by Mary Gentle
He gave the impression of choosing his words very carefully.
‘Tell me, Ilario, what I should have done with Licinus Honorius?’
He did not say ‘your father’. I had not the slightest doubt he knew.
Before I could stop choking and get out an answer, King Rodrigo
lifted the full force of his gaze to me.
‘Here is a lord of my kingdom,’ he said, measuredly, ‘Aldra Licinus
Honorius, whose presence I require at court. I send to inform him. He
does not come. I send to order him. He delays, says he will come . . . but
does not. Meantime, all my other lords – less rich than Licinus Honorius,
perhaps, and not “the Lion of Castile”, but still noble lords – watch this
behaviour . . . and judge how weak I’ve grown.’
No proper words of objection would form in my dry mouth.
‘Therefore,’ Rodrigo concluded, leaning back, ‘when Aldra Honorius
finally does deign to obey his King’s summons, what do I do? Thank him
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kindly for his arrival? Ask him how I should have worded my summons,
to be better obeyed?’
‘Your Majesty—’
‘ Yes! ’ His hand slapped loudly down on the carved chair’s arm.
‘“Majesty.” “King.” But only so long as men call me so! Licinus
Honorius is a subject of mine. He defied me. He is therefore now serving
me – by being an object lesson to any man who might think of doing
likewise!’
Rekhmire’ stirred, beside me.
It was the pain of his leg, I saw. Nothing in the Egyptian’s expression
signified dissent.
‘It’s not justice to put him in prison, Majesty!’ I spoke fiercely. ‘It’s my
fault he didn’t come. He was helping me. If you put anybody in the
dungeon, it should be me.’
Rodrigo Sanguerra briefly smiled.
‘I know.’ He rested his chin on his fist. The hooded lids of his eyes
dipped down – in a way that had always, in the past, signalled covert
amusement. ‘But my hermaphrodite Fool in prison is hardly an object
lesson to the men who covet my throne. Of which there are always
some.’
‘Sire . . . ’
Rodrigo Sanguerra waved his free hand dismissively. ‘Aldra Honorius
can stay in my dungeons until I’m satisfied every man has realised he’s
there. And that he submits to his King. And then, on payment of a sufficiently large fine, he can find himself at liberty.’
He frowned, his pause unstudied.
‘What, did you suppose I was going to execute the Lion of Castile?’
Dizziness made me unable to answer properly.
‘You may see him,’ King Rodrigo remarked, ‘when we’re done here.
The more visitors, the more mouths to carry the story, after all.’
He smiled at me.
‘Are you still free, hermaphrodite?’
What a question. Curtailing a long story, I said, ‘Yes, Your Majesty.’
He would be in his late fifties or early sixties, this King of
Taraconensis. If I tried to look at him as a stranger would – as Rekhmire’
might be doing now – I saw the unforgiving and unwelcoming face of a
country mostly composed of mountain, infertile plain, and rocky coast.
Growing up with the land, I know there are valleys that flower at the
foothills of the mountains, and rich seas and forests, if a man can find the
way to them. Rodrigo had been rumoured a less grave man before his
Queen, Cixila, died in giving birth to their dead fourth child.
‘Come here.’ Rodrigo beckoned, and held out his hand. I moved to
kneel on the dais steps, and kissed the cabochon-cut emerald he wore in
his massive ouroboros-ring.
For a moment, he rested his hand on my head.
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‘You come back bringing trouble, Ilario.’
A flood of emotion would have had me in tears like a girl. I waited
until it passed. And saw King Rodrigo had, as ever, read everything
visible in a man’s face.
‘We’ll break our fast and talk,’ he said, glancing around absently for
servants – and, on a sudden, looked back at me.
He gestured with his lined hand. ‘Rise, Ilario.’
Stiffly, slowly, I stood up.
It is still instinctive in me – not to rise until he gives me direct
permission.
‘The envoy of Alexandria is best qualified to speak with you, Your
Majesty.’ I prayed he did not read how rigid I stood, and how much it
was out of determination. ‘No man knows I’m here, yet; no man will
recognise me, dressed like this. May I be excused to visit Lord Honorius
in prison?’
I did not suppose Honorius would be in a prison elsewhere than in
Taraco. And not in the civil jail down in the city, reserved for men who
are not noble. Somewhere in this palace’s oubliettes and rat-infested
dungeons, thick with the stench of ancient shit and despair . . . Because if King Rodrigo desires to make an object lesson out of Honorius, he will keep him under his hand.
Rekhmire’’s fingers closed around my biceps. Without seeming to care
that he broke protocol in speaking before the King did, he snapped, ‘We
need you here!’
The flash of Rekhmire’’s gaze prompted Videric! very plainly.
‘You were previously of the opinion I could stay on the ship, Master
Rekhmire’. You can bring the introductory matters to my Lord King’s
attention. I’ll continue after I’ve seen Lord Honorius—’
I bit back the words my father.
