The End

Frances Burney, who often signed her letters “Francesca Scriblerus”, started her diary in 1768, when she was sixteen. She went on to give eye-witness accounts of some of the momentous events of the age, including the madness of King George and the aftermath of the Battle of Waterloo. She married a French émigré, met Napoleon, and lived for many years in France. She also described what today’s newspaper-headline cliché mongers would call her “battle with cancer” and how she endured, without anaesthetic, an operation to remove the tumour and part of her breast.

Frances Burney addressed her diary to “a certain Miss Nobody”. If it were not for the fact that she is one of my literary heroines, that alone makes the invocation of her spirit so apt for this, my blog, which like many blogs is addressed to Nobody. As far as I know, it is Nobody who reads it; Nobody who eagerly awaits each instalment of Volume 1 of the Lion of Encour; Nobody who hopes that Volumes II and III will follow. (I can reassure Nobody that Volume II has been drafted and Volume III prepared in outline; the trilogy was planned long before I put pen to paper.)

Nobody might be disappointed to discover, however, that I have no plans to present the further adventures of Gramont on this blog. I’m not sure that the experiment has been entirely successful. Time constraints meant I had to abandon the attempt to write introductory articles for each chapter, and also made it impossible for me to put them out with any regularity. I started a new job, a new novel, was attempting to find an agent for my previous one (in which, alas, I have so far failed: but I thank all those agents who have given me encouragement and found nice things to say about my work).What with all this and the day-to-day stuff of life, editing the chapters was as much as I could manage.

But it’s been interesting, and it’s got me through the manuscript again, and I’m ready to go back to the beginning and go through it one more time; for it’s always possible to improve what you have written. I’m looking forward to working on Volume II, and writing Volume III, even if only Nobody and I will read them.

In the meantime, here is the last chapter of Volume I. As usual, I hope that Nobody enjoys it!

Chapter 25

“Going the wrong way for home aren’t you, kitchen boy?”

Quil's soldiers stood in Rowand’s path. The smaller man snatched the satchel out of his hands, and the other grabbed him and pinioned his arms behind his back.

“Where are you taking this food?”

When Rowand did not answer, his interrogator flung the satchel away and gave him a back-handed slap across the face. Rowand felt the blood spring from the wounds made by his studded gauntlet. The man repeated the question; this time Rowand’s silence got him a punch in the stomach, closely followed by a clout on the side of the head while he was still doubled over from the first blow. The big soldier dragged him upright, clamped his huge hand around his chin, forcing his head up and back to expose the neck to the blade of his accomplice’s dagger.

“Who is the food for?”

Rowand yelped as a stinging line of blood sprang across his throat. “It’s mine.”

His captor’s jaw rasped against his skull. “Break his fingers.”

He pushed Rowand onto all fours, his massive weight pinning him down, one hand clamped on the back of his head so that the minstrel could see only the patch of ground beneath him, his own right hand forced flat upon it, and the stiff-capped, sharp-heeled boots stamping impatiently in the dust. His eyes filled with tears; he looked down at his hand, tracing every detail in the pale moonlight: the oval whirls of skin on the knuckles, the golden hairs on the back of his hand, his nails, polished and short. He squeezed his eyes shut and in his imagination saw himself dipping his hand into the silver water of a stream under a forest canopy; sliding his fingers into the gap between a blouse and a woman’s soft skin; plucking the strings of a rippling harp. Then he saw his fingers in the road, bloodied and mangled, and later with the skin healed, the bones knitted into a crooked travesty of a musician’s hand.

He heard the soldier’s boot scrape along the ground and opened his eyes. The man lifted his foot, positioned it above Rowand’s hand, co-ordinating the act with his companion who was to keep his grip until a split-second before the foot landed. “One – two – ”

Rowand gazed in horror as gouts of blood splattered across his knuckles. But the blood was not his own, and the heavy boots were performing an odd, clumsy dance. As the man crumpled, his head hit the ground with a soft thud and rolled away towards the ditch.

The big soldier flung Rowand to one side and in an unexpectedly agile movement jumped to his feet and drew his sword. His blade flashed over Rowand’s head; another parried it. Too hurt and dazed to stand up, he rolled out of the weapons’ range, lay panting at the roadside, just able to see through his watery eyes Gramont locked in combat with the bully. How small his friend looked, like a puppy baiting a bear! They lunged against one another with such fury that it was hard for Rowand to be sure what blows went where. He thought that the enemy struck home, but Gramont did not slacken or falter. The big man dodged to avoid Gramont’s retaliatory blow and Gramont grasped his sword in both hands, swinging it high over his head. The blade made a silver arc against the night sky, descended like a shooting star into his opponent’s shoulder, slicing shoulder blade and collar bone.

The man’s sword dropped from his fingers. Gramont wrenched his weapon out of his shoulder, swung his left foot back and directed a vicious kick into his stomach. He toppled and crashed onto his back. Gramont bent over him, put his boot on his chest for leverage, and drove his sword through his heart. When it was done he pulled out the blade, wiped it on the man’s black gambeson, and spat into his face.

He turned to Rowand. “Are you alright?”

Rowand had managed to get himself into a sitting position and was dabbing at his bloodied face with his sleeve. “I’m fine. Sod it, Gramont. Did you have to kill them? When Quil finds out they’re dead he’ll know you did it and he’ll be right on our trail.”

“What else should I have done? Invited them to dinner?” Gramont held out his hand and helped his friend to his feet. “Help me drag them into the woods.”

A line of light sprang across the corpses weltering in their blood. “Hell!” cried Gramont, raising his sword.

“Hold on! They’re from the village.”

It was the men from the tavern, though the landlord was not with them; Rowand guessed his timidity had got the better of him. They were all armed, if farm implements could be called weapons. They had brought the village headman with them, a tall man, grey-headed, and the only one who carried a sword. His weapon was an ancient, rusty affair, reverently handed down through his family as a relic of better days. His astonished gaze fell on Gramont; the minstrel he had expected to see, but not this young nobleman, whose gold-hilted sword hung with deadly carelessness from his hand.

He cleared his throat and in his most mayoral tones said to Gramont, “Welcome, sir. I am Peter Fravelt. We are sorry to see you in this plight after the battle, but we will do all we can to speed you on your way home.”

“Battle – this scrap?”

“Thank you,” Rowand put in hastily. “My lord, put up your sword. This fight is won, even if Raimer is lost.”

Gramont understood the clue: they thought he was a Lamenese soldier on his way home from Raimer after Saiza’s defeat. He sheathed his sword and nodded down at the bodies. “Can you get rid of these for me?”

Fravelt nodded. “We’ll bury them deep in the woods. You, Graint, Wat. Go back for shovels, shrouds and a cart. We’ll hide them in the smithy tonight. Strip them and burn their uniforms. What won’t burn, bury separately.”

Graint and Wat started back to the village. The others started to gather up the debris from the fight, the weapons and satchel, the severed head. Rowand gagged as one of the farmers dumped this grisly object onto its owner’s chest.

Unemotionally, Gramont watched the operations. “Their horses must be nearby. Do you have harness we can put in place of theirs?”

“Yes. You two - go and look for their animals.”

Rowand ducked down and retrieved Gramont’s rucksack, slung it over his shoulder.

Fravelt smiled. “You will be safe in my house for tonight. My wife will give you food.”

“Having spent last night in a tree, it will be bliss, eh Gr – my lord?” Rowand tapped Gramont’s arm. To his surprise Gramont, who had just killed two men and one of those a giant, stumbled at his light touch. His sleeve felt wet; Rowand looked down and saw that his fingers glistened dark in the lamplight. “You are wounded!”

“’S nothing,” Gramont said, and passed out.


Ten days later Gramont was well enough to leave the hamlet. He had spent the first night in Fravelt’s house where the wound was cleaned and dressed. The next day he was carried to a shepherd’s hut in the pastures above the village. He knew nothing of the journey, nor of how Rowand had to reprise his role of kitchen boy to his scolding aunty while Quil and his men crashed through cottages and workshops, leaving a trail of broken furniture and tools behind them. But of their missing comrades and the fugitive who had killed them there was no sign, and nothing useful to be extracted from these stupid yokels.

He came back to the village and they spent their last night hidden in Fravelt’s barn so that they would be near to the road in the morning. The black warhorses, deliberately ill-kempt and ungroomed, had been provided with simple harness and sheep-skin lined saddles.

“Even so, they are conspicuous,” Rowand said gloomily.

Gramont shrugged his good shoulder. “We’ll be in Curgardre by the end of the day, so what’s the worry?”

“Quil is still around.”

Gramont swung into the saddle. “We will outride Quil.” He reached up to his neck, groped for the charm that he always kissed at the start of a journey. “Where’s my medallion?”

“Here.” Rowand fumbled in his scrip. “I took it off you. I didn’t want to arouse their suspicions. A Prophet pendant is hardly the sort of thing a Lamenese lord would wear.”

Gramont took the chain back, fastened it on and tucked it out of sight beneath his shirt. He spurred his horse and rode out into the morning sunshine. Fravelt and his wife stood at the entrance of the yard.

Gramont leaned down, clasped Fravelt’s hands. “Thank you, my friend.”

“Just get home safe and drive the Encourians out of our land,” Fravelt answered.

“I will see to it that men like Quil do not bother you again,” was Gramont’s grim answer.

Mrs Fravelt handed Rowand a parcel of food and a small bag of fresh dressings and ointment. They rode slowly down the main street, which was lined with cheering villagers. The girls threw flowers while the lads looked on enviously, longing for the day when they too could march out of the village to join Verner’s regrouped army.

Rowand had told them that he and his master were on their way back to his castle in the south, where he would muster what men he could and wait for a new call to arms. They did not yet know that Verner was dead, and Rowand had been careful to keep the news from them. It was only possible to keep the secret because the Priests who served the district had been arrested months ago, and so there was no one to pass on the tidings sent out by Edwairn. As it was, they still did not know that they had entertained in their little village the Minstrel of Lamener and his king.


“Halt!” Gramont reined in his horse on the sun-dappled road.

“What is it?”

“Soldiers up ahead.”

“I can’t see anything.” After a moment, however, Rowand heard the sound of hooves and harness.

“We’d better hide,” he said, pulling his horse’s head round towards the forest.

“No need. It’s a patrol from the Curgardre garrison.”

“Gramont – for the last time, I beg you, don’t – ”

It was too late. Gramont had already nudged his horse forward to meet Jumillion’s soldiers. Rowand swore, and followed.

There were ten men, riding two abreast, led by a young officer who responded to the sight of the two horsemen blocking the road ahead of him by sending half a dozen troopers forward to surround them. Gramont sat through their manoeuvres with a nonchalant air, but Rowand eyed the Encourians nervously and wished himself a long way away.

Gramont saluted the officer as he drew close. “Good day, Captain - ?”

“Vigorn.” He nodded at the circle of men around Gramont and Rowand. “Take their weapons.”

Rowand snatched his knife from his belt and brandished it at the soldiers, who seemed little impressed by the threat, and pressed forward to obey their order.

“It’s alright, Rowand,” Gramont said. “Put the knife away. There’s obviously some misunderstanding here. Captain Vigorn, I am Lord Gramont of Pales – ”

“I know who you are.”

“Then you don’t salute your commanders now?”

“My commanders, yes. You, ride back and let Captain Quil know we’ve got him.”

“Quil?” Gramont cried, as the man so ordered set off the way the patrol had come. “You have Quil? You will deliver him into my hands at once!”

Vigorn laughed. “Now that would be a topsy turvy way of doing things.”

Gramont gazed at him in astonishment. “Have you been drinking?” He turned away and addressed the troop. “I am relieving your Captain of his command. You two will disarm him, keep him under arrest, and arrange for him and Quil to be brought to me in Curgardre. The rest of you will accompany me to Curgardre now; we need to ride fast.”

“You are being tedious,” Vigorn said coldly, “and you fool no one. Quil will be here soon; you can try your tricks on him. As the first victim of your treachery, he has been entrusted with bringing you into custody. You can answer to him for the two men slain when you led his company into ambush, and for the boy you took to be made a sacrifice by your White Priests. Now, hand over your sword.”

“I gave you an order,” Gramont said, ignoring Vigorn’s drunken rambling. “Take me to Kauster at Curgardre at once.”

“Kauster isn’t in Curgardre,” Vigorn said. “He’s hunting down a band of Heroiner soldiers who have been making a nuisance of themselves in this sector. And I am taking you to Curgardre – as my prisoner. I have a warrant for your arrest.”

“Whose warrant?”

“The King’s.”

“So he’s had himself proclaimed King already, has he?”

Vigorn looked puzzled, but only said, “You will hand over your sword.”

“I am not handing over my sword because Kittar has signed a warrant,” Gramont snapped. “Now. Let’s cut the crap and get going.”

“You are under arrest for treason by order of King Jumillion, and you will give up your weapons now.”

Gramont recoiled as if he had been struck by a lance. White-faced, he gasped, “My father? Under arrest by order of my father? Why? What treason does he accuse me of?”

“Of being in league with the White Priests and other traitors, such as minstrels,” here Vigorn glanced at Rowand, “to plot an insurrection in Lamener and seize the throne following Verner’s death.”

“Oh, why did Edwairn send me?” groaned Rowand, valiantly lunging at the soldiers. “Run, Gramont, run!...What are you waiting for?...I can’t hold them!” Nor could he. The flat of a blade came down on his arm and his knife flew from his fingers.

Gramont had not moved, nor did he move when Vigorn took his sword from him, or when the soldiers bound his hands in front of him. He did not move when they tied Rowand in the same manner or when, their reins looped over their captors’ saddles, the cavalcade started back along the road.

In vain Rowand tried to catch his eye, to offer, if only by a look, some comfort for his hurt and humiliation. He slumped in his saddle, his chin sunk on his chest, and seemed mesmerised by the motion of his horse’s feet over the uneven road. He watched the iron-shod hooves as they swung back and forth, sending up scatters of tiny pebbles, raising clouds of dust, dislodging half-submerged stones and, with every smooth, strong step, taking him closer to Quil, the culmination of Kittar’s plot, and his father’s betrayal.


The End

Chapter 24

“So the living can see them, these souls?”

“They are not dead, not ghosts. And yes, you can see them, though sometimes only faintly, as ripples in the sunlight or shadows in the dark. It depends how strong is your willingness to see them.”

“And what does the body look like while the soul is gone?”

“The heart beat slows, the breathing slows, there is no movement, no feeling, no reaction even to a pin prick. It is so still that it may be mistaken for a corpse. Only it does not decay. Like the Prophet’s body when his soul left it. If you remember your history – unlikely, I know - you will know that for a long time after his departure his body lay in his monastery at Morvany where the faithful could come and pray before it. Then the Prelate decided that the hoi-polloi shouldn’t be allowed to gawp at it, and had the Encourian army move it to his palace. He built an ugly mausoleum to house it, and now the only people who are allowed to gaze upon the face of the Prophet are his successors and the Kings and Heirs of Encour, once every year, during Holy Week.”

“Yeah. Kittar went on pilgrimage to the Holy City once. He went on for weeks about how fragrant and sweet the corpse was in its glass coffin, the ghoul.”

He pushed a bramble aside, held it back so that Rowand could pass him on the narrow forest trail.

“Some people still believe that one day, at a time of great need, the Prophet’s soul will return to his uncorrupted body and he will come amongst us again,” Rowand said.

Gramont stopped, slung his pack from his shoulder and took a swig of water from his flask. He took their last biscuit out of his bag, broke it in half and handed a piece to Rowand. They sat at the side of the path to eat.

“It was the Savants of Lamener who first discovered knowledge of Soul Flight,” Rowand continued. “That’s why they were so powerful. They had none of the White Order’s scruples about using their knowledge. They always knew their enemies’ counsels, their secrets and schemes. It was a Savant who stood beside the Prophet at the Battle of Railigairn, remember. He passed his knowledge on to the Prophet. Though that’s another heresy, according to your lot, who won’t have it that the Prophet had to learn anything, and certainly not from a Lamenese wizard.”

“They are not my lot. I don’t give a cuss what this or that one believes.”

“Are you going to allow your Lamenese subjects liberty of conscience then? I don’t think Wisdom will be very pleased about that.”

“I told you, they are not my subjects.” Gramont spat out his last mouthful of food. “I’d give anything for something proper to eat.”

“We should be near the road by now. We’ll get something at the first village we come to.”

Gramont stood up. “Better move on.”

They walked on for another quarter of an hour. The forest seemed endless. Midges danced stingingly about their perspiring faces. The buzzing filled Gramont’s ears. He waved them off, but no matter how many times he flicked them away the insects always came back. With them and his hunger, his temper grew short and Rowand gave up trying to talk to him.

Suddenly he stopped abruptly and pulled Rowand back. “There’s someone up ahead.”

They sank down into the undergrowth and peered out through the leaves. The figure was standing with his back to them on the other side of a tree on the edge of a glade.

“I can’t see anyone else,” Gramont whispered.

“Me neither. Could be a woodsman.”

Gramont grunted softly. They waited. Minutes passed, but the man did not move. Gramont muttered, “What’s he doing?”

“Nothing, from the looks of it.”

“There’s something funny here.” Gramont raised his head above the bush. The stranger’s hand hung motionless from his sleeve. Warily Gramont stood up, loosened his sword in its scabbard. A twig snapped under his foot. He froze. No sign that the other man had heard him. He crept forward, sniffed the air. To Rowand’s astonishment, he abandoned all caution and stepped boldly towards the tree.

