Henry made a mental note to speak to the Royal Physician himself, make it clear that if word were to leak out, the Royal Physician would find himself in need of medical treatment.
“And now, to business,” said Mary. “I want you to make preparations for me to name Elinor as my successor.”
Henry had known this command was coming, and he had been dreading it. Two people stood in line for the succession to the Freyan throne—three counting Prince Thomas Stanford (which Henry most certainly did not). One was King Godfrey’s bastard son, Hugh, Earl of Montfort, and the queen’s sister, Elinor.
Before he could say anything, Mary raised her hand in a peremptory gesture to stop him.
“I already know what you are going to say, Henry. I have given you a command and I expect you to obey.”
“With all due respect, ma’am, I must strongly urge you to reconsider this course of action,” said Henry.
The queen narrowed her eyes, tightened her lips, and thrust her jaw forward, reminding Henry strongly of one of her own griffins. Mary would have dug her talons into the carpet if such a thing were possible.
Henry attempted to mollify her. “All I ask is that Your Majesty take time to reflect upon such a drastic course of action. Your subjects will not accept your sister as their monarch. Elinor lives in Rosia and is married to a Rosian. She is a devout follower of the Church of the Breath and has stated publicly that she would like to see Freya return to the true religion.”
“Meaning she would clean up the Freyan Church,” Mary snapped. “Knock a few sanctimonious heads together. It would be all the better for it!”
Since Henry’s father-in-law was Bishop of the Freyan Church of the Reformation and therefore one of those “sanctimonious heads,” he had to bite his tongue.
“I suppose you would have us name that bastard half brother of ours, Hugh,” Mary added, her lip curling in disdain. “He is a buffoon. You know that.”
Her father, King Godfrey, had openly conducted a scandalous affair with a married woman, Lady Honoria. The union had produced two illegitimate sons. Godfrey had acknowledged both of them, given them money and titles and paid them far more attention than he had ever given his two legitimate daughters.
He had even wanted to name Hugh as his heir. Henry had feared this rash move could have sparked a civil war, for Mary had powerful nobles on her side. He had finally convinced Godfrey to permit Mary to inherit the throne. He had never thought he would have to fight such a battle all over again and, yet, here he was.
“Hugh is a member of the Church of the Reformation; his brother is the bishop,” said Henry. “Hugh is known to the members of the House of Nobles, and while most of them do not like him, they do not actively dislike him—which would be the case with Elinor. May I speak freely, ma’am?”
“For God’s sake, when do you ever do anything else!” the queen snapped, glowering.
“Your sister, Elinor, left Freya twenty years ago to pursue her religious beliefs. The two of you have not met since. You have written back and forth, since the war, but in truth you know very little about her.”
“And you do, I suppose,” Mary said.
“It is my business to know, Your Majesty,” said Henry.
The queen glared at him, but said nothing, aware he was right. When she had begun dropping hints that she would like to name her sister as her heir, Henry had planted a trusted agent in Elinor’s household to intercept her letters, eavesdrop on her private conversations, and listen to the gossip of the servants’ hall.
The result was that Henry knew Elinor to be as stubborn as her sister, while lacking Mary’s keen intellect. He also knew she had the same streak of cold, callous cruelty that had been her father, Godfrey’s, worst fault.
“Would you like to hear what I have found out, ma’am?” Henry asked, and steeled himself, knowing the ensuing conversation would be distinctly unpleasant.
Mary fixed him with a glittering gaze. Henry met her gaze and held it. Neither intended to give way.
At length the queen sighed and wearily passed her hand over her forehead. She was looking pale and wan, despite the restorative effects of the brandy.
“Go home to your family, Henry. You have had a rotten morning. I will take your objections under advisement.”
Henry had won, but he took little joy in the victory. The queen he knew would never have quit the field after only a few thrusts and parries. He was seeing the effects of the illness upon her.
He rose to his feet, but he did not immediately leave. Walking over to the desk, he gently took hold of the queen’s hand and pressed it warmly.
