She read the note with ill-concealed irritation. ‘He gave this to you when?’ she asked the terrified boy.
‘Yesterday, r’Grace,’ he mumbled. ‘Which – er – cook sent me to Cheapside and me mum was sick-’
She looked at him. She was annoyed – she loved the useless old Magus the way she loved her magnificent Eastern riding horse, and his recent display of real power made him even more exciting.
‘An he took a horse – a fine horse – r’Grace. Had leather bags – had hisn staff.’ The boy’s desire to please was palpable, and she relented.
She turned to Lady Almspend and motioned at her waist. ‘Give the boy a leopard for his pains and send Mastiff to the Magus’ rooms in the tower. I would like a full report.’ She made a face. ‘Sir Richard?’
Sir Richard Fitzroy was the old king’s bastard son, a handsome man, a fine knight, and a reliable messenger. He doted on the Queen, and the Queen appreciated his stability.
He was attending her, obviously courting Lady Almspend now that his low-born rival was gone.
She beckonned to him. ‘Sir Richard – I need a private word with the king,’ she said.
‘Consider it done,’ he allowed, and bowed himself out.
East of Albinkirk – Gerald Random
Gerald Random woke to hear Guilbert Blackhead rapping for entrance to his tent – knocking on the tent’s cross-pole with his sword hilt. Random was on his feet in an instant, dagger in hand, and he was awake in another.
‘What is it?’ he asked, fumbling for the hooks and eyes that would open the flap.
‘No idea. But you had better see it.’ Guilbert’s urgency was carried fluently.
Random was out of the tent in another few heartbeats.
They were camped in a narrow meadow on the banks of the Albin, and the great river was in full flood, running fast and deep and almost silent, the black water sullen in the damp night air. They’d been hit by rain squalls again and again all day, and men and animals were still as wet and as sullen as the water.
Far off, north-east, the first crags of the mountains should have been visible, but low clouds drifted right over them, obscuring them for minutes at a time and then clearing just as rapidly, keeping the grass and the trees full of water.
As the next low cloud passed by, the Adnacrag Mountains loomed even in the darkness. Random thought that they might make the fortress town of Albinkirk in four more days. It was not the distance but the condition of the road at this time of year which delayed them. The river road, with its stone bridges and deep stone foundations built by the Archaics, was the only one a sane man would travel with heavy wagons. Every other road was fetlock deep in mud. But all the same, it was not easy.
There was an orange glow to the north.
‘Just watch,’ Guilbert said.
After six days on the road Random had the warrant-man’s measure – careful, cautious, and thorough. Perhaps not the man for a deed of daring, but just the sort of man to work a convoy. The guard posts were always manned and constantly checked.
Whatever he was trying to show the merchant, it was important.
Random watched a flicker – was it more than that? North-west, towards the fair. Perhaps – but they were too far for the fair to be visible. It was fifty leagues away or more – they were not yet to Albinkirk.
‘There!’ said the mercenary.
There was, just for a moment, a pinpoint of light that burned like a star above the glow of Albinkirk.
Random shrugged. ‘That’s all?’ he asked.
Guilbert nodded, clearly unhappy about it.
‘I’m for bed, then,’ Random said. ‘Wake me if we’re attacked,’ he added. He wished, later, that he hadn’t been quite so snappish.
Lissen Carak – Mag the Seamstress
Mag the seamstress sat on a barrel, staying out of the way. The day had passed well enough – she’d helped Lis wash shirts and been paid in solid coin for her work; had remembered her skills at avoiding pinching fingers, or delivering a slap where it was needed. The mercenaries were like nothing she’d ever seen – aggressive beyond anything a town of peasants had to offer.
She knew that, had the circumstances differed, they’d have killed her sheep, taken her chickens, her silver, and probably raped and killed her as well. These were hard men – bad men.
But they shared their wine and danced in the evening, and she had a hard time seeing them for what they probably were. Thieves and murderers. Because the Abbess said the Wild was going to attack them, and these men were all they had as defenders, and Mag thought . . .
Whatever she thought, she must have drifted off after the flashes in the sky. And suddenly they came out of the darkness in blackened armour, led by Thomas, who she now knew was Ser Thomas, riding hard on a destrier covered in sweat; six men-at-arms, twenty archers and some armed valets, all galloping up the twisting road and through the gate almost at her feet.
Bad Tom was the first off his horse, and he bent his knee to the captain. ‘Just as you said,’ he panted. ‘We fucked ’em.’ He rose stiffly.
The captain embraced the bigger man. ‘Go get your harness off and get a drink,’ he said. ‘With my thanks, Tom. Well done.’
‘And who’s gonna take the lamp-black off my mail?’ complained one of the archers – the one with dead eyes. He looked up, and his terrifying eyes found her unerringly with their promise of violence.
He grinned at her. The other men called him Will, and she’d learned it stood for Wilful Murder, of which he had apparently been convicted.
She flinched.
‘How was it?’ asked the captain.
Thomas laughed his huge laugh. ‘Gorgeous, Cap’n!’ he said, and swung down.
The other men laughed, a little wildly, as Mag knew men she knew that Thomas was really laughing, and the others had endured something sharp and horrible.
They’d survived it, and triumphed.
The captain embraced the big man again, and shook his hand. He went among the archers, helping them dismount and giving each his hand, and Mag saw the Abbess was right next to him and that she was blessing them.
She clapped her hands and just managed not to laugh.
Harndon Palace – Desiderata
As evening fell, Desiderata watched the foreign knight with the pleasure of a connoisseur for a true artist. He was tall – a head taller than every other man in the great hall – and he moved with a grace that God only bestowed on women and exceptional athletes. His face was like that of a saint – bright gold hair and sculpted features that were not quite too fine for a man. His red jupon fitted to perfection, his white hose were silk, not wool, and the wide belt of gold plaques on his slim hips was a mute testament to riches, privilege, and bodily power.
He bowed deeply before the king, sinking all the way to one knee with graceful courtesy.
‘My lord King, may I present the noble Jean de Vrailley, Captal de Ruth, and his cousin Gaston D’Albret, Sieur D’Eu.’ The herald proceeded to name their coats of arms and their heraldic achievements.
Desiderata already knew the foreign knight’s achievements.
She watched his eyes, and he watched the king.
The king scratched his beard. ‘It is a long way from the Grand Pays,’ he said. ‘Is all of Galle at peace, that you can bring so many knights to my lands?’ He said the words easily, and yet his eyes were hard and his face blank.
De Vrailly remained on one knee. ‘An angel commanded me to come and serve you,’ he said.
His sponsor, the Earl of Towbray, turned sharply.
Desiderata extended her sense – her warmth, as she thought of it – towards him, and the foreign knight burned like the sun.
She inhaled, as if to inhale his warmth, and the king glanced at her.
‘An angel of God?’ the king asked. He leaned forward.
‘Is there another kind?’ de Vrailly asked.
Desiderata had never heard a man speak with such simple arrogance. It hurt her, like a physical blemish on a beautiful flower. And yet, like many blemishes, it had its own fascination.