Seeing that it was safe, Rowand followed. He had not gone more than half a dozen paces when he saw that there were strands of rope lashed around the tree. A cloud of bloated flies rose dizzily through the branches. Then the smell hit him.

A dark-haired boy in what had been a brown tunic and breeches was tied to the tree. His head slumped onto his chest; there were knife marks down each side of his face. One arm was gone at the elbow, a jagged, untidy wound with shreds of skin fluttering about the white bone. His legs sagged against the coils of rope, their tension loosened by the removal of chunks of flesh from his thighs and calves. His belly gaped open, the insides gored and glistening.

Rowand sank to the ground and spewed up his biscuit and water. He gazed up at Gramont through his sweat-matted hair and wondered how he could stand there, white-faced but calm, not thinking that Gramont had seen and smelt horrors before. It seemed to Rowand that for a long time he remained there on the floor clutching at his belly, while Gramont stood unmoving before the tree.

Slowly Gramont drew his knife from his belt and slashed the ropes. He did not start back in disgust when the bloodied corpse fell into his arms, only supported it while he continued to cut methodically at the knots until the body was free. Gently he laid it on the ground, heedless of the smears of red on his shirt and doublet. He crouched beside him, ran his hand over the ravaged face.

“Isam.”

“It’s your servant?” Rowand croaked.

“They bound him to this tree. They cut his face, his arms, his chest, his legs. They left him for the wolves.”

“Oh, dear God. We heard them last night.”

“If I’d known…if I’d only known. I shouldn’t have left him. I should have gone back for him. He was no danger to them. He was a boy. Nothing but a serving boy.”

Rowand bent his head, wiped his tears away. But Gramont’s eyes were dry.

“Minstrel. You will make me a song one day. You will make me a Song of Revenge.”

Gramont sank back onto his heels, drew his sword from its scabbard. The blade shrieked through the air, glared like a flame in the sunlight. He flung back his head and shouted. “Do you hear me, Quil? I swear by this sword – by this boy’s life – that you will die.”

Rowand gasped, looked about him wildly, expecting Quil and his soldiers to come crashing through the trees. All that happened was that the birds rose chattering into the air. A leaf fell. Dust poured through a beam of sunlight.

Gramont marked a grave in the mouldering soil with his knife, and they dug it out with their hands. Then they lay Isam in it and covered him, piling dead leaves over the shallow pit. It was the best they could do.

When they had finished they were filthy.

“We’ll have to bathe before we get near any village,” Rowand said.

“Where are we in relation to the stream?”

“Not far. That way.”

They did what they could to smarten themselves up. Gramont took off his shirt and rinsed it out, waded deep into the stream and let the current wash his boots, soak the red from his dark breeches. The wet linen clung to him when he put it on, but he was impervious to the discomfort and shrugged his doublet on over it.

“Now we must find food.”

Rowand nodded, wondering if he would ever be able to eat again. “If I remember rightly, there’s a hamlet not far from here.”

At dusk they came to the verge of the road. Rowand stepped out from the trees and peered up and down the rutted, dusty track. Nothing moved, and the only sounds were the ones the forest made, the twitterings and shufflings of birds and animals going about their business, heedless of human concerns. He turned and beckoned Gramont. Since they buried Isam Gramont’s mood had grown savage and morose. He was careless too, crashing through the trees as if he hoped to draw Quil down upon them. He glared so fiercely at Rowand whenever he tried to quiet him that the minstrel had given up, resorting instead to silently praying that Quil and his men were nowhere near.

“I think the village is about half a mile,” Rowand said. “Have you got any money?”

“No.”

“Neither have I.”

No more was said, and they plodded on until they reached the outskirts of the hamlet. Rowand caught Gramont’s arm. “No one is looking for me. You go back into the woods and hide. I’ll be back soon.”

“Are you going to steal some food?”

Rowand tutted. “The idea! I’m going to sing for our supper. Get out of sight, and wait for me.”

It was a small, neat settlement with a water trough under a stone shelter in the tiny square. Half a dozen men of varying ages stood or sat around the shelter. Rowand stopped to wash his face and hands under the scrutiny of their watchful eyes. He straightened up from the cool water and bade a cheerful “Good evening”. None replied and so he sauntered over to the tavern, knocked the dust off his boots, and went inside.

A few round tables and chairs, ill-matched and oft-repaired, were arranged on a bare wooden floor, with a counter at one end of the room that had just enough space behind it for the landlord and a couple of barrels. The innkeeper, who was pouring a jug of ale, glanced over his shoulder with a smile of welcome, which quickly faded when he saw the stranger. The only customers were three labourers playing dominoes. They let the pieces clatter amongst the beer stains and stared at Rowand, who smiled a greeting, but none of them returned it. The door opened again and the men from the square shuffled into the room.

The landlord pushed the brimming jug to one of the three, who took it without rising from his seat. He turned, unsmiling, to Rowand.

“What can I get you?”

“A small glass of beer, please.”

The drink was grudgingly poured and served. Making no complaint about the fact that his glass was only three quarters full, Rowand thanked his host and sat down by the fire, glad of the chance to air his damp clothes. One by one the men who had come in behind him took their foaming pots of beer and sat down. The landlord wiped the counter, and the farmers made a show of resuming their game.

Rowand sipped his beer and began to hum softly. Then, staring dreamily into his drink, as if he sang only for his own pleasure, he began to sing the words of one of the oldest and best loved of Lamenese folk songs, the tale of how the Prophet met and married Cairinna.

“Rondel rode on, rode on,

Under the trees, the trees,

No sign of his hounds or men,

Of his men and his hounds no sign,

Only green leaves, golden sun, and a silver voice.”

Rowand sighed, looked up, and started theatrically. “What? Oh, sorry. Crooning. A habit of mine.”

“You’re a minstrel?” The landlord leaned eagerly over the counter. The farmers exchanged smiles, and the hostility fled from the other men’s faces.

Rowand shrugged modestly. “I have been known to trill the odd ditty.”

“Then sing us some more, young master! Eh, fellows?”

“Aye,” the company cried, banging the tables with the flat of their rough hands. “Sing us some more.”

“If I do, will you give me something to eat?”

“If you sing for us, I’ll empty my larder to you,” the landlord declared, prompting a chorus of groans and jeers, from which Rowand inferred that his host had a reputation for stinginess. With a cheeky grin he announced The Mean Miller and launched into the rollicking chorus. It was a song everyone learned at his mother’s knee, and Rowand’s melodious voice was soon lost in their hearty and enthusiastic notes. The door opened and two or three villagers, drawn by the noise, sidled in.

“Come in, come in!” The landlord beamed ecstatically. Only on market days did he have this many customers – the minstrel would have half a roast chicken for this! As fresh jugs of beer were doing the rounds the door opened again and several goodwives bustled in to see what their men folk were about. A whole chicken!

Rowand winked at the ladies, changed tempo and started a sprightly praise of young love. He had reached the second verse when the door opened once more. Two soldiers, clad in black and silver, stood on the threshold. The cool night air ripped into the room.

Quil’s men swaggered into the room. The villagers, silent now, moved aside, staring down at the floor, none daring to look them in the eye, all too conscious of the swords at their sides, the knives at their belts, the fists inside the studded gauntlets. The first man was gigantic, with huge hands and feet, strong and ferocious as a lumbering bear. He smiled down at the quaking landlord, revealing gaps in his mouth where teeth had been knocked out.

“Two pints of ale, or the piss that passes for ale round here.”

The landlord’s jug jittered against the tap of the barrel.

The other soldier, a short, muscular slab of a man, turned round, leaned one elbow on the counter, and surveyed the room. His glance fell on Rowand in his corner by the hearth, passed on, swivelled back again. Though Rowand’s dust-stained clothes looked like rags after their passage through the forest, they were very different in style and fabric from the rough homespun the villagers wore.

He soldier nudged his companion. “Look.”

The big man did not respond. He drained his glass and shoved it back at the landlord. “Fill it up.” The landlord handed him his beer. He drank more slowly this time, lowered the glass, wiped his mouth. Thrusting the glass back for a second refill, he twisted round to face the company. “Having a bit of a sing song, were you?”

No one answered. He grinned, winked at his companion to follow him. They shoved their way through the room and stopped in front of Rowand. Rowand gazed up at them with wide, innocent eyes.

“What’s your name?”

“Bertorn. What’s yours?”

“Don’t give me any of your lip. What’s your business here?”

“Not business, but pleasure. I’m having a drink.”

“Not working?”

“Who works at this hour of the day?”

“Innkeepers. Whores. Minstrels.”

“No, sirs, no!” The landlord stepped out from the counter. “He’s not a minstrel. How could he be? He doesn’t have a harp.”

The man scanned the floor around Rowand’s chair. “Lost it, have you?”

“Never had one.”

“You are a bastard minstrel, and that means you’re a heretic and a spy. Get up.”

The landlord wrung his hands. “No, sirs, you’ve got it wrong. He’s not a minstrel. I wouldn’t have one in here, I swear it!”

“Him!” growled one of the domino players, tapping his pipe on the table. “A minstrel, with a shrill reed like that! Don’t make me laugh.”

“What did you say?” The brute swung round.

“I said you must know very little about Lamenese minstrels if you think his caterwauling minstrelsy.”

“Aye!” The men around him nodded agreement.

“Bertorn couldn’t sing to save his life!” cried a stout, middle-aged woman with hands and arms red and brawny from years of work in house and field. “He’s nothing but a kitchen boy. And he’s not much use at that.”

“What, he works for you, does he?”

“Yes. He’s my widowed sister’s son from town. And precious little use he is, with his townie airs and graces.”

The soldiers looked at one another. “All the Lamenese are liars,” the big man said.

The other shrugged. “Maybe so, but he’s not what we’re looking for, and we haven’t time to waste on him.”

“Alright.” The soldier rested his knuckles on the table, leaned forward and towered Rowand. “I’ll be back for you.” He straightened up, raised his voice. “And if I find out that you lot are harbouring a minstrel, I’ll burn the bloody place down.”

They left, of course, without paying. In the frightened hush the people could hear them mount their horses and spur them on. A woman by the door cautiously opened it an inch and peered out. The hoof beats receded into the night. “They’ve gone,” she said.

Rowand stood up. “Thank you, all. How can I ever repay you?”

The woman who had claimed him as her nephew clasped his hands. “You know how. Help the Holy Ones rid our land of the Encourians!”

“Hush, hush,” the landlord said, his face still white. “Here, sir, take your food and go.”

Rowand smiled. “I will make a song about the courage of a frightened man – the greatest courage there is. Thank you, my friend.”

He stooped and kissed the woman. “And thank you, Aunty!”

He smiled to himself as he hurried through the street’s shadows. Perhaps one day they will learn who was in their village tonight. The Minstrel of Lamener, and his King!

He left the shuttered dwellings behind him and slowed to a walk while his eyes adjusted to the dark. He followed the road into a pitch-black tunnel of trees, trying to recognise the spot where he parted with Gramont. He had not gone many steps when one of the tree trunks detached itself from the edge of the forest and smashed into him.

Chapter 23

The morning was cold. Grey mist still clung to the flanks of the mountains, though to the north the sky was clear. Gramont flung on his cloak and looped the chain over the wooden button Isam had sewn on to it. It reminded him of Royus, and then Kittar. His jaw clenched: how would their meeting be? One thing was certain: they would not embrace as brothers should, although Gramont would have to take Kittar’s hand, for the sake of appearances.

He grabbed his helmet and ran outside to where Storm waited between two grooms. Captain Quil and his men were already mounted, drawn up in two lines in front of Gramont’s lodging. Isam was also on horseback, a pack horse roped to his own animal. Gramont mounted and Kauster ran to adjust his stirrup for him. Gramont was surprised at the attention.

“Good luck,” Gramont said.

“Be careful,” Kauster growled.

Kauster’s was not the first warning Gramont had had about this journey, but the other he had discounted at first light. It was merely dream-nonsense. He admitted, though, that there was some substance to Kauster’s precaution. The countryside would be full of men who had fled from Raimer after the battle. Hungry men, wounded some of them, desperate to get back to their homes. They would not be much of a danger to Quil’s heavily armed company. All the same, it was wise to be vigilant.

Gramont raised his hand, gave the order to move forward. The soldiers wheeled about, formed into pairs, and followed Gramont, Quil and their furled standard out of Curgardre.



They made good time; the well-bred horses were strong and ridden by skilful men. Storm set the pace, and was often so far in front of the others that Gramont caught up with the men Quil had sent ahead to spy out the road. Sometimes Gramont stayed with them, sometimes he wheeled back and rejoined the main body of the troop. Once or twice he thought he caught a glimpse of men moving through the trees at the side of the road, but there were very few travellers on the road. Farmers going to market in lumbering carts, or labourers with hoes or spades slung over their shoulders, pressed back into the verges and in sullen silence watched the armed foreigners sweep by.

The company stopped in a small village, consumed all the food and drink in the inn, and after an hour’s rest rode on. By nightfall they had travelled many miles, but they were in the middle of nowhere. They turned off the road into a green meadow flanked by a narrow strip of forest that widened out into thick woodland. A small stream ran along the bottom of the meadow, vanishing into the thickening trees. It was not long before fires were lit, watches set around the circle of the camp, and the horses tethered and watered. The men sat or lay on the ground eating and drinking. Those who were on watch stood like a circle of stones in the gathering dusk, looking outward.

Gramont had often slept on the ground in the open and never minded it, but he did not object when Isam raised a small tent for him a little way off from Quil and the others. Although he and Quil had to speak to one another during the day, Gramont did not want to socialise with him. Isam lit a small fire while Gramont took off his light armour and flung his sword, knife, gauntlets, helmet and breastplate into his tent.

The provisions Isam had packed were very good: cold chicken, fresh bread, a small cask of ale, apples, honeyed cakes. Gramont crawled into his bed as soon as he had eaten, flung himself down on the furs and blankets, kicked off his boots. His meal and the day’s travelling had made him drowsy. He listened to Isam clearing up their wooden dishes, carrying them off to the stream to wash. The boy sang softly to himself as he worked. Beyond his song droned the soldiers’ deeper voices, the restless stamping of the horses, the faint ring of the guards’ weapons against their armour. Gramont turned onto his side and fell asleep.

To another dream, vaguer than last night’s. Gramont did not know if he was in a forest, by an ocean, or on a plain. Nor could he tell if he was sitting, standing or lying. He only knew that he was somewhere, and that someone was whispering to him, but he could not hear the words or see the speaker. He became aware that he was moving, rocking from side to side. The whispering sounded more urgent. He tried to say, What? What are you saying?, but when he opened his mouth the only sound that came out was a long sigh.

He fell from his side onto his back. His eyes flew open, gazed up at pale canvas. The dream had gone. He rolled over again and shut his eyes. Then he was shaken again, and a voice hissed, “Grief, it’s like waking the Sleepers of Athlone! You’ve got to get away, Gramont. Quickly.”

Rowand’s face hung over him. He waved his hand lazily, pushing the vision of the minstrel away, sank back beneath the covers and shut his eyes.

“Gramont, get up.”

Something thumped into his chest. He shot up and discovered his boots on the cover. Dreams didn’t throw things around. The minstrel crouched beside him, a knife blade glinting in his hand.

“Rowand? Is it really you?”

“Hell, Gramont keep your voice down. Get dressed.”

Through the canvas behind Rowand’s hunched shoulders Gramont made out the outline of the bedding Isam had unrolled at the entrance to the tent. The blankets were crumpled, but Isam was not there. Gramont rubbed his hand over his stubbled chin. “What’s going on? What are you doing here? Where’s Isam?”

“Your life is in danger. I’m here to get you away. I don’t know. For God’s sake will you put this on.” Rowand shoved Gramont’s shirt at him.

“What do you mean, my life is in danger?”

“Hush! Quil has been sent to kill you.”

“Quil? But Lord Tomlin sent him.”

“To slit your throat.”

“You’re talking rubbish, Rowand.”

“Am I? Then take a look out there.”

Gramont knelt on all fours and peered through the tent flap. It was dark; he guessed it was after midnight. The camp fires were little more than glowing embers, but one still burned high, the flames yellow against the black sky. No sleeping forms lay on the ground. Six soldiers stood near the fire, fully dressed, with drawn swords. Quil was with them, his voice a menacing whisper on the still night air. Gramont turned his head to the right. The shadowy forms of men, also armed, loomed in the darkness. Another group waited silently on the left. He counted: four missing.

He sank back onto his blankets. “Bloody hell. What’s going on?”

“I told you. Now get dressed, for God’s sake.”

There was not much room to move, but Gramont managed to buckle on his sword and knife belt, tug on his boots. His breast plate and helmet he could not manage in the confined space, but he stuffed the helmet into his pack and slung it over his shoulders. Rowand knelt at the entrance, keeping watch. He glanced back. “We’ll have to go out the back. I’ll cut the tent.”

“There must be some of them behind us too.”

“I know. But there’s no other way.”

Rowand thrust his knife through the fabric, carefully drawing the blade down to minimise any sound. There was a small patch of grass to cross. They squeezed out, stooped low, made it into the wood. Gramont remembered that the line of trees soon thinned out. The other four men were probably stationed on the other side of the copse to watch in case a fleeing, bleeding man should burst from the cover. He was flattered by Quil’s precautions. Did he think he would survive all those sword thrusts?

He nudged Rowand. “We’ll move forward, go deeper into the forest.”

