A hundred miles to the north, the new King of Scots had been crowned.
John Balliol had walked up the gentle green slope of Moot Hill and knelt before the bishop of St Andrews to receive the crown, with his court in attendance and waiting in hushed silence. He was forty-three years old, and until two years ago, would never have expected to inherit the throne.
In a tremulous voice, the bishop had proclaimed Balliol the king as he pressed the crown onto his head, and bade him to sit on the ancient Stone of Scone, and had given him, piece by piece, the rest of the royal regalia. The court poet had then risen as Balliol sat, and recited the man's genealogy in a loud, clear voice; as the entire court, nobles and royal bastards and courtiers and peers and foreign dignitaries alike, drew their swords and pointed them skywards and split the air with deafening cries of "Beannachd Dé Rígh Alban! God Bless the King of Scotland!"
Apart from a spot of rain at the end, Balliol considered, it had been a very good day indeed.
It had been six hours since then, and the new king was now within the master bedroom in the manor in Perth, generously given to the royal court by the mayor of the town for the duration of their stay. He stood at a window, sipping from a goblet of wine, the fire behind him warming his back as he watched the revelry below, too excited to sleep.
"Don't grow too complacent, my love," said his wife, Isabella, sitting behind him on the bed in the same gown she had worn to the coronation. She was a short and fiery woman four years younger than her husband. "You know Bruce and the others won't stop their plotting even after it's been settled."
"Oh, certainly, but what of it?" replied Balliol. "They're now obliged to swear loyalty to me as the new king, else I'll have just cause to declare them outlaws and take their lands." He permitted himself a happy daydream at the prospect. "Even if they resist me openly, I can count on Edward's support."
When the last king of Scotland, Alexander the Third, had died, and his infant granddaughter and only heir had shortly followed suit, Scotland had teetered on the verge of civil war. The Guardians of Scotland, in desperation, had invited Edward Longshanks, the powerful and avaricious king of England, to arbitrate between the claimants. The king and and his auditors had supported Balliol over the other noble claimants that desired the Scottish throne, and Balliol had at last triumphed over his old rivals in the Bruce family.
"Beware that one, dear," said Isabella coldly. "He cares not for a just succession, but for his own glory and power. He'll support you if you're useful to him, but he won't hesitate to tear you and the realm apart if necessary."
"Nonsense. He wants the best for his sister kingdom, I'm certain of that. He was perfectly polite and modest all the times I met him. He's a good man."
"So was Lucifer," muttered Isabella.
John sighed, and turned away from the window, bored with politics for the evening. "Enough of this sort of talk. Just because I've become a king doesn't mean I have to deal with the game of thrones every minute of every hour. And frankly..." His gaze wandered up and down his wife's form. "Frankly, I can think of other ways to spend the next hour."
Isabella grinned a wry grin at the predictability of men when they were in a good mood. "Ach, you old devil, I'd swear you're insatiable."
"For you, my dear, certainly." He sat down on the bed beside her, and raised the goblet to her mouth. She gently sipped at the rim of the ruby-red liquid, and gently grasped the goblet as well and offered it in turn to her husband. He sipped leisurely from it, while their free arms entwined around each other and they moved closer together…
They paused mid-embrace, as there was a loud metallic clink behind them, and turned. There was nothing behind them, nothing save for the stand holding Balliol's armour in a far corner. The armour was the finest available, a knee-length chainmail hauberk reinforced with a steel breastplate and greaves and gauntlets. The gauntlets rested on the pommel of an Italian-forged arming sword. A great helm, decorated with patterns of gold, topped the stand.
The helm swivelled to face the royal couple, and said, in a doleful and metallic voice, "Greetings are extended to the new king and queen of the muggles of Scotland."
Balliol sprayed his mouthful of wine across the room, some of which splattered onto the armour. It made no response, save to say, in an even more doleful tone, "Please stand ready to receive the representative of wizardry."
Isabella dropped the goblet. Scarlet liquid pooled across the stone floor.
Then the fire turned green.
They gaped at the emerald-green fire.
And then a woman came out of the flames.
