The Dog of the North (6 page)

He looked over his shoulder as he crossed the bridge. A figure ducked into a booth with an alacrity Beauceron found suspicious. He shrugged: a man of note in Mettingloom could expect nothing
else. Davanzato would undoubtedly be tracking his movements, although Beauceron doubted that his men were that inept.

Winter was beginning to close in, and despite his cloak Beauceron shivered against the chill. There was a faint crunch of ice underfoot, and he was pleased to reach the warmth of the Occonero.
Fanrolio maintained a dimonetto here as at Hiverno.

Beauceron found himself escorted to the Flower Room, so named for the meticulously painted ceiling, covered with a thousand summer roses. It was not a room of high state, but informal, with
chairs and couches arranged in pleasant randomness. He recognized most of the thirty or so guests: Davanzato was present, of course, with both Isola and Cosetta, arrayed in notable finery, close
by. Neither seemed the worse for their change of abode. Cosetta greeted Beauceron with a half smile; Isola looked away.

He made his way over to the liveried footman standing by the dimonetto dispensing wine.

‘Good evening, Prince Brissio, General Virnesto.’

Brissio, a stocky young man with a florid complexion and incongruous ringlets, took a sip from his goblet before acknowledging Beauceron with a loose nod. Virnesto, a trim figure with an upright
martial bearing, briskly shook Beauceron’s hand.

‘I heard you were back,’ he said. ‘With plate and prisoners.’

Beauceron took a goblet with one hand and made a negligent gesture with the other.

‘The “prisoners” strictly belong to King Fanrolio – and since I understand they have given their parole, it is a touch indelicate to use the term at all.’

Brissio set his goblet down with an audible thud. ‘You are a fine fellow, to talk of delicacy when you spend all summer on the back of a gallumpher.’ He turned so that his words were
audible to Isola and Cosetta. ‘I think it a poor display for a man who professes the ideals of chivalry to abduct two ladies – two beautiful ladies – from the security of their
stout-coach.’

If either had heard the remark they did not show it.

‘I would not lightly contradict the King’s son, my lord, but I have never professed any chivalric conduct. I am a brigand, pure and simple. The calling has its detractors but I know
no other.’

Brissio picked his goblet up and said to Virnesto: ‘What do you make of this escapade?’

‘Beyond a doubt, my lord, Beauceron is intrepid and audacious. His actions may not excite universal approval, but it cannot be denied that your father benefits from the terror that the Dog
of the North evokes.’

Brissio drained his goblet and set it down heavily. ‘If you will excuse me, General, I must introduce myself to the ladies.’

Beauceron took advantage of Brissio’s departure to assess his surroundings. Mettingloom in winter could be chill, drear and inhospitable, but inside the Occonero there was only comfort.
The vents of the dimonetto issued a soothing warmth, and the walls were plastered a quiet umber. Sconces flickered in the alcoves, and Beauceron felt compelled to remove his cloak against the heat.
A footman came to take the cloak away. ‘I must ask you to surrender your rapier, sir,’ he said. ‘His Puissance is on his way.’

Beauceron heard a fanfare in the corridor outside, and after a slight hesitation he gave the man his blade.

‘All hail His Puissant Majesty, the Winter King of Mettingloom, the Northern Reach and Lynnoc: Fanrolio!’

Beauceron dropped to his knee along with the rest of the company as Fanrolio entered the room. He had forgotten the King’s absurd claim to the Duchy of Lynnoc, stretching back three
centuries through bastardy and the female line.

Fanrolio entered through the double doors and paused. ‘Rise!’ he said, in his scratchy voice. Davanzato claimed that the King’s physician was having a positive effect, but
looking at Fanrolio’s drawn face and stooped bearing, Beauceron remained to be convinced. The King was only fifty, but could have passed for twenty years older.

‘Welcome, all!’ he continued. ‘We have new guests among us tonight.’ He moved towards a chair reserved for him by the warmth of the dimonetto, leaning on the arm of an
attendant. Brissio made no move to help him. Reaching the seat, he sat with an almost audible creak. He beckoned to Isola.

‘It gives me the greatest pleasure to introduce two ladies from the fair city of Sey who are my guests for the nonce. Lady Isola, the daughter of Lord Sprang, has the blood of Lynnoc in
her veins: we are perhaps distant cousins, although her beauty would suggest otherwise.’

Beauceron did not find the witticism worthy of laughter, but he was in the minority. He leaned against the wall and sipped from his goblet.

