The Dread Wyrm (Traitor Son Cycle)

by Miles Cameron

  There was silence.

  “I think I am the ablest healer in this gathering,” she said. “If the King has an affliction—”

  “Or a curse, or an ensorcelment—” Ser Gabriel said. He nodded at her like one conspirator to another.

  “Sister Amicia is subject to arrest at any moment,” Prior Wishart said. “And if caught, she can be burned.”

  Amicia shivered. But she squared her shoulders. “I’ll dress as a maid,” she said. “In a kirtle with flowers in my hair, I doubt anyone will take me for a nun.” Her eyes bored into Gabriel’s. “Please, gentles, no false gallantry.”

  “I wonder how close you can get to the King,” Ser Gabriel said.

  There was a silence, and Prior Wishart shook his head. “The guards would never let her close enough,” he said. He turned to glare at the Red Knight, and noted that at some point Sister Amicia had left her chair.

  In fact, she was standing at his elbow.

  “You learned that from me!” Ser Gabriel spat.

  “Yes,” Amicia said.

  Most of the people present laughed.

  The Red Knight went on to lay out his plan in what detail he had. Neither the knights of the Order nor the Occitans were pleased to be relegated to forming the rearguard.

  Ser Gabriel was adamant. “If you ride openly into the lists with us, we’ll be law-breakers,” he said.

  Bad Tom grinned. “Laddie, we’re all law-breakers. Eh? Not lambs. What if they just take us? A hundred crossbows and we’re done—all our steel won’t avail us aught.”

  Gabriel frowned, and his mouth twitched sideways, as it did when he felt he was being hounded. “We’ll make something up,” he said. “I agree with the Prior and Sister Amicia that the Galles have more hermetical power than they are showing—but enough to face me? And Amicia?” He smiled at her.

  She frowned.

  “And if they try to arrest you, then there’s civil war,” she said.

  “We will fight our way out. And take the Queen with us,” he said.

  She nodded. “But I’ve heard that civil war is what the Galles want. So why not take you all the moment you show yourselves?”

  Tom laughed. “She’s got you there,” he said.

  Ser Gabriel’s eyes narrowed. “De Vrailly can’t allow it,” he said.

  “What if he’s just a figurehead?” the Prior asked.

  “No one has told him, if that’s the case,” Ser Gabriel said. “I maintain that if we move quickly, we can sweep them up into a duel.”

  Heads nodded.

  Bad Tom sat back, sheathed his big dirk with a click, and put his booted feet out. He steepled his hands.

  “Can you take de Vrailly?” he asked bluntly.

  Ser Gabriel shrugged. “Yes,” he said.

  “You aren’t sure,” Tom said.

  Gabriel met his eye. “No combat is that sure,” he admitted.

  “So, you are a loon. We’re to ride into the lion’s den at your back and watch you win or lose, and then, if’n you win, we snatch the Queen before the King changes his mind and we ride free to Lorica. Mind ye, if you lose or they decide to cheat or arrest ye, then we’re all taken and die horribly on the rack, or being ripped apart by horses. Have I covered yer plan?” He flicked his chin in an offensive Hill gesture. “It’s not yer best plan.”

  “Do you have a better?” Gabriel spat back. He did not like to be questioned. “Perhaps you can lead us in and out.”

  “When do I get to sell my beasties?” Tom asked.

  “At Lorica,” Gabriel said.

  “Going to cover me for three days while I hold a market?” Tom asked.

  “If I have to,” Ser Gabriel said.

  He and Bad Tom locked eyes. “It’s over-bold even for me,” Tom said.

  Ser Gabriel looked around. “I agree. It’s a crap plan. It is all I have, made with clay and straw. Because what we ought to do is retreat to Albinkirk, let the Galles kill the Queen, and raise our own army. We ought to, but that would play directly into the Galles’ hands and my beloved mother’s. If we pull this off instead, we can save a generation from war. And that, gentlemen, is our duty as knights.”

  “You are a pitiful excuse for a sell-sword,” Bad Tom said. “I’ll send to Donald Dhu to start selling now. We’ll gain a day or two.”

  “You’re in?” Ser Gabriel said.

