by Tim Stretton
‘There need be no embarrassment,’ said Cosetta, ‘since I did not invite you today. If you choose to appear unannounced you cannot complain at the company I keep. You may remedy the situation by departing, if you choose.’
Brissio leaped from his seat. Beauceron could see that he wanted to tell Cosetta that he paid for the apartments and could visit when he liked; but he retained just enough composure to recognize this as inadvisable. Sir Goccio’s polished manners came to the rescue.
‘Please do not leave on my account, my lord. As Beauceron said, we have business elsewhere.’ He bowed again to Brissio and Cosetta, and stepped gracefully from the room.
Beauceron also bowed, but he gave Cosetta a look of sharp meaning. The matter had clearly been staged from first to last. He realized that he should be irritated at being used as Cosetta’s cat’s paw, but he felt only a sardonic amusement.
‘I hope to make your acquaintance again soon, my lady,’ he said. ‘Prince Brissio, my apologies for disturbing your afternoon.’ He turned and followed Sir Goccio from the room.
2
Beauceron followed Sir Goccio down the stairs and out onto the path running alongside the frozen aquavia. A bird scrabbled for purchase on the smooth surface
‘I think we have been used,’ said Sir Goccio with a grin as he pulled his cloak around his shoulders. ‘Cosetta has Brissio on a string. Naturally as a Knight of the Summer Court I am not heartbroken to see Brissio cutting such a pitiful figure.’
‘I may be Fanrolio’s liegeman, but I admit my admiration for his son is somewhat constrained,’ said Beauceron. ‘If he is a laughing stock, he has only himself to blame.’
‘One day Brissio will be the Winter King,’ said Sir Goccio. ‘Will you not find it difficult to serve a man you do not respect?’
‘There is always employment for a man with my skills. Perhaps I too will take service with King Ingomer.’
‘Come, let us walk.’
After a few minutes of silence Sir Goccio said: ‘My father fought at the Battle of Jehan’s Steppe. Indeed, he was killed there. I had broken my leg falling from a gallumpher, and I stayed at home. I was furious, for it would have been my first battle. As it happened, it saved my life.’
‘I am sorry for your losses; but Jehan’s Steppe was long ago.’
‘To Tardolio, it was yesterday. He did not just lose; he was humiliated. It has profoundly influenced his policies, and does so to this day. He sends raids south, but nothing which constitutes an army. Most of the damage to northern Emmen comes from brigands like yourself.’
‘I prefer the term “raider”, but I take your point – although you are telling me nothing new.’
‘You have been advocating the idea of an invasion of Croad with Fanrolio for several years; with very indifferent success, as far as I can tell.’
‘I am confident that Fanrolio will eventually agree to my proposals.’
‘I am equally confident that he will not,’ said Sir Goccio with a smile. ‘But what if I suggested that King Tardolio was prepared to sponsor the expedition?’
Beauceron laughed. ‘The notion is risible.’
Sir Goccio inclined his head in polite inquiry.
‘Little more than a week ago, I was approached by a member of the Summer Court with a similar proposal. He proved to be an agent of Under-Chamberlain Davanzato, seeking to entrap me in treasonous discourse with Tardolio.’
‘Amusing, I agree, but Davanzato’s clumsy stratagem surely does not invalidate any arrangement we might reach.’
‘Indeed not. However, I remain sceptical.’
‘May I take it that you have no objection in principle to riding under the Sunflower Banner? After all, you are a foreigner; your service to one King or another is essentially a matter of pragmatism.’
Beauceron grimaced. ‘It is fruitless to speculate on the question, since Tardolio’s aversion to the scheme is manifest.’
‘Allow me to be a better judge of His Puissance’s thoughts than you. The Battle of Jehan’s Steppe was the defining moment of his life. The Summer King by tradition is vigorous, aggressive; tormenting and terrorizing the folk of Emmen, harrowing their dreams. Tardolio is conscious of this, and thinks of his own legacy.’
‘Continue.’
‘Jehan’s Steppe is the one battle he has ever fought. It is not how he wishes to be remembered.’
