I leaned back in my chair and stretched my legs, numb with sitting here too long. I had often chastised Merius for his restlessness at council, but I wouldn’t have blamed him today. My muscles ached for exercise--a turn in the practice salon or a long ride on my horse Hunter--but that wouldn’t happen this afternoon. Sitting in judgment on a charge of treason could be a lengthy affair. I glanced at my fellow councilors. Most looked bored. We couldn’t speak while the council scribe read the charges and written evidence. Enforced silence was dull for the loudmouths and windbags of the group. Besides, likely many already knew how they were going to vote. I did.
The scribe sank down at long last, breathless and red-faced after reading aloud the pages of charges and written evidence from those not permitted to attend council. No one of common birth was allowed in this chamber, save to clean it. The scribe poured himself a glass of water--the clink of the heavy glass decanter echoed off the stone walls and vaulted ceiling, startling in the thick silence that followed the charges. Finally, he picked up the papers before him with equally loud rustling and read, “The court summons Lady Bernica of Norland.”
Lady Bernica strode into the chamber, black veil whipping behind her. Bernica was the same age as the accused, but with her shapeless widow’s weeds, pinched face, and hair hidden under a black snood that pulled her skin tight, she looked far older, weaned on the bile of bitter experience. Herrod, commander of the king’s guard, creaked in his chair to my left.
“Good God,” he whispered loudly. “Going by looks alone, I’d rather send Norland’s widow to the fire than the other, witch or no. No wonder Norland‘s in the ground after only two years of marriage to her.”
Cyril of Somners stiffened at the head of the table. “Silence,” he spat. “You speak out of turn, Herrod.” Cyril was just back from a long trip to Sarneth and hell-bent on re-establishing his authority over the council.
Herrod shrugged and shot me a quick look from under bristling black brows before he turned his attention back to the two women at the other end of the table. Herrod and I had been comrades-at-arms together long ago when I held an active post in the king’s guard, and we still took a turn with practice swords against each other occasionally. Although no coward, Cyril had never been to battle, and Herrod didn’t fully trust any man who had never served as a king’s guard.
Looking between the accused and Bernica of Norland, I had to agree with Herrod. Someone near the king cleared his throat then, and I glanced at King Arian ensconced on the throne dais. He leaned forward, his head lowered as if in deep thought or, more likely, deep prayer. Religious fiend of a king. He would have made all the women in the kingdom dress like Bernica if he could have gotten away with it. As it was, he enforced strict rules about women’s dress at court, even publicly chastising his wife for wearing her hair down at a court function. He railed against the sins of the flesh more than any monk, and it was a wonder he had managed to sire Prince Segar, his only heir.
The prince sat beside his father on the dais, fidgeting with the shoulder tassels on his pressed doublet. Twenty-four and a dandy, Prince Segar had scandalized Arian’s court with rumors of mistresses and his refusal to marry. Despite this, he often spoke at council in his father’s stead. Arian was a hermit who preferred praying in his private chambers to hobnobbing with his nobles. I understood that impulse at least--although I didn’t pray, I did find solitude a relief from others‘ idiocy.
“Lady Bernica,” the scribe intoned, scribbling furiously as he kept record of the proceedings. “His Royal Majesty Arian and assembled councilors request your testimony regarding the combined charges of treason and witchcraft against the accused.” The accused--how ridiculous it sounded suddenly. We all knew who she was--Rhianan, the youngest daughter of Basil of Norland, sister to Fineas of Norland. Fineas had been Bernica’s husband before he died from a rogue arrow while out hunting last fall.
Bernica straightened, if such an action was possible--she already stood straight as a poker. “Your Majesty, your Royal Highness, good sirs of the council,” she said with a stiff little curtsy toward the dais--likely it pained her to bend or bow to anyone. “I come to tell you that I have prayed long about this matter and am here only because Father Aleric told me it was a sin to cower in the face of evil. It troubles me to acknowledge the presence of the devil in my own family, but I cannot deny what I witnessed a fortnight ago.”
“What did you witness?” King Arian asked. The king was always the primary inquisitor in treason cases and often served in that capacity in witchcraft cases as well. He saw witchcraft as treason to God and therefore even more heinous than treason to any human sovereign.
“A servant and I entered Rhi--the accused’s bedchamber and witnessed her looking in her mirror and talking with her reflection. When I spoke her name, she seemed not to hear me--she didn’t even blink. It was as if she was in a trance.”
“What was she saying to her reflection?”
“She said she saw fire in the palace, men fighting and dying.” Bernica paused. “She said she saw Your Majesty. You were lying in a coffin of charred wood, and . . .”
“And?” the king prompted. “Do not fear to speak what you heard. It is not treason to simply repeat the words of the accused as you heard them.”
Bernica swallowed. “She said that you were dead at the hand of His Royal Highness Prince Segar, that he ascended a bloody throne surrounded by fire.”
