The Court of Ghosts

The Court of Ghosts Chapter 10

·         Stephen Wormwood here. Thank you for clicking. Feedback and constructive criticism are always welcome at stephenwormwood@mail.com. As always hope you enjoy reading this and please consider donating to Nifty if you can (https://donate.nifty.org/), it's more than merited.

·        You can find a map of the fictionalized setting of this novel here: https://imgur.com/JtpD8WU (this is my first time using Inkarnate so it might be a little rough!)

·        If you end up enjoying this, please read some of my other stories on Nifty: The Dying Cinders (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), Wulf's Blut (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), The Harrowing of Chelsea Rice (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), The Dancer of Hafiz (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), The Cornishman (gay, historical), A Small Soul Lost (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), and Torc and Seax (transgender, magic/sci-fi).

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Chapter Ten: Games at Watfield

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An Oath Anew – The Branding – A Braised Heart for a Morish Dog – Tournament Day – Loyalty's Reward – As the Sun Falls and the Moon Rises

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Old Hall, Fludding, Kingdom of Morland

28th of Autumn, 801

A public show of obeisance.

To cement its legitimacy, it was King Oswald's pleasure that the Earl of Harcaster deliver the acceptance of his terms before an audience of their peers. It was not, as perhaps the Lord Earl might previously have thought, to humble him. Lord Gainscroft (basking in the auspicious afterglow of the night's proceedings) put to work his team of cooks and bakers for a morning feast the likes of which even the Emperor would delight to wake to. And when the roosters crowed and morning light broke at the parapets; word spread swift from room to room, down the halls and up the corridors, that the King and the Lord Earl had made terms, thus the court was to assemble at the banqueting lodge of the Old Hall to celebrate the news.

The cloth-dressed long tables ran a surfeit of roast partridge, braised mushrooms, pickled pike, buttered manchet, boiled asparagus, pitted olives, sliced pears and apricots, pottage with saffron, and peacock pie. Wine sloshed at the rims of silverwork ewers – Gasqueri whites and Imperial reds – as servants brought by warmed bowls of red wine sauce to complement their meals.

After the disaster of last night's banquet, the mood amongst the nobility was much lightened, idle talk and laughter everywhere one could look, all save for the `Greyford Faction' – the Duke and Duchess, and the Queen Dowager. They broke their fast alongside Lord Gainscroft and Her Majesty Queen Annalena, but the King's seat and the Lord Earl's both lay empty. They were off, as Francis Gray would learn, finalizing the terms of their newfound concord, their secretaries scratching at parchment with inked quill to cement the particulars.

Bells sounded at noontide.

At Lord Gainscroft's request, his guests were to wash, rest, and resume at his Temple of the Four Saints for the Earl of Harcaster's symbolic gesture of submission.

Fran huffed a sigh as Gustave bade him follow to his chambers. He'd had very little sleep since arriving at Old Hall, having spent the prior night flitting between the King and Lord Earl's rooms, securing their agreement only for Gustave to catch him in the hallway and drag him back to his own rooms for a celebratory rut. Even so. It was a joyous moment. A victorious one.

Suddenly, other courtiers were approaching him, him and not Gustave. The young gallant Richard Mountjoy offered his compliments for `the coup', as did the Gasqueri envoy and Lady Cecily. Even his excellency the Imperial Ambassador offered Fran a begrudging congratulations as they passed him by along the halls – although he could not help but barb his felicitations with a subtle jab at Gustave: "Your master has little but you to thank for his current successes."

Tired as he was Fran took some pride in his work. He was in the King's good graces now, had the Duke of Greyford on the teat, and his beloved Edward at his side. He was finally ascending the ladder he schemed ten whole years to build, and once he was atop it, his revenge could begin. His enemies abounded – his tormentor Gustavius von Roschewald, his usurper Lyonel de la More, his malefactor the Duke of Greyford, even that wolfhound in human clothing, Ser Thomas Wolner, even he someday would pay dearly for the abuses of his heart's love. One day, and one day soon, Fran would accumulate his power, augment it, and then serve bitter justice to each and every fucking one of them – joint them like venison for The Fiend to devour – and when it was done, he would lick his chops in delicious satisfaction. All that was left was for his nobility to be restored and the road to vengeance would at last unfurl.

But that was all to come.

Tomorrow was for action, today was for the waiting. Today, he washed. Today, he dressed. Today, he accompanied the court, in whose graces he now rose, to the Temple of Four Saints to watch from a marbled balcony as the fully armoured Earl of Harcaster slowly approached the dais where his King stood crowned and robed in golden finery.

Harcaster's sparkling steel greaves clanged against the stonework as he took a knee and lowered his head.

"I swear anew this oath to my sovereign," His voice was hoarse but its tone true. "I swear to serve him loyally, to offer him counsel, to work to his protection, to ensure him my sword. I shall know no authority beyond his own save the stars and saints that ordained him. I shall abide not his enemies nor abandon his allies. I shall be true to him and honour him in all I do from this day and ever after."

Harcaster reached out his armoured hands.

King Oswald took them, flinching only a little at the cold. "This oath, your fealty renewed, I do accept, my lord. Rise. Rise and be welcomed at my side, Lord Osmund Vox, my Earl of Harcaster."

Up he stood.

And then the applause, thunderous, echoing through the eaves and transepts. Gustave smiled down from his roost, clapping, yet focused not upon the King and Earl, but rather the Duke and Imperial Ambassador, glaring mutedly at the spectacle from the shadowed colonnades.

"You've done me proud, Francis," said the Wallishman. "His Majesty has prepared some celebratory games for the afternoon. We shall attend, then make ready to leave with the court for Dragonspur. With the Lord Admiral's vote my policies are all but guaranteed to pass. I could not have done this without you."

Fran clapped with the others. "Yes, master. Thank you."

A sudden hand seized his arse, hot and heavy, kneading it like dough through the white cotton of his hose before it dipped inside of them. A single thick digit slipped down the cleft, its fingertip crooked at a convulsing arsehole as it slowly pushed through its tightness until knuckle-deep, swirling and prodding at the viscous remnants of the prior night's seed.

The clerk froze.

Gustave, smiling, kept his eyes to the marble-tiled floor of the nave where Aldwyn, the High Shepherd of Dragonspur now moved to lead the court in prayer. "What you've done here at Fludding will draw more attention to you, more ladies of the court and even a few males of St. Jehanne. All will pester me for your hand... but I can trust you to keep a sober head. Can't I, Fran?"

"Yes, master." His cheeks burned red. "Yes, of course you can."

Gustave removed his middle finger and suckled at it with a smirk. "I have a gift for you. I will give it to you later. For now, I have letters and itineraries for you to draft. Come. Our part in this is done. Let us leave them to it."

The Wallish ambassador turned for the door in a swirl of ruby and ebon silks. Fran followed quietly, eyes darting to the other balconies but fortunately, all eyes were directed to the temple floor for Aldwyn's rites. So as not to disturb them Gustave quietly pushed open the arched wooden doors and veered out into the columned corridor beyond, fires burning within brass braziers, incense carrying on the air. Outside Edward stood watch, helm on, fingertips clasped around the ash wood shaft of his halberd. His back was to them, him looking over the stone balustrade to the rose gardens in the central cloister below.

Gustave called to him, clapping his hands as if summoning a dog from a bush. "What's this? Stand to attention, Captain Bardshaw."

He turned towards them, slowly, and when he did, he fixed them with an icy glare that chilled Francis to the bone. Ed's beautiful grey eyes thinned sharply beneath the shadow of his plumed morion, glaring starkly at Fran with a coldness he scarcely thought Ed capable of. `Something is wrong,' thought the younger boy, `Why are you looking at me like that, Ed?'

"That's better," said Gustave. "Now. We are to attend the King's Games at Watfield in a few short hours. You and a second will accompany us. Ready yourselves, prepare the horses, then meet us at the gates by noontide. Understood?"

Edward's hand trembled at his weapon.

"Did you not hear me?" Barked Gustave. "Go!"

Wintry cold grey eyes darted hard from Fran to Gustave, and for a moment, just a fraction of an instant, it was as if a flash of steel cracked a Wallish skull and split its contents across the granite – like a vision, like a burst of will – but it passed as swiftly as it manifested. The hard-eyed Edward thumped his fist against his breastplate in salute before storming off down the corridor in a trail of pounding bootsteps.

Fran's heart raced.

Something was wrong, very wrong, he could feel it. "May I away to the privy, master?"

A grumble. "You may. But do be quick about it, there is much work to be done."

