The Godspeaker Trilogy

by Karen Miller

  “I thank God you did, Helfred. Without your help …”

  “My helpfulness is most likely at an end,” he admitted, withdrawing his hand. “I have no influence over the dukes. But I would make an observation …”

  “Speak your mind,” she said, looking up at him. “No queen can count herself higher than well-meant counsel.”

  “Another lesson from King Eberg?”

  She nodded. “He was very wise.”

  And were he alive he would be proud of his daughter. And if he was not proud, then shame upon him . “Majesty, I know you better now than ever I did in Kingseat. But the dukes, they knew your father. They do not know you. They saw you here and there as a child, growing up. They saw you at Eberg’s funeral, where they paid their brief respects. But you are not a real person to them. You are a symbol of the power they believe they can accrue through you. When they see that power lost they will be most displeased.”

  She pulled a face. “True. But there is power yet to be had, if they’re willing to look a little lower than a crown. With no surviving male in my family I must still create a Duke of Kingseat. The dukes have sons and nephews whose noble blood qualifies them for notice. And of course there’s the question of Ludo’s marriage. I’ve made a list of eligible girls. The next Duchess of Linfoi will be related to a duke of Ethrea and married to the cousin of Ethrea’s king. No small prize, I think you’ll agree. There is every reason for the dukes to mind their manners.”

  “Certainly,” he murmured. “But when tempers run hot, Majesty, commonsense runs out the doorway.”

  “Then I’ll just have to cool them down, won’t I? And I will cool them, Helfred. I will sway them to my cause. I am my father’s daughter … and I intend to have my way.”

  “God willing,” said Helfred. “Now, Majesty. Let us pray.”

  The king’s man Sardre came to the salon almost an hour later. With their prayer concluded, Rhian had lapsed into pensive silence. Helfred had returned with gratitude to the solace and sanctuary of Rollin’s Admonitions. When the rap on the door came, he answered it.

  “Chaplain,” said Sardre, austere and discreet as was his habit. “The dukes are gathered in the Great Hall, in the expectation of the Linfoi investiture. His Majesty suggests Her Majesty join him there at this time.”

  Rhian stood. “Thank you, Sardre. Chaplain Helfred and I will be downstairs directly.”

  Sardre bowed. “Your Majesty.”

  “Sardre …”

  “Majesty?”

  “Would you know if a divine by the name of Ven’Martin is also downstairs?”

  “I believe he is, Majesty. Also Most Venerable Artemis, from the Linfoi venerable house.”

  “I see. Thank you.” As the door closed, she smoothed down her dress and favoured Helfred with a challenging stare. “Are you ready, Helfred? Is your courage high? We’re about to walk into a storm, you know. Ven’Martin is your superior as well as being your uncle’s trusted man. Can you stand against him? If you doubt yourself, stay here. I won’t think any less of you.”

  “Because your opinion is already sunk low?” he said. “Majesty, I will not shrink from what I have done. What I have done has been for God, and Ethrea.”

  “And me,” she said, her eyes glinting. “I’m in your debt, Helfred. Never think I don’t know it. My opinion of you is not so low as that.”

  “Majesty,” he said, bowing, then opened the door for her and stood aside. She swept past him as regal as any monarch born and he fell into trembling step behind her.

  Dear God … Blessed Rollin … I beg you give me strength.

  Trestle tables had been erected in the manor house’s Great Hall, ready for the feasting that would follow the funeral and investiture. Neatly clad servants, their tabards badged with duchy Linfoi’s exuberant salmon, moved among the dukes and their retainers proffering goblets of ale and spiced wine to quench thirst and pass the time till the ceremonies commenced.

  Helfred stood behind Rhian, who stood in the Great Hall’s open double-doorway, and watched as the dukes failed to notice her arrival. Then he looked past them to find Ven’Martin. Ah … there he was. Standing silent in a corner, his raised hand refusing an offer of drink. The divine standing with him must be Most Venerable Artemis. The older man’s vestments proclaimed his seniority but his demeanour was less assured. The divines of duchy Linfoi were not counted high in Marlan’s estimation. Tainted by their duke’s lack of prestige they were largely left to fend for themselves. Never had one of their brethren risen to prominence in the Prolates Palace.

  The poor man must have lost his continence on the day Ven’Martin darkened his venerable house door.

