The Dog of the North (2 page)

The rider sighed. ‘I have you at a disadvantage; I am not about to relinquish it to pander to your whim of chivalry. Put up your sword, or die.’

Ryckaert looked around him. The rider was right. All of his men lay dead on the ground or disarmed. The raiders had already secured the stout-coach. His first command had ended in humiliating
failure. Two of the raider’s companions had ridden up; there was no way out.

‘I am Master Ryckaert,’ he said. ‘Must I surrender to a raider?’

‘You may prefer to die. Otherwise, put down your sword.’

Ryckaert looked up at the rider. In the implacable face he saw no choice. He turned the sword in his hand and offered the hilt to his conqueror.

2

The raider dismounted and removed his helmet to display more clearly keen blue eyes, a tightly compressed mouth and nondescript dust-coloured hair. He walked over to where
his men had disarmed the surviving guards. ‘How many, Monetto?’

‘Four dead, eleven yielded.’ The man called Monetto ran a hand through his sparse red hair and grinned. ‘Plus, of course, the twenty or so on the other side of the
river.’

‘We need not concern ourselves with them, unless your feelings are hurt by unfriendly gestures.’

Monetto did not spare them a glance. ‘What of our men?’

The raider shook his head. ‘That fool Ryckaert killed Stolio. A waste of a good soldier’s life. We will make sure his wife has his share. Everyone else on this side of the bridge
survived. Let’s see if the prize was worth the price. Have you been into the stout-coach yet?’

‘Naturally not,’ said Monetto. ‘I defer to the privilege of rank.’

‘Come with me, then. Dello can look after the prisoners. Do you think it’s her, Monetto?’

Monetto pointed to the flag drooping from the roof of the stout-coach. ‘Yellow and blue. It’s the arms of Croad. Who else can it be?’

The raider gave a grim smile. ‘I have waited a long time to renew our acquaintance. Too long, in fact.’

He leaped onto the viewing platform at the front of the coach. He was not surprised to find the door locked. ‘Open up in there!’ he called. ‘Else I must damage this valuable
carriage!’

A high voice came from within. ‘A moment.’

The raider allowed himself a smile. After a brief interval he heard the lock turn. ‘You may enter.’

He stepped into the coach. Before him stood a blonde woman, probably no more than twenty, startled as a rabbit. From the side he felt himself buffeted; he heard a metallic scraping at his gorget
and a sudden pain in his ear. He grabbed the wrist and pulled his assailant to the ground. There was a clatter as the knife fell to the floor.

‘Get up!’ he said. ‘Did you really think to injure me with your breakfast-knife?’

The woman on the floor merely looked up scornfully, her breast heaving and her eyes flashing. She looked at him a moment, stood and went to sit on the couch at the back of the compartment. Her
companion went to join her.

The raider looked at them thoughtfully. ‘I don’t recognize either of you.’

The dark-haired girl said: ‘I rarely – if ever – consort with brigands. Our lack of acquaintance should scarcely come as a surprise.’

‘Are you the only ones here?’

‘Of course. The stout-coach is cramped for two, let alone three.’

The raider stared at them. His clear blue eyes conveyed no emotion. ‘You are not what I expected to find. Tell me your names.’

‘You are a rude and impertinent fellow. I am Lady Isola, eldest daughter of Lord Sprang of Sey. My companion is Lady Cosetta, also of Sey. If you intend to molest us, please inform us now.
I would observe that my father will pay a considerable ransom, particularly if I am returned undamaged.’

The raider frowned. Events were not turning out as he had planned.

‘By what right do you fly the standard of Croad, if you come from Sey?’

Lady Isola said: ‘I am betrothed to Lord Oricien of Croad. I am travelling north to celebrate our nuptials. Lady Cosetta accompanies me as my attendant.’

The raider cursed softly. ‘You are not the ladies I had expected to find. No matter: I am sure we can turn the situation to advantage – to mine, at least. Presumably you bring a
handsome dowry? I doubt that Oricien would have consented to a match without one.’

Lady Isola pursed her lips and stared ahead.

‘If you will not tell me, no doubt Lady Cosetta will,’ he said, stepping over to where Cosetta was shrinking back into the couch. She was close to tears.

‘Behind us,’ she sniffed. ‘There are jewels and plate. The coin was to be transported separately.’

