Jeffrey: Chapter Seven
The next morning, he regretted the sense of responsibility that brought him to the north wing, the executive wing, of the palace early. He’d only been gone a little over three weeks and it seemed as if nothing had been done in his absence. He prodded a stack of documents with his finger. So much for competent subordinates. No, that was unfair. All of this represented hard work by those subordinates; it wasn’t their fault that their monarch had to sign off on so much of it.
He drew the first piece of paper toward himself and read it. His father had impressed on him the importance of always knowing what it was he was putting his name to. It wasn’t so much, he’d said, that people would try to trick you into enacting a bad law, it was that your name was a promise, and you’d better know what promises you’d agreed to keep, as a king. He signed the first document and moved on to the next. And the next three. And the five after that.
His appointments secretary, Arthur, knocked on the door. “Your Majesty, you have a meeting with the council in fifteen minutes.” He handed the king his daily schedule.
Jeffrey nodded his thanks, put down his pen and massaged his right wrist and palm. Not even half done. Well, they’d waited three weeks, they could wait a little longer. The council meeting, unfortunately, could not. He never looked forward to council meetings and he looked forward even less to this one, because the top item on the agenda was the new territory they’d conquered. The sooner those lands were put under someone’s administration, the easier it would be to maintain them, and they wouldn’t come under the direct supervision of the Crown anymore. As if he needed more things to worry about.
There was the Devisers’ Guild—or the putative Devisers’ Guild, anyway—that wanted permission to separate from the failing Scholia, though he wasn’t sure why they thought they needed government permission for that. Three Baronies and a County wanted funds to upgrade roads that crossed provincial boundaries, and all of their lords and ladies had kicked the request up to him on the grounds that it was a kingdom-wide matter. He was supposed to review sentencing for a handful of capital cases, which he especially hated as it made him feel that he held those men and women’s lives in his hands. Which, technically, he did.
And then there were the petitioners. By heaven, there were always petitioners, men and women who didn’t think their provincial lords could or would give them justice, so they came straight to him. He had subordinates from the Justiciary who looked over the cases first, to weed out the obviously frivolous complaints, but in the end it always came down to him. They all, without exception, had this image of the Crown as being something romantic and all-powerful. The truth was that it was almost all paperwork.
He shoved back his chair, left the office and took the back way to the council chamber, in case someone lurked along his regular route with another responsibility to hang around his neck. The back way was damp and cold, the unplastered stone of the walls and the uncarpeted stone of the floor making the narrow, low-ceilinged passageway feel even more claustrophobic. His boots tapped along the worn flagstones, echoing hollowly back at him. It was part of a network of passages linking all the oldest parts of the palace, and he liked it because it was one place he could almost guarantee no one would find him. Though at this time of year, it hadn’t yet lost the chill that emanated from the stones all winter long. Well, it didn’t have to be comfortable. It only had to be private.
The back way came out through a not-quite-secret door in the council chamber. The vast round room had little in common with the passage Jeffrey had just emerged from, though they were nearly the same age. The paneled walls were painted a soft rose and had oak wainscoting stained a warm red-brown, carved along the top with oak leaves picked out with gold. The dark red carpet covered the floor from wall to wall and was plush enough that if a person stood still long enough, he would leave his footprints behind when he walked away. The double doors matched the wainscoting and had brass handles shaped like oak leaves. Devices lit the chamber from the domed ceiling high above. Except for the worn, round, black oak table in the center of the room, it didn’t look like a room in which heated debates over tariffs took place. It looked like a lady’s private parlor from which all the furniture had been taken for cleaning.
The chamber was empty. Jeffrey checked his watch; he was early. He took his seat in the chair that almost looked like a throne and rubbed his left hand across the smooth, worn wood of the round table, polished by hundreds of hands before his. He didn’t think he had much control over this council. Most of them had been appointed by his father, except for the chief of Internal Affairs, Micheline Branston, whose predecessor’s term had expired the previous year. They were all polite, but they also all treated him indulgently, as if he were only playing at being king. It didn’t help that he often felt that way himself. He worried that the day would come when they would decide they didn’t have to listen to him anymore. He worried even more that that day was today.
