The White Robe (The Sword and the Spell)

by Clare Smith

  “Your Majesty, may I present the lords of the realm, masters of the principal guilds and worthy gentlemen of trade, accounting and law who have gathered here today to witness your accession to the throne and to give you their vows of loyalty and allegiance.”

  “Thank you, Lord Istan, for your introduction. I am pleased to accept the vows of loyalty and allegiance of those present. However, if there are any amongst you who cannot make their vow in truth and honesty they may leave now without any loss of honour or fear of reprisals.”

  For a long moment there was absolute silence and nobody moved. Then the great door of the throne room opened and Tordray ran in followed closely behind by a cloaked man in dusty mercenary garb. Everyone turned to watch, muttering amongst themselves at the unexpected interruption, as the two soldiers marched swiftly along the length of the throne room until they reached the dais, where they bowed deeply to the queen.

  “Your Majesty, Captain Malingar,” began Tordray breathlessly. “There’s an army approaching the city.” Behind him there was instant uproar as those who only moments before had been ready to swear their allegiance started to panic and demand to know what was happening. Tarraquin felt her heart drop and the little bit of confidence that she had started to feel that things might work out after all evaporated like mist in the sunshine. She looked to Jarrul for support but he too looked white and shaken so she turned back to Malingar with a questioning look.

  “With your permission, Your Majesty, I think we need to listen to this news in private.” Tarraquin nodded numbly. “Silence!” yelled Malingar, instantly hushing the voice of the crowd and attracting their attention. “Her Majesty needs to consider this man’s report and decide what should be done about it. Whilst Her Majesty is doing so, you will wait here and when a decision has been made you will do as your queen orders. Guards! Close the doors and secure the room!”

  Before the babble of voices could restart the guards rapidly dispersed to all the doors, closing them and dropping the locking bars into place. They lowered their halberds to prevent anyone trying to leave. Malingar led the way to a small door behind the throne which he’d discovered the night before and Tarraquin and the others followed. At the bottom of the dais, Jarrul waved Lord Istan over to join them, and as they stepped through the doorway into the small receiving room, Jobes followed him in. Jarrul went to protest but the look on the Guildmaster’s face stopped him dead. Instead he just shrugged and closed the door behind them all.

  “Report!” commanded Malingar.

  “There’s an army approaching the city. It is less than half a day behind me and should be here just past noon.”

  “Did you recognise them?”

  “No, My Lord, I didn’t get that close and in any case I’m not familiar with Leersland’s nobility or officers.”

  “It must be Sarrat,” said Jarrul numbly.

  “Unfortunately, yes. I had hoped for some time to organise our defences before he returned but now we’ll have to think of something else.” Malingar rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “How many men does he have with him?”

  “I think there are around three or four hundred men. There is also a small line of wagons and spare mounts. There’s no siege equipment though.”

  “That’s a small number,” said Jarrul with a frown. “I heard that he’d left for the south with nearly two thousand men.”

  “Perhaps he had heavy losses when he fought the southern nomads or maybe he’s left his wounded behind.”

  “Perhaps,” said Malingar carefully. “But if he has then he’s played into our hands. Tordray, what is the situation in the city?”

  “We hold the city gates and all the main crossroads and squares. The palace guard and most of the city guard are being held in the warehouse district, but there is unrest on the streets. The people know that something is going on and once news gets out that Sarrat is bringing an army into the city to retake his throne there is going to be panic and riots. We don’t have enough men to deal with that, man the walls and keep Tarmin’s guards under lock and key.”

  “What if we don’t have to quell any riots but have the people on our side. What are our chances then?” asked Tarraquin.

  “Our forces will be about equal in number but our men are fresh whilst Sarrat’s have just fought a war and have been travelling for a moon cycle.” Malingar gave Tarraquin the smile he kept just for her. “What are you thinking, My Lady?”

  “It seems to me that we have most of the city leaders waiting in the next room. If they could be persuaded to talk to the people and keep them calm, or even to get them to help, your men could be freed to counter the threat. What do you say, Master Carter? Do you think the great and the good next door could be persuaded to bring the people to our cause in time?”

  “Aye, if you scared them enough but you need to do it now or there won’t be enough time left to do anything.”

  “Thank you, Guildmaster, for your advice and support. Now is your chance to set an example for the others to follow. Captain Malingar, go with the Guildmaster and replace your men on guard duty with the Guildmaster’s carters. I will leave what other preparations are needed to defeat this army to you. Jarrul, Lord Istan, you will come with me.”

  Tarraquin turned and strode to the door, opening it wide and returned to the throne room and her hushed supporters. She gave them a brief look, noticing that they had all gathered into small groups depending on their livelihoods, and mounted the dais. Jarrul and Istan followed her up the steps and stood behind her whilst Malingar led his small group quickly out of the room. She waited until they had closed the door behind them before she moved to the edge of the platform.

