Heartwood Page 4

  The Baillium was constructed in a similar fashion to the Temple, with roads in a series of concentric rings around the central Castellum. Buildings of all shapes and sizes filled the space in between.

  To the rear, nearest to the steep backdrop of the mountains, were the workshops: the fullers, weavers, dyers and blacksmiths who made the clothing, weapons and armour for Heartwood, with the furnaces near to the river for cooling the metal.

  Around the sides were the stables, chicken houses, cow and pig pens, the grain stores, the armoury, the offices for the steward who dealt with the business side of things, lodgings for the Exercitus when they were at home, and the two huge arenas where the Militis carried out their Exerceo, or daily weapons and riding practice.

  At the front of the Baillium was the Curia meeting place on the south side, and also the Hospitalia, or visitors’ lodgings. However these were nowhere near big enough to accommodate all the visitors present this weekend, and brightly coloured tents filled the grassed areas.

  The place heaved with people. Chonrad picked his way carefully through the horse dung, turned at the second ring road and threaded through the tents on the south side of the complex to find the large one flying Heartwood’s flag – a gold-coloured banner, emblazoned with a green oak leaf. The tent was huge, a scarlet monstrosity stretched between about a hundred tent poles, but already, through the pinned-up tent flaps, he could see it was busy.

  At the entrance to the tent, a long table had been set up with trays of cold meats, loaves of bread, bowls of fruit and huge pitchers of ale. Leaning over, he grabbed a chicken leg and, leaving Fulco to fill up a plate several inches high with food, he ducked under the flap of the tent.

  Inside, he looked around, recognising a lot of the faces. The other lords of Laxony were already there, as well as the High Lord, Hariman, busy tucking into what looked like a whole loaf of bread. Few Wulfengar were there, however. He recognised Grimbeald, Lord of the Highlands, the land furthest from the Wall, but none of the others were present, and Raedwulf, High Lord of Wulfengar, was conspicuous by his absence. Grimbeald looked decidedly uncomfortable there on his own, Chonrad thought with not a little amusement, the Wulfian was obviously regretting his decision to go there rather than to his own tent.

  The four High Council members of Hanaire were all present, though, distinguishable by their height and their bright blond hair, clad in mail topped with the green tunic of Hanaire. The rest of the people present were all Militis, armoured and serious, the oak leaf tattoo clear on the outside of their left wrists.

  Chonrad saw Procella talking to Valens, along with two heavyset male Militis that were so alike he knew they must be twins. They were both young knights, probably late twenties, he thought, and both had the same bright blue eyes and curly brown hair with an intriguing lock that fell into exactly the same place on their forehead. He walked over to join them, picking up a tankard of ale along the way.

  II

  Procella smiled as he came up. “Well, Lord Barle? Did you enjoy the ceremony?”

  “Er, yes,” Chonrad said, not about to admit his real thoughts to the Militis. “It was… interesting.”

  One of the twins nodded. “I have seen twenty-one Veriditas ceremonies now, and they never fail to move me.”

  Valens introduced the knights with a twinkle in his eye. “These are Gavius and Gravis, Custodes at Heartwood.”

  “Which is which?” asked Chonrad. He realised the jest had been planned when all four of them answered in unison, “It doesn’t matter!”

  “This is obviously a standing joke to tease visitors with,” Chonrad said good-naturedly.

  One of the twins shrugged. “Yes and no. Truly we sometimes think we were one person in the womb who was by some miracle of nature divided at birth.”

  “But, if you really want to know,” said the other twin, “I’m Gravis, and I have the Heartwood tattoo on my left wrist.”

  “But mine is on my right,” said Gavius. “It is the only way to tell us apart.”

  “Well, I am the stronger knight.”

  “And I have the better sense of humour,” the other rejoined. Chonrad laughed as they walked off to get some food, bickering good-naturedly.

  He looked around the room. “I see the men of Wulfengar have decided to dine alone,” he said to Valens and Procella in a lower voice.

  Valens shrugged. “As was expected. We did of course extend the invitation to all parties but we did not really think they would accept.” He inclined his head towards Grimbeald. “Except for him.”

