“What do you hear around town about Bishop Robertson?” Merewyn asked, as Haley collected the bowl of nuts and the dirty glasses.
The young lady-in-waiting shrugged. “I heard someone say once that Earstien helps those who help themselves, and no one has ever helped himself more than the bishop.”
Merewyn gave a wan smile. “Do you happen to know anything about my son meeting with his grace?”
“Perhaps he’s looking for spiritual guidance, ma’am. I really couldn’t say. I hope I wasn’t speaking out of turn to mention it. The only reason I knew he went there was because he told me when I asked about his day.”
Merewyn felt no desire for additional frustration, so she sent Haley away and then poured herself a small glass of Immani Argitis.
“Spiritual guidance?” she muttered under her breath with a roll of her eyes. She didn’t think Maxen was terribly interested in religious matters—no more so than any fashionable young man. But she had to admit an uncomfortable truth: her son badly needed guidance.
She ought to have been the one to guide him all these years, but she had been stuck here in this tower. Clearly That Man had been too interested in his latest mistresses to look after his son and heir. So Maxen had grown up adrift, and sadly, it showed. It was no wonder that he looked to people like Robertson for advice.
In her absence, and in the virtual absence of That Man, Maxen should naturally have been drawn to his charismatic half-brother, Broderick. But the differences between them—in age, in talent, even in looks—were simply too great. Maxen was jealous, and in all honesty, he had reason to worry about Broderick’s popularity. Not that Broderick had any conscious design against Maxen, but he always shone too brightly in comparison.
If only Merewyn could get out of this tower, she would be able to help them both. She could steer Broderick’s natural abilities to Maxen’s advantage, rather than to his detriment. She could teach Maxen to complement Broderick’s skills, rather than try pointlessly to compete with them. But she could only do that if she could get out of this tower.
Her thoughts turned to the news that had originally brought Maxen to her chamber: Queen Nina was coming.
The Loshadnarodski queen was Merewyn’s first genuine hope in years. And That Man would be meeting her here, in Leornian, most likely in this castle. What if, with Nina’s help, Merewyn could engineer a meeting with That Man? Was that even possible?
What might she persuade him to do? For years she had thought of what she would say to That Man if she found herself with the opportunity. At first, these speeches overflowed with vitriol. After a few years in this apartment, the tone of her imagined speech became less openly hostile, but far more biting. She derived a great deal of pleasure from that fantasy, in fact.
But no daydream satisfied her like those in which she killed him. Early on, she had envisioned brutal beatings, or snatching a dagger from his belt and driving it through his throat. As her speeches grew tamer, so did her fictional methods of killing That Man. She would save medicines from the doctor and Haley and use them to poison him, or at least make him drowsy enough she might smother him in his sleep. Lately, when she thought about his visiting, she pictured herself smiling and welcoming him, then following him out when he left and shoving him headlong down the stairs.
She felt he deserved no less. Locking her up here to be utterly forgotten and neglected was cruel not only to her, but to Maxen. Yes, if That Man were dead, Maxen would surely release her from this prison, so she might take her place at her son’s side. Because Maxen badly needed her help. He was a pleasant enough young man, but the way he was going, he would never be a great king. In fact, simple competence might be out of his grasp.
This was no time for idle daydreams, no matter how pleasant. Killing That Man would be highly impractical. There would be a scandal, and Maxen would be implicated, even if he weren’t involved at all. Plus, poor Brandon would be mortified.
No, with Queen Nina and the Myrcian court coming here, there was a chance to do this right. She could win everything she desired at no risk to herself or to Maxen’s reputation. She just needed to find a way to get That Man to do precisely what she wanted, like she used to long ago. Merewyn tried to think of how she could convince him to let her leave this tower—to remove the spell that kept her here. How could she prove that her only concern was for the welfare of their son?