‘—with His Majesty’s permission.’
Rekhmire’ glared at me, clearly divided between exasperation and a
fear that I might throw something.
Observing us, King Rodrigo shifted his chin to his other hand, all the
time watching me as closely as a painter does. He allowed silence to
return.
Rekhmire’ murmured, ‘I apologise, Exalted One.’
I echoed him. ‘I apologise, sire.’
Underlining that with silence, King Rodrigo did nothing more than
observe me from under lowered lids.
‘Very well!’ He sat up, briskly. ‘Master Egyptian, we will have a private
audience. Ilario – one hour. And you will not afterwards whine to me
that this is too brief!’
Without waiting for an answer, the King beckoned one of his men
forward; a lugubrious-faced knight in a forest-green surcoat over
Milanese armour.
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‘The prison, first; then bring Ilario to me in the east tower, when the
hour of Terce has struck.’
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5
The knight’s lugubriosity appeared to be a function merely of his long
features. He introduced himself as Safrac de Aguilar, and smiled amiably
enough as I halted midway up a flight of sandstone spiral steps.
Four sets of steps serve the floors of the prison tower of the Sanguerra
castle. One at each corner of the building. Any one of them enough to
leave men breathless.
It was not the constriction of my ribs that made me stop, but a sudden
thought.
‘Aldra Aguilar, I have no money for a bribe!’
That we were going up, not down, the stairs, told me I was being taken
to the governor or overseer – whatever knight King Rodrigo had placed
in charge of prisoners, and who therefore kept his chambers at the top of
this high square tower. And whose income depends on what prisoners’
relatives will pay him for good treatment of a prisoner.
Appalled, I thought, Nor do I have money to pay a jailer for food, or candles, or clean water, or anything my father will need!
Safrac de Aguilar gave me a wry smile. ‘Your money isn’t needed.’
And that means?
He gave me no chance to question him, turning his back. I followed
the muffled clack of plate armour up the ever-turning stairs. His was not
a face I recalled from court life, but the King must think him honest and
not prone to gossip.
Or else he wouldn’t let the man see Honorius and I together, with
kinship written on our faces.
Unless Honorius is not recognisable—
The steps ceased, and I all but fell over de Aguilar’s heels. He opened
the door set counter-wise into the tower’s wall, and gestured for me to
pass through.
‘Could you lend me money, Aldra?’ I persisted.
Safrac de Aguilar sighed, his face giving it the force of extreme misery.
‘Just go inside!’
An arrow-slit window opened into the antechamber, spilling bright
sunlight onto terracotta tiles. De Aguilar nodded to the guards in royal
livery, beckoning them aside and speaking in an undertone. I caught a
glimpse of the sea through the narrow slit, far out on the horizon, and
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wondered, If I had my babe in my arms, would I be more likely to move a prison governor to sympathy?
Sharp knocking brought me back to myself. De Aguilar was just
lowering his hand from the nail-sprinkled oak door of the inner rooms.
The door opened. A young and curly-haired man put his head out.
I stared. ‘ Saverico? ’
Safrac de Aguilar said something that did not penetrate the shock of
seeing Ensign Saverico in clean green doublet and red hose, with a
pewter lion badge sewn to his sleeve.
‘Donna Ilario!’ He grinned. ‘I have your dress, still!’
The door was pushed further open from the inside: a shorter and
skinnier man demanded, ‘What is it this time?’, and I recognised his voice before I saw his face – Honorius’s Armenian sergeant, Orazi.
The door opened into a wide, well-furnished chamber. On the far side
of the room, opposite the door, a window showed the sky to the north.
Beneath the window stood a table. The chair on its left had been pushed
back – by either Saverico or Orazi, when they came to open the door.
A chess-board stood on the table itself, and in the right-hand chair,
Licinus Honorius, il leone di Castiglia, lifted his chin from his hand and contemplation of the board, and called without looking towards the door:
‘By my calculation, Sergeant, you now owe me Carthage, Alexandria,
and a year’s dye-trade in Bruges . . . Would you rather play me at
dice?’
Orazi carries a sword at his side.
The sergeant stepped quickly back across the room, fast enough that I
saw why Honorius might keep him as a bodyguard, and moved a bishop.
‘Check!’ He finished with a jerk of his chin towards us at the door.
Honorius looked. His eyes met mine.
I felt it in a blow to my stomach.
It was as if it took an age for him to rise from the chair.
Safrac de Aguilar murmured something behind me, stepping back
with the royal guards; I was dimly aware that the solid oak door closed
with them outside.
Honorius opened his mouth, and said nothing.
His cheeks were not sunken in or unshaven, his tunic looked clean; he
carried a dagger scabbarded at his right hip.
‘ I thought you were in some rat-infested piss-hole! ’
Words ripped out of my throat with the force of a winter storm.
‘The King told me you were in prison! You’re all right! Why didn’t you tell me? ’
Honorius stepped forward, his expression shifting from shock to
wonder and solemnity.
