The Queen's Tower

by J. S. Mawdsley

  She had no idea precisely what he meant by “certain people.” Maybe he meant Ethelred. Maybe Maxen. Maybe Edgar or Caedmon Aldred or even Brandon. In any case, Merewyn knew he was right. She had as much to lose as he did if the truth of what was always referred to as Fransis Sigor’s Rebellion ever came to light. Poor Fransis had been the one executed, and he was the one remembered as a traitor, even though he had been perhaps the least to blame.

  “We’re at the same stalemate we have been at for seventeen years,” the bishop said.

  She was about to answer, when she heard something—the tiniest creak of a floorboard, a slight hum of conversation. Holding up a hand to silence Robertson, she walked to the door leading to the adjoining parlor—the one that connected the council chamber to the great hall. She had heard something, she was sure. Pressing her ear to the door, she was absolutely certain someone, at least two people in fact, were in the parlor. Who they were, and what they might have overheard, she had to find out immediately.

  “What are you doing now?” Robertson snapped when she flung the door wide.

  In the parlor, Broderick and Haley jumped apart, and while Haley wore a guilty look, Merewyn did not think their posture particularly amorous. She shook her head, trying to make sense of the situation. “Broderick. Haley. What is going on?”

  “I would much rather know what is going on between the two of you,” Broderick said, turning to pose with his hands on hips and an accusatory glare at Robertson. “I do not take well to this mistreatment of my stepmother.”

  “I promise I was not mistreating her majesty in the least. We were simply reminiscing about old times.”

  “No wonder you’ve upset her,” said Broderick. “I think it much better to stick to the present and plan for a magnificent future.”

  Dear Broderick, always looking out for her. Merewyn cherished him more than ever. “There really is no problem,” she said, turning her most vicious smile on Robertson.

  “I should return to the feast,” Haley said. Merewyn had forgotten the girl was even in the room. She wondered again what had brought her and Broderick in here. Guessing from their posture, Merewyn thought it had probably been a lovers’ spat of some variety. She doubted they would weather it—Haley never had a real chance of holding onto someone like Broderick.

  “I shall go with you, Lady Haley,” said Robertson.

  Unable to protest, Merewyn watched them go, hoping Robertson understood the full gravity of her threats.

  Broderick rested a hand on her shoulder. “Are you quite sure he didn’t upset you?”

  “Oh, I am quite certain he did. But there is nothing to be done about it now.” She smiled up at him. “I believe Haley is rather fond of you. I hope you weren’t breaking her heart—I can’t manage with her moping.”

  “I swear to you, I have been nothing but a gentleman to her.”

  “Oh dear. Then she really is in terrible trouble.”

  They smiled at one another, and Broderick offered her an arm.

  When they pushed through the door, they were behind the ancient thrones with a view of the long hall. There must certainly have been well over two hundred people in the hall now, and she had to take several deliberate breaths to calm herself. But Broderick, sensing her anxiety, waited with her and clutched the hand resting atop his arm tightly in his own.

  “Where to?” he asked.

  She contemplated trying to talk to someone, but she did not think she was up to meeting new people, or worse, catching up with old friends. “I have a chill. Would you mind coming over to the fire with an old lady?”

  “I would enjoy it more than anything.” And so they walked across the hall to the fire. When they turned to warm their backs and face the crowd, she nearly felt herself capable of dealing with the rest of the evening. But then she spotted Robertson talking with Ethelred and Maxen.

  Earstien, no! He was betraying her already!

  He might be telling Ethelred that she had intended for Fransis to kill him. He might spin the story in such a fashion that Ethelred would refuse to believe anything she said afterward.

  Maxen and Ethelred smiled at whatever the bishop had just said, clearly enjoying his company. Were her husband and son grinning over her demise? Were they relishing the thought she would never trouble them again? Were they celebrating the idea that Ethelred could finally execute her as he had always secretly wished?

  Maxen nodded to Robertson and left the conversation, heading directly for her. She trembled. Did her boy want her dead? Was that what he looked so pleased to come over and tell her?

