The Lords of Blood and Honey (The Kingdom of Honey)

by David Gardner-Martin

  He closed the window and took her hand, and she felt herself dragged away from something beautiful and towards the darkness of his vile presence. He sat next to her on the bed, opened a large book over his lap, as he always did, and began to rummage through the pages of words. Allessia watched his eyes, his hateful bloodshot eyes, which never looked where his head was facing. She saw his lips tremble, their edges moist with green-tinged saliva, and felt his hand miss what it was meant to be doing, and brush her knee. She pulled her nightdress tight over her legs and shuffled away to stare at him with loathing.

  ‘How can I show thee the blessed text, child, if ye will not sit still? Come closer now, that I might point out the meanings of the Holy Scriptures.’

  ‘I do not wish too,’ Allessia snapped.

  ‘T’is the Seventeenth Day of Supplement. Have ye forgotten?’ He grabbed her hand and pulled her across the bed. ‘Ye have to learn the Fifth Verse of the Wasteful Advocation. Repeat the Blessed Words after me, child.’

  I said, I do not wish to!’ cried Allessia, and she kicked the book away with such force that it fell from his lap to land on the floor with a thump.

  ‘Vicious child!’ he shouted in rage, as he jumped to retrieve the book. ‘Have ye such evil within thee that ye would kick the Word?’

  ‘I may be evil,’ Allessia shouted back, ‘but you are ugly and smelly. And I hate you!’

  ‘Bishop Constantly will hear of this blasphemy!’ Culcuth shouted, opening the door to leave, the frustration of hopeless infatuation etched across his face.

  ‘Go away, you horrible, horrible…thing!’ she cried back at him, and Culcuth slammed the door and marched off down the corridor, shouting damnations into the air.

  Allessia took to her bed to picture what it would be like to hurl Forster Culcuth out of the window and watch him fall onto the streets below. She tried to imagine a life when she need never see him again, a life without the hateful Church and its awful Words. Most of all, a life free from the confines of the Seventy-Third Wing of the Palace. Was such a future possible?

  She turned on her side to stare out of the window and into the majestic clouds drifting slowly by. Night was falling, and shadows painted their surface like charcoal in an artist’s hand. She saw animals, monsters and angels, all vying to attract her gaze. Were they trying to tell her something, or were they, like everything else that happened to her in her solitary life, no more than a trick of the mind?

  She fell asleep before any answer could be found.

  Chapter 8

  Lord Hardknot left the Hivedom for the Palace in his carriage at dawn, the detachment of mounted Palace Guards that were always at his disposal, leading the way. The nursekeeper, Annie Rubetter, was now dead. He knew this to be true, just as certainly as if he had seen her body for himself. He would miss her bright blue eyes, her soft body, and her gentle hands upon his skin, but what had to be done, was now done. As for the Relical Bartolamy, the time to bring him out of the darkness and into the light was fast approaching. Though the young man did not know it yet, he had already been chosen.

  Hardknot stared through the window at the endless faces as they rushed by, thinking back to the time when he had first walked on the grey cobbled City streets. He remembered how smooth and cold they had felt against his bare feet. He remembered being pulled along by a forst that seemed to be as tall as a tree, his tiny hand gripped so tightly in their huge gnarled fist, that he had winced with pain. But even on that first awful day, he somehow knew not to cry out.

  As an Eject child, born of a Sister of St. Salacious, Hardknot was being taken to St. Joyley’s Convent, a place where such children, if not quickly adopted, learned to suffer daily the torments of the Holy Church of Afterwards. Love had ceased to exist, the scent and warmth of his mother quickly forgotten and his being force fed instead on a diet of words and suffering. How many times had he buried his head in his hands to escape, throwing his mind back into itself in search of something that would end the pain? And then one day he discovered a place deep within him which all the hateful rituals could never reach.

  Slowly Hardknot developed the ability to enter this inner world at will, and it was a world full of colours, sweet scents, and limitless possibilities. Then had the Church begun to shrink before him as he saw it with new eyes; eyes that were open and could see the essence of things. Once that had happened, it was all he could do not to laugh out loud into the stretched grey faces at the ridiculousness of everything they believed.

