by Damien Black
Still, such places were liable to offer much in the way of diversion: especially to a prince of the blood royal carrying a letter of introduction to its reigning monarch.
Only a few stray ribbons of white cloud tarnished the perfect skies above. More southerly than his homeland, Pangonia was in the full bloom of high summer. That would mean tournaments and galas and other entertainments aplenty. The thought cheered him.
So the Pangonians reckoned they were better than everyone else did they? Perhaps they’d never had one of Northalde’s finest to contend with – he’d soon show them the error of their ways!
Kicking his horse into a gallop he tore off down the trail, sending sprays of dust in his wake.
Several hours later he was standing in the Palace of White Towers, choking on envy. As a king’s grandson he was no stranger to great halls of men; his childhood had been spent between his uncle’s royal residence at Strongholm and his mother Jorda’s ancestral home in Vandheim. But neither his uncle’s seat of power nor the splendid castle his mother had grown up in could rival the sheer grandeur that now enveloped him.
The palace had looked impressive enough from outside. Perched atop a broad hill in the northern quarter of the city, it was more elegant than its sister at Strongholm, its architects having given thought to pleasing the eye as well as defending a monarch, and its conical-topped turrets and finely-wrought corbelling made for a striking first view. It was also, he could not help but note, considerably larger than the palace he had called home for years before joining the White Valravyn.
All of that had been bad enough. But when the liveried palace guards had ushered him into the High Hall of Kings, his resentment had turned into outright mortification. For the Royal House of Ambelin ruled from a seat that could surely have no other rival in the Free Kingdoms.
Despite himself, Sir Wolmar took another long, lingering look about the hall that had done so much to stoke up his envy as Carolus read his letter of introduction. Like the Argolian inner sanctum it was circular, but not partitioned; it was colonnaded at regular intervals along its entire circumference with pillars of limestone, punctuated by large oblong windows that opened onto the courtyard. The front of each pillar had been sculpted to fashion a giant likeness of the original thirty knights of the Purple Garter, the greatest of King Vasirius’ chivalry who had sat with him at the Crescent Table and helped rule the realm he had fought so hard to consolidate.
Each statue was twice the size of a normal man. Gazing on the graven images Wolmar could almost believe they really had been of such stature: he was new at court and yet he already fancied he recognised some of them, such was their legend. Sir Lancelyn of the Pale Mountain, who slew the great dragon and was disfigured as a result, mightiest of all yet always sad and brooding; Sir Balian of the High Castle, who stormed and took the last great holding to defy Vasirius with just forty-seven knights; Sir Ugo the Giant-breaker, impossibly strong, who wrestled and overcame three Gygants, each one bigger than the last; Sir Alric the Pious, who saved the King himself from the curse of the White Blood Witch with a drop of the Redeemer’s blood…
That last one reminded him of his own mission, and sent his gaze flickering back towards the King. But Carolus was either a slow reader, or liked to keep his guests waiting. Wolmar felt self-conscious, standing before the dais that stretched up towards the rear end of the hall’s domed ceiling. The latter was lined with galleries fashioned of mahogany: Vasirius had seen fit to allow ordinary citizens to witness royal judgment, believing that a King should ultimately serve his people. The galleries were empty, and had been since his death at the Battle of Avalongne some two centuries ago: not even King Carolus the Pious, the well-intentioned dolt who had fathered the monarch he now waited upon, had seen fit to revive that ridiculous custom.
But if the galleries were empty, the court they overlooked was far from it: knights, ladies and other high-ranking nobles thronged the throneroom, chatting amongst themselves in their native Panglian as they moved to and fro across the marbled floor and selected sweetmeats proffered by servants from silver trays.
Come to think of it, Sir Wolmar had little reason to feel self-conscious; on the contrary he felt positively ignored. By the King, and his courtiers.
All but one, he noticed: he caught a tall handsome noble staring at him with keen black eyes. Something in that look gave him a thrill of pleasure, one that he suppressed immediately.
