The Queen of Swords

by R. S. Belcher

  She thought again about how even if her plans succeeded, even if against daunting odds, she won, she might never be able to go back to Golgotha again.

  Maude walked to the windows of the study. A cold rain was coming off the brooding winter sea. A few fat droplets lazily patted against the panes of glass and streamed down, chasing each other to oblivion. The sky darkened and then rumbled as if in pain. The rain began to fall heavy and fast now; the sky was bleeding.

  “I miss you too,” she said.

  Her voice was lost in the suffering of the rain.

  7

  The Three of Pentacles

  Charleston, South Carolina

  April 3, 1871

  Martin Anderton had never learned how to separate his business from his private life, a habit his late wife, Claire, had pointed out to him at every available opportunity. Most men would have never brooked such insolence from their spouse, but as much as Martin had seemed huffed by the interruptions by his beloved, he knew she was right. Sadly, after her passing, Martin had thrown himself fully into his labors. This relentless pursuit of his trade had made him one of the wealthiest men in America and across the sea. However, it had made him poor company, first for his daughter, Maude, and now for his granddaughter, Constance.

  “Grandpa, you should really put that away at the dinner table,” Constance said. Anderton sat at the far end of the long Chippendale dining table, and his fourteen-year-old granddaughter sat at the other. Anderton scowled a bit at being caught poring over correspondence from his business partners and ship captains at the table. He was suddenly struck by a sense of familiarity. Anderton put the papers down and smiled across the table to Constance.

  “I’ll have you know, young lady,” Anderton began, “that you are the third in a line of beautiful women to tell me the exact same thing at this table. It would seem you share the Anderton women’s gift for not being afraid to express yourself.”

  Constance laughed, and Anderton looked at his soup as if he was only now discovering it. “When did this get here?” he asked.

  “About your third grumble and second mutter under your breath,” Constance said. “I stopped counting grimaces.”

  “Yes, well, when you are in business, dear,” Anderton said, “work doesn’t close up shop at the tick of five. I need to keep making money so I can buy you that pony for your birthday, hmm?”

  Constance smiled. “Grandpa, you don’t have to do that. I have a horse back home in Golgotha. You do need to eat. You work too much and don’t take very good care of yourself.”

  Martin was a tall man, still imposing even in his late sixties. His hair was gray and worn in a crest-like pompadour, thinning a bit on top. He wore short sideburns and was clean shaven.

  Anderton ate some soup and dabbed his lips with a napkin. “Charleston is your home now, dear,” he said. “You don’t seriously still want to live in that dirty hole of a frontier town, do you?”

  “It’s where I grew up,” Constance said. “It’s my home.”

  Her grandfather snorted.

  “It was a mistake on your late father’s part to take you all out there chasing milk and honey when you were so small,” Anderton said. “No disrespect to the dead, of course.”

  “Mother and I have friends there,” Constance said. “Life can be hard there compared to here, but it’s a good place full of good people, Grandpa.”

  Anderton rang a small silver bell. Black servants entered to remove the dishes of the soup course and began busily preparing the salad course. “It may very well be, Constance,” he said. “However, it’s no place for a defenseless woman and her child, alone and without a husband, to live. I hope your mother will return to her senses and come home soon, dear.”

  Constance knew better than to push the issue any further. They had already had this conversation numerous times over the last few months since she had returned to Charleston with Grandfather. Mother was far from defenseless, and so was Constance, having undertaken the same training as Mother since she was twelve. What exactly was her mother up to since her covert visit Christmas morning? She knew that whatever it was, she had to be prepared.

  She had been trying to maintain her training regimen as best she could under Grandpa’s roof. It was difficult, to say the least. Back home, in Golgotha, she had favorite places out in the desert, near the town, to go and practice her skills. Here, it was almost impossible to get enough time and privacy to do so. If she departed Grandpa’s house under everyone’s noses—which she could do quite easily—her absence would be detected in short order.

