The Dog of the North

by Tim Stretton

  Isola gave him a steady look. ‘You lack empathy for the suffering of others.’

  Beauceron acknowledged the point with a nod. ‘Empathy is not a helpful quality for a man in my profession.’

  ‘Your profession as soldier, or monomaniac?’

  Beauceron poured two goblets of wine from the flask Rostovac had set before them. ‘You shall not provoke me, my lady. And you mistake me if you think feasting before the walls of a starving city denotes a lack of feeling. The opposite is true: my effect is precisely calculated. All along the walls Oricien’s soldiers will see us eating the finest viands: their bellies will grumble, their spirits will be sapped. Word will reach Oricien; the capacity of the city to resist will be correspondingly diminished.’

  ‘I imagined you had invited me to dine for the charm of my company,’ said Isola.

  ‘And so I have. My illustration to the people of Croad could have been carried out as well on a table laid for one.’

  ‘May I ask where the food has come from?’

  Beauceron smiled. ‘This is an additional irony, although not one which will be apparent to Oricien. Our victuals have come from the kitchen of The Patient Suitor inn, on the south of the river, which is now our command headquarters. The people of Croad have furnished our meal tonight, and I salute them!’ He raised a goblet high towards the wall. Some seventy or so yards off an arrow thudded into the turf.

  ‘Poor,’ said Beauceron, shaking his head. ‘Both accuracy and range are below the optimum.’

  Isola picked at the food before her. ‘I am not sure that I have a great appetite this evening.’

  ‘As you will,’ said Beauceron. ‘The lesson for Oricien may be even more compelling if I feed the leftovers to my dogs.’

  ‘Does Prince Brissio countenance your behaviour?’

  ‘We have arrived at an arrangement of sorts,’ said Beauceron. ‘He has allowed me to deploy the trebuchets as I choose to the north of the river. He retains the bulk of the troops to the south, shuts himself away in The Patient Suitor and sends daily challenges to Oricien.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘He characterizes my siege tactics as “throwing stones”. He disdains anything so base: he wishes to win his victory on the field of battle, and demands that Oricien bring his army out to fight like men. Oricien, of course, has more sense. He stays where he is, and gambles that a relief force will reach him before his food runs out. In his position I would do the same.’

  ‘Brissio does not see the siege as real battle?’

  ‘Exactly. He wants to fight a second Jehan’s Steppe, before the walls of Croad. In this he is destined for disappointment.’

  ‘What if your trebuchets breach the walls?’

  ‘Either Oricien will surrender, or we shall have our battle, but it will be in the streets of Croad. A dirty, bloody business, taking a city by storm. There is little honour, and much bloodshed. Brissio would not enjoy it.’

  ‘And you?’

  Beauceron shrugged. ‘It is effective. Once we are in the city, we will win. That is enough for me.’

  Isola sipped reflectively at her goblet. ‘If the city surrendered, the garrison would be allowed to march out, would it not?’

  ‘That is the normal way of war.’

  ‘Oricien would be able to negotiate a safe-conduct with Brissio. He would escape your vengeance.’

  ‘Be assured, he will escape nothing of what he is owed.’

  ‘You would still be unsatisfied if he surrenders.’

  ‘Perhaps. But I do not think he will surrender. He will fight before he concedes his city.’

  ‘Why then does he not do so now, while he has food and strong soldiers?’

  Beauceron laughed. ‘You have the makings of a strategist. A battle can only end in defeat, either glorious or inglorious. It can be seen as “dynamic surrender”. His best, his only, hope is the arrival of Trevarre or Enguerran, and he will cling to that to the point of starvation, and even beyond.’

  ‘Will you excuse me?’ asked Isola, rising stiffly. ‘I find this chilly calculation enervating. I will be in my pavilion if you wish to see me later.’

  Beauceron raised his goblet and helped himself to another portion of ragout.

