Jon fled the Butcher’s Yard, back to his new lodgings and wept in grief for his past life like a child. Eventually, his tears dried up, and for several days he sat in silence, not eating, his scant dreams filled with the cries of Wallencourt blending with those of his dead wife and his son. Then, one day, he realised that he must carry on the struggle, anything else would be the real treason, and in his despair he had resolved to continue Wallencourt’s work. For months afterwards Jon had tried to rebuild some of the Wallencourt’s network, mostly without success, as many of the man’s friends had been scared off by Wallencourt’s fate, or even denied they had once been the man’s friend. Some, however, did offer some help. Little enough for a man’s life work, but it allowed Jon to get some of his pamphlets produced. Yet, despite his best efforts he never seemed able to recapture the passion of the Gentleman of Reason. He had failed, he knew, and now he was being punished for his failure in this cell that stunk of piss and shit. The Gentlemen of Reason would fade into history and be forgotten. He was so weary of it all now. Poor, hungry and thirsty and he had lost everything. Down the corridor he could hear the distant sound of the guards as they sung a drunken, ribald folk song. That merry song seemed to mock Jon and he felt tears swelling up inside him. Hopefully next year would be better, he told himself, but he doubted it.
The King’s General
Tobin Valnis, hurried across the cobbled courtyard towards the grand keep that lay in the centre of Castle Hardingstone. Pulling his thick black woollen cloak around him to protect himself from the swirling snow he dipped his head down, allowing his wide brimmed hat to keep the icy flakes out of his eyes. Grimly he ignored the freezing sensation of his fingers and the dull ache the wind caused in his right shoulder, an unwelcome reminder of an old battle and another life. He had spent years on campaign and had gotten used to harsh conditions. This storm was nothing to him but an inconvenience. Besides, he had waited a long time to see his old friend, and a little discomfort was the worth the effort. The journey north had been long and tiring and he had arrived late, well past the tenth hour of the night. He had ridden for two days since leaving the Great Northern Road, and when he had finally crested Harding’s Down he could see the familiar and pleasing shape of Hardingstone. Far down in the wide valley he could make out the dim shape of the rambling building, built by the Ryder family over five hundred years ago. He could see the lights twinkling warmly and invitingly in the darkness of the valley. His excitement rose as his horse made its slow progress down into the valley via the estates main track.
He reached the main entrance of the Keep, and once he identified himself to the watchmen had passed through into the castle proper. Leaving his horse in the stables, he made his way to the main hall of the castle. Climbing the long stone staircase that led up to the two massive doors of the great hall he reached the top, to find himself facing the familiar statues of the legendary warriors Artilsor and Velenti, as they stared impassively out into the cold night. They stood watch on either side of the great doors. The Ryders claimed distant ancestry from the two giants of Acorin legend and many references to their lives and great deeds could be found in the castle’s carvings and tapestries.
With numbed fingers he lifted the large dragon headed door knocker and let the heavy brass fall twice upon the door. There was a solid boom with each knock, and as he waited for an answer, he looked upon the doors with a smile. Old Ryder once jested to him the doors could take a direct hit from a scorpion, and he could believe it. Oak framed, with heavy oak doors, studded with iron, and a hidden portcullis that could be dropped before them, it would take a direct hit from siege equipment to take the damn things down quickly. Also the castle’s keep had thick walls, narrow outer windows and effective killing zones, it was clearly a manor built for a more violent time.
After a few moments one of the massive doors swung open. His heart leapt with joy, it was Oakwyrm that answered the door! It was good to see the old man! He was as small and thin and stooped back as always. A constant figure of his childhood at Hardingstone. He hadn’t changed a bit.
‘Welcome, my Lord Valnis!’ said the old man with a genuinely warm smile, as he opened the door wider to allow entry. Tobin walked through the door and was assailed by the sound of music. Out here, in the entrance to the main living areas of the castle, he could clearly hear the music from the main hall, and the smell of roasted meats made his belly rumble. But it was the warmth and the golden light of the candles that made him feel welcome, now all he needed was a warm toddy and some good red meat, and he knew he would be happier than the emperor of fools.
