Hammer Of God (13 page)

Helfred glanced over to where Damwin and the others were standing. “It does not look likely, I'm forced to confess.”

If she looked too she'd be granting Damwin some kind of victory. “Ask him, Helfred. If I must have his blood on my hands as well, then I'll have it perfectly clear that the choice was his, and his alone.”

Helfred let another, smaller sigh escape him. For a moment he looked again like the chaplain he had been, beleaguered and harassed by the stubborn princess in his care. Then he nodded. “Your Majesty.”

Though she now hurt abominably, her muscles seized stiff, her open wounds protesting the air, she made certain no-one watching her would think she felt anything but the sunshine. The water in the bucket turned from clear to red as the perfection of her shortsword re-emerged from the blood. Behind her, Helfred's murmur ceased.

“She is foolish, Prolate,” said Damwin in his deep, clipped voice, as Raymot cursed. “You would do better if you convinced her to yield, rather than thinking I'll leave this tiltyard with Hartshorn's duke unavenged.”

“I'll avenge him!” declared Raymot. “He's my father and she murdered him!”

Not before he tried to murder me, you sot.

Suddenly she was so terribly tired. Her sword was clean again. She wanted to throw it away. Wanted to run to Alasdair and weep on his breast.

But I'm Queen of Ethrea. Tears are for subjects, not sovereigns. At least not in public.

And there'd be no privacy now until Damwin was dealt with. Then she'd be private with Alasdair in their privy chamber…or private in her grave, with naught but worms for company.

She turned, her heart pounding, the stares of all the watching witnesses heavy as snow. “Your Grace the Duke of Meercheq! Do you keep me waiting? Sir, that is churlish. No gentleman would be so base.”

Damwin unsheathed his longsword, roughly shoved Helfred aside and came at her in full stride, his bearded face glowering with rage and Raymot screaming encouragement at his back. When he was four paces distant she leapt straight upwards, turned once on her hips, blossom in a windstorm, and sank her shortsword into his belly up to the hilt. Twisted it thrice, viciously, as Zandakar had taught her, knowing its sharp edges would spill his shit on the inside and poison him. Sever the great blood vessels and drown him within.

As he plunged to his knees she turned her back and walked away, leaving her shortsword behind, leaving him gasping his last rebellious breaths. She walked back to the royal dais and her husband Alasdair, past grieving Raymot and Damwin's shocked son Davin. Every step woke in her a louder shrieking of pain.

Silence, silence, in the tiltyard all was silence.

One glance she spared for Emperor Han, seated with his splendid ambassador. His face was expressionless, no emotion, no thoughts. Only his eyes moved, following her as she strode by.

Let him learn from this, him and his witch-men. Let them all learn, Harbisland and Arbenia and Barbruish and the rest. Tempt Rhian of Ethrea to your very great peril.

Though her legs were trembling and her heart beat fit to burst, Rhian leapt all the steps of the dais at once and raked every watching face with her eyes.

“Trial by combat is over. God has passed judgement and the dukes are dead. What becomes of the Houses of Doveninger and Marshale is not yet determined, but there will be a reckoning. How severe is left to their conduct, and their conscience. All who are here as witness on this day, in this place, at this time, you have the thanks of the House of Havrell. You have the gratitude of a queen. If I am your queen, my life is pledged to you. All enemies of the crown, all those who would harm Ethrea, they should know the dukes' fate awaits them.” She paused a moment, so her words might be absorbed. Then she bared her teeth in a smile and looked particularly at the ambassadors. At Han, whose smooth face remained without comment. “With this tedious business brought to an end, be certain you will hear from me presently, my lord ambassadors, that we might address a matter which must concern us all.”

Behind her, Alasdair softly cleared his throat. “The prolate? Perhaps he would care to speak.”

She glanced at Helfred, praying for Damwin's fled soul. “Perhaps he would, but I've no interest in hearing him. He tends a great sinner, that's his duty here. I am Ethrea's authority and my voice has been heard.”

