by Clare Smith
“I am Master Jarrul, Princess Tarraquin’s first advisor, and yes, our intention is to put the rightful heir onto the throne of Leersland. Her Highness, who really is the daughter of the murdered King Malute, would like to call on the loyalty of the carters’ guild and their guildmaster both in taking the throne and when that is done, in spreading the good news across the kingdom.”
The Guildmaster gave a bellowing laugh. “And why would I be daft enough to get involved in a harebrained rebellion which will see all your heads on pikes outside the city gates when Sarrat returns?”
“The answer to that is simple. Sarrat is isolating Leersland from the other kingdoms and closing down trade with them. What little trade remains he is sharing amongst his cronies. Very soon there will be no work for Leersland’s carters and then what use would there be for a guildmaster? When Princess Tarraquin is queen she will reopen trade and the carters’ guild will be more powerful than ever.”
Jobes thought about it for a moment. “You have a point but what’s in it for me?”
“You mean apart from being one of the most important guildmasters in Leersland and being able to look down on the metal smiths and brewers guilds?”
“Yeah, that’s what I mean.”
Jarrul hesitated for a moment and Lord Istan stepped in. “How about a place on the Queen’s council?”
The Guildmaster raised an eyebrow. “You mean sit in the same room as the Queen and tell her what to do?”
“Something like that,” said Jarrul rather vaguely and giving Istan a hard look. “That and having a front row seat at the Queen’s coronation.”
“And all I have to do is provide transport for you and your gang?”
“Yes, and keep it quiet until we tell you and then carry the good news to the rest of the kingdom.”
“Seems easy to me but if things go wrong me and my guildsmen will swear we had nowt to do with you, the girl or the lordling here.”
“That’s understood,” put in Istan angrily, “but if you fuck up, me, or one of my lordling mates, will make sure you never fuck anything again. Do you understand?”
The Guildmaster swallowed hard. “Yes, My Lord.”
“Now go. You have much to do if your guildsmen are going to be ready for tonight’s activities.”
Jobes bowed briefly and left the room somewhat sullenly.
“Can he be trusted?” asked Jarrul taking a seat at the table.
“He can be trusted as much as anyone else can be in this dangerous enterprise, except you, me and the Princess of course. He’s big and loud but it’s all bluster. He won’t pass up the chance of sitting in the same room as the Queen and the high and mighty masters of the metal smiths and brewers guilds.”
Jarrul smiled and poured two pots of ale from the jug on the table. He took a long draft from the flat, slightly warm ale, grimaced and looked serious again. “How is recruiting going?”
Istan shrugged. “It is better than I’d hoped for. So far I have only had two refusals. Great Lord Pollerin is under guard in his town house and you saw the other lord who refused to join us leave the inn with Malingar’s men following him. You don’t think they will kill him do you?”
“Tarraquin has ordered that there should be no bloodshed unless Sarrat starts it, but I can’t vouch for how good Malingar’s men are at following orders.”
“Let’s hope they are disciplined. It would cause a lot of resentment if any of the nobility were harmed.”
“What about the other Great Lords?”
“As far as I can find out they are both on their estates and quiet. With luck the first thing they will know about the change in management will be their summons to the palace and the sight of Sarrat’s mounted head as they ride through the city gates. What about you, Master Jarrul? How do things fare with you?”
“Everything is prepared as far as it can be. The master of the metal smiths’ guild has done a fine job with the fake crown and seal, but I wish we’d been able to get the Lord Keeper of the Keys on our side. It won’t help matters if he turns up at the crucial moment with the real things in his hand. Apart from that it’s just a case of waiting for the time to move and hope that nobody talks out of turn. Then it’s all down to the princess.”
“Yes, you’re right. In the end it will all be down to Tarraquin.”
*
The last of the wagons drew to a halt in the lee of the city wall and Guildmaster Jobes, who insisted on driving the last wagon himself, climbed down from the driving bench, dropped the rear boards and drew back the waxed linen flaps. Six armed men stood at the rear of the wagon with swords drawn and looking for trouble. Their belligerent demeanour made the Guildmaster take a hasty step back. They leapt down and one of them sheathed his sword and helped the tailor and two maids out of the wagon. Jarrul followed and behind him came Tarraquin looking determined but shaking slightly.
He helped her down giving her cold hands a gentle squeeze of encouragement. A large boulder beside the wagon marked the hidden entrance to the city and Malingar eased himself out from behind the narrow space between the overlapping city walls. He held his finger to his lips and waved them forward. Once they had all passed sideways through the narrow entrance and were out of sight, the Guildmaster climbed back onto the driver’s bench and steered the draught horses back up the incline and towards the distant road.
