A Plague of Swords

by Miles Cameron

  Gabriel had to laugh, and he did.

  Tom told him a little of the trouble between him and Donald Dhu.

  Gabriel knew it all, but listened anyway. Then he told Tom about Irene.

  “Oh shit, laddie. Just fewkin’ kill her,” Tom shrugged. “Or ha’ it done.”

  Gabriel looked into the summer evening. There were superb flowers on the hills, and the warm early-evening midsummer sun lit the flowers like a promise of heaven. Even their fighting had served only to crush a few and raise their scent.

  The flowers covered the hills for miles, as far as the eye could see, a riot of tiny buds in all the colours of the rainbow. Far off north, the waters of the lake seemed to burn.

  “I have another idea,” Gabriel said. “If it doesn’t work, I’ll kill her.”

  “Good lad,” Tom said.

  Gabriel shook his head.

  “She dug her own grave,” Tom said. “What now?”

  “Dinner with Blanche.” Gabriel nodded.

  “Just pull her clothes off. Eat later.” Tom grinned. “I told you. A fight an’ a fuck.”

  “I don’t think that would go so well just now,” Gabriel said.

  Tom looked at him, his black hair dripping with sweat and his beard tangled. “Don’t ye, now,” he asked. He looked away and smiled. “Well, ye’ll know best, o’ course. When do we ride?”

  “Have you read the plan?” Gabriel asked.

  “Every word,” Tom said.

  “Then you know,” Gabriel said.

  Tom nodded. “Well. I’m ready. Donald Dhu is beat and headed home, the poor bastard. I need him to see he’s just sad and mad over his boy. I’d be the same. But...” He shrugged. “I can’t have him making trouble for Ranald while I go wi’ ye.”

  “I’d like to have had the same solution for Irene,” Gabriel said. “Break her arm and send her home.”

  “Still eating at ye? Listen, boyo. Donald Dhu is a well-loved man, but he’ll never get more ’an thirty loons in his tail ’cause he hasn’t the name, and he’s got nothing to sell to some giant fewkin’ dragon nor a sorcerer but beef.” Tom Lachlan spread his big hands. “Whereas, the mighty Princess Irene has more plots than a dairy farmer has milk pails and more good looks ’an any woman I know. I’d do her.”

  “You marry her. You can be emperor.” Gabriel laughed a little.

  “Nah. I’d kill her. I mostly kill anyone I can’t trust. See, I can trust Donald Dhu. If’n he decides I have to go, I still trust him to come at me wi’ a sword, in front o’ the boys. Not she. She’s a piece o’ work.”

  Gabriel stared at the ground. Then he shrugged.

  “I’m half drunk and I have to go eat dinner,” he said.

  Tom nodded. “I can fix that. Have more ale.”

  Gabriel took the refill of his cup. “What will this fix?” he asked.

  “Ye won’t be half drunk,” Tom said.

  * * *

  Blanche sat in the solar, sewing.

  He was late.

  He was always late. He was more important than the queen, and she was baggage.

  Thoughts like that made it difficult for her to breathe, but she was willing to face up to them. She was used to being very important, in her own way, and he had made her unimportant. With the queen, she was vital. With him, she was sport.

  And he showed her how unimportant she was when he was late. Every time.

  She thought of how careful poor Kaitlin had been in phrasing the invitation, and she bit her lower lip in vexation, and continued sewing. It was a simple overgown, something for herself, loose and baggy, something she could throw over a pretty kirtle to take a baby or do work.

  She also thought that she had been very foolish to have danced last night. She had danced with Galahad D’Acon, and she had danced with Ser Michael, and she had seen his eyes and realized that he did not share, and she had hurt him.

  At the time, that had seemed a very good thing indeed.

  The more she let her thoughts go down that road, the more it seemed to her that she should, in fact, pack her things and go. In a year, her life would return to normal. In a year, the scandal of her open dalliance would fade. Many marriageable men would forgive her a dalliance with a man so powerful. Those were the facts of real life.

  She began to gather her needles. She’d threaded a dozen to allow her to sew faster, and they were stuck into the velvet cushion on the fire rail. Needles were too dear to be left in the fire rail, and...

