Scrivener's Tale

by Fiona McIntosh

  Each time she turned the concept over in her mind and its hold strengthened, Florentyna winced internally. Few people had the influence to command such an attack; even fewer the financial clout to make the kinds of promises that Hubbard was boasting about. Surely even fewer still who may want her dead?

  Florentyna took a breath and looked out of the window of her carriage into the mellowing light of the afternoon, which seemed to smooth all the rough edges of the countryside. Tree branches became outlined by a glow, leaves softened, the lines of the hedgerow were blurred and glimpses of light peeked through the spaces between the shrubs and trees. Meadows were brushed with a golden hue and the sky had lost its sharpness; its bright thaw blue had ripened into a gentle, blushing pink where the sky met the land. With the sun’s passing she felt thaw’s chill sneaking its way into the velvet-lined cocoon and was rocked by the rhythm of the four horses sweeping her rapidly south. In her wake and moving far more slowly were the bodies of those who had been speaking with her only this morning; she couldn’t rid herself of the image of Felyx laughing as the arrow struck.

  Reliving the death scenes, her thoughts fled to Cassien and she wondered if he was following at their heels or taking his own course to Pearlis. Would he move ahead, preparing to await her arrival at the gates of Stoneheart?

  Suddenly she hoped he would. Maybe she could convince him to stand alongside her when she had to break the news to Darcelle about Saria. She wasn’t relishing that confrontation. And King Tamas would be arriving soon.

  As if on cue, a polite rapping on the roof occurred.

  ‘Stoneheart ahead, your majesty,’ the voice called.

  Burrage paced outside the queen’s salon. How had so much gone so spectacularly wrong in such a short space of time? Why hadn’t he listened to his misgivings? His instincts had screamed at him not to permit the queen to have her way in travelling with so light a guard. Now people were dead, among them the dowager queen. Her noble family in Briavel would have to be told and the repercussions of that would surely only hack away further at the already weakened bonds between the realms. He suspected he would need to advise both stepdaughters to make the journey east to deliver the news and comfort their relatives. Florentyna’s presence at the funeral too would add valuable weight to the empire’s display of grief at Saria’s loss. He sighed — the Ciprean king’s visit took precedence, but that too only complicated how Briavel might feel sidestepped.

  There was still the horrifying question of which party had designed an attack on two of the royals, one of them the sovereign. Who would commit regicide? He had never seen Florentyna so wrathful or determined. She’d already promised Burrage that as soon as Tamas had left Morgravian shores she would be devoting all her energies to hunting down the perpetrators and bringing them to account on the end of her executioner’s axe. For now she had to calm her uncharacteristically high temper and go through the motions with her important foreign visitor.

  Then there was poor Felyx. Every time he thought about Felyx, his hand would move to grip his forehead in pain and regret.

  They’d agreed to tell Darcelle about the dowager as soon as the princess arrived back at Stoneheart from meeting Tamas. Florentyna had baulked at the suggestion to hold off until the festivities were complete.

  ‘Absolutely not!’ she’d rounded on him. ‘I couldn’t sleep last night. My sister is seeing me through dark enough eyes at the moment — you heard her rant, Burrage — and I’m not giving her an excuse to hate me. As it is, I have no idea how she will take this news other than badly.’

  ‘It is not your fault, majesty.’

  ‘But Darcelle won’t see it that way. She will need to blame someone. I am the logical target.’

  The queen was likely correct in this, but Burrage was hoping against hope that Darcelle’s joy in seeing her betrothed might help calm her reaction.

  The door to the salon opened, interrupting his troubled thoughts. ‘You may go in,’ the queen’s private maid announced. Her tense smile said a lot to Burrage about the mood within. He entered. Florentyna looked surprisingly beautiful. Gone were the riding trews and she was now in a gown befitting a queen of Morgravia. It was too rare that her people saw her like this, though he knew she preferred not to compete with Darcelle.

  Burrage bowed. ‘They are moments from the city gates, your majesty.’