Rowand nodded, content to let Gramont take charge. Slipping from bole to bole, the two men followed the line of the stream. They had been moving for five minutes when the silence was broken by the clatter of feet, the rip and thud of swords penetrating canvas, the soldiers’ murderous cries. They exchanged grim glances and in wordless agreement broke into a run, abandoning their attempt to move quietly.

The howls turned to curses. The assassins had discovered that the tent was empty. Gramont and Rowand leaped over the stream, stumbled on the slippery stones on the other side, helped one another over fallen branches, mossy stones, burrows and ruts. The trees thickened around them, deadening the sound of their pounding feet and rasping breath. Faintly they heard men shouting and crashing through the forest, but could not tell how far away they were.

On and on they ran. When the dawn finally broke the grey light revealed to one another countenances scratched and bruised by bramble and branch. The sound of the pursuit had died away. Gramont guessed that Quil had regrouped his men, organised them into search parties. The fugitives stopped only to lave their faces in the stream and drink mouthfuls of cold water. Gramont filled his water bottle and they set off again. There was no time and no breath left for talking. Explanations would have to wait.

By mid-day they calculated that they had put a few miles between them and the camp. They pressed on until late afternoon, though they were stumbling with fatigue. They needed some rest, searched about for somewhere to hide, and eventually settled on an ancient oak tree. Rowand found a fallen poplar which they used as a ladder. Once they were high enough to swing into the tree they thrust the trunk away.

“Let’s hope Quil isn’t skilled in forest lore,” Rowand said when they were settled on a wide branch, “else he might notice that that trunk’s been moved.”

Gramont grunted. He rummaged through his pack. “I’ve got some biscuits. Here.”

They chewed on the hard, sweet biscuits, washed them down with water. “Well then,” Gramont said, his hunger far from satisfied, “Are you going to tell me why Quil is trying to kill me?”

They kept their voices low in case any of Quil’s scouts were creeping through the trees. Occasionally they stopped speaking, alarmed by snap of twig or skitter of stone, but no one appeared beneath them. The sweat dried on their bodies and as night fell Gramont missed his cloak.

“It’s as I said. Tomlin sent him.”

“Why would Tomlin betray me? He’s my friend.”

“Tomlin serves Kittar.”

“And why would Kittar want me dead?”

“Because you have got something he wants.”

“And what’s that?”

“The throne of Lamener.”

“The throne – that’s ridiculous!”

Rowand’s voice shook. “Gramont, Verner died in Raimer two nights ago. They are saying a sudden fever carried him off, but he was poisoned. Your brother had him killed, just as he had Saiza cut down. Saiza never disguised himself in battle: no Lamenese King ever did.”

“God, Rowand. Do you know what you are saying?”

“Yes. Your cousins are dead. Your grandfather is dead. Your uncle is dead. Your aunt gave up her right to succeed when she married Jumillion. That leaves you. And so Kittar wants you dead too, and Tomlin has sent Quil to do the deed.”

“No, not Tomlin. He wouldn’t be in on it.”

“Would you have set out from Curgardre with only Quil for company if Tomlin hadn’t told you to? Tomlin serves Kittar; of course he’s in on it. Oh, I don’t doubt he’s spent hours on his knees agonising over your death. But for him it’s as Wisdom says. Nothing done in the defence of the Prophet is a sin. Tomlin believes in Wisdom’s crusade, he believes that the Devil has found his way into the world through Lamener. Kittar has to rule in Lamener - ”

“Because Kittar is the champion of the Prophet.” Gramont, remembering Tomlin’s words, bent his head, stared at his fists clenched in his lap. “For this I shall trample his red and white banner in the mire. And Kittar - Kittar will go down on his knees and pray – pray to me – pray for his life.”

Rowand touched Gramont gently on the arm. “We have to get away from Quil first.”

“From Quil, yes.” Gramont struggled to focus on their predicament, but he could not think straight, his mind slewed back to the awful facts. His young cousins murdered, Saiza slaughtered, Verner poisoned…but there was something wrong here. How could Rowand know?

In the twilight Gramont loosened his knife in his belt. He could as easily kill one false friend as another. “You say Verner died in Raimer two nights ago, but there is no way the news could have travelled this far south in that time.”

“There is a way. Two nights ago I was in Agnac, about twenty miles away, on my way back to King Saiza. I’d been carrying messages to the southern lords – ”

Gramont pressed his finger to his lips. “Listen.”

Rowand frowned. “I can’t – yes. My God, what is that?”

From somewhere deep in the forest came a long, high-pitched wailing. Up and down it rose, sometimes disappearing altogether, then building up to a ghastly howl, dying out on a low, sobbing note sounding uncannily like a wailing child. But it soon swelled again into bloodthirsty yelping.

“Wolves,” Gramont said.

They should have felt safe, stuck in their tree far from the pack, with no sign of Quil’s men near them. But the moonlight baying unnerved them. For some time they did not speak. The noises came no closer, but neither did they move off into the distance.

At last the animals were quiet. Gramont adjusted his pack against the tree trunk, let his head sink back onto it. He watched Rowand through narrowed eyes. “You were telling me how you know Verner is dead.”

“Yes…have you ever heard of Soul Flight?”

“Not more soul stories.”

“You in the north know so little! The Encourian church, with its icons and vestments and incense, seems to have forgotten that the Prophet taught his followers to meditate, though it had been part of religious life in Lamener long before he came here. It takes years of training to be able to meditate well, but there are people who are so advanced in the discipline that they can reach a state where the soul is able to leave the body. That is Soul Flight. When the practitioner is a novice, the soul can do no more than hover above the body, then it might be able to move into the next room, then – ”

“That could be a useful skill,” Gramont sneered. “Getting an eyeful of a coy mistress undressing, for example.”

“And that is why your soul will never leave its filthy shell,” Rowand snapped. “At its purest, Soul Flight is the closest the soul trapped in the cycle of reincarnation ever gets to God. When it happens you get a glimpse of what our existence will be when we are finally reunited with Him. It is said that there is a point at which a soul can become so pure that one day it will not return to the body at all, and will be joined to Him without having to suffer any more deaths. No one except perhaps the Prophet has ever achieved this level.”

“This is all very interesting but – ”

“That is how I know about Verner’s death. Edwairn told me.”

“Who’s Edwairn?”

“Edwairn is the Head of the White Order, and priest to the royal family of Lamener. You’ve met him, in Bonagule.”

“I’ve met him?”

“Yes. He was at the Conference. He kept in the background, didn’t let on who he was.”

“You mean the old Priest who dozed off at the banquet?”

“Yes. Since he was driven out of the City of Lamener, he’s never been far from Saiza and Verner. He was in hiding near Raimer when Verner died. He saw it all, and he came to me in Agnac to tell me what had happened. Then, because he didn’t think you would accept the news from him, he sent me to fetch you. A job for which I do not feel particularly well qualified.”

“He reached you in Agnac from Raimer in less than two days? Like I said, that’s impossible.”

“I just told you that it is possible with Soul Flight.”

“You really expect me to believe that nonsense?”

“It isn’t nonsense. You know that yourself.”

“How would I know anything about it?”

“As a child, didn’t you often imagine that someone who only you could see was near you?”

Gramont sat up so suddenly he nearly lost his pack out of the tree. “The Watcher? How do you know about him? I never told anyone.”

“He told me himself. He is Edwairn.”

“You mean he used to spy one me? Did he spy on all of us?”

“Soul Flight is not used in that way; visitations are never imposed on anyone without their knowledge or against their wishes.”

“I didn’t wish to see him.”

“You did, though you were too young to realise it. You have the blood royal in your veins; you are of Lamener. Of course you have the capacity to see.”

“So Edwairn is not only my Watcher, but he is also witness to the murder of Verner, though he was not with him at the time?”

“Yes.”

“And was that you – your soul – that came to me a couple of nights ago in Curgardre?”

“It was. The problem is I’m not very skilled.” The minstrel smiled wryly. “I’m very far from being a holy man! In fact, I’m astonished I managed as much as I did. I’ve never been able to before, and it left me feeling pretty ill afterwards. There is a danger to both soul and body if the soul goes farther than it is ready for. I took a risk to do it, but I was desperate to warn you about Quil. Though my warning doesn’t seem to have sunk in. You curled up to sleep in the middle of your enemy’s camp.”

“I hardly think your message was crystal clear. And if Edwairn is so keen to help me, why isn’t he here now? He might be useful. He could flit around the forest and tell me where Quil is for a start.”

“Two kings have been slaughtered; he’s pretty busy at the moment.” Rowand, remembering that he had given Gramont a lot to come to terms with in a short time, checked his sarcasm. “And he is working on your behalf. Your army is scattered, your lords slinking back to their estates believing themselves defeated and leaderless; it will take time to pull Lamener back together. Time, and her new King.”

“I’m not king of anywhere, nor do I want to be.”

“Well, you can’t help it. It’s a fact.”

“A king up a tree!” Gramont’s soft laugh died away. He brooded for a moment. “Well, king or no, I can’t stay in this tree for ever. What do I do now? Where do I go?”

“Stay alive, first of all. As to where we will go, we’ll head south, to my family home, and wait for instructions from Edwairn.”

“No. As soon as it’s light I’m going to Curgardre to get my men, then I’m going to Raimer. If Verner’s dead, if Kittar had anything to do with it, I’ll soon know about it.”

“You can’t go back to Curgardre, or anywhere there are soldiers of Encour.”

“Kauster is in command at Curgardre. I’m in no danger from him.”

“Maybe so, but he’s only one man. And Verner is dead, and Kittar did murder him, and if you go back to Raimer you’ll walk straight into his trap.”

“It’s a risk I’ll have to take. If all I have against him and Tomlin is a tale of dreams and spirits, Father will think I’ve gone mad. If I begin to think such things are myself, I’d have to agree with him. Except there is the Watcher. But I don’t see how it can be done.”

“You saw Edwairn, and you almost saw me. And if it wasn’t for Edwairn’s mastery of Soul Flight, I would not be here and you would be dead.”

“That’s true…but Father will need to see the evidence through eyes of flesh and blood if he’s to be convinced that Kittar and Tomlin have committed the crimes you say they have. And to be honest, Rowand, so will I.”

“If he’s to be convinced? Gramont, you might not find that Jumillion is as ignorant of what’s going on here as you think. He’s had his eye on the throne of Lamener for some time, and ever since he realised that war was a possibility he saw a way to get it. Hence your sudden rise to favour. And now it’s fallen out that Lamener has come to you.”

These words were a nasty echo of Aunt Maira’s: Haven’t you ever wondered why he started to pay attention to the son he’d shoved into the Guards? Gramont hadn’t believed her, and he didn’t believe Rowand.

“You are not suggesting,” he said icily, “that my Father had anything to do with these murders?”

Rowand hesitated. “I don’t know. Maybe they are all Kittar’s doing. Or maybe Jumillion and Kittar did it between them – someone had to order a ship to the Western Isles and your Father is head of the fleet, isn’t he? My guess is, though, that getting rid of you is Kittar’s own idea. But even if Kittar’s crimes do come as a surprise to Jumillion, he’ll get over it. After all, he’ll have what he wants. Lamener will be Encour’s whether it’s you or Kittar on the throne.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about. My Father would never condone treachery and murder. Never.”

“He would if it’s for the good of Encour. What’s more, publishing Kittar’s deeds would be a disaster he will do anything to avert. Expose Kittar as a murderer and usurper, and Wisdom will be forced, publicly at least, to withdraw his support for Jumillion. Without that, he’ll lose his grip on Lamener, and much else besides. No, Gramont, you can’t bring down Kittar without bringing down the Empire, and that means you are nothing but a threat to Jumillion now.”

“That’s not true. Kittar is the threat, not me. It’s Kittar who has disobeyed and deceived him, Kittar who he cannot trust.”

“Whether Kittar has acted with or without his knowledge, Jumillion will stand by him. Do you think he will put your welfare over that of Ananda’s child? You have to face it. Kittar is his Heir, whereas you – ” are only the son he shoved into the Guards... Rowand broke off, realising that he had made a mistake. He bowed his head, let Gramont’s fury blast him.

“I’m his son. That’s why he made me a lord and a commander. Not for the reasons you think. I’m going to Curgardre in the morning. Where you go is your own affair.”

“I have to go where you are going.”

“I don’t need you. I’ll find my own way.”

“I’m sure you will. But your journey will be easier and safer with me. Haven’t I already saved your life once?”

“I’m going to Curgardre.”

Rowand threw up his hands. “Alright! You told me. And I’m coming with you.”

“You can come with me or not, as you like. Now. I’ll take first watch. Try and get some sleep. I’ll wake you in a couple of hours.”

Rowand doubted that he would sleep, thought that it was more likely that he would roll off the branch and tumble to the ground. For a while he watched Gramont’s eyes flash and dim in the moonlight, wondered what thoughts were passing through his mind. He knew he would not get him to change his decision to travel to Raimer. All he could do was stay with him and see what the journey would bring. Then, to his surprise, he did doze off.

Gramont did not wake him when the two hours was up. He kept watch all night. Once he thought he glimpsed a grey shape flitting beneath the tree, disappearing noiselessly into the forest. When he blinked and looked again there was no sign of the animal. Otherwise nothing disturbed the long, dark night.

Chapter 22

Gramont was tempted to visit Royus the traitor and show how little he respected Kittar’s opinion. It was only Tomlin’s plea for outward unity that stopped him. Instead, he asked Isam if he could contrive some way of talking to the prisoner.

“See if he wants anything, but if you can’t get in undetected, then leave it. I don’t want to put you in any danger.”

Isam grinned. “If you would give me some coins, I think I can manage it.”

From his window Gramont watched the lad run across the square, his hood drawn over his head. Dusk had brought the hammering to an end; the carpenters had packed up their tools and gone home, leaving behind them a long wooden platform with three stakes on it. The base of the scaffold was already full of kindling. In the flickering light of the torches around the square the soldiers who had been set to guard the pyre lest the townsfolk attempt to wreck it, or simply steal the firewood, cast long shadows. Gramont fastened the shutters and sat down.

An hour later, Isam returned minus the money and with the news that he had sneaked in by pretending to be the servant delivering Royus’s evening meal.

“Did he ask for anything?”

“He asked for a token from you. A scarf, a badge. Something like that.”

“I thought he would ask for food, or a bottle of wine. Pen and paper.”

“He’s got that. He was writing to his wife when I went in.”

Gramont pondered Royus’s request. “Well, if that’s what he asked for that’s what he shall have. Though why he should want it beats me.”

“To have by him, he said, as a reminder that not all princes are evil.”

“He thinks too well of me,” Gramont growled. “The problem is, what shall I send?” He spread his ringless fingers helplessly. He wore no jewellery but the medallion Jumillion had given him. Otherwise, the only item he had of any personal value was his mother’s book. A religious treatise would be more to Royus’s taste than his own, but although he had never read the book he liked to know that it was tucked at the bottom of his kitbag.

Finally he thought of the two gold buttons on his cloak. A thick gold chain looped between them to fasten the garment around his neck. He took out his knife and cut the threads that secured the right hand button. It was heavy in his palm; stamped on the gold was the image of a knight on horseback.

“Give him this.”


Curgardre was deserted. The quarrymen who made their homes there had not stayed to be caught in the middle of two armies. The dozen or so houses they had abandoned were poor affairs, no more than rickety shacks some of them, surrounded by muddy yards littered with ramshackle outhouses, kennels and sheds. The only public building was a single storey inn with a shabby veranda littered with empty crates and barrels. There were no gardens or allotments, no manufactories or crafts except those associated with hacking stone from the earth. Everything else was bought in from the surrounding towns and villages. Four muddy roads converged at the centre of the settlement.

At the crossroads Gramont halted to get his bearings. The land on his right was uncultivated pasture, normally grazed by the few cows and goats the families kept for milk. A wide river ran through it, the water shallow, cold and clear, its flow diverted in places by heavy boulders brought down from the mountains during rainy seasons.

The Eagle Mountains ran in a barrier from the east coast to the west, dividing Lamener from Heroiner and the lands to the south. They had dominated the army’s horizon for days, appearing first as a long, dark line across the land, then growing larger until the marching men could descry the shapes of the peaks and valleys. Drawing closer they saw the green of the forests, grey scarps, white lines of tumbling water, ice-blue peaks. Now, looking up from the churned thoroughfares of Curgardre, Gramont could make out individual pines, massive and ancient; areas of thorny undergrowth; falls of shale and rock. The tops of the trees vanished into mist. The snow-covered mountain ranges that had glistened blue-white in the morning were lost in a thick grey fog.

“They said the weather in the mountains was changeable, but this is ridiculous,” Gramont said. “We’ve ridden through everything today. Sunshine in the fields, rain clouds on the plain, fog on the mountains.”

Kauster nodded agreement, then said, “The men can camp on the field by the river.”

There was nowhere more suitable, though the ground was littered with sharp slates and stones, and the men had cause to complain of the discomfort of their beds. The inn would do as Gramont’s headquarters. While Isam went on ahead to arrange his master’s things, Gramont took Kauster and a score of men to reconnoitre the mountain road.

The road wound through the damp, silent woods, but as they climbed the trees thinned out to be replaced by short, pale grass with darker patches of moss barely covering the rock. Tiny mountain flowers clung to the exposed stone. Tendrils of mist plucked at the men and horses as if drawing them deeper into the murk. Drops of moisture speckled their cloaks. The plumes on Storm’s bridle drooped. The horses’ hooves thudded faintly, the noise muffled by the vapour swirling about their flanks. The air felt thick and heavy when Gramont drew breath.

