Horn of the River God: Book I of The Song of Agmar

by Frances Mason

  “My good lords,” Arthur said, trying to soothe tensions in the council with practical considerations, “now that we are all here, there is pressing business. The rebellion is spreading. My father thinks little of it,” He looked at his father, who snored gently beside him, “and will not grant that my lances are needed. They will remain in the north. Neither will he allow the Yeomen of the Crown to be deployed, fearing as he does assassins at every turn.”

  “But will the exchequer fund the mercenary troops necessary to deal with this scourge?” Augustyn asked, vexed momentarily that the king, who would usually grant him what he wished, was asleep. Given his paranoia in the Great Hall the other day, though, the duke thought perhaps it was for the best. He would not wake him only to be accused of coveting the crown. While he was ambitious, he had always sought power through influence over the crown, not possession. As the king’s mind had weakened in recent years that influence had been strengthened, at first. But the weakness was now metamorphosing into mad paranoia, and few were safe from his accusations. Arthur had as yet not been openly accused, but even he had been the subject of suspicious glances.

  Ramon rested his elbows on the table and pressed his hands together at the fingertips, tapping his nose with his joined thumbs as he considered Augustyn’s question as carefully as the royal finances. “The Exchequer is sorely pressed with garrisoning the Northern Reaches, and with war in the west with the Fiks. Godfrey also asks for aid in reinforcing the fleets of Suut Seltica, without which it will be impossible to blockade both Gleda and Hansted Faar Perla. If the Fik fleets of Noot Seltica can come to the aid of Gleda the siege will be broken to the seaward side. You know this, Augustyn; your vassal, Wulfstan, closes in on the landward side even as we speak.”

  “But the accounts can be balanced, under the right conditions. A privy writ could compel Extraordinary Taxation on the Assembly of Lords.”

  “Extraordinary Taxation!” Amery exploded. “Is the whole kingdom to pay for your incompetence? These miscreants are your problem, Augustyn. It’s your land they harry. And is your own deep purse not deep enough?”

  “The rebellion is spreading,” Augustyn snapped, incensed at his greatest adversary’s reaction, “this is not an issue only for my lands. And my resources are not unlimited. Much of the guarding of the northern marches against the Pecta is by my own levies. And the landward siege of Gleda is not paid for by the crown.”

  “If you spent less time fighting across the sea in Gwendur perhaps you would have more gold to suppress this little rebellion. Why should the kingdom care about the fate of your grandmother’s dower lands across the sea?”

  “Why should you care so much about those lands? If you didn’t scheme so constantly against Gwendur perhaps I would have more gold.”

  “If I didn’t scheme? You assert the fictional claim of that county to my lands.”

  “Has any lord here ever heard me assert any such thing?” Augustyn cast a questioning look around the table.

  “Never in council, but your agents encourage the commoners of Gwendur to debate the claims and find them valid.” Now he rose from his seat and pointed a shaking finger at Augustyn, “You will never have Vrong Veld,” he shouted.

  The king stirred in his slumber, snorted, frowned, then gently snored.

  Augustn and Arthur watched the king anxiously, then Augustyn wore an injured expression. “I do not control the arguments of fishmongers and carpenters.”

  “Why not? You’re of common enough stock.”

  Several of the attendant lords sucked in air at that. It was true, Augustyn’s great grandfather had been a silk merchant, created viscount Riverton for providing staggering loans to the crown. Thomas Silk’s son had achieved a spectacular marriage to princess Maria of Gwendur, whose dower lands had been the county for which she was named. The men had climbed by generations through the ranks of nobility from there, from viscounts to counts to marquises, then finally, with Augustyn, had achieved the peerage of duke.

  Augustyn stood up also now, proudly drawing back his shoulders and raising his chin. “I am the great grandson of a king.”

  “A king of Vrongwe,” Amery sneered. “I am the grandson of a king of Ropeua.”

  “Lords, please,” Arthur said, clearly amused by their posturing, “we are many of us the descendants of kings. Let us behave with like nobility, and leave this petty bickering aside for more pressing matters.”

