by John M. Ford
Hywel and Dimitrios, Cynthia and Gregory turned left and right and sometimes right around, blocked at all turns by processional dancers, bear-baiters, staff-swingers looking for a keg or a skull to crack open, minnesingers weeping into their lutes. The gutters ran with mint water and foxed beer, a little blood when the Little Johns collided, and the more usual savories. There were green-sashed Gawaines and horned Hemes, Kyrils with crown and quill, and choristers singing recitatives to Anybody listening. Milk Street ran white: the Worshipful Company of the Art and Mystery of Dentistry was turned out in mass to cheer the passage of the Sun into Capricorn, auspicious for the pulling of teeth.
Another few zigzag blocks they rode, and there came a sound like gunfire. Dimi leaned forward, Gregory's hands tightened on the reins. Smoke drifted on the cold, still air, and footsteps clattered. A serpentine form emerged from a side street, waving and stamping, showing golden spines and eyes the size of platters. The beast dipped and bobbed on two dozen human legs with wood-soled shoes. People around it cheered and tossed little burning sticks that cracked and flashed fire.
"A dragon of the Chinas," Hywel said. "The little thundercrackers are harmless, but mind your horses." He turned to Cynthia.
She sat a little forward on her sidesaddle, staring at the dragon and the explosions. Her face was set, showing no discernible feeling; her left hand emerged from her black cloak, clutching its edge, the knuckles in an arch of pain.
Dimitrios reached out to touch her; she turned, as if waking abruptly, and said, "Thank you, but I'm all right. I was just holding the animal still No sense getting one's neck broken over a few fire-flowers."
Dimi nodded. Hywel turned back to the street ahead. Gregory did absolutely nothing. When the dragon and its party had cleared the street, they rode on through the burnt and smoky air.
Wooden docks, well-frosted, thrust out before them into the half- frozen Thames. They turned at Hywel's direction, and shortly he called a halt. They were before the stone face of a riverfront house, at least a hundred feet long and three or four storeys high, with towers at the corners. The stone was not decorative, the windows were narrow against entry, and the door was heavily reinforced with iron.
"Impressive," Dimitrios said, looking up at the towers.
"Very warlike," Cynthia said flatly.
"The place is called Baynard's Castle," Hywel said, dismounting slowly and a little clumsily. "It's defensible enough. It hasn't been so long since that sort of construction was necessary." He went to the ironbound door, knocked hard. "And here we come bringing old times back," he said quietly.
The door was opened by a man in a cap and long gown, both dark red; embroidered around his collar were white roses and stems, and a gold key hung on a chain around his neck. His face was long- jawed, and his square beard was gray.
"I regret, sir," he said, "the Duchess is not...Magister Hywel?"
"Will the Duchess see me and my friends, Hugh?" Hywel said. "We've been a long time getting here."
The butler pulled the door wide. "Come in, Magister, please, and your company. I'll get the Irish lads for your horses, and tell the Lady; she'll be pleased, I know."
As they entered the high, dim hallway, Hugh said "It's been so terribly quiet here for so long... and now you're here, and young Duke Richard's expected from the North any time. Cook's going to be pleased; she hasn't made a really fine meal in such a time—"
"Hugh," Hywel said, almost offhand, "what about Duke George?"
Without breaking stride, the butler said levelly, "How much do you know, Magister?"
Hywel smiled. "Years don't dull your edge, Hugh Wetherby. We know there's trouble between George and Edward, real trouble this time, and it's a fair guess Richard isn't coming on a casual ride."
Wetherby said "The Duke of Clarence is in the Tower, on the King's orders."
"On what charge?"
"They took him from Warwick's Inn on a charge of interfering with the King's justice. An affair about his poor wife, and her maid—"
"We know."
"Well. But there's no one in London who believes that will be the charge when Parliament sits."
"Do they believe treason, Hugh?"
"Some say the King means only to give his brother a good scaring, but the Duke never has learned from his frights and the King has become very determined." Looking straight ahead, Wetherby said "Is that why you've come, Magister?"
"We have a little good news, Hugh."
"The Lady will be pleased to hear good news," Wetherby said, suddenly formal. "Your usual room is free, and for the lady and gentlemen... is the lady married?"
