by Tim Stretton
Beauceron stroked his chin. ‘My own motivations are less complex.’
‘We approach existence in a different way. I myself find little to commend brigandage, yet it clearly exerts an endless fascination for you. The viators would tell us we all Follow our own Way.’
‘I have long lost any respect for the viators.’
‘As you will,’ said Pintuccio, brushing earth from his hands. ‘If you are concerned that I will upset your plans, whatever their nature, you may be assured. Your goals are a matter of utter indifference to me. You may wish to know that in the abstract I disapprove of the course you have taken, but I do not pretend to understand your provocations; or indeed to have any interest in them.’
‘Do you not intend to protect Croad from my depredations?’
‘Croad, Mettingloom, what is the difference? Such loyalties as I had were to Thaume; he is now dead.’
‘My own feelings with regard to Thaume are somewhat different.’
Pintuccio made an impatient gesture. ‘I have much work to achieve before nightfall. No doubt you too have other business.’
Beauceron bowed. ‘Good day to you, Master Pinch. I wish you success in your inquiries.’
He turned and walked back into the lobby to find a footman waiting to take him to Lady Cosetta’s apartments.
5
‘Beauceron! How good of you to call,’ said Cosetta, offering him a seat with a gracious smile.
‘The least I could do is to thank you for your assistance,’ he said. ‘I am indebted that you alerted me to Davanzato’s use of Quinto to poison the Chamberlain, and for presenting Osvergario at the Council.’
Cosetta’s cheeks dimpled. ‘There is no real need for gratitude. I view Davanzato with scorn and hatred. For whatever reason, I do not look upon you in the same light.’
‘I should also thank you for warning me of Agalina’s scheme.’
‘My generosity is on occasion inexplicable.’
‘You have saved my life and brought my enemy to ruin. Your actions have also helped to spark the invasion. Thanks are insufficient. It is a bizarre and perverse place to arrive, but if you require your ransom paid . . .’
Cosetta gave a peal of delighted laughter. ‘The ransom which you set yourself, and then transferred to the King? Is this not a wonderful irony?’
Beauceron did not respond.
‘Your offer is most generous. In fact, Laertio has already made the same offer, which I declined. I do not care if I am ransomed or not, since I am not intending to leave the Northern Reach. I have no desire to see Fanrolio – and by association Brissio – enriched, so I am content to remain upon my parole. My ransom is 10,000 florins, and I am suitably awed at your gesture.’
‘I do not need the money. The King is financing the invasion after all, as he must if he requires Brissio to command the army.’
‘I had heard that rumour,’ said Cosetta. ‘It is scarcely credible. I detected no latent military genius in my acquaintance with the Prince.’
‘Were it not for Virnesto the situation would be impossible. As it is, he will have to listen to his captains.’
‘Are you not worried that he will take some kind of vengeance against you?’
‘I have no doubt he will try. If he can outwit me I deserve my doom.’
‘You should not be so cavalier.’
‘I prefer to think of it as negligent grandeur.’
Cosetta grinned. ‘I should be sorry to see you hurt. So too would Laertio: he is most keen to welcome you to the Summer Court on your return. I assume you have no particular attachment to Fanrolio once your plans are complete.’
‘You are pleasingly unscrupulous,’ said Beauceron. ‘Perhaps that is why we avoid recriminations. I have no loyalty at all to Fanrolio. I do not know if I will return to Mettingloom after the fall of Croad, but I appreciate Laertio’s good wishes.’
‘There is a theory that you will not return because you intend to rule the city yourself. There is a rumour as to your identity—’
You would oblige me by discountenancing it whenever you hear it. It serves no purpose, and I have no desire to rule Croad or any other city.’
‘Not everyone would believe your protestation,’ said Cosetta with a soft smile. ‘Your ambitions are your own affair.’
Beauceron nibbled on a sweetmeat which had been set before him. ‘I have been to see the Lady Isola.’
Cosetta’s eyes widened. ‘I hope you thrashed her roundly.’
‘That was not my intention. Her condition is pitiable.’
‘She is largely to blame. She prefers self-pity to activity.’
