The Bastard Prince (56 page)

“Can you blow for me?” she whispered.

He complied, but he would not let go of the toy knights in his hands. Still sniffling, he squirmed around to turn tear-reddened eyes to hers.

“Mummy, I have a question,” he said tremulously.

“Yes, darling?”

“Did the bad prince take away my papa's crown?”

She smiled gently and brushed the hair off his forehead as she shook her head. “No, my darling, he did not. Your papa left his crown for you. And no one shall ever,
ever
take it away from you—I promise.”

Owain looked doubtful. “But I'm only little, Mummy. What if the bad prince comes?”

“The bad prince is dead, my love,” she whispered, wishing the other “bad prince” were dead as well. “He can't come and take your crown. And you shall grow up to be a very brave and wise and powerful king, the way your papa wanted.”

“I'll be king like Papa?”

“You will, my darling. And until you're big like Papa, there will be wise men to help you learn how to be a king.”

Owain sighed. “More lessons.”

“I'm afraid so,” Michaela said with an amused chuckle. “For many, many years. But for now, I think you should have your first lesson today in being a proper king. The archbishop and some of the other great lords are waiting outside to see you. Now that you're king, there are some things they have to do and some words they have to say. Do you think you could be a very brave boy for me and make Papa proud in Heaven?”

“What I have to do?” he asked suspiciously.

“Just be very polite and answer when you're spoken to. There will be quite a lot of bowing, and after they've said some words, they'll want to come and kiss your hand, the way you've seen them do for me and for Papa. That's their way of showing you that they know you're the king now. Would that be all right?”

He nodded thoughtfully. “Can I take my knights?”

“Well—how about just the one of Papa? And you must hold him like this, with your left hand, so they can kiss the other one. We'll let Uncle Cathan stay here to see that the other ones behave—all right?”

“All right.”

“Now, hold out your hand the way you've seen Papa do, so that I can rest my hand on yours while we go into the next room. That's right.” She rose and laid her left hand on his right: “Now, you are the king, and I am your lady, and we must be very dignified as we go to meet your great lords.”

She could tell that Hubert was pleased, when it was over. Little Owain escorted her into the next room with four-year-old dignity, accepting their bows as his due, and waited for another chair to be brought for his mother before he would sit on the one they had provided for him. After that, while Earl Tammaron read out the proclamation of accession, Owain sat quietly, tightly hugging his toy knight, then gravely allowed each of them to kiss his hand. He came close to tears when Hubert briefly slipped his father's Ring of Fire on his left hand, bewildered and a bit distressed because it was far too big, but he brightened when Lady Nieve produced a sturdy gold chain from which to suspend it around his neck.

His exemplary behavior earned his mother the privilege of taking him back to her own apartments for the rest of the day. Secorim was dubious at first, being but recently apprised of the nature of the late king's tense relationship with his great lords, but Tammaron argued as the father of four sons that a child's place at a time like this was with his mother, king or no king. Even the usually hard-hearted Richard, whose son was a year older than Owain, had to agree that the young king ought not to be kept from his mother, at least until after the two very emotion-laden events still to come—the return of the late king's body to Rhemuth, with its reception on the cathedral steps, and the state funeral to follow. Hubert concurred.

Thanking God for this small mercy, Michaela let them escort her and Owain back to the royal apartments, herself bringing the Uncle Cathan knight so that Owain could carry the Papa knight and still cling tightly to her hand. As soon as she and Owain had reached the sanctuary of her solar, she divested herself of coronet and veils and bade Rhysel loose her hair, letting it tumble around her shoulders the way Owain liked it as she bent to give him another hug.

As they retreated to the bedchamber beyond, she found that Lady Estellan and the other ladies had set out a light lunch—much appreciated, for Michaela had not had the stomach to eat anything earlier. She still could not bring herself to eat very much, but young Owain tucked in with surprisingly good appetite, making sure that Papa, Uncle Cathan, and their horses all had portions of bread and cheese set before them. After he had eaten his fill, Rhysel helped his mother pull off the crimson tunic and shoes and bed down the little king for an afternoon nap. When the other ladies had gone out, all solicitude and sympathetic tongue-cluckings for the brave little prince, Rhysel bade the queen lie down, too.

