The Court of Ghosts - 7. The Wretched of the Realm, Part 2

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‘Kind regards from the House of Gray’ – Council – The Rentmaster – Supper at Cromwood House – Supper at Harvenny Heath – The Red Cloak – ‘For without love, what is left?’

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Manse de Foy, Dragonspur, Kingdom of Morland

2^nd of Autumn, 801

TWO DAYS AGO

Wolfrick worked his boys hard that day. He woke them at daybreak for morning drills (those halberdiers not posted to the gates nor Gustave’s chambers) first running laps around the manse grounds then pairing them off for a series of sparring bouts – first with oaken sword and shield, then with staves. He kept a watchful eye on them, prowling about the plywood rim of their noisy training paddock, observing each man in his faults and strengths.

“Keep up your shield-arm, Lutz!” Cried Wolfrick. “Counter, Marq, follow up on every successful block! Good work, Dolph, nice thrust!”

Their skills were rusting. His men were still sharp, still strong, still swift of foot and keen of eye, but not what they were. Their part of the Wallenheim Delegation was to guard Gustave and protect his household by any means necessary whilst he negotiated an end to the embargo. But the Morland expedition was one of the dullest postings his halberdiers had ever had, a far cry from the bloody days of the Rebellion.

True soldiers are forged in war – that was the cardinal maxim of the Quartermaster of the Wallenstadt Garrison; that scruffy, war-wounded loyalist who first plucked Wolfrick from the piss-soaked streets and placed a sword in his hand in service of the Empire. Who could’ve imagined that some six-and-thirty years later, the street urchin would turn his cloak and fall in with the Roschewalds to throw off the Imperial yoke once and for all?

Wolfrick’s men were true soldiers, the spear tip of the Republic, but their old edges had dulled in this new era of peace. That was what made it so important to press the men. Tomorrow they would practice both defensive and offensive tactics: lateral shield walls, pincer movements, the tortoise formation, etc. Their training had been lax in that regard, but no longer. Despite the peace, despite their doleful posting, they had to be ready for anything.

“That’s enough for now, men! Break your fasts then away to your posts.”

The halberdiers chuckled and chattered as they returned their training weapons to their racks, exchanging their padded jacks and boiled leather greaves for kirtles and breastplate, then made their way swiftly to the great hall for a sup of braised fish and baked bread.

He didn’t join them.

Good as it was for a captain to eat with his men, to sit shoulder to shoulder with them, Wolfrick made for his room in the barracks and pulled a chair at his desk. To his irritation he had paperwork to draft – a list of halberdiers to whom arrears of wages were owed.

‘To think I’ll have to go crawling to that boy wench for pay,’ thought Wolfrick. He inked the tip of his quill and scratched out his list in a jumble of half-formed letters and numbers. The written word was never his strong suit. ‘Curse that little harlot.’

Gustavius von Roschewald was like a brother to Wolfrick. When he was first assigned to the household guard of Ser Leonhard von Roschewald, Gustave and Neidhart’s late father, Gustave was of the few who treated him as a compatriot, rather than some dirty commoner fresh from the gutters of Wallenstadt. There was always something of the Odoist in him – his ability to discern a man’s inner value and talent regardless of birth or station. And so, when Archduke Magnus Adolphus put forth a string of oppressive taxes and repressions of Odoist sermons and handbills, and when the Emperor went so far as to execute Sage Odo for daring to enlighten the masses, Wolfrick was more than willing to follow the Brothers Roschewald into the fires of revolt.

Yes.

Wolfrick loved Gustave like a brother.

And in the name of this love Wolfrick detested his brother’s clerk with a fiery passion.

Francis Gray, Gustave’s pampered Morish bitch.

Nothing was the same since the Duke of Greyford arranged his wardship to House Roschewald. Gustave’s sexual appetites were always peculiar, and his noble blood always did flow quicker to his cock than his brain, but these last ten years he’d been infatuated with that smug little whore, lavishing him with silken fineries and rich wines, bringing him up in commerce, sending him to the most prestigious schools and colleges throughout the continent. The Gray boy oversaw all the household ledgers as well as the numerous businesses and trusts under Gustave’s helm. He was now paymaster and steward, account man and auditor. What sense did it make to funnel so much responsibility and power to one simple boy whose ultimate purpose was only to service Gustave’s greedy yard? He could have had his pick of boy whores in either Dragonspur or Wallenstadt, so why him? Why him?

Wolfrick almost snapped his quill.

‘I HATE that boy,’ thought he. And he meant it. He had always hated the Gray boy. Prancing around the halls with his nose in the air, flitting from one bedroom to the next without a hint of shame, constantly scratching out his little letters and missives to saints knew who, always sulking about at Gustave’s heels like some slovenly pup. At times Wolfrick caught him whispering to himself in little arguments when (he thought) others were out of earshot, as if haunted by some phantom. ‘Fiend’ was the word he used.

Fiend.

What an unsaintly boy.

“Such ill omens abound, oh hateful little creature,” spat Wolfrick. The thought was so sharp he spoke it aloud, giving it breath within the secrecy of his quiet quarters. “If not for him and the dishonour he brings to House Roschewald, perhaps Lady Magnhilda would still be-”

He stopped himself.

‘No,’ thought Wolfrick. ‘No. Long ago swore I an oath to St. Thunos… my oath that I would never allow myself to speak of her. For the love I bear my brother… I cannot.’

And yet he oft thought of her.

Lady Magnhilda of Strausholm.

That dearest, sweetest of hearts. The only Imperial for whom Wolfrick had borne any degree of respect. The only woman that Wolfrick had ever…

‘…That poor, poor woman…’ thought he. ‘Why St. Jehanne forsook you her luck I shall never know…’

In his darkest memories Wolfrick well recalled the marrow-curdling screams of her childbirth, and the harrowing sight of the twin-headed monstrosity it produced. Damn the day he was posted to guard the good lady’s chambers! Never would Wolfrick forget the horrified looks of Magnhilda’s attendants as they swaddled the little creature in bloody cloth and brought it before Gustave.

“It will not survive long,” he’d said, soberly. “I will abide with it. And then I will burn it. Leave me.”

When Magnhilda woke from her blood-soaked birthing bed, she wept for her baby, and begged her husband to let it die in her arms peacefully.

Gustave refused.

To be cruel, perhaps? No. Gustave did not love Magnhilda, nor did he like her, but he did not hate her. Their marriage was Neidhart’s device, an act of diplomacy to forestall what would prove to be an inevitable clash with the Empire, there was no love in it. She was merely an inconvenience and nothing more.

However, he did summon Wolfrick, asking him if he would like to hold it before it died, and in that the guardsman did see some cruelty. Or some humanity, perhaps. It was always difficult to tell with Gustave. Either way, he refused. The Four Saints had hexed the child for the transgression of its conception – and Wolfrick wanted nothing further to do with it.

Three days later, Gustave boarded a ship setting sail for shores unknown and took the cursed chrisom along with him. It was never seen again. And Magnhilda never forgave him for it.

Nor forgave she Wolfrick.

Never again was Magnhilda able to bear children. Never again did her sweet smile grace the household. And to add insult to injury, ten years later, Francis Gray was brought into their midst. Wolfrick could only imagine the good lady’s shame in sharing her marriage bed with some foreign slut of a boy barely two years older than her sons would have been had they lived. Sometimes Wolfrick wanted to SCREAM at Gustave to forsake his twisted fixation on Gray before the disgrace of it drove the noble Roschewald name into the dirt. But he would not listen. Gustave’s chief flaw was not his vanity, nor his fickleness, it was always his stubbornness. Nothing could sway him from a path if he truly sought to follow it.

Although Wolfrick could not fully explain his reasonings, he knew that boy, Francis Gray, was a danger to House Roschewald, and he grew more certain of it by the day. But for the love he bore his brother, his brother in arms, Gustavius von Roschewald, Wolfrick would bite his tongue and bide his time.

He had an ewer of water nearby. He poured himself a cup, drank, then set it aside and began to write his request.

The following men have arrears in wages, he began, smothering a cough. Edrick Einhir – 150 marks, late summer…

Wolfrick coughed again, pausing to clear his throat.

Kurtz Blount, 75 marks + 22 half-marks for___

The quill skidded off the parchment when a heavy cough wracked Wolfrick’s throat. And then another. And then another even heavier than that. The quill fell from his hand as his whole throat began to burn, burn like hearthfire, burn as he reached out for the water ewer, knocking it over in his desperation, crystal smashing into fragments of itself and soaking the wooden floor as Wolfrick fell from his chair and landed with a thud, clawing bloodily at his own throat as its muscles seized up, choking out its wheezes, himself growing weaker and weaker as he strained with all his will to breathe…

…Wolfrick rolled onto his belly. Propped himself up on his elbows, gasping for breath, breath growing shorter and shorter with each starved intake as he inched forward across the dusty floor into the barracks. His men’s lodgings were empty and shrouded in shadow, drawing out the raspy echo of his pleas for help, but no one came. All were gone to the great hall. All except a single shadow.

Wolfrick wheezed and hacked for air, eyes glazing over as a figure stepped out of the darkness and approached him. And for a moment, just a single moment, he saw Magnhilda there, smiling softly at him for the first time in decades, until she lowered her hood… and instead he saw Gustave’s Catspaw, his assassin and espial, cold-eyed Lothar.

 

The room fogged over as pale-skinned Lothar approached Wolfrick with soundless bootsteps. He dropped to his leathered haunches. And then he pulled the softest, smallest of smiles at the Captain of the Guard…

“Kind regards from the House of Gray,” said he.

…just as Wolfrick choked out a final dying breath.

**********

Staunton Castle, Dragonspur, Kingdom of Morland

4^th of Autumn, 801

PRESENT DAY

Francis Gray held his breath as the footmen led him to a highbacked seat along the Council Table. He did not wish to appear overwhelmed or comport himself like some mouth-breathing ploughman lost in the halls of a festooned foreign palace… but this was no ordinary meeting ground.

