The Godspeaker Trilogy (132 page)

The dukes exchanged hasty glances, momentarily put to shame. Ven’Martin took advantage of the hush. “You shameless hussy, you’d dare impugn His Eminence in this fashion? You Godless defier, woe to you and all your kind. This duchy will fall to interdict! Prolate Marlan—”

“Is not Ethrea’s king!” said the king. “Though he thought to make himself one, through Lord Rulf.” He turned back to the discomfited dukes. “And thanks to you, my lords, he nearly succeeded. Marlan had the chance to persecute Rhian and he took it. I have seen the scars .”

Ven’Martin’s voice rose above the flurry of protests. “You are a liar! A liar, a lawbreaker, and a blasphemer! Prolate Marlan—”

“Tried to flog me into submission!” cried Rhian. “Chaplain Helfred assisted him until God softened his heart! King Alasdair is right. Shame on you for putting your own ambitions before the welfare of Ethrea!”

“Don’t waste your breath trying to turn us from the prolate!” roared Damwin. “We do not confuse politics and God. Ven’Martin is right in this. We are not come here to be lectured by disobedient little girls. This is a mockery. A tarradiddle. A disgrace ! Is this how you think to honour your father, Highness? Lies and deception and wilful malfeasance, a reckless disregard for—”

Rhian scorched him with a glare. “Do not presume to raise your voice to me, Damwin! I am Eberg’s daughter and beyond your petty censure! Good God! If you thought I’d meekly abandon Ethrea to your ambitions, my lords, you were sorely mistaken. If you thought I was pliable and malleable and easily cowed, you were wrong. Were I born Eberg’s third son there would be no thought of dissent. I—”

“But you were not born his son!” said Rudi, seething. “You were born his daughter. Your duty is to marry and make your husband King of Ethrea!”

Rhian smiled. Holding out her hand she said, softly, “And I have, Your Grace.”

“King Consort, ” spat Rudi. “No better than a eunuch!”

King Alasdair took the queen’s outstretched hand. “If by that insulting epithet you mean to remind us that Rhian is the true monarch here, Your Grace, then yes. By blood and by right she now rules over Ethrea. Your royal ambitions are ended. There remains a place for dukes in the governance of this land … but the crown has slipped forever from your grasps. Best make your peace with that and bend your stiff knees.”

“To her? ” said Edward. Within its whiskers his face was so red he looked to Helfred in danger of his life. “A girl young enough to be my granddaughter? Never! ”

“Yet you’d yield to your nephew Shimon, a boy young enough to be your grandson?” said Rhian, releasing the king’s hand and letting her fingers fist by her sides. Her voice dripped with contempt. “For your ambition’s sake you’d deny me my birthright, our most sacred tradition. To slake your greed for power you’d see Ethrea pulled apart in bloody violence rather than accept God’s will in the matter of its rule?”

“God’s will? God’s will?” Ven’Martin was close to choking. “There is nothing Godlike in this travesty, girl! You flout Church law with these wild declamations. Prolate Marlan will never confirm you as queen, he wil denounce you and chastise you and—”

Helfred stepped forward. “Do not presume, Venerable, to pronounce on God’s will. Would he have permitted vows between Queen Rhian and King Alasdair to be exchanged before his Living Flame if his will was not done in this?”

“Silence, clod!” snarled Ven’Martin. “You’re a forsworn man. You’ve disobeyed your prolate and smirched your soul as a result. You’re a chaplain with no standing, you have acted without authority! You are a man of mud, Helfred, and in the mud you will be thrown!” He turned on Rhian. “Do you think you sit above judgement, girl? A child unlawfully married, her maidenhood squandered to fornication and lust? Do you think all you need do is blow hot air in God’s face and God will fall meekly at your dainty feet?”

At long last Ven’Artemis found his tongue. “Please, Ven’Martin, have a care. Such intemperate language is—”

“Shut up, old fool!” said Ven’Martin, spittle flying. “Never presume to lecture me, Prolate Marlan’s most trusted man, for I—”

“Should beware, Ven’Martin,” said a gentle voice from the hall’s open doorway. “God sees all and hears all… and does not take kindly to the thwarting ambitions of greedy men.”

Helfred, with Rhian and the king, turned to the doors. Everyone else in the Great Hall gasped, even Ven’Martin.

It was Mr Jones the toymaker, glowing like a lantern filled with God’s Living Flame. His arms were outstretched, and in the centre of each upturned palm danced a bright red tongue of fire. Slowly he entered the manor house’s Great Hall, scattering servants and ducal retainers like a cat strolling through mice.

Helfred closed his fingers around his Rollin medallion. God help me, I am witness to miracles. The age of Rollin has come to us again. Forgive me, God, if ever I doubted .

