by Lazlo Ferran
“Olotov, Sire”
“Alright. Let the General here instruct you what men, the loyal ones, to collect and bring them here.”
He was gone in in a few moments. I looked at Abutalip’s shiny head.
“Abutalip. Now we must act! But we must be so careful. Oh yes so very careful. I see the double trap that Bulya has prepared for me. We must restore order and control in the Palace but we cannot afford to kill too many soldiers. Bulya still, I hear, has an Army somewhere and if he survives and attacks, we will need all the men we have. And yet how can we restore order without fighting? And how can I let them serve me, who are traitors. I must think!” I paced about, eating to regain strength, while Abutalip slowly dressed and tried to sober up.
“Yes! Yes. I have it! How many men can we trust Abutalip?”
“Hmm. About half, perhaps one thousand Sire. But many men have left the Barracks, they went as soon as they heard Kospan’s orders. I would guess maybe one thousand remain and of those, perhaps five hundred are loyal, only two hundred are known to me. I would guess most of the Palace Guards are loyal too.”
Yes. I think we should only take men we know are loyal. When these men return, we will go into the Barracks and you will quietly pick the most loyal me. The rest, we will lock in, using the Palace Guard, and then we will retake the Palace. I will have to assume all the men in the Palace, whether Palace Guard or Soldier, is a traitor. Later we will find out the truth.
Within a few more minutes, Olotov returned and, putting on some armour he had brought for me, we set off for the Palace Guard quarters.
“You look like a fine young soldier, Sire!” said Abutalip.
I cuffed him gently. “How did I let this happen, Abutalip?”
“It is a low mind that would conceive of this, Sire. You had no need to expect it.”
“You are right. We were silent until we reached the door of the Palace Guard quarters.”
“Men. Dress for war and come with me!” Some were certainly drunk and a few women there were gathering sheets around them but within a quarter of an hour we left, ten Guards to each door of the Barracks.
Abutalip and I went in to each and he chose the most loyal faces.
All told, there were about four hundred of us as we left for the Palace. We left one hundred to guard the Barrack doors. There had been less loyal faces than Abutalip remembered.
Circling the Palace, I ordered our men not to kill unless absolutely necessary and to put all captives in the Palace Guard quarters. Leaving plenty of men to seal each exit, we finally reached the Main Gate. I left one hundred men there and led the rest into the Palace. We did a room by room search and found that most of the men we encountered were not, in fact, drunk. Those drunks we did find seemed to be those loyal to us. There were many fights as we slowly retook the Palace, room by room, and eventually arrived at Kospan’s apartments. Breaking in, we found him cowering in the corner of his own bedroom, with fifty soldiers, surrounding him. It was a bitter battle as we fought to subdue them. I myself took part and came to look into Kospan’s eyes. His fear was absolute and he cowered beneath me. I raised my sword but then stopped.
“No. I will not kill you. I can use you.”
He trembled and prayed, knowing then his soul was probably beyond redemption, craving as it did life, at any cost.
Most of his men we’d had to kill and as the slivers of purple silk settled onto the floor, Abutalip opened a side door and turned to face me. He had a bitter look on his face. Blood dripped from his sword. I stepped to the door and looked within. Seeing the brightly painted walls as I approached the door, I expected to see Ukabala, his wife, but I did not. In a large bed, sat Shakira. The pretty, light-blue, silk sheets were drawn up around her and next to her was the Stable Hand I had seen her with, long before. Two other men, naked, cowered in the corner of the room. My heart sank and a blackness took my soul.
For just a moment, Shakira’s eyes had a pleading look.
“He likes to watch.” she said, casting her eyes towards the door and Lord Kospan, cowering on the floor.
“Take him away!” I called to the Soldiers.
I saw the bitter, third trap that Bulya had left me, now. For I could forgive the men but how could I forgive Shakira. I almost smiled at his wicked brilliance.
