by J. P. Ashman
Temn of Landon Hill, Baronial Marcher Lord of Altoln, opened his fat mouth to speak. He shut it again at the raising of Correia’s free hand. His nostrils flared and he chewed his wine-stained bottom lip, but he held his purple tongue.
‘I’ve decided…’ Correia said, although she admitted to herself that she was making it up as she went; the time to weigh all the odds as she usually would, the time to plan, was lost to her. She’d paused and Temn had leaned forward, chewing stopped, piggy-eyes wide. ‘I’ve decided,’ she went on, ‘to fly north with—’
‘On Captain Hud’s mount? With her company’s mounts?’ Temn sat back in his protesting chair and huffed.
‘Yes!’ Correia snapped. He’d told her, when she’d woke, that a rider had come in that night with news for her. For her! There, in Landon Hill. The urgency in which she needed to go to Wesson had increased. No reasons were given, but nor did she need any. Her father needed her, according to Will Morton, and so she would fly. There was no time for Royce, for petitions and for journey by ship, where weather could hinder her far more than it could across land… albeit in the air. Still, it became clear as she decided it that even if a storm blew up across Alton, Correia and her companions could ride rather than fly. Swap mounts even, if it came to it, unlike travelling by weather dependant ship. Hud would understand. She’d have to.
‘Well, Lady Burr, I’m not sure what the captain—’
‘I don’t care what she’ll think or say or do, my lord Temn.’ Correia stood. ‘Your King requires my presence immediately. Would you defy him?’
Temn shot to his feet. If you could call it a shooting. ‘Of course not! How dare you—’
‘I dare a lot and I win a lot, my lord. Now do as I command you on our King’s behalf and send riders as we discussed. Send riders and make ready for war. I have no time to discuss this further. You must act and Royce must act. We all must act if we’re to hold the borders, The Marches, as is your duty and his; it is what Giles Bratby is doing. Now have me attended whilst I see to my own.’
Blustering and flapping and practically bursting at the seams, the red-faced baron stormed from the room, servants hurrying before and after him, curses flowing from him.
After a ragged breath, Correia reached over and finished the last of the man’s wine before striding from the room.
***
Booted feet and iron spurs echoed off the courtyard’s tall walls as half a dozen green liveried men-at-arms walked from the stables to the door of Wesson’s magistrates court.
‘Hold.’ The sergeant of the court stepped out from a second doorway, a man on either side. All three wore burgundy, two padded gambesons and the sergeant’s brigandine. All three touched hands to sheathed swords.
‘This is Stowold, now fucking move,’ the hard-looking man at the front of the approaching group said, without slowing. His richly embroidered, long green surcoat was bested only by the man behind him, whose eyes were the only pair not on the three guardsmen.
The court’s sergeant stammered a protest, but ultimately followed as the Earl’s men marched past and into the magistrates’ building.
‘Not sure that was quite necessary, Sir Bryant,’ Stowold said, once inside.
Sir Bryant shrugged as he continued leading the way down a corridor. ‘You said there’s no time to waste, my lord.’
‘That I did, Sir Bryant. That I did.’
They turned a corner and moved down another corridor. The sound of maille and plate marked their path. Employees of the magistrates moved aside and bowed respectfully as the men walked with speed and purpose.
Knight at his front and retainers and magistrates’ men at his back, Stowold strode towards a cluster of guards and clerks, all of which turned in surprise at the procession heading their way.
‘Move aside,’ Sir Bryant said, waving his hand as if bothered by flies.
‘You can’t go in there,’ one of the clerks dared, narrow eyes flicking from armoured man to armoured man.
‘He’s the Constable of Wesson,’ came a shout from the back, from the court’s sergeant. ‘Let him through!’
The two new guards stood firm, barring the way. ‘Sorry, milord, but court’s in session. No one passes but the King.’
The clerks pressed themselves against the walls either side of the corridor and doors, as most of the approaching men made to draw swords.
‘Move aside, you cads.’ Stowold shouldered past Sir Bryant, taking the lead. His lack of acknowledgement that the guards were even a threat was what moved them in the end, for Stowold was the only man not to have hand on blade. They turned in time to open the double doors for the Earl, who entered the courtroom beyond to a series of gasps and cries of outrage.