“What’s this? It’s a trick! A blasphemous trick!” said Kyrin as the toymaker halted between two bare trestle tables, burning without pain or sound or any sign his flesh was being consumed. The duke’s face had drained sickly pale. “Get him out of here, Linfoi! Would you call God’s wrath upon all of us?”

Rhian shook her head, slowly. Her eyes were wide, her expression stunned. It seemed clear she had not expected this. “God’s not wrathful, Kyrin. And Mr Jones has guided me from the start. Now… I think … he is made a prophet.”

“A prophet ?” said timid Most Venerable Artemis before Ven’Martin could protest. “My child—”

Ignoring him, Rhian shifted her astonished gaze away from the toymaker. “ Helfred? What do you think?”

He thought he might easily burst into tears. “I am a lowly chaplain, Your Majesty. But it seems to me this is indeed a miracle, and Rollin tells us miracles are the province of prophets. So you might well be correct. Mr Jones could be our very own Rollin.”

“Never say it again!” said Ven’Martin, convulsed with rage. “This is darkest blasphemy! I tell you in the Prolate’s name that any man supporting it will be cast down beyond redemption!”

“You are wrong, Ven’Martin,” said Mr Jones, serene. There was a curious blankness in his face, as though his personality had been smoothed away … like a footprint on a sandy beach washed to nothing by a wave. On his upturned palms the red tongues of fire danced. Under his skin God’s power glowed. “The blasphemy is in denying Rhian’s birthright. She is Ethrea’s queen, born in this time and place to rule. Let no man dispute it lest he imperil his soul.”

“What?” said Kyrin. He seemed torn between awed fear and disbelieving fury. “Who is this—this man ? From his clothing he’s not noble. He’s not anything . Who is he to—”

Helfred felt the words well up inside him, their truth unstoppable. “He’s a messenger from God, Your Grace. If you’re displeased with God’s selection I suggest you task him directly.”

“Helfred!” said Ven’Martin. Even Ven’Artemis looked shocked.

Helfred pulled his prayer beads from his robe’s belt and wrapped them round his hand. Smooth from years of fingering, their comfort was immense.

“How can you stand there denying God’s presence?” he asked Ven’Martin. “Can it only be a miracle if it’s performed through you ?”

A shocked silence fell. Helfred avoided Rhian’s gaze. Around the hall the first panicked reaction was settling. Some of the dukes’ people were praying, others huddled in corners and whispered or stared, waiting for their masters and the venerables to tell them what to do. As for the dukes …

Rudi exchanged glances with Edward. Then, with a last askance look at Mr Jones, he turned to Rhian. “Your Highness—Majesty— Rhian … you are asking us to accept a great deal on faith! Miracles, in your name? Not even your father claimed such favour from God!”

“I don’t claim it either, Rudi,” she said, hushed, staring at serene Mr Jones. “I swear on my father’s soul I did not know this would happen. I can’t explain it. All I can tell you is I’ve been guided by this man and he’s never been wrong. I believe with all my heart he cares only for Ethrea.”

“And so do we care for Ethrea!” said Edward. A riot of uncertainty was in his face and eyes. “You’re gravely unjust to say we do not. It’s because we care that we are so alarmed. You claim a ruling birthright but you are a woman . You’re practically a girl ! How can we trust you’ll not rule Ethrea to ruin? You’re not trained for kingship. You understand embroidery, not—not—international treaties and trade negotiations and foreign relations and taxation and law and currency and—”

“Your Graces—” Rhian began, but she got no further. The flames dancing on Mr Jones’ upturned palms flared higher, joining over his head in a rainbow of fire. His skin grew incandescent so it was hard to look at him.

Every man and woman in the Great Hall cried out. King Alasdair moved to Rhian’s side and put his arm around her shoulders, holding her close. Lord Ludo joined them. His face was resolute.

Helfred kissed his thumb and pressed it to his heart, hand shaking. Dear God. Dear God. That I live to see such things!

“On your feet!” cried Ven’Martin to those ducal retainers who had dropped to their knees. “How dare you pay homage to this trickster, this tool of evil!”

None of them obeyed him. They hid their faces and sobbed.

The fiery rainbow arcing from palm to palm over the toymaker’s head burned in eerie silence, no crackling, no smoke. But the air in the manor house’s Great Hall smelled suddenly sweet, tinged with freesias and roses and ladalia blossom.

“Woe upon you, proud dukes of Ethrea!” he cried, his voice ringing to the rafters. “Heed not this warning and see your kingdom fall to ruin! See your children slain upon its streets! See your green fields blighted, see your churches pulled down, see your freedoms ground to bloody mud beneath your foolish feet! Kneel to Rhian, your rightful, blessed and Godgiven queen! Let her lead you in God’s name! For if you do not there will be no more Ethrea.”

