by Candy Rae
“That’s a distinct possibility,” said Harriet, “and I’ve been looking at the genealogical charts. My Xavier’s nearest male relative isn’t from my house at all but is Baron Martin Russell, a mere cousin-in-law.”
“Charles is in a similar boat. In our case it is my nephew on my husband’s side and he’s only seventeen,” said Tamsin.
Bethany added her contribution, “likewise the cousin who is ours, he’s eighteen. What about you Petra?”
“Same as you, a cousin but he’s not an adolescent. He will do a good job with young Richard now that his brother is dead.”
The four sat in silence.
“I don’t envy Elliot,” Bethany said at last.
When Elliot entered the four ladies got up from their chairs and made their curtsies to which Elliot responded with a courtly bow.
“Be seated ladies,” he said, taking the fifth seat round the fire.
The four re-seated themselves and rearranged their black skirts. They looked at Elliot. The Dowager Duchess-Heir Bethany was right. There was an air of suppressed excitement about him. His eyes were twinkling with mischief.
“I expect you’ve been wondering why I asked you here?”
“We are, we have been,” said Bethany.
“Ladies,” Elliot began in an impressive voice, “you and I together are about to make history.”
The four confused ladies looked at each other. In what way were they going to make history? Ladies didn’t make history, men did.
“I have come to a decision concerning the appointment of the regents for your sons,” Elliot said and leant forward to whisper his next words.
“Tomorrow, at the Fealtatis Ceremony, this is what you will do …”
* * * * *
Elliot, Zilla and Robain
It was standing room only in the Citadel’s Great Hall. The Fealtatis Ceremony was about to begin and great was the speculation.
Not only were the Dukes, old and new, the Archbishop and the Lord Marshall about to swear their fealty oaths but Elliot had declared his intention to pronounce on the identity of his chosen wife. Baron John Merriman was positive it must be his daughter although it was odd that Elliot had not told him.
Expectancy was rife amongst others. There were a number of young unmarried damsels present who might be called on to serve as one of the new Queen’s ladies-in-waiting.
Also interested were a number of young childless widows who were looking for a position as an alternative to remaining at home or declaring a vocation for the religious life.
Elliot had, that very morning, also introduced a Council of Advisors, separate from Conclave. Reforms were in the air. The eight men who would make up the Council would swear fealty to the King himself and not to the Dukes from which they held their land.
This was another first and some of the more conservative among the nobility had been heard to murmur against the innovation. However, as all their objections hinged on the complaint that it had never been done before, nobody was taking much notice.
Who would act as Regents for the four under-age Dukes? Who would Elliot give the governance of the Duchy of Sahara to? All the adult royal princes were dead. Elliot had not divulged this information. At the back of the hall a nervous Zilla waited. She caught Robain’s eye and he winked.
The ceremony would begin with the swearing of the fealty oaths.
One by one the Dukes approached the throne, placed their hands between those of their King and swore their oath of allegiance. The first of the boy dukes, young Charles Cocteau, swore his in a clear piping voice and Elliot dropped his first bombshell of the day.
In a voice that carried to the very back of the hall he announced that it would be young Charles’s mother, the Dowager Duchess Tamsin who would guide her son during the years of his minority and would take the Cocteau seat on Conclave.
The hall erupted as Tamsin stepped forward. Never before had a woman sat on Conclave and there were three other boy Dukes. Were the other mothers to be accorded the same accolade?
They were.
Harriet of South Baker, Bethany of Duchesne and Petra of Smith all knelt in their turn before Elliot and swore the oath.
When the eight nobles who had been appointed to the Council of Advisors spoke their own oaths it was an anticlimax, even when Baron John Merriman, who was not descended from one of the ducal houses was declared Chairman.
Elliot had not told the assembled who was to take the Sahara position on Conclave. Was the final seat to be held by another woman? His mother, the Dowager Crown-Princess Susan perhaps?
Old Baron Allstrom grew so agitated at the thought that he had to be led from the hall. He left, shouting imprecations about the end of the world and much to the embarrassment of his family.
From the throne Elliot surveyed the scene. It was time to drop the second bombshell.
He cleared his throat.
“Lords and Ladies, I have given much thought as to the person who will govern the Duchy of Sahara during the difficult years ahead.”
He stood up as his eyes searched the hall. “I have decided that the Duchy of Sahara should have a hereditary duke; a duke of its very own.”
The hall erupted into more excited talk. Who would it be? Which one of the ducal houses would provide the new house? The audience was finding it impossible to contain itself. The hall erupted into a crescendo of noise as they voiced their opinions to one another.
The Seneschal banged on the floor with his staff demanding silence but his request was ignored.
Elliot decided to wait until the noise died down. He did not even try to stem the flow. He had learned this tactic from his father. He had always said that it was much better to let noise die down naturally.
Elliot raised his hand when he decided enough was enough and the hall grew silent. One or two heads of the cadet branches of the ducal houses began to rehearse their words of acceptance.
“I declare that Captain Robain Hallam, my trusted friend, shall, from this day forth be known as and be accorded the respect and due rank of Duke of Sahara as will his children after him. Duke Robain, will you come forward to give and take fealty?”
