The High King of Montival: A Novel of the Change (63 page)

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Authors: S. M. Stirling

Tags: #Fiction - Science Fiction, #Alternative histories (Fiction), #American Science Fiction And Fantasy, #Alternative History, #General, #Regression (Civilization), #Science Fiction, #Science Fiction - General, #Dystopias, #Fiction

BOOK: The High King of Montival: A Novel of the Change
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“And now you will marry one to a Catholic princess!” Dmwoski said, smiling. More soberly: “May I help you with your vestments?”
“I would be honored.”
Ignatius drew a deep breath and took the amice from the elderly cleric’s hands. He donned it, and murmured:
“
Place, O Lord, on my head the helmet of Salvation, that so armed I may resist the assaults of the Adversary—”
 
 
“And to think I wanted something quiet and private,” Artos grumbled. “I thought we could have it here, so remote and peaceful . . .”
Matti smiled, but there was a quaver in her voice. “Nothing we do can ever be very private,” she said. “The nearest I ever got to private was Dun Juniper . . . and that wasn’t very.”
Their mothers had swung into operation almost the moment he’d spoken and Mathilda answered. They’d even found time to have the inner walls of the keep garlanded with fir boughs and bright wildflowers; the high castle ramparts left a soft shadowed darkness amid the scent of pine, but dozens of torches cast a ruddy light, and the sun painted the high snowpeaks a like crimson. There was a fair crowd, as well; his stepfather, Sir Nigel, was here, and Eric Larsson of the Bearkillers, and at least one or two from most of the other realms that made up the new-minted Montival. Even a McClintock from the far south, looking a bit hairy and disheveled in the Great Kilt they affected. At least that meant the enemy had been held short of the Columbia Gorge; from what he’d heard they were trying to hammer it down and cut Montival in two.
“Rudi, let’s
enjoy
this? Please?” Mathilda asked.
He took a deep breath, then grinned. “Acushla, how could I not?”
Now he stood in his best kilt and Montrose jacket, with lace at his throat and cuffs; Sandra had had a white-cream-and-pearl cotehardie ready for her daughter . . . which didn’t surprise him at all. A crown of meadowsweet whose flowers matched it encircled her cascade of unbound brown hair, its delicate almond scent strong. Castle Corbec was a major border fortress, and the chapel could seat several hundred. It was finished in the same pale rock as the exterior, but the walls were a lacy framework for the glowing stained-glass windows. The inner keep courtyard where it stood was paved in the same stone; its confines were handsome but rather bare apart from the church and the afternoon’s improvised additions, since this was a Crown fortress garrisoned by the Regent’s troops, not a fief with a resident lord and his family.
Sir Nigel Loring came up; he was in the same high-festival Mackenzie costume as Artos, small and trim and alert in his early seven-ties. His eyes were blue and a little watery—legacy of a battle injury before the Change—and his voice had the softly clipped gentry accents he’d learned from the grandmother who’d raised him after he’d been orphaned in infancy.
She’d
been born well over a century ago, and had been a debutante when Edward VII held Britain’s throne. Artos’ mind felt jittery, as if it was skipping from thought to thought like a drop of oil on a griddle; some part of it wondered what that stern dame would have thought if she could have seen her grandson now, and thought for a moment of how
her
grandmother had seen Napoleon depart for Elba.
Only three lifetimes. And now the fire-and-steel wonders of those centuries have risen and vanished in their turn and once more the world moves to the pace of the horse and the plowman.
“Mathilda, you look absolutely ravishing,” Sir Nigel said, bowing over her hand with courtly grace. “This is all improvised, but your mother thinks it would be appropriate if I gave you away. I hope you concur, because you certainly have the last word in the matter.”
“I’d love that, Sir Nigel,” she said warmly; they’d gotten along well during her stays at Dun Juniper in the years after the War of the Eye. “You’ve always been like a second father to me. And now you
will
be one.”
“Stepfather-in-law, at least, my dear girl,” he said. “And it will be good practice for the state ceremonies later. Though Maude and Fiorbhinn will never forgive you for marrying without them present.”
