“Instruct us, my lady. Whatever you require of us, I will swear to do. Do you require us to forswear our mother?”
Huon’s voice was firm, but he paled. She trembled, reaching for Huon’s hand. Bitter tears rose and pooled under her lids.
Mama! How could you? You have destroyed us! How can we make ourselves clean?
She gripped Huon’s hand harder. He brought it out and patted it.
The Regent considered for a moment and moved a finger. The priest brought out the Bible and relics again, and Yseult put a trembling hand on the holy things.
“Do you swear on oath, on your soul and hope of salvation, that you believe your mother the Lady Mary Liu, Dowager Baroness Gervais, to be guilty of conspiracy against the Throne and hence of High Treason?”
“Y-” Yseult cleared her throat. “Yes.”
Huon echoed her, misery in his tone.
“Do you swear on oath, on your soul and hope of salvation that for this your lady mother deserves death?”
A second, and then they both answered: “Yes.” The word blurred as their voices overlapped.
“Very well,” Sandra said. “That is unequivocal enough. Let it be so recorded.”
The Grand Constable spoke: “You are taken in ward by the Lady Regent and will be assigned guardians who will stand in loco parentis to you.”
Her voice was like winter water running over river stones. Yseult frowned at her, again.
Cold, she’s so cold. Brrr! I wonder how Lady d’Stafford can bear to be her Châtelaine? She’s so pleasant, and such a good mother.
Huon asked, his voice suddenly deeper. “We understand. And I do see why you must doubt us, my lady Regent, my lords, my ladies. Do we stay here in cells?”
“No,” said the Lady Regent, leaning back slightly in the high carved chair, and putting her hands under the cloak. “I need you out of the way, hard to find, and constantly watched. On the other hand, should this all be resolved and we defeat the CUT and Boise, then I wish you to be able to take your place in society without having to compensate for years imprisoned.”
“Thank you!” Yseult blurted, and then hastily added, “My lady Regent. We thank you for your gracious courtesy and mercy to us.”
The Regent smiled and shrugged. “If we are defeated, then I have no interest in what follows. I will be dead.”
Yseult shivered. “Don’t, my lady! Don’t! We must trust the Princess and the Mackenzie to bring the Sword of the Lady to rescue us in time.”
The Regent started to move her hand and then paused, looking as if she were struck by a sudden thought.
“You know, child, you may very well be right. Marvelous are the works of God. Very well. Mollala, will you and your mother harbor Huon, knowing that he might be a Trojan horse?”
The heavy-shouldered dark-skinned man stood and bowed.
“Yes, my lady Regent. I have grown fond of this boy, Gervais. I’ll keep him in ward and teach him well, and watch his very deeds and words. My mother spoke with me before I came here. She also will swear to watch this boy. Right now, she’s a little tied up with the hospital.”
Huon stood straighter; it occurred to Yseult that he’d been nerving himself to be brave as he was led away to something like her own imprisonment, possibly for years.
Mollala is going to have one very loyal page. And one very loyal friend in years to come as Baron of Gervais, she thought. That makes me feel warmer. That’s how the world is supposed to work!
The Regent turned to a quiet woman sitting next to Jehane. “Countess Anne, will you take the girl in ward?”
“Gladly. My sisters will be happy to have a companion close to their age. Yseult comes to us, moreover, with a reputation for fancy stitching. We will look to learn from her.”
The Regent nodded to Yseult, who frantically scanned through her knowledge of the Protectorate’s nobility.
Countess Anne? Tillamook! It’s very remote . . . it’s a poor county on the edge of nowhere, and there are raids from the Haida along the coast, but the Countess won’t be wearing wooden shoes!
She bowed her head; then she met the Regent’s eyes, seeing there a chilly approval.
I don’t envy the Princess, she thought. Not if she’s always on trial like that! Or is it different with those two?
Aloud she said, “Thank you, my lady Countess. I will try to be a good maid-in-waiting to you, and hopefully will learn of cheese making and preserves and perfumery.”