"Not at all, sir," Cynthia said.
"Well then. Would you all like to rest a bit, and I'll tell the Duchess you're here... and she'll see you at dinner."
"Or not, as she pleases," Hywel said gently.
"As she pleases," Wetherby said, and unlocked a door with an iron key from his belt. "The maids will be up soon. I'll send hot water."
When the butler had gone, Dimitrios said "Now what was that about—'if she pleases'? You said you were a friend of this family."
"I am," Hywel said, "and Hugh knows it... but the family's split, and he wonders whose friend I am now."
Cecily Neville, dowager Duchess of York, had been called the Rose of Raby in her youth, and she was still quite fair and smooth of face; seeing her, it was not easy to imagine that eleven children, the executions of a husband and son, and a long chain of battles and captivities had come between then and now. In her pose at the dinner table, however, relaxed yet elegant, one could clearly perceive the mother of a king.
"My daughter Margaret," she was saying to Cynthia, "considered becoming a priestess of Minerva, but there was a German alliance to cement. And Ursula, the youngest, seems determined on a career in one of the knightly orders. You should meet; you'd be an inspiration to one another." She smiled warmly. There was a silver owl pendant at her throat; its diamond eyes glittered in the light. "You're not eating, dear."
"I'm sorry, Your Grace... it must be the travel. I don't mean to be rude."
"You're not, of course. When they drove my Richard out of the country, I turned myself and the children over to King Henry; he didn't dare hurt me then, for fear of thunderbolts as an oath- breaker ... but believe me, dear, in that year I learned what rudeness was."
The Duchess looked around the table. "I also learned about running a tight household; would anyone else care to eat the Doctor's dinner?"
Gregory covered his unused plate with his linen napkin. Hywel sipped his wine and shook his head. Dimitrios said awkwardly, "Uh—I shall."
Duchess Cecily motioned to a servant, and Cynthia's dish was set before Dimi. "Thank you," he said, forming the words carefully. "It is very good meat."
"I hope so, Captain," said the Duchess. "It's Royal venison; men have died for shooting those deer."
Dimi looked at her, eyes large; she had spoken in Greek nearly as clumsy as his own English. Behind his winecup, Hywel smiled slightly.
Cynthia seemed scarcely to have noticed. "If you would excuse me, Your Grace—"
"Of course, Doctor Ricci. Shall I have some tea and honey sent up to you?"
"That would be most kind." Cynthia stood, bowed, and went out of the dining hall.
Silence hung after her for a minute or two. The hound by the fireplace went to take a bone from the Duchess; she wiped her fingers and said "Which of you knows her best?"
Hywel said "She's lost her entire family, suddenly and not pleasantly. Then, just when we met, she was duped, by one of... their people." Cecily's lips compressed. Hywel said "No—not that. Not quite that. She betrayed a friend to death, not knowing he was a friend."
"Is that all?"
"That's all I can tell you." He paused, the Duchess's gaze not leaving him. "Because of how I learned it, Cecily."
Dimitrios looked up when Hywel used the Duchess's given name. She nodded, said briskly, "I must never forget what you are. Now, Hugh said you
had good news."
"I doubt as good as I had hoped. We saw Margaret in Angers, about George's supposed agreement."
"I see. I suppose I should not ask how that was arranged. And is there such an agreement?"
"No such document exists, my lady."
"That is good news, then... to know there is one tiny bone of sense in George's body." She sighed. "But I do not think it will save him, not now. Edward has become so..." The dog licked her hand, and she tossed it another scrap. "Edward has become King, and that's all of it."
There was a commotion from the hallway outside, a sound of boots and dogs barking, shouts; the door opened and a man came in, stomping. He was dressed for the road, and clearly had been riding hard. There was dust on his leather coat, slush on his boots and gold spurs. He was not tall, but was powerfully built, with a warrior's big shoulders. Dark hair hung to his collar; his features were even, flat, not unattractive. He pulled off his cap with a ringed hand, shouted, "Good evening, Mother! Time for rejoicing: despite the roads and London, the younger son is—" He looked around the dinner table. "Oh, shit."
