The Dog of the North

by Tim Stretton

  The second table, with Seneschal Tourmi at the head, was for servants of greater or lesser stature, including Masters Guiles and Coppercake and the former Serjeant Fleuraume, now a captain in his own right.

  As soon as everyone had taken their places and the minstrels had ceased their lays, Duke Panarre stood and raised his hand for silence. A man of late maturity, he had an easy confidence that held the attention. His cheeks were the veined purple of the habitual drinker; his lips full, red and moist. He carried off an outfit of scarlet and cerulean velvet without embarrassment.

  ‘Lord Thaume, you are most welcome to my city,’ he said. ‘It has been too long since you graced us with your wisdom and counsel. I could never have imagined that young Oricien and Siedra would grow so fast, so strong and so handsome. If this matter is apparent to me, imagine the impact it has made on my children, ha ha! Lady Jilka, your beauty is unimpaired by the passing years: would that time were as kind to us all! Tales of your legendary piety have reached us—’ Lord Thaume could not repress a grimace, as Panarre seemed to notice ‘—and it seems unfair to the rest of us that such pulchritude, wisdom and humility should be united in one person.’

  Lady Jilka inclined her head to the most fractional extent possible.

  ‘All will wish to hear the story of your great victory at Jehan’s Steppe – would that I had been able to be there myself at the head of a mighty force of Cavalieres – but tonight I pray that you submit yourselves to the hospitality of our city. Some say we are sybarites, given over only to our own pleasures. Such caricatures are the work of envious minds, but none can deny that when we apply ourselves to festivity we are not without talent or imagination. Frivolity is a serious business, if I might be permitted a quibble. Lord Thaume, Lady Jilka, and your companions: I hope your visit to Glount is a memorable one.’

  Duke Panarre sat down with a dramatic sweep, brushing his scarlet cloak aside when it threatened to become entangled with his person. At the other table Arren saw Guiles and Coppercake whispering; trying to calculate, he thought, the number of slights and insults buried in Panarre’s speech.

  Lord Thaume rose from his seat. In contrast to Panarre, he was dressed in ascetic black from head to toe.

  ‘My lord, I am grateful for your fulsome welcome to your city and your palace. It is indeed all too long since the cares of Croad have allowed me to leave the city behind. Ever since my accession, careful vigilance has been necessary against the men of the North, all the more so because of the small number of troops at my disposal. It is only with the check to King Tardolio’s warlike ambitions that I feel able to leave Croad in the hands of a capable lieutenant. Like yourself, I am astonished to find your children so grown. Indeed, Lords Trevarre and Dinarre are now young men, even if they still await the chance to show the world their martial prowess. Such fine young men will make bold and brave husbands to certain fortunate ladies of the future. As to your trio of beautiful daughters, I have no words adequate. Reports of Lady Helisette’s comeliness are not exaggerated, and Lady Genevieva displays even greater elegance and grace than might be expected from her illustrious pedigree. Lady Klaera is fortunate to have such a family to care for her needs, and perhaps in time may even find a husband among the minor gentry.

  ‘I see the footmen descending with the first course, and all folk of good sense will wish to apply themselves to your repast rather than to my words, so I do not have time to praise Duchess Fourette as she deserves. One need only to look at the five remarkable fruits of her womb to know how to assess her worth. Sir and madam, I thank you for your welcome and hospitality.’

  As he sat down, Master Guiles nodded in satisfaction. Lord Thaume had shown that he was not cowed by Panarre’s innuendoes. This was war, if not as overt as Jehan’s Steppe.

  Arren lost track of the number of courses. He had never realized there were so many ways to prepare potatoes, or that beef could be garnished with lemons and redders, or how many different wines the slopes of Lynnoc produced. He was seated between two mature ladies, who favoured him with little attention, until the point where the wine took hold, and one began to simper at him most alarmingly. The appetites of Glount were notorious, but Lady Sybille must have been at least fifty, and corpulent to boot. Master Guiles had not provided instruction in dealing with such situations.

