Reign of the Eagle, page 146
“Coward,” thought Lawrence bitterly.
The only person who spoke to him at all was the duke’s daughter, Hildred. She had been standing apart from her father’s group, in the shadow of a large fern. Now she came over to say “hello.”
“I hope you’re being treated well, my lord,” she said.
“As well as can be expected, I suppose,” he said stiffly.
“Is your family...well?” she asked.
He almost didn’t answer her. But if he didn’t talk to her, who was he going to talk to? “They are, as far as I know.”
He had never imagined that he would ever speak to Hildred again in his life. The girl had caused a scandal by seducing Princess Elwyn, and then she had tried to sell Edwin to the Gramirens. Edwin could have had her executed, but he’d decided to show mercy. If only the Gramiren king were similarly merciful. Lawrence wasn’t holding out much hope of that.
From one of the upper balconies, a fanfare rang out, and a herald announced that all those who sought the king’s justice could now approach the throne.
“That’s you, my lord,” said one of the guards.
Already the Palm Court was emptying toward the throne room. Ladies in their best jewels and knights in new surcoats jostled for position. But they all made room for Lawrence. Ahead, on a long dais, two enormous black and silver thrones had been set up. Those were new since the last time Lawrence had been here.
Broderick the Black and his queen, Muriel, sat watching the crowd arrive. The king had a serene, impassive look; a foreign observer who didn’t know the man would probably think him the model of sober virtue. Lawrence knew better. Broderick was a reptile.
The queen looked triumphant. She nodded and smiled to her special favorites in the audience. From time to time, she would turn and address a cheerful word or two with her daughter or her son, who sat on either side of the thrones on low, gilded camp chairs.
Lawrence’s guards herded him to one corner. The herald came out in the center of the floor and read out a list of Broderick’s stolen titles, then declared court in session.
From the opposite side of the room, guards parted the crowd and led Duke Hugh and Duchess Flora to the dais. Lawrence hadn’t seen either of them since the morning of the battle. Like him, they had been given new clothes that didn’t really fit. Duke Hugh wore his with dignity, though. He looked as imperturbable as usual. It was the look of a man who knew the worst might happen, but had the consolation of knowing it wasn’t his fault. Lawrence envied him.
Flora’s dress was made of fine material, but the design was shapeless and frumpy. She had a streak of white in her hair, too. She looked her age. In fact, she nearly looked like a madwoman or a vagrant. It didn’t help that she kept casting furious glances around her, as if desperately trying to find a way to escape.
The herald read a list of charges against them—grossly inflated, of course. It would have been enough to call them traitors. But the Gramirens had insisted on accusing them of everything from bribery to murder, as well. Flora was even charged with adultery, which proved to be a mistake. A few people looked at Lawrence when that charge was read, but most looked at Broderick, who had been Flora’s paramour for years. There was even some laughter. The king’s face reddened slightly, and he scowled at the lord chancellor, who had been the one to draw up the charges.
But this minor embarrassment was not allowed to delay the proceedings. The herald asked the Byrnes if they were willing to kneel and be reconciled to the king’s justice. Hugh shrugged slightly and knelt. Flora took longer, glaring at the king and queen for a few moments, and then easing herself slowly down to her knees.
Muriel laughed. “Yes, I suppose at your age, Flora, the joints are a bit stiff, aren’t they?”
“I judge you both guilty,” said Broderick the Black. “But in the interests of peace, I have been persuaded to pardon you.” Some murmuring ran through the crowd. “There are three conditions.” He waved a hand toward his wife.
“The first and greatest condition,” said Muriel, “is that you agree to marry your son Andras to our daughter, Donella.”
“Agreed,” said Hugh, with another tiny shrug.
“Fine,” said Flora. “You can do what you like, so there’s no point in objecting.”
To her right, Princess Donella beamed. She wiped her eyes—was she actually crying tears of joy? Lawrence found it tasteless. The girl could at least have made an effort not to look so thrilled about the humiliation of her future in-laws.
