He turned and looked at the new suit of armour, standing behind the throne. It was finely wrought, with golden filigree patterning its polished surface. Why were they so eager for him to wear it? Then he noticed the cockroaches. At the feet of the new armour, several lay dead, or dying. He smiled. Amery had seemed especially eager for him to wear the new armour, but poison was the method of the Dark Monks, not the Monks of War, and the Dark Monks would not dare assassinate a crown prince without the Dark Arkon’s approval. And the arkon of the cult of Death was Augustyn’s man. Though others might doubt it, Arthur knew the truth of it. Finally he understood the cooperation of the dukes, though what each hoped to gain was unclear. No doubt each planned to murder the other when Arthur was gone. At least now he knew they did not intend to slay him on the battlefield, at least not by force of arms. Their armies would cooperate on the field and wait for him to fall, then theatrically weep and moan about the loss of their prince. Or perhaps the dukes’ own vassals did not even know the truth.
Another complication concerned him. Surely they would not assassinate the crown prince and leave his father alive, or…or, more importantly, his son. With the two dukes united against him, whom could he trust? Of Oliver’s loyalty he had no doubt, but Amery clearly watched closely his brother’s meetings with Arthur, at least when Oliver was careless. In the palace now only the Yeomen of the Crown could be absolutely trusted, along with men of the Crown Prince Household he had bound to him with magnanimity and fellowship: his Chancellor, his Steward, his Marshal, his Almoner, his Master of the Stables, his Master of Hounds, his Master of the Mews, all of whom had taken up the royal functions in the palace since the departure of the King’s Household.
“Yeoman!”
All of the Yeomen turned their heads toward the prince. He motioned one over.
He lowered his voice. “Fetch me a scribe’s tools from my chancellor. Five small parchments and quill and ink.”
“Yes, Highness. You wish for a scribe?”
“No. I’ll write the messages myself. Take this.” He handed him his signet ring. “Tell the Chancellor that you must communicate with a lover or you’ll die of melancholy. Say it loudly enough that his scribes can hear, especially that red haired one with the growth on his cheek. Say you’ll write of your love all over the walls of the palace if you can’t write her a letter. But discreetly show the Chancellor the ring. He’ll understand the need for secrecy. He may tell you he’ll have to dock your pay for the service, but don’t worry, he won’t. Quietly make sure he understands the parchments need to be small enough to fly. Understood?”
“Yes, Highness.”
“When I’ve written them you’ll go to the royal mews and requisition the five swiftest carrier pigeons homed to the Summer Palace. Make the request directly to the Master of the Mews, out of range of any other ears, and let him know that he is to take responsibility for the messages himself, and the secrecy of their departure and destination.
“Yes, Highness,” the Yeoman said and marched out of the room.
Finally, the two dukes had done what he could never have predicted. By conspiring together they had provided the pretext he needed to crush them both simultaneously. Either without the other as counterbalance would be too powerful an independent force within the kingdom, especially Augustyn, with his lands in the west and the east, the recent alliance with Navre, control of the Dark Monks in the capital, and the wealth of the county of Gwendur across the eastern sea in Vrongwe.
Now both would fall. When the rebels had been dealt with he would confront the plotting dukes in the Assembly of Lords with the evidence of their treachery. Their heads would adorn pikes above Thedra Bridge, after they had suffered the horror of a traitor’s death, being disembowelled and castrated while they still breathed, so that others would understand the price of treason.
Augustyn had no son. His duchy would be dismembered like his body, its pieces distributed as dower lands with the disgraced duke’s daughters, whose marriages, those who were not yet married, would require royal sanction. Eleanor’s son would gain much, and the Navrelese were more interested in southern conquests than disturbing the peace of the north. Oliver would be regent to his nephew, Amery’s heir.
And then Arthur would send troops into the Temple of the Harvest and its brother monastery, and cleanse with death that den of fanatic assassins. The Dark Arkon would learn the price of trying to assassinate a prince, but he would not die. Arthur would not grant the hierarchy of Nethra’s temple entry to the shadowy kingdom of their scything god. They would be blinded and castrated, and left to live long lives of shame and beggary.
His army was assembling in the foothills now. Soon, he would fight.
Chapter 57: Sophie: Summer Palace
Sophie looked through the door of the great hall in the Summer Palace.
Her mother scowled at her, or perhaps that was only her imagination. The queen’s lips were tightly pressed together, hiding as well as she could her natural beauty behind her unfailingly bitter manner. Sophie remembered a time when her mother had been vivacious and affectionate. Perhaps the continual whispering about her origins in a tanner’s shack had embittered her; possibly she had lost her capacity for joy by following the religiosity of her aging husband. Sophie pressed her cheek against the frame of the doorway and watched her sadly. The dreary, grey habited nuns clustered around her like a cloud, obscuring her brighter nature, twisting her soul, and making her impossible.
