The Fell Sword
The army turned onto the Alban road and marched at its fastest step, up into the hills. The Vardariotes swept the flanks like a curry brush on a dirty horse, making dust fly, and two of Kronmir’s hirelings watched the show from a high olive grove, lying on their stomachs at the edge of an ancient stone terrace, their horses hidden away among the trees.
‘He’s marching away,’ Antonio said.
‘Our employer will want to know that,’ said Alphonso.
‘Duke Andronicus, you mean,’ Antonio spat.
‘Must be,’ agreed the other. ‘Who else is in this game?’
The two men wriggled back from the edge of the terrace and ran for their horses.
Both were knocked to the ground and pinned with boots against their necks by Amy’s Hob and Dan Favour. Gelfred nodded to them.
‘You know the drill,’ he said. ‘Take your report to Ser Thomas.’
They were sellswords. They didn’t hesitate to talk but, as Gelfred quickly found, they had very little to say.
The Duke’s army marched north almost six leagues as the shadows grew longer.
‘Where the fuck are we going?’ Wilful Murder spat in the autumn dust.
Toby shrugged and pulled another biscuit from his saddle bags.
Bent leaned over his horse’s rump. ‘Not far,’ he said.
Wilful Murder glared at him.
‘No wagons, no food. And Ser Michael’s gettin’ wed tomorrow afternoon, eh? So we won’t go far.’ Bent took a pull from his canteen and offered it to Toby, who shook his head.
‘Fewkin’ bastard would love to use Ser Michael’s wedding to fool us and that fewkin’ Andronicus. We’ll have a battle – mark my words.’ Wilful Murder spat. ‘An’ we won’t get paid either.’ He took the flask and drank. ‘Mark my words.’
They halted in a valley between two steep ridges. There was talk all along the column – flankers went out, and the younger and faster men ran to the top of the hills.
As the church struck five, the advance guard of Vardariotes returned at a fast trot. With them came a long column of wagons and Ser Jehan with his twenty lances.
The army formed an open rectangle on the march and passed the defile at the end of the valley and then marched back towards the city. All could see what the wagons held.
It was full dark by the time the column passed the Vardariotes Gate, and the Eastern regiment dropped off on either side and saluted until the last company in the column passed them. Then, at a shrill whistle, they all dismounted together.
By then, the wagons were deep in the city, and their cargo was safe from attack or ambush.
Kronmir stood on the wall above the gate and counted forty-seven wagons. Some were merely a pair of wheels at each end with the cargo providing the wagon bed, because the forty-seven loads were all felled trees and dried lumber – an enormous quantity. Enough, in fact, to build a fleet of warships.
He also noted two of his hirelings riding with their hands bound.
Back in the Inn of the Nine Virgins, he put pen to parchment – in code. ‘The parvenu has stolen a march by bringing in wood,’ he admitted. ‘I need trustworthy men and devices, preferably hermetical, for communications and for demolitions.’ He made his sign, appended his expenses, and walked out into the cool evening air. He walked through the farmer’s market, and at the third butcher’s from the end of the second row he leaned for a while against the front off wheel of the butcher’s wagon while he cleaned horse manure out of his boot. Then he walked around the front of the stall.
‘Two cuts of spring lamb,’ he said.
The butcher waited on him personally, with a wink, and the letter was on its way.
By nonnes the next day, every man and woman who could sew was sitting in the sun outside the stables, hemming Kaitlin’s wedding dress. Four women had run it up the night before, after Gropf, the master tailor turned archer, cut the cloth. Now the overdress – in red and gold satin – rested on burlap sacks while thirty people sat around it in a circle. The kirtle was deep gold with gold buttons, and Mag sat with Liz and Gropf, working the buttonholes in burgundy silk twist. Squires and pages brought them wine.
The Outer Court had a festive air. All the soliders behaved as if they’d won a victory the day before. No one had opposed them, and they’d marched well out into the countryside. Fetching the wood was anything but a symbolic victory, and the archers talked about the ramifications of having a fleet with the Nordikaans and the Scholae. Twenty Vardariotes stood guard at the palace gates.
