The Stoneholding

The boatmen passed the Hangtree, the city's notorious place of execution. In the freshening wind the corpse of the river pirate that dangled from the weathered crossbeams began to clank in its shroud of chains. Downriver, in grim keeping with the mournful music of the gibbet, the distant bells of Tower Dinas tolled their final warning. It was curfew time.

By now the patrons of The Three Cranes in the Vintry would long since have left the tavern to avoid being caught abroad beyond the curfew hour, which was being strictly and oftentimes savagely enforced these days. Besides being their favourite watering hole, with all its hustle and bustle it had proved an ideal meeting place for Frysan and his men in these perilous times. Earlier this evening in fact they had launched their dangerous venture from the quay below the tavern.

Not to mention that The Cranes was a good spot in which to spark gossip and foster hearsay -- the useful rumour, for instance, that had distracted the river patrols from their normal duties. It helped too that the tavern's owner was a trusty highlander, a loyal King's man, although Frysan fervently hoped that they had covered their tracks well enough that no suspicion would later attach to him. Otherwise, like themselves, the man could find himself dangling like rotten fruit from the Hangtree's gibbet.

Frysan stirred to ease his stiffness and glanced at his broad-shouldered companion. He smiled gravely to himself. Here was Cammas, who was the brawniest jolliest soldier in Frysan's platoon of elite Life Guardsmen dressed in plain coarse-grained trousers and tunic, like one of the many watermen who ferried passengers back and forth along the Dinastor River. Catching Frysan's eye, Cammas swung the oarblades onto the gunwales for a moment and kicked at the lumpy pile of canvas at his feet, where two other comrades lay hidden.

"Ruddy hard work it is making headway with this load of fishbait even with a downstream drift."

"It's your own fault, Cammas," humoured a voice from under the canvas. "The ham-handed way you sweep them oars, you'll have sprayed half the Dinastor River aboard before we berth, and the worst of it is, we don't have bailing cans."

"Maybe we can use our scabbards."

"Better your empty heads," Cammas said, poking the canvas again.

For a while Frysan let them banter back and forth, even after Cammas laid his back into the oars again, for such was the timeless custom of fighting men before battle, a way to ease the tension.

The great pile of a building loomed indistinct on the promontory to their right, overtopping the river. They were approaching the extensive grounds of the Silver Palace, which housed the royal apartments. At a signal from Frysan, the second wherry, which although smaller also carried four men, pulled away and beat fast to the shoreline, following a line of rocky bluffs until it came to a halt beneath them.

Some minutes later Frysan could just make out a straggled line of four figures spidering their way on climbing ropes along the face of the rock towards the top of the bluffs. His eyes scanned the brink, probing the scrub brush. Eldor had better be there, else it would be a measure of chain-link winding sheet for each of them before the night's business was done. But then again, Eldor was the deadliest fighting man in his charge, which was saying a lot, for even a run-of-the-mill highlander was worth at least two lowland rogues.

Now he had Cammas redirect their own wherry across the current towards the rugged heights along the water's edge. The splash of the oars echoed and grew louder as they turned aside from the broad reaches of the dark-flowing river and nosed the boat into the narrower channel of the watergate that cut through a beetling shelf of rock and angled its way to the King's Stairs, where the royal barge lay moored, below the gardens and grounds of the palace.

Better to call the place the Mindal's Stairs, since it was the Royal Council that had a dire chokehold on the city, now that King Colurian lay dying. It was the Mindal's ironclad curfew they were violating by venturing forth on the river at such a late hour. And to make matters worse, they were almost within bowshot of the Silver Palace itself. These days there was no place in all of Dinas Antrum that was more strictly off-limits and more apt to be tightly guarded.

Even before they reached the landing at the foot of the grey stone stairs, which were well-lit by becketed torches, Frysan could see the three archers whom the Mindal had posted as sentries stooping to span their crossbows. These were handpicked men, deadly earnest about their duties. That's how the Mindal always did its business -- with ruthless efficiency.

"Alright, you two in the boat, in the name of the Mindal, ease up on your oars and state your names and what business brings you here at this hour of the night. Quick now or we'll play it safe and pin you in place with a bolt to the chest." On the alert, the archer had begun descending the stone stairs, his crossbow raised to cover the unexpected intruders.

"Ship your oars, Cammas," Frysan whispered to the man facing him. "Dock the boat on this riverward side of the royal barge, if you can -- My name's Dorassy, Elzemon Dorassy of the Drapers' Guild." Frysan hailed the crossbowman over the water, hoping he had managed to purge his speech of its tell-tale highland burr. He had even chosen a false identity riddled with perilous r's that he had polished well by practice. "I'm here by warrant of the Mindal with an urgent message for the Captain of the Guard. It's on a matter of the highest importance. I must see him -- immediately." He struggled to rise to his feet in the bobbing wherry. "This is Cammas, a most obliging waterman," he said, throwing off his cloak so they could fetch a look at him in his finery: a doublet with embroidered sleeves, a long-skirted jerkin, topped by a linen ruff and a low-brimmed velvet cap, inset with the jewelled emblem of the Drapers' Guild.

