“I don’t really see much compelling reason for our lad to wed, actually,” Sister Saltia said, thoughtfully, between sips of onion soup. She was truly enjoying the social battle unfolding in front of her. For a change she wasn’t the subject, and she delighted in watching the conflict between her social betters. “While some additional revenue from dowry lands would be nice, it would also dilute his focus on affairs in Alshar. Assuming you have someone from outside Alshar in mind,” she asked the Countess, innocently.
Pentandra resolved to play a few rounds of dice with the nun, later, and purposefully lose. It was a brilliant question, and gave the ladies of the court a wealth of information about the Countess’ - and the Queen’s - motivations.
“Oh, my yes!” agreed Shirlin, grateful that the matter she’d come to Vorone about was being taken seriously by someone at court. “Her Majesty has proposed a great number of potential matches, each from a distinguished great house or suitably ancient line,” she said, removing a scroll of parchment from a pouch behind her back. She unrolled it and began scanning through the names. “We have an outstanding selection of matrimonial prospects, here, the real cream of the Castali lands . . .”
“Now why under heaven would our lad get himself attached to a Castali bride?” asked Lady Bertine, scornfully. “When there are plenty of pretty Alshari maids at his beck and call?”
“These are all ladies of suitable station and birth,” Countess Shirlin answered, stiffly. “All of whom have been properly vetted for rank and class. Real noblewomen, as befits a sitting Duke,” she finished, triumphantly.
“Vetted by Grendine, you mean?” Lady Bertine scoffed. “Better to be a bachelor forever than wake up a husband with a rat tail in his ear, like his dame!”
“That’s Queen Grendine!” demanded Countess Shirlin, crossly.
“I think His Grace can keep his own counsel on his romantic life,” Pentandra informed the busybody countess, her face amused by her discomfort. “He’s barely been in power a season, yet. Let him get used to power a little before he is forced to share it,” she suggested, reasonably. She really didn’t want an all-out social war between courts, but she also didn’t want Anguin to be no more than Grendine’s puppet, either.
“And allow this . . . this debauchery to continue indefinitely?” the Castali noblewoman sniffed, her lip curling into a sneer.
“Debauchery?” scoffed Viscountess Threanas, speaking up for the first time in a while. “My lady, I came to Vorone as a maid, during the rule of the Black Duke. I assure you, the antics you object so strenuously to are a simple and wholesome pavane compared to the orgies Enguin the Black used to hold here!”
“Orgies?” asked Sister Saltia in a whisper. “What’s an orgy?”
“That was long ago, and I’d assumed Alshar had progressed since that time,” Countess Shirlin replied, stiffly. “It was assumed that the ladies of Alshar knew how to keep their men in order!”
“Our men do not require keeping,” Pentandra said, coldly. “And it is insulting to them to insinuate that they do. I, for one, can think of no compelling reason for His Grace to seek a wife, so early in his reign. He is a young man, newly come to power. Allow him to enjoy it as long as he can before the considerations of dynastic life intrude.”
“Do you want him to sire bastards?” sneered Countess Shirlin angrily. “Because when you mix stupid sluts and horny nobility, you’re going to get bastards!”
Pentandra watched Lady Pleasure’s face turn from mild amusement to barely-controlled wrath. That was an exceedingly sore subject for the courtier, and she was not about to be trifled with over it.
“Bastards?” she said, softly, her tone belying the look in her eyes. “When a child is created out of love – or even out of base commerce – he is no less a man for his parents not having wed.”
“Some of the greatest heroes in the Duchies were bastards,” reminded Sister Saltia.
“And they often carrying the strength of the line more fully than legal children,” pointed out Lady Esmara, clearly thinking of someone in particular, and fondly at that. “That can be a lot of strength,” she added, dreamily.
“If one scorns the laws of Trygg, perhaps one can concede that point,” the stuffy old noblewoman snarled. “To flout the rules of marriage so blatantly invites the displeasure of the goddess!”
