Military Buildup - 2
Richard listened attentively to David’s explanation. He was desperately curious to see what sort of ingenious solution might spring from the old Jihan’s mouth.
“You mentioned a collaborator inside the council, did you not? Confiscate the man’s estate.”
“Hah.” Just as he thought. The disappointment far outweighed his inflated expectations. He sank deep into his chair, fixed David with a glare, and spoke.
“See here, Bloomfield.”
The honorific had been dropped, yet David answered with a genial smile.
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“It is not that I failed to consider it. But how exactly are we to discover which councilor is the traitor?”
“It does not matter who the real traitor is. Frame someone.”
“Are you speaking in earnest?”
“I am.”
Richard felt his mouth go dry. No matter how pleasant the conversation or how vital the man’s financial support, the realization that a Jihan was still only a Jihan left his chest tight with disgust. On top of that, the menstrual cramps he had thought were subsiding flared up again. To escape the discomfort he deliberately restarted the conversation.
“That cannot be done. Tyrant though I may be called, I am reluctant to raise war funds by such methods.”
“Please hear my explanation first. You may change your mind once you have listened.”
Richard exhaled sharply through his nose and continued to glare. Legs spread wide, hands resting on his knees, he looked ready to spring at David the moment anything displeased him.
David eased his upper body back a fraction and began.
“First……”
Richard was far smaller and more delicate than before, yet his presence remained undiminished. And thanks to the divine protection that flowed in Zylan’s royal blood—a blessing he had already witnessed weeks earlier—his monstrous strength had not diminished despite his slight frame.
David swallowed hard and prayed his next words would not offend his sovereign.
“You must identify the councilor with the weakest military power. Compile a list in ascending order of military strength.”
“What? How am I supposed to organize a list of four hundred councilors on the spot?”
When Richard’s face twisted in disbelief, David waved his hands hastily.
“Ah, no. You need not do it immediately. I am merely outlining the method.”
“……And then?”
“From that list, isolate those with the greatest wealth, rank them by asset value, and then, among those, select the one with the most enemies and the fewest friends—the one least likely to receive aid if attacked. That is your traitor.”
“……”
Even Richard understood what David intended. Whether the man caught was truly a traitor was irrelevant. The important point was that such a man carried an extremely high probability of being one: greedy, lacking in virtue, negligent in his duties. He was easy to approach from outside and, if exposed, easy to discard. While Richard pondered this, David continued.
“Moreover, even if the confiscated party is not a genuine traitor, the action will still constrain the behavior of the real ones.”
“That part I rather like.”
It was his honest sentiment. He roughly calculated how many councilors could be seized and how much could be wrung from them. The sum was tight, yet it would suffice to raise a force of adequate scale for the Malong campaign. Alternatively, it could repay a substantial portion of his debt to David Bloomfield. Once that was done, his credit line would breathe again. With those funds he could organize an expeditionary army and, this time, thoroughly plunder Malong’s wealth… No. That was far too optimistic a forecast.
Richard shook his head and declared firmly, “No. It is still too dangerous. You do not understand how perilous the councilors are.”
“On the contrary, I understand perfectly, Your Majesty.”
There was a reason Count Malong had approached the council with promises to kill the queen and claim the throne. Zylan’s parliament had already intervened in several royal succession wars. They had never yet colluded with a foreign power to hand over the crown, but the precedent existed.
“Then why recommend suppressing the council?”
“Because I judged the risk worth taking.”
Richard gave a short, bitter laugh and shook his head. “As expected, we must squeeze taxes from the Jihans.”
David offered the next proposal. “Then what of confiscating monastic properties?”
“What?”
This time Richard shot to his feet.
David stared at him, genuinely puzzled. “Why such a reaction?”
“Why? Do you truly ask because you do not know?”
Richard scratched roughly at his scalp; his short golden hair flew about. Irritation sharpened his voice. “A delegation to the Apostolic See departed only days ago. And you suggest we loot the monasteries to finance a war?”
David, too, seemed annoyed. His mouth opened slightly and the tip of his forked tongue slipped out with a brief hiss before vanishing again. He apologized to the queen, then spoke in a tone laced with grievance.
“But has Your Majesty not already closed numerous monasteries?”
“Many, yes. But not now. At minimum we must wait until the delegation is on its return voyage. By then the war must already have begun.”
The Apostolic See, as the highest authority of the continental church, controlled the administration of the continent by directing all clergy in the performance of sacred duties. Yet even the church could not dominate every corner of the land, nor could the Apostle perfectly command the hierarchy of bishops and priests beneath him. The Apostle’s administrative apparatus was riddled with holes like aged cheese, and in many realms the Apostle’s right to invest bishops was routinely obstructed by emperors and kings. Whenever the church grew corrupt, young clerics would gather and found monastic orders. They journeyed to remote regions or to the poor, preaching the Lord’s word. There they built their own monastic power and eventually offered that power intact to the Apostolic See. In short, monasteries functioned as the Apostle’s direct territories scattered across the continent.