Lawrence knew damned well that Donella and Andras were in love. And he knew equally well that Elwyn hated the idea of marrying Andras. But royal marriages weren’t about love. They were about which noble families were in the ascendant, and which were in decline. He had fought hard to promote a good, politically advantageous marriage for Elwyn, and the stupid girl had thrown it all away. If only she had agreed to go ahead and do it.
“The second condition,” Muriel went on, “is that you surrender some of your estates to the crown and to some of our loyal nobles. Don’t worry; we won’t leave you destitute. But it’s only fair to spread the wealth around a bit, don’t you think?”
Hugh and Flora nodded. What else could they possibly do?
“And finally,” said the queen, with a particularly vindictive grin, “my last condition is a very personal one: that you, Duchess Flora, will never again be permitted to dye your hair.”
There was widespread laughter at this—starting in the throne room and spreading back through the crowd to echo around the Palm Court. People nudged their neighbors and asked, “Did she really say that?”
Poor Flora quivered with rage and humiliation, but again, she could only nod her head. Her shoulders hunched, and when the guards led her and her husband away, she looked as if she had aged ten years.
Now it was Lawrence’s turn. The guards led him up to the thrones, and just like the Byrnes, he was obliged to kneel. He didn’t lower his gaze, though. He kept staring right into Broderick’s eyes so the man knew Lawrence wasn’t truly beaten.
“Do you have anything to say for yourself before I pass sentence?” asked the usurper.
“I was trying to serve the rightful king.”
“You were trying to gain wealth and power for yourself,” said Broderick. “It would have been better for us all if you and your family had stayed in exile.”
Muriel spoke up. “My brother Arthur—the Bishop of Leornian, as you know—always likes to say that it’s through our failures that Earstien teaches us. If that is true, you must be the worst student in Myrcia.”
The usurper, like many in the chamber, chuckled at this. “It’s true,” he said. “I beat you at Formacaster. I beat you at Leornian. I beat you at Keelweard. And now I’ve beaten you at Erstenwell. Honestly, Lawrence, when a man finds out he’s no good at something, he should probably stop doing it.”
“You’ll have to kill me,” he said.
“Very well,” said Broderick. “I sentence you to death.”
There was a hush around the room. A few of the more obnoxious, obsequious courtiers tried to clap, but they stopped when no one joined in. “This is it,” thought Lawrence. “This is how it all ends.”
Then the queen cleared her throat. “Yes, a sentence of death is most just, my dear. But if I may, I think that some...postponement might be in order. I think that our dear Lawrence might still be of some use.”
She and Broderick looked at each other. The king raised an eyebrow. The queen smiled. Lawrence had a bad feeling that whatever they planned was going to be worse than an execution.
Chapter 42
Penny dragged the tub over to the stream and started handing the soiled clothes to Lillian. This was the third load of laundry they had done this evening. And another group of girls had done four loads in the morning. Morwen wrung out the undertunic she had been scrubbing and moved over to make room for Penny in the stream.
“Oh, can I sit down in the water for a while?” said Lillian. “I can’t get any more soaked than I already am, and I’m about to fall over.”
Penny staggered as she climbed down the bank and slumped halfway into the water, coming to rest with her hair over her face.
“Are you alright?” asked Morwen.
“I...I...I literally don’t think I can move anymore,” gasped Penny. “My legs are shaking.”
Morwen helped her up to a flat stone, where the girl could sit for a few minutes. “You’re doing very well.”
Penny apologized to all of them, and a minute later, when she seemed to have recovered a little of her strength, she got up, reeling and unsteady, and went back to scrubbing clothes with the others.
She wasn’t used to this sort of work. More than likely, she had never done hard labor. Her idea of a strenuous life was going hunting on occasion. And, to be sure, if they had needed someone to ride full tilt and chase down a stag in dense woods, Penny would probably have acquitted herself well. But a duke’s daughter didn’t have many chances to build up the kind of muscles necessary for housekeeping duties.
