Valour and Victory (14 page)

Quoi was most
optimistic that this time could not be long away. He might even
have the opportunity before the
Ammokko
arrived to begin to
explore the smaller of the northern continents that, he had been
assured by the Largan, was uninhabited.

Quoi laughed to
himself. Let the creatures that lived here fight each other. If
both armies were destroyed in the process, good. They were simple
creatures, he thought with contempt, with primitive weaponry, no
match for his and the other Quorko who would arrive with the mother
ship.
Let them kill each other. We Dglai can gather in the
corpses when it is over.
In the ship there were machines that
would metamorphose the remains into edible proteins. The Dglai were
masters of putting to good use everything they could lay their
talons on. The dead were no different than say, the leaves from the
trees and the ores in the ground.

Only in the
seas was there a habitat inimical to the Dglai. Only the creatures
that swam in the ocean depths were safe. The Dglai had found to
their cost on other planets that the pressures found under the
oceans were lethal. However, this planet had sufficient land masses
and resources for their purpose.

Quoi was in
fine fettle.

* * * * *

The
Prince-Duke

King Xavier of
his new-founded Kingdom of Southern Murdoch was taking his ease in
the royal apartments. Everything was well with his world. As
promised by the Largan, no kohort had infringed, even by a paw,
over the borders of his new Kingdom, they had even left the Duchy
of North Baker alone. Perhaps its Duke would be persuaded join him.
Xavier filed that idea away to think about later.

He began to
plan his coronation.

It would be a
sumptuous affair, he decided, with a pomp and circumstance never
seen before. His wife would not be present. Xavier hated the mother
of his children with a deadly hatred and intended that her
remaining days be numbered. He would find himself another wife.

He was sitting,
revelling in this pleasing contemplation when he heard running
feet. The door bucketed open and one of his men leapt into the
room.

“How dare you,”
thundered Xavier, rising to his feet.

“My Prince, My
King,” the man shouted back, his face filled with panic. “The Larg!
The Larg are attacking Cocteau! They’ve crossed the borders and are
killing and destroying everything and everyone in their path!”

“You lie,”
shouted Xavier. “It can’t be! The Largan promised, he promised.”
These last words emerged from Xavier’s mouth in a disbelieving
whine.

“It’s true,
it’s true! We are under attack. What are your orders My Liege?”

Xavier paid no
heed to the question. He fell back into his chair, his face one of
horrified terror.

“The Largan
promised, he promised,” he muttered, beads of sweat forming on his
brow. Xavier had forgotten that he was not alone.

The retainer
watched as Xavier lifted his head to look out of the window to gaze
unseeingly at the flowers in the courtyard. Xavier’s mouth opened
but no words came out. Tears of angry frustration began to trickle
down his pale face.

“Your orders My
King?” the retainer asked again.

“Go to Hell,”
said Xavier as he continued to gaze out of the window.

“Go to
Hell!”

* * * * *

The
Crown-Princess

In the palace
all was confusion, like a ship without a rudder. Retainers,
servants and slaves milled around, not knowing what to do. On the
top floor of the old Citadel the imprisoned royal women and
children listened and wondered.

Then of all
people, one of the palace slaves, an elderly man who had spent his
entire life in royal servitude opened the door of their prison and
fell to his knees in front of the Dowager Crown-Princess Susan.

“The Larg are
attacking,” he managed to get out.

“Prince-Duke
Xavier?” asked Susan, looking every bit a royal princess.

“He has run
away,” he replied in his quavery voice. “What must we do?”

Susan
straightened to her full height. She knew her duty. Her husband
Paul might be dead but she was not the daughter of a Duke for
nothing. Paul would expect her to do something, even if it was only
to declare their son Elliot king.

She caught the
eye of her mother-in-law, the Dowager Queen, who nodded.

“In the absence
of my son, King Elliot, I will take charge,” Susan announced. “Calm
down Flynn. Are any of the bodyguard or palace soldiery still
alive?”

“In the
dungeons,” he answered.

“Go let them
out,” she commanded, “and send the senior surviving officer to me
in the throne room.”

