The monk dipped his shoulder and let his satchel fall into his hand. He placed it on the trestle table and moved off to the side, closer to the pells. His hands choked-up on the staff, no longer using it as a support. “Try me.”
Poule, smirking still, looked over to Acquel. Acquel was now intrigued and despite his urge to send the old man on his way, something held him back. “Go ahead, lieutenant, let him have a try.”
The mercenary frowned, rubbed his nose and plodded back to Acquel. “Captain-General, sir. You want me to break a quarterstaff over this old fool?”
“I want to give him the chance to break a quarterstaff over you.”
Poule snorted. “Very well. But you can take charge of him in the infirmary.” He motioned for one of the Templars in the yard to toss him a staff. “Well then, brother monk,” he said as he twirled the six-foot length of oak, “here’s what you have waited half a century for.” He stopped about a man’s length before he reached the monk and brought up the weapon in both hands, held equidistant from one another. From what he had already been taught, Acquel knew it was rather a half-hearted and weak guard.
The old monk placed his left leg forward and moved his quarterstaff into a low guard, holding both hands towards the rear end, the length pointed straight at Poule. “I am at the ready,” he said calmly as he waited to take the mercenary’s advance.
There was now an excited babble among the men, and those who had been bashing the pells stopped and began to watch, confused at their commander’s choice of opponent. Poule shook his head, annoyed that he would have to go ahead with the game. He stepped forward, made a feint with the left end and then swung with the right, overhand, aiming for the monk’s shoulder. But as the blow fell, Poule found to his dismay that the monk was no longer there. The old man sidestepped while at the same time thrusting his staff fast through his forward hand, driving the pole into Poule’s belly and doubling him up with a grunt. An instant later the monk had sidestepped again to the right, swung his staff around and hooked it behind Poule’s right knee, yanking it and sending Poule onto his backside. As Poule hit the hard dust of the ground the monk’s staff whirled again to end up touching the lieutenant’s throat, poised to crush his windpipe with a simple jab.
There was silence in the yard. Someone coughed. Poule, still on his back, looked over to Acquel. “Fuck me, “ he said. “He’s the second monk to put me on my arse.”
Acquel smiled, remembering how he and Poule had had a similar exchange one year before. He walked over to the old man as Poule, muttering obscenities, pulled himself up and dusted down his arming doublet. Despite his embarrassment, he was chuckling. “Well done, old man. Well done.”
The monk turned to Acquel and bowed.
“What is your name?” asked Acquel.
“I am Brother Ugo... Ugo Volpe of Astilona.”
“The monastery at the fortress of Astilona?”
The old monk nodded. “The same, Magister.” And, as if reading Acquel’s mind, he tamped his staff onto the ground and said, “I am of the last of the fighting brothers of Astilona.”
Acquel moved closer. “And why have you come here to the Ara, Brother Ugo?”
“Because you need my help.”
Acquel looked into the monk’s dark green eyes and could see the answer for the question he was about to pose. “Who told you I needed your help?”
Ugo Volpe smiled mischievously and lifted an index finger up to the sky.
Eight
LUCINDA, IN THE quiet of her bedchamber, regarded the Hand of Ursula, exquisitely wrought but dulled by the ages: silver tarnished to black at the fingers, dirt and dust nestled into the engraved details of wrist, cuff and fingernails. Only the gemstones—emeralds, rubies, sapphires and opals—seemed yet to possess life, winking in the strong sunlight that filtered through her window. Most intriguing (and pathetic, she thought) was the small glass cut-out of now milky opaqueness that was embedded in the forearm of the reliquary. An ulna bone could be glimpsed, wedged within. The last earthly remains of that poor misguided woman now claimed a saint. Never had she dreamt that this object, almost a myth of her devout youth, would ever be in her hands. It was a disappointment. Now she saw it for what it was: a meaningless lump of metal from a deluded faith.