  The years passed until one glorious day, and from under the very noses of his antagonists, the young Hardknot had swept out of their halls of pain and into an apprenticeship as a Royal Beekeeper in the Hivedom. To the amazement of the forsts, he had simply walked away, the letter of appointment grasped in his hand like a rope that is thrown to a drowning man.

  Even more wonderful to Hardknot was the discovery that he could commune with the Royal Honeybees, learning how to share their sense of oneness and duty. Within the hives, no sacrifice was too great for the whole; each hexagonal cell a temple within which the perfection of Her love was enshrined in a golden liquid. And the bees came to him, crawling over his face and hands when he collected honey, with no smoke or netting needed to protect him from their unpredictable anger. Hardknot knew his destiny, and such was the passion that he applied to his daily tasks, it was not long before he had become the youngest Senior Beekeeper in the Hivedom.

  Hardknot next set his sights on becoming Keeper of the Royal Honeybees, a position so elevated that only nobles of the highest pedigree were ever eligible to stand for selection. When the incumbent keeper died and the Duke of Thistlebergh was appointed by the Board of Doings as the 966th Keeper of the Royal Honeybees, Hardknot quickly saw that His Grace had little interest in the Hivedom, preferring instead to spend his time in the Palace abusing the privileges granted to the holder of such a lofty office. As the years passed a seething anger grew within his heart, an anger that one day demanded more than patience. Under his guidance the Royal Honeybees too, had filled with rage, their wings blurring as they danced unnatural patterns and their venom crying for release.

  The Duke of Thistlebergh was found in his private gardens, his body grotesquely swollen and his face disfigured. Quite why the bees had singled out their own master for such a vicious attack was beyond reason. The swarm had stung with such ferocity that he had barely had time to stumble a few feet before falling to the ground under their onslaught, his cries drowned by bees that quickly filled his mouth and attacked his tongue and throat. When his body was eventually removed, it left its outline framed by a carpet of bees, their lives sacrificed in the name of honey.

  Following the death of Thistlebergh, Hardknot had quickly obtained an audience with the Board. ‘The Royal Honeybees need a servant that understands their needs,’ he had cried. ‘Can the Board not see that the Blessed Hives are in pain? How many will the terrible consequences for the Kingdom be, if such an unsuitable appointment is made again? And who among you, will be held responsible?’

  The young Hardknot was already a man with a fast-rising reputation as a true servant of the Royal Honeybees, and so despite some vociferous objections from a gaggle of Thistlebergh’s cronies, Hardknot had been elected to the position of the 967th Keeper of the Royal Honeybees. The title of Lord was also bestowed upon him, as befitting to a person of such high standing. In reaching their decision it had been the Boards’ belief, backed by private words with well-informed sources, that Hardknot was a man who would not bother himself with the ancient rights and privileges granted irrevocably to the holder of this most illustrious position. ‘Cut him, and you will find only honey,’ one particular informant had stated. Such an apolitical animal would be ideal, the Board had supposed, the health of the Hivedom assured by one who would not antagonise the wider scene. But they had been wrong, and the minute the titles had been given to him, Hardknot descended amongst them, haranguing the Board with such a knowledgeable tongue-lashing, that secret meetings
were quickly convened to see if there was not some precedence for having the decision reversed. But Hardknot had secured his position even more quickly than could possibly have been imagined, and as their own treacherous words spilled from the lips of a well-placed spy, the heads of two senior members of the Board fell forward with disbelief.

  ‘Such conniving is an insult to the name of all that is holy!’ Lord Hardknot had shouted, and despite all protests he had remained resolute. Not for the last time did his regular visits to Fulcrum Tower, the home of the Board of Doings, repay him well. Chapter 38, Verse 12, of the 1,359th Book of Doings, was ratified and sanctified; the dreadful punishment writ large upon the page. There could be no mercy, not unless the Laws of Precedence themselves were thrown into the fires.

  And so for the first time in living memory the Kingdom had witnessed a public execution, a crowd of thousands, together with all the Noble families, Senior Clergy, and even King Samel himself, gathering in the Great Square to witness two of the most senior persons in the realm burned at the stake, their pitiful screams flying into the sky in a cloud of dense black smoke.