  “Do you wish me to stay with you?” Broderick asked.

  “No.” Merewyn took a deep breath and steeled herself for whatever Maxen would say. “It is just my son. Thank you for your support, as always.”

  She looked up into Broderick’s shining blue eyes as he raised her hand to his lips. “Always.”

  Broderick and Maxen passed each other, both nodding. Broderick managed a polite smile and a cheerful greeting, but Maxen only went so far as to avoid a scowl. She sighed with deep maternal disappointment before forcing a pleasant grin to her lips. This was her son, after all, in spite of his faults.

  “So mother, how are you enjoying the evening?” Maxen kissed her cheek, all sweet innocence, yet she knew the truth of it. But why should he not be able to lie with ease? Had she not been one of the most eloquent deceivers at court in her day? He probably developed the skill while still in her womb.

  “It’s lovely, dear. You seemed to be enjoying your time with your father and the bishop.”

  He sighed and rolled his eyes at her. “You aren’t really going to behave like this on your night out of imprisonment, are you?”

  “My night?” She leaned on the second word as she held her face aloof, not making eye contact. “Yes, I suppose this is my one night, singular, out of my tower. I can’t blame you and your father, of course, for making that decision, especially with the guidance of such remarkable men as Bishop Robertson. It’s perfectly natural that you would rather spend your evenings with people you truly admire, while I remain a distant memory in my equally distant tower. I should be grateful you both consented—”

  “Stop it,” he hissed. Maxen clutched her arm, and she looked down at him reflexively. “Just stop. You know I have been arguing with father for years to get you released. What do you think we were talking about when we first got here? I was berating him for not letting you out before now.”

  “Oh, I’m certain that was the substance of your conversation. And once you had completed that topic, which you had only discussed for form’s sake, you moved on to something more pleasant. Jane Tynsdale, perhaps.”

  “This is impossible. You are impossible.”

  “I understand if you don’t wish to talk to me about your father’s current whore and her crop of fresh new bastards. What were you chatting about so pleasantly with Bishop Robertson? Perhaps how amusing and pathetic he finds me after all these years?”

  “The man is a snake. I mean, I had to figure that out for myself, since you never bothered to explain exactly why you hate him. But trust me, after a few council meetings, I genuinely couldn’t stand the man.”

  “And yet, you have been meeting with him ever since you came to Leornian. Is that something you enjoy, dear? Passing your time with people you despise? Is that the fashion for young men these days?”

  “I can’t do this.” Maxen stepped back, shaking his head at her. “I can’t talk to you when you go crazy like this. I’d hoped you would enjoy tonight, but it seems like you’d rather start a fight with the one person who has always been on your side.”

  He only wanted an excuse to leave before he accidentally slipped up and revealed the plot against her. Why had she defended him so vehemently to Robertson, when he was working with Robertson, Vadik, and Earstien only knew who else? Maxen had abandoned her. The only person she had truly, deeply trusted since Fransis died was gone from her.

  She took a long, deep
breath. “If you no longer wish to speak to me, or even see me, I will happily return to my rooms immediately so you will not even be troubled by the sight of me.”

  “Finster’s balls, I give up.” He threw his hands in the air, and she noticed that people were now beginning to look at them.

  Was causing a scene part of his plan? She did not see how it would fit in with some grander scheme, but he was now working with Robertson, one of the most devious men Myrcia had ever seen.

  “All I’ve ever done is try to win your freedom,” he went on. “If you’re so fucking smart, why didn’t you free yourself years ago?”

  “I may as well do it myself,” she spat between clenched teeth, barely moving her lips. “It’s not as if you’ve been able to do me any good.”

  Maxen’s reaction would not have been discernably different if she’d punched him in the stomach. “Wha.... I...cannot believe you would say that to me, after everything I have done for you. And you don’t even know half of it. Goodbye, mother. I need a drink.”

