"You're getting old, Guillaume," said the Count, one of the few people permitted to use the Archpriest's first name, "and your judgement is failing. How's your bad leg?"
"Not much better, thank you for asking, Charles."
An uncomfortable silence fell. Both men were lost in their own thoughts, though 'thought' might be too strong a word for the Count. He supped some more wine and leaned beside the window, moodily tapping his fingers against the lintel.
"Why don't you let me ride out?" he demanded. "Give me what's left of the Palace Guard, and I'll clear away the rabble outside within an hour."
The Archpriest sighed and shaded his eyes with his hand. "For the hundredth time, no," he replied with as much force as his tired voice could muster. "As always, you would make a mess of things."
The Count was about to make an indignant reply, but something distracted him. He stared out the window, his heavy jaw gaping foolishly.
"Gods above, Charles, close your mouth," snapped the Archpriest, "must you look like a dolt, as well as speak like one?"
"Shut up. I can hear something," whispered his brother. For once Flambard obeyed an order rather than issuing one.
There was a rumbling of distant thunder, like a storm was rolling across the fields to the east of the city. The deep lines of the Archpriest's bulldog face creased into a smirk as the rumbling was joined by the sound of horns.
Horns, horns, horns, their brassy yell mingling with the sound of thousands of galloping hoofs.
"Well, well," drawled Flambard, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands complacently across his ample belly, "I believe that is the sound of the cavalry, arriving in the nick of time."
His brother turned and glared at him. "The Templars!" he exclaimed, spilling his wine again. "You got a message through to them!"
"I did indeed. Have faith in your big brother, Charles. He always knows what to do. My agents have kept the East Gate open, so our rescuers should have no difficulty entering the city."
Count Flambard felt like an excited child as his heart thrilled to the sound of the charge. He tossed away his wine cup and reached for the sword hanging from his hip.
"You must let me ride out!" he cried, tugging the blade free, "those scum below will be caught between our men and the Templars—between the hammer and the anvil!"
The Archpriest chuckled. "Oh, very well," he replied, waving his brother away. "Go and play if you wish. But try not to get yourself killed. I should miss the conversation."
His brother ran out of the chamber, swearing excitedly to himself and almost tripping over his scabbard. He banged the door shut behind him.
8.
Hope stank. The city usually stank anyway, since washing was a luxury for the rich and most common citizens threw their refuse into the street, but today the stench had an extra spice of death.
Corpses littered the streets. Men, women and children, trampled and speared and hacked to death. The only living people to be seen were vengeful members of the Palace Guard, who had been given the uncongenial task of sifting through the piles of bodies for valuables and finishing off the wounded.
This was supposed to be a punishment for their failure to quell the rebellion, but the Guard took to it with gusto, tearing rings from dead fingers and slitting the throats of those unlucky enough to be still breathing. Any living citizens brave enough to venture out to try and find the remains of their loved ones were soon added to the piles of dead.
In the middle of this reeking charnel house a celebration was in full swing. The Banqueting Hall of the Founders' Palace had been little used since the death of King Rollo, but now it echoed to the sound of feasting and dancing. Archpriest Flambard, who usually despised the idea of wasting public money on such fripperies, had spared no expense in laying on an entertainment for the Templars.
"Our heroic and gracious saviours," he called them in his pre-feast address, and raised a glass to the Grand Master, whose jupon was still spattered with the blood of the citizens he had slaughtered. The ancient knight smiled thinly and bowed his head as the assembled knights, nobles and aldermen enthusiastically clapped and drank his health.
As befitting their rank, the Grand Master and the Lesser Masters were seated at high table alongside the Archpriest and the senior Aldermen. They looked uncomfortable together, the gaunt scarred warriors and smooth soft-bellied politicians. Comrade Malet was seated next to Count Flambard, who was trying and failing to engage the sullen giant in conversation.
The Banqueting Hall was huge, bigger even than the Great Hall of the Temple, but even so there was barely room to cram in all the knights as well as the other guests. A space had been cleared in the centre of the overcrowded room for a troupe of dancers. They were professionals hired specially for the occasion, three men and three women, brightly dressed in the royal colours of green and gold and performing a slow, intricate piece dating from the glory days of the Old Kingdom. There was no music to the dance, and the rhythm was set by one man who stood apart and clapped an irregular beat. A confused din of music was supplied by the pipers, drummers, lute players and flautists that filled the galleries above the hall.
The atmosphere was hot and heavy, a pungent mixture of sweat, perfume, roasting meat, spiced wine and the reek of drying blood from the swords and uniforms of the Templars. They had followed the example of their Grand Master and deliberately neglected to wash away the gore of the recent massacre. The message Sibrand wished to convey was clear and unsubtle: we have the real power here, and can turn these bloody swords on anyone we please.
Fulk was sat at one of the lower tables, sandwiched uncomfortably between another knight and a fat noblewoman with a moustache who kept clawing at his thigh. The smell of blood made her feel damp and lusty, or so she had hissed into his ear during a lull in the music. He said nothing and concentrated on his food, hoping she would give up and turn her attentions elsewhere.
