Poor Edmund, she thought. The bards still called him the Cuckold King, nearly ninety years after his death. His fair queen turned out to be less the pure maiden and more the avaricious harlot. She mocked him with countless lovers and bred many plots to advance her family and favourites. Perhaps, it would not have been so bad if Queen Angelis had not also been arrogant, stupid and petty. Many of her favourites were the pretty boys of the court, men no less arrogant, or stupid than she. Often these men were advanced over better qualified generals and noble statesmen, the kingdom suffered. Money was leeched away in sumptuous parties and extravagances; while the essential business of state was neglected. Angelis also seemed incapable of not insulting the powerful of the Realms. Too stupid to fake grace, she took what she could without thanks, and gave back only ingratitude.
The Court of the Golden Isles soon becomes a laughing stock amongst the great nations of the world. Eventually it came to its inevitable end. The queen tried to have the King’s young niece Bessana executed, for not giving up a necklace her mother had given her. Angelis struck her for her impertinence, but Bessana had slapped the shocked woman back. The defiant girl was dragged into the dungeons by some of the queen’s lackeys. It was said Bessana fought them all the way to the dungeon, gouging and kicking at the pretty boys as they unwisely followed the queen’s orders.
The Concord had had enough, and they acted quickly. The then Lord Ryder took command of the city watch and marched on the palace that very day. Bessana was freed without a fight, and the pretty boys were executed in the royal courtroom for laying hands on a royal personage. The Concord then met and demanded that the weeping King denounce his wife and divorce her. Yet the King refused to do so, but after a great deal of pressure accepted a compromise. Angelis would remain under house arrest in her newly built palace.
Once that was settled the Concord quickly avenged themselves on the rest of her favourites. A round of executions and banishments restored the court to a semblance of normality. Angelis spent a decade locked up under close watch, growing ever more bitter and spiteful as the walls closed in on her. She plotted and conspired against the King who protected her, and the Concord that would have her dead. The commoners began to call her the Glass Witch, and they feared her imagined power. Tales quickly spread of her evil magic. Ten Years later, Edmund died childless and still pining for a woman who hated him.
The only surviving heir of the Balikris line was Edmunds niece, Bessana. She was twenty when she was crowned, and that was the day her legend began. ‘Good Queen Bess.’ the commoners called her. Maria had always admired her, for she was strong, and powerful, and she had refused to bend to the will of her lords and made the Concord her tool to wield her authority. The Glass Witch badly underestimated the new queen. Her spite filled machinations were mere child’s play to Bessana, and within months of her coronation the Glass Witch’s head decorated a spike on Traitors Gate, her body thrown into a pauper’s grave.
A bloody tale, all told. One of the many she had heard when she first arrived on these shores. She soon learnt that the Isle was a place with a long and vicious history. So much treachery and bloodshed had been spilled over the throne. The lords were no better. Sometimes it was only a strong king or queen that could prevent open warfare. Everywhere castles were dotted around the realm, and even Thornsreach was surrounded by high walls. Perhaps if her husband had not become king she would have been happier, but Alyn II had died six months into his reign. It was a stupid accident, no more, just blind chance. He had fallen from his horse while hunting and cracked his head on a stone. Suddenly a half forgotten second son was the most important man in the realm. She remembered how the courtiers smirked and shared looks as her husband struggled through the eulogy at Alyn’s funeral. The new King spoke words of love and loss that he, even in his kindly soul, could not feel for man that had tormented him all his life.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a gentle rapping on the room’s door.
‘Enter,’ she said.
The door swung open gracefully and silently as a young page in royal blue entered.
‘His Majesty, enquires if you are ready, my queen?’ he said bowing elegantly.
‘Of course, ‘she replied, and watched the young man bow again and leave the room, closing the door discreetly.
Walking with a quiet determination she left the room and made her way to the Kings Hall, two of her female attendants fell in behind her. As befitted Wintersong she wore a fine kirtle of green cloth embroidered with the silhouettes of golden leaves and flowers. Her shoes were of soft velvet and her hair braided in the fashion of the court. She rounded a corner and saw her husband waiting by the doors to the main hall.
