Invocation

by Nicole Warner

  “This is not funny!”

  He strode over to the chaise lounge where I sat and knelt, calming my fluttering hands. “Forgive me. My sense of humour is a little on the wicked side. I promise you, my dear Queen Anne, I’ll get to the bottom of it. One way or another.”

  “Please do.” I took in a deep breath and tried to smile. “I would appreciate any information you can find.” With a low bow he left, reiterating his commitment.

  The days that followed were uncomfortable: the courtiers moved by neither civility nor respect into forgiveness. Shunned in every way, I sat in a corner of the rose garden by a small pond, watching shiny fish dart and dash in the murky depths. Dead leaves, dried to crispness by the changing season, floated on the surface. Smaller fish, well hidden by the debris, made swift forays above, picking off insects that skimmed across the surface of the water. To draw out the larger ones, I sprinkled tiny crumbs. Eager for such different fare, those fishy mouths opened and closed, swallowing my gift before they sank below.

  The day perfectly suited my mood, both grey and cold. A bitter breeze blew from the mountains to the north. There, too distant to see, snow fell, colouring the faraway peaks white.

  My ladies in waiting sat on another bench, as far from me as they dared go, gossiping and giggling. Sometimes they glanced my way, only to break off with spiteful smiles. Georgette, the one person I believed my ally, was also aloof, increasing my loneliness and isolation.

  Warren found me, his arrival breaking through my dejection. In low tones, he imparted that Roache was the individual responsible for the disastrous meal. Mistress Towers, dismissed for her role in the banquet and forced to rely on the hospitality of her extended family, was more than happy to confirm it.

  “She said the chief minister came into the kitchen and ordered her to add an extra portion of chilli. Over four times the normal amount.”

  “Why?”

  Warren shrugged. “I’d hazard a guess it’s because you confronted him when you discovered those chambermaids spying on you. Derwent Roache isn’t the kind of man to let go of a grudge.” He snorted his disgust. “Not even when his queen is the one he’s up against. You’ve made an enemy of him.”

  Tiredly, I corrected him, “He was already an enemy. Roache declared it the moment he spied on me.”

  “And what of the husband who pulls his strings?”

  There was no good answer to that, nor any desire to verbalise what I feared was the truth. “I cannot allow Derwent Roache to get away with this.”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “I am not sure. Any suggestions?”

  Deep in thought, Warren tapped his lips. “It will have to be subtle and not easily traced back to you.” He gave a smile, that gleeful one I was coming to know so well. “Leave it with me.” He hesitated, those changeable grey eyes of his almost blue with information he was clearly reluctant to share.

  “There is more?”

  “Not about Roache. It’s Fern Hathen. King Edmund has dismissed her from his bed and court. You’ll not be hearing from her again.”

  “That’s good news, surely?”

  “Perhaps.”

  His concern was well warranted. The next four nights I was called to attend Edmund until I was left feeling broken. His anger endured and he was not gentle. I spent the dark hours after these encounters not exploring the hidden passages with Warren, but in my garden, legs tucked up under my nightdress and wrapped by trembling arms. The wooden beads of Eadred’s tria, a cherished lifeline, polished ever further under my fingers so many times did I pray over them.

  The pain in my stomach returned. It intruded into my life and daily routine, striking both day and night, twisting my insides. They called the physician when my monthly discomfort came, heavier than anything I or Adele had known. Fear lurked behind her every worried touch upon my brow. The physician was at a loss, repeating his belief that it should all pass with my first child. He replenished the feverfew and left, muttering something about bringing in leeches if my problems should continue.

  Amongst all of this, Eadred’s response was delivered, passed from one person to the next, until Adele stood at the end of my bed, holding the letter in her hand, confusion clouding her expression.

  Dearest Anais, I don’t pretend to comprehend any of it; what you have learnt or what it means. I’m doing my best to find out. I’ll be in touch when I know more. Until my last breath, Eadred

  Of my request he return to Sidem, he gave no response.