This was the Great Council Chamber of Staunton Castle where so much of Morland’s history was authored, from Edwulf II’s invasion of Wallenheim to the declaration of the Long Sea War. And indeed, Fran felt that history’s great weight throughout the presence of the room, as if the grandeur of its décor compounded the import of its function. Tall marble columns lined the walls and between each of them stood a claymore-armed suit of polished plate. From its hammerbeam trusses dangled velvet banners stitched with the Royal Sigil and its hexagonal floor was carpeted in crimson with patterns of golden scroll. At the rear stood a roaring hearth and over its mantle a series of busts carved in the fashion of the Four Saints.

As guests he and Gustave were the first to be seated. Then one by one the great office holders of state emerged through its lacquered mahogany doors; first the Lord Sergeant, Ser Symon Shakestone, and then the Lord Justiciar, Ser Howard Frogmoncke. Then came the Lord Seneschal, Ser Robert Mountjoy, then came the Lord Treasurer, Lyonel de la More, and after him the Lord Marshal, John Drakewell – otherwise known as the Duke of Greyford – and then finally came King Oswald himself, escorted to his seat by two bardiche-armed Bannerets of the Bloom.

All removed their hats and rose from their seats as the young monarch took his rightful place at the head of the table. “Be seated all of you.”

A series of chairs uniformly scraped into place.

“Ambassador Roschewald,” began the king. “Let me begin by thanking you and Master Gray for accepting my invitation to this council meeting. I might also offer my condolences for the passing of your guard captain. Consumption, was it?”

HEH, HEH, HEH… tittered The Fiend. For the briefest of moments Fran flicked his eyes toward Marquess de la More who plucked at his thin beard with fingers festooned at every joint by onyx-set signets, and imagined the day similar reports would reach the King’s ear about him. SOON, DEAR BOY, SOON…

The Marquess of Gead returned not his gaze.

Gustave nodded softly to Oswald. His mood had been uncharacteristically flat since Wolfrick’s death. “Your condolences are heartening, Majesty. Wolfrick was a good man, a loyal friend, and a hearty soldier. His loss is deeply felt.”

Greyford’s stony brow turned towards the King (though he gestured at Gustave). “Your Majesty, whilst I share your pity for this person I do wonder if his excellency Ambassador Roschewald might be better served observing the traditional period of mourning rather than attending a full council meeting, particularly at such a time of unrest.”

Ser Robert (who sat to the King’s left) piqued. “Unrest, your grace?”

“We will attend those matters in due course,” said Oswald, eyeing Fran briefly, before turning to his Lord Sergeant. “Ser Symon. I understand you’ve had the opportunity to review the good ambassador’s proposals?”

Half a sheaf of unstrung paperwork sat in a messy pile before Shakestone’s grasp. He took up a few of its opening pages, scribbled upon with his many notes and addendums and points of query. “Indeed, Your Majesty, I have. And from what I have seen his excellency is correct. Neither the Consortium proposal nor the subsequent proxy state proposals are in violation of the Treaty of Grace.”

“Proxy State?” Quipped Greyford. “What mean you by this?”

Ser Symon Shakestone took a pair of handheld spectacles to his nose as he reviewed his copious notes to explain. “His excellency’s contention is that trade ties between Morland and Wallenheim might be indirectly renewed if a fourth country or city-state, a ‘proxy state’, is used as third party through informal but separate trade agreements with both Morland and Wallenheim.”

The suggestion caught de la More’s interest. “So, as example… the Gasque Kingdom could strike simultaneous trading agreements with both Morland and Wallenheim, leaving our two nations free to trade with each other via Gasque as a go-between?”

“No clause of the Treaty of Grace precludes it, Your Honour.” Said Shakestone. “Although there are some obvious drawbacks. Both proposals would require a cession of profits to a third party, to be sure.”

Greyford eyed the new man darkly. “You speak of propositions that would defeat the very purpose of the embargo in all but some minute tenet of the law? And to what end?”

“A peaceful means of quelling the unrest of which you spoke hitherto,” said the King. “The Guard Tax you levied is deeply unpopular with the commonfolk. I feel certain that repealing it would go some way to stymieing their anger.”

“Commonfolk,” The word dripped like venom from the Duke’s lips. “The commonfolk are better served with the whip-hand.”

Silence.

Fran looked up from his minutes, ceasing his little quill scratches as the mood darkened around the table. The Duke of Greyford threw his squared jaw between his ringed thumb and forefinger as King Oswald’s frowning glare fell upon him.

The silence endured.

Until a cough.

And then Ser Robert interjected. “Your Majesty if I may? Your Lord Uncle does have a point. I do not doubt that Ambassador Roschewald’s plans are legally sound, but if only in spirit, they would flout a key stipulation of the Treaty of Grace. If given a choice between a small tax and the maelstrom of war the commonfolk would surely pick the former.”

“The Emperor is no fool,” said Oswald. “He would not risk war between our two nations without sound legal cause. And what good Morish king bends his policy to suit foreign whims? We shall put both of Ambassador Roschewald’s proposals to a vote at our next session. This will give you all ample time to review the particulars and draw your own conclusions. Now. My Lord Marshal you spoke previously of unrest?”

The Duke of Greyford lurched forth, livery collar rattling at his shoulders as he glanced about the table, warily. “…It seems that the execution of that old seditionist Theopold Stillingford has affected some… consternation in certain reaches of the realm.”

At once Fran thought of Edward. His quill paused a moment and then resumed.

“Certain reaches?” Ser Howard Frogmoncke threaded his fingers. “Presumably not in the Lowburghs? Tensions have cooled there since the King brought a halt to the Sacred Inquest, is that not so?”

The Lord Marshal eyed the Lord Justiciar as if a servant spoke to him out of turn. “Indeed, ser. The brunt of the backlash is isolated to the north around the towns of Ravensborough, Knasbury, Tuckbridge, Mowbrey upon Moor, and Castlegarron, as well as the city of Harcaster itself. Protests, temple burnings, seditious sermons, rabblerousing. There are even reports that the High Shepherd of Harcaster, his worship Thomas Tenney, was beaten in the streets.”

King Oswald made the Sign of the Saints, despairing.

“And the Earl of Harcaster?” Said Ser Robert. “What is his lordship doing to curtail this disorder?”

“I sent envoys to treat with the Earl, but they were rebuffed. Harcaster writes only that he is short of men and without provision enough to corral dissidents.”

Ser Robert and Ser Symon grumbled. As did the King. They knew (as did Fran) that it was a flaming lie. By population alone the Highburghs, the northern territories of Morland, were the second largest in the kingdom behind only the Midburghs – even after the Isle of Gead was declared its own marquisate in the wake of the 791 Imperial siege. ‘For wont of manpower’ was no argument the Earl could make. Nor was the north poorly provisioned. The Highburghs contained four of Morland’s eight garrisons and the Earl of Harcaster was the only noble in the realm permitted to retain a personal army, the so-called Spear of the North. It was an old privilege granted to the earldom by the peace treaty signed at the climax of the Morish Civil War – a treaty between the freshly installed King Oswyke I and House Vox, the traditional title holders of the earldom of Harcaster who rather notably shared blood with the now extinct Royal House of Wulfsson. ‘For wont of provisions’ was an even weaker argument than the former.

“Excuses all,” said de la More. “We all know why Harcaster is reluctant to act.”

Even Fran did.

It related to the treatment of his late daughter, Katheresa Vox, who history now knew as The One Year Queen, and to the child she whelped shortly before her persecution, Harcaster’s granddaughter, who all of Morland now knew as Edith the Exile.

That old northern irritant.

Though her name went unspoken its presence hung weightily throughout the air. It made Gustave squirm – and with good reason. When Katheresa died in 777 (three years after being found guilty of adultery against old King Osmund and sentenced to exile in Wallenheim) her little daughter Edith was taken in by the Roschewalds at the Emperor’s request. They gave her shelter, protection, and a little tutelage until the year 781 when the Earl of Harcaster successfully appealed to King Osmund for an end to his granddaughter’s banishment. But the old king’s concession did not come without its stipulations.

Firstly Edith (by then a girl of six) must publicly acknowledge the ‘truth’ of her mother’s adultery and forswear any claim to the crown. Secondly, she would be disinherited from any lands or titles owned by House Vox. Only when Harcaster accepted these terms was young Edith recalled to Morland.

Fran had never met her. He was but a babe two years divorced of Lady Gray’s womb when little Edith’s ship first landed at Stoneport; but his mother once described her to him.

‘Hard-eyed’, she’d said. ‘Tall for her age with skin as pale as bone and hair as red as fire – but hard-eyed. Dark brown eyes bereft of the light of innocence’. And that hard-eyed little girl had grown into a hard-willed woman.

Tales of her upbringing and exploits were told and sung in taverns across the kingdom from the Frozen Sea to the Giant’s Neck, to the extent that it was almost impossible to separate fact from fiction.

As a girl, they said, she swore to forsake all feminine things in favour of swordplay and horsemanship. They said she once swore an oath before all Four Saints only to marry a man capable of besting her in combat – hence why she’d never married. They said she once led a band of Morish children into the woods in pursuit of a direwolf that devoured a baby cousin of hers and brought its pelt back to her grandfather’s keep.

As a teenager, they said, Edith gathered her own warband to scour the countryside for bandits and highwaymen.

As an adult, they said, she gave alms to the poor, gave shelter to pilgrims, washed the feet of lepers, cut the cocks off rapists, and hung cattle thieves by their necks. There were reports (in both Morland and Wallenheim) that during the Siege of Gead she had defied King Osmund’s orders and sailed with her men to an island outpost near the siege lines – an island purposed as a supply base for the Empire. They said Edith captured it, killed its captain, then personally skinned the flesh of twenty Imperial sailors before setting its gunpowder stores alight and blowing the islet to oblivion, earning her the epithets of The Bloody Maid and The Red Princess.

