The Court of Ghosts - 3. A Court of Ghosts, Part 1

**********

Portrait of a Prince, circa 799 – Woollerton Green – Prayers to the Lost – Negotiations

**********

Clemence Palace, The Midburghs, Kingdom of Morland

19^th of Spring, 799

TWO YEARS AGO

Young King Oswald stood upright. Centre of the room, eyes up, chin high, arms folded tightly behind his back. There was much to say of his poise and demeanour – small as he was, he always stood tall. Good back muscles had he. The mark of a habitual rider.

His tutor, Ser Robert Mountjoy, set down his wooden cane and shifted weight upon his good leg to from his seat and better observe his pupil. Neither paid any mind to his grace of Greyford standing tersely within the shadows of the drapery, with his prominent frown so like the glumness of a white painted skull.

“‘Salutations’,” said Ser Robert, slowly encircling the boy whilst his lame leg shuffled behind him. “Try that.”

Oswald pursed his lips. “…‘Groo-sa’.”

“Grüße…”

“Groo-ser?”

A sigh. “You’ll draw a snicker or too, but… adequate. Now. Let’s test you on your histories. Begin with the Republic.”

The king cleared his throat into a loose fist. “Wallenheim is the northwesternmost nation of the continental landmass. Historically an archduchy of the Empire, ruled by the second sons of House Adolphus.”

“Go on.”

“In year 151 Archduke Krystus Adolphus dies childless. Via the bloodline of his mother, Lady Freide of Wallenheim, King Edwulf II of Morland exercises his claim to his uncle’s archduchy and by year 153 successfully conquers it.”

Ser Robert nodded. “And how long was Wallenheim a province of Morland?”

“595 years.”

“Until?”

“Until the Long Sea War of 750-60 when the province is taken by the Imperial Army, and Magnus Adolphus, younger brother to late Emperor Konrad III Adolphus, is proclaimed archduke. The second Archduchy of Wallenheim lasts for another-”

A rattle. King Oswald shot his eyes right where sat the cage of his pet capuchin, Pincher, grinning impishly behind its bars. Oswald smiled back – until Ser Robert’s cane smacked his leg.

“Focus!” Said the Lord Seneschal. “Resume where you were.”

Another sigh. “The second Archduchy lasts for another 37 years until the year 797 when, during the wave of continental unrest that followed the Empire’s execution of Odo, rebel forces led by House Roschewald overthrow and execute the Archduke to declare a republic.” A third sigh. “Why do we speak of Wallenheim when we are about to sign a peace treaty with the Empire?”

The Duke of Greyford walked out of the shadows, stone-faced and glowering, as per usual. “Because it is in the current Emperor’s interest to retake the republic some day and it is in our interest to assure him of our neutrality.”

Ser Robert hobbled over to his chair again to rest, easing out his lame leg as Greyford took his place, standing mountainously over the young king. But Oswald’s poise failed him not. The regent’s cold grey eyes did not fluster him. And of that Ser Robert was proud – the boy was coming into his own strength day by day.

The capuchin tittered.

“Are you certain you understand the import of this treaty?” asked the Duke.

“Uncle Greyford,” said the king. “I know well the diplomatic labours you and Ambassador Ludolf suffered to finally bring about peace between Morland and the Empire. Like you I wish only for the wealth and security of this kingdom, and saints be praised, I have every faith this treaty will secure both.”

Greyford smiled.

“However.”

Greyford’s smile fell.

“Much of these negotiations were undertaken beyond my eye.” King Oswald stole a brief smirk at Pincher before he resumed. “I wish to see the particulars before I depart.”

“Why of course. Your majesty.” Greyford smothered his frown. “Would you also like me to fetch you the portrait of Lady Annalena? The Ambassador assures me she is quite comely-”

“The particulars,” said Oswald. Sharply. “Have the preliminary agreements sent to my chambers.”

Ser Robert smiled to himself.

The Duke of Greyford was not so amused. But he acquiesced all the same. “Of course, your majesty, of course.”

“Ser Robert?”

The Lord Seneschal looked up. “Majesty?”

“I’ll take a ride before we resume,” said he. “Some fresh air might do my Imperial inflection some good.”

Ser Robert chuckled. “I’ll have your horse saddled and readied.”

“No need,” the boy king clapped twice. From without their chambers two Bannerets of the Bloom opened its doors. At the king’s swift instruction, they fetched Pincher’s cage and followed him out as he sought to make his way to the riding grounds of this his childhood house, Clemence Palace. The doors sealed shut behind them.

Greyford growled lowly, snatching an ewer of malmsey from the side table to pour cups for himself and his vassal, the Lord Seneschal. “You have reared a wilful spirit, Robert.”

“Headstrong is the word I would use,” said he. He took his cup with thanks – that and a letter, not recognizing the seal. “What’s this?”

“A letter for the king,” said the duke. “From his mother, the Queen Dowager.”

“…He won’t want it, your grace.”

Grumbling, Greyford slumped heavily into a cushioned chair bestride Ser Robert’s, his ruby-encrusted livery collar clinking at his neck and shoulders. “As regent I have served him and thus this realm some eight years now. What means he by this wilfulness? To quibble at the prospect of peace after centuries of open hostility with the Empire?”

“Your grace, I know your nephew as well as I do mine own sons. His majesty does not question your judgment he only seeks to understand it before he accepts it. Would we begrudge some portside merchant his right to read a contract before setting his quill to it? It is not weakness to consider both sides of a matter.”

“It might be,” said Greyford. “If it complicates your ability to choose.”

**********

Woollerton Green, The Midburghs, Kingdom of Morland

35^th of Summer, 801

PRESENT DAY

He was home. Finally, home. After ten whole years… and yet Francis Gray felt so little love for his homeland. He was of course a Morishman (and a Morishman to his core) but these places he now ambled through, the unfurling emerald wave of meadows and pastures they called the Midburghs, or the historied limestone sprawl of Dragonspur; these places were not ‘home’. Home was the Isle of Gead. With its soft beaches, and the icy grey tides crashing against them; with its high moon, its barnacled fishing weirs and piers, its portside taverns, and its fisheries. Home was House Gray and all who served her. Home was Edward Bardshaw.

