Ever since they had ordered for her return, Harcourt had relaxed some of the policy surrounding Katherine’s contact with her favourites, for he knew that to keep his control so tight, would certainly push her to madness or personal anarchy. It had been a good time to leave. Summer was turning to autumn, and Ilworth was gearing up for harvest — the first harvesting of what the new court had sown as well. An age-old tradition of a settling of accounts come this time in the year, facilitated by the harvest festivals, were a shoo-in when it came to the backdrop.
The fact, however, that the time had been good, did not make it any easier on the queen, or made the diplomatic ties between Ilworth and Massouron any easier. It had been the truth that Katherine did not mean to leave. Charles had survived, though he was one eye down and he was currently only seen masked given that the wounds on his face likely marred him for life, and thus Henry and Katherine’s relationship too had mended. It was forgotten by the time Walter came to rat to Lord William.
It had been William who planted the seed for them to leave. He was aware that Katherine was sleeping around: made aware, in fact, when he was informed that Katherine had complained about the taste of the small ale she was served for breakfast. It turned out that without her knowledge, the servants had been instructed to add silphium to one cup of ale daily to prevent any undesired externalities.
The bad news of this was twofold.
First of all, William did not cherish the idea of so many people having access to the queen’s ear, for it was reserved for honourable men of wisdom, such as himself. Perhaps worst of all, however, was the knowledge that this had already reached Queen Louise within a few months, and that she not only believed it, but found it troubling enough to orbit around poison.
So, a break it was. Harcourt was easily convinced, exasperated by tough negotiations. The rest simply followed.
When they were making their way to the festival, Harcourt let Katherine pick her own carriage and choose her own company. Her champion Henry de Vega was expected, but her two ladies-in-waiting much less so. Especially interesting to Harcourt was the choice of the new wife of the Duke of Tillygate, Constance Sherrington.
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The whirring of the wheels on the cobbles was the backdrop to their lively conversations. Katherine sat with her knees withdrawn, her arms around her legs, and Constance sat opposite her, playing softly on her lute. Constance was blonde and pretty in a provincial way, with a frizzy halo of hair surrounding her pale pink face, and wore a charming expression no matter her mood.
Moreover, she was perfectly educated. She knew many musical instruments, court dances and had all the finest mannerisms of an upper class lady despite her modest age. A good influence, ruled the advisers. This way Katherine had both the council of the intelligent but peculiar Grace, and a role model when it came to ladylike behaviour.
Next to Constance sat Grace, leaning against the wall of the carriage sailing between sleep and consciousness. Henry was opposite her, toying with his knife. It had been a long afternoon that had started full of chatter and was now slowly extinguishing as the last miles stretched on seemingly forever. Katherine had dreamed of her bed a thousand times.
She was old enough to realise the silly nature of her infatuation with the knight but not wise enough not to spend such time looking at him as he idly carved a piece of wood, sliced a hangnail off with his knife, or gazed out of the window. Henry might have been the closest Katherine ever got to a perfect man, at least to her twenty-year-old eyes.
He was Baradran — his father was born there, and his mother was Ilworth-born but half Baradran herself. This not only gave him an exotic air, especially in the backwater province of Dolcotshire, but also one of danger. The Baradran Kingdom was on the brink of war, and Katherine’s little knowledge of current affair just about stretched to the happenings there, beyond Massouron’s southern border.
Queen Louise had been wedded to Silouane de Ginefort, who in turn was the brother of Joan de Ginefort — Katherine’s mother. A marriage to Ginefort brood was considered the highest match that could be made, considering the Baradran Kingdom, ruled by Gineforts, had been considered for a long time a rich and stable land. Katherine herself had been a glanced-over prospect for King Ferdinand’s younger brother, now nearly five years ago. Ginefort blood meant Ginefort alliance, something once upon a time very covetable, and now nearly worthless.
Katherine had spent time in the Baradrans as a youth, in order to get to know her first suitor who was a son of an influential duke. His name was Domenico de Serra, and he is the man whose family name Katherine’s bastard daughter could have born if their elders did not pull the plug from negotiations.
As it may, it were the De Serras that the Gineforts were up against. It was yet another blemish that Katherine — or more accurately, her courtiers — would have to carefully polish away in order to have any chance of keeping a stable reign.
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When they arrived, Harcourt took some distance from the encampment in order to get some air and clear his thoughts. The site of the festival was a valley between two large hills, both of which proudly showed a town each: Fownage and Landron. In between, lining the lazy river with countless bridges, was a darling meadow that was used each year to celebrate the first harvests.
It had been raining for the past one-hundred years, and it had only just stopped for the Queen’s arrival. Harcourt’s feet and ankles were covered in mud by the time he reached the outskirts of the makeshift town — he knew he should have worn his boots.
He was cloaked and hopefully difficult to spot, standing by the horse trough next to a temporary tavern that had been shaped out of tents and a small, wooden structure. He took a few deep breaths and considered the past nine months, which had been heavier on him than all of King Richard’s reign together. Of course he and Richard grew up together, learned together, and when Richard ascended the throne as a thirty-something, he was graceful to Harcourt in the time he needed to fully understand the intricacies of his function as secretary of state. This was not afforded to him under Katherine. Not because Katherine was strict, much to the contrary, Katherine knew so little that all duties fell to him.
