by Candy Rae
“Better to pray for those of us who are still alive,” said Tom Brentwood in a dry voice, “but I imply no criticism. The royal family?”
“Safe in the Citadel. Xavier didn’t touch the women and children.”
“And the Queen?”
“Devastated,” answered Romauld, “Crown-Princess Susan is bearing up pretty well all things considered.”
“Conclave?”
“No one.” Romauld answered. “The Dukes of van Buren and Smith have fled back to their duchies and Xavier has disappeared into thin air.”
“He was never good in a crisis,” observed the Primate. “Pierre Cocteau, where is he?”
“I presume he is also in his Duchy, he wasn’t here when Xavier took over and he stayed away afterwards. Hedging his bets I suppose, his wife…”
“Is the late King’s sister, I understand. No doubt that he condoned Xavier’s plot though?”
“No doubt, he was in it up to his neck, least in the beginning.”
“Where is the Duke of North Baker, have you heard?”
“He’s defending his borders, though we believe the Larg have not entered North Baker itself. The Lord Marshall is with the Regiments in Brentwood.”
“Who is in charge here?”
“Colonel Morgan arrived this morning,” Father Romauld answered.
Tom Brentwood nodded. He knew the Colonel of old. He had retired from active service and was a solid and dependable officer with a lot of experience though perhaps not the person Tom Brentwood would have chosen.
“You My Lord Archbishop,” said Father Romauld, “are the only Conclave member remaining to us. You must take charge. Those officers who survived are running around like headless rudtkas. Colonel Morgan is talking about taking what troops he can gather together and marching out to confront the Larg.”
“Suicide.”
“That’s what I thought, Crown-Princess Susan thinks so too but she has no authority. She tried to talk to him but he wouldn’t listen.”
“He’ll listen to me,” declared the Archbishop. “Prince Elliot? King Elliot I should say?”
“No one knows. Crown-Prince Paul recalled him home before all this happened, but the communications network has disintegrated.”
Tom Brentwood thought for a moment. “I can assure you that Colonel Morgan will not be departing Fort.” He rose to his feet, a figure of determined intent. “Go to Crown-Princess Susan, ask her, no, tell her to meet me in the Conclave Chamber in a candle-mark. We need a figurehead and that figurehead is she.”
“You My Lord?”
“I’m going to see Colonel Morgan to beat some sense into him. Did the Castle Seneschal survive Xavier’s ministrations?”
“Yes he did. Most of the palace servants and slaves did. The royal bodyguard, no, they died almost to a man defending the Crown-Prince. Six of them survived, they were off duty at the time of the coup and managed to hide.”
“And the Company of Foot that was supposed to be guarding the family. What of them?”
“Fled.”
“Captain Henot?” asked Tom Brentwood, referring to the man who by opening the castle gates had allowed Xavier’s coup to succeed.
“Dead by Xavier’s orders. His family too I believe.”
A disgusted Tom Brentwood frowned. In Murdoch the sins of the fathers were never vested on the children, a measure designed to try to keep the fabric of society intact. A rebel noble might forfeit his life but his inheritance was considered sacrosanct and was always passed on to his legal male heir.
“Right. Once you have spoken to Crown-Princess Susan, go find the Seneschal and tell him to start bringing in provisions from the town into the complex here.”
“On whose authority?”
“Mine,” snapped Tom Brentwood, “and by the authority of the Crown-Princess. If anyone argues send him to me.”
“The people in the town below will wonder.”
“The populace will be coming into the Citadel,” he explained. “Now go.”
Tom Brentwood turned and stomped away down the central aisle of the chapel.
An amazed Father Romauld watched him go, bowed in a hurried manner to the altar, before speeding off to find Crown-Princess Susan. Perhaps there was hope for them all after all.
* * * * *
The Crown-Princess
Trying to ignore her inner disquiet, Crown-Princess Susan took a deep breath as she entered the Conclave Chamber and walked with outward confidence to take the seat at its head - the heavy ornate chair that was the monarch’s own. Inside she was shaking like a leaf. She was sure the men could hear her knees knocking beneath her kirtle.