Perhaps some of those stories were true.

What Fran did know to be true was that Edith the Exile (as she was still known) was deeply popular with the people, a kind of folk hero, enchanting the nation through tales of her wildness and passion; a rabid Odoist and fierce critic of the court. A thorn beneath royal flesh. And with every passing year her renown only grew and grew.

Greyford continued on. “The northern towns are flooded with handbills decrying Stillingford’s execution, bemoaning the Guard Tax, weeping for burnt Odoists. Some of these seditious materials are even spreading the lie that Edith is legitimate – that she is a true heir of our dear King Osmund. This cannot stand.”

“I agree,” said the King. “But I suspect the ‘whip-hand’ will not be enough.”

The Duke smothered his frown.

“Your Majesty has a stratagem?” Suggested Ser Robert.

The King nodded. “I do. We will go north, the brunt of my court, and meet with the Earl of Harcaster to convince him to return to his rightful place at my side. Once Harcaster is welcomed back into the fold he will have every incentive to suppress the agitators and bring his granddaughter to heel.”

Greyford balked. “Your Majesty, please. You need not debase yourself traipsing up country to win that churlish old stoat’s favour. I suggest we send Thomas Wolner to the north with 300 demi-lancers at his back. As he rooted out the Crow’s Club so too would he-”

“Lord Uncle,” King Oswald lifted a hand in pause. “With respect I have not offered a suggestion I am declaring my will. Summoning the Earl south would cause offense. Better to go to him, or if it please you – Ser Robert? What is the middle point between Woollerton Green and the city of Harcaster?”

There was a map of the Kingdom of Morland spread out across the meeting table, half-buried under sheafs of paperwork, half-drunk wine cups and ewers, ink pots and quill stands. The Lord Seneschal cleared some of the mess, and with his walking cane he pointed out a port town along the country’s eastern coast. “That would be here, Majesty, the town of Fludding in Lord Gainscroft’s burgh. Fitting middle ground, I would say.”

“Ah! Then it is settled. It might be too late in the year to call it a progress, but we shall treat it as such and meet with the Earl at Fludding to repair some of these old enmities. I shall have my secretary draw up the invitation.”

“A fine plan, Your Majesty,” said Ser Howard Frogmoncke. “…and a gesture long past due. But we should note that the Earl of Harcaster withdrew from your father’s court at his own discretion. And it is no secret that he…” The Lord Justiciar nervously cleared his throat as the Duke of Greyford threw an angry glare down the table’s breadth. “…it is no secret that he blames certain members of court for his daughter’s untimely demise.”

“Indeed,” said King Oswald. And then he turned his smile to Fran. “And there lies my trump card.”

Fran’s quill stopped cold as all eyes around that table fell upon him. The King and his advisors, the most powerful men in the realm, all turned to him. “Me? Me, Your Majesty?”

“Yes, Master Gray, you. Your father, Lord Gray, was a close friend to his lordship as well as one of his most loyal vassals. I am certain the Earl of Harcaster would be delighted to meet the pleasant young man his dear friend’s son has become. Who better than you to help sway him to my side?”

The boy’s heart thumped in his chest. The Fiend, normally so cold and corrosive, now cackled with glee in his ear. Even Gustave brooked a smile at the young King finding a use for his Morish pawn. What was there to do but to say – “Thank you, Your Majesty. I should be delighted to serve.”

A kind yet edged smile returned to the sovereign. “And I am delighted to have your support. Now, masters. If you’ll excuse us, I have other matters of state to discuss with my noble council.”

Make your way out was his meaning.

Both Gustave and his clerk took the cue, his clerk gathering together his papers and quill and ink jar and dispensing them into his leather satchel. The Bannerets of the Bloom uncrossed their bardiches to allow their way through the scrolled wooden doors, which were quickly sealed behind them. The outer corridor echoed from its chequered marble floors to its banner-swathed hammerbeams with the busy footsteps of dozens of clerks, bankers, notaries, secretaries, dignitaries, shepherds, guards, guildsmen… and the Imperial Ambassador, Georg Ludolf, crunching his little mint leaves between his teeth as his lank secretary Matthias flicked idly through his papers.

The two ambassadors met eyes along the hall. They had not spoken to each other since their little clash at Woollerton Green, which suited Gustave immensely. His distaste for the Imperial ambassador was by now well known (and by his own accord well merited) but it wouldn’t do to further sour feeling for himself at court by exercising a feud with Ludolf.

“Come along, Fran.” Said Gustave. “We must make our preparations.”

Ludolf tugged a smile. “Preparations?”

Heavy shoes stopped in place. Fran watched his master’s fist as it clenched and unclenched, as if weighing up the positives and negatives of conversing with his continental counterpart. “Fran? Is there a gnat in your ear, buzzing? Or is it only me?”

“Come now, ambassador, come now…” Ludolf’s crooked smile widened. “We need only be civil, you and me. For the good of both our countries whose shared history is not bloodless but has not always been defined by conflict… I should offer my condolences for the loss of your man. Wolfrick, I believe he was called? What a pity. Come to supper with me at Cromwood House this evening. We should be elated to have you.”

Ludolf had all the guile and manner of a lizard. From his minty maw even an invitation to dinner sounded like a threat. Fran half-expected his master to tell his excellency where he could shove his invitation, but instead Gustave broadened his smile, crossed his arm over his abdomen, and gave the littlest of bows. Ever so slight and sarcastic. Matthias frowned at the gesture whilst Ludolf’s smirk tightened… but no rebuke was offered. And so-

“I humbly accept your most generous offer, ambassador. Fran and I will happily attend. Now if you will excuse us.”

Gustave strode off down the hall. Fran quickly followed, wondering aloud what that was about. His master grinned. “A cornered snake rethinking his plan of attack.”

**********

Harvenny Heath, Dragonspur, Kingdom of Morland

4^th of Autumn, 801

There was banging at the door. Persistent. Insistent. Each pounded fist drew Edward Bardshaw further and further from the clutch of his dreams, ugly dreams of severed heads floating into a black abyss like flecks of snow along a nightly wind. Very soon he was awake. Thankfully so. Yet very soon his gratitude ebbed away, replaced by bemusement at the callous world he now woke to. But on it went BAM, BAM, BAM, BAM, BAM! BAM, BAM, BAM, BAM, BAM! BAM, BAM, BAM, BAM, BAM!

‘Who is it?’ Thought Edward. ‘More well-wishers?’

A few had come since news of the old man’s death began to spread. Most were fair-weather friends of the Crow’s Club – suppliers and sympathisers to the cause. They often brought little gifts with them. Flowers. Food. Condolences. But never anything useful. Ale would have suited. Or money.

BAM, BAM, BAM, BAM, BAM! A voice screamed beyond the door, hoarse and gravelly. It was no well-wisher. BAM, BAM, BAM, BAM, BAM! BAM, BAM, BAM, BAM, BAM!

‘I suppose I’ll have to drag myself out of bed,’ thought Edward. He wondered if he might have more luck bringing Stillingford back from the dead… or how easy it would be to join him. But the thoughts were idle and stupid and unworthy of him.

BAM, BAM, BAM, BAM, BAM! BAM, BAM, BAM, BAM, BAM!

So why did they keep coming back?

BAM, BAM, BAM, BAM, BAM! BAM, BAM, BAM, BAM, BAM!

The swordsman groaned. Stretched out his tired muscles. Knuckled two days’ worth of crust out of his eyes. Then he slowly lumbered out of bed, barefoot and naked from the waist up, ambling out of his little box room at the back of the cottage to its now vibrating front door. Edward yawned, undid its three bolts, then pulled it open.

Sunlight poured in and made a silhouette of the seven-foot-tall mountain of muscle now stood before him, all somehow contained within a simple pleated white shirt, tied leather gauntlets and baggy russet leggings atop a set of worn fur-rimmed boots.

Black-skinned and broad of lip and nose was he. An alien. Edward did not know him. But at his belly button (or rather at the height of it) stood a far squatter man buttoned up in a fine velvet tunic cut of fabric too lavish for a man of such guttural tone and temperament, his sallow flesh pocked with old pox scars, his thin pink lips curved downward into a sulking frown. The rentmaster. And he, Edward did know. He owned damn near half the cottages in Harvenny Heath.

“Done grieving?” He spat.

Had Edward a dagger to hand he would’ve driven it into the bastard’s eye. “Good morrow, master. Care for some stew? I have a pot I can wallop-”

“The rent,” he said sharply. “It’s more’n fifteen days due, Ed Bardshaw. I want it paid.”

‘But of course,’ thought Edward. ‘Why else would you be here banging my door?’

A pity to say Ed was never much for numbers and budgets. Those things were always more Stillingford’s dominion. Not that the old man hadn’t tried to teach him. “Would you rather gut a man than calculate a sum?” He used to say. Ed always thought it was a trick question. And now, in the ever-present, Edward took a single glance at the rentmaster and knew at once which one he’d choose.

‘Like a fish,’ he thought. ‘That’s exactly how I’d gut you.’ “I can only apologize, master. The Chamber of the Lord Justiciar froze Master Stillingford’s pension from the College of Dragonspur, which of course was how we paid you. I-”

“The money,” barked the rentmaster. “I want the money not your excuses.”

His right hand reached for his sword, but it was five yards behind him lulling in the armchair by the doused hearth. Had it been hanging from his belt two heads would have rolled down the hill into the nearest midden – and then the Constable of Dragonspur would have had a real reason to arrest him.

Instead, Edward calmed himself. “Master. I’m looking for work. Give me a tenday and-”

“Two days. You have two days to fetch me my fucking money,” Then the rentmaster threw his thumb over his shoulder at his henchmen. “And if I don’t get it, Ed Bardshaw, I’ll come back with this big black bastard and let him deal with you.”

