Ten days later came the coronation—a hurried affair, but my Councilors agreed I should assume the throne as soon as possible. Once crowned, others would find it more difficult to dislodge me. And there those who would attempt it. I knew that from my own history.
The day began with a stuttering of snow—a typical late January morning. The skies were flecked with clouds, and the sun, when it finally consented to rise, cast an uncertain light over Cill Cannig and the nearby city of Osraighe. Cold nipped at my skin as I darted from the palace into the waiting carriage.
The kings of Éireann had lived in Cill Cannig and the Royal Enclosure for six centuries. Tradition, however, proclaimed they would receive their crowns in the ancient cathedral of Osraighe. And so I rode alone in the royal carriage, shivering in my finery, in a slow creeping procession from the palace, through the Royal Enclosure and intervening fields, and into the city of Osraighe. The clocks were just chiming ten as I arrived at the cathedral. There Lord Kiley took hold of the lead horse’s reins, while Lord Melville flung open the carriage doors to greet me with a long ceremonious speech. A cold dank wind blew against my face. I paused upon the step to listen, as the ritual required.
It was there the assassin took his chance.
A shot rang out. Fire exploded inside my shoulder, as though a white-hot spear had pierced me. I gasped and fell backward, reaching for that spear and thinking confusedly that if I could pluck the damned thing out, the agony would stop.
After that, I had difficulty remembering. Pain and more pain. The strong stink of blood. Lord Melville’s creaking shout, then Lord Kiley’s stronger voice calling for the Queen’s Guard. And me, retching all over my grand expensive gown, and weeping at last, weeping so hard that I retched more and finally collapsed onto the ground, knowing no more.
The wound proved painful, but not dangerous. Once the physicians removed the ball and bandaged my shoulder, they allowed themselves to be herded away by Lords Melville and Kiley.
“Your Majesty,” said Lord Melville.
I turned my head away.
“Áine,” said Lord Kiley.
That nearly caused me to look around. With a jerk of my chin, I stopped myself, but not before I glimpsed a smile on Lord Kiley’s grim face.
“You are not dead,” he said quietly. “Nor so badly wounded we can put off this interview.”
He was right, of course. I sighed and waved a hand to show my assent.
That, apparently, was not good enough.
“Stop grieving for yourself,” Lord Kiley said crisply. “You have lost your father. Well, and so have I. Lord Melville here lost a brother and two sons in the last Anglian Uprising. I understand. But you must postpone your mourning for a more propitious time.”
“When I am nearly dead myself,” I muttered.
“That would be more convenient.”
His words brought a puff of laughter to my lips. “Speak,” I told him. “You will anyway.”
“So I will,” Kiley said. “First, you must have a more competent bodyguard. Lord Vincent and his staff have vetted all the members of the Queen’s Constabulary deemed fit to protect the Queen. And they are fit. But they are not quite so . . . thorough as the man I would propose.”
“A bodyguard,” I repeated. “Who . . . ”
“Commander Adrian O’Connell Dee,” Kiley said. “He served in Eastern and Southern Europe as a covert agent for eight years. More recently, at my recommendation, he enlisted in your father’s Constabulary to acquire experience at home. I have always found him reliable.”
“You mean he is one of yours.”
He nodded. “One of mine.”
Someone outside Court, but inside our circle of trust.
Though I disliked the necessity, I understood Lord Kiley’s reasoning.
“Very well,” I said. “Have him come tomorrow for an interview. Surely the Constabulary can protect me until then?”
Lord Kiley and Lord Melville left me with a thick packet of reports. I set them aside for later. My shoulder ached, and I had little appetite for reports or food. It was easier to lie motionless, hoping that the drugs the physicians gave me would obviate the need to even pretend an interest.
An hour of restless sleep. Another hour lying on my back, staring at the patterned ceiling.
He knew it, I thought, as I maneuvered myself painfully onto my good shoulder. He knew I would get bored.
Whatever their faults in predicting the assassination attempt, my Constabulary had worked hard and well to discover those at fault. The attempt had been led by members of several disaffected political groups with ties to certain Congress members of influence. With a sense of nausea, I read the name of a cousin who had allowed himself to become the nominal leader of this movement.
You, I thought, have made a grave mistake.
More reports, concerning the investigation, the names of lesser conspirators, the possible extent of the disaffection. My difficulties would not end with one assassination attempt. There were others who believed me too young to rule. Some wanted a Regency. Some worked to shift power from the Queen to Congress.
And there were the Anglians. Always the Anglians.
We shall never rid ourselves of the danger, my father once said, until we cut their chains and help them build a new nation of their own. He had meant to accomplish that in his own reign . . .
The tears burned in my eyes. I swiped them away and read past the further details of plots and political maneuvers, to the details about this man Dee.
Commander Adrian O’Connell Dee. He had taken an undergraduate degree in mathematics from Awveline University, then started graduate work in Austria. Studies broken off for reasons unknown. Fluent in German and French. Recruited by Lord Kiley’s people for his ability with languages and disguises. Later he showed a fine understanding of political concerns. I saw nothing to suggest he would make a good bodyguard, but I knew Lord Kiley. My father had trusted him. I began to think I might as well.