‘So, your mission of state brings you here to see the heads of both the Argolian Order and our holy Mother Temple,’ said the King, abruptly breaking his silence and addressing him in Decorlangue. ‘Your uncle the King of the Northlendings bids me welcome you as a royal guest during your sojourn here – and yet divulges little details as to what this… religious business consists of.’
His voice sounded offhand, bored almost, and strangely at odds with the echoing hall that carried it through the splendid precinct. Yet the words were pointed enough: blood princes of realms rarely crossed seas to speak with clerical authorities. The richly dressed courtiers had stopped talking amongst themselves and suddenly taken an acute interest in their new arrival. The handsome noble was still staring at him.
Feeling self-conscious again, Sir Wolmar replied: ‘The business you speak of shall be told to you at a better time, when there are not so many prying eyes.’ He caught more than a few disapproving noises at his haughty words. Good, that would teach them to ignore him.
‘You wish for a more private audience?’ asked the King, his brow furrowing.
‘The Grand Master says he will hold counsel with you and His Supreme Holiness on this matter,’ said Wolmar. ‘He shall tell you everything he knows then.’
The King held his gaze for a few moments. The Pangonian monarch was not yet forty, and seemed a far cry from Wolmar’s uncle: a lean, spare man of middling height, with close-cropped sandy brown hair. His robes of office were brocaded black and surprisingly devoid of embellishment, cut neatly about his trim figure. The crown upon his brow was a rare beauty though, a compact circlet of gold fashioned to resemble mounted knights clashing, studded with rubies and emeralds.
But it was the seat he perched on that really drew Wolmar’s eye. The Charred Throne they called it, in mind of the blackened skull of the Wyrm slain by Sir Lancelyn from which it was fashioned. The famed knight had brought back its head to commemorate his great victory; the eldritch creature’s upper jaw formed the base of the throne. The top half of the reptilian skull had been hollowed out and covered with a convex basin of smooth stone to form the actual seat, but the sides were part of the dragon’s skull – the monarch’s arms rested on what must have been the creature’s craggy brows.
In a much smaller and less impressive throne next to him lounged the Queen of Pangonia. Isolte the Fair certainly deserved her simple epithet, though her face could hardly be seen behind the elaborately carved fan she waved to keep the stifling heat at bay. She was dressed after the southern fashion, in maroon-coloured robes of samite bedecked with pearls and silver filigree that showed off her pleasing figure. Gazing on her lissom form Wolmar felt his loins stir again. They’d hang him for entertaining that desire too, albeit for different reasons.
‘Very well,’ said the King at last. ‘I shall wait to hear from the Grand Master, seeing as your uncle saw fit to inform him first of the contents of his royal mind. In the meantime I shall have quarters arranged for you here at the palace. Sir Odo, see it done!’
From a chair on a lower part of the dais, a stout knight in early middle age rose and bowed stiffly. He was dressed in a purple tabard with a silver crescent and thirty stars, the age-old insignia of the Royal Garter. Several other knights dressed in the same regalia took up seats in that part of the dais too. One of them looked particularly well made. Sir Wolmar made a mental note to seek his provocation at the first opportunity – he looked to be a foe worth fighting.
Sir Odo descended the stairs of the dais to give orders to an old man of more than sixty winters,
presumably his under-seneschal, who disappeared up a corridor leading to another wing of the palace. The knight shot him a dark glance as he returned to his place: clearly the haughty Pangonian did not like waiting on the pleasure of foreigners. Sir Wolmar favoured him with a sneering grin.
‘In the meantime, I think you will need someone to show you around,’ continued the King in the same bored voice. ‘Lord Ivon, if you would be so kind as to acquaint the Northlending prince with the finer points of our customs… There is much for an outlander to learn about them.’
The same nobleman who had been appraising him favoured his king with a courteous half bow and approached Wolmar. The princeling felt a stirring of excitement again, one he struggled to master as the comely lord drew nearer.
‘Lord Ivon, 23rd Margrave of Vichy and First Scion of the House of Laurelin, most delightedly at your service,’ said the noble with a florid bow.
‘Sir Wolmar, knight of the White Valravyn and scion of the House of Ingwin, at yours,’ replied the Northlending, feeling suddenly awkward. He would scarcely own it even to himself, but faced with the Pangonian’s graceful manners he felt like a landless vassal rather than a prince.
