Reginald shrugged. “Those who join us will be rewarded,” he said. “And those who don’t will be exterminated.”
His father studied him for a long moment. “You are determined, then?”
“The Isle is part of my patrimony,” Reginald said. “We cannot just let it ... slip away.”
“True,” his father agreed.
Reginald grinned. He couldn’t help himself. He’d done it! He’d talked his father into authorising the campaign. The Summer Isle would be his! He would rule as a noble lord, shaping the island as he pleased. And when his father died, Reginald’s son would inherit the island as his personal demesne. It would be a good training ground to learn the skills one needed to be king.
“We cannot spare too many soldiers, though,” his father said. “You will have to hire and pay mercenaries.”
“I command the regiments,” Reginald said, stiffly.
“Yes, but they are needed along the borders,” his father countered. “How quickly could we recall them, if our ... friends ... decided it was time to adjust the boundary lines in their favour?”
Reginald nodded, crossly. The crystal ball network was gone. It would take days, perhaps weeks, to get a message from Andalusia to the Summer Isle, then longer to move the regiments to the ships and sail back to Havelock. By then, a mobile force could have crossed Andalusia’s borders and made its way to the capital city. He might occupy the Summer Isle, only to lose Andalusia itself. His father was right. Only a handful of regiments could be spared for the invasion.
“I will hire mercenaries to make up the numbers,” he said. There was no shortage of mercenaries in Andalusia. His father had often fretted over what to do with them, now that the kingdom was stable again. The mercenaries could easily cause trouble ... or go to work for a discontented nobleman. “And many of them can be given land on the Summer Isle.”
“Assuming you win, Son,” King Romulus said.
“I will win,” Reginald promised. “I thank you, Father.”
He rose, then bowed. He’d go straight to his rooms, then send out heralds. The call to war would echo across the land, summoning mercenaries and adventurers who wanted to fight under his banner. He’d have to send a formal demand for submission to Hereford, of course – protocol demanded that he gave the usurper a chance to think twice – but he’d make sure it was worded to discourage surrender. Beating the living daylights out of the former earl – he was damned if he was calling Hereford a king – would go a long way towards convincing the rest of the snake pit to bend the knee. Besides, Reginald wanted the war. It would be a new and exciting challenge.
“Be careful, Son,” King Romulus said. “You will be a long way from help.”
“I know, Father,” Reginald said. “But I will survive.”
***
Lord William had not grown up in the court – in the days before the Golden City had fallen – for nothing. He was adept at concealing his thoughts and feelings from his superiors, particularly his monarch. King Romulus was a hard man to love, at times, but he was an easy man to follow. His son had all of his father’s determination and sheer bloody-minded stubbornness – William admitted that, in the privacy of his own head – yet he lacked the maturity King Romulus had developed over the years.
Reginald was charismatic, William conceded. The prince’s blond good looks had set more than a few hearts aflutter around the court, including those of William’s own daughters. It was a shame, in many ways, that Reginald was unlikely to be married off to anyone less than a princess. Becoming the young prince’s father-in-law would have solidified William’s position beyond challenge, as well as allowing him to act as a moderating influence on the future king. But it wasn’t going to happen. William couldn’t help worrying over what would happen when King Romulus died. Reginald was hardly likely to listen to his advice.
And sending him off on an adventure will either turn him into a challenger or disgrace him beyond salvation, he thought. What is his father thinking?
King Romulus looked up. “William,” he said. “You will accompany my son.”
William blinked. “Sire?”
“You are a colonel in one of the regiments,” King Romulus reminded him. His voice was absent, as if his thoughts were elsewhere. “You will serve as its commanding officer, which will give you a seat on Reginald’s council of war. I expect you to keep an eye on him.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” William said. There was no other answer he could give. “I ... may I ask a question.”
King Romulus inclined his head, graciously. “You may.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” William said. “I ... why are you allowing him to go?”
