Reign of the Eagle, page 191
Broderick got out of bed and stood in the door of her dressing room. “What are you doing?” he asked. “I thought you might stay, and the two of us could—”
“Be partners. Real partners. Yes, dear. That’s exactly what I’m doing. I’m going to Severn. You stay here and plan for war. I’m going to have a word with my brother. I promise I’ll get him to see reason and start sending troops and money again.”
Broderick seized her around the waist and pulled her in for a long, powerful kiss. After a moment’s hesitation, she left her ladies to finish the packing and took her husband into the bedroom, closing the door behind them.
She felt almost like a newlywed as she left Formacaster, sailing down the bright blue waters of the mighty Trahern. She had a mission, and she had the support and trust of her husband again. That meant a great deal.
Even so, it wasn’t everything. She took Sir Edward Rath with her. She was turning over a new leaf, not planting a whole new tree.
KING BRODERICK
“Your majesty, please. The physician said you’re not to leave your bed under any circumstances.”
Broderick laced up his trousers and washed his hands in the basin. Then he addressed himself to Landon Halifax, one of his Gentlemen of the Bedchamber. “Landon, did you know there’s an army post south of Oasestadt, on the salt flats deep in the western desert, where men sometimes boil in their own armor and go blind from the glare of the sun on the sand?”
“Um...no, sir. I...I didn’t know that.”
“Well, now you do.” Broderick pushed past the young man. “And that’s where you’ll be posted if you ever try to stop me from taking a piss in my own damned privy again.”
It would have been one thing to take medical orders from Muriel—Broderick thought he might have enjoyed that. But it was quite another thing to be ordered around by a gangly youth barely out of his teens.
Landon’s reply was lost as Broderick continued past the door to the bedroom and into one of the outer parlors. At a round table there, Broderick’s son and Brother Friel were poring over maps again. Young Broderick’s wife, Therese—who happened to be Landon’s older sister—was seated nearby, taking notes for them. The girl was quite visibly pregnant, and Broderick went over to see if she wanted another cushion or a settee to lie down on, which was only polite.
“Oh, thank you, Father,” she said, smiling brightly, as he brought her a pillow for her feet. “You’re always so considerate.”
Wonderful girl. Smart and strong, but also kind. The people loved her, for what that was worth. Broderick couldn’t honestly remember anymore why Muriel had been so set against the match. Just her usual stubbornness, probably.
No, he wasn’t going to be like that. Not anymore. He and Muriel were true partners again, and she was on her way to Severn at this very moment, trying to make amends with Lukas. He owed her his gratitude, just as he owed it to his daughter-in-law to make sure her son (if indeed it was a son) had a kingdom to grow up and rule someday.
“Father, have you taken your potion this morning?” Broderick’s son asked.
“Yes, probably,” he answered. “Don’t worry about me. I’m perfectly fine.”
In point of fact, he had suffered another sudden spike of pain down his arm that very morning. But he hadn’t felt that crushing pain in his chest again, and he hadn’t passed out. So, he had decided it was better not to mention it to anyone.
Going over to the table and gesturing at the map, he asked, “How are your plans going?”
“Well, sir,” said young Broderick, clasping his hands behind him like an officer reporting to his commander. “I have William Trevelyan gathering new mercenaries at the moment.”
“Ah. I see.” Broderick cleared his throat. “And...how do you intend to pay for these mercenaries?”
Brother Friel raised his hand like a student in class. “Please, your majesty. I have arranged a meeting for Prince Broderick this afternoon with a delegation of the high clergy to discuss what the church might be able to do for your cause.”
“The church?” Broderick raised an eyebrow as he looked from the monk to his son.
“It can’t hurt to ask Uncle Arthur, can it?” Broderick the younger said.
