The Dread Wyrm

by Miles Cameron

  “An excellent point. War and sex.” Ghause smiled. “I am just a crude old woman.”

  “So you insist,” Amicia said.

  Ghause raised a hand and one of her own ladies came.

  “Fetch me the keeper,” Ghause said. “So—you feel you might have to spurn my son’s advances to make yourself the most powerful woman in the north?”

  Amicia felt that she was getting better at dealing with Ghause. “No, I don’t feel that way at all,” she said.

  The innkeeper came through the curtain and bowed deeply.

  “Keeper—your food is wonderful. I am most pleased.” The duchess held out her hand, and the keeper bowed and kissed it—an almost unheard of honour given their relative stations. “And these dumplings—what are they?”

  The keeper bowed. “In Etrusca, they are called gnocchi.”

  “Made with truffles,” the duchess said.

  “Your grace has all my secrets,” the keeper replied gallantly. “But I will tell my wife. She made them.”

  Ghause nodded. Her green eyes were smiling. “I feel these dumplings might threaten the shape of my thighs but, by the crucified Christ, they make me want to eat all day.” She sparkled at him.

  He bowed, clearly overwhelmed.

  She dismissed him with a wave. “I will tell every gentle I meet to visit you,” she said. “Please feel free to display my arms in your window.”

  The keeper bowed and retired, the colour of his spring business altered for the better. Amicia had a glimpse of Lady Helewise—a good friend—and the two women shared a glance, and the curtain closed.

  “So you won’t change your mind,” Ghause snapped at Amicia, the moment that the keeper was gone, as if the interruption had never taken place.

  Amicia was tempted, to her own surprise, to confide in this terrible woman, but she held her peace. “No, your grace.”

  “Damn you, then. You’d have made me some fine, sly, long-legged grandchildren with powers.” She leaned in. “If you won’t have him for yourself, will you help me find him a mate?”

  Amicia gave a small cry.

  Ghause laughed grimly. “Just as I thought.”

  “But of course I’ll help,” Amicia said. She was surprised at herself—at the speed of her reaction and its intensity. She’d had a year to adjust. She was in charge of her own destiny.

  Ghause smiled. “You are very brave. Good. Come, travel with me, and we’ll hold each other up, as women must in this world.”

  In two hours, the inn had fed and wined the duchess, all her staff, twenty men-at-arms and their squires and pages, the bird’s handlers, two huntsmen in charge of a pair of dead aurochs in a wagon, and a hundred horses had been fed and watered. Every man and woman in the village had been involved at some level, from the making of winter sausage last autumn to the desperate plea for grooms and maids.

  Ser Henri tossed a purse to the keeper as the great hooded bird cleared the yard in its green and gold wagon. “I will not forget this inn,” he said. “My thanks, and those of every one of my knights.”

  He trotted his great war horse—all the knights had mounted their heavy horses for the entry into Albinkirk—and rode out after his convoy.

  The keeper went wearily into his common room, where half the village was being served a pint of ale. He upended half a year’s profits on the serving counter in front of his wife, who hugged him.

  He turned to Helewise. “Gold, or ale?” he asked.

  She smiled. “That was not enough of a favour to need repayment,” she said. She enjoyed her pint of ale, collected her daughters, and walked them home across the muddy fields along the still-frozen margins.

  The Duchess of Westwall’s entry into Albinkirk was anything but spontaneous. Her men-at-arms glittered and any sign of travel stain or mud had been erased at the inn, and the whole column swept into town like an avenging army. Her men-at-arms wore matching green and gold; her wagons were gold and green, and the enormous bird, a tame monster of some sort, was itself badged in gold and green, like the duchess herself in her emeralds. Most of the population of Albinkirk was in the streets, and Captain Henri distributed largesse to the poor from his saddlebow.

  The duchess rode in the middle of her column. She was greeted at the gate in blazing sunshine by Ser John, and escorted up through the narrow and winding streets to the citadel, where she and her immediate staff were to be housed.

  She stood in the great hall under the timbered roof and smiled at Ser John, who felt the power of her like a stallion smelling a mare, and the bishop, who treated her more as a forbidden text, and saved his warmth for Sister Amicia, with whom he shared a chaste embrace.

