The Drinnglennin Chronicles Omnibus

by K. C. Julius

  Chapter 18

  Borne

  The gyrfalcon was a bloody distraction. Borne didn’t see how the others could concentrate on the council’s discussion with the incessant jingling of the bells attached to its tresses. But His Majesty King Crenel insisted the restive bird accompany him everywhere, even to meals. The previous evening, a large pastry served at the royal table had been cut open to release live skylarks, and the hawk had hunted down fleeing birds right there in the dining hall. The larks’ droppings had fouled Borne’s stew, and even the king’s ermine robes had not been spared.

  Today the gyrfalcon was hooded as it paced restlessly on its perch. Borne supposed he should be grateful that the king’s gathered advisors had not brought in their birds as well; all the court carried the blasted things around like lapdogs. The demoiselles paraded about with little merlins clutching their gloves, while the gentlemen favored the more formidable peregrine. But only the king could possess a silver gyr, the largest and rarest species.

  Not for the first time, Borne wondered why he’d been invited to join this council. Latour’s presence was understandable, but what call was there for his Drinnglennian underling? He supposed he should consider it an honor, surrounded as he was by the royal household’s most prominent members. The Constable of Gral, Comte Walerin, to whom Marechal Latour was directly responsible, was seated across from Borne, his close-cropped grey hair and weather-etched face marking him as the oldest man present. Comte Jeane Respay, the Lord Chancellor, sat at the king’s left hand. The dashing raven-haired lord, less than half the age of Walerin, was charged with the daunting task of overseeing the kingdom’s unwieldy judicial system. Borne remembered studying this tangled web, based on the primacy of customary law, under Master Lorian, the same tutor who’d taught him his impeccable Gralian.

  Crenel’s High Steward, Artrois Roann, was seated on Latour’s right. The comte was cousin to the king, and one of the most influential men present. He headed the imperial household and thus enjoyed more of his regal kinsman’s company than the others combined. Only Fra Quimpe, Monter on High and the goddess Priscinae’s holiest servant, and Comte Montchaurt, the king’s financial comtetroller, held more power.

  Thus far, Montchaurt had dominated the discussion, reviewing in tedious detail the lavish expenditures for the renovation of the king’s water closet. While Borne found the engineering of its air circulation and drainage of interest, he’d heard more than enough about the padding of the privy’s seat and the quality of the linens available to His Grace for cleansing his royal ass.

  “How can the marechal serve such a popinjay?” Borne had asked Du Charney bluntly a few days earlier, after enduring an astounding lecture on fashion and etiquette from one of His Majesty’s dressers. He held up a pair of narrow boots with bright red heels, supposedly all the rage at court. “Am I really expected to wear these, and be sure to slide my left foot in front of my right before I sit down?”

  Du Charney, Latour’s second, raised an expressive eyebrow. “In answer to your first question, Marechal Latour serves the Crown. And you mustn’t think of ill of His Majesty. King Crenel came to the throne as a child, and was made a pawn in his elderly uncles’ pursuit of their own advancements. Once the last of these vultures died, one can forgive the prince for giving himself over to all the amusements previously denied him—pageantry, gambling, hunting, hawking, and dalliances with pretty women. Some will say he’s overfree with the coin of the realm, and often deaf to wiser counsel, but since he came of age, his advisors have met with more success in reining in his spending.”

  Borne laughed. “Did these advisors sanction depleting the treasury so His Majesty could indulge in the complete renovation of Lugeneux?”

  “King Crenel must have some entertainments,” insisted the comte. “He is a restless, capricious prince. When he was denied his beloved grand processions across the realm, it was necessary to provide him with an interest that also benefits Gral.”

  “More’s the pity. If he were to go on procession now and see how his people suffer, perhaps he’d have more care for them.”

  “You should have a care how you speak of the king,” growled Du Charney. “One forgets sometimes your youth, and that you come from that uncivil Isle over the sea, for which I hold your insulting tongue accountable.”