An embarrassed Robain began to make his way through the crowd. He knelt on the carpet in front of Elliot and bowed his head.
He placed his hands between Elliot’s and said the words he had rehearsed. “I Robain, Duke of Sahara do swear by my honour and my life to serve and obey you and those of your House until death take me.”
“And I, Elliot, King of Murdoch do take you for my liegeman and swear to protect you and yours until death take me. Now rise up My Duke and take your place amongst your equals.”
“I’ll get you later for this Elliot,” whispered Robain as he got up from his knees, “embarrassing me like this. You were not supposed to declare your intention today!”
Elliot chuckled.
Now for the final bombshell.
“Is Zilla ready?” Elliot whispered to Robain as the latter began to back away.
“At the rear of the hall,” he whispered back. “One of your mother’s ladies is with her, a Kellessa Anne. She’ll give Zilla a shove in the right direction.”
Elliot cleared his throat again.
“I have a last announcement to make - the name of my Queen Consort. My choice will surprise many of you. It is a girl I fell in love with a long time ago. Yesterday, this girl accepted my proposal of marriage. Lords and Ladies, please welcome my future bride, Zilla of Argyll!”
With an encouraging push Kellessa Anne Fullarton directed Zilla forward.
“Go on,” she hissed and watched, heart in mouth as Zilla stumbled down the hall and towards the throne-dais.
The aristocracy of Murdoch watched open mouthed as the velvet clad northerner walked forward to claim her king.
The cheering began, resounding through the Great Hall and beyond.
In the royal chapel, the bells began to peal, adding their deep tonal canopies to the tumult.
Zilla
heard and saw nothing. Her eyes were fixed on Elliot. She had ears only for his voice.
Elliot took her trembling hands in his and whispered, “my darling Zilla, at least you’re not wearing your nightclothes!”
* * * * *
Chapter 6
First Month of Winter - Dunthed
Rilla
“What’s so important about this pony?” asked the stable boy as he placed the halter on Lightfoot’s head and fastened the chin-buckle. “He’s nothing special to look at though he’s got a nice nature.”
Lightfoot’s ears twitched forward and his teeth nibbled at the boy’s arm.
“I ain’t got a clue,” answered the head groom of the livery stables. “I only know that he and that little black are to be led to the port where they’re being shipped south. No expense spared neither.”
“Does he belong to that Vada girl then?” persisted the boy, “her that paid you to go get them from the Garda stables? Her that came the other day and took him for a ride?”
“Must be,” the man said, “and less questions young Mak, curiosity killed the cat remember?”
“I suppose we won’t never know,” said Mak, patting Lightfoot, who leant into his caress, eyes half-lidded with enjoyment.
“They’re to be at the dockside at Seventh Bell. You can take them. They won’t be no trouble, they’re both well trained. I’ll go get the loading papers and then you can get off. Get the halter on the little black. Vadeln Rilla and her Lind Zawlei said they’ll meet you at the ship to make sure they’re loaded properly and to say goodbye.”
“I suppose they must have been her ponies once, before she joined the Vada, she’s taking so much trouble,” hazarded Mak. “She looked very smart in her uniform. I think I’d like to join the Vada.”
“You just be content with what you have,” advised the man. “Vada’s a dangerous place. The two of them were in that battle in the south. A battle’s no place for a sensible person.”
“How do you know?”
“She’s wearing the bronze star,” he answered, raising his eyes to the stable roof in exasperation, “don’t you know that all the Vada who were there wear it?”
“I didn’t notice,” confessed Mak.
“Don’t notice much, do you, unless it’s got four hooves, a mane and a tail.”
Mak grinned, not a whit abashed.
Rilla and Zawlei were waiting at the dockside when Mak, riding little black Blunder and leading Lightfoot on a long-rein, arrived at the horse transport which was due to sail that evening with its cargo of horses destined for the horse fair held by the Dukes of Gardiner every winter.
Lightfoot and Blunder would not be attending the fair. Rilla had arranged though her brother-in-law, Matt Urquhart whose merchant house did business with the Ducal House of Gardiner that the two ponies would be met on their arrival and taken by easy stages to Fort.
Lightfoot and Blunder were Rilla’s wedding present for Zilla.
As Mak stopped in front of her, Rilla dismounted Zawlei as Mak slithered down from Blunder’s back. She patted the little pony’s broad nose and approached Lightfoot. He whickered as he recognised her scent although he flicked a nervous ear in Zawlei’s direction. Both ponies were unsettled and looked surprised at their surroundings.
Rilla murmured sweet nothings in Lightfoot’s ear whilst Mak stood beside Blunder giving him soothing pats.
“You be a good boy,” whispered Rilla. “Zilla’s waiting for you.”
He lipped at her tunic and stamped his hoof.
Rilla laughed and planted a farewell kiss on his muzzle. He whickered and lipped at her nose. It was if the little pony knew Rilla was saying her final goodbyes. Tears prickling, she stepped back.
