A blond, rather impassive woman sat on the throne, her figure clothed in golden silk, on top of which several tabards or surcoats, all of different colors, had been placed. Two figures stood on either side of her, one a tall woman in brilliant blues and yellows whose glance, at once fierce and nervous, darted over the crowd; the other a small, dark-haired girl of about fifteen who seemed aswim in the vast embroidered acreage of her silk gown. Both wore small crowns. These, I decided, were Berlauda’s mother, Leonora, one of Stilwell’s divorced Queens, and the new Queen’s half sister Floria, who was the child of another Queen, likewise divorced.
There seemed to be an abundance of Queens in our realm. I began to feel a degree of sympathy for Floria, who was a mere princess.
Behind the throne stood a brilliant half circle of men and women, most wearing coronets and scarlet, fur-trimmed robes, and I supposed these kin of the new Queen. Another brilliant half circle faced the throne, most of them nobles by their coronets and by the banners displayed by their followers. These, more junior than the group behind the throne, were careful to keep outside the line of pikes. While the monk’s sonorous phrases floated through the still air, I searched these banners for that of Lord Utterback’s father, the Count of Wenlock, but I failed to find it.
The monk came to his beautifully rounded conclusion, and called in the Pilgrim’s name for prayer, which he then proceeded to lead himself, calling for blessings upon Duisland and its Queen. I knew that some of the followers of the Compassionate Pilgrim eschewed prayer as useless, and that the issue was one of controversy within their sect. By the fact there was prayer at all, I assumed that Berlauda had shown her own preference.
The prayer over, the monk gracefully stood aside, and the coronation continued. Notables detached themselves from the group behind the throne to recite a bit of antique verse and hand the Queen a pair of spurs, or place a ring on her finger, or waft her with a peacock-feather fan. To me these rituals were meaningless, for all they were performed with great solemnity. The orb and scepter were placed in the monarch’s hands, and she rose from the throne so that a clutch of elderly peers could drape her in a scarlet cape trimmed with ermine, a cape so long that it took eight noblemen to carry it.
Then, last of all, the Queen’s mother and the princess Floria stepped forward, carrying the crown between them, and raised it over Berlauda’s head. There was a moment of unintentional comedy as the little princess had to stand on tiptoe to hold the crown fully over the head of her taller sister. I saw that all the men in the crowd took off their caps, and the nobles their coronets, and so I took off my own apprentice cap. The nobles’ banners were also dipped, the flags bowing down.
Trumpets called, and the crown was lowered onto the head of the monarch. Cheers rang up from the crowd, and cannon boomed out from the city walls, white powder smoke blossoming from the embrasures. Coronets and caps were returned to heads or tossed in the air, and the flags were raised and flaunted overhead.
“The gods save your majesty!” bellowed one giant voice from the back of the crowd. There was laughter and applause from the audience.
Queen Berlauda, burdened by the weight of her crown, costume, regalia, and the enormous cape, made no movement—perhaps was unable to move at all—but a look of displeasure crossed her face at the interruption. Her supporters helped her gather her skirts and cape, and she backed herself onto the throne. Officiants carried away the orb and scepter, and someone handed her a paper.
The cheers died away, and Queen Berlauda took her oath, in which she vowed to respect the ancient rights and privileges of the nobles and commons, to do justice, to maintain the security of the realm, and to punish treason. At the word “treason” her eyes flashed, and I felt myself reappraise the scene before me. What had seemed hollow ritual now took on a deeper meaning, a monarch’s reassurance to her people in a time of uncertainty.
The bastard Clayborne, I decided, had raised the standard of rebellion after all. Resulting in confusion across the realm and a very hasty coronation for Berlauda, to prove her right before the people.
For if we have a civil war, plundered cities will be common as spots on a leopard. I remembered Lord Utterback’s words, and shivered.
I remembered other parts of that conversation, and wondered if I had failed to find the Count of Wenlock in the crowd because Utterback’s father was off with the rebel army.
Berlauda completed her oath, and the armored man with the sword raised his voice and offered to fight anyone disputing the Queen’s right. He threw down his gage, and glared furiously over the crowd, as if Clayborne might saunter out from the throng and pick up the gauntlet at any moment.
That moment of drama passed, and the ceremony grew tedious as the nobles knelt, one by one, to proffer allegiance, and office-holders knelt to kiss the royal hands in order to retain their position. It reminded me too clearly of the scramble for place and office taking place in Ethlebight, so I edged my horse toward the margins of the crowd, and then wondered where I would go next. The crowd was such that the inns were almost certainly full, and I thought that wandering a large, strange city, in the midst of what promised to be a boisterous holiday, with a fortune on my back would not be conducive to my long life or health.
Perhaps, I thought, it would be best if I could return to the country and find lodging there.
There was another blare of trumpets, and more red-capped pikemen appeared, creating a lane between the throne and the city gate. The crowd was pushed aside by a wall of pikes, and I found myself and my horse backed against the city walls. The horse snorted a warning and threatened to lash out. I was unhappy with the idea of being atop a misbehaving horse, and had very little idea how to pacify the animal, and for lack of any other idea I patted its neck in hopes of calming it.
The cannon began to fire another salute, and the horse gave a nervous leap at the first shot. I urged the crowd to keep clear and tried to find a safe way to withdraw, but the pikemen were adamant and the crowd were confused, and packed into too small a space.
I spoke soothing words into the horse’s ear, and wished I had a piece of toast or some other bribe to distract it from the tumult. Its ears were laid back, and it glared at the crowd nearby and snorted, but it calmed once the barrage overhead was over. I felt a modest glow of pride at the thought that I might be on the verge of becoming a competent equestrian, and then I glanced up to see the Queen gliding along the lane the pikemen had carved for her. Though in motion, she was herself utterly motionless, the orb and scepter back in her hands. Her impassive, handsome face looked straight ahead, and she seemed to be somehow soaring in midair.
This strange motion was explained once I had straightened in the saddle and was able to see over the pikemen. Queen Berlauda was being carried in an elaborate, gilded litter by twelve gentlemen, six before her, and six after. Behind came her mother and the princess, also floating along in chairs, and then the armored man on foot, red-faced and sweating after his long hours baking in the sun, his long sword still upright as he clanked along.
Someone shouted an order, and the pikemen formed into a column and marched into the city after the Queen. I suspected that a mistake had been made, for this in effect stranded the rest of the dignitaries in the midst of the crowd.