She seemed to just materialise and take solid form out of sparks and smoke, becoming a small and slender woman with fine blue robes and black hair tied back in a bun. She stepped out from the fireplace, ducking to avoid the lintel, and straightened up as she brushed specks of soot and dust off her robes. She fixed her gaze on the stunned Balliol and Isabella.
"Good evening, Your Majesties," she said in an prim and even Highland accent. "I trust ye've had a pleasant coronation, and nae doubt ye have many questions …"
"Guards!" yelled Balliol, grabbing for the ceremonial sword leaning on the foot of the bed, while Isabella swivelled and seized at a crossbow hanging from the wall. "Guards! Come quickly, there's witchery afoot!"
One surprisingly brief and shockingly violent interlude later.
"Shall we try that again, Your Majesties?" said the woman, her face showing no sign of exhaustion, her oak wand held tight in one hand. "I'll introduce myself, if ye let go of that blade."
Balliol's paralysed fingers twitched enough to release the sword, and he crumpled next to it as he was released from the paralysis she had placed on him. He pushed himself up blearily, blinking at the scene around him.
The four guards that had burst into the room, each one a knight-at-arms, fully armoured and armed with great swords and shields, had been met by the old woman clenching a short length of thin wood. Sir FitzRoy of Argyll now dangled unconscious from a ceiling rafter. His twin brother lay out cold on the ground below him, every so often sneezing out a bat, each fluttering out of the shattered window and into the night sky. Sir Taran was slumped against the wall, his eyelids fluttering and his armour still smoking. Sir Kenneth of Strathtay appeared to have been rammed through the oak wardrobe head-first.
Isabella struggled from behind her bonds, made from when the crossbow had somehow disassembled itself in her hands and turned into a coil of wood and metal and cord, which had wound around her as fast as chain lightning and bound her to a bed post. She swore furiously at the intruder, using terminology that would have made a Glaswegian deck-hand blush.
Balliol, from his prone position, snaked out a hand for the fallen sword, which was kicked away by the woman.
"Nane of that," she said firmly. "Shall we be civilised about this, Your Majesties?"
"God rot you in hell, sorcerer," spat Balliol. "Work whatever satanic wiles you must, but I shall give you no satisfaction."
"What he said," snarled Isabella.
"Oh, for Merlin's sake," cursed the woman, and she put her wand on the fireplace's mantelpiece. "There? See? I shalnae harm ye pair. Now stop acting the thick-headed fools and let us introduce ourselves politely."
Balliol staggered to his feet, and Isabella shrugged off the loosed bonds, and they drew themselves up as regally as they could while fixing the woman with piercing (or so they imagined) looks.
"We are the King and Queen of Scotland, madam," Balliol said in a haughty manner. "Sovereigns of the highlands, lowlands and outlying islands of the realm by divine right and by ancient law. And by what right do you burst unannounced into our private chambers?"
"I am Katelyn Canmore, the current Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," she replied simply. "And I am here to alert ye to the presence of the magical community in the British Isles."
"Hogwhat?" said Balliol, adding "baffled" to his list of current emotions. "Magical community?" Isabella said with a note of trepidation in her voice.
"Let's have a talk."
As she spoke, Balliol's jaw dropped and Isabella's remained clamped shut.
Words like "magic" and "wizard" and "wand" drifted in the hot air of the chamber, words which had previously been mere superstition turned into an uncanny reality by the Canmore woman. Visions of magic and fay creatures danced across Balliol's mind. Witches and wizards, the sworn enemies of God according to the church, were turned into humans who just happened to be able to warp reality with their thoughts and existed all across the civilised world. It wasn't a typical conversation, by any means.
Isabella's mind processed the information furiously as it came, and read between the lines.
After a half-hour's crash course in the wizarding world, Katelyn leaned back against the wall and regarded the royal couple with a calculating look. They seemed lost in thought.
"Do ye have any mair questions? I can imagine this must be quite a shock."
" "Shock" is putting it mildly," said Balliol leadenly. "Er … I do have a question, actually. Do you tell this to every king in Europe? Do they all know about this?"