  I squeezed my eyes shut, emotions plummeting to an unfamiliar level of despair. Tears escaped and I wiped them away fiercely, angry at such weakness. I was better than this. To reinforce my resolve, I said out loud, “I am strong.” A deep breath and lift of my chin. “No good is achieved by dwelling on unhappy thoughts.”

  I hobbled across the floor of my bedchamber and threw the paper into the flames. A cramp uncoiled with painful intensity, releasing something immense. Warmth saturated my legs. Breathless and dizzy, cloudy blackness clawed consciousness aside with greedy, consuming fingers. Only a stumbling retreat saved me from falling into the fire when I fainted.

  Adele found me and called for Warren, though I had asked he stay away during this time. He carried me to the bed, my state not bothering him one bit. “This won’t do at all,” he admonished. “I didn’t choose you as my patron just for you to bleed to death on me.”

  When he saw my tired smile he frowned, not understanding the reason, but I had seen his worry and concern. He stayed to help Adele after that, sending for more servants to assist with cleaning bedding and clothes, though none came near my bedchamber. My privacy he guarded as ardently as Adele always did.

  My health returned and with it the sun shone upon my mood, the fog of sadness and pain lifting for a time.

  Willem sent word of his happy union, describing the wedding and guests in such wonderful detail I almost imagined I had been there with him. A letter from Vivica was enclosed and I read it eagerly, wanting to know and love her as my brother did. In my reply, I expressed joy for their happiness and asked about our papa.

  My response was only half written when Edmund called me to the throne room. Warren, answering my summons, departed quickly to find out why.

  It was an unusual request. In all the months of our marriage, I had only been in the throne room twice. Both times I sat to the left of him upon the smaller throne of royal blue velvet, delicate crown resting on my head, and contributed nothing to the petitions made. Roache was the one who whispered advice to the King, giving judgement as assuredly as the man he followed.

  From the mirror of the dressing table, my image stared back at me, green eyes troubled. I smoothed the frown that drew my brows together, watching as Adele added more colour to my cheeks. She placed the thin circlet of gold on my hair just as a knock sounded at the door. I realised I could wait for Warren no longer.

  Accompanied by two King’s Guards, I walked through the gallery, entering the throne room, and slipped behind the four large pillars on the left side of the chamber, heading towards the raised dais.

  I took the smaller throne beside Edmund, watching as the nobles and courtiers filed in past the fine tapestries of beautiful forest, river and mountain scenes. They hung on the walls and from the highest points of eight pillars that lined the vast hall.

  Behind the dais, the arched wall gave wide and glorious glimpses of the garden and row of hedges through four tall windows of cut crystal. Golden candelabras along the sides added to the ambient light, reflecting off of polished white tiles on the floor and the ornate double doors open at the end of the long room.

  “Are you well?” Edmund inquired as we waited. He shifted in his seat to take in my appearance. His crown, a heavier affair of gold and precious jewels, was placed meticulously on his black wig. When he wore it, he always moved his head with a certain careful precision, as if w
orried the whole thing would fall off.

  “I am, Sire.”

  “The physician helped?”

  “Yes, he did.” Satisfied, he nodded and returned his attention to the gathering nobility.

  I wanted to ask why I was there but then concluded it was most likely only for show. I could expect a few tedious hours of listening to petitions that I would have no input in resolving.

  Warren sidled into view, his expression more alarmed than I had ever seen, and waved me over. I began to stand, but Edmund grabbed my wrist. “Where are you going?”

  I subsided with a frustrated sigh. “Nowhere, Your Majesty.”

  “I’ve told you to call me Edmund.”

  “Yes, Sire.”

  Edmund did not rise to my minor baiting, only frowning in mild displeasure. Though surprised by his lack of reaction, my greater attention fell on Warren. When he saw I could not leave, he pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at his eyes. Sad news, then. He put a palm over his heart and bowed gravely, grey gaze not leaving mine.

