Black Iron

by Franklin Veaux

  Margaret was moving toward the square. Alÿs took her arm. “Your Grace, we need to go!”

  Margaret shook off her arm. Her face was a mask of rage.

  “Your Grace!” Alÿs said.

  She might as well have been talking to the Thames. Margaret heard nothing but Lord Rathman, standing in her square, speaking lies. Her hands tightened into fists. “Filth!” she spat. “Filth and lies! And those lords with him, I will have their heads, every one.”

  “Your Grace!” Alÿs said. “Please, we need to go! If anyone sees you, they will kill you!”

  Margaret would not be moved. She stared at Lord Rathman, willing him to spontaneously combust.

  People started accumulating behind them, jostling for position, pushing them closer to the row of soldiers flanking Lord Rathman. If one of them recognized Margaret or Alÿs, it was all over. Alÿs felt in her handbag for her dagger. It was still there, warm and slick with blood. She looked down. The sleeve of her borrowed outfit was stained dark red, nearly black. “Margaret!” she hissed.

  “He’s dead,” Margaret said. Her voice was wooden. “They killed my brother.”

  “You don’t know that!” Alÿs looked around frantically. It was getting harder and harder to move.

  “I know,” Margaret said.

  “Your Grace,” Eleanor said. “We can’t stay here.”

  ✦

  Lord Rathman was on a roll. He swept his arms expansively to encompass the Palace and all around it. “A new day is dawning, my friends!” he said. “A day bright with possibility. This day, we sweep aside the rot and corruption that has infected us from within. This day, we say goodbye to weakness and insecurity. We move forward with a new resolve to make our land great once more!”

  As if on cue, the sun peeked above the horizon, touching the sky with red and gold. The soldiers in the courtyard cheered.

  Rathman smiled. A man could be seen commanding the sun to rise, if he planned carefully enough. And the peasants would eat it up. A bit of cheap theatrics, a nudge to people’s fears, the promise of a brighter future where all their problems would disappear…it was all so easy. Tomorrow, the peasants would still be peasants, the farmers would still be farmers, the poor would still be poor, the starving would still be starving…the only thing that would be different was the head that wore the crown. But right now, they believed. They believed in a Utopia that was just around the corner, and all they needed to do was put the right head under the crown.

  They were so very predictable, every one of them.

  Rathman cast his benevolent smile at his new subjects.

  And then it all went horribly, horribly sideways.

  They came in groups of six, two abreast and three deep, each group following the one in front of it by about ten feet. They came up Derby Street. They came up Bosington Street. They marched right up the main plaza itself, hundreds of them, wearing the red capes and steel helmets of the Swiss Pontifical Guard.

  The group in the lead knelt, aimed, and fired. The men farthest from Rathman, caught entirely unaware and shot in the back, screamed and fell.

  The Pontifical Guard kept marching, the soldiers behind the front ranks flowing effortlessly around the ones who had just fired and were now on one knee reloading.

  Another volley of gunfire rang out. More soldiers from Rathman’s levy fell.

  The ranks broke. The soldiers in front of Rathman dove for cover. A third volley sounded. Around Rathman, men screamed and fell.

  “Men!” Rathman roared. “To arms! To arms!”

  The remaining men in his levy scrambled to ready their weapons. A few of them returned fire, but they were disorganized and uncoordinated.

  The crowd of Londoners who had gathered to watch Rathman speak fled like rats from a burning building. Londoners, like people everywhere, liked drama, but only from a distance. Hearing about killings and insurrections was one thing; being present when the bullets flew was quite another. Historic events are far more popular to the common man at sufficient remove to make them entertainment rather than personal experience.

  This wasn’t right at all. With the Cardinal dead, the Swiss Pontifical Guard should be inert, leaderless. Its loyalty was to the Church, not the Crown. There was no reason for it to be here! Rathman felt a surge of frustration at the sour man with his sour face, intruding here in this place from beyond the grave. For an instant, Rathman wished the old man weren’t dead, just so he could kill him again.