  The dukes continud talking, still oblivious to Rhian’s presence. Then the king saw her … and his face lit up. Beside him Ludo realised that his cousin’s wife—his queen—had joined them, and he too smiled … though there was anxiety in his eyes.

  Rhian stepped forward. “God’s grace upon you, my lords,” she announced above the hum of conversations. “You are welcome to my temporary court.”

  Silence fell, as though God had stolen every tongue.

  “Rollin’s arrow!” cried Damwin, Duke of Meercheq, the first released from stupefaction. “Princess Rhian!”

  A tinkling smash and a splatter as his dropped glass goblet hit the floor.

  Ven’Martin came forward, pushing between the dukes and their retainers and King Alasdair’s servants, his broad face suffused with anger. “ Chaplain Helfred? In the name of the Prolate explain your presence here!”

  “Helfred’s presence is not your concern,” said Rhian, her tone icy. “Control yourself, divine. You are not recognised in this court.”

  “Court? Court? What are you talking about, court ? What are you doing here?” demanded Duke Edward of duchy Morvell, his blond whiskers bristling with outrage. “You’re supposed to be in Todding!”

  “And so I was, Duke Edward,” Rhian replied, calmly. “But despite our prolate’s unorthodox opinion a clerica is not a prison. I was free to leave, and so I left.”

  “As a ward of the Church you are free to do nothing that is not sanctioned by its prolate!” snapped Ven’Martin. “You are in gross breach of conduct, Your Highness. You will be brought to task. Gather your belongings if you have any. We will depart this place for Kingseat immediately, where on your wicked knees you will explain your disobedience to His Eminence.”

  The king moved to speak, but Rhian silenced him with a gently raised hand. “Your name, Venerable? I believe we are not formally introduced.”

  “This is Ven’Martin, Your Highness,” said Most Venerable Artemis, hesitantly approaching. “Prolate Marlan’s representative and a guest of duchy Linfoi’s venerable house. I am Most Venerable Artemis, its preceptor. Welcome to duchy Linfoi. My sympathies for the loss of your great father, Princess Rhian. You must know all of Ethrea grieves with you.”

  “Your sentiment is appreciated,” said Rhian, with a gracious nod. “But I must correct your form of address, Most Venerable. I am no longer Her Highness Princess Rhian. I am now Queen Rhian, monarch of Ethrea.”

  A second stunned silence. Then Kyrin of Hartshorn leapt at the king. “You bastard, Linfoi! What have you done?”

  As Lord Ludo caught the duke before violence was committed Ven’Martin marched across the Great Hall, through the goggling dukes and their retainers, marched past Rhian as though she were a chair, and fetched up short.

  “Helfred,” he said. His voice was shaking with fury. “Explain yourself on pain of dire retribution!”

  “You must!” added Most Venerable Artemis. “If indeed, as it seems, you have involved yourself in secular matters beyond the limits of your authority.”

  Helfred had never cared for being the centre of attention. Sweat trickled down his skin beneath his plain chaplain robe. Ven’Martin’s green eyes were venomous. All the dukes were glaring too, their baffled rage scorching him like the heat of a monstrous bonfire. Kyrin had wrenched himself free of Lord
Ludo. A vinegar-faced barrel of a man, his chest was heaving with the depth of his ire.

  “Most Venerable, Ven’Martin, you lack my leave to question Chaplain Helfred,” said Rhian, quietly. “He did not exceed his authority. He is a good son of the Church.”

  Ven’Martin turned on her. “The Church does not recognise your right to an opinion! You are female and a minor. You will hold your tongue!”

  “That is not the accepted way of addressing a queen, Ven’Martin,” said Rhian. Temper echoed through her voice. “I advise you to mind your manners.”

  “How are you a queen?” demanded Duke Rudi of Arbat. “To be a queen you must be—”

  “Married,” said Rhian. “And so I am. To Alasdair of Linfoi, King Consort of Ethrea. Chaplain Helfred granted dispensation of my wardship—a lawful act—and wed us in God’s sight the day before last. As Eberg’s heir I have claimed my birthright. I am Queen Rhian, Ethrea’s sovereign ruler.”

