‘Grain for farmer’s market,’ the driver said. ‘Hey, you for the old Duke or the new Duke?’
‘Why don’t you shut your trap and we’ll just see your grain,’ Short Tooth said. He had worked his way to the rear of the tall wagon and he carefully cocked his own crossbow. It was a very expensive weapon – another steel latchet.
The man on the wagon box saw it.
Favour jumped down into the road and ran lightly along the surface in his rackets.
Short Tooth spared him a glance and waited for him.
‘There’s another one!’ shouted the man on the wagon box, and everything went to shit.
The back of the wagon seemed to lift off, and Short Tooth shot a man on instinct. His bolt vanished into the man’s coat-of-plates and blood splashed the snow.
Behind him, another man spanned a crossbow, but the bow itself was yew and he hadn’t warmed it so it cracked. Favour’s spearshaft caught him alongside the head.
The driver fell face first into the snow with Starling’s arrow in the back of his neck. Blood poured out of him, and he thrashed, leaving an obscene snow angel in red agony.
But there were more men in the wagon body, and Favour caught a shaft – right through his abdomen. The pain doubled him up and he fell, the snow cold against his face, and there was a cold wetness ruining his cote.
Gelfred worked – the air grew warm, there was a flash above his head, and then the men on the bluff began to pour shafts down into the wagon bed. Favour knew he was hurt badly, but he was still fully aware – he could hear Short Tooth, the man’s latchet clicking away as he pulled the cocking handle back against the weight of the steel bow and then slapped it forward.
The man was under the wagon, loosing his quarrels up into the wagon bed. And the canvas roof of the wagon provided no cover to the men inside. Blood began to drip out from between the boards.
‘Surrender,’ Gelfred called. ‘Or we will surely slay you all.’
Favour heard the men in the wagon, and heard the sound of someone throwing something heavy in the snow.
Gelfred was at his side in a dozen heartbeats. ‘Stay with me, boy. It’s Christmas. No one dies on Christmas. Everyone lives.’
Favour coughed, and blood came out.
Suddenly, everything seemed further away.
‘Right – clear them out of the wagon. Disarm all of them. Get young Daniel in the wagon. Starling, come with us. Keep him warm. Hob – you take the post.’
Then Gelfred leaned over him and passed his hands across Favour’s eyes, and that was all-
Gelfred turned to the wounded prisoner. ‘I’m in a hurry. I won’t make threats.’
The man was an Easterner, and he shrugged.
‘He won’t talk, even if we cut his fingers off,’ Starling said. ‘This one will.’
The young Thrakian whom Favour had bashed with his spear shaft held his head and retched.
The other rangers took the rest of the Thrakians away, leaving Gelfred and Starling, Wha’Hae and the Thrakian boy.
‘Just tell me,’ Gelfred said.
The boy looked at him. His pupils were enormous.
‘He can suck the soul out of your body,’ Starling said. It might have been a terrifying threat, except that the boy spoke only Morean Archaic and no Alban at all.
Gelfred leaned over. ‘You’re only six miles from the city in the worst weather in ten years. And you’re coming out of the hills with a guard of Easterners.’
The boy put his head in his hands.
‘Do you serve Duke Andronicus?’ Gelfred asked gently.
‘Yes,’ the boy answered, and was undone.
In a moment, he poured his fears out, while Starling watched in contempt.
Finally, Gelfred motioned for Wha’Hae to take the young man to the other prisoners.
‘The Duke will want to meet all of them,’ he said. ‘Leave Amy’s Hob and Wha’Hae and Short Tooth here. Watch the road and forget the hillside. The rest of you get to sleep warm tonight. Horses!’
There was a cheer, and in a handful of minutes, they were off.
‘Bring us back something nice,’ Amy’s Hob said. ‘It being Christmas.’
‘We’ll settle for the boy’s life,’ Wha’Hae said. ‘And some ale.’
Chapter Fifteen
Harndon – Christmas Court
The Queen loved Christmas above all things, and she decorated the Great Hall of the palace the way her mother had decorated her childhood hall – with wreaths of ivy and balls of mistletoe. She visited jewellers and tailors and made herself as busy as she might to keep away her darker thoughts.
‘You’ll hurt your bairn,’ Diota said. ‘You’ve no business keeping yon secret from the King.’
The Queen shrugged. ‘I am my own mistress, I think,’ she said with some of her old spirit, but in truth, the daily sickness and the bloated feeling sapped her interest in sparring with her nurse. And her temper was sharp – sharper than usual. Weary anger was the mood of her Advent, and she resented this wicked intrusion on her life.
‘Baby is his business, too,’ Diota said. ‘And with the wicked lies I hear told every day in these halls, I would think you’d want to tell him he’s going to be a papa.’
‘There are things I want to know first,’ Desiderata said.
‘Beware lest the King want to know some things as well,’ Diota rumbled.
‘Nurse, are you – what-’ Desiderata spluttered.
Diota gave her a quick hug. ‘I ain’t impugning your bairn’s paternity, if that’s what you mean. I’m saying: just tell him.’
So a few days before Christmas Eve, after they shared a loving cup and he kissed her under the ball of mistletoe, she led him away to their bed, snug amidst a veritable castle of tapestries and warming pans.
The King moved quickly along his usual course of events and she laughed into his beard and slowed his rush to conclusion and finally forced his hand onto her belly.
‘Listen, love. There’s something stirring in there,’ she said.
‘Dinner?’ he asked with a low laugh.
‘A baby,’ she said.
His hand stiffened. ‘Are you – sure?’
She laughed. ‘I know what a milkmaid knows – and a little more. He’s a boy. He’ll be born in June.’
The King breathed silently by her in the darkness.
‘Say something, love,’ Desiderata said.
‘I cannot make a child,’ he said grimly. He rolled away from her.
She caught at his hip. ‘Yes, you can. And did.’
‘Madam, I am not a fool,’ he spat.
‘My lord, that court is still out. For I have never lain with any man but you.’
‘No?’ he asked.
‘Do you question me?’ she asked, and felt the root of her being and the foundation of her love melt like wax in a fire.
He sat up. ‘We should not have this conversation. Not now,’ he said carefully.
She sat up beside him. She found a taper, leaning across him so that, quite deliberately, her breasts trailed across his chest. She conjured the taper to light and set it in a small stick so that she could see his eyes.
He looked like a wounded animal.
Tears welled up, but she fought them, because something told her that she would only have this one chance to convince him they had a child before he would armour himself away – the bluff King, untouchable.
‘Love, look at my tummy. This is me. I would never lie with another – nor would I quicken unless I chose to.’ She leaned close. ‘Think of who I am. What I am.’
‘I cannot make a child. I am – cursed.’ He sobbed the last word.
She put a hand on his chest and he didn’t resist. ‘Sweet, I have power. I am as God made me. And I think – I think that I have overcome your curse.’ She smiled. ‘With God’s help, and the novice’s.’
‘Not my curse!’ he groaned.
‘Whose, then?’ she asked.
He shook his head and would not meet her eyes.