“You must understand,” said the Regent, “you are sent to Tillamook because I believe Countess Anne will detect treason very quickly, having had personal, close experience with one of the agents of CUT, previously.”
Anne, Countess of Tillamook coughed. “My lady Regent! I never said . . .”
This time Sandra smiled openly. “No, you didn’t, my lady Countess, and I admire your discretion, but rest assured that I know a good many things people do not tell me.”
D’Ath spoke from her place by the window. “You didn’t say, but I did ask. I was ten days in your demesne . . . dealing . . . with that treasonous priest.”
Dealing? Yseult asked herself. Priests were supposed to be judged by ecclesiastical courts under canon law. Then: There are things I just don’t want to know.
“I had ample time to hear just what was happening and how you dealt with it.”
“Which was very well,” Sandra said graciously.
“Neat job,” d’Ath confirmed. “Very professional.”
Anne of Tillamook was looking slightly stunned.
Even a coastal castle, far from the center of civilization was preferable to the bleak cell and silent treatment.
“My lady Countess, I understand and I submit myself to this. I also thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for accepting my service. Sharing a prison cell with my mother would not be my choice,” Yseult said.
Sandra came down from the dais, a sign that the session was near its end.
Yseult looked at her. “And I can’t absolutely swear that I can’t be fooled into doing something foolish if my mother were to ask, my lady Regent.” She curtsied and then knelt. “You are my Liege and I will obey you of faith and all earthly worship.”
Huon knelt next to her. “Yes, my Liege. Gervais is yours and so are we.”
They held their hands out, palms pressed together. Sandra Arminger took them between hers, and then raised each of them and presented her cheek for the ritual kiss. It was an acknowledgement of homage, and Yseult’s heart leapt.
“Rise.”
The Regent’s smooth voice had a satisfied sound to it, and everyone else did.
“Take them, Jehane, Anne, Delia. Give them a meal in some pleasant but secluded place. They are not to speak with anybody else and must be returned to their cell.”
She looked at Yseult. “But this is for the present in the interests of discretion, to keep the enemy as ill-informed as may be. Enjoy the rest of the day. Mollala, when you leave, take Master Gervais with you. Anne, you take Yseult. When do you plan to go?”
Yseult stood and then sank, trembling, onto one of the hard chairs she had not been allowed earlier. Action swirled around her. When Delia beckoned, she went without a murmur, only pausing to curtsy, once again, to the Regent.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
COUNTY OF THE EASTERMARK
CHARTERED CITY OF WALLA WALLA
PORTLAND PROTECTIVE ASSOCIATION
(FORMERLY SOUTHEASTERN WASHINGTON STATE)
HIGH KINGDOM OF MONTIVAL
(FORMERLY WESTERN NORTH AMERICA)
AUGUST 23, CHANGE YEAR 25/2023 AD
The streets of Walla Walla were crowded, as Tiphaine had expected.
With soldiers, of course, for a beginning. The household troops of the Count, armored and steady. A bristle of pole arms and crossbows from parties of the city’s own regiments, marching on foot behind standards blazoned with the images of the patron saints of their guilds and drummer boys wielding their sticks to a snarling rattle. The menies of those
of his vassals serving here were much in evidence, from the plumed arrogance of knight and baron down to the spearmen trotting behind. And simply with people, swarms of them and their bicycles and pedicabs and horses and mules and oxcarts, and bewildered peasants with great bundles on their backs.
Even with the Count’s trumpeters and outriders they made slow headway, the more so because loud cheers broke out after the ripple of bows at the sight of the Crown’s banner, and those of Ath and Forest Grove on the pennants fluttering from the lances of their escorts. Now and then they passed a priest or friar haranguing the crowds; she caught crusade and holy war in their shouts. They broke off to lead the cheers for the Count and the Crown’s officers.
Scared as hell and hoping this means they’re saved, Tiphaine thought behind her impassive face; de Aguirre waved back cheerfully. It may, people. Or it may mean you’re fucked. Time will tell.