She recalled when the servants of Andras had returned to her, the night before last just on the cusp of sunrise. Their terrible beauty was apparent even in the darkness as they scrambled along the balcony bearing her their trophy from the Ara. As they crouched, silent, long arms resting on their feathered thighs, she watched as their faces seemed to melt into a featureless mask of marble—white eyes, lipless mouth and two oval holes for a nose. But she had seen the visage both creatures had worn earlier when they had arrived at midnight; it was her own face, or that of Lavinia, her sister. Poor dead Lavinia. Her heart was heavy at the thought of her sibling who had once stood firmly by her side and then had slipped into treachery, aiding the false pretenders of the Ara.
The Redeemer had told her to take her sister’s gift, the gift of Farsight. Though she too possessed that talent, it was Lavinia who had the superior sight. When she had plunged the dagger into her sister’s throat she felt it was right. With her sister’s gift now hers, she could always have a part of Lavinia with her, a part unsullied. Even so, it had not worked out as Berithas had told her. She still could not see the blackrobe Acquel, no matter how much she put her mind to it. Nor were her visions as sustained or clear as they had been for her sister. Perhaps, she thought, this would come in time, but she had done what Berithas had asked. The reliquary was hers.
She turned it over in her hands. Such a pretty but ultimately powerless trinket. To think that some artisan had worked this silver long and hard, and painstakingly set the gems to decorate it in semblance of some regal sleeve. She looked at her own hands, long-fingered and delicate. Ursino had told her yesterday she was looking pale and unrested, spending too much time alone in her chamber with her thoughts. He had said today they would go riding and perhaps review his troops assembling north of the city. Sunlight would do her a world of good, he had said. Lucinda smiled to herself. She found she did not always need to leverage his will by using her gift upon him, as she did with others. He had already given his heart to her and all he needed was a gentle push to guide him when he grew recalcitrant. He was proud and did not take advice easily, but pride was also a weakness she could use.
A knock sounded at her door. She quickly thrust the reliquary under the mattress of the grotesquely carved four-poster blackwood bed and pulled the curtains upon it.
“My lady, the Duke is enquiring if you require anything before you set out later. A cloak perhaps?” The handmaiden kept her eyes low. Lucinda pursed her lips. The Duke had made gifts of his dead wife’s wardrobe on a weekly basis. Lucinda almost regretted having finished off the woman. If she had stayed alive, sickly, then she herself might have enjoyed a new wardrobe of her own and a mistress’s advantage: the presence of an unloved wife to keep the man keen. Still, better to have the path ahead clear so she could become the next duchesa.
“I have what is required. Please thank his Grace for his thoughtful consideration of me.”
The woman curtsied. “Then I shall return to fetch you at midday, my lady. Unless you would take some air in the gardens beforehand.”
Lucinda smiled sweetly even though the servant’s eyes failed to meet hers. “No, that will not be necessary. I will stay in my chamber until the time. I have reading to attend to. My holy books.”
She shut the heavy door and slid the iron bolt across, gently, and pressed her face against the planks. She did not love the Duke. A few years earlier she would have fallen for him like any young maiden of a noble house. He was handsome, powerful. But such feelings seemed to have weakened in her as her duty to her faith called more urgently. Love was a distant need. Even before the handmaiden had departed, she had felt the familiar tingling in her collarbone, a tickling caress, distracting her from her thought
s of Ursino. Her head grew light and she loosened the tie of her gown, tugging at her chemise underneath and exposing her shoulder. The wound was whispering.
My daughter. Heed me.
She moved across the chamber and stood at the window which overlooked the cypress grove and inner gardens of the palace.
“Speak to me, my Redeemer,” she whispered. “What is your will?”
There was a soft moist sound as the mouth at her collarbone parted, followed by a strange genderless voice that carried no farther than her own ear.
I would show you the king of Valdur. Come with me.
Lucinda closed her eyes. Her head swam and she clutched at the stone sill to steady herself. She was in Perusia. She saw the harbour filled with ships, the sprawling red sandstone palace, the hills beyond. The scene swirled, she felt herself falling, and now she was in the palace itself, her view as if she was running through the corridors. Falling through a great door she found herself in a large hall, a high bier at its centre draped in black silk. At each corner stood an armoured guardsman, the pole of his glaive resting at his instep and held out at full arm’s length. Several robed and jewelled courtiers stood by, leaning in to whisper into each other’s ears. Lucinda could hear nothing.