  “Why is he here?” Chonrad studied the Lord of the Highlands as he talked stiffly to one of the Militis. Grimbeald was short and thickset, with a full head of dark brown hair and a long, bushy beard to match. Chonrad knew the man was younger than himself, but thought the Wulfian looked much older. He was almost as wide as he was tall, in his armour, but in spite of being in a room where almost everyone was taller than him, he still radiated power.

  “The Highlands have always been the most affable towards Laxony,” said Procella.

  “But he must realise it makes his own position vulnerable, dining with the ‘enemy’,” said Chonrad.

  Valens shrugged. “From what I understand, there is not a lot in the Highlands apart from sheep and hills. I do not know that the other Lords of the Five are pounding on his door.”

  Chonrad’s retort was cut short as a young woman Militis came up and touched Valens gently on the arm. “Valens? Dulcis says we should start heading for the Curia shortly.”

  “Of course.” Valens indicated Chonrad. “Have you met the Lord Barle? Chonrad, this is Beata. She is one of the deans at Heartwood.”

  Chonrad was surprised, but polite enough to hide it as he shook her hand. She seemed very young to be a Dean. There were four at Heartwood, responsible for the general welfare of the Militis, a person to whom they could take their grievances and general day-to-day problems of living in a cloistered community.

  Her handshake was firm, however, and as he looked at her face more closely, he saw fine lines around her eyes and mouth, and one or two grey hairs amongst the brown. Maybe she wasn’t as young as he’d first suspected. She turned to talk to Procella, and he observed her strong profile with its slightly upturned nose, her full mouth and deep grey eyes. Did she know how beautiful she was? Probably not; the Militis were not raised to be interested in their physical appearance. However, she could have taken on any one of the powdered and rouged women at the court of Barle in a beauty pageant.

  He hid a smile as he thought what she might say if he told her that. Dressed in full mail over a thick leather tunic, her light brown hair tied tightly at the nape of her neck, her appearance was clearly not the most important thing on her mind that day.

  “Shall we go?” asked Valens.

  Chonrad nodded, grabbing a buttered piece of bread from the table and munching on it as he followed Valens out of the tent. Fulco put his plate down hurriedly and followed him out, snatching up a piece of pork as he did so and continuing to eat as they walked. As they joined the main road, the Quintus Campana rang, and all over Heartwood, people started heading for the Curia.

  The road to the Curia was lined with a series of poles decorated with the flags of all the countries and lords visiting that day. Chonrad joined the throng, finding himself next to Grimbeald at one point, and he nodded a greeting to him. Grimbeald nodded back, but didn’t smile. The atmosphere seemed to be changing, Chonrad thought. There had been an almost exultant feel in the air during the Veriditas, and lunch had had a jovial informality to it. Now, however, everyone’s voices were hushed, and a seriousness settled on the crowd like a heavy blanket. He looked up at the sky, not surprised to see clouds moving over the face of the sun, which had now passed its zenith. It looked like they were in for a storm. He just hoped the thundery atmosphere wasn’t reflected inside the Curia.

  The Curia was an interesting building, if you could call it that. It consisted of a very large ring of oak trees whose
branches had grown over the centre and had knitted together to make a roof. Because the oak trees had not yet budded and the roof was presently just a mesh of bare branches, a canopy of cloth had been erected in case of rain.

  As in the Temple, a channel of water had been cut around the inner edge of the oak trees. A removable floor made from wooden boards slotted together had been erected over the grass in the centre. On this twenty podiums had been placed, each topped with a single flag.

  This, then, thought Chonrad, was where the lords of the Twelve Lands, the four lords of Hanaire, and presumably four Militis, would stand. Heartwood clearly intended the Congressus to be a small affair, and had sectioned off the areas outside the ring of trees with large, colourful screens to stop the rest of their visitors watching. Several stern Custodes stood at the entrance to the Curia, and clearly they were only going to let the sixteen leaders and Militis pass.