‘Good. Your compliance is encouraging. Since we are likely to be companions for some time, the sooner you accommodate yourselves to circumstances, the better matters will go. You will not
be molested, either by me or my men. Our motives are purely mercenary.’

Lady Isola stood up and walked to the window of the carriage. ‘Your bearing is not that of a brigand. You appear not only educated, but to speak with the accents of Emmen – of Croad,
even.’

‘We all follow our own Way, Lady Isola. My own circumstances, while perhaps of vulgar interest to you, are tedious to recount. You may know me as Beauceron. I am also known as the Dog of
the North.’

Lady Cosetta shrieked. Lady Isola smiled quietly. ‘In Sey your existence is believed to be apocryphal. Any rogue could make the claim.’

‘Whether you believe me or not, my lady, I am your captor: call me Beauceron, the Dog or King Enguerran. Now, kindly gather up your effects. I will be setting light to the stout-coach
before we move on. We have a long journey ahead.’

1

Arren’s earliest memories were of people shouting his name in the streets. ‘Long live Arren! Good health to Arren! Long live the King!’ He was sitting on
his father Darrien’s shoulders in the sun, the market square thronged with folk cheering his name as a herald read out the King’s decrees.

From his vantage high above the crowd he could see the parade of gallumphers as they trotted across the market square, a haze of dust kicked up by their hoofs in the summer heat. The crisp blue
and green surcoats of the riders delighted him and his ears thrilled to the high clear call of the clarion.

He was too young to realize that more than one person could have the same name, or indeed that a person could have several names. When he asked why they were shouting his name, his father
laughed.

His mother Ierwen reached up and chucked his cheek. ‘It is not you they are calling for, my love. It is King Arren, away down in Emmen.’

Arren did not know what a king was. ‘Why does a man in Emmen have the same name as me, Mama?’

‘Why, we named you after good King Arren. It is good luck to name a son after the King.’

‘What is the King? Why is everyone cheering?’

The royal party, which to Arren had been little more than a parade of gallumphers, passed out of view. Darrien lifted his son down from his broad shoulders. ‘You know that I serve Lord
Thaume in his Guards. Well, Lord Thaume, here in Croad, he serves King Arren in Emmen. The King rules all of us in Emmen.’

‘And who does King Arren serve?’

‘Why, the King serves nobody!’ said Ierwen, stepping over a discarded flag. ‘If he served anyone else, he would not be the King.’

‘Can I be the King when I grow up?’ asked Arren. ‘I would like it if I did not have to serve. No one could make me eat turnip, and I could play with Eilla and Clottie all
day.’

Darrien laughed. ‘I am sure it is not all play being the King,’ he said. ‘Besides, you cannot be the King. Only his own family can do that. When good King Arren dies, his son
Prince Jehan will be King after him. That is the way of kings.’

‘But I have the same name as the King,’ said Arren. ‘Should I not be King before Jehan, who has a different name?’

‘There are many boys called Arren,’ said Ierwen. ‘But the King has only one son, and it is he who will be King.’

2

The early years of Arren’s childhood were unburdened with trouble, or with learning. His father was the Captain of Lord Thaume’s Guard, and since raids from
the North were frequent, he spent many of his nights and days on the city walls. Ierwen found Arren’s younger brother Matten more demanding of her time, and Arren grew into an active and
independent lad. His favourite playmates were Eilla, a dark-haired imp of a girl a year his junior, and her sister Clotara – Clottie – a further year younger and of more malleable
temper. Matten often joined in their amusements.

The children were forbidden to play outside the city walls, and the strongest prohibition of all was that they were never to cross the bridge and venture into the Voyne, the small irregular town
south of the river.

Eilla in particular harboured a special desire to explore the Voyne, largely as a result of the ban her father Jandille, the city’s mason, had put on the area. The Voyne, outside of the
city walls, housed those who did not have leave to enter the city, and those whose work kept them outside. This settlement had an air of impermanence, despite the inn which did a lively trade among
visitors awaiting admittance to Croad.

One spring morning, Arren woke early and roused Eilla, Clottie and Matten. They ran down to the marketplace in the centre of the city, hooting and calling in their excitement.
The sun was up and already the day promised heat to come. Arren loved market day, with its clamour of sights, smells and sounds. Traders came from far and wide, gallumphers pulling rattlejacks
piled high with goods, and Arren always kept an eye out for the olive-skinned, almond-eyed men who made the journey north from Glount, and always brought the most exquisite goods to defray the cost
of their journey. Jostling with them were the farmers from the nearby plains, filling the square with their livestock and produce. Booths cooked every kind of food, and Arren’s mouth was
always watering by the time he arrived in the square.