The road climbed ever more steeply, and often a twist in its course swung them to the edge of a steep drop, the fog that lay in the bottom of the gulley obscuring its brutal depth. They had been riding for two hours, and ever the clouds descended to meet them. Then, at the latest turn in the road, they rode into it like a wall. Where formerly there had been shapes, indistinct but discernible, there was nothing but dense grey. Kauster was beside Gramont one minute, in the next he had vanished. Only the veteran’s low cursing signalled his presence.

Each man was cocooned in an impenetrable, stifling cloud. The horses snickered and pranced nervously, and the fear of the unseen chasms they might stumble down in their blindness seeped into the riders’ hearts. No one spoke, the struggle to calm their beasts was won and celebrated in silence.

Gramont turned his head this way and that, striving to see through the fog. He pushed back his helmet, letting in the muted sounds of his company: the clink of bridle, the thud of a hoof, a man’s whispered “steady”, the flat of a hand patting horseflesh. He blinked the water from his lashes, sucked in a smothering breath, was about to give the order to go back when a man’s voice blasted through the fog. It came from a deep valley, a high peak, to the left of the road, from the middle of the road. Gramont could not tell. There was an answering cry from half a mile away, around the next corner, on bank above them. Then came a babble of voices, and other sounds too, sounds that made Gramont’s men look clap their hands to their sword hilts: the clash of armour, the ring of harness. Yet no warriors loomed out of the grey.

Kauster muttered, “Are they wraiths, or flesh and blood?”

“Flesh and blood, I think,” Gramont murmured. “They are coming over the pass. It must be clear on their side. How many do you think?”

“Could be ten. Could be ten thousand. We’d better get out of this fog. At least it will hold them back for a while.”

“And by the time it lifts, we’ll be ready for them.”


The fog cleared but the Heroiners did not appear. “Perhaps they turned back when they saw the camp,” Gramont suggested. He stood on the veranda looking out at the rows of tents and pickets, the fluttering banners with the Lion of Encour clawing the air above the miserable town. The armourer’s hammer rang out from the forge. An instructor shouted at a group of men at sword practice. A noisy wrestling match was taking place in the meadow, the combatants surrounded by soldiers yelling encouragement, making bets, insulting the referee. Isam was about the place somewhere, looking for rabbits or fish for Gramont’s supper.

“Could be,” said Kauster. “The road is the only way down, and we control that.”

“Or perhaps the men we heard were only scouts, and the main army has not yet reached the pass.”

“It’s been ten days. Perhaps they were ghosts after all.”

“Ghosts who know these mountains. No, Kauster. I think they are up there somewhere.”

“Our patrolmen have seen no sign of them.”

“No.” And how much more time must he waste in Curgardre, when at this very minute Saiza’s army might be breaching the walls of Raimer? He had destroyed one cannon, but what if Saiza had managed to repair it, or build another one? “Why doesn’t Tomlin send word?”

Kauster pointed. “I think he has.”

There were two score horsemen, clad in black and riding behind a black banner adorned with a silver prancing Lion. Their polished helmets, breastplates, gauntlets and shields shone white in the clear sunlight. They rode great war horses, all black, armoured in light steel. They had travelled fast and hard through Lamener, and it was unlikely that any had tried to stop them.

They clattered into the town, drew to a halt before the house where Gramont waited. Men and beasts were stained with the mud and dirt of the road, and all were fatigued, the horses’ heads drooping, the men’s faces pale and unshaven. The horses snorted and sweated, the weary men sat patiently while their Captain, his lieutenant and standard bearer rode forward. The Captain raised his hand, and Gramont returned the salute. The man tugged his scarf away from his mouth, and with a shock Gramont recognised him. Promotion had given him pride and self-assurance; increased wealth afforded him his smart, though travel-stained, equipage. The cruelty and cunning in his face had always been his.

“My Lord, I have a letter for you from Lord Tomlin.” Captain Quil tugged at a cord around his neck and from beneath his doublet drew out a flat leather wallet. With a quick flick he snapped the cord and tossed the bag to one of Gramont’s men.

“I can tell you what it contains,” he announced. “Saiza is defeated. You are to return to Raimer at once; Lord Tomlin has need of you. Your men are to stay here to contain any threat from Heroiner. We will escort you.”

With every word he spoke, Gramont felt his dislike growing. “I would have preferred that the contents of a letter that is addressed to me remained private until I had had time to read it.”

Quil bent his head, but his eyes glinted at the younger man from under his brows. “Forgive me, Lord. The news is so great, I could not hold it back. It was a mighty battle.”

In spite of himself, Gramont asked, “Is Tomlin hurt?”

“Unscathed. Saiza is slain, and Verner taken captive.”

“Saiza!” Gramont clutched the banister. “How did that come about?” But he did not want to hear that story from Quil and quickly added, “You and your men are tired. Kauster will show you to your billet; his men will take care of your horses and find refreshment for you. You will join me for dinner. Rest until then.”

“Thank you, My Lord.” Quil bowed again. The courtesy was perfectly done, yet there was something in it that jarred. The cold scrutiny in the gaze that met Gramont’s did not match his apparent goodwill. It was as if the man was measuring him up for something, estimating his strength or willpower or intelligence. He wheeled his horse around, and his company fell in behind him. Gramont wiped away the dust they cast in his eyes and went inside to read Tomlin’s letter.


“To Gramont, Lord of Palestrier, greetings.

It was not many days after your departure that our scouts brought news that Saiza and his army had made camp in a small hamlet about five miles from Raimer. Two days went by with no word from him, and our messengers were sent back without audience. Thus it was clear that Saiza, having started on the path to bloodshed by breaking the peace ordained by God, was determined that blood would be spilled. His refusal to parley and his delay in investing Raimer made it clear that he was only waiting for reinforcements before attacking the servants of the true Faith. After praying for guidance, I determined to leave Raimer and force him into open battle rather than wait for his force to grow strong enough to engulf us.

The enemy, who were expecting surrender rather than resistance, were surprised when they learned that, trusting in God to protect us, we had ourselves opened the gates of the city, but speedily drew themselves up in good battle order. Battle commenced at about 9 o’clock in the morning and lasted well into the evening. By the end of the day, the God of Justice had avenged the righteous blood shed at Roglar.

Like all victories, this one was not without its grief. Many good men lay dead on the field, and it is with a heavy heart that I must tell you of the death of the King of Lamener. Yet I must not omit to say in all truth that this unlooked-for tragedy was brought about by his own error, the last and most fatal of the errors into which the Devil, whose hold on the kingdom of Lamener is faster than we knew, led him.

To avoid capture, King Saiza had exchanged his armour with another knight’s. He led his household in a charge against one of our positions, and they became separated from his main force. Our men despatched him with the others in his unit. I was on another part of the battlefield and did not hear of it until much later, and indeed the King’s body had been stripped and was so mutilated that no one would have realised he lay amongst the slain had not Verner demanded that a search be made for him. It is clear from his disguise that Saiza’s intention was to slip away from the battlefield should the day go against him, in the hopes of rallying another force and prolonging his bloody assault against peace and truth.

Whatever our personal feelings, we must not forget that the responsibility for the bloodshed rests with Saiza who had rebelled against the just victory already won by Encour in the name of the Prophet. This latest victory at Raimer is only one more evidence of the Prophet’s intention, and all men must accept the outcome as the Divine Will. Yet I deeply regret the death of so noble a King, and have ordered his corpse conveyed to Lamener where it will be entombed with all the honours due to it.

Casualties were high on both sides, and in order to relieve us Lord Wisdom has diverted funds intended for missions to the Western Isles to our Crusade in Lamener. As I write, a new army of brave recruits to the Prophet’s cause is gathering in the north. King Wulfran’s fleet never materialised. If he ever set sail, he turned back long ago.

There is a possibility that the Lords of Lamener who escaped the battle, Devil-driven as they are, might attempt to join forces with Heroiner in a bid to crush our victorious but depleted army before reinforcements reach us. I therefore command that your troops remain in Curgardre, but under Kauster’s command. I need you to join me in Raimer at once. The bearer of this letter, Captain Quil, will bring you back.”

Gramont read the letter several times until he could glean no more from it. He would be with Tomlin soon enough; he would ask his questions then. Amongst the many things he wanted to know was how King Verner was to be treated. No doubt he would have to swear oaths and allegiances and do penance to satisfy Encour and the Holy Kingdom. A delicate diplomacy would be required to balance the demands of Lamener’s conquerors and Lamenese sovereignty. Negotiation was not Gramont’s business, and he wondered what Tomlin wanted him for. Some holding operation, he supposed, until the new army should arrive. He wouldn’t be sorry to leave Curgardre. The bleakness and inactivity were getting on his nerves. Poor Kauster, getting stuck with it!

Quil said his men would be rested and ready to leave in two days. Gramont ordered Isam to put his things in order, and summoned Kauster. The two days passed quickly; there was much to do. It was late by the time he fell into bed on the night before his departure, and he fell asleep at once.

Gramont had been too busy to think about what his grandfather’s death meant to him. Indeed, in the brief interludes he had for reflection he told himself that it did not affect him at all. He had never known his grandfather, had only met him once, and then briefly. Yet the death of kin, no matter how distant, is disturbing, and although he had not openly acknowledged the shock, it was at work in the back of his mind. That was why he dreamed.

He stood in a dark place. He could not see where he was, but he could hear a noise like the rustle of leaves. The noise grew louder, until he thought it was the sound of some small creature nosing through undergrowth: a mouse, a vole, a hedgehog. The noise grew louder still. The creature was larger than he had thought: a fox, a pine marten, a badger. The rustling became a crashing, the snuffling a snorting, the patter of paws the thunder of horned feet.. A bear. A wolf. A stag.

He peered all about him but he could make out nothing, only black branches swaying in the darkness. Suddenly a white shape appeared. It grew and took form as it hurtled towards him: a great white horse with red, flaring nostrils, chasm-deep eyes. In the shimmer from the animal’s coat he saw that it was caparisoned in green and silver. A plume of green feathers nodded on its head, a swirl of silver tassels swung about its flanks. The rider was all in white armour, but he carried no weapon. His head was bare, his hair white like Saiza’s, only it streamed thin and ragged about his shoulders, as if it had grown in the grave.

Gramont became aware then of his fear. The horse was going to mow him down, yet he could do nothing but stand and wait for the impact, anticipating the slam of the bruising shoulders, the slash of the metal shoes, the splintering hooves penetrating his rib cage, trampling his heart. He cried out – the sleeping Gramont was dimly aware of his own moans – but the rider was merciless and came on and on and on.

Then he had gone, passing through Gramont’s body in a wisp of white, and he stood, trembling but unharmed, in the dark glade. All was silent and still. Not a leaf rustled, not a creature moved. Then Gramont saw a face hovering above him, disembodied, the lips moving rapidly.

“Don’t go, Gramont. Don’t go with him. Don’t go with Quil. Don’t go with him, Gramont.”

Gramont cried into the darkness, “Rowand? Rowand? Is that you?”

Rowand did not answer, merely kept up his monotonous chanting. The voice no longer seemed to be coming from his mouth, though his lips still moved. It was all around, distorted by volume, beating painfully on Gramont’s ears. He wanted to cover them with his hands but he could not raise his arms. He felt Rowand’s warm breath on his cheek and his eyes flew open.

Rowand’s face hung over him. The minstrel smiled. “Good. You’re awake.”

Gramont, no longer paralysed by his dream, started up. “Rowand! What are you doing here?”

No one answered. Looking about him, Gramont saw that he was alone.

Chapter 21

Isam was out when Gramont got back to his quarters. He knew his servant well enough to guess that he was off on some errand that would result in extra comforts for himself: food, wine, candles, bedding. How and where Isam managed to procure such treats Gramont did not know, and did not ask.

He climbed the stairs to his rooms, kicked the door shut, slumped onto the bed and pulled off his boots. Barefoot, he padded over to the hearth, prodded the low fire into action, threw a couple of fresh logs on it. He crouched over the flames, warming his hands, feeling the glow on his face. One of the logs lurched and stabbed at him with a yellow blade. He jumped back to dodge the searing wound.

A half-finished bottle of wine stood on the dressing table. He poured most of it into a glass, sat down in the armchair by the fireplace and emptied it in three gulps.

There was nothing he could do.

Was that true? He could go to Tomlin and beg for mercy for the prisoner. More persuasive still, he could convince the Commander that Amaury could be of use to them spying for Encour in exchange for his life. Or Gramont could creep back in the dead of night, break into the house, smuggle him out. Hell, just command Clekin to release him into his custody. He was an army Commander, Lord Gramont of Palestrier, Jumillion’s son. Who could stop him?

Gramont swirled the sugary dregs of his wine in his glass. The minstrel had worked to bring about the deaths of Encourians, and had been justly condemned. He should not let revulsion at the manner of his death cloud his judgement. After all, Tomlin, Kittar and Augusta had no objections to it, despite their religious views.

What was it Tomlin had said? War is not like the textbooks. In war men die. Hadn’t the Lamenese shown how little they regarded their own laws when they slaughtered the outnumbered Encourian guard, when they hacked Drefour to death? Yet the Lamenese code of chivalry was ancient and revered in Lamener, and admired by the rest of the civilised world. Saiza came from a long line of kings whose every action was guided by it.

In war men die – but they should not be our own. So a white-faced youth with fear in his eyes and his sweet voice spitting words of defiance would burn. There was nothing Gramont could do about it. But if it had been Rowand, wouldn’t he at least have tried?


He was woken by the smell of bacon frying. Isam crouched over the fire shaking a sizzling pan, a cloth wrapped around his hand to protect it from the heat. In a small dish on the hearth were three brown eggs, with half a white loaf beside them. Bleary eyed, Gramont sat up.

“Bacon and eggs! How did you manage that?”

Isam grinned. “Contacts. No butter, I’m afraid. That’s all reserved for the Heir’s household.”

Gramont flung back the covers, grabbed his shirt from the chair and pulled it on. He wondered if Isam’s contact was one of the girls from the town; pictured the lad petting the good food out of a father’s secret stash, one Tomlin’s men missed when they searched the town. Better not to know. He put on his breeches and moved over to the fireplace. Isam broke the eggs into the pan. A few moments later he handed a plateful to Gramont.

“You have some,” Gramont said.

Isam did not argue. They had just finished wiping their plates clean when someone hammered on the front door. It crashed open. The rattle of armour and weapons filled the hall. A man’s voice boomed up the stairs. “I have come for Lord Gramont!”

Gramont put down his plate and went to the top of the stairs, looked down at the soldier, whose bulk filled the tiny hall. “What do you want?”

“It’s the Heir, sir. He has sent for you. Lord Royus has been arrested.”

“Lord Royus! Why?”

The man did not know. Gramont ran back into his room. Isam already had his boots, doublet and sword ready.

“Wait for me here,” Gramont said. “I may need you.”


Men with shocked, disbelieving or simply curious faces watched Gramont run across the square. There were huddles, whispers and rumours, uncontained by captains powerless to control the men’s astonishment. Groups of townsfolk clustered on street corners, their prohibited gatherings ignored by the distracted Encourian soldiers. The Guards outside Kittar’s house were grim-faced. They had seen Lord Royus sneaked in an hour before dawn, escorted by silent soldiers with muffled feet.

Kittar sat at his table studying some papers. When he saw Gramont a smile of satisfaction and also, Gramont thought, gleeful anticipation flickered across his face. Tomlin sat on his left and Augusta on his right. The bishop tucked his hands inside his wide white sleeves, and often gazed down at the red cuffs to hide his excited self-importance. Tomlin’s face was drawn, the good morning he wished Gramont exhausted and mournful.

Lord Royus sat in front of them. He looked tired but alert, respectful but not cowed. His cloak lay over the back of the seat, the bright colours of his family devices trailing along the floor. He wore no armour but his coat of arms was embroidered on his doublet, a reminder that even unarmed he was a man of power, a lord of Encour.

Kittar waved Gramont to a seat at the end of the table, a neutral zone, neither ranged alongside Kittar, nor beside the accused man. A servant poured tea, handed round pastries and rolls. No one ate anything, but all accepted a drink. Royus picked up his cup with steady hands, sipped gratefully at the sweet liquid. Gramont was puzzled. For all his calmness the man might have been called to nothing more out of the ordinary than a council of war.

“What’s all this about?” Gramont demanded when the servants had gone. Two Guards remained inside the door to watch Royus, though he showed no sign of making trouble. “They’re saying you are under arrest, my Lord.”

“Royus is in our custody, awaiting our judgement, which will be given presently.” Kittar cut in before Royus could reply.

“But what is he charged with?”

“Treason.” The voice was Tomlin’s, drawn out of him with an effort.

“Have you gone mad?”

“No, we have not.” Kittar referred to his papers. “This is a watch report submitted by the Captain who is guarding the White Priests and the minstrel, enemies of Encour who, as you know Gramont, are due to meet their deserved ends in two days.”

“I know that,” Gramont interrupted. “But – ”

“Last night, an hour before midnight, the Priests received a visitor. That visitor was Royus. Naturally, Tomlin and I wondered what business a commander of Encour had with White Priests. We recalled that Royus has often seemed sympathetic to the Lamenese. How did you put it?” Kittar smiled coldly at the prisoner. “The men of the south are not bumpkins. Well, of course, you should know.” He turned back to Gramont. “His wife is Lady Clarisse, whose family owns substantial estates in the south. Up until now we have made allowances for the commander’s family circumstances. However.” Kittar read from his paper. “ ‘Duty guard reports that on entering the room LR bowed his head and said Greetings, and bless me Fathers upon which the priests waved their hands over his head and answered, Our blessings and the blessings of God be with you, child. LR then sat on the floor and asked the prisoners if they had need of food, drink, covering etc etc. Then they began to whisper and Guard could hear no more. 15 minutes later LR left. Guard said LR seemed very agitated.’”