  He walked around the northern perimeter of the city, until finally he found himself at the Traitors’ Gate by the river bank. He gave a rueful smile as he looked up. How long it had been since he stood on the other side of the wall! He thought of the faces of his youth, so many of them now dead: Lord Thaume, Sir Artingaume, Darrien. He hardly knew what had happened to many of the others. Had Sir Langlan ever returned to Emmen? He would no longer be a young man. What of the virtuous Lady Jilka? He doubted that age would have improved her temper, if she still lived. Rarely was Beauceron this introspective: it must be the proximity of his great goal. He knew for certain that Oricien was there: and it was Oricien, as the Lord of Croad, who must pay the price for his family’s misrule.

  By the time he returned to his tent, the moon stood high in the sky. The campfires blazed and, on the walls of Croad, lanterns burned. There was a glow from within Isola’s pavilion: she had not yet settled herself for sleep. She seemed preternaturally aware of his presence, for although he made no sound she came out to meet him.

  He bowed. ‘You are abroad late, my lady.’

  ‘I do not find it easy to sleep.’

  ‘I will send to Brissio to dispatch you another mattress from The Patient Suitor.’

  ‘It is not the mattress which keeps me awake.’ Her eyes were dark and full in the moonlight. Her deep green velvet dress held a curious lustre. Beauceron fought down a pang of sympathy: she was about to bemoan her fate again, an experience no more agreeable for extensive repetition.

  ‘Is there any help I can offer?’ he said.

  Her mouth compressed into the involuntary sneer which had become all too common of late. ‘The time is late to make amends,’ she said. ‘You have shown the man I was to marry to be not only a niggard but a coward, hiding behind his walls until death finds him. There is no restitution you can make for that.’

  Beauceron felt an obscure motivation to support Oricien against so absurd a charge. ‘He has no real alternative. To come out is to invite defeat and the destruction of his city.’

  Isola looked at him in astonishment. ‘You ride to his rescue? He is as far from the gallant lord of popular repute as can be imagined.’

  ‘In that, at least, you are correct,’ said Beauceron. ‘But as a commander and lord of his city, he takes the only course open to him.’

  ‘A man of spirit would ride forth with every man at his call, to gain a mighty victory or heroic defeat.’

  ‘It would be the latter,’ said Beauceron. ‘He is outnumbered four to one. Then a city of women and children would fall to the sack. Be assured, that is not good lordship.’

  She paused as they walked and turned to look at him, a shaft of moonlight falling across her face. ‘You speak without conviction,’ she said. ‘You, for all your faults, are a man of spirit. You would not perish in such a timid way.’

  ‘I am not the lord of a city; nor would I wish to be. I am responsible for no one but myself. Such a situation allows me the occasional rash gesture.’

  She stopped and looked up into his face. Her eye met Beauceron’s. ‘Had we met under different circumstances, matters might have gone differently between us.’

  ‘Differently from kidnap, you mean?’ said Beauceron with a smile. ‘It is perhaps not the best introduction.’

  ‘I am serious,’ she said, looking down. ‘You have a warped nobility, but a nobility nonetheless. It would not be hard for a woman to – You know, of course, that Cosetta greatly admired you.’

  Beauceron stared gravely into her face. This was not one of her occasional forays into flirtation.

  ‘Cosetta admired nothing more than her own advancement,’ he said. ‘I do not condemn her for that. Her feelings towards me must be viewed in that light. Prince Laertio will make a far mo
re suitable patron.’

  ‘You underestimate – either yourself, or Cosetta’s feelings, perhaps both.’

  ‘Cosetta’s feelings are of little interest. She is far away.’

  Isola’s voice dropped. ‘But I am not, Beauceron. I am here, now, one foot away from you. If you touched me you would feel the warmth of my body.’

  ‘I am warm enough,’ said Beauceron. ‘I need no additional heat.’

  ‘Must I beg you?’ she said softly. ‘For six months we have ranged the steppes of fate together. You have been cruel, you have been indifferent, on occasion you have been tender. I can never return to my old life. Beauceron—’ She broke off and her eyes searched his face.

  Beauceron stepped back a pace. He looked over her shoulder to the glowering city walls beyond.

  ‘Isola, this is not wise,’ he said.

  ‘Am I not beautiful? I have been in your power, and you did not touch me. What you could have taken, I give to you freely.’ She put her hands on his shoulders, moved her face forward.