  Making it even worse, Grandpa had employed two full-time governesses, tasked with the job of “making a proper lady” out of Constance. Miss Anhorn was from New York City and had been a governess to some of the finest families there. She was tall, somewhat raw-boned, and always dressed formally, with her gray hair in a tight bun, and never a stray hair out of place. She was cold and formal with Constance, with pretty much everyone.

  Miss Applewhite was a younger, and considerably prettier, lady of the south, with blond hair and honeyed brown eyes. She had taught some of Atlanta’s wealthiest scions how to behave in a proper fashion, and she assured Grandpa she could “chase the wildcat” out of Constance. Constance liked Miss Applewhite in spite of her constant disparaging comments about Golgotha. (“Just because you were raised in a wilderness doesn’t mean you have to live like an animal, dear. A lady always rises above her circumstances, no matter how dire they may be.”) If Miss Applewhite was the carrot, there was little doubt that Miss Anhorn was the stick.

  Grandpa was planning her proper introduction to Charleston society through a seemingly endless series of poise exercises, formal dance classes, cooking, needlepoint, speech, music and etiquette lessons, and mock social teas. It was all so silly and pointless. Constance missed doing her high balance work, her escape training, knife catching and of course, her favorite, an education in poisons. All the things Mother had taught her seemed infinitely of more practical use in the real world than the proper way to eat a piece of fruit without causing a scandal.

  She loved her grandfather very much, and she knew he was a decent man, just ignorant of the truth that Constance and her mother were more than capable of taking care of themselves and any trouble that came their way. She wondered again why the things she and Mother could do had to remain secret. If Mother only confided in him, trusted him, then they could go home to Golgotha, and Grandpa wouldn’t have to worry so much anymore. No, it wasn’t that simple. Deep down she knew it. It wasn’t just about ignorance; it was about fear.

  Constance had enough training to sometimes read the unspoken language people projected with their eyes, their bodies. Each time Grandpa interacted with the servants, most of them former slaves, even if it was only them entering the room, his posture changed, his eyes shifted, he became more cautious. He feared these people who lived in his home and cared for him every day. The fear was so deep under his skin, Constance doubted he was even aware of it himself. That level of fear was instilled at a very early age, like muscle memory, and it was taught, she was certain of that.

  That was why it was necessary to keep her gifts a secret. Fear was the most dangerous of all emotions. It made the wise act the fool, the pedantic become unpredictable, uncontrollable. Fear could overcome any training, any plan. Fear was the fire in the forest of the mind.

  “These damnable pirates!” Martin growled as he and Constance finished their meal, shaking the letters in his hands. “I have to attend to some urgent business this evening. I am sorry I won’t be able to enjoy you playing the piano in the parlor. I understand from Miss Applewhite that you are a very quick study at picking it up.”

  “I like the piano,” Constance said. “I’d rather practice it than learn how to not seem too smart in a conversation with a man.”

  “Men here are civilized,” he said. “They expect a certain … level … of discourse from the ladies in their presence.”

  “Yeah,” Constan
ce said. “Smile, nod and act fascinated by whatever jaw music comes out of their mouths.”

  Behind her there was a sound Constance had come to dread. The quiet clearing of a throat. She turned to see Miss Anhorn regarding her with cool aplomb.

  “Jaw music, Miss Stapleton? Indeed. And do we use such vulgar colloquialisms in polite company?”

  “No, ma’am,” Constance said. Martin nodded approvingly as he gathered up his papers. He kissed his granddaughter on the forehead and strode toward the main hall without looking back.

  “Very good, Miss Anhorn. Carry on.”

  Miss Anhorn narrowed her eyes at Constance, still sitting at the table. “Miss Stapleton, do we say ‘ma’am’? Is ‘ma’am’ ever a word we utter from our lips while making ‘jaw music,’ Miss Stapleton?”

  “No, ma … no, Miss Anhorn,” Constance said.