She turned to
the ex-Queen. “Mother, take the children back to their nursery,
then if you would join me there? We have a lot of work to do. I
think the time has come for the women of Murdoch to take control of
their own destiny.”

* * * * *

The
Archbishop

“Father?”
Archbishop Tom Brentwood, Primate of Murdoch interrupted Chaplain
Romauld’s prayers.

Father Romauld,
Chaplain to the royal family turned and, recognising his visitor
made haste to rise from his knees. He would have approached his
superior to give proper obsequies and to kiss his ring but Tom
Brentwood stopped him with one hand.

“No time for
that,” he said.

“Archbishop,
thank God you got here safely!”

“I have
indeed,” he replied, “and my thanks for sending your
messenger.”

“I couldn’t
think what else to do,” confessed Romauld. “With the King and the
Crown-Prince dead and Princes David and Ian too.”

“You did
right,” answered the Archbishop, settling himself on a nearby pew,
“now, come sit by me and tell me what has been happening. So
bizarre have the rumours been that it is difficult to distinguish
between fact and fiction. They are dead then?”

“These thirteen
days past,” answered Romauld. “I have been praying for their
souls.”

“Better to pray
for those of us who are still alive,” said Tom Brentwood in a dry
voice, “but I imply no criticism. The royal family?”

“Safe in the
Citadel. Xavier didn’t touch the women and children.”

“And the
Queen?”

“Devastated,”
answered Romauld, “Crown-Princess Susan is bearing up pretty well
all things considered.”

“Conclave?”

“No one.”
Romauld answered. “The Dukes of van Buren and Smith have fled back
to their duchies and Xavier has disappeared into thin air.”

“He was never
good in a crisis,” observed the Primate. “Pierre Cocteau, where is
he?”

“I presume he
is also in his Duchy, he wasn’t here when Xavier took over and he
stayed away afterwards. Hedging his bets I suppose, his wife…”

“Is the late
King’s sister, I understand. No doubt that he condoned Xavier’s
plot though?”

“No doubt, he
was in it up to his neck, least in the beginning.”

“Where is the
Duke of North Baker, have you heard?”

“He’s defending
his borders, though we believe the Larg have not entered North
Baker itself. The Lord Marshall is with the Regiments in
Brentwood.”

“Who is in
charge here?”

“Colonel Morgan
arrived this morning,” Father Romauld answered.

Tom Brentwood
nodded. He knew the Colonel of old. He had retired from active
service and was a solid and dependable officer with a lot of
experience though perhaps not the person Tom Brentwood would have
chosen.

“You My Lord
Archbishop,” said Father Romauld, “are the only Conclave member
remaining to us. You must take charge. Those officers who survived
are running around like headless rudtkas. Colonel Morgan is talking
about taking what troops he can gather together and marching out to
confront the Larg.”

“Suicide.”

“That’s what I
thought, Crown-Princess Susan thinks so too but she has no
authority. She tried to talk to him but he wouldn’t listen.”

“He’ll listen
to me,” declared the Archbishop. “Prince Elliot? King Elliot I
should say?”

“No one knows.
Crown-Prince Paul recalled him home before all this happened, but
the communications network has disintegrated.”

Tom Brentwood
thought for a moment. “I can assure you that Colonel Morgan will
not be departing Fort.” He rose to his feet, a figure of determined
intent. “Go to Crown-Princess Susan, ask her, no, tell her to meet
me in the Conclave Chamber in a candle-mark. We need a figurehead
and that figurehead is she.”

“You My
Lord?”

“I’m going to
see Colonel Morgan to beat some sense into him. Did the Castle
Seneschal survive Xavier’s ministrations?”

“Yes he did.
Most of the palace servants and slaves did. The royal bodyguard,
no, they died almost to a man defending the Crown-Prince. Six of
them survived, they were off duty at the time of the coup and
managed to hide.”

“And the
Company of Foot that was supposed to be guarding the family. What
of them?”

“Fled.”

“Captain
Henot?” asked Tom Brentwood, referring to the man who by opening
the castle gates had allowed Xavier’s coup to succeed.

