Homage and Honour

by Candy Rae

  Everyone in the royal party was in boisterous high spirits at the prospect of an extended visit away from the often stifling atmosphere at Court. Lady Eloise too, had the reputation of being a fine hostess.

  The men led the cavalcade mounted on the best riding horses the royal stables could provide, followed by the carriages containing the ladies. They pulled up inside the courtyard and the van Buren family watched as their occupants began to spill out, the royal children with noisy anticipation, their elders with more decorum.

  Count Wolfram limped forward as the gentlemen began to dismount.

  “Welcome my Lord Prince,” he began, “welcome to my nephew’s manor.”

  “No formality Wolfram,” protested Elliot with a laugh, “Raoul promised me. Where is the rascal anyway?”

  “Urgent call from his Overseer,” Wolfram replied, his voice muffled somewhat as he tried to prise himself up from the bow the Crown-Prince had interrupted. That accomplished, he stood aside to let Elliot precede him into the house, indicating to Duchess Eloise and the other ladies not to come forward with the traditional curtsies.

  “Not this time,” called out Elliot so all could hear, “this time we are your welcome guests, no more, here to celebrate the nuptials of the happy couples. Rank is of no import.”

  Duchess Eloise bobbed a short bob, noticing that the Prince appeared to have brought with him only three of his Gentlemen-of-the-Bedchamber although the ladies (if the number of carriages were anything to go by) had not seen fit to copy him. She thanked her foresight in getting ready some more chambers in case of need.

  Wolfram ushered the male guests inside as the fifth carriage began to empty. Out stepped the Contessa Elisabeth Graham, the Royal Governess, identical two-year-old girls by her side, the Princesses Susan and Anne. Next to emerge was a jolly-faced nursemaid carrying the baby, Princess Natalie. Finally the six-year-old Prince Elliot jumped down. With a squeal of delight, he headed for the younger Eloise van Buren, his cousin Brandon’s bride. Eloise had been at Court, his mother’s youngest lady-in-waiting and Eloise told good stories. He had missed her when she had returned home to prepare for her wedding and was delighted that she was to join his family at Court.

  Eloise bent down to receive and give the hug expected on such a memorable occasion.

  The boy was bubbling over in his excitement as he launched himself at her.

  “Eloise, how I have missed you.”

  “And I you little one.”

  “I wish it was me marrying you.”

  Eloise laughed, “I’m too old for you sweetheart.”

  “But I love you.”

  An embarrassed Eloise looked up at Crown-Princess Gemma. Elliot hadn’t given her any chance to curtsey her respect but young Elliot’s mother laughed it off.

  The children and female guests followed their menfolk through the great polished doors in a chattering, happy throng.

  “I’m glad your husband decided to hold the nuptials here and not at the castle,” Gemma was telling Duchess Eloise as she surveyed the great bedchamber the Duke and Duchess had vacated in her honour.

  “I much prefer it here,” Duchess Eloise confided, “though it’s been difficult to keep it cool in this heat. I hope you’ll be comfortable.”

  “I’m glad to be with Elliot,” Gemma smiled, “court protocol is an insidious thing. Our bedchambers at the palace are quite a distance apart. The children?”

  “Eloise is taking them to the nursery. She told me Prince Elliot has been most anxious to see it. The rocking horse is, I believe, the greatest attraction.”

  “He has talked of little else these last days,” answered the Princess.

  “Can I send one of the servants for refreshments?”

  “No need,” answered Gemma, “I know from your daughter that you live the informal life here, I’ll come down to your dining chamber.”

  When the ladies arrived downstairs, the house servants were putting the finishing touches to the light meal sitting on one of the tables.

  “We don’t have a High Table here,” explained the nervous Duchess Eloise, “we all sit together, the children too.”

  “Even better,” smiled Gemma.

  King Elliot V’s Court was and always had been ultra-formal. Royal children were kept strictly to the Royal Nursery where the Royal Governess reigned supreme over the children and their ‘Companions’.