  “It shall take considerable effort, but we will scrub this horrid frontier vernacular from your speech, young lady. I assure you of that. Now go retrieve your slate and write twenty-five times ‘I will not use ma’am.’”

  “Yes, Miss Anhorn,” Constance said, rising from the table. For the thousandth time she hoped her mother would come soon, and for the millionth time she considered putting her poison skills to use on Miss Anhorn’s tea.

  * * *

  Alter Cline sat at a table in one of the private dining rooms of the Mills House Hotel. In the few months he had remained in Charleston, he had managed to dig up enough stories on the grand renewal of the downtown area and the newly built federal courthouse and post office to appease his editors back home. When he had told them he was working on a much grander story and needed more time in the field, they had grudgingly agreed.

  “It had best be a sensation, Mr. Cline,” his editor had said in one of the last telegrams he had received from The Herald. “Or you shall find yourself relegated to opening and sorting correspondence in the mailroom upon your return.”

  Alter sipped his mint julep and reflected on his future life as a postal clerk. The mystery of Maude Stapleton had seemed to be one to which he would never receive a satisfying answer. He had begun writing a romantic fiction over the last few months about a preternatural heroine possessed of all manner of martial and physical legerdemain due to her upbringing as an orphan in a European circus. If he was banished to the realm of unopened postage, perhaps he could sell the novel at least.

  The sliding doors to the private dining room slid open. The maître d’ gestured through them and Maude entered quietly, thanking the waiter. Cline stood, the napkin in his lap dropping to the floor. Maude wore a shortwaisted bodice and a ruffled and flounced skirt of black and violet. Her long hair was braided, tight, to the sides of her face and back, joining into a braided ponytail. A choker of black lace, with a large oval amethyst hanging from it, adorned her pale throat.

  “Miss Stapleton, Mr. Cline,” the maître d’ announced. He smiled and closed the doors behind him, muting the sounds of the restaurant’s public room. Alter pulled Maude’s chair away from the table for her.

  “You … you look lovely,” he said. Maude took her seat.

  “Thank you,” she said, smiling. “It’s been a long time since I went out for supper.”

  “That’s a crime,” Alter said, returning to his own chair and recovering his napkin. “I am very thankful you contacted me, Miss Stapleton…”

  “Maude is fine,” she said. “I told you that I would. I’m sorry it took some time to do that, but I had quite a bit of work to do first. I am surprised you didn’t head back to New York.”

  “The thought had crossed my—and my editor’s—minds,” he said. “However, seeing you now, I know I made the right decision.”

  “I owe you something in the manner of an explanation,” she said. “However, before I begin, I must have your word that none of what I tell you will ever see print. Can you do that, Mr. Cline?”

  “Alter,” he said. “And yes, I gave you my word, nothing sees print unless you allow it.”

  The doors slid open and a waiter took their order and departed quickly. Maude steepled her fingers and looked across the table to Alter. “So you want to know…”

  “Everything,” Alter said. “How do you perform all the amazing things I’ve seen you do? How did you come by these abilities, and why do you work so hard to keep them secret?”

  “You mean do I spend all my time running around in a mask and thrashing villains,” Maude said.

  “Well, that’s a good place to start,” Alter said. “Do you?”

  Maude thought for a moment. “Actually, quite a bit more than I thought I did, yes.”

  “How did you learn to do what you can do?” Alter asked.

  “What, like was I orphaned in a circus, or some ridiculous thing like that?”

  “No … no, of course not!” Alter said. Maude noted he was blushing a bit for some reason. “That would be silly. How did it happen?”

  “Slowly,” Maude said. “When I was nine, my father’s business took him away,” Maude said. “My mother died giving birth to me, and I was cared for by a long line of surrogates—nannies, maids, governesses, female relatives.”

  “That must have been difficult,” Alter said, “never getting to know your mother at all. I’m sorry.”

