Kingdoms in Crisis

By Marcus Pailing

The new novel in the saga of the Count of Trall.

Four years ago, King Theofric of Hograth clung on to his throne amidst a desperate war and a treacherous attack by his brother, Harnic. Now Theofric is secure in his realm: his queen has recently given birth, and former battlefields are once more under the plough.

Yet even the strongest ruler must be on his guard. A civil war in neighbouring Ghylliar threatens the Hograthian province of Albanach; and, closer to home, a band of mercenaries are on a secret mission that could bring the realm to its knees.

Kingdoms in Crisis sees the return of the Count of Trall. Once again he finds himself pitted against feuding nobles, vengeful princes and murderous rogues, striving to rescue Hograth from the brink of disaster.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marcus Pailing
• Release date: Oct 11, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311928689

Marcus Pailing

Marcus Pailing took a degree in Ancient History and Archaeology where he specialised in the history of Alexander the Great and the Successor kingdoms. Later he took a Masters degree in Medieval History, specialising this time in 12th century historical writing and the Icelandic Sagas.He worked for a number of years in the business training industry, including a stint as a writer of e-learning courses, before training to be a teacher. He now teaches History in Leicestershire, England.He is a keen traveller, especially in the Middle East and Central Asia, where he busies himself visiting as many ancient and medieval sites as he can. In England, he thrives on visiting medieval castles and cathedrals!

Book preview

Kingdoms in Crisis

A novel of the Count of Trall

by

Marcus Pailing

Smashwords edition

Kingdoms in Crisis, © Marcus Pailing, 2015

This is a work of fiction. All characters and places in this publication are fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or places, is purely coincidental.

The maps in this publication were created by the author using Campaign Cartographer, from ProFantasy Software Ltd. All other plans and illustrations by the author.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Other books by the author, set in the world of Gilderaen

The Fields of Battle trilogy, comprising:

The Death of Kings

The Demon’s Consort

Fields of Battle

The Withered Rose

Questions of Allegiance

(two short stories and a novella)

All the above are available as eBooks

For more information on the world of Gilderaen, and on future books, visit the Gilderaen page on Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Gilderaen/248574438504364

Contents

Map: The Northmarch of Hograth and southern Ghylliar

Genealogical table: The question of the succession

Part One

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Part Two

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Epilogue

Author’s note

About the author

Other books by Marcus Pailing

Map: The Northmarch of Hograth and southern Ghylliar

Genealogical table: The question of the succession

Part One

Parliaments and Plots

(The year 1265)

Chapter One

The month of Solmanthur, in the year 1265

The New Moon Inn stood at a crossroads, two miles west of the river that formed the border between Ghylliar and Albanach. It lay within the lands of the Ghyllian lord of Pasdrisar, but across the river was the Albanachan lordship of Irondale.

The man who liked to be known as Darkhand crossed the river from Irondale in the afternoon, riding his horse into the small wood whose western edge was only a quarter of a mile from the inn; there he remained, out of sight, until dusk. While he waited he watched the inn, noting the comings and goings of the people.

When the light began to fade he checked that his horse was securely tethered and hobbled. He flung a blanket over its back to keep it warm, and set off in a wide circle, going north and then west, to approach the inn from the rear. As he went he checked that his sword and dagger were loose in their sheaths – he had not lived until his fortieth year without being careful.

He paused when he reached a small gate in the wall, listening. When he was satisfied that he could hear no sounds of men skulking on the other side he stepped through, striding quickly to the narrow door that led into the kitchen. Inside he found the kitchen empty, save for a middle-aged woman, whose broad bottom presented itself to him as she leaned over the fire. The woman paused her stirring of a large pot of stew and straightened up. When she turned she showed no surprise to see him standing there.

Cautious as always, Darkhand, she observed with a friendly nod.

Naturally, Brendia. Is he here?

A man came in a while ago. He whispered your name before ordering wine and food.

Darkhand nodded. He stepped to the door that led to the common room. It was slightly ajar, and he peered through the gap. Where is he?