  The door opened.

  She saw him, and the blood on his arm and his disheveled hair. Toby was behind him, a hand out, reaching, and he slammed the solar door hard enough that everyone in the tower must have heard it. Toby’s curse was just audible through the heavy oak door.

  “I...” she began. She rose to her feet from where she’d been kneeling, and put out a hand. “You’re bleeding.”

  “I stopped for a beer with Tom.” His eyes were very bright.

  “And started bleeding?” she asked.

  “You know Tom. He decided I needed a fight.” He shrugged. She had a hand on his arm, and was looking at the shirt, and the arm under it.

  Despite herself, she smiled. “He is a curiously wise man,” she said. “Did the fight make you feel better?”

  “Much better,” Gabriel said.

  He was looking at her, and his eyes were very wide and preternaturally alert.

  He passed the silver hand under hers, an unconscious parody of Tom’s throw, and slipped it around her waist, and put his mouth over hers. He tasted of beer, and he smelled of fight, and her whole body responded to him, so that her body was like a runaway horse even as she herself wondered where she should be.

  And he had learned how a side-laced kirtle worked. When his hand went onto her bare side—it was too hot for shifts—she let go.

  * * *

  “Kaitlin and Michael are coming for a cup of wine,” he said.

  She had her head pillowed on his shoulder, and she was naked. And her kirtle was ruined. It had blood on it, and it had been torn. The blood was his, but...

  “I’d like you to marry me,” he said. “I love you.”

  She rolled this around for a while. She didn’t really have a thought in her head, and, in fact, it annoyed her that his mind was back to reality while she was still savouring...savouring...

  “I’m naked,” she managed.

  He laughed. “Sweeting, Toby will not allow anyone, dragon or giant or Ser Michael, through that door. And this inn is full of lovely people who will run, run if asked, to get you a fresh kirtle and dress your hair.”

  She got up on one elbow. “You would marry me? What about Irene?”

  Gabriel looked at her. It was a terrible look; not the look of a lover at all, but a look of fearful concentration. She didn’t like it.

  “If you are to be my wife,” he said, “I think you need to know the truth, and the consequences.” He took a breath.

  “What truth?” she asked. She didn’t like the way he looked.

  “By now, Irene may be dead,” he said. “If not, and it will be her choice...” He paused. “Her life will change.”

  * * *

  Michael sat on the bench in front of the fire while Toby served wine. Kaitlin and Blanche—Snow White and Rose Red, straight from the tales—had their heads together over the baby, who was either spitting or giggling or just possibly both at the same time.

  Michael drank his wine slowly.

  Gabriel drank his wine more quickly.

  “May we live to see old age,” Michael said. “May we live to see our children grow, and in their turn, rise to life.”

  Gabriel lifted his cup, then handed it to Blanche, who drank.

  Kaitlin met his eye and raised one eyebrow.

  Gabriel smiled crookedly.

  * * *

  In the morning, Archer Gropf reprised his role as Master Tailor Gropf. Bales of wool and linen were arranged behind him in two bays of the great inn’s stable block, which had been cleared
of straw and manure and scrubbed. He had a number of wooden boards, which he measured, and then, after some thought, into which he drove iron nails at set distances.

  Out in the stable yard, the full company was mustered, absent only the very sickest like Ser Phillipe de Beause. The holes in the company were vast—they had lost almost a third of the men-at-arms and a quarter of the archers, and Bill Redmede had made plain that none of his Jacks were marching with the company, no matter what financial inducements were offered. His brother Harald of the royal foresters had said the same.

  On the other hand, a third of the population of the northern Brogat was now gathered under the Ings of Dorling, inside the circle of the Wyrm. People told themselves they had come for the tournament, but most had, in fact, come because the word was out that the Wyrm was taking refugees and that folk inside the circle were safe from the plague. And so far, the rumour had been accurate. Not a man or woman who had survived the trip into the circle had died. None seemed to contract it, either, and the distance that had developed between those who had it and those who didn’t in the early days had largely vanished.