  “I beg your pardon, my lord,” said Borne contritely, “but you too must find it frustrating to witness the squandering of Gral’s assets at the expense of the peasants. I fear Drinnglennin will veer in the same direction now that Urlion’s made the Leap. Not that our late sovereign did very much to improve the conditions of his subjects over the past decade, or to protect the legacy left us by his father. King Owain championed the rights of all Drinnglennians, including the å Livåri. Yet now these people are being persecuted in my land, as they once were here.”

  “Your High King gave his people peace,” said Du Charney, skirting the issue of the å Livåri, whose maltreatment in Gral was yet another blot on the country’s honor. “Peace, above all else, is what we too are striving for, and we pray Latour will achieve it. Without peace, none of us—noble or peasant—can hope to improve our lot in life.”

  Borne tossed the crimson-heeled boots into the corner. “How did it even come to this juncture, with the lawless knights?”

  Du Charney made a most ignoble noise. “You’d be better off putting that question to my lord Respay, but in simple terms, the problems stem from the Old Law. For years, King Crenel’s vassals could invoke their right to independently withdraw from military conflicts if they needed to protect their own castles and lands. They invoked the right regularly when the Helgrins began making their inexorable inroads into our sovereign territory, sometimes slipping away right before battles.

  “Crenel was infuriated that his knights were putting their own interests before those of the nation, so he declared the Old Law void and threatened to strip titles and land from any knight who left his military duties to defend his home. The king’s decree raised an uproar, prompting some nobles to band together in revolt and declare themselves independent of the throne’s jurisdiction. Hence, they became renegades.” He shook his head with regret. “It’s only since Latour convinced His Majesty of the need for a royal army, solely in service to the throne, that we’ve begun to restore the people’s faith in the Crown’s ability to keep order in the land.”

  Borne wondered now if restoring the people’s faith was even possible.

  He was drawn out of his reverie when the council’s consideration finally shifted from privies to matters of war.

  “You will be pleased to learn, Your Grace,” the Constable of Gral was saying, “that many of the dissenting knights are at last honoring their vows. Baffette and Trevigion have both petitioned for your royal pardon. In exchange, they will lead armies of their own vassals into the next major assault on the Helgrin invaders.”

  “While the merchants of Lugeneux lounge by their fires,” grumbled the king.

  “The merchants are not trained for war, sire, or legally allowed to take up arms,” Fra Quimpe reminded his sovereign. He tucked his vein-marbled hands into his trailing sleeves and hunched his heavy shoulders, although a fire blazed in the hearth and his great bulk should have prevented him from feeling a chill.

  “Well, perhaps they should be permitted weapons, in this time of need!” snapped Crenel.

  “Your guildsmen are occupied with valuable trade, sire,” Latour pointed out, “and they pay for the privilege. Without their steep entrance fees for guild memberships, which go directly into the royal coffers, and their favorable loans to the Crown, the kingdom would have been bankrupted long ago.”

  Borne had observed such exchanges between his marechal and the king on several occasions now. Crenel, for all his frivolous habits, had so far demonstrated the good sense to listen to Latour’s counsel. And why shouldn’t he? Under the marechal’s command, all but a lingering
vestige of the anarchy that had ravaged Gral for the past decade had been crushed. Only a handful of rogue bands were still at large, and Latour hoped Gormett would succeed in ferreting these out before they returned to the camp at L’Asedies. In the very near future, Latour would be free to turn his brilliant and punishing attention to liberating the Helgrin-held lands along Gral’s northern coast.

  The king scowled as he heard his marechal out, but didn’t press his petulant argument further. Beside His Majesty, the gyrfalcon rocked on its perch, emitting a high, mewling plea signaling its boredom. Borne empathized with the bird; he was feeling much the same. Stifling a yawn, he realized his name had been spoken—twice—by the king.

  He dropped his hand from his mouth and straightened. “Sire?”

  The king sprawled in his chair, his thin fingers stroking the gyrfalcon’s breast. “My marechal informs me that you are personally acquainted with Drinnglennin’s new High King. Can you allay our concerns regarding him?”

  Borne blinked. “Concerns, Your Majesty?”

