The Court of Ghosts

The Court of Ghosts Chapter 11

·         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 Eleven: Convocation

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Edith's Castle – A Letter in Both Hands – The Training Pit – The Convocation of 801 – Shepherd Godwyn – `Time to return home, Fran' – Edith's Standard – Uprising

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Ravensborough, The Highburghs, Kingdom of Morland

32nd of Autumn, 801

They woke him with a water bucket.

A sudden burst of ice-cold water that shattered against his torso and tore him from a hard, ale-induced slumber. Edward Bardshaw shot up from his haybale bed for the night, sodden and spluttering, laughter ringing in his ears.

`Harry?' He thought.

When Edward scrubbed the well water from his face he did indeed find his old friend standing over him, banded bucket in hand and chuckling to himself, but he was not alone. A woman stood with him. A tall woman. Flame-haired. Eyes of smouldering cinnamon. Her calloused hands perched upon the hips of a moth-eaten red dress.

She leaned into Harry's ear. "This is the one?"

"Afraid so."

The redhead sighed, chuckled a little, then took up a brush from a nearby tool rack and scrubbed the golden mane of one of her horses. And then Edward suddenly remembered where he was – the stables. Had he been carried here? He didn't remember much. He remembered riding into town with Harry Grover and his followers, he remembered being shown to his rooms and being given some bread and salted meat to eat by a helper boy. And then he recalled inquiring after the nearest tavern.

Edward clutched his pounding head. "How did I get here?"

"You drank yourself into a pissing stupor, I'd wager." Said the redhead. "But I wouldn't cut myself up about it. My tavern mistress proffers a mean brew. Let me guess. Sore head? Foggy eyes? Patchy memory?"

Ed lurched forward, dripping from the hair down. "All the aforementioned."

Harry, grinning, waggled the bucket. "Fancy another?"

"The first was enough," Ed said. "Let me get myself in order before I meet with Edith."

The woman smirked. "You just did."

Ed's eyes tore open. He scrambled to his feet, snatching the haybale to steady himself before he stepped back, fist to his heart, head lowered. "Saints be, my lady, forgive me, I meant no offense..."

Edith chuckled at him as she casually stroked the gelding's mane. "If none was meant then none is taken. And I'm no lady, by the by. I'll have no `milords' nor `miladys' `neath my roof. No ranks of birth. No fucking kneeling. Understood?"

"...Understood."

In his mind it took Edward a moment to place who it was he now stood before. Edith. Or as she was more commonly known – Edith the Exile. To her sympathizers she was The Red Princess, and to her enemies, The Bloody Maid. Never before had they met and yet Edward felt as though he already knew her. Men sang songs of her deeds – whether real or imagined – from here to Greatminster. Hers was the name that dared not speak itself in noble company, the dark alternative to Stillingford's Equitism that whispered through the din of the Old Lioness; the Imperial-slaying, poacher-gelding warrior woman of the frozen north. Reputation is the world's oldest messenger.

And here she was.

`What would you have made of this, old man?' Thought he. `Is this me failing you yet again? Or is she the only choice left?'

Edith's thoughts were none too far from Stillingford either. She paused, mid-brush, frowning. "Are you thinking of your master?"

Silence.

"He was always cynical of me," Said she. "But I respected him. I was a girl of four-and-ten when I read The Phantoma first, barely understood the half of it, mind you. But long before me he marked the rot at the heart of this realm – we only differed on the remedy. Stillingford thought it a malady to be cured, but me? I see it as a canker that must be cut out at any cost. As do you, I suspect."

He did now.

Edward saw that `canker' for himself throughout the royal progress to the north. The constant feasts. The trivial games and hunting parties. The sumptuous balls, banquets and masquerades. The waste. The opulence. The indulgences. The callous disregard for the lower orders. King Oswald's court was rife with it despite all his pretentions to reform.

Edward thought bitterly of Fran and his desperation to be returned to that cloying world of luxury and decadence. The canker corrupted even his once sweet soul. What was even left to salvage?

Edith resumed her smooth brush strokes. "Harry here tells me you're handy with a sword?"

He blinked. "I... have been known to swing one from time to time."

A grin. "That and other things, I imagine. Well come on. We need all the swords we can get."

Edith returned the brush to the tool rack and had Edward and Harry follow her. She strode out of the stables into the massive courtyard of a decaying fort dating back to the Black Age. Banners of moss draped its squat guard towers and battlements. Plywood walkways were fashioned where the parapet walkways collapsed with age. Broken merlons lined its old battlements, the spired rooftops of its towers lay in a patchwork of broken tiles. In the Black Age, the age of giants and magic and chieftains, it was known as Fort Farren, built atop the apex of a sloped hillock around which the town of Ravensborough slowly grew, but nowadays its locals knew it by a different name. Edith's Castle.

"Welcome to my home, Edward Bardshaw!"

Ed blinked. "It... it's..."

"It's a fucking shack," She said proudly. "And it's home. It could be your home too should it please you. If you bring some usefulness to it."

Usefulness. That was the word that stood out as Edward eyed his surrounds. Doubtless, Edith's Castle was a decaying relic, but the people living within it could not have been more alive. In fact the entire courtyard burst with activity. Roaring forges. Piping kilns. Mule-drawn carts wheeled through the gatehouse ferrying supplies to and from the township. There were blacksmiths hammering slabs of molten iron into blades and quenching them in brine water slack tubs. Tanners prepared leather for scabbards, quivers, and waterskins whilst dozens of seamstresses stitched linens and sowed sigils into the forearms of gambesons and padded jacks. Teams of archers sat aground or at table, some sharpening broadheads and bodkins whilst others carved cock-feather into fletching. Bonneted washerwomen sung songs together as they plunged white cloth into tubbed dyebaths of woad and weld, their mewling babes strapped to their backs. Beneath thatched stalls bakers kneaded dough, butchers jointed meat, cooks chopped vegetables whilst drums of broth were brought to the boil.

Hundreds of people slowly readying for war.

`They've been preparing for this,' thought Edward. `Long before the King's death...'

Along the breadth of the western wall ran a long, thatched canopy with dozens of plywood tables in its shade. Men ate there. Bowls of pottage and strips of salted meat.

Edith pointed it out. "Go. Fill your belly and come back to me. I want to see what that little sword of yours can do."

Ed wished to speak more with her but as he turned she was already away, stalking off towards the timber-reinforced keep with a flock of pages, clerks, captains, and well-wishers vying for her attention with a rolling assortment of missives, reports, queries and prayers for her to sift through. She bent down to collect a little spaniel running into her arms as she addressed them all, one by one, with resounding and pointed detail.

"Take my messages to my chambers and I shall read them anon," and "Prepare the ledgers for review and I will speak to my paymaster," and "You should send all pledges to the market square where they may swear to the cause publicly," and "Many thanks to you, many thanks to you, with your love we may save this realm yet."

She kissed the dog, gave it to an empty-handed clerk, then yelled for a nearby man-at-arms for a review of the arrow stores as she toured through her burgeoning encampment, inspecting armour quality and weapon sharpness.

So much to countenance. So much to coordinate. So much to bear. And yet Edith the Exile did not look the slightest bit flustered. If anything it was the exact opposite. It was almost as if she was born for this.

Harry curled an arm around Edward's shoulders and led him away. "Not your typical woman, is she? Come. Let's eat. It's gonna be a long day."

Men from all corners of the country crowded those tables; Lowburghers, Midburghers, Highburghers, and even some Geadishmen. By trade they were of many stripes: masons, hunters, fishermen, woodsmen, tenant farmers, shoemakers, gravediggers, silversmiths, fruiterers, and so many more besides. All heeded Edith's call.

Edward came to Ravensborough expecting dissenters... but he never dreamed he might find such a panoply of them.

There were two seats held in reserve for Edward and Harry. One of the cook-women sat them down whilst another brought by two trenchers of boiled bacon and eggs and a cup of ale each. The latter girl gave Edward a little wink as she sauntered away.

Harry grinned at him before tearing off a bit of bacon and washing it down with a swig of ale. "Hm. Typical. You've been here but one day and already you've a wife! Bastard."

Ed smiled, softly. "She's a beauty, but she's not the beauty for me."

"You're not still arsing about, are you? I would've thought you'd grown out of that by now."

Edward frowned at the question.

"Not to worry! You will get no complaint from me. We're all Odoists here. Well, most of us." Then a thought dawned on him. The Hotfoot looked up. "...It's not Fran, is it?"

The swordsman gave no reply and busied himself with his food before it cooled.

"Heh, heh, heh! Well, you could do worse! But it's time to leave off that now. Fran's made his choice. He's with them, the nobles."

It was a long ride from Fludding to Ravensborough, one that took them through the rugged terrain of the Bordermounts all the way to the western shores of Morland. He and Harry's men spent days on the road, moving in haste, sleeping only to rest the horses. Throughout that journey Ed spoke little of his flight from the Wallenheim Delegation, but he felt no need to keep secrets. He told Harry much of what happened since the Hildegunnr first docked in the Black Quay.

Much, but not all.

In truth Edward did not wish to think of Francis anymore. His chest felt tight every time that soft smile crossed his mind. It soothed him, even if only for a moment, and then Roschewald's grinning visage flashed into focus... and then rolled thoughts of Wolfrick's assassination, of the secret bargain with the Duke, of all the lies and deceits. All of it.

No, Edward did not wish to think of Francis anymore. That sweet boy of his memories may as well have died with the Imperial cannons. The man that boy became bore him no likeness.

Ed moved to change the subject. "Does anyone know what's happening in the south?"

A nod. "The court returned to Dragonspur as of yesterday. The young king is scheduled for committal to the royal tombs as we speak. Greyford's holding a convocation for the regency as soon as Oswald's laid to rest. If the Masters of the Realm vote for anyone other than the Earl of Harcaster, Edith's sworn to raise her banner in the town square, titles be damned. Pledges of support are already flowing in."

`Little surprise,' thought Ed. And it was. There was almost no chance the council would elect Harcaster as regent, not with Robert Mountjoy and Marquess de la More in Greyford's back pocket. It was all but assured that the Duke would be elected regent again, and when he was, the Gates of Oblivion would break open across Morland.

"How many men does Edith have so far?"

Harry answered whilst eating, his voice muffled by a full and bouncing cheek. "At last count, well over 8,000. More pledge their support every day."

"Weapons?"

"A few thousand swords, pikes, arquebuses. Mostly bills and bows. Two cannons."

Ed frowned. "Saints be, Harry. That isn't nearly enough to fight the Standing Guard, let alone a ducal army once one's mustered."

Harry frowned back over the rim of his ale cup. "The plan ain't taking over the fucking country, it's to get Edith to Dragonspur and install her as regent until Oswald's son comes of age."

"And does Greyford know this?"

Harry swallowed another gulp. "He'll learn soon enough."

