The Godspeaker Trilogy by Karen Miller
“No,” he said quietly, after some consideration. “I think you would wish to see God's purpose and the championing of his desire, the judicious smiting of his enemies, recorded so your children's children's children might not forget this day. Don't whet that undisciplined tongue of yours on your husband's hide, Majesty. He engaged Master Hedgepoole in good faith, for you and your kingdom.”
The trouble with Helfred was that even when he was pompous, he was often right. She nodded. “Your Eminence.”
“Kneel, child,” he said, smiling kindly. “And let me bless you before this great endeavour.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Rhian knelt before Helfred and closed her eyes. His fingertips rested lightly on her head. “God, in whose sight we labour to do good, see this woman Rhian, this queen of your choosing, and gird her with righteousness that she might prevail. Inspire her with words to soften the hearts of these disobedient dukes, Damwin and Kyrin, that no blood be spilled here today. But if they keep their hearts hardened, if they remain intransigent, impious and unrepentant, then I ask you most humbly to guide her sword, that they might fall and rise no more. And if this should pass, let all know that their blood is spilled by your desire and no shame or blame lies upon her.”
Inwardly shaken, outwardly composed, Rhian got to her feet. “Thank you, Helfred.”
As she returned to Alasdair and her dukes, Edward held out her sword. “Majesty.”
She belted it round her hips, her fingers trembling only a little, then looked at them gravely. “Gentlemen, the hour is upon us for the doing of such deeds as are required of a queen and the men who give her wise counsel. Walk with me to the appointed place, and witness the dread workings of God's manifest will.”
Man by man they assembled behind her. Alasdair first, then the rest of her dukes. Next came Helfred at the head of his Court Ecclesiastica, ten old men who so recently would have fallen like Marlan had they not in their last heartbeats of grace understood their grave mistake. Then Ven'Cedwin, who carried with him a leather satchel full of writing implements so he might capture the day in words, and lastly Ursa and her apprentice, Bamfield.
As she stepped under the stone archway framing the courtyard, Rhian turned her head to the right and looked up. Within her castle's stone walls, caged inside his comfortable chamber, was Zandakar. One of his windows overlooked the Great Lawn. It was likely he'd be watching her while she fought the dukes, if they insisted on pushing her to swordplay.
He says you are mighty, that you dance like a queen.
If she danced like a queen it was because he had taught her. She glanced over her shoulder. “Alasdair—”
“Majesty?”
“If I – Zandakar—”
His fingers touched her arm, briefly. “I'll see him safe.”
There was more to say, but no time to say it. She passed beneath the stone archway and stepped onto the crimson carpet laid down upon the flagstone pathway leading to the Great Lawn, the tiltyard, God's merciless courtroom. She walked alone, though she led a procession.
Heralds in blue and black sounded their trumpets as she stepped out of the castle's shadow. The gathered murmuring witnesses fell silent, and stared as she made her way to the dais. Alasdair had seen a throne placed there for her, its timber gilded, its back and seat padded with thick crimson velvet. Set back a little, to left and right, were two lesser ornate chairs: one for himself, and one for Helfred. And then behind them, the seating for the rest of her party.
Under cover of fanfare she reached her throne. Unbelted her scabbard, unsheathed her sword. Let the scabbard fall to the carpet and sat, placing the naked blade across her thighs. It shone brilliant silver in the sunlight. She looked straight ahead, to the line of Idson's soldiers forming the fourth wall of the tiltyard. So many eyes upon her. So many avid stares. She could feel Han's brooding, ambiguous presence, and the cold reserve of Arbenia and Harbisland's ambassadors. The lesser nations' ambassadors were no less attentive. Since Han's visit to the castle there had been many attempts at bribery of her servants and courtiers, for information. She doubted all had been reported to her; inevitably coins had changed hands, and whispers. People were people, and always would be. But there was nothing to tell, beyond the presence of Zandakar, and she had never kept the blue-haired man a secret.
Let them wonder. I'll tell them what they need to know in my own time, and not before.