  During the meal he took the opportunity to appraise Duke Panarre’s children. Trevarre took his attire most seriously, and his costume had more lace than most of the ladies present. His every utterance was grand and dramatic, accompanied with gestures so extravagant that Arren feared for the wine flasks on the table. When the conversation moved away from the topics that interested him – which appeared to be few – he pouted until such time as he could wrest attention back to himself. Guigot appeared simultaneously repelled and fascinated. He loosened his own garments and seemed to be doing everything possible to create a slovenly impression, despite reproving glances from his uncle and aunt.

  Young Lord Dinarre had sharp regular features and plentiful dark hair. His clothes were rich without showiness, and he had a ready wit and smile which he deployed upon Siedra. Arren recalled that he had a reputation for cruelty, and he saw in the rich sensuous lips he had inherited from his father signs of a vicious disposition.

  Arren was more favourably impressed with the ladies. Lady Helisette, as the eldest daughter of the Duke of Lynnoc, was one of the great prizes of the Emmenrule, and nature had endowed her with a beauty and vivacity to make the most of it. Oricien seemed enthralled by her curling golden hair and innocent blue eyes. A stern critic might have observed that her conversation tended towards the vapid, but Oricien appeared ready to overlook the fault. Arren remembered that Master Guiles had rated the chances of a match as minimal, but Oricien seemed nothing daunted.

  Lady Genevieva had not the instant and captivating beauty of her elder sister. Nonetheless she impressed Arren with her quiet intelligence and good humour, and her attention to Lady Klaera, for whom eating a meal of many courses without embarrassment was a significant achievement.

  At last the final course appeared, accompanied by a strong, sweet, dense wine which at once thrilled and repelled: rather like Glount itself, thought Arren. Duke Panarre led a toast to his guests and suggested that Lord Thaume might wish to join him and sample together some pleasures not suitable for mixed company. The other guests, seemingly, were at their own devices.

  Arren, whose head was fuddled from the wine, and had little appetite for further food or conversation, offered his polite farewells and retired to his chambers.

  9

  Mettingloom

  1

  No building called the Darkstone was likely to promote the soul’s ease, and Mettingloom’s most notorious prison lived up – or down – to its sombre name. It was not designed for the rabble: only political prisoners, or those accused of the most serious crimes, found accommodation there. The island on which it stood jutted up from the lagoon in summer, and in winter was surrounded by a sheet of ice and snow. Escape, in any event only a theoretical possibility, would have required a lengthy swim in the summer; in the winter the escapee would have to negotiate the holes in the ice concealed beneath the snow, with a mistake meaning a fatal plunge into the chill waters below.

  It was here that Beauceron found himself brought immediately after his arrest. Escape was not an immediate prospect. Intrigue had brought him here, and it would have to take him out again. As a well-known prisoner, he had a cell which was, if not luxurious, better than most of the other inmates enjoyed. He had a proper bed, a chair and a desk, and windows which closed. He would hardly be growing fat on good living, but at least he would not freeze to death.

  The gaoler, a seasoned professional named Tintazzo, agreed to take letters to various destinations at Beauceron’s request. It was apparent that he was indeed to have at least an appearance of a proper trial. Essentially the evidence would come down to his word against Sir Goccio’s, since there was little if any direct proof. However,
he knew that Davanzato would be sure to have paid witnesses, and since the King was the final arbiter of the case, he could not expect the benefit of the doubt. An acquittal was unlikely without some external intervention. Now was the time to find out who his friends were.

  Beauceron was allowed no visitors over the next three days, but on the fourth morning Tintazzo appeared accompanied by Monetto. Beauceron thought that he had probably had more sleep than his lieutenant.

  ‘Be of good cheer,’ he said as Tintazzo made his way out. ‘I am not dead yet.’

  Monetto sat down and withdrew various papers. ‘The auguries are not good. You are accused of high treason against Fanrolio, by virtue of conspiring with Sir Goccio to raise an army against the Winter King’s command.’

