Homage and Honour (16 page)

“Beth can do
that; off you go.”

Anne went on
the word.

For a while, as
Beth began to darn a large hole in one of her host’s socks, old
woman and girl sat in silence.

“How do you
like the Vada?” asked Jessica Robson.

Beth’s answer
was a cautious one, “it’s all right.”

“Different from
what you knew before.”

Beth looked
surprised.

“Jess wrote to
us, but you know that, told us you were from the Southern
Continent, that you’d run away from an arranged marriage.”

“That’s
true.”

“I don’t know
much about the Kingdom of Murdoch but I do have some brains
remaining to me. An arranged marriage must mean that your family
has a certain amount of standing.”

“Yes, that’s
true too. Susa Lynsey says that I’ve not to talk about it though. I
didn’t want to marry the man chosen for me, so I ran.”

“Tell me.”

Beth did and of
her difficulties since then.

“It’s all so
different. I’m all at sixes and sevens, it’s as if I’m two persons.
It’s hard to put behind me how I lived before and to change just
like that and become a cadet. I want to fit in but can’t.”

“You’re not the
first,” mused Jessica Robson, half to herself.

“First of
what?”

“Not the first
noble’s daughter to run north away from a displeasing marriage
arrangement.”

“Do you know
someone else who did?" asked a surprised Beth.

“Yes but it was
a very long time ago and I don’t know if you’d be interested.”

“Oh I would,”
breathed Beth, “please tell me.”

“She didn’t
join the Vada; she became a farmer’s wife. Some of her children and
grandchildren did become vadeln-paired though.”

“It was
different for her then,” said Beth, sounding disappointed.

“Different but
yet the same,” insisted Granny Robson, pointing an admonitory
finger at Beth. “She still had to learn how to put her previous
life’s training (which I believe was not unlike yours) and
attitudes behind her. Shall I tell you a bit about her?”

“Yes please,”
answered Beth, tying off the wool of her first darn and reaching
into the mending basket for another ill-used sock. So engrossed did
Beth find herself in the story Jessica Robson told her, that she
quite forgot to set the kettles on the stove to fill the vat of
water that Anne said they would need for baths for the lichen
gatherers. Quite a lot of Anne’s hated darning was done though,
much to her gratification and Beth, as she listened to Jessica
Robson, began to realise that she probably could settle into her
new life if she worked at it a little more.

The old woman’s
earliest years had been spent in north-western Argyll so she
understood some of what Beth was experiencing in being thrust into
a new culture. Even more in Vadath than in Argyll, was this culture
one where women were considered to be equal to men and were
accepted as such without argument.

“For almost the
first time in your life Beth, you will be required to think for
yourself, you are responsible for your own actions and will be
expected to look after yourself in all things. It is bound to be
difficult for you at first, but you are of strong character, you
wouldn’t have attracted Xei to you else. You have courage; Xei
sensed it. The trainers and other cadets, they help do they
not?”

“On yes,” was
Beth’s fervent reply, “especially Jess, Hannah and Tana. I don’t
know how I’d do without them.”

“You’d manage
well enough I expect,” old Jessica Robson said briskly, “from what
you’ve told me, you are trying to do your best, at least now if not
at the beginning and, by the end of the training year, you’ll be as
good as most of them. You’ll look back at this time and laugh at
the girl you were. You must remind Jess to bring you back to see us
so I can see for myself. I don’t travel much any more.”

Jessica’s eyes
grew distant as she remembered the days when she was young, married
to Jess’s grandfather, a soldier of the Fourteenth Ryzck and the
trips they had taken into the countryside. That was before he and
his Lind had died, a bare tenday before Jess’s mother Anne’s
seventh birthday. She continued, her voice soft and restful.
“Jessica has known from a very young age that the Vada was her
future. Tana too has always wished to be a fighter although I’m
sure she never expected that she would vadeln-pair and serve in the
Vada. You however, your upbringing has not fitted you adequately
for the tasks ahead, but trust me, you will get there.”

