by Karen Miller
“It’s because duchy Linfoi offers no candidate that I am the only man here who can speak without prejudice,” Henrik said calmly. “To which end I suggest we allow the princess to withdraw so she might consider the names upon that list … and pray for her father. The matter of Eberg’s successor is not the only question we are here to discuss.”
Rhian could have kissed him. “Thank you, my lord. It relieves me to know I have one friend at least upon the king’s council.”
“You are mistaken, Rhian,” said Marlan, stirring at last. “Every man here is your friend. Your best interests and the future of Ethrea are intimately entwined. We cannot serve one without serving the other.”
The problem with Marlan was he sounded so plausible . She met his cool, displeased eyes and nodded. “Of course, Prolate.”
He held out his hand. “If I may see the list, Your Highness? Just to be certain Secretary Lord Dester has not made any mistakes?”
He knew damned well Dester had made no errors. She gave him the list anyway, gritting her teeth as he snapped his fingers for a pen, was handed one, and swiftly added his former ward’s name to the list. “Thank you,” she said, when he gave it back to her. “God forbid I should misspell Lord Rulf’s name.”
Marlan’s eyes flashed. “Be careful,” he advised in an undertone. “Clearly you are unfamiliar with the rules governing a ward of the Church. I suggest you rectify that, sooner rather than later.”
He could make her skin crawl without even trying. Looking away, she folded the damned list of names and slipped it into her pocket. “Your Eminence.” She cleared her throat. “I have your permission to withdraw? I confess I’m feeling somewhat overwhelmed.”
Marlan nodded. “By all means, you may leave us. You have until this time tomorrow to ponder the list. As I’m sure your father warned you, no further names may be added to it.” He glanced at Henrik Linfoi. “ No further names, Your Highness. Misplaced romanticism has no business here, and as a minor in law you have no authority in this matter.”
She felt herself flush. Oh, Alasdair. This is so unfair . “Yes, Your Eminence. I understand.”
His elegant finger touched her cheek, lightly. “For your sake I hope so. Be certain to spend some of your time in the chapel, contemplating the obligations of a dutiful child.”
She swallowed a retort that would only cause her trouble. “Eminence, when I tried to visit the king I was kept from his side. If he is stuporous I can do him no harm.” Her heart was pounding. “ Please . He’s my father. Let me see him. I know you have that power.”
How it galled her, being forced to beg. Beg him, of all people. But what could she do? She knew enough of what it meant to be a ward of the Church to understand he could blight her smallest asking if it suited his purpose. If he was feeling spiteful. If he wished to punish her.
“Yes, I have that power,” said Marlan, after a moment. “I will collect you from your private chapel this evening, after Litany. We will visit the king briefly then.”
But I want to sit with him alone! I want to sit with him until he leaves us! Why won’t you let me? What harm does it do?
But clearly he was going to deny her that … and she lacked the power to overturn him. She nodded. “Thank you, Eminence.” She considered the gathered, listening councillors. “And thank you, my lords, for your hard work on my behalf. I’ll see you here tomorrow, when we can further discuss the matter of my marriage.”
As she closed the chamber door behind her, the councillors again burst into furious debate over Lord Rulf’s inclusion.
Good. Let them argue themselves into asphyxiation. The longer they argue, the more time I have to find a way out of this fix.
On returning to her apartments she almost fell over Helfred, lurking in the corridor that led to her privy rooms.
She brandished the list of names in his face. “Did you know about this, Helfred? Did you know your esteemed uncle wants to wed me to his former ward?”
Helfred gaped. “You mean Lord Rulf ?”
“I’m told that’s his name,” she said, and slid the hated list into her pocket.
“Oh, that can’t be right,” said Helfred, shaking his head. “You must have misheard him, Your Highness. Rulf is—”
“Yes? Rulf’s what ? What do you know of him, Helfred? I’ve never heard of him until today.”
Helfred wouldn’t meet her gaze. “Er … he’s fine.”
“That isn’t what you were going to say, Chaplain.”