He took a breath. “The Summer Isle is a desolate wasteland, populated by barbarians,” he reminded the king. “Their nobility is noble in blood only. The endless skirmishes with the Northern Realm cost their monarchy in blood and treasure. There is nothing to be gained from taking and holding the island.”
“The Summer Isle does have potential,” King Romulus countered. “And a powerful ruler might accomplish much, if he had the force to back up his words. And Earl Hereford could become a threat, particularly if we do go to war with our neighbours.”
“They swore before the gods that they would respect the borders,” Sofia said.
William felt a hot flash of irritation. What a ... what a womanish thing to say. No one who knew how the world actually worked would expect sworn oaths to keep Andalusia’s neighbours from falling on her borders like ravening wolves if they scented weakness. It was proof, as if he’d needed any, that women should stay in their chambers and leave the hard work to the men. No wonder there were so few ruling queens. Men understood that weakness invited attack.
And if Reginald dies, he thought coldly, whoever marries Sofia will rule through her.
It wasn’t a pleasant thought. There was no shortage of suitors for Sofia’s hand – and those of her sisters – but her father would have to choose very carefully. Whoever won her hand might just win the kingdom too. And the wrong choice could prove disastrous.
King Romulus smiled. “There is a secondary concern,” he added. “And I expect you – both of you – not to discuss it further.”
William bowed his head, concealing his annoyance. He knew how to keep a secret – one didn’t become a king’s trusted confidant if one had loose lips – but women gossiped all the time. Sofia would probably share her father’s secrets, the minute she was secluded with the other ladies of the court. And then they’d be all over the kingdom. He didn’t understand why the king allowed Sofia to attend the meeting. She didn’t have to worry her pretty little head with the hard realities of life.
“Reginald is twenty-four,” King Romulus said, reflectively. “I was twenty-seven when my father died. It will not be long before Reginald starts agitating for more power for himself. His courtiers will nag him into pressuring me, even if he doesn’t want to do it. And I am running out of tasks to keep him busy.”
William nodded, slowly. The Crown Prince wanted – needed – to distribute patronage of his own if he wanted to bind his household to him. Land, titles, castles, even heiresses ... Reginald needed to grant them, yet he had little to grant. His father couldn’t give Reginald too much without weakening his own position. And even if he gave Reginald the entire kingdom, it wouldn’t be enough to satisfy the prince’s courtiers. They were a demanding crowd.
“You think he can turn the Summer Isle into his own personal kingdom,” he said, slowly.
“There are other concerns,” King Romulus said. “Yes, my son can take and hold the island and parcel out the land to his supporters. But it will not be long before he starts wanting power – real power – for himself. Wielding it over the Summer Isle will keep him from trying to take it from me.”
“He would not,” Sofia said.
William felt cold. The Crown Prince would be King, when his father died, but until then ... all his power came from his father. Reginald outranked every
one else, yet he had less power than a duke, a lord or even a baron. His father could overrule him at any moment. King Romulus was right. Sooner or later, Prince Reginald would want real power. And the only way to get that was to overthrow his father. And that meant ...
“You want to keep him distracted, Sire,” he said.
“I want him to succeed,” King Romulus said. He looked down at the map, one finger tracing out the Summer Isle’s borders. “I never really expected to inherit the Summer Isle. I gave Edwin help because I wanted a stable kingdom on the other side of the channel, not a realm constantly blighted with civil war. But now ...”
He stroked his beard. “Reginald is right to say we have to claim what we are due,” he added, slowly. “We cannot allow such a precedent to stand. But I also want Reginald to be occupied for a while, ruling a land that will allow him to satisfy his supporters without turning him into a threat to the throne. And I don’t want him to get into trouble.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” William said.
“Go with him,” King Romulus ordered, curtly. “Be the voice of caution on his council. And inform me as quickly as possible if he is likely to overstep himself. The Summer Isle is not small. Hereford has plenty of space to trade for time, if he wishes. My son’s natural impatience will urge him to make mistakes.”