‘Her companion, Lady Cosetta, is no less beautiful, nor indeed any less amiable. We are grateful that they have chosen to winter among us.’

Isola shot Beauceron a bleak look from the corner of her eye. Cosetta curtsied to the King, evidently deciding to make the best of the situation.

‘These noble ladies accompanied none other than that most redoubtable of captains, Beauceron, known to his foes as the Dog of the North. A dog will always return to his home, and we are
fortunate that this brave captain has chosen once again to make his home among us. Captain, we welcome you!’

Beauceron stood straight, then bowed. The courtesy cost Fanrolio nothing but there seemed no reason not to acknowledge it.

‘For now,’ Fanrolio continued, ‘we know the partiality of young folk for dance. Minstrels! Play!’

1

Arren’s unstructured way of life came to an end the summer he turned eleven. One evening, while Arren attempted to apply an armlock to Matten as they wrestled on the
cold stone floor of Darrien’s cottage, there was a knock at the door.

Ierwen sighed. ‘Is there no peace? Even when you are home they cannot leave you alone.’

Darrien grunted and rose from his seat. ‘It is probably Viator Dince to see why I have not been to Find the Way this week.’

Ierwen shook her head and some brown hair escaped from its bun. ‘Is it too much to ask for a night’s peace?’

Darrien opened the door, which gave directly on to the living area. ‘Pray enter, my lord.’

Ierwen rose to her feet, for the visitor was none other than Lord Thaume. He was a tall, spare figure who carried himself with a self-contained gravity. Only the depth and animation of his dark
eyes hinted at a vitality not immediately apparent. Ierwen curtsied as Lord Thaume bowed. ‘Mistress Ierwen, I apologize for my intrusion. I had hoped to see Master Darrien at the castle
today, but I find he was detained at the stables.’

Ierwen flushed. Lord Thaume was not a man who normally called at his inferiors’ homes. ‘Please sit down, my lord. Arren, Matten, away out the back now. Lord Thaume does not want to
be vexed by your noise.’

Arren released Matten’s arm and slid quietly back to the wall.

Lord Thaume sat and said: ‘That will not be necessary. Indeed, it is about young Arren that I wished to speak.’ He stretched his long legs out across the fireplace.

Ierwen’s eyes widened. ‘What has he been doing now? That Eilla is not involved again?’

Lord Thaume smiled. ‘You need have no concerns, mistress. Arren is in no trouble – indeed, quite the contrary.’

Ierwen and Darrien were silent. They waited expectantly for Lord Thaume to continue. Arren himself looked on with a mixture of apprehension and curiosity. Lord Thaume always had a friendly word
for him, and had once given him a copper royal.

‘You will be aware that Arren and my son Oricien are of an age,’ he said. ‘One day, a day I hope is far in the future, Oricien will be Lord of Croad. Such is the melancholy
passage of time, and the viators would tell us it is all for the best. Platitudes, if you ask me, but that’s by the by.

‘When Oricien becomes lord, there are two legacies I can give him: full coffers and good counsellors. Mistress Ierwen, I hope you are sensible of the reliance I place on your husband. As
Captain of the Guard, he is my strong right hand.’

‘I am glad to hear you say so, my lord. I would be even more delighted were his stipend to reflect that.’

Lord Thaume dismissed the point with a wave. ‘A ruler has many calls upon his purse. But I would be happy to know that Oricien had a friend of his own age who might in turn become captain
of his guard.’

‘I am sure your son will always find Arren a loyal servant,’ said Darrien.

‘I wish to advance matters by taking Arren into my household,’ said Lord Thaume abruptly. ‘Oricien’s education has been somewhat neglected and it is high time that a
programme of preparation for his responsibilities began. I must of course educate Lord Guigot along the same lines, and I see no reason not to include Siedra in the programme: a degree of
intellectual cultivation can only increase her prospects when she goes to court at Emmen. I propose that Arren should join them. I have already secured a number of excellent tutors.’

Arren could scarcely move in his amazement. He looked across at his father, who sat rubbing his chin.

‘I am grateful for the thought your lordship has shown our lad,’ said Ierwen with a trace of colour in her face. ‘I am sorry that the course you suggest is not
possible.’

‘My dear lady! Why ever not?’ said Lord Thaume, his eyebrows twitching.

‘Yes, Ierwen, why not?’ asked Darrien.