“You need the rest as much as he does,” she whispered, as she helped the queen remove her outer robe and lie down in her shift. “And don't worry about telling me anything; I'll Read it while you sleep and then see how the king fares as well, underneath his show of bravery.”

The respite into sleep was welcome and left several fewer hours of the afternoon to be endured, when she awoke. Owain's governess and a page had brought the rest of his beloved knights and a very small black tunic while they napped, and Michaela sat silently watching him until suppertime, as he took the knights out of their wicker basket and improvised an ambush for the bad prince from behind a hillock made of her shoes. Both his concentration and the black tunic were all too sober for so young a child, but she knew they were but the least of things he would have to bear all too young.

A bath was brought after supper, and Michaela gladly bent to the task of bathing him herself—something she had not been allowed to do for some time. Afterward, when he was asleep, tucked clean and sweet-smelling into the bed she lately had shared with his father, she knelt beside him and stroked the raven hair and prayed for his life. There was another child beneath her heart, but this one was the one who would have to bear up under whatever the regents tried in the days and weeks and years to come. Far too soon, he would be asked to follow in his father's footsteps and take up at least the promise of his Haldane heritage.

And tomorrow, he must watch his father's body brought back to Rhemuth in a coffin. Hubert had come after supper to tell her that the cortege would arrive sometime after noon. The news set a further blight on what remained of the evening, and she was glad to retire early and let Rhysel take her deep into undreaming sleep.

An update the next morning, after breakfast, indicated that the procession probably would not reach the cathedral much before three. Already dressed in her widow's weeds but with hair still flowing loose for Owain's sake, Michaela spent the morning gazing out the window at the gardens below, while Owain played at her feet with his knights, the Ring of Fire and its golden chain a bright contrast against his funereal black. After lunch, she let Rhysel do up her hair and donned her widow's veil and the State Crown, with its crosses and leaves intertwined.

Tammaron and Richard came to fetch them at two—an easy enough escort as far as the great hall, for Owain knew both of them. But as the royal party emerged on the great hall steps, great lords and bereaved queen and wide-eyed boy clutching a toy knight under one arm, a
Custodes
guard of honor came to attention with such clashing of weapons and stamping of feet that young Owain faltered, burying his face in his mother's skirts.

“There, now, my darling,” Michaela whispered, bending down to comfort him as Earl Tammaron indicated they should proceed to the canopied sedan-chair waiting at the bottom of the steps. “Those men are doing you honor. Many men will do you honor today. Do you remember how the great lords kissed your hand yesterday?”

He nodded tremulously.

“Well, soldiers show their respect by clashing their weapons like that, because that is how they serve you—with their strength of arms. Now, hold your head up and take Mummy's hand the way you did yesterday. Why, I do believe we're meant to ride in one of the archbishop's rather splendid sedan-chairs. Have you ever wondered what it would be like to travel in one of those? I know I have.”

Thus reassured, he did as she bade, gravely taking her down the steps and handing her into the sedan-chair with the aplomb of a courtier many times his age. He was rather less dignified as Tammaron lifted him up beside her, once she had settled her skirts and made space for him.

“It's high,” he whispered, as he settled the Papa knight more securely under his arm and held on with his other hand.

“A little,” she conceded. “But think how well you'll be able to see.”

The ride down to the cathedral started out bumpy, but it gradually settled to a gentle side-to-side motion as the horses fell into step. As constable of the castle, Richard rode before them with a mounted guard of his own men in Carthane livery. Tammaron rode on Owain's side, with Sir Rondel on Michaela's;
Custodes
knights followed behind. All along the way, silent crowds had gathered to watch their passage, the men doffing their hats as the little king passed by, many of the women weeping to see him come so young to his throne.

