by Candy Rae
The only person I can really trust is my brother Leiso.
Leiso worked the farm where Rilla had been brought up, It was situated some fifty miles south of Stewarton on the southern shore of Lake Stewart. It was an old farm with an old stone farmhouse. Underneath the farmhouse were cool, dry cellars that had once been used for storing fruit.
Rilla spent what remained of the day making arrangements to visit her brother. The arrangements included the hire of a sturdy cart and pony in which she would transport the boxes.
* * * * *
-55-
STEWARTON – ARGYLL
Francis Durand was as was usual in recent months working late when the Under Secretary appeared at his door and entered without knocking, a protocol almost unheard of within the government circles of Argyll.
“Yes?” he queried, looking up.
“I have a Message from Secretary de Groot sir,” the young man said, “he asks that would you please come to his office sir? At once.”
“Why, what is it?” asked Francis, wondering why the normally unflappable Secretary of the Interior would send such a request.
“He has not seen fit to inform me sir,” the Under Secretary answered, “but I’ve to go next and find the Secretary of War and get him as well.”
The Secretary of War! Francis Durand was tense in an instant. This sounded serious, very serious indeed.
He left his office at a run.
* * * * *
Three bells later and Francis was drawling long slow breaths of relief. War had been averted; but their discussion had certainly left them with a conundrum or should he say many?
Why had the Vada gone back to Vadath? And not just the Ryzcks either. The Lind-Human duos who manned the Supply Stations had also gone, leaving behind skeleton staffs and those mostly made up of local men and women. When questioned they had told the government officials that they had been instructed to keep the stations running but that the Vada would be coming back once the present crisis was over. The three in the Secretary of the Interior’s office were yet to realise that those Argyllian staff left behind in the Express offices would have a similar story to tell.
What the crisis was Francis Durand had no idea. He didn’t think it would be a pestilence affecting the Lind, there were no reports of sicknesses or deaths but if it wasn’t that then what was it?
Francis had not yet heard back from the two agents he had sent to Vadath.
Another item of information he would not find out about until much later was that the two had prepared messages to send to them. They had taken them to the Express facility in the town of Vada itself, paid the coin due for their delivery and left. The two were still in Vada, waiting for further instructions, in blissful ignorance of the fact that the messages had not been sent. They were also in ignorance that Susa Malkum had closed the border to outgoing traffic (an archaic term that the Susa had found in a book he had read as a boy).
Francis Durand went over the last three bells-time in his head.
The Secretary of War had been convinced that the Vada were returning to Vadath to gather together an army with which they were going to invade Argyll!
The civilians at the Supply Stations (those at the station outside Stewarton had been brought in and questioned) had laughed at that suggestion, every one of them saying that the Vada would never, not in a million years, consider such a step. They took solemn oaths to protect they had insisted and why, one of them had asked, if they were, would they have advertised the fact with a full-scale and noticeable exodus and also leave all their spare weapons behind?
Even the bombastic Secretary of War had been unable to think of an answer to that one.
Francis had managed to persuade him, with the Interior Secretary’s calm help, that there was no immediate threat to Argyll and had barged through his arguments to the contrary.
“We must wait,” Francis repeated, “I refuse to believe that the Vada, the Vadathians and the Lind could ever do us intentional harm. A preventative strike is a suggestion premature. We must instead send more people into Vadath to find out what is going on and to make an assessment of their intent. I have already sent some men but they have not yet reported back to me with their findings.”
“Civilians!” exploded the Secretary of War, “what would they know about it?”
“Quite a lot as a matter of fact,” Francis answered in as a mild a manner as he could manage and trying to keep his temper in check. He had never had much time for the man, “but I agree with you, in part. I propose we send a battalion of infantry to the border, to assess the situation.”
“But no further,” insisted the mild, peace-loving Secretary of the Interior.
The Secretary of War was shaking his head but Francis had the initiative here and intended to keep it.
“No further,” he agreed, “unless the officer commanding deems it necessary and I think we have just the man for the job. Romul Durand commands the Sixth Foot and I know for a fact that his battalion is stationed along the southern coast, a few days march from the border. He’s resourceful and intelligent …”
“He is also your cousin,” interrupted the Secretary of War.
“That fact is irrelevant,” said the Secretary of the Interior in a very firm voice. “I agree with Francis. We don’t need some young hothead down there making decisions we might later regret. Romul Durand’s battalion it is.”
The Secretary of War subsided. At least, he consoled himself, he had achieved some military involvement in the situation.
“I’m going to put the Garda on alert,” he contented himself with saying, adding, “no matter what arguments you come up with.”
“As you think advisable,” the Secretary of the Interior said, pleased with the way the meeting had gone.
“Good idea,” concurred Francis in a pleasant voice, “with the Vada temporarily unavailable, for whatever reason, our coastlines are vulnerable anyway.”
“I hope we’ll not regret this,” said the Secretary of War, unable to let things lie.
