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Authors: Miles Cameron
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least I can understand you. Let it be done – Master Pye, reopen the mint and coin us some coins.’
‘Commons will have to approve it,’ said the Lord Mayor. But then he shrugged. ‘O’ course the commons asked us to bring this to council in the first place, so they’ll approve.’
‘Why does my cousin the King of Galle attack my coins?’ asked the King. ‘Much less the Count of Hoek?’
Every man present turned and looked at de Vrailly. He crossed his arms. ‘This is absurd,’ he said. He looked around. ‘If you are short of funds, why not collect from those who owe? I hear your Earl of Towbray is very much in arrears.’
The Lord Mayor smiled. ‘Great nobles are not great tax payers,’ he allowed. ‘Who can collect from them?’
‘I can,’ said de Vrailly.
Ailwin Darkwood looked at the Gallish knight with something like respect. ‘If you could, my lord, this kingdom would be in your debt,’ he said.
‘Towbray’s taxes alone would pay for the tourney,’ allowed the Lord Mayor. ‘And any of the northern lords’ taxes would cover the cost of the war. The Earl of Westwall alone owes more taxes than all the Harndon merchants would generate in ten years. But he never pays.’
The Count of the Borders, hitherto silent, nodded. ‘But it would take another war to persuade Muriens to pay his tax,’ he said.
The King leaned forward. ‘Gentlemen, you are on dangerous ground here. My father gave the Earl certain tax concessions for maintaining a heavy garrison in the north.’
Rebecca Almspend had sat throught the meeting in silence. Small, dark, and pretty, in a detached and somewhat aethereal way, she, in the Queen’s words, looked like a beautiful mouse and dressed like one too.
She was not the Chancellor, but through the Queen she had access to all of that worthy man’s papers. The Bishop of Lorica had died at the great battle and had not yet been replaced. Lady Almspend rattled two scrolls together and spoke in a very small voice.
‘The Earl of Westwall’s subjects still owe a number of taxes. None has been paid,’ she looked up, ‘since Your Grace’s coronation.’
The Count of the Borders sat back. ‘He hides behind your sister, Your Grace.’
The Captal nodded, his helmet moving heavily, more like a horse’s head than a man’s. ‘Towbray is closer, but a campaign in the Northern Mountains would suit me very well.’ The Captal, who was not known for his smiles, beamed at the thought. ‘What adventure!’
‘There!’ said the King, obviously delighted. ‘Master Pye is to be master of our mint, and the Captal shall collect taxes in Jarsay with a royal commission and a strong retinue. And I shall send a strongly worded letter to my sister’s husband, suggesting that he might be next. Done! Now, before I forget – Random? Can you kneel?’
Master Random smiled, gritted his teeth, and got down on his knees. ‘I pray Your Grace’s mercy,’ he said.
The King reached out to his new squire, young Galahad d’Acre. ‘Sword!’
Galahad presented the King’s sword, hilt first. It was very plain, and the gold that had once decorated the cross-guard was mostly worn off. It did have the finger joint of Saint John the Baptist set in the hilt, and it was said that no man who bore the sword could ever be poisoned.
The King drew, and the blade whistled through the air to settle like a wasp on the shoulder of Gerald Random, merchant adventurer.
‘Rise, Ser Gerald,’ said the King. ‘No one deserves the buffet more than you. I insist you take the head of a wight as your arms. And I intend to charge you to be the master of this tournament we are planning; find the money, and account for it to the Chancellor.’
Ser Gerald rose like a man with two feet, and bowed. ‘I would be delighted, Your Grace,’ he said. ‘But you’ll need a Chancellor for me to account to.’
‘Now that the Count here is Constable, I can’t have him acting as Chancellor, too. And Lady Almspend cannot
‘Commons will have to approve it,’ said the Lord Mayor. But then he shrugged. ‘O’ course the commons asked us to bring this to council in the first place, so they’ll approve.’
‘Why does my cousin the King of Galle attack my coins?’ asked the King. ‘Much less the Count of Hoek?’
Every man present turned and looked at de Vrailly. He crossed his arms. ‘This is absurd,’ he said. He looked around. ‘If you are short of funds, why not collect from those who owe? I hear your Earl of Towbray is very much in arrears.’
The Lord Mayor smiled. ‘Great nobles are not great tax payers,’ he allowed. ‘Who can collect from them?’
‘I can,’ said de Vrailly.
Ailwin Darkwood looked at the Gallish knight with something like respect. ‘If you could, my lord, this kingdom would be in your debt,’ he said.
‘Towbray’s taxes alone would pay for the tourney,’ allowed the Lord Mayor. ‘And any of the northern lords’ taxes would cover the cost of the war. The Earl of Westwall alone owes more taxes than all the Harndon merchants would generate in ten years. But he never pays.’
The Count of the Borders, hitherto silent, nodded. ‘But it would take another war to persuade Muriens to pay his tax,’ he said.
The King leaned forward. ‘Gentlemen, you are on dangerous ground here. My father gave the Earl certain tax concessions for maintaining a heavy garrison in the north.’
Rebecca Almspend had sat throught the meeting in silence. Small, dark, and pretty, in a detached and somewhat aethereal way, she, in the Queen’s words, looked like a beautiful mouse and dressed like one too.
She was not the Chancellor, but through the Queen she had access to all of that worthy man’s papers. The Bishop of Lorica had died at the great battle and had not yet been replaced. Lady Almspend rattled two scrolls together and spoke in a very small voice.
‘The Earl of Westwall’s subjects still owe a number of taxes. None has been paid,’ she looked up, ‘since Your Grace’s coronation.’
The Count of the Borders sat back. ‘He hides behind your sister, Your Grace.’
The Captal nodded, his helmet moving heavily, more like a horse’s head than a man’s. ‘Towbray is closer, but a campaign in the Northern Mountains would suit me very well.’ The Captal, who was not known for his smiles, beamed at the thought. ‘What adventure!’
‘There!’ said the King, obviously delighted. ‘Master Pye is to be master of our mint, and the Captal shall collect taxes in Jarsay with a royal commission and a strong retinue. And I shall send a strongly worded letter to my sister’s husband, suggesting that he might be next. Done! Now, before I forget – Random? Can you kneel?’
Master Random smiled, gritted his teeth, and got down on his knees. ‘I pray Your Grace’s mercy,’ he said.
The King reached out to his new squire, young Galahad d’Acre. ‘Sword!’
Galahad presented the King’s sword, hilt first. It was very plain, and the gold that had once decorated the cross-guard was mostly worn off. It did have the finger joint of Saint John the Baptist set in the hilt, and it was said that no man who bore the sword could ever be poisoned.
The King drew, and the blade whistled through the air to settle like a wasp on the shoulder of Gerald Random, merchant adventurer.
‘Rise, Ser Gerald,’ said the King. ‘No one deserves the buffet more than you. I insist you take the head of a wight as your arms. And I intend to charge you to be the master of this tournament we are planning; find the money, and account for it to the Chancellor.’
Ser Gerald rose like a man with two feet, and bowed. ‘I would be delighted, Your Grace,’ he said. ‘But you’ll need a Chancellor for me to account to.’
‘Now that the Count here is Constable, I can’t have him acting as Chancellor, too. And Lady Almspend cannot
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