  “Oh, aye,” Tom said. “I’d follow ye anywhere—if only to find out where y’re goin’.”

  The knights pushed back their chairs. But the Red Knight’s brother put a hand on the table by his brother.

  “I’m the best lance,” he said.

  All conversation stopped.

  “I’ve beaten you since we were boys, and I beat you at Christmas,” Ser Gavin said.

  Ser Gabriel turned and smiled at his brother. “It’s true, brother,” he said.

  “I’ve sworn to kill him,” Gavin said.

  Ser Gabriel nodded. “The Queen asked me,” he said.

  Gavin’s face grew red, and then white. “So you’ll say me nay?” he hissed.

  Ser Gabriel shook his head. “Gavin, we’ll be lucky if we get to fight their champion. Anything that raises the odds of the fight helps us. I have the Queen’s note and guerdon. They almost have to let me fight. Not you.”

  “Fine—then I’ll wear your colours and keep my visor shut. You’re being greedy, brother. It always has to be you. I say: let me do it. And I say: no power on earth will keep me from putting de Vrailly in the dirt.”

  “It’s not a power on earth that I’m worried about,” Ser Gabriel said. “I have to do this.”

  Gavin slammed his fist on the table, took Gabriel’s silver cup, crushed it in his fist and hurled it across the room. Then he stalked out, his sabatons ringing on the stone floor.

  Bad Tom watched him go, and then put a meaty hand on the Red Knight’s armoured shoulder. “He’s better than you,” he said.

  Ser Gabriel’s face hardened.

  Chapter Six

  The Company

  Amicia was awakened in the darkness by Sister Katherine. She dressed quickly, with the help of the sisters, in a plain yellow kirtle with a belt of green leaves. Sister Mary had plaited flowers from the monk’s garden, and they put them in her hair, and then all the sisters prayed over her. She felt the adamant of their shared prayers close over her—a strong protection.

  Outside, she mounted her horse more easily than she might have ten days before.

  In the torchlight, she could see that the day was damp and foggy. The torches at the gates of the abbey were softly glowing specks like sparkle-bugs on a summer evening, and the knights—all of them in full harness—were already cursing the damp and the effect it would have on their armour. There were no stars visible.

  The Red Knight sat alone, his armour brilliant. He looked slightly incongruous as he was on his riding horse in a riding saddle to preserve his war horse for the joust, and his feet went down rather too far towards the ground. He was staring into the fog. Ser Michael and Ser Thomas were doing all the work of gathering the column—a column stripped of anyone but knights and squires, a handful of veteran pages in harness, spare horses and lances.

  The abbey courtyard heard more oaths and blasphemy in the next minutes than it had heard in fifty years. Amicia could hear the bravado and the fear, the heightened awareness. These men were afraid. Proud, but afraid.

  Ser Michael came and bowed. “Ready on time and pretty as a picture,” he said, with a hard smile.

  She nodded. “May I speak to him?” she asked.

  “Better not,” Ser Michael said.

  The Red Knight’s brother emerged—late—from his lodging and fussed with his right knee until Toby came and re-buckled something while Nell stood close with a torch, and then Ser Gavin—the Green Knight, as they all called him now—mounted stiffly and turned his horse. He said something—thanks, probably—to Nell, and rode to his brother’s side. That pleased Amicia, who hated to see people quarrel at the best
of times.

  The Green Knight handed the Red Knight a baton, which he flourished. He pointed silently at the gates, and monks swung them open.

  Prior Wishart was there, fully armed, and the Prince of Occitan. The two brothers leaned down from their horses—beckoned to Ser Michael—and the five men had a brief conference. But before Amicia’s horse could begin to fret, the baton waved again, and the column started out the gates, two by two, knights with their squires.

  Prior Wishart appeared at her horse’s head and took her bridle. “You are a brave young woman,” he said. He smiled. “But we all knew that, I suspect. You are the only member of the Order to ride on this noble venture.”

  “I won’t fail,” she said.

  Prior Wishart nodded. “You are the best for the mission,” he said. “If they save the Queen—well and good. But if you can save the King…” He turned and spoke quietly. “Do not be afraid to take the King with you if you can, Amicia. Ser Ricar will be close to you at all times.”