  And what did they hope to accomplish, anyway? With Margaret and her half brother gone, Lord Rathman was the only legitimate heir to the Throne. A handful of foreign men in ridiculous helmets wouldn’t change that! He had the backing of the Council of Lords! Rathman fairly sputtered with rage. He had worked so hard to craft the perfect symbolic moment, and they were cheapening it!

  He turned toward the Palace. Let them come, he thought. Once he was safely inside, they could do nothing but mill about in the courtyard. When he was confirmed as King, his first order would be to have the whole lot of them sent packing, back to Paris or Switzerland or wherever it was they came from.

  “My lords, follow me!” he said. “Soldiers, advance! Drive off these foreign dogs!”

  He had hoped his words would rally his personal levy, inspiring them to stand together to rout these intruders, or at least hold them back. Instead, most of them ignored him, scrambling for cover behind marble figures of half-naked women and cherubs with ridiculous wings.

  No matter. He could still make the Palace.

  He ran. The lords, flanked by their private soldiers, ran with him. They jammed up at the iron gate in front of the courtyard for a bit. Rathman found himself pressed against Lord Clay as they both tried to squeeze through the entrance at once. He snarled and bit Lord Clay’s arm. The lord yelped and pulled away, and Rathman was in the courtyard, speeding toward the Palace gate.

  Which was closing.

  It landed with a heavy thud fully ten seconds before Rathman got there. He stood outside the portcullis, breathing hard. On the other side of the square lattice of iron bands stood a man dressed in the colors of his levy.

  “You there!” he said. “I command you to open this gate!”

  “I don’t think I will, my lord,” Julianus said.

  29

  The morning air was what writers of lurid romance novels call “crisp” and normal people call “chilly.” An early snow had fallen the night before, draping the world in a beautiful, crystalline whiteness.

  But this was London, and London had things to do. It didn’t take long for the beautiful shroud of white to become a squelchy, muddy mess, streaked with coal dust and other, more questionable stains. London was a practical town, and silent shrouds of crystalline white get grubby very quickly in practical towns.

  Still, in the space behind the Palace, some bits of it remained lovely and white, at least for the moment. Not far away, children ran around throwing handfuls of the stuff at each other, laughing. The adults in attendance were far more somber.

  Queen Margaret the Merciful sat in her chair in a hastily erected enclosure just behind the Palace. The Ladies Alÿs and Eleanor sat to her left. On her right, in a chair nearly as tall as hers, the Ottoman ambassador was seated, dressed in heavy robes of gold and green. Behind them both, Julianus stood with his arms folded, wearing a white cape bisected with a red slash. The plume on his helmet was red.

  Henry and Rory, recently offered a royal pardon for the part they had played in helping the Lady Alÿs thwart the coup, arguably unintentional as it may have been, sat wide-eyed in wood chairs beside the ambassador. They seemed, on the whole, still resentful over the regrettable matter of their interrogation and incarceration and were disinclined to look Alÿs in the eye.

  The chairs to the left of Alÿs and Eleanor were occupied by the Bodger twins, who were freshly scrubbed for the occasion. The two of th
em were dressed in finery that would not be out of place among the most aristocratic of the Queen’s Court. Alÿs was frankly astonished, once she recognized them, which took rather longer than she felt it really should have. Behind them, Commander Skarbunket stood ramrod-straight in his nicest dress uniform, which was also his only dress uniform. He looked as uncomfortable as Claire and Donnie were comfortable, and neither Mayferry nor Bristol, likewise dressed in their finest, seemed any happier than he to be there.

  The ambassador leaned over to Margaret. “I am pleased you have dealt with the problem in your Court, Your Highness,” he said. “The Caliph looks forward to a prosperous future of trade between our great nations.” He leaned closer and gestured toward the empty seat that had been reserved for the Cardinal. “I cannot help but notice your man of the Church is not here.”

  “It would seem he has other matters to attend to,” Margaret said.

  It had been a month and a handful of days since the Queen’s brother had been laid to rest in the mausoleum. The event had been attended by thousands of Londoners, jamming the great broad street in front of the Palace. The Queen had called for a week of mourning. Even now, there were mounds of flowers along the front fence of the Palace courtyard, their petals rimmed with frost.