‘I was not quite so direct, but I suggested that certain remedies were within her own hands. As her kidnapper I was not entirely comfortable in recommending this robust self-help policy. It would be well if you looked in on her.’
‘Me? Whatever for?’
‘She is alone and friendless. She even welcomes my visits, and I will be gone.’
Cosetta set her mouth. ‘I owe her nothing.’
‘You were her companion; you were kidnapped together.’
‘When you offered her freedom at my expense, she took it. And no doubt when you recommended my methods for surviving captivity to her, she characterized me as a harlot.’
Beauceron made an evasive gesture. ‘She does not find your approach suitable for her own personality. It does not mean she abuses you.’
Cosetta shrugged. ‘She thought nothing of my situation when we came here. It is she who drove me to my present expedients. She cannot expect any sympathy or support from me now. It is too late.’
‘You are a harsh woman, Cosetta.’
‘Now, Beauceron, do not play such a game with me. You are a brigand, kidnapper, traitor; and you reprove me for failing to pay social calls. If I thought you meant it, you would be a deep-dyed hypocrite.’
Beauceron smiled and shook his head. ‘You are right, Cosetta. I am in no position to lecture you. Visit Isola if you choose: I shall not try to compel you.’ He rose to leave. ‘I wish you well.’
She came closer and kissed him on the cheek. ‘And I you, Beauceron. You will always have one friend in Mettingloom. Goodbye, Captain.’
‘Goodbye, my lady.’
6
It was early evening when Beauceron returned to the Occonero. He was conducted immediately to Lady Isola’s apartments. Isola’s maid woke her from a gentle slumber on the sofa.
‘My lady,’ said Beauceron. ‘Gather up by tomorrow evening whatever effects you require. You are coming with me to Croad.’
‘But—the King . . .’
‘Leave the King to me. We sail the day after tomorrow.’
7
So it was that on a morning in late winter, the army commanded by Prince Brissio embarked on the fleet of cogs moored outside the Bay of Mettingloom. Once under way, they were no longer subject to recall by King Tardolio should the spring arrive: they remained under Winter Orders for the duration of their commission.
Beauceron had ensured that he was on a cog far from Brissio and, for that matter, Virnesto. This was his triumph, and he did not intend to share it with anyone. Down below were all forty of his usual company. They might be forced to conduct themselves in line with Brissio’s command, but he would still rather serve with these seasoned renegades than with all of Fanrolio’s knights – who naturally travelled on other vessels.
Monetto was in the hold superintending the packing of the siege engines; his practical mind was eager to see the results of his modifications. On deck with Beauceron was only the Lady Isola, wrapped in a borrowed sea-cloak, a hood thrown over her head. She remained quiet and withdrawn. She might at last be completing her journey to Croad, but not under the circumstances she had envisaged.
Beauceron stood at the stern watching Mettingloom fall away behind them. The tall tower of the Occonero reached into the sky, and the wan sunlight caught the gilded dome. Mettingloom, all its seething vitality, its corruption and intrigues, was r
eceding.
‘What are you thinking?’ asked Isola. ‘Your face is so cruel.’
He forced a smile. ‘If you must know, I was imagining hanging your betrothed. The line of Thaume deserves extinction.’
‘Can you not be satisfied with taking the city? Is your rage against Oricien so vast?’
Beauceron’s eyes flicked away from Isola’s. ‘He was not the worst of them. Thaume was more unjust; but he is dead, and poorly placed to face my vengeance. I will enjoy minimal satisfaction from desecrating his tomb. Siedra was the cruellest, the most depraved. She had great capacity to do harm, and used it to the full. She too will pay the full price, once I catch her. Oricien is fortunate: he will pay his debt by death alone.’
‘I would not like to be your enemy.’
Beauceron suppressed an instinctive smile. ‘Testifying against me was perhaps unwise in that context.’
Isola waved the point away. ‘That is the past; that was Mettingloom. Both of our destinies lie in Emmen.’
An idea occurred to Beauceron. ‘You were high in Emmen society: do you know where Siedra is?’
