Homage and Honour (26 page)

“Yes, it was
Elliot’s child and the boy was of the Murdoch bloodline.”

“The other
Dukes will accept an illegitimate heir,” ventured David Gardiner,
“as there is no-one else.”

“It would
appease the Larg and avoid bloodshed,” said a pious Sam Baker. “As
Lord Marshall, do you agree?”

“The Larg
threat is very real and I will do anything, anything at all to
avoid internal strife.”

* * * * *

Vadrhed (Second Month of Summer) –
AL157

Crisis (10)

The closed
carriage trundled through the gates of the moated manor house of
the Duke of Cocteau, its wheels echoing eerily on the cobbles. It
drew to a stop in front of the main door.

The coachman
made haste to dismount from his driver’s box and open the door.
There were rustles from within as the occupants prepared to
disembark.

“Ladies,” he
said, “we have arrived.”

“Thank the Lord
for that,” said the smallest of the black and grey clad women
inside. “My old bones have been protesting these last ten miles or
more.”

“And we have
realised,” added the larger and younger of the two, “that the state
of the roads has not improved overmuch during our years in the
convent. I must have words to My Lord of Cocteau about it.”

“They are bad,”
admitted the man, “Now, will ye not alight?”

At that moment
the great decorated hardwood doors of the manor opened and the
light from inside beckoned the weary travellers as the coachman’s
words had not.

Out from the
door spilled a number of liveried servants come to aid their Duke’s
guests into the warmth.

“Well Dame
Luke, shall we exit our conveyance and take advantage of the Duke
of Cocteau’s hospitality?” Her eyes were gleaming. It was many
years since Dame Matthew, once Princess Anne of Murdoch had enjoyed
the comforts of secular life, not since that day when she had
entered the convent to begin her postulancy.

Dame Luke,
eleven years older, emitted a rusty laugh. “The prospect is most
alluring,” she answered, “but can you imagine the number of
penances Mother Reverend would see fit to donate to us if we
admitted to our desire?”

“For the good
of our souls,” answered Dame Matthew with commendable piousness.
“The House Chaplain will shrive us I’m sure, then she need never
know.”

Dame Luke
frowned as she permitted the servants to help her out of the
carriage. Indeed, she might not have managed it without a stumble
or a bad fall if they had not been there to lend aid. The last
candlemarks of travel had been torture to her as the carriage had
lurched over the potholes and bumps.

“I have to
express a great eagerness to meet our estranged cousins from the
North,” added Dame Matthew as she waited her turn. “I wonder what
they are like.”

“We shall learn
that in our Lord’s own time,” commented Dame Luke, once Kellessa
Alexa Karovitz, as she backed down the steps, hindered to a
dangerous extent by the voluminous folds of her black habit.

The two nuns
were met in the warm, comfortable manor acceptance room by the Duke
of Cocteau himself.

“Princesses
Anne and Alexa,” he greeted them with a courtly bow. “Your journey
was a comfortable one?”

Dame Luke
snorted. “More than marginally unpleasant,” she retorted, walking
over to the fire where she stood warming her hands. “I confess that
I am not looking forward to the return journey.”

“There are
other Thibaltine Houses closer by,” offered Henri Cocteau.

“That thought
had occurred to me,” she said in a dry voice. “I accept that
mortification of the flesh is good for the soul but there are
limits, especially at my age.”

“Quite so,
quite so,” said Henri, not quite knowing how to react to this, not
realising that by saying this, he was insinuating that she was old.
He had expected two calm and collected Thibaltine nuns and the
elder one at least was not matching his expectations. He coughed
and caught the eye of the younger and taller figure.

“We are here,”
she said to him in an effort to put him at his ease. “Mother
Reverend was not pleased by the necessity that brought us here but
your messenger was most persuasive and insistent, so she gave way.
Like Dame Luke I do not wish our country to be plunged into the
darkness that is civil war. Word came to us of the plague and our
nation’s plight. We have prayed for the souls of the departed. My
great-niece, the Queen, Count Charles said that she is sick unto
death?”

“She is not
expected to live many months more.”

Dame Luke
turned round. “You have the replacements here? You also have proof
of the veracity of their lineage?”

