by Karen Miller
“You’ve not laid eyes on the prolate since you left Kingseat, child,” said Dame Cecily. She sounded reproving.
“No, but Helfred is Marlan’s mouthpiece. They may as well have the one tongue between them. I don’t need a chaplain while I’m here, I have you to guide me in spiritual matters. But the prolate refused to let me leave Helfred behind. My chaplain has one purpose only: to wear me down on his uncle’s behalf.”
Dame Cecily was frowning. “It disturbs me to hear you level such accusations.”
“I’m sorry!” said Rhian. “But this is your clerica. You should know what’s going on beneath your roof. Helfred is abusing his power as my chaplain on behalf of Prolate Marlan, who has plans to wed the Crown and the Church by wedding me to his former ward! He wants Church law and state law to be indivisible so he can become the supreme authority in the kingdom.”
“No, child, that can’t be,” said the dame. “Blessed Rollin himself makes it clear in Second Admonitions that the spheres of Church and state are not to be—”
Oh, God. Please, make her hear me. If she really is blind please open her eyes . “I don’t wish to be rude, but it doesn’t matter what Rollin says. Rollin is centuries dead and Marlan is prolate. He wants to join Church and state law throughout the land. He argued about it with the king many times. Papa always defeated him. But now with Papa dead he thinks to have his way through me.” She took in a deep, shuddering breath and lost the fight against emotion. “Well, he won’t, I tell you! I won’t betray my father or Ethrea like that. Not so Marlan can feed his greedy ambitions.”
Dame Cecily stood and stared down at her. “You are speaking of God’s supreme representative,” she said, her voice ice again. “Moderate your language and your tone or I will disregard your royal blood and punish you as I would any common sinner within these walls.”
Flinching, Rhian bowed her head. Stupid, stupid! How can you forget where you are? “Forgive me,” she whispered. “I’ve been overwhelmed. I never imagined we’d lose Ranald and Simon, and that I’d have to choose who’d be Ethrea’s king.”
“I know,” said Dame Cecily more kindly. “But this is what God has chosen for you, child. Therefore you must shoulder your Godgiven burden with courage and grace.”
Rhian looked up. Dame Cecily’s face swam before her, muddled through a prism of tears. “I don’t know if I can. I don’t know if I’m strong enough.” Strong enough to run away. Strong enough to fight the battles that running away would bring. Strong enough to stand against Marlan, the council … against Alasdair, if he refused to do what had to be done for the good of the kingdom and its people.
“You have no choice, Rhian,” said Dame Cecily, relentless. “What you imagined your life would be does not matter. This is your life now. What can you do but live it, with God’s love to guide you through the years?”
She blinked and blinked until the dame’s face resolved itself. “Yes. I know. I’m sorry. I’m … tired.”
Dame Cecily nodded. “Then you must seek your bed, child. Prolate Marlan will be here in the morning.”
Marlan? God, no . She shifted on the pew, heart thudding painfully. “Why? I’ve three days yet before I have to decide. The council agreed to that, he can’t just come here and—”
“Of course he can come here. He is the prolate. This clerica is under his authority.”
“Under your authority,” she said daringly. “You’re its dame.”
Dame Cecily breathed in and breathed out. Her lips were pinched tight. “And like every dame of every clerica in the kingdom I am subordinate to the prolate’s will, after God. As you are subordinate to him, being a ward of the Church.” She stepped back. “The prolate will arrive shortly after Morning Litany. You will hold yourself in readiness and conduct yourself with the humility that befits a child of scant experience.”
Rhian stared after the dame as she swept from the chapel. Her heart still pounded like a runaway horse, her hands fisted so tightly her fingernails threatened to puncture her palms.
I’ll conduct myself as befits a queen of Ethrea, Dame Cecily. It’s what Papa would want of me … and what our people deserve.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Hettie said briskly, “Come along now, my love. Time’s a-wasting and the princess needs you to rescue her.”
Dexterity looked around, at the meadow and the spring lambs flirting with the flowers. “I’m dreaming, aren’t I?”