Next to the window on the right, the woman answered. She did not need to look, and had gone back to tending her pot. It’s quiet in there tonight, so he sits alone.

I see him.

Darkhand studied the man from the door. He was around Darkhand’s age, dressed in plain but well-made clothes. There was nothing particularly noteworthy about him, save that he was clearly no labourer, but a well-enough-born man with the arms and shoulders of a warrior. Darkhand could see no sword, although the man undoubtedly carried a dagger at the very least.

The man had eaten: his empty bowl was pushed aside. He sat nursing a cup of wine, a pitcher by his elbow. There was another cup on the table top, indicating that he was expecting company. He studied the cup, only occasionally raising his eyes to scan the room. Brendia was right, too: there were only a dozen others in the common room, all occupying tables on the other side, leaving the man well alone.

Keep both doors open, Brendia. If I need to get out fast …

Brendia snorted. I don’t want trouble, Darkhand.

He grinned. Nor do I, and nor do I expect it. But I don’t know this man, so I want my exit clear.

With that, he opened the door wide, stepped through, and strode over to sit across the table from the man.

The man looked up as he dropped into the seat. He showed no surprise at Darkhand’s arrival. Instead, he took a sip of wine and wiped his mouth. Darkhand?

Maybe. What do I call you?

Redhawk. I will also say that things look darker when the lights go out.

Darkhand nodded. A silly thing to say, but it proved this was the man he expected to meet.

So, he said, reaching for the other cup and the pitcher. I got your message.

You’re a hard man to find, said Redhawk.

Only if I don’t know you, Darkhand replied, pouring wine to the brim of his cup. And had I not been interested, you might never have found me. But you seem to wish to spend a lot of silver, so here I am, very interested indeed.

They both drank, each watching the other’s face as they did so. Redhawk re-filled their cups.

What’s the job? Darkhand now asked, bluntly.

Redhawk leaned forward. That isn’t decided, yet. No, let me finish, he said urgently as Darkhand snorted and made to get up. Darkhand paused, then eased himself back down warily.

My masters are not sure how things will turn out, so for the time being they aren’t sure what conclusion they are after. But the overall aim remains the same. You and your comrades will be paid regularly, so long as you are ready when the final nature of the mission is decided.

Darkhand narrowed his eyes. Go on. What’s the overall aim?

My masters are playing a long game. I will not tell you their eventual goal yet; but your job, however it plays out, will be with the objective of making Hograth weak. For now, that means too weak to interfere in the struggle for Ghylliar. The civil war is likely to be a long one.

Darkhand nodded. All right. It’s obvious that the two princes will fight to the death, even while the king is still alive. So you want Hograth to stay out of it.

As far as possible. We won’t be able to prevent some interference. What we don’t want is a great Hograthian army coming in to support one prince against the other.

Which do your masters support: Benedic or Eordic?

Redhawk smiled. Don’t ask that. At least, not yet.

The two men drank in silence.

All right, Darkhand said after a while. So, you can’t tell me what the job is, but the idea is to keep Hograth from involving itself in Ghylliar’s civil war. Obviously you favour one side in that war, but you won’t tell me which. And you expect me to trust you?

Redhawk shrugged. Something like that. I’m authorised to pay you two pounds in silver now, if that will help. I promise that you’ll learn more, but only when you come south. If you and your comrades will meet me in Gruithnol, I’ll tell you more then.

Darkhand thought for a moment. If I take two pounds now, how do you know that I’ll bother to come to Gruithnol? You already know that you might never find me again.

Let’s call it a demonstration of trust. Personally, I think you will come, because you’re intrigued. And if we’re willing to risk losing that silver now, you’re undoubtedly wondering how much we’ll be willing to pay you actually to do the job.

Now Darkhand laughed. That’s true. All right, you have a deal. I will have to gather my men, who are rather spread about the countryside at the moment. We can be in Gruithnol in a month. Where should we meet?

Redhawk leaned across the table and whispered the instructions rapidly. Darkhand listened, nodding; he did not ask for anything to be repeated.