Ed eyed the alien. Watched his eye twitch. He spoke Morish, doubtless, and he was probably less enamoured with his employer than the village was. But he would make good on his master’s threats. Coin is coin after all.

Edward smiled at the pair of them. “Understood, masters.”

They left him in peace after that, trundling off to break the fingers of some other poor late payer down the road. His subsequent screams rang in Edward’s ears as he reached beneath Stillingford’s bed to pull up a loose floorboard. The hiding space concealed a small box. Edward retrieved and opened it, taking what was left of Stillingford’s savings – 9 marks! – before returning it and replacing the board.

This time last autumn that box bulged with several times that amount but giving Stillingford some honour in death was costly. He had no wife or children left – they were taken from him by plague some twenty years past – and so the master had to fund his own burial from the afterlife.

This was how it happened.

After the executions at Gallows Grove, the remains of Theopold Stillingford, William Rothwell and the other members of the Crow’s Club (culled at the crown’s orders) were moved to the embalming houses of their respective temples; the Temple of St. Wynnry for Stillingford, and the Temple of St. Bosmund for Rothwell.

Will’s father, Gregory Rothwell, a wealthy magnate and guildmaster in his own right, collected his son’s remains. Edward did the same for Stillingford, paying the embalmer to cleanse his corpse for burial. Neither man would go into the ground whole, of course – both their severed heads now decorated the spikes atop Foxford Bridge.

Theopold Stillingford would not be buried in Dragonspur. It would’ve brought Edward comfort to put that great old scholar to rest with the memorial stones of his parents and Harry Grover, but he knew that would not be Stillingford’s will.

They never talked about it, but Edward knew his master well, and he knew his master’s preference would be burial in his native Wuffolk. And so to that end Edward plundered the old man’s savings to rent a mule and cart from Master Malbus. To spare further expense he manned the cart himself and set out on the 91^st of Summer, 801.

He ferried his master’s shrouded remains across the muddy highway, sleeping under the stars for two nights before arriving in Wuffolk, the Queen Dowager’s demesne, going straight to the offices of the gravedigger’s guild to purchase a plot.

All that was left then was to dig the grave and perform the burial, but what was left of Stillingford’s savings could not cover both, so Edward economized and dug his master’s grave himself.

It took him the best of the night, of course. A hole of six feet and a mound of dredged up earth for his troubles, but Edward was proud to do it.

‘It should be me,’ he thought, ‘for all he taught and bequeathed, it should be me’.

He slept in the cemetery that night (once again to spare the money) and the following morning the guildsmen brought around his master’s embalmed body. They came in the company of an Odoist shepherd, a sympathizer, who gave him the traditional blessing and rites before committing his corpse to the ground alongside his lost family; Contessa Stillingford, Marcus Stillingford and Julian Stillingford.

Edward lit his candles, said a prayer, wiped his tears then swore to return with a beautifully crafted headstone to commemorate him by. And then left his master to a hard-earned rest.

That was three days ago.

And now, Edward Bardshaw was back in Dragonspur, his friends dead or scattered, his master gone, his purpose destroyed. All that was left was Fran. And thanks to that bastard Gustavius von Roschewald, Ed hadn’t been able to see him since that day outside Manse de Foy. But Edward did not want to think about that. He did not want to think about anything, not Stillingford, not Will, not Wolner, nor the Crow’s Club. Not even Fran.

All he wanted… was to get fucking drunk.

Ed pocketed the 9 marks, strapped on his sword, shrugged on his hooded cloak, and walked out the door, locking it behind him. Some of the townsfolk gathered in the road looking on with horror as the rentmaster had his black alien drag a cobbler from his home and snap his arm like a twig. A little girl, the cobbler’s daughter perhaps, looked to him and his sword as if to say – ‘please, ser, help my pa!’ – but her ‘pa’ was one of the neighbours who jeered at Stillingford as Wolner’s men carted him away.

‘To oblivion with your pa,’ thought Edward. ‘Mine is with the saints.’

The now masterless swordsman fancied spending his last bit of money in The Bill & Bowman, but without a horse the city of Dragonspur was a long walk away. Instead, he retreated to a small tavern at the edge of the village and found himself a quiet little table in the corner – out of the way and out of earshot. At least the ale was cheap there. One half-mark per flagon, so Edward ordered his by the twos. Then two more. And two more after that – and more and more besides until the moon had risen, and his purse was empty. And then a shadow fell upon him, slowly peeling down its hood to reveal the shave-pate beneath it.

Kenrick Thopswood.

“…The lawyer…” A now drunken Edward chuckled to himself, slurring the words. “…I looked for you… couldn’t find you…”

The legal man, pious as ever, looked disparagingly at the blonde guardsman. “This is how you express your grief, Edward? Lost in your cups?”

“Aye. As it seems! So, pull up a chair… or piss off.”

Thopswood did neither. He leaned close to Ed, close enough not to be heard from other tables and said, “We do not have time for this… pointless self-pity. By the stars and saints, pull yourself together!”

A sigh. “…W-what do you want, Kenrick?”

“I want you to listen to me. Stillingford’s execution shows there is no common cause with the King. But we cannot give up. Shepherd Godwyn has been released from the Tower of Penitence. And I’ve rallied some other survivors from the Crow’s Club. We’re going north. And I want you to join us.”

A slobbering chuckle squeaked out, followed by a belch. Edward already knew where this was going but decided to go along with it… or perhaps he was too drunk to do otherwise. “Going north to do what?”

“To join with Edith the Exile.”

Another chuckle, rough and wet and ragged. “And that was Stillingford’s wish, was it? To throw in with the ACTUAL seditionists?”

“Keep your voice down!” Hissed Thopswood. “No other choices have been left to us. We must fight on and free this country from its true oppressors, and the Red Princess is our last hope. Our fate lies in the north, Edward. Come with me so we can put this country to rights.”

Edward shook his head, throwing back another gulp of cheap ale. He slapped down his cup. “Oh, lawyer. Go north if you wish, play your politics there, just keep your head in the doing of it. The old man already lost his.”

A pair of smooth hands grabbed him by the collar with a roughness uncustomary to him. Edward looked on, half-amused and half-angered, as Thopswood tried in vain to lift him out of his wooden seat. The scrape of the chair legs drew eyes their way. The lawyer was too angry to notice.

“How DARE you speak of him so flippantly?!” He spat. “We lost him too; you are not the only one who loved him!”

Ed frowned, palming his sword’s steel pommel. “…It’ll be a harder road north with no hands, master.”

Thopswood released him with a shove, scowling in disgust at a man he used to respect. “The others were right. You’ve lost your heart for this fight. Very well. Stay here and drink yourself under the table if you wish. But know this – all of us are on Wolner’s ledger now. The Constable of Dragonspur will come for you, one way or another.”

He stormed off.

Edward watched Thopswood go with a half-smirk, reaching into his pocket for another mark to order another round, and found it empty. He would have to find work to fill his cups… or perhaps he could gut a few fish?

**********

Cromwood House, Dragonspur, Kingdom of Morland

4^th of Autumn, 801

Was it possible to forget yourself? That was what Francis Gray wondered as a flock of wait staff surrounded the table at the snap of Georg Ludolf’s fat fingers. A young man leaned over Fran’s shoulder to collect his plate, smattered with gooseberry sauce and hare bones. A second man refilled his wine cup with an Imperial red (sourced straight from Strausholm) whilst a third offered him a fresh choice of napkin – each having been warmed at a fire. Fran chose a spiral design and thanked him in the Imperial tongue.

A year ago, it might have disgusted him to be waited on in such a fashion.

As a boy he thought little of it, kindly servants bringing him food and water at his father’s behest – what was to bemoan? But as a ward coming into his own maturity, he saw the things most lords chose not to – he saw the effort it all took. Gustave had a personal cook, Inga, and when one of Inga’s girls got sick Fran was sometimes called to the kitchens for help. Lordly kitchens were like a battlefield to Fran. Stout orders were shouted over a din of simmering pots and whistling kettles as the roaring ovens glazed over the blackened walls with a fiery hue. The scents of salt and smoke were everywhere, and everywhere whirled motion; bakers kneading dough, waiters picking wines, washerwomen fetching plates, arrays of sweaty cook staff peeling potatoes or chopping vegetables or jointing meat or churning butter. Twenty or thirty people running themselves ragged through sweltering heats all to serve a party of three or four? It always felt like such a waste from downstairs.

But these days Fran spent much of his time upstairs, and upstairs was a very different world from the smoky kitchens and dank sculleries of below. Upstairs lay only the delicious aftermath – dates and almonds, grapes and cheeses, tarts and pastries, ale and wine, potatoes and garden salads, salmon and swordfish, beef and pork. He’d eaten brisket with Ser Howard Frogmoncke and pheasant with Lord Viscount Thormont, and now hare with Ambassador Ludolf.

Fran felt himself slowly re-acquiring his taste for the finer things… despite the poor company, his poorest company yet in fact.

The Imperial Ambassador snapped his fingers again and a few moments later four attendants brought out four plates of honey almond cake and cream. A plate each was distributed to the dinner guests – Georg Ludolf, his good wife Clarabella Ludolf (a Morishwoman), Gustavius von Roschewald and Francis Gray. Matthias, Ludolf’s secretary, was not seated to the table. Ludolf stood him sentry at a dark corner of the room, shoulders hunched forward with that terrible posture of his, glowering as he waited patiently to be summoned or dismissed. Fran took some grim pleasure in watching the boy brood from the shadows.

Those seated began to eat.

“Are our desserts to your liking, Lord Viscount?”

