by Leo Carew
An old man, a cotton shirt hanging off his stooped frame and eider-down hair framing a complexion of deep plum, emerged from a room at the back of the hall, peering at the newcomers. “Watt?” he snapped at the soldier. “Who’s this?” Then he let out a startled cough. “Your Majesty?” he asked. “Can that be?”
“Earl Penbro,” said Aramilla, shaking herself free of Watt, who only looked relieved that the woman he had been escorting was truly the queen. She advanced on the earl, holding out a hand, which Penbro took. He brushed dry lips over her fingers, knees cracking as they bent.
“But we heard you were in the hands of the Anakim, Majesty,” he said, straightening. “Pray God,” he added, suddenly. “The siege has been broken?”
“I fear not,” said Aramilla. “I escaped, thanks to the help of my servant Bellamus.” She gestured at the upstart, who bowed to the earl. Penbro’s eyes widened as he heard Bellamus’s name, but Aramilla left him no time to respond. “We will need food at once, Penbro, and quarters. Then you will need to summon a witan.”
“The witan met yesterday, Majesty,” said Penbro. He explained that the council, composed of nobles and churchmen, and invested with collective executive power, had decided to retreat to Frankia. “We are just preparing our departure,” he added, gesturing about the hall.
Bellamus stepped forward. “You decided to flee these lands?” he clarified. “Abandon your king and queen?”
Aramilla again interrupted before Penbro could respond. “Some of the witan are still here?”
“Most, yes, Majesty, we will be travelling to Frankia together. But the bishops left some while ago. We will need to send word after them.”
“No time,” Aramilla decreed. “We will eat now, while you assemble those who remain. Then we shall meet and decide a fresh course of action.”
Penbro had no choice but to obey. Bellamus did a fine impression of the loyal manservant and demanded wine, trout, cheeses, bread and smoked bacon, stating this last with undisguised relish. These things were duly produced and placed on a table, which had to be intercepted on its way out of the door. The chairs seemed to have been loaded onto wagons some time ago, and were “quite inaccessible,” so they dragged two chests to the table, Bellamus and Stepan perching on one, Cathryn and Aramilla on the other. The bacon was good but the trout, caught in one of the garden streams and covered in rare pepper, was better still.
Aramilla declared the story of their escape “dull” and did not care to recount it beyond the indignity of having their horse stolen. So Bellamus regaled them all with how it had been to be a prisoner of the Anakim. Aramilla did not quite seem to have her usual confidence, he noted, and she would need every scrap of it if she were to dominate the witan. At once he called for Penbro, demanding clothes fit for a queen. “And anything that resembles a crown, Lord Penbro; I trust you have something suitable?”
“My late wife had a circlet, which may do until we find something more fitting,” said the earl stiffly, answering each question Bellamus posed to Aramilla, as though it were she who addressed him.
“It may do for now,” said Bellamus, manner testy, mood gleeful. “Gowns?”
“Some of the finer pieces are left,” he said grudgingly.
“Bring them, bring them,” said Bellamus imperiously.
“His wife was a venomous old skeleton,” said Aramilla after the earl had gone. “Even after a week living from hedgerows I doubt I shall fit one of her dresses.”
The dresses were brought by servants bearing the Earl Penbro’s apologies for his absence, evidently in the hope that Bellamus would make no further demands on his hospitality. Aramilla waited until they had finished the fish and then excused herself from the table, gesturing that Bellamus should join her. As two ladies of Penbro’s house helped Aramilla change behind a screen, Bellamus paced the room.
“I can think of no more opportune time, Your Majesty,” he said to the screen. “Our great advantage here is that no one will want to rule. The nation is in turmoil: nobody wants to captain a ship that is so clearly sinking. Or perhaps two great advantages. Your lack of children with His Majesty makes you the clear candidate to succeed. That is fortunate indeed.”
Her magpie’s laugh rattled over the screen. “Fortunate?” she said, apparently unconcerned by the anonymous ladies who helped her dress. “King Osbert is a more cerebral man than physical. The few times he has shown interest in me, it has not been hard to dissuade him.”
