The Dread Wyrm

by Miles Cameron

  “All of Du Corse’s men and all of my own,” de Vrailly said. “And the Royal Guard,” he added quickly.

  The King looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. “Almost three thousand men,” he said.

  De Vrailly smiled grimly. “Yes, your grace.”

  “And you plan to use them against the Trained Band of Harndon.” The King shook his head. “Made up of the best men of this city—the masters and journeymen.”

  “We will destroy them,” de Vrailly said happily enough.

  “You will destroy my city!” the King said suddenly. “You will behead the trades. You will leave me a burned-out shell.”

  De Vrailly’s head snapped back as if he’d been struck. “I will expurgate treason!”

  The King shook his head. “No, de Vrailly. You are creating treason. And you don’t have enough men, even with Du Corse, to take Harndon against the will of the whole population.”

  De Rohan, misunderstanding, made a face. “We have hired every sell-sword and every mercenary in the city or passing nearby. We have all the soldiers.”

  The King looked out over his city. He turned back to de Vrailly. “No. I will not have it.” He opened his mouth to say more—to speak his will.

  De Rohan stepped boldly in front of de Vrailly. De Vrailly looked at him, appalled, but the King’s eyes were on de Rohan.

  “Your grace’s feelings for your subjects do you credit,” he murmured. “But you squander your fine feelings on the very men who helped the Queen make you a figure of fun.”

  The King paused. His colour rose—a sudden flush.

  “We have tracked the woman who carried the Queen’s messages,” de Rohan said. “She went straight to the house of your armourer, Master Pye, from the Queen. Master Pye then summoned Ser Gerald Random.” De Rohan had it pat. It was his business—to know, and where he could not know, to create. “Men—good men—died to bring us this information.”

  The King stood, balanced on some sort of edge. He was searching for something; his mouth moved. “If the Queen,” he said, hesitantly. “If the Queen was not…”

  De Rohan spoke over him—an unheard of piece of lese-majeste. “But the Queen is an adulteress.”

  The King swung on de Rohan. “That is not proven.”

  De Vrailly was not pleased. His colour was high. He stepped away from de Rohan as if the man carried leprosy. Nonetheless, he said, “I will prove it on any man’s body,” he said. “We will give her a public trial. Trial by combat.”

  The King looked at them both. He seemed, in that moment, to shrink. He turned his back on them. “You may not arrest Ser Gerald,” he said.

  De Rohan—delighted by the idea of a trial by combat with de Vrailly as the accuser—stepped closer to the King. “We can invite him to the palace. With the other ring leaders.”

  De Vrailly smiled mirthlessly.

  “You will hear his treason from his own lips,” de Rohan said.

  The King looked at both of them with weary distaste. “Everything was better before you came,” he managed. Then he looked at the ground.

  “When we are done, we will leave your kingdom stronger, and your rule on surer ground,” de Vrailly said. “No king should have to be beholden to a rabble of fishmongers and labourers for his crown.”

  De Rohan winced.

  The King sighed. “Leave me,” he said.

  “We shouldn’t go,” Master Pye said. “I know Ser Jean, and I know the King.”

  Darkwood looked at Master Pye. “That’s close to treason.”

  Master Pye looked bored. “I count the King as a friend. I ha’ known him since I fitted him for rings when he was going boar hunting—I don’t know. Thirty years? He’s a fine lance. The best, they say, in the west.” Master Pye leaned back—in full harness—and rested his lower back on the edge of his low chair. “He’s not so deft in counsel, and I speak no treason when I say he’s always had a tendency to do what the last loud voice bid him.”

  “Which did us well eno’ when the Queen was the voice at his pillow,” Ailwin Darkwood said, fingering the massive chain of office he was wearing over his tightly fitted coat of plates.

  “An’ now he’s being led by a pack of foreigners,” muttered Jasop Gross, alderman, under-sheriff, and Master Butcher. In despite of his name, he was thin and handsome for his fifty years. “Sweet Jesu, friends, we’re in a pickle.”

  “There’s Jacks at work in the streets,” Ser Gerald said. “And where’s Tom Willoughby?”

  “Where’s the Sheriff?” Master Gross asked. “They say he arrested the Queen and now he’s locked in with her.”