  Beauceron nodded. ‘The charge is hard to rebut, in that it is true. The only real witness, however, is Sir Goccio. I am unclear as to the niceties of the law: is he too not guilty of treason?’

  ‘I have been researching the question overnight. His crime is petty treason, because he is not Fanrolio’s man. You are accused of grand treason, conspiracy against a King to whom you have sworn fealty. Both are serious offences, but yours considerably more so.’

  ‘Sir Goccio’s status as a witness must therefore be questionable.’

  ‘Davanzato has offered him a reduced sentence in return for cooperation. He does not intend to present you with a similar opportunity. In addition, there are further witnesses.’

  Beauceron raised his eyebrows. ‘They can only be paid informants. I discussed the subject with no one but Sir Goccio.’

  Monetto flicked through his papers. ‘There are various of Sir Goccio’s associates. I assume they have been bribed to support their master’s story. Most worrying of all, Lady Isola is to be called as a witness. Think carefully: have you had any treasonable conversation with her?’

  ‘Most emphatically not. Do you think I would discuss such affairs with a woman, particularly one who nurtures such hostility?’

  ‘I imagine not, although such a comely person must have considerable wiles. You have not always been wise where ladies are concerned.’

  ‘I have never allowed such dalliances to retard my plans, and I have not started now. Am I to understand that Davanzato intends to prosecute the case himself?’

  ‘Just so. As Under-Chamberlain it is not just his right but his duty to do so.’

  ‘He has clearly been planning this for some time. I can only assume that Fanrolio is more amenable to my scheme than Davanzato had told me; otherwise why would he take the risk of destroying me? He is not a man for unnecessary risk.’

  ‘The Bill of Trial seeks not only your execution – naturally – but the attainder of your goods. As the prosecutor he would be entitled to one-quarter of the proceeds. Even a less avaricious man might be tempted.’

  ‘No doubt he has promised Isola it will pay off her ransom.’

  ‘She cannot trust him?’

  ‘She is desperate, and her judgement is overset by events. What has she to lose? She owes me no loyalty; quite the reverse.’

  ‘I have taken the liberty of engaging a legulier, one Mongrissore. Neither you nor I have the necessary knowledge to mount your defence. He is outside, if you wish to see him.’

  ‘What kind of man is he?’

  Monetto grimaced. ‘He knows his business; and he puts a high value on his services. Meet him for yourself, reach your own judgement.’

  Beauceron nodded. ‘Fetch him.’

  Master Mongrissore was a man of late middle age, scanty white hair flying in all directions. Commanding as his fees might have been, they were not spent on his wardrobe, which consisted of a threadbare black suit; nor did they appear to finance gourmandizing, for Mongrissore was rake-thin. Beauceron’s initial impression was not favourable, and he looked askance at Monetto.

  Mongrissore pulled out of a valise tucked under his arm a jumble of documents. He resembled the legal papers among which he spent his days. His skin had the dry waxy pallor of parchment; his untidy black suit rustled with a papery susurration when he moved; his small keen black eyes were like inkspots staining the margins of a page.

  Mongrissore shook hands with greater firmness than his appearance might have implied. ‘Gratified to meet you, sir. We have much to cover, since Davanzato is pressing for an immediate trial. I must assess your own state: what of your bowels?’

  ‘Bowels?’

  Mongrissore clucked. ‘Regularity, man! Are you a five-a-day man, or once a week? You have a costive look.’

  ‘I fail to see the relevance of this line of inquiry.’

  ‘A skilled observer can learn more of a man from his bowels than from his eyes. I admit I am no coprognostic, but a little knowledge may go a long way.’

  ‘If you must know, my bowels move with daily regularity.’

  ‘And has this changed during your incarceration?’

  ‘No. Is this germane to my defence?’

  Mongrissore scratched his chin, which appeared not to have been shaved that day.

  ‘I dislike explaining my reasonings, but you are clearly a man who will be satisfied with nothing less. The regularity of your movements, even under such difficult circumstances, argues for a phlegmatic constitution. You are unlikely to panic under questioning, and I can plan my defence on the basis that you can testify if needs be. I learn also that you are impatient, truculent, untrusting.’