Stowold’s eyes locked on the lead magistrate’s, who shrank back under the visual assault. Stowold pointed to a lone man stood in the centre of the room who looked filthy, dishevelled, but determined, stoic and strong with it.
‘This man is under my protection and employ. Release him at once so I can get back to my estate. I have wasted enough time this day.’
The room fell silent. The man in the centre of the room turned, eyes wide.
‘Well?’ Stowold said, hands on hips. He looked at the red bearded man stood alone and winked, before looking about the room. ‘I’m the Constable of Wesson and I demand his release. Now!’
‘You heard my lord Stowold,’ Sir Bryant said, walking the perimeter of the room, staring down any who would dare look at him.
‘This is the magistrates’ court, my lord.’ The magistrate to the left of the lead magistrate stood, face reddening. ‘I don’t care who orders this man released. If you’re not King Barrison, this criminal stands trial and that’s the end of it. I won’t be shouted down in our own court—’
‘You will and you have.’ Without so much as a glance to the magistrate who’d addressed him, Stowold turned and left the room, muttering one last thing to one of his men before he left. ‘He’s all yours, Biviano.’
Biviano nodded once and looked to his shackled friend.
Sears grinned.
The magistrates and their assembly descended into verbal chaos as their sergeant and guardsmen stood by and watched the Earl’s liveried men escort their prisoner out of the courtroom and away.
Chapter 55 – Reunion
Sears grimaced as he looked down the devastated street. Hollowed out and blackened homes flanked them as they rode along. The remnants of black crosses on doors were visible, although some had been painted over, the wood fresh and clean in appearance.
‘Can you believe it?’ Sears said, a tumultuous flow of memories assaulting him as he rode beside his friend.
‘Believe what, ye cock? You getting arrested?’
Sears glanced sidelong at Biviano. ‘No, ye weasel. All of this.’ He waved his thinner-than-normal arm to encompass the destruction about them.
Biviano grunted. ‘It was worse, wasn’t it, mate. Least it’s improving, slowly.’
There was a pause filled by the near-deafening sound of iron-shod hooves on cobbles and the chatter of the surrounding men-at-arms.
‘Where’s our new employer gone?’ Sears asked.
‘Back to his city estate I presume, Sears, and he’s not our employer. That position is still held by the King and his City Guard, for now.’
Sears turned to Biviano, a frown creasing his filthy brow.
Biviano looked back at him. ‘Stowold only said that to get you out, you ungrateful prick.’
‘You’re wearing his colours, Biviano.’
‘Wouldn’t have looked much like Stowold’s retainer if I weren’t now, would I? Ye puss filled bubo. Ye certainly stink as bad as a plague victim.’ He grinned at that one.
Sears sneered. ‘Hardly funny considering—’
‘What, the plague?’ Biviano barked a laugh and looked to the riders in front again as they rounded a corner, scaring a cat from where it sunned itself in the middle of the road. ‘Making jests about what’s past won’
t change owt, Sears. Ye gone soft in that red head of yours whilst incarcerated by the good magistrates of Wesson, for however many days and weeks? I couldn’t be bothered counting.’ He looked back to Sears. When no reply came, not even a glance, Biviano huffed and looked forward once more. ‘Thought it’d be fun to break you out. Thought it’d be fun to have you back.’ He looked at Sears yet again, awaiting a response.
‘I don’t want to talk about any of it. Not right now.’
Sniffing and shrugging, Biviano nodded. ‘Right ye are man, right ye are. Well, it’s to the tavern for us. Stowold reckoned ye could do with a good watering before we decide what we’re to do next.’
‘And that is?’ Sears said, eyes locked ahead.
‘Well I don’t know, do I? Ye shit. Hence the need for a drink first. I reckon the good Earl thought it’d be a celebration. More like a wake if ye keep this crying up.’ That got a response.
Sears turned in his saddle, reached across and thumped Biviano on the maille covered arm.
Biviano cursed, then smiled. ‘That’s more like it, big guy.’
Stowold’s men peeled off down a side street, waving their goodbyes. Sears frowned after he waved back.