  “Does Gabriel know?” she asked.

  Prior Wishart sighed. “No, lass. This is our own gambit. The Prince of Occitan and the Muriens have little time for our King. I cannot trust his fate entirely to your Ser Gabriel.”

  She smiled. “I’ll do what I can,” she said.

  He nodded, reached up and gave her a blessing.

  “Where’s the infidel knight?” she asked.

  “Gone in the night,” Prior Wishart answered. He shrugged. “He’s no traitor, whatever his religion. I believe your Ser Gabriel sent him with a message.”

  Amicia nodded, eyes narrowed. “To Harmodius. That’s who the black man is looking for—Harmodius. I don’t know why, but he and Ser Gabriel have some… link.”

  Prior Wishart fingered his beard in the damp darkness. “Ahh,” he said. “I had almost forgotten Harmodius. He is alive?”

  Amicia’s turn to ride out the gate had come. She found herself paired with Nell, who was looking at her impatiently. “It’s complicated,” she said. She waved, and then she and Nell were going side by side into the foggy darkness, black as pitch, beyond the gate. Her heart began to beat faster and faster.

  She wished she might have spoken to Gabriel. She said a prayer for him, and for the fear he must feel.

  The fog was still and cool, and they rode.

  They rode for three hours. Every hour, the column halted for a few minutes—pages offered nose bags to horses, and water. At the third hour they came to an inn, and its gates were open and torches burned in the fog to guide them to water, a bite of fresh, warm bread and a cup of warm honey-mead in the dripping darkness. They halted for perhaps twenty minutes in the inn yard, and then rode out again—forty horses, twenty men and two women. She didn’t know where they were, but she suspected they were very close to Harndon. The countryside around them was waking up, cocks were crowing, and from the sounds, the Albin River had to be to her left and the bells were probably Harndon bells ringing across the river.

  The fog grew lighter, but no less dense. Somewhere over her head, the sun was rising, but not a ray of it penetrated the dense grey cloud that clung to all of them like wet smoke.

  Then, to her confusion, they were among trees—big, old trees, oaks and maples and another tall, magnificent type she did not know from the Adnacrags that grew as wide around as a peasant’s hut and so tall they vanished into the grey above.

  “We’re in the Royal Park at Haye,” Nell whispered to her. The youngster seemed to know far more about the morning’s plans than she did. “Ser Gelfred cleared all this an hour hence. Our people are at all the gates. This is where we wait.”

  “Wait?” Amicia asked.

  Nell looked at her as she probably looked at new pages and archers. Don’t you know anything? “We have to ride into the lists at just the right moment, Cap’n says.” Nell spoke of the captain as a nun might speak of God. Her trust was absolute.

  Most of the column dismounted. A young man—Daniel Favour, whom Amicia could remember as a boy in Hawkshead—rode out of the fog. He rode to the captain, exchanged a few words and then rode to Ser Gavin. The three men spoke perhaps three sentences, and then Favour mounted again. He paused his horse by Amicia and bowed. “Morning, Sister!” he said. “Funny thing, a couple of mountain brats meeting here, eh?”

  Amicia laughed—her first unforced laugh of the morning. “You seem in high spirits, Daniel,” she said.

  Favour grinned. “Oh, we’ve put a rare jest over on the Galles, ain’t we, Sister? I reckon they’ll make a song o’ us.” He saluted her with his riding whip. He was in a light saddle such as the easterners used, on a tall, athletic horse. His breastplate shone, and she noticed that the day had brightened considerably.

  Ser Michael came over and crouched by her, armour and all. “The Queen is being moved through the streets of Harndon even now,” he said. He frowned. “The Galles have executed some prominent men already—Ailwin Darkwood, for one.”

  “And your father?” she asked. Even as she asked, she was praying for the soul of Ailwin Darkwood.

  “On the list for execution,” he said. Then he smiled. “But joining us at Lorica, or so I gather from the captain.”

  Amicia had come to a second-hand education in Alban politics, and she winced for her Order. “Michael,” she said, using his first name on purpose. “Do your company purpose a civil war?”