Alasdair and Helfred took their places. Her dukes, the Court Ecclesiastica and Ven'Cedwin settled into their seats. When the shuffling had finished she raised her hand and the fanfare of trumpets fell silent. A moment later the line of Kingseat soldiers broke in two parts and swung wide, admitting Idson, their commander, and the men he escorted.
Damwin, and Kyrin, and their permitted witnesses.
Stony silent, without difficulty keeping her face a cold mask, Rhian watched them approach. The dukes were swaggering, sauntering. Arrogance rose from them like mist off a lake. They wore their second-best doublets and hose with a minimum of jewels, shouting to the world that she wasn't worthy of their finest attire.
Or perhaps they're afraid of getting my blood all over it. For certain it doesn't occur that the blood might be their own.
Subordinate behind Idson, they halted at the foot of the dais, hands hovering near but not touching the scabbarded longswords belted at their waists. Behind them their lawful witnesses, three apiece. Kyrin had brought former privy councillor Niall, and his son Raymot, and someone she didn't recognise. Family though; they shared a nose. Damwin's witnesses were identical in kind: Lord Porpont, another deserter from the privy council, Damwin's son Davin, and an unidentified third man. All six men were unarmed as the law required, and like their dukes they were meanly dressed.
Idson swept her a deep bow, his ceremonial armour – breastplate, vambrace and greaves – glittering silver with polish and care. Her royal device was newly enamelled upon his chest.
“Your Majesty,” he said loudly, “I bring before you challengers to your royal sovereignty and charge, in the name of your loyal subjects, that their grievances be heard and an end found to this discommoding matter.”
The words were a pattern set down centuries ago. So was her answer, and she gave it in a clear, carrying voice. “Commander Idson, I receive from you these lawful challengers and do swear by my crown that I shall hear their grievances and find an end to the trouble that plagues us.”
Idson bowed again and withdrew, taking a position to the far left of the dais beside Ursa and her goggling apprentice. On a signal, his soldiers closed the tiltyard's fourth wall. There would be no leaving this place until matters were settled.
If the air could catch fire it would burn like Marlan, so fiercely and full of hatred did Damwin and Kyrin glare at her from the grass. Her fingers wanted to tighten on the hilt of her shortsword, but she refused them permission and kept her own stare cold and still.
“Your Graces, for your lives, and for the sake of your souls, I pray you have come to tell me of your contrition, and to pledge me the fealty I am owed as your queen.”
Kyrin hawked and spat. “I'm here to tell you to fuck yourself, bitch. You're owed no fealty by me or mine. The House of Donveninger won't kneel to a woman. Women kneel before men and use their mouths to better purpose than aping noble sentiments they'll never understand.”
She heard gasps from the witnesses at his casual, brutal vulgarity. All she felt was sorrow; she'd have to kill this man. His heart was granite, unsoftened by the hours of prayer poured on it by Helfred and all the children of his Church.
She looked at Damwin. “Your Grace, you need not share this foolish man's fate. I understand that the past weeks have been dismaying. Ethrea is turned on its head. A new sovereign, a new prolate, miracles from God when we are long unused to the idea of miracles.” She leaned forward a little, fixed her gaze hard to Damwin's sallow, bearded face. “Don't be led like a lamb to the slaughter. There's blood between us, remember, though it's well diluted by time. I
Damwin rolled his head on his neck and shrugged his russet-velveted shoulders. “Girl, it would ruin me to swear contrary to my nature. I don't say you're a bad child, though Eberg must have run aground in your raising somewhere, that you'd think this kingdom could stomach a queen. No, I say you've received bad counsel. Linfoi seduced you to get a crown on his head and his sword between your legs. When this is done with, if you're living, I'll do my best to see you're retired to a clerica where you can spend your life praying the stains from your soul.”
Rhian sat back. Which is worse, I wonder? Kyrin's obscenities or this man's bloated complacency? She could feel Alasdair's fury sizzling behind her. If she shifted her gaze she'd see Helfred's dumbfounded rage. The Ethreans on either side of her dais were whispering and pointing. Only the ambassadors had nothing to say. Emperor Han was silent too, though his gaze was on her like the eye of a hawk.