Walla Walla had been low-built before the Change, most of the buildings one- or two-story brick and frame. Afterwards there had been a lot of infilling of vacant ground as was usual in walled towns and quite a few half-timber second stories, with workshops on the ground floor and families living over it. And far more churches and the little roadside shrines than you saw in most of the Association territories, and things like guild houses and public baths and so forth. Though they’d kept most of the tall shade trees and obviously the sewers and water supply were still working.
But the ambience would have warmed the cockles of Norman Arminger’s black heart, she thought. You have to hand it to him, his notions actually worked under modern conditions. Even he couldn’t have pulled it all off if they didn’t.
Every smithy and carpenter’s and leatherworker’s and tailor’s shop was spilling over with work as the city prepared to stand siege, masters and journeymen at their benches and anvils, apprentices dashing about playing fetch-and-carry knave; furnaces cast draughts of hotter air into the already warm streets; there was a sweet smell of cut wood and a musky one of glue and leather; seamstresses and tailors bent over their treadle-worked sewing machines amid a whining hum. Some workers paused to wave or bow, but she saw one man completely oblivious to the aristocrats’ passing as he tapped hobnails into the sole of a marching boot.
“Now, he’s got the right attitude,” she said, and the Count and Forest Grove laughed agreement.
It wasn’t all cheers for the banners of Ath and Stafford. Here and there a priest or layman scowled at Tiphaine; one friar actually turned his back. Tiphaine shrugged with a slight clatter of pauldron against breastplate.
Being universally loved was never my ambition, she thought. Which is a good thing because I’ve never had a prayer of getting it. Delia and the kids love me; a few people like me; and everyone else respects, which is to say, fears me.
Half the rooftops were spotted with cloths covered in turn with small objects, and small children sitting perched among them with switches to keep off birds and insects. There was a heavy sweetish smell she recognized, like a jam factory.
Drying fruit and preserves being put up inside, Tiphaine thought. And tomatoes and whatnot drying too. And everyone with an oven making double-baked service biscuit.
Though soldiers used unofficial names for the hardtack ration, dog biscuit was the least scatological. De Aguirre noted her glance as a child stood up and waved the switch he’d been using.
“Many of the country people have come in from the manors within three days walk,” he said. “The castles . . .”
Would only have space for some of them even crammed to the gills, because we built them to hold down the folk of the countryside, not shelter them, Tiphaine thought mordantly.
A castle’s perimeter had to be kept as small as practical; every foot of parapet that you needed to hold made it weaker, other things being equal. That was why a city like this required a huge garrison in comparison to even the largest keep, though its walls might be just as high and strong. She had some ideas about helping with that.
“So we’re putting them to work,” he said. “They welcome it. Everyone knows we have to pull together.”
“You got in most of the harvest?” she said.
“Most of the fall-sown grain, and the garbanzos and field peas,” he said. “We’re threshing as fast as we can and getting it in sacks and under cover, but a lot’s still in loose piles on the floors of churches and whatnot. Plenty of fodder, since we’ve sent so much livestock west, but it’s bulky, we don’t have enough presses for the loose hay that’s normally kept in the fields or barn lofts. And a fair amount of vegetables for pickling and drying. The early fruit is coming in, cherries, apricots, peaches and pears—we’re guarding the workers in the fields and risking enemy raiders, and preserving all of it we can, my lady wife and the other gentlewomen have organized supplies of extra jars and sugar and heating pans and are leading the effort. We’re slaughtering everything but the breeding stock of our remaining beef herds and swine and drying, salting and smoking the meat wholesale.”
Tiphaine nodded in sober approval. Food was always one of the most important factors in war; when you came right down to it, fighting was manual muscle-labor as hard as any in the fields, and like farming it also depended on the energy of huge numbers of draught animals who had to be fed as well. If an army didn’t get enough to eat it mutinied or disappeared or just plain died, and hauling food from far away was a nightmare unless you had water transport or at least rails. A city or a castle under siege had to have rations too, and fruit and vegetables were important to prevent scurvy.