  The yeomen of the northern Brogat and their sons were natural recruits: tall, hardy, and in many cases already veteran archers and soldiers. And too many men knew that the year’s planting was already lost, and wages from some fighting would tide over a whole family.

  There were tables outside the outer yard. Cully ran a table, and Sukey, even sick, managed another, and Gavin managed a third. But in the stable yard, there was a formation, holes or not. Tom Lachlan barked, and fifty-some battered lances found their places and stood attentively in full harness, as if ready to march away, with blanket rolls on their shoulders and food bags by their sides, and were mustered by name for subsequent paying, and then went, by name, to the head of the line.

  The first table was a pay table. This improved the spirit of the occasion immediately, especially as the captain had declared the loss of horses to be “hard lying” and paid an allowance for men who had walked, and because the queen had announced the two weeks of the Gilson’s Hole campaign to be “double pay days.” Man by man and woman by woman, the company’s archers, men-at-arms, pages, squires, laundresses, and wagoners passed the table, took their money or made their marks to place it on account in the company bank, and went on.

  The second table was an immediate review of each man or woman’s kit. Ser Danved stood there with Ser Gavin and Smoke, and they examined harness, looked at tack and saddles, fondled buckles, pulled on straps, and emptied food bags. Swords were drawn and presented. Lucky soldiers, like young Diccon and Petite Mouline, had everything. They received a silver leopard bonus and went on their way to the third table. Unlucky soldiers, like Cat Evil, who had sold his arrow bags and his sword, were “encouraged” to pay on the spot for new equipment. Some men vanished from the line altogether at this point, with chits for the armourers or the bowyers or the sword smiths, all of whom had set up as if the inn were a fair, which in fact it was. In a shed on the outer yard, Edmund Allen hammered away, taking dents out of a bascinet, while a dozen apprentices from Master Pye’s shop in Harndon ran his errands, kept his fire hot, or sharpened swords for a penny a throw.

  But after the third table came Master Gropf and his boards. Each member of the company, depending on role—but everyone, laundress, wagoner, or knight—received an issue of cloth. A pretty young woman in a low-cut kirtle who couldn’t sew and did whatever Sukey told her, named Letty, got six yards of white linen, three yards red wool for a gown, three yards kersey for a cloak, one yard each red and blue fine for hoods, and hanks of thread and packets of valuable needles.

  An archer like Cat Evil drew nine yards of white linen for shirts and braes, six yards of scarlet wool for cotes, a vivid tartan in red, yellow, and green for special occasions, yellow and green wool for hosen, and an assortment of boots, belts, and hats. Some things cost him money, but the cloth was measured out to the nail and cut.

  Men-at-arms went to the second bay. The colours were the same; the quality was not. The tartan was knapped, soft, and made of the best wools, if the same colours; the linen was whiter and finer, the scarlet dyed with beetles rather than tree bark, for a better colour. But the measurements were the same.

  Master archers and some women drew from the second bay, as well, and as the line moved, there were calls and occasional cheers. It turned out that every member, from slattern to knight, received enough superfine wool to make a dress hood, at the captain’s expense. Letty giggled. “For wool this pretty, I’ll learn to sew. Won’t my poor ma be surprised?”

  Tessa Gilson, who had watched her baby brother eaten by a wyvern and the remains buried in Albinkirk, who had now marched over half the Brogat in a month to come back to home, laughed nastily. “Your mama’d be surprised by a lot o’ the things you’ve learned, Letty,” she said. “Sure is pretty wool, though.”

  By the time the last names in line—Gadgy’s Romany name was Zzhou—were getting their cloth, the most skilled needles had already run up the first garments, and the whole inner court was served dinner by the inn while the best sempters and seamstresses struck bargains and sewed, and the worst tried to learn to make themselves at least a shirt or a shift.