Fine, he said once the other was done. I’ll have eight men with me, good men I’ve known for years, but I’ll only bring one to the meeting. If I come on my own, or bring more than one, it means trouble, and you’ll know to get away. Even the most secret plots carry danger, so that’s the best way I can warn you if we’re compromised from my side.

Good. That’s settled, then. I’ll see you in a month.

Darkhand felt something hard nudge his knee. He put his hand under the table and took hold of the bag, feeling the weight and the hard lumps of the coins that moved around under his fingers. He pulled the bag close and shoved it under his cloak.

Redhawk stood up and, without another word, turned and strode to the front door, vanishing out into the gloom.

Darkhand waited a few minutes, finishing another cup of wine. Then he rose from the table and walked back into the kitchen. Brendia looked up as he closed the door from the common room. All right?

Perfectly, he said. He dropped some coins on the worktop. Thanks, Brendia, as always. This will be a good job, well paid. I might even be able to retire.

So long as you always pay me, you can spend the rest of your life drinking here, the woman said with a grin. Take care, Darkhand.

I will, Brendia, I will.

He slipped out of the back door and through the gate. He retraced his steps, striking out north and then east, until he came to where his horse stood tethered to the old ash tree, warm under the blanket. He untied the beast and led it deeper into the tress. He would spend the night hidden in the woods, and take the ferry back to Albanach at first light.

Chapter Two

The month of Solmanthur, in the year 1265

Fernhelm reined in his horse. Behind him, harnesses creaked and jangled as his forty followers eased their own mounts to a halt. He dismounted, beckoning his theignas to do the same. Then the five of them walked slowly to stand over the first body.

The Ghyllian had been mutilated, either after death or as he lay dying. A spear had killed him, thrust through his gut; but someone had then hacked off his hands and feet, and lacerated his face so that his features were unrecognisable, even to his family should they ever learn where he had fallen.

Civil wars are the most brutal, Fernhelm said with a heavy sigh as he gazed down at the corpse.

One of his companions bent over, retching. Fernhelm gently touched his shoulder: he was only a young man, unused to the sight of such barbarity.

Go back to the men, Derian, he said quietly. No shame in being sickened. Go on – get the men to keep watch.

The young man, Derian, turned away with a grateful nod, almost running back to where the rest of the Hograthian riders sat waiting.

Are they Benedic’s? asked one of the other theignas.

Fernhelm nodded. Most are, I think. Some are Eordic’s, but not many by the look of it.

They raised their eyes to look over the battlefield. There were more than two hundred dead, perhaps, and most of those closest to the Hograthians wore Benedic’s badge, or the insignia of his supporters. Only a handful appeared to be followers of Eordic. Those from the latter force lay untouched, while the majority of the former had suffered disfigurement and mutilation.

Do you think Benedic is amongst the dead?

Fernhelm grimaced. I don’t know, Hoevan. Let us hope not.

Hoevan scratched his beard. We’re going to have to look, though, aren’t we?

Fernhelm sent half his force, under Derian’s command, to ride around the battlefield, keeping watch in case Eordic’s men returned. There was no reason why they would, but as the Hograthians were deep inside Ghylliar, and known to be sympathetic towards the loser in this battle, it paid to be careful. The rest of the men dismounted and gathered round their leader, faces already grim as they contemplated the task ahead of them.

I don’t know what Benedic looks like, Fernhelm told them. But you can rest assured that the prince will not be dressed as a common soldier. Any body in superior armour or clothing could be him. I only know that he is around twenty-five years old, so you can leave the greybeards. He paused for a moment. Any body lacking a head might be him, he went on. If he was killed here, there’s a strong chance his brother took his head as proof.

It was a ghastly task, but necessary. The Hograthians spread out and began to walk among the bodies, peering down at the tattered surcoats and battered mail. The blood had dried, often obscuring the soldiers’ insignia under a scabrous layer of rusty gore. A rotten smell pervaded the air, forcing them to clamp hands to faces. More than one man turned to retch noisily.

