Homage and Honour

by Candy Rae

  As Kellen Mikel Senotson knew, Charles had been busy. He had spent the entire day in the palace library.

  His booted feet rang in the empty palace corridor as he made his way towards the small antechamber that was his destination. The candles smoked eerily in the dim light.

  He was dressed in deepest black as was the man waiting for him, father, like son, in mourning for the deaths of the Crown-Prince and his family, the king’s brother and his family and those of the noble houses who had also fallen victim to the plague.

  “It doesn’t seem real somehow,” said Charles taking the chair his father indicated.

  “Princess Susan lives and the doctors are hopeful,” said his father, divining his son’s thoughts.

  “A slim thread on which to trust the survival of a dynasty. Even if she grows to womanhood and bears children, I very much fear …”

  Charles stopped talking and gazed into space.

  “You fear what?”

  “More than a dynasty is at stake father,” answered Charles, “I fear that the entire kingdom is at risk of annihilation.”

  “Civil War?”

  “That is the least of my worries.”

  “How so?” asked Henri Cocteau, roused out of his lethargic despondency by his son’s tone.

  “How much do you know about the early years?”

  “Not much, I was but an indifferent student of history as a boy.”

  “You do know about the original alliance with the Larg?”

  “That I do remember. They ceded the land to us.”

  “They ceded the lands to the original Elliot Murdoch,” corrected Charles, “and to his bloodline.”

  “The bloodline?” Duke Cocteau’s voice was edged with a wary sharpness.

  “Correct.”

  Henri Cocteau was nothing if not quick on the uptake, “and if the bloodline should fail?”

  “The Larg might well conclude that the agreement is at an end and try to oust us.”

  “I know they weren’t best pleased when our kingdom expanded to encompass Graham but nothing happened then.”

  “They could do nothing then Father. After the pandemic they didn’t have enough warriors to try and fight us but that is not the case now. I do not think they would be so complacent if we tried to expand our borders again.”

  “The border patrols were reinstated in your grandfather’s time,” mused Henri.

  “And you have strengthened them.”

  Duke Cocteau sat lost in thought and for so long that Charles was beginning to wonder if his father had fallen asleep, then he turned to his son, “you’re the diplomat. What do you think will happen if Susan dies without issue?”

  Charles said precisely nothing and Henri read the answer in his sombre face.

  “They will attack us,” he said at last, “drive us off the mainland.”

  “I believe so Father.”

  “So how do we stop them? You must have some idea.”

  What Charles said next made Henri wonder if his son had lost his sanity.

  “Did Mother ever tell you stories, legends?”

  “I used to listen in when she sat at night with you and your brother and sisters before you went to bed,” he admitted.

  “Do you recall the one about the ‘Lost Princess’?”

  “That was one of the best,” Henri remembered those more carefree days with a smile.

  “Would you be surprised to learn that the foundations of the story are true?”

  “Go on.” Duke Cocteau leant forward the better to hear his son’s low voice.

  “When I returned from Argyll I was worried. I went to the archives because I wondered what would happen to us if the king’s family died out. What I found made interesting reading.”

  The Duke’s eyes were alive and gleaming.

  “I looked at the alliance document first. It made it more than clear that the land on which Murdoch sits was ceded to the bloodline of Elliot Murdoch and that, if the bloodline failed, the Larg would consider the alliance null and void. That worried me and I began to leaf through the later records. The second day I got to the bit where the first King Elliot was born. The archivist wrote with a bold clear hand and I began to get interested, he was born late in the summer of year two if I remember correctly.”

  “No doubt you are correct but what has the birth of our first king got to do with the problem in hand?”

  “King Elliot the First had a twin sister.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “I don’t think many people do.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “I don’t know but I am going to find out.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if Susan dies, it is imperative that we find one of the bloodline to succeed her. There is a rumour that there might be some bastard scions of the bloodline running around,” Charles added, “but I want a legitimate heir if that is possible.”

  “We might not have any other choice son but that would depend on finding out which of the mistresses had children by him.”

  “Mikel Senotson is working on it, however, in AL108 it was dangerous and fatal to be a relative, however distant, of the blood,” said Charles. “Our king’s grandfather may have been as mad as a hatter but he was very thorough. All but his own immediate kin died that day. His mistresses though … we’re looking into it, but I digress. Let us get back to the Lost Princess. I began to wonder. What if there’s a basis of truth in Mother’s fairy tale?”

  “Did this twin sister have a name?”

  “Ruth. After that one mention there was nothing more. I think her name must have been expunged from the records for whatever reason. We’ll probably never know. In the entries of year ten there is a woman’s name mentioned that might have been Ruth altered to read something else. It’s not clear. The splodge I saw was in a list of betrothals between the children of the original Lords. The splodge, Ruth if my supposition is correct, was betrothed to David the Heir of Gardiner, but later on, the records note David Gardiner marrying one Janice Baker.”

  “Perhaps Ruth died, children do.”