  At six years old, Prince Elliot was about to welcome his own ‘Companions’, boys of noble birth who would share his education. Five young boys had been selected, their fathers delighted at the opportunities such an appointment presented. For those of lesser rank it was a route to power and influence that might not otherwise be attainable. The King remembered and rewarded his own boyhood friends. One of them had been the Baron Alan Ross, the recently retired (due to ill-health) Lord Marshall and that honour had been passed on to his son Philip who had been one of the Boy Companions to the present Crown-Prince.

  Young Elliot was full of talk about these delights to come as his soon to be Aunt Eloise led him, his sisters and their attendants down to dine.

  The Lord Duke Raoul and his son did not return to the manor until late afternoon.

  Young Raoul followed his worried father into the study, sending a maid scurrying for his mother and shedding his outer tunic as he went.

  The elder Raoul had barely greeted his breathless wife before he asked. “When did the royal party arrive? The Brentwoods, have they left the Dower House at all? Hurry woman, this is important.”

  “The Crown-Prince and his family arrived some candlemarks ago,” Eloise faltered, “My Lord Duke Brentwood, I haven’t seen, he said they were tired from their journey and wanted to rest though I believe they are to attend the evening meal.”

  “They must not come here. Keep them at the dower house, send a servant and order him not to go in, but to return immediately after he has delivered the message.”

  “Why?”

  It was not like her husband to issue orders in such a peremptory way. Their marriage had been arranged by their respective families but, after many years of marriage, love had grown between man and wife, not always the case in the Kingdom of Murdoch.

  “Pestilence,” he announced in a grim voice, “in the slave barracks.”

  Eloise gasped as her hand went to her mouth. “Is it bad?”

  “Eight dead and more than double that number sick. I’ve sent word to the Little Sisters asking for their help.”

  “What,” she stammered, “what kind of pestilence is it? The red-pox?” She was racking her brains trying to remember just what medicinal supplies were in the manor stillroom.

  “None like anything I’ve seen before,” he answered, shedding his own dusty tunic.

  “What are the symptoms?”

  It was at that moment that their son Raoul coughed. As he took his hand away from his mouth, both parents saw that the skin was speckled with tiny droplets of bright red blood.

  Duke Raoul’s face went as white as a sheet. “The Crown-Prince and his family must leave within the candlemark,” he declared, “hopefully they will not have come in contact with any infection.” He and no other knew then just how contagious the disease was and how it could be passed from one to another with a fleeting skin contact or a sneeze.

  It was already too late.

  Young Raoul died late the next day and by then his sister Eloise was complaining of feeling unwell and so were many of the servants. The Duchess Eloise collapsed the day after.

  By then the Crown-Prince, his family and attendants had left the stricken manor for the royal palace, hoping in vain that they had escaped infection. The Crown-Prince’s son, the six-year-old Elliot, had spent most of the afternoon sitting on the Contessa Eloise’s knee whilst she told him stories and she had been as infectious as could be.

  Five days after their return to the royal palace, the Contessa Elisabeth Graham, the Royal Governess in charge of the royal nursery reported to Crown-Princess Gemma that the littl
e boy appeared to be off-colour, even feverish and that she had moved him to a room apart from the other children. A nursing sister from the Order of the Little Sisters of the Poor had been summoned to the sickroom.

  After this announcement she swept out of the solar and back to her charges informing her employer that she should stay away. Princess Gemma however, chose to ignore the Contessa’s advice and sped after her, intent on looking after her beloved son herself. She was by his side when he died. She nursed the two-year-old twins Susan and Anne and baby Natalie when they too fell sick. She was not aware, when first Princess Natalie then Princess Anne followed their brother into the deep void that was death, that she was dying herself.

  Of the happy group of royal and noble visitors that had entered the van Buren manor the previous tenday, all but three had fallen ill of the sickness, fourteen had died and that was not counting the servants and other attendants. The disease in its turn infected the palace staff and a full third perished.

