She finds herself leaning forwards, desperate to understand what has shaken the man she thought unshakeable.
“What was it?”
“It was … faith.”
Something shivers up Cecilia’s back. She would usually reply with a cutting rebuttal, but More looks so frail that she cannot.
“And yet you are still here. Still with my brother.”
She is not one to judge. After all, she bends and switches her loyalties according to convenience. But More was never thus.
“I have wrestled with my conscience, believe me. And yes, I have chosen to surrender myself to the mighty Cernunnos. His may not be the oldest faith, but I feel certain that his is the true one.”
“He is stealing another god’s power.”
“Religions rise and fall, my dear. I have taught you this. Just because the heathen gods and goddesses of old exist does not mean we must blindly worship them. We know better. We know the right of kings is absolute. And has your brother not ruled this kingdom well? Kept it safe? Elben’s continued success surely tells us that Cernunnos is the promised Haehfader, no matter that he vanquished another to rise.”
Cecilia stands, towering over the old man. “Who are you trying to persuade?”
More’s wrinkled hand shakes as it lifts the cup of wine to his lips once more. “I never thought to be lectured on principles by you, my dear princess.”
“Dowager Queen,” Cecilia says.
“Old habits, Your Majesty,” he replies, not meeting her eyes.
His hand shakes more violently, and the sleeve of his robe rides up. Cecilia catches sight of an ugly welt that wraps around his wrist.
“That is from no sack cloth,” she says, seizing his hand to look more closely.
“A fall,” he says, withdrawing his arm with surprising strength and pulling down the sleeve. “I am very pleased to have you back at High Hall, my dear. Very pleased.”
But he turns away, setting down his cup and moving back into the sanctuary, back to his kneeling place at the pews. Cecilia knows better than to attempt to continue their conversation.
She thought that speaking to her old tutor would give her some clarity on how to secure Cnothan for herself. But she finds herself in greater turmoil. She has never truly understood religion, or why so many choose to kill and sacrifice themselves for its sake. The notion of an all-seeing god is too intangible for her to take seriously. For her, life is to be consumed, and what may or may not happen in the afterlife is something to be tackled then and not before. She is a queen, after all, and she reckons that gods, like humans, do not mind a bargain.
“What should I do?” she says, to the room rather than More, but it is More who answers.
“Trust in me and your brother, as you always have. Enjoy your time at High Hall.”
He has never dismissed her before, but this – this is a dismissal.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Cleves
The race from Cnothan is a blur. They ride through the night, hardly knowing their direction, hardly speaking, but always they keep the coast in sight. Seymour glances that way often, until Cleves realises that she is looking for Clarice’s ship, or any vessel bearing the mark of the Feorwa Isles – the crescent moon emblazoned on its sails.
“They cannot come to shore,” she says, more harshly than she intended. When they were only suspected of aiding Seymour, Henry authorised raids upon the isles. If they were seen taking both traitor queens on deck, he would slaughter their entire people.
Seymour nods and does not look that way again.
When the sun is up fully and they risk being seen on the road, they slow to a trot and steer their horses into the cover of the fields and copses of western Elben. Cleves’s mind frays, snippets of long nights and longer days crouching and running and fleeing through Ezzonid mixing with the journey through Elben. She starts to think as she did then.
“We should lay false trails,” she says. Her throat is scratchy from disuse.
“How?” Seymour says. She leads Seymour towards the sea, dismounting as the soil gives way to sand dunes.
“Careful,” Seymour says, nodding towards a party of cockle pickers who are scouring the beach a little distance away. Both queens aredressed in men’s weeds, which in itself is not too unusual for the working women of Elben, but Cleves’s cropped red hair is conspicuous. She rips one of the sleeves of her blouse and wraps it around her head like a turban.
