The Fatal Child (48 page)

‘I do not like this press for battle,’ Padry grumbled to her as they walked in the evening by the lakeshore. ‘All reason still begs that we try for peace. Yet inexorably, it seems, we slip towards the other.’

‘If we could be sure of a quick victory …’

‘But we cannot be sure. And if we make a false move we shall rue it. A long struggle … What if Outland heard of it? We should see worse than traders then, I think.’

‘You think that is her plan?’ she murmured, looking out across the darkness of the water. ‘That we should be buried beneath a new invasion, as the hillmen were buried by Wulfram?’

‘I doubt it,’ said Padry. ‘I think she saw no further than her own desires, until Gueronius plucked her from prison in Tuscolo.’

In the moonlight the lady looked at him. ‘I did not mean
her
, Thomas. I meant the one who weeps.’

‘Her? You know of – of that one, my lady? I did not realize!’

‘I saw her once. I have never forgotten it. Let me tell you, Thomas. It is not Outland I fear. Outland has put a tool into Gueronius’s hand, yes. And in time these cannon may change many things. But you were right – we cannot pour that wine back into its bottle. The real weakness is here, in us. It is in our iron and in her tears. We are cursed – cursed because of that one hill child whom Wulfram killed at the very
beginning of our time! What can we do? If at every turn those tears bring us to—’

Noises behind them made her break off. They looked round. A gaggle of armoured men were emerging from the King’s tent and clinking away into the dusk. A light glowed from within, diffused with the canvas.

‘Has he dismissed them already?’ she said, puzzled.

‘Maybe there is a private audience.’

‘With whom?’

The first rule of survival at court: know who is talking to the King. Even now, in all the mud and iron and canvas, that was still true. Together they hurried towards the King’s tent.

‘Who’s in there?’ Padry demanded of the guard.

‘The King, sir,’ said the man stupidly.

‘And who else?’

‘Why, no one …’

They could all hear the murmur of voices from inside.

‘Drink, Amba, please!’ a woman was saying. ‘Don’t you care for me?’

‘No,’ croaked the King.

‘Ambrose – you
can’t
take yourself away from me! Drink it – please!’

Padry blinked in surprise. He knew the voice. It was Phaedra.

The Lady Phaedra, here? When had she arrived?

‘It is a life of a kind,’ she begged. ‘I live it. You can, too.’

Abruptly Sophia pushed past him and through the tent flap. Padry made to follow, but the heavy canvas
dropped in his face behind her and he fought with it. It was moments before he was through.

The inner tent was lit by a single lantern, its flame wavering wildly around its chamber in the night breeze. The King was in his chair, armoured, with his head bowed. Sophia was on her knees before him, looking up into his eyes.

There was no sign of anyone else in the room.

Ambrose’s eyes focused on Sophia’s face. Padry saw him recognize her. He saw the King’s arm grip hers with sudden urgency.

‘My horse,’ he hissed. ‘My horse, quickly!’

The night air was alive. The lake breeze flapped the canvases and banners. It sang among the tent ropes and sent the little lake waves rushing over the sandy shore. Overhead the sky was marbled with the clouds, black and smoky silver, pouring across the face of the moon. Lanterns flickered behind the tent of the King where the royal squires led his horse to a mounting block.

‘Leave us!’ snarled Padry at them. ‘Summon the leaders!’

They bowed and hurried away. The great beast was left standing there, towering over Padry and his master the King.

‘Help me,’ muttered Ambrose.

He lifted one foot and placed it gingerly on the mounting block. Padry took his arm. The lantern light played on the face of the King, frowning as he looked at the task before him, and on the face of Sophia, watching.

‘You must delay them until he’s up, my lady,’ said Padry unnecessarily.

She nodded. But she did not turn away. She stayed, biting her lip as Ambrose put his weight on the mounting block and reached for the saddle. The King’s foot fumbled for the stirrup. Padry caught it by the heel and guided it into place.

‘Now,’ said the King, drawing the word out into a long hiss as his knees heaved at his weight. Awkwardly Padry shoved upwards at his elbow. He heard the gasp of the King’s breath in his ear. In the distance the squires were rousing the camp.
‘The King! To the King’s tent, all!
’

‘Help me!’ cursed the King.