Hettie nodded. She was dressed in yellow poplin, and the sweet breeze rippled the fabric about her legs. “I can’t always come to you in the world, Dex. Sometimes I can only reach you through dreams. What matters is that you listen to me and do what I say. Everything depends on it.”
The spring sunshine was gentle on his face. He looked down at himself and saw he was garbed in his favourite trousers and shirt. The last ones she’d made for him so long ago, that he’d kept together with mending and love. His feet were bare, the grass cool between his toes.
“Help me, Hettie. How am I to get Rhian out of the clerica? I’ve only got a plan to get in there and with luck pass her a message. But I might not even see her. What if—”
“I can’t tell you,” said Hettie, with regret. “So much depends on things I don’t control. You’ll find a way, my love. Father never wanted us to marry, remember? But you slipped under his guard and got his permission. You found the way then.” Her eyes were bright in the sunshine. “You’ll find it this time, I know.”
Her faith in him was like expensive wine in his veins. He felt light-headed and slightly drunk. “All right. Say I do rescue the princess. Then what?”
“Then you get on the road to duchy Linfoi and no matter what happens you don’t look back.”
The breeze smelled like freesias. He smiled at the scent. “And then?”
“And then things will unfold. Remember this and you won’t go wrong: Rhian is meant to be the true queen of Ethrea. To rule in her own right and defend her kingdom against harm. Especially from those who claim they have God’s authority to throw her down. But it won’t be easy. You must be brave and strong, Dex. You must prevail no matter the cost. And there will be a cost, my love. I can’t save you from that.”
Her words were dire. He should be afraid. But in this pleasant dreaming place it was hard to feel fear. Hard to feel anything but warm and safe. He wagged a finger at her.
“Hettie, sweetheart. You keep forgetting. I can’t fight for the princess, I’m a toymaker. All my soldiers are painted wood.”
“You have Zandakar.”
“Yes. About Zandakar …”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Dexie. I have to go. You’ve made a good start with him but you’ve further to travel along that road. Whatever happens don’t cast him aside. You’re going to need him, no matter how much he frightens you.” She raised her hand in a gesture of farewell. “You’ve black days ahead, Dexie. Turn to God when you’re feeling bleak. I’ll come again to you when I can.”
A lamb leapt through her, and he sat upright in his bed.
“Hettie!” he called into the darkness. “Hettie, come back!”
She didn’t. With a shivering sigh he curled himself under his blankets. The warm deliciousness of the dream meadow was vanished. Now all he could think of was the danger Hettie had hinted at. Dark days. Zandakar.
For all he’s been behaving himself, no more thrown cups or any such nonsense, there’s a tiny part of me afraid of him. Beneath his docile surface lurks something wild … something untamed and brutal. He’s not a safe man. I just hope I can control him if …
But that was nonsense. He was being ridiculous. Hettie would never put him or Rhian in danger.
Beyond the loosely drawn curtains it was still night. There was nothing he could do until dawn broke. When the sun rose he’d put his rescue plan in motion. It wasn’t perfect, there were risks involved, but it was the best he could do. He was a toymaker, not a military strategist. He didn’t even play chess very well … though he did make a sple
ndid chess set.
I hope Otto forgives me for leaving him behind. I hope he doesn’t forget me. But I can’t take him with me, he can’t possibly pull a peddler’s van. And Tamas’ll take grand care of him while I’m gone. He won’t have to work any harder for the apprentice than he does for the master.
Tamas had been thrilled to learn he’d be put in charge of the toymaking business while his master went on holiday for the first time in years. A good lad, Tamas, with a promising eye for carving puppets. He’d be sorry to lose the boy once his apprenticeship was done.
As for the rest, I’ll just have to trust that once Ursa and I are in the clerica things will fall out to our advantage. For if they don’t …
Smothering nerves, Dexterity closed his eyes and dozed fitfully until the sky beyond his bedroom window lightened and it was time to get up.
Standing in the kitchen, drinking tea and keeping one eye on a panful of sizzling bacon, he stared into the back garden and watched Zandakar dance his hotas for the rising sun. The man was much stronger now, far steadier on his feet. He didn’t look precisely well yet, but at least his face was no longer a death’s-head and his emaciated frame was beginning to fill out.