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Manse de Foy, Dragonspur, Kingdom of Morland

32nd of Autumn, 801

The servants Perrin put to work on the windows did a resounding job. They were so clear Fran could see his own pale reflection jerking back and forth at him, eyes crystalline, face expressionless, Gustave mounting him standing. The boy fixed his hands to the wall to brace himself against the glass. His bare thighs bounced against the lacquered sill. His soft cock flopped against the chilled pane as he pushed himself up by the tips of his toes to meet each thrust with a gaping pink sphincter.

A rough grip held him firm by his hips. Wine-soured breath and sweat-scent filled his nostrils. Coarse groans overfilled his ears. Rock hard flesh, slickened with spittle, split him open from the rear, jutting rhythmically as the taller man built himself towards his climax. Flesh slapped flesh. His buttocks' small round cheeks flushed a darker shade rouge with each stiff clap.

Fran's expressionlessness never wavered. Not when Gustave bit his neck and earlobes, not when Gustave stroked his flailing hair behind his ears, not when Gustave pinched his pink nipples, not even when Gustave took his soft member and tried to flog it off – one of those rare instances where Gustavius von Roschewald moved himself to consider another person's pleasure before his own.

But it was no use.

When Fran's yard would not stiffen for him, Gustave set his hands upon the boy's hips and ground him all the harder, almost knocking the breath out of him, almost demanding a reaction out of him, some soft sigh, a whimper, a grimace of pain, a cry of pleasure, something.

But Fran was expressionless.

He could not stop the tears from welling, but he would not give Gustave the satisfaction of making him cry.

A few moments later he was done. Buried himself thigh-deep right at the point of climax, growled like a hound, shot his seed in five short bursts before catching his breath. Only when his lungs were full did he remove his slickened person from Fran's stretched arse, holding its gaping shape. Gustave backed away from the window and slumped onto his bed with a sigh, his spent yard slinging over his hairy left thigh.

Fran did not move.

He kept his eyes to the glass and the scene unfurling beyond the gates of Manse de Foy; an ambling crowd of weeping townsmen and women marching along the cobbled promenade at the banks of the River Wyvern – all hoping against hope to collect for themselves even the slightest glimpse of King Oswald's gilt coffin as it passed them by onto Dogford Bridge, drawn by a 24-hoof team of barded white horses.

The funeral procession of King Oswald II of Morland was led by the Lord Shepherd of Morland, his holiness Sygmus II. Wreathed in flowing vestments of white and purple, he held aloft his golden crozier and headed a flock of singing castratos and incense bearers. Behind them marched three of the realm's four High Shepherds. Only three. The fourth member of their quartet (High Shepherd of the Lowburghs, Stephen Blount) was trapped in the south. Since Watfield reports of unrest in the Lowburghs had flowed in. Rumour had it that the Earl of Wrothsby swore to march an army down to Greatminster to liberate the holy city from any and all rebellious heretics.

Behind the shepherd came the coffin, and behind the coffin came the mutual carriages of Queen Annalena, the Duke of Greyford, and the Queen Dowager. The realm's most prominent lords rode behind them; the Earl of Wrothsby, the Earl of Huxton, the Earl of Harcaster, the Marquess of Gead. Lesser nobles, dignitaries, and the Bannerets of the Bloom followed.

Onwards they proceeded to the Sanctuary of the Four Saints – where the funeral would be held. After that, the late king would be interred with his ancient ancestors in the royal tomb within Staunton Castle.

Gustave and the Wallenheim Delegation were barred from attending the service – all except for Fran. In his heart he wanted to attend. He did not know the king in the most intimate ways, he was not a parent or sibling or advisor or friend or courtier. He was barely even an acquaintance. But Fran had known him. The King of Morland had admitted to the poor treatment of his family, had invited him to his maturation celebrations, had taken him hunting, had sat him to conference with some of the most powerful men in the kingdom, had made him intermediary in the talks with the Earl of Harcaster. Fran and Oswald had drunk wine and eaten sweets together. How many throughout this realm and beyond could say the same?

And now he was dead.

Fran's clothes lay in a heap around his ankles. Piece by piece he dressed back into them. He thought back to the morning, when he brought himself before a shrine of St. Bosmund for the first time in years and lit a candle in the king's honour. It meant nothing to him, but perhaps it might mean something to his late majesty? They shared the same saint after all. Perhaps it would help bring him peace.

"Pour me some wine," ordered Gustave.

By now the Wallishman had also redressed himself, sitting to the cushioned armchair between his bed and desk. The wine ewer sat by a silver platter with a carving knife and six unsliced green apples.

Fran pictured what the knife might look like if he buried it inside Gustave's throat.

Then he poured his master's wine.

"I need a letter written," The jewelled cup was perched upon Gustave's lips as he spoke. "In both hands."

`In both hands'. In other words two letters – one formal, one secret. Fran, silently, did as he was commanded and sat to Gustave's escritoire. He fetched two ink jars from its draw, black and cobalt, then unfurled a sheaf of parchment and inked his goose-feather quill in the black.

Gustave recited,

32nd of Autumn, 801

To You, Chairman of the Council of Lords,

Master Chairman, it is with great displeasure and tremendous sadness that I now write to you. I do not doubt that a more official notification has been sent to you from the royal household, but I pray you hear this terrible news first from me. His Majesty King Oswald has tragically died – crushed beneath the weight of his horse in a riding accident. His Majesty had organized a tournament to celebrate the settlement of a long-standing enmity with one of his northern lords, the Earl of Harcaster, who I made mention of in my previous letters. I hope you will join me in grief for this great young monarch and all he had yet to accomplish. As I write this letter the great lords of the realm are gathering to bless and intomb His Majesty in the royal crypts. Tomorrow they will hold a convocation to appoint a regent until Her Majesty the Queen's belly blossoms and its flower nurtured into maturity. I suspect that the candidate chosen will be his most serene grace, John Drakewell, the Duke of Greyford. His Grace is an economical man and a man of frank disposition and due diligence, yet his allegiances and loyalties, I fear, lie not with us but rather the Empire. To the matter of our trade proposals? I fear they may not pass. I shall redouble my efforts to stress to His Grace the great potential that a reinvigoration of our two nations' ancient trade ties would engender and pray to the saints that this message will resonate, but we must prepare for the possibility of a rejection.

When next we speak,

Your most dutiful servant,

Gustavius von Roschewald.

Fran turned the page over, fetched a fresh quill, then wetted and daubed it in the cobalt jar. And this time, Gustave recited...

32nd of Autumn, 801

To my good brother Neidhart,

The Morish king is dead. The buffoon of a boy made a spectacle of himself and suffered the consequences for it. Once he is interred the Duke of Greyford will hold another convocation for selection of an interim successor, but he is all but guaranteed to take back power.

The Duke is no great lover of ours and thinks only of Morland's relations with the Empire. None of our proposals will pass with him at the helm, this is my suspicion. But in your wisdom you granted me a trump card, and I have sent orders for our troops on Bunt to stand at the ready. Edith the Exile is stirring in the north. I've heard reports that men are flocking to her in droves, which might play to our advantage. I know that you expressed some reservations about their use, but I assure you they might be the one card we have left to play. Pray to the saints that our soldiers need never fire a shot. But should it come to that, we are well placed to put the winning side in our debt.

I will keep you abreast of all that follows.

Sincerely yours,

Gustave

Fran held the paper aloft and within moments the blue ink disappeared at his fingertips. The clerk folded it into quarters, heated some wax to pour over its folds, then pressed the wax with Gustave's own seal.

"I want that letter on the first ship bound for Wallenheim," said Gustave. "See it done, then go rouse Lothar. Put him on the streets, let him gauge the mood amongst the city folk. And purchase something presentable – we're to attend the convocation tomorrow at Staunton Castle."

Curiously, the Wallish Delegation had not been barred from that.

Fran eyed the letter, wagering if he had enough time to make a facsimile of it. I have sent orders for our troops at Bunt to stand at the ready - one last piece of evidence to add to Greyford's steadily growing cache. With this the Duke had all the pretext he needed to expel Gustave from court and country. It was only a question of when.

The clerk plastered on another false smile, gathered up his things, and excused himself to set about his master's tasks.

Fran walked outside and shut the door. Shadows littered the cold hallway from candle to candle, darkness warbling with every errant flicker. He felt the urge to bathe and to cry, but there was no time for either. The boy spent much of the journey home crying, lost in thoughts of Edward, hatred festering at Gustave's every touch and glance. Fran wanted to scream every time he saw that smirking bastard's face. And he was exhausted. Maintaining the façade, playing at the role of kept lover, withholding his disgust – he couldn't do it anymore.

Not after Edward.

In his waking fantasies he rode north to Ravensborough, crossbow in hand, demanding Ed back at peril of Edith's life. But fantasies were merely that. Fran thought of sending him a letter. A re-expression of his love and ardour. Would he lie? Recant all he admitted to? Was it all too late? Fran knew not. But he knew one thing.

He had to be rid of Gustave.

The King's death shook Morland to its core but for Fran nothing had changed. He eyed the letter again. `Once the Duke has this Gustave will be finished. Thormont will be mine. And then after that, Edward, I'll have you back. One way or another.'

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Ravensborough, The Highburghs, Kingdom of Morland

32nd of Autumn, 801

The men were green. Or at least... the bulk of them were. That was Edward Bardshaw's guess. His third challenger of the morning came swinging at him from the right, frantic and clumsy, sparring sword swirling into a downward stroke that Edward simply repulsed with the flat of his blade. The gathered crowds surrounding the training pit, dozens if not more, jeered at the quick step and shove that followed Edward's swift parry, shunting the taller man off his feet and into the dirt.

Ed brought the rounded tip to the man's throat and forced a yield. The taller man – a farmer – nodded "aye" and gave the victor his hand to help him up.

As the farmer passed the training blade over to the next man, Edward caught his breath and mopped up his sweating brow with a loose sleeve before pulling his shirt off entirely, catching a ripple of hoots and giggles from the women amongst the crowds. Edith the Exile was there too, arms folded and smiling, as she directed another man into the pit – this one with a wooden weapon carved in the shape of a hafting axe.

The first swing was wide and wild, some ill-timed horizontal stroke that Edward simply shuffled back to avoid. The `axeman' caught himself and swung again, and again, and again, each time missing his mark until he dropped his weapon and collapsed to his knees, lips pursed and blowing like a forge bellows.

Edward lowered his blunted sword and smiled – not with victory, but embarrassment. `These men are no soldiers,' he thought. `They are passionate, but...'

And then he looked up as a fresh round of cheers encircled the ring. Edward sourced the clamour to Edith, who grinned at him as she rolled up her red sleeves, slashed open both sides of her dress from bodice to ankle and yelled for someone to toss her a quarterstaff. She leapt over the rope barrier and landed barefoot into the pit's soft sandy dirt.

"An impressive show, Edward Bardshaw," a six-foot staff of solid hardwood flew into Edith's grasp. "But let me try my hand!"