  “But where are my sons?” the duchess asked.

  Ser John bowed. “Ser Gabriel and Ser Gavin are hard at work in my tiltyard,” he said.

  “Send them to me when they are presentable,” Ghause said. She offered her hand to the Captain of Albinkirk. Over her shoulder, she said to Ser Henri, “Feel free to take Ser Aneas to his brothers.”

  She put her arm through Amicia’s. “Come,” she said.

  Amicia knew that she was being used for something. But she had little enough choice, and she went willingly with the duchess.

  Four huntsmen brought the bird.

  If the morning had been wet and filled with mourning, midday had been dryer and had been as physically hard as the morning had been on the spirit. The captain had seemed determined to unhorse every member of his company, and he rode his great war horse Ataelus on course after course. He’d stretched Ser John over his crupper early, as Ser John had to greet the man’s infernal mother. The Captain of Albinkirk knew his lower back would feel the force of the blow for days—but when the duchess swept regally to her rooms, Ser John led her household knights back into the yard, mounted with them, and rode to the tiltyard under the walls, facing south.

  As he arrived, Ser Alcaeus unhorsed a young Occitan spectacularly, dropping the man without appearing to alter his own seat. He swept down the list with his unbroken lance tip high.

  There were twenty women and a hundred men watching. They applauded.

  Ser Michael entered the lists at the eastern end, and Bad Tom entered from the west. They were plainly armoured, without surcoats or fancy harness, and both wore great helms for jousting instead of their bascinets.

  They flicked salutes at each other and the horses moved.

  Ser Henri nodded approval. “These are very good,” he said.

  They met—and passed. Both lances broke in a spray of ash splinters. Both men were as erect as equestrian statues.

  Ser John smiled grimly. “They are very good,” he said. “If you’d care to play, just take a place in the line down there.” Below them was a chute, with a line of mounted men on war horses. War horses that fidgeted, farted, and threatened to kick or bite.

  Ser Henri rode down into the chute, and so did Ser Aneas. A few of the other men-at-arms joined in. Others dismounted, gave their horses to grooms, and began to spar with swords or wooden wasters—or just to stop at the barriers and watch.

  Ser Gavin broke a lance on Ser Bescanon, who got his lance tip on Ser Gavin’s helmet but failed to strike the crest.

  Ser Phillipe caught a young knight from Jarsay in the shoulder, and his strike destroyed the other man’s pauldron and injured his shoulder. A dozen men took the injured knight away, and Ser Phillipe, visibly shaken, had his shield dismounted and withdrew.

  Two unremarkable courses were run, and Ser Henri rode forward. He took a lance from Toby, who was serving every man-at-arms on that side of the lists.

  Ser Gabriel was seen to move his horse forward, past Ser Francis Atcourt, who raised his visor and said something in derision.

  Ser Henri saluted, and charged. Seconds later, he was lying unconscious on the sand, and the Red Knight all but rode over him returning. Ser Gavin was seen to speak sharply to his brother.

  Ser Aneas, one of the youngest men to joust that day, readied himself to meet Ser Gavin, h
is brother. He conceded nothing; his horse rode at the very edge of the barrier, and he put his lance into his older brother’s visor.

  Both spears exploded—and both men lost their helms, split by the blows, and rode bareheaded in opposite directions. They were wildly applauded.

  Ser Henri was quick to recover, and insisted he’d never been fully unconscious.

  Ser Gavin had an odd look when Ser John approached him. “That looked—rough,” Ser John said.

  Ser Gavin looked away. “He was our jousting instructor. From boyhood.”

  Ser John laughed. “A case of the biter bit?” he asked.

  Ser Gavin met his eye. “Don’t let my brother face him again,” he said.

  Ser John nodded. “I have run lists afore. But I’ll bear that in mind. Your lady mother wishes to see you both.”

  Ser Gavin nodded. “So I gather from the string of pages we’ve had. But our mater wants to see Gabriel first, so I’ll cool my heels.”

  Ser John scratched under his aventail. “In that case, I wonder if we might gather all the captains for a brief—mmm. A meeting before the council.”

  Ser Gavin looked at Ser Henri, helmet off and a pair of pages serving him water. “That might be a fine notion,” he said.

