She ignored him, and eventually, each day, he went away.
It was easier to ignore him because she was, already and perpetually, under attack. His voice wasn’t even a pinprick compared to the assault of her real enemy, and the black serpent—that’s how she had begun to think of Ash, her foe—never ceased to press against the walls of her memory palace. There were no overt attacks.
Just a constant, deadly pressure on her mind.
He was insidious, too. Twice, defending the sanctity of her memory palace, Desiderata found false memories trying to leach through her walls. The memory of lying with Gaston D’Eu was laughable—her new enemy clearly had no notion of how a woman perceived the act of love. But the memory of giving Blanche a letter—a sealed letter—was almost tangible, and terrifyingly like a genuine memory.
And he gloated. That’s the reason she knew his name. Ash. So… fitting.
She began to grow scared. Desiderata was not easily made afraid, but here, in the constant darkness, with no sun and no friend, no Diota, no guardsman she could trust, without even a dog or a cat, she was oppressed by a power far beyond her own.
After a day of near defeat—by which time she had begun, like a mad person, to doubt her own thoughts—she turned to prayer. And not simple prayer, but sung prayer.
She sang. And while she sang, having practised this, she began to weave herself some protections, spending carefully some hoarded ops. She was shocked—almost shocked out of her palace—to find how little ops she had.
But she worked. She stayed on her knees for most of Good Friday, allowing the pale light of the rainy spring sun to fall on her face, replenishing what little power she could muster, making ops into potentia and then to praxis.
Singing hymns of praise to the Virgin, and all the while, holding back the night in the fortress of her mind.
The sun went down.
Why do you do this to me? she asked the blackness outside her memory palace.
The blackness made no answer. It was not even green—just black.
Slowly, she worked. And with her will along, she reinforced her hope. To Desiderata, the loss of hope would be the loss of everything.
But she had doubts, and they were like stealthy miners working under the walls of her fortress.
Why has the King deserted me?
Why does he believe them?
Why did he rape his sister?
Who is this man to whom I am married?
Did I ever know him at all?
Why is my palace built atop this evil thing?
The last question seemed to bear the weight of many meanings.
The guards changed outside her door. She heard the stamp of feet, the whisper of sandals, and knew that de Rohan was back with his minions. She kept her head bowed, her now-lank hair hanging over her face. She continued to sing—her six hundred and seventieth Ave Maria. As she completed it, she went straight into her favourite Benedictus.
And in her mind, she placed another small, carefully wrought brick of power in the growing citadel she was creating.
Her perception of the world was imprecise. She had very little awareness to spare for de Rohan, but she noted that he was alone, except for two guardsmen.
He began to speak.
She paid him no heed.
He went on, and on, hectoring, bullying.
She managed another brick. It glowed in soft gold, and she loved it, cherished it and the work she was doing, like fine embroidery done in potentia.
She felt his hand on her neck.
“Stand away from the Queen, my lord,” said the guard.
She was shocked—so shocked that in a single beat of her heart she almost let it all slide away. The pressure pushed in—she lost an outer room of her memory and Occitan and her childhood slipped away.
But she could hear.
“You may leave now,” de Rohan said. “I am safe enough with her. I am protected against her witchcraft.”
The guard did not move. “Orders,” he said. “Step away from the Queen, my lord.”
“I order you out,” de Rohan said. “There, nothing easier.”
His hand on her neck tightened slightly. His other hand at her head was possessive—and horrible.
She drove her elbow into his thigh and rolled onto the floor—simultaneously using all her power to fight the rising tide of attack in her head.
De Rohan was unprepared for her physical resistance and stumbled. The guard caught his elbow—and moved him across the room while he was off balance. “Stay away from the Queen’s person,” said the guard. He had almost no inflection in his voice. Just a man doing his job.
“I order you to let go of me and to leave me to this. Do you understand me?” de Rohan asked. “Do you know who I am?”
The guardsman rattled his spear against the bars on the door.