  Chonrad was allowed to enter, although Fulco had to remain outside, much to his disgust, but Chonrad reassured him he would call if he was needed. After all, it wasn’t fair for him to have a bodyguard and no one else. He walked through the oaks and across a steady plank that covered part of the water channel to the wooden floor, seeing the red Laxonian flag with his silver stag embroidered in the middle pinned above one of the podiums, and went over and stood behind it. The five Wulfengar lords were already there, faces ominously stony, and as he took his place, the last two Laxonian lords arrived to take theirs. The four Hanaire Council members came in together and each stood behind his or her banner. The Militis were the last to arrive, coming in at the end.

  Valens, Dulcis, Procella, and one other male Militis Chonrad had not yet met came in and took the empty podiums that flew with the gold flags embroidered with the green oak leaf. He looked with interest at the knight whose name he didn’t know – he had only one arm, the left cut off at the elbow, the loose sleeve of his tunic sewn up.

  Several other Militis, include Beata and the twins, stationed themselves around the edge of the ring, presumably as a deterrent against any violence that might break out. He looked around him and saw he had been placed beside the lords of the two lands that stood either side of the Isenbard Wall: the Wulfengar Lord of the Lowlands, Leofric, and the Laxonian Lord of Hannon, Ogier. Heartwood was obviously hoping he would be able to intercede between the two should tempers rise.

  Valens raised his hand. The room gradually fell quiet.

  “Welcome,” he said, his voice ringing out through the Curia. To Chonrad’s surprise, he spoke in Laxonian. “I thank you all for taking the time to come to Heartwood for this Congressus, which we hope will bring peace to our lands. I know not all of you can speak Heartwood, so I have chosen to use the language of the majority of the lords present – that of Laxony.”

  He opened his mouth to carry on, but before he could go any further, one of the Wulfengar lords stepped forward from his podium across the other side of the circle from Chonrad. It was Bertwald, the same knight he had already had dealings with that morning. Chonrad assumed he was going to object to the use of his enemy’s language, but instead he announced in a loud voice, “You might as well stop there, Imperator. For I will take no further part in these talks while these podiums are filled with women.” He practically spat the last word.

  He spoke in Wulfian, but Chonrad knew the language well enough to understand what he had said. He stared in disbelief as whispers and then shouts of indignation began to rise from around the Curia. He had known Bertwald was opposed to these talks, but he had not expected such an open and aggressive confrontation so early in the proceedings. He looked across at Procella, who stood next to the Wulfian lord’s podium. Her eyes had narrowed and her right hand rested on the pommel of her sword, the Heartwood tattoo on her left clearly visible from across the room.

  Valens stepped down slowly from his podium onto the centre of the wooden floor. He raised his hand to ask for quiet and voices quickly hushed those who were talking, so they could hear what the Heartwood leader had to say in return.

  “Bertwald, Lord of the Flatlands, you knew before you came that women stand in Heartwood alongside the men.” He did not mention the same was true in Laxony and Hanaire, although he looked pointedly around the circle, taking in the women who were present.

  “I did not think they stood so close,” said Bertwald, and his lips curved in a sneer.

  III

  Procella twitched, but Valens shot her a look and she stayed where she was. Her eyes, however, were like sharp knives aimed at the Wulfengar knight. Chonrad wondered if the Wulfian knights had planned this together, but noticed the High Lord Raedwulf wore a frown. Had Bertwald taken the initiative without advice from the others?

  Valens stood tall and imposing in the centre of the room, and Chonrad was reminded that the Imperator had led the Exercitus for many years, and was renowned as a skilled diplomat and mediator.

  “Lord Bertwald,” Valens said clearly. “In Heartwood we do not distinguish between men and women when we choose the Militis. Our knights are chosen for their skill in battle, for their bravery and their holy manner. Not their sex.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Bertwald. “As if their pretty pawes were of no consequence at all.”

  His use of the Wulfian swearword for a woman’s private parts was like a match put to the wick of a candle. Suddenly it seemed everyone moved at once.

