The Dog of the North (23 page)

‘Have you seen Cosetta?’ Brissio said roughly.

‘Yes, she – that is, no, I have not.’

‘Which is it to be: yes or no?’

Beauceron feigned thought. ‘No. Is she not with Sir Thivalto?’

‘Apparently not. The old fool was talking to her about breeding techniques and she wandered off. He cannot understand why.’

Beauceron raised an eyebrow. ‘Breeding?’

Brissio looked at him through bloodshot eyes. ‘There is no call for your lewdness.’

‘You mistake me, sir. If I were you, I would find the Lady Cosetta soon. She is a personable young lady.’

Brissio stumbled off and Beauceron helped himself to more wine. The evening had by almost any reckoning been a failure on all levels; his recent strictures on alcohol need not apply to
himself.

7

Beauceron awoke early the next morning, despite having reached his bed only in the small hours. He had not found sleep easy to come by. The thin sunlight seeped around the
heavy curtains and reluctantly he rolled out of his bed and walked over to the ewer, only to find the water frozen. There would be a fire in his parlour but he was not yet ready to face the
world.

He sat at his rough desk and pulled some parchment and a stylus from the drawer. Briefly he noted his options and the corresponding advantages of each. Inaction was one possibility, which he
instantly discounted. Pursuing his schemes with King Fanrolio could at least be carried out openly, and he was familiar with the Winter Armies; but he must contend with the hostility of Davanzato
and the privations of a winter campaign. On the other hand, working with either Laertio or Sir Goccio embroiled him in dangerous treasons.

He considered what he had written. It appeared to comprehend all the factors. His plans with Fanrolio were no further advanced than when he had returned, and unless Davanzato could be in some
way neutralized he saw little prospect of improvement. This left him with the choice of using either Sir Goccio or Laertio. Here the decision came down to which perception of Tardolio’s
attitude was the more accurate: Laertio represented him as implacably and irreversibly opposed to the invasion, while for Sir Goccio he nurtured the desire for revenge, a position with which
Beauceron had an instinctive sympathy.

It seemed unlikely that he would be able to establish Tardolio’s views for himself. If he was so well guarded at the Midwinter Ball, where intercourse between the courts was encouraged,
access would be all but impossible at any other time.

If he pursued Sir Goccio’s scheme and its assumptions proved flawed, he was not precluded from conspiring with Laertio; whereas if he followed Laertio’s proposal from the outset, the
option to side with Sir Goccio was for ever lost, and potentially he forfeited the advantage of a supportive king. When he added in his profound mistrust of Laertio, the question was surely
decided. Monetto’s research into Sir Goccio’s circumstances had revealed nothing he did not already know: a respected knight with a good battlefield reputation and many debts – in
other words, a soldier like many in Mettingloom.

Snatching up his stylus, he penned a rapid note to Sir Goccio:

He sealed the note with his wolf’s-head sigil and took it down to the parlour along with the paper he had prepared that morning. The latter item he cast into the fire, and
gave the note to Kainera to deliver. He felt his uncertainty and perplexity lift. He had chosen a course, and it was now down to his force and guile to make it the correct one.

He heard movement from Isola’s suite below. He did not relish the idea of an interview, but there was no way of leaving which did not pass her apartments.

The door opened and Isola entered, her toilette not completed with its normal meticulousness. ‘Good morning, Beauceron,’ she said stiffly.

‘Good morning, my lady. Kainera, kindly arrange tisane for us.’

Kainera bowed and departed.

‘Your conduct last night was not to my liking, Beauceron,’ said Isola levelly. ‘Your attention to my person was deficient.’

‘I can only apologize,’ said Beauceron. ‘Important matters of state occupied my time, and Prince Laertio detained me awhile.’

‘The “matter of state” to which you refer is, of course, the capture of Croad.’

Beauceron shrugged. ‘That is no secret. This is Mettingloom, and our ways are somewhat different to those of Emmen. I neither need nor desire your approval.’

‘That is fortunate.’

After a pause, Isola said: ‘Prince Laertio seemed greatly interested in Cosetta.’

‘She is a lady of considerable charm.’

‘She does not appear to be finding her captivity onerous.’

‘No doubt she would argue she is making the best of her situation. Her prospects for ransom are not as good as yours. She may be here indefinitely.’