“Eh, Corporal. This gentleman is ordering me to leave the room,” he said.
De Rohan frowned.
The corporal addressed was in a long mail coat over a clean jack and his scarlet surcoat fitted well. “He cannot leave, my lord.” His accent was northern.
De Rohan smiled and tilted his head. “Very well, then,” he said. “I will leave, and I will inform the King that you obstructed my investigations.” He drew himself up. He was a big man—as big as his distant cousin de Vrailly.
The corporal nodded. “You’ll do what you think’s best, of course,” he said.
“He meant her harm,” the first guard said. “Had his hand on her throat.”
The corporal frowned.
“You’re a fool,” de Rohan said. He walked out of the cell and went quickly up the steps, past the guardroom and up into the palace.
“Not as big a fool as some,” muttered the corporal.
“What do we do if they come to kill her?” asked the guard.
“Grow wings and fly,” said the corporal, a little pettishly.
Desiderata heard the entire exchange. She was so deep in the defences of her mind that she wasn’t sure she had it right, but she shook off the looming shadows.
“You saved my life,” she breathed.
The guardsman was just leaving the cell. He smiled at her.
“We’re here for you, your grace,” he said.
It was almost as shocking as de Rohan’s touch. “Who sent you?” she asked.
The corporal made a sign. The guardsman gave a wry smile. He pointed at the walls and then at his ear.
“Best get back to praying, your grace,” he said.
De Rohan was beside himself with anger. He turned to his senior officer Ser Eustace De l’Isle d’Adam.
“Where are they?” he asked.
L’Isle d’Adam shook his head. “No one can tell me,” he said.
“Fetch the captain of the King’s Guard,” de Rohan snapped.
L’Isle d’Adam shook his head again. “Fitzroy is in the north, fighting the Wild,” he said.
“Who is the Lieutenant of the Guard?” de Rohan asked.
“Montjoy’s son, Ser Guiscard,” l’Isle d’Adam said slowly. “Of course, with the arrest of his father—”
“Bon Dieu! Do you mean to say that the officer in charge of the King’s household is Gareth Montjoy’s son?” De Rohan had never troubled to learn the intricacies of the court—he’d become master of it so quickly he hadn’t needed to.
“I fear so,” l’Isle d’Adam said.
“Ventre Saint Gris! You try me, l’Isle d’Adam! So that when I ordered that peasant Random and his trull to the dungeons…?”
“They never made it there,” said l’Isle d’Adam with some amusement. “Calm yourself, my lord.”
“Do you mean to tell me that he recruited all the new guards?” De Rohan put a hand to his chin. “Damn me. The two on duty in the dungeon—” He paused. “So the palace could be riddled with traitors.”
L’Isle d’Adam raised an eyebrow. “Pardon me, my lord, but I think that you are being too dramatic. He hired the sell-swords we sent him
. Perhaps there are Queen’s men among them—a few.” He shrugged. “What of it? Two days past Easter, and we are done with all that.”
“Who commands the King’s Guard now?” de Rohan demanded. “Are there other officers?”
L’Isle d’Adam, in no way the other man’s social inferior, rolled his eyes. “How would I know? Do I look like a beef-eating Alban?” He shrugged. “Tell the King to appoint a new captain.”
“Fitzroy is his half-brother.” De Rohan shrugged.
“You got him to arrest his own wife,” l’Isle d’Adam said with some asperity.
“She is a witch and a murderess,” de Rohan said primly.
L’Isle d’Adam sneered. “Keep it for the commons,” he said. “Handsome piece like that—Christ, did you visit her alone?” He leered. “Did she ensorcel you? With her wiles?” He laughed coarsely.
De Rohan shook his head so hard spittle flew. “Leave me.”
The archbishop spent a bad night. Twice, crowds attacked his episcopal palace, and in the morning, six hundred men-at-arms had to march through the streets to rescue him. He went to the great cathedral and found it locked; he ordered it opened and found that every altar had been stripped and washed, and not a relic or chalice was to be seen.