His knees had given way. He could not mount by himself. Padry struggled to push him upwards. But the King was just weight, dead weight in his arms, and he lost his footing and fell heavily in the mud with Ambrose sprawling on top of him and the horse stepping away from them, unhappy with the fuss at its side. Sophia caught it by the bridle.

‘They are coming,’ she said. ‘Quickly!’

‘Get me up,’ said the King between clenched teeth.

Padry struggled to his feet and helped him back to the mounting block. He was cursing himself for a fool – for responding without thinking to the King’s commands. First see if he
can
mount his horse.
Then
send for the host! In the windy dark he could think of nothing worse than that the King’s soldiers and lieutenants should be summoned suddenly in the middle of the night, only to see their liege, a
sick and wounded man, falling on his face in the mud!

‘Come
on
!’ begged someone. It might have been the King. It might have been himself.

The mounting block. The stirrup. The high, impossible side of the horse. The weight of the wounded man on his arm. And someone else was standing beside them. Padry opened his mouth to curse whoever it was and send them away.

The long face of Prince Talifer frowned in the torchlight.

‘Your Highness – help him!’ Padry begged.

He thought that with two of them, one on either side of the King, and Sophia at the horse’s head, they might do it. They might still do it, even though he could hear the clatter and calls of a crowd approaching. If they were quick.

‘Help us!’ Padry said again. ‘Take his arm!’

‘Let him go,’ said Talifer. His voice was cold. Dumbly, Padry obeyed. Ambrose was left with one foot on the mounting block and one in the stirrup, clinging to the saddle as if it were a spar in the sea.

Talifer turned away. He walked round to the other side of the horse. He was so tall that he looked across the saddle into the eyes of the King.

‘Did you forgive my deeds, grandson?’ he asked.

The King clenched his teeth and did not answer.

‘Fourteen score years I was held in the pit, and my sins weighed me down like stones! Did
you
forgive them – pewling babe?’

His voice was passionless. His face was set. The eyes of the two men locked over the saddle. Sweat glistened
on the King’s forehead. Beyond the tent the clatter of iron and calling drew closer.

‘Who gave you the strength to take my deeds –
my
deeds – on your back?’

The King leaned forward. The leg in the stirrup was straining – shaking. Padry jumped to steady him, cursing the sick man, cursing the ancient prince and begging all the Angels that this time the wretched animal would just stay where it was!

‘Who will not loose his hold, lest all the world should die?’

‘Aa-ahh!
’ With a cry Ambrose jerked upwards, upwards and forwards over the horse’s back. Padry caught his right foot as it flailed in the air and dragged it round the hindquarters of the animal, ready to risk any flying hoof if only he could get his King mounted before the soldiers saw him. No blow came. Talifer stepped back to give them room, looking up at the man who now towered over them, swaying in his seat.

Ambrose drew himself upright. ‘A light,’ he croaked. ‘A light!’

Padry grabbed the lantern and lifted it as high as he could. Sophia started to lead the horse forward.

‘Leave it!’ said Ambrose, his voice strengthening. ‘Let me ride.’

‘The King!’ called Padry as he came round the side of the tent. ‘The King!’

There were men there, waiting. They had torches and weapons. Light glinted on armour and keen eyes. ‘The King!’ they cried when they saw him. ‘The King!’ Spears and swords rose like the surf of an iron wave.

‘Soldiers!’ called Ambrose across their heads. ‘Make ready! Tomorrow we march. To Trant and battle!’

‘Hurrah!’ roared the crowd.

What’s he doing? thought Padry. Battle? Why not peace?

‘
Hurrah for the King!
’ And there were more soldiers, more and more of them all the time, hurrying from the lines of tents. Lights danced in the distance, coming closer.

‘Make ready!’ bellowed Ambrose above the noise. ‘We march!’ He steered his horse in among them. They parted for him and thronged around him, reaching up, waving their weapons and their lanterns. Padry yelled for room and pressed forward with his light, but already the crowd was thick around the horse and he could not get close. He was pushed and shoved from all directions, and as he stumbled on the gentle slope he thought,
Why is he doing this?