“I feel
awkward,” confessed Beth, “within myself. I have been brought up so
differently.”

“Oh I know what
you are going to say, women are nobodies and are expected to marry,
bear children, obey their husbands and not to think for themselves
at all. I know, but you weren’t happy with that life were you?”

Beth shook her
head.

“If you had
truly wished for it you wouldn’t have run away. That took courage
and perseverance, that same courage and perseverance that will take
you through your training.”

By the end of
the story Beth understood what the old lady was trying to explain
and instead of being the reticent and awkward one amongst the
quartet, she began to assert herself more. By the end of the first
year’s training she was just as proficient with a sword as Hannah,
if not as good as the indomitable Tana or even Jess.

She would pass
out of the first year with creditable scorings and would receive
her second year stripe standing at attention alongside her three
friends.

By then though,
much would have happened. She would never be able to ride with
pride back to the Crawford farm and show Granny Robson the proof of
the success of her endeavours.

* * * * *

Crisis (1)

The Head of
Protocol at the Royal Palace at Fort had his head deep in his
‘Lists’ when Sam Baker entered the records room in his usual heavy
manner and beckoned him over.

Mikel Senotson
sighed. The ‘Lists’ were important and the recent deaths within the
noble families had meant a great deal of reorganisation and
rewriting.

With another
sigh he laid down his pen and went to see what the Duke wanted,
perhaps he would be able to finish them later.

The Duke of
Baker barely acknowledged Mikel’s bow before he launched into his
demands, not that Mikel was surprised. The Duke was, in the opinion
of the permanent staff here at the palace, known to be difficult
and rude to those of lesser rank and that was almost everybody.

“What may I do
for you My Lord?”

“In
confidence.”

“Naturally.”
This request for anonymity was not uncommon and was usually to do
with matters of marriage. Because the children of the noble houses
intermarried generation upon generation, prudent fathers always
made sure that the planned betrothal was not too close in terms of
blood-ties.

Mikel wondered
what marriage the Duke was planning. His grandson and heir was
already betrothed, so, he reasoned, it must be the granddaughter,
yes, that would be it.

The Duke
surprised him.

“I want to
know, I need confirmation,” he grated in a rasping voice that Mikel
recognised as the Duke’s idea of a conspiratorial whisper, “who
succeeds our King if, shall we say, he does not recover from his
malady.”

“It would be
his granddaughter, Princess Susan.”

“If she should
die without issue?”

Mikel took a
deep breath, “the next in line would be the King’s sister, Princess
Anne.”

“She is a
Thibaltine Nun,” exclaimed Sam, “when she entered the convent she
gave up all claims to the throne.”

“Nevertheless,
after Princess Susan it would be she.”

“After her?”
Sam asked, brushing this aside with a shake of his head, “go
further back.”

“Our King’s
father, King Elliot the fourth, God rest his soul, was an only
child.”

“Elliot the
Third?”

“He had one
sister,” Mikel acknowledged, feverishly trying to remember, “if I
can get the records out My Lord?” he ventured.

“Do that.”

Sam Baker
stood, foot tapping, as Mikel found the chart and brought it over.
It was taken out of his hands by the Duke of Baker with a
dismissive jerk as he then made his way towards the table beside
the great oriel window. There he unfurled it and sat studying it
for a full half-candlemark.

Mikel returned
to his own desk and began again the tedious process of updating the
protocol charts.

When Sam Baker
left, leaving the chart on the table, Mikel noticed that the Duke
had a satisfied smile on his face.

Greatly
wondering, Mikel waited until the door had swung to behind him and,
lists forgotten, walked over to the vacated table.

He looked at
the chart; what had the Duke seen that made him look as if he was a
swamp lizard who had caught a nice juicy malinon? He sat down to
study it. His practiced eye followed the branches of the tree for a
while and then he sat back. He should have realised the
implications of the plague attack before this, but why (he assumed
Sam Baker had come to the same conclusions) should this knowledge
have pleased him?

