Hector took a deep breath. ‘So it’s war then.’
The Keeper looked away. ‘I hope not.’
Hector took another pull of ale. ‘Hope in one hand and shit in the other and see which one smells most. How long until you hear from your fast horsemen?’
‘Tomorrow,’ the Keeper said.
‘Assuming the Outwallers don’t eat them.’ Hector kicked his sword out in front of him to make room for his legs and sat back, tipping his chair against the wall. ‘By the five wounds of Christ, Keeper. This will be an adventure to remember then – taking the drove into an army of the Wild. Not even my da did the like.’
‘Waste of courage and arrows, though, if the fair ain’t happening,’ the Keeper said. ‘Lissen Carak may be so many burned cots and splintered stones when you get there.’
Hector thumped his chair back down. ‘Truth in what you say,’ he said. ‘And no use pondering it until I know more.’ He looked around at the dozen men in the room. ‘But I have a real harper and a dozen other players in my tail – and unless Dormling’s fallen on hard times, I wager a golden noble to a copper cat we can have us some fine music and dancing to rival the fairies tonight. So enough talk of war. Let’s have wine and music.’
In the far doorway, the tall serving woman tapped her foot and nodded approvingly.
The Keeper’s youngest daughter clapped her hands. ‘Now that’s why you’re the Prince of Drovers,’ she said approvingly. ‘To Hector, Prince of the Green Hills!’
Hector Lachlan frowned. ‘The Green Hills have no lord but the Wyrm of Erch,’ he said. ‘The dragon will have no rival, and can hear all that’s said by men, so let’s not be naming me to the lordship of any hills – eh, Keeper?’
The Keeper took a long pull of his own ale and put an arm around his daughter’s shoulders, and said ‘Honey, you know never to speak so. The Wyrm is no friend of man – but he’s no foe to us, as long as we stay clear of him and keep the sheepfolds where he commands. Eh?’
She burst into tears and fled the room with every eye on her, and then the moment passed and the woman in the doorway clapped her hands. ‘Bother the Wyrm!’ she said boldly. ‘I want the harper!’
Harndon Palace – Desiderata
Desiderata lay back on the daybed in her solar, wearing only a long shift of sheer linen and silk hose with red leather garters. Her nurse clucked disapprovingly at her mistress’s deshabille and began the herculean task of gathering up her shoes.
Desiderata had a scroll, a day book, and a lead pencil encased in silver with her, and she was writing furiously. ‘Why don’t they build all the cart wheels to the same size?’ she asked.
Diota made a face. ‘Because wheelwrights don’t share their measures, mistress.’
Desiderata sat up. ‘Really?’
Diota clucked, looking for a second damask slipper. She found it under the daybed. ‘Every wheelwright builds to their own set of sizes – usually given ’em by their father or grandfather. Some build cartbeds to the width of the narrowest bridge – I grew up in the mountain country, and the Bridge of Orchids was the narrowest lane in the baillie. No carter would build a cart wider that that, and no wheelwright-’
Desiderata made an impatient noise. ‘I take your point. But military carts-’ She shook her head. ‘There are no military carts. We have vassals who give cart service. They hold their cottages and farms in exchange for providing a cart and a driver. Can you imagine anything clumsier? And when their cart breaks down, it’s the king’s problem.’ She chewed on the silver pencil. ‘He needs a professional train. Carts built for war, with carters paid a wage.’ She scribbled furiously.
‘I imagine it costs too much, my lady,’ Diota said.
Desiderata shook her head. ‘You know what it costs to repair the wheels on one cart? War does not need to be this expensive.’
‘You make me laugh, my lady,’ Diota said. She had found both of the red calfskin slippers – a miracle in itself – and she was putting the whole collection all on shoe forms to keep them stretched.
Desiderata gave her nurse the sort of smile that squires at court fought to gain. ‘I make you laugh, my sweet?’
‘You are the Queen of Beauty, with your head full of romance and starshine, and now you’re organising his supply train.’ Diota shook her head.
‘Without forage and fodder, a knight and his horse are worthless,’ Desiderata said. ‘If we want them to win glory, they must be fed.’ She laughed. ‘You think my head is full of starshine, nurse – look inside a young man’s head. I wager that half of the young louts who try to look down my dress and fight to kiss my hand will ride off to do great deeds without even a nose bag for their chargers. Without an oiled rag to touch up their sword blades. Without a sharpening stone or a fire kit.’ She tossed her head to move her mane of hair. ‘I’ve watched knights my
Diota made a face. ‘Men. What more need be said?’
Desiderata laughed. She picked up a second scroll. ‘I’m moving forward with the plans for the tournament. The king will have almost the full muster of knighthood together anyway, so I’ll move the date by a month – the fourth Sunday in Pentecost isn’t a bad time for a big show. The planting will be done and only the haying will be in.’
‘Fourth Sunday – Lorica Cattle Fair,’ said Diota.
Desiderata sighed. ‘Of course.’ She made a face. ‘Drat.’
‘Have your tournament at Lorica instead.’
‘Hmmm,’ Desiderata mused. ‘Very good for the town – good for our relations there, as they’ll rake in a profit. And I understand my husband had to make some concession there.’
‘Because your perfect knight burned the Two Lions,’ Diota spat. ‘Foreign fuck!’
‘Nurse!’ Desiderata swung a pillow with great accuracy, catching her nurse in the back of the head with a soft tassel.
‘He’s a lout in armour.’
‘He’s reputed to be the best knight in the world,’ breathed the Queen. ‘You cannot judge him by the standards-’
‘By the Good Christ,’ Diota said. ‘If he’s the best knight in the world, then he should
They glared at each other. But Diota knew her duty. She smiled. ‘I’m sure he is a great knight, my lady.’
The Queen shook her head. ‘I confess he lacks something,’ she admitted.
Diota made a noise.
‘Thank you, nurse. That will be quite enough. Despite your ill-mannered grumbling, I take your point – no doubt the king does need something nice done for Lorica. Holding the tournament there – if the timing is right, if the army is returning that road, and if the town fathers are in favour – yes, it would do very nicely. And I would get my tournament.’ She rang a silver bell, and the door to the solar opened to admit her secretary, Lady Almspend, one of the few university-taught women in Alba.
‘Two letters, if you please, Becca.’
Lady Almspend curtsied, sat at the writing table, and produced a silver pen and ink from her purse.
‘To the Mayor and Sheriff of Lorica, the Queen of Alba sends greeting-’
She dictated quickly and fluently, pausing while her secretary filled in titles and appropriate courtesies with equal fluency. It was the habit of kings and queens to employ scholars of repute as secretaries, as most of the nobility couldn’t be bothered to learn the task and employed others to do any actual writing. But Rebecca Almspend managed to write fine poetry and research the works of the troubadours of the last two centuries, and still found time to do her job thoroughly.
‘To his Alban Majesty, from your devoted, loving wife-’
Lady Almspend gave her an arch look.
‘Oh, say what I mean, not what I say,’ Desiderata pouted.
‘You Grace will forgive me if I suggest that sometimes your performance as a wilful beauty overshadows your obvious intelligence,’ Lady Almspend said.
Desiderata let the nails of her right hand pass lightly down the back of her secretary’s arm. ‘Let my letter be coy, and let him gather how very brilliant I am by looking at the design of his new war carts,’ she said. ‘Telling him
