Once In a Blue Moon

by Simon R. Green

  But not today. He didn’t need his sword because he wasn’t the Champion today. He was just a young man in love.

  The happy laughter of two young people rang joyously through the widespread gardens. Flower beds had been placed in colourful clock faces, with particular flowers carefully laid out so they would bloom only at the correct hour of the day, to spell out the correct time. Fat fuzzy bees hummed loudly, doing their bit.

  Extended rows of trees had been carefully pruned and arranged and forced to form long, shadowy tunnels and graceful arches and bowers, their curving branches intertwined in intricate patterns. The whole glorious retreat was full of rich colours and richer scents.

  A man-made stream ran lazily through the gardens, cool and bubbling and endlessly inviting, full of the most beautiful and exotic fish that money could buy, in a long, magical Möbius strip, forever refreshing itself. A delicately carved wooden bridge crossed the river at the most aesthetically appropriate point, with high side rails and a shady roof, lit here and there with permanently glowing paper lanterns. And in the very centre of the gardens, dark green hedges had been expertly sculpted into tall towers. They rose high above the gardens, shooting up forty or fifty feet into the sky. Catherine and Malcolm had often climbed these lofty hedge towers as children, even though—or perhaps because—such a thing was strictly forbidden. They scrambled up the leafy sides, plunging their small hands and feet deep into the tightly packed hedges, getting away with it only because they were children. An adult’s weight would have sent them crashing right through the greenery. (Catherine was always the first to make a dare out of it, and Malcolm was always the first to start climbing. Because he would do anything for her, even then. Though no matter how often they raced to the top, he never let her win. He knew she would never have forgiven him that.) Once they reached the tops of their separate hedge towers, they would sit proudly on the very edge, swaying back and forth in the breeze, their small feet kicking out over the long drop, while they looked out across their whole world, spread out below them.

  There were always twenty or thirty gardeners working at once, watering and weeding their way across the gardens, but none of them looked up from what they were doing to watch Catherine and Malcolm at play, in what the gardening staff understandably thought of as their gardens. Anyone else, the staff would have glared cold death looks at them for venturing into their territory and not showing the proper appreciation for all the hard work that had gone into it. But they made an exception for Princess Catherine and her young man. Because the staff knew that the young lovers cared for the gardens almost as much as they did.

  The King hadn’t walked through his gardens for as long as anybody could remember.

  Catherine and Malcolm paused to admire the great cloud of shocking pink flamingos scattered across the artificial lake. Almost unbearably garish, with their impossibly long, curving necks and spindly legs, the flamingos had supposedly started out as Unreal things, magical creatures, like so many that had roamed Castle Midnight back in the day. But the flamingos had become increasingly real, generation by generation, and it had been a long time since they’d been any colour but pink. There wasn’t much Unreal left in Castle Midnight these days, to everyone’s quiet relief.

  The Princess and the Champion moved on, hand in hand, and then chased each other round and round the great Standing Stone until they were breathless and giddy. Though tired as they were, neither of them leaned on the Stone. A tall outcropping of jagged black stone, lumpy and shapeless, it was old, very old. Some said older than the Castle itself. The old name for the Stone, among the peasants and farmers, was The God Within. There were many places in Redhart where the ancient beliefs still persisted: that a forgotten pagan god or devil still stood imprisoned or asleep within the Standing Stone, waiting to reemerge in Redhart’s hour of greatest need.

  And whether you considered that a good or a bad thing depended on which versions of the old stories you listened to.

  The Standing Stone was quite definitely Unreal, but almost everything else of that nature was gone. Ghosts no longer wandered the Castle corridors at night, the Castle’s rooms stayed where they were supposed to, and the gargoyles up on the roof were just stone carvings. The Wild Magic had departed from Castle Midnight, and from most of Redhart, and nearly everyone agreed that while this might be less romantic, it was quite definitely safer for all concerned.

  Catherine grabbed Malcolm’s broad wrists in her tiny hands, and spun him round and round till both of them were giddy, and then she pulled him forward till they were face-to-face, eyes bright, mouths stretched in smiles that seemed like they would last forever. Catherine moved in closer, till their noses were almost touching and they could feel each other’s breath on their mouths.

  “I think we’ve been engaged long enough,” said Catherine. “I think . . . it’s time we got married!”

  Malcolm laughed. “I thought I was supposed to ask you?”

  “You were taking too long,” said Catherine.

  “What about your father, the King?” said Malcolm.

  “He knows all about us!” said Catherine. “Always has. He knows everything that goes on. If he didn’t think you were suitable, he’d have broken us up long ago.”

  “I meant,” said Malcolm, “that it is traditional for the King to set the date for a Royal wedding.”

  “He’s been taking too long,” said Catherine. “I think a month from now will do nicely. I’ll tell him.”

  “You do that,” said Malcolm. “I’ll watch. From a safe distance, and preferably while hiding behind something.”

  “You’re not frightened of Daddy, are you? He’s just an old softie, really.”

  “To you, maybe. To me, he is my King.” Malcolm looked at her thoughtfully. “And besides, don’t I get any say in any of this?”