“I do.”

“Then I do not
understand. Why did we have to come here?”

“Yes why?”
asked Dame Matthew. “Mother Reverend told us that we would have to
relinquish our claim to the throne in public. Why is this? We could
have signed the abdications from the Convent. Indeed, when we
professed our final vows we, by law, removed our persons from the
succession.”

“It’s not as
simple as that,” said Henri Cocteau, “and at the root of the
problem, there is the Duke of Baker.

“Nasty family,”
opined Dame Luke, “always have been. I presume he’s got a claimant
of his own?”

* * * * *

Dame Luke rose
from her prayers with a creaking of knees.

“I liked Anne
Crawford and her husband,” she said to Dame Matthew. “I think they
will do well.”

“The children
are adorable.”

“Healthy
too.”

“Do you think
we can go to bed now?” asked Dame Matthew, “it looks wonderfully
warm and comfortable.”

“Too
comfortable. I wish I was back in my cell.”

“Perhaps you
should sleep on the floor?” her fellow nun suggested as an imp of
mischief reasserted itself from her childhood.

“What cannot be
cured must be endured,” answered Dame Luke as she glided towards
her side of the bed. “I do not wish to appear discourteous to our
lady host after she has gone to so much trouble on our behalf. That
would not be the religious thing to do.”

“True,” replied
Dame Matthew with a hidden grin.

* * * * *

Crisis (11)

The Conclave of
Dukes plus one Lord Marshall was in session.

“I’m not
disputing your claim,” Henri Cocteau lied to Sam Baker with much
care, “but I think it best that you provide the proof before the
motion is put to a vote.”

“Ian Karovitz
was the son of Elliot Three,” insisted the crusty old Duke, shaking
his head at Henri Cocteau.

“That would be
your deceased son-in-law?” enquired William Duchesne.

“It was given
out that he was born prematurely but he was a large bouncing baby,
obviously full term,” replied Sam Baker.

“His sister
Danielle was born twelve years later and there was always doubt as
to the father,” countered William Duchesne, determined to sew a
seed of doubt in the minds of the men seated round the table.

“You’re saying
that Ian Karovitz was impotent?” blustered Sam Baker, his temper
rising, clearly under a certain amount of discomfiture that the
royal claim on behalf of his grandson Richard was under discussion
rather than being accepted with immediacy.

“It was well
known that Louise Senot was a flighty bit of stuff. There were
doubts about the legitimacy of her daughter Danielle who became a
nun, no-one of honourable lineage would marry her,” said Henri
Cocteau.

“What you are
telling us is not proof Sam, we need more,” Raoul van Buren
injected his thoughts into the mix.

“Ian Karovitz
accepted paternity of the boy,” insisted the Duke of Baker.

He stared
through narrowed eyes at Henri Cocteau, William Duchesne and Raoul
van Buren in turn. He knew who would oppose him now, not much of a
surprise.

“Is there a
written confession?” asked Raoul van Buren.

It was with the
air of a triumphant conjuror that Sam Baker raised the piece of
parchment and showed it to the men sitting round the oval table.
“This is a confession written by Louise Senot shortly before her
death. In it she affirms before God that Ian, her son, was of the
king’s begat.”

“Can you prove
its authenticity?” asked Henri Cocteau.

“The document
was witnessed.”

Henri Cocteau
snaked a long arm over and taking the parchment, began to examine
it, “both witnesses comfortably dead,” he said as he got to the
bottom.

“It is,
however, a document with some basis in fact,” interrupted the Lord
Marshall. “I feel that we must accept Richard as our King if Queen
Susan dies. The Larg threat grows. Now is not the time to show any
discord. In the absence of another claimant, I say we put it to the
vote then decide how to convince the Larg.”

Not one of the
Dukes mentioned the fact that Queen Susan was still alive and that
it was technically treason to be discussing her successor. Everyone
knew that her lifespan could be numbered in days, not months.

“There is
another claimant,” smiled Henri Cocteau, “and I have irrefutable
proof of veracity of the claim. I have already taken the precaution
of speaking to the Larg. They agree that my claimant is of the
bloodline and are prepared to accept it.”