  “I always said Tom Willoughby was a fool,” Ailwin Darkwood said. “And you gentlemen wouldn’t hear me.”

  “I heard you,” said the only woman present. Anne Bates was the only woman in Alba to be head of a guild. She was the Master Silversmith for Harndon; she was an alderman. She was forty-five and iron-haired. The joints on her fingers were already heavy with arthritis, but her long nose and pointed chin and the perfection of the white linen of her wimple were more than just concessions to femininity. She raised her chin. “I heard you every time. He’s a fool. And now, instead of standing on custom, he’s arrested the Queen. Do you lot know where this Gold girl is?” She looked around. “The Galles want her badly.”

  No one would meet her eye.

  She snorted. “You’re keeping it secret? What a pack of fools. We hang together, friends, or we’ll all hang separately. I’m too old to plead my belly. Ser Gerald, what would you?”

  Ser Gerald nodded. “I’d go. With Ailwin. And Master Pye.”

  Pye shook his head. “My sense is that de Vrailly—or if he can’t stomach it, that oily rat de Rohan—will have our heads on spikes before we even see the King.”

  Ser Gerald shook his head. “I can’t imagine the King—”

  “He allowed his God-damned wife to be taken for adultery,” Master Pye said with emphasis that was reinforced by the fact that no man present had ever heard him use an oath before. “We’re nothing. Think on it, Gerald! Desiderata is in irons. That’s the power that de Vrailly and de Rohan wield.”

  Anne Bates made a face. “I say it’s the new bishop.”

  Pye shrugged. “Last fall—when they started coming after my yard—a Hoek merchant came to see me. He made threats. When he left, the Order had him followed. He went straight to de Rohan.” He looked around.

  Random sat suddenly, as if his harness weighed too much. “What do we do?” he asked. “Turn Jack? Down with the King?”

  Master Pye shook his head. “I don’t know what to do.”

  Anne Bates looked at Ser Gerald. “I’ll go with you, Ser Gerald. A knight and a lady—hard cheese if the Galles are so dead to honour that they’ll put our heads on spikes after promising us a safe pass.”

  Ser Gerald looked at the rest of them. “You say the King always goes with the last voice,” he said. “Let it be ours, then. I can shout pretty loud. Better than a Galle, I reckon.”

  “You lose your temper, Gerald,” Master Pye said. “And if you do, you’re cooked. One word they can take as treason—remember that. In their eyes, the Queen’s a traitor. Anything you say about her is reversed for them.”

  Random shrugged.

  An hour later, having kissed his wife, he followed a dozen King’s Guardsmen into the mouth of Gold Square, which was lined with the richest men and women in the city.

  Ser Gerald had no eyes for them. His eyes were on his escort of Royal Guardsmen. None of them wore the golden leopards on their shoulders—and three of them wore scarlet surcoats so ill fitting that they flapped in the breeze. The leader looked familiar.

  He smiled at Ser Gerald.

  Ser Gerald gave him a nervous smile back. He’d changed out of his harness and wore a fine black gown, proper attire for a man of his age, and good black hose; a chain, and his plaque belt and sword. “How long have you been in the Guard?” he asked the man.

  The man was quite young. He
shrugged. “Two days,” he allowed.

  “You from Harndon?” Ser Gerald asked.

  “No, ser knight,” the young guardsman said. “I’m from Hawkshead, west of Albinkirk.”

  Ser Gerald stopped, struck by the coincidence. “I fought there last year, at Lissen Carak,” he said.

  All three Guardsmen nodded. “We know,” said another, quietly.

  “I’m not a rebel,” Ser Gerald said.

  The leader of the Guardsmen spread his hands. He really looked familiar, but Ser Gerald couldn’t place him. “We know, Ser Gerald,” he said. “I have your safe conduct in my purse. We’ll take you to the King, and bring you back.” He looked around at the crowd of aldermen and senior masters who stood in Gold Square. “You have my word.”

  His steady voice and the King’s livery did much to sway the crowd, and Ser Gerald walked up the hill—wearing a sword, and clearly not a prisoner. At the top of Cheapside, he met Anne Bates, wearing enough fur and gold to look like a duchess. He bowed, and she took his hand. Her escort was the same size as his own. All the Guardsmen seemed to know each other.

