“There is almost a foot of snow out there,” Colonel Aras pointed out. “Would you have us seek battle in a blizzard?”
“Yes. It will help hide our numbers, and increase confusion. And the foe will not be expecting it.”
Silence again. General Menin was studying Corfe’s face as if he thought he might read the future from it. “You take a lot upon yourself, General,” he said.
“You asked me for my opinion. I gave it.”
“Foolhardy madness,” Count Fournier decided.
“I agree,” Aras said. “Attack a foe many times our strength in the middle of a snowstorm? It is a recipe for disaster. And the King will never consent to it.”
“His mother would,” Berza rumbled. “But she has more balls than most of us here.”
“It may have escaped your notice, General Cear-Inaf,” Menin said, “but I am the senior officer here, not you. If this strategy were agreed upon, I would command.” Corfe said nothing.
“Enough then,” Menin continued. “I must speak to the King. Gentlemen, this meeting is at an end. We will reconvene when His Majesty is . . . recovered and I have put this new strategy to him. I am sure you all have a lot to do.”
“Shall I leave off work on the river booms?” Berza demanded.
“For the moment, yes. We may as well keep our options open. Gentlemen, good day.” Menin rose, and everyone else with him. The assembled officers collected their papers and made for the door. Corfe and his group of subordinates remained behind whilst their superiors exited.
Admiral Berza came over and clapped Corfe on the shoulder.
“You spoke up well. I’d have done the same, had they tried to take me away from my ships. But they hate you now, you know. They can’t stand having the error of their ways pointed out to them. Even Martin Menin, and he’s a good friend.”
Corfe managed a smile. “I know.”
“Aye. In some ways, palace corridors are the deadliest battlefields of all. But from what I hear, you’re quite the hero to the common soldiers. Keep their loyalty, and you may just survive.” Berza winked, and then left in his turn.
A LL morning the brightly liveried cavalcades had been trekking into the city. Crowds of commoners turned out to cheer them as they trotted and trundled across the blackened Lower City and began following the paved expanse of the Royal way into Upper Abrusio and the twin towering edifices of the palace and the monastery.
They were magnificently turned out, the horses richly caparisoned, the closed carriages gay with paint and banners, the gonfalons and fanions of the noble houses of the kingdom snapping and flaming out overhead like brilliantly plumaged birds. Their procession stretched for the better part of a mile, from the Eastern Gate clear across to the foot of Abrusio Hill. Above them, the abbey and the monastery of the Inceptines were hung with flags in welcome, patches of newly mortared stone bright against their weathered old walls. In the courtyard before the abbey ranks of servitors waited and a dozen trumpeters stood ready to blare out a salute when the nobles drew near.
Jemilla sat watching from an open carriage, well wrapped up against the flurries of sleet that were rattling in from the Hebros. Beside her sat her steward, Antonio Feramond. He was red-nosed and sniffling and had his collar turned up against the raw wind.
“There—there, do you see? That bloodless, pompous old fool. There he sits, the very picture of the gracious host, looking like the cat who caught the mouse.”
Jemilla spat. She was talking of Urbino, Duke of Imerdon, who sat on a patient white destrier at the entrance to the great courtyard, ready to welcome his fellow nobles to the council.
Well, one could not have everything. Those with an inkling of intelligence would know who had brought this about. But it galled Jemilla that she was to have no part in the proceedings until Urbino produced her and the child she bore like a cony from a conjuror’s hat. She would act the dutiful noble-woman, grieving for the King who had been her lover, whilst behind the scenes she would pull the strings that made Urbino dance.
“The venison was brought in this morning, was it not?” she demanded of the miserable Antonio.
“Yes, madam. A score of plump does, well hung, too. But had I known these blue-bloods were going to flood the city with their retainers I’d have ordered a dozen more.”
“Don’t worry about the hangers-on. Bread, beer and cheese is good enough for them.”
“At least we did not pay for the wine. That saved us a pretty penny,” Antonio said smugly. Though the monastery and abbey had been looted in the aftermath of the late war, the Inceptine cellars had escaped damage. There was enough wine in them to float a fleet of carracks. Antonio had also made himself a pretty penny by selling a few tuns of it to an enterprising Macassian ship’s captain. He thought this was his secret, and Jemilla did not intend to disabuse him of the fact until she deemed it useful to do so.
“How stand our funds at the moment?” she asked him.
“We have fifteen hundred and twelve gold crowns left over, madam. The duke was very generous. We’ll make a profit from the affair, never fear.”
Short-sighted fool. He thought in terms of profit and loss, while Jemilla’s eye was set much higher. One day soon she’d have the entire Hebrian treasury at her disposal. Let them have their pomp and panoply, for now.
A commotion at the western side of the courtyard drew her attention. A knot of riders trotting into view.
“Who in the world—?”
Foremost among them was a noble lady riding side-saddle. She was hooded and cloaked against the inclement weather, but Jemilla knew her at once. That Astaran bitch, Isolla. What did she think she was doing here? And beside her a man in a broad-brimmed hat that buckled and tugged in the wind. He wore a patch over one eye and seemed a mere skeleton under his fur-trimmed riding robes. Jemilla’s mouth opened as she recognized Golophin. Behind the pair were four heavily armed knights bearing the livery of Astarac, and then four more in the colours of Hebrion. The group of riders joined Duke Urbino in the centre of the square. Even from this distance, Jemilla could see that the duke was taken aback. Golophin swept off his hat and bowed in the saddle, his head as bald as an eggshell. Isolla offered the bemused duke her hand to kiss.
“Madam,” Antonio began. “Who—?”
“Shut up, you fool. Let me think.”
The head of the nobles’ procession entered the square, and there was a deafening flourish of trumpets. Isolla and Urbino greeted the arriving noblemen together, the Astaran princess throwing back her hood to reveal an intricately braided head of auburn hair set with diamond-headed pins.
Jemilla had been outmanoeuvred, upstaged. But as she turned the thing over in her mind she realized that it did not matter. The council would run its course, a regency would be voted into existence. Let the odd pair have their triumph; it would mean little enough in the end.
T HE council assembled in what had once been the refectory of the monastery. The broken windows had been replaced—though plain glass was now installed where once there had been ancient and beautiful stained-glass windows—and the huge chamber had been swept clean, the walls replastered and the banners of the nobles hung along the massively beamed vault of the ceiling. Two fireplaces, each large enough to accommodate a spit-turned bullock, had been cleaned out and blazed with welcome flame. The long refectory table had survived and stood where it always had. Crafted of iron-hard teak from Calmar, the only marks it bore of the recent fighting were a few arquebus balls buried deep in the timber. High-backed chairs, ornate as small thrones, were ranged along it, and the nobility of the kingdom took its seats amid a buzz and hubbub of animated talk, whilst serving attendants set decanters of wine and platters of sweetmeats at intervals along the table and lit