You could live a long time on bread and cheese, beans and a little dried fruit and pickled meat.
“But we’re going to lose the rest of the fruit and the apples. Worse, the vintage,” the Count said, wincing slightly. The local wines were famous and a major cash crop. “And it’s not all that long before we have to plow and sow the fall grains.”
“You probably won’t be able to,” Tiphaine said bluntly. “The Kingdom will see that your people don’t starve, and you can plant more spring acreage next year. It’ll be settled by then.”
One way or another, she did not add aloud.
“If we have the seed grain and oxen and horses,” de Aguirre said.
“The Kingdom will help there too,” Tiphaine said firmly. “I have the High King’s word on that, by the way. Everyone’s going to contribute to help rebuild the damaged areas, my lord. If anyone suffers, then we’re all going to do it together. Mutual help is what a Kingdom means.”
The gloomy young nobleman perked up a little. “It’s good to remember we’re a kingdom now,” he said. “And that we have a King. A High King!”
Then he crossed himself. “And the Sword we’ve heard of . . .”
“Quite real, and everything the tales say,” Tiphaine said, copying the gesture. “Everything and more.”
“Then with a Sword granted from the hand of the Queen of Heaven—I’ve heard of Father Ignatius’ vision of her too—we have the certainty of God’s favor! And with that, what need we fear?”
Rudi—Artos—has become our Lucky Rabbit’s Foot, she thought. Poor bastard, he doesn’t dare lose anything substantial, now. He’s what’s keeping our morale up, or at least his legend is. But it’s a young legend, and still fragile. Well, no, it’s not just a legend. The Sword is real.
“We’ve been given a chance, and deliverance from the CUT’s . . . magic, sorcery, Jedi mind-tricks, whatever they were. The rest we have to do ourselves, and be ready to sweat and bleed for it,” Tiphaine said. “God expects us to work for His favor, my lord.”
Or Someone does, she thought, conscious of the owl amulet around her neck beneath the breastplate and arming doublet.
Tiphaine’s eyes narrowed as she looked at the City Palace of the Counts Palatine of the Eastermark. Someone who knew her very well would have read a detached amusement in the expression.
The Palace had been the Marcus Whitman Hotel before the Change; a three-stepped pile twelve stories tall at the hi
ghest point, built of brickfaced concrete in the 1920s’ version of a vaguely Renaissance style. Education in Sandra Arminger’s household had included a full course of actual history rather than the Society mythology turned from play into deadly seriousness which passed for it in the PPA territories most of the time. The Lady Regent herself had spent time seeing that her particular protégés really understood it, too.
Which added layers of ironic flavor to life. The people who’d built this hotel had had a great nobleman’s town house as their model; in fact, back in France before the Revolution “nobleman’s town house” was what the word hôtel had usually meant. It had acquired its modern meaning only after Madame la Guillotine resulted in an abrupt turnover and repurposing in Parisian real estate.
The joke was that now it was exactly what they’d dreamed, what a hôtel had originally been; and that it had been taken for that purpose simply because it looked suitable to men who were shrewd and practical and wouldn’t have known the Italian Renaissance from an Olive Garden dinner special.
It had still needed a great many modifications over the last generation, and not merely because electric machines didn’t work anymore. A palace wasn’t just a place for a ruler to live comfortably, exhibit their stuff and hold parties, though those were essential parts of government. It had to be a barracks for troops and have dormitories for servants, workers, clerks, pages and squires; a clutch of offices and strong rooms; chapels and their attendant priests; armories and repair shops; an infirmary; schoolrooms; kitchens to feed all those as well as put on banquets; and court chambers to hear cases and settle disputes, with their records and law books and land-title registers; and stables and carriage houses and more, including dungeons.
Probably being in the middle of a chartered town full of skilled artisans and well-stocked merchant warehouses meant it didn’t need the dairies and winepresses and weaving sheds and gristmills its rural equivalents would have, but it was still the center of a Great House with hundreds of residents and a ceaseless to-and-fro.
Emberverse 08: The Tears of the Sun Page 50