“What Evil has befallen you, Shakira? Has some shadow crept into your soul in the depths of night and led you away from me?” I was reaching for something to excuse her but I could see in her eyes, that she had nothing to offer me. She looked down, ashamed and defeated. For a moment, I realised she would not be used to feeling guilty. I almost pitied her but then I realised that I still loved her. That made me angry.
“You bitch. You little slut! How could you do this to me! Not one man!” I looked at the Stable Hand, letting him know I thought of him as no more than a boy. “But three! You are a whore!”
She seemed suddenly black-eyed, like a snake ready to strike. I saw that she shuddered.
“Take them away!” I said to the Soldiers, indicating the three men.
I sensed she had something to say and that she would prefer her only to say it to me, even if she did not care who heard.
“Whore! Whore! You dare to accuse me! Yes, a shadow did creep into my soul. The night that Demitri told me what you had done in the camp of the Nomads.”
“Demitri? Who is Demitri?”
“The Stable Hand. The man who is twice the man you are!”
“What did he tell you?” I felt the ground slipping from under me, as I guessed what she knew.
She spat it out. “That whore, who you fucked! Those whores that you took in your Kingly wisdom! Oh yes! You are a King so you can do what you like. You have told me so many times you love me and that you would never be unfaithful to me. Those were just words for a silly young woman.”
“Maybe you think, because I am your daughter that I don’t need the things every woman needs, love and loyalty.” She was crying now. “Maybe you think these things because I am your daughter! But I am still a woman! Even though I am your daughter and I know it, God how I know it. Every day somebody reminds of this with a little smirk. Even though I am your Daughter, I am still a woman! I don’t want to be compared with a whore!”
“And don’t think in your silly mind that I need something special, some sort of pity, because I am your flesh and blood. Don’t be that stupid. It’s not important to me. It’s just that I care for you! I…” She stopped. Suddenly she felt she had said too much, or could not go on.
I went and sat on the bed next to her, facing away from her. Now I was the one who was defeated.
“You were never meant to know that, my Darling. It’s Bulya’s doing. It is an evil but you are right. The worst part of it is that it is true. I did it. And I don’t know what to say to you. They meant nothing to me. It’s like having a glass of wine. A whore is not very satisfying. Not personal. It is just something a soldier gets used to, in times of War. But still this is not enough.”
I took a deep breath. “I am sorry. I am very, deeply sorry. I have betrayed you and I don’t deserve to be forgiven by you. But I am not a perfect man and my old habit, from a life before you, got the better or me.”
She was silent and I realised, in her own calm way, she was urging me to a greater commitment.
“I promise I will never do this again. I didn’t promise before. I just said I wouldn’t. Now I am promising you.” I could say no more.
For a moment the room seemed full of a not, fiery anger, then a calm, as I heard her exhale.
“Was she pretty?”
For a moment I wanted to say ‘no’ but I realised, from now on, a deeper trust was owed to her. “Yes but not as pretty as you.”
“You realise I am not going to let you make love to me again, until we are married?”
“Yes.” I had intended going ahead with the Marriage as soon as I had felt forgiveness rising in my heart but I hadn’t expected to be talking about it within minutes. Her power
of forgiveness was truly remarkable. She was a remarkable woman.
* * *
Chapter Nine
Looking back on that night in Kospan’s apartments, I often wondered if there had not been the slightest tone of victory in Shakira’s voice when she told me I would have to marry her. I had also wondered how the young stable hand had known about the whores. The only thing I could think of was that one of Meth’s men had talked to Geb’s Lieutenant, the only man who could have known and whom I had not tested.
It was a bright sunny day in early May when the Wedding Procession left the Palace Gates and wound up towards the Royal Chapel on the hill at the north eastern end of Parat City, thus taking in the whole City and all its inhabitants.
It even passed close to the House of the Blue Lantern on Fourth Street, although Shakira had done her best to plan a detour around this. Unfortunately for her, the course of the Procession was a traditional one and tradition was not easily defeated by determined and increasingly cunning mind.
