by Candy Rae
The Ducal House of Smith and the Kellenage of Tanon were not the only noble and gentle houses to lose sons to Prince Crispin’s ambition. The Ducal House of Graham also lost a son, one Count Paul, aged just eighteen. Thane Andrew Stewart, brother to Peter Taviston’s ‘spy in the enemy’s camp’ also fell although Kenneth managed to engineer his other brother Malcolm’s escape from the carnage. The van Aldin Kellenage lost its son and heir. There were many others.
When Queen Antoinette was told about the cost in lives however, she considered that despite the casualties and deaths, that they had got off lightly. Only seventeen of the Royal Guard had been killed and twenty-eight injured. The list of rebel losses was much longer.
Princes Pierre and Xavier had taken Queen Antoinette’s orders to mean that she wanted the rebellion utterly destroyed with no chance of a resurgence. Both believed that for rebellious nobles death was the better option; to the military mind much tidier.
The Queen could not afford to be lenient with the survivors either. Her continuance as a ruler depended on her remaining strong. She was a woman in a man’s world. On the planet the Kingdom of Murdoch was the most chauvinistic country of them all, except perhaps for the Nadlians of the Larg.
She knew she had to be strong and implacable. She wished to leave her throne to her daughter who would in turn be succeeded by her grandson. The other members of the large royal family had been loyal this time but might not necessarily remain so in the future, especially if she and her line showed any signs of weakness.
She threw a pitying glance at her daughter. The Queen knew what she must do.
* * * * *
Crown-Princess Antoinette grew so distraught over the following days that her mother began to think she might be losing her mind. She cried for a day and a half but a body can only weep like this for so long and at last her sobs subsided and she lapsed into an exhausted sleep.
When she opened her eyes Queen Antoinette was sitting at her bedside.
“Mother?” she whispered.
“It’s all over darling. The coup failed.”
Antoinette took a deep breath. She felt sick. She had loved her husband, she had thought he loved her and all this time he had been planning the overthrow of her mother! To kill her! And probably her too, eventually.
In that instant, her grief turned to anger and it was not the anger of a woman scorned, it was the dispassionate anger of a future Queen. She sat up. She lifted her chin; a determined lift and met her mother’s gaze with one similarly unflinching.
“Tell me the worst Mother,” she said, “I need to know it all.”
* * * * *
The trial of Prince Crispin was a very public affair. Queen Antoinette presided and by her side sat her daughter. The defendant was a Prince of the Blood and although there was a jury, made up of five Dukes of the Realm, it would be up to the Queen to pass sentence. For sentence would be passed, everyone knew it. Crispin was guilty of treason and this was a crime punishable by death.
Crispin did not speak. He was a broken man.
He knew all his charm would cut no ice with the steely-eyed, implacable dukes and the Queen, he snuck frequent furtive glances in her direction, looked cool to the point of indifference which was almost worse.
He could expect no mercy there.
He kept his eyes glued to the statue-like figure of his wife. He hadn’t seen her since the evening before the abortive coup. All his begging and pleading and aye, demands for an interview had fallen on deaf ears.
Crown-Princess Antoinette never wanted to speak to Crispin again.
She turned her head away and looked instead at the five Dukes who made up the jury.
* * * * *
As expected, the five dukes declared him s guilty as charged.
Crispin faced the Queen as she rose to pronounce on his fate.
As he had expected, he was to be executed.
Queen Antoinette however did give mercy. He was to be permitted to take his own life
* * * * *
Crispin sat alone in his prison cell. It was not one of the worst cells in the dungeon level. As a Royal Prince he was being allowed to spend his last days in relative comfort but tomorrow morning the sentence would be carried out.
Up until now he hadn’t really believed Queen Antoinette would actually sign the death warrant. He had thought she would commute the execution into life incarceration. He was a prince! To execute him could only lead to a lot of unpleasantness by his father. Surely his father would want to avenge his death?
For some reason these thoughts didn’t make him feel any better. He would be dead. He wouldn’t be here to see it.
The headsman’s block.
What a fate for his father’s favourite son. But could he go through with it? Would his courage fail him at the end? Crispin couldn’t bear to think about people watching him, a blabbering and screaming wreck, being dragged on to the scaffold.
But the alternative? Death by poison of the knife. It was his choice. Poison, no, he couldn’t bear that. It was such an undignified was to die. A coward’s way out.
So it would be the knife.
It shouldn’t be too bad.
A thoughtful guard had provided smaha ointment. The cut when it severed his wrist wouldn’t hurt.
He took a deep breath.
Now was as good a time as any.
With hands that shook he poured a glass of wine from the earthenware bottle and took a large swallow, savouring the taste. It was a fine vintage.
Slowly, he opened the jar of ointment and smeared the jar’s contents lavishly over both of his wrists.
He was all concentration now. The ointment was working fast. It he didn’t make the cut now his hands might get too numb to hold the knife. Gripping the knife with his right hand he brought the blade down on to his left wrist, severing the artery with one slash.