  He watched her nod and run a hand down the bodice of her exquisite gown. It was fashioned from the fabulously rich and exclusive imperial purple — formerly known as Percheron Purple. It won this name in the west because the dye was extracted from a large whelk common only to that exotic peninsula’s glittering emerald waters. Nowadays, most sovereigns had garments dyed this deep, vibrant hue and it had become known as ‘royal’ — or in Morgravia’s case ‘imperial’ — purple. No-one else but the sovereign in Morgravia was permitted to wear it. Certainly, few but the sovereign could afford to in any case, given that the dye fetched its own weight in gold. He knew she would prefer to be garbed in dark mourning clothing this evening, out of respect for the fallen, but she was required to be nothing less than empress today as she received a neighbouring king.

  The sumptuous imperial purple echoed the blue–black sheen that one hundred brushstrokes had coaxed from her hair. It was loosely pinned up, a few wisps allowed to escape, adding a touch of feminine whimsy to the austere line she was cutting with her tall silhouette. He noticed how slim she’d become. He would have to talk to the cook about what the queen was eating … or not.

  ‘Will this do?’ she asked, smoothing her skirt.

  ‘You look perfect, your majesty.’

  He didn’t want to say that she looked sad.

  ‘I keep trying to find the words, Burrage.’

  ‘They will find you, my queen. This is not a discussion you can rehearse.’

  ‘No, I believe you. It is better I speak with all the emotion and fear that I’m feeling.’

  He closed his eyes and nodded gently. ‘Princess Darcelle knows what is expected of her, majesty. She will not let you down in a formal situation … and not in front of the king.’

  ‘You’re right, I hope.’

  ‘There’s a man calling himself Cassien Figaret. I’ve asked him to wait in the Keep. Apparently, you’ve invited him to the palace?’

  ‘Yes, I did.’ Her creamy skin flushed at her cheeks and his curiosity deepened. ‘This is the man who saved my life.’

  ‘Truly,’ he said. ‘No doubt you wish to speak with him.’

  ‘I do.’ She checked herself once more in the long glass and walked closer. Burrage noted how the tiny beads of amethyst sewn onto the bodice of her gown caught the light and shimmered when she moved. ‘There is something I should tell you about Cassien.’

  ‘Yes, majesty?’

  ‘He is of the Brotherhood,’ she said evenly.

  ‘Brotherhood?’ he repeated, astonished.

  She nodded. ‘What is curious is that he was travelling to Pearlis to seek me out, but instead stumbled across me at Rittylworth.’

  Burrage’s mind had already begun to dart in a dozen directions but he gathered himself. ‘And how glad we are he did.’

  ‘I would be dead if not for Cassien. Please show him and Hamelyn — the boy he travels with — every courtesy.’

  ‘Of course.’

  There was a knock at the door. Burrage answered it, nodding once. He returned to Florentyna.

  ‘We must go, your majesty.’

  ‘Walk with me, Burrage. You’ll have to brief me as we descend the stairs. I’m sorry to have left you so little time.’

  He knew it was not her fault and moved straight into his briefing. ‘Tonight is the official welcome, but I suspect they will be fatigued so I plan to keep the celebrations brief. It will be intimate — no more than forty guests. Tomorrow I have arranged a festive picnic with sporting activities, a hunt if his majesty would like to participate; food will be laid out down by the stream. We’ve brought in mummers, poets, minstrels and jong
leurs to entertain. I believe Samwyl Tooley has crafted a poem in honour of the marriage —’ He noted Florentyna’s eyebrow lift at that news. Tooley was the most angst-ridden and overly theatrical artist in the land; at the death of the king he had declared he would never write another poem. Burrage smiled and continued. ‘And Justyn Faircluff has a new ballad he would like to sing for the couple. In essence, tonight is a formality. Tomorrow is the real betrothal celebration, and in the evening we will have the formal feast — more than three hundred nobles will be arriving to pay their respects. A civic gathering first, of course. We are following the plan we set out moons ago. I saw no reason to change that structure. Festivities will end with an open carriage ride through the capital the following afternoon, your majesty, after you and the king have completed your formal talks. The people will want to see Princess Darcelle and her handsome King Tamas.’

