“My great-grandparents,” she said. “You think they’ll ever put up statues to you and me? Doesn’t seem likely, does it? How can you hope to prove yourself when you’re brought up in the shadow of legends like those two? Makes me sick.”
“They were just people,” said Malcolm. “Doing their best in difficult times, no doubt. Read the real histories if you get a chance, not the official ones. And ignore the legends.”
“In this spooky old dump, history and legend are often the same thing,” said Catherine. “See that long couch over there? Do you think it would make a decent battering ram?”
Perhaps fortunately, the great double doors finally opened, falling soundlessly back on concealed counterweights. Catherine plunged straight forward into the Court, with Malcolm right behind and hurrying to catch up. As they entered the vast hall of the Court of Redhart, they discovered immediately that it was packed full of Lords and Ladies, courtiers and politicians, all of them dressed in their most formal attire. And every single one of them had been talking, loudly and animatedly, when the doors opened . . . only to fall silent the moment Catherine and Malcolm made their delayed entrance. The only sound in the Court now was the soft slapping of two sets of boots on the waxed and polished floor as the Princess and the Champion headed straight for King William on his throne.
He was looking right at them, and not in a good way. Malcolm felt sudden chills run up and down his spine. In all the years he’d served his King, he’d never known William to look at him in such a way. The courtiers and the politicians fell back, to the left and to the right, opening up a broad empty aisle for Catherine and Malcolm to walk down, funnelling them straight to the throne—just in case they’d been thinking of going somewhere else. Malcolm tried to read the expressions on the faces around him but couldn’t. Whatever had happened at Court, or was about to happen, it was important enough to have stamped the same fixed expression on all their faces. Most of those present wouldn’t even meet his eyes. Malcolm looked back at the King. His face was cold and set and determined, and completely unreadable. King William was wearing his most ornate and ceremonial robes, but badly, with little or no style. He was a large and blocky man, well into middle age, with iron grey hair, and his crown always looked subtly too big for him. The years of strain and endless responsibilities had taken a toll on him, but he was still a vigorous and overpowering presence. He’d always been the brute force type: everything forward and trust in Fate. But he could be subtle, and even crafty, when the occasion demanded.
He was still mostly remembered for beating a traitor to death with his bare hands, right there in the Court, in front of everyone. Because the man had been his friend . . . for so many years.
Malcolm could feel his own frown deepening, until it was actually painful. The more he saw, the less sense things made. What the hell were all these people doing here? Nothing of note had been planned for today’s session. As far as he knew. It finally occurred to Malcolm that he must have been quite deliberately kept in the dark about all this. Because whatever it was that had been decided, everyone knew he wasn’t going to approve of it. His unarmoured back began to crawl in anticipation of arrows from hidden archers. He hadn’t done anything wrong that he was aware of, nothing to justify sudden execution without trial . . . No, that wasn’t it. The looks around him were fascinated, not accusing. He glared about him and a great many people fell back, to give him even more room. Malcolm might not have the Princess’ fiery temper, but he was, after all, the King’s Champion and a decorated border fighter, and no one present doubted that he could be extremely dangerous if provoked.
Even if he didn’t have his sword with him. It had never occurred to him that he’d need it today.
The more he studied the packed Court, the more it baffled him. Everyone was dressed up in their very best, in a riot of blazing, glorious colours, like so many parrots and peacocks. Long, swinging robes and elegant gowns, even some highly decorated sets of ceremonial armour that must surely have been pulled out from the back of some very old and neglected closets. Set faces and staring eyes everywhere he looked, as if the crowd was waiting for a Tourney to begin and first blood to be spilled. Malcolm slowed as he finally approached the King on his throne, and he slowed Catherine too, with a hidden subtle pressure on her arm. Whatever was happening here, it was important. You just didn’t get this many notable people gathered together in one place unless it was for something really significant. Like a coronation, or a declaration of war. Malcolm’s thoughts raced back over the last few days, but he hadn’t heard anything. Had things really got so far out of hand with the Forest Kingdom, and he’d missed it because he was so wrapped up with Catherine? He looked at the Princess, who was still glowering angrily about her, but she was clearly just as much in the dark as he was.
They stopped before the throne, a surprisingly understated piece of furniture, given the Castle’s usual overpowering style, supposedly designed personally by Good King Viktor to replace the original. Which, like everything else, had been built to impress, but Viktor liked his comfort. King William sat very still, looking down on his daughter and his Champion. In Redhart the King ruled, though he was, always, very firmly advised by the elected Parliament. The King nearly always went along, because he trusted the judgement of his Prime Minister. If either man were ever to openly defy the other, there would be civil war. So everyone was always very careful to get along. The Prime Minister himself, Gregory Pool, was standing right beside the throne, his face as cold and set as the King’s. Catherine’s scowl deepened. For both of them to be here, so publicly close together, it had to mean that whatever important and significant thing had been decided, they were both in complete agreement about it.