In a fury, he went to the Royal Palace. After a stormy interview with the King, he said a private mass in the Royal Chapel—stung by the King’s assertion that in Alba, no mass was celebrated on Holy Saturday until the midnight of Easter. His mass was well-attended by some elements of court. Then he moved into new apartments, proclaiming that he could not trust his person in the streets.
Just after the bell rang for two o’clock, sentries on the wall called “Fire” and men ran to the walls to see.
The great episcopal palace was afire.
In an incredibly short time, the training and discipline of the Gallish knights was proven. Most of them were in full harness. Their war horses were saddled and ready, and they rode down into the town, a mighty armoured column. Even in the narrow streets of Waterside they were unstoppable, and no one tried.
The episcopal palace was surrounded by four wide streets. It sat alone above Cheapside, and now it burned, and threatened no other building. The knights dispersed a crowd by killing some looters and anyone else caught loitering near the fire, but their very violence discouraged any who might have helped them fight it.
So, like soldiers the world over, they sat on their horses and watched it burn, and made jokes about sending for sausages.
The whole situation might have been comic, but just before darkness fully descended, three of the squires at the end of the long line of armoured men saw a pretty young girl look winsomely around a corner. They followed her on horseback. The knights laughed to watch them go.
It was ten minutes before their knight found them—all three lying face up, with heavy arrows in their faces or throats. All had had their throats slit for good measure.
More was slit than just their throats.
The Galles exploded in rage.
Harndoners began to die.
An hour later, the archbishop sent Maître Gris to pin a scrap of parchment to the water gate.
Edmund, the journeyman, led six badly loaded wagons out of the city. They passed the gate at First Bridge, where two bored sell-swords in royal livery passed them with nothing more than a wink. On the wagons, or mounted on twenty horses and ponies, were the whole of Master Pye’s establishment; his best anvils, and his treasure. As well as half the pretty young maids of Southend—Edmund’s sisters and his Ann and both her parents. They were hardly alone. The road across the bridge was thick with people, all dressed as if for pilgrimage and carrying a few treasures, water bottles and food.
After a long and very loud fight with his wife, Master Pye had eschewed martyrdom and rode with them.
The only one of their people missing was Blanche. Ann said that she had gone to the Queen. Edmund thought her very brave, but he had other concerns. Like the guards at the gates.
The Royal Guards seemed to take no notice of them. They allowed thousands of people out through the gates, and then, an hour later, an officer came with horses, and they rode away with him, leaving the gates unguarded.
Easter Sunday dawned. Lord Mayor Ailwin Darkwood’s head adorned the great gate of the palace. Alongside it hung a dozen others of less repute, supporters of the city and the Queen—Diota’s head was there, as well, a warning to all the Queen’s loyal people.
Curiously, as his name was first on the execution list, Ser Gerald Random’s head was nowhere to be seen.
The archbishop, architect of the executions, celebrated high mass in the cathedral. His people had to supply every vessel and every vestment. The cannons had emptied the cathedral on Holy Saturday, and in the chaos of the burning of the episcopal palace, all of the riches of Saint Thomas had vanished. But whole neighbourhoods had burned. Some blamed the Jacks, others the Galles.
When he emerged from the first mass of Easter the sun was brilliant in the sky above him. It shone on the blood in the streets, and on the armour of the Occitan men-at-arms who were making camp beyond Southgate. Occitans and Galles had little to say to each other at the best of times. By noon there was a rumour that there had been a fight in the streets behind Southgate.
Suddenly, the streets were full of Galles and Royal Guardsmen. As on Good Friday, every square was occupied, and every tower manned.
The same sun shone like a torch through the high window of the Queen’s cell. It was the first direct sunlight, clear and golden, to touch her skin in four days. It was like a lover’s kiss—like a moment of salvation.