  “Then why delete her name from the records?” was Charles’s reasonable question and one that his father couldn’t answer, “she doesn’t have a grave in the royal burial ground either. Her mother is there, her brother and various other royal infants but not her. Anyway, I kept on reading and I thought I’d come to a dead end then, right at the back of the archive shelves, I came across a journal, tattered and dusty. I don’t think it has been looked at in decades.”

  “What did it say?”

  “It was written by a Doctor Whistler, who, I discovered after a little more research, was the physician of Lady Anne Murdoch-Baker, mother of the first King Elliot. I read about her death in year ten and then read pages and pages of drivel about the founding of the Convent of the Little Sisters of the Poor. On the very last page, the very last entry, in year sixteen, I struck gold. I’ve copied it out and I’ll read it to you.”

  Charles shuffled his parchments and found the place.

  “I am placing this volume on the back shelf in the library for I do not think I will return. I am eighty years old and what is about to happen is my death. I am commanded by the Lord Regent to accompany Ruth north to Gardiner where it is planned by the evil men who govern us that she marry her betrothed. I will do all in my power to make sure this does not happen. I promised her mother on her deathbed that I would get her to her sister in the Northern Continent and this I will do. There she will grow into adulthood and free of the Lords and all that they represent. If anyone ever reads this they will know that I have done my best to honour Anne’s dying wish.”

  “It then rambles on a bit about his past and the children of his previous life but I didn’t bother copying out that bit.”

  “Have you found anything else?”

  “Hints only,” admitted Charles, “I started on the Court Seneschal’s diaries not thinking I would find anything there and I was right. I drew
a blank. The penal records came next and there it was, the death sentence ‘in absentia’ on one Xavier Kushner, late of the Royal Regiment who engineered the abduction of Princess Ruth of the House of Murdoch, present whereabouts unknown but presumed to be in Argyll.”

  His triumphant face was raised to his father.

  “You think there might be descendants of this Ruth in Argyll?”

  “I hope so Father, otherwise we could all be in a lot of trouble and do keep your voice down. Of course, even if Princess Susan does not survive, the King is only fifty-eight, he could marry again.”

  “He says he will not,” said Henri flatly, “and I believe him. His was a love match. He is also not recovering as fast as the doctors hoped from his last attack. Princess Susan is barely out of nappies and likely to remain frail for some time to come. The doctors are even more worried about her. She will need very careful nurturing and even then … no, I think you are right, we are in great danger and the Larg know full well what is happening. They are watching and listening. We have to find Princess Ruth’s descendants if they exist. Call it a precautionary measure if you will but it must be done. Is there anything else you feel I should know?”

  “One other thing Father. It concerns Duke Sam Baker. He’s up to something.”

  Charles then told his father of all Kellen Mikel had told him. As his tale drew to a close his father’s face was grave, his worries about Sam Baker’s interest in the genealogical charts graven stark on his face.

  Henri rose to his feet.

  “Keep looking for this heir and also of what you think Sam Baker has found,” he told his son, “we cannot do anything until we know more.”

  * * * * *

  “Is there none of the blood alive, none at all?” Charles Cocteau’s voice was disbelieving. He had thought there must be at least one who had survived the purge of AL108.

  “The late lamented Elliot the Third, my Lord Count, may have been mad but, as you said before, he was efficient. He put to the sword all not of his immediate descent through his son, all that is bar one.”

  “Who?”

  “Alexa Karovitz and the only thing that saved her was that she’d entered the Thibaltines a few tendays earlier.”

  “An enclosed nun?” Charles’s heart sank, “we’re doomed.”

  “Not necessarily,” vouchsafed Mikel Senotson with a look of triumph. “I believe I may be able to put my hands on a possible illegitimate blood heir. In fact, I think this is the very fact that has pleased Duke Baker so much. I have reason to believe that Sam Baker thinks his grandson Richard is the true heir! He has, of course, no idea that we have been investigating further back. Give me a bit more time My Lord and I should be able to give you some details.”

  Charles’s heart sank. So Sam Baker believed he had the blood heir? And his grandson to boot! This was not good hearing.

  It made it all the more imperative that he find the descendents of the twin sister to the first king.

  Once more in the library Charles almost couldn’t believe what his eyes were telling him. He had been idly running his finger down one of the shelves when he had come across an old copy of ‘Tales of Rybak Vol. 1’, written by a Tara Sullivan-Crawford. Smiling to himself, all three volumes were popular ones, North and South, he had taken it over to his desk for a spot of light reading before he once again tackled the old records and opening it had been surprised to see that it appeared to have been King Elliot the First’s personal copy. His royal seal was embossed on the front clear as day, ‘EIR’.

  The stories within the volume had not been much read, that is, except for one. Those pages had a well-thumbed look to them.

  His interest piqued, Charles opened the book at the start of the darker-edged sheets.

  It was a story of a girl who escaped from the South to the Lands of the Lind where she found happiness with her long-lost family. The story told of her first years as a slave then her escape from the advances of a cruel master. She was taken north by a deserter from the Murdochian army. In the North she met up with her long-lost sister. When she was grown up she married her rescuer.

