Men and women who came to the company without surnames – few runaway peasants had one – tended to adopt names that occurred early in the alphabet. Brown was a remarkably popular name, as was Able.
However, the parade also encompassed Akritos, Giorgos, and Arundson, Erik.
Ser Francis Atcourt was the first knight to collect, and conversations stopped as his wages were read out.
Ser Thomas read: ‘Atcourt, man-at-arms: three hundred and sixteen florins, no leopards, no sequins, stoppages none, sixteen leopards, six sequins hospital, extra four leopards, four sequins, hard lying extra, thirty-one florins dead warhorse, totaclass="underline" three hundred forty-seven florins, twelve leopards, two sequins.’
Men sighed to hear how much a man-at-arms could earn. It seemed like nothing when your blood ran over the surface of your skin on a cold spring morning, facing a Wyvern with nothing but a bit of steel between you and the monster’s teeth, but on a fine autumn morning in the courtyard of a magnificent palace, it seemed a fortune. All a man could ever want.
‘And one share,’ the Megas Ducas added.
‘Put it on my account,’ said Ser Francis, who was sitting at the table, and the men laughed.
From Atcourt it took almost an hour to reach Cantakuzenos. But after Dukas, the process moved faster – there were fewer mercenaries after D, and the Nordikans and the Scholae had got the rhythm of the thing so that if a man was ready, he could march up while his account was read, sweep the silver and gold into his hat, and walk back as the next lucky fellow pushed forward. A few awkward sods came out of each regiment – men disposed to debate the fine points of what was withheld for medicine, or what had been awarded as punishment – but in general, they went forward with almost three hundred men an hour.
Among the company, the pay parade was an opportunity for practical jokes and levity – wives would press forward to collect a husband’s pay, and then again to collect their own, for example, and a man unlucky enough to be absent – Daniel Favour was not present when his name was called – was helped by mates who shouted, ‘’E wants it all given to the poor!’
Shortly after, Gelfred, the Hunt Master and an officer of the company – highly paid and thus always good for entertainment – was also absent.
Wilful Murder, who had a real name and had already collected his pay, grinned at his nearest neighbour. ‘None o’ they scouts is on parade,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t all wrong yester e’en. Someone’s gonna cop it.’
At Hannaford the parade paused, and every man and woman present was served a fine cup of malmsey wine, heavy and sweet, by troops of Ordinaries with trays. The Megas Ducas jumped up on the table and raised his cup – everyone in the courtyard including the visiting students raised theirs, and the Megas Ducas shouted, ‘To the Emperor!’
Twelve hundred voices echoed his shout.
The Imperial servants cleared away the cups – red clay with Imperial wreathes of olive leaves – and the parade recommenced at Hand, Arthur, mounted archer, and carried straight through to Zyragonas, Dmitrios, stradiotes. The sun was setting, the air was chilly, and the courtyard was packed with deeply satisfied soldiers.
In keeping with an established tradition, Dmitrios Zyragonas – a pleasant-looking man with ruddy cheeks, bright red hair and the last name on the whole parade – was greeted as he left the parade by the company’s oldest camp follower, Old Tam, with every available child gathered about her. She put her arms around him before he even thought to resist, being a well-born Morean and unused to what passed for humour in Alba, he was unready when she put a hand in his pocket and equally unready when she began to kiss him, while forty children shouted and called him ‘Papa’ and ‘Daddy’ and demanded money.
‘There’s my honey,’ croaked Old Tam. She was smiling as broadly as an escaped lunatic and licking her lips. ‘So young!’ she cackled. ‘I only want yer better part, love!’
The Scholae, among whom Zyragonas was a staid and upright figure – were laughing themselves silly as the poor man tried to escape the harridan and the children, many of whom played their parts with touches of realism that might have chilled a less hardened crowd.
Zyragonas fled as soon as he was free of their outstretched hands – ran back into the ranks of his comrades like a one-man rout – and then had to endure the laughter as Old Tam raised high his purse, neatly cut off his belt.
‘I have yer best part, love!’ she yelled.
There were plenty of linguists to translate the jest into Nordikan and Morean.
But then, when everyone had laughed long, the Megas Ducas rose from his chair, and the old woman turned, curtsied, and handed over the blushing man’s purse, and the Megas Ducas restored it to its rightful owner who couldn’t meet anyone’s eyes.
‘Gentlemen and ladies – benches, wine, and food. Many hands make light work – let the wedding begin.’ He clapped his hands, and everyone ran for their task – assigned at the morning parade.
Bent reappeared from the kitchens, where he and four men and four of Gelfred’s dogs had sampled the malmsey and most of the food. Now they went into the towers around the yard, taking an early dinner and a cup of wine to the Vardariotes who were on duty so that the other soldiers could drink.
Tables appeared, and long, low benches, and a line of men went through the yard like dancers, putting beeswax candles in tall bronze sticks on every table. Men looked at the sky – darkness was coming with heavy grey clouds.
The princess’s confessor came through the Outer Yard in full ecclesiastical regalia. The Scholae murmured. As the first cups and plates began to accrete on the tables, they heard the Officer of the Day shout his challenge, and after the reply the outer gate opened.
The Moreans in the yard froze.
All of them fell to one knee.
The Megas Ducas walked out into the Outer Court, and Bent whispered in his ear – and he hissed an order and fell to his knees – in his best hose, on cobbles. Most of the company didn’t need the whispered order – they could see Ser Michael on his knees in his wedding clothes, and Ser Thomas too, in his magnificent quilted hose.
The Patriarch walked into the yard at the head of twenty professors of the Academy and another ten priests and bishops.
He beamed at the soldiers, and walked among them, bestowing blessings in all directions. He placed his hand on Ser Thomas’s bowed black head – his chin went up as if he’d received a shock, and then he smiled like a man who has won a great prize, and the Patriarch passed to the next man. He blessed Ser Alison and, eventually, he came to the Megas Ducas, placed his hand gently on his head, and nodded.
No lightning struck.
The Megas Ducas kissed his ring.
Very low, he said, ‘I hope Your Holiness is here for the wedding?’
The Patriarch’s eyes twinkled. ‘You mean I’m too late to get paid?’ he asked.
After that, there was nothing that could have made Kaitlin’s wedding any less than a great feast. She herself – when she appeared – looked sufficiently magnificent to quell the rumour among the Moreans that she was a low-born farm girl. It was obvious that she was a duchess. She and Despoina Helena vanished together and as preparations were made their giggles and snorts of laughter could be heard peeling out of the Scholae guardroom, which had temporarily been co-opted as the bridal chambers.
Ser Michael – most everyone knew he was the Earl of Towbray’s eldest son – walked like an earl. It was possible, watching him, to see the Red Knight and the King in his back and his legs, in the way his right hand rested on his dagger, in the arrogance of his jaw – or in the delight of his eyes when he took back his bride’s veil of seven yards of Hoek lace. Ser Giorgios was less showy, but had the dignity that most Moreans seemed to carry, and he smiled at everyone who caught his eye. And at his bride, who didn’t seem to mind that her beautiful gown of golden satin and seed pearls had been upstaged.