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Old Hall, Fludding, Kingdom of Morland

28th of Autumn, 801

Bells sounded about town from its bustling ports to the towering red brick walls of Old Hall. Morish bells only ever seemed to ring for disaster – the death of a lord, the spread of plague, an attack on the horizon – but for once their peals rung out for goodly reasons. The people of Fludding took to the streets to celebrate a rare outbreak of good news from a quiet night's negotiation at Lord Gainscroft's keep. If you listened closely, you could hear them cheering beyond the parapets.

King Oswald and the Earl of Harcaster had made terms.

The north, it was said, was not like south. The Highburghs loved their earl almost as much as the Midburghs detested their duke. It represented the return of the northern voice to court and a seal's stamp to the welcomed dawn of a new era.

But for Edward Bardshaw?

Those bells might as well have been the call to oblivion.

The balconied corridor broke left and left he went with it, storming away from that Wallish bastard and his barked orders, down the scuffed stone steps into the lower archway adjoining the Temple of Four Saints to the wider manorial apartments. He couldn't see for the red in his eyes, the rage, the fire in his chest, the heat of his breath. He wanted to scream at every servile face that brushed past him along the halls, dutifully ferrying wine and warmed cloth for the petty overlords that governed them. It was as if Theopold Stillingford had never lived, as if William Rothwell had never spoken.

`Puppets and tools,' thought Edward, bitterly. `Puppets and tools all...'

Another turn, another hall, another flight of steps, a voice calling to him that he could not hear for the blood thumping like war drums in his ears. Down in the servant's quarters, dusty and cobwebbed, crawling with mice and sullied with damp; he found his chamber door and unlocked it, bundling himself in, returning to the utter wreckage he'd wreaked the night prior.

The bed smashed to pieces. The chair broken into legs and posts. The sheets sliced. The walls splattered with pottage and the floors scattered with bowl fragments and the bitter slop of his piss bucket. A dead rat lay flattened in the shape of a boot. A bloody fist-print cracked the wall alongside dozens of slash marks carved into the stone by a halberd's point. Edward tossed the weapon aside and swept his face into his gloved hands, screaming into the leather.

And then a knock at the door.

"GO AWAY!" He roared.

A pause. You could almost hear the hurt in it. "...It's me, Ed. Just me. Open the door."

A fist clenched.

To hear that voice, that soft voice, that voice that enchanted your dreams and whispered `love' into your ear and woke you into blessed day – and to only feel anger at it? What a thing that was. Oh, the cruelty of fate's whip.

Edward unbolted the door.

He did not look at Fran when he did, he could not bear to, he heard only the gasp as the clerk strode in and witnessed the ruin of his room for himself. "Saints be, Edward! What happened here? What's wrong with you? Are you hurt?"

Fran's hand reached out to touch him.

Ed slapped it away.

"Do... not... touch me." He heard the anger in his own voice, punctuating every syllable. It did not remind him of himself.

"Edward..." The swordsman could not look at Fran as he spoke. But he heard the tremors in the clerk's voice, the disquiet, the shivering fear. "...Edward, you're frightening me. What is... what is going on...?"

Edward sighed through gritted teeth. His hands reached for his morion and hurled it furiously into the carved-up wall, Fran jumping at the bang and clatter. He threw his head back, exhaling, wishing to his saint and star for strength as an ugly, hateful, heart-breaking memory slipped darkly into his thoughts and refused to dislodge itself – Fran's face flattened to the sheets, Fran naked, Fran bent over, Fran being fucked...

"Are you laying with Roschewald?" He asked.

Silence.

Cold, deadened, lifeless silence.

And then a stutter. Words stumbling over themselves to form some desperate semblance of an explanation before coming up short. "E-Ed, I-"

"ANSWER ME!" He bellowed, fists trembling. "Is it true?!"

Snivels. A sob. The scuff of a ruffed sleeve wiping away a pre-emptive tear. Still Edward would not look at him. "H-how did you...?"

Still, Fran could not say it. But Edward did not need proof. The proof, the sight of his heart's love being pawed at and rutted like a whelping bitch by that traitorous fucking Wallishman; that blighted sight was seared into Edward's memories like a branding. He wouldn't be rid of it until he was cold in his grave.

Edward felt his shoulders crumble. "Is it true?" He asked again. Stolidly, this time.

A whisper of a response broke. "...Don't ask me that..."

`At least he isn't lying to me...' thought Ed, though it was scant placation at best. "...Do you love him...?"

"...W-what? What?! No, of course not! Edward, look at me...!"

And he did that time. Fran's hand, that soft hand reached out for his padded shoulder, demanding that he turn around and look him in the eye. It felt like clogs shackled his feet. Yet Ed turned around in a slow, singular motion. And there he was. Francis Gray. Chestnut hair tousled from running the halls, greensward eyes overspilling with tears, lip quivering, chest pumping with breathlessness.

"It's you," said Fran, tremoring. "You're the man I love."

How could words so soft cut so harshly?

Edward fought back tears as he watched Fran openly spill his... and for a moment... he felt all the weight of his love crashing against him, rocking his heart, buckling him where he stood. And then that fucking brand burned his brain again; Fran face down in Roschewald's bedsheets, moaning and sweating and...

It turned his stomach. "...Is he taking you against your will?"

Fran, sobbing openly now, bit his lip. "...To a certain extent, yes..."

"What does that mean, to a certain extent?!" Ed snapped, his sight flashing red again, but Fran snapped back in defence of himself, yelling, "I do not want him, I do not like him, he makes my skin crawl! I DETEST him! But I...I needed his power, his influence, his access to the nobles...I..."

So that was why.

It was not even a love match.

Just a transaction.

A transaction for status and land.

Fran reached out for his cheek, but Edward backed away sharply, shying from his light touch as if it would scorch him.

And in a way it already had.

"I wanted to tell you..."

And then a knock came at the door.

Both of them, Edward and Fran together, yelled at the person to be gone. But they would not leave. It was one of his men, one of the halberdiers. "...Master Gray? His excellency was looking for you, he said to come at once..."

Edward sneered, snatching up his halberd and his now dented morion as he made for the door. Fran tried to pull him back, but his grasp slipped the swordsman's wrist.

"Edward!" He cried. "Edward, please, if you would only listen to me...!"

But he was done with listening. Done with excuses. Done with tears. Indeed he thumbed them from his eyes as he fitted back his helm and reached for the door.

"...No." He spat the word like a wad of venom. "Leave me. Go see to your master."

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Old Hall, Fludding, Kingdom of Morland

28th Autumn, 801

It is often said, by explorers, merchants, and mendicants, and by however many others for whom travel made up such a significant portion of their enterprise, that there are regions of the world in which the very ground shakes beneath your feet.

Preceptor Gertzog, one of Francis Gray's tutors at the University of Strausholm, called this phenomenon an earthquake. He said, "{In ancient times it was believed that earthquakes were caused by St. Thunos to voice his displeasure at the ways of man. Oh Ludwig, do be serious and listen! No horsing around less I whip you! Now. We know better, of course. We now know that earthquakes are caused by highly noxious gasses trapped within subterranean caverns deep beneath our feet. When the gasses of one cavern leak into the next, a ruction is produced, an explosion a thousand times stronger than the strongest gunpowder. Earthquakes are simply the reverberations of those ructions.}"

Was that what Fran just experienced?

A ruction?

Across the world these things called earthquakes smashed statues, toppled homesteads, broke palaces in half and sunk whole civilizations into the crust. And this, this agony in Fran's heart, this certainly felt like that. Like the end of everything.

What was Edward Bardshaw if not all the happiness Fran could want for, filtered into a man? And what was life worth when that man looked at him now with hatred and disgust?

The Fiend was cold. Gustave's touch was cold. But nothing on this earth, not even Wallish winter, was as cold as Ed's eyes had been outside the temple. And he was so angry...

`I've never seen him like that before...' thought Fran, bitterly, eyes fogging over again. `How did this happen? How did he find out? Why now when everything was coming together? Why? Why? Why?'

The clerk gazed down the length of the corridor, past all its steel suits and marble statues, blurs of themselves through the haze of his tears. The boy knuckled them out of his eyes, then sobbed again, slumping at the threshold of a locked door. Some servants passed him by and called him `lord', asking if he was feeling unwell, asking if he required some water, asking if they should fetch Lord Gainscroft's physician...

"I-I-I-I'm fine...!" He spoke. "Please leave me alone..."

They huddled away, the fussing two chambermaids, leaving him be as he swaddled himself within the latticed shadows cast down by the ensconced candleflames. Crying until it hurt to do so. And then, somehow, composing himself. Stopping to think.