She and her Ladies in Waiting had planned every detail, down to the colours, and types of knots on the tassels of the horses. All the Royal Guard and every soldier had spent weeks repairing and polishing their armour and every courtesan and every maid had sent away for the very best silks from the east. They were all glad to have the time to prepare for this great event. I had probably been the only one who regretted the long wait.
Of course there had been murmurs about the inappropriateness of the Marriage but these had been mostly by those not loyal to the Royal family, those wishing for a Republic, and fortunately their numbers were still small.
The night before our wedding, I had visited the Princess’s Room.
“What are you doing here Vassy? You should not do so, the night before our Wedding.” She continued to concentrate on her sewing, not looking at me.
I sat down beside her. “Darling. There is something I must talk to you about. I have been putting it off since the night of the Battle in the Palace.”
I remembered the climb into the tower on that night, the Night of Madness as I called it. It was there, I realised that I had to tell her the truth. All these years, she had clung to the belief that we were related by blood, that I was her Father, and I had known that this was not true. I had hidden, deep in my heart, the knowledge that we were not related. One day, only, a few months after I had found her, another letter had been delivered to me. It was from her mother but had somehow been kept back by somebody and had arrived after the writer’s death. In it she wrote much of her growing daughter, how she had ridden her first pony and how she had fallen and strained her little wrist, the wrist with the scar. It was her left one. The Princess had a scar on her right wrist. I had let her believe she was my Daughter, even when we had starting making love, simply because she needed a family to belong to. Later it had caused me much stress and heartache, as I often came close to telling her the truth. Now I must tell her. It was the right time to tell her.
But fate had taken en even more curious turn, only hours before my visit to her room, the night before the Wedding.
After the Night of Madness, I had pardoned nearly all the captured soldiers, believing that, if I gave them a raise and improved conditions for them on their farms, they would stay loyal to me. It was a pragmatic decision but may have saved the Realm. Bulya had not attacked that winter. Kospan had been put on Trial and had been sentenced to a life of servitude in the Palace, as a slave. But his mind had become troubled by his own treachery and he often took to muttering and stealing. Finally he had attacked and killed a Courtier with a knife and the calls to execute him were overwhelming. At his execution, he had smiled at me when the rope was tightened around his neck. There had been such a look in his eye of absolute clarity and intelligence that I now wonder if he had not deliberately killed the Courier, who was traitorous himself anyway. Had he wished for death and finally attained some sort of self-respect? I could not know.
This had been a week before the Wedding. After his original arrest, all his possessions had been confiscated and now the problem became what to do with them.
Over the days running up to the Wedding I sorted through them, reading many journals and papers and apportioning goods such as paintings and gold to his surviving wife and relatives. The night before the Wedding I had finally arrived at his letters and read one which held me in rapt attention throughout. It had been a letter from Bulya, dated October of the year before, and in the last paragraph held a secret which was very great surprise to me.
“Of course you know King Vaslav is not really the girl’s Father. The truth is even more bizarre. Many, many moons ago, Vaslav’s Father, King Alexei was out on a hunting expedition in the mountains of the far east of the Realm. My father had accompanied him and had taken with him his young son of only fourteen years. I remember the soldiers smirking as they talked of the King’s dalliance with a very young blonde girl in this village we stopped at. She was only nine years old and you know what her name was? Nariza! And it was the same village as that where the girl grew up. Many years later I managed to confirm that it in fact was the same Nariza. Nine months later, the woman gave birth to a boy and the King and Queen, still being childless, sent for him. The Queen was sequestered for over a year and then the boy presented to court. Even then, some thought the boy looked old for a three-month old baby! But nobody questioned it any further. Except me! Many years later Nariza gave birth to her second child, a girl from the union with Vaslav, and then another girl, from that with another lover, who subsequently disappeared. Both girls were blonde and coincidentally, both had scars on their wrists, one on the right, one on the left. Shakira is the daughter of the departed lover, not Vaslav. The King is the Brother of Shakira. It seems an incredible coincidence, does it not? And yet it is not complete coincidence. For I was one of those who accompanied King Vaslav to the village when he was quelling the invasion and I recognised the girl, now grown into a woman, only nine years older than the King. He was taken with her looks and I thought to myself, a Royal intrigue about illegal sex would be most useful to the cause of a revolution. So I encouraged him. And now we have the means to dethrone him! If people don’t believe the story about him being Shakira’s Father, we can give them the truth and this will surely bring him down.”