“They are men of faith, even if their way is not ours,” Royus said quietly. “I showed them only the respect that is due to men of God.”

“They are false priests, as Lord Wisdom has decreed,” Augusta spat back. “Yet by your own admission, you are inclined to their foul beliefs.”

“Foul? The White Priests believe that it is wrong to kill, to steal, to oppress – ”

“Enough!” Augusta slammed his hand on the table. “We have been through this. You have allowed yourself to become infected with heresy. It is vile in one who has been brought up as you have, in the right way.”

“And I have not abandoned that way. I have merely studied their ways and listened to their teaching, that is all. There is much we could learn from them. Their faith has been nurtured in a philosophical tradition stretching back – ”

“To mysticism, animism, diabolism, deism, all the trash the Prophet swept away that they have jumbled up with the true religion,” Augusta interrupted.

“Could we cut the religious debate?” Gramont snapped. “We are here to determine whether or not Royus is a traitor, and I haven’t seen that proved yet. What’s the evidence?”

“My dear brother, you have just heard the evidence! No man can fight on two sides.”

“Royus is fighting on our side, and always has.”

“We can no longer have faith in his commitment,” Tomlin said. “And without that, his presence in the field weakens our strength. Would you want to go into battle knowing that the man who fought beside you had only half his heart in the business? If one man should falter at the crucial moment, another may die. If a commander should falter, the entire army is put in peril. It is too big a risk to take.”

“Royus? Don’t you have anything to say in your defence?” Gramont asked.

Royus shrugged. “What should I say? Make protestations, vows, promises of loyalty? Swear on the Life of the Prophet that I will never serve any but Encour? I am a lord of Encour, and a man of honour, but in the end it is nothing but words. I understand that Lord Tomlin cannot rest the fate of his army on such a fragile foundation. In his place I would feel the same.”

“You see, Gramont, Royus understands the position,” Tomlin said. “He knows that we must act.”

“Then he is to be relieved of his command?”

Kittar leaned back in his chair, drummed his fingers on the table. Tomlin twisted round to face the Heir. Augusta licked his lips, glanced shiftily around the room. As for Royus, he gazed at Gramont with a look of frank pity.

“Well, what is it?” Gramont demanded. “Is that to be our decision?”

“The decision has already been made,” Kittar answered. “I only sent for you out of courtesy, having regard to your position as Commander. Treason, you know, is a serious crime. It is not to be tolerated in anyone, of whatever condition. From the lowest to the highest in the empire, there is only one penalty. Death.”

“Death!” Gramont leapt to his feet. His chair fell with a clatter, slid across the floor. “Kittar, you are not serious! You can’t mean Lord Royus – ”

“Is to be executed the day after tomorrow, alongside the White Priests he has shown himself so eager to honour.”

“Not by burning? Oh God, you are not going to burn him?”

Kittar fluttered his fingers dismissively. “He is a nobleman. He will be beheaded.”

“Tomlin – Tomlin – you can’t allow this – you can’t – ”

“It is the law,” Tomlin answered. He glanced at Kittar and hesitated, as if he wondered what he dared say, ended sombrely, “And the Heir’s will.”

“Then I shall write to Father! He won’t let you do this, Kittar.”

A hand reached out and gently gripped Gramont’s arm. “Sit down, My Lord,” said Royus calmly. “It does not matter.”

“Does not matter? How can you let them – ”

“I am not the important one in this affair. Please. Calm yourself.”

Tomlin stood up and fetched Gramont’s chair. “Take his advice, lad.”

Gramont sank back into the seat, angrily shrugged Tomlin away. “Tomlin, how could you do this?”

“It has nothing to do with Lord Tomlin,” Kittar said. “It is not a military matter. Guard, have Royus escorted to his lodgings!”

The Guards moved forward. Royus rose to meet them. He caught up his cloak, slung it over his arm, put his free hand on Gramont’s shoulder. Gramont felt the steadiness of the man’s frame. His own body quivered with rage. He could not look up, could not meet the condemned man’s eye. Royus stooped and whispered into his ear, “God Bless You, Your Highness.”

“You, men!” Kittar gestured angrily at the Guards. “I said take him away.”

Gramont thought Royus hid his stress well. His head was erect, his bearing dignified. It was only that furtive whisper that at the last betrayed the strain he was under, the “Your Highness” instead of “My Lord”. Even a nobleman like Royus could make a muddle of protocol in a crisis.

“Well,” Kittar said, when Royus had gone. “That’s that. Bishop.” He rose to his feet, clutched his black robe about him. “We will spend the morning in my private apartment in meditation and prayers.”

The door closed behind them. Tomlin went back to his chair. He pulled the papers towards him, shuffled and sorted them. Gramont, the energy of his rage spent, watched him. His hands were small and slender; once again Gramont was struck by the contrast between Tomlin’s physical stature and the authority he carried so well.

“Well. That’s that.” With a bitter laugh, Gramont echoed his brother’s words. “And now a man who has served Encour for – what? – twenty years or more must die.”

“I am sorry for it. I have served with Royus often in that time.”

“Sorry! You are as much to blame as Kittar. More. You could have defended Royus.”

“Gramont, please listen to me. You know that I had to give an honest assessment of the military implications of Royus’s indiscretion. I did not seek his death. But treason. That’s Kittar’s affair. Jumillion has put me in charge of the army, nothing else. In all other matters, I must serve the Heir.”

“You must serve the Heir!” Gramont bit his lip, tasted the blood. “And it doesn’t matter what he does, does it? You stick up for him every time – let him burn who he will, let him condemn who he will – you must serve the Heir!”

“I do serve him, and willingly,” Tomlin acknowledged. “Kittar is the Prophet’s champion. He will do whatever is needful to defeat the Enemy of Man.”

“Royus is not the Enemy of Man.”

“Royus is too much his friend; at least, he is too inclined to listen to him. If the men see the Commander’s sympathy for these White Priests, they will begin to doubt that they are heretics, and that will open a corner of their hearts to those messengers of evil. Then the Devil will squeeze his way in, little by little, until the army fails. We can’t let it happen, Gramont. We can’t afford a hint of doubt, of weakness, of uncertainty in our command.”

“So Royus must die.”

“I told you, I did not want his death. But you have to see that he has brought it on himself. And Gramont. There’s something else you need to consider.” Tomlin rapped the Captain’s report with his forefinger. “Royus was not the only commander who visited the prisoners last night.”

“My God, this is about me, isn’t it? That’s what Royus meant when he said, I am not the important one in this affair. That’s why Kittar sent for me this morning. It’s a warning to me. The bastard. You bloody bastards.”

“Gramont, I don’t doubt your loyalty for a moment. But it was not a wise thing to do. I saw what passed between you and Kittar yesterday. You showed too much interest in that minstrel. If it had remained between ourselves, it would not matter, but you openly visited him.”

“I thought he might be a friend. Wouldn’t you have wanted to know if you’d been me?”

Tomlin hesitated. “I doubt I would count a Lamenese minstrel amongst my friends. Luckily, you didn’t say much to any of the prisoners, and the Captain has put it down as a routine inspection. But the Prince – well, he has his suspicions.”

“He’s a fool. There’s nothing to suspect.”

“I know that. But I can see why the Heir is anxious about you. You cannot afford to open yourself up to the wiles of these people. Even a man as wise and experienced as Royus could not resist them, in the end. For you, with your family connections, the risk is greater. They’ll use the blood that runs in your veins to win over your soul.”

“So this is Kittar’s way of showing his concern for my soul?”

To Gramont’s surprise, Tomlin answered the question seriously. “Yes. But there is a wider concern. You are a Commander; you must accept that what you do has implications. Yes, you’re sorry about Royus. Yes, you’re worried about this strolling player you say is your friend. Yes, you think Kittar’s wrong. Fine. But keep it to yourself, or else you’ll undermine everything any of us have ever tried to do for Encour. For Prophet’s sake, Gramont, don’t put your friendship for a Lamenese player before the welfare of your own men.”

“I have never done that. I never would.”

“But how do you think it looks to them?”

Gramont rubbed his aching forehead. “I hadn’t thought about it in that way.”

“Then think now. We must fight together, or we will fall together.”

“But Kittar has no right to do this to Royus. Oh, I know I can’t save him. Even if I wrote to Father, the letter wouldn’t reach Bonagule in time. But I will speak to him when I get back. I will have Kittar punished for this.”

“Then do that. But remember, you are not the only one with feelings. I have known Royus far longer than you have. Still, you must do what you think is right. In the meantime we have a war to win, and you must go to Curgardre. Can you be ready to leave tomorrow?”

Gramont glanced over at the closed door behind which Kittar and Augusta intoned their prayers. “I’d go today if I could,” he said grimly. “Tomorrow will have to do.”

He did not see the look of relief that crossed Tomlin’s face.

Chapter 20

“Where are they?”

Tomlin, the gauntlets in his hand flapping softly, gestured towards the south west. “Still at Roglar.”

Tomlin and Gramont stood above Raimer’s south gate. The last time Gramont had been here Saiza’s banner fluttered over the meadows, Saiza’s cannon rumbled over the sparkling ford. There had been a ring of burned grass; the mercenaries looted the baggage train; the slight, quiet man beside him rode into smoke and fire to rescue one of his knights. Now the ford was free of traffic and the river slid past in silence, the warm blood long since washed away in its cold stream.

Yesterday Gramont and Kittar had ridden into Raimer from the north to rapturous cheers from the men stationed in the monastery. The journey had taken them nearly four weeks. Tomlin had turned the Abbot’s property into a munitions store and factory. Gramont was amazed that the Abbot had agreed to it. Not without a struggle, Tomlin said. He had only been able to silence the cleric’s protests by asking Lord Wisdom himself to write in stern terms to him. The Prelate had described Tomlin as God’s General to whom all men and all things were subordinate.

For Gramont the road from Encour was peopled by ghosts, or men that were soon to be ghosts. Saiza’s move from Lamener had been a signal to his people: every garrison Gramont passed through on his way to Raimer was under siege. Those who had survived the sack of Prosper had sneaked out and joined the rebel gangs. All that remained inside the walls was a handful of Orthodox believers, trembling at the thought of the coming vengeance. There were no food supplies coming in, and in the barracks grim-faced men eked out their dwindling rations. They did not dare leave the desolate city in search of food. Every village, every farm, every tree or rock or bush harboured enemies.

It was the same tale around Roimal, Carlit and Haiman. The local lords had organised all the able-bodied man into small armies. Armed with swords, sticks, even their bare hands, they were formidable because of their numbers and because of the hatred they bore the invader.

The White Priests of Peirer, bearing the scars of their floggings, had established themselves in one of the hillside villages in the district. People came from miles around to form a protecting force about them. Not a night passed in Peirer without an alarum of one sort or another: houses fired, horses stolen, food stores wrecked, wells poisoned. The people who had remained in their homes because they were too old or unfit to fight suffered under these strikes too, which only succeeded with their co-operation. The Encourian captain had executed a few of the townsfolk as suspected accomplices, but still the attacks went on. Short of killing them all, he was powerless to stop them.

Gramont’s force was too strong to fear much from these bands of Lamenese, and during the short time they spent in a district there was a respite for the occupying soldiers. It had been terrible to see the hope flare up in the men’s eyes when his army arrived; to see it die again when they rode on almost immediately. “Are there any more coming?” “Soon,” Gramont would say, “very soon. When Wisdom has announced the Second Crusade, there will be more men.” They all knew how long it took to assemble an army in that way, and what its quality would be. The only real hope was that the local forces ranged against them would dwindle as the men went off to join Saiza’s army – but that would make things worse for the Encourians in Raimer.

Tomlin turned away from the wall. “The Heir is expecting us.”

Kittar was staying in the house he had previously occupied, but Gramont was not squashed in with the Guards. He had a whole floor to himself and his servant Isam in one of the merchants’ houses on the other side of the square. Mel, who with Thesan was on duty outside Kittar’s quarters, acknowledged Gramont with a gloomy shake of the head. Like many of the men he was bored and depressed. Waiting for the enemy put them under a terrible strain. Any action, no matter how desperate, seemed preferable to this suspense.

Kittar laid aside the scriptures he and Augusta were studying. Two servants pottered about with food and drink. The lords did not speak until Kittar had dismissed them from the room.

“Well, Your Highness, there is still no sign of him.” Tomlin cast his battered leather gloves on the table and cut himself a hunk of bread and cheese.

“He is not strong enough to march against us.” Augusta rolled his eyes skyward to signify whom he held responsible for the enemy’s weakness.

“No, Bishop. It is not that.”

“Then what is he waiting for?” Kittar snapped. “This is ridiculous.”

Gramont struggled to hide his irritation. All Kittar wanted was to get the tedious waiting and fighting over with and cut to the part where he took on the role of Saviour of Lamener – victor of the Second Crusade – Champion of the Prophet. He had no sense of the danger they must pass through first, or the possibility of defeat now that the whole country had risen up against them.

“So what is he waiting for?” asked Gramont, passing the wine jug to Tomlin.

Tomlin put down his knife. “That I can tell you, now. He’s expecting help from the Western Isles.”

“But they are nothing but a bunch of tree-worshipping savages!” Kittar cried. “What help could they give?”

“They are not as uncivilised as all that, Your Highness. They build in stone and they fight with iron, and their ships, though small, are skilfully sailed. We’re strong in the south of the Isles, but the northern lords are far from quelled. Saiza has made a deal with their leader, King Wulfran of Northernbord. He’ll come to Saiza’s aid in Lamener, then Saiza will join him in a push southwards to drive us out. He’s waiting for their fleet. It is expected to arrive on the coast of Lamener any day now.”

Gramont remembered that his cousins had perished on their way to Wulfran’s court. Their voyage must have been connected with the treaty.

“I don’t see how a handful of woad-daubed tribesmen is going to make much difference to Saiza’s war effort,” Kittar said sullenly.

“They probably wouldn’t, if they were all he was expecting. But there’s Heroiner to the south. Before the First Crusade, Verner was planning to marry King Ottar’s niece. It would have strengthened Ottar’s position; Heroiner is one of those nations that suffers from having too many powerful men with an eye on the throne. Ottar needs Lamener’s support. Besides, with his known heretic sympathies he doesn’t relish having us on his doorstep.”

“How are we going to deal with these threats?”

“We don’t know exactly where Wulfran will land,” Tomlin answered Gramont. “And we don’t have enough men to guard the whole coast. But for Ottar there’s really only one way in – over the Curgardre Pass in the Eagle Mountains. That we can deal with. That is, you can deal with it. I want you to take a force to the border and – ”

“But how has this come about?” Kittar whined. “I thought you had everything under control in Lamener. Instead it seems that the King has been perfectly free to scheme and plot against us.”

Gramont stifled a groan. It had come about and had to be dealt with, that was all. But Tomlin acknowledged the criticism with a humble inclination of his head. “I underestimated the role of those Sons of Evil, the White Priests. Well, I know all now. You may have heard, Your Highness, that two nights ago one of our patrols stumbled across a score of these misguided people holding one of their blasphemous ‘services’ in their forest hideaway. There were two White Priests officiating.”

Kittar looked blank. He did not concern himself with the comings and goings of the soldiers.

“We brought in the whole pack, most of them incapable of resistance except for three old soldiers who tried to get the Priests away. They put up a good fight, too. One was killed, but the other two were captured. One has since – er – died in custody. The other bought his life with the information he gave us. It is thanks to him that we have learned that everything that Saiza has done, he has done with the aid of his clergy. They are not the simple religious they pretend to be. They are his envoys. They have a house in every town and move freely around Lamener with the help of the people who hide them, clothe and feed them, and guide them by little-known ways in the night.”

“Unhappy souls!” Augusta wailed. “Tricked into helping the Devil gain a foothold in the world!”

“Of course,” Tomlin continued, “we’d suspected for some time that these hedge-preachers were not the men of peace they pretend to be. The man’s testimony merely proved us right. But they are not the end of it. Where you find a White Priest, you usually find a minstrel – as we did – and where the Priests can’t go, the vagabond players can. I’ve never come across a network so fast and efficient. You’d think they sent their messages on wings. How they manage to spread their news as quickly as they do is a mystery to me, but they do.”

“Well, well,” Kittar said, his voice thick with sarcasm. “The minstrels are in on it too! Who’d have thought it, eh, Gramont?”

Gramont glared at Kittar before turning away from him to address Tomlin. “You’ve captured a minstrel? What is his name?”

Tomlin, not understanding why the news sparked such hostility between the brothers, answered cautiously, “He calls himself Amaury, but the name is undoubtedly a false one.”

“And what are you going to do with him – with them?”

“We’ll let the congregation go, after they’ve watched their Priests hang.”

“And the minstrel?”

“Will hang too,” said Tomlin.

“I think we should burn them,” said Kittar. He shrugged at their shocked faces. “Why not?”

“Because hanging spies is usual,” Gramont said.

“They aren’t spies, they are heretics,” Kittar retorted. “Special crimes call for special measures.”

“But it would surely offend the Prophet,” Tomlin said slowly.

“Bishop?”