  “My lords, guildmasters, gentlemen,” she paused whilst the room became quiet and she had everyone’s attention. “Gentlemen, I regret that the morning’s entertainment and the planned celebrations must be postponed for a short while due to the arrival of uninvited and unwanted guests.” There were one or two titters of amusement and a couple of nods of approval.

  “Once the gatecrashers have been dealt with we will finish our oath taking and rejoicing. Until then I’ve a need to call on your services. The people of our city are unsettled and afraid and are in danger of causing more damage to your livelihoods and homes than the army which approaches the city. Unfortunately, due to Sarrat’s poor timing, it isn’t possible to defend Tarmin from the danger both from without and within these walls. I therefore call upon the city’s leaders, gathered here in this room, to bring their people together, tell them the joyous news that King Malute’s daughter is now their rightful queen, and to persuade them to resist Sarrat’s return. If they are unable to do that, you must persuade them to return to their own homes and protect their families once the fighting starts.”

  There was a general muttering in the room as each of the small groups conferred with their members and then one man stepped forward and bowed. Lord Istan leant forward and whispered the man’s details into Tarraquin’s ear.

  “Master of counting house Zott, you have a question?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty. It is the same question which we all wish to ask. Why should we risk our lives and everything we have to support your claim when the crowned king returns with his army?”

  “A good question indeed, Master Zott, and I will give you three good reasons. Firstly I am the true queen of Leersland and Sarrat is a murderer and usurper. Secondly I will rule fairly and justly as my father did, whilst Sarrat will take what he wants and leave you to starve. And thirdly, if Sarrat returns to this city, every man in this room will lose their heads along with their wives, sons, daughters and any other family members who live in Leersland. If, Master Zott, you wish to see your new baby daughter impaled on the swords of Sarrat’s thugs then do nothing and let him take his throne back.”

  Arguments instantly broke out and the volume increased as the groups discussed the truth of the matter. Tarraquin let it run on for a short while and then gave Istan a brief nod. He stepped forwards and raised his h
ands. “Gentlemen, the time for talking is over. We either support the queen or accept the consequences.”

  “Lord Istan, Your Majesty. It would seem that we have very little choice in the matter.” Zott turned to the gathered crowd which reluctantly nodded in agreement. “By your leave, Your Majesty.”

  Master Zott bowed briefly and turned to lead the masters of the city’s counting houses out of the throne room. There was some muttering amongst the other groups but in the end they followed behind. Tarraquin watched them go from her position at the edge of the dais and when the last one had left and the doors were firmly closed behind them, she took two staggering steps back and collapsed into the throne oblivious to its hardness or its protruding carvings.

  *

  The sun had just passed its zenith when Great Lord Andron crested the last ridge before the pleasant vale in which Tarmin nestled. Even with the clouds scudding overhead sending dark shadows racing across the open land before the city, Tarmin was an impressive sight. The grey, granite walls barely contained the sprawl of dwellings, trades and warehouses.

  From his vantage point, Andron could see the remains of earlier city walls in concentric rings within the city where they had been overwhelmed by the growth in the population and new walls had been built. In the centre of the city, but slightly to one side so that its protective wall just touched the city wall, stood the ugly grey fortress which was the heart of Leersland’s power and his destination.

  His Guardcaptain rode up next to him and his old, heavy horse came to a halt with an irritable grunt. Andron gave them a cursory glance and came to the decision that when he was king he would find himself a new Guardcaptain who was young and fit instead of old, fat and bald headed. Someone like Lozin, who sat on his other side, good with weapons instead of with a harp. He glanced at Lozin and gave him an encouraging smile and the young man returned a pained smile and tried to lean further away from the smell coming from the small pannier attached to the other side of his saddle.

  Andron turned his attention back to the city wondering if the guards on the city’s walls had spotted him and his army yet. They would, of course, assume it was King Sarrat returning from the southern border. As soon as they saw the royal standards, which flapped noisily behind him, they would alert the Lord Keeper of the Keys and then there would be hasty preparations for his return. He hoped the preparations would not be too grand, after all, his entrance into the city should be solemn and the people should mourn their dead king. The grand celebrations could happen once he had been crowned.

  He turned in the saddle to look at the army which followed him and hoped he didn’t have to use them. Four hundred good soldiers, some of which had experience of border skirmishes but none of them had been tried in a full battle. He could have brought more but they were just recruits and boys and they would have been more trouble than they were worth. In any case, with most of the fighting men of Leersland still in the south, it should be easy to ride into Tarmin and take the throne which, as the senior Great Lord, was rightly his.

  He’d only brought his army to create an impression of power. Lozin leant across and touched him on his arm to attract his attention and then pointed towards the city. Andron squinted into the distance and then gave a satisfied smile. Yes, his army had been spotted, there was definitely more activity along the walls and at the main gate. He raised his hand and signalled the advance.

