A Wizard in War

16

Your noblemen come to your gate, under a flag of truce,” Gar informed the king.

The king narrowed his eyes. “You have not been up to the tower. How do you know this?”

“Because I have founded a secret society among your soldiers, and all the dukes’ soldiers,” Gar told him. “Throughout your whole kingdom, in fact,” Dirk put in. The king gave him a look that would have stretched him on the rack and made hot irons dance on his flesh, if he’d had any men who would have obeyed his command. “Some you will know now,” Gar said, “for they are the soldiers who are not bound and tied, but still bear arms. Still, you can’t know who their leader is. That, too, is secret, and is known only to myself.”

“Secret!” the king roared. “Nonsense! You are their leader, clearly and obviously! If I kill you, this rebellion ends!” He swung a huge blow with his sword.

A dozen men shouted and leaped to hold him, but Gar blocked with a quick movement of his own blade, then bound the king’s sword and whipped it down. “Even if you could slay me, Majesty, another leader would take up the reins—and if you slew him, another would rise in his place. None but he would know of it, for all that the soldiers know is that orders are sent to them—they don’t know who issues them.”

“You are saying that it’s impossible for me to kill the chiefs,” the king interpreted.

Gar nodded. “And impossible, therefore, to kill the rebellion. There are simply too many people, and too few of them are known.”

Surprisingly, the king didn’t erupt again; he only nodded with a cold, calculating look. “Ingenious. I shall have to devote myself to discovering a way to foil the plan.”

“You shall fail in that,” Gar assured him. “For the moment, though, your companions in frustration approach your gate—and I think you may find you have more in common with your lords than you thought. Will you see them?”

“Whose idea is this parley?” the king demanded.

“Mine,” Gar affirmed. “Their Graces are given little choice in the matter.”

“Then I shall see them,” the king declared.

Gar bowed. “Shall we open your gates and bring them into your keep?”

“Why ask me?” the king said bitterly. “Are you not the master here?”

“No,” Gar told him firmly. “Neither I nor the soldiers’ councils will try to tell you what you must do. We will only tell you what we will not do.”

“And, therefore, what I cannot do,” the king said dryly. Gar bowed again. “But it is for you to say what you will do.”

“Why, then, open the gates and let them in,” the king said. “My lords and I may yet find some way to frustrate your designs.”

Gar bowed and relayed the order.

The dukes rode in all together, with a sergeant beside them holding the white flag. They dismounted and went to the ornate chairs set out for them in the middle of the courtyard. Their own soldiers formed a crescent behind them, three rows deep. Before them, the king sat in a chair higher and more elaborate than any of theirs.

The dukes bowed, as protocol demanded. “Your Majesty! ”

“My lords,” the king returned, then gestured to Gar. “This ragtag free lance who dares to call himself the son of a lord is the author of all our misfortunes. I shall let him explain before I address you.”

“I thank Your Majesty.” Gar stepped forward at the foot of the throne, then turned to face the dukes. “My lords, your armies have made it clear to you that you cannot wage this war, for they refuse to fight it for you.”

“Aye, you traitorous toad!” Trangray spat.

Gar ignored the insult. “However, if mere soldiers can prevent great dukes from fighting, surely all the lords together can prevent the king from doing anything they deem unjust.”

The king stiffened, and the lords stared in surprise. Then they turned thoughtful, and the king narrowed his eyes as he glared at Gar.

Again, the giant ignored him. “You have but to refuse to obey his laws, and to tell him that you will not obey because they are unjust.”

“Let me see if I understand you,” Duke Trangray said. “You say that we can tell the king which laws to make and which to strike down?”

“You can.”

“But he will send his armies against us,” Duke Ekud said, with a shrewd gleam in his eye. “Do you say his armies cannot prevail against us, if we all act together?”

“He could never have that many knights and men,” Gar confirmed.

“But what if the soldiers think his law is just?” Duke Ekud countered. “What if they refuse to fight?”

“Exactly,” Gar said, with the tone of a teacher delighting in a pupil’s insight. “From this day forth, you will never be able to rule without the consent of those you govern.”

The lords broke into a furious chorus of denunciation. Gar waited it out, until finally the king broke it off with a clarion call. “My lords!”

The dukes fell silent, turning to him in surprise at such a tone of authority from one so young.

“It is clear that this outlander has hobbled us one and all,” the king said, fuming. “How is this, Sir Gar? I am to ask my lords’ permission for every little command I wish to issue?”

The dukes turned to Gar with a new, speculative gleam in their eyes.

“No, Your Majesty,” Gar returned, “only for every law you would make, and every major action you would take. It is still for you to enforce the laws and conduct the affairs of your kingdom, as it always has been.”

The king turned thoughtful. “So all is as it was, save that my lords can stop me from making laws or judgments they dislike?”

“And this without the risk of our knights or their soldiers?” Trangray asked.

