by Dave Duncan
A nod. “A letter from Prince Courtney. I beg your pardon, my lady, but I forgot to bring it. If I may send—”
“Just tell me. I think I can guess.”
“He wants…he demands that you marry him, my lady. He wants the crown matrimonial.”
Malinda sat in silence for a while. It was a month since Amby died. They had not given her much of a chance to show how a queen would rule.
The next day, she addressed Parliament.
Although she had never met one before, Malinda had enough experience in public speaking to recognize a hostile audience. As she paraded after the sergeants-at-arms with their maces and Blades with drawn swords, down the aisle between the kneeling Lords and Commons assembled, she could smell hatred in the air. When she sat enthroned, with Audley standing beside her holding Evening, she looked out over an ocean of angry stares. The Lords were splendid as kingfishers, robed in scarlet and ermine, crowned with coronets—a real crown was a horrible thing, and she was going to have a deathly sore neck by the time this nonsense ended—but in back of them the Commons were a flock of drab sparrows, two knights from every shire and two burgesses from every town.
She swore the enthronement oath again. The ancient promises flew away like bats into the sullen silence. She read her speech. No one was rash enough to boo a monarch, but several times she sensed a low rumble of disapproval—notably when she mentioned her renewal of the campaign against evil enchantment. Only her account of the capture and execution of Radgar Æleding won a cheer, but everyone knew that Courtney deserved the credit. They even knew that Courtney had been industriously torturing the monster until the Queen’s men stole him away; they thought that a much better idea than just chopping off his head.
Courtney was not present. Courtney had not resisted when her Yeomen seized the captive Baelish king, but his refusal to appear before the Privy Council and now his absence from Parliament were acts of rebellion. How could she denounce him when chance had made him the greatest hero in the land? She could condemn Neville, of course, and did so. She laid the blame for the Pompifarth massacre on him, but who believed her?
When she spoke at last of the crown’s desperate need for money, she thought she heard knives being whetted, but perhaps it was only teeth grinding. Parliament traditionally demanded redress of its grievances before voting supply, and this Parliament was going to pile corpses at her door—Granville, Pompifarth, the carnage at Wetshore, Sycamore Square. Parliaments impeached chancellors quite regularly, but none had ever tried to depose the monarch. That record might be about to change. Her Heir Presumptive was the new national hero, Prince Courtney.
Dog came to her that night as soon as Dian had left, and their lovemaking was even more urgent and passionate than usual. Either he took his cue from her or he had worked out the situation for himself. Later, in the lull after the storm, she broke the news. “It is nearly over, love. We have very few nights left.”
He just grunted. He rarely spoke much, and it was almost impossible to make him speak of bad things.
“We always knew it could not last. We have enjoyed much longer than I expected.”
“I have brought shame upon you,” he said bitterly. “You heard what they were shouting at you in the streets. They know you have a lover named Dog.”
“Perhaps just coincidence,” she said, but not believing that. “Not the scandal…Parliament will force me to marry Courtney so it can make him King. No, don’t offer to kill him for me. I know you would if I said please, but that would probably mean Neville succeeding, so killing Courtney would only make things worse.”
“How can they force a queen?”
“By refusing me money.” She sniffed away a tear. “He’s a lot older than I am. I’ll outlive him, I swear! I’ll be older then, and have some experience, and…Oh, Dog!” She started to wail, so he kissed her and went on kissing her. It wasn’t possible to kiss and blubber at the same time. After that he would not let her speak about the future at all.
The following morning Parliament set to work. At first there was only angry talk, but soon resolutions were being moved, bills read, committees formed, petitions introduced, questions asked. A motion declaring a female chancellor a breach of parliamentary privilege was defeated, but narrowly. The crown’s appeal for supply was ignored.
Day by day Burningstar’s reports to the Queen grew grimmer, until, at the end of a turbulent week, the first bill cleared both houses and arrived at the palace for the Queen’s signature. It was very brief and unambiguous, and exactly what she had feared it would be.
