The Dog of the North (21 page)

‘He said that by the time my condition came to light the money would be locked in his coffers. He revolts and disgusts every fibre of my being.’

‘I assure you, my lady – and I hope it is apparent from my shock and horror – that I had no such purpose in mind. I had hoped we might exchange favours of much smaller
currency.’

Isola seemed to brighten. ‘You interest me.’

‘It is clear that these quarters are not wholesome for you. I propose that you return, temporarily, under my roof as my guest until such time as we can find you your own
apartments.’

A look of something like hope came into Isola’s eyes. ‘You would do that for me? You know I cannot pay?’

Beauceron forced a shamefaced smile to his face. ‘Seventy thousand florins go a long way. I feel sure we can arrange a suitable establishment for you.’

Isola caught herself before her enthusiasm became too manifest. ‘You mentioned a corresponding favour.’

‘The Midwinter Ball is but a fortnight away,’ he said. ‘As occasions in Mettingloom go, it is not without stimulation, since it is attended by both Winter and Summer Courts. I
find myself without an escort, and I hoped you would honour me with your company.’

Isola looked at Beauceron with a blank expression. He was not sure whether she would revile him for kidnapping her and then proposing to escort her to the Ball, or collapse in pathetic
gratitude. The former would at least show spirit. A thousand expressions fleeted across her face, each too brief to read. He began to see how she might have been in normal circumstances.

‘You are most generous,’ she said. ‘I am sure a captain of your renown has no difficulty in attracting a surfeit of suitable partners.’ She again essayed the arch look
which made him want to cry out in irritation.

Beauceron was surprised; his feelings were approaching shame. Hypocritical nonsense! She was worth 70,000 florins to him as a prisoner, however wretched, and if he truly repented of his actions
the restitution was in his own hands.

‘My lady, there is no one in Mettingloom I would rather have on my arm as I am presented to the Winter and Summer Kings. If you are not already engaged, I would be honoured by your
company.’

Isola gave a harsh laugh. ‘Already engaged? Davanzato’s wooing does not extend to such matters, and the nobility of Mettingloom does not see me as a suitable partner.’

‘I think it would do you good, my lady. You should be seen in society; it would raise your spirits.’

Isola’s mouth kinked. ‘What would raise my spirits is – I am sorry, I am graceless when you are only showing me kindness.’

‘I will send a cariolo for you tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I am sure we can arrange also a new gown for the event.’

Beauceron rose to leave. Isola took his hand in both of hers. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Whatever has happened in the past, I am grateful for your conduct today.’

‘I never intended you should suffer like this, my lady. Lord Sprang is wealthy – what is 45,000 florins? I never thought he would cavil.’

Isola dropped his hand. ‘Neither did I, sir. If it is an unpleasant shock to you, imagine its effect on me. Now go, please, or you will see me as I do not wish to be seen.’

Beauceron bowed. ‘Until tomorrow, my lady.’

As he left, he thought to hear the catch of tears.

4

The social centrepiece of the winter was the Midwinter Ball, hosted by the Winter King in the Occonero, with the Summer King a guest of honour. Only the Midwinter and
Midsummer Balls offered the two courts the chance to mingle, and by popular repute intrigue and passion seethed.

Beauceron viewed the event as an opportunity to speak with Tardolio’s entourage in a way not obviously treasonous. If Tardolio was interested in invading Croad, he would find some way of
making it known.

Lady Isola was in a febrile humour. She had seemed much happier since she had taken rooms within Beauceron’s house, and her new gown, dyed a rich deep chocolate, served only to lift her
spirits further.

Beauceron broke with his normal habit of walking to the Occonero and ordered a cariolo, which conveyed them via a circuitous route along the Grand Aquavia. Snow had settled on the ice and the
wheels of the cariolo swished as they went along.

Isola looked out of the window, her expression rapt. What an unfathomable woman she was! Tonight she was mellow in humour, the spite normally so prominent in her character offset by resignation
at her circumstances. Beauceron hoped to effect a reconciliation between her and Davanzato; she would learn little of use if they were not on speaking terms.

As the cariolo rolled up to the courtyard at the Occonero, Isola looked away from the window. ‘I cannot believe I am here,’ she said. ‘Only a season ago I was a girl preparing
for my wedding. I could never have imagined what would happen.’

Her face was expressionless, her tone unreadable.