"Come then, Master Guildsman, and we'll have a look, but mind you make no sudden movements, nor you nor the water rat! No, no -- Not there, this way. Dock the boat here on the port side of the royal barge, where I can make certain of you."

With a grimace, his back to shore, Cammas edged the wherry up to the quay, allowing Frysan to reach out and clamber to his feet onto the firm ground of the landing. He too climbed out of the boat and made it fast to a mooring post on the lee side of the royal barge.

"Now both of you stay right where you are. Easy now, not a step further. You'll have your chance to see the Captain of the Guard alright enough. But it'll be the mountain coming to you, not you to the mountain," said the nearer sentry and snickered. The man had come to a halt just above the landing. Keeping his crossbow trained on the two of them, he looked them over. His comrades remained rooted in place on the level ground above. There were three of them spaced neatly apart, making four sentries in all. Frysan hadn't noticed the additional man. He'd been hidden from sight before, or else he had come up at a signal from one of the others, his crossbow still unspanned. Instead the fellow had begun to lift a small hunting horn to his lips.

Frysan cringed.

"Nevermind the horn, man. We're not under attack," said another guard. "We'll hold them here, and you go fetch Captain Baldrick. You know how he is. You'll catch more than just the edge of his tongue, if you rouse up the whole garrison merely to bid welcome to an unlooked-for messenger from the Mindal."

"Still and all, you know his orders, 'Anything out of the ordinary and' --"

"Aye, dolthead, but use your sense. There's no need to go wasting your breath and blowing a great alarm just for a lone unarmed guildsman and his boatman. Get on with you now and fetch the Captain."

The man put away his horn and marched off, grabbing hold of a lantern as he went. At first the minutes spent waiting for him to return dragged on in awkward silence. The tension that had settled over the whole city was at its thickest here at the Silver Palace, where King Colurian lay comatose and dying, with his Queen and infant son gathered to his side, but under close guard.

"How long will it take for your Captain Baldrick to get here?" Frysan made an attempt at conversation.

"He'll be coming nor sooner nor later than he sees fit. What's it matter?"

"It's the way you have your weapons pointed at us. It makes me nervous. You couldn't aim them just a bit -- Could you?" Frysan made a side-sweeping gesture of his open palm.

"Stop your chatter. The Captain's coming!" said a voice from above.

Frysan and Cammas could make out the winking approach of lantern lights and the dim figure of a huge tun of a man, lumbering his way towards the top of the stairs like an unchained bear.

"Where in creation did he come from? I could fit two of me in his breeches!" Cammas said under his breath.

A mountain indeed, unnerving too, for Frysan remembered vividly that he had met this Captain Baldrick one time before -- on parade four years ago when he had been inducted into the ranks of the Life Guardsmen, just before they were disbanded and banished from their barracks near the Silver Palace, forced to reassemble their ranks secretly at a hidden spot in the countryside outside of Dinas Antrum. It was this Captain Baldrick who had personally welcomed the new recruits for King Colurian, taking their oath of fealty on his behalf.

The occasion stood out in Frysan's mind. He had been a smooth-faced nondescript youth then, slighter and less muscular, but hampered by a noticeable limp, for he had badly torn a tendon in his heel during a training session in the tiltyard the day before. When his name was called, he hobbled up to the dais. There had been a moment of discomfort when their eyes met and Captain Baldrick asked gruffly what ailed him, since all the other newly minted guardsmen were stepping up smartly to receive their commission. Frysan's answer was brief'no more than a phrase. The big man nodded and then Frysan placed his hands between the Captain's and swore his oath. He withdrew to let the next man in line do the same. It had been a long and tedious ceremony. There were many that had pledged their fealty that day, including soldiers from other regiments, a great number of them already in the direct employ of the Mindal. Now Frysan hoped he was a long-forgotten face to Captain Baldrick.

"You may lower your weapons and unspan them, men, but stand ready. We mustn't make the mistake of being too trusting. There's an old fool within who could tell you all about the pitfalls of being too trusting, a right royal fool." The big man gave vent to a ferocious burst of laughter, then shed his mirth as suddenly.

"You, Master Draper, come along, step up to me here. We'll speak our business in a better spot, where the light's brighter and I can see what kind of face you have, whether it's honest or sly! Sly, I'd say, at a venture, for I've never yet met a bearded man who didn't have something to hide. Like the esteemed members of the Mindal. Have you noticed? Every last one of them sports a bird's nest, the bushier the beard the greater the scoundrel." He guffawed again stroking his own vast comet's tail of whiskers, which swept down to the barrel of his chest. "What did you tell my men your name was?"

"Elzemon Dorassy, Captain. Elzemon Dorassy of the Drapers' Guild. I bear an urgent message for you from the Mindal under seal." Frysan climbed the stairs two steps at a time with scroll in hand. He moved away from the area of the quay, where the rowboat bumped against its moorings beside the royal barge, its dangerous cargo still hidden and undiscovered.

"Hold it! You too, waterman, don't you slip away on me," bellowed Baldrick, as Cammas made to turn back to where his boat was berthed. "You may wait for us here with my men, while I consider Master Dorassy and this urgent message he brings for me from the Mindal."

Frysan stepped up from the stairs into a large circular area paved with cobbles, from which footpaths led in various directions fingering their way into the splendidly groomed grounds of the palace. To his right, lurking somewhere amid the grove of trees that crowned the edge of the escarpment above the river, waiting and watching, crept Eldor and his men.

