The Sword of the Lady

by S. M. Stirling

  For some reason Conrad thought that was funny too, though she couldn′t see why: it was all true. He sobered quickly, though.

  ″It′s good that the stories are perking the ordinary people up,″ he said. ″Even with our allies, we can′t win this war just with the nobility and their retainers; it′s going to be too big for the Associates to handle. But what happens . . . well, my lady, what happens if Rudi and Mathilda don′t show up?″

  Sandra was very quiet for a moment. ″If Mathilda is killed? Then it′s all rather moot.″ Softly: ″What have I worked for, if not for her?″

  CHAPTER THREE

  DES MOINES CAPITAL, PROVISIONAL REPUBLIC OF IOWA BOSSMAN′S HOUSE AUGUST 20, CHANGE YEAR 24/2022 AD

  ″So, you′re really a princess?″ Kate Heasleroad said, her pink young face wide-eyed and guileless. ″I mean, they call you that?″ ″Yes, I′m entitled Princess and styled Your Highness at home; my mother′s the Lady Regent,″ Mathilda Arminger explained to the Bossman′s consort.

  She must be at least twenty, she thought. And I′m only two years older, but it feels like more. I think she led a sheltered life. Until recently, at least.

  Aloud: ″But I inherit through my father, Lord Norman Arminger, whose only child I am. He was our first sovereign lord; Lord Protector of the Portland Protective Association. He was a knight before the Change, of course, in the Society, as well as a great scholar of the old ways at the university.″

  The other woman made a fascinated sound and inclined her head towards a painfully young man in a military uniform that involved a good deal of braid and a gold lanyard.

  ″Something for me and the Princess, please, Lieutenant.″

  ″At once, Mrs. Heasleroad!″

  The aide sprang away towards the buffet and the bar.

  It′s all just homelike enough to make me homesick but not enough to comfort, Mathilda thought, as she schooled her face to friendly interest. Not that it′s hard to be friendly. It′s brief acquaintance, but I find I do like Kate.

  A burbling surf of conversation rose to the carved plaster of the ceiling two stories above; more guests leaned on the balustrade that ringed the reception room. Heels clicked on the marble tiles and on the curving staircase that linked the levels. The Bossman′s household troops—they called them the State Police—stood at attention along the walls amid framed pictures and half-columns, their burnished mail-shirts and helms glittering in the brilliance of the incandescent mantles of the gaslights, along with the crowd′s crystal and gold and diamonds, fine cloth and polished leather. Open French doors brought an occasional waft of cooler air from the gardens, and the scents of roses and cut grass, along with the odd suicide-bent moth.

  ″So everyone says your Highness?″ Kate said, returning to the subject that fascinated her.

  ″Yes,″ Mathilda Arminger said, with a practiced smile; there were people at home obsessed with protocol too.

  Quite a few of them, in fact.

  The aide came back and she took a plate of what her mother called faculty fodder for some obscure pre-Change reason; little pieces of toast with shaved ham and pungent cheese, or bits of pickled fish, or tiny sausages and capers and pate or peppers and sweet corn. A glass of some fizzy drink called sarsaparilla came with it.

  ″I′m not Princess Regnant or Lady Protector yet, of course, not until I′m twenty-six. Then I′ll be styled Your Majesty.″

  Kate laughed. ″And everyone will have to go down on their knees?″

  ″Only one, until then. And only at ceremonies, of course—receiving homage, bestowing fiefs, that sort of thing. We′re less formal most of the time.″

  ″Is there a book of rules or something?″

  ″Well, the College of Heralds have their lists . . . but really, if you grow up around it . . . it′s all sort of natural.″

  ″It sounds like fun, really. Like a costume party!″

  Not if it′s your life, Mathilda thought. Mother complains about it sometimes. Of course, for her before the Change it was a game. Sometimes I think it still is and she can′t help it. People that old . . . it′s as if they were always watching themselves live their lives instead of just living them and being themselves. Weird.

