“No need to starve yourself, your grace,” he said. “Your brother’s on his way. And we won’t let anything happen to you.”
He seemed disappointed when she didn’t respond, but the pressure did not become less with the advent of the day. If Easter had any magic, it was only in her heart. She dared not pause to eat.
She could only drink in the golden light like a newborn suckling at the breast. Food, her brother, her failure of a husband…
That was all for another world.
In the darkness of last night, she had worked out what it wanted.
It wanted her baby.
She could feel it now, looking to enter into her, and through her, her son.
She drank the golden light. Her world was reduced, in four straight days, to this-resistance.
Working swiftly, she embroidered the new rays of ops into refined potentia and built the resulting material into her wall.
Her body was far away. She loved it, but there was little she could do for it.
She wanted to weep for the pain that hunger and deprivation were causing her baby.
She could smell the cheese. She wanted a moment to eat and drink the clean, cool water.
She did none of these things. Instead, she drank the pure golden light and waited.
And prayed.
On Easter eve, Prince Raymond of Occitan sent a herald to the King of Alba.
The King met the herald in the great chamber. It was hung with garlands-a veteran of the Alban court would have found them thin. The Queen was in prison; her ladies were all exiled, and the female servants of the palace had, in a body, stayed at home. Rumours of rape and assault by the Galles on the maids were rife; no girl wanted to admit to being attacked but mothers, angry or in mourning from the violence in the city, kept their girls home, and in many cases their boys as well.
The King’s eyes wandered over the flowers-too few-and the ribbons, which were sparse and, in at least one case, dirty.
Jean de Vrailly stood by the throne. He, too, saw the frayed and dirty ribbon.
“Your grace, if I may, should never have put himself in a position to be so embarrassed by common people.” He walked across the near-empty hall and pulled down the offending ribbon.
The King had his chin in his hand. He was not well-dressed-in fact, clean against the spirit of the day, he wore black. “What?” he asked.
“In Galle these things are better ordered,” de Vrailly said. “And the lower people would never dare this sullen revolt.”
The King stretched his feet out. “You mean, stay at home. On a feast day.”
De Vrailly looked at the King. “What ill-humour is this, your grace?”
At the far end of the hall, Royal Guards in brilliant scarlet escorted a tall young man whose honey-blond hair and elegant features might have been irkish. Indeed, many troubadours claimed irk blood flowed among the people of Occitan. They spoke a different form of Gallish, and they sang songs from Iberia and Ifriquy’a as well as from Alba and Galle. In the coastal towns, there were even mosques, tolerated by the princes. Occitan was a land of song, and oranges.
And very skilled knights.
The herald wore the full costume of his trade-a tabard of golden silk checked in azure, with the imperial eagle spreading his mighty wings over all, worked in silk couching so accurately that it looked like a real predator ready to leap-very much at odds with the Alban and Gallish heraldry of formalized, ritual beasts and heads.
The herald moved with the grace of a dancer. He was as tall as de Rohan or de Vrailly, and he bowed deeply before the King, his right knee firmly on the floor. His hose were silk-the best hose in the room.
De Rohan entered from the King’s rooms, late, flustered, and moving quickly. Behind him came a dozen well-dressed men in silk and wool and fur, adding to the lustre about the King. A full half of them were Albans. The events of Holy Week had polarized opinion throughout the Brogat, Jarsay and the Albin, and many men-King’s men-had swallowed their dislike of the Galles in the face of violence. Every action by the re-born Jacks in the countryside recruited yeomen and knights for the King-and de Rohan.
De Rohan’s latecomers took a moment to settle, and were joined by a dozen priests and monks and the Archbishop of Lorica, also late.
The herald waited patiently, his face expressionless. His eyes never shifted from the King’s.
The King nodded to the herald.
He raised his staff. “Your grace, my lords and ladies of Alba, the Prince of Occitan sends his greetings,” he said. “My lord has come to settle any issue of accusation between the King of Alba and his wife, my sister, the Lady of Occitan.”
De Rohan did not even wait for the King to reply. “This is a matter affecting only the sovereignty of the Kingdom of Alba, and is, we regret-”
The herald quite clearly ignored him. He had a rich voice-he almost sung his words. “Upon arrival in this land, my master has had neither greeting nor guesting from his cousin the King of Alba. And upon approach, he has received threats-”
De Rohan opened his mouth and the King of Alba made a sudden movement. Even de Rohan had to be silent in the face of the King’s direct order.
“-and now discovers that the Queen of Alba, his sister, has been accused of witchcraft, of murder, of treason and of adultery,” the man’s beautiful voice went on. “Which accusations, my master finds abhorrent, and the more so as they are to be tried by combat, a barbaric practice antithetical to the teachings of the Holy Church-”
The archbishop shouted. His voice was a trifle high-he was young. “Absurd! Who is this boasting coxcomb to tell me what the Holy Church-”
Maître Gris leaned over to say something in his ear.
“Shut up!” he told his secretary, still too loud and too shrill.
“-but a convenient fiction to cover a crime,” the herald finished. He neither smiled nor frowned.
“You dare?” de Rohan said.
“My master demands the immediate release of the Queen into his custody. He is not interested in honeyed words and delay. Give him the Queen his sister tonight.”
“These are not the words of negotiation,” the King said wearily.
The herald took a glove from his belt. “If my master’s most reasonable demand is not satisfied,” he said. “This glove will guide his next action.”
“Are you threatening war?” de Vrailly asked. “You cannot be serious.”
“We will not release the Queen, who is a criminal and a witch,” de Rohan said. “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.”
The King looked at de Rohan and rose to his feet. “Master Herald, I need a moment to confer with my officers of state. Please be kind enough to-to wait.”
The herald bowed.
At the King’s rising, everyone had bowed. Now they formed a corridor, and he walked down it, from his throne’s dais, off to the right, and through the great oak doors to his tower and the royal apartments.
The archbishop caught de Vrailly’s arm. “You must stay here and watch this so-called herald.”
De Vrailly looked at the archbishop. “You think…?”
The archbishop frowned. “I merely guess that he, too, is a sorcerer. Watch him.”
The archbishop hurried away, leaving de Vrailly poised in a rare moment of indecision. But he did not think that the King faced any threat from his cousin, and he had just been threatened with war by the King of Occitan. A thought that made him smile with something like glee.
He turned, his armour clacking softly, and went to stand in front of the throne, his sword drawn.
In the King’s inner council chamber, the King sat at the head of the table, flanked by the archbishop, as chancellor, and de Rohan, as first privy council. Next at the table sat Du Corse, now Marshal of Alba, and across from him, l’Isle d’Adam, second privy council.