He watched his bright life-blood pump out but he didn’t retain his vision for long. He had cut deep and his heart was beating strong. His head thumped on to the table.
Prince Crispin of Leithe was dead and with his death died, had he but known it, his father’s ultimate ambition to become Master and Emperor of the Planet.
* * * * *
Some days after Crispin’s death Queen Antoinette was in conference with her closest advisors. Queen Antoinette was not in the habit of procrastinating when there was something that needed to be done.
“I will change the law,” she declared.
“Putting aside eight hundred years of tradition?” queried Peter Taviston. “Is that wise?”
“This is a special circumstance but I cannot agree to circumvent the law even for my only daughter, especially for her. The law does need to be changed. Those of noble and gentle birth will in the future be able to apply to Conclave if they wish to marry again and the death of a spouse shall no longer be a bar to happiness. Divorce I will still not countenance which should keep the Archbishop happy.”
“I’m for it,” said Peter Taviston. “When your daughter ascends the throne she will need a husband by her side. She is not as strong as you. You are right Your Majesty. The law must be changed.”
“Which noble boy do you have in mind for a replacement husband Your Majesty?” asked Duke Raoul van Buren.
She cleared her throat. Her choice was a controversial one.
“There are a few candidates,” she began, looking at the list in front of her, “three from ducal houses, three from out-kingdom and no less than seven who are gently born.”
“Let’s keep to a home grown specimen this time,” advised William, Duke of Duchesne.
I agree,” said Lord Prince Marshall Pierre.
The others were of the same mind.
“We can cross the three islanders off the list then,” agreed Queen Antoinette with satisfaction, “but the three noble candidates present their own problems. Count Peter Graham is cousin to Paul, one of Crispin’s coterie. I don’t think my daughter would accept him and both Counts Brian Brentwo
od and Xavier Charleson are younger than her, Xavier by four years. The difference is too great.”
“I agree with that too Your Majesty,” said William Duchesne, “the other candidates?”
“Kellen Ross?” suggested Peter Taviston.
Raoul van Buren shook his head. “His father is in negotiation with the Duke of Hallam regarding the marriage between his son and Paul’s second daughter Judith. I believe it to be a love match.”
“What about Baron-Heir David Tanon?” asked the Duke of Cocteau, entering the conversation for the first time.
Peter Taviston shook his head, “not possible. His brother was also a member of Crispin’s group, but I might just have the answer.”
“You do?” asked Queen Antoinette, trying to sound surprised. She and Peter had already come to a decision but the properties had to be maintained.
“This is a difficult situation. There are a limited number of suitable candidates. The successful one will also become, as you say and in due course, the husband of our future Queen. If we do not go with an out-kingdom prince or a member of one of the ducal houses it will be the first time since the second century when our Prince Consort will be someone only of gentle birth. I know none of you dukes like the idea.”
“I don’t mind,” said the Duke of Cocteau, “new blood is always healthy. So who is it to be?” He winked at peter Taviston, the only one amongst those present to have worked out the subterfuge for what it was.
“Kellen Peter Sullivan. He’s older than Antoinette by five years. He’s unmarried, intelligent, more to the point, he’s adaptable. I’m sure he’d be good for our princess. I know he’s always admired her. I wouldn’t suggest him if I didn’t think he’d suit.”
“Where is Kellen Sullivan now?” asked the Queen.
“Here at Court,” vouchsafed Prince Pierre, “he’s one of the Leftenants of the Royal Guard.”
“Better and better,” said Prince Xavier, “so the Crown-Princess won’t suspect she’s being manipulated. May I suggest that he is transferred to the princess’s personal bodyguard? I don’t think we need do anything more. We can leave the rest to time.”
“Do it,” commanded Queen Antoinette, adding, “but I think I should also point out that any marriage will be a morganic one. Any issue between Princess Antoinette and any husband shall not be able to inherit the throne if my grandson’s line should fail. All I am concerned about is the happiness of my daughter. I do not wish to circumvent the existing inheritance laws but I will not permit her to have to spend the majority of her life as a lonely widow as I have had to do. She deserves more. A man who she loves and who loves her in return is all I ask. Peter, make it so.”
* * * * *
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THE FAVOURITE MANOR HOUSE OF THE DUKE OF HALLAM - DUCHY OF HALLAM - KINGDOM OF MURDOCH
Duke Paul Hallam was sending a squad of his best men to apprehend the agents of Leithe.
The man he had placed in charge was a crusty old family retainer with an age verging on seventy but he was as hale and hearty as many men much younger, if rather slower on his feet. His sword arm was however, as skilled and fast as it had been when he had taught Paul his weapons skills as a boy.
More important than this however, was that Paul trusted him, implicitly.
“There a ways east of here Dan,” he told him.
“How many My Lord?” asked Dan in his rusty voice.
“Six, last time they were spotted. All mounted, but their horses have to be getting tired. They’ve been travelling fast and my informants tell me they’re riding the same mounts they bought up in Charleson.”
Dan thought for a moment. In all the time Paul had known him, and that for most of his life, he had never been known to utter a hasty word.