It was the lady Clarabella who asked it. Fran eyed her from across the table, the polar opposite of her Imperial husband, thin where he was fat, tall where he was short, tanned where he was pale. And of course, she was young, perhaps only a few years older than Fran. She had no listing in Neidhart’s dossier but word abroad court was that Lady Clarabella Ludolf (nee Whitton) was daughter to some low-ranked nobleman in the Midburghs, some newly minted lord so-and-so, a new man risen into the nobility having enriched himself via the continental cloth trade. In light of standing, it was a poor match, but Ludolf did not seem unhappy with it. Clarabella was noticeably comely; softly spoken and doe-eyed with a sparkling smile framed by a pair of thick russet braids falling atop her shoulders from an Imperial-styled caul – a pearl and ruby studded netting. Fran could almost imagine her doughy husband rutting at her across the night. And at once he pitied her… and he suspected she pitied him too.

Here they sat. The ambassadors and their whores.

Gustave swallowed. “Indeed, my lady. Most delicious.”

“I shall pass your compliments on to our staff,” said she. “His grace the Duke of Greyford has been most generous in the staffing of our household, we employ some of the finest cooks and bakers in Dragonspur.”

Gustave grumbled beneath his breath.

Lady Clarabella’s comments were not intended as an insult, of course, but he received them as such all the same. With the exception of Perrin and his skeleton crew of dish-maids, none of his household staff at Manse de Foy were financed by the royal purse. And as an eternal aesthete, Gustave could not ignore the grandeur of Ludolf’s chancery in comparison to his own. In fact, there was no comparison.

Cromwood House was larger than Manse de Foy by acres with twice as many rose gardens and twice as many cloisters to its luxury apartments, more than enough to house the small detachment of Bannerets assigned to Ludolf’s delegation. He had more cooks, more chambermaids, more washerwomen, more clerks, more gardeners, more stable hands as well as kennel keepers, bakers, porters, brewers, and a smithy. In short? Manse de Foy was to Cromwood House what Georg Ludolf was to Clarabella – an unworthy match.

The cake and cream were quickly eaten. Another finger snap summoned the attendants from the side doors and Fran thanked them as they collected their plates. Then Ludolf squeezed his lady wife’s hand. “I should like to speak with our guests alone now, my beloved. Would you be so kind?”

“Of course,” Clarabella planted the softest of kisses upon a balding skull speckled with liver spots. You would’ve thought she was admiring a rose. “Lord Viscount, Master Gray. If you’ll both excuse me.”

The good lady stood, gathered up the train of her silver-threaded green dress, then quietly made her way out, swishing by the silent Matthias into the adjoining hallway, chequered and strewn with paintings, murals, statuettes, and ornaments from the finest artisans the Empire could offer.

And then the mood went sour.

“Is Cromwood House also to your liking, ambassador?” Said Ludolf, smirking. “I had heard from Manse de Foy’s last resident that the premises were rather small and draughty. Perhaps a word from me and the Duke might offer you more… fitting accommodations?”

Beneath the table a fist clenched. Atop it? Four fingers and a thumb rapped the tablecloth discordantly. Gustave mulled in his anger. Ludolf was always at the ready with his little barbs and threats, each insult cloaked in a shroud of counterfeited empathy.

‘Bringing your own soldiers to court, excellency?’ He might quip. ‘Some might consider it an act of rudeness to decline an offer of protection from the King, I very much hope this is not felt to be the case…’

But this night was one of the few nights Gustave was at the ready for him. “Manse de Foy suffices me, ambassador, as I shall not plant roots here. I conduct my business and then I go.”

“On the contrary,” began Ludolf. “Your roots will grow deep for your business here will never conclude.”

Gustave smiled tersely. “Your embargo cannot endure.”

“Oh? I think it can. Ask your clerk what happened the last time the Imperial Fleet set sail for Morish shores. Ask him. It was a devastation the likes of which neither the King nor the Duke would ever wish to see again.”

The Fiend growled like a wolfhound in Fran’s ear. Gustave looked on, rapping his fingers. And Ambassador Ludolf, fully smirking now, fetched his little snuff box full of mint leaves to bite through another and freshen his rotting breath.

“I hear the court is to go north,” spoke Ludolf, between crunches. “And that your ward is to be party to negotiations with the Earl of Harcaster.”

Gustave’s curt smile broadened. Word travelled swiftly in the Morish court. “You heard correctly.”

A counter smile. “You would be wise not to let these little victories go to your head, excellency. They will not convince the King to undermine his relationship with the Empire.”

Fran wondered if the loose-lipped court had also let slip the King’s current attempts to re-ignite trade with Wallenheim without violating the Treaty of Grace. Perhaps this barbed dinner was the Imperial ambassador’s hollow attempt at dissuasion? Not that it mattered. The bill could only pass if a 3/5^ths majority of the Masters of the Realm voted in favour of it. Georg Ludolf would’ve been better served slinging his threats at the Lords Sergeant and Justiciar.

“The King has his own mind,” said Gustave. “And like any great ruler he will do all he can and more besides to magnify the greatness of his realm. Much like your emperor, I would imagine. How is your emperor, ambassador? He is – what? A man of eight-and-fifty years now, at last count?”

Ludolf’s smile cooled. “A man of exceptionally good health for his years.”

Fran and Matthias looked on as the atmosphere between their two masters darkened anew.

“And for all his years and all his wives he remains without a natural-born heir to succeed him. Saints keep him of course, but since you so poignantly spoke of devastation earlier might we not ruminate? What would it mean for the Empire if his Imperial Majesty were to die childless? Hm? I suspect it would be chaos. I suspect-”

“Watch your words, Roschewald-”

“I suspect that in the wake of his death there would be two claimants to his ancient heirdom. His nephew, Archduke Gerhard Adolphus, and his good sister Margot, Duchess of Luzberg. Gerhard would have the stronger claim, obviously, but he is a boy of two-and-ten, is he not? And I doubt your Empire’s traditionalist magnates would countenance a… ‘feminine’ regency. And deeper still! If something should happen to Gerhard before he delivers you a male heir…”

“Roschewald… I warn you…”

Gustave’s smirk deepened. “Gerhard’s good sister is Queen Annalena, yes? If the young queen should bless King Oswald with a son… would that son not have a claim to the Imperial Throne?”

A guttural growl loosed from Ludolf’s lips. “May the saints damn you for this errant talk, Roschewald. The Empire will never be a subject of the Morish Crown. To oblivion with you for the mere imputation! King Oswald’s heir will be of Imperial blood, and it will be to us he looks for strength and guidance! Not to Wallenheim!”

“Come now, ambassador, we speak only in hypotheticals. I do wonder though… whether Wallenheim or the Empire would make a better ally to Morland. The Empire is large of mass it is true, but its best days lie in the annuls of its history. For what is it now? A rusted vestige of its former greatness, a rump state, with its archaic chivalry and its muddy fiefs and its flea-ridden serfs. The world’s future lies in trade, ships, and finance… something the Empire has yet to grasp… something at which my tiny little country of Wallenheim now excels. So, I do wonder, excellency, who the better ally may yet be…”

The Imperial Ambassador threw down his napkin with an angry smirk. “I invite you to my home and you insult me.”

“Ah! You are right. Pardon my rudeness. We should try to be friends, Georg, I do so loath this acrimony between us. When we return from the north I should invite you to Manse de Foy, draughty as it may be. We may even have a vote to celebrate.”

“…What do you mean?”

“Oh, didn’t you hear? King Oswald is preparing a vote on my trade proposals. But rest assured, ambassador. Should it pass… no stipulations of your little treaty shall be infringed. The best of both worlds.”

If Ludolf had a pair of mastiffs on the leash, he would have loosed them on the spot – judging by his expression. A now grinning Gustave stood triumphantly from his seat, thanked the good ambassador for his hospitality, and beckoned his clerk to follow him out.

Fran watched his master stride proudly down the halls of Cromwood House as Georg Ludolf flew into a tempestuous and foul-mouthed rage behind them, cursing his name and summoning the saints to send him to oblivion, but off he trod, chuckling and imperious and utterly enamoured with himself. And yet Fran could not help but think that a mistake had just been made.

**********

Harvenny Heath, Dragonspur, Kingdom of Morland

5^th of Autumn, 801

Edward Bardshaw stirred. There was knocking at the door, lighter this time, less insistent and more measured. ‘Did the rentmaster recall his manners?’ Thought he. But it couldn’t be him, that reckoning was a day away. Perhaps another well-wisher? Why not? Maybe he could rouse enough marks out of them to fund his way through another stop at the tavern? Was that not worth crawling out of bed for?

The young guardsman hauled himself from the tangle of his sheets, yawning and barefoot, padding past the flameless fire and empty pot, past Stillingford’s unmade bed and the wooden table scattered with old notes and unsent letters. Edward reached the door, unbolted it, then opened it.

He found Fran waiting for him.

“Good morning, Master Bardshaw,” said he.

“Fran? How did you-” Fran cut Ed’s sentence in half with a sweet kiss, launching up by the tips of his toes to deliver it. Then he bade Edward invite him inside. “You taste of beer, Ed. Smell like it too.”

The swordsman looked around. The cottage was dank. All the windows were shuttered, no candles lit. Ed’s slop bucket sat in a corner at the edge of his bed, unemptied. Then he looked at himself. His unwashed skin, his matted hair, his nails dirty with grave soil. He hadn’t shaved in days – his blonde beard was as thick as a nettle bush.

Then finally he looked at Fran.

Washed and clean shaven, soft skin scented with lavender, and neatly dressed in a feathered flat cap, silver-buttoned black doublet, beige-toned linen hose and goatskin shoes.

“My appearance is unworthy of you,” muttered Edward. And it was. “Forgive me.”

Fran simply smiled at him, wiping a tear from Ed’s cheek. “Only if you’ll forgive me for taking so long to come and see you. I missed you so much, Ed. How are you?”

He was furious. He was miserable. He was disgusted. He wanted to tear Staunton Castle down brick by brick and drag Thomas Wolner’s ghostly carcass out into the street so he could beat it black and blue before hanging it by its bollocks from the highest fucking gate in the city. Edward wished he could see Will Rothwell again and tease him for that silly tar he smoked or finally get around to reading one of his many treatises. He wished he was back at the Old Lioness with the Crow’s Club, chatting and debating, going blind by the inches with Old Meg’s fiery ale down their throats. He wished he could go back, back to the way things were. He wished his master were here.

