Wintersong

by William Cooper

  Brushing aside such thoughts Jon’s mind turned to Caling. The nobleman had called at his lodgings a few hours ago, his plain clothing torn and covered in ash. He had given Jon the sweet news that he had managed to get him invited to more elite groups. Caling knew of some gentlemen who were unhappy that the watch could not protect them from the riots, and also dissatisfied with the King’s policies. They would hear him in their homes. The riot had been a catalyst for change, and he planned to ride that change.

  He started slightly as the bathroom door was opened, then relaxed as he saw it was Dex. He had arrived at the inn a few days ago. God knows how he had found Jon. Dex certainly would not tell. Jon had been pleased to see him, and had tried to ask him how he had escaped. The man had just shook his head and said, ‘Another time.’ Dex sat on the edge of the bath and looked down at him, with a sad look in his eyes.

  ‘Good work tonight, Free Jon,’ Dex said. ‘A woman and her two children burnt to death. Countless others hacked down by the watch and each other. The commoners all stirred up, destroying their own homes and business, an excellent nights work.’

  Irritated, Jon snapped, ‘It’s a beginning, and I did not set the fires, nor am I responsible for the woman with the children. God knows if I had seen it I would have offered help!’

  ‘Then how unfortunate for them that you were not available,’ said Dex. ‘As you ran from alehouse to alehouse giving your well-worn speech.’

  Jon lay there in silence looking at his friend resentfully. He never understood why he put up with him, and why he held Dex in any regard. Dex always had a way of turning something around, turning a victory into some kind of failure. He wondered why he had taken him in, to let him stay in the inn. He had shown no gratitude and his tongue was now full of hate for Jon. Dex clearly distrusted Calling’s motives and had mocking contempt for his cause.

  ‘Perhaps, you will let some of the new homeless stay here, Free Jon?’ mocked Dex. ‘Maybe give them some of the coin his lordship has given you, so they can buy bread?’

  ‘Damn you Dex, I did not start the fires,’ protested Jon. ‘I did not kill people!’ he wailed.

  ‘No, but you spoke words that inflamed hearts, all with the help of some nobleman,’ said Dex, his tone now disgusted. ‘Tell me why would a lord wish the commoners to sweep away the King and the nobility? Why would a lord want the end of his own world? Have you even thought about all of this, or are you so lost in that you can no longer see the truth?’

  ‘Truth?’ shouted Jon. He sat up suddenly, sending a spray of warm scented water across the marbled floor. ‘The truth is we have a king on the throne who feels he may do as he wishes, and a nobility that has sucked from the blood of this nation. Arrogant bastards who sent good men to their deaths on some Cathan beach. All for their own glory.’

  ‘Aye, and no doubt these lords would let women and children burn for their glory too. Such bastards they are!’ said Dex, snorting in contempt.

  Jon screamed in rage then, an inarticulate sound exploding from his lips as he reached angrily for his friend. He sought to strike him, to kill him, to throttle his hate filled words from his mouth, but his hands gripped nothing but air. Blinking in surprise and fear he fell back into the bath. Dex was gone. The bathroom was empty, save for Jon.

  He lay in the bath, shaken to the core. Had he seen a ghost? Or was he now mad? What evil had fate conjured to torment his mind? No, that was not it, he thought, calming himself down. Dex had never been there. He was a delusion of an exhausted mind. Jon shook his head and muttered. ‘Sleep will banish his shadow; my mind is disordered for want of it.’ The hot water was no longer a comfort to Jon and he pulled himself from the bath and wrapped himself in the soft towels. ‘Damn Dex and his shade!’ he muttered to himself as he shivered alone in the dark.

