The Queen's Tower

by J. S. Mawdsley

  He looked around, trying to catch the eyes of some old friends so he could beckon them closer. Everyone studiously avoided his gaze, though. “I’m sure people will eventually make their way over. Give them time to find their courage.”

  “Ha! Courage! Is that what people require simply to greet me? I thought,” she paused, but then straightened her spine and continued. “I thought they would be knocking each other over trying to see me. When I imagined this day—and I promise you, I imagined it hundreds of times in my solitude—everyone swarmed me, couldn’t get enough of their much missed and beloved queen. Here in reality, the only person to greet me who never visited is Edgar. Edgar, dear Earstien. That it should have come to this.”

  Brandon wanted to put a reassuring arm around her, or at least pat her hand, but he understood court gossip far too well to risk the friendly gesture she so clearly needed.

  Fransis would have known what to do, how to comfort her. Even here in front of all the court and visiting royalty, Fransis would have been perfect, never a question or a hesitation, always knowing precisely how to act. He would have found some way to make her feel welcome—to make all these people welcome her. All I have managed is to make her feel uneasy and close to tears. I need someone else, anyone else, to come over and speak with her.

  About twenty feet away, he saw a possibility, and when the man finally looked up and caught his eye, Brandon gave him a discreet wave. Of course, when he felt Merewyn immediately stiffen at his side, he realized that perhaps she would have preferred crying in public to a conversation with Bishop Robertson, who was, indeed, coming over to join them. She still held some unexplained grudge against the man. Brandon did not especially care for him, either, but Merewyn’s dislike was notable in its vehemence. Still, he could not be avoided now.

  “Your majesty.” Robertson bowed low. “How nice to see you out and about.”

  Brandon glanced quickly back and forth between the two. The years had been good to the bishop, as he had maintained his svelte frame, and his hair still had its color. His career in the church had advanced more quickly than anyone Brandon had ever heard of, and everyone knew that Robertson’s early successes owed a great deal to Merewyn’s support. Why things had soured so thoroughly after Fransis’s trial and Merewyn’s imprisonment, Brandon never knew and never had the courage to ask.

  “A pleasure to see you, your grace,” she nodded. “I was just discussing other feasts and gatherings with the duke, here.” She patted Brandon’s arm with more emphasis than necessary. “Those were interesting times. Tell me, have I missed much since I’ve been gone?”

  Robertson smiled—a wide grin full of perfect, straight teeth. Brandon thought he saw genuine pleasure there. But judging by the way Merewyn dug her fingers into his arm, she saw something quite different in the bishop’s expression.

  “These things never change in essentials,” said Robertson. “I am sure if you were to ask Caedmon Aldred what the feasts were like here three hundred years ago with King Edmund, he would say they were much the same.”

  Merewyn replied, “Then it does not matter who is the host or who rules the kingdom—a feast, is a feast, is a feast?”

  Robertson’s lips curled up a fraction farther. “Quite. A feast is, as you say, a feast. But it matters a great deal who the host is,” he bowed to Brandon, “and who sits on the throne. That is my private opinion, of course. In my public capacity, I am afraid that I have yet to speak with the king and offer him the blessings of the day, so, if you excuse me, I should pay my respects.” He bowed to Merewyn, then again to Brandon, and glided away.

  Her entire body trembled, and Brandon feared she might even be on the verge of a fit. He grabbed her elbow, yet that did nothing to ease her tremor. Her whole face was ashen, and her eyes bulged.

  “Merewyn, are you well? I know you have a history with the bishop, even if you have never deigned to tell me about it, but I don’t understand what he said to alarm you.”

  “He loathes me,” she whispered. “Nothing would bring him greater joy than to see me in my grave.”

  “Now, come. I’m sure that is an exaggeration. Yes, he’s more politician than preost, and he’s a bit of a toady where Ethelred is concerned, but surely you don’t believe he wishes you dead.”

  “He more than wishes it—he desires it.”

