Angels

be more than he ever showed his men.

  The horse nodded his head, stamping the ground with its front foot. It gave out a loud, bellowing snort of appreciation, before bending it's neck to pull on the fresh grass. Martell smiled as he watched the beast for a moment and the turned to march across to where Winterburne stood, beating the riding-crop lightly on his thigh.

  'Thomas,' Martell said, as he greeted Winterburne, all trace of emotion now gone from his voice.

  'How are you, William?' Winterburne asked, and clasped his hands behind his back.

  The two groups, soldiers and watchmen, both tensed as they saw the men commence sparring, clearly wondering what might be coming next. From the way that they looked it seemed they fully expected this to turn into a legendary confrontation certainly worth talking about in the mess halls and hostelries later that evening.

  'I understand that there has been,' Martell paused, as he considered his next words carefully, 'a slight misunderstanding.'

  'Yes,' Winterburne said, 'I believe there has.' He could feel his heart begin to race a little as his adrenaline levels increased, but on the outside he ensured that he appeared ice cool.

  'I asked my men to set up a control point here,' Martell said, pointing towards the gate with his riding crop, 'but I understand your men were already doing the same thing.' He paced to the left a few steps, stopped and paced back the other way, keeping his eyes on Winterburne at all times.

  'That’s correct, William.'

  'And your intention was?'

  'To control access to, and exit from the city, William,' Winterburne replied, 'obviously.'

  'Then it will indeed be interesting to see which one of us has the stronger backbone, and who it may be that backs down first.'

  'Oh,' Winterburne said, 'I have no intention of backing dow—'

  'Commander!' a voice called from the wall above, cutting off Winterburne's final words. 'My Lords Morley and Graves are approaching from the south.'

  Both Winterburne and Martell spun around to see the approaching forces closing on the city. From a distance away could be heard the clear tone of trumpets giving a call of announcement as the two Governors and their retinues drew near. From the wall above, a horn returned the call, crisp and clean, a single tone welcoming both men to Highport.

  The dust clouds from a thousand riders were clearly visible through the gates, rising slowly into the air. The thunder of hooves created an impressive sound and coupled with the colours of the green and white of the men from Arboria, and the red and white of the men of West Romana the congregation was a sight to behold.

  Winterburne raised his eyebrows as he looked across the plain at the massed troops, stunned at the number brought by the Governors. 'God knows where we will billet all these men. They will surely have to stay outside the gates.'

  'That is not your concern,' Martell replied. He puffed himself up to his full height and he had a look of pride and triumph on his face. 'It has already been decided. They will indeed camp on the grasslands. In any case, it is my problem to solve since the lands outside of the city wall are under my jurisdiction.'

  'You are absolutely right, of course,' Winterburne said, as he walked over to the Commander's side, 'and I cannot argue against that point.' He took up a position where he could see through the gates towards the riders who milled around as they prepared to dismount. He turned and looked at Martell. 'So, why don’t you take your men back to the Garrison where they belong, as you know as well as I that the land between the walls is decreed as being within the city boundaries and is therefore under mine.'

  Martell's face reddened in anger and his fists clenched. He turned to face Winterburne, drawing his face near until the smell and feel the man's breath on his face was closer than he would ever care to experience out of choice.

  'That,' Martell spat, 'is a state of affairs that I will do my damnedest to change.'

  6

  The Twenty-First Day of New Year,

  Imperial Year 2332

  Winterburne sat in his chair with his head in his hands, his elbows leaning on the blotting pad that he always placed down on the desk when he worked. Documents were strewn across the surface and he shook his head as he peered at them through his fingers.

  'I don't even know where to start,' he said, as he picked up the sheet of paper at the top of the pile, trying to read the spider-feet tracks that pretended to pass themselves off as writing. The scrawls meandered across the page like a drunken sailor after a night on the ale.

  'Do I even have to fill in their forms for them as well as wipe their backsides?' he added. 'Most of them can't even write their own name properly!' He tossed the sheet back onto the desk.

  Winterburne stood and slid his hands into his pockets as he wandered over to the window. The panes of glass were filthy so he wiped the worst of the dust and dirt with the sleeve of his shirt. It was another job to be added to the Watch House duty roster.

  Outside, the anticipation for the return of the Emperor was almost tangible and everywhere the city was abuzz with excitement. Frederick's return had become the worst kept secret in history especially since, over the last few days, the Imperial Guard had been tasked with the deployment of the banners that were only usually flown when the Emperor was in residence in the city.

  He pressed his nose against the glass, looking up the street. The Guard had already been there, the colours flying from the poles that had been fixed from the buildings that lined the street. In the centre of each crisp white banner sat the black eagle of the Emperor's arms and they had been joined by others of its kind all around the rest of the city. The greatest of all of them, though, were those hanging from the Palace balconies.

  He wondered what new news Frederick would bring back with him. The Queen was known to be a formidable debater and he imagined that the Emperor would not have found their meetings easy to negotiate. As he pondered, movement caught the corner of his eye and his gaze wandered towards a running man as he picked his way down the street from the direction of the East Gate. The man dodged the people that stood in his way, weaving through the crowd madly, covering the ground to the Watch House in little time at all.