His other dinner companion was named Odo, a tall square-jawed young man with fair hair and a good-natured, open expression. Like Fulk, he was just eighteen years old. They were friends of a sort, sharing similar tastes in drink, women and weapons.
"Not your sort, eh?" smirked Odo, nudging Fulk in the ribs.
Fulk ignored him. Odo shrugged and turned his attention back to his meat.
The events of the day were crowding in Fulk's mind. It had started gloriously, an exhilarating charge across the plain with his brother knights, two thousand men charging as one, a sea of galloping horses and blowing war-horns.
The Grand Master's plan of attack was as brutal as it was simple. His knights were ordered to charge into the city and kill every commoner in sight until they reached the Founders' Palace. The palace was easily visible, a gloomy pile of rock upon a spur overlooking the icy flow of the Life.
Images of what had followed floated before Fulk's eyes as he moodily picked at his meat. Screaming, contorted faces, women and little children going down under clattering hoofs, swords rising and falling in sprays of blood. Scattered groups of hardcore revolutionaries had attempted to make a stand, defiantly waving their banners, and were slaughtered like pigs.
Fulk had ridden through the bloody streets in a daze, not even bothering to draw his sword. This was his first taste of battle, and could not be further from how he had imagined it.
A heavily pregnant woman had stumbled out of a doorway and fallen in front of his horse. Fulk hauled back on his reins just in time to avoid trampling her, and a knight ran out of the house after her. He was bareheaded and his face beneath the mail coif enflamed with passion. As Fulk watched, helpless, the knight buried his sword up to the hilt in the pregnant woman's belly.
This bleak memory was still revolving in his mind when he spotted Alderman Chapuys sitting at the high table.
Fulk remembered clearly every detail of the man's appearance from his dream and the weird sensation of being inside his head, urging him on to argue with Archpriest Flambard.
He couldn't help but star
e. At one point the Alderman turned away from the conversation he was having with his neighbour, and his eyes met Fulk's. Their gazes locked for a moment, the yellow-faced old politician and the stocky young knight, then Chapuys frowned and looked away. Fulk lowered his eyes and forced himself not to look at the man again.
* * * *
Of everyone present, perhaps only the Archpriest was truly enjoying himself. He sat at the middle of the high table, presiding over the feast like a great purple spider in the centre of its web. The Grand Master was seated to his left and the two old rivals exchanged a few polite words of conversation.
"Enjoying your meal, old fellow?" Flambard asked sweetly, "I can get someone to cut your meat up for you, if you like."
"Don't worry about my teeth, you fucking toad," snarled Sibrand, "they're still strong enough to bite."
"Such ferocity. I suppose I should expect nothing less from such a famous warrior. You know, father used to sing me to sleep with tales of your deeds. How old are you now, anyway?"
On they went, exchanging ever more heated insults until Flambard felt it was time for the next act. He rose to his feet and signalled to the stewards standing next to the dais. They thumped their staves on the floor and bellowed for silence.
The dancers stopped and the music in the galleries slowly died away. Conversation at the tables ceased. Flambard smiled and drew himself up, holding his thick arms wide in a blessing.
"The gods of earth and sky bless us," he boomed, "earth to flesh and back again, our spirits to the heavens."
The assembled multitude repeated the old prayer in a solemn chant. When they had finished, Flambard pressed his hands together and bowed his head for a moment of silence. Then he looked up, a politician once more, his eyes gleaming under their heavy brows.
"Such a noble gathering as this would not have occurred without the heroic intervention of the Temple. These brave knights, all must agree, have today lived up to the noble traditions of their ancestors and saved both our city and the kingdom from destruction. And they have also saved our young Queen, whose health, I am happy to say, improves every day. She will yet live to take up my burden and rule over us all."
He paused for breath and a sip of wine, savouring the expectant silence.
"But mere words cannot convey the full extent of our gratitude," he went on, "the honour of the city, indeed of the entire realm, demands that the Temple be suitably rewarded. There is no question of offering money. The knights are too pure, too noble to be paid off in coin, as if they were common mercenaries. I know they are above such vulgarity."
This was met with some uncomfortable shifting of chairs. Fulk knew better than most how desperate the Temple was for cash, and smiled ironically as he watched the Masters squirm in their seats. The Grand Master in particular looked furious.
"I prayed long and hard for guidance from the gods," Flambard continued, "and, at last, they answered me. The Temple is to be rewarded with my blessing, and the unreserved financial backing of the State."
The Grand Master could remain silent no longer. "To what end?" he demanded, half-rising in his seat.
Flambard did not turn to look at him, but raised his face to the heavens and spread his arms again. His deep, rich voice echoed around the vastness of the hall.
"To what end, Grand Master? I shall tell you. By the authority of the State and of the Church, I declare the Twelfth Reconquest."
* * * *
It was later. The feast had broken up shortly after the Archpriest's speech and now the Banqueting Hall was empty save for a few servants clearing away the last of the plates. Some of the castle wolfhounds were also present, snuffling and scratching through the filthy rushes for discarded bits of meat.
In a cool antechamber, Archpriest Flambard was leaning on a stone balcony overlooking the Life and sipping a quiet brandy. The air wasn't that fresh, since the stench of blood and death still rose from the city, but he was glad to be out in the open after the noise and closeness of the feast.
