by Candy Rae
“Servants?” queried Annette. “Is your family rich then?”
“They’re not my family any more,” Beth replied.
“You ran away to join the Vada didn’t you!” marvelled the law-abiding Annette.
“Something like that,” was Beth’s non-committal answer.
“Don’t ask so many questions young Anne,” instructed Granny Robson who had excellent hearing and had been listening.
Annette subsided but there was an element of heroine-worship in her gaze every time she looked at Beth after this. The older girl looked so reserved, so shy and quiet, that Annette found it difficult to believe it possible.
Jess, Tana, Annette, Xavier, Ruth and the three Lind left for their expedition not long after breakfast the next morning and Beth was soon hard at work helping with the many tasks a busy farmer’s wife had to perform every day. She struggled with some of them but not as much as she would have during her first days in Vadath. After a light lunch, Anne left Beth with her mother intending to spend a few bells tending to her kitchen garden, refusing Beth’s offer of help with a laugh and asking her to keep Granny Robson company.
“My mother gets a bit lonely sometimes.”
“I can’t just sit there doing nothing,” protested Beth, “everyone seems to be busy all of the time.”
“The cost of living on a working farm,” she was informed, “Xavier and Annette were up before dawn doing their chores so that they could go to the woods after breakfast.”
Beth was rather diffident about what she was about to offer, but ploughed ahead, “do you have any sewing or mending I could do? I like sewing.”
Anne Crawford laughed, “there’s always mending to do with a family like mine.” She hesitated. In her mind it was not fair to ask a guest to mend trews and darn socks. The Crawford farm was not the biggest or richest in the area. The family were not poor, not by a long shot, but they had to be careful.
“I’d like to, really,” insisted Beth.
“Let her,” ordered Granny Robson. “Light’s good at the window. I can sit in my rocker and Beth and I can have a chat. Off with you Anne, you’re dying to get into the fresh air. It’ll do you good; you’ve been looking a bit peaky lately.”
Like her children, Anne didn’t even consider arguing with her mother, “I’ll get the mending basket.”
“Beth can do that; off you go.”
Anne went on the word.
For a while, as Beth began to darn a large hole in one of her host’s socks, old woman and girl sat in silence.
“How do you like the Vada?” asked Jessica Robson.
Beth’s answer was a cautious one, “it’s all right.”
“Different from what you knew before.”
Beth looked surprised.
“Jess wrote to us, but you know that, told us you were from the Southern Continent, that you’d run away from an arranged marriage.”
“That’s true.”
“I don’t know much about the Kingdom of Murdoch but I do have some brains remaining to me. An arranged marriage must mean that your family has a certain amount of standing.”
“Yes, that’s true too. Susa Lynsey says that I’ve not to talk about it though. I didn’t want to marry the man chosen for me, so I ran.”
“Tell me.”
Beth did and of her difficulties since then.
“It’s all so different. I’m all at sixes and sevens, it’s as if I’m two persons. It’s hard to put behind me how I lived before and to change just like that and become a cadet. I want to fit in but can’t.”
“You’re not the first,” mused Jessica Robson, half to herself.
“First of what?”
“Not the first noble’s daughter to run north away from a displeasing marriage arrangement.”
“Do you know someone else who did?" asked a surprised Beth.
“Yes but it was a very long time ago and I don’t know if you’d be interested.”
“Oh I would,” breathed Beth, “please tell me.”
“She didn’t join the Vada; she became a farmer’s wife. Some of her children and grandchildren did become vadeln-paired though.”
“It was different for her then,” said Beth, sounding disappointed.
“Different but yet the same,” insisted Granny Robson, pointing an admonitory finger at Beth. “She still had to learn how to put her previous life’s training (which I believe was not unlike yours) and attitudes behind her. Shall I tell you a bit about her?”
“Yes please,” answered Beth, tying off the wool of her first darn and reaching into the mending basket for another ill-used sock. So engrossed did Beth find herself in the story Jessica Robson told her, that she quite forgot to set the kettles on the stove to fill the vat of water that Anne said they would need for baths for the lichen gatherers. Quite a lot of Anne’s hated darning was done though, much to her gratification and Beth, as she listened to Jessica Robson, began to realise that she probably could settle into her new life if she worked at it a little more.
The old woman’s earliest years had been spent in north-western Argyll so she understood some of what Beth was experiencing in being thrust into a new culture. Even more in Vadath than in Argyll, was this culture one where women were considered to be equal to men and were accepted as such without argument.
“For almost the first time in your life Beth, you will be required to think for yourself, you are responsible for your own actions and will be expected to look after yourself in all things. It is bound to be difficult for you at first, but you are of strong character, you wouldn’t have attracted Xei to you else. You have courage; Xei sensed it. The trainers and other cadets, they help do they not?”
“On yes,” was Beth’s fervent reply, “especially Jess, Hannah and Tana. I don’t know how I’d do without them.”
“You’d manage well enough I expect,” old Jessica Robson said briskly, “from what you’ve told me, you are trying to do your best, at least now if not at the beginning and, by the end of the training year, you’ll be as good as most of them. You’ll look back at this time and laugh at the girl you were. You must remind Jess to bring you back to see us so I can see for myself. I don’t travel much any more.”