"Wherever there are muggles, there are wizards. Wherever there is a muggle king, the representative of wizardy for the nation he rules will inform him."
"Muggle?"
"Our term for those who cannae use magic."
"And you're the representative for the wizards in Scotland, I take it?" said Isabella, her manner shrewd and her mind calculating. "Are you their queen or duchess, or what?"
"Not just for Scotland, but for all of Britain," answered Katelyn. "And I have nae noble title, save the honour of being the Headmistress of Hogwarts, and of being an unofficial first amongst equals. We wizards dinnae yet have an organised government as ye muggles do. There are noble families amongst us, but nae one person with the right to rule. Perhaps there will be someday, but not yet."
Balliol and Isabella sat in silence.
"I will say this, though," added Katelyn. "The purpose of this conversation is to remove whatever fears you have of hidden wizardry, and to assure you we can co-exist in peace. As long as muggles wage nae war on wizards, no wizard shall lay hands on a muggle. None of us will benefit if open conflict were to arise. And I'm sure you can appreciate why it's for the best if this conversation remains known only to you."
Balliol and Isabella nodded slowly, and Katelyn stood away from the wall and stretched with a groan of relief.
"That's all that needs to be said, I think. Hopefully I willnae have to bother you two again, and both our peoples can live in peace." She stepped towards the fire, which had since faded back to orange, and dipped a hand into a pouch hanging from her belt.
"There's one thing that may be necessary," said Isabella suddenly, making Balliol and Katelyn turn in surprise. "As a sign of good faith, and an assurance of good intentions, why don't we post a representative at each other's courts? We could send a knight of the realm, and you could send one of your own. To act as intermediaries and diplomats, of course."
"Unnecessary," said Katelyn, dismissing the suggestion with a wave of her hand. "Contact should be kept to a minimum, and I already hae means of getting information on the affairs of muggles..."
"Then," Isabella pressed on, her voice as smooth and deadly as garrotting silk, "Permit us to place a representative with you, so we may not remain entirely in the dark about the affairs of wizards."
"That's only fair," said Balliol, cottoning on to what his wife was doing. "We insist that this is done."
Katelyn's face locked in a determined glare.
"Ye are in nae position to "insist" upon anything, Your Majesties," she snapped. "Ye saw me, one witch, disarm and defeat four of your knights. Dinnae press me on this. Wizards willnae suffer any muggle interference, and that's final."
"You won't suffer it, but you might not survive it either," said Isabella.
"Was that a threat. Your Majesty?" said Katelyn in a voice as cold and tranquil as an Arctic wind.
"Why, yes, actually, it was," said Isabella. "You wouldn't bother alerting us to your presence if you didn't fear our actions if we discovered you by accident. You want to try and soothe us, that much is clear. I believe wizards have reason to fear muggles were they discovered, and I believe that they're right in that regard."
"With that in mind, Headmistress," finished Isabella, with a cold smile, "Would it really be asking so much to appoint one representative, so as to allay our fears?"
Balliol, still able to be awed by the woman he had married, watched her lock gazes with Katelyn. The air crackled with tension.
Katelyn, after several long moments, slowly reached into another pouch and withdrew a sheet of parchment from it. She passed it to Isabella.
"Write a message to your candidate on it and pass it through the fire once you're done," she said. "If they accept, I'll accept them as a representative. Farewell, Your Majesties."
She turned again, retrieved her wand, stopped, said "Och, that reminds me," and walked to each of the four knights, tapping the wand against their heads while muttering "Obliviate." Once she was finished, she fixed Balliol and Isabella with a rakish grin.
"I'll leave it to ye to explain to them in the morning how they ended up unconscious in the royal bedchamber," she said, and then she left through the fire.
Balliol and Isabella sat and brooded on the bed in silence.
"Ksshgwthd," murmured Sir Kenneth from within the wardrobe.
"Shut up," snapped Balliol, cupping his head in his hands. "God, how did this happen? I didn't want anything complicated this evening, and one damn half-hour scuppered that magnificently."
"Then the sooner we choose a candidate, the sooner we can ignore it unless it becomes an issue," said Isabella soothingly.