Moving people in and out of the city without them being noticed was always going to be a problem. The sudden exit of an unusual number of people just before dark would have aroused suspicion, whilst an even larger number of armed men coming into the city would have definitely raised an alarm. Fortunately the guards on duty at the city gate were used to the comings and goings of the carters in the candle length before the gates were closed for the night
They only stopped the one wagon, the rear of which was stacked full to the top of the waxed linen roof with crates of greens, carrots and onions ready for the next day’s market. The guards had taken a quick look, helped themselves to a small supply of carrots and onions for their evening stew pot, and had allowed the wagon to proceed. Behind the market produce. the fifty men quietly returned their swords to their scabbards and waited for the wagon to reach its dropping off point in a deserted warehouse.
The six guards who had been assigned to protect the future queen were the last to squeeze into the small space between the overlapping city walls. They had been chosen for their slight build but even so it was a tight fit and their array of weapons scraped noisily against the rough stone. At the front of the small procession, Malingar frowned irritably as the noise echoed along the narrow passageway. He held the only lantern, half shuttered as the light was not yet needed. The passageway was so narrow, with walls pressing on either side, that the only way to move was sideways.
Behind him Tarraquin fixed her eyes on his retreating back and tried to ignore the feeling of stone pressing in on her. Jarrul followed behind wishing that the two whispering maids who followed him would be quiet. They weren’t really maids but a couple of whores from a house of pleasure near the inn where the rebels met who had volunteered for the role, in the hope of escaping their life of bound servitude. He supposed that the thought of losing your head wasn’t too frightening when you were forced to lead the sort of life they did. They both said they were not afraid of the dark, but both showed their fear of being trapped in the narrow passageway.
Behind the maids came the small tailor who had no option but to follow with one of the six guards occasionally prodding him in the back with his dagger. After walking a quarter of the length of the city wall, the stone passageway opened out and Malingar stopped to fully open the shutter on the lantern. Tarraquin moved up to stand next to the captain with Jarrul at her side and looked questioningly at him.
The open space was formed by a junction of passageways. To the left, the city wall continued on its way, and the opening to the passageway looked narrow and dark. On the right, two new passageways had been formed by the corner of a building
, and where the wall angled sharply there was a table and chair with an empty wash bowl and water jug. A comb and a mirror lay on the table and some clothes pegs had been hammered into the wall. An old black cloak, covered in dust and cobwebs, hung forgotten on the furthest peg. Malingar smiled down at Tarraquin and pointed to the right.
The small procession set off again along a wider corridor lit with the occasional lantern. After a short while it turned sharply right and then stopped at a solid brick wall. Malingar held the lantern high and then dropped the shutter plunging them all into darkness. The tailor gave a little squawk of surprise followed by a shuffle of feet and a stifled grunt as the guard placed a firm hand over his mouth.
Tarraquin blinked in the darkness trying to clear the bright spots from her eyes, but then realised that it wasn’t the afterglow from the lantern at all, but pin pricks of light seeping in through a number of small holes in the wall beside her. She stood on tip toe to reach the nearest hole and gasped in surprise as she looked out at the dimly lit throne room from somewhere just behind the throne. Malingar opened the shutter again and pressed his hand to the top right hand corner of the wall in front of him.
With a tiny click the wall moved and swung open with only the slightest grinding of metal wheels on stone, and two guards with drawn swords stepped forward to challenge him. The captain hissed something at them and they stepped smartly back to allow the party to enter the small, enclosed area. The corridor continued further, but where they stood, the wall to the side appeared to be less solid. Malingar pressed forward slightly into the wall, stepped sideways and disappeared from view. With some trepidation Tarraquin followed and then stopped in amazement at the scene in front of her.
The last time she’d been in the throne room was the night that Sarrat had murdered her father and, with the aid of his magician, had taken the throne. She’d been a small child and had only the vaguest memories of her father and none at all of this room where her life had been so dramatically changed. Whilst she might not have been able to remember the room, she felt as if she knew every inch of it. Lord Istan had drawn a plan of it and described the room and its contents in detail.
He had helped her to memorise the position of every pillar, guard station, platform and floor marker, and had taught her who had the right to walk and stand where. She left the others standing in front of the tapestry that concealed the secret entrance, behind and to one side of the throne, and walked to the foot of the dais on which the throne stood. Slowly she walked up the marble steps and looked down at the ugly, uncomfortable chair that tomorrow, if the goddess willed it, would be hers.
Malingar came up behind her. “Try it; see how it feels to be the Queen.”
Tarraquin shook her head. “I’m not the Queen yet. When I am, it will be mine, and I will sit in it then by right of succession.”
Malingar shrugged. “As you wish, My Lady.” He gestured around the room. “What do you think?”
Tarraquin looked around her at the ordered chaos which had no place in any throne room. Over a hundred men in the dark garb of mercenaries sat or lay on bedrolls eating cold rations or sharpening weapons. Behind them lines had been stretched between the pillars and bright red uniforms with gold braiding hung like so many ghosts. A small area at the far end had been cordoned off as a latrine and she could already smell it from where she stood.
