The White Robe (17 page)

When Malingar had eaten his fill and had enough of them picking at their food, he sent them off to their separate screened sleeping enclosures, Tarraquin by herself and Jarrul to share with the tailor. Sleep came surprisingly fast to Jarrul, but Tarraquin remained awake on her thin mattress for a long while listening to the sounds of the men settling down for the night and wondering if her long dead father would approve of what she was going to do.

She wished she could remember something about him, but all she knew about the dead king was what others had told her. They said that he was kind and generous but firm and determined when he needed to be. She had also been told that he cared for his people and believed in justice and honour. Tarraquin hoped that she could be like him and with that thought she fell asleep.

One of her maids, the tall one with dark hair, woke her, gently shaking her shoulder. The other maid, small and blond with bright blue eyes, lit a lantern and poured a small amount of water into a wash bowl. The maid who had woken her helped her up from her mattress and started to undress her whilst the other one stood ready to wash her with a damp cloth and perfumed soap.

Tarraquin had been a small child when she last had a maid and the thought of these two strangers washing and dressing her was not one she felt comfortable with. She pushed the hands of the tall maid away and when she tried to undress her, she took off the shirt she had worn to sleep in by herself. Taking the hint, the second maid curtsied, handed her the damp cloth and scented soap and then turned away whilst Tarraquin washed herself all over. When she had done, they handed her new delicately embroidered small clothes, and a long silk shift.

The taller of the two guided her to a seat at a small table and began to brush her long auburn hair whilst the other laid out an array of cosmetics, and then went to fetch a mug of herb tea and a small loaf for her breakfast. As they worked away painting her face and piling her hair into twists and curls on the top of her head, she realised that she knew nothing about them except that they were whores. She’d only met them the day before and then they had been dressed in low cut tunics which exposed the colouring around their nipples and were made so short that a man could easily press himself into them without having the bother of moving any clothing out of the way.

Then they had both worn heavy makeup with deep red lips and had brightly dyed hair, and for a moment, she wondered what she was going to look like by the time they had finished with her. She looked up at the maid applying the makeup and noticed that today she wore very little lip colouring and no dark kohl and that her fair hair, which yesterday had been bright orange, was neatly platted. Tarraquin turned to look at the other maid who was arranging her hair and was relieved to find that she too looked fairly normal. Both had changed into long plain dresses with high collars.

“Hold still, My Lady; I nearly painted an eyebrow on your nose.”

“Sorry. Perhaps it would be easier for all of us if you were to tell me your names?”

“I’m Sheevar Twenty Two and she’s Sheevar Fourteen.”

Tarraquin looked puzzled. “Sheevar is a pretty name. Are you related?”

Both of the maids laughed loudly. “No, My Lady. Sheevar is the name they give all the kingsward whores who are like us. It means we’ve been bought and bound to a pleasure ‘ouse an’ anyone can ‘ave us if they ‘ave the coin. Our number tells us apart.”

“Oh,” said Tarraquin, embarrassed by her own question but still curious. “Does that mean you have a different man every night?”

“Depends,” said Sheevar Twenty Two. “If yer lucky one man will want yer all night but most of the time its three or four different ones in which case yer bound to know at least one of ‘em.

“Oh,” said Tarraquin, wishing she hadn’t asked. She tried to clear her mind and concentrate on what was to come but the more she tried the more nervous she felt.

“You really should try to eat, My Lady. You’re shaking like a leaf.”

She knew she was and tried desperately to think of something which would take her mind off what she had to do. “Tell me about yourselves; it will take my mind off things.”

“There aint much to tell, My Lady. My dad was ‘ung for theft and I became kingsward. When I’d seen nine summers I was bound to the whore ‘ouse as a servant an’ when I’d ‘ad me first bleedin’ I became a whore. Sheevar Twenty Two ‘ere was sold to the whore ‘ouse by ‘er dad when she ‘ad seen twelve summers and started whoring straight off as ‘er mam ‘ad done. It’s in yer blood yer see.”

“That’s awful,” said Tarraquin, truly shocked.

“It could be worse, at least at the pleasure ‘ouse we get a decent kind of client. Now Lord Istan, he’s one of our favourites, none of us mind bein’ laid by ‘im.” Sheevar Fourteen nodded in agreement.

“I’ve never been with a man,” said Tarraquin coyly. “What’s it like?”

“Gawd! We aint the best ones to ask are we. We don’t do it for pleasure or love like you will.”

“Then why do you do it?”

“When you’ve got a kingsward number burnt onto yer arm yer don’t ‘ave any option do yer? And it’s better than runnin’ an’ being on the streets with no roof over yer ‘ead. Yer learn early on that its better ter spread yer legs willingly and be groped fer a couple of gelstart than to be raped and brutalised fer nowt. It’s a bit of wisdom yer should remember, not that it’s ever likely to ‘appen to a lady like you.”

“I hope not but I will remember it just the same, as I will remember what you have told me about your life. When I’m queen I’ll make things better for you, I promise.”

“You already have, we’re lady’s maids now.”

“And as lady’s maids you should have proper names not numbers. What would you like to be called?”

They both giggled. “My mother named me Birrit and it would be nice to be called that again,” said Sheevar Fourteen.