Running the numbers.

In the narrow streets of snowy Strausholm, ancient by two millennia, haunted by its own bloody history; its university stood above all as a beacon to the brightest minds of a wider world yearning to leave the Empire behind. Its teachings were cold and harsh as northern tundra. But they sharpened you. Moulded you. Its histories taught you to predict. Its archmathematics taught you to calculate. Its geographies taught you to chart. Its alchemies taught you to meld.

The tutors there? They built you, disassembled you, and rebuilt you; spring by spring, escarpment by escarpment, gear by gear, until you ticked and hummed and thrummed like the clockwork monstrosity you were always destined to be.

They taught you to run the numbers.

So? Once he collected himself? Once Fran picked himself up, dusted himself off, wiped the tear tracks from his face and dragged himself through the halls to Gustave's rooms – the gears began to turn.

Poison? No, a death too similar to Wolfrick and Comwyn's would cause alarm. A dagger? No – any such wound invited investigation. A fall down the stairs? No. With no guarantee of death, such a plan would backfire. Lothar was skilled. Very skilled. But even he had no means to kill Gustavius here at the heart of court. And what would the fallout be? Neidhart aborting the trade proposals? No, it would damage his standing with the Council of Lords, maybe even cost him his chairmanship, and doom Wallenheim to unrest, leaving the way open for the Empire to invade. A recall of the Wallenheim Delegation to Wallenstadt? With him and Lothar in it? Most certainly. And what would Edward do? Kill Gustave now and visit the headman later? Maybe. Or maybe Edward was wiser than that. He would fume and vent. Seek solace. Get drunk. Brood in a tavern until he made his mind up to some stupidity less self-destructive in the immediate sense – like Ravensborough.

Fran had to think. Plot his course by synthesizing scenarios and settling upon the most probable, build a stratagem around it, then see it through.

`Get back to Dragonspur,' went the mechanisms of his thoughts. `Let the Masters of the Realm seal the vote, secure Thormont, reach out to Ed, spin lies like thread. It was once, he was drunk, I was powerless, it meant nothing...'

The clerk stood upright. Brought himself to Gustave's door, ventured inside and shut the door.

`Edward is yours,' Fran told himself. `He will not abandon you. Let him cool, let him settle, work a trick to keep him from Gustave somehow...'

His master sat to a lacquered desk penning a letter to his brother with a goose feather quill. He looked up to a feigned smile.

"Where were you?" Grumbled Gustave.

The numbers stopped.

`One day and one day soon I will cut out your fucking heart and braise it and feed it to the hungriest Morish dog I can find,' thought Fran. "Apologies, master. It will not happen again. Let us get to work, shall we?"

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Watfield, The Highburghs, Kingdom of Morland

28th of Autumn, 801

It began as a great procession.

Lord Gainscroft had already played an outsized role in King Oswald's first progress, hosting his travelling court at Old Hall and facilitating the reconciliatory talks between the sovereign and the Earl of Harcaster; but he threw himself into the organization of the King's Games at Watfield with all the familiar vigour, working diligently with town officials and guildsmen to make all the necessary preparations for the tourney.

It began as a great procession from the gates of Old Hall. A host of Gasqueri musicians equipped with pipes, sackbuts, tabors and shawms, and fronted by Blackthumb Aba, who led the way with a festive dirge.

Behind them rode the main competitors – the court's brave gallants – Sers Richard Mountjoy, William Whitewood, Magnus de la More, George Sudley, Thomas Drakewell, Sygmund Gainscroft, John Tunstull, Humphrey Ashwick, Percy Polebrooke, and the `latecomer' Gerard Vox; the noble sons of the most powerful lords in the kingdom. Fresh young men of budding martial talent, hungry for honour and renown, trotting out atop powerful horses dressed in fine caparison patterned after their house sigils, their rebated lances aloft, the noontide sun glistening off the helms and vambraces of their polished plate armour.

Behind them followed the first crop of the seniormost nobles; the Earls Huxton and Harcaster, the Marquess of Gead, the Duke and Duchess of Greyford, the Queen Dowager. Next, at the very centre of the procession, surrounded by a liveried host of footmen, standard bearers, and officers of arms – rode King Oswald and Queen Annalena of Morland – the happy young couple crowned and swathed in golden robes of spotted fur.

The sloped road west ran from Old Hall's gates through the centremost streets of Fludding to its tall semi-circular town walls, 1.5 miles of dusty ground, and the town officials had cordoned off its entire length with rope and post. And all along its expanse thousands of men, women, and children came out to applaud the procession. Flowers and confetti tossed about the air. Banners bearing the sigil of House Oswyke swung from perch to ledge to washing line. Uproarious cheer shook the very ground as the King of Morland passed them by, waving gently to his subjects with his lovely Queen – her gilded robes carefully tucked back to highlight the swollen belly beneath her carefully modified, pearl-woven corset.

The royal couple were closely followed by fifty mounted Bannerets of the Bloom, flagged gisarmes resting upon their shoulders. And after them followed all the lesser nobles, the dignitaries, the staff and servants, the spare horses, the supply wagons and bundled carts.

Edward Bardshaw rode amongst them with a face of iron just a few paces behind the Wallish Ambassador and his young clerk. Despite the cheering and clapping, the flocking flags and banners, the clanging town bells, the wind-tossed confetti and flower petals, the joy, the sheer elation of the moment... Edward felt nothing.

He only looked ahead, eyes fixed upon Francis Gray as his smirking master leaned over and whispered into his ear, some passing remark. A shivering fist held his horse's reins tight. Ed was lost in himself, thinking too deeply to think, enrapt with naught but a cold simmering rage.

The procession made its way through the town with all the splendid pageantry Lord Gainscroft could muster, a sluggish serpent gilt with finery as it slithered through the noisy streets to the town gates, passing below an archway now festooned with tributary floral arrangements and bouquets spelling out proudly, SAINTS LOVE YOU OUR FAIR KING.

It was a brilliant day.

The sun blazed brightly above them, unscuppered by cloud, the sky a perfect pane of cerulean as the Mandelsea lay unstirred by all but the gentlest waves. It was a scene fit to be painted as the procession made its way out of Fludding towards the vast open heath of Watfield.

They were not one hour removed from the town before they reached the tournament grounds – and what a sight they were.

A fresh tiltyard was cut from the ground, 600 yards long along and 200 yards wide, both tilt and counter tilt adorned in the liveries of House Oswyke and House Vox.

A little ways north of the tiltyard lay a smaller one, 300 yards long and 100 yards wide where twinned quintains of flail and shield were erected.

A little ways east of that lay an archery butt, its earthwork mounds ringed with targets at varying distances, with tables full of longbows, leather quivers, spare strings, and many hundreds of arrows segregated by length or fletching.

Just west of the archery butt lay the melee field, a circular plywood paddock of levelled earth, its walls only two foot high, its intended fixtures man on man and three on three.

Around all four arenas ran a massive track, a ring of earth eight furlongs long, for King Oswald's two favoured sports, horse racing and horseback archery, the former in which he was scheduled to compete with his beautiful and powerful new horse, Stormwalker.

In the centre of all four arenas stood a massive circular gallery, six rings high, large enough to seat 200 people, with the King's canopied viewing box at its peak.

And beyond the tourney grounds lay hundreds of tents and feasting tables set around the King's marquee, along with several dozen cooking pits, latrines, stables, sheds, and a large gazebo designated as an infirmary by Ser John Goodwyne, the King's own Sergeant Surgeon. Hundreds of yards of land lay roped off for the commonfolk to watch the festivities unfold.

Lord Gainscroft's impromptu army of labourers toiled night through day through night `till now to make ready the field for the King's Games – and they had not disappointed.

As the procession poured into the tournament grounds they burst afresh with activity as nobles climbed down from their horses and carriages, servants brought forth refreshments of wine and sweets, heralds prepared their cheques and quills, ushers directed nobles to their tents, stable hands fetched horses to makeshift stalls for watering, cooks heated griddles and grills, whilst footmen fetched chairs for the elders, and Bannerets of the Bloom stood sentry or took patrol.

One of Gainscroft's dapper, ruff-collared ushers approached Roschewald, fists at his back. "Greetings, your excellency, might I direct you to your tent?"

"You may."

The usher begged the rest to follow – Fran, Edward, and one of the halberdiers, Rieger. Through all the smoke, steam, clanking, and chatter they proceeded after him to the camp beyond the tournament grounds where the assigned tent of the Wallenheim Delegation stood, not six tents down from King Oswald's own – a not insignificant fact. Roschewald dismounted. Fran, Edward and Rieger did the same. The usher excused himself and promised to send a stable boy to collect their horses. And then another servant approached them, a page boy bearing the sigil of House Drakewell – Greyford's own.