‘The King! The King!’

‘To Trant and battle!’

The crowd rolled down towards the main camp, surrounding and trailing the horseman like a comet’s tail. All the dark fields were alive with voices. Padry was falling further and further behind. Try as he might he could not get closer. There were always other people in his way, other men, other lanterns. Still he toiled in the wake of his King, down among the tents where the soldiers came pouring from every side. His lantern was useless, his counsel discarded, but still he followed. They all did, because the rider was their King.

And in the crowd Padry saw her again, Phaedra the
mother, caught in the flare of a brazier as she watched the procession pass. He saw her with the clearness of a dream, by a tent marked with a crow’s head. And yet just as in a dream she seemed to Padry to be standing in a world other than this, where there were no tents, no soldiers and no noise. There was only her son riding along the path to war. In the light of the flames Padry saw the tears like jewels upon her face.

At dawn the King struck camp and marched south along the lake. His banner led, with the loyal knights of the north around him. Then came the knights and men-at-arms of Develin, a small battle, but well armed and mounted. Next came the men of Pemini and the river, mostly pikemen in mail and crossbowmen in leather, and last a mixed force drawn from Watermane and some loyal territories of the Seabord. In all they numbered rather over four thousand fighting men with a long straggle of carters and camp followers accompanying them. They cut up the tracks and turned the fords to mud. They spread over the broad green hills and queued in the narrow places. And each man trod the world away beneath him, grunting and sweating, carrying the weight of his arms and pack, and watching all the while the earth beneath his feet and the back of the man ahead.

That night there were more disputes in the King’s council. Lackmere’s and Inchapter’s columns had joined south of Trant but they had a long march to make up the distance. It was too far, the Develin leaders said. And even if they made it, their men and
horses would not be fresh to fight. It would be best to halt for a day. Pressing on would play into the hands of Gueronius. The knight from Trant spoke again and again about the state of the north-east tower as he had last seen it, and the northern knights, who were quite ready to fight without Lackmere or Inchapter and knew well enough that they would be in the minority in the King’s council if the southerners did arrive, made sly comments about the courage of the Develin men. The King listened with the air of a man distracted by other thoughts and burdens. Then he ended it with three words:

‘We will march,’ he said.

Why? thought Padry. And
Why now?
asked the faces of Develin. But no one spoke.

They marched again, a long day with the lake on their right and the hills of distant Tarceny like a rank of gloomy spectators. In the morning they filed slowly past the ruins of Sevel manor, one of the northernmost holdings of Trant, which had been looted and burned by Gueronius’s men. After that they began to see signs of war every hour – barns broken for firewood, a deserted hamlet, a man left dead days ago, lying by the side of the road. Rumours flew up and down the force: Gueronius had retreated. Lackmere stood before the walls of Trant. No, it was Gueronius who was still before the walls. The castle would surrender that night if the King did not arrive. There was no sign of the southerners, although the men around the King still said that they were coming.

The foot soldiers shrugged and kept walking, because that was what everyone else was doing.

The light failed again. The lines of marching men and riders blended into one loose, dark mass, rippling with pikes and banners like a vast, hairy worm creeping over the hills. The sky was overcast and the setting sun was hidden in a mass of clouds over the far mountains. But to the south, low on the horizon, a strange light came and went, throwing hills and trees into black relief. The men pointed to it, wondering what kind of omen it might be.

‘It’s not lightning,’ they said. ‘Too small. Too near.’

The wind brought a soft, low
thump!
up the lake to them.

‘Witchcraft,’ the men growled to one another. But they kept marching, because the men ahead of them were still marching. The King was leading them.

Ambrose halted on a low ridge above the lake. From the southern end it was possible to look out and see the dark mass of Trant castle hulking on the next skyline. But it was not possible to press further. Down in the dip at their feet ran a stream, and along the stream were the lights of many fires. They had reached the northern end of Gueronius’s siege lines, and Gueronius’s men were ready for them.

The King held his last council beneath a great oak tree within sight of Trant’s walls. Afterwards, Padry caught up with the Pemini leaders, walking back
along the ridge to where their men were pitching camp.