At the centre of this open area above the King's Stairs stood a large summerhouse hung with a battery of shining lanterns both inside and out. Trailed by two mail-clad pikemen, Baldrick and Frysan strode towards the structure, leaving Cammas with the sentries. At least Baldrick strode, while Frysan found himself having to feign a light step. The tendon injured four years ago was tightening up again. It pulled like a drawn bowstring against his heel, burdening every step he took with a sharp twist of pain, as it was wont to do whenever he found himself tired or pressed, or when the weather was damp and cold, as it was tonight. The summerhouse lay close at hand. Baldrick ushered Frysan through the entrance, a doorless opening in the circular half-walls, which stood at waist height, allowing the royal family and their guests to look out over the river and enjoy its summer breezes. Light fell from a large lantern suspended from the open beams.

"Here now, let me have a look at that precious letter of yours." Baldrick reached a thick hand out to snatch the letter, as he dropped himself heavily into a high-backed chair behind a stout oak table in the middle of the summerhouse. The Captain broke open the seal. Knitting his brows, he began reading the document they had so carefully forged. Frysan gathered the skirt of his jerkin behind his knees and seated himself across from Baldrick. He let his eyes wander over the sparsely furnished interior of the summerhouse and the thick darkness outside until he ventured a closer look at the man he faced. From the corner of his vision at first, he noted the man's balding neckless head fixed like a tattered bolster on massive shoulders. There was the smell too. He wrinkled his nose at the sour sweat-mingled stench of the wine that flushed the soldier's cruel snub features.

"So they've had some trouble at Tower Dinas?" Baldrick looked up at last from the scroll, regarding Frysan with small piggish eyes.

"Yes, serious trouble, Captain."

"The clay-brained fools, I warned them they'd need to post more men there. Although the plain truth is that it wouldn't make a jot of difference how many men you posted there so long as they insist on retaining that foppish thin-faced charlatan they've put in charge of the place. Why, I wouldn't trust the man to clean a latrine."

"You may rest easy on that point, Captain. After tonight the Mindal has seen fit to withdraw his commission." Frysan lied glibly. Better to make it seem like the Mindal was bowing to some of Baldrick's suggestions. It might make him more pliable when the question of evacuating the King and Queen was broached.

"Plague on him! It's about time, seeing as it's all our necks that are like to get stretched if we let the old-guard rabble take Tower Dinas."

"The situation would be even worse if they took the Silver Palace. Precisely the reason why it's you they've put in command of the garrison here." Frysan leaned forward in his seat. "Let Queen Asturia and her son get sprung loose and you'll ignite whatever resistance there remains to the Mindal in Arvon, like pouring oil on fire. As far as the Queen and baby are concerned, the Mindal's taking no chances."

"No chances! How do you mean no chances?" Baldrick struck the table with his fist. "If they were serious about taking no chances, they'd be coming to me with the order to blood their throats!"

"Not yet, Captain, you know the time isn't ripe for that kind of thing yet."

"So instead they want me to move the wretched termagant and her whelp to the Summer Palace and hold the both of them there together with the King, if he survives the trip. 'Take the royal barge' they say." He lifted the document and let it drop onto the table. "And a dozen of your best men for escort' -- with Elzemon Dorassy of the Drapers' Guild to hold her hand and humour her."

"If you wish to put it that way, Captain, yes, precisely. Now that you have some idea of the arrangements, perhaps we can move along now to the royal apartments and collect the royal family. The sooner we set off upriver the better."

"Very well, Master Dorassy," said Baldrick, as he steepled his fingers, flexing them, his elbows on the table. "One last question. Why you? How is it they've sent you to fetch this pestilent battleaxe of a woman? I don't know that I've ever met you or even heard mention of your name, and it's my business to know all the scavenger fish that feed on scraps from the Mindal."

"Because they needed someone who'd not raise the Queen's hackles. Someone not known to swim with the scavenger fish, as you call them, but trustworthy all the same and sympathetic to their designs. It so happened that I had been invited to their meeting tonight for the first time, and they asked me to undertake the task, since I'd had some friendly dealings with the Queen when I was but a journeyman draper newly arrived in Dinas Antrum from my hometown."

"What hometown is that, may I ask?" Baldrick had unsheathed his dagger and fell to paring his nails with its razor-sharp edges.

"Woodglence, on the upper Dinastor."

"I thought I noticed a touch of an accent -- almost took you for a highlander for a moment there." He looked up squint-eyed at Frysan. Light perspiration began to gather on Frysan's brow. His foot began to throb. He knew the heel was soon bound to hurt worse.

"No, I'm from the marchlands this side of the Radolan Mountains, a lowlander when all is said and done."

"Good, come along then," said Baldrick, as he rose. He held out his dagger pointing to the doorway, then slid the blade into its sheath. "We'll let you wheedle the woman with your soft graces, Master Merchant, although if it were up to me, I'd not stand on ceremony but bind and gag her and throw her into the boat's bilge, her and her whining imp. And I'm willing to bet you a full month's wages you'll be hard put to get her to agree that her husband should be moved in his death pangs."

