Doctor Who: Royal Blood (Glamour Chronicles, Book 1)

by Una McCormack

  The Doctor looked at him uneasily. ‘My blessing?’

  ‘On my endeavours.’

  ‘Your endeavours.’ Slowly, the Doctor walked round the map, as if taking in every pebble on the mountain paths, every blade of green grass in the valleys, every ruined villa and every lost village. ‘Endeavours. You mean war, don’t you?’

  ‘Is that so terrible a thing?’ said Aurelian.

  ‘Yes,’ said the Doctor.

  ‘Even in the name of peace?’

  The Doctor almost spat. ‘That’s nonsense. Double speak. Lies—’

  For a moment I thought Aurelian might become angry, but then I saw a glistening of water in his eyes. To see a proud man weep and to be unable to help it is a dreadful thing. Softly, Aurelian said, ‘Good father, we are beleaguered. Conrad’s ambition is without limit. He wants to push us into the sea – drown us, obliterate us. He wants Varuz for his own. He wants the world for his own.’

  I was watching our visitor very carefully now, and, for a while, I must admit that I was afraid. He did not seem to me the kind of man to bow down to tyrants, to submit to superior force, and it seemed that Aurelian’s words had stirred something within him, some great deep anger.

  ‘My people waver,’ Aurelian said. ‘My knights and my lords – they waver too.’ He turned to me and, with a smile, clasped my hand. ‘Not you, Bernhardt. Never you. But the others? I know they are afraid.’ He turned back to the Doctor. ‘With your blessing, good father, we might find our resolve once more. We might pull together and make one more stand in the mountains. Conrad is coming, so Bernhardt says – but we can deny him! We can show him that Varuz can never be taken. Perhaps –’ his face was shining now – ‘this might be the start of a new age for Varuz. With Conrad dismissed, we could begin to heal ourselves – become whole again. Restore the glamour and glory that we had here, once upon a time…’

  Dreams and delusions. Castles in the air. The wrong man, at the wrong time. I saw the Doctor watching me, and I had to turn away – in shame? In shame. It is a cruel thing to know that one’s home is on its knees.

  When the Doctor spoke again, he spoke firmly, but with compassion. ‘War is a terrible thing,’ he said. ‘I know. You talk about a stand, Aurelian, but it would be a massacre. There’s no honour in self-sacrifice, and no honour in sacrificing others with you, throwing away lives in a battle that can’t be won…’

  He hesitated here, and I wondered what this man’s experience of war had been. What a warrior he would have made, it seemed to me, had war ever been his business.

  ‘A holy man,’ the Doctor said, ‘a truly holy man – would try to make peace. Conrad’s ambassador is on his way still, I assume. So my advice is – accept the embassy. Talk to Conrad’s representative. See if there’s still a chance to make peace. See on what terms he might allow you to continue in peace here, beyond the mountains.’

  Poor Aurelian. That was not what he wanted to hear. But it was the truth. It was what I had been trying to tell him since he had taken upon the dukedom all those years ago, after I had seen at first-hand Conrad’s country, his knights and his weaponry. Our poor horses, even our laser-swords, were nothing to what Conrad had at his disposal. There could be no glorious victory, but neither could we be allowed to remain as we were, on the edge, proof of the limits of Conrad’s rule. We were old, and proud, and, yes, crafty in many ways, but these would never be enough. Our task was to carry what we could through these times, and to hope that not everything was destroyed. Or so I understood at the time.

  ‘If the ambassador is coming,’ said the Doctor, ‘you should meet him. Hear what he has to say. Don’t underestimate peace, my lord. You’ll miss it, when it’s gone. When the buildings are burning and the soldiers dying, and the children are ripped from their parents’ arms – you’ll regret the day you ever went to war.’

  I saw then that the Doctor’s eye was as much on me as it was on Aurelian. But if he thought I was in need of persuasion, he had misjudged me. I already agreed. But I was willing to put whatever weight I could behind this attempt to sway Aurelian.

  ‘He speaks wisely, my lord,’ I said, quietly. ‘Let us wait for the ambassador. Let us welcome him. Let us try to make peace.’

  ‘Peace?’ said Aurelian. ‘Or surrender?’ But he clasped my hand again, and I knew that, for the sake of our long friendship, he was still listening.