“Which goddess?” Lady Pleasure asked, pointedly.
“If the lad doesn’t wed, he cannot violate her laws,” Sister Saltia pointed out, fingering her dice in her left hand. “The Laws of Trygg concern only the responsibilities a husband has for his wife and heirs, and vice versa. They do not apply to the unwedded,” she said, authoritatively.
“Do you see why we enjoy the company of priestesses, Countess?” Threanas asked, pleasantly. “They’re so . . . authoritative. As there are ample means of legitimizing a bastard, it may well serve the duchy best if Anguin’s bachelorhood persists. We can always select an heir later from one of his descendants. There is ancient precedent for that, amongst his Sea Lord ancestors. I don’t see it as a problem if he doesn’t wed.”
“If he doesn’t . . . wed . . .” Shirlin began, but trailed off. Pentandra picked up on the conversational thread and could not help but pull at it until the Countess, herself, unraveled.
“If he doesn’t wed . . . what?” she prompted the woman, sharply.
“All manner of problems result!” Shirlin continued, stiffly. “He will lack an heir, for one thing!”
“If there are no bastards from which to choose, he has two young sisters, either one of whom can marry,” Lady Bertine dismissed. “He can appoint an heir of their ilk. There is no succession crisis, here.”
“Well, then, to strengthen the state alliances,” Shirlin offered, more carefully.
“With the rebels in his own land, or with the foreign queen he’s not particularly well disposed to?” asked Bertine. “Which should his people support? Which will they support?”
“Look,” the Countess said, growing desperate in the face of such widespread opposition to her mission, “any of these noblewomen would make excellent duchesses, and any of them would strengthen the alliance between Castal and Alshar!” she burst out, slapping the scroll on the table, rattling the crockery with the force.
“And put a spy in His Grace’s bed for the rest of his life,” sneered Lady Pleasure, shoving the scroll back at the countess. “Thank you, Excellency, but no. Alshari women will see to the Alshari duke finding his bride . . . in due time. When he is ready. And not at the direction of his murdering aunt!”
Countess Shirlin glared darkly at the baroness. It was clear she was not pleased with the direction of her mission - or the Tea - had taken. In the face of such vocal opposition, she retreated to the one basis of power and command she felt available to her.
“Her Majesty is not going to be pleased that her nephew lives in such deplorable conditions, with such unsteady and uncertain advisors!” she nearly spat as she roughly rolled the parchment and put it back in her pouch.
“What pleases Her Majesty,” Lady Pleasure said, sweetly, “should likely never be spoken of in polite company.” That caused a storm of whispers around the table. “And to be brutally frank, the affairs of Alshar are none of her concern.”
“But she was raised in Alshar! In this very court! Of course she has concerns about how it comports itself!” protested Shirlin angrily.
“And she’s moved on,” Pentandra said, coming to the defense of her fellow courtiers. She may have had issues with each of them, individually, but they all shared an essential and basic loyalty to Anguin, either personally or institutionally. In the face of such a threat, Pentandra was gratified to see the ladies responsible for running the government were unwilling to use the incursion from Castal as a means of advancing themselves. When their lad was threatened, they rallied together to his defense.
“She has her own court. This is Anguin’s. She might think that her pointy hat means that it is hers, too, and can be r
uled by proxy through such base tools as corrupt Baron Edmarin and . . . others,” Pentandra said, her eyes lingering pointedly on the woman’s irate face. “But in that belief she is mistaken.”
“The ladies of Alshar jealously guard our lad,” Threanas added, finding support in the eyes of every other woman around the table. “We have only recently had him returned, and the very last thing we would permit would be for him to be subject to the romantic whims and political schemes of his . . . aunt,” she finished, turning the last term into a slur. “Not when her interest has, historically, not always been in the duchy’s best interest.”
“Why, Her Majesty has always had her homeland’s best interest in mind!” scoffed Countess Shirlin.
