The Queen's Tower

by J. S. Mawdsley

  Ethelred took a sip of wine while looking away. She had forgotten how he always did that in company to cover up his awkwardness. A second, deeper drink; then he placed the glass down and caught her gaze. She hadn’t forgotten those sad, watery eyes.

  “I’ve been in Leornian before and I didn’t come see you. But...it’s just, well, I’m here now. Have you seen Maxen recently?”

  Ah, Maxen—their unbreakable bond. “Oh, yes. He’s here all the time,” she exaggerated. “He’s looking remarkably well, don’t you think?”

  “Does he? I haven’t seen him in a few weeks, but I trust your assessment.”

  “He seems—”

  “How is—”

  They both laughed. Ethelred said, “Please, go ahead.”

  “Oh, no,” she insisted. “I would never dream of interrupting the king.”

  “I was going to ask how you found him coming along. That is, how do you think Maxen has turned out?”

  Was he feeling guilty or seeking affirmation of his parenting skills? Either way, she spied an opening. “He’s a good person, Ethelred. Not that I doubted you would permit him to turn out any other way. But I do want to ask you a somewhat delicate question about him, if you do not mind.”

  “Of course, you can ask me anything.”

  She doubted that very much, but she asked with her sweetest voice, “Do you think he is ready to be king? You will be with us for many years, I trust, but if something were to happen, I fear he is not prepared.”

  “I do my best to make time for him; I really do,” Ethelred said. “Still, I have the same fears. I do my best to encourage him to find good counselors, but I wonder if it’s enough.”

  She took a deep breath, shocked that he would make it so natural for her to make her request. “I would like to be one of them.”

  There. She’d said it. He could not possibly be so dense as to not see her meaning, and if he had really meant what he said, he could not be so dense as to not acquiesce to her.

  He cleared his throat, and she saw him slipping away. “Merewyn, I, well, I’m sure you advise him when he sees you here.”

  “You must know it’s not the same as....” She placed her hand over his on the table, determined to draw him back, sink her hook more firmly in his mouth, as a fisherman would see it. “Ethelred, he’s a good boy, but without my help I fear he will never be a good king.”

  He gently slid his hand away and stood, fidgeting and turning, until he started walking about the room. Uncomfortable pacing. Now that was a habit of his she had not forgotten. After traveling from the table to the foot of the stairs three times he stopped, his back to her, and said, “All these years later, and it’s impossible for me to forget. I...just can’t.”

  She propped herself up and tugged on her bodice, preparing herself for when he turned around. “I can only say I am sorry, Ethelred. I was young and foolish, yet I should have known my own heart better. But don’t let Maxen suffer for my folly.”

  He turned back, letting out a deliberate sigh along the way. After staring at her in a way she could not adequately describe—longing? regretful?—he shocked her with his words. “That isn’t what I cannot forgive. I knew you never loved me. In marrying you, I was just as foolish. It never upset me that you preferred him in your bed. It upset me that you preferred him on my throne.”

  She thought of protesting, thought of shouting that she had never been involved in the plot. Fransis had gone to his death swearing she was innocent, and Ethelred had spared her. Surely he hadn’t forgotten that. But then she realized that wasn’t the point. He didn’t care whether she had been part of the conspiracy. He cared that she had seen his flaws, seen his incompetence as a king, and had seen all the ways in which Fransis was better. Ethelred was still jealous of the dead man, years later. But not because Fransis had stolen his wife. He was jealous because Fransis had been a wiser, more capable leader, and everyone knew it, even the woman who knew both of them better than anyone.

  “I truly am sorry,” she said. “I wish none of that had ever happened.”

  Ethelred frowned at her, waved a hand, and cleared his throat. It was, she recalled, his brusque and awkward way of signaling a change in topic. “Brandon tells me you wish to have an audience with Queen Nina. I’ve decided that you will come to the feast five days from now. You can speak to her there.”