And Fran ached for home.

But he could not let it distract him. Woollerton Green awaited, and there was great work to do at court. Meetings to have, connections to form. A great deal rested upon Gustave’s initial meeting with the king, for his plans as well as Fran’s. ‘Home’ and all its coming delights would have to wait.

They were fashionably late of course. Before they even left Dragonspur the wharfinger’s personal porters were late dispatching a precious piece of cargo from the Black Quay, House Roschewald’s gift to King Oswald, and Fran was sent down there with four halberdiers to see to the delay (some dust up about an unpaid duty of a separate cargo in the Wallenheim Delegation’s keeping). Fran cleared the fee on the 34^th, just a few hours from daybreak, but the wharfinger hadn’t the men at the ready to load and dispatch the gift before the ambassador was due to leave – and so they struck a bargain to meet their cortege on the road west towards the palace.

The roads also hampered their passage. Unlike the stone paving or gravel tracts of Dragonspur, the sweeping Morish countryside was navigable only by a sparse network of ancient and oft-trod highways and roads – well, more dirt tracks, really – dating back to the reign of Edwulf the Great. They were rough, rocky, and dangerous to ride through, particularly in the forested reaches of the country. It was Fran’s memory that there had been plans to pave some of Morland’s most important thoroughfares, particularly the eastern coastal roads (which historically had always been at risk of foreign invasion), the Holy Road interlinking the capital to the sacred city of Greatminster, and the Old King’s Road which interlinked the three major cities of the three major provinces of the kingdom: Greatminster of Lowburghs to Dragonspur of the Midburghs to Harcaster of the Highburghs. But those plans clearly never came to fruition in his absence – another legacy of the Greyford Regency, perhaps.

They were almost halfway to Woollerton Green when the wharfinger’s men finally caught up with them. Wolfrick had two of his halberdiers inspect the king’s gift for damages (there were none – surprisingly) then took possession of their mule and cart before sending them home with a purse of insurance (55 marks) to be repaid upon the safe return of the wain.

A few miles further they sought respite at a wayside inn at the edge of a ghastly wolf-infested forest. It stood protected by high stone walls with paddocks and stabling enough for forty horses and twice as many beds for its guests. The lady of the establishment was a mistress named Gursela who had her serving girls, buxom and flea-bitten, bring them flagons of stale ale and bowls of lukewarm chicken broth. The accommodations were… adequate. But Fran did not begrudge them. Every single room with a double bed was already taken – forcing him to sleep in a common room with Wolfrick and the ten halberdiers they brought with them – and Gustave couldn’t make sport of his arsehole in that company. And so, despite the snoring and beer-soaked flatulence that so befouled that room, and the bare-fanged beasts howling at the moon beyond, Fran was treated to his first good night’s sleep in a season.

At the first crack of daylight they set out again; carriage and horses and mule-cart lumbering onto the dirt road bound west before stumbling upon their last delay some five or six miles later.

It was a lulling carriage quarter-tipped into a pothole as deep as a calf’s head. Some landed banneret and his spindly son laboured to push their cab out of the fissure, but its trammelled weight would not budge – not for them at least.

Fran warned his master to leave them be. But Gustave was not so unchivalrous as all that. He yelled for his coachman to stop and bade his men aid the banneret in his labours, offering the refreshment of his wineskins when the business was concluded.

The banneret thanked him profusely with wine-sweetened breath, smothering his sighs as he lamented ill-fortune to break a wheel so close to court; “And on this day, our eight-and-tenth year of Good King Oswald’s life! Why do the saints curse me so?”

“You are not cursed if I happened upon you,” said Gustave, smirking devilishly, for it pleased him to play the part of the benevolent soul. With wide armed generosity he offered to bring the banneret and his son with him to court, with only a “tale of himself and his land” as recompense.

Fran imagined his master’s thoughts. ‘Neidhart’s stone cut soul would not charm this court’ and ‘Let them speak of my graciousness’ or ‘What a tale this will make’. Eventually it would dawn on him how little the court would care, but not quite yet.

Gustave allowed the banneret and his son into the carriage and plied their ears with expectations for the king and his maturation feast. Fran left them to it and busied himself with the coach window, watching the forests and ferns roll by until the towering red-brick presence of Woollerton Green rose from the panorama.

And that was a sight to behold.

From its red-bricked walls, flagged spires and crenelled towers to its pristinely pruned hedge mazes, marbled water gardens and fragrant rose-bed walkways; it was a joy for the eyes, constructed to conjure esteem and delight within the dignitary. Piping grey clouds of hearth smoke drifted from its spiral-patterned chimneys atop its many lavish apartments, thus signifying the arrival of the king’s guests (and their lateness). Its crenelled outer walls stood high by ten feet, protected by a single east-facing gatehouse that their carriage slowly rolled through. This took them into the palace’s first courtyard, where the carriages of other nobles and dignitaries were slowly emptied of luggage and goods.

Gustave and Fran bundled out onto the gravel tract, as did the banneret and his son. The grounds were awash with activity – lords directing porters to fetch their items, guardsmen helping the noble ladies and their handmaidens down from their coaches, pet birds chirping in their cages, leashed spaniels and greyhounds barking, stewards directing each party to their assigned lodgings. The morning skies had greyed, fit to break with a patter of light Morish rain, and the household staff worked a frantic pace to get the king’s guests indoors before it fell.

Gustave and Fran were taken to the Starlit Rooms, one of three luxurious apartments specially designed to host foreign dignitaries. The customizations were the king’s own, for the palace was once his mother the Queen Dowager’s possession but had passed to him upon his maturation and would serve as the high seat of the Morish court from here on out.