That evening she held a private party in the quarters she had occupied before her departure for Ness Royal, and the participants were those who had shared them with her—Ruby, Dove, Alys, and Sister Moment. Laraine had vanished into matrimony, but Lady Arabel had just returned from Ness Royal plumper than ever; and naturally the three surviving Blades of the Princess’s Guard were there. The night twinkled with music and dancing and brave efforts to be merry.
Next morning, Malinda addressed the Guard—not all of them, but the dozen or so who were then attending her, for they comprised a fair sampling, from Fitzroy, the eldest, down to Vere and Terrible, the most junior.
“You have heard, I am sure,” she said, “that Parliament has sent me a bill dissolving the Order. This is a foggy area of law, because ever since Ranulf, the Blades have been regarded as being within the royal prerogative. Ironhall is paid for out of the privy purse. On the other hand, Parliament does vote taxes to cover the cost of the Royal Guard, and it did approve the Charter, which exempts bound Blades from criminal penalties and so on. I do not intend to sign this bill.”
They waited in silence. They were bright young men; they knew the relevant law and history, but they also knew that when Parliament clashed with the sovereign, although it might not get all it wanted, it rarely came away empty-handed. The most affected were the youngsters, who had been sure of many years’ employment in the Guard, whereas the seniors would have already been looking forward to release and private life. Eventually Winter took his finger from his teeth just long enough to say, “The Commons will withhold supply.”
“You are right,” Malinda admitted, “up to a point. Since this is the first bill they have passed, it obviously lies near to the members’ hearts. They will bluster and blather; they will pass bills, motions, and resolutions galore, but eventually Parliament and I must come to agreement. The country is close to civil war; the burgesses know that and do not want it. In the end I must grant redress, they must vote supply. If they will not see reason, then I will dissolve Parliament and run the government on funds gained by suppressing evil elementaries.” Snake had not clinked any gold into her hands yet, though.
“But—” Winter thought better of what he had been about to say and went back to nibbling.
“But,” she said, “Parliament does not want me to do that, and knows I would not dare challenge the enchanters without you to protect me. There are many layers to this. I assure you that if this matter has priority with the members, it certainly does with me. I am as bound to the Blades as you are to me.”
Fitzroy thanked Her Majesty for her gracious words. She did not think she had convinced her troops.
Everything fell apart very rapidly after that. The Commons began debating the Queen’s marriage. Malinda summoned the ringleaders, including the Speaker, Alfred Kildare. She left them on their knees while she roasted them with a tirade on the royal prerogative. She warned them that any further discussion of that subject would see them all in the Bastion. Her father had done it and she would. She used words she had overheard in stables.
At the next meeting of the Privy Council, Constable Valdor gave a review of the military situation in his bone-grinding bass. “Fitzambrose is definitely on the march,” he said. “He’s bringing all his father’s troops south from Wylderland, pulling in the garrisons that support him. I expect the Black Riders will join him. If he meets no resistance, he should be here in nine or t
en days.”
Studying those coarse and ruthless features, Malinda wondered whether Valdor himself would stay loyal that long. “How many men?”
“Probably less than three thousand in total, Your Grace, but at least three quarters of them are battle-hardened professionals. The rest have been intensively trained over the last few months.”
“And Courtney?”
“He hasn’t moved yet, that we know of.”
No doubt he was too busy showering the nobility with blackmail notes. Courtney would always prefer subversion to overt military action, in spite of his stunning victory over the Baels—or even because of it. Malinda was convinced that the true story of that engagement had yet to be told.
“We estimate the Prince has five or six thousand men at his disposal,” Valdor growled.
“Not close,” Grand Inquisitor snapped with the delicacy of a falling tree. “Less than half that, and most of them untrained, unequipped farm boys.”