‘I would be betraying her to a terrible vengeance if I told you. And anyway, all I know is what you know. She married Lord Dinarre of Glount; Dinarre died last autumn, lamented by no one, least of all his wife; and Siedra is to return home with her dowry.’
Beauceron shrugged. ‘It is all one. If she is in Croad, I shall find her. If not, there will be another day.’
8
The plains outside Croad in times of peace were home to farmers and those who, for whatever reason, chose not to live within the city walls. In this particular late winter, however, they became the temporary residence of a new population. Prince Brissio’s host encircled the walls just out of bowshot, and opposite the weakest point of the walls, two giant trebuchets grew instead of wheat.
Brissio dismounted from his gallumpher and stepped with measured dignity to where Beauceron and Virnesto superintended the loading of the giant machines. His scarlet uniform was frogged with cloth-of-gold, and epaulettes sprouted from his shoulders like wings on a stag beetle. A four-cornered hat sat atop his head.
‘Virnesto,’ said the Prince. ‘Are you convinced this is the best way?’
Beauceron scowled and kicked at a loose stone. ‘This debate is not fresh. Oricien will not—’
Brissio turned with petulant gesture. ‘I was addressing the Captain-General. Your views are well understood. We need not rehearse them again.’
Virnesto leaned back against the trebuchet. ‘Beauceron is correct, my lord. Sending Oricien a challenge to bring his army forth will be unsuccessful. Let him feel the weight of our stone.’
Brissio shrugged. ‘Very well. I suppose it is unreasonable to expect men of your stamp to have the grandeur of vision of a prince. Fire your catapults.’
Beauceron made a gesture to Monetto. The first trebuchet creaked as the rope was wound one last turn tighter. ‘Release,’ said Beauceron in a level voice.
With a whoosh and startling speed, the arm of the trebuchet swung over. A sizeable flint, once part of a farmer’s cottage, seemed to hang in the air. Then it plunged towards the ground at high speed, disappearing over the top of the city wall. Cries of outrage floated across from the city.
Brissio raised an eyebrow. ‘That is the marvel of the trebuchet? How will you demolish the walls if you cannot hit them?’
‘The equipment is delicate,’ said Beauceron. ‘Already Monetto is recalibrating the second engine.’
‘Hmmph,’ said Brissio. ‘This is hardly the blood-stirring glory of warfare I had been led to expect.’
Virnesto spoke softly. ‘We have time, my lord. Every moment that passes depletes Oricien’s food.’
‘And brings Enguerran closer.’
‘I thought you wanted battle,’ said Beauceron with a tart smile.
‘You are a cross-grained man, Beauceron. Combat with Oricien’s army with his city at stake is fit and seemly for knights of renown. To face King Enguerran’s entire muster is a different matter.’
Beauceron turned away to signal Monetto once more. The second trebuchet released: another stone flew above the sun as it sank low in the sky. This time it crashed into the upper section of the wall. There was a puff of dust and a small section of the wall toppled back. Beauceron clenched his fist. ‘Well done, Monetto!’
Brissio gave a measured nod. ‘Impressive,’ he said through tight lips. ‘Let us launch another.’
‘My lord,’ said Monetto. ‘Reloading the trebuchet requires much time and effort.’ He indicated the crew straining to tighten the winch. ‘It will be at least half a glass before we can fire again.’
Brissio snorted. ‘I might have expected sustained action to be beyond your powers. I will return to my quarters. Send to me when matters require my attention.’ He turned and stalked away from the trebuchets.
Virnesto clapped Beauceron on the shoulder. ‘You must ignore the Prince—’
‘—I do—’
‘—and you should avoid provoking him. He hates you as it is, and he is a vindictive man.’
‘And a stupid one. We have ample masonry: the walls will be down in a matter of days. Then Brissio will have his battle, unless Oricien surrenders.’
Virnesto nodded. ‘They cannot stand.’
‘And Trevarre will not get here in time, let alone Enguer-ran.’
9
Beauceron returned to his tent with a brisk stride. On impulse he stepped across to Isola’s pavilion. ‘Good evening, my lady.’
