Gaston was waiting patiently while a squire fixed the buckle on his visor. ‘It appears to me that he’s defying you and the King right now. That’s his standard – and there are his knights.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘Quite a few more knights than we have.’
De Vrailly laughed. ‘I will defeat him easily – first, because his array is weak and his men fear to be taken as rebels, and second because I am a better knight.’
Gaston sighed and bent his head while Forwin buckled his visor. ‘As you say, cousin. Has your angel spoken to you?’
‘Yes. He told me I will soon be king,’ De Vrailly said. ‘And to summon my cousin Guillaulme to become Bishop of Lorica.’
‘The angel chose your cousin?’ Gaston knew Guillaulme for a difficult man, one in whom piety had replaced both common sense and common compassion.
De Vrailly held up a gauntleted hand. ‘I have told you before, cousin – to doubt my angel is blasphemy. This realm needs my cousin, so that they may be cured of their heresies and their tendency to accept things that should not be accepted.’
Gaston didn’t answer – merely closed his visor and leaned forward in the saddle to allow his squire to buckle it shut.
De Vrailly rode forward to his standard.
De Vrailly was not so contemptuous of infantry as he appeared, and he’d put the Royal Guard in the centre, flanked by Royal Foresters on each side – about sixty archers on either flank. Towbray had about three hundred knights and men-at-arms, and another two hundred footmen, most of whom were merely servants. Of course, all his archers had already served throughout the spring, in the north – and they were gathering in their harvests, or protecting them against de Vrailly’s raiders.
De Vrailly raised his lance and rode forward, and his knights followed him willingly. His standard bearer, Pierre Abelard de Rohan, shouted the Gallish war cry. All the Gallish knights took it up, shouting, ‘Saint Denis!’ at the Jarsayans, and Towbray’s knights charged.
If the Earl of Towbray had expected a chivalrous encounter, he was wrong. He was the first man to discover how wrong he was when his horse tumbled into a small pit that one of the archers had dug and its guts were ripped out on a stake. In a few heartbeats, the ‘battle’ was over, and the Earl’s surviving knights were riding for home. His footmen, such as they were, cowered in their camp or broke and ran.
De Vrailly took the Earl himself, dismounting and knocking the stunned traitor unconscious with his heavy war sword before leading his knights in hunting the footmen through the camp and into the dales beyond. They killed or captured every man they could catch, burned the crops, and took their prisoners back to their own camp.
De Vrailly had the Earl put in chains, in a wagon.
Gaston d’Eu found him standing on a low bluff, looking out over the burning fields and small hamlets of Jarsay.
‘You have to take him to the King,’ d’Eu said.
De Vrailly pursed his lips. ‘Why, when I can punish his serfs all autumn?’
Gaston sighed. ‘These people are innocent of anything but having a bad lord. And they are the King’s subjects. If your angel speaks you true – hear me, cousin, and don’t interrupt – they will soon be your people.’
De Vrailly motioned out at the fields of fire and smoke stretching off into the sunset. ‘But – is this not beautiful?’ He smiled. ‘Our knights are flush with victory and richer with the loot of this traitor’s lands. He’ll pay a huge ransom – and it’s all mine. The King can collect his taxes from the man while he is my captive.’
Gaston shook his head. ‘All those payments will be extracted from these rich valleys – where your men have killed the men, raped the women and burned the crops. So who will pay this ransom? The crows?’
De Vrailly waved his hand in dismissal. ‘You have grown soft here in Alba. This is what war is. We are servants of war. If you do not like it, strip off your spurs and become a monk.’
Gaston shook his head. ‘Take Towbray to the King. Immediately, before it gets worse.’
‘Ahh!’ De Vrailly rubbed his beard. ‘But- No. I could simply kill him. I can take his lands and make them my own.’
‘That’s not how Alba works,’ Gaston said. ‘And he has a son.’
‘Bah.’ De Vrailly laughed. ‘He’s no threat at all. A boy playing at being a knight.’ De Vrailly shook his head. ‘You really think that the King will not take my part in this?’ he asked.
‘I think he could argue you made the traitor revolt when you killed his nephew in an illegal duel.’ Gaston shrugged. ‘Eh?’
De Vrailly spat. ‘You ruin everything,’ he said. ‘And I was so happy. I cannot understand this place. Everywhere, their rule of law means the strong must give way to the weak. I hate it.’
Gaston shrugged. And, wisely, said nothing.
Harndon – The King and Queen
‘He did what?’ roared the King. He stared balefully at the messenger, who stood woodenly before him.
The captain of the Royal Guard – and the old King’s by-blow – Sir Richard Fitzroy, raised his eyebrow at Gareth Montroy, widely known as the Count of the Borders, who cleared his throat.
‘The Captal can be precipitate,’ the Count said quietly.
‘He fought a battle with Towbray and captured him,’ the King said, reading the letter. ‘By Christ’s passion, he burned a swathe through Towbray’s lands – my lands!’ The King looked at his new constable, the Count. ‘He says he will set Towbray’s ransom at three hundred thousand silver leopards.’
The Count struggled to maintain a straight face. ‘There’s not that much coin in the world,’ he said.
Sir Richard made a face. ‘That’s roughly the value of Towbray’s entire demesne. I have no love for the Gallish thug, but Towbray’s been a burr under Your Grace’s saddle throughout your reign. That’s why you sent de Vrailly to deal with him.’
The King paused and pulled on his beard.
The Count shook his head in disagreement. ‘Your Grace, I believe that the Earl is a dangerous man and as changeable as a weathercock. He served you well this spring, but your other peers would not take kindly to seeing this foreigner displace one of our oldest families.’ He looked at the captain of the bodyguard. ‘I could see us being well rid of Towbray.’
Ser Richard shrugged. ‘I’d like to have seen Towbray’s face when he found himself a captive of yon loon. But Your Grace has to consider sending him back to Galle for this. The commons openly say he’s a spy for the King of Galle.’ He glanced around the room. ‘And my lord, if we attaint Towbray, the other lords will be very afraid. Scared men make foolish choices. And they are already scared of de Vrailly and his Galles.’ Ser Richard looked at the King and shrugged, as if to say that this wasn’t his fault. ‘And Your Grace appointed him to choose the next Bishop of Lorica,’ he said. ‘He has chosen his cousin – a member of the University of Lutece. A priest famous for his harsh interpretation of God’s word.’
‘Did I ask for your opinions?’ said the King, eyes afire. ‘Did I ask you-’ He paused. The Queen was coming into the room, and he rose and bowed.
She had two of her ladies with her, Lady Rebecca Almspend, her secretary, in a deep blue overgown with midnight-blue stockings that she rather daringly showed through a slit of her gown, and Lady Mary Montroy, the richest heiress in the realm and the Queen’s chief maid, who wore a gown of red and black check pinned with a golden dragon – her gown revealed one red leg and one black leg, and contrasting slippers. As she had black brows and deep red hair, the contrast was maintained over her entire body – a body worthy of review.
The three women curtsied, and the men bowed.
The Count smiled at his daughter. ‘You may be the first woman to grace this court in a Northern tartan.’ Even the King smiled.
The King leaned forward. ‘By God, though, Montroy. I thought the Muriens colours were green and gold?’
They all laughed, and the Queen leaned forward, a hand on her chest, and said, ‘My lord must know that the Northerners have an ancient style – a set of colours that is a badge and a vaunt all at once.’