  Procella was on Bertwald before he even blinked. As she moved, Chonrad saw Leofric next to him put his hand on his sword and make as if to step down from his podium. Unsheathing his own sword with a sharp sing of steel, Chonrad covered the short distance between them in a heartbeat and flicked the blade around until the point rested on the soft hollow at the base of Leofric’s throat. “Do not even think about it,” he warned.

  Once he was assured that Leofric had got his message, he looked around. The scuffle was pretty much over. Valens still stood in the centre of the floor, his face as thunderous as the rainclouds gathering overhead, but around him, everyone else had moved. A startled Grimbeald looked down the sharp end of a Militis sword, care of one of the twins – Chonrad couldn’t see his tattoo and therefore wasn’t sure which one, although, as he remembered, it didn’t really matter. The Wulfengar Lord of the Flatlands, Kyneburg, had been sandwiched between two Hanaire Council members and they had moved in swiftly to disarm him, kicking his sword across the tiles. Raedwulf was facing the other Militis twin and also the Heartwood knight Chonrad had not yet been introduced to. Though they had not gone as far as disarming him, the two longswords at his throat made it clear what would happen if he should try to draw his own.

  And Bertwald lay flat on his stomach on the floor with Procella’s knee in his back and her small dagger pressed just under his ear lobe, pushing so hard on his skin a red line of blood had appeared. He was clearly struggling to escape her grip, but even as he did so, she tightened her hold on the arm she had twisted behind his back and he cried out in pain and stopped resisting. She leaned close to him and spoke softly, but Chonrad still heard her words: “You think to better this pawes in combat? Think again, flantor.” A smile twitched on Chonrad’s lips. Clearly the Wulfengar idiot was unable to best her in colloquial vocabulary, either.

  “Enough!” Valens’s voice boomed around the Curia. It coincided almost exactly with a roll of thunder, as if the very weather itself agreed with him. He flicked his hand at Procella, who pushed herself to her feet and then, burying a hand in Bertwald’s mail, hauled him up by the neck.

  Valens strode over to him. “People have travelled across Anguis for weeks to take part in this Congressus,” he snapped. “You will not, I repeat – not! – ruin it within the first five minutes!”

  Bertwald put a hand to his neck and, when it came away with blood, cast a murderous glance at Procella. Before he could speak, however, Raedwulf put out his hands and, resting them on the two swords in front of him, pushed them down so he could step forward. “Bertwald does not speak for all Wulfengar lords,” he said clearly
so all could hear him. “We have many problems to solve today, and making peace is going to be difficult. But not impossible. We do wish to talk about it.”

  He looked at Bertwald. “I warned you of this before we came. Your position in the Flatlands has long been tenuous, but I have overlooked your regular incursions into the Plains, your repeated raids on my land, because I did not want to fight a civil war as well as a national one. But now you have gone too far.” He nodded to Procella. “You have my permission to take him and place him under arrest in the Porta. When we leave I will take him back with me, and he will be dealt with according to the law of Wulfengar.” He did not say what this would mean for Bertwald, but looking at the latter’s face, Chonrad thought it unlikely that it involved riches and a castle on the coast.

  Procella looked at Valens, who nodded. She grabbed Bertwald’s arm ready to march him to the doors. He spun on her and declared angrily, “Don’t touch me, pawes!”

  Wincing, Valens brought his hand up to massage his forehead and Chonrad rolled his eyes as Procella’s arm drew back and her fist met Bertwald’s chin with a resounding clunk. The Wulfengar outcast fell heavily to the floor and lay there unmoving.

  Shaking her hand, the knuckles now bright red, Procella beckoned to the two Custodes who were standing guard at the doorway. They came over and picked up the limp body, carrying him out of the Curia.

  Procella’s eye caught Chonrad’s as she made her way back to her podium. He didn’t dare smile, but he saw her lips twitch briefly, and knew she had recognised his admiration.

  Everyone went back to their own podiums. Valens, his hands behind his back, his face serious, waited for the voices to die down. Then he began again.

  “Where was I…?” he said wryly. “Oh, yes. As I was saying… Welcome to you all. We have asked you to come to Heartwood today to take part in a discussion about resources, and the movement of those resources throughout the lands.