THE KNIGHT LEANED in with an aside directed to his comrade. “I still think he makes too much with his merriment for one so recently widowed. I mean, it’s not seemly.”
“Agreed, Messere Lazaro,” replied the other. “Four months is not long enough for mourning in Valdur, I’ll give you that. But look at the incentive he’s got to forget the past. Can you blame him?”
They watched as the Duke of Torinia, expertly guided the Lady della Rovera two steps left and then two to the right in the bassadanza, his graceful movements perfectly in time with the tabor, the shrill yet melodious sound of shawms large and small filling the Great Hall with music from the gallery above. Forty courtiers of Torinia looked on as the Duke danced with his fancy, the men among them wishing it was their honour and not his.
“And what about her, Messere Claudio? Was not her sister murdered at Livorna only a few months ago?”
Lazaro winked to his companion as he adjusted his unwieldy and slightly out of fashion chaperon. “Perhaps they are comforting each other in their grief.” The two men stood by a long table laid with platters of sweet delicacies, fowl, fruit and silver ewers of red wine. The Duke, without pausing, gestured to another couple to join the dance so to make a four. He was tall, with a bronzed face, all angles from his squared chin to his high cheekbones and dark eyes, deeply set in a prominent brow; a look more striking than handsome to most. His near shoulder-length hair was black streaked with grey about his temples, swept back over his ears and contained under a wide velvet cap. Its ornamentation of pearls and golden stars shook as he moved and gave strange animation to his slow deliberate steps.
Claudio smirked. “Have a care, Lazaro. It wasn’t three years ago that he sent you on your arse at the tilt. Daresay, he would do it again if you give him half a chance.”
Lazaro chuckled despite the dig. “I was lucky I got up again with the speed I flew off that horse. But I doubt he will have time for sport this summer. Has he asked for your service yet?”
“No, but I stand ready with thirty men-at-arms should he ask. And I do think he will ask. Very soon.”
“Agreed. He’ll need more than a company or two of his mercenaries if he plans on invading Maresto. The Blue Boar are formidable soldiers but an easy mark like Persarola is no Maresto or Palestro.”
Claudio nodded and raised a goblet to his lips. “Somewhat tougher nuts to crack to be sure. And sieges are so boring and expensive. Better to take them on the open field. The Duke will lure them out. Of that I am certain.”
The music came to an end and the dancers gave reverence to one another. Lucinda’s smile shone brilliantly and the courtiers next to Ursino saw his own bloom in response to the Lady della Rovera. He still held her hand raised high as they looked at each other. The Duke turned and guided her across the floor as they slowly promenaded, the guests parting to make way. Above them, the musicians, after a false note and the sound of a crumhorn clattering to the floor, resumed. The music drifted down again to echo across the great hall.
Lucinda turned to the Duke, her eyes wide. “My lord, I would take some air on the balcony with you. I find it grows close in here.”
The Duke nodded and they continued their progress to the far end of the hall where a large open arch led to a heavy stone balustrade facing out over the inner courtyard of the palazzo. The sun was nearly set and the sky in the east a deep purple. The night air still held a chill, a faint reminder of the winter past.
Lucinda sighed as they stepped out. “Such a beautiful revel on a lovely Spring eve. Why is my heart so heavy?”
Ursino placed his hand over hers and gave her a quizzical look. “Why so, my dear lady? Have I not afforded you every comfort since your flight from the heretics?”
“You have, my lord, and more. But as a canoness of the faith, the spread of the Decimali heresy wounds me. The One Faith is riven. The wound is deep.”
“Not in Torinia. You know I have outlawed the Decimali catechism—at your urging. I’ve stuffed the prison full of priests who will not disavow it.”
“It is the rest of the kingdom I fear for. For the holy places at Livorna. Even the king appears to have embraced the heresy or at least tolerates it.” She turned to face him, her hand gliding up the skin-tight sleeve of his green satin doublet. “It is Duke Alonso—that spider in Maresto—who stirs the pot at Livorna. I have seen this. He and the High Priest are thick as thieves. That meddlesome monk too. The one who claims visions from Saint Elded.”
Ursino snorted. “Maresto has plagued me for years. Those trumped-up pirates in Palestro too. They hit my shipping so I hit them back in the north. The Blue Boar is doing its good work there with the Sable Company to follow shortly. Maresto will soon see sense.”
“But it is Livorna that needs liberation, is it not my lord?”
Ursino’s face suddenly changed from an expression of gentle amusement to a harder cast, his eyes fixing Lucinda. “In time, dear lady, in time.”
“But if you attack Livorna, surely Maresto will come out to challenge you in open battle. You will defeat them.”
“A campaign must be planned—carefully. It is not—”
“But if the heresy spreads unchecked it will be even harder to stamp out—even here in Torinia. You are a true champion of the Faith. The sooner you engage the enemy the sooner the One Faith can be healed. With Maresto vanquished the heretics of Livorna will have no sanctuary.”
The last traces of a smile left the Duke’s face. “And who has appointed you my counsellor, Lady della Rovera? Do you suppose to know my intent? My heart? I bestow my affection upon you and you prattle about politics?”
