“At least we did not pay for the wine. That saved us a pretty penny,” Antonio said smugly. Though the monastery and abbey had been looted in the aftermath of the late war, the Inceptine cellars had escaped damage. There was enough wine in them to float a fleet of carracks. Antonio had also made himself a pretty penny by selling a few tuns of it to an enterprising Macassian ship’s captain. He thought this was his secret, and Jemilla did not intend to disabuse him of the fact until she deemed it useful to do so.
“How stand our funds at the moment?” she asked him.
“We have fifteen hundred and twelve gold crowns left over, madam. The duke was very generous. We’ll make a profit from the affair, never fear.”
Short-sighted fool. He thought in terms of profit and loss, while Jemilla’s eye was set much higher. One day soon she’d have the entire Hebrian treasury at her disposal. Let them have their pomp and panoply, for now.
A commotion at the western side of the courtyard drew her attention. A knot of riders trotting into view.
“Who in the world—?”
Foremost among them was a noble lady riding side-saddle. She was hooded and cloaked against the inclement weather, but Jemilla knew her at once. That Astaran bitch, Isolla. What did she think she was doing here? And beside her a man in a broad-brimmed hat that buckled and tugged in the wind. He wore a patch over one eye and seemed a mere skeleton under his fur-trimmed riding robes. Jemilla’s mouth opened as she recognized Golophin. Behind the pair were four heavily armed knights bearing the livery of Astarac, and then four more in the colours of Hebrion. The group of riders joined Duke Urbino in the centre of the square. Even from this distance, Jemilla could see that the duke was taken aback. Golophin swept off his hat and bowed in the saddle, his head as bald as an eggshell. Isolla offered the bemused duke her hand to kiss.
“Madam,” Antonio began. “Who—?”
“Shut up, you fool. Let me think.”
The head of the nobles’ procession entered the square, and there was a deafening flourish of trumpets. Isolla and Urbino greeted the arriving noblemen together, the Astaran princess throwing back her hood to reveal an intricately braided head of auburn hair set with diamond-headed pins.
Jemilla had been outmanoeuvred, upstaged. But as she turned the thing over in her mind she realized that it did not matter. The council would run its course, a regency would be voted into existence. Let the odd pair have their triumph; it would mean little enough in the end.
T HE council assembled in what had once been the refectory of the monastery. The broken windows had been replaced—though plain glass was now installed where once there had been ancient and beautiful stained-glass windows—and the huge chamber had been swept clean, the walls replastered and the banners of the nobles hung along the massively beamed vault of the ceiling. Two fireplaces, each large enough to accommodate a spit-turned bullock, had been cleaned out and blazed with welcome flame. The long refectory table had survived and stood where it always had. Crafted of iron-hard teak from Calmar, the only marks it bore of the recent fighting were a few arquebus balls buried deep in the timber. High-backed chairs, ornate as small thrones, were ranged along it, and the nobility of the kingdom took its seats amid a buzz and hubbub of animated talk, whilst serving attendants set decanters of wine and platters of sweetmeats at intervals along the table and lit the dozens of thick beeswax candles which stood in clusters everywhere.
Along the walls, scribes sat at little desks prepared to take down every word spoken by the assembled dignitaries, and a trio of brawny servitors manhandled extra chairs to accommodate the unexpected additions to the throng. The seating had been nicely arranged in order of precedence and rank, but the arrival of Isolla and Golophin had thrown these out and things were being hastily rejuggled. The larger throne at the table’s head would remain empty, of course, to represent the absent King and, a princess being as lofty in rank as a duke, Isolla would be sitting opposite Urbino in the next two places. Golophin declared himself happy with a well-padded chair by the fire. He had a decanter and glass brought to him there and sat sipping and watching the crowd with evident enjoyment.
It took an hour for the notables to finish greeting each other, find their places and assume their seats. During that time Jemilla appeared and had another comfortable chair brought in so that she could sit opposite Golophin at the fire. He offered her wine but she demurred graciously, citing her pregnancy. They sat staring into the flames, for all the world like an old married couple, whilst the clamour died around them into an orderly silence.
A grey-clad Friar Mendicant appeared by the empty King’s place, and raised his hands.
“My lords, noble lady, a moment of prayer, if you please, for our poor afflicted King. May he soon recover his senses and rule over us with the justice and compassion that was his wont.”