  Never in her forty-eight years had she ever felt so incapable of speech. She was going to the feast? In less than a week, she would be a room filled with the flesh and blood people on the guestlist she had so intensely scrutinized. And all she had been hoping for was tea with the queen and maybe a professor from the university.

  She shook her head, reminding herself of where she was now and what was happening. She did not understand why he was doing this, but she could not miss this opportunity. “Ethelred,” she said, jumping up, “I can’t tell you how grateful I am.” She took the few necessary steps to reach him, but when she grasped his hand, he kept it unnervingly still.

  “I will see you there, Merewyn.” His frown deepening, he gently removed his hand from hers. “And now, I have an appointment with Bishop Robertson that cannot wait. I will see you at the feast.” Without waiting for her to answer, he removed himself from the room.

  Not that she had a response. For a moment, she had thought they had connected, and then Ethelred had to bring up her supposed treason, and before she could recover herself, he had given her what she had always wanted—time out of this endless prison. And now he had left to see Robertson of all people.

  The bishop could seal her doom, and if Ethelred told him that Merewyn would be attending the feast, surely Robertson would at last tell what he knew. Of course, if he told the truth, Robertson would condemn himself as thoroughly as he did her, but he would have woven a fabrication in the intervening years to make himself appear innocent, she had no doubt.

  Why had she ever trusted Robertson? Why had she ever allowed him to become so powerful? Even trapped in her tower, she wasn’t entirely helpless. She should have been plotting all this time to force his removal from office. Broderick would have helped her; she was sure of that. Broderick was so popular that surely he could have managed it somehow. Perhaps she could even have helped.

  “All these years,” she thought bitterly, “Robertson has been sitting right over there in that palace, and I never once invited him to visit.” She saw now that she had miscalculated entirely. She never should have let him know he was her enemy. She ought to have flattered him, lulled him into a false sense of security. And then one glorious day, when he was visiting her in her tower, she could have slipped a little something into his food or wine. The man was always eating such exotic food that no one would be surprised if it disagreed with him violently.

  But now it was too late. She couldn’t invite him without her intentions being blatantly obvious. She was in more danger than she ever had been. Perhaps she would have been better off if Ethelred had never come to visit. When she finally left the tower, everything would change, and not necessarily for the better.

  Chapter 13

  HILDRED RACED AROUND the great hall in all her glory, putting her finishing touches on the reception for the Loshadnarodskis. Presley had sent word to expect them at 5:00 in the evening. Here, ten minutes until that hour, the city guard had come to announce that the visitors had entered Leornian and would arrive momentarily. With this news, Hildred started to find fault with everything: the way the flower vases sat on the tables, the way the courtiers stood while awaiting Queen Nina, the way the banners hung in the hall.

  As much as Brandon had been anticipating the arrival, now that it was imminent, he wished he could delay it. Less than an hour ago, Ethelred and Edgar had joined him in his study, and they had finally discussed Merewyn. Ethelred had been so shaken by seeing her that morning, Brandon had expected Ethelred to cancel his meeting with Robertson. But he had kept the appointment. When he returned to the Bocburg, he had waved off Brandon’s attempt to start a con
versation, saying he was “too tired to talk now.” But the question of Merewyn’s participation in the upcoming festivities could be put off no longer, so Brandon had lured Ethelred and Edgar to his study with promises of an excellent, fifty-year-old Cheruscian fortified wine. As soon as they all had their glasses in hand, Brandon broached the topic of Merewyn.

  The three of them could not have disagreed more thoroughly. Ethelred wanted her to participate in everything, starting with the feast. Edgar wanted her to remain in her tower forever, the key lost in the Southern Sea, and no one ever troubled by the sound of her voice again. Brandon counseled a middle road. But before they could reach any compromise, Hildred raced in to tell them Presley’s messenger had arrived, and they were needed in the great hall.

  “I do not believe her ready,” Brandon whispered under his breath, trying to continue their conversation without being overheard. “I do not think you appreciate the effect the years of isolation have had on her.”

  “She seemed quite her old self this morning,” Ethelred answered. “It was damned uncanny, if you ask me.”

