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Authors: Marie Phillips
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direction his thoughts were inclined to go, which was to remind himself of what he knew, that women were not to be trusted, and what happened when you followed your heart instead of your head; but that was a road he had fifteen years’ practice in ignoring, and he was able to turn away from it now.
As his thoughts started around the circle yet again, a horrifying scream came from the direction of the trees. Before he had fully registered that a man was galloping directly towards himbrandishing a huge black sword, blows were already raining down on him. Just in time he managed to draw his sword. As he fought for his life he realised that it was the man who was screaming, that he was, in fact, barely more than a boy, and that, even as he hacked at Humphrey with his sword, he had his eyes screwed tightly shut.
PART TWO
Thirteen
A week before Pentecost, the morning of her father’s death, Martha had been awoken by the sound of bells. This was wrong. Generally Martha woke up and rang a bell, and her maid Deborah came. Having been woken up, she did ring her bell to find out what was going on, but the delicate sound was drowned out by the clang of the louder bells outside, and nobody answered.
Growing tired of waiting, she pushed back her bed curtains and got out of bed. It was still dark in her room, and no one had been in yet to light the fire, so it must have been unfathomably early. She wrapped herself in a long, moss-green cashmere dressing gown, opened up a pair of shutters blinkering a window, and peered out into the icy morning. In the pre-dawn light she could see a few figures hurrying from one place to another, but no sign of an army, mob or fire. Nothing important, then. She yawned. Pulling the shutters to, she shuffled back towards her bed.
Just then, the door to her bedchamber burst open and Deborah flew in and prostrated herself on the floor. This was also wrong. Deborah usually strolled in chatting, as if she and Martha were already mid-conversation. There was never any prostrating.
‘Deborah, what –’ began Martha, but Deborah interrupted her.
‘The King is dead, long live the Queen!’ she said.
Martha sank down on the edge of her bed, while Deborah alternated bowing, curtseying, trying to make her mistress drinka cup of hot brandy, and saying ‘The King is dead, long live the Queen,’ over and over. Martha waited for grief to come, but it too was drowned out by the incessant ringing of the bells.
The death of her father should have come as no surprise. He had been ill for many years, a feebleness of the mind that had taken hold not long after her brother, Jasper, had died. At first, the court had taken his confusion and mood swings for grief. By the time the King could no longer tell the difference between Martha and her dead brother, calling her Jasper and enquiring about her exploits at the Round Table, it was impossible to hide the severity of his condition, and a Regency Council had been established to take on the day-to-day business of ruling.
As far as Martha was concerned, it was pretty easy to tell the difference between her and Jasper, for reasons quite aside from him being male and dead. Jasper had been tall and muscular and handsome, witty and intelligent and accomplished. He had been a Knight of the Round Table in Camelot, with all the goodness and bravery that implied. He had travelled all over the land on quests, having experiences and gaining wisdom and meeting people, one of whom was a Pict he was supposed to be civilising in Scotland, who hadn’t wanted to be civilised and who had cut off Jasper’s head. But if that hadn’t happened, he would have had all the attributes which would have made him a wonderful king.
Martha, on the other hand – even Martha didn’t know what Martha was. She presided over jousts, opened country fairs, exclaimed at the beauty of babies and judged vegetables. She shook hands. She sat at banquets next to foreign dignitaries who talked across her to
As his thoughts started around the circle yet again, a horrifying scream came from the direction of the trees. Before he had fully registered that a man was galloping directly towards himbrandishing a huge black sword, blows were already raining down on him. Just in time he managed to draw his sword. As he fought for his life he realised that it was the man who was screaming, that he was, in fact, barely more than a boy, and that, even as he hacked at Humphrey with his sword, he had his eyes screwed tightly shut.
PART TWO
Thirteen
A week before Pentecost, the morning of her father’s death, Martha had been awoken by the sound of bells. This was wrong. Generally Martha woke up and rang a bell, and her maid Deborah came. Having been woken up, she did ring her bell to find out what was going on, but the delicate sound was drowned out by the clang of the louder bells outside, and nobody answered.
Growing tired of waiting, she pushed back her bed curtains and got out of bed. It was still dark in her room, and no one had been in yet to light the fire, so it must have been unfathomably early. She wrapped herself in a long, moss-green cashmere dressing gown, opened up a pair of shutters blinkering a window, and peered out into the icy morning. In the pre-dawn light she could see a few figures hurrying from one place to another, but no sign of an army, mob or fire. Nothing important, then. She yawned. Pulling the shutters to, she shuffled back towards her bed.
Just then, the door to her bedchamber burst open and Deborah flew in and prostrated herself on the floor. This was also wrong. Deborah usually strolled in chatting, as if she and Martha were already mid-conversation. There was never any prostrating.
‘Deborah, what –’ began Martha, but Deborah interrupted her.
‘The King is dead, long live the Queen!’ she said.
Martha sank down on the edge of her bed, while Deborah alternated bowing, curtseying, trying to make her mistress drinka cup of hot brandy, and saying ‘The King is dead, long live the Queen,’ over and over. Martha waited for grief to come, but it too was drowned out by the incessant ringing of the bells.
The death of her father should have come as no surprise. He had been ill for many years, a feebleness of the mind that had taken hold not long after her brother, Jasper, had died. At first, the court had taken his confusion and mood swings for grief. By the time the King could no longer tell the difference between Martha and her dead brother, calling her Jasper and enquiring about her exploits at the Round Table, it was impossible to hide the severity of his condition, and a Regency Council had been established to take on the day-to-day business of ruling.
As far as Martha was concerned, it was pretty easy to tell the difference between her and Jasper, for reasons quite aside from him being male and dead. Jasper had been tall and muscular and handsome, witty and intelligent and accomplished. He had been a Knight of the Round Table in Camelot, with all the goodness and bravery that implied. He had travelled all over the land on quests, having experiences and gaining wisdom and meeting people, one of whom was a Pict he was supposed to be civilising in Scotland, who hadn’t wanted to be civilised and who had cut off Jasper’s head. But if that hadn’t happened, he would have had all the attributes which would have made him a wonderful king.
Martha, on the other hand – even Martha didn’t know what Martha was. She presided over jousts, opened country fairs, exclaimed at the beauty of babies and judged vegetables. She shook hands. She sat at banquets next to foreign dignitaries who talked across her to
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