  To everyone gathered that day it was clear that a new era was upon the Kingdom. The tall young man before them, his grey eyes alive with energy and his encyclopedic knowledge of every facet of precedence all too evident, was clearly a person not to be crossed. Even when Hardknot took the liberty to bestow upon himself the ancient Hivedom title of Oneness of All, not one single voice was raised to denounce him.

  The echo of horses’ hooves and carriage wheels as the troop entered a Palace forecourt, woke Lord Hardknot from his reverie. He continued on foot, arriving at the entrance to the King’s Quarters just as the Red Sun broke the horizon to join the Green. He saw General Forgewell, Commander of the Palace Guard, and summoned him to his side.

  Forgewell was a career soldier of privileged background, burning ambition, and utter selfishness, qualities allied together that made him perfect for Hardknot’s immediate plans for the Kingdom. He was tall, rather plain, and of slight rather than substantial build, but when the occasion demanded it his acid tongue could lash a Palace Guard at ninety paces.

  ‘Your Oneness,’ Forgewell said, bowing when he reached Hardknot. ‘A momentous day for our Kingdom.’

  ‘Momentous, and dangerous, General,’ replied Hardknot. ‘A day when every person of merit, should know where their loyalties lie.’

  ‘Your Oneness knows, I am ever the King’s man, and the Queen’s loyal servant too.’

  Hardknot gave the merest nod of his head to indicate approval. ‘There are those amongst us,’ he said, ‘who will see in this day an opportunity for…contrary advancement. The King is dead, but even in death, the will of the Crown is inviolate. As Commander of the Palace Guard, it is beholden upon you to help ensure the safe passage of our Kingdom to a…proper accession.’

  Forgewell’s eyes glanced both ways around him, his head remaining as still as a rock, and then he moved closer to speak softly through one side of his mouth, as if hiding the words from onlookers. ‘Allow me to speak plain, Your Oneness. Whilst only the Board of Doings can ratify a new Crown, in my eyes, a successful Nomination must also have the approval of the Hivedom. I will support nothing less.’

  ‘And ever must it stay,’ said Hardknot. ‘And those that think it is not so, will come to see their mistake. But for now, until all is in its rightful place, it is vital that the Palace, including the Queen’s Wing, are beyond the risk of any compromise.’

  ‘I have already doubled the Palace Guard, Your Oneness,’ said Forgewell with some pride. ‘Every prime location has also been secured by men whose allegiance to me personally is beyond doubt. I will treble the guard at the Queen’s Wing. My hand is your hand, my will, yours to command. Now,’ added with some emphasis, ‘and in the future.’

  ‘Your loyalty will not be forgotten, General,’ said Hardknot, then he looked away to indicate there was no more to be said.

  ‘Your Oneness,’ said Forgewell bowing, and he marched off briskly to attend to his duties.

  Several senior nobles guarded the entrance to the State Rooms, their blades shouldered at the ready. All faces betrayed deep concern, not so much for the King as a person, who Hardknot knew they cared little for, but for the uncertainty of what might now come to pass. It had been many years since a King had died with a Queen’s title so precariously held, and no one could possibly wish the calamitous events that had overtaken the Kingdom at that time to happen again.

  ‘Your Oneness,’ all the Barons said gravely, bowing as one, as Hardknot approached.

  Hardknot was in no mood to calm anyone’s troubled nerves, anxiety only serving to better feed his plans. ‘Let us prepare to greet the future, for better or ill,’ he said gravely, as he passed them by.

  The bright green light of dawn streamed unchecked through every window of the Daylight Hall, illuminating the throng of nobles and clergy waiting to pay their last respects to King Samel. Hardknot noticed all heads turn to observe him as he strode across the floor. The King’s body had been dressed in Royal regalia and lay upon a raised dais; his personal crown that would join him in his grave, rested upon his chest. Palace Guards surrounded the lifeless display, their pikestaffs held erect, but their heads bowed. It would lie in state for three days and then be interred in the Royal Mausoleum.

  Hardknot gave a deep bow to the King and then moved close to where the Duke of Westnaine, Palace Overlord, stood together with his wife, the Duchess of Westnaine. The Westnaines were one of the most senior noble families in the Kingdom, and Hardknot was not in the least bit surprised to find them already present.