At midday two Bannerets of the Bloom summoned Gustave and Fran to the antechamber of the banqueting hall, a long rectangular reception room lined by waterleaf pilasters and floored with chequered marble that echoed at each footstep. Between each column alternated ornate portraitures and sculpted busts of Morish kings both modern and ancient, from Edwulf the Great to the late King Osmund. Hundreds of candles burned vibrantly within crystalline chandeliers descending from the stucco ceiling, broadly luminating the countryside frescoes and golden clockwork mounted over the arched white doors leading into the hall.

There in that antechamber was where the king’s guests and courtiers slowly gathered; lords and ladies draped in lavish finery, their clothes woven of the finest velvets and silks; their fingers, wrists and necks adorned in gold, silver, pearls, and diamonds. There they mingled amongst themselves in that carefully practiced manner of nobility, the short bows, elegant curtseys, gentle chortles, and honeyed greetings and goodbyes. All were elegantly mannered, even the footmen, sauntering through the throng, silver platters in hand, with all their perfect poise and attentiveness, offering refreshments of sweetened almonds and white wine.

Fran found himself in awe – at first – but then awe soured into anger, a quiet little rage frothing inside himself. Scion as he was to the now extinct House Gray, it dawned on him then just how much he had lost in the wake of the Siege of Gead. He knew so little of the faces around him, the most wealthy and powerful throughout the country.

In a just world he would be amongst them now as a peer or a better, not as the humble clerk of some alien dignitary.

The Fiend’s icy talons clawed their way up the boy’s back and chilled his very flesh until it goose pimpled. JUST LOOK AT WHAT WAS TAKEN FROM YOU it spoke. YOUR RIGHTFUL PLACE AMONGST THEM! STOLEN! STOLEN!

“…Be quiet!” whispered Fran.

Gustave threw a quizzical glance at him. “What?”

“I-”

They were interrupted before he was forced to explain himself – by the first string in the web of contacts Gustave hoped to weave during his time here in Morland – by the spry but aging Piers Comwyn, Viscount of Thormont, grinning toothily as he welcomed them both to Woollerton Green. And he wasn’t alone. The older man had a younger woman on his arm, taller than him by inches but comely in her own manner; modestly elegant in her dark green trumpet-sleeve dress, studded about its angular collar and plumed beneath the chemise by a hidden farthingale. Her hair, long and ivory blonde, fell loosely from a pearl-woven caul to shawl-shrouded shoulders. Her smile was light and her demeanour attentive. And for a moment she almost had Fran fooled. But then he caught her dull eyes, narrow nose, and sharp chin, and recalled Gustave’s prior directives – blinking profusely as he did. And then finally, stupidly, Fran realized who he was looking at.

‘Lothar…’

“Allow me to introduce my guest for the banquet,” said the viscount. “This is Lady Eleanora of Stafforth.”

Gustave, smiling wryly, took her delicate hand and kissed it without skipping a beat. “A great pleasure to meet you, Lady Eleanora. The good lord viscount must thank all the saints sevenfold for providing him with such a beauty.”

“You flatter me, ambassador.” Eleanora smiled sweetly. “Let me echo my lord’s welcome and wish you good fortune in the negotiations to come.”

Thormont patted her hand. “Come, Eleanora. I have others I wish to introduce you to. Masters, if you’ll excuse us.”

And with that Lady Eleanora and the Viscount of Thormont sauntered away. Fran looked up at Gustave and hoped for all the world that his growing disgust for his master did not wear upon his face. “…Does he know…?”

“Of course, that’s the pageantry of it.” Whispered Gustave. “My Catspaw plays his part well, as he was trained to.”

So. The viscount knew well that ‘Lady Eleanora’ was Gustave’s boy, what he did not know was that Eleanora was given to him not as a ‘thank you’ for their reception at the Black Quay, but as a spy, an extra window into the doings of the court and its nobles. Spilt seed made for loose lips after all. That was Gustave’s thinking, of course, playing at intrigue with all the grace of a mastiff.

Fran looked to Lady Eleanora, giggling softly into her gloved knuckles as Lord Comwyn told some ribald joke to her and the Earl of Huxton, and rued his friend the nightly labours to come.

And then…

…and then another bastard found them. This one crept upon them in slippered feet, enshrouded by a night black cloak mantled at its shoulders with a decoration of peacock feathers. His flat black cap was equally feathered, and his silverwork livery clinked against his breast.

Feathers and silverwork – the continental fashion. An Imperial.

He approached them with a lank yet mousy young man at his back, some sallow-skinned approximation of himself; hat, cloak, and all.

“An unfamiliar face at court…” said the Imperial. He broke into a smile too bright by half, teeth as bright as a freshly polished pearl, false teeth carved from ivory and set with gums of gold. He grinned. “Allow me to guess… Lord Viscount Gustavius von Roschewald of Wallenstadt, no?”

“Indeed.” Gustave eyed him. Warily. “And you are?”

“Myself, I am Georg Ludolf, Imperial Ambassador to Morland. And this young man is my secretary, Matthias.”

The tall, flat capped boy nodded. “Enchanted, masters.”

Gustave paused. And for a moment, for the first time since they set out upon this mission to Morland, Fran saw a true and genuine streak of anger in his master – from furrowed brow to curtly pursed lips. For this man, Ambassador Ludolf of Strausholm, was one of the primary architects of the Treaty of Grace – the treaty that wrought the embargo that so crushed Wallenheim – from both without and within.

The larger man clutched a fist, growled beneath his breath, then released it, forcing a terse smile out of his face with a single leftward jerk of the chin. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, from one ambassador to another. And I would also be pleased if you met my clerk, Francis Gray.”

Fran bowed to both Ambassador Ludolf and his secretary, slightly. “Masters.”

“I have heard of you,” said Ludolf. There was a little velvet box in his pocket which he retrieved, and when he opened it, it was filled with specially cured mint leaves. Ludolf took one and crunched it between his false teeth. “An orphaned Morish noble taken in by the Roschewalds as a ward. Thank the saints above for providing you with such… magnanimous benefactors.”

