The Lords of Blood and Honey (The Kingdom of Honey)
Page 5
Allessia mimicked Forster Culcuth.
‘Of what are ye made, child?’
‘I am made of Suffering.’
‘And how are thee made from Suffering?’
‘I am made from Seven Immortal Agonies; Fear, Pain, Loss, Confusion…’
‘Enough, enough!’ cried her mother.
As Pooter listened, he recalled the self-same repetitions being drummed into his head by the awful Forster Sideliss, and a shiver ran through his body.
‘Oh please, say that I do not have to see Forster Culcuth anymore!’
‘Forster Culcuth has been chosen personally by Bishop Constantly, to lead you in the ways of the Holy Church,’ said her father. ‘He is a most able, and respected, teacher.’
‘He stinks. He sits close to me. He breathes over me. And he makes me sick!’
Footsteps entered the room and a series of instructions were given to what Pooter guessed were several drollups. Allessia must be bathed, scented - without fail - and then dressed. She must be given a light meal of blanched roots and poached robin’s eggs.
‘I will return soon, my dear,’ said her mother, and Pooter heard her parents leave the room.
There came an ominous sound of growling within the passageway, distant at first, but getting louder by the minute. Then came a fearsome bark and a man’s voice. ‘What ails ‘e boy.’ Pooter’s presence had been detected, and he was now being tracked by one of the Palace’s fearsome hounds.
He raced away, his footsteps amplified in the confined space to echo like a beacon. ‘After ‘im boy!’ he heard a voice cry, followed by a cacophony of barking as the hound gave chase. He ran full pelt, and in but a minute almost fell through a doorway into a wide corridor lined with suits of armour. Amongst their number was the solitary figure of a Vulfking fighting beast, the much feared vulfbear. Stuffed and mounted, the creature stood over ten feet tall on its two hind legs, its mouth baring a row of sharp white teeth, whilst vicious claws, each one several inches long, pawed the air at the end of two powerful forearms. Such was Pooter’s panic it took him but a few seconds to tear open a seam and climb inside the beast. The smell was indescribably awful, but he dragged himself deeper into the loose stuffing until he was completely out of sight. Through the vulfbear’s mouth he saw the guard race into the corridor, their hound snarling by their side. But as they reached the vulfbear the growls turned to whines; this was not a beast they wished to mess with. ‘By the bees!’ cried the guard, as he gathered a nostril full of the nauseous scent. Hound and master hurried by, clearly as relieved as each other to leave the vicinity.
Silence fell, and as it did so, Pooter’s eyes started to water. The foul air stuck to the back of his throat, almost choking his breath. He heard further growls as another guard with a hound approached. He shuffled deeper into the clawing atmosphere, releasing further clouds of scent into the Palace air. As they too passed hurriedly by, he gave thanks to the awful beast that was clearly saving his life.
Pooter had a good view of the corridor through the creature’s mouth and at length it became silent once more. Then he saw a strange figure moving slowly towards him. At first he wondered whether his eyes were playing tricks, but the shadow that hugged the walls as it came closer, soon became a reality. Pooter was struck by its size, for the figure was certainly over one foot taller than any of the guards he had seen. Despite a somewhat hunched gait, it moved with stealth that was at once graceful and fearsome. Though clearly having two legs rather than four, Pooter found himself reminded of the giant Jeruba cats that he had taken his children to see in the Royal Zoo. After each series of three paces, the figure stopped, and whilst it was difficult to see within the gloom, Pooter sensed it was moving its head to and fro, as if searching its surroundings for signs of life. It moved on, step by step, and then stopped again to peer back and forth once more, not a single sound emanating from its direction. Footsteps could be heard approaching, and as Pooter watched in awe the figure seemed to slide into the wall. A clergyman appeared, probably a forst, judging by their dark drab vestments tied at the waist with a simple leather belt. He was muttering under his breath words that Pooter could not hear, but was clearly in a state of high anxiety.
‘By the bees!’ the man gasped, as the scent of the Vulfbear reached his nostrils, and he hurried by emitting deep phlegm-ridden coughs to disappear from view.
