Homage and Honour

by Candy Rae

  “Van Buren?”

  “He can think of little else but the deaths of his wife and children.”

  “Old Sam Baker and William Duchesne are related as well,” warned Charles.

  “Son, we are all related to each other, some might say incestuously so but Sam Baker has little regard for Tom Brentwood, he hated his wife with a vengeance and she was Tom Brentwood’s aunt.”

  “They must not openly oppose what Brentwood plans,” cautioned Charles, “I am not saying that they give him their full support but they must not oppose him in Conclave. Our kingdom must be seen to be strong and united, the Larg must see no hint of any struggles that might divide us.”

  “I will speak to them both, van Buren as well.”

  * * * * *

  “If we do find this Ruth’s descendants and spirit them here how do we prove who we say they are to the satisfaction of the Larg?” was William Duchesne’s reasonable question when father and son approached him and Duke Raoul van Buren.

  It was a problem.

  It was Charles who came up with the solution.

  “The Vada duos can have no secrets from each other, their minds are linked in some way. If one half of their partnership is lying the other knows. Do not some few of the Larg have a similar link with some few of our people?”

  “That’s true,” shivered his father, “it’s not an enviable situation to find oneself in. Does anyone know of such a person? If Charles is right, then all we have to do is convince the human half that our candidate is who we say he is. If we provide proof that convinces him then the Largan will believe.”

  “We must have the true heir,” added Charles, “If we try and substitute an impostor and fail to convince them they will consider the treaty broken.”

  “I agree,” said sad-faced Lord Raoul van Buren, “but where do we start? It’s been a hundred and forty years since the girl went north.”

  “When you first broached the subject Henri, I remembered something I read when I was a boy page at Court,” began William Duchesne, “your son and I have both been worrying about the same problem and I think heading in the same direction.” He looked into the distance, marshalling his thoughts, “when the original Lord of Duchesne, Pierre I think his name was, took his people to the North to escape the wrath of the then Lord Baker, he went to Vadath and most of his people went with him. From what I have been able to find out, a small group of them did not like what they found there, they were uncomfortable living amongst the Lind so they came home. Lord Regent Baker, had put his son into the Lordship meantime and he took them back in - he probably needed the manpower.”

  “I can well understand that if the Lind are anything like the Larg,” said Henri.

  “Let me finish, as I said, some of them returned south. I have managed to get my hands on an account one of the men wrote of his experiences.”

  He pushed a yellowing piece of parchment towards them.

  “This is it.”

  “What does it say? Is there a hint about Ruth in it?”

  “I’ll read out the relevant bit; ‘We had been in Vadath for six years when a small boat arrived from the South. In it were five people, two of whom were female. There was something furtive and secretive about this boat but I couldn’t find out what it was.’ The dates agree. Pierre Duchesne left in year ten and Princess Ruth you tell me vanished six years later.”

  “It fits,” mused Charles, “but what makes you so sure one of the females in the boat was Ruth?”

  “This part; ‘One of the girls was taken north carried by the Lind, it is said, to her sister.’ I have to admit that as a lad this intrigued me so I looked into it. You won’t know this as I er … I er, extracted the relevant sheets from the archive shelves and took them away. Elliot the First and his sister Ruth had at least one older sister and perhaps brothers. What is not general knowledge is that the then Lord Sam Baker, who was regent to the first Elliot, was his wife’s third husband. She was originally married to the Captain of the spaceship that brought our ancestors here. His name was Peter Howard. Any older siblings vanished in the early days, at least there is no mention of them.”

  “You think this parchment says that Ruth was sent to live with this sister? That one of the children, daughters, of Peter Howard lived in the North?”

  “Yes I do. Believe it or not, I also know the name of the sister. I didn’t understand it when I was a boy, it was an unfathomable mystery but now it’s coming together. I don’t like mysteries, I never did. Some years ago I set one of my men on to it. He managed to find out that the sister’s name was Jessica Howard and she married a man called Gerry Russell. That is our start point.”

  “What must we do?” asked van Buren.

  “Time is of the essence, if King Elliot should die and Susan too we will all be in deep shit. I will set one of my best agents to work. He will search out the records pertaining to this Jessica Howard. It will, alas, take time and time is the very thing we might not have.” He turned to Charles, “what is our esteemed Duke of Baker doing?” Like Charles’s father, William Duchesne perceived of Sam Baker as a very real threat to the stability of the kingdom.

  “Strangely,” answered Charles, after a quick look at his father who gave him the nod to go ahead with this revelation, “he appears to be remarkably unperturbed about it all. He must realise that if Susan should die we are all in dire straits.”

  “You think he intends to put the King’s sister Princess Anne on the throne?” asked William Duchesne.

  “She is a nun,” protested Raoul van Buren.

  “She is of the blood,” corrected Charles, “whilst she lives the bloodline still holds the country. The Larg may be vicious brutes but they have never once violated the treaty.”

  “He is planning,” meditated Henri Cocteau.

  “To put her on the throne if Susan dies?” asked an incredulous Raoul van Buren.

  “You must admit that it would be an admissible stopgap measure,” replied Henri Cocteau, “she can’t bear children, true, but it would buy us some time.”