  An inspiration came to her: ″You′re a princess too, my dear Kate.″

  At the other woman′s laugh she went on: ″No, truly. You′re the lawful consort of a ruling prince, after all . . . unless it would be more accurate to call him a King? In which case you′d be Queen, of course, and your children would be Princes and Princesses.″

  ″There′s only little Tommie so far,″ Kate said. For a moment her face was soft with love, and went from strikingly pretty to beautiful. ″And he′s my Prince!″

  ″Then you′re definitely a Princess, at the very least.″

  She made a dismissive gesture, but Mathilda could see the corners of her mouth turn up in pleasure; she could also see half a dozen others in the big room noting the exchange as they milled around. The biggest knot was around Anthony Heasleroad, of course, the Bossman of Iowa—Governor and President Pro Tem, formally, but that was the word everyone used in ordinary speech. She could just hear him saying:

  ″. . . keep the great agricultural industry of Iowa in responsible, experienced hands for the common good of Farmer and Evacuee alike . . .″

  His voice held the same booming sententiousness most barons at home would use when talking about mesne tithes and heraldry and the idleness of the peasants. Like Mathilda and Rudi he′d been born in the first Change Year, but he looked older to her. Part of that was the fact that he also looked like the statue of an athlete that had been covered in an inch of soft tallow and left in the hot sun until it began to sag a little.

  Though I may be prejudiced, Mathilda thought. And he also looks like a man who trusts nobody, including the men who guard his sleep. They say Mom′s that way but she isn′t: she always said paranoia was as stupid as gullibility, and just as likely to kill you.

  Kate was tall and willowy; her neck and fingers and piled dark hair sparkled with some truly impressive and not too gaudy jewelry, offset by the simply cut but obviously new blue silk of her knee-length dress. That had probably cost more. Jewelry could be salvaged, but silk had to be imported around the world over trade routes just beginning to function again.

  And unlike her demented spouse, she seems amiable enough. Not the brightest candle in the chandelier, but good-hearted.

  ″Oh, it′s bad enough being married to the Governor, much less being a, um, Queen!″ Kate said. ″I swear, I didn′t expect everyone to be always asking for things before I married Tony! That was before his father died and he became Bossman, of course.″

  ″Ah, well, that is a drawback of being close to a sovereign,″ Mathilda said.

  She forced herself not to give an incredulous snort; what else would a ruler′s consort or heir await? That was one reason she′d enjoyed her yearly stay with the Mackenzies so much after the Protector′s War—there on the Clan′s land she was just Rudi′s friend Mathilda.

  What did you expect when you married the ruler here, Kate? she thought but did not say. Gossiping with the other goodwives at the village bakery while your husband digs the garden or sits in the tavern with his cronies over a mug of beer?

  Instead she turned to take a real drink off a tray; it was something sweet but potent in a glass like a cone on a stem, with a little cherry on top. For the first time in her life, she understood the temptation that made some people drink to excess. It wasn′t so much a matter of drowning sorrows as of untangling the knot of fear that curdled under her breastbone. Or at least putting a slight glassy layer between her and it.

  There wasn′t anything she could do about the fear—she was here, the guards wouldn′t let her leave, Rudi was in hideous danger across the river among the savages with only Edain at his side, poor Ingolf was in a dungeon, and most of the rest of her friends were hiding God-knew-where in this vast alien city, even dear kindly Father Ignatius was away so that she
couldn′t confess or receive the Sacraments . . .

  But God does know where each is, as He sees every sparrow. Mary pierced with sorrows, watch over the ones I love! And especially Rudi. Everything depends on him. And I miss him so much.

  ″And sometimes I wish I was back on father′s farm—″ Kate went on; she probably felt freer to speak with a stranger than with most of her courtiers.

  Farm . . . ah, she means a barony, Mathilda translated; they′d kept the old words here, but a tract one family could work with machines before the Change needed scores or hundreds now, with the landholder as lord. A manor, a knight′s-fee, at least.

  ″—instead of all this. I like a party, but they′re all the same and there are so many of them. And a lot of the people aren′t really here for the fun.″

  ″I get the same feeling at balls and tournaments,″ Mathilda said.