That declaration produced such an unanticipated and unstoppable gale of laughter amongst the Alshari ladies that Shirlin looked around, confused and sputtering, while they sought to marshal themselves.
“Grendine had an international reputation for having it out for Alshar since she was a girl in this very palace!” laughed Viscountess Threanas. “Shall we review the result of her compassionate interest? A third of the duchy taken by Castal, a third in rebellion, and a third invaded and occupied. Thus far, her protection of Alshari interests has been . . . checkered, at best. How shall we endure more of this woman’s benevolence?” she wailed, tears coming out of the corners of her eyes as she laughed.
“This is hardly the way a loyal subject speaks of her monarch!” insisted Shirlin, who was out of productive and reasonable arguments in the face of united opposition.
“We are loyal to our duke, Excellency,” Lady Bertine insisted, forcing herself to stop laughing. “Whomever His Grace elects to swear fealty to, in his wisdom and guided by the gods, well, we will follow him.
“But this bloody-handed woman who wears three-fifths of a crown? She does not rule in Alshar. She hates Alshar, though she seeks to impose her will here. She may reign over Alshar - that is not my decision. But she does not rule Alshar. Duke Anguin, may the gods preserve our brave lad, does!”
There was a little more, but in the presence of such strong opposition to her mission, all that the Countess could do was make a retreat as graciously and as dignified as she could. Any illusions she had about taking control over the “simple” women of the “rustic” Alshari court were shattered, now. If Grendine thought she could rule Vorone by proxy through this woman, she would have to go about it another way. No one at the table wanted to see the Duke prematurely wed to some controlling Castali noblewoman whose first loyalty was to Grendine, not her husband.
Pentandra finished her meal and her tea with a new respect for Threanas, Bertine, Saltia, even for Lady Pleasure, who had not taken the opportunity to use Shirlin’s appearance to divide the court, as she could have. Despite her misgivings about Lady Pleasure’s motivations, operations, and eventual plans, she was Pentandra’s problem, not Grendine’s – and certainly not Shirlin’s. The two women (or one woman and one goddess) might have been at odds, but neither of them were willing to involve someone as disruptive as Grendine and her lackeys into the middle of the conflict.
No, Pentandra reflected, despite the petty differences – or very real differences – each of the women in the court had with each other over matters of policy, propriety, and appearance, those were relatively minor in the face of a threat from outside. Countess Shirlin reminded them all that there were others watching the court, others who were all too willing to usurp control of it, if they were not watchful. And united.
Pentandra made a note to remember to thank the Queen for that, someday, if she ever had the opportunity. If Countess Shirlin hadn’t arrived at Vorone when she did, and galvanized the women of the court against her, there was no telling how chaotic things might get when the inevitable political or military crisis erupted.
Sometimes, Pentandra reflected as she walked back to her office, all it took to bring a group of powerful women together in consensus was one utterly irritating and unredeemable cunt.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Plots & Preparations
Pentandra began looking forward to the Spring Wildflower Festival despite herself.
It was hard not to, as the preparations started to take shape in town and in the palace around her. Everyone else was genuinely anticipating the festival, and the season was cooperating by producing brilliant blossoms in the fields and hedgerows around the town for the holiday.
The snows long melted, the rains starting to fade, Spring was coming to the Wilderlands with a belligerent vengeance after a long, cold, snowy winter. The fruit trees burst into flower with robust abundance, filling the town with a faint, sweet scent that occasionally cut through the odor of the sewers, the animals, the wood smoke, and garbage.
Along with the flowers, unfortunately, came an abundance of pollen. While the season conspired to produce its most brilliant gifts, the residue from the blossoms filled the sky with a yellow haze every evening, the pollen was so thick. A bright yellow coating covered every surface, and while many enjoyed the beauty of the flowers, many others did so through a haze of mucus and congestion.