Baldrick and Frysan left the summerhouse and turned onto a flagged footpath towards the buildings of the Silver Palace itself. The two pikemen provided them with lantern light, one ahead and one behind. They threaded their way across the grounds, where the sculptured hedges threw strange shadows in the flaring light, past flowerbeds and terraced gardens, their plants now faded with the summer's passing. Wincing at the surging stabs of pain, Frysan started to favour his left foot, lagging a step behind the Captain, who more than once cursed and prodded the pikeman who led the way in an effort to quicken their pace. Without warning Baldrick turned his head.

"What ails you, man?" he asked, stopping to regard Frysan with a narrow eye. Frysan's heart skipped a beat.

"Oh, nothing much -- just turned my ankle a bit when I jumped onto the wharf from the boat, that's all."

"Aye, it can be hard to find your footing in the dark. Those stones are slippery, awful slippery. A man can't be too careful, can he?"

"No, never too careful," echoed Frysan, stiffening at the double-sided remark, which had been delivered with a wry smile, almost a leer. The Captain was reputed to be the Mindal's spymaster, deeply involved in their scheming and intrigues. Ah well, there was no going back now. All he could do was grit his teeth and carry on, although suddenly he found the feel of the sheathed knife resting between his shoulders profoundly reassuring. He cast a glance upward, as they neared the shadow-draped face of the grey-stoned palace building, to where its turrets and chimneystacks stood lost in darkness.

At the postern gate they came to a halt, facing a massive oaken door with heavy steel hasps and rivets. Over the door, which stood flooded by light from two torches fixed in wrought-iron cressets, there curved a stone arch adorned with the royal coat of arms. Overhanging the arch was an embrasure that bulged out from the wall, its floor and each of its three sides having grated openings, which afforded the guards inside an unencumbered view of anyone who might approach the palace seeking entry. Baldrick pulled on a rope that dangled down from the embrasure. From within they heard the harsh clang of a bell, followed moments later by a clipped voice that challenged them from behind the criss-cross grillwork.

"Password, Captain!"

"Terrible trials trouble robin redbreast's roosting rest," Baldrick replied in his rough baritone.

Frysan smiled. A curiously whimsical kind of password, as well suited to the stalwart Captain as a girl's lace-edged frock.

"And what about him too, the fancy-dressed gentleman behind you, sir?"

"He's with me, soldier, can't you see?"

"Aye, but orders is orders, sir. We ain't supposed to open the door for nobody who ain't said the password. You said so yourself. Not even if Lord Gawmage hisself was to come and beg admittance, him and all the Mindal."

"Very well done, soldier. I am impressed." Baldrick's words were clipped and implacable, spoken with steel-edged menace.

"Th-thank you, sir. Now you, gentleman, you've got to give the password."

"Now surely Captain, there can't be need -- we've orders from the Mindal -- let's move along, it's late enough as it is." Though he feigned impatience, a chill passed down Frysan's spine. It was clear to him why they had resorted to such a password. No highlander, no matter how long he had been resident in Dinas Antrum, could pronounce r's like that without giving himself away with some hint of a telltale burr.

"But it's just a short phrase, Master Draper Dorassy, ever so short and easy. And I mustn't always be overriding my orders. Not good for the men. I can't have them getting the notion that when I issue an order I'm not serious, dead serious."

Frysan stiffened. His foot ached.

"Here, I'll make things easy for you. I'll speak the password again and you can say it directly after me. That way you won't tax your memory. We all know how you merchants feel about taxes. Come now, repeat after me, 'Terrible trials trouble robin redbreast's roosting rest.'"

"Very well then, Captain, since you insist," said Frysan with an air of gracious resignation. If he made some move now, he might still escape, especially if Eldor and his men lurked anywhere near. The mission, however, would be ruined, Arvon's last hope gone. It would be best to play along, to play mouse to Baldrick's cat for as long as he could, biding his time, waiting for a chance to salvage his mission. He must let Baldrick admit him into the palace first, to the Queen's apartments, if possible, and then he'd deal with the man -- somehow.

Taking a breath, Frysan repeated the tongue-twisting syllables of the password phrase. He had been in Dinas Antrum for six years now on and off and had always possessed a good ear for language, passing for a lowlander readily enough with most of the people he encountered in the city. But that slightest bit of a brogue, he knew he'd always have it in a pinch. It stuck to him like burdock seed. Here it was, dogging him again, putting his very life in the balance. He stumbled pointedly, trying to unclick his tongue and round out the sounds. He cringed at the reaction he expected from Baldrick as he finished.

"O mercy on me, you can take the boy out of Woodglence, but you can't take Woodglence out of the boy!" Baldrick guffawed, pulling at his beard. "Come, soldier, open up. We'll let him pass. It's just his marchland accent." Again there appeared a gleam of mockery in his small sable eyes, but no longer as veiled as before. They waited for the huge door to be unbarred and unbolted by the sentries on duty within. The Captain bade the pikemen resume their post as guards outside the gate. The door swung open.

"After you, Master Draper Dorassy," Baldrick trilled with leering gusto.

The door banged shut behind Frysan. He was now sealed into the Silver Palace.