I put the letter down in disbelief. Her Brother? I wanted to laugh. It was crazy. The irony of it and yet, the evil deeds of Bulya explained much. Now I would have to tell her this. Would she believe me and what would she think?
And so I found myself entering her room to tell her that I was her Brother, not her Father.
As I told her all that I knew, I watched her face for a reaction. At first her eyes had opened very wide and a smile seemed to play on the very edge of her lips. In the end this broke out into a complete smile, as wide as the sky and as bright as the Midday sun in June.
“No! You are kidding. It is all so amazing and incredible! You are my Brother. Oh well. Brother, give me a kiss.” She leaned over and kissed me full on the lips. It felt slightly different to previous kisses but it was still Shakira’s kiss.
“See. It does not matter to me what relation we are to each other. I am Shakira and you are Vaslav. That is all that matters. And tomorrow, we get married! Now go to sleep and forget about it.”
I left her, even more astonished than I had been, reading the letter for the first time.
She was a truly amazing woman.
And so we sat, side by side in the Royal Carriage, painted and decorated in gold and with six coachmen, dressed in Royal Red and sixteen white horses leading us.
The noise from the thousands of Well-wishers cheering at us was deafening and we smiled at each other, for gladness at the day that had come and for amusement at the secret we hid. As we crossed the Palace grounds and reached the Gate, I saw many people who had played a part in the last year’s events. First there was Meth Medir, his sons Ashan, Dimez and Ochnud and all his tribe, on the left and the Palace Guard, their blue plumes
wafting gently in the breeze on the right. At the end of the Guard, in a wicker wheelchair sat General Geb-Gab, smiling up at me. He had lain in a fever for weeks, with his wife beside him, searching for a way to live and had found it. He could not speak but communicated by pointing with a stick held in his mouth, at letters. Beyond him was Ahmed and his family and then Abutalip, Sabitzan and their men and all the other soldiers, nearly two thousand strong.
In the place of the dead Generals, I had ordered their horses, or a white horse if theirs had not survived, to stand, dressed in their colours, and as we passed each horse, I remembered Abdil’khan and Edil’bai, Kazangap, Zhuan’zhuan and young Yedigei and wished that their souls would live in the fouls that these horses might sire.
Next were the wives and families of the soldiers, including those women who had been in Meth Medir’s hareem, and each smiled indulgently at me. When the blonde with the buxom body smiled at me, I had to look away, hoping that Shakira had not noticed, but unfortunately she had. She glared at the woman for a moment and then waved at the crowds to the left. I saw a few soldiers singing the words to the rhyme about Shakira.
Oh The Princess lay a-sleeping,
On a hot a cloudless day.
The Princess lay asleeping,
On a bed of hay.
But I motioned for them to be silent, smiling at them. They smiled back.
Finally, to the left, among many guests who had been invited from all around the realm, I saw Moddei, the Innkeeper, his son, daughter-in-law, grand-daughter and little Boris, waving enthusiastically at us. Boris saluted me as we passed and I made as if holding a lance, to show him I remembered his gift and that we would be friends forever. I was sure he would make a fine soldier, even a General one day.
Lord Sarala and his wife, poor Ukabala and Natalya, wife of Lord Abdil’Khan were in a carriage behind us and the rest of the courtiers in carriages, or on foot, depending on their rank, behind us. Even Gregor and Bear had a carriage to themselves, Bear lolling lazily with his jowls resting on the window’s edge, while the crowd looked curiously at him.