  —

  Clara followed Guena out of the great hall, and along a narrow corridor to a little sitting room. Here, comfortable chairs were arranged around a low table, and small lamps were lit, giving the room a warm, cosy atmosphere. Even the bare patches on the carpets and tapestries added to the effect, making the space feel lived-in and well-loved.

  At Guena’s invitation, Clara sat in one of the seats, sinking back into the comfortable cushions. Guena rang a little bell and, shortly afterwards, a servant appeared through a side door, carrying a tray laid out with a silver jug and tiny silver cups. When the servant left, Guena poured out the drink, and Clara sipped it. It was thick and hot and sweet, a little like hot chocolate. She watched as, one by one, Guena took off her rings, as if she was a knight stripping herself of her armour. She kept her eyes on Clara throughout, and Clara had the distinct impression of being scrutinised thoroughly – and judged.

  She seemed to have no intention of making the first conversational move, however, so Clara decided she might as well be the one to start talking. ‘Don’t you hate being sent away?’

  ‘Sent away?’ Guena looked around. ‘You mean in here? Why would I hate that?’

  ‘While the men talk business, I mean.’

  ‘What is to stop us from talking? About whatever we choose?’

  Clara laughed. ‘Well, nothing, I suppose.’

  Guena smiled back. ‘Nothing.’ The smile disappeared as she gave Clara a very sharp look. ‘Your master—’

  ‘He’s really not that,’ said Clara. ‘Absolutely not that.’

  ‘Father? Lover?’

  ‘Er, none of the above!’ Clara struggled for a word to describe the Doctor, eventually settling on: ‘Friend.’

  Guena looked surprised, but accepted the explanation. ‘Your friend, then. He’s not an ambassador, for sure, but he’s not a pilgrim either, is he? He’s not a holy man.’

  ‘No, he’s not, at least, not in the way you mean,’ said Clara. ‘But he’s a traveller, all right. He’s seen a lot, he’s done a lot. He’s got more experience than I think either of us can imagine. If your husband—’

  Guena stiffened slightly. ‘The Duke,’ she said.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Clara at once. ‘I don’t mean to be rude. I’m not used to this kind of thing.’

  Guena gave a quick nod to indicate that she accepted the apology.

  ‘What I mean is that if the Duke wants advice, he could definitely do worse than ask the Doctor.’ She leaned forwards in her chair. ‘So what’s going on? You were expecting an ambassador, weren’t you? Who from? And why is everything so…’ She stopped, unsure how to word her question without seeming rude. How did you say to someone: ‘Have you noticed that your city is falling down?’ Chances were that Guena had noticed, and that it was causing her some distress.

  It was clear that Guena understood. ‘Ah, if you could have seen us at our height, Clara! Five hundred years ago, six hundred – what a place this was then! What a country this must have been!’ Her eyes shone. ‘The whole city, so they say, was bright as daylight, even at night. Great ships sped across the water; great ships flew amongst the clouds. We could speak to each other at great distance – and could be with each in the twinkling of an eye. And we were not a little people trapped in a little land. Our influence stretched far beyond here. Far beyond the mountains, far beyond the seas.’

  Clara looked around the faded room and thought of the crumbling city outside. ‘Five hundred years is a long time ago.’

  ‘And Varuz is very different now,’ said Guena. ‘Here we are, trapped behind our mountains, sitting
in the gloom behind crumbling walls, and our enemies wait for their moment to come.’

  ‘Your enemies?’

  Quickly, Guena explained what Aurelian was, in the next room, explaining to the Doctor: that across the mountains a powerful country, led by Conrad, was poised to invade. ‘The passes are closely watched,’ Guena said, ‘and very few get through. But we have received news to expect an ambassador from Conrad. That is why – when you arrived – we thought that you must be from him. Very few come through the mountains now.’

  ‘But you received news of this ambassador? Who from?’

  ‘Even in Conrad’s country there are people who sympathise with our plight,’ Guena said, and gave a crafty smile.

  ‘People,’ said Clara. ‘You mean spies.’

  ‘If you prefer.’

  Not much, thought Clara. ‘Spies. That young man who brought us here…’

  ‘Lord Mikhail.’

  ‘He doesn’t seem very happy. What’s going on there?’