  The King’s Footpad

  Silence rippled like a wave across the King’s Hall as the royal couple moved in its wake. The atmosphere in the Great Hall was that of a funeral, thought Tristan. The nobles, courtiers and knights watched them make their stately progress to the thrones. The King’s small, narrow frame, with his wispy beard and watery eyes seemed out of place next to the elegant frame of Queen Maria. Her Bastel ancestry was clearly on her well sculpted face, and her fine figure that caught the eye. She looked every inch the Queen, while the King seemed but a boy allowed to sit on the throne by an indulgent father. In truth the King was a boy in so many ways. His father and brother had been men of action, while Merric was an ascetic and artistic in his tastes, a stranger to his own family. The old King was a towering man, brave, intelligent and accomplished and it was no secret he had called his second son the ‘runt of the litter.’ Tristan sighed at the memory of it. The King William was a great man, but cruel too. Yet, death came for William as it did for Merric’s older brother, and the boy who was never to be king now ruled the land.

  Tristan had always liked Merric when he was prince, and now he found the quiet boy his master, and Tristan was a man who understood the value of loyalty. Taking a small sip of his mead he leaned his elbows on the table, and stretched his legs out. To those new to court he blended in easily with the crowd of lesser lords that surrounded him. He sat where you would find the poor knights and lowly lords that would sit below the salt. Most in this part of the hall were men eager to climb the ladder to a position at court, even if it meant cutting a brother’s throat. Or simple knights who had won honours but with little enough money to feed themselves. After all as far as official titles and rolls of honour were concerned he was merely Baron Tristan Hamford, from an obscure Caventry family. A lordship that had no famous name, renown or wealth attached to it. He was, to the casual eye, a poor lord who owned no great estates, with no remarkable family history. But all in the court with eyes to see and ears to hear whispered his real title, ‘Spymaster.’

  He grinned to himself, he liked that more than the other names he had heard, the sneak tail and the footpad. To those in the know at court, he was one of the most feared men in the hall. He had already seen the glances other lords had given him as he sat at table. No doubt they were wondering what he was plotting or more likely what he knew of their plots. Then when his eyes turned to them they would look away quickly, guiltily. The smarter ones would nod politely to him with a pleasant smile, and turn away as if they had meant to catch his eye. The ‘sneak tail,’ indeed. Though, he preferred the title the gutter pamphleteers and street preachers called him, ‘the King’s Footpad.’ He liked it because that was well and true.

  What fools the priest and street chanters were! No man could name a kingdom, principality or empire that had no need of men such as him. None that accused him would argue that the kingdom should have no navy or soldiers, because they understood our enemies had such, and how else would we defend against their attacks? Could they not understand that a spymaster was also a weapon? How many wars over the centuries, had never been fought because of a judicious use of a spy, or an assassin? Many needless deaths had been prevented by a little blackmail, a spy discovering some critical piece of information, or even an appropriate use of an assassin. What fool thought that any power in this world without recourse to such as he would prosper?

  He refilled his cup and pretended to be interested in the conversation of the lords around him as he watched the King. Normally, such courtly events would bore Tristan, but after the riots of last night it was essential that the King be seen for the afternoon session. It was an attempt to give a sense of normality and control to the jittery court, and the atmosphere was certainly strained. Once the King had been seated supplicants were allowed to enter, and there were many. The King spoke gently with all those affected by the riots. He told the throng that later that day he would be visiting the Stews to talk to the poor who had been affected and that he had already sent cartloads of bread and blankets to the poor. This was met with approval in the court, but would it be enough, Tristan wondered. The afternoon session wore on and to keep himself awake, Tristan watched the nobles i
n the hall. There were some notable absences from today’s session, he knew. Tobin was missing, but then he was busy co-ordination the patrols and watch. No mystery there. The other absentees were more interesting, many of the Lords of the Concord were nowhere to be seen. Unsurprising really, in the face of the Concords demands to the King. He had agents following Ryder and Middleton and no doubt they would report back to him that the Concord had held another secret meeting at Middleton’s town house. He would very much like to know what was discussed in that place, but had yet to get a man inside the Concord.

  After a few hours the King took his leave, and retired to his private chambers, to attend to a few things. Taking that as a signal, the nobles filed out of the hall, and Tristan took the opportunity to make his way to the King’s office, as planned. As he entered he saw the King sitting at his grand desk reading a report. The King waved Tristan to sit, and with a snort of contempt he dropped the report as if it was some distasteful thing, onto the table, and said, ‘Lord Burnley, our illustrious, and markedly absent Watch Commander, is complaining about Tobin taking command of his men without his consent. Though, I do not see the fat fool returning to the city to take up his job! Yet, he has courage enough to write a letter!’