  Sometimes. As Mom says, they′re our working time. If God calls you to a station, you have to do your best, whether it′s peasant or Princess. With princes and nobles, socializing is a big part of the business of ruling. Things that come up formally at councils really get settled first while you′re feasting or hawking or hunting or dancing a pavane.

  ″This is a fine country,″ Kate said softly after a moment. ″We Iowans have so much more than anyone else. Our parents were so lucky! Why do people have to quarrel and fight each other for more?″

  Mathilda bowed her head slightly, honoring the sentiment if not the thought.

  ″Why indeed?″ she said. ″But that seems to be the way people are, a lot of them. It′s a ruler′s duty to keep their quarrels from spilling too much blood.″

  And to lead in war so that the realm′s strength is a single blade of power in a skilled hand, she thought unhappily. But in the west, we have no single ruler to fight the Prophet. The Meeting is well enough but it′s a council and never gets anything done quickly. Most of the time it′s much better at stopping things than doing them.

  The thought carked at her. Her own duty . . .

  But the rest of the Meeting realms will never accept an Arminger. The Protector′s War showed that. They don′t hate and fear me the way they did Father, but they would if they thought I wanted to be overlord. And our nobles wouldn′t accept anyone—

  A thought made her eyes go wide.

  But the Association would accept the man who brought back the Sword of the Lady and led them to victory—it could just as well be the Virgin who′s the Lady as some pagan goddess, after all. Not accept him as Lord Protector in Portland, but as . . . what did the ancient Gael call it, an Ard Ri, a High King over all the realms. And they most certainly would accept it if by my marrying that man they could have their own Lord Protector′s blood on the throne in another generation . . .

  The thought passed through her mind in an instant, but her blood leapt at an image of Rudi beside her and a cheering host of Associates and Mackenzies, Bearkillers and Corvallans and manymore below crying him hail. Her heart beat even harder at the thought of him leading her to a bride′s bower. How Rudi would love that, and hate the idea of a crown! And how well he′d do at both . . .

  But right now he′s over there in the wilderness and I′m a prisoner in everything but name, and likely to lose my head if my attention strays. Concentrate, woman!

  Kate had sighed and nodded, looking around.

  ″There are always people who won′t live peacefully, like the Heuisinks. Why, why, when we have all this?″

  Candles burned on the tables whose snowy linen held the buffet; the aide brought them a second set of hand-sized plates, this time with garlicky meatballs on toothpicks and little skewers of hot spicy grilled chicken and tiny, tender vegetables. Some of the guests plowed stolidly through cold meats and breads and salads and dishes of spiced pickled fish or nibbled on candied fruits, while others punished the wet bar and grew red-faced and expansive or brooded in corners.

  ″It scares me sometimes,″ the Bossman′s wife said softly. Then in an undertone, but fiercely: ″And people are always flattering Anthony, and, and telling him anything he wants to hear. It′s like water dripping on iron!″

  Mathilda turned away diplomatically, watching the crowd as Kate stammered and flushed and then cast her a grateful look for letting the matter drop. Younger men and women flirted; serious-looking ones in middle age stood in small circles, holding drinks and talking politics and business . . . or possibly just gossiping. A chamber group of musicians tootled away at something soothing in a corner, and the air smelled of fine food, wine, perfume, warm linen and wool, a little of sweat and perfume, and strongly of expensive beeswax candles.

  Like the feast before the High Council meets, Mathilda thought.

  If you mentally substituted colorful modern tunics and hose and cotte hardis for the drab, antique Iowan costumes, and tabards for the servants′ white coats and bow ties. The occasional lidded glances were easy enough to catch, and the way factions avoided each other accidentally-on-purpose. She′d grown up in a real court, after all, where her own frowns or smiles could set feuds going. Granted, it was the court run by her mother—her father had been killed in the Protector′s War when she was ten—but the Lady Regent had known how to do things. She′d been in the Society before the Change, where the knowledge of such things was kept alive. Iowa was large, and rich, and far more populous than any of the realms around the Columbia and Willamette, or even all of them together . . .

  More than two and a half million people! A hundred and twenty thousand just in this one city!