Jessica’s eyes grew distant as she remembered the days when she was young, married to Jess’s grandfather, a soldier of the Fourteenth Ryzck and the trips they had taken into the countryside. That was before he and his Lind had died, a bare tenday before Jess’s mother Anne’s seventh birthday. She continued, her voice soft and restful. “Jessica has known from a very young age that the Vada was her future. Tana too has always wished to be a fighter although I’m sure she never expected that she would vadeln-pair and serve in the Vada. You however, your upbringing has not fitted you adequately for the tasks ahead, but trust me, you will get there.”
“I feel awkward,” confessed Beth, “within myself. I have been brought up so differently.”
“Oh I know what you are going to say, women are nobodies and are expected to marry, bear children, obey their husbands and not to think for themselves at all. I know, but you weren’t happy with that life were you?”
Beth shook her head.
“If you had truly wished for it you wouldn’t have run away. That took courage and perseverance, that same courage and perseverance that will take you through your training.”
By the end of the story Beth understood what the old lady was trying to explain and instead of being the reticent and awkward one amongst the quartet, she began to assert herself more. By the end of the first year’s training she was just as proficient with a sword as Hannah, if not as good as the indomitable Tana or even Jess.
She would pass out of the first year with creditable scorings and would receive her second year stripe standing at attention alongside her three friends.
By then though, much would have happened. She would never be able to ride with pride back to the Crawford farm and show Granny Robson the proof of the success of her endeavours.
/> * * * * *
Crisis (1)
The Head of Protocol at the Royal Palace at Fort had his head deep in his ‘Lists’ when Sam Baker entered the records room in his usual heavy manner and beckoned him over.
Mikel Senotson sighed. The ‘Lists’ were important and the recent deaths within the noble families had meant a great deal of reorganisation and rewriting.
With another sigh he laid down his pen and went to see what the Duke wanted, perhaps he would be able to finish them later.
The Duke of Baker barely acknowledged Mikel’s bow before he launched into his demands, not that Mikel was surprised. The Duke was, in the opinion of the permanent staff here at the palace, known to be difficult and rude to those of lesser rank and that was almost everybody.
“What may I do for you My Lord?”
“In confidence.”
“Naturally.” This request for anonymity was not uncommon and was usually to do with matters of marriage. Because the children of the noble houses intermarried generation upon generation, prudent fathers always made sure that the planned betrothal was not too close in terms of blood-ties.
Mikel wondered what marriage the Duke was planning. His grandson and heir was already betrothed, so, he reasoned, it must be the granddaughter, yes, that would be it.
The Duke surprised him.
“I want to know, I need confirmation,” he grated in a rasping voice that Mikel recognised as the Duke’s idea of a conspiratorial whisper, “who succeeds our King if, shall we say, he does not recover from his malady.”
“It would be his granddaughter, Princess Susan.”
“If she should die without issue?”
Mikel took a deep breath, “the next in line would be the King’s sister, Princess Anne.”
“She is a Thibaltine Nun,” exclaimed Sam, “when she entered the convent she gave up all claims to the throne.”
“Nevertheless, after Princess Susan it would be she.”
“After her?” Sam asked, brushing this aside with a shake of his head, “go further back.”
“Our King’s father, King Elliot the fourth, God rest his soul, was an only child.”
“Elliot the Third?”
“He had one sister,” Mikel acknowledged, feverishly trying to remember, “if I can get the records out My Lord?” he ventured.
“Do that.”
Sam Baker stood, foot tapping, as Mikel found the chart and brought it over. It was taken out of his hands by the Duke of Baker with a dismissive jerk as he then made his way towards the table beside the great oriel window. There he unfurled it and sat studying it for a full half-candlemark.
Mikel returned to his own desk and began again the tedious process of updating the protocol charts.
When Sam Baker left, leaving the chart on the table, Mikel noticed that the Duke had a satisfied smile on his face.
Greatly wondering, Mikel waited until the door had swung to behind him and, lists forgotten, walked over to the vacated table.
He looked at the chart; what had the Duke seen that made him look as if he was a swamp lizard who had caught a nice juicy malinon? He sat down to study it. His practiced eye followed the branches of the tree for a while and then he sat back. He should have realised the implications of the plague attack before this, but why (he assumed Sam Baker had come to the same conclusions) should this knowledge have pleased him?
Mikel picked up the chart and returned to his own desk where he swept aside the lists. Taking a fresh piece of parchment, he began to write.
Mikel left work very late that evening. He filled one piece of parchment with his crabbed handwriting and then another. It was almost dusk when, putting away the chart in its slot, he took out another chart, this the one that recorded the ancestry of certain noble houses. He was still there at day’s end when he heard footsteps and the records office door swung open once again. He hurriedly pushed the parchments he had been working on under the desk as he rose to greet the visitor.
It was a man, dressed in travel-stained garments and who, seeing Mikel, stopped and stared.
“Kellen Senotson?”
“My Lord?”
“You’re working late.”
“Protocol Lists,” answered Mikel quickly, too quickly as it turned out.