He was young, as young as eight or nine, perhaps. "Master Gray? Begging your pardon, but his grace the Duke of Greyford requests an audience with you... before the games begin."

`...Greyford?' Edward frowned. `What does Greyford want with Fran?'

Roschewald nudged forth, casting his shadow over Fran as he spoke in that mocking tone of his. "A chastisement? Our work has all but side-lined him on the council, I suppose. Very well. Meet with him, Fran. But say nothing that would imperil the coming vote."

A silence followed. Fran, hesitating, and not without due cause. For a moment Edward wondered if he was frightened to go to Greyford's tent and felt a twinge of sympathy. Then the branding burned inside his mind again.

"Alright," said Fran. Ed felt him, six paces away, trying to catch his eye before he life, but Ed would not look back. A sigh. And then he shuffled away with the page boy.

Roschewald watched him go. "Rieger? Stay here with the horses until they are collected. Bardshaw? With me."

The Wallishman punted open the tent flap and proceeded in. Edward smothered a growl and followed him, the noise of the camp dampening into a muffled thrum from within. It was pitched with five staves with its ceiling only a foot or two above their heads. There were four beds, three chairs, two tables and one chest for goods. The table was set with cloth, plate, two ewers (one of wine and the other of water) and four cups, along with a short paring knife and a bowl of apricots.

Roschewald, smirking to himself, shrugged off his ermine-pelted coat and draped it over a chair. He turned his back to the Morishman and set his hands upon his waist. He chuckled.

"Master Bardshaw. Do you know the precision it takes for a clerk to serve a man of my standing? A man must be swift of quill, keen of eye, diligent, and errorless. And for as long as he has served me Francis has been all those things and more. He is a marvel beyond his own understanding, you see. And so," Gustave pulled a small letter from his sleeve. "When Fran comes late to my chambers and writes me a letter containing three errors and a smudge, I might readily wonder what has troubled that keen mind of his."

Edward clutched a fist.

"And then some six hours after the fact, one of my own halberdiers reports finding Fran with you in your chambers this morning. Crying. Why might that be?"

`St. Thunos give me strength not to hack this fucking Wallishman in half where he stands,' thought Edward, snarling. "Perhaps your halberdier is mistaken."

Gustave chuckled again. "`Excellency.'"

"Begging your pardon?"

"`Perhaps your halberdier is mistaken, your excellency.' That is what you meant to say, master. How soon your manners escape you. But it is as they say. You can take a dog out of the street, but you cannot take the street out of a dog."

Edward bared his fangs. "...Say that again..."

"Oh, has the dog had his ears cropped?" Roschewald turned back to Edward with a grin. "You don't think I see the way you look at him? Take heed, dog. Attempt anything upon Fran, even so much as a lick or sniff of that gutter-stinking muzzle of yours... and I'll geld you myself."

St. Thunos failed.

A shuffle of frantic footsteps followed a dark snarl and the slurp of unsheathed steel as Edward snatched Roschewald by the throat and shoved him hard into the central tent post, sword tipped at the breast padding of his doublet.

A single thrust would skewer that black, cankerous organ Roschewald called a heart.

And yet?

And yet Roschewald only smirked in Edward's face. "I knew it. You do desire him. But it matters not. Lower your sword, master. Even a common little dog like you isn't stupid enough to kill me in my own tent."

Edward tightened his grip around the bastard's neck, his blade's tip poised at the breastbone. "Are you so certain of that, Roschewald...?"

"Well, if the loss of your own life is not enough to dissuade you, what of Fran's?"

Ed frowned. "-What?"

"I am the Ambassador of Wallenheim, you blithering idiot. My murder would bring disgrace and disrepute to the Morish court. Even if only to save face – King Oswald would be obligated to investigate it. You would be caught easily enough, guileless thug that you are, but what of Fran? Your past associations being what they are... how likely is it that he would not be implicated in your misdeeds?"

The sword waivered.

"You see?" Roschewald's smirk deepened. "This is why I am where I am, and you are where you are. It is not your low birth that makes you unworthy of Fran... it is your dogged ignorance. The New Man is not the common man. And when Stillingford's Phantoma comes to fruition... it will be to us that your humble knee bends, not to nobles."

"...Damn you..." Edward choked it out through peeled teeth, gritted and chattering. "Damn you to oblivion and back...!"

A hand released a throat.

Roschewald stepped back, rubbing his neck with a free hand, his smirk wide, obnoxious, and victorious. "Heh. I've already foreseen your punishment. You shall not be released from my leash, Master Bardshaw, you shall continue your service like the dog that you are. Fran belongs to ME. And I will make it my life's joy to remind you of that fact every fucking day from here on out. You are dismissed."

Edward froze over in his fury, blade rattling in his fist, every sinew of his sword arm poised to lop the head from the ambassador's shoulders. And yet, in spite of himself, in spite of all the pent-up anger this ghoul of a man seemed so uniquely capable of clawing out of Edward's heart, his sword found its sheath again as he turned about his heels, fuming, and stormed out of the tent.

**********

Watfield, The Highburghs, Kingdom of Morland

28th of Autumn, 801

It was simply Fran's luck that Greyford's tent was none too far from Gustave's (but curiously further from the King's). Two Bannerets of the Bloom stood guard as the camp around them clanked and tinkered with activity. The Duke's page bowed and excused himself. One of the bannerets affirmed his entry with a nod. Fran, steeling himself, pushed through its door flap.

The Duke's temporary lodgings were worthy of commoner's permanent dwellings. By the providence of Lord Gainscroft's men it was furnished with lacquered tables, studded chests, cushioned chairs, and gilt panels. A brace of footmen stood at the ready, one with an ewer of wine and the other with platter of baked bread and smoked fish. His grace sat to a high-backed chair at the tent's rear, his lathered chin in the air with a ruff-collared attendant slowly shaving it down to the grain.

"Master Gray," said the Duke. "How good of you to come."

Fran fell to a single knee. "How may I attend, your grace?"

The Lord Marshal made him wait until the foam was washed from his freshly shaven jaw. He dismissed his attendants afterwards. His groomer took away the water bowl, towel and shears, the footmen set aside the Duke's refreshment and departed. When they were alone Greyford bid Fran rise and approach.

"Take a seat," said the older man.

Fran drew a chair from the table and did so.

"Your report?"

A nod. "Gustavius von Roschewald has sent letters to his brother, Chairman Neidhart, about the impending success of the vote. Now that his lordship the Earl of Harcaster is to be promoted to Lord Admiral of the Masters of the Realm, he believes this sixth vote all but secures the success of his proposals," That much was truth. "He has also sent secret communiques to Odoist thought leaders around the Highburghs, imploring them to treat with him on potential strategies of conversion for the `more stubborn sort of Morishmen'." That was a lie. But it served its purpose. Fran went on to explain that he was unable to obtain facsimiles of these missives, but they were confirmed to him by the ambassador's own lips.

Greyford's newly smoothed jaw, squared and jutting, soon clenched. "What else?"

Fran pulled a letter from his pocket. It was a foolish thing to carry around, but he knew the Duke would've called for him at some point during these proceedings. And now here they were. Fran placed it in Greyford's hand. "It is a letter of invitation sent to him by Edith the Exile. Nothing implicates him in any plot, but-"

"The very act is implication enough," said the Duke. Then he frowned. "...Or perhaps it would have been before Harcaster's return to court. What was said between the two of you?"

`This is where I must be cautious,' thought Fran. "Little, your grace. In truth I did little. I merely presented King Oswald's proposals to the Lord Earl, the Lord Earl gave himself over to fury and a brief rant, but soon relented. He said something about crop failures in the north?"

Fran spotted a twinkle of recognition in the Duke's eye. That jewel of information was incentive enough for Harcaster to accept the proposals as well as scupper any suspicions Greyford might have had about Fran playing at both sides of this courtly rift. He had to make it clear that the ducal faction was where he'd placed his bets. And so far, Fran was succeeding.

"Good work," said the Duke, frowning. Then he fetched something of his own from a satchel of paperwork by his table. He gave it to Fran.

The boy broke the wax seal and read it.

HEH, HEH, HEH, HEH, HEH, cackled The Fiend**. A-HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA!**

"This..." Fran caught his breath. "This is..."

Greyford folded his arms. "A writ of ennoblement to the viscountcy of Thormont and all lands and property under its ownership."