  “Merewyn, please, calm yourself. Or do you need to step out for a moment? We can certainly do that. The private parlor is still just through the doors behind the thrones.”

  Merewyn took in slow, deliberate breaths. Her head was back, staring up at the ceiling and not at the crowded hall. Before she could entirely regain her composure, however, there was a man’s voice, out of nowhere, coming from her other side.

  “Perhaps you are unaware, your majesty, of current Immani fashion, but I believe what you require is a flower for your hair.”

  Merewyn nearly leapt from the bench and Brandon looked around her, ready to tell off the fool who had frightened the queen.

  But it was not some heedless young knight or a squire on a dare. It was a tall, slender man with thick, luxurious dark hair, a haze of stubble on his strong chin, and bright blue eyes. Here was Faustinus, the only being who would ever introduce himself in such a bizarre fashion to a queen.

  “Oh, it’s you,” stammered Brandon, too startled to be polite. He was still not used to the way these foreign hillichmagnars used their magy to appear and vanish in a way that Caedmon never did.

  Faustinus flicked his wrist and a burgundy rose the exact shade of her dress appeared in his slender fingers. “Forgive my impertinence,” he said, stepping forward and tucking the flower behind Merewyn’s ear. “I am Servius Lepidus Faustinus. It is a great pleasure to meet a woman I have heard so much about.”

  “A pleasure, yes,” Merewyn stammered out. “So, flowers are fashionable in the Empire?”

  “They are, your majesty. The ladies of Albus Magnus will not be seen in public without one about their person. Although I will say I have never seen a lady give a bloom such distinction as you give this one.”

  Merewyn appeared at a complete loss for what to say to this extraordinary introduction, so Brandon fumbled his way into the awkward silence. “We are all very much looking forward to the entertainment Caedmon says you have planned.”

  “Oh, yes,” Faustinus said, waving a dismissive hand. “It’s a little something the three of us did years and years ago.” He leaned forward and whispered, “That is the benefit of living for two thousand years—you just have to wait for a new audience, and then you can repeat yourself.”

  Brandon and Merewyn both laughed, though he suspected her heart was no more in the gesture than his was. In fact, Faustinus seemed to make Merewyn decidedly uneasy.

  He appeared so normal—not so much different from Presley—and yet, something about every movement and word marked him out as another kind of being. As he said, it was like watching an actor or a musician, knowing that every apparent improvisation or spontaneous gesture had been practiced a hundred times before.

  I never get the same feeling from Caedmon, or even the other hillichmagnars at the Myrcian court. I suppose it is impossible to ask him to leave, even if he makes Merewyn nervous. Is he always like this? Caedmon likes him, though, and I suppose that is something.

  “So, what brings you to Leornian?” Merewyn asked. “This visit has not been planned long, and the Empire is not terribly near.”

  “I could not pass up the opportunity to see old friends, such as Daryna and Caedmon. As far as distance,” he shrugged. “For hillichmagnars, well, let us say, we have our own means of communication, so we can make plans rather quickly. But no matter my original motivation, I am most pleased that I came so I would have the chance of meeting you. I simply cannot wait to inform the Emperor that I saw you here tonight. He will be anxious to know of your return to society.”

  “Anxious?” Merewyn laughed. “What an ominous word.”

  “That, I promise you, was not my inte
nt. I do hope we can speak more while I am in Leornian, your majesty.” Faustinus bowed gracefully to Merewyn.

  “You will find me a rather captive audience,” she said.

  “You are as clever a woman as I was led to believe. I must leave you now, your majesty. A pleasure to meet you, and I hope to chat with you more tonight. Perhaps you could promise me a dance?”

  “Of course.”

  When he left, Brandon could tell Merewyn was shaken—her body rigid but for the trembling hand still resting on his forearm. He put his hand over hers, no longer caring what anyone might think when she was so clearly in need of comfort.

  “He’s very charming, and yet, somehow, quite overwhelming all at once,” he said.

  Merewyn chuckled, but with more nervousness than mirth. “He certainly is. I suppose it is too late to revoke his invitation?”