“I abide,” said Edward, sniffling.

“You miss him. Theopold, I mean.”

A nod. “I do. Every fucking day.”

A pair of thin arms wrapped themselves around Edward’s waist. The swordsman sighed and drew Fran close to him, breast to breast. Home. There was no better word to describe what it felt like to have Francis Gray in his arms, or to be in his. Home. “Thank you for coming to see me, Fran. Thank you…”

Ed broke down then. Threw his face into Fran’s velvety shoulder and shed the torrent of tears he willed himself to suppress ever since he saw his master’s head fall into that bloody basket at the bottom of the scaffold. He wept and wept until his eyes burned red. But Francis sat with him. Soothed him. Held him close and told him how proud Stillingford would be of him, how pieces of his dream were still intact, that the Sacred Inquest was stopped, and the Guard Tax might soon be repealed, that his kindly master did not die in vain. Edward cried until his eyes had nothing left to spill.

And then Fran kissed him.

“Come with me,” he said. “Let’s get you back on your feet.”

Ed did not argue.

There were two empty buckets by the garden door that Fran took with him to the communal well and returned with them sloshing at the banded rims. He set the first bucket at Edward’s feet and bade him wash himself whilst dipping each article of clothing Ed peeled off into the second one.

It took Fran the best of an hour to scrub Edward’s battered white shirt and hose clean of the grave dirt and bloodstains, hanging them out to dry by the washing line above the hearth, but by the time he was done, Edward was equally cleansed. His once dirty nails and skin were clean again, the stink of ale washed from his flesh. All that was left was to sort through that matted blonde tangle of hair. Fran fetched Ed’s shears from a wall hook and went to work on it, trimming its length and snipping off the fraying ends before shaving that curly golden beard down to the grain.

Once Fran’s ministrations were complete Edward unsheathed his sword and eyed his reflection in the blade, and for the first time since the Bloody Parley – he recognized himself. And so it went: Fran repairing pieces of Edward that Edward had not known were fractured.

“I saw a market on my way here,” said Fran. “I will fetch us something to eat.”

The cottage stores were empty. He must have noticed as much. Up to now Ed’s grumbling stomach survived on whatever food the well-wishers brought with them, but their visits were fewer and fewer these days.

Edward offered to come with him, but Fran refused and with another gentle kiss he said, “See to the kindling and boil a pot. I shall not be long.”

And he wasn’t.

He was gone no more than an hour when he returned with a hempen sack filled with bread, eggs, potatoes, carrots, herbs, a whole plucked chicken, and a small cask of wine. Edward tended to the hearth in Fran’s absence just as he was asked. It was lit and roaring, consuming the cottage in that cosy warm glow Ed had come to love.

“Ed? Come help me with this food.”

Together they prepared it. The blonde fetched the knife to peel and chop the carrots, potatoes, and onions whilst the brunette prepared the chicken for the fire, separating breast from thigh, removing the skin. They made stock with a small pot then browned the chicken with the larger, slowly adding the carrots and onions and seasoning of salt (with what precious little Edward had to hand).

A nourishing aroma filled the cottage as their chicken stew slowly simmered. When it was ready, Edward fetched two bowls and a ladle. He poured two healthy servings for them then sat to the table. Fran unstopped the wine cask and poured a cup. Edward took some water instead.

It was a simple meal. And yet? It was one of the best Ed had in years. And as he looked at Francis now, smiling softly in the hearth glow, cheeks flushed, coyly tucking a tress of his chestnut hair behind his ear, Edward realized something.

This was all he’d ever wanted.

Him and Fran. Together. Alone in their own tiny slice of the world, happy and healthy and in love. ‘And I do love you,’ he thought. ‘From now until the grave.’

They had their hands clasped together, fingers threaded, like a clam shell. Edward lifted it up and kissed Fran’s half of it. “Thank you,” he said simply. “Thank you, Fran.”

The clerk smiled back, gently. “Oh, Ed. I know how much it hurts. I know what it feels like to lose someone so important to you. But you must pull yourself from this… abyss.”

“I know. I know. I just…” A pause. Then a breath. And then he resumed. “After the siege… when we were separated and I washed up in this city, I did ignoble things to pay my way. And I suffered for it. Stillingford, he… he plucked me from the precipice and gave me new purpose. A home. Friends. His philosophy was going to change Morland for the better, he was going to make history, and I would be right there by his side to protect him. But now he’s gone, and my purpose gone along with him. And here I lull… like an empty scabbard.”

“What about money?” Asked Fran.

“Fran, I haven’t a half-mark to my name,” said Edward. “Stillingford paid me a wage through his pension but that’s been seized by the Lord Justiciar’s office. I’m in arrears with the landlord and he’s coming back for his money tomorrow. I either give up my home, let his alien henchman break my legs, or I kill them both – and given all three – I’d rather get my sword dirty.”

He expected Fran to balk at him for that crack – instead he chuckled at it. Perhaps he didn’t realize it wasn’t a joke. “Ed. You know… I’ve been thinking…”

“Yes?”

“Well, you need work, don’t you? There’s an opening. At Manse de Foy, I mean. My master’s captain of the guard died just recently, and… I can’t think of anyone better to replace him than you.”

“Dead?” Edward sighed, made his apologies, and wished the captain’s men well. Wolfrick, his name was. Edward felt certain the two of them had met at some point but so much had happened since Fran’s return, he couldn’t recall. He asked Fran how he died, and Fran said natural causes – not by errant dagger or the beatings of an enraged anti-alienist.

Him? Captain of the Guard to the Wallenheim Delegation? The swordsman took a moment to consider it. And then he remembered Ambassador Roschewald, the primped and preening Wallishman.

“Do they speak Morish?” Asked Ed. “It would be a hard ask to command men who didn’t.”

Fran shook his head. “They speak Wallish. The same tongue as our own only theirs has a habit of overpronouncing its Qs and Ks and Cs. They will recognize every instruction.”

The blonde sighed. “And I cannot stand your master, you do realize that?”

He watched Fran make a face that said – not as much as I do – which Edward was pleased to see. The thought of going cap in hand to that musclebound silk-foot, taking his arrogant little orders or worse still, laying down life and limb at his defence, it all galled him. It didn’t matter to Ed that Stillingford respected him or that he helped arrange the meeting that would become the Bloody Parley, he simply did not trust that man… and for the one time they’d shared a room… he did not like the way Roschewald looked at Fran.

The boy in question, perhaps sensing Edward’s ambivalence, clasped his hand over the dinner table again. “I hear your doubts, but there is gain in this for all. You need money, Gustave’s men need a captain, and I need a protector. Don’t you want to be closer to me?”

“Of course, you know I do. I just…”

When Edward moved to speak, Fran moved to kiss him, pressing their lips together and silencing him, drawing closer, placing Ed’s hand at his beating breast, whimpering softly in that sweet manner of his. They broke apart with a gasp. Blue eyes stared with entrancement at green.

“I need you, Ed Bardshaw.” Fran whispered.

As he caught his breath Edward thought of the old man and his curmudgeonly warmth. He thought of the last conversation they had, right there in that very room… that one about keeping faith and finding happiness in duty. What greater duty was there now than protecting Francis Gray from any and all who would do him harm?

Edward reached to his throat and caressed the locket of relics beneath his newly cleaned shirt. And Ed still believed, as he lived and breathed, that this man he loved would play a role in their country’s fate.

“Alright,” said Ed. “I’ll do it.”

Elation. That best described Fran’s look then. He reached into his purse (fattened with king’s marks) and set it on the table for Edward to take.

“What is this?” He asked.

“Consider it an advancement on your wages,” said Fran, giddily. “Pay off your cockroach landlord, buy yourself a new horse, then take the remainder and get yourself to a city tailor. I think dark blue brocade would suit you.”

Edward smiled – more to himself than Fran, bursting as he was with ideas and energy, like plans ready laid unfurling into glorious reality.

‘Happiness,’ thought Edward. ‘Is that not what you wished for me, master? Well. Here, in this one man, I have mine.’

**********

Harvenny Heath, Dragonspur, Kingdom of Morland

5^th of Autumn, 801

It is the evening. The hearth is doused, and the candles are snuffed. Beyond the rattling window an owl hoots, and the wind carries with it notes of drunken revelry from the local tavern – a punctuation of loot strings, songs, boasts, belches, and clinking cups. Had it been a different day, or a different time, or a different bed, the clamour might have annoyed Francis Gray. But now? Now he was in Edward’s arms and in that moment nothing else mattered.

The Wallenheim Delegation’s next Captain of the Guard slept peacefully in his cot. Fran laid next to him, wide awake in warm arms, too excited to sleep, and so he idled his time, what little left of it he had, by admiring his Edward in all his slumbering beauty. A single fingertip pressed against his flat belly and glided up from muscled abdomen to heaving breastbone. Fran pressed his lips against it, tracing kisses along its contours, lapping its stiff pink nipples into his lips, flicking at them with his tongue, and biting softly into them – not enough to wake him but just enough to leave a mark – a little reddening of the flesh, a little reminder of the night they shared, and a little prelude of shared nights soon to come.

‘I could lie here a thousand nights admiring you,’ thought Fran. ‘And in heart and flesh, all of you belongs to me…’

Here Edward lay perfect.

Yet before he looked an entirely different man. Shaggy, dirty, lost. The bolt-strike of Stillingford’s execution broke the habitually calm and collected Ed Bardshaw into fragments of himself, fragments only Fran could piece back together. And yet? Never had Fran seen such emotions in Edward.