The Duchess said calmly, "Welcome home, Richard. Didn't Hugh tell you we had guests?"
"He said, er, something. There was a lot of. ..noise." One of the dogs that had come in behind Richard was yapping at his heel. "Shut up," he hissed, and swiped his foot at the animal.
Cecily shook her head, started to say something, then burst out laughing instead. "Come here, son of autumn."
They embraced. "Enough, now," she said. "Is there any soil left in Nottinghamshire, or did you bring it all on your clothes? Now say hello to the guests."
Richard turned, bowed formally, then stared. "Peredur!" He took Hywel's hand in both of his own. "But I didn't expect you here!"
"Things worked out differently. I'm glad to see you here, though; I've brought these gentlemen to meet you. This is Dimitrios Ducas, Captain-at-arms, and Gregory, Fachritter von Bayern, artillerist. Gentlemen, Richard Plantagenet, Duke of Gloucester, Constable of England, and Warden of the Northern Marches."
"What Peredur means," Richard said, "is that I chase Scotsmen around Robin Hood's barn."
"I've told them something of the situation," Hywel said, "and they're willing to serve with you. If you're interested in having them, of course."
"Of course," Richard said lightly. Then, more seriously, he said to Hywel "Who else is in your bag of tricks?"
"Albany is in Denmark."
"What's he doing in Denmark?"
"Wavering, I imagine."
"But you think he'll go through with it?"
"The chance to be a king, even king in your brother's place, is a very strong magnet. But to be drawn by a magnet, one must contain some metal."
"When I was a boy, he talked like that," Richard said to Dimi and Gregory, who looked back, puzzled. "I don't understand it any better now." He touched Hywel's sleeve. "But I trust him. And I need trustworthy men, especially now. The pay isn't bad, either; I know—I'm the paymaster." He leaned over Cynthia's abandoned place, picked up the full winecup. "The gods won't mind," he said, and drank.
Richard put the cup down. "It's been a long day, for the middle of winter." He patted Hywel's shoulder, gave his mother a kiss. "I'd better go wash Nottingham off. Tell Cook the burglar in the kitchen tonight is only a starving duke. Good night, all." He clomped out, spurs rattling, pursued by the barking dog.
Gregory said "Does he know that his brother is imprisoned?"
The Duchess said "He knows. It is why he came to London, without his wife and son. I only wish..." She paused, looked around, seemed about to wave a hand and dismiss the others without further conversation; then in a level voice she said, "I wish I knew what he's come to do."
The morning sky was low and dark and threatening, the streets below very quiet. Hywel turned away from the narrow window. Around the breakfast table, Duchess Cecily was eating boiled eggs and reading from a book on a stand, the new Caxton printing of Malory's Arthuriad; a maid turned the pages to keep them clean. Richard and Dimitrios were eating bread and herring from their hands, talking between bites, not seeming to care how much grease and beer got onto the map of Northumbria spread between them. Gregory stood at a far window, looking out through his dark glasses on the dim cityscape, nibbling disinterestedly at a piece of white bread with comb honey.
Cynthia came in. Her hair was pulled back severely, tied with black ribbon; her face was drawn, and the spots below her eyes looked like bruises. She walked with an unnatural, forced steadiness, as if at every step she feared to fall.
Richard and Dimi did not look up at first. When they did, Richard practically leaped to his feet. "My lady! Peredur didn't tell me—"
"Doctor of Medicine Cynthia Ricci, late of Florence," Hywel said. "Cynthia, this is Duke Richard, the King's brother."
Cynthia stood silent for a moment, her eyes showing no comprehension; then she said "A great pleasure, Your Grace. I'm sorry I did not make your acquaintance last night... but I retired early. Impolitely, I fear—"
"There was nothing impolite about it," the Duchess said firmly, looking over her reading spectacles. "As I told you. My word is followed in my house, milady."
"Of course, Your Grace. I'm... sorry I forgot."
Cecily smiled, nodded, went back to her book. Richard said "If anyone was rude, I was; I think I drank your wine. But... you're a doctor? A doctor I need very much. Hywel, you're a wiz—you're splendid."
"I hadn't intended that Doctor Ricci accompany you," Hywel said. "I meant for her to come with me, to Wales."