Mikel picked up
the chart and returned to his own desk where he swept aside the
lists. Taking a fresh piece of parchment, he began to write.

Mikel left work
very late that evening. He filled one piece of parchment with his
crabbed handwriting and then another. It was almost dusk when,
putting away the chart in its slot, he took out another chart, this
the one that recorded the ancestry of certain noble houses. He was
still there at day’s end when he heard footsteps and the records
office door swung open once again. He hurriedly pushed the
parchments he had been working on under the desk as he rose to
greet the visitor.

It was a man,
dressed in travel-stained garments and who, seeing Mikel, stopped
and stared.

“Kellen
Senotson?”

“My Lord?”

“You’re working
late.”

“Protocol
Lists,” answered Mikel quickly, too quickly as it turned out.

One fair
eyebrow raised, this visitor uttered two words, “I see.”

Mikel rather
thought the Count did see. Could he trust him? Should he? He
decided on an indirect approach, “thought I might be seeing you
here my Lord.”

“Why is that?”
was the interested and courteous reply.

“I would like
to discuss something with you that could be important,” answered
Mikel, “I believe it should not wait and also that it might be
better if we were to meet somewhere more private.”

“Look Mikel,
what’s all this about? I’ve been travelling all day and I’m
dog-tired. What’s so important and secret?”

“I’ve been
perusing some genealogical records My Lord Count.”

That got Count
Charles Cocteau’s attention. Mikel was not to know that Charles had
gone to the records room bent on doing some genealogical
investigation on his own.

“My rooms; in a
candlemark. I want to get out of these wet things. I’ll tell my man
to leave me a light supper and then go to his bed. We’ll not be
disturbed. Bring the charts.”

“I’ve made some
notes,” Mikel offered, “the charts are bulky and rather noticeable
and I don’t think I want to be seen wandering around the palace
with them.”

Charles
appreciated the wisdom of such precaution, “fair enough,” he said
as he left, “in a candlemark. Don’t be late or all the food will be
gone. After the journey I’ve had I’m starving!”

Once in the
Count’s quarters, which Mikel noticed were at least four times the
size of his, he told Charles about his encounter with the Duke of
Baker. Charles listened intently and asked, “He only looked at the
chart of the royal family? None else?”

Mikel shook his
head. “That’s what made me wonder, that and the smile on his face.
I never thought Duke Baker knew how to smile. He’s always so
sour-looking.”

“Did he take
any notes?”

“No, it was
almost as if … as if he was confirming something he already
knew.”

“Ah.”

Charles sat
back in his chair, deep in thought. Mikel sipped at the deep red
wine his host had provided and nibbled at some stuffed peppers.

“The King is
ill,” Charles said at last. “He has been ill for some time. The
Crown-Prince knew this of course and expected to take on more and
more of his father’s duties sooner rather than later. He also had a
son, daughters, an uncle and cousins. The dynasty was secure, or so
we thought. Then, as you know, the plague hit.”

“Yes
indeed.”

“Now the
dynasty is only one life away from extinction and that life, from
what I have heard since I arrived back in Murdoch, is no longer
strong. In fact, I believe the doctors are worried. So, if she
should not survive, although we all pray that she will, who is
there to take on the mantle of the monarchy?”

Mikel’s flat
response chilled Charles to the bone.

“There is
none.”

“None at
all?”

“None
legitimate, none on the charts. Every branch has died out My Lord,
except for the king’s sister who is, of course, in Holy Orders and
is past childbearing age even were she to be released from her
vows. As I told My Lord Duke, the king’s father was an only
child.”

“His father?
The Mad King?”

“Elliot the
Third had a sister who had one son but neither he nor his children
survived the massacre.”

“The second
Elliot?”

“Two sisters,
both called Anne.”

“That’s a bit
odd isn’t it?”

“The first one
died very young, the same year the second one was born. The second
Anne had three children, the first girl was one of the founding
sisters of the Grey Nun Convent at Cracovsworth.”