‘Naturally not.’
‘He has been considering – not openly, but considering nonetheless – how matters might be righted. He lost the Battle of Jehan’s Steppe, but if he learns from that . . .’
And what lessons might he learn?’
Are the men of Mettingloom less valiant than those of Croad? Of course not. Tardolio has reached the conclusion that he lost at Jehan’s Steppe because he split his cavalry; Thaume, of course, kept his together under that sot Langlan. Think of the architects of Croad’s victory.’
The wind had abated but Beauceron shivered under his cloak. Thaume’s commanders were uniformly excellent, if the “Song of the North” is to be believed.’
‘Just so, and think of this: Lord Thaume is dead; Sir Artingaume fell on the field; Darrien who commanded the cursed pikemen is dead. Only Sir Langlan survives, and he is old for battle.’
Beauceron grimaced. ‘Time moves on.’
‘It would be wrong to attribute the word “fear” to a man as valiant as Tardolio; but he always was conscious of Thaume’s stature as a commander, and he did not wish to take arms against him. Lord Oricien is untried.’
‘Oricien has more steel than you think, when he has no choice but to use it.’
‘The facts are these. Tardolio does not wish to die with Jehan’s Steppe unavenged; and he believes he can beat Oricien. Surely you see your opportunity?’
‘Does he not fear Duke Trevarre, or even King Enguerran? Oricien is better at building alliances than his father.’
‘If we beat Oricien in the field, Croad will fall before Enguerran can arrive, and Trevarre is more interested in his catamites than his liegemen.’
Beauceron said nothing.
‘All Tardolio needs is a commander. He needs to be persuaded that the scheme is feasible. You and I know it is. You have planned the invasion a hundred times. Put your proposals to His Puissance! He will make you Captain-General Beauceron.’
‘I need time to consider what you have said. My allegiance to King Fanrolio may not be in the blood, but nonetheless I swore to give him good service. It is unlikely he would regard plotting with Tardolio in this light.’
‘We are still in winter,’ said Sir Goccio. ‘I will see you, perhaps at Cosetta’s, to learn how your inner debate progresses. But do not wait too long.’
Sir Goccio turned at the next bridge and hurried away. Beauceron was left alone with his thoughts looking across the aquavia to the Occonero.
3
Back at his house, Beauceron pondered his conversation with Sir Goccio over a goblet of red wine. He had no particular reason to trust the knight, although those parts of his story amenable to verification were reasonable enough. Nevertheless, it would be as well to learn a little more of the man before he made his interest more manifest. This might present a problem: his contacts in the Summer Court were limited, although he had campaigned under Tardolio’s banner on occasions in the past. He would have Monetto look into the man’s background.
He was conscious of a vague mistrust of Sir Goccio. Intuition was on the whole not a useful guide – presumably Tardolio’s own intuitions had led him to Jehan’s Steppe – but a degree of prudence was a worthwhile precaution. The fact that he had approached Beauceron with the selfsame scheme which Davanzato had dreamed up to ensnare him using Nissac should not be held against Sir Goccio. It was further proof of Davanzato’s clairvoyant nose for intrigue. He would not hold his position without it, Beauceron supposed.
His attempts at working on Davanzato directly could not be characterized as anything other than complete failure. His bribes might as well have b
een thrown into the aquavia, and his threats had been called for the feeble bluff they were. He had to accept that, face to face, he was no match for Davanzato in the matter of intrigue.
He decided to call on Isola, who was as acquainted with Davanzato’s movements as anyone, and made his way to the Hiverno, where he was shown to Isola’s apartments.
‘My lady,’ he said with a bow, on being admitted to her presence.
Isola rose languidly from her chaise, her dress of fine umber silk rustling, and gave Beauceron her hand to kiss. ‘I am honoured,’ she said in a voice faintly slurred. ‘A visit from the gallant Captain Beauceron.’
This was not a good start, thought Beauceron. Isola in this humour was not capable of constructive discourse.
‘I am conscious I have neglected you recently, my lady. I saw Lady Cosetta only at lunchtime and thought I would wait upon you.’