Morwen knew what it was like to suddenly have to do all those things for herself that servants had done. It was an extraordinary shock—not just physical, but mental and moral. It was draining to do that kind of work. It was humbling to realize how bad you were at it.
Penny was doing her best. Most of the postulates and novices at the convent went through a period of resentment and tears before they got used to working hard. But Penny threw herself into everything, from assisting the surgeons, to changing beds, to scrubbing chamber pots, to laundering clothes. Morwen was genuinely impressed, but the girl needed to take a break, and if she wasn’t going to ask for one, then Morwen would have to come up with some excuse to make her rest.
The next morning, as Morwen was trying to decide what easy, indoor task to give Penny, the abbess came up to the dormitory, carrying a gilt-edged scroll.
“I feel as if we’ve had this conversation before,” Sister Alberta said. “Apparently this is a wedding invitation for you.”
Morwen cracked the seal and read the letter. She had heard that her brother Andras was finally betrothed to Donella, and it seemed as if no one involved—least of all the happy couple themselves—were willing to wait any longer.
“I’m very pleased for them,” said Morwen, tucking the invitation into the sleeve of her habit, “but I really don’t need to go, if I’m needed here.”
One of Sister Alberta’s eyebrows flickered upward. “Yes, the invitation is from your mother, but I’m not sure your attendance is optional.” She beckoned Morwen to the window and pointed down into the courtyard. There was a Gramiren herald there in a dusty black surcoat.
Morwen nodded. “Ah. I see.”
Sister Alberta gave her the choice of whom to take with her. “I would be sure you trust your companions completely,” she said.
Morwen’s first choice was Lillian, but then she realized that Penny should come along, too. Her father and Molly were already in Keneburg, so Penny could see her family, while also enjoying a little vacation from her work here.
“She was supposed to go home at the end of the summer anyway,” Morwen told the abbess. “I’m sure her family will be at this wedding. She can return to Formacaster with them afterward.”
Poor Penny wouldn’t have admitted for the world that she needed a break, but her face lit up when Morwen explained about the wedding.
“I have to be there for Donella, of course,” Penny said.
The journey to Keneburg was a tremendous relief to all of them. Even Morwen had to admit that she had needed to get away from the hospital for a while. The constant strain of work and the constant atmosphere of death and suffering had drained her. She was down to her very last reserves of strength, and she hadn’t even realized it. Now all they had to do was sit on the driver’s seat and watch the bright summer fields roll by. Or lie in the back of the cart finding shapes in the clouds. Or stop and splash around in cool streams when the road was too impossibly hot and dusty.
Then they got to Keneburg, and it felt like stepping out of a sunlit garden into a dungeon. There were Gramiren soldiers everywhere, but hardly any townspeople. Perhaps it was just the mid-August heat that kept people inside, but Morwen suspected it was fear. Even the victors weren’t immune to it. The Gramiren men had a wary, nervous look wherever they went. They surely had to be wondering if the people of Keneburg were going to rise up and slaughter them all.
If this was true of the ordinary pikemen on the streets, it was doubly true of the Gramiren-aligned nobles at Dunharvin Castle. The Duke of Keelshire was there, as was his daughter, Hildred. So was the Duke of Haydonshire and his family. All the great southern families were there. The men looked uncomfortable to be sharing drinks with fellows who had been trying to kill them a month earlier. The women were making more of an effort, but their efforts were far more transparent, with lots of flowery compliments and elaborate etiquette. They couldn’t have looked less at ease if they’d been embalmed.
The only guests who genuinely seemed to be enjoying themselves were the Immani. Apparently Sergius Talius, the Immani legate, and his daughter had been invited for the wedding, and they were occupying a whole floor of Dunharvin Castle with all their servants and staff. Cute little Dorea Talia flitted about the great hall, visiting with everyone, laughing at all the jokes, and generally making a much better hostess than any of the women of the Byrne family.