“Commander Dee.”
“Your Majesty.”
It was three days after my near assassination. Lord Kiley had arranged everything, even to choosing this room, which was smaller than most of the other interview rooms, and more intimate with its plush carpet, the cloth chairs gathered around the brightly burning fireplace.
Commander Dee, however, remained as formal as if we were met in Cill Cannig’s grandest audience chamber. He stood at attention, his hands clasped behind his back: a tall man, as lean as a shadow and nearly as dark. Dark-complexioned or tanned, I could not tell which. Warm brown eyes. Dark hair cut short and swept back in the newest fashion. His hands, like the rest of him, were slender, but I could imagine the muscles sliding beneath his skin. The reports said he was thirty-five. He appeared younger, except for the faint lines around his eyes.
“Why did you quit your studies?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Let us call it the distraction of youth.”
“Is that the truth?”
His eyes narrowed with humor. “Truth is such a transient thing, your Majesty. I find in certain cases it depends entirely upon perspective.”
Before I could stop myself, I laughed.
Adrian Dee’s mouth quirked into a smile—a brief flicker of shared amusement. It changed his expression entirely. That intrigued me.
“So tell me,” I went on, “how you would protect me better than my own guards.”
At my insistence, he took the chair opposite me. We leaned toward the fire, heads close together, as he described his own impressions of the political situation facing me. A part of me absorbed everything he said, to be reviewed later when I was alone. Another part took in details of the man himself. How his mouth was fuller than I would have expected for someone with such a lean angular face. How his voice had started off so cool and official, only to drop to a warmer lilting tone. He wore a pleasing scent, too—another surprise. From Lord Kiley’s initial description, I had expected Dee to be more the automaton. Instead I found my
self intently aware of him as a handsome man, clever and brave and strong. And so very competent.
“So you believe the conspiracy to be widespread.”
He paused. “I believe the number of opportunists is greater than expected.”
“There is a difference?”
He spread his hands, palms outward. “If these were usual times, I would say yes, there is difference. Now, with your father’s sudden death, the uneasiness upon the Continent, and, pardon me, your youth, not really. However, I believe we should deal with the situation as though there were a difference. Call it a message to those who watch your reign.”
I nodded. Felt a tremor of hope in my chest. “Do you want the position?”
He tilted his head, observed me for a moment—a long assessing look, as though he were measuring me, not as his Queen, but as another human being. “Yes,” he said at last. “Yes, your Majesty, I do.”
And so we talked and planned and argued about the coronation and how to keep me safe while giving the people a spectacle they could remember all their lives. For, as Lords Kiley and Melville and others in the Queen’s Council reminded me, this ceremony was meant to imbue me with the authority of history and tradition. Adrian Dee himself simply shook his head, and took their recommendations into account. He had neatly insinuated himself into the ongoing investigation into the conspiracy. When he found the time, I had no idea. His absences from my side were few.
As for myself, I kept to my private chambers, visited only by my closest advisors and my physicians. The official reports said I needed time to recuperate. I suppose I did. I hated it, nevertheless. Kings and Queens do not hide, I thought. They act. Just like my father did. And our ancestors before him.
The physician’s last visit had left me aching and breathless. In between, there were other indignities. Nurses to wash the wounds and apply fresh ointment. Formal inquiries after my recovery from the Congress. Uncharacteristically, Adrian Dee had vanished a few hours before. He returned just as the court astrologers departed.
“Where have you been?” I muttered.
He smiled, as though to a fractious child. That only worsened my temper. The astrologers had made long and noisy protests over the new date for my coronation. They had calculated to a fine degree the position and phase of the moon—never mind those of the stars—and wanted another month to assure me of a propitious day. Now I pressed the heels of my hands against my eyes.
“You are tired, you Majesty.”
“I know that,” I snapped.
Dee shifted his glance toward the fire. I saw his fleeting grimace.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I . . . I am impatient. I dislike being caged.” And before he could reply, I hastened to add, “That is hardly an excuse, I know. Merely an explanation.”
He acknowledged the apology and the explanation with a wordless gesture. There were bruises underneath those brown eyes, and a web of faint lines radiating outward. He must have spent half his nights in ceaseless work on my behalf. I felt a stab of shame.
“I’m sorry, Adrian.”
A flinch, nothing more, at his given name.
I had forgotten—just for the moment—that we were Queen and servant, not two friends. There was no possibility of apologizing. That would only exacerbate my offense.
But truly, I did not mean to offend. I meant only . . .
Better not to think what I meant.
“Can we manage it?” I asked hurriedly. “The coronation, I mean. Next week.”
He nodded. “Most of the guests have remained in the city. The others could arrive by airship. What about the astrologers?”
“Let them determine the hour. Within reason,” I added.
His smile, edged by firelight, caused the last of my bad temper to leach away. “It shall be exactly as you wish, your Majesty.”
It was.
Telegrams and letters went out the next morning. Flocks of balloons began to arrive within the next few hours—scarlet, silver, the royal blue and purple of the Turkish States, the fantastical constructions of Japan and the Hindu Archipelago—all the heads of state were represented, as though my guests had anticipated my plans and only awaited a word to set off for Éireann.