  Tarraquin watched the army pour over the hill and enter the large area of clear land in front of the city with some trepidation. She was no military expert, but from what she could see, the approaching army looked to be in good order, and if the speed of their approach was anything to go by, they were fit and fresh. Below her position on the battlements, by the main gate, Malingar gathered his men, a ragged bunch in a mixture of mercenary black and ceremonial red with a smattering of those in civilian clothing amongst them.

  Horses appeared to be a problem as most of the mercenary army had been smuggled into the city and had left their horses hidden some distance away. Animals of various breeds and sizes had been hastily requisitioned but they didn’t add to the army’s appearance as a cohesive fighting force. For the first time, her faith in Malingar waivered.

  “This is going to be a close run thing,” whispered Jarrul next to her. “I really do think you should return to the safety of the fortress.”

  Tarraquin shook her head but said nothing. She’d already had that discussion with him back in the throne room whilst sipping the herb tea that Birrit had made for her and recovering from the stress of the morning. If she were to be Queen of Leersland, then she needed to be seen defending her people, even if that only meant standing on the battlements and cheering on those who fought for her. Neither Jarrul nor Istan approved, but once they understood that she would not change her mind, they organised her coach and horses and a small royal escort to clear the crowds who thronged the road from the fortress to the city gate, having heard that their new queen would be passing by.

  Malingar, who had changed from his blood red and gold uniform into his usual black, hadn’t noticed her arrival in the general confusion. Now he was mounted at the head of his troops and she watched as he led them out of the city gates and formed them up into squads as they waited for the opposing army to arrive.

  Tarraquin shivered as the gusting wind tugged at the cloak she wore over her coronation dress and tried to pull it tighter around her. Behind her Birrit and Sheevar, who had insisted on accompanying her, clutched blankets around their shoulders and Jarrul guarded the wooden box in which lay the fake crown and seal. Next to her Lord Istan leant over the parapet intently studying the leader of the opposing army. He stood up straight with a puzzled look on his face.

  “Your Majesty, there is definitely something wrong here.”

  “I know, it’s an army,” muttered Tarraquin in annoyance without looking at the young lord.

  “No, Your Majesty, I mean that something is not right. That’s not Sarrat who is leading the army.”

  Tarraquin turned to him in surprise. “It’s not? Then who is it?”

  Istan turned back and had another look. “I think it is Great Lord Andron, although what he’s doing here I have no idea.”

  Tarraquin turned back and peered over the battlements. She’d never seen Sarrat but she had met Andron on a number of occasions when he’d visited the High Lord. Although a few years had passed since then she remembered him as being surly and sly and propositioning her brother.

  “I think you’re right. Does Malingar know who he is?”

  “I wouldn’t have thought so, Your Majesty, but as the Captain and his mercenaries fought alongside the king they will know that the man isn’t Sarrat.”

  Jarrul stepped forward to peer over the battlements. “That means if Malingar engages this army and loses a large part of his force, Sarrat could come along behind them and finish us all off.”

  “You’re right,” said Tarraquin thoughtfully. “We need to do something about this and fast otherwise Captain Malingar is going to place us in a very difficult situation without knowing it.”

  Great Lord Andron pulled his horse to a halt and stared in disbelief at the sight in front of him. He’d expected the Lord Keeper of the Keys with an honour guard to greet him and wouldn’t have been too surprised if the city guard had been turned out to welcome him as well, but this was neither. In actual fact he wasn’t sure what it was. It looked like a rabble at a horse fair except that the mounted men were in orderly lines and appeared to be heavily armed.

  “I don’t like the look of this,” said Guardcaptain Sharman, riding up beside him. “I’ve had a quick count and I reckon we’re evenly matched in numbers.”

  “Who in hellden’s name are they? Sarrat’s man said the remains of the army were in the south awaiting orders to return. Surely it can’t be them?”

  “I don’t think so, My Lord, they don’t look like regular troops for all their straight lines. They could be mercenaries.”

  “Sc
um!” Andron spat over his side leaving a grey streak down Sharman’s boot. “Bloody mercenaries, they’re all gamblers, beggars and thieves. Sound the charge; we’ll wipe them out.”

  “I don’t think we should do that.” Guardcaptain Sharman took a swig of wine from his water skin. “If we take that lot on it will be a blood bath.”

  “Are you a coward, Sharman?” demanded Andron angrily, his face going red.

  “No, My Lord, I’m just nearing retirement. Anyway, it looks like we might not have to fight, they want to parley.”

  The Great Lord turned his attention back to the small army which blocked the gates to the city and watched as the centre column parted and a small group of riders moved through the ranks to the front where the commander waited. From where he sat on his horse, one of the riders appeared to be a woman in fancy dress, but as that was unlikely he turned his attention to the rider at her side and the long pennant he held. A gust of wind caught it, unfurling its length and displaying the royal crest of the long dead King Malute. Andron cursed and gripped at his sword in anger.