“How sure are you?” the Queen asked. She no longer believed much of what he told her, but she dared not beard the lion until Burningstar found a replacement lion. Even the Blades might not be able to defend her if Lambskin’s Dark Chamber supporters chose to retaliate.
“Courtney had about a thousand when he attacked the Baels—he only won because he took them by surprise and caught them with their force divided. They lost far more men to drowning than—”
“And the bodies were washed out to sea, of course?”
“Some of them, Your Grace. Some were washed up on the beach. A victorious commander never has trouble recruiting, but most of those who have gathered under his banner since then are untrained and armed with pitchforks.” Lambskin’s insistence on downgrading the Courtney threat did not necessarily mean he was not corresponding with Neville as well, of course.
“Constable?” Malinda said.
Valdor growled. “I agree that he needs weapons. The drowned Baels took theirs to the bottom with them. You can’t buy a good armorer now for his weight in rubies. Arms are the biggest bottleneck.”
Malinda had always understood that the problem bottlenecks were the small ones. Which side was Valdor on? Having killed Granville, he ought to fear Granville’s son, although Souris seemed to have made the reverse switch easily enough.
“We cannot assume,” the Chancellor said, “that they will kill each other off and leave the realm at peace. Is it not time and past time, for Her Majesty to call up the levies?”
The bitter truth was that the Chivian crown had no permanent army, other than the Household Yeomen and the mercenary forces in Wylderland that were now supporting Neville. To go to war, Malinda must call on the peers to muster and arm their tenants; cities would supply money or raise regiments. She had wide estates of her own, of course, but Granville had drained them of men to garrison his strongholds.
Valdor shrugged. “But how do you arm them? You have the same problem as the Prince. Will you fight a civil war with fists and pitchforks?”
“The lords are already arming,” Burningstar said bitterly.
“Half of them have left town. Spirits know which side they’ll be on in the end.”
“I suspect most of them will lean toward Prince Courtney,” Malinda said. “Does anyone disagree with that? No? So the plan, I suppose, is that I am expected to appeal to my cousin for help against my nephew, and the price of his help will be the crown matrimonial.” She looked around the table, searching for dissent. “I do not—”
The door flew open. Audley jumped like a cricket and came down with sword drawn, but the intruder was only Sir Piers—hatless, hair in wild disarray, doublet hanging open, and half-unlaced shirt exposing an extremely furry chest. He stopped just inside the doorway, seeming quite unaware of Evening’s razor edge almost touching his throat.
“Ironhall!” he howled. “Your Majesty, they have sacked Ironhall!” By then the Council was on its feet, everyone shouting at once, so the rest of his announcement was barely audible. He rattled off unfamiliar names…“rode all night…drove them into the moors…burned…dead…” He belatedly went down on one knee, and tugged his doublet closed. Audley slammed the massive door in the faces of the Blades gawking outside.
Malinda alone had remained seated. Again a Blade had brought her a fateful message. How many times had that happened in her life? Dominic bringing her summons to court and thereby provoking Godeleva’s suicide. Lord Roland telling her of her betrothal to Radgar. Marlon’s frantic ride to Ness Royal to warn of Amby’s imminent death. Now Piers. She waited until the others sat down again, abashed.
Piers said, “I most humbly beg Your Majesty’s—”
“Repeat your report. Who did this?”
Courtney’s men, of course.
When he had finished, Malinda said, “Thank you. You may withdraw. I will address the entire Guard in the Rose Hall, right after this meeting. Bring as many private Blades as you can find, even if you have to drag them there. First I want to speak with Sir Dog.”
As the door closed behind the Blade, she surveyed the shocked faces of her Privy Council.
“Absolute idiocy!” Constable Valdor growled. “What sort of military objective was Ironhall? A few boys and old men? If that’s the best his Isilondian advisors can do, the Prince is no threat to her Grace.”
“Parliament will be pleased,” the Chancellor muttered hoarsely. “That finishes the Blades. Popular move.”
“I doubt if that was the main reason,” Malinda said.