Oakwyrm closed the door on the cold night and without false formality took the lord’s cloak and his hat and under coat. Wordlessly he passed them onto a young lad who also wore the Ryder livery. The boy bowed and walked off into the castle to attend to Tobin’s rooms.
‘Good to see you again, Oakwyrm,’ said Tobin, after shaking the man’s hand, ‘How are Meg and the young Rascal?’
‘Meg is well, and fat as a mother Hen, the Young Rascal is now of age and apprenticed to be a scribe down at Yarrow Root,’ said Oakwyrm, breaking out into a large gap toothed smile.
‘A scribe?’ said Tobin,‘ Good for him! He was always a bright lad; I’ll drink to his luck at the toasting ceremony.’
‘Thank you my lord, and I must say it’s pleasant to have you back home! His lordship has spoken of it nonstop since you accepted his invite,’ said Oakwyrm. Tobin felt foolish to feel pleased by such a thought, but he was honest enough to admit to himself that it did please and flatter him.
‘How is her ladyship, my lord?’ the old man said with a shrewd look.
‘She decided to visit her family this year, she prefers Thornsreach in winter,’ said Tobin a little too quickly.
‘Of course, my lord,’ answered Oakwyrm discreetly.
They both knew that he had spoken a lie, of course, but the formalities had to be observed. The truth was his wife disliked Ryder, thinking him course and rough. She preferred the softer and more sophisticated pleasures of the King’s court at Thornsreach. Consequently she rarely travelled far beyond the capital’s walls. He loved his wife, but she was a vain creature with a self-limiting view of the world she lived in. Angela was rarely interested in anything unless it was expensive, exclusive, entertaining and rarefied. If it lacked those things, then it didn’t seem to have much value for his pretty little wife. He loved her as any man could, but sometimes he felt she was a stranger to him, as he was to her. No matter, he loved her anyway, and his two boys were a joy to him. But, it had been three years since he last spent a Wintersong with his old friend, and this year he meant to take up Ryder’s invitation. Besides, he had good reason not to be in the king’s company this year at the royal court’s Wintersong celebrations. Some battles were not worth fighting unless you could choose the field of conflict.
He gently placed his hand on the old retainers shoulder, ‘It’s good to be back,’ said Tobin as he passed Oakwyrm a small bundle of coins, not so much as to insult the old man, but enough to insure he would have a merry time at an alehouse. Oakwyrm smiled in thanks and ushered him to the double doors of the grand hall. Tobin walked briskly to the doors and stopped. For a moment he listened to the sounds of merrymaking. Ryder knew how to thrown a party. God he had missed him! He was a constant friend, a fellow comrade in arms and a brother of the soul. Tobin had a lot of respect for Malcolm Ryder, and as children they had played in these very halls. If truth be told his own father had often been on the continent on old King Williams,’ business and Tobin saw more of Ryder’s father than his own. It was his mother that had brought them together. She was lonely with his father’s long absences and had sought company by visiting her sister, the then Lord Ryder’s wife at Hardingstone. The visit became a stay as the Ryder’s welcomed them into their home. It had been a family of sorts and the old Lord Ryder had been a surrogate father who taught him the arts of a gentleman such as swordsmanship, penmanship, science and courtesy.
He also encouraged a deep love of the fine arts. He had been a good man, and Tobin wept alongside Malcolm on the day they both heard of his passing.
He placed his hands onto the door handles. On the other side he heard a burst of laughter and an old folk song started up to the joyful clapping of those inside. He laughed at that. The old fool has even got the right type of music for a real Wintersongs celebration! Local musicians singing old folk songs and tales, nothing stuffy or courtly tonight. The song sounded full of laughter, something you could sing along to in your cups or dance to with the maid of your fancy. He smiled to himself and felt the cares of the years fall away. So many memories, not all good, and so much responsibility, but not tonight, and with a thrust of his hands he pushed the two doors open.