Pooter tried to see where the strange cat-like figure had gone, and suddenly it reappeared before him, its body seeming to slide out of the wall once more. Its head swung to and fro in a more agitated fashion, whilst a long sharp object it held in its hand swept backward and forward, as if smelling the air. Suddenly it took off at such speed that Pooter only had time to see a flash of yellow and black, an oval head, two huge grey eyes, and a face that seemed as flat as a coin.
Chapter 6
Lord Chillhide stared at the men entering the room to take a seat at the long table before him. Though still but a young man of twenty-five, Chillhide’s natural attributes had elevated him quickly through the ranks of nobility. He was handsome in a way that both men and women admire, tall, athletic, and with a mind of more than capable wit and comprehension. His voice too, was an instrument of rare quality, and more than capable of persuading even an obstinate heart, to yield to his opinion. Most important to the men gathered before him, however, was the fact that he was also a true Mascone heir, the offspring of a King and one of the Queen’s femones. And so it was that the Lord Chillhide, under a cloak of secrecy, had some years earlier been chosen by a powerful group of nobles, as a candidate for the next vacant Crown.
The noble conspirators had started gathering as soon as the sound of St. Vacant’s Bells had filled the air, and now as they finally fell silent, they waited for Chillhide to speak.
‘Are we all here, Your Grace?’ Chillhide asked, turning to his most trusted ally, the Duke of Westnaine, Palace Overlord, at his side.
‘We are, My Lord,’ replied Westnaine, his face lined with the stresses that age and Court intrigue had levied against his once robust constitution.
‘My friends,’ Chillhide began. ‘King Samel is dead. May They greet and bless his soul for evermore in the Blessed Afterwards.’
‘Amen to all that,’ came the reverent response.
‘We must await the findings of Post-Deadness to establish why our liege has departed this life. Though he had been ill for some time, none of his known ailments were life threatening.’
There was a murmur of disquiet and several whispers relating to ’treachery’ and an ‘unseen hand’.
‘But whatever the cause,’ Chillhide continued, ‘the moment we have waited and planned for, for so long, is now upon us. That you have chosen me to be its fountainhead fills my soul with gratitude. Praise Them that the next few days will see the Crown secured at last, by our Noble Purethic cause.’
There was a general murmur of approval, the atmosphere in the room fired with a growing sense of expectation.
‘Is Our Lady prepared?’ Chillhide asked, turning to the figure of the Earl Rumball, a large man of authoritative features sat to his left.
‘Allessia is ready, My Lord,’ Rumball replied, bowing his head.
‘And is she aware of what will soon be expected of her? Queen Camellia is still with title, but the scent grows weak.’
‘For but three more days, she is still a child, My Lord, but even now the rarest attributes are beyond question. Already her drollups must bathe and scent her three times a day. And Bishop Constantly has taken the utmost care with her spiritual preparation. When the time is come, she will serve you, and the Kingdom, well.’
‘Then you have served us well,’ said Chillhide, and Rumball gave a bow of his head that only partly disguised his satisfaction. ‘And what news of Bishop Constantly?’ Chillhide then asked. ‘I worry often on the many dangers he confronts daily. Cardinal Oblong has a rare intuition when it comes to treachery amongst those that serve him, as we have seen on more than one occasion. He must
take care to appear disinterested in any cause that goes contrary to those of His Mostfull.’
‘His Fullness is reminded regularly, My Lord,’ replied Rumball, bowing yet again.
‘And the Army?’ Chillhide asked, turning his bright blue eyes to Lord-Marshall Highgate, Commander of the King’s Army. Highgate was a powerfully built tall man with a dramatic white handlebar moustache, a red wind-hardened face that was as tough as leather, and fierce jet-black eyes. As the man who gave orders to the Kingdom’s most eminent fighting force, he was a vital ally to the noble cause, but his support came with an element of risk that was impossible to control. His propensity to lose his temper was such that a very loose cannon, and mouth, were never very far away from action.
‘If our rightful Purethic cause should be denied, My Lord,’ Highgate boomed in a military manner, ‘it will follow my command.’