She could feel his back stiffen and she withdrew her hand. “I am sorry I have given offence, your Grace...”
“Perhaps I have been too forward in my attentions to you, my lady. Fate has kindly rid me of one trying woman and I would not find myself saddled with another of similar nature.”
Lucinda felt a chill move through her. For the first time he was questioning her and her motives. If his affections waned, then what? Almost without thinking, and in near panic, she pushed into his mind. Their eyes were locked, her probing intent like invisible fingers caressing his distrustful soul. She carried thoughts of love, of lust, to his heart. Gentle prodding, pushing on the open door that lay deeper down inside him. Behind them, the music rose higher, a peasant dance now upon the floor, the courtiers laughing as they whirled in a circle. The Duke was motionless, his face frozen as he stared into Lucinda’s eyes. Slowly, a faint smile reappeared on his lips. He blinked and dropped his chin slightly, as if he had forgotten what he was about to say.
He reached for her hand. “We must not have words, dear lady. I care too much for you to ever wish a wall of even the thinnest gauze to come between us. Let us re-join the fete and the guests!”
Lucinda exhaled in relief. “Good my lord, that would please me well and truly!” And the Duke lifted her hand and pressed it to his lips.
AT MIDNIGHT HE came to her. Not the Duke, whom she had thought might knock on her chamber door, but the One whom she worried had abandoned her. As she stood by her bed in her chemise, combing out her hair, the familiar tingling began. Its source was the pink wound below her collarbone, what some might take to be a healed burn or even a brand. But it was more, a dark secret that no one knew but her. Those that had shared in the knowledge of her mark—her parents, her sister, even her last paramour—were all now dead. She felt the wound part, a soft sucking sound, and then the voice came. It rose up to her ear a hissing, urgent whisper, but this was echoed deep inside her head as well, a stronger musical voice she recognized well.
Daughter. You have laboured well these past weeks. I have been here, with you, seeing you.
Lucinda closed her eyes and let the voice of Berithas wash over her. To her, and the few remaining followers of the old ways, he was the Redeemer. To those of the Temple Majoris and the One Faith, he was the Deceiver. Unmasked and cast down by Saint Elded nearly a thousand years before.<
br />
You will bend the Duke to your will. To the will of my masters. And this man’s earthly armies will further divide the people of Valdur until they see the Tree is their only salvation. I must set you a new task...
Lucinda nodded. “Tell me what needs must, Berithas,” she whispered. “Tell me and it shall be done.” The blood thrummed in her head, her ears. The voice filled her mind.
I will send you two servants of Andras who will do your bidding. You will send them to Livorna. There they must take the reliquary of Ursula. The hand of silver. That which lies in the treasury of the Ara.
“Why, my master? What use will their powerless relics hold for such as you?”
You shall deprive them of one power they yet possess. Hope.
Her chin lifted, eyes still closed, and a thin smile appeared on her perfect red lips.
“How do I gain entry? Surely the treasury room is locked and guarded.”
Seek out the new Magister of the Ara. He holds the keys. Do with him what you will. The servants of Andras will be as your eyes and ears.
“And what of the monk? The one who is shielded. Shall we destroy him now?”
There was a sound in her head like the tinkling of a fountain. For a few seconds the voice was silent.
Strike him down, my daughter. Do not let him stop you in this task. His purpose is nearly served out now.
“When will the messengers of Andras come to me?”
Be ready at this hour on the morrow. Here, in this place.
Lucinda opened her eyes and watched the moon through the great arched window. Berithas had sent her a vision, a glimpse of what would visit her a day hence. She smiled.
Mark me, daughter. This is but the first task I set you. There will be another to follow. Something is about to happen. Something that will hasten our return to this world.
Staring into the middle distance, her eyes widened as another vision filled her mind. Her lips moved and silently she mouthed: “The crown... the crown.”
Five
BARTOLO POULE PUSHED his palms into his eyes, his fingers digging into the fringe of his wild mop of greasy hair. “By the sacred merkin of Dionei! No, no, no!”
A young monk stood before him, rather gormless and discomforted in breastplate, gorget and gambeson, a sword held drooping at this side. His head hung low as the lieutenant poured his scorn on him. Another young Templar stood next to him, also looking sheepish and embarrassed by their lacklustre performance.
Poule growled in exasperation and picked up his mug of watered-down wine from the trestle table. He threw it back into his mouth, wishing it was stronger stuff. “You are supposed to keep your eyes open when you strike your opponent! What are you afraid of for godsake? Do you think having your eyes shut will stop him from lopping your head off?”
Acquel stood off to one side, watching the proceedings and feeling more dejected than usual. Coronel Strykar had agreed to his request for training more than a week before but not all of his recruits seemed up to the profession of a soldier monk. Although many had met his call to join the new order, it appeared that the right temperament was lacking in many, some of whom were probably better off pushing a quill than swinging a sword. He too had joined in the training this morning, sweating in his padded gambeson and breast and backplate. And when he donned his chain mail hauberk, greaves and barbute helm it was all he could do to raise his arming sword and round shield. Fighting in full armour had to be practised long before the battlefield was reached, Poule had lectured, for one could never adjust to the added weight unless one became accustomed to it. He had assured the monks that eventually it would be a second skin to them—one they would be grateful for. But practice in merely a gambeson was simply not good enough.