  Sighing sadly, Merric waved to a servant. ‘Leave us.’ The servant bowed and left discreetly. ‘A bad business, Tristan,’ continued the king. ’Citizens dead, knights and watchmen too. Heaven knows how many injured. Thousands of sovereign’s worth of damage. The city’s been stopped in it’s a tracks by a mob of malcontents and wastrels. This is a working city, Tristan, full of people that look to the king for protection. We cannot afford such things to happen.’

  Tristan nodded politely and waited, he had long ago learnt that the King liked to speak his mind at length, and once done would be ready to listen.

  ‘If it hadn’t been for Tobin,’ said the King, ‘taking command of the royal guard, the rioters may not have been contained to the east side of the city. If they had spilled out over the river we would have had a massacre on our hands. They would have forced us to call the levies to fight our own people. Madness!’

  Sensing the time was right to speak, Tristan said, ‘Indeed my lord. It was fortunate that Tobin was at the King’s Tower that night, and in truth many of the sergeants of the watch are made up of veterans. Many served under him in the past. They respect him, my lord. I doubt Burnley could have contained the riot so effectively.’

  Tristan disliked the gleam he saw in the King’s eyes, and cursed himself for praising Tobin so openly in front of him. No king likes to see others praised too strongly before them, especially one as insecure as Merric. Yet, it was true that Tobin’s energy and skill had helped prevent the situation from getting worse. He shuddered to think what that bonehead Burnley would have done in Tobin’s place. He suspected the oaf would have turned the Stews into a butcher’s yard, hanging those guilty of the crime of being poor. We would likely be facing a full peasant revolt, of the like not seen since the days of King Harold IV. No, Tobin had seemed to go out of his way to keep casualties down, even though some ruffians had broken into his home and threated his family. But it appeared that his servants had fought them off, until Tobin had arrived to arrest them all.

  Merric spoke, breaking Tristan’s chain of thought. ‘Where were the other lords that night, not just Burnley, but Ryder and Middleton?’

  ‘Why my lord? ’asked the spymaster.

  ‘Nothing. Just a thought, Tristan. Tell me what have you learnt so far?’

  Tristan cleared his throat and said, ‘It is still early, so there will be much more to discuss as my agents discover it. The trouble started in a mason’s yard near the docklands. By blind chance it would seem at first view. Some apprentice boys were hurling stones at passing carriages, and when the watch arrived, blood was spilled. From there trouble seemed to spread. However, the odd thing is no one knows who these watchmen were. The watch deny sending men to the mason’s yard. Another report claims some watchmen loosed their crossbows on some the residents of Fisherman’s lane during the riot. It is said two commoners were killed and four injured. The residents of the street claim the watchmen had not been provoked. The Sergeant of the Guard again denies any such men were in the area of the time of the attack. I must note, the crossbow bolts found by my agents, were not of the type used by the watch. We also have a report of demagogues running around inns and bars inciting men to riot. There are other reports of men carrying small barrels of pitch, who threw them into some houses and setting light to them.’

  The King looked aghast and stared in horror at his spymaster, ‘Are you saying this riot was manufactured?’

  Tristan was careful to keep his face neutral as he answered. ‘It is, of course, a possibility. Someone may have lit the spark and used the commoner’s ill-content to gain some advantage. Though all we have is tales and speculation. All the men arrested last night seemed to be simple folk, who could not have the resources to plan such a thing.’

  Merric sat back in the chair, and said. ‘What can I tell the people of my realm? I would sound mad, or desperate to divert the blame to another if I claimed such things publicly!’ The King angrily shook his head and said. ‘It is the Concord’s doing! They sent in their agents and spies to make me look the fool.’

  The King’s right hand clenched into a tight, white fist, his face went pale with anger and his eyes were large and burning. ‘Find proof of it, Tristan! I will have Ryder hanged.’

