The Midnight Queen

by Sylvia Izzo Hunter

  “But—how did you—”

  “When we were children in the nursery,” said Joanna, with all the dignity of her rising fourteen years, “you talked in your sleep.”

  As she spoke she rummaged in the pockets of Gray’s coat, and extracted therefrom a further handkerchief and, inexplicably, a tiny bottle of scent; opening the latter, she sniffed appraisingly, then emptied it into the handkerchief and began gently to sponge the blood from Sophie’s face and hands.

  “I had the same dreams, you see,” she said, as though Sophie had wanted telling. “But you—you thought it only a nightmare?”

  “There were so many,” said Sophie—pleading, helpless to explain. “That was perhaps the worst, but they were all of them so dreadful—full of killing and death, and all manner of horrors . . . How was I to know it for truth, Jo?”

  Joanna looked thoughtful.

  “I see now why the gods sent such dreams to plague me,” Sophie went on. “Once already I had used my magick to—to do great harm, and—”

  “You must not say such foolish things,” Joanna said sternly. “You were a child of eight—no one had taught you the least thing about your magick—you had no reason even to suspect—truly, Sophie”—this in a more conciliating tone, as she subsided next to Sophie on the settle—“no one could fault you for what happened. You were only trying . . . the worst that can be said, is that you were foolish enough—brave enough—to throw stones when you might have run to fetch help; and any help you found would have come much too late.”

  Sensible words, of perhaps considerable truth, but Sophie, exhausted and distraught, was not in a humour to give them much credence. “Still, you cannot deny it, Jo,” she said. “It was my doing, whether meant or not . . . Mama was well able to protect herself, and she must have known what might happen—the only end of my foolish bravery, as you call it, was to—was to—”

  But she could not say the words aloud.

  “Sophie.” With a gentleness of which few would have suspected her, Joanna drew her weeping sister into her arms. “Tomorrow, when you are rested and well again,” she murmured, smoothing Sophie’s tumbled hair as she might have stroked her pony’s mane, “you will see it all quite differently. Gray will explain it to you, and Mrs. Wallis, and it will all be quite all right . . .”

  But this only made Sophie cry harder. She ought, she knew, to tell her sister what had happened—to explain what had prompted her horrifying recollection—but Mrs. Wallis had loved Joanna as Mama had not, and she found it was quite out of her power to break such news as this. Gray will tell her. Gray will know what is best to say . . .

  * * *

  “Sophie?” Gray called. “Joanna?”

  Rounding a corner just ahead of the remainder of the party, he beheld his wife, wrapped again in his discarded coat, shivering and sobbing in her sister’s arms. A moment later the guardsman Reynolds trod on his heel, and he was forced to make way for the others.

  Sophie raised her head, displaying for half a heartbeat a face cleansed of blood but swollen and blotched with much weeping; before Gray had had time to blink, the ravages of her distress had disappeared, and her expression showed only her present alarm. Joanna had started to her feet and, apparently heedless of the reproaches due to her profound disobedience, ran to embrace first Master Alcuin, then Mrs. Wallis and even Sieur Germain. Only when she found herself face-to-face with King Henry, and surrounded by half a dozen solid guardsmen, did her self-assurance fail her, and then with a hasty, slapdash curtsey and a murmured “Your Majesty,” she retreated again behind Mrs. Wallis. Gray doubted very much that the King had noticed her at all, so hungrily was his gaze fixed on Sophie.

  But she, throughout the whole of her sister’s exuberant performance, only stood and gaped at her erstwhile guardian.

  “Mrs. Wallis,” she said at last, with a sort of hiccough, stretching out a trembling hand. “I thought—I had thought that—”

  “You are a foolish child, Sophia,” Mrs. Wallis returned, with such uncomplicated affection in her tone as made Gray blink in surprise. She stepped forward to kiss and embrace Sophie. If she had expected some return for this display of feeling, however, her disappointment must have been great, for Sophie continued still and silent.

  But not so her father.

  By her proximity to Sophie, Mrs. Wallis now commanded the King’s notice, as previously she had not; as he studied her profile, frowning, he appeared to grow ever more astonished.