‘Come,’ said Lord Ivon, taking him gently by the upper arm. ‘Let us mingle together. I’ll introduce you to some people you should meet… and point out a few you would do well to avoid.’
The Margrave favoured him with a flashing smile, his white teeth catching the late afternoon sunlight. Ivon was taller than the average Pangonian, though that still placed him half a head shorter than Wolmar. Like the princeling Ivon wore his hair long and kept a neatly trimmed beard and moustache, though his tresses were raven-dark where Wolmar’s were fiery. His cream-coloured doublet and hose, slashed with sky-blue silk, showed off a lean, athletic figure to rival his own.
Wolmar felt himself colour as the Margrave made contact with him, and hoped his cheeks weren’t suddenly the colour of the rubies that dripped off the rings adorning his new host’s fingers. He had struggled over the years to hide his less orthodox desires, knowing full well it meant expulsion from the Order and probable banishment from Strongholm if anyone ever found out. That or worse. He’d lain with as many wenches as he could to throw his father and the other knights he served with off the scent: not that he didn’t enjoy women too, but getting them with child was tedious and caused problems of its own. Suppressing his yearnings for his fellow ravens had never been too difficult: frankly, he despised and looked down on most of them.
But the Margrave was by far the most attractive man he had ever set eyes on.
As Ivon led him into the throng of courtiers, Wolmar hoped his desire wasn’t too obvious. The last thing he needed was to be exposed before the haughtiest bunch of nobles the Free Kingdoms could furnish while on a royal mission of emissary.
Lord Ivon steered him over to a group of richly dressed noblemen and women. They were standing close to the wall, near the statue of St Alric. That only made Wolmar feel more nervous as the Margrave began introducing him.
The princeling didn’t bother to take in the names of the lesser courtiers, but made a point of memorising those of the higher-ranking nobles and noting their demeanours.
Lord Aravin, Margrave of Varangia, was a tall, well-muscled man of about thirty summers, dressed in a dark blue doublet and hose worked with silver thread and moonstones. A sapphire flashed from a ring he wore as he raised his hand to quaff from his goblet, sneering into his drink to show what he thought of the foreign princeling when Ivon introduced him.
Wolmar yearned to show Aravin what he thought of him in the lists – see how haughty the Pangonian would be spitting his own teeth into the soil.
Lord Kaye was scarcely less arrogant, but hid it better, giving a bow of welcome that was every bit as insincere as it was outwardly courteous. The Margrave of Quillon was dressed in black, though the embossed decorations on his clothes were set with tiny rubies and amethysts only visible at a close distance.
That says a lot, thought Wolmar, wants to remind everyone he’s rich, but doesn’t want to shout too loudly about it either. The secretive type, evidently.
Lord Rodger was a shocking sight. His clothes were of similar hue and cut to Ivon’s, but there all similarity ended. They were dishevelled and stained with dark red patches that told of a man who loved his wine too well. Unlike the rest of the trim pack he ran with, he was portly and short of stature; he shovelled sweetmeats into his mouth from a proffered tray in an apparent effort to increase his girth even further.
Wolmar greeted him with a sneer of his own when Lord Ivon introduced them: he felt nothing but contempt for nobles who didn’t keep themselves in shape as befitted members of the warrior class. But as the Margrave of Narbo, Lord Rodger was probably worth remembering.
‘It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,’ said Rodger. ‘We have oft heard tales of the Northlending chivalry, but we had no idea how wedded to the field you were… Is that armour comfortable? It’s certainly a bold fashion statement.’
Ladies tittered behind their fans. Kaye and Aravin favoured Rodger’s jibe with sneering laughs.
Wolmar felt rage rising. He wasn’t used to being looked down upon, and tasting his own medicine was not an experience he relished.
‘I hear much of your gilded tourneys,’ he shot back. ‘Perhaps my armour shall become me better at the melee, and you shall have the opportunity to show us your true mettle.’