Bellamus was silent a moment. “It was deliberate? You never wanted children?”
“Children!” she said, full of scorn. “Can you think of any more tedious way to use your life? I think perhaps my reluctance was a relief to the king, anyway. He was not comfortable in my bed, and some rumours that I was barren preserved his masculinity. He did not want to try again. I think he saw it as some kind of sacrificial duty he must go through.”
“So he managed occasionally. What did you do then?”
“There are herbs for every occasion,” she said carelessly. Bellamus knew she would enjoy the shocked glances of the ladies helping her change. Aramilla was secure once more, and the chaos of the last few months was tempting her back. Bellamus feared how reckless turmoil seemed to make her. She knew enough to be charmed, not enough to be fearful.
When she emerged from the screen, she had succeeded in changing into a dress of green silk, so spattered with pearls and gold that if Penbro’s wife had ever worn it at court, it would have been vaguely treasonous. She summoned water, washed her face and donned the gilt circlet, her face assuming the composure of a queen once more. Then she dismissed the ladies, she and Bellamus passing the time with tales. She called Stepan and Cathryn into the room with them and they waited for evening, and the assembly of the witan.
It was dark before Penbro returned to inform them that the remaining members of the witan had been gathered in the hall. He paused then, not wishing to linger, but evidently with further news to relay. “We have also just had word from the east, Majesty,” he said carefully. “This may be a shock—”
“Tell me at once,” she demanded.
“Lundenceaster has fallen, Your Majesty.” There was silence in the room. “It seems the Anakim stormed the defences and have burnt the city. There are very few survivors. Those that did escape…” He made a dismissive gesture. “I doubt they are thinking clearly.”
“Speak, Earl Penbro,” said Aramilla. “What have you heard?”
“They say the king—His Majesty, God take his soul—was captured and executed by the Black Lord himself. They say the Anakim were assisted in the siege by metal demons.”
Bellamus felt something leave him at this news. “So the Unhieru arrived after all,” he murmured.
Earl Penbro, fear evident in his every word and gesture, stammered on. “But Your Majesty, there’s more. They conjured some kind of infernal help, and the earth rose up to swallow the walls. There are stories of falcons and wolves fighting with the Anakim, of churches crumbling spontaneously, of magic incantations that overcame our forces with fear. Forgive me, Majesty, but we cannot stay here! We must leave at once! These lands are lost, utterly. We cannot stand against such powers.”
Bellamus looked to Aramilla, and found her not in fear at the earl’s tidings, but oddly fascinated. She regarded him with interest for some time. “Return to the hall, my lord. We will come and address you all shortly.” Reluctantly, Penbro bowed out of the room. “Can the Anakim do as he said?” she asked Bellamus.
He laughed at that. “Stories, Majesty. Hearsay, terror, speculation. They are people, like us. So too the Unhieru, though when fully armed and armoured I must admit they would be… daunting. As is our challenge in there, Majesty,” he added, gesturing through the door into the hall where the witan waited. “You saw Penbro. The news will have scared the witan senseless. We shall be hard-pushed to stop them abandoning the island for Frankia.”
“Well then, we shall begin at once,” said the queen, carelessly. “Lead on, Mas
ter Bellamus.”
“Your Majesty.” Bellamus rose with a flourish, demanding torches and half a dozen random ladies to add significance to their procession. He went before Aramilla, entering the hall to find two dozen filigreed nobles lining the walls and shining in the flickering candlelight. “Her Majesty, Queen Aramilla,” he announced, standing aside to reveal her. There was a collective bow as she entered, and Aramilla stared around, allowing a long silence to bloom.
“Would you all allow your queen to sit with no throne?” she asked the room at large. There was an instant flurry as the nobles cast around for a substitute. In the end, the table at which Aramilla had lunched was pushed to the end of the hall as a dais, one chest placed on top as a seat, and another in front as a step. Bellamus supplied a hand so that she might ascend her chest with some dignity. There was a barely suppressed murmur at that display of favouritism for an upstart, and Aramilla cast a sudden look over the witan. Silence fell at once.