Those present bowed their heads. Golophin leaned forward and whispered to Jemilla:
“Your idea, I suppose.”
“You won’t object to a prayer for the King’s health, surely, Golophin.”
“Poor and afflicted. I’ll bet you just wish.”
The cleric withdrew. Duke Urbino stood up. For a second he seemed at a loss for words. Then he met Jemilla’s eye, and his spine seemed to stiffen.
“Gentlemen, my worthy cousins, gracious lady, we are gathered here on a mission of paramount importance for the future of the kingdom of Hebrion . . .”
“A good choice,” Golophin told Jemilla. “Respectable, but dense. No doubt you’ve got him close to thinking he’s his own man.”
“Any man who thinks he’s his own man is a fool. Even you, Golophin. You hold fast to Abeleyn although he’s as good as a corpse. Why not give your loyalty to his son? What principles would that compromise? He would wish it so, were he alive.”
“He is alive. He is alive and my King. And he is my friend.”
“If he were dead—truly dead—would you recognize his son as the heir to the throne?”
Golophin was silent a long time whilst the Duke of Imerdon rambled on in his portentous, pompous way and the rest of the assembly listened with grave attention to his platitudes.
“If it were his son,” he said finally.
Jemilla felt a cold hand about her heart. “You need not concern yourself on that score. Abeleyn himself was convinced. Besides, there have been no others in my bed.”
“Palace guards do not count, then.”
“I had to gain my freedom. I used the only tool I had.” It seemed suddenly very warm here by the fire with the old wizard’s bird-bright eye intent upon her.
Golophin’s eye left her as he drank more wine. Jemilla’s face did not show the relief she felt. This man must go, she thought. He is too knowing, too damned shrewd by half. I can fool the rest, but not him—not for ever.
“Do not trouble to talk to me of the King’s heir, lady,” the wizard said, wiping his mouth. “We know who will rule in Hebrion if that prating fool up there is appointed regent, or if your brat is finally brought into the world and survives to his majority. If it is indeed Abeleyn’s child in your belly, then I would be the first to recognize the infant’s claims, but I would sooner stick my head in a she-wolf’s den than let you have any say in the child’s rearing.”
“It is well that we understand each other,” she said.
“Yes. Honesty is often refreshing, don’t you find? Have a taste of this superb wine. You look somewhat peaked, and one glass will not hurt the child any.”
He poured her some, and they both raised their glasses, looked at each other, and clinked the glasses together.
“To the King,” Golophin said.
“To the King. And his heir.”
• • •
W ELL?” Golophin asked Isolla. “What did you make of it?”
They were in the King’s private chambers, sharing a late supper of pheasant stuffed with truffles and basil—one of Golophin’s favourites. The weather had worsened, and hail rattled at the tall windows.
“The Hebrian nobility is even more long-winded than that of Astarac,” Isolla replied. “They must have talked for seven or eight hours, and they barely got beyond introductions.”
“They’re feeling their way. Our presence unsettled them. After Jemilla left I made a point of ostentatiously taking down their names. Let them fear a pogrom. It will concentrate their minds wonderfully.”
“That Jemilla; you were talking to her for a long time. One might have thought you were old friends.”
“Let us say that we understand one another. In many ways she is an admirable woman. She might have made Abeleyn a worthy queen, were she not so . . . ambitious.”
“She’d rather be king.”
Golophin laughed. “There you have hit the nail on the head. But she is not of the calibre of Odelia of Torunna, another scheming and ambitious woman. Jemilla wants to rule, and damn the consequences. She would lay the kingdom waste if it would put her on a throne.”
“Is she that highly born? I was not aware.”
“Oh, no. She is a noblewoman, and she married well, but her blood is not of such a vintage that it would ever enable her to rule constitutionally, even if she had been a man. But she has brains. She will rule through others.”
“Urbino of Imerdon.”
“Quite.”
“How are you going to stop them, Golophin? They’ll begin discussing the regency tomorrow.”
“We can’t stop them, lady,” Golophin said quietly.
Isolla was startled. “So what are we to do?”
The old wizard sat back from the table and laid aside his napkin. “Jemilla has planned well. In the absence of the King, a quorum of the nobility is allowed to make decisions of state. It has precedent, my legal minds tell me. The decrees of the council will have the full force of law.”