Fernhelm squatted beside one body, lying on its front, and turned it over with a grunt of effort: its limbs were stiff and cold. He shook his head as he saw how the victors had carved up the poor man’s face, at the same time trying to work out what he had looked like when alive. The man’s hair was dark under the crusted blood, but his beard was flecked with too much grey – too old to be Benedic, Fernhelm was sure. He stood up and moved to the next huddled ruin.

Hoevan joined him a little later. The prince isn’t here, my lord. I am sure of it.

Fernhelm nodded absently, his gaze wandering over the field again. I think you’re right, Hoevan. Let’s hope that Benedic got away, rather than be captured.

Hoevan whistled, a loud, shrill sound that broke the still air over the rotten field. Carrion birds, which had settled on some of the bodies in order to feast, took to the air in fright. Men stood up from their grisly labour and made their way back to where their lord waited.

That’s enough, Fernhelm said, trying to sound as if they were breaking off a less unpleasant task. The prince must have escaped the slaughter.

Do we try to find him? Hoevan asked.

Fernhelm shook his head. He’ll have headed north or west. Our mission was to meet him here and deliver our king’s letter. We’re already deeper inside Ghylliar than I really want to be, so I’m not going to head even further without knowing where the prince is.

But the king’s letter …

Fernhelm shook his head again, more emphatically. "I’ll explain what we’ve found. I don’t think Theofric would want us to endanger ourselves on a wild goose chase. He’s not so sure of his support for Benedic to risk such a declaration.

No, he repeated after a moment. This is where our mission ends. It’s time to get ourselves back home.

It was late afternoon, so the Hograthians only had three or four hours of good light left. At least it was enough to take them a fair distance from the battlefield. They rode carefully, keeping an eye out on all sides for signs of a Ghyllian force. They saw none, and found a decent site to camp for the night, on a low hill that was covered in trees. There was plenty of wood for fires, and a stream which gurgled around the eastern side of the hill, where they could refresh their horses and collect water for their own pots. Their fires would be visible, but they themselves would have a good view for some miles in each direction.

Fernhelm sat with his theignas around a low blaze. He grinned across the flames at Derian Orthon, the young man who had been so discomfited by the mutilated corpses.

Feeling better, Derian?

Derian returned the smile. He was young, but experienced enough to feel no shame at having been so unnerved. You must think me a fool, lord.

Not at all. I of all people know that you are no green stripling. You’ve seen death before, but hardly that sort of brutality.

Have you? asked Hoevan, curious.

Fernhelm nodded. Rarely here in the west, though. But in Azzawa, it’s almost a ritual to mutilate one’s enemy dead – and sometimes before they’re dead, as well. Believe me, nothing we saw today compared with the things I saw in Azzawa. I had to develop a strong stomach, and I was only fifteen.

Remind me to stay west of the Great Og, then, remarked one of the others.

They laughed. It was a poor jest, but it was good to relieve the tension after what they had witnessed today.

It does worry me, though, mused Fernhelm, if Eordic permits such practices.

Is that why the king supports Benedic? Derian asked.

Theofric doesn’t know of this yet, although I shall tell him. No, the king favours Benedic for two reasons, I think. Benedic is the elder of the two princes, so Theofric favours his bid to succeed to Ghylliar’s throne. You’ll remember that Theofric had to face a challenge himself, from his own younger brother, when he inherited the crown.

Derian should remember, Hoevan put in. Wasn’t it you who captured Prince Harnic’s banner?

Young Derian flushed amidst the admiring calls from the others at the fire. Aged only nineteen at the time, he had indeed captured the rebel prince’s banner, nearly getting his head staved in for his pains. He had been a mere man-at-arms then; his reward, for that and other services, had seen him elevated to the rank and property of a theign. Now he sat with the other theignas, with Fernhelm as his lord.

The other reason why Theofric favours Benedic is because of Albanach, Fernhelm went on, once the praise for Derian’s escapades had died down. Eordic has always made it plain that he wishes to recover the province for Ghylliar, even though it was handed to Hograth as part of a treaty, eighty-odd years ago. Benedic has made no such claims; so, naturally, he seems more likely to keep the peace if he succeeds to the throne.