  Charles sat back; there were similarities here, similarities between Tara Sullivan’s story and the fable spun by his mother.

  There were some cryptic annotations written in the margins. Charles recognised the handwriting; they were those of Murdoch’s first king. He became even more intrigued and excited until he realised with exasperation that the annotations were written in a code.

  Impasse.

  He then noticed another very faint line of letters and numbers on the top right hand corner of the last page of the story; HAM A3 S3 L7-4.

  Charles sat back and thought hard. He felt sure that this was the key to Elliot’s personal code. The king’s diaries, which no-one had been able to read, were written in a mixture of letters and numbers such as this. Nobody had ever been able to decipher it although many learned men had tried. Charles himself had never taken much interest in it but now he wanted to know. In fact, it was imperative that he find the key and read the contents.

  He knew of one type of code that was virtually unbreakable unless one had the key. It was a simple concept. Unless the person doing the encoding and the person doing the decoding had, in their possession, the same edition of the relevant book as a reference, deciphering the code would be impossible. Charles concluded that this code must be such a type. That realisation got him started. He had spent many candlemarks over the last days looking in the oldest records and books in the library. Surely Elliot hadn’t possessed that many books?

  Looking up the first pages of the library register he located the books incorporated into the library on the king’s death. There were not many. He scanned the list. There, there it was, ‘Hamlet’ by William Shakespeare. Was the HAM part of the faint writing a shortened form of Hamlet? With eager fingers he turned to Act III, then to Scene 3 and there it was, Act 3, Scene 3, Line 7.

  The word was hourly … the fourth letter in … R!

  He had it! He was sure of it.

  He looked at the next line of letters and numbers.

  The letter U.

  Then the next.

  He could read the message Elliot the First had left; ‘Ruth. This is my sister Ruth.’

  Ruth had escaped into the North; the story was about her. Elliot had known of it and had chosen to do nothing. Charles decided that, when he had the time, he would tackle the king’s diaries and try to find out.

  Repressing his excitement, for the night was still young, he returned to the Court Accounting Records, dry documents all. Pure ennui had driven Charles from them towards something lighter and to the marvellous disclosure, but now he returned.

  He struck gold for the second time that day.

  In AL16 he found an entry that he sensed was important. It was a record of the costs of a pendant made at the young king’s behest, it to be an exact replica of the pendant that, even now, rested in the palace strongroom. The Accountant had described it and said that the replica was half the size of the original. The young King Elliot had paid for its making from his own personal account. The cost of the jewel was large. Charles got to thinking. He knew that this replica was no longer at Fort. What if it had been a gift from the king to his twin sister, to mark the occasion of a marriage that never did take place? The splodgy name in the betrothal records must be Ruth and in all likelihood she would have taken it north with her when she escaped. Doctor Whistler had managed to get her to the North; he had accomplished what he had set out to do.

  Surely this was enough to let his father approach Lord Duchesne? Charles gathered up his notes and sped off to find his father.

  “I must agree with you. We will need Duke William Duchesne’s help,” said Henri.

  “He has men in the North and will help once he understands the full import of the situation,” agreed Charles.

  One of Henri Cocteau’s eyebrows rose at that. How much did his son know about Lord Williams’ activities in the Northern C
ontinent?

  “I realise we can’t do this on our own,” he said, turning dark eyes filled with foreboding on his son, “but what you are suggesting could be construed as treason, Tom Brentwood would be quick to act if he caught but a sniff of what we are planning. Let me think.”

  Charles waited impatiently.

  “I’ll talk to Duchesne,” his father said at last, “he does keep a close eye on both Argyll and Vadath and he has a network of well-placed agents there.”

  “Not in Vadath,” warned Charles.

  “If there are descendants of Ruth in Argyll he will find them.”

  “Are you sure he will help?”

  “He has little love of Tom Brentwood and is not enamoured about a long regency under him if the king dies. Tom Brentwood is Susan’s uncle and would be the obvious Lord Regent. William Duchesne is also very much aware of the threat of the Larg. He’s spoken to me about it. He hasn’t just doubled his border guards but tripled them. He’s close to the island chain to the north and feels under threat in a big way.

  Charles nodded; this was not news to him.

  Charles raised his arms deprecatingly, “I am within the administration department remember. Our espionage network may not be of the same standard as Duchesne’s but we do manage to stay on top of things most of the time, although mostly on an internal basis.”

  “You are aware that Tom Brentwood has called for a meeting of Conclave then? With the king incapacitated with grief he states that it is up to us dukes to keep the kingdom from strife.”

  “Tom Brentwood has called for a meeting of Conclave? asked the surprised Charles. “I hadn’t heard that.”

  “He senses his chance. Elliot isn’t likely to thwart him, he’s only too glad not to be bothered with affairs of state. Graham will support him, being his nephew. Gardiner he will buy.”