The Godspeaker Trilogy (62 page)

Oh, he was a bastard, little Astaria’s father. Was the rest of the council the same? Would any of them stand for her in this mess? Stand for Eberg’s daughter, his sole living heir?

They claim to love him. We’ll soon see if that’s true.

“Come,” said Dester. He did not release her arm. “The council is in session and you will attend.”

She had no choice. At least for the moment. She wrenched herself free of the man, thrust the crumpled proclamation of abdication into her pocket and without another look at Physick Ardell, or the silent, staring courtiers, walked with her head high, away from her father.

But I’ll be back, Papa. You have my word. I will be back, with a fine tale to tell.

She entered the council chamber to find the council at war.

“Infamous! Prolate, this is infamous !” Lord Porpont of duchy Meercheq shouted, his pale, thin face flushed with temper. His fist smote the council table with a dull thud. “I tell you Duke Damwin will not stand for it!”

“Nor will Rudi,” said Lord Volant. His excess of neck chains rattled his outrage. “The Duke of Arbat is a man of God. He attends Church regularly and does all that piety requires, but there is no scripture saying he must countenance this .”

As the representatives of duchies Morvell and Hartshorn added their raised voices to the protest, Rhian, unnoticed, looked to silent Henrik Linfoi, Alasdair’s elderly uncle who now sat on the council in his place. Henrik was a gentle, unambitious soul. She wondered what Alasdair made of him. Linfoi might be Ethrea’s least important duchy but when he was a councillor he’d never let that bridle his tongue.

Short of affluence and influence Alasdair might be, but never short of an opinion.

The thought of him warmed her. She felt so alone.

Henrik was the only councillor seemingly not angered by whatever it was Marlan had said. The prolate, unaffected by the shouting, sat at the head of the council table where her father should be— Oh, Papa —with his hands neatly folded and his eyes half-lidded, waiting for the objections to abate.

Lord Dester pushed past her and went to his side. Bending, he whispered something in Marlan’s ear. The prolate looked at her, his expression unchanging. She felt the air catch in her throat. So did a falcon look, on spying its prey.

Help me, God. I need your help.

Marlan stood, which silenced the council. “Gentlemen, moderate your language. The princess is with us.”

As Dester slid into an empty chair and the rest of the council swallowed whatever hot words they’d been ready to say, Marlan inclined his head.

“Your Highness. Welcome to the king’s council.”

She nodded stiffly in return. “Prolate Marlan.” Her heart was beating almost out of control. Her mouth was dry, and it was hard to breathe. She could feel sweat trickling down her spine. If she sweated too much she’d ruin her dress. It was a pale rose silk, her father’s favourite. “My lords. You desired to see me?”

There was an extra chair in the chamber, for guests. Marlan did not invite her to take it. He wants to keep me standing, like a naughty child. He thinks to intimidate me . Chin tilted again, ignoring the chair, she swept her gaze slowly over each councillor’s face. Six men who think my life is theirs to play with .

Marlan resumed his seat. “Princess Rhian, you stand before us a ward of the Church. A minor in law, in need of our guidance.”

“While my father lives I have all the guidance I need,” she said coolly. “What do you want?”

Lord Harley, the Duke of Morvell’s blusterful younger brother and his voice on the council, lounged back in his chair. “I think you know, Your Highness. Your father has abdicated. Ethrea’s crown is without a head to grace. You must marry and rectify the situation.”

“And I shall,” she said. “In due course. But I don’t even know yet which men of Ethrea this council deems worthy of my hand.”

“That hasn’t been decided yet,” said Lord Porpont, with an evil glance at Marlan. Such a cadaverous man, upon first meeting, people invariably assumed he was the victim of a wasting disease.

Thank God he’s married.

“Oh,” she said, and let herself show some surprise. “I thought—”

“Lord Porpont is mistaken,” said Marlan. “The list is complete.”

“The list is unacceptable !” said Lord Volant, his fist raised again. “You have no right to put a name upon it, Marlan. You are head of the Church, not ruler of a duchy. You have no business meddling in politics.”

Rhian stared at the prolate. What? This was what they’d been arguing about? Who did Marlan want added to that list?