A now wary Edward watched Edith advance at him in slow and methodical footsteps, smirking all the way, as if this were all fun and games – rather than what it was supposed to be – a trial of his martial ability. He watched her slip into stance, left hand at the butt end and right hand at the middle, feet splayed, eyes sharp. He eyed her forearms and thighs – not to gawp – but to note the light contours of muscle beneath her bare white flesh. Markers of honed skill.

"The realm just lost a king to these sorts of games," said Edward.

Edith came into striking distance – and her smile suddenly fell. "This isn't a game."

A thrust. Sudden. Forceful. Right for the head. Edward swerved sideways, boots skirting the dust as a second blow swung overhead, a swift russet wave of wood whipping about his blonde hair before a third vertical swing flew downward toward its crown. It was a blow that would've cracked his skull open had it landed. Instead, it sliced through the air and landed in the dirty sands with a shallow thud.

Edward rolled up onto his feet, catching his breath, sword at the ready, as Edith slipped back into sidewards stance – frowning. "Is this your all? Flopping to and fro like a hooked trout? Come on, Bardshaw! Where is your warrior's pride?"

"I hadn't come here for petty squabbles and sideshows! I came here for-"

The quarterstaff shot forward and struck him square in the guts. The crowd whooped with joy at the strike, but Edward was barely aware of it, not as he doubled over and gasped for breath, nor when a second swing struck him suddenly across the face hard. A rope of blood sprung from his lips and lashed the sand. Ed's knees almost buckled. His eyes rolled back to earth from the heavens where Edith was no longer Edith, but a flame-haired dancer twirling about the sands in circles of crimsoned cotton and spinning wood until the quarterstaff came careering for his head again.

Half Ed's face was already transforming into bulbous purple as he seized back, forcing himself away on backward steps, dodging the deft swing, its sheer force tossing up a sudden eddy of sand and pebbles.

Edward skated back from the dust cloud. And then the fruit of Ser Martyn Morrogh's training ripened.

Growling, Edward lunged forth towards the silhouette of Edith's presence. The sparring sword flew through the air into striking range, blunt steel bouncing off hardwood, splinters tossed about the air, boots and bare feet scuffling in the dirt at the sudden burst of strikes and counter strikes that followed; downward stroke crashing into a high guard, rightward swing parried by hanging right, inside left thrust repelled by vertical counter, neither fighter breaking the other's defences, yet with each exchange Edward inched a little forward and Edith a little back, verging towards the ropes encircling the pit.

"EDITH! EDITH! EDITH! EDITH! EDITH! EDITH! EDITH! EDITH! EDITH! EDITH! EDITH! EDITH! EDITH! EDITH!"

A swift parry tipped the quarterstaff into the dust. An opening! The crowd gasped and went silent as Edward lifted his sword to strike, steel sparkling in the bone pale sun, until Edith hawked up a wad of phlegm and spat it in his eyes. Ed jerked back with disgust. A cyclone of hardwood spun up the sands and dust until the quarterstaff struck his right ankle and tossed him off his feet. Edward fell into the ground, eyes rearing up to the sky as his back slapped the earth and drove the breath from his lungs.

He looked up, gasping, and found Edith standing over him triumphantly, chest heaving for breath and smirk freshly renewed, her staff at his throat. "Yield?"

Ed scrubbed her spit from his face. "...I yield."

Their watchers cheered, hats and fists in the air. Edith extended her hand. Edward took it, grudgingly. He lowered the training blade. "Not the most honourable method of combat, eh?"

"Do I look like I care one fuck for honour?" Edith said, sharply. At once the crowds sensed her tone and quietened themselves. "Hotfoot told you about the paucity of the northern harvests, did he not? A few hundred thousand Morish children are set to starve to death this coming winter and his disgrace the Duke of Greyford would sooner sell himself into a slave market than see them fed. Do you think honour will defeat him? By the blood of the fucking saints, I'd rather be a dishonourable victor than an honourable corpse in the ground. Too many of our countrymen's lives depend upon it. Do you understand, Bardshaw?"

Edward looked on. Unsure. He wanted to – understand, that is. Yet dishonour ran counter to everything he was ever taught to believe in. Worse still it was never his wish to take the field and spill good Morish blood. And yet here he was at the precipice of it. He could not help but think of what Ser Martyn would have made of this. Or Stillingford. Or Francis, for that matter.

And then he looked at Edith.

Her strength, her passion, her daring, her grit. Good men would follow where she led. Surely, she was better for the realm than Greyford? Was his honour worth so much more than another ten years of ducal tyranny?

"I don't need honourable heroes and gallants I need fucking soldiers," Edith dropped the staff and took him by the shoulder. "I need war dogs brave enough to keep their pikes up when the cavalry charges, and these men are just that. They may not be your measure with a sword yet, but they're ready to fight and die for a better realm. Help them live long enough to see it. Teach them a little of your skills. You've got two or three days at most but a little can go a long way; do you not think?"

"Perhaps."

Edith turned to her followers and held up Edward's hand before them. "THIS MAN WAS FRIEND AND GUARD TO THEOPOLD STILLINGFORD! HE SAW WITH HIS OWN EYES HOW THE NOBILITY CUT DOWN A MAN FOR THE SOLE `CRIME' OF TEACHING EQUITY BENEATH THE STARS! AND HE WILL HELP US CORRECT MORLAND'S SAINTS-FORSAKEN COURSE!" Edward looked around. And everywhere he looked the crowd's spirit lifted higher and higher until they were at a fever's pitch. Edith roared on, "EVERYONE HAS THE RIGHT TO CHOOSE THEIR OWN SAINT! EVERYONE HAS THE RIGHT TO LIVE FREE FROM HUNGER! AND EVERYONE HAS THE RIGHT TO LIVE UNBURDENED BY EXTORTIONATE TAXES WHILST THE WEALTHIEST IN THIS REALM GROW SOFT AND FAT!"

Her hoarse voice yet carried over the din of the bustling courtyard. Those unburdened by chores and preparations began to flock to it. And suddenly, the dozens gathered around that training pit became hundreds.

"GREYFORD IS A TYRANT WHO WOULD SEE YOU BOW BEFORE HIM AS HE BOWS BEFORE THE EMPEROR!" Cried Edith. "GREYFORD IS A COWARD WHO STOOD IDLY BY AS IMPERIAL GALLEONS BOMBARDED OUR GEADISH BROTHERS AND SISTERS! GREYFORD IS A TRAITOR WHO CEDED THE SAGE TO OUR ENEMIES, WHO SULLIED MY MOTHER'S GOOD NAME WITH FALSEHOODS, AND WHO STRIKES DOWN ANY WHO DARE TO CLAW THEMSELVES OUT OF MISERY! WILL YOU SUFFER TEN MORE YEARS OF THAT TYRANNOUS, COWARDLY FUCKING TRAITOR?!"

The hundreds gathered roared back with a resounding NO. Edward smiled to himself as warm memories flickered back to him. Memories of Firebrand Will Rothwell stirring the masses at Speaker's Square. Memories of the Crow's Club chanting and drinking at the Old Lioness. Memories of his master, the old man, summoning up Ed's hopes and optimism with that distant dream of a Kingdom of Equity. It was the old spirit of Morish rebellion.

And it was alive and blazing within Edith the Exile.

"FOR THE FOLKWEAL!" Cried she.

"FOR THE FOLKWEAL!" They cried back.

**********

Staunton Castle, Dragonspur, Kingdom of Morland

33rd of Autumn, 801

How the tides shift.

When last the court convened, at least in these numbers, its mood was jubilant. Enrapt. Triumphant. Triumphant with the burial of old enmities and the establishment of new accord, a new horizon dawning for the Kingdom of Morland. Or so it had seemed. All that joy and all that potential now snuffed out like a candle – and what was left? This.

This quiet mood of dreadful trepidation.

Fran smoothed out the wrinkles of his fox fur-collared coat and looked about the presenting hall, saturated with the rump of the late King's court, those nobles and dignitaries of the highest esteem. The tension in the room was unmistakable. Their tones were hushed, their glances wary, their whispers errant. Whispers of the Bloody Maid amassing an army in the north. Whispers of outraged Odoists flooding the streets of Greatminster in protest. Whispers of unrest here in Dragonspur, of Thomas Wolner petitioning the Masters of the Realm for a city-wide curfew. There was talk of unrest throughout the provinces, of beacons being lit along the eastern foreshores and border hills. Some nobles spoke of returning home to their burghs to secure their properties and landholdings lest any of their tenants happened upon such foul ideas as insurrection.

It was no idle talk, either.

Over by the portraitures hanging from the east wall, young Ser Gerard Vox and a handful of his lord father's retainers stood isolated from the rest of the nobility. No one wanted to associate with him – for many a reason. The convocation, Morland's ancestral summons to the realm's key magnates for the election of a new ruler in times of crisis, was coming to a close in the council chamber... and the Earl of Harcaster was the Duke of Greyford's only real contender in the race for the regency. Some shunned the Voxes because they now seemed to symbolize the late king's ill-fated northern progress. But most, at least by Fran's reckoning, no doubt resented them for their dubious ties to Edith the Exile.

But Ludolf was popular. Fran watched as a flock of feather-capped and doubleted noblemen surrounded the Imperial ambassador and assaulted him with an array of breathless, quick-tongued enquiries about the Emperor's standing, of the Queen's safety, of the healthiness of their alliance. And his excellency did his best to calm them, humbly allaying their concerns and reassuring them of his master's good will with his broad ivory smile.

Gustave watched the spectacle with an almost childlike sullenness. Few of the Morish nobles spoke to him with such urgency, in fact his treatment was more akin to the Voxes. He seemed to sense, Fran saw, the pendulum between himself and Ludolf swinging back into the latter's favour. Talk of new alliances with Wallenheim was all well and good with a strong king, a secure heir, and an optimistic realm to buttress it – but those were all come and gone. With Morland suddenly finding itself standing upon such unsteady ground, it would not do to make an enemy of the Empire.

Fran kept his eyes moving.

From Georg Ludolf and his newfound admirers to his lordship the Earl of Huxton, huffing and snarling in a tight circle of his retainers. His smouldering rancour carried up to the hammerbeams. "...I say!" Spake he. "I say I will not suffer these traitors to proceed unmolested and saints damn any troublemakers who say otherwise!"

No one amongst them said otherwise by Fran's impression.

Somewhere close by he overheard one of the young gallants, Ser Magnus de la More, whispering into the ear of his good friend Ser Humphrey Ashwick; "Have you heard? Men are going mad in the Lowburghs. They're breaking open gaols, burning burghal rolls, attacking aliens, sacking palaces, lynching our tax collectors... whatever could've possessed them to act this way?"

Ser Humphrey sniggered. "By the stars and saints! It takes little to rattle the cattle, Magnus. Let them rampage. You and I might finally earn our spurs in battle by putting the feckless rustics back in their place. Aren't you excited?"

A chill bit at Fran's spine. Not The Fiend this time, though. A worry. A worry for Edward. Fran bit his lip, quivering, wondering fearfully where this was all headed. He could stomach a world in which Edward Bardshaw hated him... Fran could always win him back in such a world... but he could not win Edward back from the grave. That Fran could not stomach. In his mind he wanted to wish Edward luck – but what would luck look like? Edith the Exile marching into Dragonspur with the Duke's head mounted on her lance, the living embodiment of Stillingford's dark prophesy? How soon would Fran's own head follow in such a circumstance?