  ‘Everything sounds marvellous. The people will be given food and ale?’ she enquired, as they began to descend the great staircase.

  ‘My word, yes. There is to be a vast two-day street party, from what I can tell. Decorations are up everywhere, with the colours of Morgravia and the colours of Cipres flying together.’

  ‘I look forward to seeing that.’

  ‘Oh, and I’ve granted permission to a merchant called Layne Tentrell to attend the picnic and present the most exquisite jewel to her highness.’

  ‘Jewel?’ she queried.

  He explained about the merchant from Robissun Marth.

  ‘How magnanimous,’ she remarked.

  ‘My sentiment exactly, majesty.’

  ‘The Star of Percheron,’ she repeated, looking impressed. ‘And it’s all perfectly credible?’

  ‘He is very well known in our west and strikes me as sincere, although I admit he is baffling.’

  ‘In what way?’ she asked, descending the stairs with more decorum than her usual stride, encouraged in this by having a number of skirts to keep out of the way of her feet.

  Burrage gave a soft moue of helplessness. ‘That’s just it. I can’t put my finger on it. His motives are admirable but there’s something vaguely unsettling about it … about him.’

  They reached the bottom of the stairs. Staff and household guard were lining the entrance to the grand doors. Florentyna was to greet King Tamas and Darcelle outside on the steps leading onto the bailey. The heralds were ready to proclaim the foreign sovereign’s arrival. It seemed as though everyone was holding a collective breath.

  She turned to Burrage. ‘You trust him though.’ It didn’t sound like a question. She stared at him intently, with a soft frown. Given recent events, he couldn’t blame her for being in any way nervous of strangers.

  ‘I have no reason to mistrust him, majesty, and he will be searched and guided in by soldiers and escorted away by soldiers shortly afterwards. He will be allowed to approach Princess Darcelle and King Tamas only with their express permission and with soldiers either side. He will have only moments with them. I have to tell you, Darcelle will want that jewel. And if you grant it …’ He didn’t need to say more.

  They shared a rueful smile. ‘You’ll check for poison too?’

  ‘Of course. The jewel will be dipped to clean it of any potentially harmful agents, his fingers and lips will be swabbed to nullify any poisons before he is permitted to so much as kiss your sister’s hand. I have already sent a message that the clothes he plans to wear are brought to the palace beforehand. They will be checked by our people for hidden pockets or the presence of poison, or any form of weapon. He will only be permitted to dress in the presence of two soldiers.’ He shrugged. ‘I’ve taken this precaution because his request was unexpected and unusual. In the light of what occurred at Rittylworth, I’m very glad I have.’

  ‘Should we do the same for all the performers?’

  He sighed. ‘None will be permitted to get close enough to the royals. Rigorous checking for weapons will be carried out. Household staff will be put through more stringent checks, of course. There will be food and drink tasters for everything.’

  Burrage saw the signal from the gate. ‘They’re here, my queen.’

  ‘Do as you see fit, Burrage. I trust your judgement implicitly. Now wish me luck, and please bring Cassien to me at the first available moment I get to myself. This is going to be a most difficult next few hours.’

  ‘No luck required, my queen. Just be yourself.’

  She gave him a wan smile and glided away, through the doorway, as the first trumpets sounded. Burrage signalled to Meek, who was standing by, along with a row of other youngsters for running errands and delivering messages.

  ‘Yes, Master Burrage,’ Meek enquired, his attention helplessly riveted on the arrival of the grandest of the royal coaches.

  ‘Go to the Keep. There is a man waiting by the name of Cassien Figaret. He is to be escorted to the Orangerie. He is to wait under guard. Make sure he is taken there by four of our men.’

  The boy threw him a glance of mystification but nodded and ran away.

