by Candy Rae
“True,” replied Dame Matthew with a hidden grin.
* * * * *
Crisis (11)
The Conclave of Dukes plus one Lord Marshall was in session.
“I’m not disputing your claim,” Henri Cocteau lied to Sam Baker with much care, “but I think it best that you provide the proof before the motion is put to a vote.”
“Ian Karovitz was the son of Elliot Three,” insisted the crusty old Duke, shaking his head at Henri Cocteau.
“That would be your deceased son-in-law?” enquired William Duchesne.
“It was given out that he was born prematurely but he was a large bouncing baby, obviously full term,” replied Sam Baker.
“His sister Danielle was born twelve years later and there was always doubt as to the father,” countered William Duchesne, determined to sew a seed of doubt in the minds of the men seated round the table.
“You’re saying that Ian Karovitz was impotent?” blustered Sam Baker, his temper rising, clearly under a certain amount of discomfiture that the royal claim on behalf of his grandson Richard was under discussion rather than being accepted with immediacy.
“It was well known that Louise Senot was a flighty bit of stuff. There were doubts about the legitimacy of her daughter Danielle who became a nun, no-one of honourable lineage would marry her,” said Henri Cocteau.
“What you are telling us is not proof Sam, we need more,” Raoul van Buren injected his thoughts into the mix.
“Ian Karovitz accepted paternity of the boy,” insisted the Duke of Baker.
He stared through narrowed eyes at Henri Cocteau, William Duchesne and Raoul van Buren in turn. He knew who would oppose him now, not much of a surprise.
“Is there a written confession?” asked Raoul van Buren.
It was with the air of a triumphant conjuror that Sam Baker raised the piece of parchment and showed it to the men sitting round the oval table. “This is a confession written by Louise Senot shortly before her death. In it she affirms before God that Ian, her son, was of the king’s begat.”
“Can you prove its authenticity?” asked Henri Cocteau.
“The document was witnessed.”
Henri Cocteau snaked a long arm over and taking the parchment, began to examine it, “both witnesses comfortably dead,” he said as he got to the bottom.
“It is, however, a document with some basis in fact,” interrupted the Lord Marshall. “I feel that we must accept Richard as our King if Queen Susan dies. The Larg threat grows. Now is not the time to show any discord. In the absence of another claimant, I say we put it to the vote then decide how to convince the Larg.”
Not one of the Dukes mentioned the fact that Queen Susan was still alive and that it was technically treason to be discussing her successor. Everyone knew that her lifespan could be numbered in days, not months.
“There is another claimant,” smiled Henri Cocteau, “and I have irrefutable proof of veracity of the claim. I have already taken the precaution of speaking to the Larg. They agree that my claimant is of the bloodline and are prepared to accept it.”
Sam Baker laughed a laugh of derision, “You have found a legal heir and have spoken to the Larg? You expect us to believe that?”
“The Larg cannot read,” vouchsafed David Gardner.
“But their Altuinqs can,” said Lord Marshall Philip Ross looking the question at Henri Cocteau, “I would hear more of this. What do you propose?”
“Legal heir,” insisted Henri with a sly glint at Sam Baker, “and I have documents to prove it beyond doubt and far more than a son of a supposed illegitimate son of a king. And who was, may I point out, claimed as his own flesh and blood by the late Lord Marshall, despite what his widow was persuaded to say on her deathbed.”
“How dare you question my word! There are no other heirs living,” Sam Baker shouted, his face an angry red, “Elliot III murdered all who had the faintest trace of Murdoch blood except for his own children and Alexa Karovitz. You want to put one of the elderly nuns on the throne?”
“Indeed I do not,” was Henri’s bland reply, “although even one of them would be a better choice than a son of an illegitimate bastard of doubtful parentage and whose bloodline is in doubt.”
Sam Baker spluttered. “My grandson Richard is the only possible choice. The Larg will agree, they do not insist that the king’s parentage is legal within marriage laws; it is the bloodline that matters to them. Ian Karovitz was the bastard son of Elliot Three. Come now my fellow Dukes, surely it is better that our king should be of one of us rather than a complete stranger that Cocteau has dredged up from somewhere.”