Murmuring buzzed at the far end of the table--although we had heard this story before, read by the scribe from the servant’s written testimony, it evidently had escaped someone’s wandering attention till now. Whether it really was some prophetic vision born of the devil or just some fool girl‘s crazy fancies, it was a ridiculous notion. Prince Segar didn’t look the sort to kill his father just so he could seize the throne and rule amidst fire and blood. He looked the sort who liked to sleep on lavender-scented sheets and only went on the hunt if he could don clean linen every ten minutes. He didn’t have to kill his father to do that. Arian couldn’t stand his son, and Segar couldn’t stand his father, but since Arian refused to sire more heirs, it appeared they were stuck with each other, and Cormalen was stuck with them.
I glanced at Cyril, who shook his head and rolled his eyes. Pompous ass he may be, but he was an honest ass with a lot of influence, and it seemed he was as tired of this royal charade as I was. Although we didn’t like each other much, we were the two highest ranking nobles on the royal council, and we had an alliance of mutual convenience. We had long ago determined that allying with each other would help preserve the nobles’ precarious hold on the council and Cormalen. As long as we presented a united front to the court, none of the upstart merchants would dare challenge the nobility’s higher position.
“Accused, do you deny or affirm these words?” King Arian turned his attention to Rhianan.
Rhianan didn’t answer but instead stared before her as if looking at something none of the rest of us could see. Her eyes were a clear, dark blue, like the water in the middle of the ocean. Uncanny wench. I shifted in my seat, uncomfortable. I didn’t doubt she was a witch--she had the same unearthly look as my witch daughter-in-law Safire. The narrow scar over my heart started to itch, then burn. I scratched at my doublet, but that only made it worse. Damned linen shirt--maybe the flax had gotten mixed up in a thistle thicket. I forced myself to stop scratching before anyone noticed, forced my hands to clutch the arms of my chair, forced myself not to think about the burning, not to think about why it burned.
“Accused, answer me,” King Arian thundered finally.
Rhianan swiveled her head and gave him a searching look. “What did you ask, Your Majesty?”
“Young woman, you are on trial for your life. One would think you’d pay proper attention,” Cyril said, sounding weary. “His Majesty asked if you affirmed or denied the words your sister-in-law and others have testified that you spoke a fortnight ago before your mirror.”
“I can neither affirm or den
y them,” she said.
“How can that be?”
“I don’t recall what I said. I remember standing in front of the mirror, that’s all. Next I remember waking up on the hearth. They said I fell. Then the king’s guard came and arrested me.”
“Convenient,” the king muttered. “Accused, do you deny scrying in the mirror?”
“Scrying?” she said, as if hearing the word for the first time. “Scrying? I thought that required a spell, Your Majesty. I spoke no spell or incantation.”
“Indeed. You just testified you can’t remember what you said. You could have said anything, even invoked the devil. Have you ever invoked the devil? I would hope you’d remember that.”
“Your Majesty, if I may be permitted, no one has testified that she invoked the devil,” I said.
“True enough,” Arian acknowledged, glancing at Bernica. “Did you hear her invoke the devil, Lady Bernica?”
“No, though she could have done it before we entered the chamber.”
King Arian nodded, as if satisfied by this. He then looked at Rhianan but quickly glanced away when their eyes met. He seemed discomfited, afraid even, to meet her gaze--it would be rather disconcerting to send someone to the stake who looked through you at things unseen. One would have to wonder, devil or no, ridiculous vision or no, exactly what she was seeing.
“Accused, before we vote, do you have any more to say? You‘re allowed to speak as long as you wish in your defense, ask the scribe to read any sworn testimonies in your favor, or summon noble witnesses to vouch for you.”
“There are none, Your Majesty.” She bowed her head, and a heavy silence fell.
“If you cannot defend yourself,” Arian said finally, “then you shall be cast upon the mercy of this council.”
She raised her head, her face and eyes burning with a sudden intensity. “I will say this--I have never invoked the devil that I remember. I have always been eager to attend chapel and pray, and I consider the devil and sin my enemies. I believe in God, and whatever this council decides, I know that I shall receive God’s mercy, which is beyond any man’s capacity to grasp. I cannot and will not beg for your mercy for a crime I do not remember committing. Instead I invoke His mercy. He knows my heart--you do not.”
Arian stared at her for a moment, then shook his head and called for a vote. We each had two small blank pieces of parchment before us and our own pens and inkwells. My quill paused over the first piece of parchment. An X to convict, an O to find innocent. Although I suspected Rhianan to be a witch for the same reasons I knew Safire to be a witch, I couldn’t make myself mark an X. Whether she was a witch or not, the petty evidence required for a conviction of witchcraft or treason was inexcusable. So I marked an O and quickly folded my parchment as the locked box came around to my side of the table. I slipped the folded parchment through the slit in the top, then watched as the box made its way to the scribe, who opened it with a rattle of keys and swiftly began counting the votes.
“While the scribe counts,” King Arian started, “we will determine sentencing in case the accused is convicted. For a combined charge of treason and witchcraft, the traditional sentence is death by burning at the stake.”
“Your Majesty.” Prince Segar sat up in his chair. “I propose a different sentence in this case.”
“What different sentence could there be?” Arian sputtered.
