by Dave Duncan
“You go first,” Beaumont said. “There hasn’t been an entry in the Litany recently.”
Arkell pulled a face. “They called him Lord Whistle.”
“Or Lord Weasel,” Beau added softly.
“I don’t think you should,” Durendal said. “Especially when the wind is blowing in his direction.”
Three heads whipped round hard enough to make his neck ache. Even he could make out a lone horseman leading a packhorse.
“Grand Master!” Beaumont’s eyes gleamed with mockery. “You tell us that the noble lord is in such extreme danger that the best three Ironhall Blades you can find may not be enough to protect him. Yet he is allowed to ride across Starkmoor unattended?”
“The danger must still be only pending. But if that is not your future ward coming to Ironhall, Prime, then I do not know who it can be at this time of day. Why don’t you ride down and introduce yourselves, while I head back and put another onion in the pot?”
They turned and shot off at a gallop—except one. Smiling, Beaumont drew his sword and raised it in salute. “Thank you, my lord. I shall always strive to be worthy of your example.”
Taken aback, Durendal could say only, “I am sure you will far surpass it. Good chance, Beau!”
He watched him go after the others, all three plunging recklessly through bracken and gorse, youth in search of glory, rapidly dwindling into an unexpected mist. Cricket, unhappy at being deserted, stamped and pranced and whinnied uproariously.
“Stop complaining, you great crybaby!” Grand Master said.
• 5 •
Alack, no man was as young as he used to be. Three days in the saddle had warped every joint in Wassail’s body and he could hardly breathe for the pain in his chest. He had picked up both a flux and a regiment of fleas at the inn last night, for although his road had taken him past a dozen noble houses where he might have sought hospitality, he had not risked doing so. Far too many of the current so-called nobility were mere trimmers. With no idea what true loyalty was, they professed allegiance to King Athelgar and privately referred to the man who had saved his throne as Lord Weasel. They would have enjoyed shutting the door in his face.
The King understood. The King repaid true loyalty.
Wassail did not approve of the fake castle ahead of him, which must be his destination. He did not approve of the Blades at all, because men should not need conjurations to keep retainers loyal. Back when his ancestors, the Wassarns, had ruled in Chivial—long before the House of Ranulf— kings had relied on their followers’ sworn word, not sword-through-the-heart abominations.
Three horsemen came charging down the hill, much too fast for the safety of their horses. As they drew closer he noted that they bore swords, like gentlemen, but their clothes were shabby and mismatched. Two of them were even bareheaded.
One mousy youth, a blond boy, and a black-haired, heavy-set man—they reined in across the dusty trail, the blond one in the center raising his sword in salute. “My lord, Grand Master sent us to welcome you to Ironhall. I am Prime Candidate Beaumont. May I introduce—”
Realizing that Wassail was not about to stop, the boy hastily kneed his mount aside and the mousy one moved even faster, letting Wassail through. Nicely done. They knew horses, obviously.
But pests like them were not to be deterred. They swung into place as he rode through, the blond one at his side, the others behind.
“My name is Wassail,” he told them. “If you want to be useful, you can send word ahead to have a hot tub ready for me.”
“Arkell, you handle that, please? Oak, why don’t you lead his lordship’s sumpter?”
The mousy one took off like an arrow. The thick-shouldered one moved his mount close and untied the tether from Wassail’s saddle. They had been taught how to handle horses, but not to remain silent in the presence of their betters.
“Grand Master informed us that you were coming, Lord Wassail. We shall have the honor of being bound as your Blades.”
Wassail was tired and sore and had nothing to say to children. He would explain to Grand Master. “Then he’s wrong. I won’t stick a sword through any man’s heart.”
The stair was high and steep for a man of his stature, but the bedchamber at the top was better than he had expected, and an oaken tub steamed invitingly before the fire. The three pests still lurked, having run upstairs with Wassail’s baggage like common porters, and seemingly without even needing to draw breath.