  Before three more courses had been run, a table was waiting in the outer yard and wine was served. Ser Gabriel sat in harness with Ser Gavin, Ser Michael and Ser Thomas. Ser Henri sat with Ser Aneas. Ser John sat with Ser Ricar Fitzalan. Ser Alcaeus joined them after a final course with Count Zac, who was perhaps the most unconventional jouster anyone had ever seen.

  Ser John got straight to the point. “Gentles all—my thanks. The council is for politics. But it seems to me—with so many puissant gentlemen all gathered together—that we could send a small army into the field right now, and perhaps put the Wild back on its haunches.”

  Ser Gabriel drank off his wine. “That’s blunt. You’d like to use my lances—my professionals—for free.”

  Ser John nodded. “Yes.”

  Ser Thomas the Drover raised an eyebrow. “And all my cousins, too? Who’ll command ’em? Hillmen don’t take orders from everyone.”

  Gabriel laughed. “In my experience, from anyone.”

  Bad Tom grinned.

  Ser John looked at Ser Ricar. “The Captain of the King’s Guard will take the field.”

  Ser Ricar rose. “If you gentlemen agree, I’ll call a muster. I’ll pay king’s wages for ten days. We’ll sweep the north bank of the Cohocton and cover the fair. With a hundred lances and the support of the sisters of the Order there’s not likely to be anything we can’t handle.”

  “Ten days!” Ser Thomas shook his head. “The forage by Southford won’t feed my beasts ten days.”

  “If we don’t cover the fair…” Ser John shrugged. “The convoys are just coming in from the south,” he said. “I’m trying to keep the roads clear, but—”

  Ser Gabriel—the mercenary—surprised them all. He stood. “I’m for it. Tom, let’s give them a week and then see where we all are. Ser Ricar, can you make do with a week, and an option for a few more days if required?”

  Ser Henri raised an eyebrow. “It is not my choice but my lady’s,” he said. “But it sounds worthy, and certes, Ticondaga would be better knowing the south was safe.”

  Zac raised two bushy eyebrows at Ser Gabriel. He gave a slight nod.

  “Count Zac is an officer of the Emperor,” he said. “He serves with me in my person as the Megas Dukas of the Empire. He will join you for your spring hunt.”

  Ser Ricar clanked over to the dapper easterner and shook his hand. Ser Alcaeus took out a wax tablet and began to write at his captain’s elbow. “We have forty lances and another twenty stradiotes,” he said. “Ser Henri?”

  The Etruscan rubbed his head. “If the duchess agrees,” he said carefully, “I have twenty lances. And four huntsmen who know the enemy intimately.”

  Ser Ricar nodded. “I also have forty lances, though eight of them are on patrol even now.”

  “So—with the count’s imperial troops, we can muster as many as six hundred men,” Ser Ricar said with relish. “By God, gentlemen.”

  Bad Tom sighed. “Well, I can gi’ ye another hundred who’ll face anything in the Wild.”

  “I count this a favourable sign, gentlemen,” Ser John said. “The council has not even begun, and we have an army in the field.” He turned to Ser Ricar. “When will you march?”

  “Dawn,” Ser Ricar said. “I’ll open the ball with a sweep along the west road. I know our fathers all taught us not to split a force, but I’ll send half north of the Cohocton and half south, and we’ll clear the whole convoy route on both banks.”

  Ser Gabriel rose. “Then, if you gentlemen will settle the minutiae of what you have clearly planned, I will release my soldiers under Ser Bescanon. I must visit my mother.”

  He bowed to all—even Ser Henri—and walked across the springy turf to where his squire waited.

  “Why does he set my teeth on edge?” asked Ser Ricar.

  “He was not like this as a boy,” Ser Henri said. “He was a most unmanly boy, much given to—”

  Ser Gavin appeared between them, and there was no more reminiscence.

  Ser Gabriel unarmed carefully, and went to his room to bathe. In his room, alone with Toby, Nell, and two of his Thrakian servants, he drank two cups of malmsey and put on a suit of red wool worked with his arms, a golden spur rowel of six points that might have been mistaken for an hermetical symbol. He put on his gold belt of knighthood. He didn’t wear a sword, but he didn’t disdain his ivory-gripped baselard.