  Catherine pouted playfully. “You do want to marry me, don’t you?”

  “You know I do,” said Malcolm.

  “Love me?” said Catherine.

  “Love you,” said Malcolm.

  “Forever?”

  “Forever and a day.”

  They kissed, and then she squealed delightedly as he picked her up off her feet and swung her round and round. Such a happy day, and everything to live for. They had no reason at all to suspect bad news. In fact, when Malcolm finally put Catherine down, and they looked round to see an official Court herald making his way steadily through the gardens, in his official tabard of crimson and cream, obviously looking for someone . . . it never even occurred to the Princess and the Champion that the herald might be looking for them. Until he finally spotted the two of them and headed determinedly in their direction. Looking pale and unhappy, but determined.

  “What could he possibly want with us?” said Catherine, frowning for the first time. “I haven’t broken anything important for ages.”

  “Not everything is about you,” Malcolm said fondly. “It could be there’s been another border incursion by Forest forces and the King wants me to go out on patrol again.”

  “Oh, boring!” said Catherine.

  “For you, maybe,” said Malcolm, amused. “Just because we call these encounters skirmishes, it doesn’t mean they aren’t real battles. Good men die, on both sides, every day, fighting over that stupid stretch of land.”

  Catherine placed both her palms on his chest and gazed into his eyes, immediately contrite. “I do worry about you when you’re away from me. Just because you’re the Champion, it doesn’t mean you can’t get hurt.”

  “I’ll try to remember that,” Malcolm said solemnly.

  “Take care of yourself,” said Catherine. “That’s an order.”

  “Yes, my Princess.”

  They both looked round, and moved just a little apart, as the herald finally arrived and lurched to a halt before them, more than a little out of breath. He’d been searching for them for some time, they could tell. The herald saluted them both and launched quickly into his memorised message, because he really d
idn’t want to be stopped or interrupted, as he knew they were going to want to do.

  “Princess Catherine, sir Champion, King William commands that you both attend him at the current session of Court. Immediately. As in right now, no excuses, no stopping off along the way. The King has an important announcement to make, affecting both of you. That’s it—thank you. I really must be going now—goodbye.”

  And he was off and running, back through the gardens at full pelt, before they could even think to try to question him. Which was not a good sign. Catherine and Malcolm looked at each other.

  “What the hell was that all about?” said Malcolm.

  “An official announcement, in front of the whole Court, that affects both of us?” said Catherine. “It can’t be . . . I haven’t even talked to him about the marriage yet!”

  “If this was a happy thing,” Malcolm said slowly, “the herald wouldn’t have bolted like that. I’ve never seen anyone run so fast who didn’t have someone on horseback chasing him. No. I think . . . this is something to do with the worsening military situation between Redhart and the Forest. Maybe the negotiations have broken down, at last. Maybe, just maybe, this is war.”

  “No,” said Catherine immediately. “It can’t be. I’d have heard . . . something . . .”

  They looked at each other for a long moment, with wide, frightened eyes, and then they both started back across the gardens, heading for Castle Midnight. And the terrible decision that lay waiting for them.

  • • •

  It didn’t take them long to reach the massive stone Keep that provided the only main access to the Castle, a great looming structure with arrow-slit windows and a heavy portcullis—a blunt stone edifice designed solely to keep out the enemy. But that was long ago, and it had been centuries since the Keep had seen a sword drawn in anger, so now the huge stone walls were covered from top to bottom with endless intricate carvings, etched deep into the old, discoloured stone. Saints and sinners, heroes and villains, dragons and unicorns and mermaids. After so long a time at peace, the Keep had become a work of art. But the old arrow-slit windows still remained, the great iron portcullis stood ready to slam down at a moment’s notice, and the Keep was always, always, guarded. By men in armour who looked like they knew how to use the swords and axes at their sides. Malcolm stopped briefly to talk with the guards, but none of them had heard anything of war, or even recent Forest incursions into the disputed territories.

  Catherine and Malcolm passed through the Keep and on into the Castle proper, each of them holding the other’s hand tightly now, for mutual reassurance. They moved quickly through the entrance halls and chambers, and hurried along the wide stone corridors, heading for the Court by the most direct route. They passed through oversized halls and galleries, built long ago on a larger than human scale, since Castle Midnight had been designed to impress, rather than for the comfort of its inhabitants. But down the long years, most of the heavy stone walls had been covered and decorated with all kinds of portraits and paintings. To take the edge off. There were passable portraits of important people, great scenes of important events and battles, and marvellous views from locations all across Redhart. Statues stood proudly in every nook and cranny, some painted and some not, depending on which era they were from. Representing great personages, Romantic ideals, and forgotten gods and goddesses from pagan times, who might actually have been visitors to Castle Midnight, back in those days when the Unreal was strong. There were glorious hanging tapestries, thick rugs and carpets of quite marvellous design and workmanship, some of them in urgent need of repair. Because while no comfort was too great or too expensive for King William’s Castle, money was short. The border skirmishes had been going on for years, increasingly expensive in funds as well as lives.