And there it was.

Everything he had been working towards. Everything he had suffered for. Everything he needed to make Edward happy. Here it was, in his hands, and stamped with the seal of the Duke of Greyford. And there was his name.

FRANCIS GRAY.

"Loyalty does not go unrewarded with me," said Greyford. "Upon our return to Dragonspur I will have the King confirm it. But..."

Greyford took the documents back.

"First, I plan to inform him of the 3,000 Wallish troops you mentioned and raise a claim of conspiracy against Roschewald. Wolner will arrest him, and your testimony will give evidence of his treachery. Am I understood?"

Plainly. The Duke wanted to squeeze the utility out of him before delivering his reward, every last drop into the bucket. But after these ten long years of glorified exile his words were a melody of retribution. Fran had no qualms lying to the bench if it was Gustave standing trial. He could almost see himself weeping to King and court about the heinous plots the Wallishman did hatch to seize his beloved Gead – if it ever got that far.

Would it?

King Oswald was a magnanimous young man; he would not risk war with Wallenheim by arresting Chairman Neidhart's brother and throwing him into a gaol. No, not at all. Fran's guess? Gustave would simply be expelled.

There would be consequences of course. The trade talks would collapse which would force the King to maintain the Guard Tax until such time as he could replace the revenue, which would not go down well with the commons or Harcaster, but Emperor Adolphus would be mollified, and doubtless, that was the Duke's prime objective. None of this was beyond Greyford's comprehension. All of it played into his hands. It was why he was so ready to grant Fran the viscountcy of Thormont. All of it hinged on him, after all, the Lost Lord of Gead.

Finally.

It was all falling into place.

And yet?

`Would that this had happened but three days sooner,' thought Fran. `Or two.'

If only this had happened before Ed learned the truth. But all was not lost. Fran refused to give up. He ran the numbers. Edward Bardshaw would not abandon Francis Gray, not now, not ever. Ed could bleat and cry all he liked but Fran's place in his heart was secure – they both knew it. Gustave's degeneracy changed nothing and when next they were alone Fran would stop at nothing to make Edward see it. If ten years divided could not break them then what hope had Gustave?

The boy moved to speak, but the trumpets blared, a rousing little fanfare rising over the encampment.

Greyford cut a wry smile. "The games are about to begin. Get back to your master and we shall speak anon."

The clerk nodded, stood upright, then bowed as his once malefactor (and now benefactor) tucked his and Edward's future safely away into the folds of his leathered satchel. He excused himself.

Fran punted open the tent flap, flashing past the Bannerets of the Bloom out into the beautiful sky-blue day as the nobles of Morland flooded out of their tents to make their way to the newly erected tournament grounds. Horses galloped by as ladies in waiting fetched up their mistresses' dress trains and led their leashed spaniels away.

Fran doubled back to his tent and found it empty. Gustave was gone. Edward was gone. Only Rieger was there, dismissed until further notice by their master and idling his time sharpening his short sword with a whetstone. Fran inquired about Gustave and Ed.

"The master's gone ahead to the games," said Rieger. "As for the captain? Who can say? I saw him leave when I was off having a piss but other than that..."

`Some guard you are,' thought he. "If you should see the captain then tell him to come and find me later."

Rieger grunted yes.

Fran left him to his sword. Back outside the nobles now flowed towards the tournament grounds and he joined them, blending into their nattering crowds as they ambled along in a cloud of silk and taffeta and brocade, silver buttons and gold brooches sparkling in the sunshine.

As they made their way out of the encampment a host of Lord Gainscroft's hired ushers approached to direct them all to their assigned seats upon the central gallery. Fran was taken to his seat, second row down from the royal box, with the main tiltyard laid out along the right and the barricades of melee arena to the left. It was a good seat – one with a better view of the games and a closer proximity to the senior nobles.

In this as in any other function of note... closer proximity to the King meant the higher you were in royal favour. For the Lost Lord and Ambassador Roschewald to be seated on the second rung, above even the likes of Lord Huxton, was an encouraging sign.

The royal box, however, was absent of King Oswald. No doubt he was off by the stables preparing that treasured white horse of his, Stormwalker, for the races. The box was occupied by Queen Annalena, fanning herself from the day's sudden heat. Next to her sat the Queen Dowager, Emma of Wuffolk, frowning regally at the proceedings, and finally the Duke of Greyford, who was carefully guided to his seat by one of Lord Gainscroft's men.

The guest of honour, the Earl of Harcaster, sat to the top rung rather than the main box, surrounded by a small retinue of courtiers bearing his house sigil. His smile was bright and cheering, wide from mutton-chop to mutton-chop. He clapped vigorously for his son and the other competitors as they filed out onto the tournament grounds – as did the commons. Hundreds of them. Seated and cheering along Watfield's open grassland, clapping and whooping and hollering from a `respectful' distance. And their cheers only grew more pronounced as King Oswald emerged at the rear end of that procession of noble gallants out to entertain court and commonfolk alike for the next two days.

But no Gustave.

Blackthumb Aba's drummers and trumpeters played another burst of fanfare at the King's shimmering emergence, his riding leathers dyed white and patterned with golden stars. Diamonds studded Stormwalker's saddle and harnesses. The King raised his hand to speak. The music stopped. The cheering stopped. A deferential silence overtook the hundreds there gathered.

King Oswald guided his horse in the direction of the commonfolk. "TODAY IS NOT MERELY A DAY FOR GAMES AND REVELRY! TODAY IS THE FIRST DAY OF A SHINING NEW ERA! THE COURT OF MORLAND IS WHOLE AGAIN! AND WITH THE EARL OF HARCASTER AT MY SIDE WE ARE POISED TO MAKE OUR REALM STRONGER THAN EVER! SAINTS BLESS YOU ALL, LONG LIVE THIS REALM, AND NOW, MAY THE GAMES BEGIN!"

Hundreds roared from the commons to the heavens. The nobles clapped. Down by the lists, Ser Gerard Vox raised his iron visor and blinked a cheeky wink in the direction of his beaming Lord Father. It was then, as the heralds clutched their cheques and quills and scrambled into place, only then did Gustave emerge, picking his way up the gallery steps to take his seat amongst the noble throng.

Glowering.

A prominent herald trod the steps of a dais raised with the banner of House Oswyke as the King galloped off down the length of the tiltyard, closely followed by the other mounted competitors. The herald's booming voice then bellowed, "WELCOME TO THE KING'S GAMES! FOR TWO OUTSTANDING DAYS YOU SHALL BE ENTERTAINED BY THE FINEST WARRIORS IN ALL OF MORLAND! AND NOW – WE BEGIN WITH THE MELEE!"

Once King Oswald and the other riders were gone those competitors left within the tiltyard, those on foot and fully dressed in their ornate plate armours, split into two groups of three and seven. The three consisted of Ser Richard Mountjoy, Ser William Whitewood, and Ser Percy Polebrooke.

"THE KING'S DEFENDERS HAVE STEPPED FORTH! NOW! WHO IS SO BOLD AS TO CHALLENGE THE CREAM OF THIS MORISH CROP?!"

Of the remaining seven – Ser Magnus de la More, Ser George Sudley, Ser Thomas Drakewell, Ser Sygmund Gainscroft, Ser John Tunstall, Ser Humphrey Ashwick and Ser Gerard Vox – it was Duke of Greyford's son, Ser Thomas, who stepped forth and brought his challenge to Ser Richard Mountjoy – the King's favourite.

`Even in these silly games there is politics,' thought Fran.

"SER THOMAS OF HOUSE DRAKEWELL WISHES TO CHALLENGE SER RICHARD MOUNTJOY!" Cried the herald. "DOES HE ACCEPT?"

Ser Richard answered by thumping his heavy armoured fist against his embossed breastplate and pointing out the melee arena. A wide burst of applause rung out as their audience of hundreds watched the pair trundle weightily from the tiltyard into the melee field, where two attendants brought them each their chosen weapons – a blunted longsword and crested kite shield for Ser Richard, a tasselled pernach and buckler for Ser Thomas.

"BEGIN!"

Gustave leaned into Fran's ear. "What did the Duke want with you?"

Cheers raised as the clangs and pummels of combat began, sabatons shuffling in the dirt, young men huddling into defensive posture, jockeying for position, teasing out their openings before charging in for the next strike.

Fran leaned away from his master for the briefest, failing to mask his discomfort, before quickly correcting himself and offering up a tight smile. "It was nothing important, master. He only wished to congratulate me upon the success of the talks."