“I thank them daily,” A lie. A lie well told. “…I consider House Roschewald my own and strive to serve it accordingly.”

“I am certain you serve in a great many ways, my boy.”

Gustave’s temple pulsed. If the trumpets had not blared there and then Fran felt certain his master would’ve taken Ludolf by the throat and thrown him teeth-first into the wall. As it happened the gilt doors of the banqueting hall yawned open and out emerged two Bannerets of the Bloom, razor-sharp halberds glittering in the candlelight, as the ruff-collared trumpeters lowered their flagged instruments.

King Oswald’s guests, now numbering in the hundreds, turned to their instruction.

“My noble lords and ladies,” addressed the first guard to the throng. “The preparations for his majesty King Oswald’s maturation banquet are now complete. Please follow us to your designated seats.”

The two bannerets stamped the shafts of their glaives, then turned back into the banqueting hall. The king’s assembled guests followed suit. Fran (reluctantly) held close to Gustave as the nattering nobles filed into the hall, which, if it were even possible, astounded him all the more.

Its high walls were frescoed (in parts) with nostalgic rustic panoramas of noble hunting parties, hilltop moots and ancient convocations. Gilded murals of old Morish kings and queens covered the ceiling, from the nooks and crooks of which dangled crystal chandeliers to buttress the illumination provided by the standing candelabras, as well as the high wall-mounted brass sconces encased with glass.

The banqueting hall of Woollerton Green, almost four times as long as it was wide, was then centred by two paralleled long tables dressed in silken sheets embroidered with the royal seal; a downward facing broadsword with a crowned pommel set against a purple poppy with gold trimmings, the seal of House Oswyke. Both tables were large enough to seat a hundred, fifty to either side. A third table sat at the head of the hall atop a raised plinth, far smaller than the other two, but more ornately adorned and more chiefly positioned. From there the king would sit.

The tabling was immaculate. Centrepieces of yellow roses and white carnations, hearth-warmed cloths for the shoulder, tall glass ewers of water and wine, embossed silver bowls and cutlery pieces so well polished you could see yourself in them. Each chair was made of mahogany, lacquered to a glint, carved with scroll, gilt with gold, cushioned with felt upon both seat and armrest. Everything was set about to stun and impress.

More footmen emerged to see the high lords and ladies of the court to their assigned seating, as per the directions of the Lord Seneschal of the Realm, Ser Robert Mountjoy, who arranged their layout in accordance with the old Morish custom of pride of place; those highest in the king’s favour seated closest to him. Gustave grumbled – for he and Fran’s seats were those closest to the door – but they were new at court, he reasoned, and Mountjoy was a close ally of the Duke. There was more than time to sway all.

When the bulk of the king’s guests were finally seated, the two Bannerets of the Bloom guarding the door began to announce those of greatest prominence, one after the other.

The Banneret stamped his glaive. “THEIR HONOURS THE MARQUESS AND MARCHIONESS OF GEAD!”

DE LA MORE! Roared The Fiend.

Fran’s heart thumped in his chest for that name and face he knew well. That name, LYONEL DE LA MORE so adorned with the unearned title MARQUESS OF GEAD the title that Fran might rightly have borne if fate had fallen his way. And in crept he, that bloody banker, slinking low in his dark blue doublet and even darker blue hose, and swan-feathered gold cap. The Marquess kept his lovely lady’s hand, some budding teenager of low repute and broken maidenhead no doubt, as he led her down the tables to their seats.

The Banneret stamped his glaive. “THE LORD EARL AND LADY COUNTESS OF WROTHSBY!”

The burner of Odoists and ravager of Greatminster’s peace.

Crook-backed Wrothsby hobbled in at the Bannerets’ call, half his weight held aloft by a cane-shaped rood of sacred bark (and the other half held up by his good wife, Lady Mildred) too aged to walk well but too devout to deny himself the everyman’s footsteps and be carried. His simple russet cassock swung at his ankles as his sandalled feet shuffled stiffly across the marble floor. Atop his livery collar swung four golden amulets and talismans in the shape of the saints, tokens to ward off evil and evil spirits. Beneath his fraying strands of grey one saw nothing of his face for the gilt ivory half-mask encasing it. It was rumoured that the Earl had survived a particularly vicious outbreak of smallpox in his distant boyhood, one that left half his face hideously disfigured. But the experience transformed him, as he took his narrow survival as a blessing from the saints themselves and became fanatically devout: daily oblations and prayer, constant donations to the Kirk, bi-annual pilgrimages to Greatminster, and now, the torment and destruction of Odoists. A curtained veil obscured his good wife the Countess’ face – for in keeping with the ancient principles of his saint, Bosmund, no man was permitted to see it but him. The Wrothsbys hobbled over to their seats.

The Banneret stamped his glaive. “HER MAJESTY THE QUEEN DOWAGER EMMA!”

The hall’s mood soured at the call of her name. Whispers passed by. Fran overheard much of them. Talk of friction, of distance with the king, of diminished favour. She emerged from the double doors attended by two of her closest ladies in waiting, swathed utterly in the customary black of a widow – her black dress trimmed with silver, her black gable hood studded with pearls. She walked sombrely to the seat opposite Wrothsby’s.

The Banneret stamped his glaive. “THEIR GRACES THE DUKE AND DUCHESS OF GREYFORD!”

HIGH BASTARD! Seethed the Fiend. INWARD THE NEXT ENEMY SLINKS!

In strode Greyford, pale-skinned and gaunt, his stony visage both stolid and foul, cracked with wrinkles and crow’s feet. He walked arm in arm with his good wife, the Duchess of Greyford, to whom the years had been equally unkind. They were as sumptuously dressed as most of the court, themselves both adorned at the shoulders by thick pelts of spotted grey fur, the furs of the continental mountain lion, one of the rarest on the continent. They took their two seats at the head of the left guest table, most noticeably those closest to the king.

And yet, curiously, a seat remained unfilled. Almost symbolically – as things often were symbolized in court (or so Gustave assured). Even from their purposeful distance that empty chair could not escape Fran’s notice.