Helfred muttered something incomprehensible. Rhian looked up and down the corridor. They weren’t alone, castle staff bustled in and out of rooms on both sides. She couldn’t hustle him into her apartments either, because on the other side of their outer doors lurked her ladies-in-waiting. She could send them away, of course, but that would only give rise to gossip.
And the last thing I need right now is gossip.
She folded her arms. “Helfred, I require spiritual guidance. Walk with me.”
“Now, Your Highness?” he said, unhappy. “But it’s almost time for lunch.”
“Aren’t you always telling me fasting’s good for the soul? Walk with me . You don’t want me complaining of you to His Eminence, do you?”
Helfred flinched. “That’s unkind.”
“I know. I’m desperate.”
“Very well,” he sighed. “I’ll walk with you, Highness. And after we’ve talked you will kneel one hour in the chapel, contemplating the sin of misusing power.”
Well, why not? The chapel was as good a place as any for thinking. She nodded. “Yes, Chaplain. Of course, Chaplain. Now, shall we go?”
The castle’s privy gardens had been planted by her mother, when she came to Kingseat from duchy Morvell as a young bride. There’d been gardens there before, of course. Perfunctory things, healthy enough but lacking flair. The previous queen, her father’s mother, hadn’t really been interested in flowers. But Queen Ilda had adored them, and as she waited for the birth of her first son poured all of that love into creating beautiful bowers, charming grottoes and cunning mazes.
Not even out here were they alone. Three gardeners worked nearby, pulling weeds and clipping blossoms. Rhian led Helfred into the nearest maze. “We don’t have long,” she said, keeping her voice low. “Someone is bound to wonder where I am. What were you going to say about this Rulf?”
Helfred’s fingers found his prayer beads, suspended from his corded belt, and clicked them with agitated fingers. “Your Highness, this is most improper. I am your chaplain. My purpose is to advise you on spiritual matters. Nothing more.”
“No, no, no. Helfred, you started this and now you’re going to finish it. Tell me what you know about Lord Rulf!”
“Your Highness, it’s not for me to say,” he said, annoyingly firm. “Marlan is prolate, I can in no way presume to interfere with—”
She dropped to her knees before him. “Helfred, I’m begging you. Haven’t you heard? The king has relinquished his crown. Until I marry and make my husband the new king, Ethrea is governed by the council. And as a ward of the Church I’m governed by your uncle.”
Helfred was staring. “King Eberg has abdicated? No, I had not heard. It’s not been made common knowledge. I’m sorry, Your Highness.”
To her surprise, his unexpected and genuine sympathy brought tears to her eyes. “So am I. While my father ruled I didn’t have to consider rushing into marriage. Now, for Ethrea’s sake, I must take a husband. The dukes have provided me with a list of names. Your uncle presumes to involve himself. Please, Helfred. Advise me.”
He looked taken aback. “Yes, Your Highness. You know I will. That is my purpose as your chaplain.”
The grass was damp, and ruining her dress. Besides, she’d made her point. She got to her feet. “Good. Then tell me of Lord Rulf. Why were you dismayed when I mentioned his name?”
“Dismayed? Your Highness is mistaken.”
“I’m not. You know I’m not. Please, Helfred. I’ve nowhere else to turn.�
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Agitated, Helfred began pacing the narrow confines of the maze. “I don’t think you realise what you’re asking of me, Highness.”
“Oh, Helfred … of course I do. You’re as subject to Marlan as I am. But aren’t you also subject to God? What does your conscience tell you, Chaplain? What does God tell you? You must see you have to reveal what you know. Lord Rulf and I will be bound in wedlock until death—if he’s the man I choose to marry.” She felt her breath hitch. “If he’s the man I’m forced to marry.”
“Forced?” Helfred spun about. “Nonsense. Scripture is quite clear on this matter: no man or woman may be pressured to wed against their will or conscience.”
She laughed, miserably aware she was starting to sound shrill. “Are you truly that naïve? Of course I’m being pressured.” She pulled the council’s list out again. “It’s been made quite clear to me: I am going to marry someone on this list. Someone I hardly know, or don’t know at all.” I have to give him what is rightfully mine: the crown . But she couldn’t tell Helfred that. She’d lose any small sympathy she’d won. “I’m not permitted to follow my heart.”