“Uncle Arthur” was Arthur Ostensen, Muriel’s other surviving brother, whom Broderick had made Bishop of Leornian and head of the Leafa Church in an entirely unsuccessful act of nepotism. The man was pious, frustratingly incorruptible, and far smarter than a righteous man had any right to be. Far smarter than Broderick’s son, unfortunately. Earstien only knew what would happen if the boy tried negotiating with his uncle in earnest. The whole blasted kingdom would probably end up belonging to the church.
Broderick crossed his arms. “Why don’t you let me speak to Arthur?”
His son looked slightly alarmed. “You, Father? Um...shouldn’t you stay here in—”
“The next person who tells me to go to bed will be in the front rank when the Sigors attack, stark naked and armed only with his hands and his own flaccid....” He stopped and looked at Therese. “Your pardon, my lady.”
She tried to conceal her smile with one hand. “Don’t mind me, Father.”
An hour later, he sat in the library across an ivory-inlaid table from his brother-in-law, Bishop Arthur. The man had the same strong jaw and prominent nose as the rest of the Ostensens. His eyes had none of the mystery and sly cunning of Muriel’s, though. And his distinguished face bore none of the signs of dissipation that Lukas had started to show.
Arthur began, as he always did, by asking after mutual friends and family, particularly the pregnant Princess Therese, even though he was a frequent visitor to the castle and must have known how they were already.
Finally, Broderick cut him off and said, “Your grace, our nation may be approaching a crisis. I would like to know what the church intends to do if Edwin Sigor and his followers launch a new civil war.”
“A ‘new’ civil war?” said Arthur, tapping his fingertips together. “Did the old one ever really end? But be that as it may, the church has always loyally supported the true King of Myrcia.”
“Yes, well, that’s always the real question, isn’t it?” said Broderick amiably. “Who’s the true king—me or Edwin?”
Arthur bowed his head. “You would know the answer better than I, your majesty. What would you have us do?”
Now the negotiations had started. “I’d like you to preach against the Sigors. I’d like you to encourage men to stay in Myrcia and serve in my army. And if you happen to find a few spare Sovereigns, here and there, you might make a contribution to the cause.”
“I fear there are few churches or abbeys that could contribute anything, your majesty. Times are hard, and taxes are so very high.”
The vast majority of church lands were already exempt from taxes, blast it all. And now the greedy bastards wanted more. How typical.
“I’m sure I could speak with the lord high treasurer,” said Broderick. “We could lower some of the taxes. At least temporarily.”
“And there are so many church buildings in need of repair,” Arthur went on.
“Then I suppose I could help with that, too. But only after the danger of invasion has passed.”
“Of course. I must say I am surprised to find you so amenable, your majesty.”
“Consider it a sign of my newfound piety, your grace. As you know, I recently suffered a brief illness, and I believe Earstien has preserved me for a reason.”
Arthur gave him a long and searching look. “I hope that is true, your majesty. May Earstien’s Light be with you.”
“He saved me for a reason,” Broderick reiterated. “Perhaps you could arrange for all your preosts to mention that in their sermons.”
“Of course they will, your majesty,” said Arthur, with a small bow. “I shall have my staff prepare an encyclical asking the faithful to pray for your continued recovery. I can promise you that the church will remain as loyal to you as it has ever been.”
Exactly as loyal, which was to say, not very loyal at all. And he’d promised money he didn’t have simply to keep them neutral. Broderick rubbed his eyes. This was going to be one massive headache, he could already tell. But at least the church wouldn’t openly side against him, Earstien willing.
MURIEL
The tall, muscular blonde girl stood facing her father—seeing him for the first time ever. Lukas stared back, utterly entranced. Muriel hovered anxiously to one side, seemingly forgotten. Hours and hours spent waiting, and now she had been interrupted!
“Karina, my dear,” said Lukas, bowing. “I am so very pleased you could come. I was so happy to receive your letter.”
“This is all very touching,” said Muriel, trying to catch his eyes, “but I have been waiting here for nearly a full day now, Lukas. I certainly wouldn’t wish to deprive you of the oft-repeated joy of meeting one of your own, unexpected progeny, but I need to speak with you.”