Mary smiled at him and squeezed his hand in turn.
“Tell my niece and the children to come visit,” she said.
Henry promised he would, and took his leave. Looking back, he saw the queen had risen and gone to the window, where she stood gazing out, pressing one hand over her abdomen and grimacing in pain.
FIFTEEN
Henry needed a moment to himself before facing other people, and he entered the empty Council Chamber to spend a few moments in somber reflection. His country was facing a crisis, but he was not thinking about that. He was remembering the trials he and Mary had faced together, from the early days when he had fought for her to become queen to the more recent tragic death of her son and heir, and her little grandson.
The worst trial lay before them. Henry recalled Godfrey’s suffering near the close of his life. No healing potions, magical or otherwise, had been able to relieve the terrible pain. He had begged them to kill him at the end. Henry remembered and shuddered.
Once he had composed himself, he went below stairs to the servants’ quarters to check on Baxter. He found him in the kitchen, the center of attention. The physician’s assistant was dressing his wounds with sticking plaster and bandages as Baxter related his adventure to the cook, two footmen, and four maidservants, all of whom were vociferous in their outrage, saying they really did not know what the world was coming to.
Baxter rose when he saw Henry, assured him he was fine, and asked anxiously about the horses. Henry told him to drive the carriage home, cautioning him to say nothing of the incident to Lady Ann or any member of the household staff. Should Lady Ann ask about the damage to the carriage, he was to say they had collided with a milk wagon.
Henry went to check on the horses, who had been taken to the palace stables. He was glad to find neither had been seriously injured and he asked the stable hands to be certain to give Fred extra oats as a reward for his valor. He then requested the loan of a horse, which was immediately granted, and left the palace by the north gate.
Henry did not return home. Love gave his wife the skills of the world’s greatest detective, and she would know the moment she saw his face that he had not been in an accident with a milk wagon. She would be upset, and he was not equal to facing her questions, no matter how fond. He kept rooms at the Naval Club and he went there to dress in fresh clothes and to send a note home saying that he would be dining with Simon.
He then summoned a wyvern-drawn cab and directed the driver to the home of the Royal Physician. He spoke to the doctor, who confirmed the diagnosis.
“I have known about her affliction for some time, my lord,” said the physician. “We tried various treatments, but none of them worked. She asked me to tell no one until the time came when we had exhausted all our options. She has months, perhaps weeks, to live. We will do our best to make her comfortable.”
Henry impressed upon the doctor the need for secrecy, then returned to the carriage and ordered it to convey him to Welkinstead, the floating house that belonged to his friend Simon Yates.
The house had been built by an eccentric duchess and was considered one of the wonders of Freya. A scientist, gifted crafter, and collector, the wealthy duchess had caused the large mansion to be freed from its place on the ground, saying she was bored with looking at the same view out her windows. She had not wanted the inconvenience of moving to a different hou
se and had decided therefore to move the house instead.
The duchess had equipped her mansion with lift tanks and airscrews and now Welkinstead floated above the capital of Haever, not sailing, but “drifting with panache” as the duchess termed it. She had willed the house to Simon at her death and he was now the resident, along with his manservant, Mr. Albright.
Simon had small interest in the view from his windows. Absorbed in his work, he allowed the house to float at will and thus Henry always had to track down Welkinstead whenever he wanted to visit.
He found the house near his own neighborhood and hoped little Hal would be able to see it. Henry had once taken his son for a visit and Hal had been enchanted, to the point that his father had spent several days trying to explain to Hal why they could not uproot their own house and cause it to fly.
The taciturn Mr. Albright greeted Henry at the door and silently ushered him inside. The manservant had no need to tell Henry where to find Simon, for he was always in one place and that was his office, where he and Mr. Albright lived in a perpetual state of disorder and confusion, which never appeared to bother either of them, although it could be disconcerting and sometimes dangerous for visitors.