  The very latest innovation was the yellow-flamed gas lighting that was absolutely everywhere now, inside the Castle. Marsh gas, from the massive swamps to the south of the Castle. An almost inexhaustible supply, apparently, though most people tended to pick up on the word almost. The gas was mostly pumped through hollowed-out candelabra, bright butter-yellow flames popping out where the wicks should have been. The flickering lights also hissed and glowed through stylised face masks, or gargoyle heads, the flames jutting from eyes and mouths. Catherine had been genuinely scared by them when she was a child. Though she would rather have died than admit that to anyone, even then. She didn’t much care for the gaping faces now, and made a point of ignoring the things as she stalked past them.

  Malcolm knew. He’d always known, but never said anything. Because sometimes love is keeping other people’s secrets as privately as your own.

  Some of the statues lurking in the Castle’s inner corridors were stranger and more outlandish than others. There were those who said these statues had been alive, back when Castle Midnight had been more Unreal, and that they’d been known to stomp loudly up and down the corridors. Given the monstrous shapes and attributes of some of the statues, everyone fervently hoped that they would remain just statues. There had been a serious movement, a few years back, to have all the more worrying statues smashed and destroyed, just in case, but King William put a stop to that. Because, he said, they were part of Castle Midnight’s heritage. And because they might be needed someday. The courtiers and politicians had looked at one another and chosen to say nothing. Most people preferred not to remember when the Castle had been home to so many manifestations of the Unreal, with ghosts and monsters and abominations walking openly abroad. Rooms that devoured their inhabitants, and doors that suddenly led to strange new worlds. That was all part of the past now, thanks to King William’s legendary grandparents, Good King Viktor and Queen Catriona, who together put down a rebellion by the Unreal, took away its power, and put the Wild Magic to sleep. For the good of all.

  As Catherine and Malcolm finally drew near to the Court, they couldn’t help noticing that virtually all the corridors and passageways they passed through were packed with people—from servants to aristocrats and everyone in between, all of them chattering animatedly with one another. And all of them fell suddenly silent as the Princess and the Champion bore down on them. The conversation would of course start up again the moment the two of them were safely past and out of earshot. These people knew what was going on, even if Catherine and Malcolm didn’t. But no one would talk to them. In fact, people would look innocently at the two of them as they approached, and then back quickly away if they seemed to be getting too near. Some actually turned and ran rather than be pressed for information. Catherine was honestly baffled by such behaviour, being so universally beloved, but Malcolm thought he was beginning to understand. The Princess could throw a really quite remarkable temper tantrum, on the rare occasions when she couldn’t get her own way, with a tendency to smash anything she could get her hands on, and even assault people who didn’t back away fast enough.

  He tried to slow down, so he could think things through in his usual slow and methodical way and work out what the hell was going on, but Catherine would have none of that. She was just too impatient, too desperate to know, and she hurried him ruthlessly on. That had always been her way, to meet her problems head-on.

  • • •

  When the Princess and the Champion finally reached the Court, they were both astonished to discover that the huge double doors were firmly closed. The two of them had been hurrying along hand in hand, but Malcolm now made a point of quietly but firmly separating their hands as they approached the doors . . . and the guards standing at attention before the doors. The King knew all about the closeness of their relationship—everybody did—but it wouldn’t do to flaunt it in public. Some things just weren’t done. Catherine didn’t give a damn, but Malcolm understood propriety. He had tried to explain it to Catherine once, and she had called him a very rude word.

  They stopped before the closed double doors. They weren’t usually closed when Court was in session. In fact, neither Catherine nor Malcolm could ever recall seeing such a thing before.
And now, instead of the two usual ceremonial guards, there were a dozen heavily armed guards, all of whom looked like experienced fighting men. Malcolm recognised a few of them from past border skirmishes. He addressed them by name, but they just stared coldly back at him. The man in charge ignored him completely, addressing himself solely to Catherine.

  “Princess, it is regrettably necessary that you remain here, outside the Court, while I send in a message to inform the King that you have arrived.”

  “We were summoned here by the King,” Malcolm said quickly, as storm clouds gathered in Catherine’s face. “What is going on here?”

  “I have my orders,” said the guard, still looking only at Catherine. And from the way he said it, Malcolm could tell there was absolutely nothing to be gained by pressing the point. Catherine opened her mouth to say something that would undoubtedly only have made matters worse, but Malcolm grabbed her upper arm and squeezed it hard enough to make her wince, then led her a suitable distance away from the doors. Which then opened just long enough to allow a single guard to enter, before quickly closing again. Catherine yanked her arm out of Malcolm’s grasp, glared at him, and then strode, scowling, up and down in front of the closed doors, rehearsing all the terrible things she was going to say to her father once she got inside.

  Malcolm looked thoughtfully at the two huge statues, set on either side of the doors, of Good King Viktor and Queen Catriona. The facial likenesses were clear and detailed, but so idealised there was no way of knowing how accurate they were. Good people and wise rulers, everyone said, and a hard act to follow. Malcolm doubted they’d ever been kept waiting outside a closed door. They’d have just kicked the doors in and then walked all over anyone who got in their way. Catherine stopped pacing, to see what Malcolm was paying so much attention to.