His mother sat up, her body barely concealed by a shift. “You always were an impetuous lout,” she said.
“The King has sent you a summons, ordering you to pay twenty years of back taxes. And threatening war if you don’t.” Gabriel leaned back and settled his right pauldron into a dent in the stone of the wall.
“The fool,” Ghause spat.
“In more ways than one, Mother. I’ve changed my mind. I’ll accept a bride, in exchange for your seal on this alliance.” He handed his mother the scroll. “How do you manage to stay so young?” he asked.
“Murdered virgin’s blood,” she said, her eyes on the document. “Powdered unicorn horn.” She looked up. “Poppycock. It’s just exercise, my dear, and good breeding, and a little sorcery.” Without any fuss, she slipped out of the bed and lit a taper by ops. She took sealing wax and affixed her personal seal. “You won’t regret this.”
“I suspect I will, Mother. But it occurred to me that I didn’t actually think a thousand lives were a fair trade for my connubial bliss. I reserve only your maid. I won’t marry her.” He smiled. “Though I might want her after I have my new bride in kindle.”
His mother smiled and then bit her lip. “You’re hiding something,” she said. “I know you.”
“I am,” he said. “But if we’re both lucky, you’ll never know what. I’m off for Harndon.” He bent, and quite formally kissed her hand.
She laughed. “You are being foolish, my boy. But I am glad to have you back at my side.”
He nodded. But in his new-found wisdom, he chose not to answer her.
The southbound convoy formed by the outer gates of the town. The Red Knight was leaving many of his best men and women behind, and taking only his household. Ser Michael rode at the head, carrying the new banner-the banner of Thrake, a golden eagle on a ground of dark red. Ser Phillipe de Beause, Ser Francis Atcourt and the young Etruscan, Angelo di Laternum, and Chris Foliak were resplendent even in the rain. Behind them came their squires and pages, and two wagons of baggage and harness, under Sadie Lantorn, whose career as a woman of the company was apparently unaffected by her sister’s marriage into the highest ranks of the gentry. Sukey had other duties for a few days.
As a rearguard, the Duke of Thrake had six Morean lances under Ser Christos-his first command in the company, although he had once been the strategos for the former duke. With him were five other magnates of Thrake, and if they objected to having to ride into the frigid delights of an Alban spring, they kept their views to themselves. Ser Alcaeus, who might have been expected to stay with his banda, was instead riding with them.
Out on the plain that stretched to the river, the Hillmen could be seen forming their flocks and herds and moving them across the water at Southford. The process had been going on for two days.
The Red Knight looked around for the one face he missed, and gave up. He drew his sword and flicked a salute at the gate guard, who returned it more formally, and Ser John, mounted on a pretty bay, came out and locked hands with the Red Knight.
“I’ll do my best,” Ser Gabriel said.
“I still can’t believe she agreed. What did she ask for?” Ser John asked.
Ser Gabriel smiled. “A life of chastity,” Ser Gabriel said. He left the older knight speechless and led his household and their baggage south, to the ford.
At the ford, he found the woman he’d missed. Sister Amicia sat on her little horse with her two attendants, Sisters Mary and Katherine.
“May we accompany you on the road?” she asked.
The Red Knight used his knees to press his riding horse close to hers. Her smile was brave. He hoped his was as good.
“You mean you wish to spend ten days on the road to Harndon with us?” he asked.
“I’ve been accused of heresy,” she said, her back straight and her head high. “I intend to meet it in person, and not cower here. I gather you have similar plans.”
He thought of various quips, but it had always been her courage he loved best. He bowed. “I’d be delighted to have your company, Sister.”
Horse by horse and wagon by wagon, the ferry took them across. In each ferry load, the weight was made up by sheep or cattle-enormous cattle with vicious horns. The lowing of the herds, the belches and farts, the sound of chewing, the hollow tread of their hooves, went on and on.
Bad Tom met the Red Knight on the south side. The road up from the ferry to the high bank was solid mud, and the younger nun’s palfrey almost lost its rider going up.
“You brought her,” Tom said with real approval.
“It’s not what you think,” Ser Gabriel said.
Bad Tom laughed. “Sometimes I think you’re the smartest loon I’ve ever known,” Tom said. “And other times the greatest fool.”
Amicia rode up in the last sentence. She laughed.
Ser Gabriel laughed. “Ten days on the road with you lot?” He smiled. “Let’s go to Harndon,” he said.
Two hundred leagues to the north, Thorn stood in his place of power, staff in left hand, but this time he cast no power. He was in his new form of stone and wood, tall and impregnable. He held the results of a year of breeding a careful, dreadful nurture.
At a distance, his right arm would have seemed to be sheathed in fur. Closer examination would indicate a dozen giant purple-black moths, each as big as a heavy bird of prey.
He reached through the aethereal until he made contact with the aura of power that was his Dark Sun. He showed the aura to his moths, and he flung his arm up, like a falconer sending his bird after prey.
And they flew.
Chapter Three
Harndon-The Queen
Spring was a season made for joys, but Desiderata had few enough of them. She sat in her solar with Diota brushing her hair.
“Never you fuss, lass,” Diota prattled. “Soon enough he’ll come back to his duty.”
“Duty?” Desiderata asked.
“Don’t snap at me, you minx,” Diota said. “You know what I mean.”
“You mean, when I’ve had my baby, my body will be desirable again, and my lover will return?” the queen asked, mildly enough. “You mean that this is the role of women, and I should abide it?”
“If you must,” Diota said. “That’s men.”
“He is the king,” Desiderata said.
“He’s ill-advised,” Diota said, patiently. “That Rohan all but pushed the red-headed vixen into the king’s arms. The chit never had a chance.”
“I agree that she’s little to blame,” Desiderata said. She enjoyed the kiss of the sun on her bare shoulders and her hair, and listened to the sounds her baby made-increasingly strident and yet beloved sounds.
She was contemplating her unborn child when a bell rang and the outer door opened.
“Fuss, it’s the witch,” Diota spat, and moved protectively to her mistress’s other side.
Outside, a young woman said, “And where is the royal lady this morning?” in a Jarsay accent.
Lady Genevieve was the plainest-and eldest-of the queen’s ladies, a good ten years older than the queen. She wore a cross big enough to hang on a wall and her dress was plain to the point of being frumpish. She wore dark colours and sometimes even wore a wimple, although today she wore her hair in an Alban fashion-each plait was wound in the shape of a turret, making her head look like a fortress gate, which the queen found particularly apt.
“Welcome, Lady Genevieve,” the queen said.
“All this hair brushing is mere vanity,” Lady Genevieve said. She sat without asking permission. “I have brought you some religious instruction.” She looked at Diota. “You may go.”
The queen frowned. “My lady, it is for me to welcome or dismiss my servants. Of whom you yourself are one. I have never been much for formality, but you may stand until I ask you to sit.”