The Table of Less Valued Knights (8 page)

As far as Martha was concerned, it was pretty easy to tell the difference between her and Jasper, for reasons quite aside from him being male and dead. Jasper had been tall and muscular and handsome, witty and intelligent and accomplished. He had been a Knight of the Round Table in Camelot, with all the goodness and bravery that implied. He had travelled all over the land on quests, having experiences and gaining wisdom and meeting people, one of whom was a Pict he was supposed to be civilising in Scotland, who hadn’t wanted to be civilised and who had cut off Jasper’s head. But if that hadn’t happened, he would have had all the attributes which would have made him a wonderful king.

Martha, on the other hand – even Martha didn’t know what Martha was. She presided over jousts, opened country fairs, exclaimed at the beauty of babies and judged vegetables. She shook hands. She sat at banquets next to foreign dignitaries who talked across her to other foreign dignitaries or lectured her on their own achievements. She bestowed favours upon and accepted love poetry from knights and the sons of lords who had never actually spoken to her. She wore stiff dresses and uncomfortable shoes. She smiled.

But after her brother died, she woke sometimes in the middle of the night, with her heart pounding and her mouth dry. She
would think
I am going to be queen one day
, but she had no idea what qualities she would bring to the role. Would she be a fair queen or a cruel one? She didn’t know if she was cruel or fair. She didn’t know how she was going to exude authority and actually rule, because unlike her brother, who was born to be the King, she was a nothing person with nothing to offer except that she existed. And now her father had died and she was the Queen and the one thing that she did know was that she wasn’t ready yet.

There was a knock at the door.

‘Come in,’ she said.

Sir John Penrith, the Chancellor and head of the Regency Council, bounced into the room and gave a jaunty little bow. Deborah curtseyed. This was her day for curtseying to everyone.

‘The King is dead, long live the Queen,’ said Sir John in cheery greeting. He was a skinny man with a pot belly and long white eyebrows that grew like a peacock’s tail feathers.

‘Good morning, Sir John,’ said Martha.

She didn’t know Sir John particularly well. Mainly she saw him in chapel, where she noticed he had the habit of sticking his tongue in the Communion wine.

‘Everybody’s waiting,’ he said, raising one of those eyebrows at the sight of her robe. ‘I think it would make a better impression if you were dressed.’

‘Waiting?’

‘For you, my Queen. Deborah, would you fetch an appropriate dress for Her Majesty?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Deborah. She bobbed a curtsey at Sir John, then one at Martha, realised that the one for Martha had not been lower than the one for Sir John, curtseyed again lower to Martha, felt that was uneven somehow, gave Sir John another curtsey but made sure it was a smaller one this time, bowed to Martha, and backed out of the room.

‘It’s just a short meeting,’ said Sir John, ‘nothing to frighten the horses. Would you mind if I sat down?’

Without waiting for an answer, he hitched up his leggings and sat on Martha’s favourite armchair by the fireplace, leaning back with a contented sigh and crossing his legs at the ankle.

‘I must say,’ he said, ‘I’m rather looking forward to retirement. I’m thinking of France. The weather’s lovely in the south.’

‘Retirement?’ said Martha.

‘The French can be a little stand-offish, it’s true,’ Sir John continued, ‘but the cuisine! Richer than Midas, but the sauces are exquisite.’

‘You’re stepping down?’

‘I might take up boules. I’ve always fancied it. My parents forced me into book-learning, but I have the soul of an athlete.’

‘But who’s going to be my chancellor?’

‘Why, my dear, anyone you like. You’re the Queen now.’

The door opened again and in came Deborah, curtseying elaborately with every step. She had some black fabric draped over one arm, around which a few moths drifted.

‘I’ll leave you ladies to it,’ said Sir John. ‘I’ll wait right outside the door until you’re ready to go downstairs.
Le Roi est mort, vive la Reine
, as they say in France.’

After Sir John went out, Deborah held up the fabric, which turned out to be a somewhat old-fashioned dress.

‘This was your mother’s, from the plague era,’ she said. ‘She was never out of mourning then. Well, until the plague got her.’ She gave the garment a suspicious glance, then brightened. ‘It’s been in the attic a good long while. I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about.’

Martha removed her dressing gown and nightgown and stood in her underwear, her arms raised as Deborah slipped the dress over her head. The garment was cold and damp against her skin and smelt of mould.