New territory. It didn’t matter that it was undeveloped, empty land—or maybe he was wrong, maybe it mattered even more that it was untouched and waiting for the right hand to turn it into an economic marvel. Every one of the councilors had a stake in who received the land and how it was parceled out, even if few of them were likely to receive a title as a result of those decisions.
Diana had already said she wanted a chunk of it for Daxtry. Hugh Harstow, chief of Commerce, would see the new land—or, rather, the provinces formed from it—as a source of revenue. The Foreign Affairs chief, Maxwell Burgess, would look to develop a different relationship with Veribold and…actually, he wondered how Burgess felt about their new diplomatic ties to the Kirkellan. He was as upper class as you could get without a title and had a tendency toward snobbery. Jeffrey might have to keep an eye on him with regard to how he treated Imogen. He didn’t want Burgess souring their relationship with their new friends, and he certainly didn’t want him snubbing their ambassador.
Elspeth should be out shopping with Imogen right now, getting her a dress for the concert tonight. Elspeth had thought it would be a good idea to introduce her into society gradually, in preparation for Elspeth’s wedding reception next week. Imogen was yet another worry on his list. How much of a shock would Aurilien be, when her only other experience with city life was Ranstjad? He wanted her to like it here, and he didn’t know what he could do to make that happen. So he just worried, pointlessly, and caught himself drumming his fingers on the table and made himself stop. Imogen would be fine. Elspeth would make sure of that.
The double doors opened. “—there isn’t any other way to look at it, Lex, it was a clear violation of policy. Good morning, your Majesty.” Helena Rowland inclined her head to him; her conversational partner, Lex Stoddard, did the same, but more perfunctorily. Helena was chief of Communications, a position his father had held before ascending to the throne; Lex was chief of Transportation and one of the many thorns in Jeffrey’s side. At least Helena was respectful. Lex, a skeletally thin man in his late fifties, made no secret of his feelings that the kingdom would be better off if Jeffrey gave more of his responsibilities to his councilors and spent his time…Lex was never clear on what he thought Jeffrey ought to be doing instead of ruling, but he probably didn’t care so long as it was something that kept the King out of the council chamber.
“I disagree, Helena, there’s plenty of room for misinterpreting that particular clause. Harstow, you agree with me, yes?”
“I think I’ve told you before, Stoddard, that I dislike being accosted when you are in the middle of a conversation,” Hugh Harstow said. The chief of Commerce was in his early thirties, young for his responsibilities, though his brown hair was already thinning and he’d begun to develop a middle-aged paunch to go with his middle-aged attitude. His red, wet lips thinned in disapproval of Stoddard’s approach; disliking Stoddard was one of the few things Jeffrey and Harstow had in common. “I have no way of knowing the facts with which you want me to agree.”
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“We’re talking about who takes precedence when a telecode must be carried across municipal lines for delivery,” Stoddard said. “It’s obviously a matter for Transport jurisdiction.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Lex,” Helena said. “The message originates with the telecoder office and we’re responsible for it. And I resent that your bullies thought they were allowed to strong-arm—”
“I object to that characterization. They were merely carrying out their duties.”
“And I fail to see that this has anything to do with me,” Harstow said, passing by them and taking his seat. “Good morning, your Majesty.”
“Good morning, Hugh.” Jeffrey raised his voice and said, “Helena, Lex, it sounds as if you have an item for our next meeting’s agenda. Until that time, set your differences aside, please, because we have important business to discuss today.” He put the faintest emphasis on “important” and saw Helena blush and Stoddard bite back a harsh reply. The two took their seats, which were unfortunately adjacent to each other. Jeffrey considered rearranging the seating, then realized there was no way to arrange his councilors that would keep them from fighting with each other.
