A Company of Heroes Book Three: The Princess

by Ron Miller

  While Thud works the bolts from the corners of the tablet, Bronwyn places the cardboard carton on the bottom of the sarcophagus and then steps back a few paces. She can not define how she feels; she has never experienced this particular emotion before, or, if it is not a new emotion it is an unfamiliar combination of old ones. It is a dry, empty feeling that scrapes at the bare and barren recesses of her heart. Her face looks as cold as the gargoyles that leer blindly from the tops of the grey columns. She watches as the lid is slid back into place, with a glassy, grinding sound that is thin and hollow in the vast, empty space of the Temple. It is empty. Empty of Musrum, empty of triumph, empty of emoti on, empty of sadness.

  * * * * *

  The next morning finds Bronwyn before the Privy Council and what remains of the baronage. She explains, succinctly and with little detail, what had transpired since her voluntary exile two years previously. She concentrates on the crimes perpetrated by Payne and her brother, one by commission, the other by omission, and on the plans Payne had for the ultimate betrayal and destruction of Tamlaght. The elderly men of the Council are horrified at her descriptions of the attempts upon her own life, to say nothing of the actual injuries she suffered either at the hands of Payne Roelt or by his order, and they twitter among themselves like shocked and scandalized old women. The barons, on the other hand, are angry, infuriated by the personal suffering and loss they and their families have endured; more than half the baronage, families, servants and all, had been murdered by the insanely greedy Payne Roelt. Tamlaght has meanwhile been left exposed and vulnerable to invasion from Crotoy, and they unanimously expressed concern that it may be too late to prevent that final disaster.

  “I have an answer for that,” says Bronwyn. “I wish to abdicate my right to the throne of Tamlaght . . . “

  She has to wait patiently for the noisy, confused turmoil of shocked protests to die down before she can continue. “You can take a vote, for form’s sake, but elect as regent one of my Uncle Felix’s nephews. They’re all of Tedeschiiy blood, the line will continue. But what’s most important is that his nephews, and I’d think that Prince Rupert would be the best choice, are all loyal to Felix. Their blood ties are no stronger than my own, but their political bonds certainly are.”

  “You’re suggesting that we sell out our country!” cries one of the barons angrily.

  “It’s not what I’m intending, but even so, what are the alternatives? Payne Roelt has bankrupted Tamlaght. Some portion of his loot is abandoned here when he fled, but I understand that it’s mostly in the form of artworks and other nonliquid assets. To the best of my knowledge, almost all of the accumulated monetary resources of Tamlaght, all of its gold, silver, jewels and whatnot are gone without any hope of recovery. We can’t feed or equip our army, what’s left of it, let alone operate the government. The hurricane and the drought have laid iste to our farms; people are starving everywhere and there is not a poenig to import a single grain to feed them. If what you say is true, and Crotoy intends to invade, what’s to stop them?

  “Londeac and Tamlaght were once a single nation, both are ruled by members of the same family, we speak the same language and share the same culture. Londeac has also made advances in science, engineering and culture that we would automatically share in. We would immediately come under the protection of King Felix, who can easily dissuade Crotoy of its plans. If you wish to think in these terms, a Tamlaght allied with Londeac can not only quickly recover from this disaster, but can evolve in a short time into one of the most powerful nations on the planet.”

  This is an argument, logical or plausible or not, that appeals to her listeners, and she sits on the hard wooden bench while they heatedly discussed her proposition.

  “Your Highness,” says the Prime Minister of the Privy Council, “we will continue to consider this suggestion . . . “

  “Consider all you like,” she interrupts. “But my mind is made up.”

  “ . . . Meanwhile, what shall we do with the king . . . that is, your brother, and Payne Roelt?”

  “Why ask me? Aren’t they subject to the laws of the land?”

  “True, but their crimes are so extraordinary, the situation so unprecedented, that we don’t wish to operate either hastily or without due consideration.”

  This ambiguous statement creates an uproar among the barons, who seem to have no doubts as to what they would like to do to the villains, differing among themselves only in the matter of detail.