  . . . but in some ways it was a bit old-fashioned. A good many of the older men here were actually wearing suits with jacket and tie, for example, or military uniforms based on those of the old American republic. Though more favored the bib overalls and billed feedstore cap that were a gentleman′s garb in Iowa, the mark of a Farmer or Sheriff, which was what they called knights and barons.

  And they′re running a court, but doing it badly, as if they were stumbling through an unfamiliar dance, or like children in a catechism class with a half-literate teacher. What they really need is someone to tell them how to do it properly!

  ″That dress looks absolutely gorgeous,″ Kate went on, brightening once more. ″What′s it called again?″

  ″A cotte-hardi. There′s an arcane terminology for every bit of it—this headdress is a wrapped wimple, for instance.″

  ″Beautiful!″ she said. ″Those carved rose-crystal buttons down the front and sleeves, and the lace! I′ve never seen such fine needlework, either.″

  ″Well, Mother does have the best. But right from the beginning my parents went looking for craftspeople—they were thinking ahead.″

  She flicked her wrist, and the ivory leaves of her long-handled fan opened out to make a tracery of tiny figures that showed children dancing around a maypole.

  ″By now we have a lot of fine makers, for practical things and for beautiful ones as well. And not just in my mother′s Household. This was a present from a friend, Lady Delia de Stafford.″

  ″Lovely!″ Kate said, taking it for a moment and holding it up against a light.

  She hesitated and then went on: ″But . . . isn′t that dress . . . well, isn′t it all a bit cumbersome?″

  Mathilda laughed. ″It certainly is if you don′t have a lady-in-waiting and a couple of maidservants to help you on and off with it,″ she said. ″Which I suspect was part of the point—that′s why it′s a noblewoman′s style.″

  At home she wore male dress as often as her special status let her get away with it, and hated the constriction of the court fashion′s buttoned sleeves and bodice and the way you couldn′t lift your arms above your shoulders, and the long full skirts and the wrapped headdress, though even that was better than the tall cone-shaped ones. The two tunics and shift of commoner female costume were much more comfortable and less confining, but noblewomen could get away with that in only the most casual settings.

  She′d have just chucked the clothes chest, herself—Go
d and His Mother knew that they′d lost most of the gear they′d started out with in Bend at one emergency or another, which had included everything from battle and headlong flight to million-strong stampedes of mad buffalo. Now she was glad she hadn′t insisted; it made her feel a little less frightened and homesick, and it emphasized that she wasn′t officially just a prisoner here.

  And the warm browns and golds of the silk and embroidery did complement her seal-brown hair and hazel eyes and warm light olive complexion. She wasn′t beautiful; her features took after her father′s, too bold and a little irregular, but she knew she could be striking.

  And I have to uphold the Portland Protective Association′s honor here. These Iowans think everyone else is a monkey from the wilds, or at best a hick.

  ″You look enchanting, your Highness,″ Odard Liu said.

  He came up to them, a middle-sized young man, black haired and olive-umber of skin, slim and elegant in parti-colored hose and curl-toed shoes with little silver bells, trailing dagged sleeves and hood with tippets and gold-link belt, his slanted blue eyes amused and his lute over his back, troubadour fashion.

  Some of the younger local gentry trailed after him, looking fascinated; the more so when he made an elaborate leg-bow and hand-flourish to both women, the long tail of his round flat nobleman′s hat fluttering and sweeping the floor as he drew it through the complex measure.

  ″And your Majesty is also enchanting in her own person, if I may be so bold,″ he went on to Kate Heasleroad. ″Your lord is to be envied for his wealth and power, but not least for the jeweled beauty of his consort.″

  Everyone loves flattery, but keep in mind that when people deal with royalty they lay it on with a trowel, Mathilda′s mother had told her once. Your friend Odard at least does it with some style.

  He′d also clung to the box with their last Court outfits inside like grim death, even when they were starving in that cave in the Rockies wondering if they′d have to eat the horses while the blizzards howled outside. He′d laid out gold here to have his gear repaired, too—and hers, to be sure.