The Dread Wyrm

by Miles Cameron

  De Rohan entered from the King’s rooms, late, flustered, and moving quickly. Behind him came a dozen well-dressed men in silk and wool and fur, adding to the lustre about the King. A full half of them were Albans. The events of Holy Week had polarized opinion throughout the Brogat, Jarsay and the Albin, and many men—King’s men—had swallowed their dislike of the Galles in the face of violence. Every action by the re-born Jacks in the countryside recruited yeomen and knights for the King—and de Rohan.

  De Rohan’s latecomers took a moment to settle, and were joined by a dozen priests and monks and the Archbishop of Lorica, also late.

  The herald waited patiently, his face expressionless. His eyes never shifted from the King’s.

  The King nodded to the herald.

  He raised his staff. “Your grace, my lords and ladies of Alba, the Prince of Occitan sends his greetings,” he said. “My lord has come to settle any issue of accusation between the King of Alba and his wife, my sister, the Lady of Occitan.”

  De Rohan did not even wait for the King to reply. “This is a matter affecting only the sovereignty of the Kingdom of Alba, and is, we regret—”

  The herald quite clearly ignored him. He had a rich voice—he almost sung his words. “Upon arrival in this land, my master has had neither greeting nor guesting from his cousin the King of Alba. And upon approach, he has received threats—”

  De Rohan opened his mouth and the King of Alba made a sudden movement. Even de Rohan had to be silent in the face of the King’s direct order.

  “—and now discovers that the Queen of Alba, his sister, has been accused of witchcraft, of murder, of treason and of adultery,” the man’s beautiful voice went on. “Which accusations, my master finds abhorrent, and the more so as they are to be tried by combat, a barbaric practice antithetical to the teachings of the Holy Church—”

  The archbishop shouted. His voice was a trifle high—he was young. “Absurd! Who is this boasting coxcomb to tell me what the Holy Church—”

  Maître Gris leaned over to say something in his ear.

  “Shut up!” he told his secretary, still too loud and too shrill.

  “—but a convenient fiction to cover a crime,” the herald finished. He neither smiled nor frowned.

  “You dare?” de Rohan said.

  “My master demands the immediate release of the Queen into his custody. He is not interested in honeyed words and delay. Give him the Queen his sister tonight.”

  “These are not the words of negotiation,” the King said wearily.

  The herald took a glove from his belt. “If my master’s most reasonable demand is not satisfied,” he said. “This glove will guide his next action.”

  “Are you threatening war?” de Vrailly asked. “You cannot be serious.”

  “We will not release the Queen, who is a criminal and a witch,” de Rohan said. “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.”

  The King looked at de Rohan and rose to his feet. “Master Herald, I need a moment to confer with my officers of state. Please be kind enough to—to wait.”

  The herald bowed.

  At the King’s rising, everyone had bowed. Now they formed a corridor, and he walked down it, from his throne’s dais, off to the right, and through the great oak doors to his tower and the royal apartments.

  The archbishop caught de Vrailly’s arm. “You must stay here and watch this so-called herald.”

  De Vrailly looked at the archbishop. “You think…?”

  The archbishop frowned. “I merely guess that he, too, is a sorcerer. Watch him.”

  The archbishop hurried away, leaving de Vrailly poised in a rare moment of indecision. But he did not think that the King faced any threat from his cousin, and he had just been threatened with war by the King of Occitan. A thought that made him smile with something like glee.

  He turned, his armour clacking softly, and went to stand in front of the throne, his sword drawn.

  In the King’s inner council chamber, the King sat at the head of the table, flanked by the archbishop, as chancellor, and de Rohan, as first privy council. Next at the table sat Du Corse, now Marshal of Alba, and across from him, l’Isle d’Adam, second privy council.

  De Rohan began talking before the King was seated. He was excited.

  “Your grace, my lords, we have a golden opportunity here if only we can grasp it.” He smiled at the King. “The Occitans are neighbours—and foreigners. We can unite the support of the people who matter to us—the knights and the gentry—to fight them. Their coast is rich. The campaign will pay for itself.”

