“The stories say that it was built by the Medrenkynd who came before the Hleaws,” Parr tells Cleves as they ride. “The site is at the confluence of three of the most bountiful parts of Elben. People would bring their harvests to share with those from the more destitute regions on the night of the divine moon.”
“The night we now hold the Moon Ball,” Cleves says.
Parr purses her lips. “They did not just steal our power. They could not even trouble themselves to create their own celebrations.”
They emerge from heather and gorse into a peaceful, flat and flowered glade. In the centre of the open space is a ramshackle tower with several narrow wings branching out from its base, and so many windows Cleves feels as though she is being watched by a great spider. The old plaster is crumbling and the stone is blackened from the fire that was meant to destroy it, but for a place that is so rarely used and with such history, it is in remarkable condition.
A scattering of horses and servants already populates the space, and one comes forward to take their horses as they dismount. Cleves glances over at Seymour, who has been silent their whole journey. Sheis speaking in a low voice to Parr. Cleves is not insecure, but she cannot help but wonder whether they are discussing her.
“Shall we go in then?” she says, striding ahead of them.
The doors of the sanctuary open into a wide hall from which several passageways lead off. What must have once been a grand spiral staircase leading up into the tower crumbles into charcoal not five steps up. The place is devoid of furniture or decoration, yet it still feels oddly occupied, as if the spirits of long-ago communes still roam the stone floors.
“Through here,” a voice says from a doorway at the far side. Cleves follows it into the central place of worship. A dozen people turn to face them. At the head of the room is Queen Aragon, on a wheeled throne, her daughter, the Princess Tudor, standing on her right. Howard is dressed regally in a gown of gold silk, more structured than the flowing gowns she used to favour. Behind her stand two of her ladies. There are a handful of others: trusted servants, and a few representatives of the Feorwa Isles, here at Seymour’s invitation.
Howard’s smile when she sees Cleves is bright. At least one queen is still pleased to see her.
She takes a seat opposite Queen Aragon, twitching her rather bedraggled riding skirt into its proper place. Seymour and Parr take their places, and finally Syndony leads Princess Elizabeth to the last chair. Cleves notes the way Aragon and the Princess Tudor watch the little girl, with a hunger Cleves does not like.
“Now we are all finally here, perhaps we can begin,” Queen Aragon says, dragging her eyes away from the child.
“Won’t your king be suspicious? All his queens disappeared from their households?” one of the Feorwans says.
“One of my ladies-in-waiting is a passable mimic of me. She has taken my place in my absence,” Aragon says.
“My mother receives few visitors these days,” Princess Tudor adds, “so it is really only about having a presence …”
“Hush,” Aragon says, and the princess falls silent. The girl looks to the floor. Admitting her mother is no longer in favour with the nobility of Elben, or is too much an invalid to receive guests, will not be something Aragon would want this company to know. Cleves almost feels sorry for her.
“I am visiting my Lady Tylney’s family estate. She is in my confidence,” Howard says.
Parr raises an eyebrow. “And I live at Mathmas.” There is general laughter at this: there is a reason Cleves and Seymour fled there. It is the most unreachable and easily defendable of the queens’ castles.
“Very well,” Aragon says. “Let us—”
Cleves holds up a hand. She is teetering on the edge of a precipice. “May I speak a few words before we begin, sister?” she says.
Aragon looks as though she might object, but then she bows her head. “Of course, Queen Cleves. The floor is yours for as long as you need it.”
It is the most gracious thing Aragon has ever said to her.
She stands. What she is about to say is too important for a throne.
“I have been accused of being reticent,” she begins. She looks at each of the queens in turn, ensuring that she has their attention. She comes, last of all, to Seymour, and from her she does not look away.
“Perhaps I have been wary. I have wanted us to examine our plans before acting hastily. Many of you have been frustrated with me. I can understand that. But I hope that once I am finished speaking, you will understand me better too.
“Some of you may have heard of theTilhepf –the Unrest?” she continues. “I was seven. My father had just inherited the throne from his uncle, who was not a popular ruler. There was another noble, a very charismatic duke, who had an old claim to the throne through his maternal line, and he saw a chance to take the crown of Ezzonid.”
“The civil war,” Howard says softly.
“Yes, well, these things happen sometimes, as we know,” Cleves says, shrugging. Inwardly, she chides herself. She should not make light of this, even if sincerity makes the memories more painful.
“It was …” Cleves closes her eyes, but that only makes the images more vivid. Maybe that’s what she needs. She has spent so long packing them away, burying them deep inside herself, and now they are rising, rising, like bloated bodies in a lake. “We moved a lot. From place to place. The tide between the two forces – my father’s and the duke’s – kept switching. The battle-lines kept being redrawn, sometimes so suddenly that we would be woken from our sleep in order to flee to safety, because the lodge we were staying in was about to be overrun. Our allies changed constantly, so I never knew whether the lord who was hosting us would attempt to turn us over to the duke after supper.
“Sometimes my parents would leave us with one noble or other, so that we stood a chance of escaping should they be captured. But for the most part, my sister and cousins and I went where they went. My brother insisted upon fighting. I suppose it was his own inheritance he was fighting for.”
She breathes out. There is more that she could tell them about the soldiers’ boots and their laughter, but that is a story to be whispered, not declaimed.