Once settled, she looked round at the astonished faces. The only occupant of the seats there by right was the Archbishop Primate Tom Brentwood, the others were those of lesser rank, called to Conclave by him or Colonel Morgan who had assumed command of the Citadel. Baron Martin Taviston was there. He was standing beside two officers she recognised from the Archbishop’s personal guard. She did not know any of the other men.
Archbishop Brentwood watched her seat herself with a twinkle in his eye, acknowledged her presence with a bow and continued his briefing.
The Archbishop was the eldest son of a duke, his early years had been spent studying martial arts and civil governance to prepare himself to rule the duchy his father had assumed would be his one day, except that the young Duke-Heir hadn’t wanted to become Duke of Brentwood. A deeply religious young man, he had yearned for a life in religion and aged eighteen had abdicated his ducal rights in favour of his sister and had entered the Seminary at Mahler.
His rise within the church had been spectacular, Father Brentwood becoming Bishop of Duchesne at the age of thirty-five. He had been elected Archbishop seven years later.
Now, aged sixty-eight he was a respected prelate. He had spoken out against Prince-Duke Xavier��s coup with vehemence before fleeing Fort before he could be arrested. Now he had returned to give what advice and leadership he could.
“Princess Susan?” he said at last and all eyes followed his towards the black-clad widow. His tone was encouraging and she took courage from this obvious invitation to take part in the conference and not merely to listen and observe.
“I think Archbishop, that we must work together here, traditions to the contrary,” she said.
The old man smiled. “I agree,” he said, ignoring the outraged faces of the men gathered around him. “Will I continue with the briefing?”
“If you would Archbishop.”
“Now Gentlemen.” Tom Brentwood began again, “we were discussing the defence of the Citadel were we not?”
“And the town,” Susan reminded him. “Colonel Morgan, what have you to report?”
“The populace is preparing,” he answered, looking at Tom Brentwood.
“Say what you’ve got to say to Crown-Princess Susan,” the Archbishop ordered.
The Colonel looked at him, saw that he meant what he said and recovering his aplomb, nodded and turned his body to face the black clad Dowager Crown-Princess.
“Madam,” he said with stiff a bow.
“If you would just recap?” Susan encouraged. “I will need to be aware of all the facts before I come to a decision.”
“The outer walls of the town are not defensible. Many have been allowed to crumble and to fall into disrepair. We are also not sure just how many kohorts have entered Cocteau but we believe at least eight.”
“How many Larg is that?”
“Upwards of ten thousand,” he replied in a flat voice. “With the Regiments in Brentwood facing as many if not more, they can do nothing to help, even if they could get here in time.”
“Where are the kohorts exactly?” asked Susan.
“The very edge of north-eastern Cocteau at last report,” he answered. “They are moving northwards on a fairly wide front but are staying in touch with the river. I have concluded that everyone living within say twenty to thirty miles west of the River Murdoch, if n
ot dead already soon will be. We think they will cross into South Baker any day now. There are also reports of smaller groups of Larg on the eastern side of the river, in van Buren.”
“I presume you are going to tell me that we can do nothing to help them?”
“Nothing My Lady. I’ve sent as many men out to warn those in their path as I can and can only hope that they are heeding my warnings and moving west, out of immediate danger.”
“Those near Fort are travelling here,” added Tom Brentwood. “The population in the town has already increased by over five per cent.”
“Are you sure the town walls are not strong enough to hold them off?” asked Susan.
“They might have been if there had been time to repair them and if we had enough soldiers to hold them but as it is …”
“Then the people must come up here, up to the Citadel,” insisted Susan. “The walls are certainly high and strong enough and with the smaller perimeter we can surely hold the Larg off until relief gets here?”
“Over eight thousand people?” Colonel Morgan exclaimed, “at least that, probably many more. It is impossible!”
“Colonel Morgan, I disagree. We have a water supply, food can be brought in,” she said in a no nonsense voice. “It will be cramped but better that than dead.”