When he reached full strength, he’d definitely be formidable.
His hair’s growing back. I’m not sure that’s wise. Bad enough he’s got dark skin to make him stand out, but at least that’s explainable. I’ve got no hope of explaining away blue hair.
With the bacon nearly cooked he set a second pan on the hob, dropped in a chunk of butter to melt and fetched six eggs from the pantry ready to fry. Zandakar came in through the back door, sheened in sweat and lightly panting.
“Good morning, Dexterity,” he said with care. His Ethrean was improving. He had a lightning-fast mind. Looking at the hob’s two frypans, he thought for a moment then added, “Eggs and bacon for breakfast.”
Dexterity nodded. “Good morning. Yes, eggs and bacon. Well said. And tea. But bathe first.” He mimed scrubbing with a sponge. “Bathe. Zho? ”
Zandakar gave him a look. “Zho. Bathe.” He muttered something else in his own incomprehensible, tongue-twisting language. Whatever it was, Dexterity doubted it was flattering.
While Zandakar made himself presentable for the table, Dexterity cooked the eggs and served the meal on two plates. Zandakar returned and they ate in companionable silence.
“I clean kitchen,” said Zandakar when they were finished.
He nodded. “Good. And I’ll send a message to Ursa.”
“Ursa,” said Zandakar. His expression was wary. “ Wei Ursa. Zandakar wei — wei —” He slapped the table. “Aieee! Tcha!” Then he pulled a face of extreme pain and pretended to retch.
“Sick,” Dexterity said. “Zandakar wei sick.” He nodded reassuringly. “ Zho . Yes. I know. It’s all right.”
Zandakar considered him suspiciously for a moment then relaxed. “All right.”
“Yes. Zho .”
“Tcha,” said Zandakar, with another look, and got up to clear the table and do the breakfast dishes.
Dexterity fetched pen and paper and scribbled a quick note to Ursa. Must see you urgently. Come at once . Then he sealed it with a drop of wax, addressed it and fetched a pigget for the messenger.
After he’d put coin and note in the message box on his front gate and lifted its red flag so the next passing runner-boy would know to stop, he took a moment to look up and down his quiet lane. No-one was stirring yet, it was still too early.
If my neighbours knew what I was planning they’d never believe it. I hardly believe it myself.
But he only had to look at Zandakar to be reminded it was all too real. He went back inside, to wait for Ursa and soothe his jangled nerves with carving.
Helfred paced Dame Cecily’s privy chamber, wiping his damp palms down the front of his habit. Unlike his uncle’s opulent office, the dame’s official retreat was spare of decoration. A small Flame burned in its holder on one wall. That was it. She didn’t even have a portrait of Rollin anywhere. Her copy of his Admonitions, leather-bound without a hint of gilt, sat on the oak table before the window. The window was plain glass, not a stained picturesque pane to be seen. A severe woman, Dame Cecily. Strict in her faith. Strict in her oversight of this devout community. Revered and respected, it was unlikely she was loved.
Perhaps I should’ve asked her to speak with the princess. Perhaps she might’ve had better luck.
His wretched palms were damp again, and sweat trickled its short way down his spine. His uncle would be here soon. An outrider had arrived half an hour ago as he took morning tea with the dame, to warn of the prolate’s imminent arrival and request on his behalf private conversation with Her Highness’s chaplain. Dame Cecily had nodded, dismissed the outrider and left Helfred in her chamber to stew in apprehension and solitary silence.
Marlan’s going to be furious. He’s going to blame me.
Princess Rhian, despite every argument and appeal he could think of, steadfastly refused to accept Lord Rulf’s suit. She steadfastly refused to accept any suit, the dreadful girl, insisting that she needed more time.
Marlan will never agree to that. He knows what he wants and he expects to get it. Now that Eberg is dead he thinks to get everything he wants. He can’t begin to imagine she might stand in his way as did her father for nearly twenty years.