‘There we go!’ said Deborah. ‘Oh, wait.’ She reached out and pulled something away from Martha’s armpit. ‘Spider! What a big one! Hairy, too.’

Deborah ejected the arachnid out of the window.

‘Perfect,’ she said, turning back to Martha. ‘You look exactly like your father just died.’

Once Deborah had pinned up her heavy red hair, Martha joined Sir John outside her bedchamber and he led her to the throne room, which had been co-opted by the Regency Council as a meeting space during her father’s illness.

Most of the room was taken up with a long wooden table piled high with papers, along both sides of which were seated richly dressed elderly men, whom Martha recognised from around the castle. So many of the men had ear trumpets they looked like a brass band.

‘The King is dead! Long live the Queen!’ the men chorused.

‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ said Martha.

There were two empty seats at the table. Sir John made his way towards one of them, so Martha headed towards the other.

‘Not there, Your Majesty,’ said Sir John. ‘There.’

He pointed to the dais at the far end of the room. Of course. There was the throne, ornate in gold leaf and red velvet. This was where she belonged now. Stacked up next to it, and detracting from its grandeur in a way that, at that moment, Martha found reassuring, was a teetering pile of papers and scrolls. Next to it was another pile of papers, and next to that, another one. Next to that one was another pile of papers, and next to that pile of papers was a pile of papers.

Martha picked her way up the steps to the dais and looked at the throne.
Am I really going to sit here
? She turned and sat down. There was a huge puff of dust. She arranged the folds of her
mother’s dress, which swamped her skinny frame, and surveyed the room. There were a lot of bald pates.

‘Are we waiting for someone?’ she said, looking at the vacant seat.

‘Pardon me?’ said Sir John. ‘Oh, no. That chair belongs to the Crone.’

‘Where is she?’

‘To be honest, we’re not sure. She hasn’t been to a meeting since Christmas. We’re keeping her chair free in case she decides to come back. She never contributed much anyway, we just felt we needed a woman, for balance. But we have a new woman now, don’t we?’ He raised his voice. ‘A very warm welcome to Queen Martha on behalf of all the members of the Regency Council!’

‘Speech!’ cried one of the men.

The others took up the call. ‘Speech! Speech! Speech!’

Martha cleared her throat.

‘It is an honour –’ she began.

‘Sir John!’ interrupted the first man.

‘Sir John! Sir John! Sir John!’ chorused the others.

‘Oh, well, if you insist,’ said Sir John. He climbed up onto his chair. ‘Your Majesty, my lords, bishops, gentlemen, and,
in absentia
, the Crone. It is the dawning of a new era for our nation. We have new hands on the reins. New boots urging the Horse of State on, from walk to trot to canter to gallop. It is a good horse. A noble horse. Glossy of coat and frisky of tail. A hacker. A jumper. Strong enough for a warrior, gentle enough for a child. Perky ears. Excellent teeth. Huge brown eyes. And a foaming, stinking lather of honest sweat. A great horse can make a great rider of any man, or, to a lesser extent, woman, if he, or if necessary she, trusts in the horse. But the rider must also guide the horse, guide it with wisdom, empathy, compassion, and the occasional application of spurs. One beloved rider has fallen at the fence of life today, but another has risen from the paddock.
Queen Martha, we entrust you with this sacred saddle. Good luck, and giddy up.’

The men whooped and cheered, banging their fists on the table, aside from one fellow at the end of the table closest to Martha, so lined and wrinkled that he looked like a crumpled handkerchief recently pulled out of the bottom of a boot. He said loudly to his neighbour over the applause, ‘I didn’t catch any of that. What was the part about the ears?’

‘Thank you all,’ said Martha. ‘I will endeavour to ride this horse as best I can and –’

‘Three cheers for Queen Martha!’ said Sir John. ‘Hip hip!’

‘Hooray!’ chorused the men.

‘Hip hip!’

‘Hooray!’

‘Hip hip!’

‘Hooray!’

‘Now, where to begin?’ said Sir John, climbing back down off his chair. ‘There’s so much to get through before we leave you to it.’

‘Leave me to it?’

‘Of course. The King is dead.’

‘Long live the Queen!’ said the men.