Gregory Pool was of medium height, but a very large fellow, with a round face and plump hands, whose buttons on his bulging waistcoat strained every time he took a breath. He liked to play the jolly, bluff, what-you-see-is-what-you-get type of character, but that was only for people who didn’t work with the man. The Prime Minister possessed a first-class mind, but if he had a heart he never listened to it. He was the same age as the King but took pains to look a good few years younger.
He’d been Prime Minister of Redhart for twenty years, because he was still the sharpest knife in the political drawer, knew where all the bodies were buried or at least concealed, and could play any number of sides off against one another.
He smiled a lot but rarely meant it. Catherine couldn’t stand him. Mostly because he always took her father’s side over hers. And Malcolm knew that the Prime Minister always kept a careful eye on him. Because the Prime Minister knew that if the King ever lost faith in him, it would be the Champion the King turned to, to . . . take care of matters.
Catherine and Malcolm stood together before the King on his throne. Malcolm bowed, Catherine did not, merely scowling sulkily at her father. And then, to avoid having to speak to him, she deliberately looked right past the King, at the huge stained-glass windows set into the far wall behind the throne. And the King let her. Which struck Malcolm as a really bad sign. If the King was actually willing to be patient with her on such an important occasion, it could only mean that he was sure he was going to get his own way in the end. Malcolm looked at the windows too, if only because he preferred that to looking at the King looking at his daughter. The stained glass showed even more idealised images of Good King Viktor and Queen Catriona, so ornate, delicately worked and brightly coloured, that the windows didn’t actually let that much light into the Court. The vast hall was mostly illuminated by floating, glowing silver spheres that bobbed unsupported on the air, here and there, wherever they felt like, lighting their particular part of the Court bright as day. They had been created long ago by some unknown sorcerer, and now no one remained who knew how the things worked. Everyone just hoped they kept going. Because it would take a hell of a lot of gas lamps to illuminate this Court.
Catherine finally looked at the King. Their gazes met and locked. When the Prince
ss spoke, her voice was surprisingly steady. “Father, what have you done?”
“I have an important announcement to make,” said the King mildly. “And it is necessary that you be here to hear it.”
“Why wasn’t I told about this in advance?” said Catherine.
“Because I make the decisions here,” said King William. “I will decide what you need to hear, and when you need to know it. Now be still, my daughter, and pay attention.” He looked out across the packed Court, and the general air of anticipation and tension ratcheted up another notch. “Be it known, my Lords and Ladies, my good advisors, and faithful friends all . . . It is my pleasant duty to announce this day that a marriage has been arranged, between Princess Catherine of Redhart . . . and Prince Richard of the Forest Kingdom.”
Catherine and Malcolm were struck speechless. They looked wildly at each other, and then back at the King. Everyone at Court applauded politely, and there were even a few encouraging cheers. A band lurking at the very rear of the hall struck up a patriotic air, with a lot of brass and cymbals. And then it all went to ratshit as Catherine exploded.
“WHAT?”
Silence fell across the Court. The band stopped playing. Everyone in front tried to back away a little farther, but the rows behind weren’t having it. They wanted to see everything. Catherine stood before her father, shaking with sheer fury. Even Malcolm took a thoughtful step away from her, just to be sure she wouldn’t make a grab for the emergency backup dagger she knew he kept concealed in a sheath on his arm. He was thinking quickly, trying to understand why this was happening, and how best to deal with it, while he kept his face carefully calm and collected. He folded his arms tightly across his chest, to ease the pain in his heart and hold it in, while he waited for the storm to pass. But as Catherine drew in a deep breath to really let her father have it, the King leaned abruptly forward on his Throne and fixed her with a hard stare.
“Do you want a scene, daughter, or do you want an explanation?”
Catherine glared at him, her hands held up before her, clenched into fists. There were tears burning in her eyes, but she was damned if she’d shed them in front of everyone. She met her father’s gaze defiantly but said nothing.
“Redhart and the Forest Kingdom have been arguing over the same stupid stretch of borderland for decades,” the King said flatly. “Ever since the Forest Land was combined with the adjoining Dutchy of Hillsdown, under King Stephen, son of King Harald, brother to the legendary hero Prince Rupert, and Queen Felicity, sister to the legendary Princess Julia and daughter of the Duke of Hillsdown. Everything was fine while these two countries remained separated and angry with each other, but once they combined into a single realm, that meant the border between our two countries became more important than ever. Down through the years there have been a great many armed skirmishes, and even open battles, over who owns exactly what in those heavily disputed territories, because that narrow strip of land includes a vital Redhart trade route.”
“I know,” said Catherine. “I’m not stupid. I did stay awake in history class. So many battles, so many good men dead, over a bloody trade route. Over salt, and pepper. It beggars belief.”
The Prime Minister took a step forward, and everyone’s eyes immediately went to him. Gregory Pool coughed modestly and addressed the Court in his usual pleasant, practiced speaking voice. “It’s far more than just another trade route, Princess Catherine. That narrow strip of land is what links Redhart to the outside world. To all the marvellous goods and ideas that flow up from the Southern Kingdoms. It is a lifeline, not just for business but for a good many things that our country depends on for its survival. If the Forest Kingdom should ever gain control of that stretch of land and decide to shut us out, or barricade it, we would starve. It has taken decades of patient negotiation and very careful diplomacy, but we have finally reached an agreement. The Forest has agreed to give up all claims to a large area of the disputed territories—not all, but enough—in return for a guaranteed border. Our trade route, and our security, will be assured. Forever.”