  From the shadows Burrage could see that the royal carriage was making a wide circuit in the bailey. Any moment, the king would step out and with him his princess. He hoped that Darcelle would keep her emotions in check when the news of Saria was shared. He wished he could have time right now to consider who in the palace had discovered and then leaked the information of Florentyna’s journey to Rittylworth. There was only one person he could think of and that realisation frightened him more than Darcelle learning that her beloved ‘mother’ had been murdered.

  He sighed in private fear. In the distance he caught a glimpse of Meek running nimbly across the bailey, barely noticed by anyone else for their eyes were on the carriage.

  ‘The Brotherhood,’ he murmured, still surprised and more than a little apprehensive that a member of that order was suddenly within their presence. Something in the back of his mind told him that he should be making connections. The arrival of Master Fynch to talk with the queen and Reynard’s subsequent mysterious disappearance; the curious death of Flek with the royal sigil burned on his skin; suggestions of a force against the Crown; a direct attack on the queen … seemingly from within. And now the unexpected arrival of one of the Brotherhood. He knew he should be adding something up, but none of it amounted to anything other than a vague, underlying sense of threat.

  Although he hadn’t told the queen, Burrage had ordered more than a dozen senior archers to be in the bailey, positioned at various strategic locations, with an eye only on her majesty. Any person perceived to be a direct threat was to be brought down immediately. They had orders to shoot first — but not to kill — and questions would be asked later. In the meantime, soldiers out of uniform and kitted in appropriate regal clothes were already peppered throughout the household, watching everything and everyone. If this Cassien could truly live up to the reputation of the Brotherhood, then perhaps he too must be brought into the secret circle that was now ringing the queen without her knowledge.

  On the other hand, if today’s attack had been prompted from within the palace walls, as suspected, then she was not safe in Stoneheart no matter how much security was thrown around her. They had to get through these next few days and then Burrage would make arrangements for the queen to be whisked off to Briavel and ultimately to a secret location, no matter how much she protested. And he would personally oversee the hunt for the traitor and his or her network.

  Two days. That’s all he needed. He saw the carriage door open and a strapping man step out. It was King Tamas. His luxuriant golden beard was knitted through with the silver of age … or wisdom, as some liked to call it. He was grinning broadly, showing his enjoyment of the trumpets playing and the cheering of the people in the bailey. He offered his hand to help his princess from the carriage; she emerged into the evening wearing a dazzling smile and a gown of mauve. Darcelle looked enchanting, as always, but Burrage thought he noticed her falter slightly when she saw the queen awaiting them on the stairs. He would
give her the benefit of doubt that this wasn’t the shock of her being alive. Instead he would allow that perhaps like him, Darcelle had been surprised to see Florentyna looking so beautiful. None of them were used to seeing her in such finery.

  He watched Florentyna descend the grand stairway of Stoneheart, gliding regally into the bailey proper and he felt a pang of pride for this young sovereign. She could so easily have remained at the top of the stairs, waiting for her less important sister and Darcelle’s more important guest to ascend to meet her: somewhere in that stillness Florentyna could have silently reinforced her status and particularly her power. Instead she had made an altruistic gesture — welcoming without reservation.

  Burrage didn’t need to look into the eyes of King Tamas to know that the Ciprean king acknowledged her benevolence; it was conveyed in the way he watched the Queen of Morgravia arrive to stand before him, in the deferential bow that he gave, and in the way he touched his lips to her hand bending low as he did so.

  The watching chancellor was impressed. King Tamas was far more regal and his presence infinitely more daunting than he’d imagined. Why he’d imagined a less imposing, maybe even paunchy, effeminate older man, rather than this earthy ‘man’s man’, he couldn’t be sure. Perhaps because Cipres was famed for its art, culture and the exquisite pale beauty of its royal palace. He blinked, surprised at himself for being so judgemental; King Tamas looked as though he could ride, drink and swap punches with the best of his soldiers. Darcelle curtsied alongside her betrothed and suddenly Florentyna was beyond officialdom and pulling both sister and brother-in-law-to-be toward her in the embrace of family.

  TWENTY-ONE