As soon as the words left her lips, she knew she had gone too far.
“Is this really the moment, Muriel?” he sighed.
She had to press on. “If not now, when? The Sigor armies are gathering in Cruedrua. Everyone knows this. We will be under attack by midsummer, and your army is sitting idle.”
“So you and the king have finally remembered that you need me?” He shook his head and turned back to Karina Swithasdatter. “Your aunt made it quite clear to me that she and your uncle didn’t want my help anymore. They went behind my back and undermined my authority. They blocked advantageous marriages for my daughters. Don’t you think, my dear, that it’s a bit rich of them to come crawling back now?”
Karina was said to be a distinguished and highly-decorated officer in the navy of her matriarchal homeland of Krigadam. But when she dipped her head and blushed, she seemed like a little girl, still. “I...I really can’t say, your grace.”
“Call me, ‘Father,’ please,” Lukas said, holding out his arm.
She took it, and he led her away from Muriel.
“Lukas!” Muriel cried, her voice quavering and desperate now. “Lukas, please. Do you want me to say I’m sorry?”
“Not especially,” he said, chuckling darkly. “I know you wouldn’t mean it.”
Arm in arm, they headed in the direction of the buttery, and Muriel stormed out of the hall into the damp gravel courtyard of the Ducal Palace.
After coming all the way here to Severn, she had waited nearly a whole day and part of another for Lukas to acknowledge her presence. And then one of his many, many bastards had arrived, hoping to meet him. Naturally he had seized the excuse to avoid his sister—his queen!
Just before Lukas had finally shown up, as Muriel and Karina waited together in the great hall, Muriel had warned the girl not to get her hopes up, not to expect too much from her absentee father. Even so, even Muriel could never have guessed the man would prove so thoroughly unreliable.
Not even ten minutes later, as the rain started up again, Karina emerged from the great hall looking annoyed and offended. It seemed Lukas’s roving eye had landed on a pretty new housemaid, and so, like a spoiled child dropping an old toy for a shinier one, he had abandoned his newly-discovered daughter so he could get laid.
Muriel offered to buy the girl a drink, but Karina politely refused, saying she needed to get back to the docks, as she was on her way to her next military posting.
Watching the girl go, Muriel thought, “I am wasting my time here, too. This was a horrible, horrible mistake.” Her place was back in Formacaster with her son and her husband, not here with the greatest blockhead in the entire family.
Quickly, Muriel collected her light luggage from her room in the family quarters. She did not bother saying goodbye to Lukas or to Duchess Stacy, his new, third wife. Muriel could hear Stacy at the far end of the hall, in the room that had once belonged to Muriel and Lukas’s mother, belting out a dirty Kenedalic folksong in a drunken, quavering mezzo-soprano. No doubt the girl had picked up many such songs in her parents’ tavern. Muriel hurried quietly away, shuddering at how low her brother had fallen.
Back on the royal barge, she barely had time to unpack before Sir Edward came in and flopped on their big bed, pouting.
“Did you ask the duke about a command for me?” Edward asked.
“The subject didn’t come up,” said Muriel.
“I want a command,” he said. “I want to prove myself to you.”
For a moment, she wavered between making him walk home and putting him to more pleasant uses. As usual, her better—or at least baser—nature won out, and she joined him in bed.
He kept whining about getting a command, though, all the way back north. One evening, when they had tied up alongside an inn with several other barges, he came racing into their cabin full of excitement.
“You’ll never guess who else is here tonight!”
“I can’t begin to imagine,” she said, not bothering to look up from the letter she was writing.
“William Trevelyan, Earl of Moltzig! You know—the lieutenant general of the west!” Edward came and knelt by her little folding desk. “Do you think.... I mean, if it’s not too much trouble, could you talk to him about getting a regiment or a brigade or something for me?”