‘You are the monarch now, and in full possession of your faculties. There is no need for a Regency any more. Of course, I would suggest that you appoint some advisers to assist you with your decision-making, particularly in areas that are inappropriate for a female – the archbishopric, for example. But the men of this chamber are advanced in years, and ready to pass the burden, and gift, of power on to the next generation.’

‘Not me!’ called a voice.

‘No, of course, not Ludovic, he’s quite the spring chicken.’

‘I’m seventy-two!’ said Ludovic.

‘He’ll carry on as Master of the Rolls, if it pleases Your Majesty.’

Ludovic pushed himself to his feet and bowed.

‘But for the rest of us,’ said Sir John, ‘once the funeral, the coronation and the wedding are out of the way, we’ll be bidding you a fond, though not entirely regretful, au revoir.’

‘The wedding?’ said Martha.

‘I suppose, if you deem it necessary, a few of us could stay on perhaps another week, two at most, to ensure the smooth handover of power. But then we really must be on our way.’

‘What wedding?’

‘And of course once Your Majesty is settled with a husband, he can take over much of the decision-making, as is natural.’

‘I have no intention of getting married,’ said Martha.

Sir John gave her a patronising smile. ‘Your Majesty does not need reminding that it is against our constitution for a woman to rule without a husband,’ he said. ‘But there’s no need to concern yourself. Your parents arranged it all when you were born. We’ve already sent a pigeon across the border, and Prince Edwin should be here by nightfall. The wedding will take place in the morning.’

Martha’s hands gripped the arms of the throne so tightly that they almost snapped off. ‘I’m meeting him tonight and you expect me to marry him tomorrow?’

‘By no means,’ said Sir John. ‘It’s unlucky for a groom to see the bride the night before the wedding. You will, as tradition dictates, spend the eve of your wedding locked in a tower and meet Prince Edwin at the altar. Unless you wish the first act of your reign to be one of iconoclasm?’

‘I wish no such thing. But –’

‘Then rejoice! By all accounts he’s a handsome fellow, looks terrific in a crown, and the trade and military alliance will be a great boon for the kingdom. Or should I say queendom? Ha ha.’

The men all laughed too.

‘No, of course not,’ said Sir John, ‘that’s not even a word. But we’ll make sure you have a nice dress for the ceremony, so there’s nothing to worry about. I’m sure there’ll be time for a fitting
once we’ve worked through a bit of this legislative backlog –’ he indicated one of the piles of papers, ‘– and we’ve done a few hours in court –’ indicating another, ‘– and a few other bits and pieces. And then, once you’re married – remind me, Diary Secretary? I can’t keep track.’

One of the old men consulted a scroll. ‘King’s funeral the day after tomorrow, and coronation the day after that.’

‘Bumper week for you, Archbishop,’ said Sir John to a short fellow with tufty ears and a large gold cross around his neck, who simpered in return. ‘Sir Thomas, are preparations for the banquets under way?’ he continued.

‘I’ve got teams of village children slaughtering and plucking herons around the clock,’ answered Sir Thomas, a man surprisingly scrawny for a head cook.

At the far end of the table, three gentlemen began an argument with the Archbishop over which was the best banquet food. The Archbishop favoured duckottapin – a duck stuffed with an otter stuffed with a terrapin – and put up a particularly spirited fight.

‘As Master of Hounds, may I put a claim in now for leftovers?’ said a dome-headed man sitting close to Sir John. ‘Before they all go as alms. It’s good for the dogs to vary their diet, and the villagers are quite happy with root vegetables year-round.’

Silence. All the heads in the room turned to look at Martha.

‘What say you, Your Majesty?’ said Sir John.

‘Oh. I suppose so, yes,’ said Martha, who was still preoccupied by the thought of her wedding.

Half the men at the table smiled and nodded, and the other half glowered.

Was that it? My first ruling as queen?

‘Right then,’ said Sir John, ‘so let’s see. Apart from the wedding, funeral and coronation to arrange, you need to go over this year’s taxes and budget, check on the grain reserves, inspect the troops, cast your eye over the newest engineering projects (you’re going
to love our plans for the dam, though we do have a rebellion in the valley to stem – never mind, they’ll be a lot quieter after we’ve flooded them), make your maiden speech to your loving subjects, arrange a state visit to Camelot, assert your authority over the running of the castle and surrounding villages, sit in the civil court, sit in the criminal court, burn some deviants at the stake, and feed the dogs, as you just decreed … Shall we get started?’