  All the ceremony of the young Duke’s funeral stood in contrast to the simple way Max and Roderick and the other members of the Guard who had fallen were put to rest. There was no week of mourning for them, no spectators crowding every available space just so that they could one day tell their grandchildren they had Been There When It Happened. Just a brief ceremony, with rows of silent Guardsmen watching.

  And the Cardinal. The Cardinal had been there, still bandaged up and walking with a cane, to pay his respects.

  After the week of mourning was over, the trials had started. Now, on this snowy day, the sentences would be carried out.

  As the lead conspirator, Lord Rathman was, naturally, the first in line. And quite a line it was, representing in total nearly a third of the Council of Lords, plus every commissioned officer of all the levies that had participated in the failed coup. Margaret generously commuted the sentences of the enlisted men in the Levies to life in prison, though the considered opinion of those close to the Throne was that this had more to do with the logistics of finding enough headsmen to deal with that many heads than any uncharacteristic fit of mercy.

  In fact, simply coping with all the lords and officers whose necks were scheduled for the block had presented a considerable challenge, requiring construction of a whole new platform in the field behind the Palace just to make room for everyone. That in turn had meant constructing many new benches for the audience, which was quite considerable in its size, and a new shelter for the Queen and her party. Extra iron manacles for all the prisoners had been requisitioned from Bodger & Bodger Iron Fittings, commissioned directly by the Crown. In every human civilization, it has always been true that the business of governance involves more small details than most citizens imagine.

  The headsman led Rathman to the block and forced him to his knees. He glared at Margaret, his face showing nothing but hate. She watched him expressionlessly. “Any last words?”

  “Yes!” he said. “This nation is on a path to destruction. You, Your Grace, have invited foreigners into our midst. These foreigners care nothing for our traditions or our culture. They will—”

  Margaret yawned behind her hand. “Heard it already,” she said. She made a small gesture. The headsman swung his axe. Rathman’s head rolled, face frozen in an expression of surprise.

  One by one, the rest of the people in line went to keep their appointments. Some wept, some pleaded for mercy, some were stoic, but they all went just the same. The snow turned red, then black. By the end, the headsman was panting for breath behind his pointed black hood.

  Later, Alÿs and Margaret were in the sitting room sipping tea from gold-rimmed mugs beneath the watchful gaze of the various painted portraits of the lords in their gold-leaf frames.

  “I still don’t understand why you have to marry that dreadful Frenchman,” Alÿs said. “I thought you’d already decided who you were going to marry!”

  “That was before,” Margaret said. “You were to marry our brother to seal our alliance with France. With the Duke gone, that duty falls to us.”

  “But you’re the Queen!” Alÿs protested. “You can do whatever you like!”

  Margaret smiled. “If only that were so. We all have our parts to play, even the Queen. We will marry the man the Cardinal has chosen for us and bear an heir to the Throne who will unite the Kingdoms of Britain and France, because that is what we must do. And you will go home to Paris until your parents find someone else for you to marry, because that is what you must do.”

  “But it’s not fair!” Alÿs said.

  For a moment, Margaret looked tired and sad. “I’m not sure I know what that word means,” she said softly. “Was it fair my brother was killed and I wasn’t?” Then the regal Margaret was back. “We are members of the nobility. The world we live in cares nothing for fairness. This is politics. We owe a great deal to the Church. The Church wants this marriage.”

  “So what?” Alÿs said. “You have the entire Council of Lords now! There is nobody left who opposes you. You’ve made the lords disband their private armies. You don’t need the Cardinal or anyone else!”

  Margaret smiled a small, humorless smile. “Yes, we are more powerful now than we were before. But the Church will not soon forget how the Pontifical Guard carried the day. The Throne may be more powerful, but so is the Church. The balance remains. Politics.”

  Alÿs crossed her arms. “What if I refuse to go back to France? What if I say I won’t get married at all?”