Ierwen set her jaw. ‘Arren is our eldest son. We don’t want to lose him. But he would not be happy in a great lord’s household, begging your pardon, sir. We are simple people
and we know our place. What good would it do Arren to learn the manners and appetites of lords and ladies, only to return here at the end of it, or to be dependent on your son’s patronage?
Arren’s place is here with us. He will always be a loyal servant to the Lord of Croad, but not as some lordling.’

Lord Thaume scratched his chin. ‘I hardly know what to say, mistress. In my folly I had never imagined that the idea might be objectionable to you.’

‘Ignore my wife, my lord,’ said Darrien. ‘Arren leaves tonight, if it is your wish. Arren, run upstairs and pack your things.’

Ierwen began to cry and Arren soon joined her. ‘Come now, lad,’ said Lord Thaume with gruff courtesy. ‘It is hard for you at first, but you shall come home on the feast days,
and everyone will marvel how you have grown. The castle is no distance away, and you will see your mother all the time.’

Ierwen looked at her husband through swollen red eyes. ‘You will regret this, Darrien. The lad will not come back as our son, mark my words.’

Darrien gave an uneasy laugh. ‘Nonsense, woman! He will have learning in many fields and the friendship of the lord of the city. He will even be Captain of the Guard in his
turn.’

Ierwen turned away. ‘Do you understand nothing, Darrien? Will he come back ready to marry Eilla or Clottie, or will his head have been turned by longings for great ladies who will laugh in
his face? How will he ever be satisfied with what he has?’

Arren’s sniffling was brought to a halt by the ludicrous idea that he might marry Eilla or Clottie. Naturally he never intended to marry at all, but if he did, it would never be to such
vexatious creatures.

Matten interrupted to ask: ‘If Arren is going to be a great lord, may not I come too? I am much cleverer than Arren and more handsome besides!’

Arren scowled at his brother. If joining Lord Thaume’s household meant he did not have to marry Eilla or Clottie, and put Matten in his place at the same time, it had to be a good idea.
‘Let me gather my items, my lord!’ he cried. ‘I am ready.’

2

Arren followed the housemistress Eulalia into Lord Thaume’s family dining room, a space panelled in dark wood, with a squat table at the centre, and an air of gloomy
dignity. Arren was put in mind of Lord Thaume in the black robes he wore to administer justice each Consorts’ Day. Around the walls were portraits, generally of armoured men brandishing
swords from their gallumphers. A window commanded a view of the Pleasaunce, the family’s exclusive gardens.

‘I am sure you are hungry, Arren,’ said Mistress Eulalia, her plump cheeks dimpling. ‘Lord Thaume has ensured that the children waited so you need not dine alone.’

Arren peered out from behind Eulalia to survey the room before him and the three solemn children arrayed there.

‘Well, children,’ said Eulalia. ‘Are you not going to greet Arren?’

From the head of the table, a wiry fair-headed lad of around Arren’s own age rose and gave a precise bow. ‘Welcome, Arren,’ he said in a fluting tone. ‘I am Lord
Oricien.’ He indicated a chair next to him. ‘You will wish to sit.’

Arren knew Oricien by sight, but they had never spoken. ‘Thank you,’ he said in a small voice.

‘This is my cousin Guigot—’ Oricien continued, indicating a solid young man of twelve or thirteen, with keen black eyes partly obscured behind an unruly fringe.

‘Lord
Guigot. The son of Lord Borel.’

And this is my sister, Lady Siedra.’

Arren’s experience of girls was not extensive, but he instantly realized that here was a person different in kind to Eilla or Clottie, who were as happy as he to frolic in mud. Lady
Siedra, perhaps ten years old, was attired in a gown of rich cream silk and her expression suggested she regarded mud and Arren in much the same light. She tilted her head to the side to the
smallest perceptible extent and said: ‘I am charmed to make your acquaintance.’

The three children sat down and Mistress Eulalia ushered Arren to the seat indicated by Oricien. ‘Arren will be taking his meals and his lessons with you from now on,’ she said.
‘Lord Thaume will have told you as much.’

Guigot sniffed. ‘Yes, although he has not explained the necessity. Lord Thaume does not take meals with his inferiors, and I fail to understand why we should do so.’

Oricien said: ‘His father is a most valiant man. My father has said Arren is to be treated as a gentleman.’

‘In that case,’ said Guigot, ‘why do we not take our meat with your father’s fighting-cocks? They are nothing if not valiant.’