And then the Banneret stamped his glaive one last time. What little chatter there was quieted, and everyone save Wrothsby and Ser Robert Mountjoy rose from their seats to welcome “HIS MAJESTY KING OSWALD AND HER MAJESTY QUEEN ANNALENA!”

The King and Queen of Morland entered the banqueting hall to thunderous, rapturous applause. And despite his anger, despite Lyonel de la More, despite Gustave, despite The Fiend; Fran couldn’t help but be swept up in that tide when first he saw his king, the newly maturated Oswald II.

The boy’s handsomeness struck first – his kind green eyes contrasting with his fiery russet-blonde hair, closely cropped, with that seaside complexion that so spoke to good humours. His oval jaw and soft cheeks attested his youth, but he possessed all the height and stature of manhood. There was clearly muscle beneath that red-gold doublet (as he was notoriously gifted at horsemanship, hunting, and falconry) but his demeanour was graceful and restrained.

Young King Oswald carried himself with quiet confidence down the length of the hall, arm in arm with his lady wife, the even younger Queen Annalena of Gascovy, a girl of four and ten summers, and an Imperial – niece to Emperor Konrad IV Adolphus himself. According to Neidhart’s dossier, their marriage was one of the more unpopular stipulations of the Treaty of Grace, particularly with the commoners. But the foundations of beauty were there. In time, Fran supposed, she would come into her features – faint jaw, high cheeks, stark eyes. A raven’s beauty awaited her.

Neither of the pair wore their crowns (as the maturation ceremony dictated) but instead they wore more symbolic laurel wreaths and together they walked up the short three steps of the plinth to the main table where they then sat. A Banneret of the Bloom followed close behind with a caged capuchin which he set upon a high stool just behind the king’s scrolled throne. Then he dismissed himself.

Oswald lifted his hand and the applause stopped.

A smile. “My lords and ladies. I wish to extend to you my thanks, my thanks for both your attendance and your love. And as a sovereign… it is your love that comforts me most as I now stand to navigate the needs and demands of this realm. I wish to thank his grace the Duke of Greyford, my beloved uncle, for his many years of diligent service to this country. It is my greatest hope that I may live up to his aspirations.”

Rounds of “here, here” resounded. Greyford lifted his cup, his smile small and tight, to acknowledge the compliment. But the moment was terse – and though they were several seats away, Fran and Gustave both sensed it. There were rifts in this court despite its many pleasantries.

“In ancient scripture it is said that mine own saint, Bosmund, walked the path of ignorance before he walked the path of wisdom,” continued the king. “And for all I know of wisdom, the more you accumulate the more you realize how little of it you possess. There are challenges ahead of us, great challenges, both within and beyond our shores. Yet rest assured – all will be met with the finest minds and talents Morland has to offer. Tomorrow I shall announce my new Council of the Masters of the Realm and I will hold talks with Ambassadors Ludolf and Roschewald as regards our foreign relations. My lords and ladies, there is much work to be done. But with your love and faith, I hope not merely to continue the good works of my father and uncle, but to expand upon them and bring about a new golden age for our times.” The king raised his cup. “For the realm!”

His guests raised their cups to him. “FOR THE REALM!”

“But for this day,” the king smiled upon his wife, who smiled back lovingly. “My queen tells me you’ve all brought gifts?”

Laughter and applause. King Oswald took his seat and so everyone followed, a raucous clatter of chair legs and chatter as dozens of the king’s footmen swarmed about the tables to fill each noble guest’s cup with a wine of their own choosing, either Morish white or Gasqueri red. A succession of gifts were brought before the king’s table, one after the other.

The Earl of Huxton gifted King Oswald an ornate pair of watered steel sabres from the finest swordsmiths of the Sandsea Plateau.

The Marquess of Gead, Lyonel de la More, gifted the king a signet ring of rarest onyx engraved with the sigil of the royal house.

The Earl of Wrothsby gifted the king with the complete and illuminated Testaments of the Four Saints, perfect facsimiles of the most sacred texts of the Commonfaith.

The Queen Dowager gifted the king with a specially embroidered set of coats, each one sown with a different type of fur (mink, ermine, bear, etc).

Ser Robert Mountjoy’s gift was a golden half-cloak similar to his own, said to have been stitched and enchanted by wood witches to grant the king everlasting fortune.

Queen Annalena’s gift was an opulent Imperial-style crossbow specially customized for hunting large game (which earned her a sweet little kiss as a reward).

Gustave’s gift came somewhere in the middle. For its great weight two Bannerets of the Bloom were required to bring it out upon a wheeled stand and unveil it before King Oswald – a massive glass-encased brass clockwork device whirling internally with a complex mechanism of spokes, pinions, wires, gears, and escapements. There was a hand-shaped imprint upon the brass latticework of its encasings.

When the king looked confused, Gustave took it upon himself to explain. “It is called an Astral Prognosticator, your majesty, one of the finest inventions of my people. It tracks the star cycles of the soul it is calibrated to and grants them ‘readings’ of the fate that awaits them. One can only imagine the extraordinary things it will speak of your fate.”

“A most impressive devise, Ambassador Roschewald.” The King smiled. “Thank you for this.”

Gustave smiled back with a nod and a bow and a round of applause followed. Fran’s master took his seat, small victory in place, setting the wine cup to his lips and savouring the moment.

Ambassador Ludolf came next. Up he stood, his seat closer to the king than Gustave’s by half, his hands tightly cupped together as he smirked dazzlingly amongst the courtiers as he spoke; “Your Majesty’s love and skill for horsemanship is well known. In that spirit, I present you with this…”

Two Bannerets walked into the hall – and a round of gasps rippled through the room as they brought with them a pair of whickering silver-backed stallions, a powerful breed virtually unknown on this side of the continent; one for the king and one for the queen. King Oswald looked upon his new gift with utter delight, and Gustave’s triumphant little grin evaporated into a frown.