“Gentlemen,” she said mildly, hearing Ven'Cedwin's quill skittering on his parchment as he frantically recorded this historic meeting. Catching from the corner of her eye the artist, Master Hedgepoole, seated in a cloud of charcoal dust, his fingers busy. “Your replies are disappointing. Were I the mother of sons like you and heard you address any woman so, even the meanest drab by the harbour, it would be a birch switching for you till you remembered your manners. So are all spoilt boys remedied, I'm told. My brothers, of course, the princes Ranald and Simon, never needed a birching. Their father raised them well. He raised me also, and raised me right high. His blood flows through my veins. Royal blood, and undisputed.”
As the witnesses murmured she let her words sink into the dukes' fevered brains, so they might at last understand – swift or slowly – that she was not a scullery maid in the cellar of their ducal home to be bullied as it suited them and broken with a look.
“We are come to that place, Your Graces, from which there is no turning back and no mercy shown once mercy is refused.” She stood, her shortsword grasped firmly in her hand. “In the sight of God, and by his manifest desiring, have I been crowned the Queen of Ethrea. Here is your last chance to kneel before me as my dukes and pledge to me your fealty and the fealty of your Houses. Your only other choice is to dispute my legality and prove the claim with your swords. Which is it to be, Your Graces? I am tired of your posturing. You waste my precious time.”
Before Damwin even unhinged his jaw, Kyrin had his longsword out and brandished in her face. “I challenge! I'll carve you like a Rollin's feast pullet and set your feathers in my cap for decoration!”
She nodded, bleakly. Of course it starts with Kyrin. Papa always said he'd bluster his way to hell .
“Challenge is lawfully given, and lawfully received. Stand your witnesses aside, Kyrin. Damwin, you and yours stand with them.” As Idson came forward to chivvy them out of the way, she looked a little sideways. “Prolate Helfred?”
On a sigh Helfred rose and preceded her down the dais steps to the immaculate, unstained grass of the Great Lawn. “Kneel, Your Grace,” he said curtly. “Unless you presume to tell a man of God that he may also fuck himself?”
Rhian nearly lost her balance, coming off the last dais step. Helfred! I never knew you had it in you ! As glowering, dangerously florid Kyrin knelt, she knelt too, an arm's length distance from him, not needing to be told. Their swords stood point-first on the ground beside them. She made certain her knuckles weren't bloodless as her hand wrapped securely round her hilt. Conquered her breathing so she did not sigh or gasp. Instead she thought of Zandakar and the hour upon hour of training he'd given her.
He says you are mighty, and dance like a queen.
Helfred swept the seating on both sides, and the dais, and Damwin and the dukes' witnesses, with a look belonging to a much older man. He was inhumanly magnificent in the bright, unclouded sunshine. The glory of God shone in his plain, pimple-scarred face and struck sparks from his gold prolate's ring as he raised his left hand.
“Let no man or woman here dispute God's will. This is a matter of judicial combat, sanctioned and sanctified by law and Church. Whatsoever the outcome be it binding upon all parties, as though God himself had spoken aloud. I name this challenger Duke Kyrin of duchy Hartshorn. I name this defender Queen Rhian of the realm. Let them prove their cases in bloody striving: should Kyrin be victorious let him walk unmolested from this place. Should Her Majesty prevail let no taint of murder be upon her. God, in your unimpeachable wisdom, grant strength to the arm of whosoever be righteous…and confound the wits of the one who is false. Let the challenge begin.”
It was strange, so strange, to know these might be her last moments. This grass the last grass she'd see. This sky the last sky. The face of this man, who hated her, the last face in her sight…when it should be the man who loved her upon whom she closed her eyes.
Kyrin was smiling. Almost laughing as he walked away to the centre of the tiltyard so he might be surrounded by convenient space. She made no effort to hurry after him. Let him think he dictated proceedings. Let him believe he set the pace. Who cared who began this? It only mattered who ended it.
In the back of her mind she heard Zandakar's tense voice, every instruction, every sharp word, every complaint. Wei, Rhian. Leap higher. Turn faster. Cut deeper. You wait, you die .