If Eordic becomes king, and decides to take Albanach, it will be a nasty war, Hoevan said, stirring the fire with a stick. He gazed thoughtfully at the leaping flames.

Fernhelm sighed. Judging by what we saw today, yes. Better by far to hope that Benedic wins this civil war.

If he still lives.

If he still lives, Fernhelm agreed.

With dawn on the horizon, therefore, they began the journey back to Hograth. As far as possible they avoided passing too close to the manors, which were plentiful – for this was good land, and well-populated. They had little to fear from most of the settlements, for few would care to challenge forty well-armed horsemen; but they were in a kingdom rent by strife, and who knew what larger, marauding bands might be about?

They travelled at a good speed, but Fernhelm still sent scouts ahead and out on their flanks. He remained relaxed, but alert.

He kept Derian Orthon by his side as they went. He could never be accused of over-protecting the young theign, but he did feel responsible for him. It had been Fernhelm who took him to the battle where he had captured Harnic’s banner, and later elevated him to the lordship of a manor. He therefore had a duty, as Orthon’s lord and sponsor, to look to his welfare.

He engaged the young man in conversation as they went, even as his eyes continually roved the land about them. Not only did he feel responsible for the man, he also enjoyed his company.

You’ve done well these past four years, Derian. You have made your manor a success.

Thank you, my lord. I still have much to learn, though.

Fernhelm grinned. Don’t we all? But you became accepted swiftly, which was no mean feat. Do you recall how doubtful you were when I first offered you the chance to hold land in Pardria?

I’ll never forgot. You were most persuasive, as was the Count of Trall.

But we were right. We saw your qualities, even if you didn’t see them yourself. Now you have grown into your role admirably.

Derian dipped his head to acknowledge the praise.

By the middle of the afternoon they had made good progress. After crossing the River Gruith, using a shallow ford, they ascended a ridge that took them south-eastwards towards the next river, the Rek. Fernhelm reckoned they would cover at least another ten miles before dark, which would leave them only a few miles from the border.

It was not to be so easy, however. Soon after gaining the ridge, one of the scouts rode up.

There’s a large force riding to intercept us, the man said urgently. At least a hundred men, if not more.

Fernhelm scowled. Damn! Do you think there’s a chance of evading them?

The scout shook his head. No, my lord. They move fast, and will be on us too soon.

In which case, there’s no point in running. They have no reason to fight us, so we might as well let them come.

Inwardly he was concerned. His troop would stand little chance against a much larger force; and although it was true that the Ghyllians had no reason to attack, there was also nothing to stop them from doing so on a whim. The barbarity they had witnessed the previous day hardly inspired confidence that the Ghyllians would care much for the conventions of such a meeting.

That was assuming that the men now riding to intercept them were followers of Prince Eordic. If they were Benedic’s adherents, then all was likely to be well. Unfortunately, the odds favoured them being Eordic’s.

Let’s hope they are merely curious, and wish only to see us out of their kingdom, he muttered, to no-on in particular.

Without needing to be told, each Hograthian looked to his arms. They all wore mail, with shields and swords. Fernhelm checked his shield straps, loosened his sword in its sheath, and prayed silently to the Goddess that his precautions should prove unnecessary.

They were easily surrounded by the Ghyllians, who swarmed up the slope and ringed them about with levelled lances. Hard eyes glared from beneath burnished helms, and there was little friendliness in the grim set of their mouths. Their leader walked his horse forward to confront them with a casual air, as if confident that these Hograthian interlopers could offer him no threat. He’s not wrong, thought Fernhelm.

He held up his hands to show he held no weapons, and that he did not intend to draw one.

Who are you? the Ghyllian demanded. His voice was light and enquiring, rather than overtly hostile.

I am Derian Mavinor, of Pardria in Hograth, Fernhelm replied, instinctively using his real name. I came on a peaceful mission, but we now return home – hopefully still in peace.

The Ghyllian stared at him for a moment before twisting his mouth into a not entirely pleasant sneer.