OOOOOOOOHHHHHH went the galleries and commons as a single pernach strike smashed open Ser Richard's wooden shield, breaking it in two, splinters flying. A second strike whirled through the air and pounded the earth as the King's favoured courtier dove out of the way, clanking in his armour as he tossed the shattered remnants of his shield and scrambled for his fallen longsword.

Gustave eyed him, sceptically. "Congratulations, he offered? No reprimand? No bribes? No veiled threats?"

Ser Thomas pressed the attack and lunged at Ser Richard, buckler first, which the taller man was forced to parry as a mace swing looped overhead and crashed into the young Mountjoy's shoulder. Up above the Duke of Greyford roared "YES, BOY!"

It was such a ridiculous thing to ask there of all places, surrounded as they were by so many prying eyes and ears, regardless of the spectacle. But Gustave never was a man for patience. "I think he only meant to be courteous. He said that he expects to see more of me at court from here on out."

Ser Robert cheered on his son as the younger Mountjoy retreated from Ser Thomas' wide swings of the pernach. One strike missed its mark and punched a hole through the wooden planks of the palisade – and with that Ser Richard took his chance. The young nobleman leaned back, longsword lofted into doubled hands for a single strike to the back of Ser Thomas' neck, straight to the gorget, rattling the smaller man so greatly his steeled fingers slipped from the pernach's grip, leaving it lodged in the wall as he dropped to his armoured knees.

"A ploy," said Gustave. "He sees the tide turning and seeks an advantage. We must be very careful with him, Fran."

Ser Thomas, on his knees now, threw up his arms to shield his head and neck from blow after blow rained down upon him by Ser Richard until he called out, "I yield! I yield!"

"I understand, master." Said Fran.

A herald marked off his check as Ser Richard clasped Ser Thomas by the hand and helped him up. They raised their joint arms before the galleries then turned towards the commons. Good sportsmanship.

"THE WINNER IS SER RICHARD MOUNTJOY!"

The melee proceeded on like that – challenges offered from one faction to the other and answered by contest within the arena. Ser George against Ser Percy, sword to sword, Ser William against Ser Gerard, flail to flail, Ser John against Ser Richard, sword to mace, until the King's Defenders emerged victorious.

In the meanwhile other games unfolded. Off by the butts, men of common birth competed shoulder to shoulder with highborns in the archery contest. Fletched arrows shot through the air and thumped into upraised mounds of earth stamped with targets. Over by the smaller tiltyard the lesser noblemen tried their hand at the quintains or running at the rings, galloping at speed, honouring their cheques with all the skill and vigour that the favours of the ladies of the court could summon. And then, at the end of the melee, came the horse races. These games were but trifles for the main event to come, the jousts, tomorrow's coming highlight. But King Oswald was known to love a good race and some of the finest riders in the kingdom would have the honour of competing against him in the first round.

A gigantic counter-tilt was stamped into the long outer ring surrounding the tournament grounds, and there was an oaken archway garlanded by wreaths of white rose and lavender to serve as the starting point – high by nine feet and wide by twenty. Another herald scrambled into position as King Oswald led his competitors to their marks amidst the roars and applause of his people.

"AND NOW FOR THE FIRST RACE OF THE DAY!" Yelled the high herald. "LORD TUNSTALL UPON LADY BESS! SER RODHAM UPON THE DARK GABLE, SER GREGORY UPON SCARLET PRIDE, LORD JAENUS UPON MILDRITH OF THE VALE, AND HIS MAJESTY KING OSWALD, SECOND OF HIS NAME, UPON STORMWALKER!"

All five horsemen lined up as called beneath the archway as a second herald drew up with his white flag, stitched with the royal sigil of House Oswyke. He lowered it. And in a burst of mighty hoofbeats the five horses bounded off down the track, pounding clouds of dust into their sundered wake. King Oswald took the lead.

"By the way," said Gustave. "I had words with that little Geadish friend of yours. I've put him back in his place."

Fran blinked, thinking for a moment that he meant Harry Grover. Then another blonde crossed his mind. `Ed?' He thought. `Is he talking about Ed?'

"Master?"

Gustave frowned. "Do not be coy. That man you bade me hire, Stillingford's old guardsman, Edward Bardshaw. I know he approached you in ways most foul, and he has been corrected. He will trouble you no further."

Fran felt his spine shiver.

`What have you done...?' Thought he. "Master, I-"

A scream split his sentence in half. A scream, and then a crash of wood and a startled whickering before a chorus of gasps shook the tournament grounds from every direction. Fran and Gustave stopped where they were. The galleries fell still. The commons fell into shocked silence. Everyone froze.

All eyes went to the racetrack.

Two horses had stumbled together and fallen against a broken section of the counter tilt. One was Lady Bess, whickering away its dying breaths... and the other was Stormwalker. Already dead. Lord Tunstall lay in the grass, gasping for breath, his leg gored by a shard of wood, whilst the other rider laid across from him, bleeding from his ears, fingers twitching, trapped beneath the girth of his lifeless horse from the abdomen downward.

King Oswald.

"BY THE BLOOD OF THE SAINTS SOMEONE HELP MY SON!!" Screamed the Queen Dowager.

And then all of Watfield broke into chaos.

Fran stood as everyone else did, all shooting out of their seats to see what was happening. All games stopped across the fields as the Bannerets of the Bloom raced towards the fallen king, glaives in hand, skirts fanned and pelting. The other tournament riders stopped where they were, realizing what had happened, and doubled back along the racecourse, the first to reach the crash site. Sers Gregory and Rodham leapt from their saddles and rushed to the King's side, checking his pulse before Lord Jaenus climbed down and screamed for them to help him lift up the toppled horse. The three men set their backs against the lifeless creature and heaved, Oswald screaming in agony as they did so, screaming and screaming until the pain was so great it robbed him of his consciousness. By now the Bannerets had reached him. Three of them threw down their polearms, two took the monarch by either arm whilst the other assisted the others in lifting up Stormwalker.

They counted "One! Two! THREE!" and heaved up the horse corpse by half a foot, just high enough for the two Bannerets to drag the young king's body out of the sodden crevice and lift him into their arms, his torn and soiled clothes dripping in thick crimson rivulets.

By now the commons had gone wild. The Bloody Parley in redux. Men and women of all ages leapt from their grassy seats and raced toward the broken racecourse to help their king, or to help those helping him, or to ascertain his wellbeing, but they grew into a crush of bodies charging at the grounds, forcing the forty Bannerets of the Bloom at hand to level their glaives and push them back, yelling for calm, begging them to control themselves.

By then the galleries stood abandoned as the nobles climbed down its steps and crowded behind the two men ferrying their broken sovereign away to the infirmary tent where the Sergeant-Surgeon, Ser John Goodwyne and his team of royal physicians scrambled to attend him. Ser John held open the way for the Bannerets carrying King Oswald, and then Lord Tunstull, his impaled leg dangling beneath him as two of Gainscroft's footmen carried him into the tent, then finally for the Duke of Greyford and the Queen Dowager, who had their guards shove their way through the throng to be at their kindred's side.

After that, orders were barked at the guards to hand to bar the way, to cross their glaives and let no man through. Now nearly 200 nobles and servants shouted and cried around the tent, whilst a thousand shocked commoners waited upon tenterhooks for news of their dear child king.

Fran's head bobbed somewhere in the centre of the throng. He and Gustave had lost each other amidst the tumult, just before the king was taken in, just as they caught a glimpse of the monarch; soiled, bloodied, barely breathing, his pelvis crushed, his legs mangled, black blood trailing across the grass from what was left of his feet.

`How did this happen?' Thought Fran. `How on earth could this have been allowed to happen?'

A hand reached out to him.

Fran almost slapped it away, thinking it to be Gustave, but it was Edward, shoving his way past the frightened gathered and throwing his arms around the boy. Fran, aghast and breathless, practically melted into the embrace. For the slightest of times he thought he might never feel it again.

"Are you alright?!" Ed took Fran by the cheeks as he asked. "Are you hurt, what happened here?!"

Fran shook his head. "I am fine, it is the King, he... he had some sort of accident on the racetrack and then... it all happened so fast...!"

All around them was naught but shouting, crying, prayers, and questioning. "What happened on the course?" "Did the King collide with Lord Tunstall?" "Was there some kind of foul play?" "Was the sun in his eyes?" "What is taking so long?" "Where is Her Majesty?" "Can we not send for more help?" "Someone give the Bannerets a hand keeping those fucking commoners in check!" "Pore some wine upon his wounds!" "Where are the other barber-surgeons?" "This is Tunstall's fault! Was Tunstall drunk? I think Tunstall was drunk!" "Oh, poor king, our poor king!" "What is happening in there?" "Do be calm, do be calm, do be calm you all!" "Saints save the king!" "Get off my shoe!" "Oh, no, no, no!"

