Mistress Anne nodded. “And you have a licence? From the church?” she asked in a low voice.
The King’s face was bright red. “What licence do I need, sirrah?” His voice implied that she was a fool.
Mistress Anne curtsied. “Saving your grace’s pardon,” she said. “My husband is a clerk.”
The King looked at the Archbishop of Lorica.
He glanced at his secretary. The man writhed a moment. And then whispered in his master’s ear.
“This council is dismissed,” the archbishop said after a long look from the King.
Strong hands gripped Random’s arms. He didn’t struggle-he knew he’d failed. Even if they didn’t send him to fight for the Queen.
“Your grace!” he called. “These men are trying to bring down your kingdom!”
“Silence!” shouted de Rohan. “Your audience is at an end.”
“They lie, your grace!” Random shouted. He had a loud voice. “A fabric of lies. They have sent all your good men from court and now they ride you like a horse!”
By his left side, one of de Rohan’s men said to the guardsmen, “Take them somewhere they can enjoy his grace’s hospitality.”
“We are here under your grace’s safe conduct!” Random bellowed. But the King had left the chamber, and de Rohan stood by the throne.
“Enjoy the next few hours,” de Rohan said with an easy smile. “They are my gift to you.”
Hard hands dragged Random and Mistress Anne from the chamber, and down the first steps-past the laundry, and towards the dungeons.
The archbishop’s secretary was always on a tight schedule, and he left the palace late, wearing a plain brown robe like a mendicant friar, and went down into the town with two of his master’s guards.
Outside the gate was a large crowd of Harndoners.
“Master,” whined one of his guards. “We can’t go out in that. They’ll rip us apart.”
The learned doctor looked from one scared face to another. Since he knew-few better-what excesses these men were capable of, he was always surprised at the extremity of their cowardice.
Nor was Maître Gris without resources of his own. He puffed out his cheeks. “Very well,” he said. “You may bravely guard the palace. I’ll go have a cup of wine.” He shoved one of them in the chest.
The man, startled, backed up. “What the hell!”
“Now knock me down,” Maître Gris said. “And then go back inside.”
The man gave him a gap-toothed grin that lacked any pleasure-and hit him quite hard.
Maître Gris lay on the cobbles until the throbbing subsided, and picked himself up. An old woman-a crone, really-used her cane to help him up, and he blessed her automatically.
“God’s curse on them Galles,” she said.
Maître Gris joined the crowd. He moved with it for a while, gathering comments that his master might use, and then slipped away into the city.
The Angel Inn sat behind Sail Maker’s Lane in Waterside, just a few big buildings away from the Oar House. The inn was a fortress in miniature, with four linked buildings around a central court; balconied and walled in wood facing inward. In high summer, troops of players, minstrels, vagabonds, troubadours, mimes and acrobats would perform in the courtyard, and the inn, despite the unsavoury reputation of the neighborhood, had a fine reputation for food and for drink. Sailors and their officers frequented the place, and so did soldiers.
Maître Gris was the only monk. But he had nowhere to change into another disguise, nor were itinerant friars so very rare in taverns. He sat at a common table for a while, listening.
Buildings had been burned in the neighbourhood. The local men were outraged, and Maître Gris knew in half an hour that his life would be forfeit if they knew he was a Galle. He began to regret coming; their hatred was so inveterate that it sickened him, and he had to listen to an endless litany of hate.
He was a thoughtful man. He considered the hate that his master was brewing. The wine was terrible, the beer excellent.
“Are you by any chance looking to hire a scribe?” said a man.
He was tall, had grey-brown hair and wore a good green wool pourpoint and a brown and green cloak. He wore an elegant black wool hood trimmed in miniver and he threw it back as he sat.
He was not at all what Maître Gris had expected. He did not have missing teeth, nor scars, nor a squint.
“You are…?” Maître Gris began.
The man also wore a fine black-hilted baselard long enough to serve as a sword. “At liberty,” he said pleasantly.
With the Oar House so close, the Angel did not run to slatterns or whores, and the man who waited on them was short, pudgy, and might have been cheerful if he had not just lost his older brother to the Galles.
“Yer foreign,” he spat accusingly at the well-dressed newcomer.
“I am from the Empire,” said the man. He bowed.
“Not a fuckin’ Galle?” the boy said.
The newcomer’s pronunciation and accent could not be hidden. “No,” he said pleasantly. “I am from the Empire.”
The serving boy jutted his jaw. “Say somethin’ in Archaic.”
The man spread his hands. “Kyrie Eleison,” he said. “Christos Aneste.”
The boy made a face. “Right enough, I suppose. What can I fetch you, Master?”
“Dark ale,” said the man in the fur-trimmed hood. He looked across the table. When the potboy was gone, he said, “You are very brave, or very stupid. Or just desperate.”
Maître Gris frowned. “I understand that you are available,” he said.
The man in the black hood bowed his head in assent.
“My master,” Maître Gris said.
“The Archbishop of Lorica,” said the other man.
The friar rose. “I do not think…” he said.
The other man waved at him. “You want to hire an intelligencer,” he said. “Please-I only meant to offer you my bona fides. What kind of man would I be if I did not know who you were?”
Maître Gris regarded the man. “As a foreigner, you will not know any more than I know, here.” He leaned forward. “What is your name?”
The imperial shook his head. “Names will not help anyone here. In a few days-a week-given some money, I can have a network of informers who can supply almost anything.” He shrugged. “It is a craft, like any other. Some men work gold. I work people.”
The ale arrived. The imperial took a deep draught of his and smiled. “That’s a fine ale,” he said.
“You cannot expect me to hand you money and trust you to do your work,” Maître Gris said.
The other man gave a lopsided smile. “And yet, everything would proceed so much better if you did,” he said. “Mistrust is inefficient.”
Maître Gris shook his head. “I want information about Lady Rebecca Almspend,” he said. “She has disappeared.”
The man opposite him pursed his lips. “I have heard that name,” he admitted. “She was sent into voluntary exile, was she not?”
Maître Gris nodded. “Good, I’m glad you know of her. Find her, and we will talk about money and networks of informers.”
He rose. The other man took another sip of his ale and shook his head. “No,” he said.
“What, no?” the friar asked.
“I’m sorry, but I do not work for free. Ever. I’m quite well known, in my way. I do not work for employers who distrust me, and I do not work for free.” The other man shrugged. “I will not wander the city looking for a missing noblewoman. That would be very dangerous, just now. I work through others, and that costs money.”
Maître Gris was shocked. “And how do I know you would act properly?”
The other man shrugged. “How do you know that a servant will light your fires every morning? Or fetch a chalice when you want to say mass? You see, I assume that you are a cleric of some sort. What possible benefit would I accrue by taking your money and running?” He shrugged. “The sum isn’t big enough for me to steal,” he said.