Isola uttered a shriek of near-hysterical laughter. ‘My prospects of ransom “good”! I am caught in a stand-off between the two most parsimonious men alive.’

‘Sooner or later Fanrolio will reduce your ransom, possibly to a token amount. Your father or Oricien will then see the value of paying.’

Isola sniffed. ‘This sordid arrangement does not give me confidence in my own attractions.’

‘It is said that as a youth, Oricien offered to take Lady Helisette of Glount without a dowry. His father was not amused. Oricien has learned much since.’

‘My father settled a most generous dowry.’

‘Oricien is unwilling to expend it on your ransom. His position is understandable.’

‘My father is unwilling to pay my dowry twice. That too is understandable.’

Beauceron sipped his tisane. ‘You see, then, that the question of your ransom is not related to your own charms. Two proud men are concerned for their treasuries and their concepts of
justice.’

Isola beamed. ‘You are right!’ she said. ‘I had never seen it in that light before.’

‘Good! Are we friends again?’

‘I was not aware we ever had been.’

Beauceron shrugged. ‘The offer is there. Consider the facility with which Cosetta makes new alliances in the city.’

Isola tilted her chin in her characteristic gesture of disdain. ‘I am not sure I like Cosetta’s way of making friends.’

8

Beauceron was early for his evening rendezvous. In the short midwinter days the sun had already been set for two hours, and the night was moonless. A cruel wind snapped
down from the north, insinuating its way under his cloak and into his shirt. There was no sign of anyone else. If Sir Goccio was early, he at least had the wit to keep himself hidden.

Nearby a bell tolled three times, then three more. Sir Goccio should now be on hand; and as if the thought had summoned him, the knight slipped from some place of concealment, all but invisible
in black cloak and breeches.

Beauceron bowed. ‘You are prompt; such efficiency is commendable.’

Sir Goccio’s mouth twitched upwards. ‘In the circumstances I thought it prudent to follow instructions. I take it you have come to a decision.’

Beauceron nodded crisply. ‘I am ready to throw my lot in with Tardolio. Events at Hiverno proceed ever slower.’

Sir Goccio gave a quick nod. ‘You had no real choice. Is it too soon to begin planning? Or do you require time to accustom yourself to your new allegiance?’

‘I have made any necessary adjustments,’ said Beauceron. ‘Such decisions are not taken lightly.’

‘Good. Let us seal matters over a mug of ale. You will probably not be familiar with The Ill-Favoured Loon – a tavern patronized by Tardolio’s men.’

‘Might that not be an unnecessarily overt statement?’ asked Beauceron.

‘You are like a timid old maid. Once Tardolio begins to raise an army your new status will become apparent. Without your sponsorship things will go much more slowly. I assumed you would
not wish to wait until Tardolio’s re-ascendance? We can achieve much in a month.’

‘You are asking me to make an explicit and public commitment to Tardolio tonight?’

‘Why not? Sooner is always better than later.’

‘I will not survive until the spring. Davanzato’s assassins will find me out as I wait.’

Sir Goccio stroked his beard. ‘Davanzato’s elimination is not part of the plan; although we could make it so.’

‘The thoroughness of your preparations is not impressive. I am content to work with Tardolio, but my public involvement must wait until the reascendance. If the army does not leave on the
first day of spring it is no loss.’

‘I took you for a larger man, Beauceron.’

‘It seems you took me for a stupid one. I have expressed my sympathy with your aims, and my willingness to lead an army: I have never said I would parade through the streets in a Sunflower
smock.’

‘That is your final word?’

‘Until you have something more persuasive to say to me.’

‘So be it,’ said Sir Goccio. He removed a glove and put his fingers to his mouth, to give a lusty whistle. ‘I am sorry, Beauceron.’

From a nearby building issued a squadron of soldiers in white uniforms set off with purple cloaks: the Royal Winter Guard. Behind them strolled Davanzato. ‘Take him,’ he said in a
soft voice. ‘Sir Goccio, you have done well.’

Sir Goccio twitched his head. ‘He would not go to The Ill-Favoured Loon; but he agreed to lead Tardolio’s army. I will swear it on my honour.’