  Shock, followed by burgeoning grief, moved beneath my frozen exterior.

  Gritty eyed, I watched with the others as a Chartel soldat principe strode past the courtiers to stand before the dais. He carried a scroll in his hand, holding it out as he bent in a deep bow. “I carry news of Chartelyr.”

  Edmund gave a quick nod for the man to continue. The guard swept his black half cape further back and unrolled the parchment to read in accented Tellen, “I bear grave tidings of loss. King Stefan of Chartelyr, father to Queen Anais of Tellenel, has died of natural causes this past week. His eldest son, King Willem, with his wife, Queen Vivica, in accordance with custom, has succeeded his beloved parent and taken on the mantle of ruler of Chartelyr. Long live King Willem.”

  In Chartelyr his final phrase would have been repeated with vigour. Here it was met with a deafening silence.

  Edmund waited for me to say something, but speech was impossible. “Our condolences for the loss of Queen Anne’s father. And our congratulations to King Willem. We share our hopes for a successful transition …” He stopped speaking, body swinging towards mine, his eyes startled.

  A keening sound built, reverberating around the throne room. It was only when I saw Edmund’s appalled frown that I began to understand I caused it.

  My papa was dead.

  Loss crashed over me. Tears spilled down my cheeks, cries coming from my throat in waves of hollow anguish. I could not bear it. A world without my papa.

  First Mama, now Papa, gone. Orphaned. Alone.

  Tears turned to sobs. Edmund, out of pity or embarrassment, half carried me from the dais, an arm clutched across my shoulders. Lost utterly to grief, I could not see what happened in the throne room, how anyone else reacted.

  “I’ll take her,” Warren said.

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m her seneschal, Your Majesty.”

  Transferred into arms gentler with shared sorrow, I shuffled beside Warren until he brought me to the sanctuary of my apartment. There I unleashed all the misery inside until my face felt puffed up and sore, my voice choked into nasal whimpers.

  Images of Papa, his big hands and craggy features, flooded from my most cherished memories. The way he used to lift me on his shoulders and carry me around the palace in Laidon. Our rough and tumble upbringing, borne from his desire to raise us himself, but lacking that feminine touch only our mama could truly provide.

  The first time he saw me ride a horse, the pride on his face overriding his displeasure at yet another rule broken. His laughter when he discovered me hiding under his desk, wanting to be near his warmth but trying not to interrupt his great duty of ruling the country. His hugs late at night when I had a frightening dream. The way he soothed me back to sleep, hands so large they cradled my head with his palm alone. The gradual change as his hair became whiter over the years until I could remember no season when he did not look like that. His patience with my younger brother, his joy in our achievements, and his censure when we did not meet expectations.

  I did not get to visit him before the end. Not to hold his hand, tell him I loved him one last time. To kiss his cheek, feel my fingers folded once more in his, tiny in comparison.

  Never again would I see his beloved smile.

  The tears returned and I wondered how it was possible there were any left. The endurance my papa had demanded of me all my life disappeared, swamped by self-pity. For many more hours, I was inconsolable.

  Warren and Adele quietly discussed something in the corner of my bedchamber. When they deemed my emotions had run their course, they told me the soldat principe had not only come bearing the news of Papa, but that he also carried a letter.

  I recognised the seal, my expression telling them I needed privacy.

  His writing was shakier than I was used to, but the lines of his letters were yet bold.

  My darling Anais, how proud I am of the woman you have become. Blessed was I to have as beautiful and kind a daughter as you. I long to see you, but it is not to be, my time on this earth is ending and, even if you were on your way, I fear it would be too late. Do not be sad. I have had a good life. I go now to join your beloved mama, only sorry to be parted from you and your brothers. There is one more thing to say, something I should have said before you left for Tellenel. Forgive me. All my love, Papa

  I carried his letter to the garden on the roof and sat on a stone bench. Wrung out emotionally, shielded by numbing calm, I remained there until the sun disappeared below the horizon and distant lights came out one by one. I studied the stars, eyes tracing over patterns both imagined and true. Only the beating of my heart, soft inhale and exhale of breath, evidence yet of my existence. A breeze, cold and insistent, set the leaves to rustling, but it could not touch me.