  “Just a bit, I am afraid.”

  They sat quietly as she gathered her composure. Once more Brandon found himself cursing Ethelred for keeping her secluded until tonight, not allowing her to slowly acclimate herself again to society. He didn’t know if a formal tea would have prepared her for Faustinus, but she might have been in a more amenable frame of mind to deal with a bold hillichmagnar if she were not feeling so overwhelmed by the crowd.

  “Brandon, I know you are meant to keep an eye on me, but might I venture out on my own for a moment?”

  He looked over at her, grateful for her sudden courage, but also wondering where it had come from. She was peering across the room, but when he followed her gaze, he could not say for certain what had her attention. Still, if she wished to try her hand at mingling in company without him at her elbow, he would not stop her, merely wish her luck.

  “Of course,” he said with a bow.

  “I give you my most solemn word I will not attempt to run off,” she said. “Though I suppose if I did, the guards at the main gate have orders to stop me.”

  He nodded, glad that she had been the one to say it, and not him. He searched the room quickly for where he might be most needed as host so he could tell her where to find him if she needed support. His eye landed on Presley and Grigory Sobol, leaning closely toward each other in a quiet corner. Were they a young lord’s daughter and some bachelor nobleman, every gossip in Leornian would notice. Since they were two young men, most eyes would probably glide right over them. But just in the few seconds he watched, they exchanged multiple casual touches, and there were limits on what would be overlooked.

  “I think I will go chat with Mr. Kemp,” he said to Merewyn. “Please, let me know if you require anything.”

  After a swift pat to his arm, she rose, many of the eyes in the room turning to her, the anticipation of where she would go riveting much of the crowd. Head erect, not a seeming care in the world, least of all a care for anyone in the room, Merewyn swept across the floor, much as she used to in the glory days of their youth.

  Meanwhile, he had to speak with Presley and Grigory. It pained him that he must chastise them for expressing the affection they felt for one another, but he did not make the rules of etiquette. And better he give them a quiet admonishment than they attract less sympathetic attention.

  “Gentlemen.” Brandon smiled as he approached them. “I hope you are enjoying yourselves.”

  “Very much,” said Grigory. “Your home and hospitality are truly lovely.” He glanced at Presley, and Brandon thought he could easily guess what the Loshadnarodski engineer liked best about Brandon’s home.

  Presley didn’t even take his eyes from Grigory when he answered Brandon. “I would say the evening is destined to be a success.”

  What I wouldn’t have given for Fransis to look at me like that just once.

  Brandon leaned close to the two young men and whispered so that no one could possibly overhear him. “Gentlemen, may I suggest you slip away? All is under control here, and you will likely not be missed. And with everyone here in the hall, you are unlikely to be disturbed.”

  “Your grace, I....” But Presley could not finish his thought.

  “Go.” Brandon smiled. “Just go, with my blessing.”

  Chapter 24

  IN SEVENTEEN YEARS, Merewyn had heard an endless litany of rumors about the bishop’s allegiances, but she knew that he only ever fought for his own interests. If this were her only night of freedom, she needed to make certain that he knew those interests lay with her and Maxen. Some woman of about 30, too young for Merewyn to know, stood talking to him near the exit. But when he saw her coming determinedly, he dismissed his companion.

  “What a pleasure to have your company for a second time tonight,” he greeted her.

  “I do not have time for your nonsense,” she said softly. “I need to know why you have been meeting with my son.”

  Robertson did not appear troubled in the slightest by her question. No doubt he was as crafty as he had always been, and he had prepared answers to any questions she might throw at him.

  “I would think that your son might be the appropriate party with whom to discuss this topic.”

  “And yet, your grace, here I am, asking you.”

  The bishop shrugged his slender shoulders. “It’s really nothing. Your son is a member of the privy council. There are formalities between church and crown that must be discussed from time to time. The court is typically in Formacaster, and my duties to Earstien often require me to be here in Leornian. The other members of the council and I must therefore take what opportunities we have to discuss the business of state.”