‘Your service will not be forgotten,’ said Chillhide, and Highgate gave a simple nod of acknowledgement that was met with quiet relief by several present.
‘My friends,’ said Chillhide, addressing the entire gathering. ‘Though we are a small group in number, there are many other nobles at Court with deep misgivings over the rising power of the Church. That His Mostfull, Cardinal Oblong, intends to Nominate the Baron Pencille to the Crown, will be beyond bearing to any heart that cares for the future of our beloved Kingdom.’
‘Indeed that is so!’ exclaimed Rumball. ‘For I have met the Baron Pencille, and an impression of weakness and depravity has stayed with me.’
‘If Pencille were to become our King,’ added Westnaine, ‘then the Church would become the Crown. For there can be no doubt who would pull the strings of power.’
‘Have no fear,’ said Chillhide. ‘That travesty will never have to be endured. And where are we with the Board of Doings? If I am to be King, it would be better by far that their High Sirrels willingly endorse the Crown to put upon my head. Do we have sufficient number primed to our cause?’
‘At such a time, My Lord,’ said Westnaine, ‘their fear of Cardinal Oblong works in our favour. Though their High Sirrels ply the Church with money to receive the Sacrament of Indemnification, they do not wish to see the expansion of Oblong’s power into the Crown. That he can barter redemption for their souls with the fruits of his Sacred Hellholes, is as much as they are prepared to endure. We have secured sufficient intentions, Your Grace, and can count upon them.’
‘The Hellholes are an abomination,’ said Chillhide grimly. ‘That we have suffered His Mostfull to build such a place within our midst is a crime in which we all must share. No one amongst us can claim they did not know the endless torment that the Innocents are subjected to, in that terrible place.’
‘When you sit upon the Throne, it will be destroyed and the Innocents cared for,’ said Westnaine. ‘In this, too, we are all resolved.’
There was a general murmur of approval.
‘But what of His Oneness?’ asked Chillhide. ‘Do we know the intentions of the Hivedom?’
There was silence as all minds turned to the dreadful prospect of confrontation with the name of Lord Hardknot.
‘As always, My Lord,’ said Westnaine at length, ‘His Oneness keeps his counsel close to his heart.’
‘Has he been asked, directly?’ asked Chillhide.
He looked around the table and several heads fell downcast before him.
‘Then we must ask him,’ he continued. ‘We must know where his loyalties lie.’
‘They lie only with the Hivedom,’ said Rumball, ‘and with none other.’ He sat back and tapped his knee with obvious anxiety.
‘His Oneness is truly a devoted servant to his own domain,’ said Chillhide, ‘but he is also a loyal servant to Queen Camellia. It is the gift that the Royal Honeybees alone can provide, that brings life from her womb. It is beyond belief that Lord Hardknot will support the Nomination of Baron Pencille, for to do so would bring the Hivedom even closer to the will of His Mostfull. Oblong would use the power of the Crown to destroy him, as he must know. His Oneness will surely support our Noble cause.’
The Duke of Westnaine sat forward. ‘In the affairs of state, My Lord, experience has shown that it does not do well to guess the intentions of His Oneness. His brain is as quick as a snake, and twice as deadly. Who knows the thoughts that rise and fall behind those selenite grey eyes? That he would support the Baron Pencille to become our King is, as you have said, beyond belief. But more than that, we should not dare to presume.’
There was silence whilst all considered these words, and then Lord Chillhide spoke again.
‘We must know his intentions, Your Grace,’ he said to Westnaine. ‘You must ask him directly.’
Westnaine sat back, and though he nodded with acknowledgment of the order placed upon him, the look on his face was one of resignation.
‘I shall ask him, My Lord,’ he said. ‘But let us pray that he will answer me.’
‘Then we are resolved,’ said Chillhide addressing the gathering once more. ‘Tomorrow the King shall be laid in State for three days. When the required period of mourning is at an end, I shall stake my Nomination before the Board of Doings. When I am King, the Lady Allessia can be revealed, and the Noble Purethic line will rule our beloved Kingdom at last. But if any hand should seek to oppose our rightful cause, then the King’s Army, under our Lord-Marshall Highgate’s command, will take action to show them the error of their ways. Be in no doubt, my friends. Whichever way the blocks of fate do fall, in but days from now, we shall hold the Crown.’