  Curled on the bench, my hands pillowed beneath my head, I fell asleep. I dreamt of the moment I had kissed Eadred, and then of his final embrace, the goodbye we had both been dreading. Tears dripped onto the stone with a steady patter. My first loss, though I little knew it. So many more were still to come.

  In the days that followed, the courtiers carried on as if nothing had happened. They ignored my grief, as if it were some spectre they were too scared to comment on. Edmund intruded into my mourning, insisting I attend an afternoon of games in the velvet stateroom. I took one look at everyone drinking and laughing and left as quickly as I could.

  He found me soon after, hiding alone in the Queen’s drawing room next door and working listlessly on some needlepoint. “Why did you leave? Some revelry will do you good and may help take your mind off things.”

  His dismissiveness was an insult to my grief. I stood, resolute and unwilling to play the part of the obedient wife any longer. “I want to go home.”

  “This is your home.”

  “I need to be with Willem and Rene.”

  “No. Your place is here now, Anne.”

  His callous answer brought fresh tears to my eyes, ones I blinked away, doing my best to hide how much it hurt. “My father is not even cold in the ground and you all act as if nothing has happened.”

  “He’s not their king. The people of Chartelyr shall grieve. Why should we?”

  Indignation was the safer emotion, and I let it flare within me. “Because he was my papa! Because you are my husband and should, at the very least, have some small sympathy for my loss!”

  Now he advanced, light brown eyes gleaming with a growing anger. “You want to know about loss? I too have lost my father! All the crying in the world never did me an ounce of good!”

  “Not everyone is as cold and selfish as you!”

  His fist flashed out, quick and unexpected. I fell to the ground, crashing into the low table. Pain flared before settling into a throbbing ache in my jaw, spreading to teeth and chin. Time slowed, the sob in my throat stifled as I drew in shuddering breath
s.

  A vase tottered in swooshing shakes from one side to the next. The force of that pendulum swing became too irresistible. It toppled over, spilling flowers across the wooden surface. Water seeped along the grains and pits of the wood, then flowed in trickling waves onto the rug. The first soft splashes turned to moist pattering as the fibres soaked up the liquid.

  My hand, splayed on the table where it had slapped down to counter my fall, curled into a fist. The moisture spread further, creeping towards the skirts of my dress and finding new purchase. From there it reached the skin of my knee, the touch of those damp tendrils bringing with it a cold dose of sensibility.

  Not knowing what else to do, I let him help me stand. Edmund stroked the side of my jaw. Even that small pressure hurt. His fingers tucked a stray curl behind my ear, a calculated contriteness in his gaze. “You mustn’t provoke me, Anne. It doesn’t become you.”

  “Forgive me, Sire.” At his wounded expression, I amended it to, “Forgive me, Edmund. I spoke out of turn.”

  My vision narrowed in on the hairs of his moustache and pointy beard, every black strand. Then over the pores on his skin, across nose and cheeks, the yellow flecks in his eyes becoming more pronounced as he shifted closer. I forced myself to stay still as he kissed my jaw and moved his lips to hover over mine. When I did nothing, he closed the gap.

  My response came from a place of pure self-preservation.

  He broke off the kiss. “Very good. Now come join us. We’ve just started a game of langtrillo, I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.”

  “I would rather not.” I touched where he had struck, trying not to wince. “My servant will see to this. If it pleases you.”

  He was disappointed with the response, that was clear enough, but was quick to concede to the wisdom of my request. “As you wish.”

  When he left, I gave in to the shaking.

  It was impossible to stay then. I fled to the apartment where Adele placed a cold cloth against my cheek, expression tender with concern. When her fussing became too great, I brushed her aside, saying I needed rest.