  Beauceron tried to look away. She was undeniably an attractive woman, if highly strung. But she was brittle, vulnerable, damaged. A flicker of a grin reached his lips as he recognized the irony that he had no compunction about plotting to bring down a city, with perhaps hundreds of deaths, but he scrupled to take advantage of a lone woman.

  She sprang back. ‘Are you laughing at me?’

  ‘Nothing could be further from the truth,’ said Beauceron. ‘I honour and admire you. But I will not exploit you.’

  ‘Exploit me! You were happy enough to kidnap me and give my ransom away to win favour. But you will not “exploit” me!’ The moonlight highlighted the pink flush of her cheeks.

  She turned and ran back to her pavilion. At the threshold she looked back. ‘I thought you had given me every insult imaginable. I was wrong.’

  In the morning, when Beauceron went to her pavilion to check on her, Lady Isola was gone.

  Beauceron cursed as he looked around Isola’s pavilion. He had brought her against his better judgement, and now he had managed to mislay her. At the very least, with her ransom standing at 45,000 florins, this was careless. Irritably he saddled up a gallumpher and rode across the pontoon bridge to Prince Brissio’s camp.

  He strode past the guards and bounded up the stairs to Brissio’s suite on the top floor. ‘Good morning, my lord,’ he said, bowing as well to Virnesto, who was poring over a series of charts on a table in the corner.

  ‘Beauceron,’ acknowledged Brissio stiffly. ‘We rarely see you south of the river. Have you come to notify me of a breach in the walls?’

  Beauceron scowled. ‘Regrettably I must inform you that Lady Isola has absconded from my company. I had hoped to find her over here.’

  ‘Absconded? The woman has been nothing but trouble since her arrival in Mettingloom.’

  ‘I take it she has not been found?’

  Virnesto rose and walked to the window. ‘If you want to find her, that is where you look.’ He gestured to a queue of ill-dressed figures shuffling across the bridge; in the main, country folk who thought to find safety in the city. ‘She will be trying to get inside Croad, I would have thought.’

  ‘Send men to detain her,’ said Beauceron.

  Brissio raised a hand. ‘Let her in; let them all in. They all eat Oricien’s bread. I am sure Beauceron is too wily to have shared valuable secrets with her.’

  Beauceron shrugged. ‘She will not be safe inside the walls when the city falls. It would be advisable to secure her now.’

  ‘Her fate is of no interest to me,’ said Brissio. ‘She has ruined Davanzato and been a drain on the Winter Court. If she wishes to take her chances with Oricien, let her.’

  Beauceron shook his head in impatience. ‘Her father will yet pay for her return. You are throwing away silver.’

  ‘Enough, Beauceron. I have spoken. I told my father you show nothing but insubordination. Do not forget who commands here: if I must take stern measures, I shall.’

  14

  Croad

  1

  After a poor night’s sleep Arren rose early and took a dismal breakfast of flat beer and a haunch of bread left over from the servants’ supper. He looked out through the window; as the early sun spread into the courtyard he saw Sir Langlan stepping crisply through a series of drills with his rapier. He got up and went to join him.

  ‘Good morning, Sir Langlan!’

  ‘Why, Arren, you are abroad early! At your age I would sleep until noon, if indeed I had gone to bed yet.’

  Arren grinned ruefully. ‘I could not sleep.’

  ‘You are young to have worries. I have the excuse that I am Regent in Lord Thaume’s absence. I find a pass or two with the rapier keeps me calm. The apothecary tells me it is better than ale.’

  ‘Shall we spar a little?’ asked Arren, reaching down a rapier hanging on the wall.

  Sir Langlan bowed his head. ‘Why not, although you are becoming too proficient for me.’

  They fenced with vigour for a quarter-hour. In real combat Arren would have been dead three or four times over.

  ‘Sit down, lad,’ said Sir Langlan. ‘We all have troubles from time to time: I have surely had my share. The important thing is never, ever to have troubles in your mind when you have a sword in your hand. The blade is a mistress who shares her favours with nobody.’

  Arren sat on the bench. ‘It is not always so easy.’

  ‘No,’ said Sir Langlan. ‘But it is possible. I killed two men in Emmen, both in fair duels. That is bad, is it not?’

