Louis de Valois woke in the dead of the night. The dream he’d been sent, certainly by God, was a clear inspiration. It seemed to him that he was flying and, when he looked down, he could see the whole of the kingdom of England spread out beneath him, beneath the tips of his wings. He was a bird. Not just a bird. An eagle. And then, coming at him out of the sun, was another eagle—huge, fierce, screaming. But he had fought that eagle and, though he himself had been almost mortally wounded, in the end he had found his opponent’s weakness. With a last slash of his beak he had ripped the enemy’s breast until it dripped blood to the earth far, far below. With a last defiant scream, his adversary had plummeted away, falling, fluttering, its life so clearly ebbing as it fell…
“Light! Light!”
Alaunce Levaux scrambled up from his truckle bed, which lay across the door of the king’s chamber. He’d taken a long time to get to sleep because the rushes were old, smelly, and lousy with fleas from the king’s dogs, and they were heaped up far too close to his face. And now, finally, just as he’d been visited by oblivion…
“I’m here, master; here I am.”
Levaux always slept fully dressed. He’d learned from long experience that his master woke from restless sleep very often and he was heartily sick of the embarrassment—and the cold—of waiting on the king night-naked. It was the work of a moment to strike flint and light the candle he kept ready in a silver dish beside the king’s bed.
The king snorted; his impatience was caustic. Levaux was getting old. And slow. Just like his master.
“Get me the monk.”
Levaux was fuddled with the rags of sleep. “The monk, Your Majesty? Which…?”
The king roared, “The monk! Agonistes. I want Brother Agonistes. Now!”
That tone of voice meant many things: death, destruction, bad digestion. Levaux fled the room like a wraith but Louis’s words followed him. “He’s to go to the court of that usurper. Tell him that! I want information, do you hear? Information! There must be a way to wound that regicide, to hurt him where he least expects to be hurt. The monk will find a way. He’s to leave tonight. Immediately. Go! Do this or remember well the cage, Levaux. Remember the cage!”
Levaux scuttled away. He would do his master’s bidding, certainly he would, but the king was clutching phantoms to his breast for comfort. It was high summer in France but the world had turned dark for Louis, as everyone at court now knew. Certainly, a fragile three-month truce was in place with Burgundy—but that was only because Louis’s dreams of influence over the destiny of England had disappeared with Warwick’s death and the defeat of his cousin, Queen Margaret. Louis was nothing if not pragmatic.
But what could the monk do in the face of such events? What difference could he possibly make if he went to the court of King Edward in England? Levaux shook his head as he stumbled through the darkened palace. He hated nights like this. He would have to wake le Dain, and the barber loathed being woken in the night—it made him frightened. And fear made the king’s chief confidant savage.
Omens. Very bad omens everywhere. Especially since he, and he alone, knew the secret that le Dain was hiding from the king. No doubt it would come out, in time, then… Heaven protect them all. Meanwhile, he would keep his head down and do what he was told. Obedience might save him for a little while longer, God willing.