Somewhere in the throng he caught Lady Cecily's eye. She looked to him, draped as she was in lacework veils and black silks of mourning, much as the other ladies of the court were. Across the room she cut him a peculiar smile, a secretive, almost nihilistic sort of smile. Told you so, it seemed to say. And now it all falls down...

The trumpets blared.

All fell silent as the fanfare rose above them to herald the coming entrance. All eyes shifted to the arched doors. Two Bannerets of the Bloom lowered their horns as two more opened the doors from without – and a procession of the realm's highest lords entered.

The Lord Shepherd, Sygmus II. The High Shepherd of Dragonspur. The High Shepherd of Stoneport. The High Shepherd of Harcaster. The Earl of Wrothsby. Marquess de la More. The Earl of Harcaster (infuriated). Ser Howard Frogmoncke. Ser Symon Shakestone. The Dowager Queen Emma of Wuffolk (curiously). Queen Annalena. And then, finally, an exultant Duke of Greyford.

At the presenting hall's centre ran a walkway of crimson carpeting that led directly to the dais where two gilded ironwood thrones stood empty.

It was only a few tendays ago that King Oswald and Queen Annalena sat to those thrones to announce their late northern progress. And now? Now King Oswald laid dead deep beneath their feet in the royal tombs and the Queen took to her throne alone. And by the saints, she did look lonely.

The Queen of Morland reclined into her highbacked seat as her handmaidens released the elongated train of her raven black dress. It was her duty to lead the ladies of the court in mourning, but for the convocation alone she forwent her lace veil for her pearl and ruby studded golden crown. Her demeanour was calm, her cosmetics a perfection, but in her eyes – eyes still twinkling with tears – she looked haggard, starved of sleep, and utterly downcast. A girl of four-and-ten was Annalena of Gascovy, unrecognizable as a woman, still playing with dolls (as rumour had it). And yet the weight of the realm now weighed upon her dainty white shoulders.

Fran looked to her as she ran an unconscious hand over her swollen belly where her late husband's heir slowly gestated.

Giving Morland a boy would bring great comfort in this time of crisis, a distant yet foreseeable end to the coming regency. But if it were a girl...

There was a little paper chit in the Queen's painted hands, some prepared remarks. Despite her poor command of the Morish tongue, she read them aloud. "M-my... my n-noble... l-lords... a-and la-la-ladies. It... is... it is... it is m-my p... priv-privilege? My privilege to... con-conf-confirm... the deliber... ation of-of-of the lords of the r-realm as per-pertains to... oh meine heiligen... th-these matters of... regency. It has been de-decided... that... the Duke of Greyford..."

Sighs amongst the crowd. Breaths of relief. Light mutterings and coughs. Harcaster's teeth gnashed within his frown.

"...sh-should re... re... resume his d-du-duties as regent of-of Morland un-until such time as-as-as the heir is born and c-come of... age."

She stopped.

A round of applause followed as the Duke, beardless chin held high, shoved off the flap of his half-cloak and ascended the dais to thank his Queen before slowly lowering himself into his late nephew's seat.

Fran kept eyes upon Greyford throughout his applause. `The most detested man in the realm now back at the reins of power,' thought he. As he looked about the room there was (save for Gustave and the Voxes) seemingly unanimous support for this. Perhaps they supposed that a familiar hand better suited these unfamiliar times. And yet... Francis Gray saw it for what it was.

The Morish nobility throwing a lit taper into the thatch.

Greyford held a hand aloft, each finger ringed with golden signets of onyx and diamond. The applause slowed into its end.

"My noble lords and ladies," he began. "I thank you all from the depths of my heart. I thank the Lord Shepherd, my Lord Earls, and the high councilmen of the realm for entrusting me with this great responsibility. I do not take it lightly."

The Duke paused to clear his throat with all eyes upon him. Fran sneered. `You take to this so well, your grace, one could almost see a calculation...'

He couldn't be the only one at court who thought it.

Their late king was a surefooted rider and famed for his horsemanship. He'd raced and hunted with Stormwalker dozens of times since Ludolf gifted the beast to him. So how on earth was he so easily buckled? And who stood best to gain in the wake of Oswald's death if not the Duke?

HEED HIS EXAMPLE, BOY... Mulled the Fiend.

But the Regent of Morland resumed. "His late majesty was no mere king to me. He was my beloved nephew. My blood. But as we mourn for him, the miscreants and malcontents scurry like rats behind the boards. They see a moment, in our sorrow, to seize the advantage. They are profoundly mistaken. In my sweet nephew's name I shall expunge these irritants once and for all and make Morland whole again. And to that end..."

A single finger pointed out a series of men from the crowd.

"My Lord Earls of Huxley, Gainsley, and Edgemore. Ser Robert Mountjoy. Your honour the Marquess of Gead. All of you, step forth."

The crowds parted as all five men stepped out and amassed at the foot of the dais. Every man took his knee, even lame-legged Ser Robert.

"As Regent of Morland it is my duty to appoint a new Council of the Masters of the Realm. Each of you has served these lands sagely and dutifully in the past. I would have you do so again. My Lord of Huxton."

The stout old stoat stood up with a grin, doffing his cap then placing his fists upon his hips triumphantly. "Yes, your grace."

"I am restoring you to the position of Lord Marshal. I see plain your zeal in quelling this unrest, and I know no man more apt to lead our armies than you. You will escort the Queen Dowager to my manse then assume command of the burghal militias and press north to intercept the traitress Edith at the borders."

Huxton's sallow cheeks went pink with glee. "Nothing would give me more pleasure, your grace. Once I smash the Bloody Maid's armies I'll truss the little harlot, stuff her lying mouth with an apple and drag her bony arse back to the capital for due punishment. Myself I'd favour a noose for her pretty little neck."

Fran watched Harcaster sneer.

The Duke nodded his affirmation, then turned to the Marquess. "Your honour of Gead."

Fran sneered again as Lyonel de la More rose from bended knee. "Your Grace?"

"You shall continue your service as Lord Treasurer. The bills his late highness put to you must be shelved and the collection of the Guard Tax resumed. The coming campaign will place a burdensome toll upon our coffers. I leave it to you to make the necessary arrangements."

The Marquess bowed. "Certainly, your grace."

"My Lord of Gainsley?"

The emaciated yet lavishly dressed Earl arose. At eight-and-seventy he was one of the oldest men at court (and one of the richest, barring the Drakewells and the de la Mores): "Your Grace."

"Once more you shall serve as Lord Justiciar. When these rebels are crushed their leaders must suffer the full weight of their crimes and you must oversee the burghal courts to prevent any rebel from escaping justice. This is a task solely for a man of your legal calibre."

A grateful smile crossed Gainsley's powdered face. "As always I am both honoured and humbled to serve, your grace. The hammer of the law is once again at your right hand."

Then came Edgemore. The Duke called out to him, and he stood to a bow, then went upright, barely able to contain his inner glee. "Your Grace of Greyford, as ever, I stand at the ready."

"I am most pleased to hear it. I restore to you the position of Lord Serjeant. Your advice has been impeccable across the years. No one is more capable of bringing the crown's directives to pass than you. Be prepared. This coming winter you shall have much to do."

Finally came Ser Robert. The regent bid his old friend stand. He did so (with some help from an attendant). "Ser Robert. You shall continue your role as Lord Seneschal. Once the unrest is quelled a household shall be formed for Queen Annalena and the heir at Clemence Palace. Yourself and the Queen Dowager shall govern it. Until such time your task will be to reconstruct my own household here in Dragonspur. You have all the resources necessary. See it done."

Ser Robert nodded. His mood was as downcast as that of the Queen and Queen Dowager, which in and of itself was hardly surprising. Robert Mountjoy was not merely the steward of the royal household, he was late King Oswald's lifelong mentor. Losing him must have been like losing a son. Indeed, as Fran looked then to the late king's favourite, young Ser Richard Mountjoy, red-eyed and snivelling within the crowds, it was as if he'd lost a brother.

"Your grace," Ser Robert sniffled. "I shall do my duty."

He then dismissed his newfound Masters of the Realm – which in truth was merely the old guard of his first regency restored. Oswald's new men, Ser Howard Frogmoncke and Ser Symon Shakestone were out; the Earls Huxton, Gainsley and Edgemore were back. Morland's chief legislative body was once again under Greyford's thumb.

Uncontested power.

"My lords, my ladies. These are dark days. But though the saints may test us... we have always met their trials with strength, dignity, and resilience. May we do so again," The Duke clutched a fist. "I have sent word to all of the northern Midburghs. Our burghal militias shall muster at the city of Greyford and proceed north under his lordship of Huxton's command. Once and for all Edith the Exile shall be brought to heel. The Standing Guard shall proceed south into the Lowburghs to suppress the Odoist uprisings at the Earl of Wrothsby's direction. The heretic scum shall at last be scoured from the streets of the holy city. As for Dragonspur? I will grant Thomas Wolner leave to enact a curfew upon the city whilst he roots out the last remnants of that seditionist Crow's Club and all their nascent sympathizers. It will be a hard season and there will be losses. But for our dear King Oswald, and his dream of a better Morland, we shall fight, and we shall win!"

Resounding cheers and applause. Hundreds of hands clapping together afore their chests – all except for the Voxes. As the applause droned Fran flicked a glance at the Earl of Harcaster who by that point had had enough. With a furious swirl of his yellow and black tabard, the greybeard made for the doors whilst his son Ser Gerard and their six retainers followed suit.

But the Duke was wise to it. He gestured to the Bannerets at the doors who crossed their bardiches to bar the way.

The applause stopped.

Nobles murmured amongst themselves as four more armed Bannerets emerged from the sidewalls and surreptitiously surrounded Harcaster's retinue.

The greybeard turned heel, directing his voice across the presenting hall to the dais. "What is the meaning of this?!"

A smile found its way to the normally stone-faced Duke of Greyford. Up he stood, clasping his hands, descending the dais. "My Lord Earl. As most of us bore witness you spoke an oath of obeisance to my late nephew. You swore to be true to him and to abide not his enemies. Well, my lord, Edith the Exile was very much his enemy and now that enemy moves to march upon this city. Will you take up arms against her?"

Harcaster boiled with rage. From the look of him it was all he could do not to draw his sword. "I... am loyal to this realm...! I would not have it bleed!"

"And yet it is your insurrectionist granddaughter who holds the knife..." said Greyford, soberly. "What assurances do we have that you would not slink off north to join forces with her? How can we trust you?"

Gerard, the younger and more diplomatic of the two Voxes, stood ahead of his father to speak. "Your grace. My father and I are loyal subjects of the crown and Edith acts with impunity in these proceedings. My niece does not speak for my house."