The king, as well as his many guests, clapped vigorously. “Most generous, ambassador, most generous!”

Ambassador Ludolf resumed his seat. And when he did, he shot a very broad smile across the hall to his counterpart from Wallenheim.

Gustave’s frown became a snarl.

And Fran, observing the exchange, began to realize that this man Ludolf would be a problem.

**********

The Necropolis, Dragonspur, Kingdom of Morland

36^th of Summer, 801

The summer rains had cleared, at least for the day, and for that Edward Bardshaw was grateful. Prior visits to the Necropolis after a hard night’s rainfall made for rough going: its cobbled footpaths sodden with sludge and horse dung, its underground crypts waterlogged to the knee, but not this day, thankfully. This time its cobbled footpaths were clear of mud (if not a little straw and bird scat) and the crypt keepers were free to keep the candles and braziers lit. Broad-shouldered grave diggers worked teams of oxen along the southern side of the field by the Lord Mayor’s order, just beyond the Necropolis’ walls, to expand its perimeter.

The graves were almost full.

So truthfully Edward was lucky at all to get a little patch of earth for his memorial (if you could call them that). It rested in the south-eastern corner of the complex, far too close to the burial grounds of the unclaimed poor and dishonoured dead for Edward’s liking, but affordable. Four small stone slabs with four treasured names chiselled deep into them.

EGBERT BARDSHAW

His father, that kindly blacksmith, with his big black beard and sweaty skin and oil-stained smock and bear-like hug, who taught him that a man’s fate is determined not merely by saints or stars or omens but by his own heart.

BRETWALDA BARDSHAW

His mother, that stern disciplinarian, chief attendant to Lady Gray and one of her closest confidants. Edward saw her now in his mind – blonde hair bobbed beneath her caul, garbed in her homespun cotton dress and sandals, impressing upon him with that deep abiding frown to better himself and live by principle.

HARRY GROVER

His childhood friend and companion, one of the most fun loving and humorous souls Edward ever met. An orphan warded to the horsemaster of House Gray, Berron Grover, and one of the finest young riders of his day. There was no such thing as an unhappy day in his company.

SER MARTYN MORROGH

His swordmaster and childhood hero, captain of House Gray’s personal guard and a Banneret of the Bloom. Whatever small skill Edward had with the blade, all was the work of his tutelage, his drills, and his discipline. He was the man who taught Edward to always walk with honour, and to hold his head high in the doing of it, for that was what made a man.

Edward took a knee and said a prayer for each one.

He would never recover the bodies. Sometimes he dreamed of going back to the Isle of Gead to find and bury them, but it was too late. Ten years was a long time. His memorial to them was not enough, not even a fraction of what they deserved, but it was all he could do and all he could afford.

Edward stood up again. Dusted off his knees, smoothed out his cloak, adjusted his sword belt. Then he spoke. “Apologies to you all. I… I have not visited as much as I aught have, but… I bring good news this time. It’s Fran, he’s… he’s alive! Just like I always thought… just like I’d always hoped… I felt it. I always felt it.”

It was why Edward never gave him a stone.

“He is well and thriving,” said the swordsman. “In the service of some foreign ambassador from Wallenheim. You’d hardly recognize him now. No longer the apple-cheeked son of Lord Gray, but a man grown.” Ed swallowed. “I’m going to protect him. Him and Master Stillingford both. I… don’t know why but somehow, I feel their import, not merely to me but to everyone. I will be the sword and the shield that protects them… in all the ways I could not protect you, my nearest and dearest.”

A sigh. And a tear. Edward wiped away the latter, and then reached inside his doublet and undershirt for the locket of relics tucked beneath them. And he opened it for the first time in ten years.

It contained three items – a lock of Fran’s hair (which he once cut from the boy’s hair as he slept); two of Ser Martyn’s teeth blown from his very jaw as he dove to protect Edward from the cannon fire of those blasted Imperial ships; and finally, his mother’s wedding band, still smeared in the copper-colour traces of her blood.

The bounty and tragedy of home.

Edward sighed again, then sealed it shut and tucked it back beneath his lockram shirt.

“I will come and visit again soon,” said he. “But for now? May the saints keep you all in sweet, sweet rest.”

And then he departed. Swift bootsteps trudging along by the dusty trails weeded over from the cracks between the cobbles, Edward hurried past teary mourners and smocked grave keepers to the outer edge of the Necropolis’ stone walls where Stillingford’s coach awaited. He climbed inside and seated himself next to the surly old scholar, scratching his beard as he eyed the adjacent window.

“Where to first, master?” Said Ed.

Stillingford frowned at him, albeit with a chuckle. “That mischievous Club of yours, where else?”

**********

Woollerton Green, The Midburghs, Kingdom of Morland

36^th of Summer, 801

King Oswald (as Francis Gray and a good many others were soon to know) was very much a man of twinned temperaments. On the first, the man of the banquet, sumptuously dressed and well dispositioned, courteous, and affable, a delight to converse with, and a man to admire from afar. But as Fran came to see the king was also a man of industrious bureaucracy, so told by the comings and goings of the antechamber to his offices that day.

Whilst the king’s courtiers nursed themselves through the flatulent revenge of the prior night’s feasting and drinking, King Oswald was up at the early hours of the day, those hours yet lit by candlelight; head down, fingers splayed, quill scratching, sealing wax warmed, and parchment at the ready. And that was how Fran and Gustave first found him. Hunched over the lacquered breadth of his scrolled mahogany desk with papers splayed at every corner. Clerks buzzed in and out of his offices with bulging satchels. Two of his Bannerets of the Bloom stood guard as hour after hour, more of his personal servants brought missives and messages from across the country, freshly arrived by riders of the night. Pleas for aid and favour, no doubt, as well as invitations, updates on the conditions of royal properties and the reports of his espials.

There would be no rest for the freshly empowered monarch, but to see him and his diligent vigour, one might not assume he needed it.