Two hours later, the dress was done. Gropf and some of his cronies were tacking ermine to the sleeve openings – borrowed ermine, but there was no need for the lass to know that. The hem was done and the magnificent overdress was folded carefully into muslin and taken to the barracks.
In its place, two barrels were placed on their ends in the courtyard, and four heavy planks were laid across. Then a guard composed of two men of each regiment – two Vardariotes, two Scholae, two Nordikans, and two Athanatoi – marched into the courtyard under the command of Ser Thomas. They halted at the table made of barrels and stood behind it. All were in full harness and all had their weapons naked in their hands.
The company notary came out with Ser Michael. Chairs were brought, and the two men sat.
Francis Atcourt came out chatting with the Captain, who was dressed, not as the Red Knight, but as the Megas Ducas, in purple and gold. As he entered the yard, Ser Thomas blew a whistle, and all three regiments pushed and shoved their way onto parade. None of them were in fighting clothes – every man and woman was in their finest.
There was cloth of gold, and cloth of silver, silk brocades, rich wools like velvets, and silk velvet, too. There was an abundance of linen as smooth as cream, and a quantity of gold and silver – heavy chains, rings, brooches. Soldiers tend to wear their capital – soldiers’ women much the same.
Closer attention might have revealed some paste, some gilded copper, and some tin; some brocades on their third or fourth wearer, some carefully coloured glass, and some leather tooled to look like rich embroidery.
But in general, the eight hundred soldiers present would not have disgraced some courts, albeit in a slightly more raffish manner. Clothing tended to fit more tightly and show more muscle than was usual – from Ser Thomas’s padded, quilted and embroidered silk hose that showed every ripple of muscle in his thighs to Ser Alison’s skin-tight red silk kirtle that left almost none of her physique to a viewer’s imagination, the clothing demanded attention.
Parading in their finery made them more like a boisterous crowd and less like a disciplined army. And when two heavy iron-bound chests were marched through the crowd by palace Ordinaries surrounded by fully armoured Scholae, there was outright applause.
The chests were placed on the heavy oak boards, and the escort saluted and was ordered to retire. Ser Michael produced a key and opened the two chests. Every soldier in the front two ranks could see the gleam of gold and silver. A sigh of contentment ran through the Outer Court.
High above, in the Library, the Princess Irene stood on tiptoes to be able to see the whole of the parade and the two chests. Lady Maria hovered behind her. The princess was dressed in a plain brown wool overdress – very like a nun’s habit. Underneath she wore a much less plain kirtle, but it would only show at the wrists.
‘That is not my money he is disbursing,’ Irene said.
‘I agree that he is a cause for worry,’ Lady Maria said.
‘My own soldiers already love him. Look at them!’ she said.
‘Your father’s soldiers,’ Lady Maria said.
An expectant hush fell over the parade. All the women who were not themselves soldiers were gathered at the corners of the square. Anna and a hundred other wives and near-wives from the Nordikan barracks, as well as some of the great ladies of the city, gathered near their husbands and brothers of the Scholae to see the fun – four nuns stood together with Morgan Mortirmir and a young despoina of the Dukae, who was gree
ted with respectful admiration – and some wolf whistles – by the Alban mercenaries. The new Count of the Scholae smiled at her every time he turned his head. Ser Giorgios Comnenos and his beloved were to have their long-delayed nuptials with Ser Michael and Kaitlin.
The expectant hush lasted long enough that Wilful Murder turned to his whispering colleagues and hissed, ‘Shut the fuck up!’
Veterans of the company knew that no one would be paid until the Captain had complete silence.
When he had it, the Megas Ducas stood and walked in front of the table. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said. ‘Our first pay parade together. You will be called by name, in order of the alphabet. If your pay is incorrect, you will leave it on the table and go to the end to speak directly to the notary and to me. You will not slow the process. The princess has graciously given us a hogshead of malmsey to serve when we are halfway through the list of names. If your name is missed, wait until the end of the parade to make a fuss.
‘Every man and woman on this parade is looking forward to spending their pay – but no one will leave this yard until we’ve witnessed the weddings of Ser Michael to Kaitlin Lanthorn, and Ser Giorgios to Despoina Helena Dukas. Further to that, if you choose to take your pay into the city, be aware that there are at least a hundred men in this city hired just to kill you – that in addition to the usual crowd of ruffians who wait to rob soldiers rolling in gold. Not to mention the crooked innkeepers and whores. Caveat emptor. I expect every one of you on parade on Monday at matins.’