Her voice was very similar in tone to that of her dead husband. Archbishop Brentwood put his hand in front of his mouth to hide a smile. “Standing room only,” he quipped, “Princess Susan is right, better to endure some discomfort than be ripped apart by the Larg.”
“Do it,” commanded Susan, rising to her feet and beckoning Tom Brentwood to approach, “I want everyone up here, man, woman, child and slave. Turn no one away.”
She held Colonel Morgan’s eye with a steely glint, also reminiscent of her husband and he wilted.
“Yes Ma’am,” he agreed with reluctant respect.
* * * * *
The Ammokko
The engines of the gigantic spaceship were slowing as it made its ponderous approach through the outer rims of the solar system.
Its occupants were readying themselves, their green hides glistening under the lights that illuminated the cabins and passageways, preparing the empty holds for the spoils they would steal from the planet.
On the command bridge the Captain, the Leader of the Dglai watched over the consoles with satisfaction. It was going well.
Qu stretched out his stubby wings and swept them up and down. Once the Dglai had been able to fly through the skies but the generations spent in space had atrophied their wing muscles to the extent that they could now only fly short bursts and with much effort.
They had had to devise alternative means of transport for the often extended periods when they ‘visited’ various planets.
In the hold of the Ammokko lay twenty-four Quorko. They were small scouting ships - fast, dangerous vessels with a firing weapon in their snout that belched forth bursts of fiery flame.
The twenty-fifth Quorko was on the planet now, watching and observing. That Quorko’s commander, Quoi had transmitted his most recent report not two svans ago. The Larg were attacking their enemies.
Qu began to preen himself. That had been a good idea of Quio’s, to use these Larg to destroy any opposition that the Dglai would otherwise have had to deal with themselves. Let them bleed and die for the furtherance of the Dglai goal. They would get their reward when the time was right.
Once again the Dglai would be victorious. Once again Qu felt no remorse for the death and destruction the Ammokko’s arrival would herald.
* * * * *
The Convent
The Mother House of the Order of Grey Nuns lay some eight miles north of the small township of Brindal on the eastern side of the Duchy of Cocteau and some ten miles west of the River Murdoch, that great waterway that bisected the Kingdom.
Unlike the nuns of the Thibaltine Convent a half days ride to the north, these in grey habited nuns were well-known and respected amongst the inhabitants of the area. The Grey Nuns were a teaching order and the sisters gave their services free to the town-children and those who lived on the surrounding farms and estates.
When word came to the Headman of the town of Brindal that the kohorts were on their way, one of his first acts had been to send a boy on a swift horse to warn the sisters.
Thus it was, in the middle of the night that Sister Eanfled, whose turn it was to watch over the entrance door, was woken by the rat-tat-tat of the heavy knocker.
Opening the shutter, she peeped out through the grill and spied one of the older boys from Brindal who not realising that his ministrations had evoked a response, continued to hammer at the door.
“Danny,” Sister Eanfled said in a loud voice. “Danny! What is it?”
“Oh Sister,” Danny gasped. “Headman sent me. It’s the Larg. They’re on their way. Hundreds and thousands of them!”
Sister Eanfled’s face paled. Her hands trembled as she began to ease open the bolts that secured the outer door, so shocked was she that she quite forgot to utter the traditional words of welcome as, door ajar, Danny squeezed inside.
“How did you get here?” she asked.
“Horse. He’s tied up outside. I’ve not got long Sister. Is Mother Breguswið awake?”
“Wait here,” commanded Sister Eanfled and ran out of the welcoming room and into the convent proper.
Danny was surprised how short a time it was before Sister Eanfled returned, accompanied by the stately Mother Abbess. He did not realise until later that the Candle-mark of Matins, the time when the sisters worshipped the Officium Lectionis was upon them and that all the nuns had been making their way into the chapel, sandaled feet padding on the cool flagstones.
Mother Breguswið was an oasis of calm set against the agitated form of Sister Eanfled who, Danny noted, was visibly shaking.