  “We are surrounded by enemies,” Crenel complained. “The Albrenian king is almost certainly engaged in secret talks with the Helgrins, and the stirrings of the barbarians in the far south are rumored to be supported by both our hostile neighbors. The emissary to our court from Segavia went home several months ago on what he termed ‘personal business,’ and has not returned.

  “It’s long past time to renew our once-strong ties with the Isle. Lord Hudde, Drinnglennin’s last ambassador, retired to Drinnkastel half a dozen years ago, and Urlion never saw fit to send a replacement.”

  “We did receive Konigur’s assurances that Drinnglennin’s pledge of alliance would stand, Your Majesty,” Walerin said.

  “Bah!” scoffed the king. “Empty words! They haven’t kept the Helgrin wolves from our shores! Our pleas for help from Urlion fell on deaf ears!” He eyed Borne speculatively. “I understand you are not yet sworn to service to this King Roth.”

  “The only oath I am bound by,” replied Borne, “is the one I took upon entering the marechal’s company, Your Highness. I owe allegiance to no other at present.”

  And this was true. Oaths of fealty were taken by a vassal to his lord, and generally rewarded by a grant of land. Borne was no vassal, and although he’d inherited Bergsehn when his parents perished, Lord Heptorious had never required a vow of fealty from him.

  “Then we shall proceed.” The king rose abruptly from his chair, his advisors surging to their feet around him. Crenel strode on his bowed legs to the center of the room, Walerin and Latour close on his heels.

  To Borne’s surprise, Latour signaled for him to join them.

  “It is my marechal’s wish that your service to the Crown be recognized,” said Crenel, once Borne stood before him. “In this, I am happy to oblige him.”

  “With your permission, sire,” said Constable Walerin. Receiving a royal nod, the man drew his sword and placed it in His Majesty’s hands.

  “Kneel,” commanded the king.

  Stunned into silence, Borne obeyed.

  “By the Grace of our Lady, Priscinae, Mother of Mothers, and the power vested in us through Her Sanctity and through our royal blood, we are pleased to bestow upon you, Borne Braxton, the Office of Herald, and all the privileges to which this rank entitles you.”

  It was only when Borne felt the weight of the constable’s sword on his shoulder that he believed what was happening. He was not only a commoner; he was baseborn. Yet with two strokes of the blade, his status in life had been redefined.

  “Rise, sir,” Crenel commanded.

  Borne bent low so that the much shorter king could drape the silver-and-gold sash across his shoulder, and he remained bowed down to receive His Majesty’s three kisses, in the Gralian fashion.

  After these salutes, Borne dropped again to one knee. “Sire, I am honored and… speechless.”

  A satisfied smile curved Crenel’s thin lips. “You have your commander to thank, Sir Borne. The marechal assures me your dedication and the contributions you’ve made to defeating our enemies have earned you this position. He also tells me you’re highly intelligent. Is it true you’re classically educated and that you are fluent in Olquarian?”

  Borne glance over at Latour, wondering at this turn in the conversation, but the marechal was studying his hands. “Yes, sire.”

  The king stroked his pointed beard and gave a thoughtful nod. “I was considering you as a replacement for the departed Lord Hudde, but my advisors tell me your lack of a generations-old noble birthright makes you an unsuitable ambassador to Drinnglennin.”

  Borne breathed a silent prayer of thanks for this. “It’s true, Your Grace. I’m the son of a shepherd. In any case, an appointment to this post would have to come from Drinnkastel.”

  “If I may speak, Your Majesty,” said Latour.

  With a nod from the king, Latour turned to Borne, his eyes lit with something close to amusement. “As herald to His Majesty, sir, you are duty-bound to accede to King Crenel’s commands.”

  “Of course,” Borne said, but he knew now to be wary.

  The king paced to the window, then turned to look up at Borne. “We have urgent need of your services, regardless of your antecedents. You shall be ensured safe conduct and can expect to be welcomed in accordance with your high standing in this court.”

  Borne’s mind had seized on “safe conduct.” Was the king sending him away?