To begin with, of course, she would have to start referring to That Man by name. It felt odd to say it, even silently in her mind: “Ethelred.” She tried a whisper. Then louder, and finally in full voice, the way a herald might announce him at a feast: “His Serene Majesty, Ethelred Sigor, King of Myrcia.”
He was her husband, too. She should reaccustom herself to thinking of him in such terms: “Ethelred, darling.” “Ethelred, dear.” “Have you met my husband, Ethelred?”
But every word struck her as a betrayal. She and Fransis had started calling him That Man together. When they were alone in those fleeting moments where they could think what they desired and say what they meant, they did not wish to think of or speak the name of the man they cuckolded. When they were together, intertwined under a blanket in a stable or lucky enough to lounge naked in a feather bed, they were Merewyn and Fransis, not the Queen of Myrcia and the Earl of Wellenham. They were lovers who craved one another and nothing else in all of existence. It was not until the trousers and shift slipped back over their flawless, youthful bodies that they began remembering who they in fact were. But in those moments, still damp with sweat, still smelling of each other, they could not countenance even the thought of That Man’s name.
Merewyn closed her eyes and breathed deliberately. Seventeen years, she had been faithful to those memories. But Fransis, of all men, would understand, would consent to her calling Ethelred by name, if it meant she could truly live again and help her son. He had wanted for her to make Myrcia a better kingdom, because there had been a dream once between them, and it would only be realized if she could get out of this tower. And that would only happen if she condescended to call That Man, Ethelred.
“Ethelred.” She took a deep breath, held it, and let it out with a sob. “Ethelred.”
Chapter 3
THE FIRE CRACKLED, and Brandon shifted uncomfortably once more in his chair. He had been seated before the fire in the dining room ever since supper ended, not even starting in the direction of his study where he knew important work awaited him. He could envision the blank parchment, ink, and quill sitting useless and unmoving on his desk. I could write tomorrow. Nothing would be lost if I slept first. Perhaps I would finally discover how best to word the request with just one more night of sleep.
Glass of Cheruscian fortified wine in hand, he stood and walked over to the window and peered between the iron framework of diamonds. Across the courtyard, light still twinkled from the fifth floor of what everyone now called the Queen’s Tower. Merewyn was still awake. He sighed, knowing he had already delayed his duty longer than he ought.
He finished his wine, dropping the glass on the table as he exited, and then made his way down the imposing hallway, full of tapestries and relics—shields and swords and a pair of old crowns locked under glass—from when the Bocburg was not a mere duke’s residence, but home to the King of Leornian. Brandon had been born here, and while it felt like home, he could never be entirely at his ease surrounded by the history and power and the weight of expectations.
He had spent much of his youth in this castle, growing up with his best friends, gaining confidence in his abilities to perform his duties as they all took on responsibilities of their own. He was about to write to the oldest of these friends, and he should not feel as nervous as he did addressing a man he had known all his life. But some topics would always be painful between them, and no count of years would ever be able to alter that fact.
A small fire still burned in his study, and once he lit a few candles on the table by the door, he headed straight for his desk, as a jouster might throw himsel
f headlong down the tiltyard. He placed himself on the edge of his chair, assuming the writing position of a schoolboy. Opening the ink and picking up the quill, he scooted the candle closer and bent over the page. The letter needed writing, and no amount of wishing otherwise would change the fact. He set himself to it.
Bocburg, Leornian
September 6, 332
Your Majesty,
And let me also add, “Dear Ethelred.” My great friend. I write you tonight on a most critical matter, not necessarily to the future of the kingdom, but critical to the wellbeing of another person in my care. I speak of Queen Merewyn, and I must implore you to consider her feelings in regards to your upcoming visit here to meet the Loshadnarodski delegation.
Her majesty has been made aware of the visit, as was inevitable. She is not isolated and speaks with people every day, including his royal highness, who visited his mother yesterday. I know they discussed Queen Nina’s visit, and soon I will need to talk with her about the event, as well. My greatest wish is to be able to tell her that she will be allowed a modicum of freedom during the visit of the Loshadnarodskis.
