Hawkwood and the Kings: The Collected Monarchies of God (Volume One) Read Online Free PDF

maintain a wooden blankness.
    "I should have expected no more from a Gabrionese corsair. Your time will come, Captain, and that of all your stiff-necked countrymen. Now stand aside or you will share the fate of the unbelievers in our midst a little early."
    And when Hawkwood did not move: "Sergeant, shift me this impious dog!"
    The sergeant hesitated. He met Hawkwood's eyes for a second. It was almost as if they had made an agreement on something. Hawkwood stood aside, hand on dirk.
    "Were it not for your calling, Priest, I would spit you like the black, liverless fowl you are," he said, his voice icy as spindrift off the northern sea.
    The Inceptine quailed. "Sergeant!" he screeched.
    The marine moved forward purposefully, but Hawkwood let him and his fellows clank past him towards his ship, closely followed by the cleric. The brother turned once they were past.
    "I know your name, Gabrionese. The Prelate will soon know it also, I promise you."
    "Flap away, Raven," Hawkwood jeered, but Galliardo pulled him along.
    "For the Saint's sake, Ricardo, come away. We can do nothing here but make things worse. Do you want to end up on a gibbet?"
    Hawkwood moved stiffly, a sea creature out of its element. The blood had filled his face.
    "Come to my offices. We will discuss this. Maybe we can do something."
    The marines were boarding the Grace. Hawkwood could hear the official drone of the Inceptine's voice again.
    Then there was a splash, and one of the crew had leapt over the side and was swimming with no visible destination in mind. The Inceptine shouted and Hawkwood, as if in a nightmare, saw a marine level his arquebus.
    A sharp report that seemed to stun the port into silence for a moment, a heavy globe of smoke that obscured the ship's rail, and then the man was no longer swimming but was a dead, bobbing thing in the filthy water.
    "Holy God!" Galliardo said, shocked, staring. Around the wharves work ceased as men paused to look on. The marine sergeant's voice could be heard bellowing angrily.
    "May God curse them," Hawkwood said slowly, his voice thick with grief and hatred. "May He curse all black-robed Ravens that practice such foulness in His name."
    The dead man had been Julius Albak.
    Galliardo pulled him away by main strength, the sweat pulsing down his dark face in shining beads. Hawkwood let himself be dragged from the wharf, but stumbled like an old man, his eyes blind with tears.
     
     
    A BELEYN IV, K ING of Hebrion, was not happy either. Though he knelt in the required manner to kiss the Prelate's ring, there was a stiffness, a certain reluctance about his gesture that betrayed his feelings. The Prelate laid a hand on his dark circleted head.
    "You wish to speak to me, my son."
    Abeleyn was a proud young man in the prime of life. More, he was a king, one of the Five Kings of the West; and yet this old man never failed to treat him like an erring, wilful but ultimately amiable child. And it never failed to irritate him.
    "Yes, Holy Father." He straightened. They were in the Prelate's own apartments. High, massive stone walls and the vaulted ceiling kept out the worst of the heat. Far off, Abeleyn could hear the brothers singing Prime, preparing for their midday meal. He had misjudged the timing of his visit: the Prelate would be impatient for his lunch, no doubt. Well, let him be.
    Tapestries depicting scenes from the life of the Blessed Ramusio relieved the austere grandeur of the chamber. There was good carpet underfoot, sweet oil burning in censers, the glint of gold in the hanging lamps, a tickle of incense in the nostrils. On either side of the Prelate an Inceptine sat on a velvet-covered stool. One had pen and parchment, for all conversations were recorded here. Behind him Abeleyn could hear the boots of his bodyguards clumping softly as they knelt also. Their swords had been left at the door: not even a king came armed into the Prelate's presence. Since Aekir, and the disappearance of the High Pontiff in the