A body lay upon the bier, arrayed in fine velvet robes of purple and crimson, a golden circlet upon its lifeless brow. It was Sempronius, king of Valdur, and the memory of her vision of a few nights ago—a spinning jewelled crown suspended in the ether—returned. This was Berithas’s foretelling come true. The king was dead. She could see the queen, pale and stone-faced, her hand on the shoulder of a young boy. Somehow she knew this to be Prince Sarant, only child of the king and yet too young to assume the throne. The lad was red-faced, cheeks tear-stained as he stood close by his mother, Cressida. A handsome boy, perhaps nine years old, she thought, his hair jet black, the colour of a raven’s wing. The vision hazed over and again she felt herself falling. Her knees gave slightly, she clutched hard at the windowsill, and then she opened her eyes.
His house has fallen, my daughter. A new house must arise.
The wound tingled, then the sensation sharpened, a prickling of intent like needles under her skin.
The Duke of Torinia must claim his right. That is your task.
Lucinda stared out at the gardens. “How is that to be when a crown prince lives?” she whispered.
Sempronius has no son of his blood. A cuckoo stands at the mother’s side. A new king must come. One of your making. One who will lead Valdur to the old ways.
She swallowed. “Then I will be the instrument, my Redeemer. If you will guide me.”
You shall be queen of Valdur, my daughter.
“What befell the king? Is this a foretelling or a shadow of what has passed?”
Sempronius trusted that which he did not control or understand. A creature of the ancient Wood, that which has a venom tooth and an eye of red. A thing of my influence and that of the Others whom I serve. A creature that has served our purpose.
“I will bring Ursino to your revelations, my Redeemer.”
And I will give you command over my legions, gifted one.
Her head suddenly filled with a vivid picture of a battlefield and a mighty host arrayed for war. A host unlike any she had ever seen, one that would strike dread into the hearts of unbelievers. A host from an age long gone by.
THE SUN WAS high, its bright rays bathing the meadows filled with wildflowers that lay just north of the city walls. A large flock of golden sheep, the prize breed of the duchy, their wool a deep buttercup covered the fields as they grazed. The ducal party, thirty courtiers and an escort of one hundred men, made its progress over the wide, firmly packed road that led from Torinia and all the way to the border with Milvorna, some two hundred miles distant. Their destination was, however, already within sight: a sea of multi-coloured tents and banners that spread out on the plain before them. Lucinda rode at Ursino’s side, her hair coiled tightly and topped with a veil of deep blue satin and a silver circlet. She wore (much to the chagrin of her maidservants) a plain kirtle split at front and back and joined-hose underneath that she might ride like any man in the saddle. It was never for her to ride like a noblewoman was expected, leg contorted over the horn of the saddle. Foolishness. The courtiers were polite enough not to stare for fear of angering the Duke who himself cared not a fig for her mannish equestrian style. Now and then he would turn to her, nodding and smiling. Drinking in her beauty.
He was dressed for the review: short padded gambeson over his dark green doublet and wearing hose and black riding boots. His breastplate—polished steel and gilded with the bull’s head from the arms of Torinia—shone blindingly white in the brilliance of the afternoon sun. Upon his head he wore a felted bonnet of red, a great golden jewel at his brow. Bred for battle, his horse was garishly caparisoned in crimson harness, the scalloped reins in suede. As this fine mount stepped high, threatening to break into an excited trot, Ursino’s sword bounced and swung at his thigh.