  “In so many ways,” speaks up one of the barons, after quieting his fellows, “our beloved princess has been the one fated to have suffered most at the hand of our enemy, both corporeally and symbolically, that we must ask her what is to be done with Roelt and Ferenc. This matter is above the law now, because these crimes have been beyond any common law. There’s no provision in your books for what these men did!

  “Your Highness,” he continues, “these doddering old fools allowed Lord Roelt to assume the power he did, and their vacillations prevented us at every turn from destroying him. What happened to us might never have have to be borne if they’d have the strength to resist Lord Roelt years ago, or if they hadn’t tied our hands at every opportunity. And what happened to you, your Highness, might never have had to happen, that is certain.

  “There’s not one of us here who hasn’t loved their princess rather than their king; for us, you are Tamlaght; you represent, in one person, all of us. Your injuries are symbolic of all of ours, your losses represent ours, too. You are a summary, an abstract. We all lost families, friends, property and wealth; each of us has an individual and personal reason to see those that caused this to happen suffer for it, but we can’t do that. How many times can Payne Roelt die?

  “But if you decide, you decide for all of us.”

  Bronwyn writhes in her seat. She does not know what to do. The baron’s speech has not only moved her, she sees the reasoning behind it. She does not like it at all, but she appreciates it. For herself, she is merely glad that it is over and would be happy to wassh her hands of everything.

  But she can’t, and she knows that. The baron’s argument has not only imbued her with a duty and sense of obligation, he has reminded her that the barons had been among her only friends and allies during her odyssey, and, more importantly, they had been her friends and allies all her life. Through her cousin Baron Piers Monzon, hadn’t they provided some of her only pleasant memories of her youth? She had gone hunting and riding and visiting with the families of most of them, oftentimes, most of the time, secretly. The earthy, worldly barons had treated the tomboy princess equally with their own sons and daughters, whom they in turn treated equally regardless of sex. It was through Piers and his fellow barons that she had learned to shoot and fence, swim and ride. And Piers had died for her and the barons had sacrificed themselves and their loved ones for her, too.

  “I don’t know what to say,” she replies. “But you’re quite right, Baron Overton, I can’t allow those monsters to go unpunished.”

  “What should we do, your Highness?”

  “Do your worst,” she replies.

  DÉNOUEMENT

  Perhaps if Bronwyn had any idea of the barons’ resources, or the extent and depth of their hatred for the prince and his chamberlain, she may not have given them such an unencumbered injunction. She might not have been as offhand or facetious. Then again, perhaps she may have. Be that as it may, she is sickened and depressed at the outcome of her offhand order; her poor, simple brother, perhaps the unadorned fact that he is her brother elicited a gram of pity from the barons, will be spending the rest of his life in a cell of Kaposvar, in the likelihood that he’ll never realize where he is, being well supplied with dime novels, crossword puzzles, cigarettes and wax fruit, but even her primal, bloodthirsty reptile recoils, a little, at Payne Roelt’s terrible fate.

  She is sitting at a window of her apartment, gazing morosely into the plaza below, its cobblestones dark and glossy from the first rain in months, even though i
t is little more than a drifting mist that blurs the grey, unappealing city like the background of an amateur watercolor. In the weeks since her return, much of the damage of Mathias’s siege has been repaired or cleaned up, but there are still craters in the open area and scores of broken windows that leave blank, black rectangles in the dingy walls. The débris of the barricade has been removed; the Guards had created it from Payne’s treasure wagons, dumping their contents haphazardly onto the cobblestones. This, too, has been removed, what remains of Payne Roelt’s ambitions, that which had not been destroyed in the Kobolds’ artificial volcano, is now safely back in the treasury. The Privy Council is even now debating what to do with it; the Church has already recovered enough of its composure to put in a claim for its share.

  The plaza is as bleakly monochromatic as a tintype, and empty now except for the curious structure that stands in its very center. The big wagon wheel that had been mounted horizontally atop the vertical beam no longer attracts more than a few curious people, unlike the crowds of a few days ago. The limp figure whose arms and legs are threaded in and out of the spokes now only looks sad and alone.