“He is a good soldier, Father,” Sofia said.
“Yes,” King Romulus agreed. “But he is also too young to be a good strategist. He will seek battles for the sake of seeking battles, rather than choosing his fights with one eye firmly fixed on his goal. And there are times when declining battle may be the smarter choice.”
At the risk of being called a coward, William thought. And that is one word that could never be attached to the Crown Prince.
“Watch my son,” King Romulus said. “And be there for him.”
William rose and bowed, first to the king and then to his daughter. He didn’t want to go – he certainly didn’t want to walk away from the centre of power, let alone go to the Summer Isle – but he knew he had no choice. King Romulus wouldn’t thank him for refusing to go. He just hoped he’d be able to get back before the king found a new advisor. Prince Reginald had never bothered to conceal his dislike of William and the other old men on the king’s council. William had no illusions about his ability to moderate the prince’s behaviour. It was non-existent. The prince would probably banish William from the council as soon as they landed on the Summer Isle.
I have no choice, he reminded himself. I have to go.
Chapter Three
“My brother is dead,” Big Richard thundered. He sat at the front of the bar, swilling a tankard of beer. A barmaid sat on his lap, looking thoroughly uncomfortable as his fingers played with her shirt. “Let us drink to his honour!”
Isabella rolled her eyes as she nursed her beer. It had been two days since Little Jim’s death, two days since they’d made their way to the town and reported to Lord August ... two days since Big Richard had started a wake for his dead brother. He was going to regret it soon, she was sure. The hangover was going to be a nightmare. And the discovery that he’d spent all of his money on the wake would be worse.
She leaned back in her chair and surveyed the inn. Dozens of people were crammed into the room: drinking, talking and vomiting on the earthen floor. The barmaids moved from table to table, pouring out cheap beer and cheaper wine while doing their best to evade pinches, gropes and worse. A handful of whores were doing a roaring trade at the rear, taking their customers upstairs for a quickie before leading them back down again and finding the next customer. She’d been in worse places, she knew, but there was something about the bar that offended her. And yet ...
It is more honest than the Golden City, she told herself, as the band started to play a mournful tune. A number of couples stood up to dance, moving in a manner that suggested they were well on their way to outright drunkenness. The beer was flowing freely, thanks to Richard. It was astonishing just how many people were prepared to mourn Little Jim, in exchange for free beer. No one here tries to hide what they are.
She took a sip of her beer, grimacing at the taste. The gods alone knew what the brewer had put in his vats, apart from hops. Perhaps the beer was so cheap just to make sure the drinkers didn’t complain about the flavour. Or to get them drunk so quickly that they didn’t notice. The nasty part of her mind insisted that the pallid liquid should have been poured back into the horse. Her spells had told her that it wasn’t poisonous, but drinking more than a pint or two would probably pickle her liver anyway.
A crash echoed through the room as a fight broke out, a dozen drinkers throwing punches at each other with staggering force. The barmaids hurried to the rear, trying to get out of the way, as more and more drinkers joined in the brawl. Isabella hurriedly readied a spell, just in case she needed to defend herself. The melee was already getting out of hand. She couldn’t help thinking, as a chair flew across the room and smashed against the far wall, that brawls broke out every hour or so. There were too many lowlifes crammed into too small a space.
And more mercenaries than normal, she thought. Lord August had always kept a stable of mercenaries, but now ... now there seemed to be hundreds of mercenaries in the town. Lord Robin had insisted that he smelt opportunity, just waiting for them to find it. Isabella wasn’t so sure. Lord August could be plotting a strike against the throne.
She sighed at the thought. Andalusia was hardly the most developed country in the world, but it had weathered the collapse of the civilised world far better than some of the other nations. King Romulus had done a good job, somehow. It was an impressive feat for someone who’d been little more than a puppet king five years ago, with the court wizard pulling the strings. Perhaps he’d had contingency plans all along. Or perhaps he’d been planning a rebellion.
