The Dog of the North (49 page)

‘I am mindful of the great service your father has given me; also of your own valour on the battlefield, and your role in uncovering Guigot’s treachery. On this occasion, I am
inclined to mercy. Your sentence, then, is exile, on pain of death. You see that the sword points north. You will be taken from the Traitors’ Gate, with a gallumpher and provisions for three
days. You are required to ride in the direction of the sword until you quit my territory. Any man of Croad who sees you has my leave to kill you on the spot.’

Arren’s legs felt weak. He was not to be gelded, but exile was a cruel blow. He thought of Eilla, even now waiting at The Patient Suitor.

‘In addition,’ said Lord Thaume, ‘I must judge the case of the girl Eilla, whom I defended against the Lord High Viator at the jeopardy of my own rule. Words cannot express the
depth of her betrayal. I will spin the sword again, and she too must follow it to exile: and lest Arren should be tempted to follow her, I will not carry out the sentence until tomorrow.’

‘My lord,’ said Coppercake. ‘You rule in defiance of the evidence, and surely Eilla has a right to speak in her own defence.’

‘Enough, Coppercake. I heard your counsel, and have given it weight. Nonetheless, my sentence stands. Arren and Eilla are both clearly guilty of the offences in question, and further
debate will not alter the nature of their betrayal of their true lord.’

‘I cannot serve such a lord,’ said Coppercake. ‘Good and bad are mingled in you to an unusual degree. The viators have much work to bring you to Harmony.’

You may leave my service at any time, Master Coppercake. I am no tyrant.’

‘I used to think not, my lord.’

There was a silence as Lord Thaume considered his options. All present were aware that violence was one of them.

‘You will know best whether your wages are in arrears,’ he said in a tight voice. ‘Apply to Cyngier for any shortfall before you leave.’

‘I have always ensured I was paid in advance, my lord. I can no longer with dignity serve you; by your leave I will accompany Arren.’

Lord Thaume raised his eyebrows. ‘So be it.’ He rose from his seat. ‘Fleuraume, accompany Arren yourself, with ten of your best men. I will not have a repeat of Guigot’s
escape.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

As Arren was led away by the guards he passed Siedra. She looked him in the eye and her mouth twisted into a sneering smile. She pursed her lips into a kiss as he was marched past. She had her
revenge: not just on Arren, but on Eilla too.

1

Beauceron heard sounds below and looked out from the window of The Patient Suitor across the river. Virnesto heard the noise and walked across to join him.

‘What is happening?’ asked Virnesto.

‘It sounds like a battle-horn,’ said Beauceron steadily. ‘Surely Oricien cannot mean to fight.’

Brissio leaped from his seat and ran to the window. ‘At last! He will fight like a man and die like one! Quoon! Saddle my gallumpher! Lorin – my armour! Rouse the Winter
Knights!’

‘This is premature,’ said Virnesto. ‘We must assess Oricien’s dispositions.’

Beauceron pushed past both men and took the stairs two at a time on the way down. Whatever the Croadasque were planning, they would not be coming across the bridge – and that meant any
fight would be to the north of the river.

He leaped onto his gallumpher and galloped for the pontoon bridge. He had chosen his men with care, and he would not wish to fight anywhere but alongside them. As he crossed the bridge the angle
of his travel allowed him to see a column of cavalry charging from the North Gate. It was not an army; Oricien had not resolved on a decisive battle. Instead he had unleashed a cavalry charge: no
more than fifty or so men. What was he planning?

Beauceron spurred his gallumpher the harder. The Winter infantry milled around in confusion. Rather than form a square to oppose the cavalry they dived aside. Not for the first time, he cursed
the inferior quality of the Mettingloom troops. His own men would fight better, but they were only forty. Until the infantry’s officers could instil some order, the Croadasque cavalry would
have a free rein.

Into the air went a volley of fire arrows, arcing up into the sun until they were lost from view, and then dropping back into sight. Beauceron realized what they were doing: the trebuchets!
Beauceron cursed; his gallumpher snorted under him as his spurs drew blood. Why could the Winter Army not see what the cavalry were intending?

Beauceron knew he was too far away to affect the skirmish’s conclusion. The cavalry would either have destroyed the trebuchets or been routed before he was on the scene.