The duchess had traveled the world over and had filled every room with rare and curious, strange and outlandish mementos of her trips. Welkinstead was therefore more like a museum than a home, although not nearly so organized.
Since the house was always on the move, drifting through the Breath, it would hit the occasional air pocket or a gust of wind would catch it or a storm shake it, causing the innumberable objects found in every room of the house to slide across the floor, tumble off side tables, or fall from the walls or ceiling. Henry often felt that reaching Simon’s office, which was on the second floor, was akin to crossing a field of battle while under enemy fire.
This day nothing struck him, but he did see the remnants of a small crystal chandelier lying on the floor.
He found his friend seated in his wheeled chair at his desk, nearly lost behind stacks of documents, letters, and newspapers that came to him from Freya’s agents all over the world. The only other furniture besides the desk and several chairs were the wooden and brass-trimmed filing cabinets that held even more letters, documents, and newspapers, all neatly categorized in a system only Simon and Mr. Albright knew.
Henry had called Simon Yates “Freya’s secret weapon.” As Welkinstead floated over Haever, Simon could be said to float over the world, gazing down on its people from the confines of his chair. He read their letters, journals, and newspapers, put together this fact and that, and was able to solve mysteries, unravel plots, and ferret out secrets.
As Henry entered, he found his friend perusing a document with a magnifying glass. Simon flicked a brief, preoccupied glance at Henry and went back to his work. He then turned his head to regard his friend more intently and dropped the document onto the table.
“What happened to you?” Simon asked.
“I was set upon by a mob outside the palace gates,” said Henry. “I have only a few grazes.”
“An unsettling experience, no doubt,” said Simon. “But I wasn’t referring to superficial injuries. Something far more upsetting has occurred that has shaken you to the depths of your being.”
Henry gave a faint smile and sat down in a chair. He paused to master his voice, then said steadily, “Her Majesty is dying. She has a tumor.”
“Are you certain?” Simon asked sharply. “Doctors have been known to make mistakes.”
“I spoke to the Royal Physician,” said Henry. “The diagnosis is not in doubt. There is a malignant growth in her abdomen.”
“Poor woman,” said Simon. “Who else knows?”
“The Royal Physician swears to me that he has told no one,” said Henry. “We must keep this secret!”
Simon nodded his agreement.
Henry sighed. Rising to his feet, he began to pace about restlessly, at least as far as he could go without bumping into a file cabinet.
“Her Majesty asked me to start the process to name her sister, Elinor, as her heir. I cannot do it, Simon. I will resign first.”
“What choice do you have, Henry? The queen will never agree to name Hugh. She hates him with a passion.”
“And thus we are left in a stalemate,” said Henry, brooding. “The House of Nobles, the Freyan Church, and most of the populace will never accept Elinor. Her Majesty will not accept Hugh.”
“You do realize there is a third alternative—” Simon began.
“Out of the question,” Henry snapped.
Simon continued as though he had not heard. “Prince Thomas Stanford has a far better claim to the throne than either Elinor or Hugh.”
“Stanford would plunge us into a civil war that would destroy our country,” said Henry. “To say nothing of the fact that you and I would be finished, along with Alan and Randolph. We would face ruin, exile, or worse. And we would not be alone. The Pretender and his Faithful have been waiting a hundred and fifty years to settle old scores, seize back the property they lost during the reign of James I. Meanwhile, the Rosians will happily watch us destroy ourselves then swoop in to feast upon the carcass.”
“You make it sound as though Thomas was very, very old,” said Simon. “One hundred and fifty. Whereas I believe the prince is nearer twenty-five.”
“You know what I mean!” said Henry testily.
Simon smiled. “So what are you going to do?”
“I don’t know,” said Henry. “I came to consult with you. I was thinking I—”
He was interrupted by the appearance of Mr. Albright, who silently handed Simon a card.
“Your reporter friend, Miss Amelia Nettleship, is here,” said Simon. He turned over the card, read on the back. “She requests an urgent audience with you.”