I’m not sure any mission to Ghylliar at this time could be considered peaceful. Even less so if you are the Hograthian lord who was intending to meet with Benedic. My own lord, Prince Eordic, is not inclined to look favourably on Hograthians who seek to treat with his brother. Benedic’s passports mean nothing to us.

Fernhelm masked his alarm that the man should know of his purpose. He did not wish to consider the implications that knowledge held.

Whom do I have the honour of addressing? he asked, as sweetly as he could.

Again the Ghyllian stared for a while before answering. I am Thiofan Gaselen, lord of Gasel Wood. He puffed out his chest to draw attention to his badge, a green tree with leafless branches.

Gaselen removed his helm, tucking it under his arm. He looked to be around forty, a few years older than Fernhelm. The years told in his greying hair and lined face. But he was fit and strong, not a man to trifle with.

Fernhelm mulled the name over in his mind, recalling Gasel Wood from somewhere, if not the man’s name. He was about to say something to help place his errant memory; but suddenly he decided to feign complete ignorance. Something told him it would be wiser not to delve into this man’s background.

Benedic reached your rendezvous point early, Gaselen said into the silence. I assume you are returning from there?

Fernhelm shrugged. Did he escape? Or did you take him?

Gaselen smiled at Fernhelm’s nonchalance. He got away, Ghyllia curse him. Had he stayed to fight, this damned conflict would be over.

I’m sure he regrets not giving himself up. Fernhelm knew he was on dangerous ground here, but he disliked the Ghyllian’s manner.

Gaselen took no offence, though, but laughed easily. Perhaps not. So, my lord Derian, do you have your king’s letter to Benedic? I’m sure my prince would love to know what Theofric had to say.

Inwardly, Fernhelm cursed. Once the mission had failed, the obvious and sensible thing would have been to destroy the letter. Had it contained mere blandishments it might not have mattered. However, although he did not know its exact contents, he suspected Theofric’s message promised more than moral support. Now he would have to brazen it out, possibly draw steel on the Ghyllian, and probably doom his followers to a hard death.

There’s nothing in my king’s message that would be of interest to you or your prince, my lord Thiofan.

Gaselen raised an eyebrow. Perhaps Eordic will be the judge of that.

I cannot release it.

The sudden tension was palpable. Almost imperceptibly the Ghyllians’ lances dipped, their polished tips ringing the small Hograthian force. Fernhelm dropped his hand to his sword hilt; he saw Orthon’s do the same, and the muffled sounds from behind told him that the rest of his men were also reaching for their weapons. A horse snorted loudly and shuffled forward; its rider’s lance wavered, worryingly close to Orthon’s shield arm. Somewhere behind him a sword shrilled as it cleared its scabbard.

Stop! Gaselen raised his hand. The Ghyllians paused, almost trembling with excitement.

Move back, the lord of Gasel Wood commanded. Horses shuffled and stamped as they were hauled back. They only retreated a couple of feet, but it was enough to ease the tension – somewhat, anyway.

Gaselen stared at Fernhelm, who returned the intense look – the Ghyllian was not a man to be trifled with, but neither was the lord of Pardria.

Eventually the Ghyllian shrugged and gave a short bark of laughter. I don’t think I want to fight you, Derian. Not today, anyway. Tell me: are you the same Derian Mavinor who is also a lord of Trall?

I am. I was born on Trall, but gained Pardria four years ago.

Hm. So you’re the one they call Fernhelm?

Fernhelm nodded slowly, warily. The problem with owning a reputation was that people tended to wish to test it.

But Gaselen simply raised his hand and pointed south. Hograth is that way. You’re in Irrimar now. Pass through the lands of Ervastower and cross the river, and you’ll be back home. It’s not that far, really. You have one day to get out of Ghylliar.

Without waiting for a response, the Ghyllian slapped on his helm and wheeled his horse around. He made a circling gesture in the air and his men also turned, trotting off down the slope.