Isola sniffed. ‘You manage more than I do. I have not seen Cosetta for over a week.’
‘Lady Cosetta has many affairs to detain her,’ said Beauceron. ‘You are aware that she has been taken up by Prince Brissio.’
‘Naturally, since he insisted on calling on her at all hours of the day and night while Cosetta resided with me. In that sense it was a relief when she moved out.’
‘Have you not considered taking apartments away from the Hiverno, my lady? It cannot be congenial to loiter around the palace all day.’
Isola gave Beauceron an incredulous look. ‘You are the agency – the sole agency – by which I find myself a prisoner in the Hiverno. Now you attempt to show solicitude. You cannot imagine a greater statement of my abasement than that I almost feel grateful for your attention. My only visitor in a normal day is Davanzato, generally to harangue me on how best to induce my father to pay up. Does he not realize that if I knew, I would be the first to tell him?’
‘Does he oppress you greatly?’
‘I have come to understand his character better than I would like,’ she said. ‘I regret ever saying that you were worse than he. There is at least a grandeur – perverted as it is – in your schemes. Davanzato cares only for money and power.’
This was accompanied with an arch look from under her lashes. Unlike Cosetta, thought Beauceron, Isola was not a natural flirt; she had never needed to be.
‘I am grateful for the approach to a compliment,’ he said. ‘Perverted grandeur is better than none at all.’
‘I will admit that these are the worst days of my life,’ said Isola. ‘I can never forget that they arise through your agency, but my confinement is so unnatural that—’
‘My lady, I have long counselled you to put the past behind you. However few friends you have in Mettingloom, you will always find me among them.’
Isola blinked rapidly. ‘I do not know what to do.’ She seemed on the verge of tears.
Beauceron was moved in spite of himself – not so much in sympathy as horror. Was this what he had reduced proud and haughty Lady Isola to? Cosetta moved on with scarcely a look back, while Isola sank lower and lower.
‘I feel a degree of responsibility for your circumstances,’ said Beauceron, with what he felt was a frank and easy magnanimity. ‘Davanzato is perhaps not the best guardian for you.’
The colour rose in Isola’s cheeks. Good, at least she can still be angry.
‘“A degree of responsibility”? I cannot see what is more direct than kidnap.’
Beauceron made a mollifying gesture. An Isola so broken in spirit should be more amenable to his influence.
‘I have a proposal for you, my lady.’
Isola’s eyes narrowed and her cheeks coloured further. ‘I am accustomed to such language from Davanzato,’ she said in a precise voice. ‘I had hoped for better from you, although you have fallen short of every expectation I might have of a gentleman.’
‘Davanzato has importuned you?’ said Beauceron with a startled glance. ‘How would he hope to return you for ransom once he had debauched you?’
‘He said that by the time my condition came to light the money would be locked in his coffers. He revolts and disgusts every fibre of my being.’
‘I assure you, my lady – and I hope it is apparent from my shock and horror – that I had no such purpose in mind. I had hoped we might exchange favours of much smaller currency.’
Isola seemed to brighten. ‘You interest me.’
‘It is clear that these quarters are not wholesome for you. I propose that you return, temporarily, under my roof as my guest until such time as we can find you your own apartments.’
A look of something like hope came into Isola’s eyes. ‘You would do that for me? You know I cannot pay?’
Beauceron forced a shamefaced smile to his face. ‘Seventy thousand florins go a long way. I feel sure we can arrange a suitable establishment for you.’
Isola caught herself before her enthusiasm became too manifest. ‘You mentioned a corresponding favour.’
‘The Midwinter Ball is but a fortnight away,’ he said. ‘As occasions in Mettingloom go, it is not without stimulation, since it is attended by both Winter and Summer Courts. I find myself without an escort, and I hoped you would honour me with your company.’
Isola looked at Beauceron with a blank expression. He was not sure whether she would revile him for kidnapping her and then proposing to escort her to the Ball, or collapse in pathetic gratitude. The former would at least show spirit. A thousand expressions fleeted across her face, each too brief to read. He began to see how she might have been in normal circumstances.