Even as he rode towards the scene he saw a flash of fire as one of the varnished tarpaulins took light. Half of his siege power was gone in a single arrow. He put his silver horn to his lips,
and saw that fifteen or so of his men had saddled up: the others were gathered around the surviving trebuchet.

Beauceron’s cavalrymen charged into the Croadasque. They were outnumbered but had the advantage of taking their opponents in the flank. In addition, they were proficient at skirmish
warfare: they spent most summers doing little else. Five Croadasque went down, ten: they were on the point of flight. The lead rider, who was past the Mettingloom assault, turned and went back to
the aid of his men. Beauceron nodded in admiration: this was a brave man, and a good commander. His armour was polished to a high sheen and his helmet dinted from previous combats.

Even amidst the melee, another fire arrow flew out, and flew true. The second trebuchet took fire like its cousin. Beauceron had lost both expensive siege engines in half an hour’s
inattention. It was no one’s fault but his own.

The Croadasque commander saw that he had been successful. There was no point in engaging in further combat. He pointed back to the city and wheeled his gallumpher around.

The remaining Croadasque fled for the city, Beauceron’s riders on their heels. Beauceron turned his gallumpher to the right; he could join the fight before they reached the city walls.

The Croadasque spread out to baffle the pursuit. The commander was at the rear of the group, trying to draw the chase after him.

You have to die,
thought Beauceron.
You are too brave to be suffered to live.

He set his own gallumpher at the man. The commander saw him coming and wheeled to face him. Beauceron continued his momentum and ducked under the blow aimed at his head, twisting as he did so to
thrust his own sword at the vulnerable point under the arm. The movement was too violent and he toppled from his gallumpher to fall heavily on his side. The Croadasque commander had also been
unseated and the two men lay on the ground. Beauceron could see blood seeping through the knight’s armour.

He pushed himself erect with his sword hilt. The prudent act was to skewer the man past his gorget before he could rise. Shaking his head at his weakness, he stepped back. ‘Stand and
fight,’ he said. ‘Or you may yield.’

Beauceron could see nothing of the knight’s face behind the grille of his helmet. His armour was considerably heavier than Beauceron’s chain mail, and it was only with difficulty
that he raised himself to his feet. ‘I yield nothing,’ he said in a voice muffled within the helmet. ‘If you want my life, you must take it, boy.’

Beauceron’s eyes narrowed. He feinted once, lunged at the knight, who parried at the last second and stepped forward inside Beauceron’s swing, confident that his armour made him
proof against all but the shrewdest thrust; Beauceron skipped back. Trading blows at close range with a fully armoured man would be fatal. ‘Stand and fight, boy!’ called the knight.
Blood was still oozing from the side of his armour, staining his white surcoat. He stepped towards Beauceron again, and Beauceron edged away, to feel his gallumpher at his back. He had nowhere to
go. The knight raised his sword, prepared to bring it down on Beauceron’s head; then his knees buckled and he sank forward to the ground. Beauceron moved in towards him: this time there would
be no chivalry. But the knight toppled forward. ‘You dog,’ he hissed as he fell. There was a thud as his armour hit the turf; his helmet, loosened in the fall from his gallumpher, slid
off his head. He lay still in the dirt, his long grey hair matted with sweat, and a pool of blood grew at his right-hand side.

Beauceron kicked the sword from the knight’s mailed hand, and gingerly turned him over. The eyes were cloudy, but he was still alive. His beard was greyer than Beauceron had remembered.
‘Sir Langlan,’ he said softly. ‘You die well; I salute you.’

Sir Langlan looked up, his eyes glassy. He coughed and a bubble of blood rose in his mouth. ‘You!’ he hissed, and sank back. The long and eventful life of Sir Langlan was over.

The other riders reached the sanctuary of the North Gate. Sir Langlan lay dead along with the others who had been killed earlier in the skirmish. Beauceron pulled his mail hood
back from his head and wiped his brow. Sir Langlan might have died, but his mission had been successful: the Winter Army no longer had trebuchets to raze the walls of Croad. The city could now
survive until its food ran out.

He walked over to where the trebuchets continued to blaze. The varnish of the tarpaulins had ensured the conflagration was complete. It would not be possible to salvage or repair the equipment.
Monetto leaned against a provisions wagon while Rostovac applied a bandage to a deep cut on his forearm.

‘Are you hurt?’ Beauceron asked.

