by Dave Duncan
If that was a test of nerve, she failed it. “The King is dead,” she said. Her gelding tossed his head and tried to go sideways.
“But the King lives,” said her brother.
“No, the Queen lives. We await your oath of allegiance.”
Granville laughed and doffed his helmet to wipe his forehead with a sleeve. Even half armor must be unpleasantly warm on such a day. “You may grow very old doing that, Sister. On the other hand, if you do not give us yours very swiftly, you will find your liberty cruelly curtailed.”
“By what right do you claim my loyalty and that of these men? My father’s will names me my brother’s heir.”
“Only if you are not married to a foreigner.” Smirking, he replaced his helmet at a rakish angle. “You were married in state to Radgar of Baelmark.”
The accusation took her breath away, so that she could only gape at him in despair. It was an absurd charge, but it might be enough pretext to satisfy all those who did not want a female ruler, and she knew they would be many. Chivial’s previous experiments with queens regnant had not been its happiest times. Again the gelding fussed and thumped feet on the gravel.
She found her voice. “It would take a very crooked legal mind to see that marriage as valid, my lord. Even if it were, Prince Courtney takes precedence over you.”
“Baron Leandre has been stripped of his improperly acquired titles and is currently under indictment for the murder of his mother, dear Aunt Agnes.” Granville sighed, obviously enjoying himself. His companions sat like statues.
“That is absolute nonsense. Supposing it were true, there is still no precedent for a bastard inheriting a title in Chivial, Master Fitzambrose.”
He laughed. “Insults will not help you, Mistress Æleding.”
“Are you prepared to give me your oath of allegiance as your sovereign queen?”
“I thought we had already settled that?” His yellow eyes slitted warily, but he was very, very confident. He must have good reason to feel like that. She was sure she must look very frightened in comparison, and no doubt all three of them were enjoying watching her flounder. This was where the dice must stop rolling.
“Marshal Souris?”
“Your Grace?”
Your Grace not Your Majesty. Granville turned his head to study the mercenary, but that ambiguous form of address did not commit the little man to either side.
“Where are the Black Riders?” she asked. Her mouth was dry, her stomach knotted with tension. Sensing her fear or anger—it was probably both—the gelding fidgeted and fussed under her.
“They are here, my lady,” the Marshal said blandly. “Do you wish me to summon them?”
“If you would be so kind.”
Souris raised the bugle dangling at his belt and blew three notes. The chestnut gelding was either not battle-trained or out of practice, for he shied and whinnied; he bucked halfheartedly and tried to run in circles. Malinda brought him under control while making mental promises to have his hide for shoes. He seemed to be doing everything possible to embarrass her. By the time she had regained her position—and of course none of the other horses had been allowed to move a hoof—a column of mounted bowmen in black war gear had come trotting around the side of the main palace building. There were about thirty of them, fewer than she had seen at Ness Royal. They formed up in a line across the driveway behind her, so that now she was cut off from the Blades in the palace and effectively enclosed by three separate forces: Black Riders, Yeomen, and Granville’s cavalry. She had just sprung a clever trap on herself.
She could not tell if Granville was surprised to see them, nor if Souris was prepared to betray his former superior. They might just be having fun with her. And where were the rest of the Riders? Was the Marshal trying to show her that he had tried and failed, that there had not been time to muster his entire company here?
“Take Lord Granville into custody and have him held in the Bastion on a charge of high treason.”
Souris looked up at Granville, who shrugged his corselet up and down dramatically.
“With all due respect, Your Grace,” the mercenary said, “I believe that task should properly be assigned to the Household Yeomen.”
Granville turned his head to look inquiringly at Constable Valdor on his left. Malinda had never met him before, for he was another of the Rector’s Wylderland veterans. She did not like what she could see of his features under the wide-brimmed helmet—hard, humorless, and cruel. He was scowling.
“Constable?”
“Your Grace?” His voice was the deepest she had ever heard.
