Hawkwood s Voyage: Book One of The Monarchies of God

by Paul Kearney

  “I hear that two thousand of the Knights are almost on Hebrion’s borders, cousin. That would not have anything to do with your haste to table this issue?” Haukir said, smiling unpleasantly.

  “I rejoice that the resources of the Church are so lavished on my kingdom, but like Lofantyr I think they could be better employed elsewhere.”

  “You need men to fight the Merduks, not words,” Markus, the Fimbrian marshal said suddenly, his bluntness disconcerting. “You can no longer rely on the troops of the Church, that is plain. The Pontiff and his Prelates are playing their own game; they do not care about the fate of Ormann Dyke. They may even be glad to see it fall, if it rids them of this rival Pontiff at the same time.”

  It was unforgivable to speak the truth so openly. Isolation has atrophied any kind of diplomatic subtleties the Fimbrians might once have possessed, Abeleyn thought.

  Haukir seemed to be on the verge of another explosion, but the Fimbrian continued speaking in his level, toneless voice.

  “The Fimbrian Electorates have decided to put their forces at the disposal of the west. There are six hundred tercios under arms in Fimbir itself. These troops have been set aside for possible employment beyond the borders of the electorates. Any monarch who needs them may have them.”

  The table sat stunned in silence. Six hundred tercios! Over seventy thousand men. They had had a chimera in their midst and had not known it.

  “Who will these tercios serve under?” Lofantyr asked.

  “They will have their own officers, and any expeditionary force will be commanded by a Fimbrian marshal who will in turn accept orders from whichever ruler employs him.”

  “Employs?” Cadamost asked, his red eyes narrowing. “Tell me, Marshal, who will pay the wages of these soldiers?”

  For the first time Markus looked less than impassive.

  “Their costs will have to be met by the monarch they serve under, of course.”

  So that was it. The Fimbrians were killing two birds with the same stone. Now that the electorates had seemingly patched up their differences they no doubt had a wealth of unemployed soldiers on their hands. What to do with them, these peerless fighters? Farm them out to the other western states, relieve a no-doubt strained economy—and extend Fimbrian influence at the same time. The Fimbrian crutch might well transform into a club one day. It was a neat policy. Abeleyn wondered if Lofantyr were desperate enough to take the bait. Surely he must see the ramifications.

  “I would speak to you privately after this day’s meeting is concluded, Marshal,” the Torunnan king said at last.

  Markus bowed slightly, but not before Abeleyn had caught the gleam of triumph in his eye.

  “T HE damn fool!” Mark raged. “Can’t he see what he is doing? The Fimbrians will put a leash about his throat and lead him around like a dog.”

  “He is in a tight corner,” Abeleyn said, sipping his wine and rolling a black olive round and round the table to catch the sunlight. “He has been baulked of his reinforcements by the Church, so he must have men from somewhere. The Fimbrian intelligence service must be quite efficient. The timing of this offer is perfect.”

  “Do you think they hanker after empire again?”

  “Of course. What else could have persuaded the electorates to cease their internal strife? My ploy of bringing the Narbukan envoy here has fallen flatter than a pricked bladder. It is strange. Golophin must have suspected that there was something afoot in Fimbria, for it was he who advised me to sound out the electorates. I do not think he imagined this, though, not in his wildest dreams.”

  “Or nightmares. Our alliance looks like pretty small beer compared with this news.”

  “On the contrary, Mark. It is more important than ever. Cadamost has come to some secret arrangement with the marshals, of that I am sure. They accepted his invitation, not mine. And Torunna needs troops. How does one get to Torunna from Fimbria? Via Perigraine! Cadamost has been playing a very deep game. Who would have believed him capable of that?”

  They were seated at a roadside tavern in one of the main thoroughfares of the city. Waggons and carts trundled past unendingly, and around them was the red-gold shade of the turning trees, avenues of which lined almost every street in Vol Ephrir. Scarlet and amber leaves dotted the ground like a crunching carpet, and there was a cool breeze blowing. If they looked up, past the well-constructed buildings on the other side of the street, they could see the palace towers of Vol Ephrir shining white with marble. Abeleyn raised his glass to them and drank. It was Candelarian. Fully half of Candelaria’s exports were to Perigraine.