“I am confident that we shall not,” responded Francis, still using his best political voice. He was thinking, the Lind aren’t looking for a fight. You are and for political gain. I’m going to make sure that you never become Head Councillor of our country, even if I have to run for office myself. I wonder where Katie is?
He’d known for a while that the Secretary of War was an ambitious man, eager to make a name for himself, he’d never thought of him as a stupid one too, but there was always a first time.
He snuck a look at the Secretary of the Interior. Was it his imagination but he was pretty sure that his thoughts were running along identical lines to his own.
* * * * *
-56-
THE STRONGHOLD - VADA
The only way to describe it was a wagon train. To those watching it leave it was as if it was a mile long. It was a train of wagons and carts filled to overflowing with goods and chattels. There were three wagons dedicated to the contents of the Vada library alone. These ones were so heavy that each needed three jezdic to pull them.
A separate cart was carrying the copies of the Vada records which were kept in the Inner Sanctum. It had been decided that the originals should be left and bell upon bell sterling work had been done by the copyists and scribes to get it all down in time.
Out through the Stronghold gates the line trundled through the morning haze. From time to time one wagon would stop and another from a side street would slip into place in front of it.
It was as if the entire population of the Vada township as well as those of the Stronghold was on the move. About three quarters of the town’s people and a good few from the surrounding countryside had decided to go; whole families, fathers, mothers and children (and their pets), grannies and grandpas. Age was no barrier; the oldest was over ninety and the youngest but a few days old.
These were the people who did not wish to remain in a place where there were no Lind. For eight hundred years they had
lived with and worked with them. Some of those leaving had family in the Vada, others did not. It didn’t matter. Susa Malkum had decreed that all who wanted to go, could.
The children perched on the wagon seats thought it was some sort of fabulous holiday. The faces of the adults were more serious. They were leaving their homes. Some were leaving relations behind.
The dust clouds from the wheels hung in the air. The dust could be seen for miles.
* * * * *
The two agents sent to Vada by Francis Durand watched and took note. The older looked at the younger and shrugged his shoulders. They knew that the border between Vadath and Argyll was closed and that in all likelihood their reports had not been delivered.
“There’s not a blessed thing we can do about it,” the younger man said, “what do you say we go get a snifter, there are some inns still open.”
“Up to you but I think I’ll stop a while and watch. It’s not often that you see history being made.”
“Wonder where they’re going,” mused his fellow agent.
“All I think we can assume my friend is that they don’t seem to be intending to ever be coming back.”
* * * * *
Another who was watching was a distraught Tara Josensdochter.
* * * * *
-57-
THE PALACE AT FORT – KINGDOM OF MURDOCH
The palace was in an uproar.
Prince Crispin’s men had burst out of their dungeon hide-out in a seething mass of violence, expecting little opposition, sure of their surprise.
They were doomed to disappointment.
Lord Prince Marshall Pierre was, unfortunately for them, a very efficient man. Strategically placed members of the Royal Guard along with others in whom he had absolute trust were waiting.
A series of short but bloody fights were the result of Prince Pierre’s trap. Blood was spilled and much of it. Many on both sides were wounded and many on both sides were killed. Nowhere in the palace was entirely safe except for the royal apartments, the abode of the Queen’s Grace.
When she had been informed of her son-in-law’s plot by Prince Pierre, Queen Antoinette had made not a few instant and decisive decisions and had ordered that the vulnerable should be brought to her apartments and a sizeable detachment of guards detailed to guard them under the command of her cousin Prince Xavier.
Her ladies, the pages, her more frail and elderly retainers, the little midden boys and her family, including her daughter and grandson had all been escorted to the rooms, some protesting but all complying. Prince Xavier and his men had been most insistent.
The rooms were very crowded and uncomfortable, especially with the heat emanating from the many bodies crammed in.
Prince-Heir Elliot was especially fretful. His young mother, Crown-Princess Antoinette had taken him from his nurse. She was pacing up and down, patting his back. It wasn’t helping because his mother was really really tense and he was picking up on it.
“Antoinette,” said her mother, “for goodness sake will you sit down? This pacing is most unnerving and go have a wash and a brush up, do. This endless crying is not good for your complexion.”
* * * * *
“But what’s happening out here?” the twenty year old heir to the throne demanded in a voice close to a scream. “Where’s Crispin? Where’s my husband? He may be in danger. Don’t you understand?”
The last sentence emerged from her lips as a high and volatile howl.
Many others in the room screamed too, believing that the conspirators had won the day and were breaking in.
Crown-Princess Antoinette stood, holding her son in hands that were white to the fingertips and shaking. Prince-Heir Elliot protested at this treatment even louder.
“Give him to his nurse,” Queen Antoinette commanded, her voice like a whip, “then come over here and sit beside me.”
“Mother,” cried her reproachful daughter but she allowed the nurse to take Elliot and went to her mother’s side where she collapsed into a veritable storm of weeping.