  As he crossed the street, Roland seemed to be running as if his life depended on it and almost without stopping, he crashed through the Watch House front door and into the corridor beyond. The man's feet pounded down the hallway and in a moment Winterburne's office door burst open, swinging inwards until the handle hit the wall. Plaster fell to the floor leaving only a patch of bare brickwork and Winterburne raised his eyes to the ceiling.

  'Good grief,' he said.

  'Sir!' Roland shouted, panting deeply and leaning forwards with his hands on his knees.

  'What is it man? Are you ill?'

  Roland's face was pale, as if he was going to be sick at any moment. Fitness was not something that was a regulation requirement for members of the Watch, although most men were fit enough for their duties. There was a notable exception, but there was no sign of Sergeant Moore on this occasion. Winterburne darted over to the table and poured the Watchman a drink.

  Roland took a mouthful and swallowed it down. 'Thank you, Sir!' He handed the glass back to Winterburne.

  'Well? What do you want?'

  'Oh, yes!' Roland said. 'Sir! He’s here! The Emperor! The first outriders have arrived at the East Gate! He’s only a few miles away now!'

  Winterburne let the man recover for a moment more, then issued his order. 'Watchman Roland,' he said, 'tell the Lieutenant to call the men for roll call. I want them ready in twenty minutes, out in front of the Watch House!'

  oOo

  As soon as all the men of the Watch had arrived Lieutenant Cromwell had them line up in two rows before the Headquarters. Twenty-two men of the Watch standing on the street before the officers, gleaming, and as polished as they were ever going to be. Winterburne had to live with the fact that gleaming meant washed, and polished meant not covered in dirt but still, he thought, they were his men and most o
f them were as honest as the day was long. And, despite what anyone said, their hearts were definitely in the right place.

  'A good turn out, Lieutenant.' He looked down, along the lines of men stretched out before the Watch House

  'It is, Sir,' Cromwell replied. 'Almost everyone reported for duty as planned, Sir.' The Lieutenant stood tall, puffing out his chest. 'All except three men.'

  'Oh? Three?'

  'Bad stomachs, Sir. It's been working its way around the shifts all week. To be honest, I didn't expect many men from the afternoon watch to show up.'

  'I see.'

  'Apparently, Sir,' Cromwell continued, 'Watchman Richard's wife reckoned that he’s had the cramps all night. It seems that the smell was awful, and after he had been in the toilet it was the colour of—'

  'Enough!' Winterburne shook his head. 'That's too much information.

  Cromwell's face reddened.

  Winterburne turned to the Lieutenant. 'As long as you are happy that they aren't swinging the lead, then that's all I need to know. I'm sure we have plenty of men. We’ll be fine.'

  Winterburne walked across to the edge of the porch at the front of the men and looked down at them. His audience slowly realised that he was expecting silence and the mumbling stopped, quiet spreading in a wave along the lines of men. Eventually, after they had settled down, they all looked back at him with expectation.

  'Right!' Winterburne took a deep breath. 'We’ve talked about this day for a week now. You should all know your duties by now.' He looked up and down the lines of men. 'But, if any of you are still not sure, then listen carefully. Again. Early Watch!' he paused for a second for effect, 'Early Watch, 'Shun!'

  A quarter of the men stamped their feet at the same time as they stood to attention.

  'Remember!' Winterburne shouted. 'You are patrolling the West Quarter. I expect you to keep a special eye out for anyone who is more interested in picking pockets than watching His Imperial Majesty! And don’t forget that this is also a good time for people to unload their boats without paying the import duty, so don't forget to check the harbour too. I’m relying on every one of you.' He looked them up and down again, 'Early Watch. Stand easy!' he ordered.

  When the men had settled again, he stepped off the porch and slowly patrolled around the back of the Watchmen as the same speech was repeated three more times. Each Watch duty had it's own particular set of orders and one team was dispatched to each of the four Quarters of Highport.

  Once Winterburne had finished, he strolled back to the porch and resumed his position standing next to Lieutenant Cromwell.

  'How do you find the men, Sir?' Cromwell asked.

  'As fine a bunch of men as you could ask to find anywhere, Lieutenant. You may dismiss them and send them to their duties.'

  oOo

  Martell closed the door to his office, the click made by the lock as he turned the key was crisp and precise. A well oiled device, he thought. Quite proper. Beneath his right arm he carried his helmet, which he had spent the last hour giving a final polish. The red plume had been brushed to perfection, hanging down like a well-groomed horse's tail. Martell took extra special care not to scrape the helmet across his ceremonial breastplate, on which he had spent another half an hour rubbing out the remaining fingerprint smears. The black leather shoulder flaps of his breastplate armour rested on his upper arms, and he made one last check to ensure that they sat regularly. His dark blue tunic was immaculately pressed, the maid having been left specific instructions to take particular care over it.

  When he was finally content, he walked to the top of the stairs and stopped to pull the tunic down beneath his breastplate one last time before beginning his descent of the steps. The black leather boots that he had spent another two hours of his