“This is my right hand,” she said, gesturing down at Bellamus and taking a dignified seat on the chest. “He has been of immense value to us all in the war against the Anakim, whether you detected his influence or not. It is only that influence that delayed the Anakim in reaching Lundenceaster before now. It was he who liberated me from the city and brought me to safety here. He speaks for me now.” She nodded to him, and sat back to wait on his words, smiling at the shock on his face. For an instant, Bellamus was lost for words, and searched her eyes for some indication of what she wanted. But it seemed he was being given a licence to perform, so he turned to face the witan.
He was surprised, but not unprepared. He had imagined this moment. “My lords,” he began. “My queen has gone through the utmost danger to be here today, and she arrives to find you preparing for flight. You were to abandon your monarch? Your queen? These lands? Your people?” He eyed them all, taking a few paces into the dark space beyond the throne.
“We are weak after the failed invasions of the previous year,” Penbro replied suddenly, glaring at Bellamus, accusation clear in his voice. “The same invasions that stirred Anakim retribution. Most of the fighting men in the land were trapped inside Lundenceaster. I have recounted the tales of what happened there to you myself, Master Bellamus. There is something terrible overtaking these lands. We must make passage to Erebos. I am relieved my queen has come to join us: we should all cross the sea without delay. Better that than stay here and die in the face of this evil. We are helpless against the Anakim.”
“We are far from helpless,” replied Bellamus, sharply. “You have allowed yourself to be gulled by the rumours of war, Lord Penbro. I have seen the Black Legions first hand, and they are starving. They have left their heart north of the Abus. They don’t want to be here. They think of their wilderness home, and we only need to give them reason to turn back; something we have singularly failed to do. Yes, they have taken Lundenceaster, but I know our defences were well prepared. I assure you they will have been terribly weakened by the effort.”
“So are we!” called a voice, to a murmur of agreement.
Bellamus nodded absently. “Yes, that’s true. We are not the force we were. But we’re all still here, aren’t we?” He looked about the hall, shadowed faces turned back to him. “We still live, and we’re not done yet. Not until we have abandoned this island.” His voice grew fiercer, strengthened by the darkness. It was his element. “Our enemy is trying to frighten us with a display of force and ruthless tactics, but they don’t have enough soldiers to subdue this country if we resist. Who better placed to mobilise that force than those of us here?” He spread his arms to the hall. “And if you think Erebos will let this island succumb to Anakim control, that they will refuse our pleas for help, then you are mistaken. You do not know the brotherhood that exists across the water, who are prepared to drop everything and stand with us against the Black Lord. We will summon allies from Erebos, and we will mobilise our people. We do as the Anakim do: enlist our population to war. We will need chance on our side if we are to hold on until then, but chance is a friend of mine,” he boasted, drawing himself upright and addressing these lords now as though they were his equals. “You have heard my name; how could you doubt my words? Chance is a friend of mine!” He turned back to Aramilla and knelt before her. “And I serve my queen. King Osbert died in Lundenceaster. But we have a monarch still.” He bowed his head, and Aramilla surveyed the witan beyond him.
“Thank you, Master Bellamus,” said Aramilla. “My lords: abandon your preparations for flight. With chaos, comes opportunity. Many of our great landholders have perished. The spoils of this war shall be Albion, and all of you shall have a share beyond your dreams. Beneath me, with the rewards of this conflict, you may found a dynasty that lasts a thousand years. You may become such powerful men that your family names are never forgotten.
“We are not leaving our home to be overrun. All of you are well versed in holy scripture. This evil is not the devil’s work, but a test of faith from God. It is as my spymaster says. We are not done yet.”
“But,” Penbro interjected abruptly, and then his tone became more obsequious. “But, Your Majesty, what really can we do?”