Beauceron stood motionless as his arms were tied behind his back. ‘Your honour, Sir Goccio? That will carry great weight at trial, you poxed knave.’

Sir Goccio looked away. ‘I did not want to do it.’

‘We always have a choice.’

Davanzato stepped forward to stare into Beauceron’s face. ‘That we do, Beauceron. I await with interest how you will defend yours in front of His Puissance. We will proceed now to
the Darkstone, where you will be lodged for a while.’

‘I demand my full rights.’

‘And you shall have them. His Puissance will be most scrupulous in ensuring you have a fair trial. Such a proud captain deserves no less.’

1

It was a smaller army which limped back into Croad than had set out a month earlier. Lord Thaume regretted the loss of so many good men – particularly his cousin Sir
Artingaume – but he had achieved his purpose. Tardolio had been sent back to Mettingloom nursing wounds to his pride and his army which would take many years to heal.

Thaume had no taste for spectacle, but he rode ahead of his men along the road to the North Gate, with his prisoners walking in chains behind him. Standing on the wall above the Gate was Lady
Jilka, with a black cloak over chain mail and a longsword hanging in a scabbard at her waist. This too was theatre, for Lord Thaume had sent riders ahead to bring the tidings of his victory.

As the gates were flung wide and the soldiers entered the city, Arren looked around for the faces he would recognize: his brother Matten, his mother Ierwen, and Eilla and Clot-tie. None was
immediately visible, and he was conscious of a sense of anticlimax.

The army marched through the streets of the city, dust thrown up by the tramp of its boots, through the inner walls, across the bridge and ultimately into the courtyard of Lord Thaume’s
castle.

‘Go and dump your gear in your quarters,’ said Serjeant Fleuraume. ‘Lord Thaume intends to address the people in half an hour.’

Lord Thaume ascended to the platform where Arren last remembered him passing sentence of death on Foulque. How long ago that seemed, and how many men had died since. The death
of Foulque now seemed inconsequential; no doubt Foulque himself would have taken a different view.

Lord Thaume let the cheers die down. He had not changed out of his armour, and his yellow surcoat was torn and stained. He looked every inch the warrior prince.

‘I bring you a great victory!’ he called. ‘We left this city to fight a great foe, and we have sent that foe back to his lair to lick his wounds – and grievous wounds
they are. It will be many years before we see Tardolio again.’

More cheers.

‘There is much to be proud of. My son Lord Oricien and my nephew Lord Guigot fought for the first time, and fought well. My Captain of the Guard, Darrien, fought with especial valour. Only
King Arren may make knights, otherwise I should have knighted him in the field. I owed him much before the battle; now I owe him even more. Darrien, step forth!’

Arren cheered with the rest of the crowd as Darrien ascended the platform to join Lord Thaume, who embraced him as a brother and kissed his cheek. Sir Darrien! How that would sound. At the front
of the crowd Arren saw his mother weeping with pride and embracing a reluctant Matten. He winked at his brother, who merely scowled back.

Darrien stepped back down off the platform and went over to join Ierwen as Lord Thaume continued his oration.

‘We owe a great debt to the brave Emmen knight, Sir Langlan. Not only has he taught my son combat with such success, but he led the cavalry charge which routed Tardo-lio’s attack.
Sir Langlan, step this way!’

Sir Langlan ambled up to the platform, bowing casually to Lord Thaume and the crowd. Unlike Lord Thaume, his war-gear was immaculate. Arren thought that he looked the pattern of chivalry. Away
from low taverns like The Hanged Man, and with occupations suitable to a knight, he had grown in stature. He embraced Lord Thaume and departed the platform to rapturous cheers from the crowd.

‘No war is without cost,’ said Lord Thaume, lowering his voice, ‘and I must give you the ill tidings that my noble cousin Sir Artingaume fell in valiant defence of our city. He
led our foot soldiers with the selfless courage we had come to expect. Our city has known no more valiant warrior. I decree a statue of this great knight will be erected where all can see it: I
will discuss the matter with Master Jandille in due course.’

The crowd fell silent, a sullen, resentful brooding. It could not have been shock at the death of Sir Artingaume, since this had been known well in advance. Had it been the mention of Jandille?
Arren had not seen him since he had returned – nor Eilla or Clottie for that matter. He felt a pang of alarm.