“Your argument is as offensive as it is short-sighted, Volant,” said Marlan, coldly. “We are not at a horse fair picking out a gelding to ride. We are in the business of choosing a king. Do you suggest we discard a man well suited for the task simply because he and I have a distant connection? He is no blood of mine, which is more than I can say for your duke’s candidate. A cousin, isn’t he, of the Duke of Arbat? You would reject my lawful suggestion because he does not suit your master’s personal and political agenda?”

“It’s not my master’s agenda we should be concerned with!” said Volant, half rising. “It’s yours, Prolate Marlan. You are crossing the line! Ethrea has never married Church and state and I swear by Rollin’s toes it will not do so while I am breathing!”

As furious argument erupted again, Rhian edged around the table till she stood behind Henrik Linfoi. The lightest touch to his shoulder turned him round in his chair.

“Highness,” he said, under cover of the shouting. “I’m very sorry. Your father has been a great king.”

Henrik had such kind eyes. They reminded her of Alasdair. She had to blink hard for a moment before she could speak. “Yes. Henrik, did I hear correctly? Marlan wishes to proffer a candidate? Who?”

Henrik turned back again, but kept his face a little towards her. “His former ward. Lord Rulf. Do you know him?”

His ward ? A man who must be in his debt, if not his power? “No,” she said. It was hard to speak. “I’ve never met him. Have you?”

“None of us have. Or else we don’t recall him. Apparently he lives on a small estate in the western corner of duchy Kingseat and never comes to court.”

A nobody, then, save for his connection to Marlan. And yet Alasdair, soon to be a duke, was deemed unworthy? I wonder if Papa knows of this . “How fares your brother, Lord Henrik?”

“Failing,” said Henrik. “Alas.”

“I’m sorry. When next you write to Alasdair, please tell him he’s in my thoughts.” She’d write herself, except it wasn’t done for unmarried princesses to correspond with unmarried young men. And because since he’d left court Alasdair had never written to her. She missed him like a severed limb … and wondered, hurting, if he missed her too.

Henrik nodded. The other councillors were still shouting like fishwives on the docks. Fists thumped the table, spittle dampened the air. They weren’t just shouting at Marlan, they harangued each other. They were nearly at blows.

This is ridiculous.

She marched to the ceremonial handbell on its stand beside the prolate and, before he could stop her, picked it up and rang it loudly. Clang clang clang clang clang .

The councillors stopped shouting and stared. The looks on their faces were almost comical.

“My lords!” she said stridently, into the abrupt silence. “How can you? For shame !”

T
he bell was heavy. Rhian plonked it down again, hard. “Were my father here he would send you all packing! You seem to forget, sirs, that I am the one who must choose Ethrea’s next monarch. It’s marriage to me that will make a man king. You’d do better speaking sweetly and softly of your candidate’s qualifications, rather than brawl like common cowherds in the muck!” She turned on Marlan. “As for this notion that I might marry your former ward, Eminence, I think it ill advised to say the least. There’s a connection there that can’t be thought comfortable. My father has always done his duty by God, but you know full well his opinion on matters of religion and its place in government.”

Marlan’s face was smooth and tight, a sure sign that he was inwardly seething. He stood, his black and gold vestments sumptuous in the sunlight filtering through the chamber windows. “You would be wise to moderate your tone, child. Your father, may God bless his memory, has surrendered you to the keeping of the Church and the guidance of this council. Be mindful of that, lest you stray into trouble.”

I refuse to pay attention to his threats . “May God bless his memory?” she echoed, incredulous. “Prolate, he’s not dead yet!”

Marlan nodded. “True. God has granted us a small breath of time, that we may secure the succession while His Majesty still lives. If you wish to impress this council with your maturity, Rhian, you should not fritter away the opportunity. Even you, young and female as you are, must recognise it will be better for everyone should Ethrea’s new king be declared before Eberg has left us.”

Of course she recognised that. Let one whiff of Ethrean instability reach the noses of the world’s great trading nations and all hell would break loose. But if Marlan thought she was going to let him trample over her willy-nilly he was sadly mistaken.

Losing her temper, however, would get her nowhere. Somehow she had to hold her ground with this man while not appearing to the rest of the council as a shrill, temperamental, untrustworthy girl .

