"But Durer stepped in."
"Aye. He was after the young one night and day; for knowledge of the boy's suit spread throughout all the villages, and saw to it that the rumor was told with one question appended: Could the youth be a man who would let a doddard idiot rob him of the girl he loved?"
Rod nodded. "And the other peasants started throwing that up to the kid."
"Most certainly. Taunts and jeers and mocking— and the lad stole the girl away by night and got her with child."
Rod pursed his lips. "I imagine Papa was a trifle perturbed."
Toby nodded. "He hauled the boy before the village priest and demanded the lad be hanged for a rapist."
"And the priest said… ?"
"That it was love, not rape, and the fitting punishment was marriage, not hanging."
Rod grinned. "Bet the two kids were real sad about that."
"Their grief was so great it set them to dancing." Toby chuckled. "And the old man gave a heavy sigh, and would have judged it the wisdom of God, and blessed them."
"And Durer stepped in again."
"Most certainly. He was up before the Queen, when she was at table before all her lords and her ladies, crying that the Queen must prove the justice of her new order by declaring herself what was just in this case; for were these not peasants on the Queen's own estates?"
Rod grinned and slapped his thigh. "She must have been ready to spit in his eye!"
"Oh, you know not the Queen!" Toby rolled his eyes up toward the ceiling. "She would most cheerfully have slipped a knife 'twixt his ribs. But the challenge must needs be answered; she must needs hear the case herself, when next she held General Court."
"General Court?" Rod scowled. "What the hell is that?"
"One hour each month the Queen opens her court to all in her realm who wish her ear; and peasants, nobility , and clergy come to her Great Hall. Mostly the great lords but look on while the petty nobility and peasantry bring forth their grievances. And with the great ones watching, you may be sure the grievances brought up are petty indeed."
"Like this case." Rod nodded. "When's this next General Court?"
"Tomorrow," said Toby, "and I think the great lords shall have their tame clergy and peasantry protest the Queen's new judges and priests. The lords shall lodge their protest first, of course; and the other, more common folk shall be echoing them."
Rod nodded. "Put the whole matter on public record. But what does Durer hope to gain by bringing in this seduction case?"
Toby shrugged. "That, only Durer may know."
Rod leaned back, frowning, and pulled at his mug. He studied the young faces around him and scratched at the base of his skull. "Sounds to me like this is information the Queen would like to have. Why don't you tell her?"
The faces sobered. Toby bit his lip and looked down at the floor.
Rod scowled. "Why don't you tell her, Toby?"
"We have tried, friend Gallowglass!" The boy looked up at Rod in mute appeal. "We have tried; yet she would not hear us!"
Rod's face turned to wood. "How's that again?"
Toby spread his hands in helplessness. "The page we sent to her returned to tell us that we should be thankful for the protection she accorded us, and not be so ingracious and insolent as to seek to meddle in her governing."
Rod jerked his head in tight, quick nods, mouth drawn back in grim agreement. "Yeah, that sounds like Catharine."
"Mayhap," one of the boys murmured thoughtfully, "it is all to the best; for she hath cares enough without warnings of doom from us."
Rod grinned without humor. "Yeah. Between the noblemen and the beggars, she's got more than enough worries to keep her busy."
Toby nodded, eyes wide and serious. "Aye, she hath troubles sufficient, between the councillors, the House of Clovis, and the banshee on her roof. She hath great cause to be most afeard."
"Yes." Rod's voice was tight, rasping. "Yes, she hath good cause; and I think that she is thoroughly afeard."
Big Tom must have been a very light sleeper; he sat up on his pallet as Rod came tiptoeing up to his bunk.
"Art well, master?" he whispered in a rasping voice that had about as much secrecy as a bullfrog in rut.
Rod stopped and frowned down at his manservant. "Yes, very well. Why shouldn't I be?"
Big Tom smiled sheepishly. "Thou hast small use for sleep," he muttered. "I had thought it might be a fever."
"No." Rod smiled with relief, shaking his head. He pushed past Big Tom. "It's not a fever."
"What is it, then?"
Rod fell backward onto the bed, cupping his hands under his head. "Did you ever hear of a game called cricket, Tom?"
"Cricket?" Tom scowled." 'Tis a chirping creature on the hearth, master."
"Yeah, but it's also the name of a game. The center of the game is a wicket, see, and one team tries to knock down the wicket by throwing a ball at it. The other team tries to protect the wicket by knocking the ball away with a paddle."
"Strange," Big Tom murmured, eyes wide with wonder. "A most strange manner of game, master."
"Yes," Rod agreed, "but it gets worse. The teams trade sides, you see, and the team that was attacking the wicket before is defending it now." He looked down over his toes at Tom's round beehive face.
"Nay," the big man muttered, shaking his head in confusion. "What is the point to it all, master?"
Rod stretched, let his body snap back to relaxation.
"The point is that no matter who wins, it's going to be hard on the wicket."
"Aye!" Big Tom nodded vigorously. "Most certain true, master."
"Now, I get the feeling that there's a colossal game of cricket going on around here; only there's three teams in the game: the councillors, the beggars…"
"The House of Clovis," Tom muttered.
Rod's eyebrows went up in surprise. "Yes, the House of Clovis. And, of course, the Queen."
"Then, who," asked Big Tom, "is the wicket?"
"Me." Rod rolled over on his side, thumped the pillow with his fist, and lowered his head onto it with a blissful sigh. "And now I am going to sleep. Good night."
"Master Gallowglass," piped a page's voice.
Rod closed his eyes and prayed for strength. "Yes, page?"
"You are called to wait upon the Queen at her breakfast, Master Gallowglass."
Rod forced an eyelid open and peered out the window; the sky was rosy with dawn.
He squeezed his eyes shut and counted to ten, almost dozing off in the process. He drew in a sigh that would have filled a bottomless pit, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and sat up. "Well, no rest for the wicket. What'd I do with my damn uniform, Tom?"
Rod had to admit that Catharine Plantagenet had a good dramatic instinct and, moreover, knew how to use it on her court. The guards were at their stations in the dining hall before sunrise. The lords and ladies who were privileged— or, more accurately, cursed—to share the Queen's dawn breakfast arrived right after the cock's crow. Not till they were all assembled, and all waiting some time eyeing the breakfast meats, did Catharine make her entrance.
And she definitely made an entrance, even at that hour. The doors of the hall were thrown wide, revealing Catharine standing in a pool of torchlight. Six buglers blew a fanfare, at which all the lords and ladies rose and Rod winced (pitch was more or less a matter of taste in that culture).
Then Catharine stepped into the hall, head high and shoulders back. She paced a quarter way around the wall to the great gilded chair at the head of the table. The Duke of Loguire stepped forth and pulled the chair back. Catharine sat, with the grace and lightness of a feather. Loguire sat at her right hand, and the rest of the company followed suit. Catharine picked up her two-tined fork, and the company fell to, while liveried stewards invaded from the four corners of the hall with great platters of bacon and sausage, pickled herring, white rolls, and tureens of tea and soup.
Each platter was brought first to Brom O'Berin, where he sat at the Queen's left hand. Brom took a sample of each platter, ate a morsel of it, and placed the remainder on a plate before him. Then the huge platters were placed on the table. By this time Brom, finding himself still alive, passed the filled plate to Catharine.