He was expecting Rodger to be cowed or at least on the back foot. Instead he let a braying laugh off the leash as the ladies looked at each other and tittered again – only this time they didn’t bother to conceal it behind their fans. Aravin looked at Kaye and rolled his eyes, the latter shaking his head.
Lord Ivon cleared his throat. ‘My lord Wolmar, the custom of the melee was dispensed with in Pangonia some generations ago,’ he said delicately. ‘It’s considered far too uncouth nowadays – jousting and pageantry are the main events at our tourneys.’
‘Then perhaps I’ll show you all what a Northlending can do in the jousts!’ snapped Wolmar. But the remark was clumsy and he knew it: he’d just been outplayed by the Margrave and was now a laughing stock. His ears burned as Lord Rodger smirked and took a gulp of his wine.
‘As to his dress sense,’ said Lord Ivon, addressing his cronies in a firmer tone, ‘Sir Wolmar can hardly be blamed for turning up in full caparison having just arrived after a long journey. And you should all treat our guest as an honoured one – foreigner or no, he is a prince of the blood royal.’
That raised a few eyebrows. ‘You are related to the King of the Northlendings?’ asked Aravin curtly, sounding interested if not entirely impressed.
‘He’s my uncle,’ said Wolmar, sounding sullen and childlike. ‘My great-great grandfather was King Thorsvald V, the Hero King, a rival to King Vasirius himself!’
He knew he’d said the wrong thing even as the words exited his mouth. Aravin snorted into his goblet. Rodger and Kaye added their laughter to the tittering of the ladies. ‘Absurd contention,’ muttered Aravin into his wine.
Wolmar was about to reply when Lord Ivon took his arm again. ‘I think the good knight needs refreshment after his long journey. Here, Sir Wolmar,’ – taking a goblet from a nearby servant he pressed it into the princeling’s hand – ‘drink up! Afterwards we’ll see you to your quarters – your travelling things will no doubt be wending their way there as we speak.’ He lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘Should give you the chance to get into something more appropriate.’
Wolmar felt himself flush again, though not with anger this time. The Margrave’s intimacy, however fleeting, excited him.
Lord Ivon led him away from the nobles. ‘Try not to take their bait, Sir Wolmar,’ he said gently. ‘My crowd aren’t accustomed to mixing with foreigners – but don’t worry, I’ll put in a good word for you!’
Wolmar scarcely had time to ask him why he would do that when the Margrave stopped to take another goblet of wine from a serva
nt, nodding over towards another group of nobles loitering at the other side of the court as he did.
‘Over there, the tall one – that’s Lord Morvaine,’ he said. ‘He’s a rival of mine and quite insufferable – if you think Lord Aravin is haughty try talking to him!’
‘If he’s as insulting as Lord Aravin there’ll be more than words betwixt us,’ snarled Wolmar. ‘Or have you Pangonians abolished the duel of honour as well?’
‘Well, we prefer to call it the duel of chivalry, but no,’ replied Lord Ivon, smiling sweetly. ‘But I see little need for any bloodletting between the pair of you. My advice is to steer clear of him, and his cronies… Unlike my lot, I won’t be able to talk them around into showing you due respect I’m afraid.’
Wolmar turned to fix him with a stare. ‘Why would you vouch for me? I thought Pangonians stuck together.’
Lord Ivon gave an expression of mock surprise that Wolmar could not help but find endearing. ‘And Northlendings don’t? But no – never mind all that! To answer your question, my King has commanded that I look after you, and I am loyal to my King.’
There seemed to be a world of subtexts in the Margrave’s words, one that hid behind his impenetrable dark eyes. Wolmar took another sip of wine. It was every bit as good as it was supposed to be – the southerly Free Kingdoms were rightly celebrated for their fine vintages, and here he was in the richest of them, at its richest court. But as the fumes went to his head he wondered if intoxication was a good idea: he prided himself on being on the offensive at all times. This was, put simply, a new experience for him.
‘I think I’ll go to my chambers now,’ he said. ‘Change into clothes befitting a prince’s son.’ He underscored the last two words pointedly. Lord Ivon said nothing but responded with a nod. Doubtless it was intended to look deferential, but it wasn’t quite convincing.