  Du Corse was cautious. “We have very little time,” he said. “And for myself, I have heard that the men of Occitan know how to wield a lance, and I have never trusted armchair generals who tell me wars will be over by midsummer.”

  The King raised his head. “Why do we have very little time?” he asked.

  Du Corse froze. It was perceptible. Then he shrugged. “Your grace must know that our Kingdom of Galle is also threatened by the Wild,” he said.

  The King’s eyes went to those of the archbishop. “You maintain, I think, that the Wild is a fable,” he said. “A snare of the enemy.”

  Du Corse looked away.

  De Rohan frowned. “We must discuss what answer to make to this coxcomb.” He nodded to the archbishop. “I like the word.”

  The King sat back, and scratched his beard. “No. I want to hear the archbishop tell me his views on the Wild. In light of there being an attack in Galle.”

  “Fleeing men report ten where there is only one,” the archbishop said. “It is all exaggeration and fable.”

  Du Corse frowned.

  The King looked around as if for wine. He shrugged. “But Monsieur Du Corse will take his lances home to fight it,” he said slowly. “What is your departure date, Du Corse?”

  Du Corse too obviously looked at de Rohan.

  When the King had moments like this, the Galles were used to de Vrailly smoothing things over with his absolute certainty. The archbishop regretted leaving him behind—but only until he saw de Rohan pour wine at the sideboard, and then he knew he’d guessed correctly.

  “That date is of little moment compared to the presence of a foreign army on our doorstep,” de Rohan said, setting the King’s golden cup at his elbow. It was small personal services like this that had won the King’s esteem when de Rohan was only de Vrailly’s standard bearer. The King, despite the vector of the conversation, smiled warmly at de Rohan.

  The King liked to like people. But he shook his head. “It is not an army. One of my guardsmen says it is fewer than three hundred knights, no archers, and no spearmen. They came for the tournament, gentles.”

  De Rohan grinned. He couldn’t help himself. “Better and better,” he said.

  The King looked down the table, took a long draught of wine, and then shrugged. “I don’t see where you want to go with this, de Rohan.”

  The first privy council smiled. “Only three hundred knights?” he said. “It could be the shortest war in history.”

  At that, the King’s head snapped around.

  But de Rohan was only just warming to his idea. “A complete victory—it will take the wind out of the sails of the Queen’s supporters, it will deflate the commons and show our power and unite the gentles against the foreigner.” He raised his eyebrows at Du Corse. “And pay the routiers in loot.”

  Du Corse frowned.

  But anything he might have said was interrupted by the King, who shot to his feet. “That’s it, then,” he said. His open palm slapped the table so loudly that the archbishop jumped. “I have had time to think of many things, gentlemen. And it occurs to me—I have begun to think—that you—do not…”

  Suddenly he slumped. His knees relaxed, and he went down into his chair. Only the immediate presence of de Rohan and two large servants kept the King from falling to the floor.

  “A surfeit of wine,” de Rohan said with a soft smile. “You heard him, my friends. ‘That’s
it.’ He agreed.”

  Du Corse narrowed his eyes. “That’s how it is going to be, is it?” he asked.

  De Rohan pursed his lips and wiped his hands fastidiously on the King’s cloth napkin. “On Tuesday, de Vrailly will kill the Queen’s champion. We’ll burn her as a witch, and the rest will follow easily enough.”

  L’Isle d’Adam shook his head. “He’ll never stomach it.” He looked at de Rohan. “Grande Dieu, de Rohan, I do not think I can stomach it.”

  “You do not think she is guilty?” de Rohan asked.

  L’Isle d’Adam shook his head. “I do not think there’s a man present who could stomach burning the Queen.”

  “She’s a heretic—a temptress—a seducer and a murderer,” the archbishop spat.

  “As I said, I do not think there is a man present who could stomach it,” l’Isle d’Adam said. “May I suggest—very strongly, Monsieur de Rohan—that the Queen suffer an accident after her trial by combat?”