Isola rose to greet him. ‘You appear in a rare humour, Beauceron.’
‘Today we begin,’ he said. ‘Come outside. You will see the walls already beginning to crumble.’
Isola pulled at her lower lip. ‘This is not a sight I care to see.’
‘In that case, you should have remained in Mettingloom. All you will see over the next days is the destruction of the city. You should take pleasure in the humbling of the man who did not care enough to pay your ransom.’
Isola looked at the roof of the pavilion. ‘I am betrothed to Lord Oricien. I take no satisfaction in his humiliation. I should have been the Lady of this city.’
Beauceron poured himself a goblet of wine, and another for Isola. ‘Life in Croad would not have been to your taste, my lady.’
A spot of colour appeared on her cheek. ‘You are offensively certain of my tastes, for a treasonous brigand.’
Beauceron raised a hand. ‘I was acquitted, if you remember, despite your testimony. As to your tastes, I suspect I know you better than your betrothed.’
Isola said nothing for a moment as she sipped her wine. ‘Lord Oricien is a true and noble knight,’ she said. ‘He is a glorious match for any woman in the Emmenrule. You are – my powers of invention falter at characterizing you. You may think you know me; well, I understand you no better than the day you kidnapped me, whatever suspicions I may have as to your identity.’ She looked at him from under lowered lids.
Beauceron gave a half-smile. ‘Your suspicions are your own, and unlikely to be correct.’
‘Princess Agalina believed otherwise, so I heard. She felt your relationship to Oricien was more than casual: indeed, that this whole affair might be a blood feud.’
Beauceron started. ‘And how would you be in a position to know Princess Agalina’s speculations?’
Isola laughed. ‘Brissio told me. He is keen to know more of you, and was eager to regale me with what he had heard.’
Beauceron set his goblet down with a thump. ‘Brissio is a buffoon, a farmyard animal in the vestments of a prince. His theories should be evaluated in that light.’
Isola gave a quick harsh peal of laughter. ‘You are piqued.’
‘The matter of my identity is not germane,’ he replied. ‘Come, the hour is late: let us take dinner.’ He put his head outside the pavilion.
‘Rostovac!’ he called. ‘Kindly set up the tables. We shall be dining al fresco tonight.’
Rostovac, a gnarled veteran of many previous campaigns, gave an uncertain smile and bustled off to carry out his errand.
Beauceron offered Isola his arm and they walked outside. Once Rostovac had set up the tables, he said, ‘Sit down. What better prospect could we have for our meal?’ He gestured with a sweep of his arm to take in the city of Croad immediately before them.
‘Are we not in some danger?’ asked Isola. ‘This close to the walls, might we not be killed by arrows, or fall victim to a sortie?’
Beauceron shook his head indulgently as Rostovac positioned the table and spread a heavy cloth. ‘Oricien will not dare to sally forth. His safety lies in his walls. And if he did choose, the watch on the North Gate would alert us in high time. As to arrows, my experience allows me to calculate their range with exactitude.’ He pointed to a spot some fifty yards towards the walls. ‘That is their maximum extent. You can relax. Tonight we will have a memorable meal.’
Lady Isola looked unconvinced. Campfires burned all around against the chill of the twilight. Behind them stood Beauceron’s trebuchets, eerily reminiscent of giant grasshoppers, and now quiescent for the night.
‘The occasion is unconventional,’ said Beauceron with a smile, ‘but all the more noteworthy for that. You will be able to tell your grandchildren you dined before the walls of Croad, during their destruction.’
Isola grimaced. ‘Grandchildren presuppose a husband. You have made your intention to kill mine clear.’
Beauceron waved the point away with an airy gesture. ‘You are not yet married, and many other prospects await you. But this is not the time for such talk. Look at the sun setting behind the walls, feel the warmth of the burgeoning spring. All over Mondia, folk toil for their meagre bread: behind the walls, they wonder how long they will be able to eat at all. And look! Rostovac approaches bearing a noble roasted capon, and that is merely the start of our repast. Rejoice in the privileges that you enjoy: do not complain of imaginary woes.’