  Duke Damwin of Meercheq took a step forward, his pointed finger shaking. “You—you deceitful, conniving, upstart miscreant, Linfoi! You were forbidden to marry her! Eberg expressly excluded you from marriage consideration! You accepted the decree. Henrik Linfoi said so! Or is the man a liar just like—”

  “Call my father a liar at your peril, Damwin!” said Ludo, glowering.

  “My peril?” snarled Damwin. “You would threaten me, you gadabout upstart, you—”

  “Forget him!” said Kyrin, and spat on the floor. “He’s a cur pup not worth your notice. Henrik Linfoi’s gone back on his word. What else would you expect from a Linfoi? Honour? ”

  “ No, Ludo,” said the king, and threw out a barring arm. “These are empty words, they have no meaning. I won’t brook bloodshed under my roof.”

  Lord Ludo gave ground, reluctant and resentful.

  “For shame, Alasdair!” Rudi chimed in, hotly. “To marry the princess out of hand like this! It’s not the conduct expected of a duke! Your father’s rattling his coffin, he’s pounding on the doors of heaven! Shame on you for a disreputable tyke!”

  “When Marlan hears of this,” said Damwin, face thunderous, “you can expect a full Church censure! In fact you can expect questions as to your fitness to inherit duchy Linfoi! You’ve invited us here for your investiture but after this act of arrant recklessness and impropriety I won’t—”

  “My cousin Lord Ludo will be the next duke of Linfoi,” said the king, standing ground. “With you or without you he’ll be invested this day and confirmed by Queen Rhian. You’re here by courtesy, not necessity. As for Eberg … he is dead, God rest him. And Rhian—Her Majesty—was in danger from the prolate.” One by one, he looked at the dukes. “As Ethrea’s premier nobles you should’ve had a care for her. As Eberg’s declared friends you should’ve been more concerned for his daughter than for yourselves. But your representatives on the King’s Council, those little men who dance to your tunes, all they did was harangue her and torment her with word of who you wanted to see made king. And while you sat safely in your duchies, gloating yourselves to fatness, dreaming of the power that you would make your own, Marlan was free to persecute her at his leisure. Or have you forgotten he wanted her to marry his former ward, Lord Rulf?”

  The dukes exchanged hasty glances, momentarily put to shame. Ven’Martin took advantage of the hush. “You shameless hussy, you’d dare impugn His Eminence in this fashion? You Godless defier, woe to you and all your kind. This duchy will fall to interdict! Prolate Marlan—”

  “Is not Ethrea’s king!” said the king. “Though he thought to make himself one, through Lord Rulf.” He turned back to the discomfited dukes. “And thanks to you, my lords, he nearly succeeded. Marlan had the chance to persecute Rhian and he took it. I have seen the scars .”

  Ven’Martin’s voice rose above the flurry of protests. “You are a liar! A liar, a lawbreaker, and a blasphemer! Prolate Marlan—”

  “Tried to flog me into submission!” cried Rhian. “Chaplain Helfred assisted him until God softened his heart! King Alasdair is right. Shame on you for putting your own ambitions before the welfare of Ethrea!”

  “Don’t waste your breath trying to turn us from the prolate!” roared Damwin. “We do not confuse politics and God. Ven’Martin is right in this. We are not come here to be lectured by disobedient little girls. This is a mockery. A tarradiddle. A disgrace ! Is this how you think to honour your father, Highness? Lies and deception and wilful malfeasance, a reckless disregard for—”

  Rhian scorched him with a glare. “Do not presume to raise your voice to me, Damwin! I am Eberg’s daughter and beyond your petty censure! Good God! If you thought I’d meekly abandon Ethrea to your ambitions, my lords, you were sorely mistaken. If you thought I was pliable and malleable and easily cowed, you were wrong. Were I born Eberg’s third son there would be no thought of dissent. I—”

  “But you were not born his son!” said Rudi, seething. “You were born his daughter. Your duty is to marry and make your husband King of Ethrea!”

  Rhian smiled. Holding out her hand she said, softly, “And I have, Your Grace.”

  “King Consort, ” spat Rudi. “No better than a eunuch!”

  King Alasdair took the queen’s outstretched hand. “If by that insulting epithet you mean to remind us that Rhian is the true monarch here, Your Grace, then yes. By blood and by right she now rules over Ethrea. Your royal ambitions are ended. There remains a place for dukes in the governance of this land … but the crown has slipped forever from your grasps. Best make your peace with that and bend your stiff knees.”