The Queen ignored her. Instead of putting her arms round her daughter she rose from the chaise-longe, indicating with a wave of her hand that one of her ladies should take her place and try to calm her. Margravessa Madeleine Smith and the Queen’s sister-in-law, Katie, the Duchess of North Baker got up from the settle opposite and hurried over.
The Queen went over to the door, where Baron Peter Taviston was standing anxiously listening to the sounds from without.
“How’s it going out there Peter?” she asked. Baron Peter Taviston was one of her most loyal officials and an old friend too. He had been a friend of her father, King Elliot the Sixteenth and had transferred both affection and loyalty to Antoinette when she had ascended the throne in AL 793, already a widow and in dire need of people she could trust. He had never failed her.
“The trap has been sprung,” he replied, “all we can do is to wait. Thankfully, I believe we managed to identify almost if not all of Crispin’s co-conspirators.”
Antoinette noticed that he had not appended the title ‘Prince’ to Crispin’s name.
“At least none of the royal family are involved,” she agreed, trying to keep calm, “at least not this time.”
Their eyes met.
Peter Taviston knew without any words being spoken that the Queen knew this had been a possibility. Her kingdom had a nasty history of regicide within the royal bloodline. He also was aware of the fact that Antoinette had a desperate need to talk, to keep her mind off what was happening out there in the corridors.
“Indeed Your Majesty, you must be very relieved.”
He jumped.
The noise of fighting was getting louder and he had distinguished that singular sound of blade on blade that indicated that the fighting was getting close. He placed his hand on the hilt of his own sword. He would die trying to protect his queen.
“They’re getting close,” whispered a worried Queen Antoinette but Peter Taviston was still exuding a sea of unflappable calm and she felt it.
“We have guards enough,” he comforted her and placing a fatherly arm on her shoulder. “Do not panic, all will be well.”
“I know, deep down, but I need to worry, at least a little. What did I do wrong Peter?”
“Nothing,” Peter Taviston was adamant in his denial. “It is Crispin’s ambition which is at the root of all this.”
“Crispin’s? Not his father?”
“A bit of both and a bit of the other but you mustn’t forget that it is Crispin who is at the bottom of the events here today. This is his fault. When it is all over it will be him who must be called to account.”
“Antoinette loves him,” she said, biting her lip.
“Your daughter thinks she does but deep down I think she has always had doubts. She wouldn’t be your daughter otherwise. Crispin was never the right man for her.”
“I shouldn’t have let her marry him, I see that now, but she was so very insistent.”
“Just like her mother,” observed Peter Taviston, speaking in a detached manner.
“Touché.”
The two continued to listen at the door.
“It’s getting quieter,” observed Peter Taviston.
“But who has won? Him or us?”
Crown-Princess Antoinette continued to weep.
* * * * *
It was a full candlemark later when Lord Prince Marshall Pierre, Prince Xavier in tow knocked on the door.
“That’s Prince Pierre,” said Peter Taviston who knew the rap of old. His comment was confirmed by Prince Pierre’s triumphant and cheery call.
“Let him enter,” commanded Queen Antoinette, straightening her back.
* * * * *
There was a rattling as the bolts were slid open.
Lord Prince Marshall Pierre strode into the room, followed by Prince Xavier and the Captain of the Royal Guard.
That the Queen had been triumphant was obviously a fact but at what cost?
Crown-Princess Antoinette had by now subsided into a red-eyed silence with only an occasional hiccup. She sat staring at the three men.
“Your Majesty,” Prince Pierre began, rising from his bow, “it is my pleasure to report that the perpetrators of the heinous crime of rebellion against your person are either in our custody or are dead. Prince Crispin is among the number who have been taken into custody. He is unhurt. Your orders?”
“Slap them all into the dungeons,” she ordered in a clear, firm voice so that even her daughter would be able to understand. “There must be no exceptions.”
“Yes Ma’am,” Prince Pierre answered with a glint in his eye as he backed away, “I’ll see to it at once.”
The coup was over.
Prince Crispin’s ambition was at an end.
* * * * *
Prince Crispin had been so certain of success that he hadn’t even been wearing full armour.
He did not lack courage.
He led a group consisting of his closest co-conspirators out of the dungeon levels himself, fired with enthusiasm and confident that within a few candlemarks he would be the real ruler of his mother-in-law’s kingdom. Alas for his hopes, his group ran straight into a detachment of fully armed and stern faced members of the Royal Guard.
The guards lost no time. They were absolutely loyal to their queen and these men wanted her dead. This was enough for them. Out of the group of rebels led by Prince Crispin he was the only one to survive the first few candledrips of the fight. Margrave Malcolm Smith, Daniel Ross’s friend was one of the first to fall on to the blood-slippery stone floor. Kellen Edward Tanon collapsed right in front of a panicking Crispin, his throat severed by the judicious stroke of one of the Leftenants of the Guard. His blood splattered all over Crispin.