Eilla, who would now have been about nine years old, was always voluble on such expeditions. She had big dark eyes and could often charm the traders at the fish stalls into frying them up some
fillets for their breakfast. There was a new lad on the fish stall today: a pimply lad of thirteen or so.

‘Hello. Who are you?’ said Eilla, looking downwards with a demure gaze. Arren hung back with Clottie and Matten.

‘Haroust,’ said the boy with a flush. Two other lads perched on a fish-crate beside the stall observing the scene.

‘Where is Teppentile?’ asked Eilla with a shy smile.

‘Poorly,’ said Haroust.

‘Oh,’ said Eilla. ‘He had promised me breakfast if I came early this week. I am sure you will fry us some fish, good Haroust!’

Haroust’s companions sniggered, and his face crimsoned. His voice was a squeaky crackle as he shouted ‘Be off with you!’ Eilla sloped away with her shoulders drooping.

‘I know. We’ll play raiders today,’ she announced as they left Haroust’s shrill curses behind them. ‘You have to steal three things from three different booths.
We’ll make a feast of what we steal.’

‘Eilla!’ cried Matten. ‘We’ll be whipped if we’re caught!’

‘Do you think the raiders escape punishment when they are captured?’ said Eilla with a curl of her lip. ‘If you don’t want to be whipped, don’t get
caught!’

She ducked into the crowd, to reappear with an apple in her hand. Arren followed Matten more sedately: there was every chance his brother would be caught.

As Arren followed Matten he managed to slide a lemon, all the way from Paladria, into his pocket while the stallholder served a portly lady. A rare and precious find! As his attention moved
towards a necklace on a nearby booth – not strictly suitable for lunch, but still – he was distracted by a yelp. ‘Eilla! Help! Help!’

He turned to see a green-robed apothecary holding Clot-tie by the ear. ‘Shut it, you little sneak! Steal my purge, would you! It’s no use howling now! We’ll see what the
constable makes of this.’

Arren could not help thinking that Clottie, in attempting to steal a laxative, had not fully understood the point of the game. He looked around for Eilla. She looked back across at him,
shrugged, and dipped something into her pocket. She had two items already, and slipped away from the apothecary and Clottie.

While the younger girl continued her wailing, Arren absent-mindedly slipped the necklace into his pocket. He heard a call of ‘Hoy there!’ and tried to shrink into the crowd.
‘Get away with you there, boy!’ called the constable, but it was a furtive and guilty-looking Matten who was the target of his suspicion. ‘Get off home, now, son. I know your
father and I’ll be checking up tonight.’

Arren moved off at a tangent to the constable, pouching a loaf of bread as he went past. He had his three items – would Eilla be able to evade capture and get her third item? Arren made
his way to their usual rendezvous, the entrance to the Temple of the Wheel. Some five minutes later, Eilla arrived, grinning.

‘I’ve got my three!’ declared Arren. ‘What of you?’

‘Animaxia take it! I’ve only got two,’ said Eilla. ‘But it isn’t lunchtime yet. That fat old constable is driving all the children off the market. It looks like
Clottie will get a whipping.’

‘Matten escaped,’ said Arren. ‘So I win. Only I have three things.’

‘Not so! I haven’t finished yet. But you’re scared to go back.’

‘I am not. You’re the one who’s scared. I’m the King of the Raiders.’

‘Are not! Prove it!’

‘How? And anyway, I don’t have to. I have my plunder already.’

Eilla clambered up onto the wall surrounding the temple gardens and sat kicking her legs against the stone. ‘If you’re really King of the Raiders, you have to take your booty back to
your secret palace in the Voyne. You have to go over the bridge. We’ll eat our lunch in The Patient Suitor’s courtyard – if you dare!’

Arren squinted up at the wall into the sun. ‘We aren’t allowed across the bridge.’

Eilla sniffed. ‘Some raider you are. If raiders only did as they were allowed, they wouldn’t be raiders.’

‘Well then! You must meet me there at midday – with all three items. Otherwise you’re a coward and a sneak and no true knight.’