King Oswald’s offices were minute in size and comfortable – with a noisy hearth and towering bookcases, all centred by his desk and its guest chairs, as well as a wider table where lay a woven map of the Kingdom of Morland, its four key regions dyed in four distinct shades of jade threaded with gilt borders and highways: the Highburghs, the Midburghs, the Lowburghs and the Isle of Gead. Each region was studded with an onyx jewel representing its chief city – Harcaster, Dragonspur, Wrothsby, and Stoneport respectively. Bleached buck skulls ran the narrow space between the case tops and the low ceiling, along with escutcheons chequered in silver and blue and painted with the royal sigil. Black iron latticework protected the wide rear windows overlooking the centremost of the three great courtyards of Woollerton Green, with all its gravel tracts, water fountains, nymphic statues, marble plinths, rose gardens, hedge mazes and yews.

Gustave folded his arms behind his back. Fran did the same. They both bowed, but only one of them spoke.

“Your Majesty…,” said Gustave.

The King looked up from his work, fingertips smattered with ink, and smiled. “Ah! Ambassador Roschewald. Thank you for accepting my invitation, your excellency. Come, sit, let us talk.”

With silent respect both sat to the King’s desk.

“Wine, perhaps?” Offered Oswald. “I have a Wallish red at my disposal, much matured.”

Gustave smiled. “Your Majesty is most gracious, but we reluctantly refuse. Perhaps some water might suffice?”

There was a ruff-collared footman stood nearby, posted next to the king’s desk within arm’s reach of three separate ewers upon a silver platter. King Oswald bade him pour and serve three glasses of water for them. And then his quill resumed its scratchings. “A man after my own heart, ambassador. A clear head serves well.”

“Strong negotiations merit as much, Your Majesty.”

Scritch, scritch. “There will be no negotiations.”

“Majesty?”

His quill paused. Then he smiled. “Not at present, anyway.” Then he turned to Fran. “Ambassador. Who have you failed to introduce me to?”

“T-this is my aide, Your Majesty, Francis Gray of-”

Francis Gray wondered if he should hate this king. After all, it was the dithering of his lord father King Osmund that allowed Imperial ships to lay siege to one fourth of the Morish demesnes for nigh on a year, its people starved and bombarded with not a single skiff or wherry of relief from the crown…

…but the son was not the father. And the king’s quaint smile ebbed when he heard the name. Francis Gray of House Gray. He knew not the face, but certainly the name.

“Gray,” said Oswald, softly. “Lord Gray… or the son of him, at least. I met him once… as a boy. He was a good man. May I offer my condolences.”

‘Your condolences are hollow,’ thought Fran. Condolences made him think of cannon fire and screaming, of guard towers reduced to rubble, of blood smears along the footpaths, of stray limbs shorn from their sockets. His pity was not compassion – and a far cry from justice. But as Fran was forced to remind himself, the son was not the father. Saints help Stillingford if he was. “Thank you, Your Majesty. My father held your own in great esteem.”

“Lord Gray was the Earl of Harcaster’s vassal, was he not?”

A nod. “Yes.”

“I see,” a whisp of a smile played upon the young King’s lips. Almost as if he had deduced something – or found a use for something. “Your house was poorly served by my late father, Master Gray. That I admit to you. As I understand it you were warded to House Roschewald after the siege?”

“Yes-”

“At His Grace the Duke of Greyford’s behest,” interjected Gustave. “And since turning eight-and-ten I have returned Francis’ services with fair wage.”

Young Fran watched even younger Oswald’s eyes shift curtly to Gustave, his still expression shifting swifty from polite curiousness to restrained irritation. “I would rather hear the boy speak of himself, excellency.”

“Apologies,” Gustave demurred. “Of course.”

Oswald returned to Fran. “You’ve no inheritance?”

“…None. Your Majesty.” In the wake of the Siege the lands once ruled by House Gray were parcelled off to the de la Mores, the Morish descendants of an old Gasqueri merchant-banking family granted royal licence to mint coins upon the Isle. Both Fran’s wardship to the Roschewalds and the accession of Lyonel de la More to the newly founded ‘Marquisate of Gead’ were but two of the Duke’s many stratagems to cement Morish ties to the continental mainland, with the Treaty of Grace as the crowning glory of his regency.

“And poorly served by my Lord Uncle besides,” mused the King. His affection for the continent remained to be seen. “Nevertheless. You are most welcome at my court, Master Gray. And now,” the King fixed his smile to address Gustave. “Ambassador. You spoke of negotiations?”

“Negotiations,” repeated Gustave. “I can only compliment Your Majesty on his graciousness and diplomacy. You are a reflection of your great people.”

“Have you met many of my people, excellency?”

The question struck Fran’s ear as sarcastic. And yet when he looked to the king he saw more of that calm curiosity upon his face… almost as if he was genuinely curious what Gustave made of his people, or, if Gustave’s understanding of the Morish matched his own – almost as if that understanding was in question, somehow.

“I have communicated with a handful, yes.”

Nevertheless, once ‘negotiations’ were uttered, Fran reached into his satchel and fetched quill, ink, and parchment to take minutes. King Oswald summoned his own notary from the antechamber and bade him pull a chair from the corner and sit with them all as the discussion resumed.

“And your impression?”

Gustave held his breast and smiled. “That your people are a strong, brave, resilient sort. The mood amongst the Morish I have met is one of tremendous love, excitement, and expectation for your true regnancy, though they have confided in me some… misgivings about his grace the Duke of Greyford’s regency.”

A frown. “What misgivings?”

“There is talk of persecutions and burnings at the hand of the Earl of Wrothsby,” Gustave nervously fingered the rings of his free hand. And Fran paused because he’d never known his master to be nervous in anything he did.

‘So, you are taking this seriously,’ thought the boy.

Perhaps Neidhart’s warnings rang loudly even over his own braggadocio? Or perhaps Gustave was simply perceptive enough to understand that King Oswald was not enamoured with him?