Besides, who was he to question a prolate? To decide Lord Rulf wasn’t fit to be king? What was Helfred but a lowly, powerless chaplain? If God didn’t want Rhian to marry the man surely he’d do something to prevent it. Nothing happened in the world without God’s desiring, even events as tragic and inexplicable as the deaths of Eberg and his sons.
Whimpering, he turned to the Living Flame burning in its sconce and fell face-down in extreme supplication.
“Dear God, please help me. I’ve done my best to persuade the princess but she’s not a biddable girl. Her father raised her unwisely. He put mad ideas in her head. She is far too educated for her sex. I’ve done my best to counter what she’s been taught, I swear it, but I fear the damage is done, her womanliness ruined.” He sat up and wiped his moist hands yet again down the front of his habit. “Please, God, make that clear to my uncle.”
As though words might conjure flesh he turned to the door. It remained blessedly closed. A little time yet, then, before the storm broke over his head.
Marlan won’t understand. He doesn’t seem to realise what Rhian’s like. Proud. Wilful. Stubborn. Every inch her father’s daughter. If he wanted me to have any real authority over her he should’ve made me a venerable.
The door opened without warning and his uncle entered. “Well, Helfred? What have you to say?”
He scrambled awkwardly to his feet. “Prolate Marlan,” he said, his thumb pressed to his thudding heart and then his dry lips. “God save Your Eminence.”
The devout acting as escort bowed her head and withdrew, closing the door. Marlan, his eyes cool and calculating, clasped his hands before him. “God save you, Helfred, if you disappoint me.”
Helfred swallowed. I just have to tell him. There’s no pretty bow to tie around this harsh truth . “Forgive me, Your Eminence. The princess remains … unpersuaded.”
“I see,” said his uncle. Todding was well over an hour’s ride from the capital on a fit, fast horse but he looked unweary. Immaculate. His robust travelling vestments were untouched by sweat or dust or any sign of the road. Despite his age he never seemed to feel fatigue. His body was lean, unblemished by fat. He had ten times the energy of any younger man. He liked to say, God’s strength is mine. The divine power moves me. How can I falter when his will runs through my veins?
Helfred stepped back. “Please. You must believe me. I have toiled ceaselessly on your behalf, extolling Lord Rulf’s virtues for hours at a time.” And in doing so had he perjured himself? He was so afraid he had. Dear God, forgive me . “Armed with your privy information, Eminence, I have pointed out to the princess the true flaws and shortco
mings of the dukes’ candidates, making sure to paint them in the most unflattering light. I have reminded the princess more times than I can count of her duty to you, Ethrea’s supreme spiritual advisor. In short I have used every method of persuasion I can think of. Still she is not moved.”
Marlan smiled. “Not every method, Helfred.” He opened the door. “Come.”
Uncertain, Helfred followed his uncle through the halls of the clerica. Every devout they passed dropped in a deep curtsy. Marlan nodded but never once looked at a face.
The only face he sees is God’s. The rest of us are just … scenery, I think.
He risked a question. “Eminence, do we go to the princess? Do you know where she is?”
“She waits in the privy chapel,” said Marlan. “Dame Cecily has advised me.”
And where was the dame now? Marlan strode through this place as though it were the Prolates Palace, as though every brick and tile and pane of stained glass were his personal possession.
I suppose they are, really. He is the prolate after all.
The dame had given excellent directions. His uncle found the privy chapel without a single wrong turn. Rhian was in there … and so was Dame Cecily. Both women shifted round on their knees as he and his uncle entered the quiet, incensed chamber.
“Leave us, Dame,” said Marlan at his most austere.
Dame Cecily bowed her head. “Your Eminence,” she murmured, and withdrew from the chapel with her gaze downcast. It was astonishing to see. Marlan’s crackling aura of power had extinguished her entirely.
Princess Rhian did not wait to be commanded onto her feet. As the privy chapel’s door closed behind Dame Cecily she rose in a single smooth motion, letting her simple linen skirts fall around her as they may. Her riotous black hair was contained within a modest, unjewelled net, baring her fine facial bones for admiration. Her dark blue gaze was steady, her pointed chin lifted high. She was the epitome of beautiful, self-contained royalty … but Helfred could see the throttled fear behind her haughty mask.