Morwen found her parents in an anteroom, seated glumly on the same small couch, their drinks untouched in front of them. Her mother’s graying hair was a shock; in only a month, the great Duchess Flora had become an old woman. Or rather, she had been obliged to stop fighting the inevitable. She wasn’t using nearly as much paint or powder, either.
Her mother saw her and smiled. “Hello, darling. I’m glad you could make it.”
“I’m glad you’re safe,” Morwen said.
“Oh, that.” Her mother dismissed the notion of safety with a wave of her hand. “We do what we must, dear. It hardly matters anymore.”
Seeing her mother this way made Morwen almost want to cry. For as long as she could remember, her mother had been a force of nature, like a thunderstorm or a wildfire: awesome to watch from a safe distance, but terrifying if you found yourself in her path. For years, Morwen had wished and prayed that her mother would be a little less overwhelming, a little less sure of herself, and a little more respectful of other people’s feelings. But this total surrender was shocking and sad.
There was a flourish of music. Flora leaned forward, peering past her daughter into the great hall. “Is Dorea Talia starting the dancing?”
“Yes,” said Morwen, looking around. “She seems to be enjoying herself.”
“What a lovely girl she is. Too bad she’s been saddled with Kevin Halifax as her partner. Hugh, could you go find Pedr? I think he should show Dorea real Kenedalic dancing, don’t you?”
Both Morwen’s parents hurried away, and she was left shaking her head. “Unbelievable,” she thought. “Mother doesn’t quit. Not ever.”
As a nun, Morwen wasn’t really supposed to dance, but she didn’t mind watching other people. As a girl, she had enjoyed dancing a great deal, and even now she could tell the difference between a really gifted dancer and someone merely going through the motions. Dorea wasn’t much good, but she had only started learning Trahernian steps recently, so it wasn’t her fault. Penny was a lovely girl, of course, but she was too cerebral and self-conscious to be really at ease. Donella had the same problem, sadly. Luckily, their partners for the reel, Pedr and Kevin Halifax and Andras, were good enough that it didn’t matter.
In between dances, the girls would come sit with Morwen and Lillian, and inevitably a certain amount of gossip was exchanged about the young knights and noblemen who were present. Then the music would start again, and Dorea would lead them all sprinting to find their partners. After an hour or so, Penny declared herself exhausted, and stayed behind with the nuns.
“It’s strange; I used to enjoy this sort of thing a lot more than I do now,” she said. “It seems...frivolous, to be honest.”
“It’s a bit glum in here,” said Lillian. “Even if Dorea is doing her best.”
“I feel like I’d be more use back at the convent,” said Penny.
Morwen was about to gently remind her that there was more to convent life than what she’d seen while working at the hospital, when Penny suddenly looked past her, eyes wide, and mouthed the words, “Oh, no.”
“What a charming group of young ladies,” said Queen Muriel, gliding up with a glass of wine in her hand. “Penny, I believe your father wants a word with you. He seems rather annoyed that you’ve been gone as long as you have.”
“He...he did say I could help out at the convent,” said Penny nervously.
“Yes, I don’t think he really cares, to be honest,” said the queen. “He told me about how you saw the battle from the riverbank, and he seemed greatly amused by the story.”
Penny shrank down in her seat. “He was...amused?”
“Yes.” She patted Penny on the head. “Go run along, now, my dear girl.”
After hugging Morwen and Lillian and bidding them good evening, Penny headed off to learn her fate.
“Don’t worry about her,” said the queen to the two nuns. “Lukas isn’t really mad at her. He’s only angry because his wife wrote him a letter asking where Penny was, and letters from her always put him in a bad mood.” She smiled at Morwen. “Do you think my niece enjoyed herself at your convent?”
“Enjoyed?” Morwen cleared her throat. “I think she worked very hard, your majesty. I was glad to have her help.”
“I see. Do you know, Morwen, that when you went into the convent, your mother told me she thought you were a fool. And do you know what I told her?”
“No, your majesty.”