  During the weeks that Payne Roelt had been imprisoned in the fortress of Kaposvar, he had paced his cell with metronomic regularity; always in the same direction, Bronwyn had been told, but oddly enough not parallel to the stone walls. Instead he traveled the same canted diagonal, southeast to northwest, over and over again, and when he would reach the northwest corner he would stop against it, as though surprised to find his way blocked, and he would shake his fist angrily. Then he would retreat, pace the distance once more and repeat the furious gesture, his progress frustrated by the impenetrable wall.

  Bronwyn had thought about this strange behavior for a long time, before realizing, with a frisson of horror, that Payne Roelt was still trying to return to Strabane and his treasure.

  When he was told of his fate by the Privy Council, his only response had been to mutter, to the court’s astonishment, “Fifty-one million six thousand eight hundred and two.”

  She had refused to witness the execution, and all of the arguments and pressure brought to bear upon her by the Council and the barons failed to sway her. Nevertheless, since the sentence was carried out publicly, in the midst of the plaza, it was difficult for her to escape it. With a face as white as plaster, and teeth clenched so tightly that they drew blood from the gums, she tried to shut out the screams as Payne’s legs and arms were systematically pounded with an iron bar, pulverizing the bones so that the limbs could be threaded through the spokes of the big wheel, which was then attached to the end of the beam and raised above the heads of the oddly silent crowd. He had been left there for three days, alive but uncomprehending, before he was put to death. Once again the princess unsuccessfully tried to shut out the low, animal moans as the condemned man’s bowels were burnt out with red-hot irons.

  Looking out over the plaza now, she notices with something of an uncanny thrill that the wheel has spun so that Payne’s head points compass-like toward Strabane.

  There is a discreet knock at her door, which she answers with a disinterested and desultory grunt.

  “Princess? Bronwyn? Am I disturbing you?”

  “Oh. No, Rykkla. I’m sorry, come in, please.”

  The tall, dark girl comes in quietly, shutting the heavy door behind her. Bronwyn notices, with a kind of depressed pang, that Rykkla is extraordinarily and unexpectedly beautiful, glowing smokily like a candle-lit citrine or topaz. She is wearing a dress that Bronwyn had given her, since both girls are of a size. It is a deep red that the princess had always hated, but which makes Rykkla look even more sultry and exotic; Bronwyn envies her dark velocities.

  Bronwyn has always have a dislike, which is a secret even from herself, for women who are as tall or taller than she. Without thinking, she rises from the window seat to stand by the mantel, fiddling with a blown-glass sailing ship, drawing herself unconsciously to her full height.

  “I’ve been concerned,” says Rykkla, “and worried. We all have. We haven’t seen you in days and anyone who has seen you has only told us things that have worried us all the more.”

  “I know. But there’s no need for anyone to concern themselves. I’m fine.”

  “That’s what you say. You didn’t specifically tell anyone that you wanted to be left alone, but it isn’t very hard to figure out. We are going to wait until you called us, but it’s been so long now that I took a chance.”

  “Who’s this ‘we’ you keep talking about?”

  “You know. Us. Me, Thud, the professor and . . . ah . . . Gyven. That’s who I really wanted to talk to you about. Gyven. He doesn’t know I’m here, but you’ve got to know that Gyven is going crazy with anxiety. He doesn’t know what to do.”

  “Neither do I, Rykkla.”

  “What happened out there has bothered you a lot, hasn’t it?” she says, gesturing toward the window and the plaza beyond.

  “Of course it has. The last couple of years have bothered me a lot.”

  “Why? He got what he deserved, didn’t he?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. He have gone mad. He didn’t even understand what is happening to him. His death is just a senseless, barbaric butchery. Nothing but a vengeance killing.”

  “Well, even if he didn’t deserve what he got, didn’t the people at least deserve to do it?”

  “But it makes us no better than he is, perhaps even worse.”

  “He had to die anyway, there’s no getting around that. He was too dangerous to allow to live. As long as he was going to die anyway, why not in a way that allowed the people some satisfaction? And if he was too mad to understand what was happening, perhaps it was just as well.”