  “It is you, indeed,” he said at last, astonishing the rest in turn. “Lady Maëlle—is’t not? You have a great deal to answer for.”

  Her back stiffened; then, slowly, deliberately, Mrs. Wallis loosed her hold of Sophie and turned to face the man whose daughter she might fairly have been accused of abducting. “Your Majesty.” A deep, graceful curtsey, rather at odds with her frosty tone.

  But his attention had already left her, as it must, to fasten once more on his daughter. “I can scarce believe my eyes,” he murmured, as though to himself. Gray felt half ashamed to witness such private anguish, but he would not have left Sophie to face her father alone, even had it been in his power to choose.

  “You have the look of your mother,” whispered the King, and came forward—one step—two; he stood before her with outstretched arms, while she gazed up at him like one spellbound. “And her magick also; that face, that voice . . . On Samhain-night, it’s said the dead may walk among the living . . . But I am so glad you are come back to me, my little Edith Augusta!”

  This at last seemed to break the spell. “You are mistaken, Your Majesty,” said the Princess Royal, drawing herself up. “My name is Sophie Marshall.”

  CHAPTER XXXIII

  In Which Old Scores Are Settled

  Sophie Marshall. She had never so styled herself before, or not aloud, and the sound of it, the look on Gray’s pale, sooty face when she glanced his way, went some distance towards restoring her equilibrium. Perhaps Joanna spoke truly, she thought; perhaps it was not all my fault; perhaps I may be forgiven. Despite the hollow terror of the memory, the cold knot of guilt and misery under her heart began, just perceptibly, to loosen.

  “Sophie,” Gray began, and then fell silent. She held out a hand; he smiled and reached towards her, clasping her fingers with his. When he would have drawn closer, however, she shook her head; this battle she must fight for herself.

  But it seemed she was to have a moment’s reprieve, for the King, his advance halted by her brief show of defiance, now turned, frowning, to inquire of Gray who he might be.

  “Graham Marshall, Your Majesty.” Only Sophie herself, she thought, could have detected the tremor in his voice. “Late of Merlin College. I am brother-in-law to my lord of Kergabet, and I am Sophie’s husband.”

  His Majesty’s visible consternation provoked Mrs. Wallis to speech. “You cannot have believed, my lord,” she said, “that Sophia’s friends, however great our fear for Your Majesty’s life, should betray her once more into the very danger which her mother sacrificed so much to avert?”

  “I beg your pardon, Lady Maëlle; I have not the pleasure of understanding you,” he replied, so stiff and regal now that it was difficult to credit his pleading of a moment since.

  Mrs. Wallis had plainly some retort in mind, but Sophie, wishing only to have this moment over, saw her chance and seized it.

  “Your Majesty,” she said, “I am heartily sorry to have played you such a trick as to show you my mother’s face, but I assure you there was no alternative. You shall hear all the tale another time, no doubt, but what I should wish you to know at once, is . . .”

  The words caught in her throat, and she swallowed—weary, ravenous, chilled bone-deep, but determined that, at all events, she should make her position clear.

  “What I must say,” she went on at last, her voice no longer sounding like her own, “is that I have not come back to ‘claim my pl
ace,’ or to beg your hospitality, or to—to discompose your family in any way. Had I been able, I should have gone away again at once, and no one the wiser—”

  But she was brought up short by her father’s inarticulate cry of distress.

  “Edith—Sophie,” the King began again, his jaw working. “I—you cannot mean—No, indeed, you shall not go away again, before we have so much as spoken—”

  And he took another step forward, his hands raised as though to take her by the shoulders.

  Sophie recoiled.

  “Your Majesty may perhaps forget,” Sieur Germain interjected, chillingly civil, “the debt which he owes to the Princess this night . . .”

  “Or perhaps,” Mrs. Wallis continued, as though to her companions, “His Majesty is merely carried by the exuberance of his gratitude into too violent an expression of hospitality.”

  Halted once more, the King stared in silence from one of them to the other. Sophie turned in their direction, opening her mouth to voice some rebuke, but fatigue made her eyes darken and her knees give way beneath her before a word had passed her lips. She reached out blindly for some means of support; strong hands steadied her on her feet.