  ‘Well, I—’

  ‘King Arren had banned duels at court: he had lost too many nobles from petty vendettas. So what I did was all but treasonous. How could things have been worse?’

  ‘It seems they could not.’

  ‘You are wrong,’ said Sir Langlan. ‘In the duels, it could have been me who died. I was under sentence of death for the second, but I could not let that enter my mind. I killed the man they sent to take me, and King Arren spared my life. If there is a moral to the story – other than not to fight a duel when they are banned on pain of death, which is self-evident – it is that your mind must be empty when you fight.’

  Arren nodded.

  ‘At your age, I will wager your concerns are, if not trivial, at least of a nature you will look on with greater proportion when you are my age. Let me guess: a girl?’

  Arren flushed.

  ‘Aha! In this matter, at least, I can speak with the authority of considerable experience. Women are the most important aspect of life, as long as you realize that they are the least important. A lovely woman is a spectacular diversion from the travails of the day, so potent that your concerns vanish to less than nothing. All is delight, until you make the mistake of believing that her charms are real or enduring: it is like trying to grasp a dream, doomed to failure, and destroying the phantasm you once enjoyed.’

  Arren frowned. ‘Your view is somewhat cheerless.’

  ‘Nonsense! I am exhorting you to enjoy your frolics at face value, and not to delude yourself looking for deeper meanings. Under such circumstances no lasting harm can ensue.’

  Arren frowned as he tried to apply this precept to his dalliance with Siedra. ‘Your precepts are perhaps simplistic for all situations.’

  Sir Langlan gave an airy wave. ‘Maybe so, although if a contingency more complex arises I swiftly remove myself from the scene! Think of the dog in the yard as he mounts the bitch: does he concern himself with illusions of imperishable love? Of course not! He seeks only to ease his needs in the most convenient way.’

  ‘I do not view my own relations in quite the same light,’ said Arren stiffly.

  Sir Langlan smilingly shook his head. ‘You are young, you are young. Look, here comes Siedra. As long as you keep away from her, you cannot go too far amiss.’

  Arren smiled wanly. ‘Good morning, Siedra. You are awake early.’

  Her eyes passed slowly over Arren’s face. ‘I coul
d not sleep.’

  ‘I had a similar experience: I found that a bout of sword-play with Sir Langlan answered very well.’

  ‘The expedient is not open to me,’ said Siedra. ‘I would be as like to skewer myself. Besides, I am sure that Sir Langlan’s duties as Regent will soon take him about his business.’

  Sir Langlan rose. ‘That moment has arrived. The merchant Graix complains that his neighbour has blocked his sewage pipe and I must give a ruling. The life of the lord is not all wine and ladies, unfortunately.’ He bowed and walked across the courtyard to Lord Thaume’s reception room.

  ‘I did not see you last night,’ said Siedra. ‘I had hoped to find you.’

  Arren shrugged. ‘I had to exercise my gallumpher, and I took some ale with Fleuraume.’

  Siedra scowled. ‘Your implicit assessment of my company is not flattering. Still, today will do as well.’

  ‘Siedra—’

  ‘If you have energy to repeat yesterday’s exertions, of course.’

  ‘There is something I must say.’

  Siedra tilted her nose in the air. ‘Nothing introduced with such a portentous tone can be worth listening to. Either you propose a sentimental declaration which cannot be germane to the situation, or you advance some feeble reason why my plans for the day will be overset. I will tolerate neither possibility. You are to be light, cheerful and attentive, without puppyish scampering. The task surely cannot be too challenging.’

  Arren drooped. This was going to be even more difficult than he had expected.

  ‘Well, Arren? You surely cannot think your drab demeanour represents my wishes.’

  A voice interrupted them as a liveried servant burst into the courtyard. ‘My lady! Seigneur Arren! Lord Thaume is at the gate!’

  Arren gave an inward sigh. ‘Thank you, Maussay. We will repair to meet him immediately.’

  Siedra shook her head in vexation. ‘Am I always to be thwarted? Perhaps we can slip away after supper tonight. The Pleasaunce in the moonlight will be suitable for an assignation.’