  “I don’t know. I’m confused, Rykkla. For two years I’d looked forward to this . . . this homecoming. I even admit to having fantasized worse things happening to Ferenc and Payne than what really did happen. Then, suddenly, it means nothing to me. And I don’t know why. It’s not so much that their fates are that much worse being concrete than abstract. It’s just that somehow I feel as though I wasted all of that time and energy, and all of those people and their time and their lives. I don’t mean my brother or Payne, of course, but everyone else. Think of them, Rykkla! There are people who gave up their lives for me, literally and figuratively. How can I deal with that? How can I even understand it? Why would they do that? I feel as though they trusted me and I gave them nothing in return. Yet why should I feel this guilt, this sense of obligation, of failure? I never asked anyone to trust me. I never asked anyone to subjugate their lives to mine. Look at you and Thud and Gyven, just for example, or Basseliniden or Professor Wittenoom. Or . . . or . . . the baron. You’ve been wrenched from the lives you’d been happily living and I’m not really sure why any of you did it. What’s worse than the guilt is the sense that I’m resenting what everyone did, and that adds confusion to my discomfort.”

  “Bronwyn, I’m happier now than I’ve ever been, and don’t you think Thud is, too? My stars and little fishes, haven’t you looked at him lately?” She says this with a kind of breathless and distracted intonation at which Bronwyn only just prevents herself from gaping. “Without you,” Rykkla continued, “Thud would’ve lived out what little life he had left pounding on stones at Pooticker and Spleen or whatever it was. Would you have condemned him to that? With you, he’s become something.”

  “Yes, so I’ve noticed.” But what? her mind footnots.

  “Did you hear that we’re going into business together?”

  “What? Who?”

  “Me and Thud. We’re putting together a traveling show, based on the act we did in my uncle’s circus. We’d practically perfected it while on the road to meet you. He’s really good, you know, Thud is, and even better than ever now. ‘Mollockle and Woxen’, that’s my last name, you know, though I hardly ever use it. ‘Rykkla Woxen’ sounds like some kind of medicinal plant. It sounds pretty good with ‘Mollockle,’ though, I think. We’ll be ready in
just a week or thereabouts. Got a new wagon and everything; your friend Mathias kindly gave us one before he left.”

  “He’s a good man; I once thought I loved him, you know.” Bronwyn sighs. “I wish he hadn’t gone back to the duchy so abruptly. There was a lot I wanted to tell him.”

  “Like what? You told him enough, whether or not you think you did. Love, as I imagine you’ve discovered by now, oftentimes just isn’t enough all by itself. Even if you had any idea what it actually means to love someone, which I suspect you don’t. And speaking of good men while at the same time changing the subject, or getting back to the original one, there’s Gyven. Forgive me, Bronwyn, but are you out of your mind?”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “The man’s absolutely in love with you, don’t you know that?”

  “Of course I do! We’ve . . . ah . . . been together,” she mumbles, defiantly and blushingly at the same time. Embarrassed that she feels embarrassed.

  Rykkla laughs. “Bronwyn, my friend, what does that mean? Chickens and frogs have sex. What’ve you ever done besides moon at him like a puppy?”

  “I don’t understand what you mean. I’ve never ‘mooned,’ as you put it, at anyone.”

  “I take it you’ve ‘been’ with Mathias. Do you love him?”

  “I said I thought I did. And who told you . . . ?”

  “Have you ever told Gyven that you love him?” Rykkla continued.

  “Well, no . . . I mean, I’ve never been certain . . . it never seemed necessary; but he’s never told me, either.”

  “And he’s not likely to. The man worships the ground you walk on. He thinks that every pebble under your feet is personally blessed; he’d collect them like relics, if it ever occurs to him. He honestly believes that when you shit you leave behind only the faint scent of roses. How can anyone that infatuated tell you that he loves you? He wouldn’t dare; it’d seem blasphemous to him.”

  “Oh, come on!”

  “It’s true.”