“Cousin,” he said.
“I’m going back to Galle,” D’Eu said. “I’m sorry, cousin. These men are disgusting. I will not be linked to them. And there is word that…” He sighed. “There is word that the Wild is attacking Arelat. Even Galle.”
De Vrailly nodded. “I, too, have heard this. Bohemund and his people are full of it-because they have this foolish belief that there is no Wild but only the forces of Satan.” De Vrailly shrugged. “Perhaps they are correct.”
“I have lands in Arelat,” D’Eu said. “I am no good to you here, and I have knight service to perform at home. Please let me go.”
De Vrailly paced. “We are close, I think. When I have brought the Queen to trial-”
“An innocent woman,” D’Eu said flatly.
“And when the rest of my knights arrive-”
“A foreign army to cow the Harndoners,” D’Eu said.
“Cousin, my angel has told me-directly-that I must become King to save this realm.” Jean de Vrailly crossed his arms.
D’Eu came and embraced him. “You know I love you,” he said. “But I will not be party to this anymore. I wash my hands of it. I think you are wrong-you and your angel. And I say that, in your delusion, you have unsavoury allies and you ignore your own beliefs.”
De Vrailly’s nostrils flared. “Name one!” he said.
“You preach the Rule of War. But you forbade me to kill that poisonous viper de Rohan.” D’Eu all but spat. “The Rule of War was made for this-when I know in my heart a man is false as black pitch, I kill him. Yet you-you have forbidden me to kill him.”
De Vrailly ran his fingers through his beard and turned away in frustration. “I was surprised,” he said. “But-my angel has told me-”
“Your angel may be a devil!” D’Eu said.
De Vrailly put a hand on his sword.
They faced each other. “Go,” de Vrailly said.
D’Eu bowed deeply. “I will be gone on the first ship of spring, my lord cousin,” he said.
An hour later, Jean de Vrailly was on his knees before his magnificent triptych of Saint Michael, Saint George, and Saint Maurice. He was in his full harness, and the lames around the kneecaps cut into his knees, even though he wore padded hose-bit into them savagely.
He mastered the pain, and remained kneeling.
And he prayed.
His cousin’s stinging words had hurt him. The more so as, in the privacy of his own chamber, he had doubts-severe doubts.
So he knelt, punishing himself for his doubt, and begging his angel for an appearance.
An hour passed, and then another. The pain in his knees was now such as to make it past the guards of his experience and his immunity to the minor pains of wearing his harness. Now he had to admit to a niggle of fear for his knees-how long could mere flesh stand to be tormented by steel?
And his hips-the weight of his mail, of his breast and back, ground into the top of his hips as if he was being pressed to death. If he was standing or riding, the straps on his shoulders would have distributed the weight.
A theologian would have told him that he was committing sin. That by forcing himself to the point of injury, he was testing his angel, and hence, God.
De Vrailly was untroubled by such thoughts.
And eventually, his angel came.
“Ah, my true knight,” the angel said, his voice like the bells of high mass and the trumpets of the King’s court, all together.
De Vrailly bowed his head. The angel was so bright.
“My child, you must want something,” the angel said sweetly.
De Vrailly’s head remained down.
“You have doubts,” the angel said, amused. “Even you.”
“My lord,” de Vrailly said.
“The Queen is most certainly a witch,” the angel said. “She uses the powers of darkness to entrap men.” The angel’s voice was the very essence of reason.
“My lord-”
“You, de Vrailly, must be King here. Only you.” The angel spoke the words softly, but with great force.
De Vrailly sighed. “I like the King.” He shook his head. “And I am not sure that the Queen…”
The angel smiled. “Your conscience does you credit, good knight. And de Rohan surely rivals Judas as a scheming betrayer.”
De Vrailly’s head shot up. “Yes! To think that work was one of mine-”
“The King of Kings must use the tools that come into his hand,” the angel said. “Even de Rohan.”
De Vrailly sighed. “As always, Puissant Lord, you put my mind at rest.” De Vrailly paused. “But I loathe de Rohan.”
The angel nodded. “So does God. Imagine how He felt about Judas.”
The angel put an insubstantial hand on de Vrailly’s head, and his power flowed through that hand and over de Vrailly, so that for a moment he was suffused in rich, golden light. “You will have much sorrow in the coming days,” the angel said. “This is no easy task I have set you. Beware the snares. When the King is gone-”
“Where will he go?” de Vrailly asked.
“When the King is gone to death, then you will know what to do,” the angel said.
The appearance of an Ifriquy’an in the yard was made even more exotic by his being with Ser Ricar and the beautiful Blanche, whose tall, wide-shouldered good looks were admired-from afar-by every apprentice at Master Pye’s. More boys had been injured swashbuckling to win her attention than any other girl’s in the square.
Edmund, who had charge of the yard for most purposes these days, had the gates opened to admit them and never gave it a thought. Ser Ricar had saved almost every one of them from the increasingly violent attacks of the King’s enemies. His sister Mary had been attacked, knocked down, and kicked-and then saved by Ser Ricar. Nancy had been forced to decline service in the palace-the dream of her youth-because their mother would not allow her to walk unaccompanied through the increasingly dangerous streets.
There was a rumour that Jack Drake was back.
Spring was bringing more ills than reliefs, except for frozen young men whose numb fingers caused accidents during the winter. And as the tournament was coming apace, the yard was overflowing with work.
Blanche was taken into Master Pye’s house, where his wife put her in a small room with its own fire and waited on her as if she was the Queen in person.
In the kitchen, Ser Ricar drank mulled ale against the cold rain.
The black man drank only water.
Up close, Edmund found him handsome in a disconcerting and alien way. His features were regular, his eyes large and well spaced and deeply intelligent.
Nor did he appear to be under a vow of silence. At the table, when he broke bread, he inclined his head and spoke-some foreign words that sounded like a prayer.
Master Pye came in with his spectacles dangling around his neck. He glanced at the black man as if he saw such in his wife’s kitchen every day and poured himself a cup of the warmed ale.
“Aethiope?” he asked the black man.
The man rose and bowed, his hands together as if praying. “Dar as Salaam,” he replied.
Master Pye nodded. “Allah Ak’bhar,” he said.
The infidel nodded.
“You speak the pagan tongue?” Edmund asked his master.
“Pagan? Not so fast, young Edmund. Heretical, perhaps.” He shrugged. “Dar as Salaam-the greatest city in the world.” He smiled. “Fine swords.” He shrugged. “Not really the best armourers.”
“You went there?” Edmund asked.
Master Pye frowned. “I was on a ship in the harbour eight days, wind bound. Went ashore and didn’t get made a slave.” He shrugged. “When I was young and foolish.”
The black man had a habit of sitting perfectly still.
“This man is someone important. What happened?” Master Pye was in a hurry.
Edmund shook his head. “Ser Ricar was there.”
The Order knight shook his head. He wrote on a wax tablet and Master Pye looked at it.