“Majesty,” said Alasdair. He sounded…restrained.

Ignoring him for the moment, and ignoring her pain, she again swept her gaze around the galleries of seats. “Solemn witnesses, your service today is concluded and you are dismissed from this judicial tiltyard. Return whence you came, and be certain to spread the word. Rhian is Queen of Ethrea without doubt or dispute. God's judgement is final, and swiftly delivered.”

The heralds lifted their trumpets and blew a muted fanfare. Emperor Han was the first to leave. Of course. She turned her attention to Idson, who with his hand-picked soldiers was seeing the dead dukes' parties ushered away for her later consideration. Fingers touched her arm, and she turned. Ursa.

“Now am I permitted to ease your wounds, Majesty?”

Rhian stared. “Now? In public? Woman, are you mad? Attend to Damwin. I will see you in my privy chambers by and by.”

Ursa withdrew, her pinched lips bloodless. Alasdair stood and moved to her side. “Rhian…”

“Don't touch me,” she whispered. “I must stand till they're all departed, Alasdair. I must stand. Step away. Don't hover.”

“Of course,” he replied, and moved to join Ludo. Left her like a lone tree in the midst of a field.

A lone tree struck by lightning and shuddered to its heartwood. Dear God, don't let me faint here. Spare me that humiliation.

She stood until the last common person of Kingseat had departed the tiltyard. Then she turned on the dais and looked at the royal party, at Alasdair, Ludo, Edward, Rudi, Adric and the Court Ecclesiastica. At Ven'Cedwin, still writing. Saw clearly the royal artist, Master Hedgepoole, seated on a stool in a shadow beside the dais, hastily sweeping his charcoal stick across a sheet of paper. A pile of papers sat beside him, scrawled over black.

Delightful.

Banishing the urge to leap beside him and tear up all evidence of these proceedings, she wrenched her gaze back to Alasdair and the others.

“If there is something to be said, gentlemen, you may say it to my face here and—” A sound distracted her, and she turned to its source. Four more soldiers were bearing Damwin away on a second cart. He too had been covered, but the black cloth peaked oddly over the hilt of her sword. Almost obscene it looked, and she nearly laughed out loud.

Oh, God, let me leave here. I would be sick, or weep.

Ven'Thomas, after Helfred the most senior member of the Court Ecclesiastica, pressed his thumb to his brocade chest and then to his lips. “Your Majesty, God was with you. What else is there to say?”

“What else indeed?” she said thinly. “Perhaps more prayers for their souls. They were wicked and misguided and they distressed my kingdom. But they are gone from us now. Their blood has washed away their sins.”

“Would you be prolate now as well as queen?” said Helfred, arriving at the foot of the dais stairs. “Leave the sermons to me, Majesty. The rest is yours, and you are welcome to it.”

“Your Eminence,” she said, and waited until he was on the dais beside her. “I stand corrected.”

He smiled, not widely. Just a small curve of lip. “Majesty, you stand, and for that may God be praised.” It was his turn, then, to sweep them all with his gaze. “You'll attend a Litany in the castle chapel for the dukes on the morrow. Litanies for their souls will be held the length and breadth of the kingdom for five days unceasing. Here was a sad lesson. Let us be certain not to forget it. Majesty, since you refuse to take counsel of your phsyick, be the Church's obedient daughter and take this counsel from your prolate instead. Your case is proven. You may now withdraw.”

She could see in his eyes how much he enjoyed the chance to bully her, chaplain to princess, as once they had been. But overlaying any small appreciation was sorrow, and concern, and a sense of this most sombre occasion.

She nodded. “Your Eminence. I am before all things a dutiful daughter of the Church.”

He extended his hand, that she might kiss his ring. “I have often said so, Your Majesty.”

He'd said no such thing, but she didn't argue. Only kissed his ring and stepped back.