"You're right." Balliol sighed and sat upright, his brow furrowed in concentration. "Perhaps one of our lords or knights could have it thrust upon them. Maybe Bruce..."
"No," said Isabella. "You'd take a gamble trying to order him directly for a matter as secret as this, and he'd likely try to turn the wizards against you."
"That's true," Balliol conceded. "So we can't choose anyone with dubious loyalties, by that logic."
The royal couple put their heads together.
"The Earl of Argyll?" suggested Balliol.
"Too god-fearing. He'd demand that we hunt wizards out and put them to the sword rather than treat with them."
"Then how about … ?"
"Actually, you wouldn't want to send off any man who was particularly loyal to you either. You're still in a shaky seat, dear, and you'll need every man you've got to hold the throne. And for that matter, any man you choose will baulk at the idea of going into a court of wizards unless they're screwed in the head."
"What an inspiring selection," muttered Balliol. "Nobody who's disloyal to me, nobody who's a faithful vassal, nobody who's overly religious, and preferably one who's insane. Suffering Christ."
His head dropped. Isabella's eyes brightened, and she rose to her feet
"A name occurs," she said.
Balliol looked into his wife's eyes. Then his face lit up.
"Ah. I think I know who you're talking about."
"Oh yes. That should be a pleasant surprise for the wizards, don't you think? He's a landless knight-errant besides; he'll jump at the chance of an official position. Well, unofficial, strictly speaking, but you get my point."
"Will we be legally able to order him? If what I've heard of him is true, he's taken no oath of loyalty to any king."
"I'll give him an incentive," said Isabella, rubbing his hands together with glee. "I'll get you your inks and quills, dear. We can finish the letter before the night's out."
"How do you suppose they'll find him?" said Balliol, glancing at his writing desk. "He's on the road most of the time."
"That's their problem," said Isabella.
In the Headmaster's study at Hogwarts Castle, Katelyn Canmore was calmly sipping from a glass of Firewhisky while her daughter paced and argued.
"I still dinnae understand why ye didnae just refuse them, mum," said Katherine Canmore, a replica of her mother, with black hair, dark eyes, and a strong jawline. She wore dark blue robes, and the blue-and-bronze badge of a Ravenclaw prefect twinkled on her chest.
"They were threatening trouble, which we've got enough of already," replied her mother patiently. "There'll be little harm in it. Controlling one muggle willnae be difficult in the slightest."
"It's the principle of the thing. Whit if they start thinking they can order whitever they please of wizards? We'll be nothing more than..."
"Be careful, dear," said Katelyn, her voice lower and colder. "Be careful of whit ye sound like."
Katherine opened her mouth, then shut it. "Sorry, mum," she said with a flush. "But are ye sure this willnae create a new problem? There'll be some who'll dislike the notion of a muggle coming to Hogwarts. Especially now, with tensions running so high."
"That's a risk I'm ready to take," said Katelyn, draining the last of the Firewhisky.
For a few minutes, there was nothing but the sound of flickering flames in the office, and from far below, the sound of the last pupils who were leaving for the Christmas holidays laughing and running in the courtyard.
From outside the door, somebody said "Macaroons" to the great ugly stone gargoyle, and Hadrian Dunbar, the Headmistress's assistant, entered. He was a small man, with pale eyes and short white-blond hair, and he cautiously entered holding a sheet of parchment.
"Here's the letter from the muggles, madam," he said, bowing slightly as he presented the paper to Katelyn.
"Thank ye, Hadrian," she said as she took it. She unfolded it, and looked it over.
"It's to be presented to someone called Sir Cadogan," she said, "And he's a knight-errant, apparently, so finding him could be tricky."
"Could I humbly suggest assigning locating the knight in question to the Malfoy twins, madam?" said Hadrian. "They're talented at seeking out targets."
"Guid idea. See to it, Hadrian," she said, handing the paper back, and Hadrian bowed once more and left.
"Cadogan," mused Katelyn. "I dinnae suppose ye've heard of him, dear?"
"No, mum."
"Well," said Katelyn, echoing Trilby's ill-advised confidence many miles southwards, "I'm sure he'll be nae bother."