The King smiled. ‘Any man who has hunted a bear in the Adnacrags knows about tartan, my dear. And Becca – we are all informal today, I find – you are dazzling. Which, if I may, is not how I am used to see you.’
‘Fie, Your Grace! And yet my stockings remain blue.’ She said this with a fetching lift of her hem to show her ankles and a hint of dancer’s legs. The comment was so at odds with her usually severe demeanour, downcast eyes, and profusion of stylus ends and wax tablets that the King snorted and Sir Richard, who had been quite enamoured of the secretary from time to time, felt his former feeling rush back.
The Queen smiled. ‘Having a worthy lover maketh a woman bloom like a rose in summer – isn’t that what the poem says?’
The Count, a simple man with simple tastes and a devoted wife, nonetheless found his throat a bit tight and his face flushed. Ser Richard caught himself leering like a gowp and shut his mouth. The King beamed at his wife with adoration. ‘That might be the highest compliment you’ve ever paid me,’ he said, voice husky.
Her lips brushed his. ‘How clever of you to see that,’ she said. ‘The three of us are on our way to the library, but it appears that we require Your Grace’s permission to open your father’s letters.’
‘By Saint Martin’s cloak!’ said the King. ‘Whatever for? Be my guest. Here – Becca, write it out for me and I’ll seal it.’
‘Your Grace,’ said Lady Almspend, and she produced, not her usual horn inkwell, but instead a young page clad in livery, who had a heavy leather bag on his shoulder. He knelt and offered her a lap desk. She received a nod from the King permitting her to sit – it was an informal day and place and not high court – and she perched on a chair meant for a man in armour and wrote in her round, clear Gothic hand. She then produced royal red sealing wax and melted it from a device.
‘Is that hermetical?’ asked the King.
Lady Almspend nodded. ‘Approved by the old Bishop of Lorica, Your Grace. Made with the sun’s energy harnessed in a matrix of prayer and held-’ she produced the item ‘-in a cross.
They all passed it around.
‘We live in marvellous times,’ said Ser Richard, looking for some little contribution to catch her attention. It was widely known that she loved a barbarian drover – a member of the royal bodyguard named Ranald Lachlan. Paradoxically, Ser Richard held Lachlan in the highest esteem, and did what he could to further the Hillman’s career.
Almspend looked at him and shrugged. ‘I expect all times are marvellous to those who live in them, Ser Richard.’
The King was notoriously insensitive to the feelings of his men about the ladies of court, and he leaned over to watch her seal the order and asked, ‘What of your handsome drover, eh, Becca? I want my Ranald back at my shoulder.’
The Queen, in a rare display of temper, said, ‘Then Your Grace has but to make him a knight and offer him a dowry.’
Almspend’s hand paused.
The King laughed. ‘A stiff-necked drover? He’d never accept it from me. He has to go win it for himself – aye, and he’ll be a better man for it, and you’ll bloom all the more.’
Almspend finished her task. ‘As Your Grace says, of course,’ she breathed.
The King frowned at Lady Almspend. ‘Do you know as much of religion as you do of history, my dear?’
Almspend bowed in her chair. ‘Your Grace, religion is nothing but history.’
Ser Richard laughed aloud, but the Queen frowned.
‘Why do these gentlemen disapprove so strongly of the Captal’s cousin Guillaulme as Bishop?’ the King asked.
Almspend raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m sure I am not the one to discuss this with the King and privy council,’ she said.
The Queen put a hand on her back. ‘The King asks you.’
Almspend shrugged. ‘Guillaulme Le Penser is one of the leaders of an intellectual movement.’
The King nodded. ‘Come, that sounds promising.’
Almspend raised both eyebrows. ‘He is a teacher at the University of Lutece. He and the other Scholastics – as they call themeselves – believe that the use of hermeticism is connected to the worship of Satan; that the miracles of God are of an entirely different order; that those who use power should be burned as witches.’
There was a stunned silence.
The King leaned forward. ‘Why would they believe such a foolish thing?’ he asked.
Almspend shrugged. ‘I can give a politic answer, an intellectual answer, or a pragmatic answer, Your Grace.’
The King nodded. ‘Let’s have pragmatic, for all love.’
Almspend tried to meet the Queen’s eye before she went on. ‘Your Grace, the University of Lutece follows the Patriarch of Rhum. As the Academy – the centre of learning, especially hermetical learning – is in the grasp of the Patriarch of Liviapolis, it serves the needs of the Patriarch of Rhum to make his rival appear a witch. Further to that all of the Scholastics are men and none of them have access to power. They seek to create a world that they can dominate – after all those capable of using power are burned away.’
The Count of the Borders shook his head. ‘Sweet Saviour, then how will we stop the Wild?’
‘Lutece is a long way from any battlefront with the Wild,’ Almspend replied.
The King nodded. ‘Well, best to know. I’m sure he’ll be difficult – look at the Captal and his heavy-handed policies. But he does get things done. Perhaps his cousin is from the same mould.’
The Queen looked baffled. ‘My dear, you just heard Becca say he’ll try to rid the realm of all hermeticals?’
The King patted her hand. ‘Fear not, love – I know what’s best for the realm. Random wants a new bishop. This man sounds very intelligent. He’ll be a help at council, and we’ll simply have to show him the kindly light of our hermeticals.’ He nodded, dismissing the women. ‘Lady Almspend, your learning lights my court like a hundred candles.’
She curtsied. ‘My lord, it would be a good thing for the realm for Magister Harmodius to be replaced. A new magister could help us persuade the Bishop.’
The King nodded and waved a hand.
When they were gone, Gareth Montjoy shook his head. ‘Was that poised young woman with the lovely ankles my daughter?’ he asked. ‘Need they pluck so much of their foreheads and show quite so much leg?’
The King laughed. ‘When I was coming to manhood women wore sacks in layers. I prefer the modern taste.’
Montjoy shook his head. ‘Your Grace is not a parent,’ he said, and then stiffened. He’d come close to the unsayable.
The King looked at him mildly. ‘I suppose someday God will bless me with a child,’ he said, and his face grew tight. His sigh was heavy.
‘Your Grace, I am sorry.’ Gareth bowed. Reminding the King of his childlessness was not a good start to a day.
The King waved him off. ‘Never mind, Gareth,’ he said. ‘God will provide.’ He turned to Ser Richard. ‘Why so long-faced, Dick?’
Ser Richard shrugged. ‘I think I may need to ask a leave of absence from Your Grace and go ride about on errantry until my worth is ranked higher.’
The King frowned. ‘You were at my side at Lissen. Indeed, you stood by me to the end. No man here doubts your worth, and your hand was reckoned mighty that day.’
Ser Richard bowed. ‘It is kind of Your Grace to say so – but many men fought valiantly at Lissen.’
The Count nodded. ‘Aye, and to brag about it, carping on all day. And every one of them Galles.’ He looked at Ser Richard. ‘Are you really proposing to leave court for a while?’ he asked.
Ser Richard met the King’s eye. ‘Yes, if I have leave.’
Montjoy looked at the King. ‘De Vrailly is on his way back here with the Earl, isn’t he?’ he asked.
The King shrugged. ‘Yes.’
‘We need to get all the Southerners – all the knights from Jarsay and their retinues – away from court before there is blood.’ Montjoy leaned forward.