‘Good Evening, Maria,’ said the King as he took both of her hands and kissed her lips. ‘You look lovely, as always.’ His smile was genuine and she saw the love in his eyes.
Curtseying she replied, ‘Thank you my lord, you are kind.’
She didn’t love him, but she did like him, and, of course, he had given her three beautiful children that she adored. He was not a handsome man. He was thin, lightly built and often his own lords towered above him. As she got to know him, she began to understand him. He was a bookish, clever man. Witty and charming in the company of those he trusted, but he was also weak. His father had hated his son for that weakness, and his brother had been a bully who delighted in further alienating his brother from his father. He was not physically strong, or particularly martial, but he was often impressed by those who appeared that way, like Lord Perriswood who had spoken to him of Cathan and an ancient claim. The King had become obsessed with it, and she believed that deep down he was trying to prove himself.
‘Ready?’ he asked her.
‘Of course, my love,’ she said, forcing a smile
He nodded to the ornately dressed guards who swiftly opened the doors to the King’s Great Hall. Inside the vast chamber the music and dancing stopped, and the powerful of the Golden Isle turned to face them. Polite applause followed the couple as they entered the vast hall. Both King and Queen were well practised in courtly manners, and they smiled in greeting as they made their way towards the raised dais where the royal table stood. All around them courtiers, minor nobility ambassadors and great lords moved in their orbit. Progressing towards the throne the musicians played a soft piece of music that matched the stately pace of their movement. The hall was full of green and gold decorations and the mid-winters logs, all in turn surrounded by the elegant beauty of this many pillared hall. The Glass Witch had sponsored much of the art for the hall during her brief reign at court, and her tastes had been exquisite. Maria often wondered if that was the vile woman’s way of running from the ugliness of her own spirit.
As she progressed down the hall she spotted a few half hidden sneers and mutterings amongst the lords. She knew the cause of this. She was not what they had expected. An intelligent and well educated woman who easily voiced her opinions to men as if she was their equal in wit. She was also athletic , and had once beaten Lord Middleton in a horse race. The man had smiled in mock humour, but she saw in his eyes the hateful resentment at being beaten by a mere woman. She spoke perfect Isle with no trace of the Empire accent; though she knew some of the players and mummers of the Stews mocked her with a character they called Queen Shi. Shi being the vulgar slang for a foreigner amongst the poor of the Stews. The puppeteers used a doll that wore outlandish dress and spoke with an exaggerated accent and demanded garlic with all of her food. Like all such characters Queen Shi was bred from the ignorance and fear of the badly educated. Queen Shi stood for all the contempt this little island nation held for anything foreign. In their eyes she was sensual, yet cold, stupid yet cunning, foolish, yet dangerous. A ridiculous figure for a ridiculous people she mused. Yet the lords of this realm were no better in their prejudice.
As she approached the dias she saw her three children dressed in the greens of Wintersong. They looked so wonderful. Little Bessana, holding a paper rose with a big g
ap toothed smile, Michael and Adam trying to look fierce with their little swords attached to their hips. They would be tired she knew as it was close to midnight, but they would soon be able to go back to bed once the ceremony was done.
Her eyes turned back to the Cardinal who stood next to them. Cardinal Fenwick wore the magnificent gold and white of the Free Church. He was soft man, kind in his ways, and well suited for his position as head of the neutered Free Church. Since the High church was forced off the isle, it was the King who headed the church, not the Prelate of the High Church, who sat in his palace on the Continent. Fenwick was a good man, chosen by King William, and chosen well as he could be no threat to any man. He was so much the king’s man that many claimed he was incapable of deciding his own breakfast without consulting the King first. An unkind notion, she felt, and hypocritical.
The Royal couple reached the raised dais and the King and Queen stood before the Cardinal. Fenwick raised his arms and the music stopped. A hush fell over the great hall.
‘Merry Wintersong!’ The cardinal boomed, banging his iron shepherd’s staff upon the marble floor. Once, twice, thrice he struck the ancient staff.
Who approaches the throne of the Golden Isle?’ shouted Fenwick on the third stoke.