Frysan swallowed hard and fell in behind Baldrick, nursing his limp. He followed the big man's swift step down a barrel-vaulted corridor of rough-hewn stone, glancing at the guardroom adjacent to the great oak entrance door where the two gatekeepers had returned to their game of dice. From this passageway he and Baldrick emerged into the heart of the Silver Palace, an enclosed courtyard lit bright by lanterns fixed atop fluted stone posts. These were spaced at even intervals around a magnificent fountain in the shape of a harp that splashed crystal jets of water from its forepillar into a wide marble basin. They reached a covered portico at the far end of the courtyard, where a doorway opened into an elegant parlour with a lofty ceiling that rose into one of the palace's turrets.

They passed through this room, then turned into another hallway with smooth marble floors and elaborately wainscotted walls that boasted beakhead mouldings in silver leaf beneath a frieze of river scenes. They had reached the royal lodgings. Baldrick had remained silent, almost pensive.

Frysan would need to take some kind of decisive action fast, but it would have to wait until he gained admittance to the Queen. No other way.

Midway down the passage, hazy with the soft light of low-trimmed oil lamps, two guards dressed in the livery of the Mindal stood before a closed door marked with the royal insignia, a rampant stag clutching a golden harp between outstretched hoofs. The armed men at the door slipped smartly to attention as their superior officer approached. From within could be heard a baby's restless wailing.

A nod from Baldrick permitted the guards to stand easy.

"On my word, sir, but the brat's been mewling the whole day long. And most of the evening too," said the huskier one of the two, rolling his eyes.

"Oh, it's a hard life of plaguing mischief you've got, soldier, but it's his mother the queen that spoils my nights with her colic spite. In any event, it won't be long before we're quit of the woman and her bawling babe, isn't that so, Master Draper?"

Frysan cursed the man's hard-nosed insolence.

"You, soldier," he continued to the same man, "go find Sergeant Cuff and bid him meet me here on the double!" Baldrick turned to the remaining guard. "Now stand aside and let us enter. Leave the bolt of the door unshot."

Without ceremony Baldrick turned the door handle and stomped into a large antechamber. Hung with fading old tapestries, its walls were lined with richly upholstered chairs. The figure of the Captain of the Guard seemed outlandish in the room -- brute and uncouth, a formless lump of tallow encased in armour. He closed the door behind Frysan.

"Woman, are you in your chamber? I've brought you a visitor. A friend of yours, or so he claims," he barked above the baby's crying and swaggered towards the velvet curtain that covered the entrance to the royal bedchamber itself. For a brief moment Frysan considered pulling out his hidden dagger. The temptation was strong to plunge it full into Baldrick's back -- or his neck, if he could find it. With all his girth this man would not die quickly or easily. The blade would have to cut through the chain mesh of his hauberk and mounds of flesh to reach the vital organs. All the man had to do was cry out once to pull the whole garrison down on Frysan's head. Better to wait until they penetrated farther out of earshot into the royal apartments.

"Come along now." Baldrick craned his head back and scowled at Frysan, as he parted the curtain before him with his hand, revealing a large bedchamber. Stepping in, he moved aside, distancing himself from Frysan.

He was being careful all of a sudden. Frysan would have to show his hand and strike soon or risk being taken.

At the far end, before a bed that was recessed into the wall under a splendid tester, there knelt a woman stooped over a cradle, rocking it gently and crooning a lullaby, her face hidden by a cascade of auburn tresses. The wails of the baby who lay in the cradle had subsided to pitiful wheezes. The woman lifted her head and recoiled at the presence of Baldrick who obviously frightened her, although she made a brave attempt to hide it. Now a look of puzzlement crossed her face at the sight of an unknown stranger in the garb of a merchant. The closely guarded confinement was taking its toll of her, streaking her hair with grey and adding careworn wrinkles to her finely chiselled features.

Frysan felt an upwelling of pity. Clearly the Queen was reaching the limits of her strength. The weary days had stretched into weeks, into months. It had begun with the hunting accident in the Deer's Slunk. The King had been gored by a stag, an injury from which he never recovered. He had grown steadily worse. Now he lay dying. Dinas Antrum was awash with rumours, dark hints from the Mindal that the day of reckoning was at hand. Rumours that soon the Queen would consider herself fortunate to be sharing a small cell in Tower Dinas with her daughters and the infant Crown Prince. Rumours that by one means or another the King would be dead.

Frysan stepped past Baldrick to approach the Queen, who lifted her hands from the cradle and rose, straightening herself to full height. It was the first time he had seen her at close quarters. No diamond-studded tiara or beautiful gown set her apart. Instead she was dressed in a loose blue smock embroidered simply at the neck and girdled with a narrow white belt. Her baby began to whimper again. She picked it up, kissed and soothed it, clutching it with both hands to her bosom. Frysan made a courtly bow.

"Your Highness, your humble servant, Elzemon Dorassy, Master Draper, as ready to be at your service as ever I have been all those many occasions in the past. The years since we last met have not dimmed your splendour," he declared, seeking to lock eyes with hers. He winked. Again he winked. She stood there baffled.

Everything within these walls smelled of a closing trap. He chafed at the unbroken tension, calculating his chances if he were to wheel around and close with Baldrick all of a sudden, armed only with a dagger. Frysan resisted the impulse to look over his shoulder. The Queen remained wary. He had come to her with the Captain of the Guard. She must suppose he was one of the man's cronies. A wise assumption, but a very awkward one at the moment.