  “We must speak with Lofantyr,” Abeleyn said. “He must be made to see what he is doing. We will not dissuade him from utilizing Fimbrian troops, but he must at least be frugal in their deployment. One good thing about this: it has secured his independence from the Church, and it may ensure the recognition of Macrobius as Pontiff once again. Lofantyr will back him all the way. He has nothing to lose and much to gain from a Pontiff who might well become a Torunnan puppet.”

  “If Himerius steps down,” Mark said sombrely.

  “A very interesting if, cousin. Who would support him if he did not? Almark, of course, and Finnmark—most of the Border Duchies.”

  “Peregraine, maybe.”

  “Maybe. I am all at sea when thinking of this kingdom. Cadamost has rattled me—most unpleasant.”

  A third person joined them at their table, appearing out of the throng of people who coursed up and down the street. She bowed to both kings and then drank some wine from Abeleyn’s glass.

  “My lady Jemilla,” the Hebrian monarch said easily. “I trust you have been enjoying your trip about the city?”

  “It is a wonderous place, sire, so different from our crowded old Abrusio. Like something from one of the old courtly tales.”

  “You look pale. Are you well?”

  Jemilla was wearing a loose robe of deep scarlet encrusted with pearls and gold thread. Her dark hair was bound up on her head with more pearl-headed pins, and her face was as white as sea-scoured bone.

  “Quite well, sire. I am a little tired, perhaps.”

  Mark ignored her. He had been rather scandalized by Abeleyn’s bringing her to the conclave, especially since the Hebrian king was officially, if secretly, betrothed to his sister.

  “You should keep out of the sun. It is very bright on the eye in this part of the world. There is no dust to blunt its passage.”

  “I am waiting for my barouche, sire. Will you walk me to the corner? My maids seem to have deserted me for the moment.”

  “By all means, my lady. Cousin, you will await my return?”

  Mark flapped a hand affably enough and buried his nose in his glass.

  “He doesn’t like me,” Jemilla said when they were out of earshot.

  “He is attracted to you, but Mark is an austere sort of fellow at times. He loves his wife, and is prone to guilt.”

  “You and he behave like a pair of ‘prentice ensigns out on the town. Have you no attendants with you?”

  Abeleyn laughed. “My bodyguards—and Mark’s—are very discreet, and Cadamost no doubt has people watching us also. You need not fear for my safety in Vol Ephrir. If anything happened here it would reflect badly on Perigraine’s king.”

  Jemilla leaned on his arm. She was walking more slowly than her usual brisk pace.

  “Is anything the matter, my lady?”

  She leaned close to him, spoke into his ear.

  “I am with child.”

  They halted in the street, curious folk glancing at the pair as they passed by.

  “Are you sure?” Abeleyn asked in a voice gone toneless and cold.

  “Yes, sire. It is yours. There has been no one else in the time we have been together.”

  Abeleyn stared at her. The bright sunlight brought out the lines at the corners of her eyes, accentuated the whiteness of her skin, the shadows under her cheekbones.

  “You are not well, lady,” he murmured. />
  “I can keep nothing down. It is a passing thing.”

  “Does anyone else know?”

  “My maid will have guessed.” Jemilla caressed her stomach through the thick, loose robe. “It is hardly noticeable as yet, but my flow has been—”

  “All right, all right! I don’t want to hear about your woman’s mechanisms!” Like most men, Abeleyn knew little and cared less about that particular subject. It was bad luck to couple with a woman at that time, an offence against God. That was as far as he cared to enquire.

  “You’re sure it’s mine, Jemilla?” he demanded in a low voice, taking her by the arms.

  Her eyes filled with tears. “Yes, sire.” She bent her head and began to sob quietly.

  “Saint’s teeth! Where is that blasted cart? Dry your eyes, woman, for God’s sake!”

  The covered carriage came trundling along the street and Abeleyn hailed it.