Gar nodded. “In fact, it would be wise for you to set a definite month in which to meet on the plain outside the King’s Town, so that the dukes and earls can discuss matters of common interest, and the king can consult with you on measures he needs to take for the welfare of the realm.”

The king gave Gar a black glare, but the giant only said, “Such a meeting gives you an opportunity to explain your policies to your lords, Your Majesty, and to persuade them to support your course of action.”

“Persuade!” the king exclaimed with indignation. “Persuasion costs much less than fielding an army,” Gar pointed out. “You might also reserve a month for consulting with the soldiers’ councils and village councils from all over your kingdom—a meeting of councils, for talking. Call it a parliament.”

The king’s eye fired, and the dukes leaned forward in avid attention.

“Be aware that the spokesmen will not be the commanders,” Gar told them. “They will be just that, spokesmen, people who speak for the councils, but not themselves in any position of authority. The real commanders of the councils will send minstrels to speak for them—messengers, if you will.”

The dukes leaned back with looks of disappointment, and the fire in the king’s eye died to be replaced by pure hatred, but Gar went on, unruffled. “The minstrels will not have the power to bargain—only to say ‘no,’ but not to say yes.”

“Then what’s the point in talking with them?” the king said in disgust.

“Because if you don’t convince the lords, you may be able to convince the parliament—and they can forbid the lords’ policies, or speak to their dukes in favor of your plans.”

The dukes broke into an uproar, but the king’s eye gleamed again. As the clamor subsided, he nodded. “So they will be able to forbid my laws, but their own peasant councils will be able to prevent theirs—or even to insist they accept my ideas.”

“Not to insist,” Gar said quickly, “no more than the lords can insist you adopt their course of action.”

The lords exchanged a glance; they hadn’t thought of that, but they were thinking of it now.

“The councils can petition their lords to do as Your Majesty suggests,” Gar went on.

“Clever, Sir Gar, clever.” The king leaned back in his great chair. “I begin to see some merit in your scheme after all.”

“Then let the dukes draw up a charter, making clear their rights and your obligations to them,” Gar said, “and let all of you sign it, so that it becomes the law of the land.” The dukes all spoke in loud agreement. “Yes, indeed!”

“An excellent idea!”

“Only what is right, after all!”

The king scowled, not at all certain he liked having something in writing—but with so much feeling among the dukes, he had little choice. “Very well,” he said grudgingly. “Let them bring me a draft of their charter tomorrow, that we can begin to haggle over its wording.”

They had it there bright and early the next day, of course—Gar had handed them an example from another world, one called the Great Charter. They made a great number of changes, but they had the draft ready to spread out before the king when the sun rose. They argued about it for a week, first about the ideas, which really did little more than guarantee the dukes’ liberties and rights, obligating them to fight for the king in return and to obey his laws—but their parliament had to approve those laws. Then they argued about the words, and finally about every comma and capital—but nine days after it began, the king and all his dukes and earls signed their own Great Charter. The soldiers went wild with joy, and so did the lords. The king grumbled, but his new sense of the importance of public support moved him to order his cooks to bring out whole carcasses of oxen and hogs and set them to roasting, while his butlers broached barrel after barrel of ale. The soldiers, the people of the town, and all the farm folk roundabout had a roaring party. But Gar, Dirk, and Coll made sure that one soldier in every ten stayed sober and vigilant, and that the king’s men drank as much as the dukes’ soldiers. The party ended without either side attacking the other, and the next day, when the dukes’ soldiers had recovered from their hangovers, they packed up and began the journey home.

The dukes arrived back in their own demesnes in fine fettle, feeling that they had taught the upstart king his place—without spending a single soldier! They went up to the ramparts of their castle towers and surveyed each his own petty kingdom, reveling in a sense of power.

When they came down to their great halls, they found the spokesmen of the village councils waiting for them with charters of their own.

They signed them, of course—after furious rages and long bargaining sessions, after haranguing and bellowing and draft after draft after draft—but in the end, they signed their charters with the common people. They had no choice, for the spokesmen of the soldiers’ councils stood right behind the villagers, and the soldiers behind their spokesmen.

When the charters were signed and the laws amended, the outlaws began to come out of the forests to accept the amnesty they offered.

Coll, though, didn’t go back to his home village. He didn’t even stay on Earl Insol’s estates. He went back to the inn with Dirk and Gar right behind him, to find the players—and Ciare.

They arrived just as Enrico came limping up to the door on his crutch, and Dicea flew out of the inn to sail into him with a cry of joy. Enrico staggered back, trying to hold on to his crutch and hug Dicea both at the same time. Coll ran forward to catch him and steady him, then stood back, grinning—and looked up to see Ciare coming toward him, arms wide, with tears streaming down her face.