Which was true in a sense, Artos knew; both his mother’s children with Sir Nigel would be livid.
Though they’ll forgive me, and they love Mathilda dearly. Who could not? Well, some, but they show their lack of taste and wit thereby.
“We’ll be having at
least
two other wedding ceremonies, Father,” Artos said.
“Affirmations and commemorations,” Mathilda said. “This
is
the marriage.”
Artos nodded, though to Mackenzie sensibilities that was a distinction without a difference. Clan custom and law held that it was the public declaration of intent and then living together that made a handfasting; the ceremonies simply bore witness to it and asked blessings and luck of the Powers on the new family. He knew Christians thought that the ceremony
was
the marriage, though.
“One at Dun Juniper, and one at Castle Todenangst. And Eilir is here, at least,” he said aloud.
“I can assure that that will make things worse with your younger sisters, not better, my boy,” he said dryly. “And now take yourself off to the church to await your fate in fear and trembling, and you, young lady, go to your bridesmaids—they’re either that, or a troop of light cavalry, and a most formidable one.”
Artos took a deep breath, squeezed Mathilda’s hand, and did so. Edain was deep in talk with the under-captains of the King’s Archers, and flashed him a smile and a thumbs-up as he passed. The rest were busy sprucing up their gear; most of them had flowers tucked behind their ears.
They have something planned, then.
That worried him a little, thinking of some of the high jinks that went on at a Mackenzie handfasting.
But Edain’s a steady man. He’ll keep them in hand.
A crowd of male friends came with him to the church gates: Ingolf, Fred, Bjarni, a half dozen more including those he hadn’t seen since he left; Alleyne Loring and John Hordle of the Dúnedain for starters. Michael Havel Jr. was there from Larsdalen—though
not
, he noted, his mother, Signe.
“Mike!” Artos said, grinning as they exchanged a hand-to-forearm grip.
The younger man had grown a good deal since Artos had last seen him, several months before he left for Nantucket; he was past seventeen now, and nearly Artos’height. And their family resemblance was much stronger. That was most apparent in the face, a high-cheeked, square-jawed handsomeness that they’d taken from the Bear Lord, their common father. Signe’s heritage showed in the corn-yellow hair and bright blue eyes. He’d acquired a couple of scars on his face and hands since the questers left too. Then Artos saw the small burn-mark between the other’s brows, made with the touch of a red-hot iron; it was the mark of the A-list, the Bearkiller equivalent of knighthood, and nobody got it for any reason whatsoever except proved merit.
“You’re young for that, boyo!” he said admiringly.
“Ah—” he said, flushing. Then he rallied: “Well, you got
yours
from Raven when you were only ten!”
His cousin Will Larsson grinned beside him; they were of an age and height, but the son of Signe’s brother had skin the color of light rye toast. He also had the A-list brand.
“We got the combat exemption,” he said proudly. “Fighting at Pendleton, we got caught up in a complete ratfuck during the retreat.”
“And fought like heroes, I have no doubt.”
“
Everyone
was a hero there. Unfortunately so were the enemy!”
Artos did a few quick introductions. The men who’d stayed in Montival looked curiously at the questers, and met the same regard. Artos smiled to himself at the quick careful appraisals that went back and forth, and the nods of cautious respect.
Eric Larsson of the Bearkillers was among them, Signe Havel’s twin brother and her war-commander; a big scarred blond man in formal Bearkiller denim, a brown so dark it was almost black. He was called Steel-Fist these days. Seeing the gleaming prosthethic where his left hand had been was a vivid reminder that life had gone on here too in the last years . . . and that a lot of it had been war. Right now he grinned and nudged Artos with an elbow; he could tell the Bearkiller was bursting with military news and plans, but he’d put them aside for the moment. His son Will whispered in his ear, and then they
both
grinned at Artos.
“You’re looking a little peaked all of a sudden, Your Majesty,” Eric said, amused. “Pale and interesting and elfin. Or maybe just so goddamned frightened you’re about to puke.”
“Perish the thought! Artos the First is unmoved. But Rudi Mackenzie, now . . .” He put his hand to his stomach. “Right now
he’s
feeling nervous, and that’s a fact. I’ve walked towards a shield-wall full of spears and angry strangers with less apprehension.”