Fernhelm released his breath. He looked round at his men, who slumped in their saddles with the exhaustion that comes from the release of tense nerves. A couple of men laughed with relief.

That was close, was all he could think of to say. Well, lads, he’s given us a day. It’s only about fifteen miles to the river. I suggest we ride there with all speed and cross before nightfall. We’ll all feel a lot safer once we’re back in Hograth.

Their horses were blown by the time they reached the river. They crossed the wide, stone bridge into Northmarch as dusk fell, and forced their weary mounts the few further miles to the castle of Northmarch, one of the earl’s principal homes. Ardenus, the Earl of Northmarch, usually spent his time at another castle in Bowshot Chase, twenty-five miles away, but Fernhelm wished to get his men to safety in the closest fortress: there would be time to seek out the earl in the morning.

During their hasty withdrawal from Ghylliar, Fernhelm had mulled over his encounter with the lord of Gasel Wood. Thiofan Gaselen had known about his intended meeting with Prince Benedic and, indeed, the evidence of the ghastly battlefield strongly suggested that Eordic’s forces had come upon Benedic’s men by design, with that foreknowledge. The meeting, while not arranged in particular secret, had hardly been announced to all and sundry; which fact could only mean that someone had told Eordic of the plan. It was unlikely that the news had come from Benedic’s camp, which told Fernhelm that Eordic’s informant must have been Hograthian; moreover, a Hograthian close enough to the king’s counsel to have known of the planned assignation.

Or, if not the king’s counsel, then presumably that of the Earl of Northmarch, who had actually arranged the meeting.

As he pondered all of this, Fernhelm at once realised why he was so familiar with the name of Gasel Wood. He offered a devout prayer of thanks to the Goddess that he had kept his mouth shut when Gaselen revealed himself. To have spoken out then might well have caused the Ghyllians to draw their weapons in earnest, and forty-odd Hograthians would now lie on the plains of Ghylliar, dead or dying.

As expected, Ardenus was not at the castle. Fernhelm left his men to stable their horses, and led his theignas up the steps of the keep and into the hall, where he found the castle steward in consultation with one of the other servants.

My lord of Pardria, the steward said by way of greeting, casually dismissing the other when he saw the travellers enter. The earl was here three days ago; you’ve missed him.

Fernhelm nodded. I assume he’s gone to Bowshot?

In fact, no. The steward smiled. He was to make his way to the City, so decided to go to Pardria to await you. He has taken his household, thinking to avail himself of your food and drink while he waited for your return. The steward’s grin widened. No doubt he felt your lady’s hospitality would be a pleasant holiday.

There was no malice in the statement, Fernhelm knew, and he also knew there was no reason to be suspicious.

He had no fears for his wife’s fidelity, even as he knew full well why the Earl of Northmarch would crave her company. Alena, the lady of Pardria, was a celebrated beauty, and many men in the kingdom thought that Fernhelm had attracted far more than his fair share of luck when he married her. If the thrice-married earl wished to act like a love-struck boy as far as Alena was concerned, Fernhelm could hardly blame him. Sometimes he wondered at his own good fortune.

He chuckled. If that’s your way of trying to get me to leave as soon as I’ve arrived, it won’t work. I’m too tired to attempt to ride on tonight. If Ardenus is eating me out of hearth and home, then I shall reciprocate. Can you feed and sleep us tonight?

Of course, my lord. Give me an hour or two and I’ll ensure you and your men have all you need.

As it turned out, Fernhelm was not the only visitor to Northmarch. Several of the earl’s vassals were also at the castle, some of them gathering to journey to the City themselves. The lesser men would remain on the March, managing and overseeing the earl’s lands as well as their own.

The dinner, therefore, was not quiet, as some fifteen lords of the March, some with their families, sat down to enjoy the absent earl’s hospitality.

Fernhelm was hardly surprised to see one of these men, because of his ruminations during the ride from Ghylliar. Rhegus Asdimor, the lord of Rekford, had been uppermost in his mind for the past few hours.

Ah, Fernhelm, said Asdimor cheerfully, when they met at the table. He waved a goblet of wine in