  ‘Your Graces,’ Hardknot said quietly. Westnaine bowed formally and whispered ‘Your Oneness’, though the face of the Duchess remained cold and did not look upon him. It was a look Hardknot knew well, and ignored.

  ‘A sad day for the Kingdom,’ Westnaine said, before adding, ‘and strange timing indeed. The King was ill, but, I am led to believe, not gravely so.’

  Hardknot turned away to look at King Samel’s body to leave the comment hanging in the air

  Behind the King, Bishop Scrippler, a white-haired senior clergyman, sang the Blessing for Departure in a peculiarly high and tuneless vibrato; a hooded spout held a huge leather-bound book across both arms so that Scrippler could see the words.

  Let Him Suckle the Garnish of Mystical Seasoning!

  Let Him Bolster the Shards of Everlasting Ivory!

  Let Him Violate the Marigolds of St Winnifred’s Casket!

  More groups of nobles entered the room, each entrance marked by the sound of commotion in the corridors beyond. Bows were made and expressions of grief and concern for the future shared anew. At length, the Duke of Westnaine moved closer to Hardknot and spoke softly.

  ‘Your Oneness,’ he said. ‘I would be most grateful for a moment aside.’

  Hardknot made no attempt to conceal his annoyance at the request. By this time the Queen would surely have betrayed her lack of scent, and all he wanted now was confirmation of this fact. But despite this frustration, he nodded agreement, and both men moved away from the corpse to a large window overlooking the King’s private terrace.

  ‘I trust you will forgive me, Your Oneness,’ Westnaine began, ‘if I dispense with formalities. I find the older I get, the less I am inclined to spend time on procedures. I believe we both perceive an,’ he paused, as if searching for the right words, ‘unnecessary quality, in much that is lauded as essential to Court life.’

  Hardknot ignored the trap. ‘You may proceed, Your Grace,’ he said, looking back to the King’s body to watch the gathering as it grew in both number and murmur. But still no Queen’s messenger appeared.

  ‘The cause of the King’s death has yet to determined,’ continued Westnaine. ‘From what I have been told by the King’s Bodycian, who has already conducted a preliminary Post-Deadness, it may never be.’

  Hardknot said nothing.

  ‘Of added concern is the death of
one of his private nursekeepers, found this very morning, murdered within her bed. Had you heard this news?’

  ‘Does it have any particular relevance?’

  ‘Indeed, it may not. Nursekeepers often keep unsuitable company. But the coincidence is strange, is it not?’

  ‘Who are we to say, My Lord?’ said Hardknot.

  ‘Indeed so,’ continued Westnaine, after a pause. ‘But we can be certain of one thing, our liege has departed this life, and has done so at a time when the Queen’s title is known to be,’ he paused again, as if to find the right word, ‘fragile.’

  Westnaine followed Hardknot’s gaze back towards the King for a moment with clearly growing consternation, and then he moved closer still.

  ‘I must know, Your Oneness,’ he said firmly, ‘where the Hivedom will stand on the matter of Nomination?’

  Hardknot turned away to the window where he wiped some dust from a pane of glass, rubbed it between his finger and thumb, and then removed it on the collar of a nearby drollup. ‘Poor,’ he whispered, a single word of such disdain that would be sure to unsettle Westnaine, a man who, as Palace Overlord, was charged with the care of the King’s Palace. Hardknot peered through the glass at the gardens beyond. Several gardeners and a team of Drollups were tending to the dull variety of green-leafed shrubs that lay under their care, there being no flowers or blossom permitted outside the Hivedom walls. The Blue Sun had now breached the far horizon to join the Green, the plants now edged with a bright yellow tinge. All was as it should be.

  ‘Your Grace,’ he said, without turning away from the view. ‘Be assured that all will be given, when the time requires it.’

  Westnaine shook his head unhappily. ‘Your Oneness must know,’ he continued, ‘that His Mostfull has prepared a most unsatisfactory Nomination. The elevation of the Baron Pencille to the Crown, can surely not be endured.’

  Hardknot turned from the window to look at Westnaine, his grey eyes narrowing.