“Prolate Marlan, I fear you do me a disservice,” she said, her voice moderate. Her manner more or less deferential. “As a king’s daughter I know my duty. And it’s because I know my duty that I won’t rush into any decision as great as this one. The question of my marriage can’t be settled hastily. Nor can I be coerced to the altar.” She let her hot gaze sweep all the councillors’ staring faces. “My lords, it’s true I’m now a ward of the Church and subject to the prolate’s discipline. But you are His Majesty’s council and I know he relies on every man upon it. I want to hear your opinions on the matter of my future husband. I want to know who you think is the best candidate for king. I’ve been promised a list of names, gentlemen. I’d like to see it.”

It was Henrik Linfoi who broke the strangled silence. He stood, moved round the council table till he reached Dester’s secretarial assistant and removed a sheet of paper from the pile before him.

“Here is the list, Your Highness.” Henrik glanced at it. “Lord Rulf’s name has yet to be added to it. Indeed, the council is yet to decide whether Prolate Marlan’s candidate is—”

She held out her hand. “Thank you, Lord Linfoi, but I don’t need the council to deliberate any further. I’ll add Lord Rulf’s name myself. Our prolate would never put forth a man who was not worthy of a crown. I appreciate my lord’s concerns, but as the prolate rightly points out, no man here is indifferent to the outcome of this matter. If you would bar Lord Rulf for his fortunate connections, surely you must also bar your own duke’s men.”

His eyes warmly approving, Henrik gave her the sheet of paper then returned to his chair. Lord Porpont rose ponderously to his feet. “Your Highness, what you hold in your hands is—”

“Not something I care to read in haste or with an audience,” she said. Her temper was beginning to fray. She took a deep breath and brutally subdued her desire to scream. “My lords, you confound me. My father is dying . Even if he wasn’t Ethrea’s king, with every solemn thing implied by that fact, can’t you at least show me the common decency any almost-bereaved daughter is owed? Can’t you leave me a little while in peace to pray for his soul and for God’s guidance in this matter?”

She had shamed them again. Good. They deserve it. Except for Henrik they’re all carrion crows, picking over a carcass with a few breaths left in it. Oh Papa, Papa, what a sorry state we’re in .

Swiftly recovered, Lord Harley snorted. “An ordinary daughter might be granted that, perhaps. But in this case, Your Highness—”

“My lord, be silent,” said Henrik Linfoi. For a shy, retiring man it seemed he could be surprisingly sharp. “Her Highness is correct to chide us. Though she’s now a ward of the Church I believe we stand here as her surrogate fathers and brothers. I ask you, my lords: would we wish our own daughters and sisters treated like this?”

Lord Niall, swarthy son-in-law to the Duke of Hartshorn, flicked a glance at Marlan then leaned forward with an ugly sneer. “You’re a sloppy sentimentalist, Linfoi. It’s a weakness that runs wide in your family. In matters of state such womanish feelings are out of place. As this kingdom’s guardians our first and only duty is to secure the succession. And given you have no candidate to offer, you should—”

“It’s because duchy Linfoi offers no candidate that I am the only man here who can speak without prejudice,” Henrik said calmly. “To which end I suggest we allow the princess to withdraw so she might consider the names upon that list … and pray for her father. The matter of Eberg’s successor is not the only question we are here to discuss.”

Rhian could have kissed him. “Thank you, my lord. It relieves me to know I have one friend at least upon the king’s council.”

“You are mistaken, Rhian,” said Marlan, stirring at last. “Every man here is your friend. Your best interests and the future of Ethrea are intimately entwined. We cannot serve one without serving the other.”

The problem with Marlan was he sounded so plausible . She met his cool, displeased eyes and nodded. “Of course, Prolate.”

He held out his hand. “If I may see the list, Your Highness? Just to be certain Secretary Lord Dester has not made any mistakes?”

He knew damned well Dester had made no errors. She gave him the list anyway, gritting her teeth as he snapped his fingers for a pen, was handed one, and swiftly added his former ward’s name to the list. “Thank you,” she said, when he gave it back to her. “God forbid I should misspell Lord Rulf’s name.”

Marlan’s eyes flashed. “Be careful,” he advised in an undertone. “Clearly you are unfamiliar with the rules governing a ward of the Church. I suggest you rectify that, sooner rather than later.”

He could make her skin crawl without even trying. Looking away, she folded the damned list of names and slipped it into her pocket. “Your Eminence.” She cleared her throat. “I have your permission to withdraw? I confess I’m feeling somewhat overwhelmed.”