  The gyrfalcon shrieked, and Crenel, turning, held out his hand so that Roann could tug a heavy gauntlet over it. Then the steward removed the falcon’s hood, revealing the bird’s liquid brown eyes. It gave a series of rapid chirps before fluttering over to land heavily on the king’s glove.

  “Comte Walerin and Marechal Latour can fill you in on the details of your mission,” said the king, stroking the silver bird’s feathers. “Come, Marthé,” he crooned. “We shall ride out now. My lady needs to stretch her wings.”

  Respay, Montchaurt, and Roann followed the king from the room, leaving Comte Walerin to outline King Crenel’s plans for his newly appointed herald.

  Hearing Walerin’s proposal, Borne felt his jaw drop. “You want me to represent His Majesty in Olquaria? But I’m a foreigner, and know nothing of diplomacy, sir!”

  “Comte Balfou is leading the delegation,” said the constable, “and he has many years of experience with the Basileus’s court. Indeed, Emperor Zlatan has shown the comte great favor. At this time, however, Zlatan Basileus has need of an elite corps to train his army in the use of modern armaments.

  “Olquaria has always remained neutral when conflicts have broken out between her neighbors, near or far. King Crenel has been courting the Basileus for some time now to consider a new alliance. Our lord hopes to win a firm commitment of military support from Zlatan, should we come under attack from Albrenia.”

  Fra Quimpe interjected his thin voice into the discussion. “I shall select an appropriate monter to join your party. Although we are not permitted to spread the Holy Word of the Mother in that heathen land, our emissaries are allowed to worship privately within the foreign compound. Your souls shall not suffer from neglect while you are away.”

  My soul is the least of my worries, thought Borne. “What exactly can I contribute to this expedition?”

  The constable tented his fingers before him. “According to the marechal, you are not only a fine soldier, but also a professional trainer of men. As King Crenel’s emissary, you will lead a company comprised of some of my best fighters as escort for the delegation. Once in Tell-Uyuk, you will employ these men to instruct the Basileus’s forces in modern strategic warfare. Your company will include experts in the use of crossbows, siege engines, and cannonry. In addition, you personally will have another, more discreet role.”

  Latour’s heavy-hooded eyes gave Borne no clues as to where Walerin was leading.

 
“You speak Gralian like a native son,” continued the constable, “and we are not a people known for the mastery of other tongues. No one will suspect you of possessing fluent Olquarian.”

  Borne sat back in his chair. “You want me to be a spy.”

  Walerin exchanged a glance with Latour, who shrugged and said, “I told you the fellow is clever.”

  Borne appealed to his commander. “What about the å Livåri corps, Marechal? I’ve made a commitment to Nicu and his men.”

  “Which you’ve honored, as they’ve honored their commitments to me,” replied Latour evenly. “They’ll be released to return to their own concerns, taking with them the training and arms to which we agreed.”

  Borne tried and failed to think of another argument that would keep him in service to Latour. He’d come to admire the marechal more than any other man he knew, save Lord Heptorious, and had hoped to stay on with the Gralian company once they’d fully subdued the rebels. If this wasn’t possible, he’d thought to join Nicu in the fight against the enslavement of his people. Now, in the space of a few minutes, both options had been taken away, and another assignment forced on him.

  Walerin pushed back from the table, clearly assuming the matter to be settled. “There are arrangements to be made. We’ll meet again as soon as all is finalized. Until then, gentlemen.”

  The monter rose ponderously to his feet and raised his doughy hand in benediction. “May the Mother of Mothers and Sword of Faith sustain you, and grant you success in His Majesty’s name.” Then he trundled after the constable, accompanied by the sound of his wheezing breath and his long skirts sweeping the rushes.

  * * *

  Out in the courtyard, Latour clapped a silent Borne on the shoulder. “Come now, my friend,” he said. “Why so glum? You’ve succeeded in exchanging your shepherd’s crook for a sword, and your herd of coilhorns for an army. And you’ve obtained the status of nobility, Sir Herald!”

  “I don’t see what good it will do me. You don’t seem to care much for your birthright, Comte Latour.”