“Take Lord Granville into custody and have him held in the Bastion on a charge of high treason.”
“With all due respect, Your Grace,” he rumbled, “I foresee a problem with the second half of your command, in that the newly appointed governor of the Bastion is Neville Fitzambrose, the accused’s son.”
Yes, they were all laughing at her!
“I don’t believe you’ve ever met Neville,” Granville said cheerfully, “but I am sure the lad would rather be his aunt’s host than her guest.”
“The Black Riders will be honored to escort Your Grace wherever she wishes to go,” Souris remarked blandly.
She was clenching her teeth so hard they hurt, but those ambiguous words fanned a tiny flame of hope. After all, treachery was a dangerous business. Nobody here dared trust anyone else, which meant that Souris and Valdor, fellow conspirators though they might be, could not even trust each other. Neither dared go first.
“We shall ride to our palace of Greymere and there bestow on you the earldom we promised,” she said firmly. “And you also, Constable, if you will now obey the first half of my—”
As Granville reached for his sword, the two horses flanking him crashed inward simultaneously, spoiling his draw and pinning him in place. Souris grabbed Granville’s sword arm and hauled, pulling him over and off balance, vulnerable to a blow from Valdor, who struck up under the back piece of his cuirass with a dagger, probing for a kidney. Undoubtedly both armor and poniard were enchanted, because the blow was accompanied by a clap of thunder and a bright blue flash. The chestnut gelding tried to fly over the treetops and sent Malinda hurtling through the air.
32
Number 280: Sir Abel, who, on 5th Ninthmoon 369…
IRONHALL, THE LITANY OF HEROES
She was fortunate to land on grass and not gravel, but the impact wrenched her shoulder and knocked all the wind out of her. She registered a chaos of bugle calls, screams of men and horses, the hard thwack! of bowstrings, and a rolling thunder of hooves as the Black Riders went past. Then screams. By the time she caught her breath and lifted her head, the Battle of Beaufort was already won. Winter and Dominic stood over her with drawn swords while the rest of the Blades came sprinting from the palace. Granville’s men had either fled or thrown down their arms. Household Yeomen and at least a hundred Black Riders held the field—and might have been tempted to hold Queen Ma-linda also and use her to political advantage, had the Blades’ arrival not closed off that option.
She let Winter help her to her feet. “Thank you,” she whispered. “That was very nicely—Ouch! That shoulder’s a little tender—nicely done. Where is Lord Granville?”
“Dead,” Winter growled. “Down there.” He pointed with Fear and then, as an afterthought, sheathed it.
The news needed time to sink in. She felt no regret for Brother Fitzambrose, she decided, but she did feel some for herself. She had caused men to die, so she had shed her innocence in the game of dynasts; a woman who took lives was no longer sacrosanct. But one monarchial candidate less meant fewer loyalty problems. Treason was defined by the winners.
The Blades tried to make the Marshal surrender his sword before he could approach the Queen to swear the oath of allegiance, but she overruled them. Indeed, she borrowed it to tap him on the shoulder and dub him Earl Souris of Beaufort right then and there. Constable Valdor arrived and him she named Earl Valdor
of Thencaster—it being understood that a traitor’s lands and titles were forfeit to the crown. With those two firmly nailed to her mast, she could start to worry about any other forces that might still be marching around.
“Lord Souris, what can you do with the prisoners? I shall gladly pardon all who will swear allegiance, but I don’t want penniless vagrants terrorizing the countryside.”
The little man’s smile implied that he found this murderous warrior queen amusing. “You are both merciful and gracious, Your Majesty. I shall enlist them to my own troop for the time being, reserving the right to petition Your Majesty’s treasury for reimbursement. I have your permission to threaten to hang any who refuse? I doubt many diehards will carry their loyalty so far.”
“Permission granted,” she said, wondering when she had become so bloodthirsty. It must be hereditary. “What of the rest of Granville’s men?”