  He kept trying to place the officer, who seemed very young for his role.

  Nothing came to him as they walked through the quiet streets. Everything still reeked of smoke. All the bodies were gone, but there were buildings missing like rotted teeth in a beggar’s mouth, and people missing, too.

  Random’s father-in-law, a past Master Stonemason, was dead, his head caved in by a poleaxe. So were many other men—and women—who counted for something in the squares of the city.

  Past the scorched buildings and the scrubbed cobbles, he could see movements in the next street—Fleet Street. A heavy patrol of the Trained Band was moving parallel to the Royal Guard.

  He couldn’t imagine Edmund and his mates attacking the Royal Guard, but their armoured presence made him feel calmer.

  They went under the first portcullis of the outer ward, and left Edmund’s men behind.

  The portcullis closed.

  Even his Guardsmen looked startled.

  Anne Bates, who was no kind of a flirt, clasped his hand.

  Ser Gerald raised his chin, and walked on.

  “Who’s the old woman pretending to be a lady?” de Rohan asked one of his men.

  “No idea, my lord,” the man said.

  “Find out,” de Rohan hissed.

  No one came back to tell him, and the pair moved into the corridors of the palace.

  De Rohan moved ahead of them, and arranged for the doors of the Royal Chamber to be closed.

  He turned to de Vrailly. “The canaille sent Ser Gerald Random.”

  De Vrailly looked at him with indifference. “So?” de Vrailly asked.

  De Rohan forced himself to speak slowly. “I do not think Ser Gerald should be allowed to speak to the King.”

  “Because in fact he is not guilty of treason?” de Vrailly snapped. “Because you are afraid of him?”

  The word “afraid” was fraught with peril for a Galle. De Rohan flushed.

  “It would be better if he did not reach the King,” de Rohan said.

  De Vrailly shrugged. “Better for you, perhaps,” he said.

  He motioned at the soldiers at the doors. The chamber was opened, and Ser Gerald Random and Mistress Anne Bates announced. They walked—fearlessly, or so they appeared—down the long silk carpet to the throne, where they bowed.

  The King sat alone. Even the Queen’s throne had been removed.

  “Ser Gerald,” the King said. He looked tired, and sad. “What is this I hear, that you bore arms against me today?”

  Ser Gerald shook his head. “It’s not my place to disagree with your grace,” he said. “But I would never take up arms against my sovereign.”

  “That’s what I told de Rohan. But he says…” the King said.

  De Rohan stepped forward out of the ranks of courtiers. Most of the courtiers were nobles of the southern Albin—the men and women who lived in Harndon. But almost a third of the men present wore the tighter, brighter fashions that marked them as Galles.

  “I say you are a traitor,” de Rohan said.

  Random frowned. “It’s difficult for me to understand you, sir. Your accent is too thick.”

  A few brave souls tittered. In fact, de Rohan had a scarcely noticeable accent unless he was flustered.

  “Be silent!” de Rohan spat.

  Ser Gerald bowed. “I cannot remain silent while you slander me, my lord. And I am here, I think, to speak, not to be silent.”

  De Rohan pointed at Random. “He has coached the go-between—the girl who takes the notes to the Queen’s lovers.” De Rohan looked apologetically at the King. “I would rather say no more in public. It is too—disgraceful.”

  Random shook his head. “What a foolish accusation. My lord, I do not even live in the palace.”

  Mistress Anne curtsied. “Your grace, I beg leave to speak.”

  The King waved a hand. “Please.”

  “Your grace, I believe we were invited here to speak to your grace, and not to this foreign lord.” She managed half a smile. “Your grace, I’m a woman of business, not a courtier. If this were a business meeting, I would say that this man is trying to keep us from speaking our piece.”

  The King looked at de Rohan. Then back at Mistress Anne.

  “Speak, and be assured of my patience,” he said.

  She curtsied again. “Your grace. The people of the city were attacked without provocation by the men-at-arms these Galles brought into our midst. Men and women of worth have been killed—”

  “Men of worth?” de Rohan asked, his sneer palpable. “Some beggars?”

  “My father-in-law,” Ser Gerald said.

  “My nephew,” Mistress Anne said.