  Maude shook her head slightly. “My father was very good about telling me about her, even the parts he didn’t like, like her work with the women’s movement.”

  “It still must have been lonely,” Alter said.

  “It was,” Maude said. “There have been many times in my life when I’ve wondered what my mother would have thought of me, of my choices, times when I wished I could have asked her advice.”

  Maude took a sip of her water and continued. “So I was nine, and this time I was shipped off to my mother’s great-great-great-grandmother, Bonnie Cormac. She had an estate on Folly Beach called Grande Folly. That’s where I’ve been staying since I arrived back in Charleston.”

  “You did that very well,” Cline said.

  “Pardon me?” Maude asked.

  “You changed the subject from how you felt about your mother back to what you thought I really wanted to hear. You don’t like talking about yourself or your feelings very much.”

  Maude paused for a moment. “Our food’s arrived,” she said a second before the doors slid open and their waiter rolled a cart into the room. The meal was served, and the waiter poured wine to accompany the meal. Once he was gone, Maude continued her story.

  “Gran was unlike anyone I have ever known. She treated me like I had a brain in my head. She owned more books than I had ever seen in all my life. I loved living at Grande Folly. I loved her.

  “At dinner she would challenge me with questions about religion, about philosophy. She made me think about how women were treated in the world. Often my nine-year-old mind didn’t have an answer to the things she’d ask me, and she’d expect me to learn more, to find my answer and defend it the next time the subject came up. She taught me how to think. She told me stories about all the places in the world she had traveled to, the adventures she had had.”

  “She sounds like she was a suffragette before there was such a word,” Alter said. Maude nodded.

  “She told me she was very proud of my mother and all she had accomplished in her life. If Gran had possessed the opportunity to, she would have chosen Mother to undertake what she began with me, but by that time, Mother was too old to begin the instruction.”

  “Instruction?” Alter asked.

  “What I tell you from here on you cannot write down or tell another living soul. Do you understand, Alter? This is very serious,” Maude said.

  “You have my word,” he said.

  “One morning, before sunup, I was awakened and told to ride out to meet Gran Bonnie on the beach behind the estate. I did, and I found Gran there, watching the waves come crashing onto the sand, waiting for me. She told me a story, a very, very old story.”

  Maude still remembered that morning,
that meeting on the beach, over the roar of the waves. She heard Gran’s voice, strong, as she had recited the oath to Maude for the first time.

  “I carry within me the clock of the moon.

  “The clock of nature, inviolate, unerring.

  “I carry within me the secret of God.

  “The power of a new life in a universe of darkness and death.

  “I carry within me the most powerful of swords.

  “For my will can overcome any steel forged by man.

  “And my suffering can overcome any trial of pain or sadness.

  “For my blood is that of the first woman, she who would not bow down to the tyrant of Heaven and was cast out, called the mother of beasts. She who would not be bride to either Heaven or Hell, but walked her own sharp, lonely path.

  “It is my birthright, these gifts, this pain, this wisdom.

  “It is my privilege to understand them and in so doing understand and love myself.

  “It is my load to carry them, to protect them, to use them in the defense of the worthy and the weak.

  “And to teach this to others of the blood who live in chains of shame and guilt and fear forged by men and their gods, shackled to them by their own limited comprehension of their divine nature.

  “This is the secret. This is the load you must bear alone all your days upon this earth. This is the price of truly being free.”

  “I was entrusted with a great power and an awesome responsibility. We call it the Load. My great-great-great-great-grandmother passed these gifts along to me, as they were passed along to her, and as I am in the process of passing them along to my daughter.”

  “A secret society!” Cline said. “Made up exclusively of women of a single bloodline!”

  “No,” Maude said. “It’s not just my kin. Any woman, anywhere, can be called upon to carry the Load, to become one of us. Mothers tend to pass the teachings to daughters and so on, but it’s not something my family started. It began before time was reckoned as we do today, hinted at in myths and legends. It began with the first woman.”