"I don't understand." Ignoring his pleading face and gestures, she looked past Frysan to Baldrick for an explanation.

"Oh, but you will, you will, Your Highness," he said with an unusual deference. He edged his way to the curtain, resting his left hand on the pommel of his sword. The fingers of the other caressed a dagger strapped to his belt.

"I'll leave you now with Master Dorassy for just a wee bit of a moment. Don't go away, he'll answer all your questions quite handily, I'm sure." Baldrick smirked as he backed his way out of the bedchamber past the drawn curtain and then disappeared. They could hear a scuffle of sounds and then the faint rattle of a doorknob. Queen Asturia retreated a step or two from Frysan, holding fast to her baby, all swaddled in blankets.

"No, no don't be afraid, Your Highness. Don't worry, I'm not here to hurt you. Listen closely, we haven't much time. I'm Frysan Wright, Captain of your highland Life Guardsmen, loyal to a man," he whispered, casting a nervous glance over his shoulder in the direction of the antechamber. He had slipped into his highland brogue. It reassured her, just as it had betrayed him to Baldrick. At once he could see the painful look of doubt begin to lift from her eyes.

"My men and I -- we're here to set you free, to take you and the Prince to safety, and the King too, but our ruse has failed. Baldrick has sniffed me out. There, the open door there, where does it lead?" He pointed with his finger to the looming darkness that lay beyond a door that was flung wide open on its hinges, two lamps on either side.

"It's another bedchamber. It's where the King lies, close so I can tend to him. The windows have bars just like this room. There used to be another door in that room, but they've bolted it fast."

Frysan flung aside his draper's cap and his cloak and was reaching back over his shoulder to pull the dagger from out of the sheath next to his skin, while he kicked off his boots with an inward sigh of relief. They had pinched and hobbled him, making his aching tendon worse. Now on stocking feet at least he could fight and manoeuvre.

"There's no way out except the way I've just come?"

"Yes. But wait, put that weapon away. It won't do you much good against a sword. I can give you something far better. Here, hold my little Starigan for a moment." She entrusted the child to him, while he managed with one hand to slip the dagger back into its hidden sheath. She hurried over to the bed and began feeling with her fingers at the base of one of the elaborate spiral posts that held the canopy.

"Hurry, please hurry, as you value your life, somebody's coming." Encumbered by the child, Frysan made shift to lay it on the bed, but stopped short.

"I've got it!" she said.

There had been the slightest of clicks and then half the bedpost flew open on unseen hinges bringing to light a superbly tooled leather scabbard, open end down so that it rested against the quillons of a sword laid upright. It was made of steel so finely tempered and so sharp that she had to take care not to nick herself as she drew it forth from the scabbard and held it out to Frysan, glinting in the lamplight. The thing was marvellously wrought.

"But My Lady -- this sword?" he stammered. His eyes gazed upon the strange runic characters scored across the length of the blade.

"Don't ask questions, Master Guardsman. Here, take it quickly."

No sooner had they exchanged sword and baby between them than Baldrick burst into the bedchamber sided by a tall rangy soldier with a dour bony face. Both wore helmets and had entered with swords drawn. Baldrick's was a great double-edged broadsword that he held lightly before him, two hands on the grip.

"On my heart! Look what our limping young Guardsman found for himself while we were gone. Very naughty of him, wasn't it, Cuff? Good way for a fellow to get hurt. And his manners too! Imagine that? Strewing the floor with his draper's rags. And worst of all, lying to his sweet Uncle Baldrick, who's been the soul of kindness, who's done everything he can to make the lad's visit to the Palace such a pleasant one. Tsk, tsk, I am disappointed, nephew, gravely disappointed." Baldrick laughed without losing any of his steely aspect, for he stood ready, regarding Frysan with chill eyes.

"Oh, strange. Look at the sword he's got. Not your everyday blade, is it?" the sergeant said.

"Aye, so the rumour was true. They'd found it."

"What do you mean, sir? Who found what?"

"Nevermind. You'll learn in due course, once we nail his hide to the floor."

"Shall I call out the garrison, sir, now we see he's a fighting cock and armed?" Cuff looked askance at Frysan, as the Guardsman sliced the air expertly, measuring the heft and feel of his new weapon. The Queen, clutching her baby, who had begun to whimper, backed off towards the door of the King's sickroom.

"No, no. Are you daft, man? Spoil a perfect chance to be rid of the witch and her spawn. As for her husband, we'll speed him on his way too. The beauty of it all is that they're going to think it was done by this fop of a draper -- or Guardsman. And hell gnaw our bones, if the two of us can't carve him up and lay him in his grave."

Frysan leaped forward to the attack, slashing at Cuff's shoulder, forcing him to parry backhanded. He wheeled back, feeling the wind of Baldrick's great blade, which came crashing down on the spot he had just vacated, even as Cuff swung his sword around, regaining his guard position. Cuff was a warier fighter. Frysan made to lunge at Baldrick, but pulled back when he saw how quickly the man had managed to recover. He backstepped to the centre of the room.