The air was cooling rapidly and his thoughts were continually interrupted by the chatter of the people in the makeshift tavern. Standing by the trough, few even looked his way. He felt himself increasingly able to feel sorry for himself.
‘Lord Overleigh?’ he suddenly heard, as a young man stepped from the crowd towards him. He knew the young man — he was a prominent member of the innkeeper’s guild, who were the proud patrons of the inns and taverns dotted along the festival.
‘Thomas,’ Harcourt said, appearing as heartily as he could. ‘Can’t find a single moment of rest and anonymity in these parts.’
He chuckled, his moustache a layer of mousy blond down on his upper lip. ‘What else?’ he asked. ‘Would it be better if we did not recognise the secretary of state?’
Harcourt eyed the trough with amusement. ‘Little do you know, but I am studying to become a horse these days.’
Thomas’ mouth jerked into a smile. ‘Then I believe you have no interest in meeting our new guildmaster, the Baron of Milden Cross?’
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‘I’ve met the Baron of Milden Cross,’ he said carelessly.
‘He has asked to see you,’ Thomas added.
He narrowed his eyes. ‘You’ve spotted me because you meant to gather me to see your guildmaster.’
Thomas blinked. ‘Indeed, my lord. The baron is under no illusion of urgency but still would enjoy a word.’
‘Tell him that he ought to wait,’ Harcourt said, beginning to raise his voice. ‘I am currently not available to speak to him.’
He regretted informing Thomas he was studying to become a horse, and because Thomas appeared to still enjoy their dialogue, he added, ‘I have council in a bit.’
‘Your administrator is inside with us yet,’ Thomas said nearly prophetically. ‘Must I fetch him for council?’
Fuck.
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Against his will, he slipped through the cracks of tent canvas that each opened to yet another tent where a few chairs each had been placed, where people were smoking, debating, and drinking, until after a few tents, he appeared to enter the wooden structure, where there was a large fire on top of which sat a large pot. It smelled of stew and ale, and the fire made his face tense up with the heat and the drought.
He considered briefly that Thomas had lied to him to get him through the door, but there he indeed was, reclined on a comfortable seat, ale in hand, a raven-haired man bent at the waist to talk to him through the roaring crowd. William.
Harcourt had entered quite hesitantly, but it irritated him deeply to see William already so comfortable, which prompted him to stand up straight. Instead of catching his colleague’s eye, however, he caught the Baron of Milden Cross’.
It was not a lie that the men had met, though what Harcourt did not mention was the fact that it was one of those acquaintances that only took as long as the festivals did. Richard, the baron’s first name, was always a patron. In fact, that likely contributed to his new office as guildmaster. In Harcourt’s circles, barons were men of small means and humble origins, though they contained a magnitude of coin and status to commoners. Richard looked up in food chain rather than most barons, who would rather sit high and mighty above commoners rather than grovel at the feet of dukes and marquises. This already gave him a great advantage, that of humility. His face was placid but approachable. He had poured William a glass of his ale.
‘Lord Overleigh,’ Richard said with a bow. ‘How delightful to see that you, too, have made it to the harvest festival. Good to see you again. I heard from your administrator that your ladywife is well. Good.’
‘Ah, Lord Richard,’ Harcourt answered. ‘Indeed. Congratulations on the new position.’
To be frank, Harcourt immediately felt himself tense up when his wife was mentioned, especially in the context of that slimy William. Another man with this amount of vitriol running through his veins could have knocked Richard out at once. However, Richard did not invite such sentiment: the intentional way in which Richard spoke rendered him so businesslike that Harcourt could not blame him.
He smiled calmly. ‘Ale?’
‘No, thanks,’ he said.
‘Well, sit,’ Richard said, and left briefly.
Uncomfortably, Harcourt waddled over to the seating and sat down opposite William, who had just taken a sip from his ale. ‘Is it good?’ he asked.
William looked up, his dark eyes appearing to look through Harcourt as if to read his thoughts. ‘It’s alright.’
Harcourt leaned in. ‘Why are you here?’
He shrugged. ‘I ran into someone who told me the innkeeper’s guildmaster wishes to speak to me in my capacity as royal administrator.’
The secretary of state exhaled sharply. ‘And? What’s the matter?’
‘We hadn’t yet met,’ William bit, ‘We took our time to do so. I believe as member of Queen Katherine’s council, I should know of the guildmasters, even if I hail from the north and therefore did not have the privilege of simply knowing the Baron of Milden Cross just by association.’
William’s face spoke of great indifference to Harcourt’s tendency to become upset with him.
‘Sorry, gents,’ Richard butted in. ‘I had to tend to the fire. Lord Overleigh, thank you for your earlier congratulations. It is a wonderful thing to now be among such generous and talented colleagues. Running the show has been quite wonderful. And to meet your new recruit… what a marvellous sight. Does he know what happened to the last royal administrator?’
Harcourt eyed him suspiciously. As far as he was aware, there had been no royal administrator. Before King Richard, Harcourt could not be asked to recount life at court.
