Miles Cameron - The Fell Sword

‘All Your Grace’s revenues are down, and when people pay their taxes using these debased coins, we have even less money than we expected.’ Master Ailwin said.

‘Good lord, I’d rather face a charge of trolls,’ complained the King. For a moment he put his face in his hands. ‘What do we do?’

The Lord Mayor looked at the carefully laid-out new armour on the side table. Each piece was mostly finished, but there were no buckles or hinges yet, and in place of decoration there were careful lines in white paint.

‘Cancel the tournament, for starters,’ said the Lord Mayor. ‘It’s going to cost what the war cost, and we don’t have it.’

The Queen put a hand to her throat.

The King looked at Master Pye. ‘Surely we can do better than that,’ he said.

Master Random raised a hand. ‘I hate to see a tourney cancelled,’ he said. ‘Instead, why not reopen the mint and issue new coinage? Strike some copper while we’re at it, and we’ll hold the balances for a while.’ He looked at Master Pye. ‘Pye has the skills to make the dies – I know he does. We could issue copper exactly to size and weight with the Imperial coinage out of Liviapolis, and have the thanks of every merchant and farmer west of the mountains.’

Pye rolled his eyes. ‘I make armour. We need to find a goldsmith.’

Master Random shook his head. ‘No – saving Your Grace, we need a loyal man who is absolutely trustworthy, and that’s you, Master Pye. The King’s friend. Your name behind the coins will-’ He looked sheepish as he realised that he was implying that men might not trust the King.

But the King had leaped to his feet. ‘Well spoken,’ he said. ‘By God, Random, if all my merchants were like you, I’d have a corps of merchant-knights. At least I can understand you. Let it be done – Master Pye, reopen the mint and coin us some coins.’

‘Commons will have to approve it,’ said the Lord Mayor. But then he shrugged. ‘O’ course the commons asked us to bring this to council in the first place, so they’ll approve.’

‘Why does my cousin the King of Galle attack my coins?’ asked the King. ‘Much less the Count of Hoek?’

Every man present turned and looked at de Vrailly. He crossed his arms. ‘This is absurd,’ he said. He looked around. ‘If you are short of funds, why not collect from those who owe? I hear your Earl of Towbray is very much in arrears.’

The Lord Mayor smiled. ‘Great nobles are not great tax payers,’ he allowed. ‘Who can collect from them?’

‘I can,’ said de Vrailly.

Ailwin Darkwood looked at the Gallish knight with something like respect. ‘If you could, my lord, this kingdom would be in your debt,’ he said.

‘Towbray’s taxes alone would pay for the tourney,’ allowed the Lord Mayor. ‘And any of the northern lords’ taxes would cover the cost of the war. The Earl of Westwall alone owes more taxes than all the Harndon merchants would generate in ten years. But he never pays.’

The Count of the Borders, hitherto silent, nodded. ‘But it would take another war to persuade Muriens to pay his tax,’ he said.

The King leaned forward. ‘Gentlemen, you are on dangerous ground here. My father gave the Earl certain tax concessions for maintaining a heavy garrison in the north.’

Rebecca Almspend had sat throught the meeting in silence. Small, dark, and pretty, in a detached and somewhat aethereal way, she, in the Queen’s words, looked like a beautiful mouse and dressed like one too.

She was not the Chancellor, but through the Queen she had access to all of that worthy man’s papers. The Bishop of Lorica had died at the great battle and had not yet been replaced. Lady Almspend rattled two scrolls together and spoke in a very small voice.

‘The Earl of Westwall’s subjects still owe a number of taxes. None has been paid,’ she looked up, ‘since Your Grace’s coronation.’

The Count of the Borders sat back. ‘He hides behind your sister, Your Grace.’

The Captal nodded, his helmet moving heavily, more like a horse’s head than a man’s. ‘Towbray is closer, but a campaign in the Northern Mountains would suit me very well.’ The Captal, who was not known for his smiles, beamed at the thought. ‘What adventure!’

‘There!’ said the King, obviously delighted. ‘Master Pye is to be master of our mint, and the Captal shall collect taxes in Jarsay with a royal commission and a strong retinue. And I shall send a strongly worded letter to my sister’s husband, suggesting that he might be next. Done! Now, before I forget – Random? Can you kneel?’

Master Random smiled, gritted his teeth, and got down on his knees. ‘I pray Your Grace’s mercy,’ he said.

The King reached out to his new squire, young Galahad d’Acre. ‘Sword!’

Galahad presented the King’s sword, hilt first. It was very plain, and the gold that had once decorated the cross-guard was mostly worn off. It did have the finger joint of Saint John the Baptist set in the hilt, and it was said that no man who bore the sword could ever be poisoned.

The King drew, and the blade whistled through the air to settle like a wasp on the shoulder of Gerald Random, merchant adventurer.

‘Rise, Ser Gerald,’ said the King. ‘No one deserves the buffet more than you. I insist you take the head of a wight as your arms. And I intend to charge you to be the master of this tournament we are planning; find the money, and account for it to the Chancellor.’

Ser Gerald rose like a man with two feet, and bowed. ‘I would be delighted, Your Grace,’ he said. ‘But you’ll need a Chancellor for me to account to.’

‘Now that the Count here is Constable, I can’t have him acting as Chancellor, too. And Lady Almspend cannot continue to fill the role.’ The King smiled at her. ‘A woman as Chancellor?’ He looked at her, and for a moment, his intelligence outshone his indolence. ‘Not that you haven’t been the best Chancellor I’ve known, my lady. But it’s not talent I need, but someone with enough interest in Parliament to make my laws and my coinage and my wars run smoothly.’

The Captal looked around. ‘Your Grace, if-’

‘Let’s have Master Ailwin, then,’ said Master Pye.

‘A commoner fulfilling the highest office of the land?’ asked the Captal. ‘Who would trust him? He’d most likely steal money.’

‘As a foreigner, the King’s champion is no doubt unaware that the last Bishop of Lorica was born a commoner,’ the Queen said, her voice light but her eyes steady. ‘Captal, by now you must be aware that such statements give offence to Albans.’

The Captal shrugged, his shoulder armour rising and falling to show the strength of his shoulders and back. ‘They should challenge me over it, then. Otherwise-’ he favoured them with his most beatific smile ‘-I assume they all agree.’

As always, Jean de Vrailly’s statements brought silence – in this case a stunned one as men sought to understand. Did he just say what I think he said?

‘As this has become an impromptu meeting of the King’s Grace and his private council – may I say a word?’ asked the Count of the Borders. ‘There are many ways in which the north has not returned to normal since the fighting in the spring. Ser John Crayford reports that the woods are full of boglins, and worse.’

The King nodded. He smiled at his Queen.

She smiled back, but nodded graciously to the Count. ‘It is important to replace all the crown officers who were slain,’ she said. ‘Lorica needs a new bishop. His presence at our council is much missed.’

The King nodded. ‘He was a good man. A fine knight.’ He looked around. ‘He was with us for as long as I can remember – like old Harmodius.’ He looked around. ‘My pater appointed him.’