  He stalked away, and after a moment, the fury passed, and she longed to go after him. That was what mothers did when they angered their sons. Oh, Earstien. What if she were wrong? What if he had only been playing his part, being pleasant and jovial to his father and the bishop? Again, she had been mistress of the same talents at his age. She should not doubt his ability to put on a good show simply because she had not been the one to teach him. Apparently he’d had other role models than his father when learning the rules of court. Maybe he had learned to dissemble from Robertson, while always remembering his duty to his mother.

  She took a first tentative step to follow after him, sure now she must be mistaken about her boy, but Brandon was suddenly at her side and checked her with a touch to her forearm.

  “For goodness sake, Brandon, I can walk to the other side of the hall without escort, can I not?”

  “Of course, but....” Brandon nodded to the front of the hall. Ethelred was settling into the larger of the two ancient thrones of the former rulers of Leornian. “I believe you are expected to join him for the formal presentation of guests.”

  Ethelred searched the room, then stopped when he made eye contact with her. A simple nod of his head and glance at the smaller throne showed her Brandon was correct. “Well, I hadn’t thought I would be expected to perform actual royal duties tonight. Do you think I’ll remember how?”

  She tried to laugh, but not even Brandon could find her poor joke humorous. She snatched the wine goblet from Brandon’s hand and drained it, hoping her old confidence lingered in the bottom.

  But before she could start forward, Faustinus rejoined them. “If I may, your majesty, there is a Thessalian tradition I learned from my mother. It strikes me as only fitting for the return to society of a great lady and a true queen.” And with a grand, sweeping gesture as though he were making a formal introduction, a red carpet spilled forth from the ether. Guests leaped out of the way as it rolled from her feet to the seat that she was expected to occupy. “A path back to your throne, your majesty.”

  Chapter 25

  BRANDON RELEASED MEREWYN’S arm when they reached the end of Faustinus’s soft red carpet. By that point she was in command of herself sufficiently to nod to Edgar and Caedmon, who were standing behind the thrones. And then, her mind blank, she looked around, wondering what to do. The obvious thing was to sit on the throne next to Ethelred, but what was the protocol for that?

  In days past, she had effortlessly managed these receptions, her attention only half required to get through the tedium. But now? She was out of practice, and she still had no feeling for what any of the two hundred people present thought of her.

  “You don’t mind, do you?” Ethelred whispered to her as she claimed her seat. “Maxen said he didn’t think you would mind, and I thought it would be odd to have you here, but not participating in the formal presentations.”

  She offered him a thin-lipped smile. Of course, he had discussed it with Maxen, but not her. Why would he bother to ask her how she felt about performing formal duties? Not that she had a choice—she was his prisoner, and she must do as she was told. “Of course I don’t mind. Where do we begin?”

  Ethelred glanced over his left shoulder at Edgar, standing next to Caedmon, but then he scanned the room, looking for something, someone, and she could guess who.

  “If you’re waiting for Maxen,” she said, “he and I had a little tiff. I think he went out for some air.”

  “Ah.”

  That was his only response before nodding to Brandon and Hildred a few feet away. As host and hostess of the evening, they would be making the formal presentation of guests. They turned together and made their way around the high table to meet a motley trio—a tiny blonde woman with a red face, a weedy boy with black hair and contrasting pale skin, and an extremely elegant lady with poise exceptional in a woman who appeared so young. Merewyn could guess who they were, but she forced herself to await them calmly, with the regal bearing she still called her own.

  “Your majesties.” Hildred curtsied deeply. “May I present Queen Nina of Loshadnarod, her son, Crown Prince Vadik, and the hillichmagnar Daryna Olekovna.”

  Merewyn and Ethelred rose together, Ethelred taking a step to meet the Loshadnarodski queen in whom Merewyn placed so much hope. They exchanged polite kisses on the cheek before Nina pulled her son forward.

  “Vadik,” Ethelred said with an enthusiastic handshake, “I hope you are enjoying the evening.”

  Vadik bowed his head. “It is very nice, thank you,” came the response in somewhat accented Myrcian.