At any other time, confiscating monastic lands under one pretext or another would have been acceptable. But with a delegation already dispatched bearing gifts for the Apostolic See, such an act was unthinkable. To seize monastic lands at this moment would invite, at the very least, an interdict and, at worst, excommunication on the charge that the Queen of Zylan had insulted the Apostle and defied God.
Having heard Richard’s explanation, David acknowledged his error.
“I see. That was my mistake.”
“It is done. Simply ensure you commit no further blunders. As a Jihan administrator, devise every possible measure. We shall speak again in four days.”
After dismissing David, the first thing Richard did was fling off his dress and pull on a pair of hose beneath it. He would have preferred to change into proper male attire, but his monthly courses had not yet ended. Even so, he chose the hose specifically so he could ride.
He headed straight for the stables. It had been nearly a week since he last rode properly. The other warhorses were exercised diligently by the grooms, but Bonnie alone had received no such attention.
He listened to the groom’s exasperated report while the man saddled her.
“For the past two weeks she has refused to listen to anyone else, Your Majesty.”
Bonnie had barely eaten since then and would not run when exercised. When they tried to force her by saddling her anyway, she kicked and charged every groom who approached, displaying impossible strength. The queen’s strict order prevented them from selling her, and attempts to breed her with a stallion had failed; she showed not the slightest interest in conceiving. If anything, she seemed to loathe the very idea.
After listening to the litany, Richard asked, “Exactly two weeks ago—when did it start?”
“After we moved her into the royal stables, following the last time Your Majesty visited… Whoa!”
The groom barely dodged a vicious kick from her hind legs.
“Step aside. I will handle her myself.”
The groom looked at him with stubborn eyes and retreated only after a moment. “This is my duty, Your Majesty.”
“No. This horse is mine. You are an excellent master of warhorses, but you remain a caretaker, not her owner.”
“……Understood, Your Majesty.”
With obvious reluctance the groom handed over the reins. Richard gripped them firmly and stepped close.
“It has been a while, Bonnie.”
The moment he approached, the mare’s earlier temper vanished. She snorted excitedly, rubbing her muzzle against him and nuzzling with open affection.
“Sorry, girl. We cannot ride long today. But do not be disappointed. The little time we have will be hard riding.”
Bonnie blew a powerful snort of acknowledgment, yet she was not entirely mollified; she pawed the stable floor and butted his chest lightly with her head. The way she seemed to understand his words was almost comical.
“Just wait a little longer. When the time comes I will let you run until your heart is content.”
When he stroked her, she whickered and pressed against him. Clearly she wanted more than exercise. She had already tasted what it meant to carry a great knight and had grown strong because of it.
Horses were timid creatures by nature. Warhorses were different. The difference between a horse and a warhorse was the same as that between a peasant and a knight. Both were human, yet a peasant was frail where a knight was strong, cowardly where a knight was brave; the slightest fear sent a peasant fleeing. A warhorse, though still a horse, feared neither blood nor death and shared an unbreakable bond of loyalty with its rider. Just as peasants and knights developed temperaments suited to their callings through long years of labor or war, warhorses acquired their suitable disposition through generations of careful breeding.
Of course, just as rare peasants sometimes possessed the spirit of knights and rose to glory, so too did certain draft or riding horses occasionally display the physique and temperament of a warhorse. Bonnie was one such animal. Her refusal to eat was not frailty but a desire to stay lean for battle. Her unwillingness to accept exercise from others stemmed from having felt the power of a rider like Richard; no ordinary horseman could satisfy her anymore. And if she had already experienced the savage joy of cutting down dozens of enemies in a single charge, no lesser exertion would ever please her again.
“Sigh.”
Richard let out a long breath. For the foreseeable future it seemed he would be unable to ride any horse but Bonnie. And any clumsy attempt would only deepen her discontent. He scratched vigorously under her chin. Only then did she whinny with pleasure.
He sighed again and told the groom, “Bring the saddle.”
“But that is my—”
“Can you not see? She trusts no one but me.”
“……As you command, Your Majesty.”
The groom hid his wounded pride as best he could and passed the saddle with courteous hands. Richard gave a small smile, settled the saddle on Bonnie’s back, and tightened the girth.
“You foolish girl, must you refuse all exercise when I am not riding you? Your ribs are showing, yet your belly sags like a broodmare’s.”
Offended, Bonnie seized the feather on his hat and began to chew it. Holding the hat in place with one hand, he finished fitting the tack with practiced skill. He slapped her muzzle lightly and spoke in an excited voice.
“All right, we are ready, Bonnie. Let us go. Stop chewing!”
She released the feather with a disappointed smack of her lips and raised her head. He smiled at her once, then swung lightly into the saddle. The instant his feet found the stirrups, Bonnie reared and let out a piercing neigh.
“To the royal archives, Bonnie!” Richard called.
She was a clever mare. She needed no spur, no whip, no tug on the reins. Like an arrow loosed from a bow she shot forward in the exact direction he desired.
It was perhaps a little unkind to David Bloomfield, but a monarch had no need to concern himself with the feelings of a mere Jihan. Besides, no matter how thorough one’s war preparations, they were always, inevitably, insufficient.