The whole hall plunged into a silence so loud it made echoes of Greyford's slippered feet as he walked along the `aisle' towards the ring of bannerets surrounding the Voxes. "So you say. And if I sent you north into the Highburghs with a dagger in hand – would you indulge me by driving it into Edith's heart?"

Gerard paused.

And then he said – "I would fulfil my duty."

"Ah!" The Duke smiled. "Your duty to me, I presume. Well. Nevertheless. I am not so heartless as to command you to slay your own kin. But I must also secure assurances of your fealty. A token. A gesture of goodwill."

Gerard frowned. "What sort of token?"

"You," said Greyford. "Your father is free to go but you, Ser Gerard, you will remain a guest of Staunton Castle until Edith's little rebellion is quelled. You shall be my token."

Harcaster would have gone for his sword if Ser Gerard did not turn to him, calm him, and kiss his forehead in all its hot pink flesh.

The son smiled, soberly. "Father. Father? Look at me. I am your son. I will be fine. Go home and stay in stillness until his lordship of Huxton brings these matters to a close. For his late majesty the king, and his heir soon to be... do this thing and show them all our unbending fealty."

A heavy, gloved fist physically tremored beside Harcaster's leathered shanks. Everyone at court stood transfixed by the scene. The old soldier of the north let out a harsh wrathful sigh like the purging of a choler. He lowered his head, collected his thoughts, then looked up at his son and grabbed him by the neck, knocking their foreheads together and squelching his tears.

"I am so proud of you, my boy," said he. "If any harm should come to you... so much as a hair out of place..."

Greyford crossed his arms. "No harm will come to him if you maintain your neutrality. You have my word. Now go."

Harcaster's reply was naught but a growl. He didn't even grace `his grace' with a frown. Instead he looked to his son, kissed his pimpled pate, then turned heel once more. The Bannerets of the Bloom uncrossed their weapons and broke away, allowing him and his retainers to pass as he stormed off into the cavernous halls of old king Edwulf's ancient keep. Two of the Bannerets then quietly escorted Ser Gerard Vox away.

Murmurs laced the crowds as the regent returned to his throne to resume his remarks. Fran listened in. There were cynics abroad the court who wondered if it was wise for the Duke to let Harcaster go. But they were simpletons who, unlike Fran, had not ran the numbers.

Killing Harcaster all but guaranteed the Highburghs would fall in behind Edith, and then it was the Morish Civil War all over again. But by keeping his beloved son hostage? The Duke had given the old Earl every incentive to keep the north in line.

The Duke of Greyford was once again the most powerful man in the realm... and he never could've gotten there without a little shrewdness in his pocket.

`Edward,' thought Fran. `For your own sake do not make an enemy of this man... not this way. Please. Stay alive.'

**********

Ravensborough, The Highburghs, Kingdom of Morland

34th of Autumn, 801

The training began at dawn.

At Edith's discretion Edward Bardshaw spent much of the previous day in the pit, instructing her men by the dozens in swordcraft. There was so much to learn and so little time to do it – not besides the fact that most of the army would bring bills and bows rather than swords to the battlefield, but each man was intended a sidearm, be it long knife, hammer or club, and if it came to close quarters combat, it would not hurt to learn a few tricks.

"Choose your guard well," He told them. "Don't overexert yourselves, no wild swings, you'll only tire yourselves out. If their weapon beats yours in reach, close the gap. If it's the reverse, do the reverse. Keep your eyes on the other man's chest that way everything he does will be in view. And whatever you do don't hesitate. Hesitation is your enemy's opening – never give it to them."

Edith's conscripts were of varying age. Some as old as sixty, others young as twelve, most middling in their years, men of thirty and forty, from account keepers to cordwainers. Many were husbands and fathers. They had precious ties in this world to lose. But they were united in one desire – to free Morland from Greyford's yoke once and for all. And Edward had to admit some trepidation in teaching these men, most of whom bearded at his birth, the art of combat.

Older men sometimes bristle at the instruction of their youngers. And yet they were all so willing to learn, soaking up each lesson with energy and passion. These men were the newest of Edith's recruits – those who came to her in the wake of King Oswald's death – arriving roughly at the same time he did. Once they were armed and armoured, they would be assigned to a company and taken out into the fields beyond Ravensborough for training drills.

`Convocation or no,' thought Edward. `This army would march south.'

He disbanded them at noontide.

"Go and fill your bellies," he commanded. "We resume in an hour."

One of the younger boys came up to him – a freckled little blonde boy, barely three-and-ten in his years, in padded practice armour. "Are you coming too, Captain Bardshaw?"

`Captain? Is that what they're calling me now?' Ed chuckled. "I shall join you anon. Go on. Off you trot."

He nodded, shucking off the padded jack and scampering out of the sandy pit. As the men dispersed Edward set aside his blunted sword and made his way towards the keep. He had things to discuss with Edith, things he'd noticed amidst the frantic bustle and preparations throughout her castle. But then he noticed something. A gathering.

Off by the southern wall of Edith's Castle stood (or half-stood) a section of the curtain wall partially collapsed onto itself and replaced by ironwood fortifications hammered and lashed into a small gatehouse. Edward watched a large crowd form and pour through it, converging in a grassy outer courtyard filled with crop gardens and kilns. A circle of spectators, dozens deep, had formed around a cassocked figure seated upon a small, cushioned stool in its centre. A shepherd. Two children sat upon his lap, giggling, as he cuddled them and addressed those gathered to see him.

Edward drew through the crowds. He did not know why, for this shepherd was but one of many from across the realm come to bless Edith's coming campaign, but this one caught his attention. And as Ed barrelled through into the centre of the conventicle – he soon saw why.

Shepherd Godwyn.

Edward knew him not by the face. That was not the tell. The tell was his disfigurements – the peeled flesh of his bare toes, the welts and weals scattered about his hands and neck, his cropped ears; a packet of wrinkled flesh within the socket where once his right eye might've sparkled with the sight of his coalesced flock. Saints only knew what other horrors that frail body had been subjected to. And all of it the handiwork of the Earl of Wrothsby.

Ed had heard rumours of the rogue shepherd's escape from the Earl's `tower of penitence', but he never thought to see him here...

Godwyn's Lowburgher accent whistled through his broken teeth, almost accentuating it as he spoke. "Oh come ye, oh come ye, and eat of rotted fruit. I am ye Duke I say, `till ye give me the boot."

Snickers.

Then silence again.

Reverence.

"Ye tables merit more than rotted fruit," said he. "Look well upon me and mark what ye see. For what ye see is what comes for ye. They trample and trollop and fetch for ye tithes, despoiling ye land as ye yet abide. Or would they? Stem ye their tide?"

Godwyn's sole eye blinked slow as his flock – and Edward – hung from his every word. He bounced the children at his lap with stubbed fingers. "One rotted fruit yet rots the bushel. A worm called `blood' eats well of it. His blood be high yet ye be low. For him the sceptre and ye the hoe. And yet? Say I this – take they ye land or ye liberty, should they trap ye `hind bars – all men are equal `neath the stars."

Edward smiled.

"Cast off ye rotted fruit," said the shepherd. "Make merry with full bellies, and worship who ye will. Ye've a realm to save – so take up ye bill."

A crush of roars swallowed up the conventicle. Hundreds cheered with swelling pride, pumping their fists into the air as Godwyn's fatherly smile fell softly upon them all.

Edward saw plain why Wrothsby worked so tirelessly in his persecutions of this man. For he, like Edith, inspired the commonfolk. Ed looked around himself. Saw all their faces. Young. Old. Male. Female. Tall and short. Thin and fat. All animated by the same zeal. Godwyn's words lit a flame within them. A purifying flame set to sweep across Morland and burn its broken order to ash.

A hand took his shoulder.

Edward turned around, thumbing the tears out his eyes, and found a familiar face at his back. The lawyer.

Kenrick Thopswood.

Tall as ever and equally as thin, his worn doublet and hose well-hidden beneath a sheepskin cloak. He looked tired and pale. Dark circles rounded his eyes, but his eyes burned with the same passions as those cheering amidst them now.

Ed smiled, recognizing his compatriot in an instant, then he froze, remembering how they left each other. Him drowning his sorrows at the tavern in Harvenny Heath, drunkenly dismissing Thopswood's coming trek to the north, cruelly threatening to chop off his mitts for laying hands on him.

Thopswood hadn't forgotten.

They stood staring at each other, wordlessly, waiting for the moment to shape itself into what it should be. And then they wrapped their arms around each other.

"I'm sorry," Ed said. "I am sorry, I-"

Thopswood cradled his head. "All is forgiven, boy. You are here now, aught else matters not. It is as Shepherd Godwyn said. We have a realm to save."

"Aye."

"Come," said the lawyer. "Edith's holding counsel. You, me, and the shepherd are summoned to attend."

**********

Staunton Castle, Dragonspur, Kingdom of Morland

34th of Autumn, 801

Since the twilight of The Black Age the convocation was a grand sort of affair. It drew from the ancient custom of the moot – an assemblage of high chieftains and shepherds to discuss matters of critical import to a burgeoning realm. Over the years its character and purpose slowly transformed into a massive occasion spanning the tendays, a summoning of lords, ladies, shepherds, guildsmen and scholars typically for one purpose – to elect leaders during a succession crisis.

Greyford's convocation, his second, was not such an event. Invites were sent only to those of highest rank. The public was barred from the petition hearings. No courts were held to give evidence of precedent. No citations of saintly law. No mass conventicles. No caucuses. Only a small assemblage of earls and high shepherds in the bowels of Staunton Castle.

And now the second regency of their times had begun.

It occurred to Fran, even as he and Gustave were summoned by an escort of Bannerets to attend the Lord Regent's private audience chambers, that the Duke's re-empowerment had lengthened his road to revenge. But it was a fleeting thought. Fran's mind, sharpened to a knife's edge by the finest tutors in Strausholm, envisaged not such far flung goals this day.

This day Francis reserved his thoughts only for the man swaggering down the hall ahead of him, Gustavius von Roschewald, and the well-merited fate that awaited him at the Duke's hand.

Gustave's arrest, the delicious and long overdue prospect of it, was the only thing keeping the boy from unleashing Lothar's icy wroth upon their master. Two quick, clean slashes to the throat from Pussyfoot and Bullyfoot served up a tempting image, but Fran had played his cards too well to get this far only to risk it all with a murder he could not readily cover up.

No matter how deserved it was.

Fran's fist tightened. He thought of his dear Edward, lost in the north and wracked with disgust for him. To this day he still did not know how Edward learned the truth, but he was certain that Gustave had something to do with it. He was the source of it all, all Fran's woes and misery these past ten years, and now finally his hour had come.

Fran felt the Fiend stirring inside him like a baying hound as the Bannerets led them to the scrolled double doors of the Duke's audience room, shoving them open after a brief knock and "enter".