‘You are most generous,’ she said. ‘I am sure a captain of your renown has no difficulty in attracting a surfeit of suitable partners.’ She again essayed the arch look which made him want to cry out in irritation.
Beauceron was surprised; his feelings were approaching shame. Hypocritical nonsense! She was worth 70,000 florins to him as a prisoner, however wretched, and if he truly repented of his actions the restitution was in his own hands.
‘My lady, there is no one in Mettingloom I would rather have on my arm as I am presented to the Winter and Summer Kings. If you are not already engaged, I would be honoured by your company.’
Isola gave a harsh laugh. ‘Already engaged? Davanzato’s wooing does not extend to such matters, and the nobility of Mettingloom does not see me as a suitable partner.’
‘I think it would do you good, my lady. You should be seen in society; it would raise your spirits.’
Isola’s mouth kinked. ‘What would raise my spirits is – I am sorry, I am graceless when you are only showing me kindness.’
‘I will send a cariolo for you tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I am sure we can arrange also a new gown for the event.’
Beauceron rose to leave. Isola took his hand in both of hers. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Whatever has happened in the past, I am grateful for your conduct today.’
‘I never intended you should suffer like this, my lady. Lord Sprang is wealthy – what is 45,000 florins? I never thought he would cavil.’
Isola dropped his hand. ‘Neither did I, sir. If it is an unpleasant shock to you, imagine its effect on me. Now go, please, or you will see me as I do not wish to be seen.’
Beauceron bowed. ‘Until tomorrow, my lady.’
As he left, he thought to hear the catch of tears.
4
The social centrepiece of the winter was the Midwinter Ball, hosted by the Winter King in the Occonero, with the Summer King a guest of honour. Only the Midwinter and Midsummer Balls offered the two courts the chance to mingle, and by popular repute intrigue and passion seethed.
Beauceron viewed the event as an opportunity to speak with Tardolio’s entourage in a way not obviously treasonous. If Tardolio was interested in invading Croad, he would find some way of making it known.
Lady Isola was in a febrile humour. She had seemed much happier since she had taken rooms within Beauceron’s house, and her new gown, dyed a rich deep chocolate, served only to lift her spirits further.
Isola looked out of the window, her expression rapt. What an unfathomable woman she was! Tonight she was mellow in humour, the spite normally so prominent in her character offset by resignation at her circumstances. Beauceron hoped to effect a reconciliation between her and Davanzato; she would learn little of use if they were not on speaking terms.
As the cariolo rolled up to the courtyard at the Occonero, Isola looked away from the window. ‘I cannot believe I am here,’ she said. ‘Only a season ago I was a girl preparing for my wedding. I could never have imagined what would happen.’
Her face was expressionless, her tone unreadable.
‘In truth, my lady, I am not certain you would have enjoyed Croad. Lord Oricien has little taste for extravagance.’
‘You sound very well acquainted with Lord Oricien.’
‘‘‘Acquaintance” is a broad term. I understand his character well, I suppose.’
‘Look!’ cried Isola, pointing from the window. In the centre of the courtyard was a fire of a bright blue colour, reaching high into the sky.
‘Thaumaturgy,’ said Beauceron. ‘It seems Fanrolio has spared no expense.’
Beauceron leaped from the cariolo and held out a hand to help Isola down.
‘Thank you,’ she said, with an inclination of her head. Beauceron could feel the warmth of her hand through her glove. Once she was on the ground he held out his arm, and she linked hers through it.
They stepped past the guards, who nodded respectfully to Beauceron, and into the majestic hall. Every inch of the stone walls was covered with exquisite tapestries, intended to take the chill off the room. Dimonettoes of good size stood in every corner. At the far end of the room sat King Fanrolio, almost lost on the golden throne. At his side stood Prince Brissio; Lady Cosetta was nowhere in evidence.
Beauceron led Isola onto the long purple rug which stretched up to throne. ‘Come, my lady,’ he said. ‘We must be presented to the King.’