‘No?’ William asked, putting his ale down briefly. ‘I wonder if I may have forgotten.’
‘Oh, you wouldn’t have forgotten,’ Richard said, scratching the thick black stubble on his chin.
William sat up in his chair and leaned forward. ‘Then?’
‘That’s not up to me to tell you,’ Richard said, raising his brows.
Just as William was gearing up to protest, Richard clutched his own goblet in his two hands, and as he sat down and crossed his legs, knocked the bottom of it against his knee. It wobbled in his hands, and the dark red liquid spilled over the edge, first soiling his breeches, then as he recognised what he had done, spilling more over Harcourt.
‘Bloody hell,’ he mumbled, staring at his crotch, and as he realised the amount of wine missing, he looked to his side. ‘Well, that’s just fan-fucking-tastic…’
Harcourt stood up and blushed immediately, unsure of how to behave now his cream-coloured suit was dyed half-pink with wine. ‘Richard…’ he mumbled hesitantly.
‘Come along,’ Richard said, and held Harcourt by his shoulder. ‘Let me help you.’
His grasp was forceful, more so than expected, and he led him down a path that mouthed out at the back of the wooden structure. Beyond it, there was only forest. Richard released him and sighed deeply.
‘I’ll cover the cost of your suit no matter how many of my wages you will take from me,’ Richard began.
Harcourt frowned, watching Richard’s face turn redder. ‘What is the meaning of this?’
‘The meaning of this, Lord Overleigh?’ he asked. ‘I wish not to offend you, but as an old acquaintance, I need to inform you that your administrator is playing foul. I was told such a thing, but now we have met, I am certain of it.’
‘What?’ he asked, almost beginning to laugh. ‘You soil a silk suit just to tell me a rumour?’
The red-faced aspect he had began to make sense. He smiled awkwardly. ‘I talk to a lot of innkeepers, north to south and east to west. Some on Otterdon Island. Given the nature of the guild, we are the great cryptkeepers of everyone’s vilest secrets. For example, your William Lennard, did you know a rumour is making the round that he has sold people counterfeit gold coins way back in the day?’
From the expectant look on his face, Harcourt deduced that Richard was imagining a grander reaction from the secretary of state. ‘I am sure rumours are making the rounds that I died a decade ago as well.’
‘Lord Overleigh…’ Richard sighed, exasperated. ‘Cuthbert. I’ve known you for years — you are not one to risk your life, your queen’s reign, and your face for an administrator from Gartham.’
There was strange intimacy in his tone that alerted Harcourt. ‘What’s it to you?’ he asked.
After all, they were but acquaintances. The lengths Richard was willing to go through to make his message heard were unlike any story he had heard of the guildmaster, who was often the very image of diplomacy and etiquette when it came to dealings with nobility.
‘Nothing personally,’ he said. ‘But you are aware I hold land from Lady Dorothy Abell, I imagine, and unfortunately now I must broach the subject of the longevity of the current reign. I am doing my duty telling you what I know, for if this all goes tits-up and I hadn’t, I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself. My advice? Make up a bogus excuse. Fire William. Hire a decent administrator. Even if it is all falsehood, it is much-discussed falsehood.’
‘Hire a decent administrator, like yourself?’ Harcourt asked, chuckling.
Richard clicked his tongue. ‘Not like myself, no,’ he said. ‘I’m quite where I belong. I have no need to badmouth your colleagues to worm myself into royal court.’
Harcourt’s presumption of Richard’s intent was shattered. He believed every word the baron said, believed the rumours making the rounds, and how they all reached him at once, bringing him to the state of urgency that warranted the soiling of his suit, the callous tone, the alertness.
‘If I were to fire a man for falsehoods, I might as well install a new queen on the throne,’ he said. ‘God knows her falsehoods are much-discussed. Pardon my frankness, of course. And what does the poor man’s past matter? Queen Katherine is drawn to his authority and understanding, and that is more than what can be said for her relationship with any other councillor.’
Richard grimaced. ‘You oughtn’t think about the implications of her drawing to someone potentially in the pocket of criminals? Someone who, at least, does not share your agenda, but instead may keep his own?’
‘How will I prove this? Lady Katherine will be shattered if I let him go,’ he protested.
Richard kept quiet and churned his thoughts in his mind, letting the whey of his wishes for his life fall from the butter of what needed to be done. ‘Who is your spymaster?’ he asked.
‘We have none,’ Harcourt admitted shamefully.
‘Would it be of use to you if I were to inquire which of my men would be willing to set up a rudimentary scheme for this?’ he asked. ‘Given you have no man of your own to do it.’
Harcourt’s throat felt dry, and he recognised the impact it could have to add another person to this precarious plan. ‘No,’ he said. ‘It wouldn’t. If you wish to make yourself known as a true loyalist, let me introduce you to court as our spymaster. Please, I know you are like a fish in water when it comes to your guild, but if things are as grave as you say there are, I wish not to live another day in the dark.’
He pressed his mouth shut briefly and gazed into the line of trees, dark and opaque. ‘I suppose I owe you that. I will aid you in this, but when this issue settles, I return to my post, where I belong.’