“They’ve given us something,” said the King, “so I have to give them something. I’m giving them you, Catherine. My dearest daughter.”
Catherine turned abruptly to Malcolm. “Well? Are you just going to stand there and say nothing?”
“What is there to say?” said Malcolm.
Catherine stared at him, shocked that he could give her up so easily. He looked away, unable to meet her gaze. His shoulders were hunched, his hands clenched into impotent fists at his sides. And Catherine swallowed the angry words she’d been about to hurl at him. She knew him; she could see inside him. She could see the anger, the violence, simmering just below the surface. And she knew him well enough to know that if he let his temper go, like her, there would be blood and slaughter in the Court. And he would start with her father, the King. For doing this terrible thing to her.
“Malcolm?” said Catherine uncertainly.
“What do you want me to say, Catherine? What do you want me to do? What do you want me to do?”
Catherine looked away from him, and back at the King and the Prime Minister, and the silently watching Court. And knew she was on her own.
“So,” she said to her father, “I am to marry this Prince, and be a lifetime hostage at his Court, to make sure you don’t take anymore land than was agreed.”
“That too,” said the King. “But it will bring our two countries closer together, and will mean peace instead of war.”
“But they’re not even a proper Royal family!” Catherine said desperately. “They’re a constitutional monarchy these days! The whole country’s a bloody democracy!”
“We all have to make sacrifices,” said the King. “I’m giving up my child, my own flesh and blood. You’re going to give up Malcolm.” He stopped then, and turned, finally, to his Champion. He actually paused a while, searching for the right words. “I am sorry, my Champion. Bravest and most noble of my soldiers. You have done so much for me, and this is how I reward you. I know you love my daughter. Even more than I do. I am . . . sorry.”
“I understand,” said Malcolm. His voice was rough as he faced his King, but his eyes were dry. “It’s duty. I’m a soldier, first and foremost. Always have been. I’ve always understood about duty, and honour. And sacrifice.”
“What if I say no?” said Catherine. Everyone looked at her again.
“If we throw this agreement back in the faces of the Forest King and his Parliament,” said the Prime Minister, “after struggling so hard and so long to make it work, then they will take back their offer of land. Land that we must have. If they won’t give it up—and they won’t—we will have no choice but to take it by strength of arms. Send our armies across the border into the Forest Land and seize it. And that will mean war. And let me be very clear, Princess.” He was talking to the Court now, as much as to her. “If Redhart does go to war against the Forest, neither side could afford to back down until the other was utterly defeated and made incapable of presenting any further threat. We couldn’t afford to go through this again. We would have to invade and conquer the Forest people, completely subjugate them, because nothing less would end the matter.
“Or they would have to do it to us.
“Of course, neither side wants a war. Wars are expensive; they cost a lot of money, and lives, and ruined land. So the only way we could hope to make our losses back would be to tax and loot the defeated country to within an inch of its life. It would take generations . . . before our two populations could forgive what we did to each other. No more skirmishes, Princess Catherine, no more battles. This would be armies fighting armies. Slaughter and butchery on a scale neither country has seen in ages. Cities burning in the night, fields soaked in blood, rivers choked with floating bodies . . . War is nothing like the songs, Princess.”
Catherine clapped both her hands to her ears and cried out in simple despair, “I can’t do it! I won’t do it!”
The King
and the Prime Minister and the Court were silent. Catherine looked slowly around at them, and saw them all looking back at her with a cold, implacable certainty. And she knew that no mere temper tantrum was going to get her out of this. Nothing she could say would mean anything, because all the decisions that mattered had already been made, by all the people who really mattered.
Catherine looked sharply at her brother, Prince Christof, standing proudly on the other side of King William’s throne. A tall and slender dandy, with a pleasant enough face and flat blonde hair, he’d been noticeably silent so far. He was dressed in his usual brightly coloured flashing silks, like the clashing flags of too many nations, and still managed to hold himself with grace and poise. But for all his ostentation, he still carried a perfectly ordinary sword on his hip, in a well-worn scabbard. Christof knew how to use a sword. He’d been riding out to join border skirmishes ever since he was old enough to defy his father and get away with it. Since he was fourteen. Now in his early twenties, he’d made a name for himself apart from his title, on the border, as a warrior and a patriot. There were already popular songs and stories about him. And if he was perhaps a little more fond of duels that he should be, ready to fight absolutely anybody at the drop of an insult, or something he could take as an insult, he was usually able to stop himself at first blood.
He smiled easily at Catherine, and when she saw what was in that smile and in his eyes, all her rage came flooding back. She stepped forward and stabbed an accusing finger at her younger brother.
“You knew about this! You knew all along!”
“Of course I knew,” drawled Christof, still smiling. “I’ve been part of the negotiating team for years. I thought you knew.”
“You?” said Catherine. “A diplomat? You love fighting on the border, and going on raids into the Forest Land!”