“You claim that you have proof, written proof,” prompted William Duchesne, “show us it. A dubious deathbed affirmation is not enough.”
Sam Baker blustered, “the dates fit,” he defended himself, “and my father was always convinced of it. That’s why Ian Karovitz was permitted to marry my daughter.”
“But Lord Marshall Ian Karovitz said the boy was his, he said so, repeatedly, when he was trying for a match for his daughter Danielle,” vouchsafed Jeremy Graham who had sat silent up until now.
“The rumours were rife,” said Tom Brentwood.
“She was pregnant when she married him,” insisted the stubborn Sam Baker, “my father said so.”
“Then your father was a fool,” said Henri Cocteau rising to his feet, The Conclave chamber erupted in noisy vilification and shouting.
“Stop,” said Philip Ross in exasperation, “this is getting us nowhere. Sit down for Larg’s sake.”
They did so, somewhat shamefacedly.
Henri Cocteau shrugged and placed his elegant form back on his chair. Sam Baker, red-faced, plumped down with scant regard for decorum.
“May I speak?” asked Raoul van Buren. He had been sitting watching the antics of his fellow Lords with a sad-faced smile. “May I summarise? My Lord Baker proposes that his grandson must be the true heir. This claim is based on the assumption, hitherto unproven that Louise Senot was pregnant by Elliot III when she married her husband in AL108.”
“Correct,” growled Sam Baker, “and it is not unproven. I also have the affidavit.”
“Slim evidence,” said William Duchesne.
“One we must not discount immediately” warned the Lord Marshall, “it is possible after all.” He turned to Henri Cocteau, “your candidate?”
“One whose provenance can be proved.”
“Documents can be forged,” claimed Sam Baker.
“True, but I have traced and can prove, beyond the shadow of a doubt, a true legitimate heir of the bloodline and one that has already satisfied our Larg neighbours. I have traced the descendants of the twin sister of the Elliot I.”
The results of this announcement were predictable, excited talk, rabid denials and endless questions, behind which Lord Marshall Philip Ross became the voice of reason.
“Where is this descendant?” he asked Henri Cocteau.
“In a safe place. If I may call in the person who can answer all further questions?”
Henri Cocteau rose from his chair and went to the door. Those at the table could see him beckoning.
“My second son, Charles,” announced Henri Cocteau.
Charles Cocteau entered the chamber. He was carrying a large pile of papers and parchment. He placed the pile on the table in front of the Lord Marshall. The Dukes watched as he picked up the topmost document and began to read.
“I have to say,” said Philip Ross, sitting back in his chair with a weary sigh after reading through the documents from beginning to end, “that, in my mind, there is no doubt as to the veracity of the Duke of Cocteau’s claim. Such documents would have been pretty nigh impossible to forge. You tell us the Larg agree to the truth of this?”
“You have the family in your possession?” asked David Gardiner, pulling the genealogical chart towards him.
“Yes I do,” replied Henri pointing out her name with a manicured finger, “the Princess Anne, her husba
nd and three of her children.”
“And this one?” The Lord Marshall pointed to the name Jessica.
“That is her eldest, she had left the family home before we got to them.”
“This Anne will accept the throne?”
“She will,” affirmed Henri, seeing no need to tell them of her reluctance. He looked at Sam Baker, “do you accept that what I have shown you is the truth?”
The old Duke didn’t answer, Sam Baker was so angry he didn’t think he could utter a coherent word. All his plans and those of his father had come to naught. If the other Dukes and the Lord Marshall agreed to the absurdity of offering the throne of Murdoch to a Vadathian family he would not be the grandfather of a king, instead, Murdoch would have a Queen, and one who would be indebted to Henri Cocteau.
“We must put it to the vote,” announced Jeremy Graham. “Remember, we need six in agreement before the motion to accept the Crawford family as heirs can be carried.”
The Dukes voted.