Muriel agreed to invite the lieutenant general aboard the royal barge for a drink, though she had no intention of wasting the conversation in pushing the advancement of Sir Edward Rath. There were much more important things to talk about with this man her husband thought was their great hope for stopping the Sigor invasion.
She knew him from court, of course. And he had been one of her son’s most trusted officers for a number of years now, so she knew his reputation. But authority seemed to have done wonders for him. Despite his youth (he was only 33), he seemed mature and responsible and confident. It didn’t hurt that he was very good looking, too, with long brown hair, brooding eyes, and roguish stubble that was nearly long enough to be called a beard.
In many ways, he reminded Muriel of her husband at that age—the age when they had first married and formed their “true partnership.”
After a couple rounds of Annenstruker whiskey, and a little light gossip about the court, she sent Sir Edward forward to the galley to get some snacks. Then, changing tack abruptly, she asked Trevelyan for his assessment of their military situation.
Caught off-guard, he could only tell the truth, as she had intended. “Your majesty, I regret to say that our position is very precarious. And getting worse every day.”
He seemed surprisingly downcast. Muriel studied his broad shoulders for a moment and began to think of ways she might serve the cause by helping this man find his martial spirit again.
“And yet you have been gathering new troops, I hear.”
Trevelyan heaved an angry sigh. “There is little I can do, your majesty, without support from the local nobility in Keneshire and Severnshire.”
“From my brother, you mean,” said Muriel, swirling her latest glass of whiskey. “And from Duchess Flora, too, I assume.”
“It’s not my place, your majesty, to cast aspersions on—”
“Nonsense. You can cast aspersions wherever you wish. It’s not like you have to pick them up again. You’re a general now, William. Can I call you ‘William’?” She shifted closer to him on the long settee in her cabin. “Listen, why don’t you sail back to Formacaster with me? We could carry on this conversation at our leisure. And we could get to know each other better, yes? Wouldn’t that be nice?” She put a hand on his knee. “As well as...strategically valuable, of course.”
“It was my understanding you already had a...companion on this trip, your majesty.”
“Sir Edward? Give him a regiment, and he’ll be happy.”
Trevelyan smiled, stood, and bowed. “Your majesty, that is a charming invitation, truly. But I have many stops to make before I return to Formacaster, and no doubt you need to make haste.”
“Haste?”
“Since the king is still recovering from his illness, of course.”
She sighed. “Yes, of course. You are right, my lord.”
He left, and she had to content herself with Sir Edward that evening. But in the afterglow, as she lay back watching the stars through the big stern window of their cabin, she thought, “I nearly had him. One more push, and I bet he could be mine. For the sake of the cause, of course.”
KING BRODERICK
The ladies-in-waiting stood completely still, eyes wide in shock. The only sound was the dripping of mead onto the floor. Broderick, still seething, looked down at the pitcher he had just smashed. The side of his hand was bleeding.
“That’s exactly how I feel,” said Muriel. As always, she was the first to recover her composure. “I tried my best, honestly, but Lukas is being stubborn.” She ventured closer, warily at first, and then took his hand. “Oh, dear. You’ve cut yourself.”
“Sh-should I fetch the royal physician, ma’am?” asked Eleanor Rath in a tremulous whisper.
“Don’t bother,” said Muriel. “I’ll bind it myself. Mead is practically medicine already. Just fetch me some linen bandages, will you?”
Eleanor and the other ladies hurried away, even though it only took one woman to carry linen bandages. No doubt they were eager to get away from the king’s temper. Broderick felt slightly ashamed of himself. But not nearly as much as he felt ashamed of Lukas.
“Honestly, what an ass,” Broderick grumbled. “I was counting on some help from the south.”
He and his son had been over the numbers three times. Without Lukas and King Galt, they didn’t have the money or the troops to stop an invasion, because the moment Edwin Sigor crossed the border, Broderick just knew Duke Aldrick of Newshire and Duchess Flora of Keneburg would switch sides back to Edwin. And Duke Robert Dryhten of Leornian, too. Damn and blast it all!