He smiled at them tolerantly. ‘Very well, my companions. Let’s get this under way.’
He leaned back and looked at the rolls. ‘Archer Benjamin Aaron!’ he called.
A small man in black wool with a fine belt of enamelled plaques and a little black skull cap swaggered out of the ranks. By tradition, the first man to be paid shook the Captain’s hand – he grinned, the Megas Ducas grinned back, and Ser Thomas called out: ‘Aaron, mounted archer: seventy-two florins, nine silver leopards, six sequins, less thirty-one leopards stoppages, four leopards, six sequins hospital, extra four leopards, four sequins, hard lying total: seventy florins, eighteen leopards, two sequins! Sign here.’
Aaron signed the book, scraped his coins – ten years wages for a peasant, or a year’s wage for a highly skilled artisan, and all in cash – into his hand. He gave a little bow to the Captain and also Ser Michael and marched himself back to his place in the ranks, where he immediately settled a year’s worth of small debts.
Men and women who came to the company without surnames – few runaway peasants had one – tended to adopt names that occurred early in the alphabet. Brown was a remarkably popular name, as was Able.
However, the parade also encompassed Akritos, Giorgos, and Arundson, Erik.
Ser Francis Atcourt was the first knight to collect, and conversations stopped as his wages were read out.
Ser Thomas read: ‘Atcourt, man-at-arms: three hundred and sixteen florins, no leopards, no sequins, stoppages none, sixteen leopards, six sequins hospital, extra four leopards, four sequins, hard lying extra, thirty-one florins dead warhorse, total: three hundred forty-seven florins, twelve leopards, two sequins.’
Men sighed to hear how much a man-at-arms could earn. It seemed like nothing when your blood ran over the surface of your skin on a cold spring morning, facing a Wyvern with nothing but a bit of steel between you and the monster’s teeth, but on a fine autumn morning in the courtyard of a magnificent palace, it seemed a fortune. All a man could ever want.
‘And one share,’ the Megas Ducas added.
‘Put it on my account,’ said Ser Francis, who was sitting at the table, and the men laughed.
From Atcourt it took almost an hour to reach Cantakuzenos. But after Dukas, the process moved faster – there were fewer mercenaries after D, and the Nordikans and the Scholae had got the rhythm of the thing so that if a man was ready, he could march up while his account was read, sweep the silver and gold into his hat, and walk back as the next lucky fellow pushed forward. A few awkward sods came out of each regiment – men disposed to debate the fine points of what was withheld for medicine, or what had been awarded as punishment – but in general, they went forward with almost three hundred men an hour.
Among the company, the pay parade was an opportunity for practical jokes and levity – wives would press forward to collect a husband’s pay, and then again to collect their own, for example, and a man unlucky enough to be absent – Daniel Favour was not present when his name was called – was helped by mates who shouted, ‘’E wants it all given to the poor!’
Shortly after, Gelfred, the Hunt Master and an officer of the company – highly paid and thus always good for entertainment – was also absent.
Wilful Murder, who had a real name and had already collected his pay, grinned at his nearest neighbour. ‘None o’ they scouts is on parade,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t all wrong yester e’en. Someone’s gonna cop it.’
At Hannaford the parade paused, and every man and woman present was served a fine cup of malmsey wine, heavy and sweet, by troops of Ordinaries with trays. The Megas Ducas jumped up on the table and raised his cup – everyone in the courtyard including the visiting students raised theirs, and the Megas Ducas shouted, ‘To the Emperor!’
Twelve hundred voices echoed his shout.
The Imperial servants cleared away the cups – red clay with Imperial wreathes of olive leaves – and the parade recommenced at Hand, Arthur, mounted archer, and carried straight through to Zyragonas, Dmitrios, stradiotes. The sun was setting, the air was chilly, and the courtyard was packed with deeply satisfied soldiers.