“Now you know how to arm an army of farm boys, Constable—there were five thousand swords just hanging there for the taking. However, it is an act of overt rebellion against the crown. Chancellor, summon Parliament into joint session. Announce the news and ask for a loyal address attainting Courtney a traitor. Better prepare a writ of dissolution for my seal and take it with you, to be used if necessary, at your own discretion. If they get the bit between their teeth, send them home.”
“And call out the levies?”
Malinda thought of men slain, men crippled and mutilated, perhaps towns burned, women raped…just so she could choose who would lie in her bed? She sighed. “No. I think they would simply join one rebel or the other, not me. I am not going to throw the land into worse turmoil than it is in already. Does anyone have any better ideas?”
No. Heads shook in morose silence.
They all knew that it was over.
When everyone had left, they sent in Dog. He glanced curiously around the Council Chamber, strode purposefully across to where Malinda was standing, crushed her into his arms, and kissed her. She had not expected that, but she cooperated.
Then they looked at each other, still embracing.
“I want you to go first, love,” she whispered. “They know what you mean to me, so it will help the others. Can you do that?”
His ugly face twisted in pain. “Must this be?”
She nodded. “I’ll explain to them. And then I want you to do something. This is just as hard for me…I’m going to send Winter and Dian back to Ness Royal. I want you to go with them, see they arrive safely. Wait there. If I need a place to hide, that’s best.”
“And who gets you there safely?”
“I’ll set up something with Snake. Promise me!”
Dog argued, of course. He couldn’t help but argue. She won his promise eventually, but she could not be sure that it would last long enough.
As she entered the Rose Hall, the waiting Blades sank to their knees, which was a breach of normal procedure, a unique tribute. It brought tears to her eyes. It would not make things easier. She went to stand behind the red cushion that lay on the edge of the dais. She looked over the assembled Order—Snake and some other knights in the background…half a dozen private Blades also. She gestured for them to rise.
“Ever since Durendal and Ranulf,” she said, “your Order has been the bulwark of my house, an unfailing source of honor and duty, of courage and dedication. More than once it saved the dynasty. Now, alas, time
s have changed. The Litany itself has perished in flames. The sky of swords has fallen.”
She located Dog, at the back. She could not read his expression.
“Worst of all, I must tell you that, through no fault of yours, you have become a liability. If you insist on remaining to guard me, I shall be in greater danger than if you disperse. Your predecessors protected my ancestors from death, but the rebels who destroyed Ironhall and now march on Grandon are intent on marrying me off, not beheading me.” Courtney, yes, but Neville might prefer to avenge his father. “Forced marriage is a peril of queens, not kings. From choice I would not wed either my royal cousin or my nephew, but unwelcome marriage is a common fate for women and we survive it. I will still be Queen of Chivial. On the other hand, if you stand in the rebels’ way, they will slay you to the last man. It will be a bloody battle, and I will be blamed for the slaughter. I may even perish in it, so you serve me best now by disbanding. I ask you all to make this sacrifice. Companion Dog?”
Would he? Could he?
For a long moment she held her breath. Perhaps she had been wrong to ask him. All Blades resisted release, although they were usually very glad of it afterward. She was counting on Dog’s love to overcome the conjured reluctance, but perhaps it would make the struggle harder for him.
Then he shouldered Fury and Winter aside and strode forward to the cushion. A sigh seemed to fill the whole hall. He hesitated again, staring at her in puzzled agony, before he drew his broadsword and offered it, hilt first. She had forgotten how much that great slab of steel weighed. He had refused to name it when he was bound, but one night at Ness Royal she had teased him that it must be called “Sword,” and later he had shown her that word clumsily scratched on the blade near the hilt. She saw it again now: Sword.
Dog never did things by half measures. Instead of fumbling to unlace jerkin, doublet, and shirt, he just put both hands to his neck and ripped, hauling the remains down to his elbows. Shoulders bare, he knelt for the dubbing.