‘In truth, my lady, I am not certain you would have enjoyed Croad. Lord Oricien has little taste for extravagance.’

‘You sound very well acquainted with Lord Oricien.’

‘‘‘Acquaintance” is a broad term. I understand his character well, I suppose.’

‘Look!’ cried Isola, pointing from the window. In the centre of the courtyard was a fire of a bright blue colour, reaching high into the sky.

‘Thaumaturgy,’ said Beauceron. ‘It seems Fanrolio has spared no expense.’

Beauceron leaped from the cariolo and held out a hand to help Isola down.

‘Thank you,’ she said, with an inclination of her head. Beauceron could feel the warmth of her hand through her glove. Once she was on the ground he held out his arm, and she linked
hers through it.

They stepped past the guards, who nodded respectfully to Beauceron, and into the majestic hall. Every inch of the stone walls was covered with exquisite tapestries, intended to take the chill
off the room. Dimonettoes of good size stood in every corner. At the far end of the room sat King Fanrolio, almost lost on the golden throne. At his side stood Prince Brissio; Lady Cosetta was
nowhere in evidence.

Beauceron led Isola onto the long purple rug which stretched up to throne. ‘Come, my lady,’ he said. ‘We must be presented to the King.’

‘We have already met,’ said Isola. ‘I am surprised you have forgotten: it was the night you killed Albizzo.’

‘That was merely a soirée,’ said Beauceron. ‘This is a formal ball. You have not met the King until you are introduced at such an event.’

Isola gave a quick crooked smile. ‘When I was a girl,’ she said, ‘I always dreamed of being presented to the King, so in a sense my girlish fantasy is coming true.’

Beauceron looked at her.

‘The only difference,’ she continued with a twitch of her chin, ‘is that I imagined it would be the King of Emmen.’

Isola broke away to curtsy at the feet of King Fanrolio, for they had arrived at the throne. Beauceron dropped to one knee.

From behind the throne stepped Davanzato: Beauceron might have expected him to be on hand.

‘Your Puissance, you will remember Lady Isola, of the fair city of Sey in Emmen; and the gallant Beauceron, who is well-known to you.’

‘My lady, you are most welcome,’ said Fanrolio, his eyes watering in the warm room. ‘You are under my protection. I pray you will make the most of your opportunity to enjoy
Mettingloom. I understand that Beauceron is providing you with sustenance.’

‘Yes, Your Puissance. He has been every inch the gentleman, if one ignores the circumstances under which we became acquainted.’

‘When you reach my age, my dear, you will realize that such forgetfulness can be the best policy. Beauceron, you have our gratitude for looking after our guest, and indeed for bringing her
to our city.’

Beauceron bowed. ‘I had hoped at your convenience, Your Puissance, to discuss matters with regard to Emmen, going beyond the comfort of the young ladies.’

Fanrolio knitted his brows. ‘I am always happy to hear the thoughts of such a respected captain,’ he said. ‘See Davanzato and he will arrange an appointment.’

Davanzato’s eyes glittered as he looked at Beauceron. ‘I will arrange for it to happen as soon as practical, Your Puissance. There are many folk who press for your attention, and I
must arrange them in the order that best suits your needs.’

‘Yes, just so, Davanzato. You intrude upon my attention less than Osvergario, and I am sure you will find the right time for my audience with Beauceron.’

‘Indeed I shall, Your Puissance,’ said Davanzato, with a pregnant glance at Beauceron. ‘Beauceron may be assured of an audience at exactly the appropriate moment.’

Beauceron’s heart sank low. ‘Surely a formal appointment is not necessary,’ he said in a jocular tone. ‘I might outline the essence of my business in two
minutes.’

‘Really, Beauceron,’ said Davanzato. ‘Look behind you – there are many folk crowding to be presented to His Puissance: he is scarcely at liberty to gossip with you,
however he might incline. Come now, step aside and present your compliments to Prince Brissio.’

Brissio inclined his head with a smile on his snub-nosed face. ‘My lady, Beauceron; good evening. I am happy to see you, Lady Isola.’

‘And I you, my lord.’

Brissio, his eyes bulging and dressed in a tight greenish-brown frock coat, resembled nothing so much as a giant toad.

‘Beauceron, these days I never see you away from the company of a beautiful woman. Tonight Lady Isola, the other day Lady Cosetta. It is unorthodox to secure such company by kidnap, but
that is the way of the great captains, I suppose.’