But she did have to wait, now. She carried a short sword. Kyrin's weapon was two feet longer, a monstrous blade looking sharp enough to slice the air and leave it in ribbons. It would be foolish indeed for her to rush him, as though she was a frightened girl desperate to die at his feet.
“You're a stupid bitch, Rhian,” said Kyrin, circling slowly. “If you'd married my wife's little brother you'd not be staring at a coffin now.”
“Really?” She kept her gaze upon his eyes, though the look in them turned her stomach. “Forgive me if I disagree. I think once I'd birthed an heir, perhaps two, I'd have succumbed to an illness…or tumbled headfirst down the stairs.”
A flicker in is eyes told her she'd been right in her guess. But he covered surprise quickly, still circling like a wolf. “Kneel, girl,” he invited. “I'll take your head cleanly. No need to prolong this past what we both know what must be.”
She kept her gaze focused, but let her mind blur a little, preparing. Let the tension leave her muscles, let them slide like warm oil, with her joints like coiled springs. I am the falcon, I stoop, I fly. I am the swift snake, I strike and retreat .
“You should have pledged fealty when you had the chance, Kyrin,” she whispered. “Now your children are orphaned. They'll curse your name before you're cold.”
With a roar he came at her…and she began to dance.
In the castle's armoury, where Alasdair king had taken him to find a shortsword for Rhian, Zandakar had marvelled at the heavy metal skins the people of this kingdom had once worn into battle. How did they dance with their longswords if their bodies were so weighed down? How would Rhian dance her hotas against the disobedient dukes if she must dress as the Ethrean warriors of old? Then Alasdair king had told him, Rhian would wear no metal skin in her trial by combat and neither would the dukes who sought to slay her.
And that was a good thing, for he did not begin to know hotas that a warrior could dance in a heavy metal skin.
He stood at the window of his chamber in the castle and looked down at Rhian, dancing her hotas . Aieee, god, she was beautiful, she danced like a sandcat, lithe and deadly, this duke would soon die.
Unless…
He pressed his forehead to the thick glass, cursing the pane's erratic thickness that distorted the world lying beyond. He knew why he was kept in this soft chamber, knew why guards stood sentinel outside, but how he wished he was let outside for this moment, for Rhian and her dancing against the dukes' longswords.
Tcha! What is she doing? The hotas are for dancing, yes, they are for dancing your
On the short grass below him Rhian danced a finger's distance from the duke's sword. He was tall and broad, thick through chest and belly in the way of some men in Ethrea. He had speed even though he was large. Speed and hate, they were a dangerous combination. Tcha, Rhian should not be playing, she should kill this man.
Alasdair king had told him all the noblemen of Ethrea learned swordplay from boyhood. They did not learn for killing, it was stupid, but this fighting duke was hot for blood, hot for Rhian dead at his feet. There was blood on him, Rhian had cut him twice, there was blood on the man's right cheek and his right arm, blood dripping from his fingers to stain the green grass red. Rhian was bleeding but only in one place, from her left shoulder where the point of his sword had pricked her. If she had not danced away from him his sword would have run her through.
The two times she had cut him Rhian could have killed him. With her shortsword she could have cut his throat or taken his head, instead of cutting his arm she could have pierced his heart, she could have killed him and that would be the end of this disobedient duke.
Instead Rhian danced her hotas , and wounded, and did not kill him.
Why, Rhian? You promised to live. Have I failed you, have I killed you, are you dead like Lilit because of me?
He heard himself groan, felt his throat close tight with pain. If Rhian died because his training failed her, he would die soon after. Alasdair king had said it. Alasdair king was not a killing king but he had seen his own death in the man's brown eyes. And who could blame him?
So would I kill anyone who killed Rhian.
In the tiltyard beside the castle the duke slashed his sword double-handed side to side, seeking to cleave Rhian in two pieces. Rhian danced over the blade, like a fish leaping she arced above the steel and used her own blade to wound him a third time, to bloody his breast and belly with a slash from shoulder to hip. It could have been a killing blow, the man should be tangled in his entrails, but he remained on his feet bleeding with his longsword in his hand.