“How the devil did she know I was here?” Henry asked.
“She probably called at your home. I assume you sent word to your wife,” said Simon. “Send her up, Albright.”
Albright disappeared and moments later they heard Amelia’s quick, firm footsteps on the stairs.
Henry regarded her with amazement as she entered. Amelia was always neatly dressed in a severely tailored wool suit jacket—nipped in at the waist—and skirt of matching fabric, white blouse, and petticoat. She wore her hair pulled back in a neat bun, topped with a plain porkpie hat.
Today her clothes were wrinkled, her hat askew, her hair blown about her face.
“Forgive my rumpled appearance, my lord,” she said, coming forward to shake hands. “I flew back from the Aligoes by griffin. Not a very ladylike mode of travel, as I am well aware, but I find griffin flight quite exhilarating. And in this instance, I deemed haste a necessity.”
Amelia circled around the desk to shake hands with Simon. Mr. Albright brought up a chair and placed it next to Henry. Amelia sat down and took a moment to catch her breath, straighten her hat, and tuck in her hairpins.
“You left word you were traveling to the Aligoes to try to find out news about Captain Kate,” Henry said. “Are the rumors we heard true? Have the Rosians hanged her?”
“Kate is safe, my lord, at least for the moment,” said Amelia. “She managed to escape from prison. The Rosians are furious, as you might imagine, and are turning the Aligoes upside down in an effort to find her. Kate can take care of herself, however. That is not what brought me.”
“Then what, Miss Amelia?” Henry asked curiously.
“I have an urgent message to you from Mr. Sloan.”
“Mr. Sloan!” Henry repeated, concerned. “I have been expecting his return. Has something happened?”
“In a manner of speaking, my lord. I went to Freeport to find out about Kate, where I visited a tavern called the Perky Parrot. Imagine my astonishment when I ran into Mr. Sloan.”
Simon and Henry exchanged grim glances.
“Mr. Sloan was there on a confidential assignment, Miss Amelia—” Henry began.
“Yes, yes, of
course,” said Amelia impatiently, chafing at the interruption. Her bobby pins were falling out and she paused a moment to try to tuck them back. “Mr. Sloan pretended not to know me and I knew something was wrong. We arranged a clandestine meeting and he gave me this message to give to you. He has found Isaiah Crawford—”
“Crawford! The man who murdered Lady Odila?” Simon said sharply.
“The very same. Crawford is now going by the name of Jonathan Smythe. While he was in Freeport he murdered the criminal Greenstreet, and his boss, the dragon Coreg—”
“Our witnesses!” Henry said to Simon. “We should have foreseen that Crawford would take care to eliminate them. I trust Mr. Sloan was able to gather proof—”
Amelia fixed Henry with a reproving gaze. “I know you have questions, my lord. If you will allow me to finish without interruption, I will be happy to answer them.”
“Forgive me, Miss Amelia,” said Henry. “Please proceed.”
“Mr. Sloan said to tell you that this Smythe is now the commander of the army of His Highness, Prince Thomas Stanford—”
“Aha! I knew it!” Henry exclaimed with a triumphant glance at Simon.
Amelia glared at him and he added meekly, “I do beg your pardon, ma’am. I will henceforth sit in silence. You have my word.”
Amelia pursed her lips, then continued. “Mr. Sloan infers from certain words that Crawford/Smythe let drop that he is in contact with members of the Faithful.”
Henry opened his mouth and, catching Amelia’s eye, immediately shut it.
“It seems that Mr. Sloan and Smythe/Crawford served together in the marines years ago. The colonel has been looking for someone to act as second-in-command and invited Mr. Sloan to take the post. Mr. Sloan has accepted. He is now traveling to Bheldem in company with Smythe to join the army of Prince Tom.”
Henry stared in blank astonishment, unable to speak.
Amelia regarded him with concern. “I know this must come as a shock to you, my lord.”
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