‘I see no duress on Lady Isola’s face, my lord. We all have our methods of securing the approval of those we wish to please. I myself have offered Lady Isola the use of my house,
such as it is. In this I was inspired by your own generosity in furnishing Lady Cosetta with apartments. I am surprised not to see her this evening.’

Brissio took a pull at his goblet. ‘My squire Thivalto escorts her; it would not be seemly for her to be seen on a prince’s arm at the Midsummer Ball; so says my royal
father.’

Beauceron grinned. Evidently Fanrolio had put his foot down; he did not want his son and heir in public thrall to a foreign adventuress. Inwardly he raised his cup to Cosetta.

‘No doubt I shall see her during the course of the evening,’ said Beauceron. ‘I hope that you are equally fortunate.’

Brissio’s smile slipped a little.
She does have you on a string,
thought Beauceron.

From the back of the hall came the call of trumpets. It was the ‘Royalticar’, played at the approach of the King. Since Fanrolio was already present, it could only signal the arrival
of the Summer King.

‘All hail to their Puissant Majesties, the Summer King of Mettingloom, the Northern Reach and Lynnoc, King Tardolio and his royal Queen Sassantia!’

The doors swung wide and Beauceron sensed as much as saw a column stretching way back across the courtyard. Tardolio had, it seemed, brought his entire court. A rush of cold air invested the
hall.

Tardolio at this time was about forty-five years of age, carrying his height and increasing bulk with regal authority. His ultramarine robes were embroidered with sunbursts and his eyes
glittered in the torchlight. Was this a man with the spirit to assault Croad? wondered Beauceron. As usual, he looked every inch the warrior king with his great sword hanging by his side.

Beauceron’s eyes moved to Queen Sassantia – once, he remembered, an ordinary lady of Garganet, thinking of Cosetta – and Prince Laertio and Princess Agalina. They were the
embodiment of a royal family, tall and straight, superabundant with vigour. Beauceron thought of twisted King Fanrolio and his degenerate son, all that remained of the Winter House.

Tardolio advanced along the ceremonial rug. Kneeling before Fanrolio, he unbuckled his sword and laid it at the Winter King’s feet. Fanrolio descended from his throne and raised Tardolio
to his feet, kissing him on both cheeks. ‘Take back your sword, Your Puissance. For tonight there are two kings.’ Tardolio bowed and kissed Fanrolio’s hands. The ceremonial over,
Tardolio repaired to the quarter of the room set aside for his use, including a throne set carefully at a lower level than Fanrolio’s.

‘Minstrels!’ called Fanrolio in what passed for a firm voice. ‘The night is young! Play!’

Beauceron turned to Isola. ‘Would you do me the honour, my lady?’

Isola half-smiled. ‘I should be delighted.’

As they performed a pavane, Beauceron turned his thoughts to Tardolio: the Summer King’s attitude would determine his plans to a great extent. He was conscious, though, of the warmth of
Isola against him as they danced. She moved with a supple elegance, indeed hardly seeming to move at all. She was a most engaging partner, and he decided to set aside King Tardolio for a while;
after all, as Fanrolio had said, the evening was young.

‘Are you thirsty?’ he asked when the first dance was over. ‘Perhaps I might fetch you a tuttleberry wine?’

‘You are attentive,’ said Isola with a smile. The exertion had brought a flush of colour to her cheek.

Beauceron took this for assent and made his way to a refreshment table. A man jostled his back, and he turned to see Sir Goccio.

‘My apologies, Captain,’ said Sir Goccio.

‘Think nothing of the matter, sir.’

‘I must press you for your answer on the question we discussed soon,’ said Sir Goccio. ‘The spring is nearer than you think. There are many preparations to make.’

‘In good time, Sir Goccio. I may assess His Puissance’s mood for myself tonight.’

Sir Goccio slopped a little wine from his goblet. ‘I would not advise that. Tardolio has no intent to discuss matters of state this evening, certainly not those which might be regarded as
treasonous to his host.’

Beauceron gave him a sceptical glance. ‘What other purpose could Tardolio have for coming than intrigue?’

‘You are a cynical fellow. You can see all you need: look at Tardolio and his tall son Laertio; compare them with the Winter House. You would think Fanrolio old enough to be
Tardolio’s father: in fact he is but seven years his senior.’

‘What you ask of me is not straightforward, Sir Goccio. Allow me to decide matters in my own way.’