“Ironhall employs no valets, my lord,” Curlylocks said. “But we shall be happy to assist you any way we can.”
“You can assist me by getting out.” He would not let these lambkins see his fleabites.
The kid’s smile never wavered. “As you wish, my lord. Grand Master will receive you at your convenience. Whenever you are ready, you will find one of us waiting outside this door to guide you to him.”
Wassail bore the oldest name in the kingdom. His father had been Wassail son of Wassail and so had all their forefathers uncounted, back for nigh on a thousand years. Some of them had ruled wide swathes of what was now Chivial, although since then the ancestral lands had dwindled to a tiny holding at Wasburgh itself. When the present Wassail had come into the King’s favor, Athelgar had offered him great titles, but he had declined them all. He had no son to follow him, so the last Lord Wassail had no need to change his name now. He had accepted some grand estates from His Majesty, though, and even a charming young wife, who had been a ward in Chancery and thus the King’s to give. She had not produced the needed son.
Lord Roland was a merely an upstart commoner, with no blue blood at all. Still, he had served Ambrose long and well, apparently honestly. Athelgar spoke well of the man.
He certainly had good taste in ale. Leaning back in clean clothes, in a surprisingly comfortable chair, beside a small log fire—just warm enough to make the spring night cosy— Wassail felt considerably better. He had been too late for the school’s evening meal, but a supper waited under silver covers on the nearby table, sometimes wafting interesting odors his way. His belly had settled down enough to let him consider eating.
He’d met Roland a few times and they had been reminiscing about that, trying to recall the occasions. It should not have been hard, because Wassail had very rarely left Wasburgh before the Thencaster Plot brought him to the King’s eye. He’d hoped to bury himself back there in retirement, but the King had found this latest mission for him. He was no trimmer. When his King called, he answered, no matter the cost.
“More porter, my lord?” His host raised a massive copper jug.
“Perhaps one more before we eat. Thank you. Excellent ale.” And a traditional drinking horn, no namby glassware. “Your own brew?”
“We brew most of what we need, but I buy this in Prail for my own use. I bribe the old knights with it. My lord, I need to unburden myself of a little speech I deliver to future wards. If you would indulge me for a moment? First, both you and the candidates are required to fast tomorrow until—”
Wassail said, “Hrrumph! Best clear the air here, Grand Master. I have no intention of engaging in any ritual conjurations. His Majesty insists I take Blades along on my mission. Not for my sake, you understand, but for…Well, anyway, the King is the King, and I do what he says. That’s how society has to be. All of us except the King have our lords above us, and most of us have people under us, true? They obey us, we obey our masters. That’s how it should be, must be, so that we all know where we stand. I’m a good master to my tenants, always have been, and I expect them to be good followers, loyal. I work hard to improve my lands—helps me, helps them, true? No need to dabble in conjuration. His Grace told me to take on these boys. Very well, tomorrow I’ll accept their oaths, and that’ll be that. No sword through the heart nonsense. Not necessary.”
Lord Roland leaned back in his chair. “With respect, my lord, this cannot go. His Majesty’s warrant specifies that the three Blades are to be bound. If you will not bind them, I will not release t
hem from Ironhall.”
The man was stubborn. Wassail had already noticed that. So was he. He’d proved that back in ’92.
“I am on the King’s business!”
“So am I.”
“Don’t see why you take that attitude, Grand Master. During the troubles after Thencaster’s treason, I hired some Blades as bodyguards. Good men, they were, but also a confounded nuisance, following me around everywhere. They did chop up the hired thugs who came after me, so I suppose they were worth their salt. When things settled down, I paid them off, with a few extra crowns apiece, and that was the end of it.”
Roland shrugged. “Former members of the Guard, knights in our Order? Good men I am sure, but obviously His Majesty does not see that solution as adequate in this case.”
No, he didn’t. This time he had insisted on fresh-minted Blades from Ironhall. But he had not actually used the word bound.