  When she came to herself again, Mrs. Wallis and Gray were supporting her between them, and she heard Joanna in full spate: “. . . and I do think it too bad of you, Your Majesty, to keep poor Sophie standing here in such a pitiful state—and Gray, too, and the others—when, if you had only heeded our letter—”

  “Dim’zell Joanna,” Sieur Germain warned, and Joanna shut her mouth at once, though looking rather bellicose than chastened.

  “Your Majesty,” murmured the guard captain who stood at the King’s elbow. “May we proceed?”

  “A moment, Captain. The Princess and her attendants shall be our guests,” said the King, “until such time as this affair is settled. Where is—no; no, that would be most unsuitable. You, Girard”—turning to one of the guardsmen—“fetch me one of the Queen’s ladies, to escort our guests to suitable quarters.”

  Girard trotted away down the corridor and returned only moments later with a bewildered-looking young woman in tow. She curtseyed deeply to the King, and goggled at Sophie.

  “Madame de Courcy,” said His Majesty. “You will find suitable accommodations for these ladies, if you please.”

  “Your Majesty.” Another curtsey, and to Mrs. Wallis, “If it please you, ma’am . . . ?”

  She set off back the way she had come. Joanna trotted after her, almost without a backward glance; Sophie tried to cling to her husband, but Mrs. Wallis pulled her firmly along.

  “Rest well, cariad,” said Gray, low, as he let go her hand. “I shall see you in the morning, no doubt.”

  She cast a last desperate look over her shoulder at him; he gave her an encouraging smile.

  Then the King said in a flat voice, “You may proceed, Captain Prichard.” The captain gave a low-voiced order, and the guardsmen took Gray and the others by the shoulders and began to march them away.

  “Gray!” Sophie tried to shout, but what emerged was a sort of whispered croak; then they were out of sight, and it was too late.

  “Come, child,” said Mrs. Wallis kindly, and Sophie stumbled after her.

  * * *

  There was but one chamber in the Royal Palace both held under interdiction of all magick and large enough to accommodate so many; into this apartment, already occupied by the conspirators, Gray and his friends were conducted by their captors. The spell settled like a weight of misery on Gray’s shoulders, worse by far than the Professor’s interdiction on Callender Hall, and he knew from their waxen faces and dispirited expressions that the other mages present felt it likewise.

  Curiously, however, the Professor himself seemed unaffected—or perhaps his towering rage still masked the symptoms of illness.

  “You!” He levelled a furious glare at Gray. “Is there no ridding the world of you, accursèd boy?”

  Gray returned his gaze levelly but said nothing, being preoccupied with swallowing back a wave of nausea. Woodville, though his face was green in the intervals between bruises, managed a sneer. The Professor took a step towards Gray but halted, still glowering, when one of the guardsmen posted at the door cleared his throat meaningly.

  Sieur Germain pointedly turned his back on the Professor and his allies and peered up into Gray’s face, and down into Master Alcuin’s, with furrowed brow. “You look very ill, both of you,” he said. “Will you not sit down?”

  He took them each by an elbow and propelled them to an unoccupied settle.

  “It is only the interdiction,” Master Alcuin explained, mopping his forehead with a handkerchief.

  Gray closed his eyes, found this did not answer, and opened them again, staring up at the blessedly featureless ceiling. “Magister,” he said, attempting to divert his thoughts from his rebellious stomach, “that guardsman—how came it that he recognised us? Has he a strong magickal talent, to see through our charms?”

  His teacher gave a wan chuckle. “You have not puzzled it out? Recall, Marshall, the charms protect against unwelcome notice. It was that guardsman who subdued your friend Woodville, when you and I and Miss Sophie were under attack, and his attention to us at that moment, therefore, was very welcome indeed . . .”

  Of course. Gray nodded—blinked—swallowed hard.

  Sieur Germain, perched on a chair opposite, looked from Gray to Master Alcuin in growing alarm. “You, there,” he called to the guardsmen at the door; when one of them left his post to investigate, he said, “My brother is very ill; you must see that he cannot stay the night here. I would speak to your Captain Prichard . . .”