The regent's rooms were small, barely large enough to hold twenty people, topped with a low frescoed ceiling and backed by a wide fretted window providing full view of Staunton Castle's grassed inner courtyard. Afore that sat the newly empowered Duke of Greyford; enthroned and imperious. A massive crimson cloak pelted by the spotted fur of a mountain lion draped him from shoulder to shoe. A golden livery collar encrusted with diamonds, rubies and onyx now replaced his old ducal one. Two bardiche-armed Bannerets stood guard at either side of his gilt throne.

Fran and Gustave's armed audience excused themselves whilst their charges fell each to a knee, lowering their heads and doffing their feathered caps. The doors groaned shut behind them.

After a long pause Greyford bade them rise. He snapped his fingers and summoned seats for them. A pair of footmen emerged from an anteroom with two cushioned mahogany stools. "Please sit," said one as the other arrayed the furniture behind their backs. Fran and Gustave took their seats. The footmen withdrew.

"Wine?" Offered the Duke.

"Thank you, no." Said Gustave. "Your hospitality resounds, your grace, but wine muddies the mind."

A smile. A cool one. "Why, excellency, you speak as if we are here to negotiate."

The Wallish Ambassador played the game of deference as well as any child enrapt with a shiny toy... until it finally lost its lustre. As Fran's patience with Gustave ran thin, so too did Gustave's patience with kowtowing to others.

Still.

The Ambassador held his tongue behind a set of well gritted teeth. "My purpose in this great country has always been a matter of negotiation, your grace. To the mutual benefit of Morland and Wallenheim, of course."

"Of course. And indeed, I was a first-hand witness to the swiftness with which you wheedled your way into the good auspices of my nephew's court. It was quite a thing to behold and all in such a short amount of time. Thanks in part to Master Gray here, I'd imagine."

BURN HIM! Cried the Fiend. "Your grace is most kind."

The Duke's smile levelled out. "I will cut to the quick. There is great tension within this country at present. Until such time as those tensions have cooled, and all dissidents and heretics fully suppressed, it would be foolish to negotiate any policies that might fracture the Treaty of Grace."

HANG HIM! Bellowed the Fiend.

Fran darted a quick glance at his master. The Wallishman's jaw twitched. One could almost see him calculating the responses in his mind. `Your Grace cannot mean to divert from the path his late Majesty the King wished his realm to tread?' `Your Grace, surely you can see the financial benefits of a subtle trading agreement between our two nations?' `Your Grace, in this time of crisis for Morland, surely you would not risk making an enemy of Wallenheim either?'

He would never give voice to any of them. Not by Fran's reckoning. But what he did say did end up surprising the boy. Gustave forwent calls to duty, greed, or threats.

Instead he went for empathy.

"Your Grace, I came here not to enrich myself or play petty political games or invite Imperial wroth to your shores. I came here because my countrymen suffer for lack of trade with Morland, and my brother and I fear what will become of the Republic without intervention. This I make plain to you. For the sake of both our peoples, intertwined by blood, culture and history, please reconsider."

It was not a heartfelt plea (Gustave was too coldblooded for such things) but it was an earnest one. But the germ of conspiracy Fran planted in the Duke's mind had grown and blossomed into a blood red rose of rebuke. Greyford was unmoved.

His reply, sharp.

"No."

He said it so sternly and simplistically it gave the impression of a command. "All trade negotiations with Wallenheim are hereby suspended. Furthermore, until the unrest abroad this land is quelled, your delegation shall be placed under indefinite protective confinement."

Gustave blinked. "Under what grounds, your grace?"

"My people cannot stomach aliens," said the Duke. His lips barely suppressed his little smirk in the saying of it. "I do this not to punish you, your excellency, I have taken the same measures with Ambassador Ludolf and my good sister, the Queen Dowager, whose name is besmirched amongst the commoners by foul and baseless slander. I will write formally of my decision to the Council of Lords and your brother, Chairman Roschewald. Until further notice you are not to leave your quarters at Manse de Foy. I cannot otherwise assure your safety."

Cold rage brought the shivers to Gustave's meaty fist. Fran watched it quake in his lap as he fixed his eyes to the Duke of Greyford's hard iron stare – redoubtable and obdurate. He would not bend. He would not break. And Gustave knew it.

A tight, curt nod. "Your offer of protection is most generous, your grace."

"Good. Now leave us, I will speak with Master Gray alone."

A pause. Gustave leaned back, eyes wide, shooting from Greyford to Fran and back again. His lips parted, almost as if to protest, and then he caught himself. Barely. Incredulous but utterly powerless to express it, the Wallish ambassador arose and offered the Duke the humblest of bows before taking his leave. Greyford commanded his two guards to follow him out – clearing the room save for himself and the lost lord.

Privacy.

The Duke of Greyford sighed, leaning deep into his throne, hands peeking out of his cloak to grip its gilded rests. "Give me your report."

`So it's the part of espial again?' Thought Fran. "Roschewald has sent a missive to his brother. He understands he cannot sway you and speaks of `playing at both sides' with the garrison at Bunt, to which he has already sent orders to standby, prior to my knowledge. I have a facsimile of the letter with me here if you require it?"

The Duke turned right, eying the snapping tongues of the hearth's flame. "No. I believe you. Edith has already made overtures to him. It is not beneath Roschewald's guile to sail his little army to my shores and join forces with the Bloody Maid. I see his plan clearly. Install Edith as queen and you as overlord of Gead, then bring forth the bill: renewed trade ties with Wallenheim. I see right through the swaggering bastard's complots."

"When will he be arrested?" Asked Fran.

Greyford blinked, catching the impatience of Fran's tone, but he stilled. He collected himself. "Your hatred for him is frank, boy. And fully warranted, doubtless. But I caution you to patience. War is afoot. I have Odoist uprisings in the south to contend with, as well as Edith the Exile's swelling rebellion in the north – I cannot risk opening up a third front to my east. For now, confining Roschewald ought to be enough to stymie his schemes. Keep your gaze on him. Take facsimiles of all his letters and ensure none of the originals reach the ports. Make ready a war chest of evidence and in time my Lord Serjeant will crush him with it."

`He means not to act? He means only to confine him? To gaol me with my rapist?' Fran's stomach curdled. Not simply with disgust but fear. "Your most serene grace, I beg you. I have laboured and lost much to come this far. I-"

"And you've only a little further to go," said the Regent. "So go. Continue your service to me and be as useful as you have been so far. Our nation may depend on it."

It was a dismissal. He would hear no further entreaties. The orders were given – continue your service. YOU BASTARD! Raged The Fiend. YOU BASTARD! BASTARD! BASTARD! BASTARD! BASTARD! BASTARD! BASTARD! BASTARD! BASTARD! BASTARD! BASTARD! BASTARD! BASTARD! BASTARD! BASTARD! BASTARD! BASTARD! BASTARD! BASTARD! BASTARD! BASTARD! BASTARD! BASTARD! BASTARD! BASTARD! BASTARD! BASTARD! BASTARD!

Fran rose from his stool, plastered upon his lips the falsest of dutiful smiles, made his polite bow, and excused himself. Quietly. He made for the scrolled arch doors that clutched shut behind him as he strode out into the carpeted corridor beyond. Gilded portraitures and frog-mouthed suits of armour bore down upon him, angry glares all, as if punctuating his failure, his doubts, his fears.

A guard of Bannerets passed him by. Fran turned a corner. And then, from the shadows, a hulking figure snatched him into the shade of King Osbert I's legendary jousting armour – out of sight and earshot.

Gustave.

The taller man shoved the shorter into the wall, snatching Fran's throat with a sneer. "What is this?!" He hissed. "For the second time now the Duke convenes with you privately, beyond my eye! Why? Why does he show you this favour? What is he saying to you? Answer me!"

Fran could not answer because he could not breathe – so tight was the towering ambassador's grip around his throat.

Fran moved to speak as his cheeks flushed red and his mind fogged over, but a drooling rasp was all that left his mouth, all until a trembling hand reached towards his master's codpiece and squeezed the girth locked within.

Gustave tensed up, shivering at the sudden stroke of pleasure, releasing his grip, more unconsciously then all else.

Fran gasped for dear life, swallowing up gluts of air like handfuls of water at an oasis, heart and lungs beating in his chest until speech found him again. "M-master... please. I... there is no wrongdoing... I am loyal to you, all I want is you, all I need is you... I would never risk that..."

Within the shadows a towering red countenance, contorted with anger, slowly calmed and steadied itself. The colour drained from Gustave's cheeks. He caught his breath. The glint of rage departed his eye. And then his lips found Fran's in the darkness.

The boy froze.

He felt nothing at it, not even the briefest spark of pleasure, nothing but revulsion and anger. Fran waited, as silent and stationary as the armour and sculptures standing sentry around them, until Gustave finally pulled that thick lizard's tongue out of his throat.

They caught their breaths.

"...This is hopeless," admitted Gustave. "Oswald could be moved but Greyford cannot. I will write to my brother again and bid him recall us to Wallenheim. Time to return home, Fran."

**********

Ravensborough, The Highburghs, Kingdom of Morland

34th of Autumn, 801

It was the biggest map of Morland that Edward Bardshaw ever saw. A massive woodcut a four yards long and two yards wide, carved from cherrywood into the shape of the nation. Edward traced his fingertips along its lacquered surface as his eyes darted from key city to key city, from Harcaster to Stoneport, from Stoneport to Greyford, from Greyford to Dragonspur, from Dragonspur to Greatminster, from Greatminster to Wrothsby. Long, winding grooves represented the four main highways of the realm, and points of key fortification were also represented – Edith's Castle, Fort Caelish, The Towers of White and Black, Staunton Castle, and so on. Alongside the woodcut's edge rested a series of flat painted marbles, each one representing a military host of 1,000 men – white for allies, red for enemies. Eight white marbles lay upon Ravensborough. A further ten white marbles lay scattered about the main townships of the Lowburghs; three around Peaswyke, another three around Wrothsby, a final four around Greatminster – where three red marbles also sat. Four more red marbles were placed upon the holy road bearing south towards Greatminster, whilst a single red marble sat atop Dragonspur.

From a distance – it was almost as if Edith had the advantage.

Edward looked up from the table and beheld those gathered around it, each one serving some central purpose, some of whom he knew. There was Kenrick Thopswood – Edith's legal advisor; Harry Hotfoot – Edith's herald and first messenger; Shepherd Godwyn – Edith's spiritual director. But there were others he did not know. An aging, beady-eyed matron in a moth-eaten kirtle and overgown called Mistress Alyse – Edith's steward; and a towering man of muscular build, raven-haired and grim-faced, cross-armed and morose in his simple black doublet and trunkhose; Owayne mac Garrach – Edith's commander.

And Edith?

The Red Princess stood at the foot of the table, cup in hand, frowning broadly at the lacquered demesne of her forebears. Sharp blue eyes cut upwards to take in each of her advisors – and Edward. She went to him first.

"How goes the training, Ed Bardshaw?"

He paused a moment, flustered, thinking himself a guest rather than a member of the inner circle. And yet here he was... "Uh... well. I-I admit wishing for more time with them, but for what precious little time we have... your men make good use of it. They learn well."