  The silence was as palpable as the sneer had been.

  “They looted and stole and raped, and when we called out the watch, they were beaten.” Mistress Anne paused. “And when we called for the Trained Band, they killed the captain.”

  “Lies,” de Rohan said.

  De Vrailly shrugged. “In Galle—” he began.

  “You are not in Galle!” Mistress Anne snapped.

  “No one was fighting against the King,” Ser Gerald said carefully. “We were protecting our homes. From thieves and murderers.”

  “A fine tale of lies,” de Rohan said. “You and your rebels massacred our people. You killed our servants—unarmed boys and girls.”

  The King looked at Ser Gerald.

  He looked down. Then he looked up. “After they killed men of the Trained Band, we broke them. And we chased them, and as God is my judge, we were as bad as they.”

  The King winced. “Damn,” he said. “Do you want a civil war, Random? Killing Galles in our streets—is that the rule of law?”

  Stung, Ser Gerald stepped back. “Christ on the cross, your grace! They killed upwards of a hundred of your citizens. And in the eyes of many people, your grace, the Galles are coming to represent you.”

  “Ah,” said de Rohan. He pointed at Ser Gerald. “Ah—now we see it.”

  “Represent me how?” the King asked carefully.

  “Your grace, you brought them here. You should send them away.” Ser Gerald set his foot and leaned on his cane. His missing foot was troubling him.

  Very carefully, de Rohan said, “And what of the Queen?”

  Ser Gerald drew a breath. He looked at Mistress Anne.

  Mistress Anne curtsied again. “Your grace, we’re here to speak to you. Not this creature.”

  The King exploded in impatience. “As God is my witness, woman! This man is not a ‘creature’ but a lord of Galle and one of my ministers and you will treat him with respect.”

  Mistress Anne stepped back a pace.

  De Rohan allowed himself a small smile. “What of the Queen, Master Random?”

  Random looked at de Rohan. “Your grace, could you see to it that this Lord of Galle uses my proper title?”

  De Rohan shrugged.
“Merely an oversight, Ser.”

  Random met his eye. “Ser Gerald.”

  De Rohan shrugged. “As you say.”

  “Get to the point!” spat the King.

  “What of the Queen?” asked de Rohan for the third time. “How do the commons view the arrest of the Queen?”

  Ser Gerald exchanged a look with Mistress Anne. “There’s not one man nor woman in the city that believes the Queen to be guilty of ought save love for your grace,” said Ser Gerald.

  De Vrailly had remained silent until that moment. He was not in armour—a rare moment for him—but wore a mi-parti pourpoint; the left side was of purple and white brocade, and the right of yellow silk. He wore his sword, the sword of the King’s Champion; he was almost the only man in the hall to wear a weapon, besides the King and Ser Gerald.

  “She is an adulteress and a witch and a murderer,” de Vrailly said. “I will prove it.”

  “You will prove it?” Ser Random asked, somewhat taken aback by the ferocity of the charges.

  “I have challenged for trial by combat. The so-called Queen murdered my cousin D’Eu, and I will kill her champion and prove her guilt.” De Vrailly glared at Ser Gerald. “Will you champion her cause, Ser Gerald?”

  De Rohan was seen to smile.

  Gerald Random had not risen to his current level without knowing when a negotiation had sprung a hidden trap. He counted to five—a tactic that had served him well in other negotiations. He ignored the panic that the trap, now revealed, caused in his throat.

  If he declined, then he appeared to agree to the guilt of the Queen, and de Rohan could ask a series of questions about the riots and the support for the Queen in the streets that would quickly go awry.

  If he agreed, he was a dead man.

  “When, my lord, do you plan to try this case?” Random asked.

  “In the lists, on the first day of the tournament,” the King said.

  Random bowed. “If your grace will relieve me of the duties of Master of the Tourney,” he said. “And if your grace feels that a man with no right foot, no formal training at arms, and fifty years of age is the man to defend his wife in the lists—” Ser Gerald extended his wooden foot so all present could see it, and bowed over it—a move he’d practised many times with his wife, hoping for a happier occasion as Master of the Tourney. “If that is the case,” Ser Gerald said without a touch of the derision he might have used, “then I would be honoured to risk my life for her grace, who I see as blameless.”