Nevertheless, the Wallish Ambassador kept his word and delivered Stillingford’s tidings with ill ease. “Some of the Wallishmen settled in Dragonspur speak of attacks against them by Morish labourers. One of my own men was attacked not two days after our landing. Some speak of the sky-high price of bread and grain. I say none of this to offend or accuse, Your Majesty. Only to inform.”

The young king became stolid, reclining into his throne-like armchair.

He took a moment to think and to evaluate Gustave’s words, before replying, rather dispassionately, “Speak to my clerks later and tell them of this offence to your man. I will have Constable Wolner look into it. As for the Lord Earl and his campaign in the south, he assured me the most stringent measures are reserved only for the worse criminals and recalcitrants.”

“Perhaps the reports embellish,” offered Gustave. “Still, Your Majesty, when thunder rumbles lightning falls. I would only ask a consideration of the claims. And, to that point, there is a forum in Dragonspur called Speaker’s Square where such matters are oft discussed. All who attend it love you. Perhaps if you were to visit and assay their claims…”

The King smiled then. Curtly. “You speak of the agitators.”

“I speak only of proud Morishmen who love you and their country.”

“…It was the Duke of Greyford’s belief that such men should be paid no heed, and that Constable Wolner, his own hire, keeps them in check. And masters, my good uncle is not well-disposed to New Men, so… one could only imagine my concern that the Duke is so wary of these agitators as to violate his own morals and conscience in the fact.”

“Your Majesty is well loved by these ‘agitators’,” affirmed Gustave. “You are their king. And they trust you to look to your own judgement.”

Oswald’s dismissive smile faltered. Slightly. And Fran saw at once that Gustave finally struck the right tone with him.

“Negotiations,” muttered the monarch.

His notary took up his quill. As did Fran. And both their instruments scratched as Gustave addressed the Morish King. “Indeed. I will be frank. Our peoples struggle, Morish and Wallish alike, under the weight of this embargo. Wallish produce cannot find its way to Morish ports. Our trading guilds have worked side by side for centuries and now they decline. This can only lead to enmity between our two nations, and I strive to avert that. My nation and I implore you to re-open trading relations with Wallenheim.”

The King reclined, threading his inky fingers. “My Lord Uncle and I acceded to this embargo only as a consequence of peace between Morland and the Empire. What you ask is in affect a violation of the Treaty of Grace.”

“I would not consider it so, though I acknowledge there are some who would.”

Oswald frowned. “The Emperor would. Make no mistake, ambassador, my countrymen bear little love for the Imperials – but I need not love them to know that peace with them better suits my countrymen’s interests. And so. What do you propose that would give me cause to threaten a peace so hard won?”

“A consortium,” There were legal documents in Fran’s satchel. Without ushering, Fran set aside his quill, popped open its buckle and handed them to his master, who, with the king’s leave, rolled them out afore him by his knight and deer shaped paperweights. “A joint trading organization of Morish and Wallish guilds, traders and merchants authorized by royal licence yet operating independently of both the Kingdom of Morland and the Republic of Wallenheim. Such an organization would not violate your treaty with the Empire, and all our resources would return to your nation’s disposal. Our wheat. Our corn. Our potatoes. Our furs. Our wines. Our ironwood.”

The Morish King paused. He looked intrigued. “…And you say this ‘consortium’, in precept at least, would not violate the treaty?”

“The Council of Lords employs some of the finest legal minds in Wallenheim and my brother had them review the stipulations of the treaty in thorough detail. They assure us that the consortium proposal is not in breach of any of its clauses.”

“…Perhaps not the letter. But the spirit…?” The king sighed. “Very well. I will ask my incoming Lord Serjeant to review this proposal as it relates to the treaty. If your attestations prove true, I will put it to my Masters of the Realm for a vote. If they should accede, the proposal will be sent via envoy to the Emperor. And if the Emperor raises no objections, then I will consider approving it.”

Fran was too busy with his quill jotting down every detail of their dialogue to gauge his master’s reaction but there was little need. A review, then a vote, then an envoy, then a consideration? That was tantamount to an objection! Certainly nothing Wallenheim or the Brothers Roschewald could rely on.

Fran peeked a glance out the corner of his eye and spotted Gustave’s large fist tightening beneath the ruffed white sleeves of his silver-black doublet, his very nails digging into the thread of his hose to suppress his anger. And that dour smile of deference he’d worn since setting foot into the King’s offices? It clung to his lips by a whisker.

“Your Majesty is most kind,” uttered Gustave, tersely.

Gustavius von Roschewald, Viscount of Wallenstadt, was not a deferential man. He could play the part of the charming courtier all he wished (and play it well) but he was not a man for submission. But his opponent that day was a king, and that king did not blink. Young Oswald was strong, wilfully strong, far beyond Fran’s expectations. He would not be so easy to bend.

“However,” said Oswald.

Gustave’s brow peaked.

“Your invitation to Speaker’s Square intrigues me. And I am… pleased to hear of the strength of feeling for me amongst my subjects. I will contemplate attending upon the considerations of my counsellors. And… I will speak candidly with the Earl of Wrothsby about the accusations I have heard. Now,” Oswald stood smiling with a single clap of his inked hands. Both Gustave and Fran stood after him, respectfully lowering their heads. “With respect I must cut our initial meeting short as I have other appointments to keep. We must talk further of other strategies to strengthen the ties between our two nations in the near future. I’ll speak to my clerks to arrange it. In the meanwhile, it would gratify me if you would attend the court dance this evening. You and Master Gray.”

Gustave, with his teeth so tightly clenched, bowed. “We would be delighted to, Your Majesty.”

“Very good.” Oswald resumed his seat. “Now if you’ll excuse me.”

They were dismissed. Fran gathered up his materials, slipped the satchel strap back over his shoulder, then returned his feathered cap to his head and followed his master’s heavy footsteps out into the echoing antechamber of the King’s Offices, where two more guests sat scheduled for their own meeting with the king – Imperial Ambassador Ludolf and his secretary, Matthias.

The two dignitaries met eyes.

And a slow, victorious smirk crept across Ludolf’s face.