‘They’re off on errands for Stowold. It’s just thee and me again, Sears. And as for what we do now, that’s down to us two.’
‘And he’s alright with that, the Constable of Wesson? Insists on my release and goes back to his own business, all casual like?’ Sears shook his head and grunted a laugh. Not likely, he thought. ‘There’ll be repercussions for him, doing that. Even him.’
‘Let’s just say, ye ungrateful ginger get, that Stowold likes me enough to let me owe him a favour in light of what he did back there, for you!’
‘For you, ye mean. Ye’d be lost without me, Biviano, and ye know it.’
‘Enough farting from ye mouth. We can talk between supping ale.’ Before Sears could reply, Biviano kicked his heels into the flank of the horse Stowold had loaned him and aimed it towards the nearest tavern, Sears a horse-length behind.
***
A colourful gaggle of courtiers and other hangers on shuffled through the formal rose gardens of Wesson Palace, their King at the head, an armed and armoured Earl walking by his side, hands clasped behind his back. Crossbowmen in Barrison’s red and blue livery adorned the surrounding ramparts, eyes watchful for any sudden or suspicious moves; half the crossbows loaded, half not, switching on a rotational basis.
‘At a time like this, Bagnall?’ Barrison asked of Stowold. They stopped to appreciate a white marble fountain, the water of which caught the summer sunlight as would a troop of glittered faerie-folk.
‘I am afraid I must, Your Highness.’
Barrison moved on, Stowold matching his pace, the garish gaggle following.
‘We need the City Guard at full strength, Bagnall, as you very well know. Wesson is at its worse: lawless in many parts, vulnerable as a whole. Guilds war with one another for new trade rights as new gangs try and assert their dominance in Dockside, and beyond! Can you not recruit for your household from outside the city?’ Barrison looked to Stowold, who returned the look with a solemn shake of the head.
‘Sire, the City Guard recruit men to crack the heads of louts and layabouts. I’m recruiting men to fight an ongoing war beneath our feet; the biggest threat to Wesson, to Altoln, in my eyes. I haven’t the time nor the men to train fresh recruits from the counties and shires, nor those plucked from the streets of Dockside. I cannot effectively go on with my duties as both Constable of Wesson and Watcher of the Deep without experienced men at my back.’
Barrison pulled his lips tight and nodded. He stopped to stare at a rose bush with white petals. The shuffling behind him stopped.
‘And your removal of a prisoner from the magistrates’ court, Bagnall?’ Barrison’s eyes remained on the white ruffles of roses.
Blued plate scraped as Stowold shifted where he stood. ‘Ah, yes. News travels quicker than I can, it seems,’ he admitted, drawing a smile from Barrison. ‘Well, Sire, he is one of the ones I would recruit. Invaluable he is, to me.’
‘As is his friend?’ Barrison glanced sidelong at Stowold, who nodded once.
‘As is his friend, yes.’
‘Whom you attempted to knight, not so long ago?’
‘The very same, Sire.’
Hiding his true feelings, as a good king oft should, Barrison showed a face of disapproval and continued to walk, the roses changing from white to powdered pink, red to orange and on to yellow as they walked in silence, the shuffling and murmuring behind them ceaseless.
‘Tell me,’ Barrison said as they walked, ‘of the accusations concerning the one called Sears; he breathes fire, they say.’
‘He does, Sire.’
Barrison hid his smile and stopped. He rounded on Stowold, eyebrows high. He was curious as to what Stowold thought of the fire breathing man, and whether it would match the thoughts of Barrison’s brother-in-law and friend, Will Morton.
‘It is true, my liege. He does indeed breathe fire, although I have yet to witness it for myself.’
‘And you want him free? You want him in your keep, this man who breathes fire?’
A nod. ‘I do, to both. As I said, he is invaluable to me. Imagine that skill in a tunnel defence.’
Barrison licked his lips at that and nodded. He did indeed imagine it, as vibrant and orange as the roses they passed. As violent and red as more of the same. ‘And that’s what you want him and his companion for, is it? That’s why you broke the law, my law, to free him? You want him for tunnel clearances in the Deep?’
A pause and Stowold pursed his lips. ‘Amongst other things, Your Highness.’