He found his grin getting broader at the sight before him. It was all Tobin had expected and better. The lords of the local houses and the commoners were scattered around the crowded great hall, quaffing ale and consuming huge quantities of food, and such food. Roast oxen, pig, venison, fowls, roasted vegetables, cakes and barrels of ale. The room was lit by the large fire in the hall, and candles that were scattered around the room. Everything basked in this warming light. Old men talked in groups and young men diced, sang and flirted with the maidens. Women laughed and children danced and giggled happily, all were wearing their finest. The favourite hounds of the lords skulked under the tables picking up the plentiful scraps, or licking the faces of those who had already passed out. The room was a buzz of music and merry conversation. He drank it in; glorying in it all.
Closing the door behind him he walked into the crowded hall and was greeted by many an old face he had grown up with. In any lords house his title and his reputation would have granted him a respectful greeting and a place at the high table. Here he had grown up with many of the lords and ladies and the greetings were warm and genuine. Not forced, icily polite and envious for his position as many could be at court. Some of those he saw around him had laboured on the estate since he was a little boy, and he clasped hands with them, surprising many by remembering their names and their occupations. Eventually he reached the raised high table and saw his old friend. Lord Malcolm Ryder the twelfth Viscount Ryder, First Minister of the Royal Concord, holder of the Silver Lance, Guardian of the Royal Charter, bounced a busty young maid on his knees. In his other hand he held a silver mug of wine and sung along to the music the locals were playing. In his cups he had not noticed his old comrade approaching from his side.
The song had reached the chorus, a familiar tune Tobin had sung many times around a campfire on campaign. Tobin stepped onto the raised dais and walked behind the large table until he was next to the singing lord. As Ryder began to bellow the verse he slapped him on the back, causing an explosive spluttering of wine from his friend. Ryder turned around in outrage, his face suddenly lighting up as he saw Tobin.
‘Argh!’ cried Malcolm Ryder, as the table erupted in laughter. Lurching to his feet he sent the squealing woman sprawling off his lap, and his mug of wine crashed to the heavily laden table.
‘Tobin!’ he said, ‘You old bastard! Let’s get some ale down that well-spoken throat of yours.’
They embraced each other warmly and Ryder’s large and powerful frame towered over Tobin. Malcolm had always been the physically stronger of the two. Ryder was an unhandsome man with a large hooked nose and a mop of brown curly hair. His eyes were large and bulged out, but he had an infectious smile and had a gift for putting men at their ease.
‘By the blessed god of whores, it’s good to see you, boy! Especially on a night like this!’ Malcolm released his old friend and looked him up and down again. ‘You’ve gotten thinner, how is that possible?’
‘I live well. Is Aran here, tonight?’ Tobin asked.
‘No, my son would rather spend time with his fashionable friends in Thornsreach than with his old man,’said Ryder with a rueful smile.
‘Were we any different at that age?’ said Tobin. ‘Don’t you remember, or is too long ago for you?’ Ryder laughed and they both threw their arms over each other’s shoulders. With no further conversation they began to carry on with the song. It was going to be a good night.
The hour of Wintersong, the last of hour of the year, came and the toast was drunk and the traditional ceremonies performed at midnight by the local priest. He had become so drunk that he had to be held up by two squires as he slurred his way through the prayer with thoughtful, and welcome, brevity.
As dawn approached the celebration had died down, many of the guests had passed out, or fallen asleep in the hall. With only a few hardy revellers remained awake and were now talking in small groups in the hall. Ryder had motioned for Tobin to follow and they left the great hall and entered a small wood-panelled room lined with books. A large stone fireplace dominated one wall, its fire set and lit. There was a large window, but a heavy velvet drape had been pulled across it. Malcolm ordered a servant to fetch a bottle of Keshic, a twenty five year old single malt spirit from his cellar. Once the bottle had arrived and the men were settled in the men began to catch up with each other’s lives. The talk had been light at first, two old friends with a long shared history catching up with each other’s lives, but the conversation became more reflective and turned almost inevitably to the politics of the Golden Isle.