  Tristan was shocked by such frankness, ‘My King’ he said. ‘We cannot know for certain...’

  ‘I know it to be true,’ said the King. ‘It has Ryder’s mark all over this, Middleton too. Damn them. They would have me dethroned and my wife and children thrown off the Isle.’

  ‘That is a serious accusation, my lord. Such a claim could rouse the Concord to war,’ said Tristan.

  ‘Then there will be war,’ said the king, throwing his head back and looking to the ceiling. ‘Why must I be a king who suffers such a parcel of rogues?’

  Tristan coughed politely. ‘I can have them all watched my lord, with little difficulty. But we must also consider other options. Perhaps this is a more subtle plan to cause discord in our land? What of Cathan? Perhaps it is their doing? Islinor maybe? Even an unknown faction of malcontents in our city. It is simply too early to tell. We must be patient, my King.’

  ‘No, Tristan, I believe it is my own lords who conspire against me. My only ally is Perriswood and now he hides in his estate, refusing my summons. The Concord would have his head for Cathan!’

  Tristan frowned. ‘My King?’

  Merric pulled out a letter from a desk draw and passed it to the spymaster. ‘I received this by messenger this morning,’ he said.

  Tristan quickly opened the letter. Upon it was a sunburst on a blue background, the symbol of the Concord. The letter was brief and only as courteous as convention dictated, though barely so. The letters were in the bold hand of Ryder and there were eight signatures of the lords of the Concord. Eight, not the full twelve, he noted. It simply stated that the King had raised taxes and war without the permission of the Concord. That he had refused to call them, and that Lord Perriswood was guilty of contempt for the lords and guilty of criminal incompetence and cowardice. They blamed the King for the riots of last night and they demanded the King call a Concord to discuss the arrest of Perriswood. If he refused they would call the Concord publicly without the King’s consent. The fools, thought Tristan, everything was moving too quickly and no one was thinking.

  With an odd sense of unreality, Tristan placed the letter down upon the table and looked at as it was a cursed thing. He had seen documents of government before, grand things, with wax seals and stamps, declarations and treaties of one kind or another. He had read coded reports, interrupted ambassadorial messages, but none seemed to carry as much ominous potential as this short letter, hurriedly drafted and signed. In its simplicity he could see the almost sublime complexity of the whole web of rec
ent events colliding. He feared he could divine the future from it and it would be a future filled with blood, grief and hard choices.

  He looked into the eyes of the King, and for a moment saw that he too understood the documents weight. For a moment he caught a flash of despair and loss in the King’s eyes. It was almost as if the King wanted him to say something, to make things well again. But, he had no words to say, none that would soothe at least. The Concord would meet, publicly, no longer privately, with or without a King. If the King let it happen he would appear weak. If he arrested them he would appear a tyrant. If he called a Concord they would say they had won. He felt a pang of sympathy, and feared the King would not be strong enough to weather this new storm. ‘I fear, you may have to give into the Concord, your highness,’ advised Tristan.

  ‘Give in, never,’ said Merric angrily.

  ‘No my lord, I mean that you should play the long game. Give them what they want this time. Then wait until they overreach themselves and stamp on them as you would a snake.’

  ‘They want Perriswood’s head on a block. He has been a friend of mine for over a decade. I cannot place his head before the axeman.’

  Perriswood deserved no loyalties from Merric, thought Tristan. He had been a false friend the King had elevated well above his abilities. Perriswood was an arrogant fool of a clown that saw himself higher than the Lords of the Concord. A man that cost the King his army and any chance Merric had of earning the respect of the lords and the people. The Concord was not merely putting the man in his place, but avenging themselves on the King for having to tolerate him. But instead he chose to say, ‘Perriswood could simply be banished my lord, perhaps sent to Islinor? You are in a difficult political place, your Highness. The commoners blame Perriswood for Cathan, as do the lords. Give him to them, and you may help to defuse the situation. He will be a sacrificial goat, let him bare the full weight of the blame. After all, you trusted him to win you Cathan and he failed you.’