  Augustyn politely listened to the prince, but he had not said enough to his adversary yet. “If your agents didn’t incite my people against me and train them in the arts of war perhaps this rebellion would be over already.”

  “Lies!”

  Arthur sighed. He stood up himself now in an attempt to establish some order. Towering over the other two men he pointedly looked at their seats. They sat down, but continued bickering. If his father had not been here he would have roared at them and they would have been silent, but he would not wake his father and risk his unpredictable choices.

  “How do you explain the rout of Sir Nagel, with a hundred lances and three hundred archers, by a peasant horde. Do you think a peasant rabble with pitchforks and scythes could accomplish that?”

  “The incompetence of your men is not of my doing.”

  “Sir Nagel had defended the Northern Marches for a decade. He was not lacking in martial skill or valour. With his brave lances and quick archers he could have routed a peasant horde many thousands strong. Yet to a man his forces were routed. Not merely forced from the field, but butchered.”

  “It’s true,” Arthur agreed, sighing as he sat back down, and added, “I served alongside him some years back. He was a redoubtable knight, strong of arm, honourable of character, and skilled in strategy. It was with great sadness I heard of his death, and the barbarism with which he was murdered.”

  “This rabble, or whatever they are,” Augustyn pressed the prince, “are worshippers of Death.”

  “Hah!” Amery shouted. “It’s you who patronises that unnatural cult. The arkon follows your instructions, not mine.”

  “No arkon follows the direction of any Lord Temporal,” Ramon said, offended by the idea.

  “No,” Arthur said caustically, “they merely guide the hands of frail kings.”

  At this instigation the arch priest puffed himself up, and prepared to preach to the unfortunately unenlightened. “I only ask of the king what we all owe to the Sun, rightful worship. Without light no palace would sparkle, no colour of proud flags be seen.”

  “No temple altar be lit.” Arthur tilted his head on one side, and looked at the arkon that way, wondering if a skewed view would make his arguments seem sensible.

  “Without such light how would the many find their way?”

  Arthur had to admit, the arguments were good, to the ears of fools. “To give their gold.” He straightened his head.

  “And should not the king of gods be worshipped with beautiful things? Do not such things reveal his regal nature more truly, given they borrow their brilliance only from him?”

  “Ugh! Augustyn, I fear the exchequer is too pressed by the need to display in The Temple what the sun shows better in the sky. There is no gold to spare after their altars are gilded and their statues adorned with jewels and their libation goblets fashioned by the finest artisans of the realm.”

  Augustyn pleaded, “But the ordinary royal revenue is not the only possible revenue. A Privy Writ of Extraordinary Taxation can help us win this war. I am sore pressed on all fronts. But Gleda is near capitulation. For the first time in generations the seventh city will be joined with the kingdom to which she rightly belongs. The Fiks, so long our scourge, are in retreat. We must press the advantage there. But must my own lands be ravaged because I care so much for the glory of the realm?”

  “It’s not right,” Amery said angrily, “royal revenues should not be used to solve your problems.”

  “Instead they should be used to fund your naval adventures? You seek your own interest and call i
t the crown’s interest. Only last year you were granted revenues to fight piracy off the eastern coast and instead you equipped Kumese pirates and sent them against the peaceful merchant fleets of Gwendur.”

  “More lies! You are the very Prince of Lies.”

  “Do you think my knowledge is confined to Thedra and my own duchy?”

  “I think your spies are too many, and serve your own interests, not the crown’s.”

  “Lords, please,” Arthur interjected, “haven’t we enough enemies across the realm and beyond without fighting each other?” He grasped Amery by the shoulder with a huge hand, and reached his other hand palm upward across the table toward Augustyn. “If only two such lords could join forces, how much could be accomplished?” But Amery shrugged off the gesture and Augustyn ignored the proffered hand.

  “I motion we vote on the proposition,” Augustyn said.

  Amery vigorously shook his head.

  “Perhaps we should wake the king and ask his pleasure,” Augustyn said, smiling slyly at Amery. Though he was as wary of the king’s madness as Amery he was better at disguising his feelings. And both knew that the king’s will was law in Council, and would remain so with Arthur so steadfast in filial loyalty.