“Your dad said the same thing when he and Signe got hitched. Of course, he was marrying
Signe
, which was enough to frighten the shit out of anyone, even then before she became such a goddamned sh e -drago n .”
Artos laughed: “A fluttering in the gut, perhaps a little wobbling in the knees. Hard to imagine Mike Havel feeling such, but I certainly do!”
They all nodded; the married men among them with rueful understanding. Eric’s good hand slipped inside his jacket with its black-on-black braid-work and snarling red bear’s-head badge. It came out with a silver flask that gave off a welcome flowery scent when he twisted off the cap. Artos took a quick swig, and then another; sweet fire ran down his throat. It was Larsdalen brandy, and well aged in oak.
“Arra, those grapes did not die in vain,” he said. “Many thanks. Too much of this is weakness, but a little can be strength.”
“And that’s our cue,” Ingolf said, as organ music pealed out.
It came through tall doors whose wooden panels were carved with a rather gruesome depiction of the martyrdom of St. Sebastian, in which the archers looked suspiciously like Mackenzies; it had probably been done before the War of the Eye. They all racked their swords in the vestibule just inside it, and Eric’s son looked curiously at the Sword, whistling softly under his breath.
It’s odd how reactions vary
, Artos thought.
It makes some fear, gives others exaltation, and then again some can only see a sword . . . at least when it’s sheathed and I’m not holding it.
“You don’t mind letting it out of your sight?” he asked Artos, frowning a little.
“I do, Bill,” he replied to the dark young man. “But because it makes
me
nervous to be without it, so; that’s a side effect of the thing. Not for any fear of what might happen to
it
; a little fear of what might happen to anyone who tried to touch it, rather.”
Within, the church was a little like being inside a jewelbox, with the evening sun sparkling through the great arches and rondels of stained glass, and the candles high above twinkling in rings of stars amid drifts of blue incense-smoke. The Catholics touched their fingers to the holy water and signed themselves with the Cross, and the women covered their heads as well; Artos and the others of the Old Religion made a reverence towards the altar, and the great Rood on the wall behind. Another, and deeper, to the blue-robed figure of the Virgin in the side chapel; she was shown crowned, with the form of a dove hovering above her head in a burst of radiance. The painting was a little stiff, partly because the limner had been trying for a fourteenth-century style, and more so because this was a remote provincial keep far from the Regent’s art schools.
But there’s Power there
, Artos thought.
I can feel it, as real as I might in a
nemed
. Sure it is that They have many faces. All the shapes the Divine shows us are true; and none are all the Truth.
His stomach fluttered again as he took his place at the head of the main aisle of the church, just below the steps to the altar and the carved waist-high wooden screen. The rest of his party took their seats, save for his groomsmen, Ingolf and Fred, at his elbow.
“It’s really happening,” he muttered under his breath. “Sure and I wanted it so badly for so long, and now I’m restraining an impulse to show a pair of heels and run screaming into the mountains looking for a cave to hide in, resident bears or no.”
There was a little cold sweat on his forehead all of a sudden. Fred and Ingolf were close behind him, which was some comfort. His mother was in the front pew, which was more. She caught his eye, then slowly and deliberately winked. He thought her hand moved under a fold of her arsaid; either in the Invoking pentagram, or a simple thumbs-up.
And suddenly I feel better. By the Ever-Changing One, but it’s good to be home and among my kin once more!
“Time,” Ingolf whispered; he’d been raised Catholic and was familiar with the service.
Father Ignatius came out of the Sacristia, bright in his white and gold and crimson vestments, and the folk in the pews rose to their feet. The organ thundered again, and Artos turned to watch Mathilda pace through the door, with Mary and Virginia garlanded as her bridesmaids and matrons of honor. She put her arm through Sir Nigel’s and continued up the stretch of red carpet, smiling gravely, holding her bouquet in gloved hands. A light gauze veil covered her flower-circled hair and shadowed her face.

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