Augusta hesitated. In Encour there was a more than natural horror of death by fire, instilled into people with their scriptures. The Vizirs had tried to burn the Prophet. Rondel had miraculously escaped the flames, but ever since burning had been regarded as the most savage and degrading death, and murder by fire the foulest crime a man could commit. The church condemned the use of fire in this way as a

blasphemy worthy of the infidels. How was the Bishop to give his master the answer he desired? He cast around in his mind, seeking inspiration, and found it.

“It is apt. As they have spread darkness in the world with their lives, so they will light it up with their deaths.”

“There you are, Commander,” said Kittar. “The church has no objection.”

Gramont had seen the corpses of men, women and children burned alive by barbaric mercenaries or brutish freedom-fighters in north Lamener and Itiner. He had even burned men himself, but not before hanging them first. They were usually dead before the flames consumed their flesh. When Tomlin did not immediately reject the permission so carelessly granted he cried, “Not burning, Tomlin. It’s without precedent. It’s - horrible.”

“Drefour was the commander of Saiza’s escort to Railigairn. He was butchered like a farm animal,” Tomlin said softly. “And it would send a message to the White Priests and those who serve them that Encour will not tolerate their wickedness.”

“Well then, that’s settled,” Kittar said.

“I will make the arrangements.” Tomlin pushed back his chair. He moved to the sideboard, busied himself selecting one of the maps from the rolls stored there. Kittar leaned towards Gramont and whispered, “You look upset. There’s nothing wrong is there?”

“No, of course not,” Gramont recoiled from Kittar’s thrusting face, forced himself to focus on Tomlin’s instructions. But all the time his fear, though he tried to persuade himself it was irrational, tormented him. It can’t be him, it can’t be Rowand. There are hundreds of minstrels in Lamener. But Rowand works for Saiza. So do many others. He was going south, he told me he was going south. It can’t be him, it can’t be Rowand…


The curfew imposed by Tomlin had fallen. Gramont made his way unchallenged by the soldiers patrolling the quiet streets. The town jail stood behind the square, a small round building with a water pump in front of it. If any had neglected to draw water for the night it was too late.

Usually the lock-up held nothing more than the occasional drunk, pickpocket, beggar or shoplifter. Tomlin had no interest in upholding the laws and byelaws of Lamener and had emptied the communal cell of the few prisoners it contained when he arrived. Now the people arrested in the forest were crammed into a space big enough for ten. Gramont caught a whiff of their stench through the barred window in the heavy wooden door.

He learned from the guards that the priests, the minstrel and the soldier were not in the jail but were being held in the town constable’s house next door. This was not out of respect for their rank, but because Tomlin did not want the congregation reunited with a fighter who might inspire them to resistance, or a minstrel who might raise their spirits with patriotic songs. More than that, he did not want the Priests preaching in the jail, nor the townsfolk enjoying benedictions shouted through the window. There was the risk, too, that the heretical townsfolk would think martyrdom worth risking for the sake of passing food or other comforts to their “Holy Ones”.

It was an ancient stone house of two narrow storeys. The downstairs rooms opened from a passageway on Gramont’s right. In front of him rose a flight of stairs. The house was brightly lit; the old dark wood on the walls and floor gleamed. In the parlour fronting the street five men played dice, their burly frames crammed around a dainty card table. They jumped up when Gramont looked in on them. The room was fragrant with the smell of spiced, warm ale already consumed, and a poker glowed red hot in the hearth ready to plunge into the replenished jug.

“No, carry on with your game.” Gramont gave them his most charming smile. “Who is in command here?”

Captain Clekin, who was writing reports in the room next door, had heard the clatter of chairs scraping and hurried in to see what the commotion was.

“I’ve come to see the prisoners,” Gramont said, moving forward as if he did not expect to be questioned.

Nor was he. The Captain saluted nervously and led him up the stairs. Their feet thudded on the strip of old, red carpet along the landing. The walls were covered with paintings of people and pets and wishy-washy landscapes, many knocked awry by the coming and going of the soldiers. A broken plant pot lay beneath a small table, the soil a dry, crumbling cone veined with shrivelled roots. It can’t be him…

There were three rooms in which lights glared and two guards stood inside each door, so there was not a moment of rest or privacy for the prisoners. The first room had been emptied of all its furniture except for the single bed and a lidded chamber pot. There was no mattress, but blankets and a pillow had been provided. The prisoner sat amongst the tangle of bedding, his head buried in his hands, his fingers twined through the dark, greasy strands. His clothes – simple trousers and tunic, heavy countryman’s boots – were stained with mud and dried blood. One sleeve was torn, exposing a deep and dirty cut in the flesh of his upper arm. On the floor at his feet was a wooden plate; he had not eaten any of the bread and meat, nor had he drunk any of the ale from the wooden cup. He did not look up when the sentries shuffled aside to make room for Gramont and the Captain.

Captain Clekin cuffed him across the ear. “Stand up when a lord – ” Even then the man did not stir.

“No! I don’t need to speak to him. Leave him.” Gramont’s mouth was so dry his voice juddered out, sounded odd to his own ears, but Clekin did not seem to notice.

Again their feet thumped softly on the thin carpet, left, right, left, right. The candles in their sconces flared as Gramont passed, clutched at him with long, smoky fingers. It can’t be him…

In the main bedroom there were marks on the floorboards where presses, cupboards and wash table once stood. A white-haired man in unbleached woollen robes sat on the bed, his legs stretched out before him, his back straight against the headboard. A young priest sat on the floor, his arms wrapped around his knees. He was smiling at something the elder said. He looked up when Gramont appeared in the doorway and his smile widened. A welcoming, comfortable atmosphere surrounded them. Gramont felt its influence in the sudden lifting of his dread, for a moment forgetting what it was he feared to see. Looking on the pair was like walking past a house on a winter’s evening when the inhabitants have not yet closed the shutters. Inside is the firelight, the smoke from a pipe, the fragrance of a posset; outside the dark, the wet, the cold, and many miles still to go.

“We were told that it was safe to keep them together,” Clekin said. “Is that right sir? They can’t – ”

“Can’t what?” Gramont forced levity into his voice. “Turn into dust and disappear on a puff of air?”

The Captain lowered his voice. “Conjure demons, sir. The chaplain says they are the Devil’s conduit into the world. With their Rituals.”

The stories the army priests put about were supposed to make the men eager for the fight against the Devil. Sometimes, as now, they succeeded only in making them jittery. “They don’t look as if they are performing rituals,” Gramont said. “They’re just talking.”

Just an old man and a young talking, as if they had all the time and leisure in the world and were not days away from an excruciating, public death. Gramont felt as if something emptied out of his heart when he turned away. The light on the landing was stark and harsh, and the sight Gramont feared to see returned to his mind with relentless clarity. He could not believe that Clekin did not hear the thumping of his heart, or smell the sweat that sprang like needles out of his pores.

And if it is him, what shall I do? What shall I say? He must have heard my voice, he will be expecting rescue, I will only have made it worse for him by coming here. For what can I do? What can I do?

Chapter Nineteen

“Don’t be ridiculous Mel, you know who I am.”

Mel tightened his grip on his staff and planted himself in front of the double doors leading to the Royal Wardrobe. Usually Jumillion dressed in his apartments with the help of his valets, Petre and Lucas, but for formal occasions such as tonight’s banquet he came to this warren of cloakrooms, dressing rooms, laundry and ironing rooms at the foot of the tower.

“The King has not given you permission to enter.”

“I don’t need permission to enter. Get out of the way, you buffoon.”

“You know the system. I cannot let you in without the King’s permission. You can send in one of the pages with your request.”

Gramont thrust his face into Mel’s and hissed, “I am Lord Gramont of Palastrier, the Commander of the King’s Northern Army, the King’s son, and I order you to let me pass.”

Mel’s lips twitched but all he said was, “If you tell it to one of the servants they’ll take in your request for you.”

Gramont eyed the sniggering group of nobles in attendance around the antechamber. The courtiers, who usually had more to yawn than laugh at, were enjoying his predicament too much to make it worth his while to prolong the scene.

“Very well,” he said quietly. “But I’ll beat you black and blue for this when you get off duty.”

He turned his back on Mel and clicked his fingers. One of the royal pages trotted over. “Lord Gramont of Palastrier requests permission – ”

He was interrupted by a snort of laughter. “Gram, you silly sod! How are you?”

Gramont whirled round and found himself caught up in a lopsided embrace – the Guardsman had lowered but not relinquished his staff and had only one arm free. “Why, you bas – ”

“Careful!” Mel laughed, jerking his head at the door. “You should have heard yourself. I am Lord Gramont of Palastrier…priceless! Though you certainly have turned lordly since the last time I saw you in Lamener, before you went off to become Commander of the Northern Army.”

“I think I will give you that beating.”

Mel grinned. “Come for a drink in our quarters after the banquet and we’ll see who beats who – if Lord Gramont is not too grand for Guards’ rations now?”

“I’ll be there. We’ve got a lot to catch up on…but I have to talk to Father first. He’s dressing early, isn’t he?”

“He’s going to Ananda’s apartments as soon as he’s ready. The Prince is with him at the moment.”

“That’s all I need.”

“Is something wrong?”

“No, not really…I’ll see you later.”

With a friendly salute, Mel let him in. Gramont stepped into a semi-circular lobby, its walls and the doors leading off it lined with full-length mirrors reflecting the flurry and hurry to a dizzying degree. The King’s Wardrobe Master stood in the middle directing a stream of dressers and seamstresses. “The pile on this velvet is crushed. Take it back and steam it properly…these shoes will not do, His Majesty does not like the stiffness of the heels – bring another pair and get these back to the shoemaker’s for softening. No, no, no. How many times have I told you that His Majesty wears the thin gold Circlet with the Lion Gown? He doesn’t want to look as if he’s being mauled by a pride of lions, for Prophet’s sake.”

Gramont pushed his way through the crowd, peering into the open rooms. In one chamber royal robes swung from long hangers suspended from the ceiling, like puppet kings in spangles and tinsel. In another racks of men’s and women’s footwear covered the walls: dancing pumps of satin, hunting boots of leather, high heeled shoes, buckled shoes, laced shoes. He opened one of the doors and recoiled from the musty scent of lavender and furs. The barber was in his cabinet sharpening his razors, but the King was not there.

At last Gramont found him in the jewellery room. Jumillion, in dressing gown and slippers, sat on a chair placed sideways to a small table, his elbow on the table, his head resting on his hand. A flat wooden case lay open before him; a thin gold circlet nestling in the velvet lining.

Kittar, his chair drawn up in a confidential huddle next to the King’s, stopped in mid-sentence and scowled. “Ask him where he’s been.”

Jumillion turned to Gramont and said mildly, “Where have you been?”

“With Aunt Maira.”

“You see!” Kittar cried, as if something had been proved.

“How is my wife?”

“She’s well. A bit troubled. I said I’d have a word with you.”

“What’s the trouble?”

“It’s a bit of foolishness, I’m afraid, and I’m sorry to bother you with it. But I have promised to set her mind at rest.”

Jumillion’s silence was encouraging. Gramont glanced at Kittar. “She thinks that someone is spying on her.” He hesitated. “She thinks, Kittar, that you are spying on her.”

“Spying on her?” Kittar repeated indignantly. “Of course I’m spying on her. She’s Saiza’s daughter, for goodness sake. A Lamenese princess who, I might add, you happen to spend a lot of time with.”

Gramont almost choked. “You – you - swine!” He did not dare use stronger language in front of Father. “My Aunt has been frightened out of her senses! You underhand, sneaking, two-faced - ”

“That’s enough, Gramont. Kittar. Is this true?”

Kittar rolled his eyes in disbelief.

“I said, is this true?”

“You know the reasons – ”

“Answer the question.”

“Yes, it’s true.”

“Then it must be stopped at once. Do you understand me?”

Kittar’s mouth fell open. “But Father, you – ”

“At once, Kittar. You are to dismiss the men you have employed in this business immediately. No buts. Do as I say.”

“If you weren’t such a coward I’d challenge you to a fight and thrash the hell out of you for this,” Gramont snarled.

“I see your knuckles are doing the thinking as usual!”

“Kittar, be quiet. Gramont, sit down. Now, listen to me, both of you. Gramont, what Kittar has done he has done out of the best possible motives, for the security of Encour. He has been over zealous, but he has not acted maliciously. Will you understand your brother?”

Gramont glared at Kittar. “He doesn’t - ”

“Gramont!”

“Yes, Father.”

“Kittar. Gramont gives Encour the best he has to give: his skill as a soldier. You are no man of war yourself, but you can appreciate the contribution he makes to the safety of our realm. Will you understand your brother?”

“Yes, Father,” Kittar muttered.

“Clasp hands. Good. Now understand this, both of you. I need both of my sons to be on the same side, the side of Encour.”

The heat from Gramont’s hand warmed Kittar’s blood; the chill of his half-brother’s slender fingers cooled his own.

“I suppose you want me to go and apologise to Maira,” Kittar said sullenly.

“Will that satisfy you?” Jumillion asked Gramont.

It should: it was quite a concession from Kittar. The scene would be humiliating for him. Gramont let himself enjoy it in his imagination for a few seconds, then allowed a more magnanimous impulse to get the better of him. “I don’t think there’s any need for that. I’ll tell her that some bumptious spy master got carried away and acted on his own authority.”

Jumillion nodded in satisfaction. “Well done both of you. And now, if you don’t mind, I have an appointment with Ananda.”



That evening Kittar went out of his way to be amiable to Maira and gracious to Gramont, joining in the toasts to his half-brother’s success in Itiner. After the meal Gramont went to the Guards’ Quarters as promised. He woke late the next morning with a thumping head.

He and Kittar were scrupulously polite to one another and people in Bonagule Castle began to remark on how well the two were getting on together and wonder how long it would last. Rowand was never found, and after a fortnight Gramont supposed he was safe in Lamener, touting for business amongst the southern lords.

Nothing was said to Gramont about his future bride, and it was not a subject he wanted to pursue. Then one morning Jumillion sent for him and he guessed that he was about to learn something about the lady. Her name at least; there might even be a

miniature to give him some idea of what she looked like, although court painters could not always be relied on for honesty.

Gramont saw at once that it was not marriage that Jumillion had on his mind. He received his son with a grave expression. They met in front of the fire in his private drawing room; Kittar was already there. The Heir eyed Gramont while his father spoke.

“I’ve got some sad news,” Jumillion said when Gramont was seated between him and Kittar. “Verner’s sons are dead. They were on their way to the court of Northernbord in the Western Isles. There was a storm, their vessel was blown off course, towards Dern. The pirates attacked…you know they do not take prisoners.”

“I thought we had ships in those waters,” Gramont said.

“We do. A small fleet. It can’t be everywhere at once. And we were not expecting the princes to be there. I’m sorry.”

Gramont looked down at his hands, stretched out his fingers, wondered what he should say. There were three children, the eldest aged twenty four, only a couple of years older than himself. He and the middle boy were the same age; Maira once said she thought they would get on well if they ever met. The youngest was only eight; his mother had died when he was still a baby. My little cousin and I would have had that in common, Gramont thought.

He noticed Kittar’s cool scrutiny and thought, probably expects me to say something wrong. “I’m sorry too,” he said quietly. “Although I did not know them.”

“No. But it’s a blow for Maira. You ought to go and see her, Gramont, see how she is.”

“Of course!” My Father is noble and kind-hearted, Gramont thought proudly. He will not forget the respect that is due to Maira’s family – my family - despite the differences between them.

“Verner is repaid for his foolishness,” Kittar said. “He should not have attempted to sneak the princes away from Wolston’s good teaching.”

Gramont rounded furiously on him. “What do you mean, sneak them away?”

“I am afraid Kittar has some justification for what he says, Gramont. We did not know the princes had left Lamener. Verner said they were ill. In fact, they had been smuggled out of the country.”

Kittar raised his eyes to the ceiling. “God’s will – ”

“You’d better not say that sort of thing in front of Aunt Maira,” Gramont snarled.



The sky, heavy with storm, was almost black. Gusts of hail pelted the windows, and the tops of the trees whip-lashed back and forth. Maira looked old huddled under her shawls in front of her blazing fire, her arms hugged across her chest, her hair tangled around her grey face. Outside the range of the firelight the room faded away into indistinct shadows. She made no reply to his halting sympathy, and after sitting next to her in silence for ten minutes he rose, took a spill, and moved about the room lighting the candles. He moved back to the hearth and threw the spill into flames.

“Haven’t you ever wondered?”

He stooped to catch at her strained whisper. “Wondered what? I’m sorry, I can’t hear you.”

“Haven’t you ever wondered why, ever since he realised that war with Lamener might be possible, he started to pay attention to the son he’d shoved into the Guards and all but forgotten about? Why he gave you titles and land, high rank in his army, took you into his confidence?”

“Father, do you mean? Father always meant me to have those things. He said so.”

“He said so. And now you are bound to him. You will do whatever he wants. Lara’s son, Jumillion’s puppet.”

“I’m not a puppet,” Gramont snapped, exasperated that she should bring up that old argument at such a time.

She looked up at him with watery eyes. His annoyance turned to pity. The loss of her nephews had shaken her, left her doom and woe-laden, knocked her wits awry. She did not know what she was saying.

“Warriors die on the battlefield, women die in childbed. Dies the dotard, perishes the infant. All go down to the grave. It’s death, Gramont.”

“Death doesn’t always come. I’ve been in battles – I’ve seen men die, but I’ve seen men survive too. It’s not always death. I mean, there’s life as well.” He gave up, sensing that she could not find any comfort in the awkward words that came out all wrong. There was a long silence. Finally he said, “If there’s anything you want. Anything I can get you.”