My coronation was set for the first Monday in February—a cold bleak day, the skies mottled with cinder-black clouds that spat snow and frozen rain over the bare fields. Once more I rose at dawn and gave myself over to the maids and ladies of the Court. Once more I donned the layers of silk and cloth-of-gold—all new-stitched because the old gown was burnt and stained. My shoulder ached in memory of that other day, but then Adrian Dee appeared at my side to escort me to the waiting carriage.
Out the gates. Through the streets. The same and yet so different. My nerves felt raw and exposed, buzzing as though charged with electricity. The ticking of sleet against the cobblestones sounded loud. My heartbeat thrummed in my ears. I thought I could feel an answering pulse from Adrian Dee’s hand as he handed me down from the carriage, even through all the layers of cloth. I paused, just as before, and listened to Lord Melville’s studied speech. I gazed over the crowds of onlookers. I felt so removed from my surroundings, from the event itself, that it was not until I stepped into the cathedral’s shadowed entryway it struck me fully I was to be queen.
I paused a moment to recover myself. Felt my heartbeat dancing fast and light. Then, with a signal to my guards, I continued forward into the pale yellow light of the cathedral’s vast body. Step, step, step, my guards keeping time with me. Then they too fell away and I walked alone the last distance, there to kneel before the archbishop.
She stood upon the steps leading up to the nave of the church. Her silver crown flared like a circle of flames around her seamed face, reminding me of ancient portraits of the saints.
“May the blood of our mothers and fathers bless you,” she said.
“May the flesh of our Lord and our ancestors guard us,” I replied.
So we continued, giving challenge and response. Behind me, I heard the low chant of the priests, smelt the rich rank scent of blood in the air. When an acolyte approached the archbishop, she dipped her fingers into the bowl and smeared the lamb’s blood over my brow.
“Let this symbolize our dedication to the mother and the father, to oak and stream and the Lamb of God.”
The archbishop offered me the silver flagon filled with blood; I drank it all.
Thereafter, memories scattered into fragments. I remembered the heavy scent of incense. The archbishop’s warm fingers brushing my temples as she set the crown upon my head. The warmth and weight of gold pressing against my forehead, like the weight of centuries. The ritual words intoned in Latin and old Gaelic and the chants rising upward like smoke. Then a bell rang out, and I felt a pang within my heart.
I was Queen of Éireann.
The archbishop then offered me a flagon of cold water to wash the taste of blood from my mouth. More rituals and rites followed, first in the cathedral and then upon my return to Cill Cannig. A stream of festivities crowded every moment through the rest of the morning and evening. My maids kept busy, helping me from one formal gown to the next. That night I dined with visiting kings and queens and ambassadors.
On and on and on. Until at last I sat in my rooms, swathed in a warm robe and drinking a soothing infusion of tea. It was past midnight. Outside, I heard the crackle and boom of fireworks. The skies were clear and dark and spangled with stars. Adrian Dee lingered by the windows, though both of us knew he had no official reason to be there.
“Did you know my father?” I asked him.
He paused. Considered the question. “Only from afar.” Then he answered the question I had not dared to asked. “I thought him a good king. I believe you will make a good queen.”
“Ah.” I smiled, but my lips were trembling. I had not realized how much I wanted this man’s good opinion.
A log broke. Adrian turned toward the fire, alert. The shower of sparks sent up a spray of golden light that limned
his profile. I don’t know how long we stayed thus—just a heartbeat—but it seemed I had all the time to study his face. The lines running in angles, the shadow-black of his hair edging his dark face, the curve of his lips. His expression was pensive, as though he were searching the fire’s red-gold heart for answers.
Then he chanced to look around. My glance caught his. There, no mistake, a flash of attraction in those warm brown eyes.
My cheeks burned. I turned away.
Adrian—Commander Dee—did nothing. How could he? He was my servant. I was his Queen. It was all fraught with impossibility.
Later, much later, I lay in bed, sifting through my emotions. Oh, and sure, I was the Queen. Oh, and sure, many of my predecessors had taken favorites—my father among them. But I was a young queen, my authority not yet proved. I could not follow my desires as I wished.
With a sigh, I closed my eyes and felt the beat of my pulse against my eyelids.
Surely, if I reached out now, my hands would meet the bars around me.
He effaced himself after that.
Of course. He thinks you wanted a dalliance.
I paused in reading correspondence and pressed my hands against my eyes. Luckily, I was alone. My secretary was occupied in the outer offices, sorting through invitations and handling the many impromptu visitors from Court. Adrian—You must not think of him that way, I told myself—Commander Dee spent less time in the Royal Enclosure than before. These days, he oversaw the entire branch of the Queen’s Constabulary assigned to Cill Cannig. We met each morning, but these consisted of mostly perfunctory exchanges. Commander Dee handed me a detailed written report, including his current assessment of security, as well as summaries of the most important reports from the Queen’s Constabulary. If I had questions, I might ask, but he had made them so thorough and complete, I never needed to.
And so I sat alone, weeping like a girl.
The Years Best Science Fiction & Fantasy: 2009 Page 48