“Excommunication--the accused said herself that she thirsts for God’s mercy. It seems to me to deny her that by excommunication would be a worse punishment than burning her to death,” the prince drawled.
I glanced at Cyril and found him with his mouth slightly open. The prince dandy had just put the king in an indefensible position. If Arian said now that burning was a harsher punishment than excommunication, if he continued to argue for burning as the punishment in this particular case, he would look both bloodthirsty and hypocritical. With burning, one could repent at the last minute and still go to heaven. With excommunication, it didn’t matter when one died or if one repented--one went to hell regardless. So, to a truly religious person like King Arian, excommunication should have been the worse of the two punishments.
“I’ll put it to the council for a vote,” King Arian after a long, hard look at his son. “If the accused is convicted, council members may write either burning or excommunication, whichever they consider the fairest judgment.”
I grabbed the second piece of parchment before me and scratched an E for excommunication. In the end, it was futile. In the end, the sycophants, the religious fanatics, and the fearful voted to convict her and sentence her to death by burning at the stake. Stupid bastards.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
My cousin Eden’s grip tightened on my arm as we started up the marble steps of the palace grand staircase. “What is it?” I said.
“The queen,” she muttered around the gold-tipped peacock feathers of her mask. “She suspects, I think.”
I glanced up at the landing, where the royal family waited to greet their guests. Queen Verna’s smile already looked strained, and it was only the second night of Moonwatch, the weeklong celebration before the first harvest. I didn’t ask Eden what the queen suspected--I already knew. Over the last year, Eden had seen Prince Segar’s sheets more than the palace chamber maids.
“She doesn’t suspect, my dear. She knows, and she’s likely known for several months. She is the queen after all.”
Eden’s full lips creased in a smile. “The prince could have been my escort here then?”
“Don’t be flippant. You should have ended it when I told you to,” I whispered.
“He wouldn’t let me end it.”
“Yes, you’re such an obedient subject.”
“You’re in a foul mood.”
“This is a foul event.”
“What’s foul about a masquerade, a merry dance or two?”
I shrugged. “I’ve never been one for dancing or wearing costumes--frivolous posturing.” When I could, I had sent Merius to these events to represent the Landers.
“Were you ever young?” Eden asked.
“No. I went to battle when I was sixteen. Now be quiet.”
We were on the step directly before the landing. In front of us, Hector of Casian, likely drunk, reeled in the black mask and cape of a highwayman, his wife desperately trying to hold him steady. He guffawed loudly at some comment from King Arian before Lady Casian managed to drag him past the royal family and up the staircase to the ball room.
Eden and I stepped up on the landing. She dropped in a curtsy as I bowed. “Good evening, Mordric, Lady Eden,” said King Arian as the queen and Prince Segar murmured their greetings.
“Good evening, Your Majesties, Your Highness.” With a final bow, I turned towards the stairs, Eden in tow.
The prince reached out and grasped Eden’s sleeve. He was smiling, an odd expression for him. For the first time, I noticed his teeth were crooked. “Did you pluck the peacocks yourself, my lady?”
Her laugh was suggestively husky--her throat sounded full of pipe smoke. “Of course, Your Highness. Peacocks need a lady’s touch.”
The queen started as if someone had plucked her. I hauled Eden up the staircase and into the deserted anteroom beside the ballroom entrance. I made certain the door closed behind us before I turned to her.
“What was that?” I demanded, my hands on her shoulders.
Her tawny eyes glowed amber beside the bright blues and greens of her mask. “I’m more his friend than lover. What’s an innocent jest between friends?”
“You can’t be friends with someone who could have your head on a pole.”
“Good point.”
“Now, mind yourself, or I’ll send you back to Landers Hall.”
She grimaced. “Not that dreary place again. Dirty peasants and no parties and nothing but talk of the harvest.”
“The harvest is what keeps us in fine linen and silk, my dear.”
“Maybe, but it’s a dull topic. The only interesti
ng conversation we had at dinner in two weeks was one night when Selwyn mentioned the cost of replacing all the window glass.” Her voice was light, as if she was merely relating a bit of idle chatter, but her eyes narrowed, and I knew she waited for my reaction with claws fully extended. She had been in the Landers courtyard that day and had, along with Selwyn and several servants, seen me stab myself and then had watched as Safire pulled the dagger from the wound. But that was all they had seen from what I had been able to ascertain. Only Merius and Dagmar had been close enough to know the wound would have been fatal if Safire hadn’t healed it, and only Safire and I knew the whole truth of the matter. That hadn’t stopped gossip on the subject, however. Hell.
When I didn't respond, she continued, a feral gleam in her eyes, “You know, now that I think about it, that dagger was red when she pulled it from you.”
“Of course it was red. It had my blood on it,” I said dryly.
“Not red like that. Red hot, like it had been in a smith’s fire.”
“You imagined it.”
“Selwyn saw it too. Besides, when she threw it in that puddle, the water steamed up from the heat of it. Are you telling me we imagined that as well? And what about all the window glass breaking at once?”
“Dagmar was closer than either of you. What did she say of it?”
Tapestry Lion (The Landers Saga Book 2) Page 8