Even the open sewers of Vorone were decorated with the stuff, turning the ubiquitous river of filth running through the center of town into a deceptively gay golden path. While the spring rains were frequent enough to rinse the worst of the pollen from Vorone’s cobbled streets every few days, the plants seemed determined to make up for the loss by producing yet more of the insidious yellow dust.
Pentandra didn’t mind the pollen – she had spells for that – but when she looked at the sewer covered with bright golden powder, it seemed to reflect her suspicions about the entire Wildflower Festival event.
What mire might be hidden beneath Ishi’s thin mantle of misdirection, she wondered?
From what she knew about the mythology of the goddess, Ishi schemed like Duin thundered and Huin worked the land. It was part of her essential nature. Rarely did those schemes end well for the mortals involved. While that made great romantic poetry and good religious instruction, when you were the one who happened to be entangled in one of the goddess’ schemes, the allure of myth lost some of its appeal.
Pentandra was having mixed feelings about the matter. So many of the townsfolk seemed excited about the coming festival, especially after the riots on Briga’s Day. They were marking it as the first true important social event since the funerals of Their Graces.
The woodland theme of the holiday was embraced by a town that too often felt the Sea Lords had advanced their culture over the rustics in the north. The idea of a masque was likewise greeted with particular excitement. Despite their attempts to keep the business of the Woodsmen and the Wood Owls secret, the mystery of the apparent criminals had sprouted a romantic attachment to them. A few enterprising merchants were already making good coin constructing masks of willow, cloth, and glue for civilians who had taken up the fashion of masks.
The festival was a good thing. Pentandra knew that, intellectually.
While she had no real desire to see Lady Pleasure prosper – she found the woman obnoxious and hells-bent on injecting her influence throughout the court, whenever possible – she also appreciated the massive effort she was deploying on the festival’s behalf. As it was dedicated to Ishi, in her guise as the Maiden of Spring, Pentandra found the dedication just a little self-serving. Her girls – the “maidens”, as they were being called now everywhere in town – seemed to be everywhere, running errands and organizing events in between flirting outrageously with every man they saw.
Pentandra could not fault their industry. Far from trying to pawn their organizational responsibilities off on the men they seduced, the girls seemed determined that the event would not only come to pass, but that it would be remembered for years for its novelty and excellence.
They were at the palace before daybreak, when the gates opened, and many ended up sleeping over (in a variety of beds) if they were caught working on the festival after the gates were locked for
the night. From what Pentandra had seen, Lady Pleasure’s maidens had arranged for ample entertainments, security, special vendors, and had even organized many of the non-military contests associated with the event, from the beauty contest to the basketry competition.
The archery competition was particularly important. Count Salgo had been despairing over the number and types of troops that protected the town, and while he had finally pronounced the royal garrison “adequate” after sacking dozens of lackluster soldiers, and he’d made a stab at building up the palace guard, there were still far too few trained and armed men at his command for his comfort.
One of the efforts during the popular spring festival, therefore, was a grand archery competition, opened to all, with relatively impressive prizes for the difficult contest. That was exceedingly popular with the Voroni. While the nobility were a little irritated that their traditional sport, jousting, would not be offered at the festival, they had to concede that the novelty of a grand archery competition was intriguing.
It helped that the Wilderlords did not generally share the dismissive attitude of their southern peers when it came to the art of the bow. There were Castali and Remeran lords who had never touched one and sneered at them as ignoble weapons of the peasantry. Whereas, just about every man north of Gilmora could shoot a bow, and the powerfully laminated Wilderlands bow was nearly six feet long when strung.
Count Salgo was offering additional incentives than mere prizes for the winner. Every man who presented a marshal or knight with a strung bow, extra bowstring, and a quiver of a score or more of arrows was given a half an ounce of silver on the spot. If he had either armor or helm he was gifted a brand-new steel spearhead and a lamb, in addition.
Court Wizard: Book Eight Of The Spellmonger Series Page 60