‘What else lies trapped in your heart?’ Wondered Fran. They were not long reacquainted, they still had so much to learn about each other. As close as they were – they were also strangers. But now? Now was their opportunity. They would soon grow closer and eventually they would know each other again – utterly – as they once did. ‘When I come into my titles, I will take you from this shithole and shower you with every greatness you deserve, all the wealth and fineries I can muster.’

But he had to go.

He had a meeting to keep. Fran was content to claim one last kiss from Edward. And then he peeled himself out of the older man’s arms and quietly slipped out of his bed. His clothes were in a jumble with Edward’s across the floor. He separated his and dressed quickly into them, then took up his satchel to leave, stepping out of the tiny room and out the front door into the cold beating winds about the cottage.

From the dusk of a wet summer now loomed the dawn of a cold autumn. Only the saints knew what the winter would bring. In light of the chill Edward had loaned him the use of one of his master’s old cloaks, which he now tightened about his body as he went around the back for his horse. Fran stopped in his tracks.

A dark figure lurked in the shadows.

The clerk gasped, taken aback, as the contours of a familiar face materialized from darkness – “Wolfrick?!” – but then thin white fingers reached up and pulled down his billowing cloak’s hood and dispelled the phantom, sheathed daggers dancing in the wind.

Lothar.

Fran caught his breath, hand to chest. “Dear saints, you gave me a fright. What are you doing here?” A pause. “…Did you follow me?”

Fran’s horse whickered behind the espial, tethered to a tree. It was frightened by the heavy winds. Lothar petted its mane to soothe it – his own mount hitched to a fencing post none too far along the rear road.

“You are my only friend in this world,” said Lothar, flatly. “I wanted to make sure you were safe.”

Fran frowned. “I am fine. Why have you left your post at Thormont’s lodgings? You cannot go running about as you please.”

“Same to you,” said Lothar. “You were seen leaving Manse de Foy without Gustave’s leave. What excuse will you feed him this time?”

Fran misliked this tone. He wanted to say this is none of your business, Ed is none of your business – but before the words found their way to his mouth, Lothar’s own words pre-empted them.

“He’s the blacksmith’s boy, isn’t he? The one you told me of all those years ago. The one you could not let go.”

A fist clutched, not out of anger, but frustration. “Lothar…”

The Catspaw eyed the window. “He seems a good man. An honourable man. Would he approve of our dealing with Wolfrick? Of your coming interview with the Duke? And does he know about Gustave? How he keeps you as his whore as well as his clerk?”

“Saints be, keep your fucking voice down!” Whispered Fran, seething. “Why are you questioning me like this?”

“You promised,” said Lothar. “You promised me that when you received land and titles you would provide a home for me and my brother. You told me you needed Gustave to do it. That is the only reason he is not yet dead. You promised, Fran. You promised.”

“Nothing has changed!” Fran did not mean to yell. He caught himself. He calmed himself. “Nothing has changed.”

The untruth of that statement hung in the air as soon as it left his lips. The reality was that everything had changed – for the both of them. Their goals were simple when they first set out for this journey. Francis Gray, the last scion of a fallen house, wanted nothing less than to reclaim his ancient birth right and wreak glorious vengeance upon those who stole it from him.

Lothar simply wanted to know himself, where he came from, and who his parents were.

It was to be all or nothing for them, and if they died, well, better the joy of the chase than a lifetime of slavery beneath Gustave’s depraved yoke.

But then Edward.

Then Luther.

Fran never expected to rediscover his boyhood love and Lothar hadn’t come expecting family – only clarity. But here they were. And now their plot was no longer a mere quest for power and lineage. Now they had things to lose. And the truth was… there was danger in bringing Edward into the fold. If he learned the truth about Gustave before time… or if Gustave learned the truth about Edward before time… all their hard made plans could unravel, and Lothar knew it.

“Love… did not make sense to me until I met my brother,” said he. “Now it is the only thing in this world that does. But I think love… can also make a man stupid.”

Silence.

Fran felt his little triumph, his summons from the Duke, burning a hole inside his pocket. Careful fingers plucked it from a hidden seam within his doublet. He opened it.

 

It was hidden within cipher of course, but not one difficult to decode. It was the Duke of Greyford’s reply to the secret letter he had Lothar smuggle into his grace’s private apartments in Dragonspur, Dyvendale House. The reply was delivered directly to him at Manse de Foy, hidden within the package of a plum tart sprinkled with rose petals with a more official letter atop it – Our Condolences to the Wallenheim Delegation for the untimely passing of its Captain of the Guard. Please accept this gift, and present it to your master, that he may know well our love and pity. From the Offices of the Lord Marshal.

The game was beginning in earnest now.

“No,” said Fran, putting it away. “You underestimate me, Lothar. You have your family. When I finally come into my power, I want someone at my side too. For now? Trust that I know what I am doing, and that I would not jeopardize all we’ve gained on a whim. Trust me. Can you do that?”

Lothar was still and quiet again, more like his old ice-like self. He nodded. I would ride with you into oblivion, he’d once said. It still held true. “I will.”

The espial doubled back for his horse and mounted up. The quick-shoed beast cantered up to Fran’s horse as its owner hauled himself upon the saddle. “Lord Comwyn sent a rider ahead. He has concluded his business in Thormont and now makes his way to Dragonspur. He arrives on the morrow.”

Fran nodded.

Lothar looked to the cold road ahead. “I am to proceed?”

“Yes. Do it as we planned.” The clerk’s meaning being – make it look accidental. Lothar affirmed the command with a brief nod, then gripped his horse’s reins and rode off down the highway out of Harvenny Heath. Fran watched him go. Then he turned to the water-stained window of Ed’s abode.

It was not mere convenience that moved Fran to offer him Wolfrick’s old post. If Ed dwelt here in Dragonspur without the protection of House Roschewald, then he was at Thomas Wolner’s mercy. Or what if the survivors of the Crow’s Club persuaded him to go north to Edith the Exile? Fran could not protect Edward if he could not keep him close.

‘Lothar is right,’ thought he. ‘You are a man of honour, Ed Bardshaw, just as Ser Martyn taught you to be. I would not have you any other way. And I will dye my cloak blood red to keep yours purest white.’

Fran rode out.

*

In dead of night, it was rather difficult to make much out of Dyvendale House. Visibility was made worst by a ghastly fog rolling off the River Wyvern, blanketing the cobbled footpaths that traced around the grounds of the manor. He was too far from the laneways to see by its roadside lanterns, and thick grey clouds blotted out the moon and all its light. But amidst the chill and the fog and the dark, Fran led his mare cautiously toward what he could see – high stone walls and piping chimneys. And a little orange light, swaying in the wind like a will-o’-the-wisp floating over dark waters.

It was a lantern.

And the porter carrying it, ruffed of collar and sleeve in his buttoned-up doublet and hose, waded towards him through the fog. A ring of keys jangled in his free hand before he slipped them into his pouch pocket.

“Master Gray?” He asked.

Hooded Fran gave him a nod as he petted his horse’s lush mane. “I am here to see his grace.”

With his free hand the porter beckoned for his lord’s missive. Fran fetched it from his hidden seam and surrendered it to the porter, who checked its authenticity beneath his lantern’s light. And then he called for Fran to follow him.

The horse cantered behind the servant as he led the way around Dyvendale House’s south-facing wall to a guarded gate. The Bannerets of the Bloom posted there parted their polearms and allowed them into the courtyard. A clutch of stable boys jogged out of the fog to take his mount. Fran thanked them, dismounted, then quickly retrieved some documents from her saddlebags before his mare was taken away. Another servant collected the porter’s lantern.

“Come along,” said he. “His grace is waiting.”

They walked toward a stone archway at the foot of an apartment three-storeys tall. It led to a series of carpeted stone steps that spiralled upward along a curving balustrade that ended in a hallway almost as grand as those of the Roschewald Manor – with its decorations of mounted buck skulls and sword-armed suits of armour; its ornate painted urns and its marble podiums of sylphic sculptures and its wall hung portraits of prior dukes; all drenched in the low amber glow of the burning sconces. The porter led him to a door at the end of the corridor and knocked. A stout voice replied.

“Come in.”

The porter stood aside, gestured for Fran to enter. The boy set his fingers to the scrolled mahogany door and pushed it open. And within, stood by the misty latticed windows at the rear of his chambers, was his grace the Duke of Greyford – John Drakewell.

Tall in stature and gaunt of frame with squared jaw and chiselled brow. A man of six-and-fifty, his grace wore his age plain – from the bony fingers clutched around his wine cup to the balding crown hidden beneath his tasselled bonnet. Deep furrows sketched the outskirts of his frown, and cracks of crow’s feet fanned out from the corners of his dull blue eyes, eyes gradually misting over with the slow encroach of cataracts.

But by the saints he was regal.

His posture remained straight and commanding, his voice a smouldering baritone. Walnut-sized stones of ruby and onyx festooned the golden links of his livery collar as it dangled from the ermine-fur shoulders of his dark olive-coloured surcoat. From one side of his studded leather belt swung a diamond-pommelled dagger and from the other a goatskin pouch woven with the sigil of House Drakewell – two black wyrms chasing each other’s tails around a silver “D”. His grace was not a king, but if only by comportment and garb, he was every bit the measure of one.

Even so.

Fran HATED this man. HATED the mother that whelped him. HATED the father who sired him.

Many a man played a role in the demise of House Gray: King Osmund, Lyonel de la More, Sage Odo, Emperor Adolphus. Yet none played a bigger role than the Duke. It was he who warded Fran to House Roschewald, then stole his inheritance out from under him by way of some ancient legal technicality, ‘treason by dereliction’, a posthumous suit against cold dead Lord Gray that stripped his living son of all his lineal rights and titles, his very lordhood, and parcelling them off to the de la Mores as the ‘marquisate of Gead’. Whilst Fran, a mere child at the time, was across the sea with no money or means to advocate for himself.

And now here there were.

Himself, Francis Gray, deep in his malefactor’s den.