“How long to we have and how many?” Breguswið asked.
“Not long, by morning certainly,” Danny answered.
Mother Breguswið nodded. “Your people, the good people of Brindal?”
“When I left Mother, they were fortifying the chapel.” The chapel was the only stone structure of any size in the township; it was the obvious place for the townsfolk to make their stand. “We hope to hold them off.”
“We shall pray for them,” said Mother Breguswið, “and Danny, you cannot go back there, you realise this?”
“Yes Mother. I’m going on to the Thibaltine Convent to warn them.”
Mother Breguswið smiled, “there you will certainly be safe.” She was thinking of the grim buildings where the Thibaltines had their House. It was an ex-fort and had once belonged to the Dukes of Cocteau.
“I wish I could take at least one of you with me,” Danny said, “but I’ve got my little brother on the horse with me and there’s no room for another.”
“I understand,” said Mother Breguswid with a gentle smile as she began to push the distressed lad towards the door.
“But what about you Mother Abbess?” asked Danny.
“We would not reach the House of the Thibaltines in time,” she answered. “The Larg run fast, faster than a horse and we have only the two old mares and they’ve not had even so much as a canter for many a long year. We will lock our doors and pray for salvation, if not in this world then in the next.”
By now, Danny was outside.
“Go,” urged Mother Breguswið, “Tell Mother Superior Mary-Catherine that we are praying for her and hers and ask them to pray for us. Warn as many farms on the way as you can.”
Danny nodded, “I’d have done that anyway.” He was crying.
He knew that the Mother House of the Grey Sisters had not been built withstand an attack. It was unlikely that the thin mud-brick walls could keep the Larg at bay.
“God keep you,” whispered the Mother Abbess as she shut the door. Danny heard the bolts being rammed home.
Danny kicked his mount into a canter.
He was crying as he rode, crying
for the sisters and their young charges and also for his fellow townspeople of Brindal who might even now be defending their church against the kohorts.
Mother Breguswið took a deep breath as she turned away from the door and caught Sister Eanfled’s eye.
“Ask Sister Earcongota that I wish to see her, now, before Matins,” she ordered.
“Yes Mother.”
“And say nothing about this to the others yet. I will tell them myself. Come back here. You will open the door to anyone seeking peace and solitude. They may pray with us in the chapel,”
“I will Mother,” Sister Eanfled replied, taking courage from Breguswid’s calm acceptance of the situation.
“The children in the school annex must not hear of this. Let them wake as normal. After we have broken our fast we shall decide where they should go.”
“The older ones may wish to join us in chapel,” ventured Sister Eanfled.
“Quite so, but the younger girls, I will not fill what is likely to be their last candle-marks with horror and trepidation.”
“The Larg may pass us by.”
“They might,” she answered as she floated away to officiate at the Matins prayers.
The sisters made their preparations. The Candle-mark of Lauds passed. By the candle-mark that heralded the Terce Prayers, Sister Eanfled and Sister Hereswald, who had been keeping each other company in the welcoming room, lifted their heads.
“What was that?” asked Sister Hereswald.
“Time to go to the chapel,” Sister Eanfled replied, rising from her knees. “No one will come to our doors now.”
None of the local families had come to their convent, knowing that within its thin walls there was no hope. If they could, they had fled, if they could not, they had preferred to meet death in their own home. The two women set the bars in the door and left the room, gliding silently along the deserted convent corridors to the chapel.
As they entered Mother Breguswið looked up from her devotions and greeted their arrival with a serene nod. She understood what their arrival meant. Sisters Eanfled and Sister Hereswald took their places. As she sat down, Sister Eanfled noticed that Sisters Coenberg and Cynwise were not in chapel and neither were the schoolgirls or postulants. She presumed, quite rightly, that they were in the small room in the centre of the convent near the sacristy with Sister Earcongota, also known as the strong room, the only place in the convent where there was any hope of survival. It had a sturdy door and was surrounded by very thick walls. None of the sisters in the chapel would live through what was about to happen but there was at least a slim chance the girls would.