Jeremy Graham counted. Five hands were raised, those of himself, Cocteau, Duchesne, van Buren and the Lord Marshall.
“No’s?”
One hand was raised, that of Sam Baker.
“Abstentions?”
The two who indicated their neutral position were the Dukes of Brentwood and Gardiner.
“We need six,” announced Philip Ross.
“I’ll agree if the Duke of Baker does,” was David Gardiner’s surprising offer.
“You have little choice,” said Lord Marshall Ross. “Anne Crawford is the true and legal descendant of Elliot the Founder and it can be proved, has been proved, to our satisfaction and to the satisfaction of the Larg.”
There were murmurs of agreement from most of those around the table.
“There is nothing that says that the king needs to be legitimate,” Sam Baker growled, “it is the blood that is important.”
“Your grandson Richard’s claim is via a bastard line. Letters and confessions witnessed by those now dead are not enough.”
“If I do agree and I am not saying that I will or will not, why does it need to be this Anne Crawford who ascends? She is a woman, she cannot rule in fact. Would it not be better if she was passed over in favour of her son?”
“He’s only a little boy,” Henri Cocteau contested but he was inwardly congratulating himself. Sam Baker was coming round; he just knew it.
“A Regency Conclave,” he chided, a far better proposition than the government being placed in the incapable hands of a crop farmer from Vadath who knows little of our ways.”
“He can learn,” asserted the Duke of Cocteau, hiding his glee.
“Murdoch needs a strong King, not a feeble Queen!” Sam Baker was bent on continuing to voice his disappointed displeasure.
“You were not so vehement about your objections to a female when Elliot died,” noted Raoul van Buren in a mild voice.
“It was different then,” said the belligerent Sam Baker, “we have a choice now and I say the throne should be set on Xavier, not his mother. The father can sit on Conclave if that will sweeten the pill but the government must remain in the hands of those of us with experience, not foreigners from a country part-ruled by creatures with four legs and paws.”
“He has a point,” said Jeremy Graham.
“We should consider this,” agreed Tom Brentwood.
“There is nothing to consider,” said Henri Cocteau, “the true heir is Anne.”
“The true heir,” Sam Baker corrected him, “is the late king’s sister if you want to make a fine point on it. In fact, I think it would be better she than a farmer’s wife from Vadath.”
“A nun. Under oath to God.”
“Has she been asked?”
“She was asked and refused,” answered Henri Cocteau. “She waits on us and will abdicate her rights in favour of Anne Crawford and not her son. Her cousin Alexa will do the same. No Sam, it has to be Anne and remember, she won’t rule personally. Her husband David is a fine man and will be guided by us.
“It must be voted on,” insisted Sam Baker with a dogged determination not to give in easily. Who says that the throne should be offered to the late king’s sister?”
“Don’t be an idiot man,” cried Henri Cocteau with heat.
“I vote for an adjournment,” said David Gardiner. He was sick of all this bickering, he had a headache and he wanted out of the stuffy Conclave Chamber.
“No adjournment,” declared the Lord Marshall, “it must be decided, now, tonight.”
“I have the solution to the problem,” offered Jeremy Graham, “anyone want to hear it?”
“Anything that will get this concluded,” growled Philip Ross.
“May I suggest that My Lord Baker’s granddaughter be betrothed to the boy Xavier?”
“Xavier will be Crown-Prince, not King,” whispered Sam Baker in an aside to Tom Brentwood. “I like this little.”
“Better half a cake than none at all,” he replied.
“Well?” prompted the Lord Marshall.
“Well what?” asked Sam Baker.
“Will you agree to Anne Crawford’s claim if your granddaughter Michaela is betrothed to Prince Xavier?”
“If I do agree I will insist on some further conditions,” Sam Baker countered.
“What conditions?” asked a suspicious Henri Cocteau, groaning.
“The throne must first be offered to Elliot’s sister.”
“Agreed,” said Henri, secure in the knowledge that the nun would refuse the honour and the Patriarch would be unlikely to absolve her from her vows even if she did not.