I make this request on numerous grounds. First of all, we wish to extend every hospitality to our foreign visitors. Queen Nina’s regard for Queen Merewyn is well documented, and I believe allowing the two of them to meet, unrestrained, would be a fitting gesture to make to our guests. It would also likely make Queen Nina more amenable to work with Myrcia on other issues important to the kingdom.
Secondly, I believe the people of Myrcia would take this decision of yours in a light of magnanimity that would only enhance your standing with them. After the exceptionally wet spring and summer, the people could do with something to feel positive about.
And thirdly, Queen Merewyn is a person, like the rest of us. Constant imprisonment is not a state in which anyone can thrive. She has paid for her crime. Perhaps she can now earn a little of your mercy.
We can, of course, discuss this further when you get here. I fear I have failed to state my case as eloquently as it deserves. Just, please, try to keep your options open at least until you arrive, in the name of our long friendship.
I am and have always been your most loyal friend and subject,
Brandon Dryhten
Brandon read through the letter several times, finally deciding to rewrite it, changing some of the wording here and there, such as “amenable” to “enthusiastic” to describe the hoped-for support from Queen Nina, and “view your decision” to replace the awkward “take this decision of yours.” Satisfied at last, more than an hour after he first touched ink to parchment, he carefully folded the letter, dribbled sealing wax where the sides met, and pressed his ring to it.
He poured himself more wine and moved closer to the fire. The nights for the past week had grown chill, and in his old age, he often appreciated a warm fire in a way he never had in his youth. No, in his youth, his enthusiasm for life and his friends had kept him warm. And the obscene amounts of wine we consumed. He chuckled softly, remembering drinking until the sun rose, Ethelred on one side of him, Fransis on the other, Edgar nearby and eager to join them, which they happily allowed. Brandon and Ethelred had been inseparable in school at Atherton (his parents had sent him two years early since he and the crown prince got on so well when they visited court). A few years later, Fransis had joined them, quickly becoming indispensable.
Oh, those perfect, golden years of shared youth, before the damned riots in Leornian and Ethelred’s violent overreaction had ruined everything. Except that wasn’t quite right. It hadn’t been the riots that ended those idyllic days. It hadn’t been the three ringleaders Ethelred stupidly put to death. It hadn’t been Fransis. It hadn’t even been Ethelred, really. Much as Brandon hated to admit it, the person who drove a wedge between the four friends forever had been Merewyn—beautiful, brilliant Merewyn.
He loved Merewyn like a sister, but her romance with Fransis and then marriage to Ethelred had changed everything, even if they hadn’t realized it at first. No, at first, when they had come to court as young squires, everything looked as though it would continue more or less the same. Fransis courted Merewyn in secret, while his cousin, Ethelred, had dithered back and forth about who he wanted as his future queen. This fatal indecision continued even after his father, old King Edmund, had died, and Ethelred had taken the throne. Then finally, disastrously, out of a dozen highly-eligible young ladies from four countries, he had chosen Merewyn. Merewyn had acted in public as if she were thrilled to be chosen. And Fransis had behaved as if he were simply a loyal friend, pleased at her good fortune. Of course, this was merely a performance to deceive their friends, and Brandon soon saw through the charade. Their love had not ended, only become secret.
Brandon had learned this earlier than anyone, because he, too, had a secret love—a person who was still in love with Merewyn, no matter how he pretended in public. Unlike Merewyn and Fransis, though, Brandon learned to reconcile himself to the fact that his love would never be reciprocated. So two years after Merewyn and Ethelred’s wedding, he had married Ellen Sigor, Fransis’s beloved sister. Brandon had loved Ellen and been happy with her, but a part of him never stopped longing for something else. Someone else.
He shook his head. The hour had grown late as he sat alone with his thoughts, and it was far past time for him to climb the stairs to his bed.