The clacking of wooden swords sounded from where Sophie’s nephew, the young prince Richard, played at the foot of the dais with a new servant, who wore an extravagant hat with a floppy peak that hung down over his forehead almost to his eyebrows. It could not hide his long, thick, crooked nose though, bent slightly to the left; nor the smoky grey eyes, which darted toward her, instantly aware of her gaze. Richard turned and waved to her, then renewed his attack, driving the servant back with his ferocity. Clearly he too was bored inside the palace. He was confined to using wooden swords despite having been taught fencing skills by his tutors using real, if bated, rapiers and blunted steel longswords. But his grandfather feared assassins and had declared this morning that no one other than his bodyguards could carry real weapons, even if blunted, in his presence. He had made an exception for his beloved grandson. But young Richard had told Sophie he thought it unfair for his servant to have to fight against steel with wood. And they could not fight in the courtyard as he was all but prisoner to the boredom of the hall, having been designated king’s cupbearer. When the court had arrived at the Summer Palace the king had dismissed from that role the son of a minor noble because the boy’s father had displeased him.
The king slumbered on his throne, his head sunk to his chest, his light golden circlet crown slightly askew over his wispy white hair. Several priests of Thulathra waited on his awakening. Yeomen of the Crown lined the walls with their tabards of royal arms quartered with their company’s war-hammer emblem, or stood on the steps of the dais near to the king, hammers and longswords hanging from their belts, crossbows held diagonally across their bodies, ready to drop in an instant to firing position. Young Richard attacked the servant with a vicious rain of overhand blows, so hard his own wooden sword broke with a loud crack. The king started awake and called for wine in a croaking voice. His grandson ran up the steps of the dais to the throne, fetched his grandfather’s jewel encrusted golden goblet, and ran over to a barrel guarded by two Yeomen by the wall. Before his grandson had returned with his wine a priest was whispering in his ear.
In a futile attempt to entertain the royal audience, jugglers juggled flaming loops and balls, acrobats leaped and tumbled, and one man breathed fire. Another, instead of swallowing his usual sword, broke rocks with his teeth, biting off pieces as though they were sweet cakes. All had been searched carefully for weapons by the Yeomen before being allowed in the palace, and again before entering the great hall. Sophie wondered whether the king’s own family would soon be searched for weapons, or
maybe even his beloved priests.
Chapter 58: Arthur: Thedran Foothills
Arthur sat astride the great white destrier he had won at the tournament, and wore his white painted armour.
A haze of smoke rose from the plain, obscuring much of the landscape. On a rock nearby sat the new armour. He had thought to ask Amery and Augustyn if they would like to wear it and watch them squirm, but both had sent messengers saying they were too ill to attend the battle. More likely they were planning how best to manoeuvre after his demise. They would be disappointed when it did not come. His own forces were arrayed on a low hill between two other hills which formed a valley extending north to the plain. The two northern hills ended in cliffs. It was difficult to approach Thedra without passing through the valley between which, with troops marshalled here, was a killing zone.
Periodically Arthur would send doubles into the plain with skirmishers to strike and retreat so as to entice the rebels into that killing zone. But with the exception of small groups they were not foolish enough to take the bait. Instead they put out their own bait, burning the fields and villages.
Arthur had stationed a strong contingent of his own household knights with archers at the port, but they only had sufficient numbers to defend that fortified essential settlement, not to sally forth and fight the rebel army, which numbered somewhere between five and ten thousand all told. Behind Arthur were a few hundred Yeomen of the Crown, tabards blazoned with the royal arms, three crowned mountain lions rampant astride a golden river with a purple background, quartered with the Yeomen’s distinctive war hammers. There were five hundred other men of knightly quality, three thousand skilled infantry levies, mostly wearing old, battle worn suits of chain armour, armed with longbows and various melee weapons, faces scarred and hardened, and about as many ordinary peasants and townsmen to swell their numbers. He hoped they had been practicing their archery at the butts.
“If you aren’t going to wear that shiny new armour maybe I should,” Oliver said.
“No, don’t touch it,” Arthur said sharply.
Oliver looked at Arthur curiously. He was usually liberal, especially with his friends, and it seemed a strange waste of good armour. He opened his mouth to ask, but Arthur only said, “Don’t ever touch it. Not unless your brother wears it first, or maybe Augustyn, or maybe both in turn. That would be entertaining.” Arthur smiled a mysterious smile, leaving Oliver even more puzzled than he had been before.
Oliver turned his attention back to the plain. Fires burned throughout fields and villages as far as the eye could see. The harvests on which the capital depended would be massively depleted by this. But there was one advantage he could see. He said, “They’re scattered across the plain, in small groups. We don’t even need to divide their forces. They’ve divided themselves. Shouldn’t we strike while they’re like this?”
“Don’t be blinded by the smoke, Oly. See,” He pointed through the haze, “they have flags communicating between the groups, and fast mounted messengers. They’re more coordinated than they want us to think. You saw that already in Es Wol.”
“Regardless, the villagers need our help.”
“They do, but we won’t help them by getting butchered.”
“Butchered?” Oliver looked back at their own host. “We have about the same numbers as them, and the advantage of striking from a height.”
“They won’t be drawn away from the plain, so we’ll have to descend to it, and then they won’t have to fight uphill as we fight downhill.”
“Still, we have a good sized contingent of knights, and there are plenty of veterans in our infantry. It’s a good thing Thedra is the preferred place for veterans to retire.”