  Gray did not hear the guardsman’s reply; he closed his eyes, and drifted, and knew no more.

  * * *

  Sophie shifted in her seat, covertly lifting her gaze to the frescoed ceiling of the King’s great audience chamber. She was hungry, thirsty, and desperately tired, having slept long but unquietly, disturbed by Joanna’s nightmares as well as her own. She dreaded the ordeal still to come and, though she believed the truth must prevail, was continually recalling examples from history in which the reverse had occurred. And having resolved, before succumbing to magick-shocked exhaustion, that she must tell Gray everything she had remembered, as soon as they should be permitted some private speech, she was impatient to have it over. His troubled glances at her, from where he sat between his brother and Master Alcuin against the right-hand wall of the long, narrow room, suggested that he guessed at her distress—though surely he could have no notion of the truth.

  From time to time—covertly, and with some trepidation—Sophie shifted her gaze to the opposite wall, where, beneath a fresco depicting the twelve labours of Hercules, their opponents were gathered. Viscount Carteret stood in close conference with Lord Merton; Lord Wrexham and Lord Spencer slumped in gilt-and-velvet chairs, one at either end of the row along the wall, while Woodville slowly paced, and the Professor muttered to himself, with furrowed brow, occasionally casting a venomous glance at his accusers.

  Gray and Master Alcuin, Lord Merton and Woodville, all alike looked worn and pale and ill. “They will have been confined under a powerful interdiction,” Mrs. Wallis said quietly, when Sophie exclaimed at their wretched appearance. “The stronger one’s magick, the worse are the effects. Do not be alarmed, however; it will not last.”

  “Mother Goddess!” Joanna declared, “I am so hungry, I believe I could eat a whole roast ox. Whatever can be taking such a time?”

  “Hush, child,” said Mrs. Wallis. “The King is returning.”

  At last, thought Sophie. He had left the audience chamber an hour since, to consult with the guard captain, Prichard, and Master Lord de Vaucourt, chief of His Majesty’s mages; the two sets of prisoners, together with their guards and the small party of ladies, had in the interim had ample leisure for discussion, explanation, a
nd recrimination, as circumstances suited, and to speculate as to what results this conference would produce. Sophie had attempted twice to speak to Gray, but his guards, though she saw sympathy in their faces, had on each occasion escorted her firmly back to her own seat.

  Sieur Germain had presented their evidence, such as it was, of Viscount Carteret’s planned coup d’état, calling on Master Alcuin to explain the nature and effects of the poison used, and on Gray and Sophie to confirm its prior use on Lord Halifax. To Sophie’s ear, he made the whole phantastickal tale sound—if not perfectly reasonable—less incredible than she could have managed herself, and while he spoke she was in great hopes of the King’s seeing everything as he ought. Lord Merton’s turn came next, however, and from then on she had been in dread of the outcome. The Professor’s tale of Gray’s assault on Lord Halifax was rehearsed again, and a motive for it adduced, by the assertion that “young Marshall” had been finally sent down in punishment for his misdeeds—including the suspicious death of a fellow student—and had returned to exact his revenge. Upon discovering that his stepdaughter might in fact be the lost Princess, Lord Merton explained, the Professor had naturally wished to see her restored to the bosom of her family and had sought Lord Carteret’s advice on how best to do so. That Lord Merton and Woodville had done their best to injure Sophie, Gray, and Master Alcuin—and succeeded in injuring Mrs. Wallis—they could scarcely deny, but neither could Sieur Germain disprove Lord Merton’s indignant protest that it had all been done in defence of His Majesty and not with any will to harm him.

  “A conspiracy?” Lord Carteret, rising from his seat to answer his accuser, breathed indignation at the very suggestion. “But why should we be supposed to be in collusion? And what reason can Your Majesty possibly have to value the word of these . . . interlopers, above that of your most trusted advisors? And Bretons, Your Majesty! Has my lord so soon forgot the attempted insurrection, which was so obviously the object of their presence here . . . ?”