He twisted the ring he had used to seal the letter around and around on his finger. No smudge of wax remained, and in fact, it appeared as if it had just been polished. Nothing ever marred the signet ring of the Duke of Leornian. War and death and fire and, at one point, being dropped in a river, had failed to leave a single mark. It was a marvel of magy that never failed to impress him, even though he wore it every day.
He pressed it to a notch in the wall behind his desk, and a hidden door slid open by magy, revealing a staircase. More than three hundred years before this night that saw Brandon Dryhten, the latest, but certainly not the most impressive, Duke of Leornian wander off to bed too late, Caedmon Aldred had spelled this ring. It was the only means of opening the doors leading to this staircase.
Brandon actually knew Caedmon quite well. They were both on the privy council together. Every once in a while, Brandon considered asking more about the history of his ring. Had one of his ancestors simply wanted a private means of going up to his bedroom, or was there some scandalous and fascinating story attached to the staircase? Perhaps Brandon would ask Caedmon when the great hillichmagnar arrived with the court at the end of the month. Or perhaps he wouldn’t. Maybe the mystery was worth more to him than the truth.
But he put thoughts of magy behind him as he climbed the stairs, his bedroom and a soft bed awaiting him at the top. With the most important event the Bocburg had seen in his lifetime a month away, he needed to snatch sleep whenever he might. He had capable assistants, and if the royal visit succeeded, he knew he would be one of the people least responsible. Still, the praise or blame would fall to him, and he must do all in his power not to disappoint Ethelred, his king and friend.
His nightshirt lay on the bed and his fire had been lit. He stripped off his clothes, draping them over the back of a chair. He had only just got the nightshirt over his head, when a knock came, and before he could find his robe or invite the visitor in, the door pushed open.
“Here you are,” said his sister, Hildred, as though hurling a damning accusation at him for being in his own room late at night.
“Yes, here I am. I was about to turn in.”
“Not yet.” She dropped into a chair next to the fireplace and stared at him until he tossed the clothes from the other chair to his bed and took a seat. “Mister Kemp is being impossible about the housing arrangements. I need you to tell him I am in charge.” Hildred’s pale cheeks flushed with annoyance.
Brandon did not care to have this argument, again, with his sister, especially when he longed for his soft bed, mere feet away. “We discussed this,” he sighed. “You will plan the feast
and the various social functions. You are beyond all question the authority on such entertainments in the kingdom.”
Brandon was not merely flattering his sister, but speaking the truth. As the eldest daughter of the Duke of Leornian and wife of the Bishop of Formacaster, she had naturally filled Merewyn’s place at the king’s court. People called her the First Lady of Formacaster. When it came to royal feasts and visits, she had unmatched knowledge, instincts, and experience. However....
“As Treasurer, Presley Kemp knows this castle and its workings better than I do,” Brandon said. “And better than you,” he hurried on, before she could interrupt. “I trust him more than anyone else in my employ. So when it comes to what rooms are assigned to whom, I have every faith in his decisions.”
“But he does not understand precedence! He is giving better rooms to barons than earls and leaving the best rooms, save those he appropriately allocated to King Ethelred and Queen Nina, open! Open! For whom? He does not know what he is about.”
Brandon, of course, understood precisely what his treasurer was about. The open rooms were being held until they heard if any more ambassadors would be attending. Often, when the monarch of one country visited the court of a second monarch, neighboring countries would rush to send high-ranking official envoys to the meeting. Hildred ought to have known that, and she probably did, but she preferred to think that Presley had made a mistake. As for the baron and earl of whom Hildred spoke, they were men of his dukedom who were locked in a stupid land dispute, and he wished to show them where he stood on the issue. Yes, Presley, son of his previous treasurer, and brightest young mind he had seen in decades, knew precisely what he was about. Hildred simply could not adjust her thinking to let decisions be made by a mere Mister Kemp, no matter how brilliant and fit.
The Queen's Tower Page 3