  “Will you be all right?” he asked as he helped her inside. He had never seen her weep before and it disconcerted him.

  “Yes, sire, I will be fine. But I cannot—I cannot perform the same services that I have undertaken up until now.”

  Abeleyn coloured. “Never mind that. We’ll get you back to Hebrion by sea. You won’t be climbing the Malvennors in your state. There are a few things I must arrange. You will be looked after, Jemilla.”

  “Sire, I have to say—I want to keep this child. I will not have it . . . disposed of.”

  Abeleyn stiffened. For a second he bore an uncanny resemblance to his severe, rigidly pious father.

  “That is one notion that never entered my mind, Jemilla. As I said, you will be looked after, and the child also.”

  “Thank you, sire. I never doubted it.”

  He closed the door and the carriage sped away to the palace where she had a suite of her own. He followed its departure with a grim set to his mouth.

  A bastard child, and not by some strumpet either. By a lady from a noble house. That could cause problems. He would have to be careful.

  “Anything wrong?” Mark asked when Abeleyn rejoined him.

  “No. Women’s inquisitiveness. I sent her on her way.”

  “A handsome woman, if rather on the mature side.”

  “Yes. She’s a widow.”

  “And nobly born,” Mark noted unsmilingly.

  Abeleyn gave him a piercing look. “Not nobly enough, cousin, believe me. Not nobly enough. Order some more wine, will you? I’m as dry as a summer lane.”

  I N the closed carriage, the lady Jemilla’s face was bright and hard, the tears dried. The carriage was well-sprung, the motion easy, for which she was grateful. She had never borne a child full-term before. She was not entirely sure about what awaited her. But that was not important.

  He had believed her—that was the main thing. What would he do now? What prospects had a bastard son of Hebrion’s king? It remained to be seen. She did not like the way Abeleyn was so friendly with Mark of Astarac. As a bachelor he might secretly welcome a son, even one from the wrong side of the blanket, but were he to marry and make an Astaran princess his queen . . .

  It was not Abeleyn’s child, of course; it was Richard Hawkwood’s. And it would be a boy—she could feel it in her marrow. But Hawkwood was no doubt dead by now, fathoms deep in the waters of some unending ocean. And even if he were not, he was not nobly born. He must never know that he had a son. No, this child of hers would grow up a king’s son, and one day she would see that he claimed what he was owed. He would not be cheated of his birthright, and when he claimed it his mother would be there to guide him.

  TWENTY-THREE

  T HEY found Billerand halfway through the middle watch, down in the cable tiers in the fore part of the hold. He had gone below to check on the eight-inch cables that served the anchors. The boy Mateo had been with him; of his body there was no trace. The soldiers said they had heard nothing.

  A file of arquebusiers fired a volley as what remained of his corpse was slipped over the side in recognition of the soldier he had once been, then they went back to their posts, in fours now instead of pairs, and with lanterns burning throughout the hold to try and keep the shadows at bay.

  Hawkwood and Murad spent what was left of the night drinking good brandy in the nobleman’s quarters and racking their tired brains for something to do, some course of action that would help. Hawkwood even suggested asking Ortelius for aid, but Murad vetoed him. Bad enough that the priest seemed to be winning more and more influence among the soldiers and the sailors, but for the ship’s officers to go running to him for help was intolerable.

  Bardolin joined them, bad news written all over his face.

  “Ortelius is addressing a meeting of sorts on the gundeck,” he told them.

  “The gundeck!” Murad exclaimed.

  “Yes. It would seem he has made it his mission to win over the poor lost souls of the Dweomer-folk to his way of thinking. There are many of the soldiers there, and some of the mariners too.”

  “I’ll get Sequero to break up their little party,” Murad said, beginning to rise from his chair.

  “No, Lord Murad, I beg you do not. It can only do harm. Most of your men are still at their posts, and the majority of your sailors, Captain, but I noticed one of your ship’s officers, Velasca. He was there with the rest.”

  “Velasca?” Hawkwood exploded. “The mutinous dog!”