Micheline Branston and Jonathan Crabtree, respectively chiefs of Internal Affairs and Finance, were the next to arrive, and finally, when Jeffrey had almost decided to convene the meeting without him, Maxwell Burgess came in, breathing heavily as if he’d been running. He was a shortish, fattish, blondish man who was never on time to council meetings but always on time to diplomatic functions, so Jeffrey never chastised him. This was everyone who’d be attending that day; Diana Ashmore and Emmeline Mathers, chief of Defense, were still with the army, his mother was on her way back from Kingsport, and the two Counts who represented the provinces were still on their estates.
“Thank you all for attending,” Jeffrey began. “I’m sure you know there’s only one item on the agenda today—the disposition of the new lands acquired during the recent conflict with Ruskald. Since we’re still securing those lands, some of you—” he looked at Micheline, who’d been vocal in her opposition to parcel the new lands out—“have objected to making any determinations yet. And I agree.”
This got a murmured reaction from them, and glances were traded across the table. Jeffrey made mental note of who looked at whom and filed it away for later analysis. “It would be premature to make those decisions without due consideration. However, today I will be hearing proposals for the disposition of these lands, which I will consider and then present my decision to the full council in a week. I’ve summoned the Counts and Barons and we should have a full convocation at that time.”
He hoped so, anyway. His sister-in-law Catherine, Baroness of Silverfield, was expecting her second child, and Sylvester had sent word that she wasn’t well. Jeffrey had deliberately set the date for final deliberations as far off as he could, to give her plenty of time to travel, but there was no guarantee she’d be able to manage the journey.
“So,” Jeffrey said, “I am entertaining proposals as of right now.” He beckoned to one of his aides to bring maps, fine vellum, pencils and note paper. “Here is the region we are debating.” He spread out a map showing the previous boundaries of Tremontane and its counties, Ruskald, Veribold, and a squiggly line indicating Kirkellan territory. He then laid a sheet of nearly transparent vellum over the map and traced the new boundaries. “What shall we do with our new acquisition?”
No one spoke at first. Had he been too forceful? Then Micheline reached out with her own pencil and said, “The most obvious possibility is to extend the borders of Daxtry and Avory and make them both counties.” She drew in a faint line.
“Darker, Micheline, make it darker,” Jeffrey said. “Thank you. There’s our first proposal.”
“You want to give Diana Ashmore that much territory?” Lex Stoddard said. “That’s half again as big as the smallest county is now!”
“Lex, we’re not debating the merits of these proposals right now,” Jeffrey said. He handed the vellum off to one of the aides and whipped out another one, quickly sketched the boundaries, and stood back. “I’ll make my decision after I’ve considered all the options.”
“Your decision?” Stoddard said incredulously. “Shouldn’t this go up for a vote?”
Jeffrey raised an eyebrow at him, but inside his heart was pounding. This is where it happens. Either you’re the King or you aren’t. “This is not a question of taxation or building roads,” he said. “This decision will alter the face of this country, a country for which I have the ultimate responsibility, and as Tremontane’s King the decision is mine alone. Yes, I am asking for the input of this council because I value your advice. Altering our borders is a serious thing. But I would like to remind you all that as your King I do not need your permission to do it. I intend to make the decision I judge is best for this country, with or without your help.” He set his hand down flat on the map, centered on Tremontane. “So I suggest you continue with your proposals.”
He fixed each of them with his gaze, something he’d seen his father do to great effect in council meetings. He had no idea if it worked. He was afraid he’d sounded petulant, or worse, arrogant. But they seemed to have trouble meeting his eyes, and eventually Harstow cleared his throat and said, “It seems to me that the kingdom would benefit by creating two new Baronies, here and here, along our new border with Veribold. I admit to having some personal interest in the question, as my department will benefit from the increased trade, but it’s still a sound proposal.”