Frysan's neck hairs prickled and he could almost hear his heart thumping against his ribcage. Baldrick advanced. Here was a more dangerous adversary than he had expected. For a man his size, armed as he was, he was showing himself to be amazingly sure-handed and nimble on his feet. He would have to use his own speed and footwork to good advantage if he were to stand a chance against this deadly pair.

His opponents separated, trying to circle him. Baldrick moved in directly upon him, his face cut by a cruel mocking smile, while Cuff stalked his way sidelong, weaving his sword, forcing Frysan to divide his attention and shift his eyes back and forth from one man to the other, even as he continued to retreat before them. If he could find a corner, he could at least cover his back. He would have to dispose of one of them quickly -- probably Cuff. He appeared to be the lesser swordsman. Otherwise he had no doubt they'd be feeding the dogs with his carcass.

Catch him off balance and run him through, that's what he had to do. Then somehow he'd tackle Baldrick. Overconfidence would be his weapon. Lead them on a bit, make them think he was easy pickings and that they'd as good as finished him and then strike back, fast and hard, before they knew what hit them.

Without warning he took a quick flurry of steps backwards as if seeking to escape, sidling to his right, which brought him in line with Cuff. Without thinking the two soldiers were drawn into his wake, their first instinct being to match the pace of their lone opponent and keep up the pressure they were exerting on him. Cuff stood closer. He was caught leaning forward, slightly overbalanced, when Frysan stopped short and sprang to the attack once more. A quick feint to the head brought Cuff's arm up, exposing his side. Before he could recover, Frysan slipped below his guard and thrust his sword point full into the man's ribs, skewering him through from side to side.

Cuff groaned and collapsed, looking dumbly at the red pool of blood welling from his side onto his quilted tunic. Frysan pulled his sword clear and leaped back stumbling, tripping over the leather boots he had cast off earlier. He scrambled to regain his footing, relieved to have trimmed the odds. Baldrick stepped in with a slashing side-cut that would have sliced him in two if he had been just a moment too slow in reacting. Again Baldrick moved in, this time with a downward clout, grunting loudly as he delivered it. He missed. He brought his sword up from where it had thudded into the floor and tried again. His stretched tendon forgotten in this fight for his life, Frysan ducked and dodged the blows, scrambling over the Queen's four-poster bed to evade his big assailant. Baldrick was puffing now and so drenched with sweat that he flung away his helmet and mopped his brow with his free hand.

"Why, you little dog-fox, you'll get tired of dancing your little jig and I'll split you open from crown to groin!"

"You'll have to catch me first, you boorish hell-kite." Frysan returned to the middle of the bedchamber, watching for some opening in the man's defences. He was a formidable adversary, no doubt about that, quick and strong for all his suet-like girth. And no fool, for he paused now to catch his breath and marshal his thoughts, a smug smile playing on his lips.

"Very well, then, a thousand plagues on you, dog. You can go on playing soldier with your toy sword and marching backwards when you fight -- Like a true and trusty Life Guardsman. That's all the energy I'll spend on you now that I've limbered up the old sword arm. My men will be more than pleased to take care of you -- after I've finished the business that you my friend will take the credit for. Imagine your fame in the chronicle books of Arvon -- Mighty Slayer of Kings, Queens, and baby Princes," Baldrick said, still catching his wind.

Half-turning, he backed his way to the lamplit entrance to the King's sickroom. All that could be heard now was the snorting wheeze of the heavy-set man's breathing. For all his taunts, Baldrick was playing things very carefully, never letting his eyes stray from Frysan.

A flicker of movement erupted from the shadows of the sickroom just inside the door. Frysan lifted his eyes. Someone lurked there, creeping up ever so silently behind Baldrick. For the briefest of moments his eyes widened in surprise. Then shifting his gaze, he narrowed his eyes again to focus on Baldrick.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Queen and what she intended. With her hand extended to the right side of Baldrick's waist, she was reaching for the hilt of the dagger sheathed at his belt. She had moved so close to Baldrick that Frysan saw her wince at the sour reek of his unwashed body. She had the dagger, was lifting it free. The slightest of steps backwards and he would stumble on her. He would cut her down without hesitation. The Queen would not stand a chance.

"Come then. Bodes well for the Mindal, putting its trust in a hedge-born fishmonger like you," Frysan said. It was now or never. He had to close with Baldrick. Anything to move him away from the Queen back into the open area of the bedchamber. "Come get me. I'll wait for you on this spot -- right here, like a rooted tree," he shouted, brandishing his sword, tight with the expectation of combat.

"Crows and daws! You're looking at a fellow that's not stirring an inch. If you think I'm playing your game again! I've given you enough chances to oblige me. You come here to me! Come fetch your treat from Uncle Baldrick or shall I tell their royal highnesses you've wet your breeches and are indisposed?" Broadsword held with two hands before him in a guard position, ever watchful, Baldrick made a little half-turn and lurched back a step.