  Nell and Toby had some idea what he was going to. They both tried to smile.

  He had time to wish he had Tom, or Alison. Or Arnaud.

  He walked to the small balcony his room had, high above the valley. He took one breath, drank off the last of his wine, and set the cup down a little too hard.

  “No,” he said, when Toby, dressed in his best, presented himself as an escort. He motioned instead to Ser Christos’s son, Giorgos, a tall Thrakian with a beak of a nose and no Alban whatsoever. “Please come with me,” he said in High Archaic. He smiled at Toby to indicate that there was no slight intended, but he didn’t need to have his mother’s words repeated.

  And then he went out into the hall. Giorgos knew the way—it was his duty—and led him to the south tower. They climbed two dozen steps in a tight stairway and emerged onto a platform with two doors. Giorgos knocked and they waited.

  A demure young woman with red hair and bronze eyes opened the door and curtsied. She led them into the outer solar, almost identical to the same chambers that Ser Gabriel had in the north tower.

  “Is that my prodigal son?” Ghause called. “I have a present for you, my darling. Come in.”

  The bronze-eyed young vixen opened the door to the inner solar, and Gabriel, after a deep breath, and ignoring the trembling of his hands, walked in.

  Amicia sat in the sunlight, doing embroidery. The winter had sufficed for her to learn some of the tricks of it, and she’d learned to make letters with a prick stitch and to cut them out and overcast stitch them to an altar cloth before couching them in silk thread. She was slowly working the paschal cloth of her chapel at Southford, the linen and silk going everywhere with her, packed in oiled silk and canvas. Helewise had taught her—a lady’s pastime, and not usually one for nuns. Her I H S was crisp, the gothic letters elegant and almost even.

  She was working on the last I in domini when Ghause joined her in the inner solar and began to fuss with the great bird on the perch.

  Amicia realized she was casting.

  Ghause finished with some tuneless, throaty sounds that made Amicia blush.

  Ghause laughed. “Ah, my pretty, I usually work alone. And naked.”

  Amicia laughed. “As did I, once.”

  “We are not so different,” Ghause said.

  Amicia put her head down and went back to her stitches. “What is it?” she aske
d.

  “A gift for Gabriel. No, don’t get up. That will be him now.” She put one hand on the inner solar door and called, “Is that my prodigal son? I have a present for you, my darling. Come in.”

  Then she flung the door wide. As she did, with her right hand, she removed the cover on the great bird.

  It was bigger than Amicia had imagined, but her shock was completely overwhelmed by the reality of Gabriel Muriens.

  It was not that he had changed.

  It was merely that he was.

  Gabriel lost control of his face and his heart, like an untried army in an ambush. He was blind with the sight of Amicia, and unwarned, unprepared—a grin covered his face, and he stepped forward and took her hand and kissed it.

  And she flushed.

  And his mother laughed.

  And the young griffon on the perch, a true monster of the Wild, was subsumed in a wave of love. It gazed on Gabriel, raised its great wings, and poured its own love back. It gave a great cry as if its heart had been pierced.

  Ghause’s laughter rose. “Oh! Brilliant!” she said. She stepped forward like a victor delivering the coup de grâce, and kissed her son on the cheek. “Two presents, then.”

  Amicia, moved beyond endurance, rose too quickly and stepped on her altar cloth. But she set her face, and pushed past him, and walked, head high, out of the room.

  “She’ll come back,” Ghause said. “She wants you more than she wants her anaemic vows.”

  Gabriel was trembling.

  “I have brought you a mighty gift,” Ghause said. “And where are my thanks? Hello, my son.”

  “You used her to bait the impressment of a griffon?” Gabriel asked.

  “Of course! What better love bait than your leman? As good as anything in a romance. And look, it’s done! Your own griffon, which cost me a lot of effort, too.” Ghause was not a woman given to prattle, but the rage on her son’s face scared her. “Oh, my dear. Griffons need to be greeted with love. That’s all that holds them. You cannot turn a griffon. They’re too stupid. And too smart. Now he’s all yours.” She smiled. “All’s well that ends well.”

  “You have not changed much,” Gabriel said. He did smile at the griffon. He walked to the perch and cooed at it. Him.