  “My da would,” he admitted. “I like to think the captain has better notions.”

  “But you’ll follow him either way?” she asked.

  He gave her a strange look.

  The day was brighter yet, and high overhead there was a hint that someday the sky might be blue.

  “Captain’s worried the fog might break up too soon,” Michael said.

  “It is a miracle from God,” Amicia said. “Perfectly suited to our needs.”

  “Well,” said Gabriel’s voice from behind her. “Not exactly from God, since I cast it myself. One of your Abbess’s tricks, as I recall.”

  She turned and saw—Ser Gavin. His visor was down so that his voice was muffled, and he wore Gavin’s green surcoat and gold pentagonal star.

  He sat on her log, armour creaking, and popped his long, falcon-like visor. Inside Gavin’s helmet was Gabriel’s face.

  He shrugged. “They’re all against me,” he said pleasantly. “Apparently Gavin’s the better jouster and I’m needed to give orders.” He waved a hand. “I raised the fog.” He made a face. “I confess it is spectacular.”

  She nodded, delighted that he could admit even that much. “I think you do God too little credit,” she said. “I’m glad Ser Gavin will hold the lance.”

  “I should be offended you think so little of my prowess,” he said. “And me wearing your favour.”

  “You are a foolish boy,” she said. “And when this adventure is over, Gabriel, I will have my favour back. I am no longer a maiden to be won.”

  “Yes, yes,” he said heartily.

  She could see it—a rather soiled square of plain linen—peeping out from under a pauldron.

  “Yes, Bonne Soeur. We will part.” He laughed.

  “You don’t believe me?” she asked, stung.

  For answer, he bowed and flipped down his visor. Men were mounting. Something had changed while they were talking.

  He vaulted into the saddle of his war horse. He was riding his own. Ser Gavin came and knelt beside her. “I crave your blessing, Bonne Soeur,” he said.

  Amicia was tempted to tell Ser Gavin that Ser Gabriel would never crave anyone’s blessing—but that was not her business. Her business was between men and God, and she put a hand on his helmet and blessed him.

  He rose, and mounted his horse. She could see from his body language that he was afire with nerves, and although Nell was behind her, utterly impatient, she walked after the apparent Red Knight and took his bridle.

  “You have nothing to fear,” she said. “Go with God.”

  Ser Gavin’s smile showed under his visor for a momen
t. “You are a good woman,” he said. “And is my fear so visible?”

  She shook her head, using her gentlest voice. “No, ser knight. But you would be a madman if you were not afraid, with the fate of two kingdoms on you.” She reached up and put a gentle healing on him, and he breathed easier.

  “Go with God,” she said.

  He saluted her.

  “You’re going to make us late!” Nell hissed at her.

  But she mounted carefully, tried not to figure out which knight was actually Ser Ricar, and got her skirts displayed to best effect in time to join the column as it jogged through the gates. The fog was breaking up.

  The tournament was waiting.

  Chapter Seven

  The Company

  The sun was high and hot, but the last of the fog remained over the flat green fields south of First Bridge, creating an odd, sticky day. No breeze stirred the banners—and the commons, those that had taken the risk to attend, stood sullen in the damp heat, an unseasonable weather.

  The broad jest began to circulate that the Galles would find it hard to find dry wood to burn the Queen.

  The stands, and the long wooden barricades that marked the lists, were not empty. The stands were full of the gentry of the court, reinforced by the folk of the southern Albin—some hundreds of men and women dressed in their best. They were apprehensive—most had left home for the great day long before the King’s arrest of the Queen was even a rumour.

  And many of the commons had come, as well. The barricades were lined, three or four deep. Many of the refugees who had fled the burnings in the city had gone no further than relatives north of First Bridge or on the Lorica road, where the city’s suburbs sprawled for three leagues, and unshaven chins and close bundled children spoke of many families who’d slept under the stars in order to see the King—or see the Queen burned.

  But the mood of the commons was ugly enough. A squire was foolish enough to stop and make a great show of pissing on a fallen shield with the Queen’s arms. He was an Alban, a southerner, and he did it for the entertainment of his friends. He was badly beaten by a dozen ploughmen who didn’t see the world as he did.