  “You may say it is ‘nothing,’ but I distinctly recall what happened the last time you discussed the ‘business of state’ with someone I loved.” She could feel her face flush and her fists trembled at her sides. “So, I will ask you again, what matters are you discussing with my son?”

  “And I will tell you again, that you had better ask him.” He bowed slightly and started to step around her. “Now, if you will excuse—”

  “If you don’t support Maxen in every way possible,” she hissed, “I will tell Ethelred everything. And I truly mean everything.”

  Robertson stopped in midstride, turning to look at her from inches away, his piercing blue eyes penetrating to her soul to see the truth of her threat. He clenched his jaw and then released it. “Perhaps we could at least finish this conversation in the hallway.”

  He did not wait for her, and she followed in his wake, trying to look regal and serene for the crowds around her. But when they reached the entrance hall, the guards who had calmly watched her arrive with Maxen now stepped forward to block her way. Two quickly crossed their poleaxes before the door that led to the river landing, but Robertson turned the other direction, back toward the long hallway. He waved off the other guards, and they slipped away. He might not be the lord of the Bocburg, but apparently he had sufficient authority with these men to take her for a walk unmolested.

  “Now, if you can control yourself, we can continue our talk,” he said when they had achieved as much privacy as they were likely to get. One guard stood twenty feet to their left and another stood thirty feet away on the other side of the hallway to their right.

  “There is not much to say,” Merewyn managed to whisper. “You will not tell me what you and Maxen have been meeting about, and my only response is that I will end you if you do not do everything in your power to support my son.”

  Robertson wandered to a suit of armor and a little table of curios under glass. He bent over, examining the little identification cards on the items and reading them, half to himself. The armor had belonged to Edmund I, and was the very suit he had worn in the War of Myrcian Independence. In the glass case, the bishop noted a supposedly magysk pen that had belonged to some long-forgotten hillichmagnar, and which regrettably no longer wrote. Merewyn, who couldn’t care less about the trinkets, drummed her fingers loudly on the gauntlet of the armor to get his attention again.

  The bishop looked up, as if surprised to see her still there. “Your majesty, I would ha
ppily support Crown Prince Maxen. There is, in fact, really only one simple thing that I need to secure my backing.”

  Merewyn raised a skeptical eyebrow. “And what would that be?”

  “Just this—never again threaten me. Remember that I not only have the power to ruin you as thoroughly as you could ruin me, but I can do more beyond that.”

  “Beyond what? What do you mean?”

  “I mean,” he hissed, leaning closer, “that there is precedent for the head of the church legitimizing the children of the nobility. Without me, there is no guarantee Maxen will ever sit upon the throne.”

  “You can do what you want to me. You’ve left me to rot here in my tower for all these years, and I doubt you’d lift a finger to help me now. But trust me, if you harm Maxen, I will do whatever I must!”

  He grabbed her arm and tugged her toward a door a few feet down the hall. She knew she had spoken louder than discretion dictated, but she didn’t care. Robertson had threatened her and Maxen. She could not allow it to stand.

  He dragged her into the council chamber. A small fire still burned in the hearth, and she assumed the room must have been used earlier in the evening for guests before the great hall was ready. There was just enough light, though, to see that they were truly alone.

  “It is simple,” she spat out. “Support Maxen or I finally tell Ethelred that you approached Fransis. That the entire coup was your idea, as was putting Fransis on the throne. That you promised to crown him king if he found some way to get rid of Ethelred.”

  Robertson frowned, finally looking his fifty-some-odd years, wrinkles dancing in the shadows of the firelight. “You rave like a madwoman and then wonder why I haven’t fought for your release.” He sighed. “Need I remind you of the fact that while Fransis wanted to capture Ethelred and give him either a comfortable life in captivity or exile, it was you who said Ethelred and Edgar both had to die? That you insisted General Howard’s troops come into the Crown Lands to help you and Fransis consolidate power once Ethelred was dead? Oh!” Robertson laughed. “If only certain people knew what you convinced General Howard to do.”