A nod. "I hear the new recruits have taken a shine to you. This is good. Form up a unit of the most promising men and take to the fields tomorrow for battle drills. I may have a special task for you."

"Me?" Edward blinked. "Edith, I've... I've never led men to battle before... I've never fought a battle before."

She smirked. "And neither have I... at least not to this scale, anyway. Let's learn together, eh?"

There would come a day, Edward was sure, when the chroniclers would ask themselves how Edith the Exile could amass such a following of men in such a short amount of time. One of those men would (correctly) credit that blazing magnetism of hers – but even then he would undersell it. To understand, fully, one had to be in her presence. One had to see the world through her eyes – and if you did? You would follow her to the gates of Oblivion.

Ed nodded to her, warmly, smiling to himself. "Understood, Edith."

"Good," Next came Alyse. "Mistress? How are we looking?"

Mistress Alyse, steward of Edith's Castle and household, had been a follower of the Red Princess since her days of exile in Wallenheim. Stout and motherly, she cast a tender eye about the room. "Ravensborough bloats but we haven't met capacity yet, my dear. Our sympathizers abroad the realm send us marks, arms and supplies where they cannot spare us men. Our stores remain full, and our coffers grow."

"Excellent," said Edith. "These men abandoned their crop fields for my service at the height of harvest season, I want every man repaid with fair wage for his troubles. Tell my paymaster – five marks per day per billman, seven per archer, ten per horseman, four per auxiliary. And make ready the baggage trains. The requisitions I sent to the surrounding burghs have fetched us 300 mules, 150 oxen, and as many wagons for ready use. We'll need arrows, gunpowder, armour, boots, potatoes, ale, livestock, tenting, you name it."

Alyse nodded. "I shall see to it."

Edith looked to the map again. "Until we make inroads into the Midburghs, Ravensborough will be our chief point of re-supply. I want you to remain here to coordinate it, Alyse. The men respect you as they do me, they will not buck in my absence. Thopswood?"

The lawyer nodded. "I have done as you asked and drawn up a provisional list of demands to be issued to the crown..."

Ed watched him fish out a folded onionskin slip from the pleats of his sheepskin coat. Thopswood opened it up and read it aloud...

"Point One: The installation of Edith Oswyke as Regent of Morland until such time as the unborn heir comes of age."

"Point Two: An immediate repeal of the Guard Tax."

"Point Three: The abdication and arrest of the Duke of Greyford by force or will."

"Point Four: The abdication and arrest of the Earl of Wrothsby by force or will."

"Point Five: The establishment of a duly elected burghal assembly, two seats per burgh; one shepherd, one common."

"Point Six: A permanent end to all persecutions of Odoists throughout all four demesnes of the realm."

"Point Seven: A general convocation of the Morish Shepherdry to canonize Sage Odo without reference to foreign powers."

"Point Eight: A posthumous exoneration of the late Queen Katheresa Vox."

"Point Nine: The expulsion of all Imperials and Imperial sympathizers from all four demesnes of the realm."

Then finally,

"Point Ten: The manumission of all Morish bondsmen and bondswomen with immediate effect."

Harry smirked. "Think his grace will bite?"

"Tch. `His Grace' would sooner take a running shit through the streets of Strausholm than bite," said Edith. She looked to her lawman again. "Draw up the clauses then send facsimiles of that list to every city, town and village we've horses enough to reach. Let the people see the rightness of our cause and watch them rise up with us against this cankerous court."

Thopswood tucked the slip away, smiling. "It will be done, Edith."

"Hotfoot?" Edith eyed Harry then. "What news from abroad the realm?"

Edward watched his friend eye the woodcut map afore them all, in turn. "Missives reach us from as far afield as the Giant's Neck. Our brothers and sisters in the Lowburghs have already risen up and banded together, converging on Greatminster as we speak. High Shepherd Blount has been captured and Lord Shepherd Sygmus II shelters at Staunton Castle with the Duke. The Standing Guard marches for the holy city with the Earl of Wrothsby at the helm, with any luck our Lowburgher allies will take Greatminster before the Guard can intercept them."

"Pray they do, and that no conflict should come to the holy city in their wake." Edith made the sign of the saints. "What of the Midburghs?"

There was a small fortress on the southern side of the Bordermoors, Fort Silvermere, that Harry moved a white marble onto. "Lord Albert Bacon has overthrown the royal contingent at Fort Silvermere and vowed you his support. According to his letter he's gathered up a force of one thousand pledged men for your disposal. But..."

Harry then moved four red marbles onto a spot of the map that marked the city of Greyford, the Duke's namesake and the cornerstone of his landholdings. "There are reports of a general muster for a ducal army at the city of Greyford, no doubt under Huxton's command. My espials had it at 4,000 men by last headcount but that was three days ago. It may have tripled since then. All ports south of the Bordermoors are blockaded. We cannot resupply by ship until we take a seaport or join with Bacon's men at Silvermere."

Edith eyed the map, one hand palming her elbow, the other wrapped around her chin. "And the Highburghs?"

"There are uprisings in the city of Harcaster, Mowbrey upon Moor and Tuckbridge. Their respective treasuries and jewel houses have been broken open and their contents assured to us, which'll be a great help. It ain't all glad tidings, though. The royal garrison at Castlegarron `declines to surrender' to the rebel forces, the Sheriff of March has suspended all southbound traffic through Fort Caelish, and your grandfather's standing army, the Spear of the North, refuses to march without the Earl's express command."

"So then," she whispered. "I have fewer allies to my north than I would've liked. Very well. Let's see which side the coin lands on when my grandfather returns north. Owayne? What of our armies?"

Edward would learn much of Owayne mac Garrach over the coming days; a former lord stripped of his holdings by act of attainder for his father's involvement in the Greyford Riots of 797 – he went east to the continent where he found fortune and glory in the internecine Gasqueri Wars. He'd formed a free company of 2,000 highly skilled and seasoned warriors known as The White Ravens – and he represented the backbone of Edith's forces. But it was not for coin that Owayne and his White Ravens would take the field – it was for revenge, and eventually, the liberation of Castlegarron.

The stolid soldier – known by his men as The Maul – set his palms flat upon the smoothened tabletop and moved two white marbles onto the fields outside Ravensborough.

"My White Ravens are fully provisioned and ready to march. As for the recruits? This man Ed Bardshaw has it right, the men are raw but stalwart. They've responded well to the drills and my captains are already forming them into bands. Between my company and your pledged men, you have nearly 10,000 souls at your back. No doubt more will follow once Greyford is declared regent."

Harry clutched a fist. "If the reports are accurate then that's double Huxton's men, right? Once we join with Bacon's men we'll have the biggest army in the country!"

"...We need more than numbers," said Ed. "Our boys may have stomach, but from what I've seen they don't have the arms or armour to match a ducal army."

"Aren't you fun at feasts?" Quipped the Hotfoot.

Edith frowned. "...He has the right of it, Harry. One seasoned demi-lancer is more than a match for ten half-trained farmers and their rusty fagging hooks. Anyone we cannot properly arm must be held in reserve. What would that pare our ready forces to?"

"6,000 or so," said Owayne. "Probably fewer."

Edith slapped the table. "Not enough. Not fucking enough! Our numbers have to be overwhelming or a direct strike against Dragonspur is doomed for failure."

The mutilated shepherd, Godwyn, who for the most part had stayed bitterly quiet so far, finally found his voice to interject. "Is speed not ye ally? If ours be the bigger host, strike not ye now, `afore Greyford striketh ye?"

The logic was unsurprising for a man of the Commonfaith, Edward supposed. No doubt the good shepherd wished for a swift end to hostilities before too much Morish blood was spilt.

Harry concurred. "Why not strike now before the Duke has the chance at a counter offensive? We've the initiative."

But Edith, wisely, was unmoved.

"We've only two cannons and no siege weapons," said she. "Dragonspur has thick walls and a fortified river. We do not have the numbers to take it directly or force a surrender."

She looked to the map.

"When we march south we'll need some sort of foothold in the Midburghs, somewhere to rally support and grow the army, somewhere we can provision and coordinate."

Thopswood eyed the map. "Fort Silvermere?"

"Too small," she said. "There!"

The Red Princess pointed out a river-borne city, the second largest in the realm. A city deeply intertwined with the history of her family and its ultimate destruction.

It was the city of Greyford.

"The Duke's backyard? His ancestral manse?" Harry grinned at the irony, like a dog licking its chops. "Do we dare?"

Edith grinned back. "Indeed we fucking do. Greyford's our target. It's just three days march from the borders. It has armouries, treasuries, larders, grain stores, gun foundries, and better still it'll serve as a blow to the Duke's pride. It will symbolize his weakness, bring courage to the dissident."

Edward shifted his gaze to the Lowburghs. "It could work. And if the Lowburghers take Greatminster and bog down the Standing Guard with a siege, then Dragonspur has no armed support from the south..."

But Owayne did not look as enthused. "...We'd still have Huxton's ducal army to contend with."

"And so we will," said Edith. "Huxton won't fortify Greyford, he's too hot-headed. I'll bet my tits he's planning to meet us in the field. So be it. We make our stand against him."

A sigh. Owayne's sword rattled in the candlelit darkness as he poured his eyes over the table's marble armies and waypoints. "We are leaving too much to chance. We assume the Lowburghers will entertain the Standing Guard long enough for us to take Dragonspur. We assume we have the manpower and weapons to defeat Huxton. We assume no threats beyond our shores..."

"Threats beyond our shores?" Harry spoke his thoughts aloud. And then it dawned on him. "You mean the Empire?"

A nod. "Queen Annalena is the Emperor's niece, and he has the Duke of Greyford in his back pocket. The Empire has every incentive to keep Greyford at the reins. That means ships, arms, supplies, money, perhaps even soldiers."

Edith sighed at the thought, shooting her eyes up to the cobwebs lulling from the ceiling's beams. "...Noted. You're no fun at feasts either, Owayne."

The soldier smiled at her. Tenderly. "Aye."

"Still..." She returned to the map. "It would take the Empire dozens of days to dispatch any aid, and the Duke doesn't have that sort of time. But then I suppose... neither do we."

"Well, what about Wallenheim?" Said Thopswood. "The ambassador was sympathetic to old Stillingford, perhaps he might..."

"I requested a parley with Roschewald tendays ago, no reply was offered. Similarly so with his brother Neidhart. Wallenheim no longer has an ear for us."

The very utterance of that name made Edward's flesh crawl. It kindled the branding, the fucking image of Fran moaning into bedsheets whilst his master bashed away at him from the rear, grunting and sweating and heaving and...

"Ed?" Harry palmed his shoulder. "You alright?"

Not for no reason did those memories flock to his mind.

Bunt. The garrison there. Fran's offer. `There are 3,000 Wallish troops stationed a few days sail from the eastern coast,' he'd said. `With the right planning I could command them, I would only need Gustave out of the way-' Edward did not allow him to finish the sentence. That was how much it disgusted him. And now...?