"What's this?" he exclaimed in mid-stride, his progress blocked, feeling the jab of the dagger as nothing more than a pinprick at first, a tear in his hauberk. Keenly sharp, the dagger sliced viciously through the protective chain mail. Thrust into his side by the Queen, Baldrick's own momentum helped drive the thing into his flesh hilt-deep. Groaning with pain and rage, he twisted, tore free of the blade and caught sight of the Queen, still clutching her bloody weapon and wide-eyed with horror. Not wanting to lay open his back to an opponent like Frysan, he resisted the impulse to lunge headlong after her, even as she withdrew, back-stepping out of his reach towards her husband's sickbed in the corner of the room. Frightened by the fresh outbreak of noise, her baby started wailing again.

"Why, you grey-coated leprous witch!" Baldrick roared, ignoring the blood that oozed from his wound. He backed his way into the bedchamber, pivoting around in order to cover Frysan while he advanced on the Queen, his eyes glaring deadly hate.

"Now I'll fix you and yours for good. Blood for blood, my Queen."

Frysan kept pace and stepped warily into the sickchamber. The King lay on a simple bed, his infant son swaddled at his feet. With Baldrick's gory dagger held before her, the Queen took her stand by her lord, like a cornered animal, mindful only of fending off harm from her husband and baby. Now her baby had worked himself into a frenzy of crying, letting loose at the top of his lungs, as if he sensed his mother's fear and the imminence of the danger.

"Stand off, get away! Help, someone, help, for the love of heaven! You, Guardsman there, do something, stop him!" Her voice quavered, while Baldrick came on slowly, holding his broadsword at mid-body, taking gruesome relish in prolonging her horror and fear.

Frysan moved closer, calculating his chances of evading that wicked blade in these smaller quarters, making ready to feint and lunge -- one last desperate bid to save the royal family.

"Aye, come, my light-footed friend," Baldrick beckoned, his scowling face grown pallid. He stopped for a moment, shifting the point of his weapon, lifting it to shoulder level. "Let's see what you can do on a smaller dancing floor. A dashing figure wouldn't you cut with a peg leg, my limping Guardsman?"

Quick as a coiled snake, he sent the blade of his broadsword whistling through the air in a deadly arc that would have severed Frysan's knees had he not leaped aside like a cat. As he fought to regain his balance, his feet shot out from under him on the polished marble floor, slipping on a small pool of Baldrick's blood, as slick as mutton grease. The shock sent Frysan's sword flying out of his hand right to Baldrick's feet, who stopped it with his boot. No way could Frysan retrieve it. Grinning mirthlessly, Baldrick kicked it behind him, like a bull pawing the ground. It rattled to a stop under the window of the sickroom, its dark steel bars visible in the dim light. Frysan rolled to evade the big man as he closed, skittering across the floor spider-like, deprived of his weapon. The baby's cries grew shriller yet. Baldrick swung his body around, aware of the Queen's deadly rage behind him, fearing yet another cold prick of the dagger.

But it was not the Queen that met his eyes as he turned. The King himself in nightshirt tottered towards him gaunt-faced, his cheeks sunken and right eye drooping. With two hands he bore the sword lost by Frysan.

"Stand, Asturia -- Back, Guardsman -- He's mine," commanded the King, his voice weak and breaking.

Baldrick froze in place. From the King's sword there emanated a faint glow. The soldier rubbed the back of his hand across his eyes. He took a deep breath. Then again his eyes narrowed as a cruel grin played across his face.

"Why, if it isn't our anointed sovereign of sighs and groans come back to life. Arvon's very own lump of gilded clay ready for battle! And most becomingly dressed. I'm shaking in my boots, sire. Well, we'll just take care of first things first, kings before commoners and all that." Despite the jeers his eyes betrayed a hint of doubt. His face grown pallid, he winced at the searing pain of the knife wound. The advancing sword kept its glimmer.

"For all that, I am King."

Fear shadowed Baldrick's face. King Colurian shuffled closer. Baldrick raised his broadsword over his head, preparing to throw all his might into one lethal swing, a blow so powerful no smaller sword could hope to parry it, one that would cleave the frail King's torso in two.

The King closed with him.

Frysan cringed, edging his way towards the unevenly matched combatants, his own dagger now in hand. He found himself assailed by questions, entranced by the unearthly gleam of the King's sword, now grown more luminous still. Queen Asturia cried out.

Looming over the King, Baldrick abandoned all thought of subtlety and speed. He roared, his rage boiling over, and down fell the broadsword like a bludgeon.

Up came the King's sword to block, his arm slow and palsied, but quick enough to meet the blow. Frysan tensed for the brief clang and the murderous cut that would follow, ready to leap to the attack and plunge his knife into the king-killer.

His ears filled with the sound of shattering glass.

The King reeled, his sword unscathed, even as Baldrick stared dumbly at his own weapon, now reduced to a mere hilt. Shards of the blade lay strewn across the chamber. The big man's knees buckled and he slumped dazed to the floor. The trickle of blood from the wound in his side now became a flood.

Frysan sprang forward with his knife.

"No, Guardsman, stay your hand. I'll not pass from this world in a welter of needless slaughter. Leave the man be! He's dying, as am I -- Come, help me to my bed." The King's voice slurred like that of a drunk man, weaker now and cracking with strain, as he too sank to the floor, letting his sword fall with a clatter.

Queen Asturia rushed to her husband's side, but by the time Frysan laid him on his mattress the King was dead.

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by Mark James © 2004 (Cover Artwork by Ted Nasmith)

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