“Our knights are strong enough, but these bannerettes are a mixed lot, and many will go their own way rather than follow with discipline. We might keep them in a coherent host with the discipline of the Yeomen as an example. That’s why I’ve dispersed many of the Yeomen in small groups through the ranks. As for the infantry, you’re half right; about half of them are veterans. But the rest are ordinary townsmen, with no experience of fighting beyond a tavern brawl, or villagers who’ve been reluctantly pressed because they stand out in a city crowd. The second half will likely scatter at the first impact of the fronts. With luck they’ll lend their arrows before that, but they can’t be relied on to last.”
“Why don’t you sandwich them between contingents of veterans?”
“Because I don’t want them tearing apart our formations if they try to run.”
“You could always tell the veterans to cut them down if they try.”
Arthur looked at Oliver quizzically. “We fight for them also, Amery…I mean Oliver.”
“Alright, I was being a vicious bastard. I suppose it runs in the family.”
Arthur grinned. “And you are my kin too. That kind of thing has its place, Oly. If the city’s survival depended on it I’d agree with you. These rebels may not be a peasant horde, but they’re not a danger to Thedra.”
“Except to Thedra’s grain supply.”
“Our storage silos will be full enough; the fields extend further than the eye can see. This isn’t good for the local villagers, but it won’t break the capital. But don’t worry, Oly, you’ll soon have your chance to die for my glory. Look.”
Through the smoke Oliver squinted where Arthur pointed, to the west and east. On low hills in each direction riders came over the rise, first only a few, then in ever increasing numbers. To the west the forces of Wulfstan, perhaps two thousand men in all. To the east five hundred Crimson Monks and their many servants.
Chapter 59: Sophie: King’s Forest
Sophie led her ladies toward the stables.
Kat was dressed in her usual elaborate dress, but Amelia had copied the princess’s light, comfortable dress, similar to what some of the maids of the Royal Household wore. In the courtyard, just beyond the stables, the grooms had saddled the palfreys, and many attendants with packed refreshments and bows and crossbows for the princess and her ladies were already mounted. Two Yeomen sat impassive but constantly alert, great hammers by their sides, crossbows held ready, strings drawn, bolts loaded. The pages of the kennel were struggling to hold the over eager dogs, which strained against their leashes, tongues lolling. The master of the kennels shouted at the pages not to choke the dogs, and the master of the hunt was climbing into his saddle while shouting orders at all and sundry.
As the ladies mounted a priest rushed out, his bright white robes fluttering about him. “Your Highness,” he said, bowing repeatedly and more deeply than was usual for that arrogant breed of men, “the king your father has instructed me to accompany you and to entertain you with stories of the gods and heroes.”
She stared at him, unbelieving. Was she to suffer this? Was there to be no escape from the women and men of the gods? Not even when she was hunting?
“That won’t be necessary. You’re far too kind but we must hurry and you have no horse.”
“Haste is the handmaiden of error,” he said in exactly the pompous tone she expected.
Contemptuously, she spurred her mount and galloped out the gate, the others following quickly behind. When they were a mile from the palace she reined in her mount. The others were some way behind. Amazingly, the priest was not far behind. The pages of the kennel, on foot, were running to catch up. It seemed there was little chance of losing him, and she could not be cruel to the pages for the sake of silencing a priest. She decided to have a servant listen to his boring, moralising stories. By the time the others had caught up he had reached them.
“Highness,” he said, not even breathing hard, “I don’t wish to bore you.”
She was surprised by his insight. Usually religious orders did not understand her feelings, except when they were eager to criticise them, though this one had probably been warned by her mother. She was even more surprised by his fitness, and as she looked him over more carefully she saw that his face was young and attractive and his sh
oulders broad, like a soldier’s.
“I know you must be wondering, what would a man like this become a priest for?”
Once again she was startled. It was as if he had read her thoughts. And he was very good looking. She decided to let him ride beside her. As they rode through the woods toward a royal hunting lodge he entertained her with stories so salacious that on more than one occasion she suggested he had missed his calling as a scoundrel. He laughed brightly and told her a tale of his youth, which she lightly accused him of making up. No one would do those things, she told him. But he insisted, with hand literally over heart, that these were only the least improbable facts of his life.
“If I told you the truth you would die,” he said with a rascal’s grin.
“If anything you told me is truth I’ll die of laughter,” she laughed.
The morning passed with similar conversation and by noon they had reached a clearing just beyond the royal hunting lodge nearest the palace. Heavy bushes covered two sides of the clearing, to funnel game to the centre, but with narrow gaps near the far end. The far end was also overgrown, though less so than the sides. Through there a doe might leap or bear wade or boar find its way close to the dirt. The dogs were taken by their handlers. Some were released to track suitable prey, while others would chase it when found. Shield beaters would spread in an arc behind the prey and close in to force it to the clearing. The princess and her attendants would wait. The sky was clear and the sun was midsummer bright but mild in these northern parts. Sophie closed her eyes and turned her face to the warmth.
Horn of the River God: Book I of The Song of Agmar Page 52