‘King Merric of the Golden Isle, and protector of the Free Church,’ answered the King, his voice carrying across the hall.
‘Why are you here?’ asked the Cardinal. A ritual phrase, but some in the hall may have asked the same question in private. Why him, when Alyn was much more suitable? Why was God so cruel?
King Merric Merovel turned to face the crowd and spoke. ‘I have come to take my rightful place as the heir to my father, good King William. For I am Merric, first of that name, King of the Golden Isle and King of the city of Cathan.’ A murmur of surprise rippled through the hall at that. She knew her husband intended to raise his claim to the Cathan throne at this ceremony, but it had taken many by surprise in the room. Not all the voices in the hall were approving, but the King ignored that. He raised his arms and shouted. ‘Let the festivities begin.’ The doors from all four sides of the hall opened up and fools, dwarfs and jugglers cart wheeled in as the music struck up. She heard Merric sigh with relief. He turned to her and said with a smile, ‘Merry Wintersong, my Love.’
‘Merry Wintersong, she said gently touching his hand.
‘Next year,’ he said, ‘we will have much more to celebrate.’
She felt her heart sink, but she forced a smile. He meant Cathan. Why must he pursue this foolishness she wondered? Was he trying somehow to impress a dead father? Cathan was his Glass Witch, an obsession that could destroy him. She looked away from the eager face of her king and looked to her children. What of them if things go ill, she thought? She looked back out across the heads of the feasters, and for a moment she made eye contact with Lord Middleton. The second Lord of the Concord, met her eyes and raised a glass. Those eyes, she thought, contained all the hatred in the world for her and her children he saw as High Church bastards. Suddenly she was afraid, but not for herself, or her husband, but for her children.
The Raven Twins
Fed by the seaward winds the fires roared to the heavens, and the spear point flames seemed to stab at the very gods themselves. Silver stars glittered down on the King’s pyre as the wind that rushed over the tall headland caught the flames. It was a powerful and beautiful thing to see, Brenrick thought. It was pyre fit for a great king and a father. The bells of the Song Sisters rang out in ancient rhythm as the flames consumed the remains of man he had loved so dearly. He would have wept, but he stood straight and silent, as his father would have wished. The great king had commanded his two sons to show no tears for him as he burned. Out of the corner of his eye, he looked at his brother. Renick Bel Rodyn stood with his back straight, staring into the twisting, flames, his handsome face a proud mask that hid his grief. He was a Lord of Cathan and his father’s spirit would be shamed if he, or his brother, showed weakness before the lords and warriors of his people.
His brother, Renick, was now the high King of Cathan, and he was equally proud of his twin. Both men had, long raven black hair and possessed their father’s strength and stature. Twins were still a sacred mystery to those who worshipped the old gods.
They were called the Raven Twins by the bards and story tellers of Cathan, and they were raised in their father’s beliefs. King Rodyn Bel Amorc called the one god faith an abomination that had infected the Continent. High Church or Free Church, it mattered not to him, he saw it as a slave religion for a slave people. His father, had fought to keep the sacred ways alive in his land, and his sons had sworn to take up that fight.
It was joy to know that their father’s last words to them both had been ones of love and pride in the men they had become. Rodyn would be a hard man to follow. He had been a prolific student of the arts and science, skilled and mighty in battle. He was as clever as he was strong. Even as an old man in the last years of his life Rodyn could still vault onto his horse and hunt boar. He had ruled well for nearly forty years, seen off two invading armies, crushed a rebellion and rebuilt a ruined economy. A result of his own father’s profligacy. It was not an idle boast when the people of Cathan called him Rodyn the Great. He would be missed, and not just by his sons. It was fitting, Brenrick felt, that his father’s body should be returned to the gods at Wintersong, for it was a time of endings and beginnings.