  The King did not fall sick, but the only one of his immediate family to survive was his granddaughter, the two-year-old Princess Susan and she had changed from a jolly, bouncing toddler to a frail little mortal who looked as if a puff of wind would be the end of her.

  It was not only the privileged personages from the houses of royalty and nobility, together with their servants who were affected by the disease.

  Although the government tried to curtail the spread of the disease by setting up a restricted zone within a fifty mile radius of Fort, the disease continued to spread and outbreaks were reported for some further tendays, some as far away as the Duchies of Graham and Duchesne in the north-east although a full ninety per cent of the deaths occurred within the area around Fort.

  Not a single noble house was unaffected and the Court entered a period of deepest mourning on the orders of a distraught king.

  Princess Susan continued to cling to life, much to the relief of the nobility and the people. Her health, however, continued to give cause for concern and to make some ambitious men think overmuch about future possibilities.

  * * * * *

  Quartet (1)

  “What is your initial assessment of the new crop of cadets?” asked Weaponsmaster Rhian of her instructors.

  “A mixed bag,” said Ryzcka Ranolf, Officer in Charge of the Junior Cadets.

  “More mixed than usual,” said Weaponsecond Danel, “two of them have no more idea about the military and swordsmanship than, why travelling to the moon!”

  “You mean Cadets Petar and Beth I presume?”

  “Yes and what price Beth? Rob says too that her lesson knowledge is almost non-existent. She’s virtually illiterate.”

  “Petar?”

  “What he knows he knows well enough according to Rob, these northern religious communities may be peculiar but they do teach their children how to read and write,” Danel answered, “but Beth, why she can’t count beyond twenty. It’s most strange, what’s her history? From her accent I presume she comes from one of the islands?”

  “I thought that at first,” interjected Ranolf, “the speech pattern is similar, she drawls her words same as those few islanders I’ve met but it’s not precisely that either. I meant to go and check her records but I haven’t had the time.”

  “She is an enigma,” agreed Danel. He turned to Rhian, “can you shed some light on the subject?”

  “Yes,” nodded Rhian, “you have the right of it. I told Susa Lynsey she should be straight with you from the first but there were reasons.”

  Danel had a ‘told you so’ look about him as he faced his senior.

  “Beth comes from Murdoch, does she not?” he questioned, “and from one of the noble houses too, which would explain her ineptitude with anything remotely practical, also that indefinable air she possesses of being ‘somebody’. There is an unconscious air of dignity about her.”

  “Her little airs and graces,” Ranolf laughed, “she’s no farm child is our Beth. I’m not saying she’s not willing you understand, but she’s the despair of the cooks. I thought a rich merchant’s daughter but I couldn’t place the accent either.”

  “She is the younger daughter of one of Murdoch’s Dukes,” admitted Rhian, “but Susa Lynsey doesn’t want the information bandied about.”

  “Great Andei’s pawprints! How did she get here?” asked Ranolf.

  “Ran away,” was Rhian’s succinct answer, “I believe she was given the choice of marriage or the cloister. She chose neither.”

  “That took guts,” said Danel, the said Beth moving up in his estimation by leaps and bounds. Danel knew a great deal about the way the upper echelons of Murdoch’s society operated.

  “Indeed,” Rhian replied, “ride her gently for the time being. She’ll get there in the end. I’m sure we shouldn’t interfere. Too many paws in the puddle make a muddle as the saying goes. She’s part of that foursome with Cadets Jess, Tana and Hannah, they’ll keep her right.”

  “The Quartet?” queried Melody, Ryzcka of the senior cadets, “I’ve heard of them but none of them are in my mounted arms practice classes yet.”

  “Hannah is doing well,” replied Rhian, “if she works on it a bit, she might well be able to join in with the more advanced weapons class before too many days have passed. She’ll never be a genius, she’s too timid, but in time she’ll be as competent as the rest of them. Tana is good, Jess too but I’d expect that from her.”