  The king stirred and mumbled in his sleep. “Assassins, assassins everywhere.” All the lords watched him nervously. Perhaps more than one wished the king’s nightmare was fulfilled, but with the Yeomen of the Crown around the room and his huge warrior son beside him only another madman would have tried to strike the blow.

  Arthur decided. “The motion is to raise money through a Privy Writ of Extraordinary Taxation to fight the peasant rebellion in the east. Who says yes to the proposition?”

  Augustyn assented, as did Humphrey of Jermon. Arthur turned a questioning glance on Godfrey of Sol.

  Godfrey’s thoughts were possibly the most complex among the gathered lords. He agreed that a peasant rebellion strong enough to defeat a hundred lances and their contingent of archers was a threat to the realm, not merely the duke whose lands were harried. Peasants must be shown their place, with unforgettable brutality, or they might serve as an example of the wrong kind. If peasants thought they need not bend the knee and work their lords’ fields, how would the lords eat? How would their levies be paid for? The world would quickly turn to chaos. But he was mindful that Augustyn, his current ally against the Fiks, might become too powerful in the west, as he already was in the east. If Augustyn first conquered the Fiks of Gleda port he might be reluctant to return the reassembled duchy of Glede to its disinherited dukes. Since they would be unlikely to recognise the march that had only been established to keep the Fiks at bay, Augustyn’s reluctance was highly probable. Though Godfrey and his father had fought the hated Fiks for many years, a weakened Fik city was less threat to his interests across the Strait of Sol than a powerful duke with all the resources of Gleda to add to his already extensive lands.

  He dissented. Augustyn could barely conceal his surprise.

  “Is it not you who most needs my aid, my friend?”

  Godfrey looked down and muttered. “Extraordinary Taxation is a rare thing and vexes the lords to no end of trouble. I agree the problem is not entirely yours, though many of the lords will take Amery’s view.” Amery wore a triumphant smile. “But I fear this method of raising revenue would provoke as much trouble as the supplied troops would suppress. You will have to fight them as well as you can. I am sure your captains will crush them in the end.”

  “But how much damage will be done before they are crushed?” Augustyn seemed to address the question only to himself.

  Louis assented. Ramon dissented. Melkor, after a lifetime of service in the king’s household, would not decide without knowing his lord’s mind. The count was three for and three against.

  “And you, prince?” Augustyn said, hopefully. “You have the deciding vote.

  “I say yes. We will raise the revenue by a writ and I will lead the forces against the rebellion.”

  Suddenly, the king spluttered and started awake. “No!” He shouted.

  “Father?”

  “I say no.”

  “But Father,” Arthur pleaded.

  “You will not. I will not have it. Assassins! They’re everywhere. Don’t you see?”

  “There are no assassins here, Father,” Arthur said, trying to placate his father, “only your council.” He gently placed a strong hand on his father’s bonier, wrinkled hand, engulfing it, and squeezing it affectionately.

  The king stared down at his son’s hand. “You don’t understand. Where is my son?”

  “I’m here, Father. I’m here. By your side, always by your side.”

  The king looked suspiciously at the hand, then up at Arthur’s face. Recognition dawned on him. “Arthur! Son. Where were you? I’ve been lost.”

  “I’ve been here while you slept.”

  “Slept? In council? Don’t be foolish. Council is not a place to sleep.”

  “Won’t you let me fight, Father, for the realm? For your realm?”

  The king was suddenly sharp. “A great warrior fighting peasants? No, no, no. Leave them to Augustyn. You have better things to do. You’re my son. You’re the first knight of the realm. Crown Princes shouldn’t ride out to put down peasants. They’re beneath you. You’re greater than that. You’ll one day be king. Leave them to the duke. He has enough wealth and power.” He afforded Augustyn a wry smile. “He has more than enough.”

  “Perhaps we can ease the pain of some of those who might otherwise be convinced by this rebel leader, this…what was his name, Augustyn?”

  “Conner Mac Naught.”

  Arthur raised an eyebrow. “You jest.”