“If she refuses, you can offer the throne to Anne Crawford with the proviso that Michaela and Xavier are betrothed, a binding betrothal, sanctioned by the Church and one that may not be dissolved without full Conclave approval. This is my final offer.”
“Accepted” said Tom Brentwood with relief.
“Witnessed,” shouted both Jeremy Graham and Philip Ross.
“And I insist that Prince Xavier be betrothed immediately to my granddaughter, in the said binding contract.”
“Agreed,” answered a pleased Henri Cocteau. Anything – anything to get this over with. “You will abide by the majority?” he further pressed.
“I will,” agreed Sam Baker through clenched teeth.
“And the other two children?” asked Tom Brentwood. “What about them? I am of the opinion that if Sam here gets the boy, that the daughter, Annette isn’t it, should be betrothed to my son and heir. If this is agreed upon then my vote changes from abstention to yes.”
“Agreed,” said Henri Cocteau.
“And I will take the youngest for my own grandson,” said David Gardiner with a smile.
Henri Cocteau agreed to it all, hardly believing that the full Conclave had, in the end, voted for Anne. He knew also that betrothals could be broken so it would cost nothing to assent, binding contract or not.
Now that the succession was decided, Sam Baker had other concerns.
“Who exactly is he, this David Crawford, husband of this Anne?” he asked and, fixing Henri Cocteau with a direct glare, added, “I assume that as Anne is married you will ask that the husband sit on Conclave on her behalf?
The answer was of paramount importance to the Dukes of Murdoch. A female, a queen, could never have any direct part to play in the governance of the kingdom.
When young Queen Susan had been set upon the throne, it had necessitated a change in the law. A Queen Regnant, the Conclave of Lords had decreed, could be nothing more than a figurehead and the perpetuator of the bloodline. It was a queen’s husband who would be expected to sit in the guiding seat of the Conclave as Lord Prince Consort.
“He was a farmer you say?” There was a derisory sneer in Sam Baker’s voice.
“He knows nothing about how to rule,” added the aggrieved Tom Brentwood who, with the imminent death of Susan, would have to resign as Regent.
“He will learn,” was William Duchesne’s re
sponse.
“But what of his descent, his own bloodline?”
“He is not of noble blood as you see it,” answered Henri Cocteau and he turned to his son with an inquiring look, “do you know anything of his antecedents?” They had rehearsed this.
“I do,” Charles answered, “and he claims descent from one of the most renowned women of the North, Tara Sullivan no less.”
“Never heard of her,” grunted Sam Baker.
“But you will have listened to the ballads of Tara and Kolyei, the first duo to vadeln-pair. The peoples of Vadath sing of her often. The two of them wrote the ‘Early History of Mankind on Rybak’ and I know there are copies of it here in the palace. I’ve read it myself.”
“I’ve read it,” volunteered Lord Gardiner, “my tutor was a great fan of their writings. This husband of Anne is a descendant of hers?”
“Indeed. Tara Sullivan married one Peter Crawford around the time of the Larg invasion of Vadath and they had a number of children. David Crawford is descended from their son, also named Peter. This second Peter married the only daughter of Gerry Russell and Jessica Howard.”
“The Jessica Howard?”
“Yes, Jessica, the half-sister of Elliot the First and Princess Ruth, yes.”
“Russell? Not one from that family that breeds the horses?” asked David Gardiner with interest, his eyes gleaming.
The Russell steeds were well known, even in the Kingdom of Murdoch. They were the best, everybody said so and also the most expensive, as the Duke of Gardiner would tell anyone prepared to listen. David Gardiner was a great aficionado of horseflesh. William Duchesne could see him coming round to the idea of David Crawford being the ideal man to represent his wife on Conclave.
“Thought all such people vadeln-paired with these Lind of theirs,” was all the comment he contented himself with.
“Not all, only the ones the Lind find suitable,” answered the Duke of Duchesne, “and I think you will find him most knowledgeable.”
Sam Baker was determined to have the last word, “doesn’t mean he’ll be a good ruler.”