Chapter 7
Allessia looked at her face in the mirror and wondered who she was. Staring into the stars that sparkled in her deep violet eyes and trying to see beyond them some long forgotten memory, helped her to pass the interminable hours of her life. The hope that one day she would see something recognisable, and a hand would leap through the glass, grab hold of her, and say; ‘This is who you have been all along.’ Then she would smile at her own reflection and say; ‘Of course, I had forgotten.’ This was a game she felt compelled to play until tiredness took hold and she moved away from the mirror, sat on the bed with her head in her hands, and cried silent tears, lest the guards outside her door should hear.
Allessia knew she was beautiful, a fact confirmed not only by her parents, Earl and Lady Rumball, who both told her so regularly, but also by the way men now looked at her. They all had that look, even her parent’s closest friends like the Duke of Westnaine, though he was quite old, and the handsome young Lord Chillhide, who seemed to take a particular interest in her wellbeing and whom she somehow forgave. Whether Noble or Guard, it was hard not to miss the way their eyes drifted, as if losing focus, whenever she stood before them. Even Bishop Constantly was not beyond getting glassy-eyed when he visited to administer the Sacrament of Holy Unison, his hands often trembling as she opened her lips and the Word was placed upon her tongue. But worst of all was Forster Culcuth, for he made no secret at all of the powerful affect her nature now had upon him. She saw it in his face every time he sat with her for Holy Indoctrination. He would move close to her, and she would smell dirt and stale sweat, and a shaking hand would take hold of one of hers and begin to point it at the words whilst a voice heavy with phlegm whispered in her ear. Worse still was when he tried to kiss her, making of it a reward for her attention, or some other spurious reason for holding her to him. Her helplessness was complete, for Culcuth was a clever man, and everything he did could be interpreted in the most innocent way. And so, despite her regular protests to her parents, Forster Culcuth always reappeared at the appointed time for her lesson. But Allessia knew all, and deep within the freshness of her heart, a seed of hatred for the Holy Church of Afterwards was sown.
Allessia knew she would soon be eighteen years old, the first Prime Age. She was a lady of noble birth, and soon, she was regularly told, she would be granted a wonderful future, the endless routines and lessons all just a preparation for a glorious day that was fast approaching.
‘Be patient, sweet Allessia,’ her mother would reply. ‘For tomorrow will be brighter than the brightest sun, and you will be the sweetest star in the heavens by far.’
But patience is an idle virtue in the young, and when her mother departed, Allessia would forget her books and move to the window, passing the hours watching the distant figures far below as they moved freely through the City. And as she now stared once more, she reflected how strange it was that she had no recollection at all of ever having visited this other life. No matter how hard she pushed her memory back into her mind, only the Seventy-Third Wing of the Palace came into view. There was nothing else.
Her drollups arrived to bathe, scent and dress her. She did not like to upset them, their nature being as gentle as could be, but this time she was in no mood for their fussing. They stood like cattle and stared with doleful eyes at the small bottle of musky green scent Allessia pushed angrily away; the bottle her parents insisted they now use at least three times a day.
‘Leave me,’ she ordered softly, and being unable to refuse her command, they left the room with downcast heads.
Allessia opened the window and sat on the sill. It was a beautiful evening, the sky swept clean and the air vibrant. She breathed in deeply, and when she exhaled she felt a part of her being leave her body to be carried away on the breeze. It was an odd sensation, but an enjoyable one, so she delighted in repeating the action several times. With each new breath, a feeling of freedom suffused her mind with energy. She felt totally alive, her senses heightened in a way she had not experienced before.
The door bursting open bought Allessia back to the present moment. It was Forster Culcuth, arrived for Holy Indoctrination.
‘Let me comfort ye with the scriptures, child,’ he wheezed, after a deeply unpleasant rattling cough, his face fixed with excitement. ‘For the blessings of Holy Unison, give succor to us all.’