And then, perhaps a quarter of an hour since the tent was first barred, the defending Bannerets uncrossed their glaives and the flap punted open. Ser John emerged, haunted at his eye, his hands and smock soiled with royal blood. The huddled nobles and servants fell silent as he addressed them all. His lip trembled. His tears dripped down the sallow bend of his cheek.

`Oh no...' Thought Fran. `Oh no!'

"My good lords," Ser John wept. "Our king is dead."

**********

Fludding, The Highburghs, Kingdom of Morland

28th of Autumn, 801

That day was the hardest Edward ever rode a horse. The Wallish fjord horses the Delegation brought with them were not the fastest of breeds, but they were strong, and kept up a strong pace for vast stretches. Edward huddled down, close to the creature's mane, reins spread, boots buckling at the flanks as his steed galloped along the beaten dirt track highway veering off from the Old King's Way downslope toward the shore – towards Fludding.

Fran rode to his left. Roschewald to his right. Rieger took up the rear. Watfield lay miles behind them, the royal camp quickly disassembling itself as an emergency meeting of the Council of the Masters of the Realm was scheduled to be held at Old Hall. Everyone was in a blind panic. Servants, footmen and messengers ran back and forth from tent to tent whilst wagons and horses were loaded with goods and made ready to return.

When the commonfolk gathered for the tournament were informed of the King's fate they extolled a great woe, a wailing and weeping torn from their very throats. They cried. They jeered. They yelled at their betters for allowing him to race, they got to their knees and begged the saints to keep his soul close to their hearts. Some snuck past the guards to fetch pieces of the broken tilt, others dug up clumps of earth from the dirt patch where the late king was crushed, as if his royal blood had blessed it somehow. Over time the Bannerets of the Bloom drove them away and bid them return to their homes. And what a story they'd bring back with them.

Word travelled fast in Morland.

As the camp was unmade and the procession readied to return to Fludding, riders galloped ahead bound for all the key cities of the realm – Dragonspur, Greyford, Wrothsby, Greatminster, Harcaster, Stoneport, and Castlegarron. By noontide tomorrow the whole realm would know that King Oswald II of the House of Oswyke was gone to the saints.

And Roschewald, knowingly, was in a blind panic.

As the sun fell and the moon rose the Wallishman whipped his horse raw, racing ahead of the court by hours, knowing full well the implications of this. This changed everything. For everyone.

"This is a disaster!" Roschewald shouted to be heard over the rapid series of hoofbeats. "We have to get back to Manse de Foy! I have to write to my brother and prepare!"

This was worse than a disaster.

King Oswald's death had implications far beyond the scope of Gustavius von Roschewald's personal benefit. The King of Morland was dead.

DEAD.

And his sole heir was an unborn child of unknown gender, and until that heir came of age (some eighteen years from now) it would fall upon a regent to rule the realm in their stead...

"The Masters of the Realm will hold a convocation to choose a new regent!" Fran said, almost as if picking up on Ed's thoughts. "And judging by the current Council I cannot see it being anyone but the Duke of Greyford!"

Roschewald cut a sneer. "Leaving my trade proposals dead in the water!"

Edward bit his tongue, for all he was hot to do was separate that man from his head. `Trade proposals?' Thought he. `The most hated man in the realm is poised to retake the reins of power and he speaks of fucking trade proposals?'

"This will split the country in two!" Yelled Fran.

"And so we ride!" Barked Roschewald. "We collect our things, rouse the men, then return to Dragonspur!"

Off in the distance, past the rushing boughs and deepening shadows quickening by with each pounding stride, rose the high stone walls of Fludding. Night was fallen. And yet a cloudless sky bore no starlight, so high rose the smoke that still piped from all Fludding's chimneys, hearths, and braziers. Bells chimed from within, but not the jubilant peals that blessed them on their way to Watfield at the cusp of King Oswald's new era just that morning past, but the foreboding peals that signalled his era's ruin, and in so doing, signalled yet darker days to come.

From a distance Edward spotted the spearpoints of additional guards posted to the watchtowers and ramparts.

Roschewald, Edward, Fran and Rieger bolted on down the dusty path towards the guarded gatehouse where the city wardens had already marshalled a checkpoint. Twenty local spearmen stood to defence, stopping every traveller in or out and questioning them, taking names and purposes (and bribes) before sending them on their way. Roschewald did not bother with pleasantries. He did not dismount nor reason nor flatter. He simply barked his lofty name and demanded they stand aside – and they did.

The four of them galloped through the gatehouse and out into the town's main highway before it veered toward the manor of Old Hall. From there Edward saw the streets and found a town in mourning. Old women weeping by the roadside, drunk men crying foul, shepherds leading public prayer, loyalists waving the King's banners -- torn from the decorations around the central laneway and tied to their broomsticks and bills and fagging hooks. For all the tension in the north, the late king still had supporters here. But now the king was dead...

The four riders pushed on until Old Hall's red brick walls verged over the slope of the horizon. A hundred paces from the gates they rode into the forecourt, where some others of the court, dignitaries and lesser noblemen, had already beaten them to it; their servants mounting chests, casks, food and furniture into hired wagons and carts.

Roschewald, Fran, and Rieger all galloped ahead for entry. Edward made to follow them – until he noticed a shadowed face lurking beyond the trees, watching the foot traffic pulse in and out of the manor. For a moment Edward thought it was Lothar. Instead, as he edged his horse over to the woodland strip and dismounted, he found Harry Hotfoot waiting for him instead. The two old friends embraced.

"Is it true?" Asked Harry. "Is he...?"

Ed nodded yes.

Harry looked away, frowning. "He won no love from me. Neither him nor his feckless father. But still. A king is a king. Saints rest him."

Over by the gates, Roschewald was dismounting. A stable boy came to collect his horse as he threw an angry glance at the pair from across the paved forecourt. "BARDSHAW! By the Stars and Saints, carry yourself along! We have work to do!"

Ed's sword rattled as he clutched its hilt.

"I'm riding west for Ravensborough," said Harry, slipping his cloak's hood back over his ears. "My offer still stands. Meet me outside town at Oxdyke's Rock along the Old King's Way when the moon is highest. If you wish it."

A sigh escaped Ed as he looked at this man, Harry Grover, one of his oldest and dearest friends. Alive and well, kept safe into the present by saintly providence. Only back in each other's lives a couple of days and now look. Look at what they were on the cusp of.

Ed cupped his shoulder. "I have something I need to do. Take care, Harry."

The Hotfoot smirked. "And to you, old friend. Tell the same to Fran, saints bless him. I'll make him laugh yet."

With that he slipped away, turning tail and vanishing beyond the shadowed trunks of the long row of white-barked birch trees lining the forecourt.

Edward made his way to the gates of Old Hall, past the guards (who did not question his approach by dint of his uniform). Rieger was gone, most likely to the barracks. Fran was gone too – perhaps to his rooms. And Roschewald was off with a foreign emissary or some other, perhaps hoping to salvage some benefit from his ill-fated jaunt to Morland.

`King Oswald might've objected to me killing you,' thought Edward, fist rattling his sword. `But the coming Lord Regent wouldn't care a damn.'

With every bone in his body, every drop of his blood, every thread of his sinew, Edward Bardshaw wanted nothing less than to draw his steel and sink it so deep into Roschewald's back that it burst out of his belly. But there was work to do.

To oblivion with Roschewald.

The swordsman brought his horse not to the stables, but a secluded spot near a stone archway. Tucked away and safe, Ed went for her saddlebags. One was fattened to the brim by two full wineskins, three days' worth of food and a spool of rope, all pilfered from the encampment at Watfield. The second was empty. Edward unbuckled it and brought it with him as he entered the manse, descending its stone steps and corridors into the servant's quarters. Once he came into his rooms (still torn to shreds) he packed as much of his things as he could: spare clothes and boots, his purse of wages, a dagger, a whetstone, parchment, ink jar and quill, etc.

After that he made his way out, shrugging the saddlebag onto his armoured shoulder, bounding back up the steps to the manor's stately corridors. They were abuzz with activity. Attendants ferried chests of clothing and goods out of rooms to ready for transport. Chambermaids whispered about the King's death. Nobles freshly returned from Watfield wondered openly who should rule in Oswald's place.

He ignored it all.

Merely followed the corridors.

All the way to Fran's rooms.