And if Lord August wants to rise up against his king, she thought, we might find ourselves caught in the middle.
She took another sip of her beer, feeling down. Mercenaries were not popular. Even spellbound slaves – or soldiers – were more popular than men who fought for money, men who’d change sides as soon as someone offered a better deal. Noblemen despised them, priests denounced them, commoners hated and feared them. It was hard to escape the feeling that, as King Romulus tightened his control over the kingdom, the company would soon have no work at all. Mercenaries were dangerous in peacetime, after all. King Romulus might intend to dispose of them as soon as possible. Perhaps it was time to go elsewhere.
And if Lord Robin doesn’t want to leave, I can go myself, she considered. It wasn’t as if she didn’t have marketable skills. She knew enough magic to make herself useful. Or even go travelling ...
It was a pleasant thought. It was rare for a woman to travel alone, particularly in such troubled times, but she’d never had any problems disguising herself as a man. Or finding a male companion, for that matter. She could join a merchant’s team or even wander from place to place like a travelling preacher. There were plenty of places she’d never visited, even after she’d left the Golden City. She could even go home ...
She clamped down on that thought, hard. There was no way she wanted to go home, not after everything she’d done. And even if she did ... no two rumours from the far-distant Golden City agreed, but it was clear there had been some form of catastrophe. The Grand Sorcerers were dead, the Empire was gone, the puppet kingdoms were asserting themselves ... she didn’t think she really wanted to know what had happened. All that mattered was that she was alone in the world.
The brawl came to an end, as quickly as it had started. A handful of men carried the wounded or unconscious bodies outside, dumping them by the drunkard’s trough and leaving them for the City Guard. They’d spend a day and a night in the stocks, if they didn’t recover by curfew. Or if they didn’t have the cash to bribe the guardsmen. It wouldn’t take much, not in her experience. Guardsmen were underpaid and underappreciated. A handful of silver would be more than enough to convince t
hem to look the other way.
Isabella rolled her eyes as Big Richard called for more booze. He’d already drunk enough to float a ship ... she wasn’t even sure he’d managed to sleep over the last two days. She’d known he was strong, but this ... she winced in sympathy as Big Richard’s hands slipped under the barmaid’s shirt. The barmaids knew that unwanted male attention was part of the job – Isabella wouldn’t have been surprised to discover that the barmaids were also whores – but she doubted any of them were happy with it. Whores tended to live short and unpleasant lives, no matter how hard they worked. The pimps would take their earnings and send them straight back to work. There was no shortage of replacements for when they finally died. The pimps had no trouble finding women who had to whore or starve.
Big Richard belched. The crowd laughed, even as the barmaid recoiled from the stench. Big Richard had obviously never been taught to brush his teeth. Isabella knew her personal hygiene had suffered since she’d left the Golden City, but at least she didn’t smell like a cesspit. And then Big Richard’s fingers reached the barmaid’s breast and pinched, hard. She screamed in pain and tried to get away.
Isabella tensed as Big Richard howled in rage, one hand shoving the barmaid into the counter. She yelped in pain, trying to get away an instant before he caught and twisted her arm behind her back. He was going to kill her ... Isabella rose before she quite realised what she was going to do. Lord Robin would be furious if Big Richard killed someone, even a whore. It might get the company kicked out of the town ...
“Let go of her,” she snapped, as she walked towards the counter. “Now.”
Big Richard glared at her through unsteady piggish eyes. He was sodden with booze, she realised, swaying backwards and forwards as if he wasn’t in complete control of himself. She hoped he’d have the sense to listen to her, to remember what Lord Robin had said. The rest of the company wouldn’t thank him – or her – if they were kicked out of the town. A bad reputation would make it harder to find work elsewhere.
The Promised Lie Page 3