I could do nothing but stare.
‘Ilario . . . ’
Honorius broke into a great wide grin, covered the remaining distance
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in a moment, and threw his arms about me hard enough that I felt my
ribs crunch.
‘Ilario!’
‘ Oof! ’ It would have been more than a whisper, if I could have got the
breath. And had I not been embracing him equally hard.
Without letting go, Honorius briefly turned his head. ‘Saverico, get
another goblet out! And the good wine. Tell Berenguer to put the kettle
on the fire!’
He stepped back, hands gripping my shoulders, looking me up and
down.
‘Berenguer won’t let me eat prison food,’ he added absently, with a
nod towards a door I had not noted; this was not one room, but a set of
chambers, evidently. ‘You’re looking well. Have you eaten?’
‘Have I eaten?’
‘There’s some beef left from last night, and chicken. And maybe a bit
of mutton—’
‘ Honorius! ’
I swore in Italian, Alexandrine Latin, and a little of the vocabulary of
Chin.
Honorius beamed at me.
‘ Mutton? But you’re in prison!’ I protested.
My father put his fists on his hips and grinned. ‘Yes, I am, aren’t I?’
There was a long oak settle beside this room’s hearth, a length of red
velvet thrown over the back to prevent draughts. I collapsed down onto
the wooden seat. ‘I don’t understand!’
Honorius signalled, without looking, and sat down on the settle beside
me. A moment or two later another man-at-arms – I recognised
Berenguer’s angular features – entered wearing an apron over his
doublet, and carrying a tray with wine and bread and cold mutton. He
gave me a nod of greeting.
I looked around at the soldiers, as well as my father. ‘You could walk
right out of here! Why are you here?’
Honorius leaned his elbow on the back of the low settle. His hand,
holding his wine goblet, just visibly shook. His face glowed, looking at
me.
I tried again. ‘ Why are you in prison? ’
‘Because I want to be.’
One should not regard one’s own father as if he were stark mad.
Except under this kind of provocation. ‘Father—’
‘Because it’s necessary.’ Honorius smiled. ‘I may be a soldier, but I do
understand some things about politics. I’m on display.’
Saverico and Orazi both nodded at that. Honorius waved a hand to
dismiss them from their attentive stances – which meant they retired to
the chess table five feet away, to watch us from there.
‘On display,’ Honorius repeated, ‘and contrite. An object lesson. Soon
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to be impoverished. Well – comparatively, and for a while. Then all will
be well between me and the King—’
‘But you’re in prison!’ I couldn’t conquer the enormity of it, even if the
rats and dung were absent. ‘You’ve vanished; Rodrigo could have you
quietly killed! Why—’
‘To keep the stupid from rebelling against their King.’ Honorius
rubbed his chin. ‘Who, come to think of it, is my King. I don’t like serving under a weak
king.’
I saw the truth of it as if someone had flung shutters open to sunlight. I
tried not to sound accusatory – and failed. ‘Honorius, you agreed to this!’
‘It’s necessary,’ he said simply.
Orazi, at the window table, prodded his bishop and grinned.
Words choked themselves in my throat. I put my goblet down before I
should spill it.
‘And you didn’t let me know!’
Honorius cocked a brow.
He said nothing of the distance of Constantinople, or the likelihood
that I would have been somewhere else by the time letters or messengers
arrived. Which saved my pride, if nothing else.
‘I wasn’t certain this would happen until I got here.’ He shrugged.
‘One of the possibilities was execution, but you tell me your Rodrigo
Sanguerra’s a reasonable king, so that didn’t seem likely. This didn’t
surprise me when he ordered it.’
He paused, putting his hand on my shoulder again as if reassuring
himself of my solidity.
‘Letters can be intercepted. What could I safely say to you?’
‘I had the same difficulty in Alexandria . . . ’ I watched Orazi passing
the castle-piece back and forth between his fingers.
Honorius’s grip tightened. ‘Why are you here and not in Alexandria?
What happened? And how did you get here?’
‘Ah.’ I craned my chin up to see what was beyond the window, but I
had been correct before: it was the mountains and the north. No visible
sea. ‘Have you heard any gossip about a “devil-ship”?’
Honorius’s lips pursed surprisingly delicately; he might have been a
disapproving duenna in the Court of Ladies. ‘I think you’d better
explain.’
I explained.
He sat for a minute or more, after I had done.
Quietly, he asked, ‘Is Onorata still with us?’
Relief and chagrin hit me in equal measures. I should have told him that at once!
‘Oh, she is – in loud health.’
Awkward although it might be on the hard wooden seat, I leaned over
and embraced my father again.
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The lines around his eyes tightened as if he looked into sunlight. ‘I
didn’t realise you’d miss my company, Ilario.’
Since it seemed appropriate to a soldier, and since I might otherwise
weep, I said, ‘Fucking idiot!’