  “I say we find the descendants now before Baker sets his plans in motion.”

  “I repeat, he is remarkably unperturbed, in fact, I have some suspicions,” said Charles.

  “When I spoke to Sam,” said Raoul, “he told me not to worry. He did say something about the king’s sister.”

  “That was a ‘red herring’ My Lord,” said Charles.

  “A red herring?”

  “An old saying,” answered Charles with a grin, “I picked it up recently. It’s a sort of literary device that leads readers towards a false answer.”

  “And why this ‘red herring’?”

  “I believe that the Duke of Baker has a candidate of his own, in all likelihood one of King Elliot the Third’s by-blows. Not all were massacred in AL108.”

  Raoul van Buren shook his head, “I think you are wrong. None escaped the sword.”

  “No-one alive escaped the sword,” Charles corrected him, “but what about an unborn child?”

  “That might be possible,” admitted Raoul van Buren, “does such a one exist?”

  “Sam Baker thinks so,” interjected Henri Cocteau, “and I must admit it might just be the case, at least enough proof exists to warrant further investigation.”

  Charles nodded.

  “I have found some evidence but not proof positive.”

  “Go on.”

  “When I realised Duke Sam was taking an untoward interest in, shall we say, the marriage histories of our ancestors, I couldn’t at first think why. Then, well, I’ve always wondered why he married his Daughter Heir Natalie to Kellen Ian Karovitz. I mean, a Kellen, when there were plenty of Duke’s sons eager for the chance, James Graham was after her I know for a fact. Your own brother Wolfram my Lord Duke, I believe your father had opened negotiations. Then we hear that Contessa Natalie is to be married to the son of Kellen Ian Karovitz, I know he had been the Lord Marshall but you know the Bakers, so very proud of their bloo
dline. There are two children, Richard and his younger sister Michaela; she must be around seven years old by now. Richard is fourteen, he is at Court.”

  “I remember,” said Raoul van Buren, “the marriage caused a bit of a stir at the time. I always felt that it was a love match on his side. He was besotted, much older than her too.”

  “Ian Karovitz was born in AL109,” said Charles in an impressive voice.

  The Duke of Buren looked confused.

  “Don’t you see man?” exclaimed Charles’s father Henri, “he was born in 109, some six months after Elliot Three was deposed.”

  “But what am I supposed to see?”

  “The Lord Marshall, during the unrest of AL108, was Ian Karovitz’s father. Two months after the coup he married Elliot’s final mistress Louise Senot. When the boy was born Ian Karovitz recognised him as his own and until now I don’t think anyone has bothered themselves overmuch with the veracity of Ian Karovitz’s blood and birth.”

  Raoul van Buren gasped and sat back in his chair.

  “They only had one more child,” continued Charles, Danielle and she born eleven years later.”

  “There was some gossip at the time of her birth,” William Duchesne interrupted, “she was packed off to a convent whilst she was still a child.”

  “Louise Senot always was a flighty one,” mused Henri Cocteau, “I remember her, beautiful, but man-mad.”

  “So Sam Baker believes that he can prove that his son-in-law was the illegitimate offspring of Elliot Three and that is why he made the marriage?”

  “Or his father did. He was a bad old bastard. He also had an eye for any opportunities that might be to his advantage. He was, I am sure, also well aware of the terms of our alliance with the Larg. He was in the thick of it all in 108. The Bakers are always plotting and manipulating. His aunt was married to King Elliot the Third though that didn’t stop him. He wasn’t slow to offer his sister to the king as his concubine. Of course, his own father was quite gaga by then, he was running the dukedom and held Conclave Seat and voting rights.”

  “You think he holds proof in his possession? I don’t like the sound of this at all. I most definitely don’t want the Bakers in power, they have an unsavoury reputation, always have had,” said Raoul van Buren.

  “None of us do,” said William Duchesne.

  “I wouldn’t put it past him to kill Princess Susan and put his grandson on the throne,” said Raoul van Buren, roused out of his lethargy by the recent observations and who was beginning to think hard about the ramifications.

  “He would still have to prove the claim,” protested William Duchesne. “I will not sanction one not of the bloodline on the throne, Larg or no Larg.”

  “True,” said Charles, “I’m looking for proof but no luck so far. All we can do for the nonce is to keep an eye on him and to guard Susan. Remember too, that if we find the proof, enough to convince us and the Larg, if we cannot find the heirs of Ruth, we might well have to accept Richard Baker as our king.”

  “Never,” declared the three Dukes and in unison.

  * * * * *

  Crisis (2)

  The man’s name was Tom. He had middling brown hair, was of middling build and had a nondescript face. In fact, he was so unremarkably unremarkable in looks and character he was the perfect choice for the task ahead of him.

  His drinking companions in the Blue Lind tavern not far from the docks at Port Lutterell took him for what he appeared to be, an itinerant trader, come to the mainland to make a crown or two before returning to his island home.

  But Tom was not what he seemed; he didn’t originate in the islands. His home was in Murdoch to whence, mission complete, he would return and be well rewarded for his trouble. His accent appeared to originate from the islands. The drawl was so good that only a native would notice and Tom took great pains to distance himself from anyone with island origins, hence the ‘Blue Lind’, which was the preferred watering hole of the native merchant class.