  ‘All this from negligible information as to my digestion?’

  ‘The latter inferences I have drawn from your demeanour. Let me say that your situation is unpromising. Davanzato is a keen opponent, and his evidence is strong. You will have to show a far greater faith in my judgement if you are to escape the noose.’

  ‘The “strong” evidence you refer to is fabricated.’

  ‘You must disabuse yourself of the notion that truth has any part to play in these proceedings. A treason trial concerns what can be proved, not what is true: there is often considerable divergence between the two. What is true, of course, cannot always be proved; but in law, that which is proved may not always be true.’

  ‘I have not employed you for a lecture on jurisprudence, nor for commonplace epigrams. Your role is simple: to secure my acquittal.’

  Mongrissore nodded. ‘Are you guilty?’

  Beauceron raised his eyebrows.

  ‘I have no scruples of any sort,’ said Mongrissore. ‘I do not care one way or the other; however, my job is easier if I know whether I am obscuring the truth or revealing it.’

  ‘In a limited, technical sense, I imagine I am guilty. I had allowed Sir Goccio to believe that I supported his proposal to raise an army against Croad, and that I would lead it.’

  ‘And to whom have you communicated this knowledge?’

  ‘Other than yourself and Monetto, only to Sir Goccio himself.’

  Mongrissore nodded. ‘Davanzato has depositions not just from Sir Goccio but also fourteen of his men, who claim a detailed plan was worked out at The Ill-Favoured Loon tavern; and from Lady Isola, who deposes that you had expressed your dissatisfaction with King Fanrolio and your consequent intention to change your allegiance to King Tardolio.’

  Beauceron poured himself a beaker of water. ‘These allegations are uniformly false. I may be guilty of the treason described but there is no evidence.’

  ‘Good, very good.’

  Beauceron frowned. ‘I fail to see how the prospect of my being convicted on false testimony is “very good”.’

  ‘That is why I am the legulier and you the hapless accused. We can now spend our time undermining the witnesses involved. Any information you can provide me which will call into question the motives of Sir Goccio, Lady Isola and most importantly Under-Chamberlain Davanzato will help us all.’

  ‘Monetto has a wealth of such facts to hand.’

  Monetto gave a quiet smile. ‘The only difficulties will come in marshalling them,’ he said.

  2

  ‘All hail His Puissant Majesty,
the Winter King of Mettingloom, the Northern Reaches and Lynnoc: Fanrolio!’

  Beauceron, already seated at a bench in the private judicial chamber alongside Mongrissore, craned his head as the King was announced. On Fanrolio’s attitude much would depend. Today he was bedecked in his judicial robes of white and black. It was a treason trial, and by convention all those present were dressed only in monochrome. The only colour in the chamber was the ruddy wood of the benches and table, and a sprawl of jauntily coloured folios in front of Mongrissore.

  The judicial chamber was not large: it needed only to accommodate the accused – Beauceron and Sir Goccio – Mongrissore, the prosecutor Davanzato and his assistants, the two Lords of Equity, and of course the King. The panelled walls were varnished to a high sheen and the ceiling painted a matt black, with stars picked out in white. The dark ceiling lowered oppressively and seemed to force Beauceron down onto his bench. He shook his head to clear the impression: the furnishings’ effects were deliberate and calculated, and he could not afford to succumb to them.

  Fanrolio seated himself with infinite care on the silvered throne. Beauceron idly wondered if the monarch suffered from haemorrhoids, such was the deliberation with which he placed his fundament.

  ‘This is a melancholy day,’ said the King in his customary quavering voice. ‘To find a noble knight of the Sunflower and our own Captain Beauceron brought before us in this way. Under-Chamberlain Davanzato, you have marshalled the evidence: would you care to present it?’

  Davanzato rose and bowed. He cut a dashing figure with his black robes set against his olive skin. His dark eyes flashed with diligence.