Richard tilted his head. "That's something other than splendid, Peredur. I didn't think you were that sort," he said, with a polite leer.
"Naturally," Hywel said at once, "Cynthia is free to do as she wishes." He looked at her. She was rather pale, and seemed to wince at the wan light through the windows. Hywel stared at Gregory, who looked back, impassive.
Cynthia said "I hadn't realized we were to part company at all. I'll have to think... I'm afraid I'm not thinking too well, just now. Do we have some time?"
"Certainly there's time," Hywel said. "There's rarely a good cause to hurry things."
Richard said "I'm here for a Parliamentary court, and I won't be leaving until it's over A month, at least."
"You're here for more than that," said the Duchess in an ominous tone, and they all turned. "A note came this morning from Windsor. Your eldest brother's decided to carry through his son's marriage, and since he's called everyone to London anyway, it might as well be done at once."
Richard said "Which son?"
"Richard of Salisbury. The"—an instant's hesitation—"Duke of York."
"He's three years old, Mother," said Richard Gloucester, amused.
"Four, as if that had anything to do with it. The bride's just turned five."
Cynthia said clearly, "How many troops does she come with?"
Cecily looked up, startled. "Why, no soldiers as such, dear, but most of Norfolk duchy. I see you know how this is done."
"Only above the rank of Baron," Cynthia said. "My lord Richard, I should be glad to serve as a doctor again; I have not done so in too long a time." She bowed and walked out.
"Well, she isn't too polite, is she?" Richard said, awed. "I like her, Peredur. She knows what idiocy is."
The Duchess dismissed the girl who had turned the pages. Then she said, in a high voice, "What did you marry, Richard, youngest?"
Richard winced at the last word. "Annie Neville, of course, Mother."
"Not whom, what. You married half the Neville lands, which were gotten by Percy and Neville tracts marrying Beauchamp and Despenser properties. If this was not made clear to you, we shall have some lawyers whipped. Do you understand, youngest son?"
"Yes," Richard said, grating, "... Your Grace."
Cecily nodded. Then, in a much softer voice, she said, "And, in the year since, have you come to love your half of the Neville estates?"
"I—" The rest of the w
ords seemed to stick in his throat. He looked at his mother, who regarded him steadily; he looked in the direction Cynthia had gone; he put up a hand to partly hide his eyes. Then he swallowed, said "Oh, blast, yes," and sat down heavily.
Richard looked at Dimitrios, who looked back, confused. The Duke said "Annie and I grew up together, in her father's house at Middleham. Runts of the litter, both of us—hush, Mother, I've seen those verses about 'Richard liveth yet'—and we used to knock each other down, because, you see, we were the only ones who could.
"And then we got big enough to matter in the war, and Annie's father changed sides, and I didn't think ever to see her again. And we killed her father."
"The footmen killed Warwick," said the Duchess, not loudly.
"Their knives," said Richard, not quite shouting, "but our war. Then Henry the Idiot and the bitch-goddess pushed Anne over the sword with their weasel son, who wasn't old enough to know what he had to put in, let alone where, and that's what I give for marrying children to improve the breed of kings!" His fist cracked into his palm.
After a little while Dimi said "If I might change the subject..."
"There are no objections," the Duchess said.
"I... don't know your faiths, and I am sorry if this is a wrong question, but tomorrow is an... important day. Is there—"
Richard held up his hand, put a finger to his lips, said "The finest one in the West, ever since the Legions were here. But that's not for Mother to hear." He pushed back his cuff, just revealing the Mithraic brand on his wrist. He and Dimi stood, bowed to Duchess Cecily, and went out.
Hywel said "Cynthia must go with me, of course. I'd thought the rage might have gone out of Richard, but I can't say I expected it." He rubbed his seeing eye, adjusted the other. Gregory touched his glasses.
The Duchess said "I have a brave son, who became a gluttonous king, and a pretty son, who has become a treacherous fool. Richard is angry, but he is the most constant of my boys still living."
Hywel said "It's her pain, of course... all her senses are cut off, as an ache turns to numbness; she can function, walk, talk, but she's a shell. I think I know someone in Wales who can help... but until then, we have to keep something else from filling that shell."