It was Malcolm who first broached the topic of the King. ‘Damn fool plans another war on the continent. He wants to see if he can press his claim on Cathan. Trying to outdo that old bastard of a father of his.’
Tobin shrugged and said, ‘The King can plan wars, but he needs coin to fight them.’ He knew where this was going; this was a familiar topic they had often spoken about. Or perhaps, more correctly, he should say disagreed about. Ryder was a man who held the position of First Minister of the Concord, a hereditary position that he took seriously. It had been implemented after a bloody civil war hundreds of years ago as a check on the power of the King. Ever since its inception it had caused almost constant friction between the kings and the Lords of the Concord.
‘Aye,’ said Ryder, ‘But he won’t call a Concord. He refuses to. Yet it’s only the Concord that can raise the money for war. So how does he expect to raise the money, if he won’t get the lords to fund it?’
Tobin shrugged, he was feeling more than a little drunk and the warm room was making him sleepy. If truth be told he wanted to sleep, but he knew he was a guest in his friend’s home so he would humour him for now.
Ryder took a sip and waved the glass at him saying, ‘He can’t raise a new tax without the Concord, so he will have to sell the curtains and bleed the treasury drier than a nuns tit!’
‘Perhaps this is a conversation for a more sober occasion?’ Tobin countered.
Ryder ignored him and said half to himself, ‘Though, I have heard darker rumours. Some say Islinor will pay for war with Cathan.’
Tobin could barely contain his irritation at this ‘Oh come now! Do you really see the Holy Empire paying for a war on their very borders? The Empire is no friend of the Cathan, nor is it a lover of the Golden Isles, but it would not risk chaos on its own doorstep.’
Tobin put his glass down on the small table next to his chair, and looked into the fire as he spoke, ‘The Prelate of the High Church would rather Cathan and Islinor joined forces to make us bow to the High Church. That will never happen. Cathan and Islinor would rather slaughter each other first.’
‘Perhaps,’ agreed Ryder, ‘but war is coming all the same. Our king is a Merovel. Like William before him. The Merovels are stubborn and proud. Perhaps this boy thinks he can do what his father failed to do?’ Ryder spat in the fire and continued, ‘Aye, its kingly pride sure enough. Even though the claim to the throne of Cathan was a concern of the Balikris Kings, not the Merovels. Still they claim it as theirs. Even the Balikris claim was tenuous at best. It’s the little King shaken his fist. But men will die because of it!’
Tobin was becoming concerned that Ryder was sobering up, and feared his fr
iend was becoming too serious. He sought to rectify that problem with another glass of the spirit. After pouring the drink he said, ‘The claim is tenuous I know, and no reason to go to war, but I suspect it has more to do with the Cathan merchants monopoly of the Grey Seas trade routes. Your father was wise when he used to say “Follow the money for an explanation, lads.”’
‘You may be right,’ said Ryder, ‘but the King is making his people angry, he plans to fight wars without consulting the Concord, he married a woman of the High Church, and how can we be sure that the mother teaches the princes our god? I tell you lad, if the King goes to war, I doubt he will have the support of the lords and that may cost him heavy.’
‘I fear you may be right, Malc,’said Tobin, ‘but even if he does I wonder who he would get to command his expedition.’
Malcolm narrowed his eyes and gave his old friend a sly look. ‘You are probably one of the few generals; we have with enough brains, and experience to command expedition to the shores of Cathan. The boy called you to command didn’t he, Tobin? He is set on war then!’
‘The ‘boy’ as you call our King, did indeed, but I refused, ’answered Tobin, with a slight smile, ‘As an Earl I have sworn an oath to the King, but his request was illegal, as he did not call a Concord. Though, if truth be told, I have had my fill of soldiering and that also informed my decision to refuse the King.’
Ryder gave Tobin a serious look. ‘I always thought you were too loyal to that throne, my friend, kings are ungrateful creatures.’
Wintersong Page 2