  “Then,” Margaret said, “you will probably be carried back, kicking and screaming if need be. Where would you go where you won’t be known? You are not a commoner, for all you enjoy pretending to be one.” She raised her hand at Alÿs’s protest. “And yes, we are grateful. But you cannot be something you are not, Alÿs de Valois. You are the daughter of a king. It is your role to marry the man who is chosen for you and bear his children. You are a woman, not a child. It is time to put the ways of childhood behind you. You will understand in time.” Her smile turned dark. “And if it becomes too much, you have shown you know how to deal with men who stand in your way. I do not doubt you will manage.”

  ✦

  The Cardinal surveyed the outside of the building and shook his head. It was long and low, and made of cut blocks of limestone. Outside, the hustle of Highpole Street showed no sign of slowing despite the snow. Inside, the air was hazy. Small cubicles, each separated from its neighbor by low wooden walls decorated with intricate carvings, formed a maze that would be difficult to navigate even without the smoke that hung heavy in the air. The Cardinal’s eyes watered.

  He still moved with exaggerated caution. The animate’s knife had done considerable damage, meaning injudicious activity was punished promptly. He had awoken when the alarm bells sounded, surrounded by Ottoman physicians, all of whom had done their best to keep him in bed. Which was, of course, exactly the point. If there was one universal failing of the human spirit that really irked the Cardinal, it was the inability to see the bigger picture.

  He waved the smoke away from his face and moved farther into the gloom, flanked by two of his guards. Finally, he found the man he was seeking, curled up on his side on an elaborate rug woven in reds and golds, the end of the hookah trailing from his fingers.

  “Lord Chancellor Gaton,” he said.

  The chancellor opened his eyes. “Yes? Oh, it’s you. I heard you were dead. Then I heard you weren’t.”

  “I very nearly was, my lord,” the Cardinal said.

  “How did you find me?”

  “It wasn’t difficult, truth be told. Your predilection for the opium pipe is not so hidden a secret as you think.
” The Cardinal looked around. “It’s all so predictable, isn’t it? You hate Highpole and everything it stands for so much, and yet, here you are.”

  Gaton sat upright with some effort. “What of it?” he said. “Why are you here?”

  The Cardinal sat down cross-legged on the rug across from Gaton, cane across his lap. “They carried out the sentences on the conspirators this morning,” he said.

  Gaton waved his hand. “So? I wasn’t there that night. I had nothing to do with it.”

  “Well, one of those things is true, certainly,” the Cardinal said. “Even so. Did you know that even today, more than a thousand people a year come to our shores fleeing the Spanish Inquisition? Such a terrible waste of life. To think it’s been going on for centuries. How many people do you think the Inquisitors have tortured and killed in the last three centuries, my lord?”

  “I’m sure I wouldn’t know,” Gaton said. “Why do you ask?”

  “Officers of the Church question all the refugees who arrive on our shores,” the Cardinal said. “The Spanish and Italians have tried to sneak spies into France and Britain disguised as refugees. They’ve never succeeded, of course.”

  “That you know of.”

  The Cardinal inclined his head. “That we know of. These refugees are valuable to us as sources of intelligence, however. We have learned far more about what’s going on in Italy and Spain than I think either nation would be entirely comfortable with, merely by speaking with those they drive from their lands. It’s funny, don’t you think?”

  “You still haven’t said why you’re here,” Gaton said.

  “Ah, yes, my mind wanders. Do permit an old man his failings. I was coming to that.” The Cardinal looked around the shabby room. “The Spanish and Italians are inferior to us in many technical respects, but there is one area of engineering endeavor where they have handily surpassed us, and that is the invention of new and ingenious devices to extract information from those reluctant to part with it. I’m told their devices are of such efficacy that they can make a person confess to crimes he did not even know he had committed.” An expression rather like a smile tried to cross his face, like a dandelion attempting to sprout on bald granite. “In any event, we have been keeping up with some of their innovations in this area, a fact I mention because we recently had leave to make use of them during a conversation with a person we found stockpiling bombs in a flat in Highpole. A person who, with some persuasion, eventually told us he was working for you.”