There were fifty of the brothers assembled out on the wide plateau that lay in the shadow of the Temple Majoris, the only area with enough space for martial training on the Ara. Each day Poule took the brethren out in groups, monks and lay brothers alike, teaching basic footwork, how to hold and roll a shield up and down to fend a blow and how to deliver a blow from a hanging guard. Six oak pells had been driven into the ground for the men to learn how to strike high and low, channelling might to their shots by twisting their hip and thigh as the blow was landed. The din of steel on wood echoed across the Ara like the sound of a forest being cleared as the monks lay into their targets, arms aching. Acquel winced and hitched a hand into his gorget to clear a snag on his gambeson. He tried to console himself as it had been only a few days since training began. They would get better surely. But when would the enemy be at the gates of Livorna was the question that gnawed at him. Would they be ready in time?
Poule set his mug back down and stood away from the trestle, hands on hips. He glanced over to Acquel and then turned again to his pupils, waving them off. “Alright, go hit the pells. And keep those eyes open when you swing! Pretend it’s some baby-eating Torinian intent on gutting you.”
Acquel hefted his sword and ran a gloved hand along its blade. It was, said Poule, a good weapon though nothing special, one of hundreds knocked out for the militia in the armouries of Maresto. But it was well-forged and would do good service for someone who learned how to wield it. Even his untrained eye told him that this weapon had most likely seen battle. Ground-down nicks gave the sword an undulating edge, the price of sparring at practice or of a hard-fought fight to the death he could not say. Already he was wondering if he would yet draw blood with it now that it was in his charge. He lay it on the table, near the disordered sheaves of paper that was the latest roster of the Order. Poule flapped his unbuttoned doublet to cool himself after his rant.
“Remind me, Brother Acquel. What is your total strength as of this week?”
“Four hundred and thirty two. A hundred and thirty six are from the old Temple guard.”
Poule nodded. “Well, those I can tell straight off. It is the others I’m worried about.”
“They all believed enough to take the oath to fight,” replied Acquel. “I would give them the chance to learn the craft. I can’t give up yet. Not when I know what lies ahead.”
“You I am not worried about. You can swing a sword already from what I have seen in the past few days. Most of these old guardsmen you’ve signed on are lazy but they’ll do.” Poule put a hand on Acquel’s shoulder. “I understand what you are trying to do here, to defend the monastery, but, as an old soldier I have to be honest with you, holy man. A lot of these lads will never be soldiers.”
Acquel wiped away a bead of sweat that had dripped into his eye. “If the Saivonians did it at Astilona then I can do it here. That holy order was respected in the last great war.”
Poule smiled. “And it has been done but once. But if you think you can get lightning to strike twice then who am I to complain. We will keep trying. But a word of advice to you, Captain-General. You would be better served by three-hundred competent swordsmen than four or five hundred poor ones. If some of your monks can’t fight we can still use them to help arm the others. Look after the armour, mend, tend to supplies.”
Acquel looked out over the field. Some of the brethren indeed looked hopeless, struggling to heft their weapons or raise their shields for more than a minute without tiring. Others, though, seemed to have some spark, a keenness of spirit that kept them swinging, attacking and defending, their faces fixed in concentration and intent. Perhaps Poule was right. Maybe not all were up to the task. But he knew that most of them were. They would sweat and they would bruise but they would learn the skills—as he would alongside them. He had made a vow to the Saint himself that he would see his new Order rise, even if it was destined forever to be small. But he would never submit to the enemy without a fight. A fight he knew was coming, one driven by the greed of Torinia and the evil of the old gods and their earthly servants. And one he believed a godly punishment for the forsaking of Elded’s teachings by the misguided zealots who had hidden and perverted the truth.
“And what does Strykar think of our effor
ts, then?” he asked as he lifted his sword again.
Poule shrugged. “He has given you your arms as you have asked. And he’s let me remain here to beat your brethren into some form of army. But I reckon he thinks it’s a fool’s errand.” Poule reached for his mug and took another long swig. “Maybe we can prove him wrong. At any rate, I’ll give you a band of holy men that will put your old Temple guard rabble to shame. It may just not be as big as you wanted.”
“What about my request for a contingent of the Black Rose? Has he confided in you?”
Poule looked up at the sound of horses entering the inner gate near the north side of the Temple. “Well, you can ask him that yourself. Here he is with the captain.”
Acquel groaned inwardly. He had not wanted Strykar to see his brethren this soon, awkward and green as they were. The two horsemen slowed their mounts to a walk and dismounted as they reached him. Strykar gestured for one of the nearby monks to take and hold the reins.
“Brother Acquel, the Captain-General! How goes it? Is valiant Poule proving his worth as you hoped?” Strykar pulled off his riding gloves and approached the trestle. He ran his finger over the roster of men, his hooded eyes running over names he could not possibly recognise.
“Lieutenant Poule has just begun his work with the Order. It will bear good fruit, in time.”
The Witch of Torinia Page 5
