Miles Cameron - The Dread Wyrm

Michael nodded, collected the Drover’s son, who wore his regalia over his harness, and found a side table covered in dishes.

Ser Gabriel followed Jamie out of the hall and into the barracks tower where the Captain of Albinkirk had his office.

Ser John was sitting in an old, black robe and was wearing spectacles. He had a bag on his desk, and opposite him sat a very young man wearing the golden belt of a knight.

The Red Knight smiled. “Ser Galahad!” he said. Galahad D’Acon had been one of the heroes of the fight at Lissen Carak.

“So kind of you to remember me, your grace,” the younger man said, rising so suddenly that his spurs tangled.

“Young Galahad comes as a royal messenger,” Ser John said. “He brought us several writs.” Ser John scratched his beard and straightened the spectacles on his nose.

“And to save my life,” Galahad said. He shook his head. “The queen’s knights…” He looked at Ser John. “She sent me herself. The Galles are killing our people, and the King does nothing to prevent it.” He clenched his fists. “They talk of arresting Lady Almspend.”

Ser John nodded. “You’ve had a difficult journey,” he said to the young knight. “Go get some food.”

As soon as Galahad was out the door and Jamie Le Hoek had closed it, Ser John turned, tapping a scroll on his teeth. “He was on the road for nine days. Bad weather and mud and too many convoys to pass.”

Ser Gabriel settled into the chair, still warm from the messenger’s heat.

“De Vrailly is going to formally accuse the queen of adultery,” he said. “As the king’s champion, he’ll accuse her.”

Ser Gabriel turned this piece of information over. And over. “I see,” he said.

“I doubt you do,” Ser John said. “This’ll be the war.”

“The queen is that popular?” Ser Gabriel asked, rhetorically.

“The King must have lost his wits,” Ser John said. “T’other scroll is a tax demand on the Earl of Westwall.”

Ser Gabriel smiled. “I see,” he said. Because he did.

“There’s more. The Archbishop of Lorica has called a council to investigate…” He looked down. “A range of charges of heresy,” he quoted. “Against the Order of St. Thomas.” He met the Red Knight’s eyes. “I have to tell you, your grace, that the nun’s preaching is listed on the charges.”

“Sister Amicia?” Gabriel asked.

“She’s virtually a saint, to the people hereabouts,” Ser John said. “There isn’t a man-at-arms in Albinkirk who hasn’t felt her healing. Or her wisdom.”

Ser Gabriel flushed.

Ser John frowned. “It’s as if the King is working to destroy the kingdom.” He shook his head. “De Vrailly’s accusation will no doubt take place at the tourney.”

“And de Vrailly will be the accuser,” Ser Gabriel said.

“Can you take him?” Ser John asked.

Ser Gabriel sighed. “Mayhap,” he said. “I hesitate to stake the future of Alba on it.”

Ser John shrugged. “They say he’s the best knight in the world.”

The Red Knight smiled. “Ah, well. They say I’m the spawn of Satan.” He laughed. “Tourney is eighteen days away.”

The two men sat in a companionable silence. Finally Gabriel rose. “I need to say farewell to my lady mother.”

Ser John nodded. “You won’t change your mind?” he asked.

“I may yet, Ser John. In a way-an odd way-the King has just played into the duchess’s hands.” He rose.

Ser John shook his head. “I still can’t believe he’d take such foolish counsel.”

Ser Gabriel nodded. “Ser John-I suggest to you that the Galles at court do not have the king’s best interests at heart.”

Ser John nodded.

Gabriel went out, with the sound of his armour ratcheting along the corridor.

Gabriel knocked at his mother’s outer door, and then, after some time had passed, he worked a praxis and opened it.

“Don’t you dare!” his mother shrieked.

Gabriel opened the inner door. The bronze-eyed girl slipped from the bed, her body blushing her embarrassment from nose to navel, and passed behind the hanging that concealed the garde de robe.

“I need to speak to you, Mother,” Gabriel said. His voice was cheerful. He was fully in command of himself. “I see we really do share some tastes.”

His mother sat up, her body barely concealed by a shift. “You always were an impetuous lout,” she said.

“The King has sent you a summons, ordering you to pay twenty years of back taxes. And threatening war if you don’t.” Gabriel leaned back and settled his right pauldron into a dent in the stone of the wall.

“The fool,” Ghause spat.

“In more ways than one, Mother. I’ve changed my mind. I’ll accept a bride, in exchange for your seal on this alliance.” He handed his mother the scroll. “How do you manage to stay so young?” he asked.

“Murdered virgin’s blood,” she said, her eyes on the document. “Powdered unicorn horn.” She looked up. “Poppycock. It’s just exercise, my dear, and good breeding, and a little sorcery.” Without any fuss, she slipped out of the bed and lit a taper by ops. She took sealing wax and affixed her personal seal. “You won’t regret this.”

“I suspect I will, Mother. But it occurred to me that I didn’t actually think a thousand lives were a fair trade for my connubial bliss. I reserve only your maid. I won’t marry her.” He smiled. “Though I might want her after I have my new bride in kindle.”

His mother smiled and then bit her lip. “You’re hiding something,” she said. “I know you.”

“I am,” he said. “But if we’re both lucky, you’ll never know what. I’m off for Harndon.” He bent, and quite formally kissed her hand.

She laughed. “You are being foolish, my boy. But I am glad to have you back at my side.”

He nodded. But in his new-found wisdom, he chose not to answer her.

The southbound convoy formed by the outer gates of the town. The Red Knight was leaving many of his best men and women behind, and taking only his household. Ser Michael rode at the head, carrying the new banner-the banner of Thrake, a golden eagle on a ground of dark red. Ser Phillipe de Beause, Ser Francis Atcourt and the young Etruscan, Angelo di Laternum, and Chris Foliak were resplendent even in the rain. Behind them came their squires and pages, and two wagons of baggage and harness, under Sadie Lantorn, whose career as a woman of the company was apparently unaffected by her sister’s marriage into the highest ranks of the gentry. Sukey had other duties for a few days.

As a rearguard, the Duke of Thrake had six Morean lances under Ser Christos-his first command in the company, although he had once been the strategos for the former duke. With him were five other magnates of Thrake, and if they objected to having to ride into the frigid delights of an Alban spring, they kept their views to themselves. Ser Alcaeus, who might have been expected to stay with his banda, was instead riding with them.

Out on the plain that stretched to the river, the Hillmen could be seen forming their flocks and herds and moving them across the water at Southford. The process had been going on for two days.

The Red Knight looked around for the one face he missed, and gave up. He drew his sword and flicked a salute at the gate guard, who returned it more formally, and Ser John, mounted on a pretty bay, came out and locked hands with the Red Knight.

“I’ll do my best,” Ser Gabriel said.

“I still can’t believe she agreed. What did she ask for?” Ser John asked.

Ser Gabriel smiled. “A life of chastity,” Ser Gabriel said. He left the older knight speechless and led his household and their baggage south, to the ford.