‘Nothing too daunting,’ said Monetto. ‘But the trebuchets . . .’

‘I have much to explain to Brissio,’ said Beauceron. ‘If I had not been chasing after Lady Isola, things might have gone differently.’

Monetto gestured to the ring of infantry surrounding the city. ‘Fifty men should not have got close,’ he said. ‘They are buffoons led by buffoons.’

‘It may not be possible to convince Prince Brissio of that.’

Monetto looked quizzically at Beauceron. ‘It is unlike you to be downcast after a minor reverse.’

Beauceron gave a half-smile. ‘You do not know who led the assault.’

Monetto laughed. ‘Not Oricien, I’ll wager.’

Beauceron paused a moment. ‘It was Sir Langlan. He was too old to fight and he died for it.’

Monetto was silent while he took in the news. ‘Langlan was an indifferent knight, but a good man. There was a sadness that never left him.’

‘I had no quarrel with him,’ said Beauceron. ‘He did not set out to do me harm.’

‘I have no truck with the viators,’ said Monetto, ‘but his death was better than his life. By any standards he reached the end of the Way of Harmony.’

Beauceron thought back to the drinking, fighting and wenching which had characterized Sir Langlan’s life. It was hard to see how he would have derived satisfaction from dying a moral
exemplar. And satisfied or not, he was dead nonetheless. His vitality, one of the greatest Beauceron had known, was extinguished as thoroughly as a timid old woman’s. If there was a meaning
here he was at a loss to understand it.

2

‘Your presence is requested at The Patient Suitor, sir. Immediately.’ The soldier in Prince Brissio’s silver-grey livery bowed and withdrew from
Beauceron’s tent. Beauceron carefully set down his goblet. The interview was likely to be marked by recrimination, much of it justified. The loss of the trebuchets marked a potentially
decisive shift in the balance of the siege. A seasoned commander would be able to assess the situation with discrimination, but Brissio lacked the qualities of sober reflection. It was hard,
however, for Beauceron to represent his own capacities in a favourable light when he had managed to lose both Lady Isola and his trebuchets in less than a day. His revenge was not yet going to
plan.

Beauceron climbed aboard his gallumpher, rode across the pontoon bridge and soon found himself at The Patient Suitor and conducted to the rooms on the top floor.

‘My lord; General Virnesto. I await your pleasure,’ he said.

Brissio leaned back in his chair and put his feet on the table. ‘Lord Oricien rides to meet us under a flag of truce this afternoon.’

‘So soon?’ said Beauceron. ‘He cannot mean to surrender yet.’
Particularly with our trebuchets gone.

‘He is surrounded,’ said Brissio. ‘Our forces overwhelm him. His provisions may be low.’

‘He will not surrender yet,’ said Beauceron. ‘He awaits relief, and he will believe it to be coming. The glorious ride of Sir Langlan was not the gambit of a demoralized
army.’

Virnesto rose from his seat and looked from the southern window.

‘Their bellies are shrinking. Relief: that is the key, is it not? If relief does not come, he is beaten. Even if we cannot raze the walls, he knows he cannot match us in the field, or he
would have fought before he let us take the Voyne. How certain is his knowledge of relief?’

Beauceron paused. ‘For all his caution, Oricien is no coward; neither is he a fool. I can only assume he has reasonable assurance that a relief force will arrive.’

‘Enguerran or Trevarre?’ asked Virnesto.

‘When I was in Croad, relations were better with Emmen than Glount,’ said Beauceron. ‘On the other hand, Enguerran has never shown any interest in the North. If I were
gambling, I would expect a modest relief force from Glount – and I doubt that Trevarre can field a large enough force to worry us.’

‘We should have been in the city tomorrow if we had retained the trebuchets,’ said Prince Brissio.

‘Perhaps; perhaps not,’ said Beauceron. ‘It is possible to exaggerate their effectiveness. In any event, I thought you disdained a victory achieved by throwing
stones.’

‘What I disdain,’ said Brissio with narrowed eyes, ‘is no victory at all. What I disdain is watching the spring turn into summer while I sit here in idleness. What I disdain is
sitting like a rat in a trap waiting for Enguerran to bring his Immaculates north.’

‘If we must take the city by storm,’ said Beauceron, ‘we may yet do so.’

Virnesto frowned. ‘The stratagem is heavy in blood. The walls are sound. Many men would die.’