“Don’t rightly know,” said the other. “Never thought ‘bout it so I’ll stick with Sheevar but without the number.”

“You’ll have to choose another name when you become my ladies in waiting, Sheevar. Even without a number Sheevar wouldn’t be appropriate.”

They both laughed again. “Hellden’s balls lady, we aint no ladies in waiting. What would yer court ladies say if they saw us with yer? No, we’ll just be ‘appy to be maids if you’ll ‘ave us.”

“I would be honoured.”

“There,” said Birrit, putting the makeup away in a small box. “All you need now is the dress, crown and jewels and you’ll be a real queen.”

She pushed the screening blanket to one side and slipped out, returning moments later with an armful of starched petticoats and the nervous tailor carrying the heavily embroidered overdress. Birrit and Sheevar helped her into the layers of petticoats and then eased the dress over the piled coils of hair letting it fall gracefully around her. The tailor went to fasten the buttons at the back but was shaking so much with nerves that he couldn’t hold the buttons so Sheevar had to take his place.

He stood back to admire his work and tutted loudly. “The breasts are not high enough; they need to be more prominent.”

The tailor stretched his hand forward to lift the left breast higher and had his hand slapped out of the way by Sheevar. “Leave ‘er tits be, yer dressing a queen, not a whore. Go an’ get the crown an’ the jewels so we can finish the job.”

Complaining loudly the little man hurried away and quickly returned with two boxes. He opened the first and brought out a slim pendant flared at the end like a bell and engraved with the royal crest. Birrit took it from his shaking hand and adjusted the length of the chain until the royal seal nestled perfectly in Tarraquin’s cleavage. The tailor opened the second box and lifted the crown out earning a gasp of surprise and awe from the three women who hadn’t seen it before.

“Hellden’s balls, it’s beautiful,” muttered Sheevar. “Is it real?”

“Of course not, the real one is locked away and only Sarrat and the Lord Keeper of the Keys can get to it.” The tailor turned the gold and silver crown around in his hands so that the light made the imitation jewels sparkle. “However, apart from them the only people who know it is not the real thing is the guildmaster of the metal smiths guild and those in this room.” He placed the crown on Tarraquin’s head and gave a small titter of amusement. “I’ve never crowned a queen before.”

Tarraquin reached up and adjusted the crown with her finger tips. She had practiced walking and sitting with a wooden ring on her head made from a bowl that had its bottom cut out but hadn’t expected the crown to be so heavy. She hoped she wouldn’t have to wear it for too long otherwise she was going to have a stiff neck. Birrit came forward with a hand mirror and Tarraquin looked at her reflection. Gone was the inexperienced woman and in her place was a regal and serious queen. If it hadn’t been for her eyes she wouldn’t have recognised herself.

“Are you ready, Your Majesty?”

Tarraquin nodded and then wished she hadn’t as the crown slipped forward slightly and had to be repositioned.

“Yes, if everything is prepared you may remove the screen.”

She turned towards the blanket wall and her two maids scuttled behind her to make sure her dress was hanging perfectly. The tailor slipped outside and in a moment the blanket which had screened off her private enclosure was removed.

Malingar stood to one side, his blood red uniform edged with gold braid complimenting his dark features. An ornamental helmet with a thick red plume was tucked under one arm and his gloved hand rested on an ornamental sword hilt studded with gems. Jarrul stood on the other side in a plain dark jacket and breaches with his dark hair tied back making his pale skin look whiter than ever. His only ornamentation was a band of pale blue silk which ran from one shoulder, across his back and chest and met at his waist. The royal crest of her father’s house was embroidered on the front at heart height.

They both bowed and stepped forward and Tarraquin gave them each a brief nod and a warm smile as she stepped past them, ignoring the supporting arm they both offered. She walked out of the shaded colonnade and into the early morning sunlight which flooded through the high windows above the throne room floor. As if she had been a queen all her life she gracefully mounted the dais and with the assistance of her maids who adjusted her dress around her, Tarraquin sat regally on Leersland’s throne.

She looked around the room and smiled in satisfaction. The chaos of the previous night had gone and instead of bedrolls and empty uniforms both sides of the throne room were lined with guards in bright red livery, ceremonial helmets and black knee length boots which shone like silk. Each man held a highly polished halberd and a small shield emblazoned with the royal crest, both of which would be useless in a fight. At their sides though, each wore their own mercenary sword, the only non standard items amongst them. Tarraquin wondered where so many new uniforms had been found in such a short space of time but decided it must have been a much easier task than producing the replica crown and seal which she now wore.

When Malingar and Jarrul had taken their places to each side and slightly behind her she eased back into the uncomfortable throne trying to ignore the heavy carving which dug into her back and legs. The room was absolutely silent and the only movement came from shimmering dust motes which floated downwards in the beams of light from above. Then in the distance there was the sound of raised voices and the pounding of feet, quiet at first and then louder as the commotion came closer.

Now she could hear someone shouting above the noise of arguing voices and her heart beat faster in anticipation of what was to come. From outside there was a sudden clash of weapons and the huge doors at the far end of the throne room were pushed open. A tall man in long, dark robes with a large silver key hanging on a chain around his neck strode into the room. He stopped abruptly after a dozen strides, took a quick look around the room and pointed an accusing finger at the seated figure on the throne.