“Thank you, Hugh.” Jeffrey added new boundaries and his heart rate gradually went back to normal. “Anyone else?”
At the end of the meeting, Jeffrey had seven or eight vellum sheets rolled under his arm and, he thought, a measure of respect from his councilors he hadn’t had when he walked in that morning. He was glad his mother hadn’t been there, though he would have appreciated her perspective on his performance. It was just difficult to maintain his image as a responsible ruler in front of the woman who’d seen him run naked through the halls of the palace, laughing at having eluded his nanny’s grasp, when he was five.
Alison North had represented the Arts and Heritage department five times since it had been instituted under Zara North and had, despite her disdain for politics, a deep understanding of how the council worked. Her advice mattered more to him than that of the rest of the council combined. He wondered if she’d return in time for the concert. He really wanted her to meet Imogen. Not that it mattered, because she’d almost certainly refuse to attend; she didn’t go to any more social functions than she had to.
He took the short route back to his office, nodding politely at those he passed, who bowed to him in return. Back in his office, he dumped the vellum sheets in a corner and sat down. The windows shed a dim light over his desk; it seemed a storm was coming in. The desk’s highly polished surface reflected his face poorly, making him look haggard. At least, he hoped it was a poor reflection.
He tidied his hair with the help of this imperfect mirror and dragged the pile of papers needing signatures toward him again. He’d finish these, then…what was on his schedule? It seemed he’d be eating his dinner at his desk again. And possibly his supper, too, if he wanted any time to go over those boundary proposals today. He sighed and inked his pen. Yes, his life was glamorous. No wonder everyone wanted to be him.
His supper consisted of a plate of cold sliced meat and cheese and a long slab of bread. He sliced the bread open and filled it with the meat and cheese. Some supper. He had to assemble it himself. He checked his watch and cursed through a mouthful of food, which sent crumbs of bread and cheese spraying across his desk and over the last sheet of vellum. He set his improvised meal aside and shook the vellum free of crumbs, then managed to knock his wine glass over with his elbow, spilling red wine over his desk, over the blotter, and onto his lap.
Holding the vellum high above the disaster, he cursed again and at length. He looked at the vellum, then tossed it asi
de to flutter to the floor. He wasn’t going to accept that proposal anyway. He rescued the stacks of paperwork, realizing too late that the wine had soaked into the bread and his meal, such as it was, was ruined. So were his trousers, probably, a light brown suede he’d rather liked until they were streaked with purplish-red as if he’d had some gory accident. That was it. He was done for the day.
He ruthlessly dumped the mess in Arthur’s lap and again took the back way around to the east wing, not wanting anyone to see the condition he was in. No doubt he smelled like a drunk, too. The sitting room was empty, the fire banked low. He checked his watch again. Elspeth and Imogen were probably at supper, which gave him plenty of time to change for the concert and get something else to eat.
He stripped out of the ruined trousers and washed thoroughly, not wanting to smell even the tiniest bit like alcohol, then with the help of his valet dressed in semi-formal pressed black trousers—he’d had enough of light colors for one day—and matching waistcoat over a ruby-colored linen shirt. Coat, cravat, and pearl stick-pin that was a gift from his maternal grandfather completed his ensemble.
His valet went over his coat with a fine-bristled brush as Jeffrey examined himself in the mirror. His father had had more muscle to him, and although Jeffrey had also inherited his father’s broad shoulders, he never felt as if he filled them out properly. He twitched his coat to fall more naturally across those shoulders, then went to join the ladies in the dining room.
He came up short in the sitting room because Elspeth was there, dressed for the concert, staring into the embers of the fire with her chin in her hands, an angry look on her face. “Have you eaten already?” Jeffrey said with some dismay. His stomach rumbled loudly as if it knew it wasn’t going to be fed any time soon. “Where’s Imogen?”
Tales of the Crown Page 21