Footsteps sounded behind him.
"Good evening, Charles," he murmured, taking another swig of brandy. The liquid burned satisfyingly in his throat. Good brandy had to be imported into the Winter Realm and was ruinously expensive, but tonight he had rewarded himself with a glass from his own small, private stock.
"I…" stuttered the Count, but before he could get another word his brother held up his glass for silence.
"You have come to demand explanations. That's understandable. But please be gentle with me, brother, I am feeling rather tired and mellow."
"I don't care how you're feeling!" squawked the Count, "what in the name of Hell was that piece of theatre all about? The Twelfth Reconquest! Have you gone completely insane at last?"
"Not to my knowledge. And be careful how you blaspheme. Hell is not a lucky place to invoke."
"I'll blaspheme how I wish! Talking of luck, you used up all yours today. When you announced the Reconquest, I thought the Grand Master was going to put his dagger in you. He would have done it, too, if his knights hadn't started cheering."
Flambard drained his brandy, sighed regretfully as he looked at the empty glass, and slowly turned to face his brother. "I gambled on that," he admitted, "every day of my life is a gamble. I am getting rather good at it, though one day the dice must roll against me. But not today."
The Count was flushed by too much wine and heavy food, and his slow wits were even duller than usual. "I don't understand," he complained, leaning against a pillar. "What can you hope to achieve by antagonizing the Temple? They command the largest body of armed men in the entire realm."
"Precisely."
"But surely you want them as allies, rather than enemies?"
"No. The Grand Master is a viper. I would not trust him as an ally for a second. You misunderstand my intent. I don't want the Templars at all."
The Count's jaw dropped, as it did when he was confused. His brother moved closer and lowered his voice. There was no telling who might be listening.
"The Templars are, as you say, the largest body of armed men in the realm. They are ambitious, and their leader hates me. For all these reasons, I want to be rid of them. To send them far, far away, where they may perform glorious deeds to their heart's content. Or perish."
Slowly the light of understanding dawned in the Count's boozy red-rimmed eyes. He puffed out his cheeks and rubbed his jaw, staring at his brother in admiration.
"So you see," Flambard went on, "I used the Templars to wipe out my enemies inside the city, the rabble-rousers and demagogues and so forth, and now I will send them out of the realm on a glorious suicide mission. For the sake of their honour, the Masters dare not refuse. Heroic idiocy is supposed to be in their blood. Thus I rid myself of my enemies, and a man does well when he rids himself of shit."
"But…the student riot that started all this, you cannot have known…"
"My agents organized the riot. Students are remarkably easy to manipulate into rioting, provided you supply with them enough alcohol and righteous indignation. I couldn't be sure that Captain Marshall would make such a mess of quelling it, of course, but I had to take the gamble. Raising the Dragon banner was the best I could do to ensure he would fail. Like I said, every day I throw the dice and pray for high numbers."
"Well," the Count said weakly, "have you got any more of that brandy? I should like to drink to the banishing of the Templars."
His brother smiled. "No I haven't, and don't get too smug," he replied. "You're going with them."
9.
The Reconquests had begun a century after the break-up of the Old Kingdom and the foundation of the Winter Realm. These were campaigns launched from the Winter Realm by bands of knights eager to win back the lands over the sea that their ancestors had lost.
The disastrous First Reconquest had passed into legend. A hundred young knights sailed south to the shores of the Old Kingdom and were never seen or heard from again. The legends insist that they performed spectacular de
eds of valour against hordes of monsters and Godless Ones, before being surrounded and wiped out by an enormous enemy host. That the knights were wiped out seemed likely, though no evidence had ever been found to confirm their fate.
Pointless though it was, the sacrifice and valour of the First Reconquest appealed greatly to the warrior classes of the Winter Realm, and further Reconquests quickly followed. These later expeditions were far better equipped and organised, and achieved some success in recapturing strips of territory in the Old Kingdom. However, the Reconquerors received little support from the Founder Monarchs, who feared they might lead to the creation of rival states.
Lacking the money or men to sustain a permanent occupation, the isolated Reconquered Realms were gradually abandoned or destroyed. By the time of the reign of King Matthias, King Rollo's father, Reconquering was beginning to be seen as a foolishly outdated and romantic venture. The unmitigated disaster of the Eleventh Reconquest, in which virtually an entire fleet was ambushed and destroyed by pirates, ensured that the Reconquests were consigned to history.
That is, until Archpriest Flambard decided to resurrect them.
* * * *
The Grand Master was angry. When he was angry, he tended to spread it about, which explained the dismal expressions on the faces of the other people in the room.
He had summoned the Lesser Masters to meet him in the lodgings set aside for him in the Founders' Palace. They were suitably rough and austere, as befitting a Templar, but the bare stone walls and lack of a decent fire only lent an edge to the Grand Master's temper. He wasn't getting any younger, and the chill filtering through the arrow-slit windows aggravated his rheumatism.
"Not one of you supported me against Flambard!" he shouted. "Some of you even applauded his fucking speech!"
The Best Weapon Page 5