Her hair hung like the mane of a wild horse. She hadn’t changed her garments in three days, afraid that she might be attacked while changing—afraid that any complex physical activity would distract her from the fight in her head.
She had not eaten in two days, and the child within her protested by kicking and kicking. Her sides hurt—her back burned like fire. The new milk in her full breasts soaked against her shift and smelled. Her swollen breasts hurt her—too sensitive, too full. The weight of her belly was like that of a sinner’s chains in hell.
But the sun—the sun’s touch—was pure. And the guardsmen had preserved her hope, even if she did not understand why. And then on Saturday night, in the utter dark, Blanche had come—a girl she’d seldom noticed. Blanche had combed out her hair, and prayed with her.
Guardsmen had let her in, and then let her out.
On Easter morning, the oldest guard put a tray of bread and cheese on the floor and made a point of eating a nibble of each.
“No need to starve yourself, your grace,” he said. “Your brother’s on his way. And we won’t let anything happen to you.”
He seemed disappointed when she didn’t respond, but the pressure did not become less with the advent of the day. If Easter had any magic, it was only in her heart. She dared not pause to eat.
She could only drink in the golden light like a newborn suckling at the breast. Food, her brother, her failure of a husband…
That was all for another world.
In the darkness of last night, she had worked out what it wanted.
It wanted her baby.
She could feel it now, looking to enter into her, and through her, her son.
She drank the golden light. Her world was reduced, in four straight days, to this—resistance.
Working swiftly, she embroidered the new rays of ops into refined potentia and built the resulting material into her wall.
Her body was far away. She loved it, but there was little she could do for it.
She wanted to weep for the pain that hunger and deprivation were causing her baby.
She could smell the cheese. She wanted a moment to eat and drink the clean, cool water.
She did none of these things. Instead, she drank the pure golden light and waited.
And prayed.
On Easter eve, Prince Raymond of Occitan sent a herald to the K
ing of Alba.
The King met the herald in the great chamber. It was hung with garlands—a veteran of the Alban court would have found them thin. The Queen was in prison; her ladies were all exiled, and the female servants of the palace had, in a body, stayed at home. Rumours of rape and assault by the Galles on the maids were rife; no girl wanted to admit to being attacked but mothers, angry or in mourning from the violence in the city, kept their girls home, and in many cases their boys as well.
The King’s eyes wandered over the flowers—too few—and the ribbons, which were sparse and, in at least one case, dirty.
Jean de Vrailly stood by the throne. He, too, saw the frayed and dirty ribbon.
“Your grace, if I may, should never have put himself in a position to be so embarrassed by common people.” He walked across the near-empty hall and pulled down the offending ribbon.
The King had his chin in his hand. He was not well-dressed—in fact, clean against the spirit of the day, he wore black. “What?” he asked.
“In Galle these things are better ordered,” de Vrailly said. “And the lower people would never dare this sullen revolt.”
The King stretched his feet out. “You mean, stay at home. On a feast day.”
De Vrailly looked at the King. “What ill-humour is this, your grace?”
At the far end of the hall, Royal Guards in brilliant scarlet escorted a tall young man whose honey-blond hair and elegant features might have been irkish. Indeed, many troubadours claimed irk blood flowed among the people of Occitan. They spoke a different form of Gallish, and they sang songs from Iberia and Ifriquy’a as well as from Alba and Galle. In the coastal towns, there were even mosques, tolerated by the princes. Occitan was a land of song, and oranges.
And very skilled knights.
The herald wore the full costume of his trade—a tabard of golden silk checked in azure, with the imperial eagle spreading his mighty wings over all, worked in silk couching so accurately that it looked like a real predator ready to leap—very much at odds with the Alban and Gallish heraldry of formalized, ritual beasts and heads.
The herald moved with the grace of a dancer. He was as tall as de Rohan or de Vrailly, and he bowed deeply before the King, his right knee firmly on the floor. His hose were silk—the best hose in the room.
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