“First,” decreed the queen, “you shall all swear fealty to me in this hall. This is now the capital of Suthdal, until we have retaken all that we have lost and rebuilt Lundenceaster. Next, we will gather our men here and summon the fyrd to fortify this town. All surviving resistance will focus on us. And we shall dispatch messengers across Erebos. We will let it be known that this island is now the heart of the struggle between the Anakim and the Sutherner. That unless they want an unchallenged Anakim fortress just off their shores, and to have their own Anakim populations emboldened and ready to march, here is where they must focus their efforts. This conflict has been building for generations, and this is not the end. It is merely the beginning.
“Come now, my lords. Swear your fealty now. My spymaster—now commander of our forces, whom I name Lord Safinim—will take your oaths.”
Bellamus looked up at the sound of his own title, open-mouthed. The nobility would surely mutiny at this promotion.
But there was not a word of dissent.
With authority and reward, the queen had gained control here. It was as Bellamus had said: nobody wanted to command this failing kingdom. Whoever did was ruler undisputed. And besides, the nobility would never have taken orders from a man with no title. He felt a hiccough of triumph. “Lord Safinim,” he murmured, unable to resist the shape of it on his tongue.
A young lord knelt first, those around him dropping hurriedly. In a wave from that point, the nobility dropped to their knees, with old Earl Penbro left standing last of all. He cast about in dismay, before snapping his fingers to two servants. They helped him onto his knees, and he too bowed his head.
With chaos, comes opportunity. The Anakim war machine rumbled on, but in Wiltun that night was crowned a queen of anarchy. Beside her, a lord of dark places.
And the great game had begun.
41
The Fire
The fires in Lundenceaster proved uncontrollable. Gogmagoc, voice gurgling more than ever after the siege bolt that had pierced his chest, but otherwise tolerating the wound, claimed credit for starting the blaze himself. The Anakim, unused to fighting fires when they only built from stone, were only just able to extract the food supplies and a quarter of their dead before abandoning the hard-won city to the flames.
Roper had time for one final act.
He led a little procession of guardsmen and prisoners into a central garden. King Osbert walked trembling and humming absently behind Roper, his royal retainers next to their counterparts in the Sacred Guard. The flames were nearly upon them, but Roper wanted to do this somewhere public.
He turned to the king. “Kneel,” he commanded, in Saxon. Osbert did not respond, apart from to shut his eyes. Two fat tears dripped down his cheeks and he shuddered, still humming his aimless tune. Gray stepped forward and reduced the k
ing firmly to his knees. Behind him, each of the retainers was also pushed to the floor.
Roper held Cold-Edge, the blade still filthy from their night’s work, and raised it before the king. A wave of heat swept over his face, huge orange flames billowing behind Osbert, whose eyes were still shut tight. The air here was so hot that Roper could feel each breath passing into his lungs, and he knew they must leave this place soon or burn. “King Osbert,” he said, in Saxon. “I declare Suthern rule over these lands at an end. Your people are to leave these shores, and for your resistance to us, I sentence you to die.” The king gave a frightened mewing. “Do you have any final words?”
The king did not.
Gray stepped back, leaving him swaying unsupported for a moment, while the king’s humming grew more frantic. Roper brought Cold-Edge down on the back of his neck. His head, still strapped into its shining gilt helmet, was cut clean away and toppled to the ground. With more of a slamming noise than a slicing, the Sacred Guardsmen meted out the same fate to the royal retainers. Their bodies, their weapons, the golden chain about the king’s neck: all were left to the flames, Roper turning his back on them without word or gesture.
Flames towered on two sides of the garden and Roper could feel the sweat pouring off his face as that shield of heat grew more and more intense. “Let’s go,” he said. “Fast.”
They ran through the city streets, collecting a band of Ramnea’s Own they found on the way, and passing through a screen of legionaries who protected the open gates. Lundenceaster had resisted, and their people must now pay the price. The few Sutherners who approached the gates were hacked down without a word, their bodies warding off any further attempts.
Roper now stood with Gray, watching from beyond the walls as a huge shimmer distorted the evening, a black cloud starred with sparks obscuring the sun’s last rays. There was a howling on the air as the flames billowed and raged, and the underside of the smoke-column was stained a rusted red.