  “It would seem,” Murad drawled, “that our subordinates are evolving minds of their own. Have some brandy, Mage. And take that thing out of the front of your robe for the Saint’s sake. I have seen familiars before.”

  Bardolin released the imp. It hopped on to the table and sniffed at the neck of the brandy decanter, then grinned as Murad chucked it gently under the chin.

  “Good luck, an imp aboard ship,” Hawkwood said quietly.

  “Yes,” Bardolin said. “I remember Billerand telling me once, back in Abrusio.”

  There was a heavy silence. Hawkwood downed his brandy as though it were water. “What have you found out?” he asked the wizard at last, eyes watering from the strong spirit.

  “I have been doing some reading. On werewolves. My collection of thaumaturgical works is pitifully inadequate—my home was ransacked ere we left Hebrion—and I have had to be discreet in enquiring as to whether any of the other passengers have similar works in their possession, you understand. But according to what meagre researches I have been able to carry out, shifters do not like confinement of two kinds. Gregory of Touron reckons that the longer the man who is the shifter retains his human form, the more violent the actions of the beast once he transforms. Hence if shifters do not intend to run entirely amok once in animal form, they must change back and forth regularly, even if the beast form only lies motionless. It is like lancing a boil. The pus must be let out occasionally. The beast must breathe.”

  “What’s the other form of confinement?” Murad asked impatiently.

  “That is simple. Any prolonged period of incarceration in close quarters, such as a house, a cave—”

  “Or a ship,” Hawkwood interrupted.

  “Just so, Captain.”

  “Brilliant,” Murad said caustically, flourishing his glass. “What good do these priceless nuggets do us, old man?”

  “They tell us that this shifter is suffering on two counts. First because he is in the confined space of a ship, and second because he cannot change back and forth with the frequency he might desire. And so the pressure builds up, and the frustration.”

  “You’re hoping he will make a mistake, lose control,” Hawkwood said.

  “Yes. He has been very careful so far. He has murdered our weather-worker and left us becalmed, thinking perhaps that will be enough. But the wind has struck up again and still the ship is pointed west, so he strikes again—at a ship’s officer this time. He is starting to sow the seeds of panic.”

  “They know it was a shifter that killed Pernicus,” Murad said, his eyes two slits in his white-skinned face. “It’
s hard to say who are the most terrified, the soldiers or the passengers.”

  “He hopes to ignite a mutiny, perhaps,” Hawkwood said thoughtfully.

  “Yes. There is one other thing Gregory tells us, however. It is that the shifter who has recently killed is not sated—quite the reverse, in fact. Often he finds he must kill again and again, especially when he is in these confined conditions I have mentioned. He loses more control with every murder until in the end the rational part of him recedes and the mindless beast gains control.”

  “Which perhaps is what happened to the shifter aboard the Faulcon,” Hawkwood put in.

  “Yes, I am afraid so.”

  “The Faulcon did not carry a complement of Hebrian soldiers, nor arquebuses with iron bullets,” Murad said stoutly. “No, this thing is becoming afraid, is my guess. If the wizard is correct then the shifter is beginning to succumb to his more bestial impulses. It may work to our advantage.”

  “And in the meantime we await another death?” Hawkwood asked.

  “Yes, Captain, I think we do,” Bardolin said.

  “I don’t think much of your strategy, Mage. It is like that of the sheep as the wolf closes in.”

  “I can think of nothing else.”

  “There is no mark, no sign by which the beasts can be recognized in human form?”

  “Some old wives say there is something odd about the eyes. They are often strange-looking, not quite human.”

  “That’s not much to go on.”

  “It is all I have.”

  “Where will he strike next, do you think?” Murad asked.

  “I think it will be at what he perceives to be the centre of resistance and the source of authority. I think that next he will strike at one of those sitting about this table.”

  Murad and Hawkwood stared blankly at one another. Finally the scarred nobleman managed a strangled laugh.

  “You have a sure way of ruining good brandy, Mage. It might be vinegar in my mouth.”

  “Be prepared,” Bardolin insisted. “Do not let yourselves be found alone at any time, and always carry a weapon that will bite its black flesh.”