  Guena contemplated the question for a while. ‘Mikhail is ambitious for Varuz. My husband –’ so it was OK for Guena to call him that – ‘is afraid that this ambition extends as far as the dukedom.’

  Clara frowned. ‘Your husband sounds paranoid. Sorry, I mean the Duke. The Duke sounds paranoid.’ She frowned. ‘You know, on reflection, that doesn’t sound any less rude.’

  But Guena was not angry. ‘Not paranoid,’ she said. ‘No, that is not fair. But it is fair to say that Aurelian is fearful for Varuz, and also fair to say that he is overburdened by his charge. Change is coming to Varuz. We all know that – even Aurelian, in his heart. None of us can stop that.’

  ‘I get the impression the Duke would like to,’ said Clara. ‘I get the impression he would turn the clock back, if he could.’

  ‘All of us,’ said Guena softly, ‘would be glad to see Varuz as it was once. Instead…’ She looked around them. ‘Instead, we have inherited what you see.’

  ‘Something’s going to give,’ said Clara.

  ‘Change does not have to mean devastation,’ said Guena. ‘But the people are tired. They are afraid. They want peace, Clara. We all want peace. We don’t want to suffer any longer.’

  Clara studied the Duchess thoughtfully. ‘Why are you telling me all this?’

  Guena leaned in and spoke more softly. ‘Conrad’s ambassador is coming. I am sure of it.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And,’ said the Duchess, ‘I may need someone to speak for me.’

  Not speak for Aurelian, Clara thought, and then she remembered something Guena had said: The last duke was my father. Guena had wasted no time in taking her away to talk in private. Who, Clara wondered, was really running the show here? Who, really, was in charge? Aurelian was the warrior, yes, but was Guena the schemer? And what did that make Bernhardt?

  ‘We are not strong,’ said Guena. ‘These days we are a quiet country, on the very edge of the world. Our glory days are long behind us, and we cannot defend ourselves, not against the army that Conrad commands. The question now is whether anything of Varuz will survive the coming days. Clara,’ she urged, ‘open war will destroy us completely. If the ambassador comes – will you help me? Will you help Varuz?’

  Slowly, Clara said, ‘I can’t make any promises.’

  Guena smiled. ‘I don’t want promises. I want help. When the time comes.’

  ‘Then let’s see,’ said Clara. ‘When the time comes.’

  Chapter

  3

  The guest quarters that were assigned to them had the same threadbare cosiness as Guena’s sitting room. There was a big shared room, set off from which Clara found two bedchambers, each one plain but clean, with a huge bed and many soft pillows and coverings.

  Clara set herself to exploring all the chests and cupboards, and was delighted to find that one was full of fine dresses. She spent a happy half-hour choosing one to wear, trying them for size and fit and colour, settling at last on a deep red gown with a full skirt and much rich brocade worked into the bodice. It had wide sleeves, cut from a dark orange cloth and covered in golden embroidery and small jewels. She stretched out her arms, admiring the butterfly wing effect, and luxuriated in the fine, heavy cloth.

  ‘Good idea to have such thick clothes,’ she said. ‘I imagine it could get cold here. The wind from the mountains in one direction. The wind from the sea in the other. And whatever else is working round here, I’m not sure the central heating is switched on.’

  The Doctor too had been prowling the room, stopping here and there to pick up objects and examine them: a vase; a picture; a cup. Clara, spreading out the skirts of her dress, arranged herself on a chaise longue and made herself comfortable. He looked like he would be keeping himself busy like this for a while yet.

  ‘So I talked with the Duke’s wife,’ she said.

  Reaching the window, the Doctor came to a halt.

  ‘It was interesting,’ said Clara. ‘Really interesting.’

  The Doctor grunted and touched one of the curtains. It too was made from thick cloth, not as fine as her dress, but it was covered in small jewels and crystals. It was very beautiful, but not what Clara wanted the Doctor to be concentrating on right now. He should be concentrating on what she was saying.

  ‘So about the Duchess,’ Clara said. ‘I think she wants to overthrow the government.’

  The Doctor gave another grunt.

  ‘And I’ve decided I’m going to make my fortune by selling her guns. Do you know any arms dealers?’ This time there was no response at all. Clara was starting to miss the grunting. ‘Doctor, are you listening?’

  ‘These jewels!’ he said.