  “All the more reason to keep her locked up,” hissed Edgar. “She tried to kill you and take your throne.”

  “That was never proven,” said Brandon, “and I’d rather not dredge up this old argument right now.”

  For years after Fransis’s rebellion, Edgar had tried to convince everyone that Merewyn must surely have been part of the plot. Brandon refused to listen, because it already hurt too much to think that Fransis had been a traitor. Why compound the tragedy when they had no reason to do so?

  “My point is this,” Brandon went on. “For seventeen years, she has not seen more than a half dozen people at once. The largest social events she has participated in are card parties with my daughter. A court occasion like this might overwhelm her. Let me schedule a small tea tomorrow. Perhaps you and Queen Nina along with the princes.”

  “Where the hell is Maxen anyway?” Edgar asked. “Boy should be here already.”

  Ethelred ignored his brother and shook his head at Brandon, who was quite familiar with his old friend’s stubborn ways. It might take him an eternity to make a choice, but once he reached it, he could never be budged. “We will give her a few days to adjust herself to the idea of leaving the tower. Then she can come to the grand welcome feast on Saturday. She must accustom herself to crowds again, and it is surely best to do so all at once.”

  Brandon wasn’t sure what Ethelred might mean by Merewyn needing to accustom herself to crowds, and he did not get the opportunity to ask. Hildred swooped in finally with Maxen in tow and pushed Brandon and Edgar back a step so Ethelred might stand in front of them with his son at his side. No sooner had Hildred reached her own place in line, than the doors swung open to admit the Loshadnarodskis.

  Queen Nina appeared—a tiny blonde woman in worn, baggy riding trousers and a thick fleece jacket. She led the Loshadnarodski arrivals across the long stone floor of the great hall, between lines of nobles and knights. Behind her to her left was a slim man with brown skin, a neatly kept beard, and a well-tailored tunic of bright blue wool. That must be the Sahasran who had married the queen’s sister and become foreign minister. Off Queen Nina’s right shoulder was a pale, slender young man in green who regarded the assembled nobles with a distinct air of skepticism. After a few steps, he stifled a yawn. That had to be Prince Vadik. Brandon hadn’t expected the next ruler of Loshadnarod to seem so jaded. That was disappointing.

  There was another man in the group, following behind the foreign minister and talking quietly with Presley. This fellow’s countenance was friendly and open—a distinct contrast to that of his prince—and he seemed very excited to be there.

  As if sensing he had been noticed, Presley hurried to Queen Nina’s side so he might perform the introductions. First, the group stopped to bow and curtsy to Ethelred and the rest. The Myrcians bowed and curtsied in return.

  “Your most gracious majesty,” said Presley, “may I present Queen Nina of Loshadnarod.”

  The ebullient queen rushed forward several steps, and she curtsied at the same moment Ethelred bowed to her. “It is very good to see you again, your majesty,” said Ethelred.

  “And for me to see you. I was very little last time you saw me. You would not remember me, but I remember you. You look the same.”

  Ethelred laughed politely. “If only that were true. I’m afraid I’m quite the old man now.”

  Presley then continued, introducing everyone in the correct order and level of formality. A king’s herald could not have managed better, and Brandon felt very proud of his treasurer.

  It turned out the bright young man Presley had been talking to was Grigory Sobol, a mining engineer. People at court had passed around many rumors about why the Loshadnarodskis were visiting. To have an engineer traveling so prominently with the royal family confirmed the suspicion that they wanted to discuss something about their silver mines.

  Practically out of nowhere, a stunning, dark-haired woman in a gray dress appeared at Queen Nina’s side. Who was this, and why hadn’t Brandon seen her walk in with the others?

  Presley bowed to her and introduced her as the hillichmagnar, Daryna Olekovna. Like Prince Vadik, she looked coldly around the room, as though she wished to find some faux pas in the pennants of the Sigors and Krupins hanging side-by-side, or a flaw in the famous tapestry made by the first Queen of Myrcia depicting a Loshadnarodski scene.