  “What goods?” asked one of his drinking partners.

  “Little bit of this, little bit of that,” answered Tom evasively, knowing such an answer not unusual and quite in character with his assumed persona. Itinerant traders kept themselves to themselves for the most part, it was sound business practice, they never knew when a competitor was listening in and would try to undercut or swindle.

  The man looked at Tom in a wary manner and Tom decided to expand a little.

  “Farm goods, knives mostly. You?”

  “Silks and kerchiefs.”

  “So I’m not in competition with you then,” said Tom with a friendly grin of satisfaction, “what direction are you heading?”

  “Up towards Lake Stewart.”

  “How do I get there?” asked Tom, playing the part of the ignorant islander, his false accent passing muster. The Argyll trader suspected nothing and made his offer.

  “Care to join me? Bit of company what?”

  The journey to Stewarton was likely to take a while and by then his new persona would be well established especially as, to his delight, the trader then offered him passage with his pack train for the reasonable price of two silver florins. And even better, offered him an introduction to a man who might be interested in the goods Tom had to sell. If the trader became suspicious, well, Stewarton was a long way away; there would be plenty of opportunities to rid himself of his host. Dead men told no tales.

  Tom was well content with his work that evening. He had been right to go to one of the better class of inns and, as dusk fell, he retired to the slip of a room he had rented secure in the knowledge that he was on his way. He placed his money belt under his pillow for safekeeping and slept the sleep of the just and weary.

  The Duke of Duchesne would be very pleased.

  * * * * *

  Vadthed (Second Month of Winter) – AL156

  Crisis (3)

  His name was Artur Bernardson and he was in despair. The audit of his department’s accounts was scheduled for a tenday hence and he knew that, once the irregularities were found, he would be a broken man and likely an inhabitant of the city jail.

  He was a pale, rather colourless man in his fifties with a young, beautiful and expensive wife. He was unable to refuse her anything, money, pretty clothes and baubles, anything to hold on to her.

  To pay for the lifestyle to which she was accustomed he had been speculating on the offshore trading market using departmental funds. He had invested the ‘borrowed’ money into the co-ownership of a trading vessel that plied to and fro between some of the larger islands and the mainland.

  The vessel was overdue by some tendays. She had, Artur feared, either foundered or been overtaken by pirates. There was no way he would be able to put the money back before the auditors arrived. If his venture had come up to expectations he would have put it back with plenty to spare.

  Tom, Duchesne’s spy, was looking for just such a person. It had taken time to make the contacts and much coin to persuade these contacts to talk, but as Tom had realised early on in life, everybody had his price.

  His investigations and contacts within the merchant community had led him to Artur.

  Tonight Tom had a proposition to place before the official, one which he was sure Artur would not refuse, could not refuse, however distasteful.

  Tom would give him the money in return for information, rather specific information.

  They met in a small, out of the way tavern in the back streets of Stewarton. The beer was indifferent, the food worse, but the tavern had one advantage; for a fee the landlord would make a small room available, no questions asked and more importantly, a room well away from inquisitive ears and eyes.

  As Tom settled down to wait he noticed the shabby furnishings with distaste and eyed the dirty bedlinen stacked against the wall and yet more laid atop the bare mattress-bed in the corner, for sure left there by a slovenly maidservant who couldn’t be bothered carting it down to the washhouse. The room stank of stale sweat and sex.
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  It made no difference to him; he was not here to entertain a lady friend.

  He waited at the scratched table, knife at the ready … just in case. The man he was expecting might not come alone. Tom was always ready for trouble.

  There was a knock at the door, four taps, a pause then another two.

  It was the signal.

  “Enter.”

  The man who entered was nervous. He licked his lips, “Jayvees sent me.”

  “You are Artur Bernardson?”

  His visitor nodded and glanced at the knife.

  “Please sit down,” said a courteous Tom, sheathing his knife in his belt.

  Artur shuffled into the seat opposite Tom who noted the shabby clothes; they had been of good quality once but now the mended fabric on cuffs and buttonholes was more than noticeable.

  “I am glad you have decided to come,” said Tom at last. “My contact said that you might be, shall we say, amenable to a well paid business proposition?”

  “If the price is right,” Artur answered, gathering his wits, “I have need of a sum of money.”

  Tom mentioned a sum and Artur began to relax.

  “In advance?”

  “Half in advance.”

  “Two thirds,” Artur countered.

  “Done.”

  Artur started to breathe more easily. The sum agreed would be more than enough to repay the departmental funds with a little over. The final third was a bonus.

  “What information?”

  “Nothing too difficult,” answered Tom, “you work in the area of the main records office?”

  “I work inside the records office.”

  Even better thought Tom; his contact hadn’t told him this, maybe he hadn’t known.

  “I need you to look up some records, old records, from the first century.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “It’s a matter of inheritance,” was Tom’s suave answer. It was not quite a lie he reasoned, it was to do with an inheritance, just not the sort of inheritance Artur imagined. He expanded his story.