  Clara stared at them. True, they were sparkling nicely in the lamplight, but sparkling nicely in the lamplight was par for the course for jewels. It was what you had jewels for. ‘What about them?’

  ‘They’re driving me crazy!’

  ‘In what way, Doctor?’ Clara said, patiently.

  ‘It’s not the sparkling. I can put up with that, even though it’s annoying. But they don’t seem to have a function. Things can’t just go around sparkling. Nothing round here is wasted! These jewels wouldn’t just be,’ he spat the word out, ‘decoration.’

  ‘Why not?’ Clara lifted up the beautiful sleeves and let them spread out. ‘What’s wrong with a little decoration?’

  ‘It’s frippery.’

  ‘ “Frippery’? Who in the world uses a word like that? Who in the universe? Anyway, what’s the harm in some occasional frippery?’

  ‘It’s pointless.’

  Clara ran her finger along the beads sewn into her sleeves. ‘It’s pretty.’

  ‘It’s a waste of the finite resources of the universe.’

  ‘Says the man with sparkles on his jumper.’

  The Doctor stared down at his jumper as if noticing it for the first time. ‘These help me to see in the dark.’

  Clara lifted up her arm. ‘And these make my right hook extra weighty. Look, Doctor, do you want to hear about the conversation I had with the Duchess or not? We didn’t just talk about frocks in there, you know. In fact, we didn’t talk about frocks at all.’

  The Doctor had turned back to his curtains. ‘Go on. If you must.’

  ‘Doctor – I think she’s plotting against the Duke.’

  The Doctor wasn’t particularly perturbed by this news. ‘I assumed somebody would be. Where there’s a throne, there’s a plot.’

  ‘But his own wife?’

  ‘I’m not seeing any contradictions there.’

  ‘Perhaps plot is too strong a word,’ Clara said thoughtfully. ‘But she wants me to talk to Conrad’s ambassador, if he ever arrives.’

  ‘Well,’ the Doctor said with a sigh, ‘somebody has to speak to him, and it’s not going to be me—’

  ‘Doctor, stop measuring for curtains and listen! She doesn’t want me to talk to him officially! She wants me to talk to him in private. Without anyone else knowing. Behind the Duke’s back.’


  The Doctor dropped the curtains and turned to look at her. ‘She wants you to spy for her?’

  ‘Oh, now you’re listening!’ Clara said, with some exasperation. ‘No, she didn’t ask me to spy for her. What do you think I am? She asked me to carry a message for her.’

  ‘Behind the Duke’s back. To the representative of his mortal enemy. What do you call that? Because I know what I call it—’

  ‘Doctor,’ Clara said seriously, ‘I don’t know what to do.’

  He turned back to the curtains.

  ‘Doctor!’

  And then he turned back to her. He looked puzzled, as if he’d thought the conversation had been closed. ‘Well, of course you have to do it!’

  Clara was startled. ‘What? But, isn’t that…’ She trailed off.

  ‘Isn’t it what?’

  ‘Well, treason?’

  The Doctor gave her a very tricky smile. ‘Not technically.’

  ‘Doctor. There are swords. Which are also lasers. And there may be other things. Deathly curtains. I need more than technicalities. Wouldn’t spying for the Duchess be treason?’

  ‘Only if you were one of Aurelian’s knights or vassals. Which you’re not.’ He gave her a worried look. ‘You’re not, are you?

  ‘Let me think,’ said Clara. ‘What does it say on my passport? Er, no, I think that’s something to do with the Queen, or possibly Brussels—’

  ‘You’ve not gone and accidentally sworn an oath to anyone or anything since we got here, have you?’

  ‘I certainly hope not! Er, how would I know?’

  ‘There’s usually a book involved. Sometimes blood.’ He gave her a sly look. ‘You haven’t accepted any drinks, have you?’

  ‘What?’ She thought of the nice chocolatey thing she had drunk with Guena.

  ‘I’m joking,’ he said.

  ‘Well, don’t!’

  ‘So if you’re not Aurelian’s subject, and you’ve not sworn an oath, how can it be treachery?’

  ‘You’re confusing me!’ Clara said, plaintively.

  ‘It’s very simple,’ said the Doctor. ‘You’re not from Varuz. Aurelian doesn’t own you. You can do what you like. Do you want to be Guena’s messenger girl?’