  The introductions complete, Hildred stepped forward to take control. “I suspect you could all use some refreshments. We have wine and mead set out, along with some meat and cheese, if you will follow me.”

  Ethelred fell into conversation with the foreign minister, Anik Kaur, and they followed closely behind Hildred. Queen Nina, however, lingered behind and approached Brandon, smiling with almost childish enthusiasm.

  “I am very pleased to have you in my home,” he said. “You must think of it as your own home while you are here.”

  “You are very nice. I would ask you to do a thing for me.”

  “I will happily do anything.”

  She reached into a wide pocket of her riding trousers and pulled out a folded and sealed piece of parchment. “You will give this to Queen Merewyn, please?”

  After a heartbeat of hesitation, he took the parchment. There was nothing he would like more than to deliver this letter to Merewyn, knowing what pleasure it would bring her. And he would do all in his power to make it so, but he could not allow Queen Nina to think his taking of the letter guaranteed its intact delivery.

  “Her majesty’s correspondence is read first by a representative of the king. It is up to that representative whether or not Queen Merewyn may receive the letter at all or if it must be censored first.”

  Queen Nina frowned and Brandon did not think she understood the nuances of what he told her, but she clearly realized that he could not promise to deliver the letter. “I will speak directly to King Ethelred about allowing Queen Merewyn to have the letter, exactly as you have written it. That I promise.”

  She nodded, her lips trying to turn upward. “I believe you will do your best. Thank you.”

  Brandon sincerely hoped Queen Nina had not misplaced her trust. For now, he tucked away the letter into the pocket of his new jacket and escorted Queen Nina to the refreshments.

  Once there, Hildred latched onto the visiting queen. Rather than joining any of the existing conversations or doing his part as host, Brandon took a skewer of jerky and cheese, along with a glass of wine, and stood off to the side to observe. Many of the nobles pressed forward, trying to get closer to Hildred and Queen Nina. The artless Loshadnarodski queen attempted to make these people feel welcome, but Hildred carefully curated access to the guest of honor.

  Presley and Mr. Sobol once more spoke primarily with each other, politely greeting anyone who brought themselves forward. These were mostly young ladies, clearly taken with the good looks of the visitor and likely Presley as well. Brandon could have
told them not to waste their time with Presley. Then a thought struck him, and he watched the two men for a few minutes. He wondered if this was simply a budding friendship, or if there might be more. Yes, there might be. They were standing too close; there were too many lingering glances. How could it be that no one else noticed?

  He started to think of ways he could encourage a liaison, but then, feeling like a pathetic, nosy old man, he turned away from Presley and Mr. Sobol. If there was any chance of a spark there at all, they could kindle it themselves, without his interference.

  Most of the other young men had gathered around Maxen and Prince Vadik. Maxen, unused to the attention, exaggerated every word and gesture, laughing a bit too loudly at his own jokes. Prince Vadik seemed to be sulking. He frowned at everyone, and he snapped out his answers to questions in terse, sharp sentences. Perhaps he was merely fatigued, or he had become unwell during the journey, but normally a prince of his age knew better how to hide such troubles. But then again, there was Maxen, giggling like a child. Age and station did not always guarantee proper behavior.

  Ethelred and Edgar had Anik Kaur deep in conversation with several of the court’s older noblemen. The Sahasran-turned-Loshadnarodski was holding forth on some topic. That could be a sign of boorishness. But the men around him seemed genuinely interested, nodding their heads and asking brief questions, now and again, to encourage him to keep talking. Perhaps it would be worth getting to know Kaur.

  Brandon had just realized he hadn’t seen the lovely Daryna Olekovna in a few minutes, when he heard a soft, polite cough, and turned to find her at his side. Her long, slender gray dress shimmered in the lamp light, subtle white embroidery decorating neck and wrists. She glanced around as she had earlier, as if searching for something. Finally, she asked, “I was told Caedmon Aldred and Servius Faustinus would be here. I see neither, but I get the sense Caedmon is near.”