Helfred pursed his lips, looking again like the pompous worm she had come to despise. “No young woman of breeding makes such a decision based on her heart , Highness. Nor does she make it unguided by wise counsel. You must restrain your ardent spirit. It is not meet for you, in your tender years, to presume an understanding of these matters. Especially when they touch upon the welfare of the realm.”
If she smacked him now he’d never tell her anything about Marlan’s mysterious former ward. “Yes. Of course,” she said, through gritted teeth. “You’re right, Chaplain. Forgive me.”
He smiled. “You’re forgiven.”
“Now … about Lord Rulf …”
His smile vanished. “Highness, I have only met him a handful of times. We’ve exchanged a few dozen words, perhaps.”
“Well, it’s more than I’ve exchanged with him,” she said darkly. “Helfred, please. Tell me what you can. Henrik Linfoi said he has estates here in Kingseat.”
He sighed. “That’s true. They encompass the village of Arnshill, and some woodland. Lord Rulf is, to the best of my knowledge, a sober, pious gentleman who has never been married.”
Well. That sounded exciting. Also … brief. “And how old is he, Helfred?”
“I could not say, for certain.” Helfred hesitated. “But he’s … no more than middle-aged.”
She felt her nose wrinkle. “You mean he approaches twice my years? He’s old enough to be my father?”
Helfred nodded. “At a stretch. Yes, Highness.”
But how awful . “And what else, Helfred? Tell me, quickly. We can’t stay in this maze much longer.”
“Rulf is the only son of a distant family connection on my uncle’s aunt’s side, I believe. When his parents perished he was yet a minor and so was warded to Marlan.”
She stared. “Marlan said he was no blood relation.”
“He’s not. Precisely. It’s complicated.”
“And why was he warded to Marlan? Surely there was someone else in your family better suited than he.”
“I do not know, Highness. Ask my uncle.”
No, thank you. The less interest she expressed in Rulf, the better. “And in your opinion, Helfred, would he make a good king?”
Helfred’s gaze slid sideways. “Highness, it is not my place to say. The prolate recommends him. Surely that speaks for itself.”
“Yes. Of course,” she said, biting back anger. “I appreciate the delicacy of your position, Helfred. But—”
He raised a hand. “Highness, forgive me, I cannot speak any further on the matter. I understand this talk of marriage makes you nervous. It is only natural, you’re a well-bred virgin. But you must have faith in the council and the prolate. They will not push you willy-nilly into some strange man’s arms. I have no doubt you will be given ample time and opportunity to consider each of your suitors in person, and that in the end the choice will be yours.”
Did he believe that, or was he just fobbing her off? It didn’t matter, really. She was helpless. Powerless. A victim of her father’s prejudice.
If only he’d let me betroth myself to Alasdair none of this would be happening now.
He was dying and she was angry. Surely that was some kind of sin.
Helfred said, “Come, Your Highness. We must return to the castle. I have duties to perform … and you owe me an hour in the chapel.”
Of course he’d remember that. “Very well,” she said. “Thank you, Chaplain.”
She led him from the maze without having to think about it. The narrow green convolutions held no mysteries for her; she’d played in the garden’s mazes with her mother from the time she could walk.
Let’s just hope I can find the way out of my current predicament with equal ease.
Dutiful, obedient, the very image of a chaste princess, she walked with Helfred back into her prison.
Marlan occupied a separate establishment in the greater grounds of Kingseat castle, known as the Prolates Palace. There he lived and worked and held his ecclesiastical courts, presiding over his vast network of venerables, chaplains and devouts in their churches and chapels, venerable houses and clericas throughout the kingdom. He was their prolate, the king of their Church.
Helfred waited for a royal audience with his esteemed uncle, wishing he wasn’t so prone to sweat.