More lines had been stretched between the pillars on the other side of the chamber and these were hung with thick blankets to provide small private enclosures. Boxes were stacked around them and already the tailor and the two maids were unpacking their contents. The large oak table used by the court scribes had been moved from its normal position behind the throne to a space in front of the screened off enclosures. It was set with plates and platters of cold food and three chairs had been pulled up around it.
“I hope it looks better than this tomorrow,” commented Tarraquin.
“Don’t worry, it will. Everything we need is here; it’s only a matter of putting it together in the right order and in the right place and hiding the packaging.”
Jarrul shook his head. “What about the noise, won’t that attract someone’s attention? Or what if someone comes in?”
“With Lord Istan’s assistance I have substituted some of my own men for the palace guard assigned to patrol this area; that’s how I managed to get so many of my men in here. In any case with Sarrat away from home, nobody has a reason to come here, but if they do, we’ll deal with them.”
“I said no bloodshed,” snapped Tarraquin.
The Captain bowed to her slightly. “Unfortunately, My Lady, sometimes there is no alternative. Now come, let’s eat and then you must sleep. Every man’s life in this room will depend on you being bright, alert and beautiful tomorrow.”
Malingar’s words might have been right but they didn’t help to unravel the knot in Tarraquin’s stomach which had stolen her appetite. She picked at her food, pushing the different cold meats from one side of her plate to the other. She nibbled at the edge of her small loaf and then picked at it so the crumbs scattered over and around her plate. The cheese and creamed eggs remained untouched and only the freshly picked wine berries tempted her. Jarrul managed no better.
When Malingar had eaten his fill and had enough of them picking at their food, he sent them off to their separate screened sleeping enclosures, Tarraquin by herself and Jarrul to share with the tailor. Sleep came surprisingly fast to Jarrul, but Tarraquin remained awake on her thin mattress for a long while listening to the sounds of the men settling down for the night and wondering if her long dead father would approve of what she was going to do.
She wished she could remember something about him, but all she knew about the dead king was what others had told her. They said that he was kind and generous but firm and determined when he needed to be. She had also been told that he cared for his people and believed in justice and honour. Tarraquin hoped that she could be like him and with that thought she fell asleep.
One of her maids, the tall one with dark hair, woke her, gently shaking her shoulder. The other maid, small and blond with bright blue eyes, lit a lantern and poured a small amount of water into a wash bowl. The maid who had woken her helped her up from her mattress and started to undress her whilst the other one stood ready to wash her with a damp cloth and perfumed soap.
Tarraquin had been a small child when she last had a maid and the thought of these two strangers washing and dressing her was not one she felt comfortable with. She pushed the hands of the tall maid away and when she tried to undress her, she took off the shirt she had worn to sleep in by herself. Taking the hint, the second maid curtsied, handed her the damp cloth and scented soap and then turned away whilst Tarraquin washed herself all over. When she had done, they handed her new delicately embroidered small clothes, and a long silk shift.
The taller of the two guided her to a seat at a small table and began to brush her long auburn hair whilst the other laid out an array of cosmetics, and then went to fetch a mug of herb tea and a small loaf for her breakfast. As they worked away painting her face and piling her hair into twists and curls on the top of her head, she realised that she knew nothing about them except that they were whores. She’d only met them the day before and then they had been dressed in low cut tunics which exposed the colouring around their nipples and were made so short that a man could easily press himself into them without having the bother of moving any clothing out of the way.
Then they had both worn heavy makeup with deep red lips and had brightly dyed hair, and for a moment, she wondered what she was going to look like by the time they had finished with her. She looked up at the maid applying the makeup and noticed that today she wore very little lip colouring and no dark kohl and that her fair hair, which yesterday had been bright orange, was neatly platted. Tarraquin turned to look at the other maid who was arranging her hair and was relieved to find that she too looked fairly normal. Both had changed into long plain dresses with high collars.
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“Hold still, My Lady; I nearly painted an eyebrow on your nose.”
“Sorry. Perhaps it would be easier for all of us if you were to tell me your names?”
“I’m Sheevar Twenty Two and she’s Sheevar Fourteen.”
Tarraquin looked puzzled. “Sheevar is a pretty name. Are you related?”
Both of the maids laughed loudly. “No, My Lady. Sheevar is the name they give all the kingsward whores who are like us. It means we’ve been bought and bound to a pleasure ‘ouse an’ anyone can ‘ave us if they ‘ave the coin. Our number tells us apart.”
“Oh,” said Tarraquin, embarrassed by her own question but still curious. “Does that mean you have a different man every night?”
“Depends,” said Sheevar Twenty Two. “If yer lucky one man will want yer all night but most of the time its three or four different ones in which case yer bound to know at least one of ‘em.
“Oh,” said Tarraquin, wishing she hadn’t asked. She tried to clear her mind and concentrate on what was to come but the more she tried the more nervous she felt.