“Squad’ll be enough,” he said at last, “but I’ll take my Jim along as well just to be on the safe side if that’s all right with you My Lord?”
“Agreed.” Jim was Dan’s son and had succeeded his father to the position of Swordmaster to the Duke the previous year when Dan’s joint-ache had begun to bother him. “Bring them back alive if you can,” continued Paul, “I have a lot of questions to ask them and I’m sure Queen Antoinette does too.”
Dan nodded and spat.
“They’ll be the cronies of that Prince Crispin then, him who tried to kill the Queen and murdered young Baron Karovitz?” He spat again. Dan had known Charles Karovitz and had been delighted when the Baron had married his duke’s eldest daughter Elizabeth.
The news about the attempted coup at Fort had arrived not long before this conversation and not just Dan had liked and respected Paul’s son-in-law. Paul decided to repeat the order to take them alive if possible.
Dan’s mouth set itself in a thin, straight line. It was obvious to Paul that he didn’t like the idea but that he would obey. Dan had never consciously disobeyed any order from Paul or his father before him. That was another reason why Paul had chosen him to lead the squad. He would be able to stop the men under his command from butchering all six.
The squad clattered out through the gates a candlemark later, hooves clattering on the cobbles.
Paul took a deep breath. Well, that was that, he had done all he could. He would have preferred to go himself but he had matters to attend to, matters that could not wait.
* * * * *
ON THE EASTERN BORDER OF THE DUCHY OF HALLAM - KINGDOM OF MURDOCH
The six agents from Leithe, led by the indomitable Erik Halfarm were running behind schedule.
First of all, the country through which their route had been planned was rougher and more hilly than they had been led to expect. It was drier too. The narrow streams and water-holes were marked on the map, but the former were all but dry and this kept forcing them to keep making detours up the stream-lines until they found enough to fill up their water bottles once more and to let their mounts drink. Second, one of the horses had turned lame as they had ridden into the ducal demesne of Hallam and that had cost them a full three days.
Still, they had met up with no opposition.
Erik Halfarm was satisfied with their progress. For years he had been doing his brother Cadan’s bidding, searching for the power core and now he had it. He had touched it, stroked the smoothness of its metal, wondered how such an innocuous looking object could be so powerful. Its sister from the Electra had destroyed the Ammokko. How? If it was his he could use it to destroy, or threaten to destroy, anyplace he wanted to! He could bring down governments, countries even.
Perhaps it was time he looked out for himself. He had the power core. Why hand it over to Prince Crispin so that he could use it?
Like his half-brother, Erik Halfarm was full to the brim of ambition.
He was considering all this and daydreaming about the time when he, the illegitimate son of a king of a small island kingdom was King of the World when Dan and his squad came cantering up and over the sand dune and began laying into them.
Erik and his five companions fought back with fierce determination but the odds were stacked against them. They were tired, their horses were tired and Dan’s squad numbered thirteen.
Two to one and one over, Dan had said to his son when their scout had returned, reporting that he had located them. Dan, Jim and the others were excellent swordsmen. Dan and Jim were the best and the others had been trained by them.
Mindful of Paul Hallam’s warning that he wanted them alive, they did their best, using the flats of their swords to force them off their horses but it proved almost impossible.
Two’s better than none at all, thought Dan after the fight was over as he regarded the carnage. The six horses were unharmed.
“That one must have been their leader,” said Jim, pointing to Erik’s body. “he’s wearing fine clothing and his sword is of fine make.”
“Worth a king’s ransom?” asked Dan, looking up from where he was searching the body of another man-at-arms.
“I wouldn’t go that far dad,” answered Jim, nudging Erik with a boot
ed foot. “Wonder who he was.”
“Don’t matter,” Dan said, “let’s get the bodies swung across the saddles and get home.” He pointed to the two wounded men. “Bandage their wounds and tie them on too,” he ordered.
A candlemark passed as the squad did his bidding then the procession started on its journey back to the manor. Tied to Dan’s saddle was a wooden box Zeb would have recognised.
* * * * *
THE FAVOURITE MANOR HOUSE OF THE DUKE OF HALLAM - DUCHY OF HALLAM - KINGDOM OF MURDOCH
Meanwhile, Thalia, Daniel, Vya, Josei and Zeb had arrived at the manor. As might be imagined, their arrival caused a stir and noisy, excited interest.
Paul Hallam provided quarters in one of the barns, the old stone one, after rooms in the manor itself had been declined, very politely, by Thalia.
“We would rather stay with our Lind,” Thalia told him, “though a hot meal would be appreciated. We’ve been travelling a while.”
“Do you require some raw meat for your Lind?” asked Paul.
“They’ll eat what we’re having,” Thalia answered, much to his surprise. The Larg (and Paul had met a few) ate their meat raw and Katie Durand’s Kenlei had eaten a haunch of raw beef all by himself.
“They caught and ate yesterday,” said Thalia by way of explanation, then changing the subject, asked, “when did you think your men will return?”