by Candy Rae
“We’re all in training,” Shona corrected her. “We don’t have Officer Trainees, just cadets and in the Ryzcks the Vadryzkas and Ryzckas are promoted from the ranks. We all do military lessons work, hence the books on tactics, geography and the like. Don’t panic, you don’t look like a dud and I’m sure you’ll manage.”
Shona’s head cocked.
“I hear the tic tac of large paws, I think our friends are returning so let’s get about it or by the time we get to the cookhouse all that will be left will be a few burnt scrapings at the bottom of the pots.”
“I’d hate that,” laughed Rilla.
By nightfall Rilla had settled in, more or less.
She had taken possession of her cadet uniforms and the other myriad items that the ‘powers that be’ deemed necessary for a cadet. The promised books were stacked with exactitude on the shelf above the desk; the uniforms had peen put away in the closet. The beds were made, for Rilla a narrow one in the corner, blankets folded at right angles. Zawlei had taken possession of the low couch affair, a walda hay mattress covered with thick hessian, resistant to the ravages of sharp chelas. It didn’t feel like home yet but it would. Tacked to the inside of the swing doors that marked the entrance to her and Zawlei’s little domain was her training timetable.
Home. Rilla wondered, as she had at intervals during the journey, what was happening at home? How was Zilla? How was she managing on her own? How were her parents taking the news that she was at Vada?
The vadeln at the first Supply Station they had stayed at had informed her that a message would be sent when Rilla had told him that she and Zawlei had left without a word. He had also provided her with emergency clothing, enough to get to Vada and a temporary harness for Zawlei.
Home. Her father would never forgive her. At least she had had a chance to say good bye to Zilla.
Rilla lay her head down on the pillow and fell into an exhausted sleep. Shona had promised her that tomorrow would be a busy day and an investigation of the timetable had backed this up. Riding practice, that shouldn’t be too difficult, I’ve been riding for years after all.
* * * * *
Big mistake, thought a rueful Rilla. Riding practice, that shouldn’t be too difficult. I’ve been riding for years after all. Joke of the season and it was on her. Rilla had never felt so sore and stiff her entire life. Riding a Lind, she found out during the first quarter bell of the lesson was nothing like riding a pony. First of all, there was neither bridle nor saddle (thus no convenient bits to hold on to when the going got tough) and Zawlei had, under orders, twisted and turned in such a violent manner that Rilla had hit the dust no less than eleven times. When Toinette, the other newly-arrived cadet (and some five years older than Rilla) protested, Vadryzka Lachlan, the riding instructor, had merely smiled a grim smile and lectured Toinette and Rilla about what would be expected of them in the coming months. “If you think this is hard,” he wound up, “come look at what the final year cadets are doing.”
When Toinette and Rilla did, they got the point immediately. Their training was preparation for fighting and battle. Rilla was amazed at how these three and four stripe cadets could stay atop of their Lind, no matter what happened.
As tendays and then months passed, Rilla and Zawlei learned to ignore the aches and pains of riding practice. She and Toinette started to attend weapons classes, both mounted and un-mounted and learned to grin and bear a whole lot of new aches in a whole lot of new places. Added to these classes were lessons in First Aid, Lindish, Cooking, Living off the Land and EQ (care and maintenance of equipment). These classes were fitted in where there was space in their timetables. They saw the senior and junior cadets go through much the same except that the juniors also attended classes in general education with a view to passing what Rilla still called ‘The Exam’ at the end of their second year. The senior cadets were taught the most exciting class of all (at least in Rilla’s eyes), that of battle practice when they learned how to fight in formation and against a foe (one or more ryz from the home pack Lindars). This last looked and was, dangerously exciting.
After five months Rilla managed to attain the required standard for senior cadet status. She unstitched the single thick white rank stripe from her sleeve and attached the three white ones. Toinette kept the white stripe as she was fully adult and would remain with the adult cadets until she graduated and joined her Ryzck. Rilla and Toinette remained friends and Rilla hoped that when she and Zawlei passed out and became members of a Ryzck it would be to Toinette’s that she would be posted.