“Dead by
Xavier’s orders. His family too I believe.”

A disgusted Tom
Brentwood frowned. In Murdoch the sins of the fathers were never
vested on the children, a measure designed to try to keep the
fabric of society intact. A rebel noble might forfeit his life but
his inheritance was considered sacrosanct and was always passed on
to his legal male heir.

“Right. Once
you have spoken to Crown-Princess Susan, go find the Seneschal and
tell him to start bringing in provisions from the town into the
complex here.”

“On whose
authority?”

“Mine,” snapped
Tom Brentwood, “and by the authority of the Crown-Princess. If
anyone argues send him to me.”

“The people in
the town below will wonder.”

“The populace
will be coming into the Citadel,” he explained. “Now go.”

Tom Brentwood
turned and stomped away down the central aisle of the chapel.

An amazed
Father Romauld watched him go, bowed in a hurried manner to the
altar, before speeding off to find Crown-Princess Susan. Perhaps
there was hope for them all after all.

* * * * *

The
Crown-Princess

Trying to
ignore her inner disquiet, Crown-Princess Susan took a deep breath
as she entered the Conclave Chamber and walked with outward
confidence to take the seat at its head - the heavy ornate chair
that was the monarch’s own. Inside she was shaking like a leaf. She
was sure the men could hear her knees knocking beneath her
kirtle.

Once settled,
she looked round at the astonished faces. The only occupant of the
seats there by right was the Archbishop Primate Tom Brentwood, the
others were those of lesser rank, called to Conclave by him or
Colonel Morgan who had assumed command of the Citadel. Baron Martin
Taviston was there. He was standing beside two officers she
recognised from the Archbishop’s personal guard. She did not know
any of the other men.

Archbishop
Brentwood watched her seat herself with a twinkle in his eye,
acknowledged her presence with a bow and continued his
briefing.

The Archbishop
was the eldest son of a duke, his early years had been spent
studying martial arts and civil governance to prepare himself to
rule the duchy his father had assumed would be his one day, except
that the young Duke-Heir hadn’t wanted to become Duke of Brentwood.
A deeply religious young man, he had yearned for a life in religion
and aged eighteen had abdicated his ducal rights in favour of his
sister and had entered the Seminary at Mahler.

His rise within
the church had been spectacular, Father Brentwood becoming Bishop
of Duchesne at the age of thirty-five. He had been elected
Archbishop seven years later.

Now, aged
sixty-eight he was a respected prelate. He had spoken out against
Prince-Duke Xavier��s coup with vehemence before fleeing Fort before
he could be arrested. Now he had returned to give what advice and
leadership he could.

“Princess
Susan?” he said at last and all eyes followed his towards the
black-clad widow. His tone was encouraging and she took courage
from this obvious invitation to take part in the conference and not
merely to listen and observe.

“I think
Archbishop, that we must work together here, traditions to the
contrary,” she said.

The old man
smiled. “I agree,” he said, ignoring the outraged faces of the men
gathered around him. “Will I continue with the briefing?”

“If you would
Archbishop.”

“Now
Gentlemen.” Tom Brentwood began again, “we were discussing the
defence of the Citadel were we not?”

“And the town,”
Susan reminded him. “Colonel Morgan, what have you to report?”

“The populace
is preparing,” he answered, looking at Tom Brentwood.

“Say what
you’ve got to say to Crown-Princess Susan,” the Archbishop
ordered.

The Colonel
looked at him, saw that he meant what he said and recovering his
aplomb, nodded and turned his body to face the black clad Dowager
Crown-Princess.

“Madam,” he
said with stiff a bow.

“If you would
just recap?” Susan encouraged. “I will need to be aware of all the
facts before I come to a decision.”

“The outer
walls of the town are not defensible. Many have been allowed to
crumble and to fall into disrepair. We are also not sure just how
many kohorts have entered Cocteau but we believe at least
eight.”

“How many Larg
is that?”

“Upwards of ten
thousand,” he replied in a flat voice. “With the Regiments in
Brentwood facing as many if not more, they can do nothing to help,
even if they could get here in time.”