Sam Baker
laughed a laugh of derision, “You have found a legal heir and have
spoken to the Larg? You expect us to believe that?”

“The Larg
cannot read,” vouchsafed David Gardner.

“But their
Altuinqs can,” said Lord Marshall Philip Ross looking the question
at Henri Cocteau, “I would hear more of this. What do you
propose?”

“Legal heir,”
insisted Henri with a sly glint at Sam Baker, “and I have documents
to prove it beyond doubt and far more than a son of a supposed
illegitimate son of a king. And who was, may I point out, claimed
as his own flesh and blood by the late Lord Marshall, despite what
his widow was persuaded to say on her deathbed.”

“How dare you
question my word! There are no other heirs living,” Sam Baker
shouted, his face an angry red, “Elliot III murdered all who had
the faintest trace of Murdoch blood except for his own children and
Alexa Karovitz. You want to put one of the elderly nuns on the
throne?”

“Indeed I do
not,” was Henri’s bland reply, “although even one of them would be
a better choice than a son of an illegitimate bastard of doubtful
parentage and whose bloodline is in doubt.”

Sam Baker
spluttered. “My grandson Richard is the only possible choice. The
Larg will agree, they do not insist that the king’s parentage is
legal within marriage laws; it is the bloodline that matters to
them. Ian Karovitz was the bastard son of Elliot Three. Come now my
fellow Dukes, surely it is better that our king should be of one of
us rather than a complete stranger that Cocteau has dredged up from
somewhere.”

“You claim that
you have proof, written proof,” prompted William Duchesne, “show us
it. A dubious deathbed affirmation is not enough.”

Sam Baker
blustered, “the dates fit,” he defended himself, “and my father was
always convinced of it. That’s why Ian Karovitz was permitted to
marry my daughter.”

“But Lord
Marshall Ian Karovitz said the boy was his, he said so, repeatedly,
when he was trying for a match for his daughter Danielle,”
vouchsafed Jeremy Graham who had sat silent up until now.

“The rumours
were rife,” said Tom Brentwood.

“She was
pregnant when she married him,” insisted the stubborn Sam Baker,
“my father said so.”

“Then your
father was a fool,” said Henri Cocteau rising to his feet, The
Conclave chamber erupted in noisy vilification and shouting.

“Stop,” said
Philip Ross in exasperation, “this is getting us nowhere. Sit down
for Larg’s sake.”

They did so,
somewhat shamefacedly.

Henri Cocteau
shrugged and placed his elegant form back on his chair. Sam Baker,
red-faced, plumped down with scant regard for decorum.

“May I speak?”
asked Raoul van Buren. He had been sitting watching the antics of
his fellow Lords with a sad-faced smile. “May I summarise? My Lord
Baker proposes that his grandson must be the true heir. This claim
is based on the assumption, hitherto unproven that Louise Senot was
pregnant by Elliot III when she married her husband in AL108.”

“Correct,”
growled Sam Baker, “and it is not unproven. I also have the
affidavit.”

“Slim
evidence,” said William Duchesne.

“One we must
not discount immediately” warned the Lord Marshall, “it is possible
after all.” He turned to Henri Cocteau, “your candidate?”

“One whose
provenance can be proved.”

“Documents can
be forged,” claimed Sam Baker.

“True, but I
have traced and can prove, beyond the shadow of a doubt, a true
legitimate heir of the bloodline and one that has already satisfied
our Larg neighbours. I have traced the descendants of the twin
sister of the Elliot I.”

The results of
this announcement were predictable, excited talk, rabid denials and
endless questions, behind which Lord Marshall Philip Ross became
the voice of reason.

“Where is this
descendant?” he asked Henri Cocteau.

“In a safe
place. If I may call in the person who can answer all further
questions?”

Henri Cocteau
rose from his chair and went to the door. Those at the table could
see him beckoning.

“My second son,
Charles,” announced Henri Cocteau.

Charles Cocteau
entered the chamber. He was carrying a large pile of papers and
parchment. He placed the pile on the table in front of the Lord
Marshall. The Dukes watched as he picked up the topmost document
and began to read.