  And the next day, the veterans were served wine and food all day while they ran up new clothes and the whole process was repeated under their eyes for the men and women who’d signed or marked at the three recruiting tables in the outer court. Not all the recruits were new men; Lord Wimarc, who had been Father Arnaud’s squire and was a donat of the Order, had signed as a knight, but every man and woman in the company knew him and liked him as a serious boy and a deadly blade. A handful of Hillmen who had marched with the company signed on, and Angelo di Laternum brought three young Etruscan men who’d followed Princess Irene out of Liviapolis a month before as guards and now seemed rudderless since the princess had disappeared in the night and not included them in her plans. But most of the new knights were Occitans, knights who had followed their prince all summer and had his permission to go, or new men just come from the south, summoned by news of a tournament and eager for action. And the empty farmhouses of the Brogat and of western Morea provided pages and varlets, slatterns and laundresses, and forty new archers, and all those new men and women received a bounty, were armed and equipped with huge dents against future pay that made a few wonder if there’d ever be any to send home, and then handed cloth and linen, a fortune to any farm boy. New girls who could sew, and that was most, found that sewing paid better than fornication.

  And the third day, a party came up the road from Harndon, led by Ser Gerald Random, and as soon as they arrived, guild soldiers and craftsman marching hard, they were put to work constructing the lists. And behind them came a flood of Jarsay knights and Occitans and westerners, and through the woods came bogglins and Golden Bears and even, cautiously, a solid company of wardens, crests deflated like berets on their long-beaked heads, to bow before Duchess Mogon and sit while the queen and duchess and Flint gave justice under yet another ancient tree.

  Toward evening, Tall Pine and Ser Giannis Turkos came in with thirty Outwaller warriors and made camp with Nita Qwan, Gas-a-ho the shaman and Ta-se-ho, the old hunter, and their warriors. They sat and smoked together, and in time they were joined by the Red Knight and his brother.

  Ser Gabriel didn’t hesitate to share smoke.

  Turkos held out a scroll. “As you know, we met Orley’s force in the mountains east of the lake. Almost to Thrake,” he said. “And we defeated them.”

  Tall Pine’s warriors nodded. A few shook sticks with antlers newly cut from living flesh.

  “Orley’s men have antlers,” Tall Pine said. He shrugged. “Had antlers.”

  “Many escaped west, and some east, and your brother continued in pursuit of those who went north,” Turkos said. “Tall Pine and his people have been long from home. We agreed to bring messages here. Then we would all like to go home.”

  The Red Knight e
njoyed his turn with the pipe, which was a magnificent one: a beautiful dark red stone bowl, with a long stem of some polished reed, wound in delicate porcupine quillwork. “I am glad you won,” he said. “And I free you after a long summer’s work to return to your villages.” He nodded. “But not until we have beaten the plague. I cannot let you carry it home.”

  Several men were coughing.

  Tall Pine nodded. “This seems wise,” he said. “We have our own thoughts on this trouble.”

  The Red Knight nodded. He paused to cough, and to stare, as one did, at the ruin of his lungs. The smoke seemed to help, but some days he had his doubts. “Perhaps Gas-a-ho would join the council of our shamans,” he said.

  Most of the warriors smiled. Gabriel noted to himself...alliance meant inclusion in every council. It was a lesson he kept relearning.

  He turned and passed the pipe to Nita Qwan. “I invite you to council with us after the first of the...ceremonial fighting, concerning matters that affect all of us. The Duchess Mogon has requested you. I ask you to represent, not just the Sossag, but all the northern peoples.”

  Nita Qwan looked around at his companions. “No man can speak for the free peoples of the north,” he said. “A matron, maybe. Or maybe not.”

  Tall Pine nodded. “My brother speaks wisely. We are free. We have no princes or kings or dukes. If we wanted such, we would have them.”

  The Red Knight nodded, rocking on his haunches. “And yet, some speak in council, and others do not, or so I understand?” he said. In fact, when he was a boy his father had often taken him to see the Outwallers. He had a fair idea how the northerners, especially the Sossag, spoke.

  “Each speaks as he will,” Tall Pine said.

  “Then let Nita Qwan come, and speak as he will,” the Red Knight said. “And he can report our words to the Sossag, and the Huran, and any others who wish to listen. Because now is the time when all the free peoples must fight together, or be washed away the way a swift-running stream in spring washes away a sandbank.”