“He sent many back to Wylderland to keep order there. The others are spread about in various castles and royal strongholds, none close enough to be an immediate threat, Your Grace—except for the Bastion, of course.”
“I had not forgotten it.” That grim keep dominated Grandon and hence the country. In times of trouble, whoever held the Bastion usually wrote the history books. “Lord Valdor?”
The Constable rubbed his stubbly chin for a moment before he rumbled, “I think a little subterfuge should work, Your Grace. I know today’s passwords, and if I take the precaution of dressing a few of my men in the traitor’s livery, we should be able to gain admittance and open the gates. Do you want something fatal to happen to young Fitzambrose?”
“No. Lock him up for now. Anyone else who swears allegiance is automatically pardoned. Pray ride with all haste.” She glanced around at the Guard. The Bastion was too vital to be left in the hands of Constable Valdor, who had just demonstrated so fickle a loyalty. “Sir Piers, go with them. I hereby appoint you provisional Governor of the Bastion. Send word back to me as soon as you have secured the keep. Release Prince Courtney and Lord Roland, and any other captives they vouch for.”
Piers looked stricken at the thought of abandoning his ward in such dangerous times, but he knelt to kiss her fingers. She was annoyed to detect some hastily hidden grins among the Blades. Admittedly the certain death of a few minutes ago had just become a resounding victory, but had they thought a woman could not make decisions or give orders? “Marshal, we shall follow the Yeomen to Greymere. Will there be trouble in the streets?”
“The Constable can judge that better than I,” Souris said warily.
“An escort of Household Yeomen,” Valdor rumbled,
“would be less likely to attract unfavorable attention. Blades are very unpopular now, still being associated with the Wet-shore affair. If I may presume so far, Your Majesty, Lord Granville was well liked by the masses, and many persons of quality were just waiting to see who came out on top—begging Your Grace’s pardon. The Traitor had not yet sent word to Grandon to have himself proclaimed king, but the sooner Your Majesty can arrive in his stead, the better.”
She could feel the Blades’ angry bristling all around her. Did they think she would fall into so obvious a trap?
“I will keep the Guard under control,” she said firmly.
“Lord Souris, I will not enter my capital with an unnecessary display of force, but I want the Black Riders within call. Where can you bivouac?”
“Great Common has served in the past, Your Majesty.”
“Then make camp there. The password for today is Fine morning and the rejoinder Fair prospect. You have your orders, my lords.” She nodded to acknowledge their salutes and turned to Audley. “Commander, round up the palace staff here and put them to work. Lower the flag to half-mast; have the King’s body prepared for transportation back to his capital tomorrow with full royal honors. I want the Traitor’s head struck off and mounted over the Bastion gate. Send two of your best riders posthaste to the College of Heralds in Grandon to bid Griffon King of Arms have me proclaimed as rightful queen of Chivial, and tell Eagle King of Arms to assemble all available members of my father’s Great Council and the recent Council of Regency to swear allegiance. Here you may gather up the weapons, obtain a body count, see the traitors’ corpses are burned without ceremony. Provide horses for my lady companions and find me a better beast than that lump of dog meat—with a proper saddle; none of that sidesaddle rubbish. Be ready to ride for Grandon in fifteen minutes.”
“That lot ought to keep the kid out of mischief,” somebody murmured.
Audley’s eyes had widened in panic. It was totally unfair, of course. Almost nothing on that list was normal Blade business, but she was a queen without a government. She had to give orders to somebody. He parried with Ironhall brilliance.
“See that Her Majesty’s commands are carried out, Sir Dominic. I shall accompany Her Grace indoors.”
That snapped the tension. The onlookers burst into yells of mirth and approval. Even Dominic laughed. Grinning like a schoolboy, Audley offered his arm to the Queen. “May I venture to advise a few minutes’ rest, my lady? And something to eat before we ride.”