  Ethelred turned to the side, and with a sweeping, outstretched arm, he offered her up for inspection. “This is my wife, Queen Merewyn.”

  She bent her knees slightly, which in no way resembled a real curtsy. Luckily, that was correct etiquette when one monarch met another, because she feared her wobbly legs would not have sustained her through something deeper. She could not stop her gaze from constantly flicking back to this boy who apparently hated her.

  He looked like nothing, standing here before her; certainly not broadly built and powerful as one expected from a Loshadnarodski. He looked like the kind of schoolboy who got picked on for spending too much time in the library. But what schemes were swimming beneath those icy eyes? There was no way to say.

  Vadik offered her the same courteous nod he had bestowed upon Ethelred, and Merewyn found his visage completely inscrutable. Nina, on the other hand, came straight to her and embraced her as though they were sisters.

  “Merewyn! I am so happy! You look so well. I have dreamed this.” Nina blushed when she pulled away and fingered the broach on her fur collar. “I still have it, you see?”

  And there was Merewyn’s simple gift, bestowed so many years ago: a pin with some rubies, given in part to annoy Ethelred. How odd to think it might now lead to her release from his prison. Assuming Nina had firm control of her son, of course.

  “I’m flattered that you have kept it and still ascribe pleasant memories to it. I must find you a suitable gift to mark this meeting, as well.”

  Ethelred scuffed his feet and grumbled beside her. Clearly he hadn’t forgiven her for giving away the pin. Well, good. How Merewyn would find something equally valuable and frustrating to commemorate this visit, she did not know, but if she had to strip and hand over her gown in lieu of anything else, she would do it.

  Wait—the Loshadnarodskis were terribly religious. Nina would probably love the silver sparrow necklace that Merewyn was wearing. Merewyn’s mother had given it to her for Affirmation, and she had intended to pass it on to a daughter of Maxen’s, but if it could help her win her freedom, what better use could there be for a family keepsake?

  She was almost about to give Nina the necklace on the spot, when the Loshadnarodski queen said, “Please say hello to the Blessed Daryna Matushka. Loshadnarod is nothing without her. We owe her everything.”

  The beautiful woman stepped forward, her lips quirke
d in an ironic smile. One of her slim eyebrows lifted just a touch higher. She said something about how the queen was embarrassing her, but she didn’t look embarrassed at all. She looked as if she felt that she was fully entitled to this kind of praise. She looked, in short, much more like a queen than Nina did.

  She smiled and nodded first to Merewyn, then Ethelred, then Edgar. Everyone nodded politely back, and Merewyn was reminded of the neck aches she would frequently suffer after these events. Fransis would always give her the most glorious massages afterward—his long, dexterous fingers digging into her flesh while his smooth voice whispered in her ear. She had no idea what she would do to ease the aching tonight.

  “I am happy to meet you.” Vadik turned to Merewyn, bringing her back from her reverie. “My mother has often spoken of you. It is wonderful to see what I have heard so much about.”

  She wondered if his words contained even the slightest bit of sincerity. Perhaps he only wanted to win her trust so he could more easily stab her in the back, figuratively and possibly literally. She had heard from multiple sources that Vadik hated her, and she was sure that could not have happened by mistake.

  “Are you well?” asked Vadik, stepping forward to grasp her elbow.

  Oh, Earstien! Old fool! She had been thinking to herself and not speaking, most probably with the glassy-eyed look of the recently departed. Ridiculous woman! “I am fine. I simply think my conversation skills are a bit unexercised.”

  Nina jumped to her other side, and they led her to her throne, and she had no choice but to sit while the rest of them remained standing. “To be safe,” Vadik added with another of his sweet smiles. Nina kept Merewyn’s hand in hers, petting it as though Merewyn were some senile old aunt.

  “I think you are managing quite well,” said Daryna Olekovna with an even, musical voice, her soft brown hair flowing across her cheek as she tilted her head. “After so many years alone, not many women could withstand an evening such as this, and certainly not with as much grace and beauty as you have shown.”