  “Perhaps trying to escape?” Du Corse said. “For the love of God, de Rohan—we don’t have ice water in our veins like you. And the commons…”

  De Rohan snapped his fingers. “That, for them,” he said.

  Du Corse nodded very slightly. “What a fine time you will have ruling this fair country when I take my lances back to the King.”

  De Rohan turned to the two big servants. “Take him to bed,” he said.

  They bowed.

  “Do you have any news of our army in the north?” de Rohan asked.

  Du Corse sighed. “Army is far too strong a word. Ser Hartmut has a fine siege train and about a hundred lances—and some sailors.”

  “Too far away to be any use,” de Rohan said.

  Du Corse looked at l’Isle d’Adam and shrugged again. “Monsieur d’Abblemont had a plan for the union of our forces,” he admitted. “And he was intending to reinforce the so-called Black Knight with two hundred more lances this spring.” He looked at de Rohan, his face wrinkling with suppressed displeasure. “But I suspect the troops were never sent. The King and council in Lutrece are adamant about the summer campaign. The reports from Arelat are very serious.”

  “Shall we go back and inform the herald of the King’s decision?” de Rohan asked. He seemed uninterested in the events in Arelat.

  “What do you perceive was the King’s decision?” Du Corse asked.

  “Why, war, of course!” de Rohan said. “In the morning, at dawn, the King asks that you attack their camp.”

  Du Corse nodded again, very slightly. “We are very chivalrous, are we not?” he asked.

  By the time the first market carts rolled into the squares of Cheapside on Easter Monday, the boys who spread news knew there had been a battle.

  Most of the Royal Guard, and all the lances that the Conte Du Corse had brought from Galle, rode through the town before first light. They passed without challenge through Southgate.

  They formed, four deep, across the front of the Occitan camp, where sleepy sentries watched.

  One of the sentries blew his horn.

  The “Alban” army charged the camp.

  It should have been a massacre. The Galles were in full harness, and so were the men of the Royal Guard. Most of the Occitan knights, stumbling from their decorative pavilions, should have been unarmed and unprepared.

  They were not. They were fully armed, cap-à-pied.

  There were also surprisingly few of them—only a hundred or so, led by a knight in the blue and gold chequey of the royal house. There were no squires and no pages.

  The Occitans gathered together in the tight wedge and charged the “Alban Army” that outnumbered it ten to one.

  The fighting was brutal. And very skilled. The Galles suffered because their horses were not yet recovered from the sea voyage. The Occitan horses were superb.

  But no knight can triumph at odds of ten to one.

  Du Corse eventually unhorsed the blue and gold knight, after they had gone lance to lance and sword to sword. And finally, dagger to dagger. Du Corse got his arm in front of the other man’s neck and his dagger pommel past his head, hooked him and threw him to the ground.

  Even then, the blue and gold knight would not relent. He found a sword on the ground and fought back—even as a dozen Gallish and Alban knights cut at him. He killed a horse, dismounting an Alban midlands knight named Ser Gilles. He cut the Conte Du Corse’s reins.

  He was like a madman, and the other Occitan knights were as bad. Each one seemed to require a siege. The sun rose, and they were still fighting. The surviving Occitans drew into a ring in the middle of their camp—about twenty of them. They were surrounded by tent stakes and ropes and fallen tents, and the Galles and Albans had to dismount to face them. The blue and gold knight was still on his feet, although blood was seeping through some of the joints in his harness.

  Du Corse, bleeding from a smart thrust to the inside of his left elbow, sent them a herald.

  He came back. “They call us all cowards and caitiffs. They say there is no parley with evil.”

  “Christ, what fools,” muttered Du Corse. “Bring up crossbowmen and shoot them down, then.”

  Forty feet away, de Vrailly led a fourth charge at the tight circle of Occitan knights. Again, as in his first three attacks, he put one down with a great blow of his poleaxe—his almost inhuman speed at the moment of contact, his size and his deceptively long reach made him lethal. His axe slammed, almost unimpeded, into an Occitan knight’s faceplate—the visor crumpled backwards, destroying the man’s face.