“Archers more useful,” Wassail said. “Don’t hold much truck with fancy swordplay, but I do have a troop of long-bowmen lined up to sail with us, and a squad of men-at-arms as well. They settled for money. Didn’t need to stick swords through any of them!”
His host smiled. “And every man-jack of them will throw away his life for you or the, er…the person you escort?”
Wassail held out his horn for a refill. “I expect them to do their best, of course. Can’t ask more than that.”
“You can of a Blade, my lord. A Blade will scream out his life in a torture chamber before he will betray his ward. Many have done so, over the centuries. A Blade’s loyalty is unlimited.”
“I find that notion obscene! Trust ’em, and if they fail you, chop their heads off, that’s what I say. Why can’t they be loyal without being bound?”
“They are,” Grand Master said. “They are not bound now, but they are loyal to their liege lord the King and will serve him by submitting to binding, knowing what it may involve. I’d say that was impressive loyalty, Lord Wassail.”
Wassail grunted and drained his horn.
Lord Roland refilled it. “And once they are bound…You need understand that a Blade can never be your servant, my lord. He is the King’s man, serving His Majesty by defending you. You are expected to feed him, dress him, and grant him a reasonable private life off-duty. You cannot give your Blades orders. Normally they will fall in with your desires without hesitation, but should you ever venture into danger beyond what they consider wise, they will start issuing orders to you. In an emergency they may use force to remove you to safety.”
Wassail grunted again. “That’s all well and good, but…but I don’t know how much His Grace told you?”
Lord Roland smiled knowingly. “Let’s just stipulate that Beaumont and the others are not intended to defend you so much as another, someone who cannot come here to bind them in person?”
So he did know! “True.”
“Of course the binding cannot be transferred, but a Blade is smarter than a mastiff or wolfhound. He can understand instructions, although if danger does loom on your return journey, I urge you to make things as easy as possible for your Blades by staying close to…the lady…so that by defending you they can also protect her.”
“Hmph! Not very honorable.”
“But practical, and what our dear monarch would want, surely?”
“Suppose so,” Wassail agreed grumpily.
Smiling, Lord Roland poured more ale.
“To continue with my care-of-Blades speech—take an athletic young man, my lord, dress him well, arm him with a sword and some authority…and where will you find him?”
“In a bedroom. Told you I know Blades.”
“With bound Blades, the problem is even more acute. The binding conjuration has this side effect. No one knows why, but it is a fact that almost none of the fair sex can resist a Blade on the prowl, or vice versa.”
Roland would naturally like to think so, having once been one himself. Wassail wondered what Dorothea would say to such nonsense. He did wish she could see this room. This was very much what he wanted for his own nook back at Wasburgh, but she could not seem to get past the nymph-and-shepherd-tapestry style of decorating.
“Beg pardon, my lord?”
“I was just saying that you should appoint one of the three of them to be leader.”
“The blond one seems to think—”
“I commend you on your judgment, my lord! Beaumont is the only possible choice, as you so perceptively remark. More ale, or will you attack the venison? Ah!” Lord Roland had just remembered something. “I do not pry into your plans, my lord—knowing that they concern a high affair of state—but I was just wondering if you will be returning to Grandon with your new attendants when you leave here?”
Wassail considered the question and decided it was harmless enough, if impertinent.
“I expect so. Briefly.” He would have to dress the boys in his colors, and the King insisted they be given suitable languistic conjuration.
“Ah. You may not be aware, but the fencing competition known as the King’s Cup will be held there next week.”
Wassail grunted again, bracing himself for the effort needed to raise his bulk vertical and approach the board. “So? No one ever goes to see that any more.”
Lord Roland went to the table and began removing covers. “It still matters very much to Blades. In half a century, only Blades have ever won it, usually men of the Guard. For the last four years, Sir Seward and Sir Tancred have been tossing the title back and forth between them. This year there was much betting that a relative newcomer, Sir Cedric, would take it from them.” He stepped across and offered a hand to haul Wassail upright.