She kept in touch with Hilla at Settlement and through her with Zilla but she didn’t go back to Dunetown on leave.
* * * * *
Chapter 3
AL607 - Second Month of Summer (Vadrhed)
Elliot
The Head of Protocols at the Royal Palace at Fort walked with purposeful step to the Conclave Chamber. Under his arm he carried a thin roll of parchment (paper was expensive as it was imported from Argyll and was used for only the most important record-keeping). Awaiting him were the Kings, Princes, Dukes and other important people responsible for the governance of the kingdom.
At this time, the Head of Protocols was one Kellen Martin Taviston, second son of Baron Peter Taviston of the Duchy of Smith; one of the oldest non-ducal noble houses in Murdoch.
Martin Taviston knew that the forthcoming meeting would be one full of tension and argument. Word had come that the eighteen year old Margravessa Beth Baker, betrothed of the seventeen year old Prince-Heir Elliot, was dead. The coach carrying her to her nuptials had overturned during the journey and her injuries had been so horrific her death two days later had been considered a blessing.
The meeting was to decide who was to replace her.
Martin Taviston had fifteen names on his list. Fifteen noble girls who might become Queen of Murdoch. Of course, they would have little or no choice in the matter, the decision would be taken by the thirteen members of Conclave. Martin remembered the time, now three years past when Beth Baker had been selected. It had been a terrible time, full of argument and unpleasantness among the thirteen. This meeting would be no different.
Martin Taviston was right about the acrimony. He could almost feel the tension as he entered the chamber.
The meeting started pleasantly enough. Martin handed over the document and on the command of the King sat down on the chair beside the minute-secretary in case any of the Conclave had any questions pertaining to consanguinity and betrothals.
The Crown-Prince opened the proceedings, reading out the list Martin Taviston had compiled.
“We can cancel out any who are too young right away,” he announced. “We are agreed gentlemen, are we not, that the marriage should take place next summer at the latest?”
“It should be this summer,” grunted Prince-Duke Xavier of South Baker, whose cousin-in-law the dead fiancé was. He wanted Beth’s younger sister Susan to take the vacant royal position and knew that if the marriage were to be postponed another year there were others who would be of suitable age and eligible for consideration.
The Crown-Prince shook his head. “I’m afraid not Xavier. Next summer, our father has agreed. I’ve got plans for Elliot over the next months and a delayed wedding is most fortuitous in some ways, sad as I am at the death of Margravessa Beth.”
Xavier frowned and muttered to himself.
Crown-Prince Paul continued his perusal of the list. “If we remove all those girls who will not be sixteen by next summer, that means we only have to consider the others. I remember what we went through before and I am in no mind to discuss the sheer number of prospective brides we did last time.”
Martin Taviston breathed a silent prayer of thanks. Seven down, eight to go.
“First we have to consider the degree of consanguinity between my son and those remaining on the list.”
He turned to William, Duke of North Baker. “William, your granddaughter Olga is not eligible. She is my niece, my wife, the Crow
n-Princess, your daughter, is her aunt.”
“Knew it,” smiled William Baker. “Go on, cross her off, negotiations are well under way for her marriage anyway.”
“Thank you,” answered Crown-Prince Paul.
Eight down, seven to go, Martin Taviston was thinking. Perhaps this won’t be so bad after all.
“And talking about marriage,” continued the Crown-Prince, “all but one of the seven remaining are betrothed. I’m not anxious to break them if at all possible.”
“Betrothals can be broken, often are,” announced his brother Xavier.
“May I speak?” asked Raoul van Buren.
Crown-Prince Paul gave his courteous consent.
“My cousin Arthur, he is betrothed to Contessa Susan Kirkton of the Eastern Isles and who is on the list. Not only is this a love match but the marriage contract is linked to certain trade concessions; to our Kingdom’s benefit I might add. I forward that it is not in our best interests to dissolve the contract and move that her name should also be removed from those being considered.”
“I understand My Lord van Buren; are their any objections?” Paul’s agate eyes surveyed the other twelve round the table. He glanced at his father and the King nodded once.