“Most Venerables, attend me,” said Helfred, and he led the Court Ecclesiastica from the dais and the tiltyard. Ven'Cedwin followed, his writings complete. She looked to her council, especially Edward.

“Will you stay, my lords? Be certain all is done that must be done to see this field of combat dismantled? When I rise in the morning I'd like to see my Great Lawn again. I'd like this tiltyard to be nothing but a memory.”

Edward bowed. “Majesty, give no more thought to the matter. All that should be done will be done, right gladly.”

They were staring at her, all of them, even Alasdair, as though she were some bizarre creature hatched among them without warning. Because these men had been with her from the start, because they knew what they knew and had seen what they had seen and risked their lives and Houses for her, she let ceremony fall like a dress, discarded.

“What? Why do you look at me like that, gentlemen? You are men, you take the hunting field. Surely you've seen blood before.”

“Yes, they've seen blood,” said Alasdair as her dukes exchanged blushing glances. “But never before have they seen a warrior queen.”

“And God be praised for her,” said Rudi, kneeling. His peers followed suit.

“God be praised,” echoed his overproud son.

“God be praised,” said Edward, weeping.

“God be praised,” said Ludo. There was no laughter in him.

Disconcerted, she considered them. A warrior queen. I suppose it's kinder than the truth, a killing queen. There's some glamour in the thought of being a warrior. Killing is only another name for butchery and that leaves an aftertaste sour in the mouth.

And then all she could think about was how much she hurt. Only now, standing still, could she feel how far she'd pushed her body. How much she'd demanded of it, and what price she'd have to pay.

“Come,” said Alasdair gently. “You've proven your point. But the ambassadors are gone now, Rhian. Emperor Han is gone. There's no shame for you to take your ease and let Ursa tend you. In fact, I insist.”

For a moment she was afraid that if she tried to move she'd fall down. Her wounded, over-used body howled viciously. Were it not for these men she'd let the crowding tears fall. Then she drew in a deep breath and thrust the pain where it would not interfere.

“My lords, let us convene in the council chamber on the morrow,” she said. “After Helfred's service in the chapel. We've much to discuss, not least of which is what's to be done with these Houses of Doveninger and Marshale. Bend your thoughts in that direction, and we'll thrash out a solution.”

“Majesty,” her dukes murmured, and stood.

“Ludo,” said Alasdair, beckoning him aside. “Must you go straight back to Linfoi? Or can you tarry a while longer? We need your voice on the council.”

“I'll tarry,” said Ludo. “There's little happening at home right now that my father can't deal with. In truth, I think caring for the duchy is the best medicine I could find him. And if something should go wrong, it's a swift enough journey home when there's a private barge with oarsmen at my disposal.”

“We return to our privy chambers,” said Alasdair. “Come with us. You and I can speak at leisure while Her Majesty is tended as she ought be.” Then he frowned. “Rhian, perhaps I should send for a—”

She bared her teeth. “Suggest I be carried into the castle like an invalid and you'll be next to feel the sting of my blade. I can walk. Feel free to walk with me, if you can keep up.”

Ludo grinned. “Majesty, I'd walk with you into hell.” But then his amusement faded. “And I'm so sorry, that the dukes drove you to this. They were fools. Fools never prosper.”

These fools didn't, that much is certain. She nodded. “Thank you, Ludo.”

Before she turned to seek respite within the castle, she allowed herself one glance up to a particular east wing window. But if Zandakar was watching her she couldn't see him. The sun had shifted, and the mullioned windows' expensive glass was a blank white stare.

Gritting her teeth she made herself take one step, and another. Alasdair and Ludo walked on either side of her, close enough for catching should her body betray her at the last.

She wanted to resent it…but that would be foolish. And as Ludo had pointed out, fools never prospered.

Dinsy burst into tears when she saw her. “Oh, Your Majesty! Oh, sweet Rollin! Oh, Your Majesty!” That was to Alasdair. “Physick Ursa's in your privy chamber, sir, all ready. Oh look at my sweet lady, she's blood from head to toe!”