  “Tana is better than good,” said Danel who shared the majority of the sword-work classes with Rhian, “she came highly recommended by the Garda and I’ve not been disappointed.”

  “A real livewire,” agreed Ranolf, “where she gets her energy from I don’t know.”

  “I do though,” grinned Danel.

  “How’s that?” asked Melody.

  “She drains it from us!”

  Melody laughed.

  Rhian and Ranolf also appreciated the joke, one of long-standing amongst the permanent training staff at the Vada Stronghold.

  “She is going to be very, very good,” agreed Rhian, “now that she’s got used to the rapier.” She laughed, “it’s almost as long as she is tall and, in fact, all those from the Garda are well grounded and the ex-trainer Peter Littleman, he is good. He’s taking more time than the younger ones to get accustomed to the longer weapon but I expected that. Once he’s passed out of the riding classes he will join the final year cadets, no point in holding him back.”

  “He’ll graduate with this year’s seniors, never fear Rhian,” opined Danel, “he goes to a Ryzck?”

  “Initially, yes, in the future though I’ve got other plans for him.”

  “Permanent staff here?”

  “He’s good with the kids,” she answered, nodding, “has years of training experience. Pity to let it go to waste. Our Militia here in Vadath, he might well be an ideal instructor. He could travel, a sort of peripatetic teacher. It could be the perfect solution, it’d save the farmers leaving their farms to come here and train every year. You know how difficult it is for them.”

  “It’s a masterstroke,” exclaimed Ranolf.

  “I thought so myself,” said Rhian trying to look modest and failing. The retired Weaponsmaster of the Vada, one Anders had often waxed lyrical during his years in office about the problems he faced training the Vadathian Militia. Anders had had to resort to an appeal to the Garda of Argyll for weapons trainers capable of instructing with the infantry short sword.

  The Argyllian instructors now came to the Vada Stronghold each summer. The members of the Vadathian Militia were required to report to the Stronghold for a tenday-long intensive course and for some volunteers busy with farms and livestock, this was difficult, almost impossible. If the rumours were true and indeed the Larg were beginning to be a ‘force to be reckoned with’after so long then a well-trained Militia was a must so Rhian’s idea might well prove to be a veritable lifesaver.

  In the early years, when mankind had first arrived on the planet, the Larg had attacke
d the North twice and been repulsed only with great difficulty then the pestilence had struck decimating the Larg population. The exact figures would never be known but most estimates agreed that over eighty per cent had perished. It was only now, almost a century and a half later that intelligence reports were indicating that their numbers had increased to a level sufficient to cause concern.

  The Avuzdel, the semi-secret spying and intelligence unit of the Lind had sent its first operatives back into Largdom some fifteen years ago, at the time of the first rumours of a Larg resurgence. Over the last few years there appeared to have been a power struggle amongst the upper echelons of Larg society, the results of which were still not clear. This had resolved itself during recent months and Largdom was re-coalescing under one absolute ruler, the Largan.

  At least, Rhian thought, there would be no need to worry about the King of Murdoch allying himself with the Larg against the North any longer. He was even more worried about the Larg resurgence than were the Vada.

  Rhian sighed and wished Susa Lynsey was here at the Stronghold, but she and her Lind, Bernei had gone to Argyll as one of the Vadathian delegates to the annual conference. Rhian knew that one of the items on the agenda was the Larg. This year, delegates from the Kingdom of Murdoch had been invited to attend and also the leaders of the largest inhabited islands of the Great Eastern Sea.

  * * * * *

  One of the two trainers, responsible for the junior cadets they had been discussing, had a private arms lesson that very afternoon. Not for the first time Weaponsmaster Rhian eyed Cadet Beth with despair. She was one of the most inept students she had ever had the misfortune to teach. If she or any of the other trainers tried to get her to do more than the most basic moves she only got flustered, the patterns disintegrating into shambles.