There were no objections.
Nine down, six to go, thought a gleeful Martin Taviston
“Who’s left?” asked the elderly Duke Alastair Gardiner.
Crown-Prince Paul looked at the parchment, “Margravessa Isobel Cocteau, Margravessa Susan Baker, Kellessas Lucy Merriman and Alison Taviston and Thanessas Melody Oxbridge and Petra Taviston.” He slunk a teasing eye to Martin who sat impassively on his chair. “Your daughter I believe, Kellen Taviston?”
“She is eligible,” he said. Nothing ventured nothing gained in this world.
“Rank too low,” said the gruff Alastair Gardiner but with a nod of apology in Martin’s direction. “I’ll agree to a Kellessa, especially if descended from one of the ducal houses but a Thanessa, never.”
Martin Taviston had never really thought his daughter Petra or Melody Oxbridge would have a chance so he merely smiled disarmingly at the grumpy old Duke and mentally deleted the two from the list. Eleven down, four to go. This is going well and not a Duke at his rival’s throat … yet.
The Crown-Prince turned to the Duke of Cocteau. “Your niece, Isobel, she is not betrothed? I don’t think I’ve seen her at Court.”
Pierre Cocteau answered. “She has never been here My Prince. She is my brother James’s daughter. The eldest one is married to Margrave William Brentwood; Isobel now, she’s a pleasant lass, I don’t know why no one’s approached James about a match. He is I believe thinking of Holy Orders for her but hasn’t come to a decision.”
“Does she wish to become a Nun?”
“I don’t think he has mentioned it,” was Pierre Cocteau’s careful answer. “She’s a pretty little thing, educated too; at the mother house of the Order of Grey Nuns some twenty miles south of my main manor.”
“Well, it’s her or Susan Baker,” the Crown-Prince announced. “I’ve no objection to my son’s wife coming from those families of lesser rank but I would prefer our future Queen to come from one of the ducal houses. He turned to Martin Taviston. “Lucy and Alison, are they descended, say for three generations back from any of the ducal houses?”
“No My Prince.”
“That’s it then,” announced Paul. “It’s between Isobel and Susan, they are of comparable rank, they are the right ages, they are both from ducal houses and consanguinity is not a problem.”
Thirteen down, two to go. Martin Taviston was almost beside himself with joy. This hasn’t been so bad at all. The Lord Marshall will be pleased.
“Who is Susan betrothed to?” asked Alastair Gardiner.
“Baron-Heir Martin Russell of Highbridge,” Martin Taviston supplied the answer with immediacy.
“That’s easily broken,” said Prince-Duke Xavier. “It cannot be used as an impediment.” He most definitely wanted someone from his ducal house to be chosen and Martin Russell was of extremely low rank when compared to a prince of the blood.
“True,” mused the Crown-Prince, “but I’m inclined to go with young Isobel Cocteau.”
It was at this point that the meeting erupted into a series of loud and bitter arguments and from which the Crown-Prince emerged exhausted but victorious.
Xavier wanted Susan, as did William Baker, the double Duchy of Baker usually voted together on Conclave. Pierre Cocteau naturally voted for his niece as did Prince-Duke Robert Brentwood. His sister-in-law had married into the House of Gardiner and that old Duke did the same, commenting in a crusty voice that he didn’t hold with breakings of betrothals. William Duchesne, his son being married to Princess Bethany and himself married to a Contessa of the House of Gardiner, also came down on the side of Isobel Cocteau. Charles Graham decided the same which was not surprising, his wife being a Brentwood and his mother a Cocteau. Surprisingly, the Duke of Smith thought Susan Baker the more suitable as did Raoul van Buren.
Once the Dukes and Crown-Prince had voted, the tally was six votes for Isobel and four for Susan and advocates of the latter began to harangue the Lord Marshall and the Archbishop for their votes.
King Elliot sat in silence as was his norm. His would be the deciding vote if one was needed. The Lord Marshall said nothing for a long moment.
“Peter?” enquired Crown-Prince Paul.