Behind them, rode the favoured knights of the duchy, among them Claudio and Lazaro. There was a certain laziness to the procession, born partly of the heat and partly because it was expected that they do their part as the Duke’s retainers—or at least be seen to be doing it. The occasional harsh laugh rose up, a few hushed exclamations, but the chief sound was the clop of hooves as the party moved along the road. As they neared the encampment, the advance guard shot forward on their horses to announce the visit to the assembled great captains of the mercenary army. Their duty this day would be to publicly renew their oaths of allegiance to Ursino after which they would be handed a sack of gold and an emerald ring as reward. The party turned off the road and across a field that sloped gently upwards, a broad plain that stretched for more than a mile, one small stand of oak lying lonely at its centre. A dozen great hunting horns sounded their welcome and a drum tattoo began a steady thump.
Lucinda marvelled at the force on display. Some six thousand men stood, arranged like gaming tiles, erect and in perfect squares. Armoured and bearing spear or shield, glaive or halberd, they all stared straight ahead as the ducal procession rode in and reined in at the boldly striped open pavilion set for the ceremonies. As the swallow-tailed banners flapped in the rising wind, the fanfare continued, echoing across the field. At the entrance of the huge three-sided pavilion, stood the commanders of the free companies: Aretini of the Blue Boar, Michelotto of the White, Carraffo of the Sable and Perotti of the Golden Lance. Lucinda looked on them dispassionately. They were the most skilful of freebooters in the kingdom. Inured to violence, addicted to gold, they would be the hammer of Torinia. If they stayed loyal.
She watched as the Duke dismounted, arms held wide as his commanders paid homage, bowing low. A long table had been set for them all, groaning with platters full and silver wine ewers the size of wash tubs. Ursino’s chief gentleman stood at his side, handing out the gold after each commander placed a clenched fist over his heart and recited his oath. Then the remainder of the Duke’s party dismounted and joined the feast. He gestured for Lucinda to sit at his side while the mercenaries roared their encouragement to their men preparing for friendly combat in the lists. She gave him a coquettish tilt of her head and slowly lowered herself onto the bench beside him. A tournament between the companies began, the chosen men-at-arms fighting on foot with blunted blades. Even so, men were felled like trees then carried off to be prised out of their twisted steel shells.
Two more combatants entered the list and saluted each other: rondelieri bearing stout swords and round shields. One had the blue boar’s head of Aretini’s company, the other’s shield was polished steel that glinted in the sun, sending out bright flashes across the onlookers; a soldier of the White Company. The boars’ man wasted no time and raised his shield to his guard position and rushed forward, sword held far back over his shoulder. The other walked forward a few steps to meet the attack, his shield nonchalantly angled and held out in front. They met with a jangle of
harness and the crash of shields. The first blow, a powerful tondo cut by the boars’ man, sailed over the top rim of the other’s steel buckler, slicing only air. The White Company man, a left-handed swordsman, aimed an equally forceful blow downwards at his opponent’s sword side. The blow glanced off the bottom of the man’s armoured knee and smashed his unarmoured shin. A howl of pain reverberated across the lists and he dropped, rolling in the trampled grass.
Aretini snatched an apple from the pewter bowl in front of him and hurled it at the apparent victor. It exploded on the man’s shoulder armour and the fellow stood back, confused.
“Son of a whore!” yelled Aretini, stepping forward out of the pavilion. “Low blow! Goddamned cheating Whites! That shall not be counted!” It didn’t matter. The soldier of the Blue Boar was already limping off the field, helmetless and assisted by his companions. Aretini hurled a second piece of fruit for good measure before swearing and sitting down again.
“My condolences, Coronel.” It was the courtier Lazaro, a big grin on his face. “Such conduct is unbecoming in the lists—even for mercenaries.”
Aretini looked down the table. “Eh? Oh, Messere Lazaro, where are your men today? Would have been rewarding to see a few of them getting their skulls cracked.”
“Could not be helped. They are guarding the palace while your troops play games here. Someone must watch for the Palestrian raiders.”
Aretini snorted and reached for a walnut which he cracked in his fist. “And what will your retainers do then? Bring out some wine so the pirates can quench their thirst?”
Lazaro smiled again and wagged his finger in a mock scold. “I am sure we will all be shoulder to shoulder soon. In the field against Maresto.”
“Shoulder to shoulder, my arse. More like dozing and dicing in the baggage train for your lot.”
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