‘Forgive me, father…’ Thought Fran. He lowered his hood. He took a knee. “Your Grace.”

The Duke of Greyford turned from his window towards the boy, and suspended the moment, saying nothing, prolonging the act of obeisance until fully satisfied – almost as if savouring a wine. Then (mercifully) he gestured for Fran to rise.

“Master Gray,” he said. “Welcome.”

Fran nodded. “Thank you for inviting me.”

“His Majesty has taken a shine to you,” said Greyford. “You are of a similar age, I suppose.”

Favour was certainly a word for it. Fran would have called it guilt for the failings of his father. “I had not sought such privilege as to assist the coming talks with the Earl of Harcaster. I am most humbled.”

Greyford grinned slyly. “As is your master, I presume.”

“It is my master I wish to discuss.”

“Oh?”

When Fran wrote to the Duke, he wrote of matters of great interest to the crown as pertains the Wallenheim Delegation. Because Gustave was the Duke’s enemy. What better way to ingratiate himself with the Duke than to ply him with intelligence from the enemy camp?

“Before I begin,” said Fran. “I want to assure your grace that I speak only as a loyalist of the realm who would not have it endangered by those who seek to draw the Empire’s ire.”

Greyford eyed him over a flat smile. “Go on.”

“My master Gustavius von Roschewald was in league with the Crow’s Club. He and Stillingford have exchanged secret communiques for years, even under the nose of his own brother. I have facsimiles of these discussions as well as other facsimiles of letters sent by him to the Council of Lords in Wallenheim. There is also a dossier of the Morish nobility cultivated by Wallish espials in the employ of Chairman Neidhart Roschewald. I surrender them to you.”

With the Duke’s leave Fran passed the scrolls over to him. He took them to his desk, spread them out, and fixed them in place with steel paperweights. As his cloudy eyes tracked back-and-forth, verifying their authenticity, Greyford’s wrinkled lips curled into a cold grin. “Interesting…”

“There is more, your grace, details far more troubling.”

Cloudy eyes ticked upward. “Go on.”

“Within those documents you will find details of a seafront fortress upon the Wallish isle of Bunt. The Council of Lords has secretly secreted 3,000 soldiers to this outpost, along with cannons, harquebuses, pikes, horses, provisions, and twenty galleons to ferry them. That isle lies only a few days sail from our eastern coast.”

The Duke stilled. “An invasion force?”

“A defensive measure,” replied the clerk. And it was true enough that Neidhart and the Council of Lords had only fortified Bunt to act as an extraction force for Gustave – if necessary. But the truth is a sour thing, and Fran was moved to sweeten the pot with a little honeyed lie. “However, most recently, Gustavius has spoken of using this force for more… nefarious purposes.”

The Duke narrowed his eyes.

“Should negotiations with King Oswald fail, Gustave intends to defy the Council of Lords – he would issue a command to the fleet to sail for the Isle of Gead, capture it, and then install me as its puppet ruler.”

A fist tightened.

“That scheming little whoreson…” seethed Greyford.

Worm, hook, and fish.

There was a risk in this lie, of course. A risk that the Duke of Greyford might dispatch to King Oswald and expose the concocted Wallish plot too soon. But the Duke, Fran reasoned, would keep his powder dry. Gustave would only deny the accusations, of course, and it would be his word against Fran’s. And King Oswald, shrewd as he was, would not risk souring relations with Wallenheim by taking Gustave prisoner… not without solid proof of malign intent. And an accusation was not proof. Wallish troop presence in Wallish waters was not proof.

But proof, like plots, can also be concocted…

“And you?” Greyford eyed the clerk, stone-faced and dark. “You tell me this why? Gead was your family’s ancestral holding. You expect me to believe you’ve no designs of your own upon the marquisate?”

“I have none, your grace. For me Gead is gone. As I said before I tell you these things only out of loyalty to Morland. This is my home. My true home. I was born on this soil, and I will die on it. I am a trueborn Morishman by blood and by soul.”

“…I still question why you would tell me this.”

Fran fell to his knee again, lowering his head. “Put me into your service. I am well installed in Roschewald’s household, I will report all of his activities to you. Every letter, every missive, every conversation. All would be at your disposal. And eventually… you would have all the evidence you need to bury him.”

The Duke of Greyford, as hard-faced as ever, threw back the last dregs of his wine cup and mulled the offer. He poured himself another from the silver ewer atop his table… then curiously poured a second cup as well. “And I assume you have a price?”

“The integrity of the realm is its own reward.”

A rumbling chuckle. “Don’t take me for a fool, boy. Even the noblest of men have a price. Name yours.”

This moment, this auspicious moment Fran now found himself in, was a moment he’d dreamed of, wrote of, and anticipated for ten long years, ever since his boyhood-self first concocted it. In his dreams and imaginings, it had been the king to whom he now bowed, not the Duke of Greyford, not the man who stole and sold off his inheritance. But here he was. Here Fran knelt afore the progenitor of all his woes – for here, as he saw it, was the fastest route back to his nobility.

SAY IT, BOY! Barked The Fiend. “Your grace. If I am pressed on the issue… I have only one price. The restoration of my nobility and my house. Morish land and title. That is all that I require.”

Fran felt Greyford’s dark gaze evaluating him even without looking. The Duke made for a commanding presence in any room. And it was a perilous game Fran now played. The wrong move could get him sent to Gallows Grove with a snap of this man’s fingers. But Fran had come too far to fall back now.

No risk, no reward.

“Very well,” said Greyford. His soft footsteps traced around his desk to its front. He bade Fran rise – and then, grinning, he presented the clerk with a wine cup. “I accept your terms. There are no holdings of note dispensable at present, but should they become available, and your intelligence proves to be of use to me… your nobility shall be restored.”

There would have been a victorious little smirk upon Fran’s face had he not felt the need to suppress it. His role was to appear sombre and morose in this. He was no espial. And yet The Fiend cackled victoriously in his ear. HEH, HEH, HEH, HEH, HEH, HEH, HEH, HEH…

Fran, keeping his calm, permitted himself only the smallest of smiles as he brought the brass cup to his lips. “Thank you, your grace.”

**********

Manse de Foy, Dragonspur, Kingdom of Morland

8^th of Autumn, 801

  

Noontide dawned when Gustavius von Roschewald finally called Edward Bardshaw into his office. At Fran’s behest he came in sporting the best of his wears. His shoulders were draped in a bearhide cloak fastened with a silver broach, and beneath that, a dark navy doublet and ruffed white undershirt. He wore hose above his boots for the first time in years – and his sheathed longsword lulled peacefully at his side.

At Edward’s entrance the Wallish Ambassador did not rise to greet him or even look up from that great array of papers scattered about his desk, papers pulled here and there by his festooned ring fingers. He simply daubed his plumed quill in its ink jar and set about his scratchings regardless.

“My lord?”

“Excellency,” corrected Roschewald. “If you’re to accompany me to court you at least ought to know the proper forms of address. Credentials?”

Ed gripped his fist. “Of course, excellency. Edward Bardshaw is my name. I was trained in horsemanship, swordcraft, and archery by Ser Martyn Morrogh, a Banneret of the Bloom in service of House Gray of Gead. I served as the guardsman of…”

Warm thoughts of the old man gave Edward pause. ‘What would he have made of this?’ He wondered. He surmised that his old master would chuckle, cut him a little grin, and tell him to put his skills to good use before they rust – that there could not be any better service for them than the protection of a fellow Odoist. And if not for that, spoke Stillingford’s voice in Ed’s untamed imaginings, do it for love. For without love what is left?

Edward cleared his throat. “I served as the guardsman of the late Theopold Stillingford.”

“And do you share your late master’s ideals? His name is somewhat attainted amongst the nobility at present.”

‘No thanks to you,’ thought Edward.

He didn’t like this man.

Since the moment he first saw the ambassador alighting his ship at the Black Quay, Edward had misgivings about the Wallishman. Stillingford may have trusted him, and to some extent he deserved credit for helping to arrange what became the Bloody Parley, despite its cataclysmic outcome. But when the pressure was on, he abandoned the old man and the Crow’s Club. And by the saints, Edward hated disloyalty.

Nevertheless.

This was not about Roschewald.

This was about Fran.

A sigh. “Your excellency, politics are neither my business nor my sport. I seek only an honest crust.”

Scritch, scritch, scritch went his quill. Head down, fingers spread. Not a glance adrift from his works. “Very well. You serve me now. You will command my household guard of fifty men, oversee their training and discipline, resolve their disputes, determine their postings, and draft their watch duty schedules. Your wage is 10 marks per day to be paid every ten days such as my paymaster, Francis, can arrange. You will have personal chambers assigned to you at Manse de Foy along with a personal office in the guard barracks. You are entitled to the bouche of my household, but all kindling and candle costs are to be met at your own expense. You are not to abandon your post under any circumstances and any leave you require must first be sanctioned by myself. Is this all understood?”

“Yes, excellency.”

A grunt. “Good. Master Gray will draw you a contract for the two of us to sign. Speak to my steward Perrin for a visit around the grounds to familiarize yourself, then get you to the guard barracks to introduce yourself to the men. You would also do well to note that the court is moving north for a late progress. Settle whatever accounts or business you may have in the city before the morrow – we may not return for some time.”

‘I’ve nothing left to adjure,’ thought Edward. Minding his manners, he bowed slightly to the ambassador, hand at his scabbard. “Thank you for taking me into your employ.”

“Indeed,” Roschewald flicked a dismissive hand at him. “You may leave now.”

A second bow. Edward turned away, made for the door, and quietly shut it behind him. As he stepped out into the colonnaded shadows of the portico, the swordsman stopped to admire the jasmine scent in the air and breathed deeply of it. Then he looked across the central flower garden to the columns lining the other side of the cloister. Fran was there. Waving at him. Smiling at him. Like a kitten in his cream.

‘For him, master.’ Thought Ed, smiling back. ‘It’s all for him now.’