  “No, Your Highness. Though perhaps the one who pays him does.” He gave Amery a glare.

  “I’ll wager the only gold he knows is the gilding of your incompetence.”

  Arthur lifted his hand from his father’s and hammered his fist on the table. “Silence!” he roared. The men continued glaring at each other but said nothing more. “I vote we expend some revenue on relief.” He raised a hand in a cutting motion to silence dissent as the lords started to object. “Not only in Augustyn’s lands. We’ve had two hard years, and there’s much suffering across the realm.”

  “Always thinking of the people,” the king said approvingly, leaning forward and patting his son’s hand. “Nothing for these rebels though.”

  “No, Father. They will get nothing from us but the sword, only the good people of your realm will be helped. Those who don’t raise arms against you.”

  “And well they should not. Am I not a good king?” He sent a challenging look around the table. Whatever the lords thought, they all nodded and muttered that he was a good king.

  “And how are we to pay for this relief?” Ramon asked.

  “I don’t doubt a man of your genius can find a way,” Arthur said.

  Ramon began to open his mouth. Arthur continued, “after all, no one could object to the king’s benevolence, could they, Your Holiness?” He looked at the arkon with wide open innocent eyes. He would not mention where the funds would have to come from. Ramon looked at the king’s hand on his son’s. He would have to reduce royal grants to several chapters of the cult, something the king would never knowingly ask for, but the prince knew there was no other way, and would affect ignorance if pressed. He cursed under his breath. Arthur had won this round.

  Chapter 15: Jasper: Lurvale

  Jasper surveyed the battlefield.

  It had been slaughter. The floor of the valley was strewn with bodies, and the stench of death filled his nostrils. The smell of blood, shit, piss and vomit mixed with grass and earth churned by shod hooves and mailed feet. The low moaning of the dying echoed from the hills, interspersed with an occasional pathetic cry for mercy.

  Many Lurvalese knights were led away, taken captive by Vrongwenese knights, to be comfortably imprisoned in the castles of their enemies until their families could raise substantial ranso
ms. The Lurvalese irregulars were as efficiently butchered as livestock before winter. Boots and shit stained breeches were dragged from dead feet and legs. Weapons were taken to be sold to blacksmiths for their iron.

  The common soldiers knew that if it had been they who lay wounded they would have been given no mercy, for they would have commanded no ransom. They also knew that if they tried to take a knight alive for themselves some knight or lord of Vrongwe would take him away and give them nothing, unless it was punishment for their presumption. So they were as cruel with fallen knights as with any other man, making corpses of sirs and taking what they could from the nameless dead.

  One of Louis’ peasant levies pulled the helmet off a Lurvalese knight, who lay trapped under his dead horse, and slit his throat. The knight did not struggle. Perhaps his back was broken. The blood squirted from his neck, painting the killer’s face red. The killer tugged at him until he came free of the horse, falling back with the dead knight half on top of him. He shoved the body off, then methodically stripped it of armour and clothes, leaving it naked in the mud, shoving armour that might have been passed down for generations into a muddy sack and dragging the sack away. Horses without riders wandered the battlefield, or left the muddy churn to graze on the still grassy slopes. Some, as attached to their masters as loyal dogs, nuzzled the fallen knights and refused to leave them. Others were led away as prizes, some docilely, some straining at their reins, defying the wishes of men they did not know.

  Three men at arms, one with a crossbow, two with halberds, surrounded another knight. The knight, proud of his heritage, would not surrender to commoners and raised his sword, turning to face each of his tormentors. One jeered at him, “Bow, Sir Rusty Knee, and I’ll grant you mercy.” The commoner spat at the knight. The knight lunged towards him. That moment a crossbow bolt tore through his expensive plate armour, from the back to the front and, continuing its trajectory, struck the man who had jeered in the shoulder. The knight fell down dead. The man who had jeered toppled also, screaming obscenities at his accomplices. He tried to yank the bolt out, but his hand slipped on the blood. The other two stood still for a moment, amazed, then started stripping the knight of his armour and his charger of its caparison, ignoring their screaming accomplice.