“Fetch the captain of the King’s Guard,” de Rohan snapped.
L’Isle d’Adam shook his head again. “Fitzroy is in the north, fighting the Wild,” he said.
“Who is the Lieutenant of the Guard?” de Rohan asked.
“Montjoy’s son, Ser Guiscard,” l’Isle d’Adam said slowly. “Of course, with the arrest of his father-”
“Bon Dieu! Do you mean to say that the officer in charge of the King’s household is Gareth Montjoy’s son?” De Rohan had never troubled to learn the intricacies of the court-he’d become master of it so quickly he hadn’t needed to.
“I fear so,” l’Isle d’Adam said.
“Ventre Saint Gris! You try me, l’Isle d’Adam! So that when I ordered that peasant Random and his trull to the dungeons…?”
“They never made it there,” said l’Isle d’Adam with some amusement. “Calm yourself, my lord.”
“Do you mean to tell me that he recruited all the new guards?” De Rohan put a hand to his chin. “Damn me. The two on duty in the dungeon-” He paused. “So the palace could be riddled with traitors.”
L’Isle d’Adam raised an eyebrow. “Pardon me, my lord, but I think that you are being too dramatic. He hired the sell-swords we sent him. Perhaps there are Queen’s men among them-a few.” He shrugged. “What of it? Two days past Easter, and we are done with all that.”
“Who commands the King’s Guard now?” de Rohan demanded. “Are there other officers?”
L’Isle d’Adam, in no way the other man’s social inferior, rolled his eyes. “How would I know? Do I look like a beef-eating Alban?” He shrugged. “Tell the King to appoint a new captain.”
“Fitzroy is his half-brother.” De Rohan shrugged.
“You got him to arrest his own wife,” l’Isle d’Adam said with some asperity.
“She is a witch and a murderess,” de Rohan said primly.
L’Isle d’Adam sneered. “Keep it for the commons,” he said. “Handsome piece like that-Christ, did you visit her alone?” He leered. “Did she ensorcel you? With her wiles?” He laughed coarsely.
De Rohan shook his head so hard spittle flew. “Leave me.”
The archbishop spent a bad night. Twice, crowds attacked his episcopal palace, and in the morning, six hundred men-at-arms had to march through the streets to rescue him. He went to the great cathedral and found it locked; he ordered it opened and found that every altar had been stripped and washed, and not a relic or chalice was to be seen.
In a fury, he went to the Royal Palace. After a stormy interview with the King, he said a private mass in the Royal Chapel-stung by the King’s assertion that in Alba, no mass was celebrated on Holy Saturday until the midnight of Easter. His mass was well-attended by some elements of court. Then he moved into new apartments, proclaiming that he could not trust his person in the streets.
Just after the bell rang for two o’clock, sentries on the wall called “Fire” and men ran to the walls to see.
The great episcopal palace was afire.
In an incredibly short time, the training and discipline of the Gallish knights was proven. Most of them were in full harness. Their war horses were saddled and ready, and they rode down into the town, a mighty armoured column. Even in the narrow streets of Waterside they were unstoppable, and no one tried.
The episcopal palace was surrounded by four wide streets. It sat alone above Cheapside, and now it burned, and threatened no other building. The knights dispersed a crowd by killing some looters and anyone else caught loitering near the fire, but their very violence discouraged any who might have helped them fight it.
So, like soldiers the world over, they sat on their horses and watched it burn, and made jokes about sending for sausages.
The whole situation might have been comic, but just before darkness fully descended, three of the squires at the end of the long line of armoured men saw a pretty young girl look winsomely around a corner. They followed her on horseback. The knights laughed to watch them go.
It was ten minutes before their knight found them-all three lying face up, with heavy arrows in their faces or throats. All had had their throats slit for good measure.
More was slit than just their throats.
The Galles exploded in rage.
Harndoners began to die.
An hour later, the archbishop sent Maître Gris to pin a scrap of parchment to the water gate.
Edmund, the journeyman, led six badly loaded wagons out of the city. They passed the gate at First Bridge, where two bored sell-swords in royal livery passed them with nothing more than a wink. On the wagons, or mounted on twenty horses and ponies, were the whole of Master Pye’s establishment; his best anvils, and his treasure. As well as half the pretty young maids of Southend-Edmund’s sisters and his Ann and both her parents. They were hardly alone. The road across the bridge was thick with people, all dressed as if for pilgrimage and carrying a few treasures, water bottles and food.
After a long and very loud fight with his wife, Master Pye had eschewed martyrdom and rode with them.
The only one of their people missing was Blanche. Ann said that she had gone to the Queen. Edmund thought her very brave, but he had other concerns. Like the guards at the gates.
The Royal Guards seemed to take no notice of them. They allowed thousands of people out through the gates, and then, an hour later, an officer came with horses, and they rode away with him, leaving the gates unguarded.
Easter Sunday dawned. Lord Mayor Ailwin Darkwood’s head adorned the great gate of the palace. Alongside it hung a dozen others of less repute, supporters of the city and the Queen-Diota’s head was there, as well, a warning to all the Queen’s loyal people.
Curiously, as his name was first on the execution list, Ser Gerald Random’s head was nowhere to be seen.
The archbishop, architect of the executions, celebrated high mass in the cathedral. His people had to supply every vessel and every vestment. The cannons had emptied the cathedral on Holy Saturday, and in the chaos of the burning of the episcopal palace, all of the riches of Saint Thomas had vanished. But whole neighbourhoods had burned. Some blamed the Jacks, others the Galles.
When he emerged from the first mass of Easter the sun was brilliant in the sky above him. It shone on the blood in the streets, and on the armour of the Occitan men-at-arms who were making camp beyond Southgate. Occitans and Galles had little to say to each other at the best of times. By noon there was a rumour that there had been a fight in the streets behind Southgate.
Suddenly, the streets were full of Galles and Royal Guardsmen. As on Good Friday, every square was occupied, and every tower manned.
The same sun shone like a torch through the high window of the Queen’s cell. It was the first direct sunlight, clear and golden, to touch her skin in four days. It was like a lover’s kiss-like a moment of salvation.
Her hair hung like the mane of a wild horse. She hadn’t changed her garments in three days, afraid that she might be attacked while changing-afraid that any complex physical activity would distract her from the fight in her head.
She had not eaten in two days, and the child within her protested by kicking and kicking. Her sides hurt-her back burned like fire. The new milk in her full breasts soaked against her shift and smelled. Her swollen breasts hurt her-too sensitive, too full. The weight of her belly was like that of a sinner’s chains in hell.
But the sun-the sun’s touch-was pure. And the guardsmen had preserved her hope, even if she did not understand why. And then on Saturday night, in the utter dark, Blanche had come-a girl she’d seldom noticed. Blanche had combed out her hair, and prayed with her.
Guardsmen had let her in, and then let her out.
On Easter morning, the oldest guard put a tray of bread and cheese on the floor and made a point of eating a nibble of each.