But she did not speak again and after a moment he took his leave. He could do nothing for her. She needed a doctor; he called on Akhanat who said he would visit her straightaway. Then he went down to the gymnasium.



A few weeks later Gramont was at sword practice when he received an urgent summons to wait on the King. He did not have time to bathe and change. He stamped the sawdust of the training ring off his boots, wiped the sweat off his face with a towel and put his shirt on. It stuck to his back; he had to give Kittar credit for trying not to wrinkle his nose when he entered his Father’s office.

An open letter lay on the King’s desk, stamped beneath the signature with four alternating red and white squares and the words “Servant of the Prophet”. Only one lord had the right to use the ecclesiastical device instead of his family’s coat of arms.

“A week ago in Lamener Tomlin received word from the commander of the garrison at Raimer,” Jumillion announced without any preamble. “A gang of rebels had been operating in the area, attacking supply convoys, sabotaging stores, murdering soldiers, that kind of thing. Protected by the locals, they were able to vanish into the forests and hills after each incident, and were becoming bolder by the day. The commander feared a full-scale uprising was imminent so he advised Tomlin of the danger.

Plans had already been made for King Saiza to go on a pilgrimage to Railigairn, where he was due to present gifts for the upkeep of the shrine, and Tomlin saw no reason to interfere with the arrangements. He left trusted men to accompany the King, and set off for Raimer with the main body of his forces. Two days after his departure the King and his son left Lamener. But they didn’t get a far as Railigairn; they rendezvoused with an army at Roglar. It’s the biggest muster a Lamenese king has ever managed, and this time the lords of the south were not tardy in raising their standards. Tomlin’s men were outnumbered and massacred. Wolston and the priests were stripped and driven away, on foot and without food or water, to fend for themselves in hostile country. There is no more news of them at present.”

“The Prophet save us!” Kittar cried. “What dreadful hypocrisy – what awful deceit! Who would have thought Saiza so enamoured of the White Priests’ pernicious errors that he is willing to spill the blood of the fathers of the true church?”

Gramont would not have put it like that himself, but he too could scarcely believe what he heard. The King and Prince of Lamener had slaughtered an overwhelmed, defeated force? They had driven out priests to be murdered by gangs of angry rebels? Saiza and Verner had behaved like Vizir butchers?

“And his knights swore, in the name of the Prophet, not to take up arms against us!”

“They say they promised not to take up arms against Holy Mother Church,” Jumillion answered Kittar. “Their quarrel is with Encour.”

“It is blasphemy! Encour is the defender of the church – ”

“But how did Saiza manage to communicate with the rebels in Raimer and the warlords of Lamener?” Gramont cut short Kittar’s rant.

“We don’t know, but the whole thing was perfectly co-ordinated.”

“What is Lord Tomlin’s position now?”

“He is in Raimer. Saiza has not yet moved against him, but Tomlin expects him any day. That is why he has sent for you, Gramont. You are to leave at once. By the time you get there the siege will be in place. You will break it.”

“It will be slow going at this time of year; rivers will be high, roads muddy.” Gramont rose. “Can you let me know how many men I’ll have? And munitions. I’ll need maps, scouts, sappers…do you have a second in command in mind?”

“A council of war will assemble in fifteen minutes in the large throne room.”

Father and son were on their feet now, faces eager, bodies taut and energetic.

“I’m going too.”

Gramont looked down at Kittar. “You’re better off here. They’ve got the edge on us now; it’s going to be much tougher than last time.”

“I led the First Crusade. I will lead this one.”

“Crusade? This is no crusade.”

“An attack on Encour is an attack on the Faith. This is a holy war, and as soon as Lord Wisdom hears of it he will announce the Second Crusade.”

There was a gleam of satisfaction in Kittar’s eyes that Gramont did not like. He seemed very sure of what Wisdom would do. It was as if a long-awaited moment had come.

“I haven’t got time to consult Lord Wisdom.”

“How dare you even think of taking up arms in the name of the Prophet without the Church’s blessing?”

“I don’t know if you’ve been listening Kittar, but Tomlin is sitting inside Raimer waiting for Saiza’s army to come and kill him. I don’t think this qualifies as a crusade.”

“You are a pagan, Gramont. An unholy man, not fit to lead the soldiers of the Faith –”

“Soldiers of the Faith, you dimwit?”

“That’s enough you two!” Jumillion roared. “Go if you like, Kittar, but Gramont will be in charge of military operations until you join up with Tomlin. You must be ready to ride the day after tomorrow. That doesn’t leave any of us much time. I’ll leave writing to Wisdom to you; Gramont and I have a council to attend.”

Chapter 18

Lord Gramont of Palestrier was offered a suite of apartments close to Kittar’s. Instead he chose to go back to the rooms he had occupied when he was a child. The Chief Steward of Bonagule was dismayed, protesting that the rooms weren’t ready, they had been shut up for months, they needed cleaning and airing. Gramont could not be persuaded to move. He was a soldier, used to sleeping on the ground. He’d never rest in a room cluttered with cushions, divans and curtains.

The Steward had been right, as Gramont realised as soon as he pushed open the door. Fine lines of sunlight pierced the cracked, weather-beaten wood of the shutters. Dust fluttered angrily in the rays, and the air was stale. But when he stepped into the gloom and recognised the familiar shapes – the narrow bed, the plain washstand, the ink-stained desk on which he had written many an execrable essay - he felt a wave of welcome so strong that it was as if there actually was someone waiting for him. He even fancied he saw the Watcher waiting for him in his corner, half expected the gentle, bearded man in the brown robe to step out and embrace him. Then he flung open the shutters and windows, and the shadows and the childish memory vanished in the mid-day light.

Gramont flung his pack on the unmade bed, kicked off his boots and sent them spinning across the floor. His shirt – which stank more than he realised, of sweat, wood smoke, blood, horses – followed. By the time he had stripped to his drawers a servant had arrived with a bath robe, towels, soap. Gramont took them from him and went down the corridor to the bathroom he used to share with his nurse and other members of the household who lived in this part of the palace. He filled the tiny bath with cold water – no time to wait for it to be heated – stepped in with a curse. He used the old chipped jug to pour the water over himself, his flesh quivering at each assault. He washed quickly, lathered his cropped hair, scrubbed himself dry and left the towels sopping wet and grimy on the floor.

The palace servant had laid out clean clothes for him, russet velvet trousers and a matching doublet laced with black braid and adorned with fancy buttons. There was a pair of new laced shoes and a silk shirt tied at the front with long laces. Gramont ignored them, rummaged in his wardrobe for a linen shirt, creased from being so long folded on the shelf, breeches and doublet in soft blue wool. He found a pair of black boots, the leather well worn and soft. He grabbed his satchel of notes and scrolls and hurried off to Jumillion’s office to make his report.



“You travelled with a Lamenese minstrel? How stupid can you be, Gramont?” Kittar’s voice rose to a high-pitched squeak, unpleasing even to his own ears. He checked himself and ended on a lower note. “Or was it more than stupidity?”

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

“Well, it’s only natural that you should be a little – confused – about whose side you are on.”

“Do you know how many victories I’ve won for Encour while you’ve been sitting here on your ar – ”

Bang! The brothers’ heads jerked towards the source of the noise. Jumillion released the leather-bound appointments diary he had slammed onto his desk. “That’s enough, you two.”

“I’ll say it is,” Gramont said. “I told you I searched Rowand’s things before he joined us. He wasn’t carrying any messages then, and he certainly didn’t pick up any along the way. He was hardly ever out of my sight.”

“Wasn’t carrying any messages!” Kittar sneered.

“Kittar!” Jumillion growled. He turned to his younger son. “It was foolish of you, Gramont, to offer your protection to a Lamenese minstrel. You know that they have always acted as messengers between the great households that employ them.”

“But Rowand wasn’t carrying any letters.”

“He wouldn’t have to,” Jumillion said. “Minstrels don’t relay messages in writing. They learn them.”

“Learn them?”

“Lays. Songs. Interminable verse,” Kittar jabbed the words at Gramont. “They could recite the entire Creation Verses if they wanted to. Minstrels memorise, Gramont.”

“Oh, hell!” Gramont groaned. “But, Father, what information do you think Rowand could have been carrying to Lamener?”

Jumillion considered this. “We don’t know where he had been before you met him in Garon. With the Itineran rebels? In the Western Isles? In the north, amongst those who resent paying tribute to our Antaran allies?”

“He never gave any hint of it.”

“No. But he did say he worked for Saiza.”

“Our enemy. Remember?”

“We are not at war with Lamener,” Jumillion corrected the Heir. “Since Saiza has acceded to the demands of Holy Mother Church we have no quarrel with him. But – ”

“Acceded publicly perhaps,” Kittar interrupted. “It’s easy for a Lamenese to say one thing and mean another.”

Jumillion ignored the remark. “- but it is always prudent to be vigilant in order to avoid a war, not to start one.”

“I’m sorry, Father,” Gramont said. “I made a mistake. All the same, I truly don’t think Rowand cares for anything more than his music. If he did, he would have stayed in Lamener. I wouldn’t leave Encour if she was in trouble.”

“Both I and Kittar know it. Nevertheless, I wish you had brought Rowand to Bonagule for questioning. He’ll be harder to find now.”

“Do you want me to go after him?”

“No, that won’t be necessary. I’ve already ordered inns and roads to be watched, and the border garrisons have been put on alert. If you could circulate a detailed description it would be helpful.”

Gramont nodded. “I’ll go and do it now.” He tried to sound keen, but the thought of turning Rowand into a hunted man depressed him. He imagined the soldiers catching up with the minstrel, flinging his few belongings all over the place, damaging his precious lute, pushing him around, even putting him in manacles. “Are you sure you don’t want me to find him?” he tried again.

“No. The reports from Itiner are your priority.”

As soon as the door shut on Gramont Kittar shot to his feet. “You are not going to put that lump on the throne of Lamener! You must see now that he’s no use to you.”

“My plans have not changed,” Jumillion answered calmly.

“I tell you, we can’t trust him in Lamener. You weren’t there, you didn’t see how sympathetic he is to them. And now he has made friends with the King’s minstrel! He’s not with us, Father.”

“He will be, provided he thinks that Saiza is the aggressor. Tomlin is keeping the pressure on - arresting White Priests, terrorising their supporters, taxing the people to fill the monastery’s coffers. Saiza will soon get tired of his nation’s penance.”

“His penitence was only ever a hypocritical thing.”

“No doubt. Saiza’s clever; he gave in just enough to hold off his enemies. He’ll have had enough of grovelling before long. The war will be here soon enough – but you must not act as if it has started already.”



“God, Kittar’s an arse!”

Gramont kicked his door open. In his absence Isam had found his way to the rooms. He had rolled down the mattress, made the bed and tidied away Gramont’s pack. The room was dusted, the filthy boots and clothes gone, the washstand supplied with water, towels, new razors and soap. What interested Gramont most of all was the tray of fruit, soft rolls, meat and cheese, with a carafe of wine, which Isam had left on his desk. The wine was rich and soothing; when he had drunk a glassful appetite replaced anger. He sat down and ate.

It was only when his first pangs of hunger had been satisfied that he noticed the letter tucked beneath the tray. He wiped his fingers on a napkin, picked it up. The thick, creamy paper held the scent well. It was a familiar perfume, and a familiar handwriting. Aunt Maira summoned him to her rooms.

He tapped the letter on the desk. Jumillion had ordered him to draft the minstrel’s description and he still had his reports to go through, but Maira was his guardian, stood in the place his mother would have occupied had she lived. And he had not seen her for two years, except for a hurried farewell between coming home from Lamener and setting off for Itiner. Of course, he would see her with all the other wives at the evening’s banquet in honour of his victory there. But he ought to go and see her privately. He need not stay long; he could excuse himself by saying he had work to do.



She was sitting by her window gazing out at the setting sun. Her room was on the cliff side of Bonagule, on the opposite side to the village, overlooking wooded escarpment, with forest and farmland beyond. It was winter, the days were shorter, the trees bare. The fields were bleak, dark brown squares. The room was as hot as summer, the air thick with flowery incense even before she lit the scented candles. She left the curtains open so that the rosy sunlight mingled with the yellow glow of the candles, the crimson of the fire.

While she poured wine into a large glass goblet and arranged bowls of dried fruit and nuts on the low table between the three couches, Gramont, avoiding the fire, moved to the side of the room. The family portraits were still there, but this time Gramont had some experience of the originals with which to compare the likenesses. He remembered how he had admired Saiza and Verner, how for that few moments when he came face to face with them it had been the Encourian side of his lineage that he wished to suppress. He had regretted knowing nothing of their language, had felt ashamed of not knowing what Saiza meant when he greeted him, of not understanding how the same words could be twisted to contempt when Verner repeated them.

He had learned enough Lamenese since then to realise that the King and Prince had been speaking in an archaic, formal manner. He had meant to ask the next scholar he met what the words meant, but he forgot and the phrase had gone out of his mind until now.

“What does it mean? Lath dim lorna Lamener.”

Maira picked up a brimming glass and held it out to him. “Why do you ask?”

“King Saiza said it to me. And it’s in my Mother’s book. I went and looked afterwards.”

“You took the book with you into Lamener?” She sounded pleased.

He stepped towards her to take his drink, loosening his collar in the heat. “I thought it was a greeting. Is it?”

“Yes.” She sank into a chair, signalled to him to do likewise. She folded her feet beneath her, tucked them under the hem of her woollen dress. “But it’s only used on special occasions, and addressed to a few – a very few – people. The Lamenese royal family.”

“But I am not – well, I’m related, fair enough.”

“It means, Sun and Moon of Lamener.”

“Oh.” Funny kind of greeting, Gramont thought. What were you supposed to say back? Thanks very much, Stars and Satellites? “That was the only time I saw him. I thought he would send for me, but he didn’t. He sent for Kittar instead and got stuck into the negotiations. And then the next day I had to go north, as part of the deal. There were mercenaries.” His voice trailed off. He did not want to tell Maira about that, tell her what he had seen of their handiwork, what he had done himself to rid Lamener of them.

Luckily she did not pursue the point. She did not even remind him who was responsible for unleashing the brigands on Lamener in the first place. “Your Grandfather did send for you.”

“He did? Then some careless servant forgot to deliver the message.”

“No. Kittar and Tomlin decided not to give you the message. They did not want him to talk to you. That’s why they sent you away in such a hurry.”

“Why would they do that?”

“Because they were afraid he might win your sympathy.”

Gramont remembered Kittar’s words to him less than an hour before. Well, it’s only natural that you should be a little – confused – about whose side you are on.

“Kittar might think like that,” he conceded, “but even he would not have treated King Saiza so discourteously. Nor would Tomlin have allowed such a thing. It was a hectic time; in the confusion the message must have got lost…But Grandfather wrote to you about Raimer, did he? Did he say anything about me?”

“Do you think I am allowed to receive letters from Lamener?”

“Why, who would stop you?”

“Didn’t you notice the men loitering about in the corridor when you came here?”

“I saw servants going about their business.”

“Servants! Gramont, I am watched day and night. My maids are questioned. My room has been searched at least once, perhaps more, though it’s impossible to prove as they leave nothing out of place. But I know when someone has been in here.”

“You are one of the King’s wives. No one would dare trespass on your apartments.”

“Kittar would.”

“He’s a Prince of Encour, not a spymaster.”

“You haven’t been here, you don’t know what he’s doing. He has had Lamenese books thrown out of libraries, government officials with Lamenese relatives have been dismissed, Lamenese teachers and doctors driven out of schools and hospitals. A few weeks ago a baker was arrested for saying he felt sorry for the Lamenese if they were going to have to pay anything like the Church Tax he paid. The man was put in the stocks and a mob pelted him with stones. He nearly died. Yet no action was taken against those who attacked him.”

“You can’t hold Kittar responsible for a bunch of bully boys.”

“It depends what you mean by responsible. He may not have set them on that prisoner himself, but he made sure everyone knew he wouldn’t mind what became of him, and he gave a reward to the tavern sneak who reported him. Kittar hates all things Lamenese, Gramont.”

Odd. Rowand had said something similar. Your sable prince has an allergy to all things Lamenese. It was true then: Kittar was treating the Lamenese like enemy aliens, although Father had made it clear they were not at war. It was depressing to think there were plenty of Encourians willing to follow Kittar’s vindictive lead. But spying on a member of the Royal family – would Kittar go so far?

Gramont put his empty glass on the table, rose and opened the door. Two men stood in the corridor. One of them measured a section of wall with a tape, the other stood by holding a board with paper pinned to it, ready to take notes.

“Who are you?”

“Estates clerks, sir,” the man with the tape measure answered. “Monitoring the damp in the brickwork.”

“At this time of day?”

“We’re short staffed, sir. Everyone’s doing overtime at the moment.”

Gramont grunted. “You’re disturbing Lady Maira. Come back in the morning.”

“Yes sir.” Hastily they gathered up their equipment and departed.

Gramont went back to Maira. She had refilled his glass. They said nothing to one another as he drank and pondered. “Look,” he said after a moment, “if you really think Kittar is spying on you, I’ll go and ask Father to have a word with him.”

He stood up and, because she did not seem as grateful for the offer as he thought she would be, he added, “I’ve got important business to attend to, but I’ll do it at once, before anything else. If I don’t have time to come back before the banquet, I’ll send you a message to let you know how I’ve got on.”

“I know how you will get on. Jumillion will pretend to lecture Kittar about his failure in courtesy to me and you will believe the whole charade.”