Hmmph! Joints creaked. “So?”
“Whenever the Guard bring the King to Ironhall, as it just did, the Blades amuse themselves by instructing the candidates. For a mere soprano to be coached by a royal guardsman is quite an event!”
Wassail sat down and eyed the dishes. “Looks delicious! You feed the boys this well?”
“Pretty much,” his host said, handing him the usual slab of bread to use as a trencher. “Not the lampreys; they were a gift from the King. But everything else…The pastries contain cod liver and this is eel puree, well spiced. Roast venison. The ‘brewer’ is beef in cinnamon sauce. Beans here, obviously, with cabbage. And loach in a cold green sauce.”
Wassail pulled out his knife, wiped his other hand on his doublet, and set to work.
“Spiced wine, my lord?” Grand Master poured without waiting for an answer. “I was explaining about the Guard teaching the candidates. This time your Blade Beaumont taught the Guard. He raked the quadrangle with Cedric, cleaned the sewers with Sewald, and tanked Tancred. The Royal Guard was, um, abashed would be a kind word.”
Wassail chuckled into a mouthful of beans. “Did he so?” Arrogant young popinjays, serve them right! He piled loach and cabbage on his trencher and licked his fingers.
“I will make a wager with you, my lord.”
“You think this Blade you are going to hang around my neck could win the cup?” Wassail had more important things to worry about than stupid sports.
“That is highly likely, my lord. In fact, between us two, I suspect the reason the contest is so late this year is that it was secretly held back in the hope that Beaumont would become available to compete. A lot of money can ride on the cup and the Guard loves to bet its insider knowledge.
“But what I meant was that young Beaumont wants to enter more than he has ever wanted anything in his life, or perhaps ever will. But I would wager a hundred crowns with you that he won’t ever mention it to you unless you bring it up first. If you appoint him commander, he won’t let the other two mention it either.”
Wassail popped a piece of cold venison in his mouth and wiped his fingers on his sleeve. Mm! Very good! “Then I needn’t worry about it, need I?”
“Oh, think, man!” his host said, eying him carefully. “Think about this mission of yours! Won’t it become just a little less danger
ous if you can tell them that you have brought along the finest swordsman in the world to guard the queen?”
“Might,” Wassail admitted.
“Thought so,” Grand Master said contentedly.
III
The Sport of Kings
• 1 •
“Here comes the Pirate’s Son now,” Hazard said, exercising the Royal Guard’s self-proclaimed right to use an insulting nickname for the sovereign.
Pennants and bright canopies rippled in the breeze. Drums’ deep thunder quivered in listeners’ bones, cheering drew closer. When the royal party entered the field, the crowd’s roar swelled to drown out the blare of trumpets and snap of banners. Waving acknowledgment, Athelgar led the procession across the sunlit grass, escorted by a dozen blue-clad Blades and a straggle of honored guests. Lumbering along at his side in the place of honor was his aging but trusted favorite, Lord Wassail, with Sir Oak at his back. No one except the Guard bore swords near the monarch, so when their wards attended the King, private Blades had the choice of being close and unarmed, or keeping their swords and their distance. New bindings itched mightily at this restriction, but there was nothing to be done about it. Oak, who had fists like mallets, had chosen the first alternative. Arkell preferred the second and was already in place in the royal box with Reason hung at his thigh and three rows of armed Blades between him and the throne.
This was still a fair turn of fortune for a plowman’s son who had been accused of stealing the squire’s books five years ago. He had not been stealing them, only reading them and putting them back, but the squire had threatened to flog him if it happened again. The squire liked to do his flogging personally and had trouble stopping once he got started, so when it did happen again, the miscreant’s father had put him on a horse and rushed him to Ironhall. When Grand Master had assured him they had books there and he might read them, that had settled the matter. It had been a good decision.