He remembered the story his father had told him of his birth. When the twins were born the lords were afraid. They feared that there was no clear line of succession. Which one would rule, they asked? Men feared civil war. ‘As friendly as two lordling brothers,’ was an ironic saying in Cathan. His country’s history was full of kin slaying and brotherly betrayals. It was feared that such a war would weaken Cathan and then the Islinor and Golden Isles wolves would circle. Hasty heads demanded that one been slain to avoid any war of succession. His father typically dealt with these demands with actions, not words. He summoned his lords to the birthing chamber and stood by the crib in his full armour. Both Renick and he slept peacefully in the crib, oblivious to the dangers this new world offered them.
His father looked upon the lords and drew his mighty war hammer, Shield Breaker, and laid the war hammer’s long shaft across the crib. He said nothing as his eyes fell on the men who demanded the slaying of one of his sons. No words were spoken, none were needed. All in that place at that time were warriors, and they knew the law. A challenge was given as was the Cathan way. None answered it. He dismissed the lords, and the matter was done.
As the years moved on it was noted, with some relief, that both brothers where close to one another and worked in harmony. Superstition fools believed it was some charm of being twins, but Brenrick knew it was not magic but his father’s wisdom that was behind the closeness. Rodyn strived to have the brothers share everything, and so they trained, studied and played together. They learnt to look out for one another and trust each other. Rodyn taught them that it was important that neither of the brothers quarrelled with each other in public, nor should they let any jealousy between them be evident. They both took their father’s love and pride and used it to strengthen their resolve when they studied and trained. The lords and war chiefs all said that both brothers would make fine Kings. Then their father grew ill, and the whispering began anew. When the great King died, which of the Raven Twins would be king? Brenrick, or his brother Renick? Two sons, both skilled and ambitions, with no clear line of succession could be a threat to the stability of the kingdom
It was Rodyn who resolved the matter, yet again. The last moot of the great king had been a month ago. The lords and war chiefs still spoke of it. The King was in attendance, but he was clearly unwell, even though he made the point of entering the hall unsupported. He walked slowly through the hall still carrying his war hammer strapped to his back. Even though every step must have pained him, Rodyn understood his men, and knew they responded well to displays of strength and determi
nation. His two sons led the moot, which was not unusual, with the king occasionally nodding agreement, or making some brief point. Before the moot was dismissed the King made his announcement. He told all present that he knew his death was coming and that he would leave his boys settle the matter of kingship as best they would. It was all pre-arranged, of course. The brothers had already decided who would be King. Yet the lords were taking by surprise when Brenrick rose from his chair and stepped into the circle in the centre of the council chamber. Renick and his father watched impassively as he stood there in full view of all. The drama of the moment stilled everyone’s breath, and a thick pregnant silence rippled across the chamber as the lords watched in fear and anticipation. Brenrick bowed before his father, then the lords and finally the war chiefs. Once the formalities were done he informed them that he would mourn Rodyn’s passing, not just as a king, but as a Father. There were muttering of approval, and some slapped the tables with the flat of their hands in approval. Then he turned to his brother and said, ‘I would be honoured to serve under the new King, my good brother, Renick!’
No one spoke for a moment, but the relief in the air was almost tangible. Then the men in the hall cheered. His father’s last great deed was to insure peace in the country he loved so much. For even though neither brother intended to go to war with the other, they had already seen signs of overly ambitious lords trying to arrange discord between them for their own ends. His father suspected some of that plotting came from the Holy Emperor. Yet, in one simple piece of showmanship they had wiped such fears and idle plotting away.
Now Renick was king, and both knew that war was coming again to Cathan. The King of the Golden Isle was shaking his little fist at their great nation. King Merric claimed the throne was his by right, and while the weakling King had not threatened them directly yet, it was only a matter of time. Brenrick’s own spies had reported much of the fool’s plans, and he knew Merric was to reveal his intent to his court at Thornsreach this very night. The King’s claim was spurious. The throne was bequeathed to the Golden Isle by the then Cathan King, a man history remembered as Molon the Unlucky. A false treaty signed by sword point over three hundred years ago, by a king of the defunct Culvi royal family of the Cathan people. Cathan was a slave nation for nearly a hundred years, until the uprising of Aylsor the sword queen. She threw the scum back over the water and established a new royal line. It was her blood that ran through the kings of Cathan now, not Culvi.
Wintersong Page 4