“Off you go,” she said and Mak led Lightfoot and Blunder towards the sailor who had been watching this touching scene with unconcealed impatience. He took Lightfoot’s halter and began to lead him up the low, wide gangway and on to the ship.
* * * * *
Chapter 7
Second Month of Winter - Vadthed
The Guildmaster
Master Annert and the other lai-riding volunteers returned to Stewarton with the Garda, all twenty had survived the short but bitter fight in the sky above the ridge. They all had decided to wait until everyone’s wounds were healed and return home together.
The journey home took a lot longer than the flight south had done. They took it in easy stages. First there had been a bumpy wagon ride from the ridge to Port Duchesne. They waited some days for a ship to become available. When it came it was the Mayflower, the small cargo vessel that had taken Hilla Talansdochter and the other Officer Trainees to the war, but Master Annert did not know this.
They could have waited for one of the passenger ships but the Guildmaster wanted to get home. He was tired of adventuring.
They docked at Port Settlement after a rough crossing, the early winter currents making their passage on the unpleasant side of nasty. Master Annert realised a day out from Port Duchesne that he was not a good sailor and decided to never sail again for as long as he lived.
If I can’t fly, he thought, I’m going nowhere.
Journeyman Jhonas agreed with his Master although Jeannie seemed to revel in the swing and the buck of the little ship as she tacked this way and that, in an attempt to gain headway.
From Port Settlement they went on to Settlement and stayed at the Guildhouse there. It was run by a dour man of sober disposition and no humour who made it obvious that he resented this influx of Guildmaster and companions into his neat and well ordered hall.
To Annert’s great astonishment the man was not interested in what had been happening in the southern continent and did not want to listen to the story Annert was keen to tell him about his adventures.
“He has no drive, no inquiring mind, no ambition,” said Annert to Jhonas that night, resolving to make sure that when he retired this man would not be elected in his place.
The twenty left Settlement as soon as they possibly could.
They took the direct route to Stewarton although Annert did consider taking the Southern Trade Route but it would have taken him through Dunetown and he would have felt duty bound to stop by and speak to Tala Talansdocher’s parents.
He found it hard to accept that she would not be waiting for him at Stewarton. He was proud, so very proud of her but that did not make the ache of her loss any easier to bear. She had had so much talent and now it was gone forever.
One day he would visit but not yet.
Annert, Jhonas and Jeannie arrived home one cold evening, shivering wet and desperate to get to a warm fire and to eat one of Miggi’s kura hotpots, made only as she knew how.
Annert was greeted by his tearful maid who after she had made sure he was actually here and in one piece began to berate him in a loud voice about his foolishness on going to the southern continent, saying that he should have known better.
Annert accepted her scolding with indulgent meekness and allowed himself to be led in the direction of a hot bath and supper in bed much like a child of ten.
“Now we can get back to normal,” said Jhonas with satisfaction as he watched Annert follow Miggi out of the room.
“Normal?” Jeannie bestowed on him an arch look, one eyebrow raised in enquiry and challenge. “Depends what you consider normal.”
Jhonas smiled at her.
“Care to join me for a spot of supper before you go home?” he asked, “Miggi has left some out for us.”
Jeannie smiled triumphantly as she allowed him to lead her into the solar.
* * * * *
Chapter 8
Third Month of Winter – Lokthed
Zilla, Elliot, Robain and Rilla
“You look beautiful,” breathed Rilla, “no wonder Elliot fell for you.”
“The feelings are mutual I can assure you,” Zilla responded with a self-conscious laugh as she looked at herself in the mirror, twisting this way and that, making sure her dress was exactly right
.
The two sisters were alone. Zilla’s lady-in-waiting, had gone to quell what could only be described as a minor riot in the room where the bridesmaids were getting ready. Rilla and Zilla could hear her scolding voice.
“The white is perfect,” added Rilla, “and these riverseed pearls. They must be worth a small fortune.”
“They are. I’ve been told that it’s the first time a royal bride had worn anything other than purple but it’s what I wanted and Elliot backed me up.”
The white silk dress was an exquisite creation. The lace veil was also white, thin and delicate, unadorned and fixed to Zilla’s blond curls with pearl-studded pins. Zilla had refused the wear the traditional (ugly) tiara. She had also insisted that instead of carrying to the altar the jewel encrusted missal, also traditional, that she walk down the aisle with a bouquet of winter flowers.
She had quite decided ideas about how things should be and Elliot had backed her up over each and every one of the changes she was promulgating with barely concealed delight.
The younger woman at Court had hailed each innovation with a similar joy. The most obvious was in attire. The stiff, formal, constricting female dresses were giving way to a simpler style, less confining and far more comfortable.
The men were coping with the changes, some better than others. There was very little they could do to stop it except by expressing disapproval. Women were beginning to be paid attention to. Four were holding down seats on Conclave and they were proving to be just as competent, more so in some cases, as their male counterparts.
As Duchess Tamsin Cocteau had said on more than one occasion of late, “my good man, don’t you see? A Kingdom is very much like running a home, it is only bigger. Now stop meandering about things that don’t really matter and do let us get on.”