“No more Ethrea?” said Edward, incredulous. “How can that be? Ethrea is the safest kingdom in the world!”

“It has been the safest,” said Rhian, her gaze not shifting from the toymaker’s face as he stood before them soundlessly burning.

“But not any more?” said Rudi.

She shrugged. “Perhaps. If we do not heed our new prophet’s warning. We—”

“Are only in danger if you are on the throne!” said Damwin, nearly spitting in his rage. “No woman is capable of ruling a kingdom! Women bear children. That is their domain. This—this— nonsense is nothing but your desperate attempt to overthrow the natural order! This is trickery, this so-called prophet is your puppet, a fool and a knave. Throw a bucket of water over him and his miracle would soon be quenched!”

“No,” said Helfred. “His words come from God. What consumes him is God’s Living Flame.”

“What consumes him is evil !” shouted Ven’Martin. “What you smell in this hall is the stink of hell ! Whosoever heeds this blasphemy I declare him tainted, corrupted, the enemy of God !”

“And I declare you a blind fool, Venerable Martin!” retorted Rhian. “In thrall to Marlan who is no friend to God or Ethrea or me, its queen. I’ve done nothing unlawful. I’m not tainted or corrupt. The corruption is yours, that you’d use God as a weapon to silence honest men. Tell Marlan this from me when you run to him with your tail between your legs, as I know full well you will. I won’t be silenced or intimidated by the Church. I am the rightful queen of Ethrea and to deny me fealty is to break the law. Tell the prolate to consider that, Venerable. Tell him to have a care for his soul, should he oppose me.”

Ven’Martin shuddered with an anger so violent, Helfred thought the man would drop where he stood. “You wicked woman, God’s Flame will—”

She turned her back on him, leaving Ven’Artemis to silence his ranting, and glared instead at her horrified dukes.

“Your Graces, attend me. The people of my duchies look to you for leadership as much as they look to the Church for solace. I need you standing with me, your disappointments set aside. If you don’t want to see this kingdom destroyed you’ll—”

“Ethrea will only be destroyed if we allow this nonsense to continue!” said Kyrin. “Are you mad, girl, to think we would side with you against the prolate? You’d have us take the word of a disgraced chaplain and this—this charlatan in a matter so vital to the kingdom’s interests?”

“Kyrin’s right,” added Damwin. “And so is Ven’Martin. Aiding you is blasphemy, Your Highness. Clearly grief has unhinged your mind. For the kingdom’s safety you must be put away.”

King Alasdair stepped forward. “Lay one hand on her and you’ll answer to me.”

“And God, Your Grace,” said Helfred, frowning. “Do not imperil your soul.”

Damwin sneered. “A blasphemer lectures me on the health of my soul. If I were not so close to vomiting, I tell you I would laugh. Men of Meercheq, to me!”

As Duke Damwin’s hangers-on stepped forward uncertainly, Kyrin snapped his fingers. “Hartshorn, to me!” Then he glowered at Rhian. “Like the Duke of Meercheq I am no credulous fool. I will not risk myself or my duchy by supporting your lost, unlawful cause.”

Side by side, ignoring the miracle of Mr Jones, Damwin and Kyrin made for the Great Hall’s doors, their hangers-on obedient at their heels.

“This blasphemous treachery will not go unpunished,” said Ven’Martin, retreating with them. “The wrath of God and the prolate shall descend without mercy. Artemis! With me!”

The Most Venerable hesitated, looking to the king.

“Go, Artemis,” said King Alasdair softly. “Don’t cause trouble for you and yours.” He gestured at the ceaselessly burning Mr Jones. “We have nothing to fear from Ven’Martin or the prolate.”

“Artemis!” shouted Ven’Martin, waiting at the doors.

The Most Venerable departed with tears in his eyes.

Rhian looked to the remaining dukes. “Well, Edward. Rudi. Does this mean you’re with me?”

Before they could answer, Mr Jones released a sigh. The holy fire in him extinguished … and he slumped unconscious to the floor.

CHAPTER THIRTY

D
exterity stood in a charnel-house, surrounded by death. Everywhere he looked he saw burnt sundered bodies. Men. Women. Children. Infants. Dogs. Horses. He’d never seen so much death in his life. Never imagined it could look like this. Curdled with smoke, the air smeared his skin. The stench of charred flesh coated his tongue, his throat. His stomach heaved, gushing bile into his mouth. He spat it out, sickened by the taste. Underfoot, the rubble of this strange city. Something had destroyed it, smashed the brick and timber buildings to pieces like a vengeful god’s angry hand. The sun was a sullen eye, red and glaring.