Rhian sighed. “Hush your silliness. Am I dead? I don't believe I am. Perhaps a little punctured, but hardly on the point of expiration.”

Dinsy gulped, and smeared her cheeks dry. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Alasdair,” said Rhian, turning to him. “Keep Ludo entertained. I'll find you once Ursa's finished fussing.”

He took her hand and kissed it, seemingly oblivious to the dried blood flaking from her skin. “All right.”

His tone was light and uncloying, but she knew she wasn't the only one paying a price for this day. His eyes were dreadful.

My love, my love. I'm so sorry. I had no choice.

She touched her lips to his cheek. “Thank you.”

And then Dinsy was bustling her into the privy chamber where Ursa stood frowning with her sleeves rolled up.

“You can go, girl,” the phsyick told Dinsy. “I've no need for a second pair of hands.”

Beseeching, Dinsy turned. “Your Majesty?”

“I'll be fine. Ursa knows me of old.”

“Yes, Ursa does,” said Ursa grimly, when the door was closed and they were alone. “And if you dare to tell me you're not in pain, you don't need a physick and I can be on my way, well, madam, I—”

Rhian flung up a hand. “Don't. Ursa, don't. I think scolding will kill me where Kyrin and Damwin failed.”

Ursa's expression changed abruptly. “Ah, you poor child,” she said softly, holding out her arms.

Rhian went to her…and forgot she was a queen.

She killed the dukes a hundred times that night, in her dreams. After each death they lurched to their feet and leered at her, blood pouring from the wounds she'd inflicted upon them, abuse streaming from their flaccid lips.

Bitch! Whore! Slayer of a kingdom!

In her dreams she heard herself whimper, felt Alasdair's arms gather her close. Once she dreamed his fingers tightened round her throat. She woke then, flailing, and half fell out of their bed.

Alasdair sat up. “What is it? Rhian?”

Instead of curling herself into him she slid the rest of the way from beneath the blankets and touched her feet to the floor. Movement was painful, waking her strained and overstretched muscles. The swordcuts on her cheek, arms and back that Ursa had stitched were burning. The physick had left her a potion to drink if her discomfort grew too great, but she didn't want to swallow it. A little pain seemed a just penalty when two men were dead by her hand.

Alasdair touched his fingertips to her hip. “Rhian?”

Gritting her teeth she stood, padded over to the window and drew back the heavy curtains. Beyond the panes of glass Kingseat Harbour glittered silver beneath the moons, its surface calm, no ocean storms to fret it. There was no bustle now, in the middle of the night, all the visiting boats were asleep at their moorings. But the harbourmaster's men still patrolled in their torchlit skiffs, making certain no-one thought to disturb the peace with rowdy-making or any less harmless misbehaviour. Although she was shivering, hurting, and the dreams were still so near, she felt her lips curve in bemused affection.

Everyone thinks the king – or queen – makes things happen in a kingdom. It's simply not true. It's the secretaries and their staffs who keep the wheels turning. Without them doggedly pursuing their duties these past weeks Ethrea would've crumbled into the ocean. They love the kingdom as much as I. In some ways I think it's even closer to their hearts, for their busy fingers take its pulse every day.

“Rhian,” Alasdair said again.

“I'm all right,” she said, not turning.

The blankets rustled, the bed's wood frame creaked, and then he stood at the window behind her, his arms gathering her close. His touch was gentle, mindful of her wounds. “You're in pain?”

“A little. It's no great thing.”

He sighed, but didn't argue. “Bad dreams?”

“Bad enough.”

His lips brushed lightly over her hair, but although the gesture was loving she could feel his tension and impatience. “The dukes forced you to it. If you hadn't taken the crown, if you'd named me king and yourself queen consort, say, don't you think they'd still have challenged?”

She wanted to think that, but…“I don't know. How much were they fighting for their own ambitions, and how much were they incited by me? If Ranald or Simon hadn't died, Alasdair…”