Realizing what was probably obvious to others—that she was shaky and needed to sit down for a while—she nodded and accepted his arm. As they moved away, someone shouted a cue behind her, and the Royal Guard burst into cheers. She ignored them and kept walking.
“They all expected to die,” Audley said excitedly. “You saved us. They’ll run to Grandon on their knees for you now if you want.”
Not trusting herself to speak, she just nodded. She was queen! That was going to take a lot of swallowing. She could do anything she liked now and fear no one. Really? asked a cynical little voice inside. Announce that you’re going to marry a lowborn swordsman named Dog and see what happens to your dominion. Well, almost anything. And she had done it herself. The honor was hers. Had she delayed even a day at Ness Royal there might not have been time to bring up the Black Riders. She wanted to hug someone, to join hands and dance.
“Well you helped, Commander. Your skill at bribery should win you mention in the Litany.”
“I do believe you overlooked one thing, though, Your Grace.”
“And what’s that?”
“When you were handing out all those grand titles? I think you should have given one to the commander of your Guard. I was hoping to be made Baron Starkmoor.”
She tried to groan and laughed instead. “That one was definitely a capital offense. I provided the titles, so you’ll have to find all that money you—”
They stopped dead, having almost walked into Dog, who stood foursquare in their path with his battered face screwed up in grief, tears pouring from his colorless eyes. In his arms he held a body clad in green.
“No!” she cried. “How?”
Audley peered closely at the corpse’s jerkin. “Arrow?”
Dog just nodded, unable to speak.
“That tiny hole?” she said, disbelieving. There was no blood at all. A good seamstress could stitch that up in no time and the jerkin would be as good as new.
“It would go—” Audley’s voice cracked. “Go straight through him. He was wrong. He thought Abel was a lucky name, but he’s put it in the Litany at last.”
The toll for the Battle of Beaufort was seventeen dead, twenty-four wounded, she was informed. She regretted them all, but Abel hurt more than all the rest together. Abel was a personal grief. The shaft had probably come from the Yeomen, aimed at the charging Black Riders while the Blades were running to Malinda’s side. No one had seen it strike. Only Dog had realized he was missing and gone back to look for him among the flowers and low hedges. It was customary, she was informed, for a fallen Blade to be honored on the field, so she allowed them to hold their rites and return Abel’s body to the elements. They did not insist on waiting until the pyre burned out, but it was past noon when the Queen and her train left Beaufort, cantering along the Grandon road.
One more name in the Litany, and ye
t the funereal woe soon dispersed. Soon the Blades were again fizzing with excitement and relief—joking, singing, yelling, making more noise than an army of drunks on Long Night. Every few minutes some crazy youngster would run his horse in circles. Months of house arrest had ended; the death sentence had been lifted. Abel had been honored as tradition required, and they seemed to have totally forgotten the little king for whom they would have died just a few hours ago.
Dog, Malinda noted, had been positioned well back in the column, and although she longed for his company, she knew she must avoid the taint of scandal. Audley rode at her side, as was his right. Dominic was staying close.
She was beset by the problems ahead. Lord Roland was the only possible choice for chancellor. He would know who had refused, as he had, to support the Lord Protector’s coup, who had supported it, who had managed to avoid a decision. He would also know who else was competent and trustworthy, for she had an entire Privy Council to appoint, indeed a whole government, and her knowledge of the men available was limited to social gossip. Why only men? Because there were no women with experience. The previous Grand Inquisitor had been a woman; there had been a female Grand Wizard a couple of reigns back; but those had been exceptional. The Council would summon Mother Superior when it required her advice, but the old lady spent most of her time at Oakendown now, rarely coming to court.
The procession thundered through a village without slowing down. The inhabitants had been forewarned and lined up on both sides of the street to cheer. In moments Her Majesty was gone past, and the year’s excitement was over.
“Who ordered that demonstration, Commander?”
“I did, Your Grace. Did I do wrong?”