One fair eyebrow raised, this visitor uttered two words, “I see.”
Mikel rather thought the Count did see. Could he trust him? Should he? He decided on an indirect approach, “thought I might be seeing you here my Lord.”
“Why is that?” was the interested and courteous reply.
“I would like to discuss something with you that could be important,” answered Mikel, “I believe it should not wait and also that it might be better if we were to meet somewhere more private.”
“Look Mikel, what’s all this about? I’ve been travelling all day and I’m dog-tired. What’s so important and secret?”
“I’ve been perusing some genealogical records My Lord Count.”
That got Count Charles Cocteau’s attention. Mikel was not to know that Charles had gone to the records room bent on doing some genealogical investigation on his own.
“My rooms; in a candlemark. I want to get out of these wet things. I’ll tell my man to leave me a light supper and then go to his bed. We’ll not be disturbed. Bring the charts.”
“I’ve made some notes,” Mikel offered, “the charts are bulky and rather noticeable and I don’t think I want to be seen wandering around the palace with them.”
Charles appreciated the wisdom of such precaution, “fair enough,” he said as he left, “in a candlemark. Don’t be late or all the food will be gone. After the journey I’ve had I’m starving!”
Once in the Count’s quarters, which Mikel noticed were at least four times the size of his, he told Charles about his encounter with the Duke of Baker. Charles listened intently and asked, “He only looked at the chart of the royal family? None else?”
Mikel shook his head. “That’s what made me wonder, that and the smile on his face. I never thought Duke Baker knew how to smile. He’s always so sour-looking.”
“Did he take any notes?”
“No, it was almost as if … as if he was confirming something he already knew.”
“Ah.”
Charles sat back in his chair, deep in thought. Mikel sipped at the deep red wine his host had provided and nibbled at some stuffed peppers.
“The King is ill,” Charles said at last. “He has been ill for some time. The Crown-Prince knew this of course and expected to take on more and more of his father’s duties sooner rather than later. He also had a son, daughters, an uncle and cousins. The dynasty was secure, or so we thought. Then, as you know, the plague hit.”
“Yes indeed.”
“Now the dynasty is only one life away from extinction and that life, from what I have heard since I arrived back in Murdoch, is no longer strong. In fact, I believe the doctors are worried. So, if she should not survive, although we all pray that she will, who is there to take on the mantle of the monarchy?”
Mikel’s flat response chilled Charles to the bone.
“There is none.”
“None at all?”
“None legitimate, none on the charts. Every branch has died out My Lord, except for the king’s sister who is, of course, in Holy Orders and is past childbearing age even were she to be released from her vows. As I told My Lord Duke, the king’s father was an only child.”
“His father? The Mad King?”
“Elliot the Third had a sister who had one son but neither he nor his children survived the massacre.”
“The second Elliot?”
“Two sisters, both called Anne.”
“That’s a bit odd isn’t it?”
“The first one died very young, the same year the second one was born. The second Anne had three children, the first girl was one of the founding sisters of the Grey Nun Convent at Cracovsworth.”
“The other two?”
“Fo
ur children but don’t get your hopes up. Elliot the Third got rid of the lot, the youngest a babe younger than Princess Susan is now. None escaped bar one, another nun, name of Alexa, she had just entered religion. If she’s still alive she’ll be well past sixty. I suppose the Mad King didn’t think of her as a threat, her being a nun and all.”
“So there is nobody.”
“Nobody legitimate.”
“Illegitimate?”
“I’ll work on it, may take some time, but how would he prove his claim?”
“It is important that we find an heir, a blood heir and one that every Duke on Conclave will agree on. Now is not the time for an internal dispute that might well degenerate into another civil war.”
“Civil War?” gulped Mikel.
“Indeed. Find me an heir Mikel.”
“I’ll do my best My Lord.”
When Mikel left, Charles sat long thinking about the events of the past candlemark. He thought longest about Duke Sam Baker’s visit to the records office. What is all this about? Why has Sam Baker been smiling in such a fashion as to arouse Mikel Senotson’s suspicions?
It was early the next morning when Charles arrived back at Mikel’s office. After a quick look around to make sure there was no-one else in the vicinity, he located Mikel.
“Any luck? Found some heirs for me?”
“Can’t talk now though I think I might be on to something. Our present king and his father, none of these two had any mistresses, official or otherwise. As we know, Elliot the Third had many mistresses. He often, shall we say, strayed from the marital bed?”
“Children?”
“They did have children but, as with the legitimate line, none survived; at least I’ve found none so far.”
“Keep looking,” ordered Charles, “and write down everything you come across, however trivial.”
“I will My Lord Count. Do I bring any information to your quarters?”
“Later,” agreed Charles, “meantime I’m heading for the Library – a bit of research of my own.”
* * * * *
Count Charles Cocteau, second son of the Lord Duke Henri Cocteau, diplomat and the up and coming administrator in His Royal Majesty King Elliot the Fifth’s Governmental Conclave, was but recently returned from Argyll where he had been one of the Murdochian delegates attending the conference discussing the re-emergence of the Larg, but it was not that grave concern that took him out of his quarters this night.