The swordsman dragged his fingers from his forelocks. He sighed. This was not about him – it was about Morland. He cleared his throat. "The ambassador has a host of 3,000 men at his command. Their galleons anchor at Bunt. At his command they could dispatch to any eastern Morish seafront within the next tenday. This I know."

Everyone – Edith, Harry, Owayne, Thopswood, Alyse and even Shepherd Godwyn turned to him then – turned and stared as if a third arm sprouted up between his shoulder blades.

"And how long have you been sojourning on that little pallet of knowledge?" Asked Thopswood.

Edward looked away.

And Edith, sharply, looked to her lawyer. "Kenrick? Draft me a letter for the ambassador. Explain that if he lends me the support of those men, I will take my place as regent and tear up the Treaty of Grace with my own two hands. Tell him a free Morland will have no use for an Imperial yoke and that Wallish ships may once again return to our lands."

"Yes, Edith."

Then she turned to Harry. "Hotfoot? I need that lightning speed of yours once again. As soon as the letter is ready I want you to take the fastest horse you can find and ride hard for Dragonspur. Seek out Ambassador Roschewald in stealth and deliver it by your own hand. Swaying him to our cause might just be the edge we need."

Edward did not meet his friend's eye, but he could feel Harry turn towards him, pausing with unease, yet understanding the gravity of the task to come – and how much bigger it was than all of them. Some things are bigger than ourselves, Stillingford always said. Edward knew in both his heart and his mind that this was one of them.

"So we're agreed?" Asked Thopswood. "We march at first readiness for the borders, intercept Huxton's army, proceed to Greyford, seize it, bolster our forces, then converge on Dragonspur?"

"Aye," Said Edith. "With any luck my grandfather's army and Roschewald's forces will be brought to bear, but Owayne has the right of it, we can assume nothing. Let us make-"

The chamber doors croaked open. All Edith's counsellors turned to them as a young redheaded boy ran over the threshold, gasping for breath. Ed would come to know him well. Edith's page – Larkyn.

"Saints' blood!" Barked Owayne mac Garrach. "Whatever's the matter, boy?"

There was a missive in his tiny hand. The boy caught his breath and surrendered it to Edith. She cracked it open. Edward, and the other counsellors there assembled, watched her ice blue eyes tick side to side, digesting its contents until she crushed it inside her fist.

"Edith?" Shepherd Godwyn plucked his thick beard. "What says it, my child?"

The flat of her hands slapped the woodcut map. The balled-up missive rolled along its expanse to the Vale of Squalls, where Owayne picked it up and peeled it open.

He frowned. "Dispatches from Dragonspur. The convocation has declared for the Duke of Greyford. Once again he is the Regent of Morland."

A single fist banged the table. Everyone cast their gaze south to the Red Princess, eyes down, shoulders trembling. And then up came her brow – and her expression?

Smouldering with bloodlust.

She stormed off, crimson dress folds swirling around her, bounding off with forceful pace down the cold stone halls of her keep. By instinct alone Edward moved to follow her, first him, then Harry, then Owayne, and then Thopswood. As Edith stalked down the dusty stone steps of her keep, advisors at her back, she snatched into her calloused hand a burning torch from one of the iron sconces, making for the limestone archway into the wind-swept bailey.

A shrine to the four saints stood in its centre, the primary place of prayer for her men. And atop its plinth flocked her standard – quartered into four fields, two green and two white, a pair of leopards courant upon the green, the sigils of House Oswyke and House Vox upon the white.

Edith snatched it loose with her free hand and pressed on.

Some of the recruits, slumped and slumbering along the courtyard walls, rose to attention as Edith the Exile swept past them, worn shoes crunching through the sandy dust, torch aloft, flag flittering behind. They followed her. As did others about the castle as she stormed her way through the gatehouse out into the town.

It was the dead of night.

Ravensborough slept peacefully.

But then, perhaps at Shepherd Godwyn's utterance, the castle bells sounded. Women stirred from their beds, men from their cots, children from their bunks. Candlelight lit up the jettied townhouse windows one by one as each bell peel tore across the night sky and roused the citizens from their slumber. Doors opened. Hatches parted. Hushed little voices nattered. And all the while Edith the Exile paced through the streets with her standard and torch, her followers swelling into the hundreds at her back, some shirtless and some in small clothes, each with a lantern or candlestick or torch in hand – an army of light peeling back the darkness – until finally she reached the town square. And at its centre there stood a tall marble pedestal as high as twelve feet, a mural dedicated to the four saints, decorated with their likenesses in quatrefoil patterns and scroll. A plywood scaffold encircled it.

Edith's followers stood back and watched in awe as the Red Princess scaled the steps of that scaffolding until she took to the pedestal's peak – and there she planted her standard, jamming it between the planks. And as it flocked against the night winds, Edith the Exile lifted up her blazing torch and yelled out to her people...

"THE DUKE OF GREYFORD HAS BEEN DECLARED REGENT! FOISTED UPON THE REALM AND HER GREAT PEOPLE BY A CORRUPT COURT! WE ENDURED TEN FUCKING YEARS OF THAT BASTARD'S TYRANNY! AND WE REFUSE TO GO BACK!"

The crowds roared back at her, chanting with concurrence, cursing the Duke's name, stamping their feet, lifting their light sources. Their sheer collected rage rattled Edward to his bones. For by the four saints above... he felt it too.

The Phantoma was nigh.

"SOME OF YOU FOLLOW ME FOR REVENGE," said the Exile. "SOME OF YOU FOLLOW ME FOR MY BLOOD – THE BLOOD OF WULFSSON AND OSWYKE. I CARE NOT A WHIT FOR BLOOD! FOLLOW ME NOT FOR BLOOD NOR RANK NOR STATION! NOT EVEN FOR REVENGE! FOLLOW ME FOR YOUR FREEDOM!"

Their roaring reply was heard for miles across the burgh.

"FOLLOW ME FOR YOUR RIGHT OF WORSHIP! FOLLOW ME FOR YOUR FAMILIES! FOLLOW ME FOR A BETTER MORLAND! FOLLOW ME AND WE'LL TEAR THE TYRANT DOWN FROM HIS FALSE FUCKING THRONE AND MOUNT HIS TRAITOROUS HEAD ON A PIKE! FOLLOW ME FOR THE FOLKWEAL!!"

"FOR THE FOLKWEAL!" They bellowed back, a storm wind fanning the flames of rebellion. They cheered and roared, mobbing their leader as she climbed back down the scaffold and landed on her feet. "FOR THE FOLKWEAL! FOR THE FOLKWEAL! FOR THE FOLKWEAL! FOR THE FOLKWEAL! FOR THE FOLKWEAL! FOR THE FOLKWEAL! FOR THE FOLKWEAL! FOR THE FOLKWEAL! FOR THE FOLKWEAL! FOR THE FOLKWEAL! FOR THE FOLKWEAL!"

Thopswood picked his way through the crowds and found his way to Edward and Harry. "Time is of the essence," he said. "We need to send pigeons and riders in every compass point. Rally the masses."

"Agreed," Said Ed. "Our time is now."

**********

Manse de Foy, Dragonspur, Kingdom of Morland

34th of Autumn, 801

The moon hung at its peak. Francis Gray had the window ajar, to release the scent of wine and fornication from his rooms. He sat at his escritoire then, unfurling parchment before himself and weighing it in place with a set of pewter figurines each forged in the visage of a banneret. With one hand he inked his goose-feather quill, with the other he knuckled away spilt tears; then he took up his wine cup and poured its last dregs down his hoarse throat. The ewer was already empty. No more wine for the night. All the better, he supposed. He wanted to write.

Dearest Edward,

How can you abandon me, he wanted to write. How can you leave me? Can you not see how much I care for you? How I burn for you? How I want and need you? I love you; I love you; I LOVE YOU! Come back to me!

But his quill was heavy.

And Fran's mind raced. `What if the Duke has other espials in this household? What if Wolner intercepts all the riders and postmasters? What if Gustave got wind of it?'

Fran threw it down.

And then there was a knock at the door.

The clerk did not freeze this time. Gustave was away and asleep in his rooms, having come and gone for his nightly rut between the sheets. It had to be Lothar. "Come in."

The mahogany door squeaked open then clicked shut. And indeed, it was Lothar, draped from scalp to toe in the thick folds of his sable cloak. The espial peeled back his hood and shook his silvery hair free. "Are you alright?"

`No', he thought, simply. "I am fine, Lothar. What news of the city?"

Silence.

"Lothar?"

He did not speak. Instead Lothar pulled a freshly printed paper pamphlet from his cloak folds and set it atop Fran's abortive letter. Upon its cover it read,

CAST OFF YOUR YOKE! SAY NO TO TEN MORE YEARS OF TYRANNY! RISE UP, ALL TRUEBORN MORISHMEN! EDITH THE EXILE IS LEGITIMATE! LONG LIVE THE TRUE QUEEN!

And at its back?

A copy of a charter, signed in the Summer of 774 by his lord father and uncle, William Gray, the accused lover of the One Year Queen, Katheresa Vox – Edith's mother. It was the charter that Harry Grover told he and Edward about in that portside tavern in Fludding. The charter that disproved the accusations of adultery levied at Katheresa. Which made the Bloody Maid legitimate...

Fran turned to his friend. "Where did you find this?"

"There are thousands of them nailed to doors and posts and waystations across the city," said Lothar. "The citizens are flooding the streets. They are setting fires, looting, attacking royal officials and aliens..."

They both stopped when they smelt something distinct waft into the bedroom, ferried by the river air. Fran and Lothar went to the open window and peered out across the manse grounds and the rushing waters of the River Wyvern, to the sundered nightscape of the city's southern half. The poorer half.

The city was burning.

At every compass point south of the river burned bonfires and flaming homesteads. Black clouds of smoke wafted up into the air so thick and viscous they almost blotted out the stars. If you listened well you could even hear the roar of the growing mob across the water baying for the blood of their enemies – the Duke of Greyford and his tax collectors, Thomas Wolner and his King's Eyes, the Earl of Wrothsby and his torturers, Ambassador Ludolf and his Imperial aliens, Ambassador Roschewald and his Wallish aliens...

Fran shivered.

"It's happening..." He whispered softly to himself. "Edward was right. Stillingford was right..."

Lothar eyed the burning city, ever aloof. His brother Luther was out there, but safely tucked away in the confides of the Hospice of St. Bosmund. That was not where the danger lay. The real danger was on its way. "So, what now? Should we make our escape?"

To flee would be sensible. It would also violate Wolner's curfew as well as Greyford's confinement order. But that was not what Fran saw as he beheld those lambent flames tracing up to the blackened heavens. He ran the numbers. And what Fran eventually saw... was opportunity. The one opportunity they might ever get.

The clerk clutched his hands into a pair of fists so tight his knuckles went white. His eyes sharpened. The Fiend's venom oozed down his ears. Resolve steeled his cold spine.

"No," said Fran. "We will not run."

"What then?"

`Our time is now,' thought Fran. "...Gustave dies."

**********

·        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).