“To be perfectly honest gentlemen,” the Lord Marshall said with a disarming smile, “I’m not sure. I have never met Margravessa Isobel but I have met Margravessa Susan. She is a fine girl, and healthy enough to produce an heir. She is also the same age as the Prince-Heir. Isobel is two years the younger and therefore the procurement of an heir may have to wait until she reaches greater maturity. We all know what happens if females are forced to bear children too young.”
“Quite,” said Prince-Duke Xavier in triumphant tones.
“If I may continue?” asked the Lord Marshall in exasperated tones.
“Yes, yes, go on.”
“I have to say Susan for the aforementioned reason.”
All eyes turned to the Archbishop, the Primate of Murdoch. If he voted for Isobel then she would become the Princess-Elect, if for Susan then the King would have to decide.
“Margravessa Isobel,” he announced in a stentorian voice, better suited to preaching from the high, isolated pulpit in the cathedral than in the wood lined conclave chamber.
“No,” shouted an angry Prince-Duke Xavier.
Archbishop Tom Brentwood turned to the Crown-Prince’s brother. “Susan is betrothed,” he explained trying to pour oil on the turbulent waters. “A betrothal is binding and I will not sign the release so long as there is another suitable to take her place. I would have sanctioned Susan’s younger sister Anne but as Crown-Prince Paul said at the beginning, she is too young for marriage next summer.”
He turned to the Prince.
“Would you consider postponement for another year?”
Crown-Prince Paul shook his head.
“Then I have to go with young Isobel.”
Tom Brentwood’s rheumy eyes turned to the disappointed face of Xavier.
Xavier’s eyes were glinting. “Of course,” he mocked, “we all want peace and cordiality.”
“Of course brother,” said Prince Paul in a guarded voice.
“You will have my full support for Isobel, if you agree that your daughter Princess Susan is betrothed to my wife’s cousin Gerald. He is not promised.” Xavier was slyly looking at the Archbishop.
“Agreed,” announced King Elliot as he gathered himself to rise to his feet. “I’m sick of this. You have voted. Elliot’s bride is Margravessa Isobel and my granddaughter Princess Susan is promised to Margrave Gerald. That’s the end of it.”
The King left with a nod to his son. He had been finding meetings difficult of late and the doctors were expressing concern about his health.
As Prince-Duke Xavier led
the rest out, followed by the others (Prince-Duke Robert did not insist on precedence) the Lord Marshall turned a troubled face towards the Crown-Prince.
“I don’t think we’ve heard the end of this,” he said. “Why did he give up so easily? There’s more to this than meets the eye. Are you still set on sending Elliot away for the rest of the year?”
“Yes I am.”
“Well, I think you should take more thought on who is to accompany him. I did not like the look in your brother’s eye.”
“That’s just Xavier, he’s always got a rudkta in his pants about nothing.”
“Not nothing,” Count Peter Duchesne said. “If anything should happen to Elliot, Princess Susan is next in line.”
“He wouldn’t, Susan is his niece,” exclaimed a disbelieving Crown-Prince. “I know we’ve always had our differences, but…”
“He is jealous.”
“Of me?”
“Of your position as heir.”
“He’s welcome to the job.”
The Gods forbid, was Peter Duchesne’s fervent thought. “It wouldn’t be the first time a male heir was, shall we say, disposed of, to leave the way clear for a Queen Regnant. With Gerald married to Susan and you dead, he would not have the title but he would be the power behind the throne. Young Gerald Baker would be easy to control.” The Lord Marshall had long been suspicious of Prince-Duke Xavier. He knew that Xavier always had been jealous of his elder brother. Plotting and an occasional (or not so occasional) assassination was endemic amongst the senior noble houses.
“I think that when Elliot leaves on his journey it should not be a mentor who is in nominal charge, but a bodyguard,” the Lord Marshall pronounced.
Elliot had kept away from the discussions. He received the news of his imminent betrothal to Margravessa Isobel Cocteau with studied indifference although his father wasn’t fooled. Elliot was interested, very interested and his father felt sure that Elliot’s friend James Cocteau would be quizzed unmercifully about his sister before the day was out.