When they were done with frantic kissing and deep long kissing, she demanded, “Never leave me again! Never, never! ”

“Never,” Coll assured her, looking deeply into her eyes with a smile, “but do you really think I can become a player?”

Ciare stared at him as the meaning of his words sank in. “I had thought I would have to become a village wife to keep you,” she whispered.

Coll shook his head. “A wild songbird might not die in a cage, but half the beauty of its melody would be gone. I’ll go where you go, sweeting.”

Dirk nodded approvingly as they embraced again, their lips too busy for speech, and commented to Gar, “Might be good cover for the leader of a secret government, at that.”

“An excellent cover,” Gar agreed. “He can travel around the countryside without anyone wondering why—and who would suspect a vagabond of being a beggar king?”

“Always harder to find a moving target,” Dirk agreed. “Now all we have to do is get him to agree.”

That turned out to be the toughest part of the job altogether. “The lords will wipe out all the councils if somebody isn’t working constantly to keep them going,” Dirk argued. “Somebody has to take the ultimate responsibility for them, Coll—which means somebody has to be boss.”

“If there’s someone at the top of the pyramid of cells to give orders and keep them active,” Gar explained, “the system will maintain itself. Now that the serfs have learned that they can unify and fight back, they won’t forget.”

“That doesn’t mean it will all be clear sailing,” Dirk warned. “The lords won’t give up even this much of their power willingly. Some of them will try to avenge themselves on single serfs or even small groups of them. The councils will call for justice according to their charters, and will probably have to enforce it.”

“Someone has to be issuing orders to make sure everyone learns how to use a quarterstaff and a bow, and keep them practicing.”

Coll scowled, his massive reluctance weakening for the first time. “Yes, I can see that.”

“The lords might even send out spies and bribe villagers to find out who the cell members are,” Gar said, pressing his advantage. “Then they’ll have their soldiers sweep down on them some night and murder them all.”

“You’re saying we must always have armies of outlaws in the forests, ready to be called up to counter such a strike,” Coll said grimly.

Dirk stared in surprise. “Yeah, great idea! I hadn’t even thought of it. You do have the talent you need for the job, Coll.”

“No, not I!” the serf cried in alarm.

“Who else?” Gar asked. “The lords will probably even try attacking all the serfs together, to intimidate the councils and force them to identify themselves and surrender. You’ll have to be ready to call for them all to fight back. And don’t forget to save a large reserve in case it’s a diversion.”

“You see, there has to be somebody at the top to give orders,” Dirk insisted.

“But what if the lords should win!”

“Make sure they don’t,” Dirk said simply.

But Gar nodded with understanding. “It’s a very real danger, Coll. The history of old Earth, where the first people came from, tells of peasant rebellions every hundred years or so, and tells also how the lords put them down with brutal force. You’re never done winning freedom. You have to fight for it in every generation.”

“ ‘The price of freedom is constant vigilance,’ ” Dirk quoted, “so somebody always has to be a sentry, somebody always has to be watching for signs of trouble and head it off or at least be ready for the fight when it comes.”

“Worry,” Gar counseled, “but don’t worry too much. None of those medieval peasant revolts were anywhere nearly as well organized as yours. But the knights do have a huge advantage.”

Dirk nodded. “Horses, armor, and all the weapons—plus constant practice. They’re professionals, trained to war from birth.”

“So you have to make sure your peasants are trained from birth, too,” Gar reasoned.

“But how can we be sure the knights won’t win?”

“You can’t.” Dirk’s tone hardened. “You can never be sure—but your secret network gives you a very good chance of winning again and again, until a new generation of lords accepts the councils as part of the way the world is.”

“But that network has to be efficiently and wisely run,” Gar said, “which means there has to be somebody running it who understands how the system works, and how to use it.”

“No peasant can know that!”

“You can,” Dirk pointed out. “We’ve been explaining it to you step by step as we set it up. In fact, Coll, you’re the only man in Aggrand who has even a chance of making it work.”

“But I don’t want it!” Coll protested. “All I want is to marry Ciare and spend my life with her and our children!” Dirk turned to Gar. “That’s the best kind of boss—the one who doesn’t want the job, but loves the work.”

“I don’t!”

“Don’t try to tell us that,” Gar said with a hard smile. “You’ve thrown yourself into this whole task heart and soul, until you thought it was over.”

“But it’s never over,” Dirk said softly, “not really. So if you want to be sure Ciare and your children are safe from the noblemen’s whims, you’ll have to keep the network going.”

Coll stared, appalled as he realized Dirk spoke the truth. “Has she said she’ll marry you yet?” Dirk asked gently. “I—haven’t asked,” Coll said through stiff lips. “Not really, not formally.”

“Then you’d better ask her, hadn’t you? And if she says ‘yes,’ tell her what she’ll be getting into, and why you need to do it. Then if she still says she’ll marry you, you’ll know she’s in love with you.”

Coll asked her that afternoon—but he reversed the order.