtyards, the carriage was ready, horses bridled and neighing, whilst two porters of the royal house fetched Gustave's luggage into the rear. The ambassador himself stood nearby, freshly dressed, and prepared for the coming journey, fitting on his greyed leather gloves as he idled in chatter with his coachman. Wolfrick, Fran, Edrick and the nine other halberdiers dismounted.
"Your boy brought ill tidings," said Wolfrick.
Gustave waved it off. "Neidhart misjudged the king's youth for naivety. I will not make that mistake again. I simply need time to think up a different approach. Are your men ready to depart?"
"Aye." Said Wolfrick. "We await your word."
They made ready to leave. Back to the capital.
Back to Edward.
And then footsteps approached them.
Gustave, Fran and Wolfrick all turned towards the crush of gravel and found Ambassador Ludolf, flanked at his left by his towering clerk Matthias, and accompanied by two Bannerets of the Bloom, their steel bardiches gleaming in the sunlight, almost as brightly as the ambassador's sterling ivory teeth. Pungent with mint scent, no doubt.
He grinned. "Ah! Ambassador Roschewald! Once again am I granted the pleasure. Oh! What have we here? Riding ahead of court? Such rudeness will be well noted."
Fran watched Gustave force a tight smirk. It was easy to tell when he disliked someone. "Perhaps I'm off to consider a gift for Her Majesty now that she is with child. `Tis joyous news, after all. Motherhood is a great honour. An honour that Her Imperial Majesty the Empress Maximilliana has yet to know, as I recall."
Ludolf frowned.
Hard.
The court of Emperor Konrad IV Adolphus was tight-lipped and guarded, that much was known of it, and few secrets escaped its confines. But there was no hiding the Emperor's lack of an heir. The current Empress, Maximilliana, was the fourth wife of his eight-and-fifty years of life, and none of them had yet given him an heir – not even a stillbirth. What was an open secret for the Empire was much the source of gossip for the rest of the world, that the most powerful man walking its crust was a lame-membered barren.
But to say it to one of his senior-most diplomats...
The mood amongst them all soured. Fran watched the smirk return to his master's face as Ludolf's own curdled with loosely checked outrage. Flecks of spittle and crushed mint leaf flew from his lips as he spat back, "His Imperial Majesty is a man of piety who bears precious little desire for the pleasures of the flesh... a great counter to YOUR household, I hear, rotting to its core with vice so foul it drove your good wife to her self-inflicted grave!"
And then it came.
A sudden slurp of unsheathed steel that froze both ambassadors where they stood. Fran glanced right and saw Wolfrick, sword outstretched, nostrils flaring, eyes peeled back with rage. The two Bannerets of the Bloom pushed forth and crossed their polearms before the Imperial Ambassador as the Wallish halberdiers formed up behind their captain, their gloved hands at the basket hilts of their short swords. And what was once a moment of verbal joust transformed into a hair-breadth step from violence.
"Hold!" Yelled Fran, forgetting himself. "There can be no bloodshed here lest it foul both our causes! Stay thy hands!"
Silence.
And then...?
Ludolf sneered. "Your catamite is wise beyond his years..."
Gustave did not blink. "...Wolfrick. Lower your sword and apologize."
The Bannerets did not budge. Nor Ludolf (though Matthias did cower somewhat behind the three). Fran eyed their captain of the guard, his lupine teeth practically gnashing with rage at Ludolf's petulant jab. Only when Wolfrick looked to Gustave and his stone-faced expression did he realize the severity of his mistake. Only then did his anger sober. The old soldier huffed out a ragged breath, shoulders deflating, then sheathed his steel and stepped back, lowering himself to a knee. The halberdiers released their sword hilts and stood down.
"My... my humble apologies, your excellency." Said he. "That was most unbecoming of me. I can only beg your forgiveness."
Ludolf's snarl did not abate. "The Duke, and no doubt the King, will soon hear of this." He raised his hand. The two Bannerets uncrossed their weapons and stood back as the Imperial dabbed his sweating white brow with a kerchief and pulled ahead, shoving past Gustave and his retinue. Matthias and the guards followed suit – until Ludolf stopped again – and a slow smile returned to his lips.
"I suppose you've heard the news," whispered he. "Before the Queenswood hunt, the King plans to attend that forum they call Speaker's Square. I wonder who enticed him to parley with the rabble?"
Gustave didn't bother looking back at him. "A king's mind is his own."
"It is the only concession you'll ever get," replied Ludolf. And then; "Du hast einen Fehler gemacht, mich zu provozieren. Good day, masters."
Ludolf excused himself and his clerk and his two guardsmen. Together they trundled off across the courtyard and disappeared into a holly-shrouded archway beneath their designated apartments. Fran sighed. Noticed his wrist shaking. Grabbed it to calm himself. Then he looked to Gustave – his meaty hands balled into fists ready to explode at the first face in his line of sight. Instead, he merely hissed his anger and bellowed at them all to ready themselves to depart, bundling himself into the carriage and snapping at Fran to follow.
The once bullish Wolfrick now mounted his horse in guilty silence. Even he recognized the stupidity of his mistake. `Drawing his fucking sword at one of the chief diplomats of the Empire? Whilst under the protection of the King's own men? In the King's own palace? Idiot!' Fran followed his master into the coach and drew his coat tight as a sliver of cold crawled up his spine.
The Fiend.
WOLFRICK'S A LIABILITY, did it whisper to Fran. AND IT'S TIME TO DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT.
**********
· Thanks again for reading everybody! Stay tuned for more. 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).