In keeping with an established tradition, Dmitrios Zyragonas – a pleasant-looking man with ruddy cheeks, bright red hair and the last name on the whole parade – was greeted as he left the parade by the company’s oldest camp follower, Old Tam, with every available child gathered about her. She put her arms around him before he even thought to resist, being a well-born Morean and unused to what passed for humour in Alba, he was unready when she put a hand in his pocket and equally unready when she began to kiss him, while forty children shouted and called him ‘Papa’ and ‘Daddy’ and demanded money.
‘There’s my honey,’ croaked Old Tam. She was smiling as broadly as an escaped lunatic and licking her lips. ‘So young!’ she cackled. ‘I only want yer better part, love!’
The Scholae, among whom Zyragonas was a staid and upright figure – were laughing themselves silly as the poor man tried to escape the harridan and the children, many of whom played their parts with touches of realism that might have chilled a less hardened crowd.
Zyragonas fled as soon as he was free of their outstretched hands – ran back into the ranks of his comrades like a one-man rout – and then had to endure the laughter as Old Tam raised high his purse, neatly cut off his belt.
‘I have yer best part, love!’ she yelled.
There were plenty of linguists to translate the jest into Nordikan and Morean.
But then, when everyone had laughed long, the Megas Ducas rose from his chair, and the old woman turned, curtsied, and handed over the blushing man’s purse, and the Megas Ducas restored it to its rightful owner who couldn’t meet anyone’s eyes.
‘Gentlemen and ladies – benches, wine, and food. Many hands make light work – let the wedding begin.’ He clapped his hands, and everyone ran for their task – assigned at the morning parade.
Bent reappeared from the kitchens, where he and four men and four of Gelfred’s dogs had sampled the malmsey and most of the food. Now they went into the towers around the yard, taking an early dinner and a cup of wine to the Vardariotes who were on duty so that the other soldiers could drink.
Tables appeared, and long, low benches, and a line of men went through the yard like dancers, putting beeswax candles in tall bronze sticks on every table. Men looked at the sky – darkness was coming with heavy grey clouds.
The princess’s confessor came through the Outer Yard
in full ecclesiastical regalia. The Scholae murmured. As the first cups and plates began to accrete on the tables, they heard the Officer of the Day shout his challenge, and after the reply the outer gate opened.
The Moreans in the yard froze.
All of them fell to one knee.
The Megas Ducas walked out into the Outer Court, and Bent whispered in his ear – and he hissed an order and fell to his knees – in his best hose, on cobbles. Most of the company didn’t need the whispered order – they could see Ser Michael on his knees in his wedding clothes, and Ser Thomas too, in his magnificent quilted hose.
The Patriarch walked into the yard at the head of twenty professors of the Academy and another ten priests and bishops.
He beamed at the soldiers, and walked among them, bestowing blessings in all directions. He placed his hand on Ser Thomas’s bowed black head – his chin went up as if he’d received a shock, and then he smiled like a man who has won a great prize, and the Patriarch passed to the next man. He blessed Ser Alison and, eventually, he came to the Megas Ducas, placed his hand gently on his head, and nodded.
No lightning struck.
The Megas Ducas kissed his ring.
Very low, he said, ‘I hope Your Holiness is here for the wedding?’
The Patriarch’s eyes twinkled. ‘You mean I’m too late to get paid?’ he asked.
After that, there was nothing that could have made Kaitlin’s wedding any less than a great feast. She herself – when she appeared – looked sufficiently magnificent to quell the rumour among the Moreans that she was a low-born farm girl. It was obvious that she was a duchess. She and Despoina Helena vanished together and as preparations were made their giggles and snorts of laughter could be heard peeling out of the Scholae guardroom, which had temporarily been co-opted as the bridal chambers.
Ser Michael – most everyone knew he was the Earl of Towbray’s eldest son – walked like an earl. It was possible, watching him, to see the Red Knight and the King in his back and his legs, in the way his right hand rested on his dagger, in the arrogance of his jaw – or in the delight of his eyes when he took back his bride’s veil of seven yards of Hoek lace. Ser Giorgios was less showy, but had the dignity that most Moreans seemed to carry, and he smiled at everyone who caught his eye. And at his bride, who didn’t seem to mind that her beautiful gown of golden satin and seed pearls had been upstaged.