The venerable who sat guard outside Marlan’s inner sanctum, working diligently behind a magnificent desk, had scarcely acknowledged his arrival. Ven’Martin, his name was. A sleekly muscled man a little older than himself, who made him feel unaccountably nervous… doubtless because the prolate never spoke of his nephew except to disparage and Venerable Martin obviously knew it. The fact Helfred was the princess’s personal chaplain meant nothing, because Rhian had no power of her own to wield.
A bit like me, really. We each have an important relation and precious little else.
After his appallingly awkward conversation with Rhian in the garden maze he’d prayed with her in chapel for just over an hour. To his surprise she’d insisted on staying there afterwards. Perhaps his constant exhortations to piety were finally, finally, having an effect.
What a trial she was to him, the princess Rhian. Outspoken. Feisty. So often inappropriate. What in God’s name had His Majesty been thinking, filling the girl’s head full of knowledge and fire? Did he think he was helping her? Did he think she was happy, grown into a young woman so unfitted for her station?
She will never be happy now. With her family dead and Ethrea’s future in her womb, how can she be happy? She is the least domesticated woman I have ever known. God help the man she marries, truly.
It was a great shame with no hope of remedy. God had decreed a path for Rhian and she must walk it, with pleasure or without.
And if she does marry Rulf almost certainly she’ll walk without. Dear God, what is my uncle thinking?
It was why he’d come here, to ascertain the truth. He owed Rhian that much as her spiritual advisor.
A small brass bell affixed to the wall behind Ven’Martin’s immaculate desk jangled on its blue and red cord. Without looking up he said, “You may go in now, Chaplain. Do not forget your obeisance.”
Did the man think him an utter fool, then? To speak to him as though he were a mere country cleric? Insolent, arrogant, presumptuous … I am the prolate’s nephew, after all .
He nodded. “Yes, Ven’Martin,” he said, his voice a deferential whisper. “Thank you, Ven’Martin.”
It was never wise to make an unnecessary enemy.
Ven’Martin waved a hand at him and continued with his work. Helfred rapped his knuckles on his uncle’s imposing sanctum door, then pushed it open and went inside.
Marlan didn’t look up to witness his obeisance, the ritual dropping to one knee, thumb pressed to lips and heart, three times. On his feet again, eyes downcast before the massive desk, he folded his
hands and waited to be noticed.
At length, Marlan put down the illuminated manuscript he was reading. “Helfred. Unhealthy looking as ever. It will be a relief when you are finally consecrated a venerable and your lank, greasy hair is removed for good. If that day should ever arrive. You have report of the princess for me?”
Oh. Of course. He never came to see Marlan unless it was to tell tales of Rhian. “Not exactly, Prolate.”
Marlan’s eyebrows lowered. “Then what do you want?”
An explanation . But he couldn’t say that, he’d be thrown out on his face. “Your Eminence, I have learned from the princess you wish her to consider your former ward Lord Rulf as a husband. Indeed, as Ethrea’s king. I thought I might have misheard her.”
“No,” said Marlan. His smile was unpleasant. “Though your ears be full of wax, Nephew, yet you have heard her correctly. She will marry Lord Rulf. He will be Ethrea’s next king.”
“Ah.” He shifted a little on the rich, Keldravian carpet. Scented oil lamps warmed the room’s timber panelling and struck expensive highlights from the gold-and- jewelled chalices and reliquary boxes displayed around the walls. “I thought she also said she was given an entire list of names to consider, Eminence. Candidates recommended by Ethrea’s dukes.”
Marlan dismissed the list with a flick of his fingers. “It is nothing, a sop to the other councillors. I have made my choice, Helfred. Rulf will be king.”
And that settled the matter? Helfred blinked. “Oh.”
“You have an opinion, Chaplain?” Marlan rested his folded hands on his desk and leaned forward. His expression was cordial, his tone gently enquiring.
Helfred thought he might faint on the spot. “No, Prolate. No, I—that’s to say, at least, I—” He swallowed, hard. “No.”
“I disagree. I think you have come here with a view,” said Marlan. “Do enlighten me, Chaplain. I am eager to hear your erudite discourse on the subject.”