  “To her? ” said Edward. Within its whiskers his face was so red he looked to Helfred in danger of his life. “A girl young enough to be my granddaughter? Never! ”

  “Yet you’d yield to your nephew Shimon, a boy young enough to be your grandson?” said Rhian, releasing the king’s hand and letting her fingers fist by her sides. Her voice dripped with contempt. “For your ambition’s sake you’d deny me my birthright, our most sacred tradition. To slake your greed for power you’d see Ethrea pulled apart in bloody violence rather than accept God’s will in the matter of its rule?”

  “God’s will? God’s will?” Ven’Martin was close to choking. “There is nothing Godlike in this travesty, girl! You flout Church law with these wild declamations. Prolate Marlan will never confirm you as queen, he wil denounce you and chastise you and—”

  Helfred stepped forward. “Do not presume, Venerable, to pronounce on God’s will. Would he have permitted vows between Queen Rhian and King Alasdair to be exchanged before his Living Flame if his will was not done in this?”

  “Silence, clod!” snarled Ven’Martin. “You’re a forsworn man. You’ve disobeyed your prolate and smirched your soul as a result. You’re a chaplain with no standing, you have acted without authority! You are a man of mud, Helfred, and in the mud you will be thrown!” He turned on Rhian. “Do you think you sit above judgement, girl? A child unlawfully married, her maidenhood squandered to fornication and lust? Do you think all you need do is blow hot air in God’s face and God will fall meekly at your dainty feet?”

  At long last Ven’Artemis found his tongue. “Please, Ven’Martin, have a care. Such intemperate language is—”

  “Shut up, old fool!” said Ven’Martin, spittle flying. “Never presume to lecture me, Prolate Marlan’s most trusted man, for I—”

  “Should beware, Ven’Martin,” said a gentle voice from the hall’s open doorway. “God sees all and hears all… and does not take kindly to the thwarting ambitions of greedy men.”

  Helfred, with Rhian and the king, turned to the doors. Everyone else in the Great Hall gasped, even Ven’Martin.

  It was Mr Jones the toymaker, glowing like a lantern filled with God’s Living Flame. His arms were outstretched, and in the centre of each upturned palm danced a bright red tongue of fire. Slowly he entered the manor house’s Great Hall, scattering servants and ducal retainers like a cat strolling through mice.

  Helfred closed hi
s fingers around his Rollin medallion. God help me, I am witness to miracles. The age of Rollin has come to us again. Forgive me, God, if ever I doubted .

  “What’s this? It’s a trick! A blasphemous trick!” said Kyrin as the toymaker halted between two bare trestle tables, burning without pain or sound or any sign his flesh was being consumed. The duke’s face had drained sickly pale. “Get him out of here, Linfoi! Would you call God’s wrath upon all of us?”

  Rhian shook her head, slowly. Her eyes were wide, her expression stunned. It seemed clear she had not expected this. “God’s not wrathful, Kyrin. And Mr Jones has guided me from the start. Now… I think … he is made a prophet.”

  “A prophet ?” said timid Most Venerable Artemis before Ven’Martin could protest. “My child—”

  Ignoring him, Rhian shifted her astonished gaze away from the toymaker. “ Helfred? What do you think?”

  He thought he might easily burst into tears. “I am a lowly chaplain, Your Majesty. But it seems to me this is indeed a miracle, and Rollin tells us miracles are the province of prophets. So you might well be correct. Mr Jones could be our very own Rollin.”

  “Never say it again!” said Ven’Martin, convulsed with rage. “This is darkest blasphemy! I tell you in the Prolate’s name that any man supporting it will be cast down beyond redemption!”

  “You are wrong, Ven’Martin,” said Mr Jones, serene. There was a curious blankness in his face, as though his personality had been smoothed away … like a footprint on a sandy beach washed to nothing by a wave. On his upturned palms the red tongues of fire danced. Under his skin God’s power glowed. “The blasphemy is in denying Rhian’s birthright. She is Ethrea’s queen, born in this time and place to rule. Let no man dispute it lest he imperil his soul.”

  “What?” said Kyrin. He seemed torn between awed fear and disbelieving fury. “Who is this—this man ? From his clothing he’s not noble. He’s not anything . Who is he to—”