  But the circle closed, and the Occitans were too well-trained to lose another man. De Vrailly took a blow and then another, and had to stumble back, baulked of his prey—the Occitan banner.

  De Vrailly saw the red-and-blue liveried crossbowmen moving at the edge of his vision, limited as it was by his own visor. He gritted his teeth and turned and clanked back to where Du Corse sat on a fresh horse.

  “You cannot do this,” he said.

  Du Corse spat. “I can, my lord, and I will. I need lose no more knights.”

  “We are the better men.” De Vrailly was enraged. “By God, ser knights, do you doubt this?”

  Du Corse shook his head. “Not in the least, my good de Vrailly. But in this case—these men are like assassins. They have drunk wine or taken opium or something like it. They intend to fight to the death. I see no reason to give them any more of my knights.”

  De Vrailly looked up at the new marshal. “I was against this surprise attack. And look, Marshal. It was no surprise. The Occitan prince was warned, and he has slipped away—leaving a handful of very brave men to die.”

  “A foolish choice.” Du Corse was resentful. He might have said, amateurish.

  De Vrailly spat. “As God is my witness, my lord, you have erred grievously in this. And the Prince of Occitan left these men to lure us to shame. Shame! I say, he left a few good knights to prove that we were base. And par Dieu, monsieur, so we have proved ourselves to be.”

  “The Occitan prince’s cause has been found wanting on the field of battle,” Du Corse said. “That is all.”

  “Let me take my squires,” de Vrailly pleaded. “Let me fight them. Man to man. One to one. Until we have killed or taken them. We will—Deus Veult. I know it.”

  Du Corse motioned at the captain of his crossbowmen. “Monsieur de Vrailly, you may have a very different fight tomorrow.” He nodded. “We cannot have you exhausted for the Queen’s trial.” He pointed at de Vrailly’s foot. “You are wounded. I insist you retire.”

  The crossbowmen were just thirty yards from the tight circle of Occitan knights. The Occitans saw them, but at first refused to believe it.

  As the crossbowmen—most of them Albans—spanned their heavy arbalests, the Occitans called insults.

  Clear in the cool spring air, one accented jibe carried to Du Corse. “These are the Gallish knights of whom our fathers told us?”

  One of the Occitans had a wine cup from somewhere. He held it aloft, hi
s visor up, and he laughed and drank.

  The Occitans began to sing. They were big men, but men who trained in singing as well as in fighting, and their voices rose in a polyphony.

  De Vrailly’s face darkened and grew mottled with rage. Occitan and Gallish were different enough in pronunciation—but the words were clear enough.

  The crossbowmen leaned their spanned weapons on the tops of their great pavises to steady them.

  “No!” bellowed de Vrailly.

  “You can send your squires to fight the survivors, if you insist,” Du Corse said. He turned in his saddle. “Loose!”

  Desiderata was very far gone when the woman came.

  She was scarcely able to distinguish between the real and the aethereal anymore. At first she thought the woman was Blanche, come to help her. Reality and the aethereal had all but merged to her sight, and she had begun to overlay the aethereal version of the world on the real, so that the shadows were darker where the thing called Ash seemed to pool, and the bright green coils that some other power was laying, hideously, about her and what bloomed inside her showed stark against the walls of her cell.

  But despite the crisis in her sanity—and her outward attempts to repel her enemies, if they were not creations of her mind—she was also aware that it was Easter—the greatest festival of the Christian year. And the moment of rebirth in all the old ways. The moment when young spring killed old winter.

  In between her prayers to the Virgin—a ceaseless litany—she thought of her springs. Of her riding out in spring with fifty knights to make the May come in. Of the fecund earth, and the dances. The green of the grass.

  It was with these two thoughts in her head—the green of the leaves of spring and the Virgin—that she first saw the woman come through the door of her cell.

  The closed door.

  She did not shine. In the aethereal, she appeared solid, and in the real, she appeared insubstantial. There was no outward sign of power about her—a tall, grave woman who wore a simple kirtle of rich brown.