Miles Cameron - The Dread Wyrm

“I told him that I was your son. By him.” He put his hands behind his head and looked at the ceiling.

Ghause rose slowly. “You what?”

Gabriel sighed. “I told him. I felt he needed to know.”

Ghause’s mouth moved, but no words came out.

Gabriel watched her. “I could go to court and present myself as the king’s bastard by his sister,” he said. “I suspect that would have an effect. I might even prevent the civil war. Perhaps he’d make me his heir!”

“You wouldn’t dare! I don’t want anything given by that bastard! I want him brought low!” Ghause was on her feet, her voice rising.

“You know, Mother, those may be things you want, but they are not things I want. If you want to destroy the king, you need to affect that on your own. I will not be your tool. And in the meantime, if you would like to please me, sign this agreement as the king’s vassal. In my turn, I’ll promise you-and your mate-my support as Duke of Thrake.”

Ghause pursed her lips. “No. I don’t give a fuck if you want to lie naked at his feet. Go-lick his arse for all I care.” She put a hand on the treaty, written out fine. “I will sign it, though. I’ll be a lickspittle and sign it as a vassal. I can repudiate it any time I like. Only make me one promise, and I’ll comply.”

Gabriel braced himself. “Does it involve murder?”

“No, marriage.” She sat again. “Marry the girl of my choice. I promise she’ll be handsome and have a good dowry and power. Give your word to marry her at my whim and I’ll sign your paper.”

Gabriel drew breath.

Ghause leaned towards him. “Forget your little nun. Or tumble her to your heart’s content when you’ve got your bride in kindle. I admit, for all her low birth, I like the nun. I think I could fancy her for myself.” She licked her lips. “What was wrong with the princess Irene?”

“You are the second person to ask me that today,” Gabriel said, a little wildly.

“Well?” his mother insisted.

“She tried to kill her father?” Gabriel said. “She poisons people?”

Ghause shrugged.

Gabriel sat back and laughed. “I confess, you’d like her, and you two would have so much to talk about over your sewing.”

Ghause met his eye. “You think I’m crude and vicious,” she said. “But yon princess is what she is. She is what her court has made her, and if you were a good knight and a good husband, she’d ha’ no need to poison you, would she?”

Gabriel put his face in his hands. “Is that the measure of wedded bliss?” he asked.

“Pretty much,” Ghause said. “I’ve been with the Earl of Westwall for twenty years and more. And we ha’ not killed each other.” She snapped her fingers, and her maid returned and poured more wine. “Did the princess offer?”

Gabriel thought a moment. “No. Although I suspect that she will be offered-by her father. Soon.”

Ghause smiled. “And you have not said no?”

Gabriel thought again. “No.”

Ghause nodded. “You could be Emperor,” she said.

Gabriel nodded. “Yes. But no. The Empire does not transfer power by blood, and when the Emperor dies. Has it occurred to you that I don’t share your ambitions?”

She ignored him. “I’ll sign your paper, and you’ll take the bride I assign you. And no quibbles-I know you.”

Gabriel stood. “I’m tempted just to lie and agree. I think maybe I could save hundreds of lives by agreement. But you know, Mother, tonight I’m at my limit of being used by the powers of the world. So-no.” He picked up the parchment. “Won’t you just sign because you are the king’s vassal?”

She frowned. “It is nothing to you that he forced me-a chit of a girl, his own sister?”

Gabriel nodded. “Yes, Mother. For all that stands between us, I agree. I hate him, I think he’s false as a caitiff and that everything he’s ever done is poisoned by what he did to you.” He shrugged. “But-if all of us cling to our hates, we’ll never move forward. If that fool de Vrailly marches north this summer…”

“The earl will destroy him,” Ghause said with satisfaction.

Gabriel looked at her. Then he shrugged. “Very well, Mother. I think that you have chosen your road. And I have chosen mine.”

She frowned. “So you will not marry a girl for me?”

“Nor be party to any plot or plan of yours,” he said. “More, I’m going to go tell Ser John that I cannot accept command of the northern army. Given your stance, and the earl’s, the King would never agree to it.”

“Fine,” she said. “You won’t help me? Your own mother? Then go to hell, my son.” She blew him a kiss.

He went out through her solar with her curses ringing in his ears.

He went straight back to Ser John and dropped the parchment on his desk. “My apologies, Ser John. I cocked that up.”

The Captain of Albinkirk sighed. “She won’t sign?”

“She consigned me to hell.” Gabriel raised his hands.

“Damn. Your own mother.” Ser John shook his head.

Ser Gabriel spread his hands. “I must decline to be your commander, Ser John. I’ll leave you to puzzle out why.”

“Christ on the cross, your mother wants war with the king?” Ser John sat in shock.

Ser Gabriel said nothing. After a pause, he said, “As soon as the tournament is over, I’ll return to Morea. I promise you that if you call, the Emperor will send a force. I will probably not accompany it.”

“Damn. Damn and damn. Can you tell me why the duchess hates the king?”

Gabriel shook his head. “No, Ser John.” He paused. “It’s not my story to tell.” He shook his head. “But she will not change her mind.”

Dinner in the great hall was a desperate affair. Sister Amicia sat silently, and her eyes never touched Ser Gabriel’s. The Duchess of Westwall alternated between crass and arch, and neither note struck home on her target, her son, who sat as isolated as a priest might be by an altar screen, alone with his thoughts. Ser John tried, and failed, to create a conversation. His efforts made it as far as the venison pie and then died, and the rest of the dinner passed in silence, punctuated by the duchess’s pro forma flirting with the now receptive Lord Wayland and her wilful ignoring of the Keeper’s son.

A pair of messengers arrived, both from Ser Ricar. Ser John went out to hear them, and the dinner broke up.

Gabriel watched Amicia for any sign he might speak to her. She chatted with the Drover as if she had no other need for company, and then she sat and played chess with her friend, the bishop.

His mother watched him with an intensity equal to the chess players.

Finally, Gabriel went to his room.

His leg hurt, and he hated everyone.

In the midst of undressing, he put a hand on Toby’s arm, and the young man mostly fought the urge to flinch.

“I’m sorry, Toby,” he said.

Toby flushed. And said nothing.

Morning-a cold, wet day that didn’t so much promise spring as hint vaguely at it. The rain seemed colder than snow, and the air was wet, and the wind bit through a wool cloak.

The Duke of Thrake rose early. He appeared in the great hall wearing a miniver riding gown that was worth a fortune-white wool embroidered in his arms on the outside and three hundred matched squirrel skins on the inside. He wore it over his harness.

Ser John’s squire, young Jamie, a Hoek boy, intercepted him. “Your grace,” he said with a bow. “The Captain of Albinkirk requests that you attend him. There is news.”

The Red Knight’s anger had leached away in a good night’s sleep and left him only throbbing pain and a nagging sense of loss. He bowed in return. “Lead me,” he said. He turned to Ser Michael. “Making my farewells won’t be quick. You might as well grab a sausage in the kitchen.”