When they alighted at the cathedral steps, Archbishop Hubert was there to receive them, along with Bishop Alfred, who should have been the next Archbishop of Rhemuth, and Abbot Secorim, who would actually have the position. A bevy of additional clergy and choristers also waited with torches and incense and a huge, jeweled processional cross, but Hubert came and led the two of them inside, out of the sun, to wait in the cool of the baptistery near the rear doors until the expected cortege should actually come into sight. The cathedral was well filled with richly dressed men and women, and Owain peered out at them with interest through the brass-latticed baptistery gate when Hubert had gone back out.

“Mummy, have all these people come to honor Papa?” he whispered.

“I do believe they have,” she replied.
And also to see this child who will be their new king
, she thought to herself, pitying him anew—and herself. “Why don't you sit here very quietly beside me while we wait for the archbishop to come back? Shall we say a prayer for Papa?”

They had finished several prayers, and Owain had taken to prancing his knight along the edge of the fount, when Lord Tammaron came to fetch them.

“It's time, your Highness,” he murmured, as the
Custodes
guards outside the gate clashed to attention. “Sire, will you come this way, please?”

A little stiffly, Owain lifted his chin and held out his arm for his mother's hand, gravely conveying her after Tammaron, who had to bite at his lip to keep from showing his emotion. The choristers had begun intoning a Latin hymn, and as Michaela and her son emerged into the sunlight, she could see the procession approaching the cathedral steps. Her brother Cathan was among the lead riders, Rhun and Manfred to either side; and beyond them, escorted by
Custodes
knights and preceded by a processional cross and Rhysem's banner, was the horse-borne bier that bore his black-draped coffin. She could see the sunlight glinting off the sword and crown fastened atop it, and tears blurred her vision as she held tightly to her son's hand and watched it draw near.

The lead riders were dismounting, Rhun and Manfred coming up the steps with Cathan and a pair of
Custodes
knights behind them. Her brother looked dreadful, pale and much thinner than when he had left, but at least he had come back.

She shifted her gaze to Rhun and Manfred, armored and full of their own self-importance as they came to kneel at Owain's feet and kiss his small hand, rising then to give Tammaron quiet greeting before withdrawing to either side for Cathan to make his salute. Cathan managed a reassuring smile for his young nephew as he bent over the boy's hand, but as he rose to embrace his sister lightly and kiss her on both cheeks, she saw that his eyes were dilated even in the bright sunlight.

Drugged, then; that explained his appearance and the lethargy that blurred his grace as he moved around to her other side, one hand lightly keeping balance against Owain's shoulder. She knew the signs well, from those years ago with Rhysem. She slipped her arm into his for reassurance and comfort, but he did not admit her to his thoughts, only gazing numbly at Rhysem's coffin as the horse-litter came to a halt and strong men began lifting it down.

Tears welling in her eyes, Michaela watched the priests begin to cense her husband's coffin and sprinkle it with holy water and heard the words that Hubert sang as he invoked the saints of God and the angels of the Lord to come to Rhysem's aid, presenting his soul before the sight of the Most High.

“
Suscipiat te Christus, qui vocavit te …
” Hubert sang. May you be received by Christ, Who has called you: and may the angels bring you into the bosom of Abraham.

They did, you know
, came Cathan's thought in her mind, as he shifted her hand into his hand for comfort.
The angels came
—
archangels, actually
—
the same as came the night he received his power. Dom Queron called them. I know he's at peace, Mika
.

“
Requiem aeternam dona ei, Domine
,” Hubert sang, “
et lux perpetua luceat ei.
”

“
Offerentes earn in conspectu Altissimi
…”

Both stunned and cheered by his message, her vision blurred by tears, Michaela somehow managed to get through the rest of the ceremony, numbly following her husband's coffin into the hushed cathedral, Owain clinging to her left hand and Cathan supporting her on her right. The great lords served as his pallbearers: Tammaron, Manfred, Rhun, Richard—and Lord Ainslie and Sir Rondel to round out the numbers, since Hubert and Secorim were otherwise occupied. Clouds of incense followed them down an aisle that seemed far, far longer than it had the many other times Michaela had walked it. The most joyful had been to repeat her marriage vows to the man whose coffin she now followed; the most difficult before now, to follow him to his coronation, knowing that he must make vows before God that they would never allow him to keep.