Barrison sighed. ‘Do I even want to know, Bagnall?’
Stowold smiled. ‘Probably not, Sire.’
‘Would Will want to know?’
‘Definitely not, Sire. The Duke has enough to tend with, although I’d wager on him smiling at the possible outcome of what I have in mind.’
Barrison sighed. ‘You two will be the death of me, and constables both.’
‘Don’t say that, Sire.’ Stowold took a step forward, hand held out as if to comfort his King.
Barrison waved the hand and words away. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Your word, and Will’s, are good enough for me. I’ve enough to worry about without you two adding to it. So, I shall leave my constables to their business whilst I tend to my own.’
Stowold bowed his head. ‘Of course, Sire. Thank you.’
There was a pause again, within which a falcon screeched from the opposite end of the garden. The courtiers mumbled and whispered and Barrison looked about, from crossbowman to crossbowman, halberdier to halberdier, stationed here and there as they were; hardly noticeable when seen daily, like furniture or servants of the palace.
‘I’m surprised Sergeant Grannit allowed you an audience, armed and armoured as you are, Bagnall.’ Barrison rose one eyebrow and took in Stowold’s impressive battle-scene-inscribed plate and the serpent coiled drum tower on his green silk surcoat.
Stowold smiled. ‘Grannit and I have an understanding, Sire.’
‘Go on,’ Barrison said.
‘He lets me pass and I don’t push a length of good steel through his hard face.’
Barrison couldn’t help but snort a laugh. ‘Well quite,’ he said, shoulders bobbing with continued mirth as he played Stowold’s words over in his mind. He sighed, then smiled at Stowold. ‘I need more humour about me, Bagnall,’ Barrison admitted. ‘It seems to have left my court of late… since the plague that nearly stole my life.’
‘Alas, that is not surprising, Your Highness, with all that is going on. Although,’ he said, a smirk pulling at his lips and eyes, ‘I wasn’t entirely joking, regarding your good sergeant.’
Another smile graced Barrison’s face and he felt the warmth of it flush through him. Shaking his head through nought but amusement, he whisked his hand in the air at Stowold. ‘Now be off,’ he said jovia
lly. ‘Be off to do the things I’d probably not want to know about.’
With a low, slow bow of the head and a sincere smile of his own, Bagnall Stowold turned and pushed through the gaggle of followers who’d been doing their level best to listen in.
Barrison sighed once more, relieved to have such men as Stowold and Morton about him. He continued his lonely walk, despite his courtiers and chamberlain, who was swift to his side.
Chapter 56 – Cruel to be kind
Sears swayed a little and grimaced. ‘Fucking sun,’ he slurred, lifting his hand to shield his eyes. ‘S’pposed to be night.’
‘Shut up, prick.’ Biviano bustled past him, Stowold’s dark green livery augmented with patterns of sick, an orange chunk or two stuck like poorly adorned badges of honour.
Biviano led the way, feeling along the wall of the Guild District tavern, the stone and lime-mortar exterior smooth in places, rough in others. Biviano stumbled, stopped and frowned, eyes wide as his hand brushed across a wool-textured, double-bumpy surface.
‘Hey!’ A shrill woman’s voice.
Squinting, Biviano looked to the wool, the bumps, above which the voice had come from.
‘Unhand me at once!’
Biviano looked up and sucked in a breath, cried out as the powerful slap stung his cheek and turned it in one. Sears sniggered from above and behind him. The woman whose breast Biviano’s hand remained clamped on was glaring from red-rimmed eyes that hung in a face of blotchy scars, presumably caused by the recent plague. She slapped his hand away when he failed to move it himself. The following, second facial slap spun him, nearly floored him.
Sears laughed, hands on belly. He didn’t see the knee coming up, but he bloody well felt it crunch his prize goods.
Spinning on Sears as the woman cursed and pushed the big, bent over man to the ground and stormed off, Biviano felt his mouth water, the sudden turn being too quick for his vision to keep up with. As Sears pulled his knees up into a foetal position on the ground, Biviano decorated him in patterns to match his own augmented livery. They may not have both been wearing Stowold’s green, but at least they both wore patches of the same lump and chunk textured orange.