Gramont said soothingly, “Because that is all that will be needed. Now don’t you worry, Aunt. I’ll soon have the whole thing sorted out.”

The mission gave him an excuse to cut short their meeting and, in his eagerness to be gone, he forgot to ask how she had heard from Grandfather if she had received no letter.

Chapter 17

“Well, little brother, you’re wanted at home.”

Gramont looked up from the horse’s head he was carving. Two pairs of wide eyes followed his gaze. “What does he say? No, wait a minute, Rogen, I’m talking to your Mother.”

Andor read from the lion-crested paper. “ ‘Delighted with despatches from Itiner – agree that garrison – ’ oh, you can read all this boring military stuff for yourself.” She flicked though two or three pages to the final page, scanned it rapidly. She gasped. “You’re to be married, Gram! Father’s looking for a bride for you.”

Andor sat by the fire on a heavy, over-stuffed armchair. A dark oak table surrounded by four unwieldy chairs and covered with a thick patterned rug dominated the space beyond the hearth. A monumental sideboard occupied the wall opposite the window. Various stocky individuals stared gloomily from their age-darkened portraits. Long woollen curtains hung from brass rings across the tiny leaded panes, shutting out what little light the dismal day afforded.

There was no covering on the red floor tiles; a draught excluder against the door kept the cutting draughts at bay. Andor warmed her feet by placing them in a wooden box lined with hot bricks. Every now and again one of the servants came in, pulled out the tray and swapped the cooling slabs with fresh ones from the fireplace, lifting them in and out with long tongs.

She was dressed in the style of the women of her husband’s country, having long ago realised that full-skirted velvet gowns were best for winters in Garon. Hers was dark green; the colour and texture of the fabric suited her. She had grown plump – all those hearty soups and dumplings to keep out the cold – but was still a sylph compared to the ladies of her court. The weight did not ill-become her; she looked contented with her lot. The husband whose belly strained against his brocade tunics loved her, and she had learned to be fond of him.

She was fond too of the stocky children who took after Pieter more than they resembled her. Their father’s build on his six year old twin sons was not unattractive. Unfortunately it made of their elder sister Meep a plain girl with a round face flanked by straight, thin hair. But she had a sweet temperament and was devoted to her mother. She sat beside her on a low stool with a book of maps on her lap, following Gramont’s Itiner campaign with a stubby finger.

“Finish the horse!” Magda jogged Gramont’s hand.

Magda, Rogen and Meep: they were terrible names to saddle the children with, Gramont thought, as dull and unheroic as Garon itself. “Careful, little one, that’s a sharp knife…Does he give any idea who?”

“No. He says there are several possibilities.” Andor lowered the letter. “It will all depend on politics of course.”

Gramont grunted. “It worked out alright for you.” He took up the knife again, gouged it into a nostril, deepening it. She did not speak; when he glanced at her she was staring into the flames. She caught his eye and smiled. “I was very lucky – as will be the girl who gets you. I hope she’ll be beautiful. And nice.”

“So do I.” He blew the sawdust away, thinking that Daxa might not think herself so lucky for having had him. He had left her behind in her muddy little village on the edges of the Itiner marshland. Her father had guided him to the island of firm land in the middle of the bogs where the rebels had their encampment. Gramont knew it had taken the man all his courage to go with them, and that he had Daxa’s passionate pleading to thank for that: her father couldn’t let the man she loved ride into danger unaided.

The stronghold the villagers were so terrified of turned out to be nothing more than a wooden stockade around a cluster of huts, manned by an ill-armed rabble. Gramont left it smouldering, the men hanging from the branches with their heels twitching in the flames, their slatterns and brats wailing. He had passed through too many raided villages and homesteads to have any mercy left for the bullies who butchered any who resisted their demands for food and money to aid them in their cause - a cause that had been lost generations before. Itiner had been living with the Encourians for decades; its people relied on the wealth of an upper class descended from their Encourian conquerors for their livelihood. The rebels were nothing but a throwback to other times, a ragged gang that fancied themselves descendants of freedom fighters of legend. Gramont had not hesitated for a moment before giving the command. “Hang them – hang them all!”

He had kept his promise to Daxa to send her father back safely. He had not promised to return himself. From the encampment he turned south to root out the last pockets of resistance.

He sheathed the knife and lay it down on the bench beside him. He turned the wooden head over in his hands. “It ought to be painted.”

“No, Uncle Gram!” the boys wailed.

“Pass me the rest of it then.” The twins scampered off to their toy box, returned with a pole with a pair of wheels attached to the bottom. In a moment Gramont had fitted the new head onto it, and the hobby horse was clip-clopping around the room.

He hooked the knife back onto his belt. “I’m going for a walk.”

“For a drink, you mean!” Andor laughed.

“Well, I might just pop into the tavern. I like to keep an eye on the town, see what my men are up to. I don’t want them annoying your tradesmen.”

“Will you be back for dinner?”

He stooped and kissed her. “Probably. See you later.”

He grabbed his cloak from the peg as he passed through the hall. It was already getting dark inside. The servants had lowered the chandelier to light the candles. He nodded at the man who steadied the heavy wooden wheel, winked at the blushing, dumpy girl with the spill in her hand. They all look like potatoes, he thought, as he opened the front door. Must be because they eat so many of them.

The air was damp and heavy. He ran down the steps, across the garden and past the sentry boxes into the street. A low wall and iron railings were all that separated the ruler of Garon from the ruled, and nothing distinguished his house from the other solid stone dwellings with their gables and tall chimneys, except that it was bigger and had two guards in front of it. They wore short padded skirts over harlequin hose, yellow and orange doublets, soft orange caps with red pompons and flat, wide-toed shoes. Every half hour they shouldered their short pikes and strutted around the gravel paths. At weekends and on market day the railings were surrounded by country folk who came to look at them. They were good for looking at, but not much more. If there ever was any trouble, Pieter would have to send for the militia.

The smell of wood smoke and frying filled the air. There were stalls on nearly every corner; a man need not walk very far without stopping for a snack. Piping hot fish, pancakes sprinkled with sugar, baked potatoes, meatballs, all served by wholesomely rotund vendors from spotless food carts. There was never a speck of litter on the pavements even after a market day. The cobbles in front of the houses and shops were washed down every morning by serving girls whose pattens kept their feet out of the sloshing water. There were no beggars (anyone who tried to beg ended up in the workhouse sewing shirts or unpicking ropes), no stray dogs and the cats were all sleek, well-fed mousers.

The wooden tables in the street outside the tavern were empty, the wood grey and shiny with drizzle. Gramont lifted the latch on the door and pushed it open. A balloon of heat, ale and tobacco escaped from the room. He stepped inside, carefully shut the door behind him, unfastening his cloak as he looked around. A fire roared under a great canopied hearth. Over it hung tin medals and pewter plates stamped with great events in the nation’s history, usually involving solemn, bearded men at a table wielding the Great Seal of Garon.

The waitresses ran back and forth, their round red arms weighted with tankards and mugs, their ample bottoms swinging enticingly. The smell of meat stewing and bread baking wafted from the kitchen at the back of the building. The soldiers made way for Gramont on their crowded bench. He ordered jugs of beer for the men, a bottle of wine for himself. It was expensive, but he did not mind. If he did not come out for it, he would be very unlikely to get wine at Pieter’s house. Like most Garonese, the household drank nothing but beer, even with their meals.

The wine was good, the bottle soon half empty. Gramont leaned back in his seat and sipped contentedly, enjoying the babble of voices, the girls’ saucy giggles, the clinking of mugs, tapping of pipes, knocking of gaming pieces on the boards. He let his mind drift. And then he felt it. The Watcher was here.

He sighed and picked up his glass. Experience had taught him to pay little attention to the sensation. It had often come over him during this last year in Itiner. Riding through the wild woods he scanned the forest, suspecting the trees of sheltering someone. In the evenings he looked for the gleam of eyes outside the circle of a camp fire. At night he prowled on the edge of the camp, straining for a glimpse of a figure slipping through the shadows. There was never anyone there.

A trio of Antaran soldiers, steaming odoriferously in their fur-trimmed garments, were trying to persuade the man who sat in the shadowy alcove by the hearth to sing for them, pleading in their harsh, guttural tongue. Although Garon had willingly supplied men at arms to help Encour defeat the rebels in Itiner – revolt was bad for trade – they had only a small army, and relied on mercenaries from Antara and elsewhere to swell its ranks.

A ladder of sweet notes reverberated in the smoky atmosphere. Gramont had never heard an Antaran minstrel, had not known that there was such a thing. The song went on for several verses, delighting the Antarans who joined lustily in the chorus. The waitresses stopped to listen, swaying in time to the music. The landlord forgot to turn off a tap; beer gushed unheeded over the top of a jug. Some of the soldiers beat time with hands or feet. Others picked up the words and joined in, with no idea what they were merrily bawling. When the song ended there was a moment’s silence, broken by a storm of applause, foot stomping, table banging.

The singer stood up and bowed. “And what would you like to listen to now?”

At the sound of the voice Gramont looked round in astonishment. “Rowand?”

Laughing, the minstrel stepped out of the shadows. “And you are Lord Gramont of Palestrier!”

He was dressed for travel in dark blue trousers and stout boots. The collar of a thick linen shirt showed above a dark red padded doublet, and the things he gathered up when he came to sit beside Gramont included a round fur hat, fur-lined gloves and a heavy woollen cloak. The clothes were well-made, worn to the point of comfort but not beyond. He was fit and lean; his tanned skin golden in the soft light of the tavern.

“You look well,” Gramont said. “But what are you doing in Garon?”

“Trying to get a living…What are you drinking?” Rowand clicked his fingers at one of the passing girls and she, far from being offended, smiled dazzlingly at him. “We’ll have another bottle of this please, Sonja, and a fresh glass.”

“You’ve made yourself at home here.”

Rowand shrugged modestly. “But a Lord, Gramont! Tell me about Palestrier – you must need a minstrel to adorn your halls.”

“I wish I did. Fact is, I’ve never seen my halls. Father sent me to Itiner almost as soon as I got back from Lamener. Stewards look after the estate for me. I’ve been too busy even to visit the place.”

“Ah yes. Lord, and Commander of the Encourian Northern Army too.”

Gramont shot a suspicious glance at Rowand, who smiled back guilelessly. “That’s right. Are you really looking for work?”

“A minstrel is always looking for work. That’s why I came here. Foolish really. As if people who think the hurdy gurdy the height of musical accomplishment would appreciate my talents! But there’s nothing in Lamener: Saiza is doing penance, and that means plain food, ugly clothes, and no secular music. The court is swarming with red and white priests, and the streets and taverns are full of unemployed singers. The King spends most of his time on his knees praying, or parading in processions behind icons and statues, or reading out public apologies written for him by Wisdom’s emissary Wolston. And what the court does, the courtiers have to do too.”

“Why don’t you go to Encour? You’d be bound to find work there.”

“Because your sable prince has an allergy to all things Lamenese. I don’t want to end up in a sack in a river, thank you.”

“We are not savages in Bonagule. Our court knows as much of music and – erm - art and – er - poetry as yours.”

“I hardly think so… Anyway I don’t want to live at court. The intrigues are too exhausting, and I’m a musician, not a politician. Besides, I am Rowand, the Minstrel of Lamener. I am a national treasure and they must be missing me. So, I’ve decided to go home. If things haven’t lightened up in the city, I can always go south. I’ve heard that minstrels can still find work there, though it’s disgustingly underpaid. The southern lords are too far away from the palace to be affected by its orgy of penitence.”

“Are you travelling alone?”

“Oh, I hook up with merchants and pilgrims and theatrical companies sometimes. I travelled with a poet for a while; she was fun. Some jugglers once, though they were a bit limited in the conversational line. That’s why I’m so glad to see you.” He smiled. “One reason anyway. Could I travel with you when you go south? I’ll earn my keep with plenty of martial tunes.”

“Of course – if you can be ready to leave in a couple of days. I’ve just had a letter from Father.”

“I’m ready whenever you are.”

“Though there is one thing.” Gramont hesitated. “I will have to search your bags. It’s standard procedure. I’d do it for any traveller who joined us in similar circumstances.”

“The circumstance being that I am from Lamener, eh? Well, I don’t mind. Search away. You can search me too if you like.” Rowand ran his tongue between his lips and said huskily, “Would you like to do a strip search?”

Any other man would have found himself flat on the floor with a bloody nose. “No!” Gramont yelped. “I mean, that won’t be necessary.”



“We’ll be in Bonagule in three days.”

Rowand looked up from the string he was threading onto his lute. “Then I’ll be off in the morning.”

“You won’t change your mind about coming with me?”

“No. Now, where is Kauster? I promised to sing to his lot this evening. See you later.”

When he had gone Gramont covered himself with his cloak and stretched out on the ground. He stared drowsily into the spitting flames. Rowand’s voice drifted across the camp. Gramont smiled. As promised, the singer had certainly earned his keep. He’d sung marching songs, love songs, songs about home, comic songs with catchy refrains that Gramont often heard the men humming as they went about their work. He told stories too: southern tales, Norse tales, exotic tales from the east, fairy tales from the west. Once Gramont commented on the intricate work in the silver tree engraved on his lute, and he even had a story for that.

“It’s a family symbol. A sort of crest, you could say. It refers to our ancestor, Lord Timen, who was a favourite of King Juliarn. As a mark of their friendship the King built a beautiful square tower and made a garden on top of it, where he planted a silver-leafed tree. The tree was tended with water from a nearby underground river, carried in silver pipes from a cave and ingeniously pumped onto the roof. It was said that at night it could be seen from miles away, shining softly like the moon.

In those days the Lamenese still held the short-lived state of Railigen - you should know this from your history lessons, but I can see from your face that you haven’t a clue what I’m talking about. It was a narrow strip of territory on the edge of the Chaumer Ocean, wrested from the Vizirs so that the descendants of those who the Prophet converted during his eastern ministry could live there without fear of persecution.

Lord Timen was commander of the Fort of the Faith, the main stronghold of Railigen. For many years he held it against the wrath of the enemy, until they made an alliance with the King of Zagbrar. The warriors of Zagbrar were reckless and cruel: with their help the Vizirs besieged the Fort. The siege lasted for six months. Many inside died of starvation or disease, or fell defending the walls against the onslaughts of the enemy.

Even after reinforcements arrived under the command of Prince Baisselert, Timen knew he could not win, and that the townsfolk would perish if he attempted to hold out. He asked for a parley. The King of the Vizirs said that he would let the townsfolk and the defenders go if they left Prince Baisselert as his hostage. He promised that the Prince would be well looked after; he wanted him only as a guarantee of Juliarn’s good faith in their peace talks. Timen hesitated, but the Prince – a fair, brave lad, the King’s youngest and most beloved son - said he was willing to go with the Vizir if it would save lives.

On the appointed day he rode out under his banner accompanied by two faithful squires, young nobles like himself. As promised, the Vizir allowed the townsfolk to leave. He even allowed them to take what possessions they could carry, but the knights were unhorsed and unarmed. They travelled to the port of Medir. The troops joined the garrison there and Timen sent messages to the King telling him of their defeat and asking that negotiations be opened between Vizir and Lamener as soon as possible.

A fortnight later he received a message from the King. He was stripped of all military and civil titles, and ordered back to Lamener. He learned that only days before his report from Medir reached Juliarn, one of the Prince’s squires had returned to Lamener bearing a jewel-encrusted chest sent from the Vizir to the King. Inside was the head of the Prince, the eyes gouged out, the tongue cut from the mouth. The white-haired squire, stooping like an old man, described Baisselert’s death. He had been tortured and dismembered while he yet lived.

The King did not kill Timen. Instead he turned him out, a beggar and outcast, with his curse: to carry his shame not only to the end of this life, but to take it with him into every rebirth. As a reminder for whatever man he might in future become, the tower garden was converted into a monument to his disgrace. The King had the silver pipes destroyed, the spring dammed and the cave filled with rocks so that the tree on the tower died.

It is said that Timen’s soul is doomed to the cycle of rebirth for as long as the tree remains withered, but if one day he or someone on his behalf should be able to find the cave and restore the supply of water from the spring to the tree, it will flourish again. Then he will be able to atone for his treachery and eventually his soul will be able to rejoin God.”

Gramont grinned. “Then, according to your belief in rebirth, you yourself might possess the soul of a traitor.”

Rowand laughed. “Juliarn ruled only two hundred years after the Prophet died. That’s a thousand years ago. If poor Timen’s soul is still wandering the earth it could be anywhere. And my branch of the family is only very distantly related to him, if at all. Really we’re a very obscure clan with a small estate in the south. As for the tree, if it ever existed there’s no sign of it at all. No one has ever found the tower, or any ruins that might conceivably mark the spot where it once stood. It’s just a story, but a good one, don’t you think? There are some,” he added, “who say that Timen’s will be the Last Lost Soul and none of us will be saved until that tree flourishes again.”

Gramont frowned. “Cycles of rebirth and Last Lost Souls – it makes my head spin. Wouldn’t it be easier to stick to one man, one soul?”

Rowand laughed. “Steady on, Gram. You’re straying into religious disputation and that isn’t like you.”

Gramont grinned. “More Kittar’s line, you’re right.”

But then, Gramont thought, hitching his cloak higher to cover his shoulder, Kittar would hardly want to discuss religion with a minstrel from Lamener. All the same, he couldn’t see why Rowand was so set against coming to Bonagule. He’d be sorry to part with him in the morning.