He knocked.

The door yielded. Fran's sweet little face peeked through the gap at the threshold. His eyes widened, then softened, then he pulled Edward inside and barred the doors. His rooms were already half stripped; his unused parchment, quills, ink, and paperweights bundled into one chest. His other clothes, vests, doublets, jerkins, hose, ruffs, undershirts and linens bundled into a second. His important documents and letters he stuffed into his satchel. Refreshment and wine he left behind half-eaten and undrunk. He was as frantic as the other servants as he cleared the desk and riffled through the drawers.

"Stop," said Edward.

"I cannot! This changes everything, I have to think. I have to fucking think! But first we must make ready to leave. Oh, saints love him but damn him all the same, why was the King so foolhardy as to race? Which buffoon whispered in his ear to do so? What on earth did he seek to prove?"

"Stop it," Edward held him this time, turning him from the desk until they faced each other. "Where are you going?"

The clerk blinked. "We are returning south to Dragonspur, where else?"

"Listen to me, Fran..." Ed took Fran by the shoulders and held him fast. "We cannot go south. You said it yourself! When the convocation is held Greyford will retake power as Lord Regent... and if that happens then half this fucking country will rise up against him! It will be war and with Dragonspur at its centre! We are safer in the Highburghs, and you know it!"

Fran frowned. "...And my lands?"

"Fuck the land! Fuck the titles! Let the past lie and build something new! Build it with me..."

Fran's frown deepened. Those sparkling emeralds he called eyes narrowed. He was angry. Suddenly Fran shirked from Edward's grip and poked an accusatory finger at the taller man's breastplate. Suddenly, Fran was spoiling for a fight.

"How easy you make it sound!" He jabbed. "To turn your back on everything that makes you great, everything your family wanted for you, everything that grants you security and stability in this hateful world!"

"I could give you ALL of those things!" Yelled Edward. "I do not need title to keep you safe!"

A scoff. And then a wry laugh. Fran's gaze drifted to the saddlebag slumped near Edward's feet. "You speak of safety as you plot your way west to Ravensborough. That is where you wish to go, is it not? Be honest. What do you think Edith will do when she learns that her half-brother the king is dead?"

Edward puffed out his chest to fire back, but there was no rebuttal. Silence deafened. The swordsman could only think, think back to when Harry Grover met with the two of them at The Golden Cockle to express Edith's virtues, entreating with them to meet her. He thought of Stillingford's dream of a Kingdom of Equity, where all Morishmen regardless of birth, are equal beneath the crown. If Stillingford's death did not throttle that dream in its infant crib, then King Oswald's death buried it six foot deep. Then he thought about The Phantoma, Master Stillingford's nightmare put to print, his prophecy of noble ignorance to the plight of the people dooming the realm to a blind dirge toward bloody epochal shift.

Edward thought back to all the gluttony and avarice he saw at court since this progress began. He thought back to his master's execution, how a simple call to reform was twisted into charges of sedition.

Fran was right. The Phantoma dawned, and Edith's shadow loomed over the horizon.

"You promised me," said Fran. "You promised me you would stay away from her."

He did.

And then the branding was seared into his brain.

Ed clutched a fist to steady himself as the memory of it re-poisoned his mind, the memory of his life's love being rutted at over silken sheets. "...Whatever we find west will be better than what you have south with that bastard Roschewald."

Fran's eyes teared over.

"...It is not forever..." He whispered to himself.

A silence

Edward forgot himself. Brought his hands to Fran's cheeks and thumbed his tears away. Watching Fran cry was like stabbing yourself in the heart. He hated it. He hated seeing it. Fran caught his thumb, wet with tears, and kissed it. And Ed felt himself swelling anew with need for this man, to sweep him into his arms and steal him away to any compass point that would grant them leave to live as they would, together, and in peace.

And then the branding again. It burned and smouldered inside his mind. But it was not the hateful memory of Roschewald tupping at Fran in candlelit darkness this time, it was the memory of that icy ghoul Lothar metastasizing from the shadows bearing daggers and keys.

And what was it he said?

`Go and see for yourself how he celebrates his victory. And later, when you get the chance, ask Fran what happened to Wolfrick.'

And then, sharply, ugly gears began to turn. Pernicious thoughts. Thoughts Edward once believed unthinkable. Like how convenient it was that Roschewald's old guard captain fell to `consumption' after Edward's own employment came to an abrupt and unwarranted end.

Edward stepped back.

"What happened to Wolfrick?" He asked.

Fran blinked. "W-what?"

"What happened to Wolfrick?" Said Ed. "I won't ask again."

Francis turned away from him, biting his lip, ambling across groaning floorboards to the latticed window bearing out into the courtyard. "Why do you ask me about him of all people? Did you ever meet him? He was hateful! He was violent and cruel, ever quick to judgement, he raised his fist to me! Why should you care one whit for him?"

Edward frowned.

That inner aspect of himself that fractured when he peered inside Roschewald's chambers last night – he felt it breaking again. A gentle, sylvan monument carved and cleaved over ten long years of distant adulation, built up by the mortar of his memories and made flesh through saintly providence... now its beloved countenance crumbled by the instant, like a shell cracking, like the silver-painted fragments of a beautiful mask falling away from an all too human mien.

The ugly gears clicked into place.

Edward's shoulders deflated.

A sigh.

"You had him killed, didn't you?"

Fran froze at the window, his back to Edward, sobbing. But the swordsman was done with games and pretences. He marched over to Fran, took him by the shoulder, turned him around, and held him firm by the chin.

"Tell me everything," he said.

And so Fran did.

Everything. From the moment he first landed on Wallish shores as a frightened boy of two-and-ten, to the moment Edward knocked his door a moment ago. Everything. Roschewald's vices. Magnhilda's cruelty. Wolfrick's spite. His loneliness. How Lothar had been his only friend. How an evil creature called `The Fiend' convinced him to retake his place amongst the Morish nobility by any means necessary, and how he and Lothar had plotted together to that end for the better part of a decade. How he ferreted away his wages like a war chest. How he went behind his master's back and bribed his way into the Wallenheim Delegation. How he bid Edward secure star chart records to placate Lothar in the quest for his true parentage, only to learn that he and his mentally crippled brother were Roschewald's own sons. How Roschewald whored out one of those sons as `Lady Eleanora' to whet Lord Comwyn's foul appetites and secure favour. How he bid Lothar poison Wolfrick when his tempers threatened their plans. How he bid Lothar assassinate Comwyn to release the viscountcy of Thormont...

...how he bargained with the Duke of fucking Greyford to obtain that viscountcy for himself. How he now served as Greyford's espial in Roschewald's household and how the Duke planned to arrest the ambassador upon their return to Dragonspur.

And when he was done?

Edward felt like he was staring at a stranger.

Perhaps he was.

"...Still a noble..." Ed whispered, dumbfounded. "To the core of your core. To the heart of your heart..."

The saddlebags were behind him. Edward shook away his tears, fetched it, and made for the door. Francis, openly sobbing now, raced around him in a frantic stumble and blocked his path, desperately, crying, "Do not go! Please, do not go! I love you, I need you, I want to build a life with you, Ed! As viscount I could help your cause, I could-"

"My cause," said Edward, flatly. "Not ours?"

Francis placed his hands upon Edward's breastplate. "Please listen to me, Edward." A sob. "There are 3,000 Wallish troops stationed a few days sail from the eastern coast, with the right planning I could command them, I would only need Gustave out of the way-"

"Out of the way how, Lord Gray? How? By unleashing that pet bloodhound of yours, Lothar? By assassination? Listen to yourself! You sound just like the rest of them... you're everything that's wrong with this world..."

Francis froze. Wide-eyed. Shocked. Hurt. Profoundly hurt. But Edward could not allow himself to care and in that dark moment he was no longer sure that he did. For the first time since they found each other again at the flagstones of the Black Quay, Edward Bardshaw wanted away from this person.

Edward put Francis aside, gently, and took up his saddlebag. His set his hand to the door. "I am going to Ravensborough with Harry. Go south with your whoremaster if you wish. And if we ever see each other again...? Pray to the saints it's not as enemies."

And then he left.

**********

·        Thanks again for reading everybody! Stay tuned for more. Feedback and constructive criticism are always welcome at stephenwormwood@mail.com .

·        Please read some of my other stories on Nifty: The Dying Cinders (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), Wulf's Blut (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), The Harrowing of Chelsea Rice (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), The Dancer of Hafiz (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), The Cornishman (gay, historical), A Small Soul Lost (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), and Torc and Seax (transgender, magic/sci-fi).