Woodhush, 2296: Fourth year of the regency of Lord Protector Miraz
"Lord Miraz?" Prunaprismia's maid Raisa repeats the name, as skeptical as Prunaprismia herself had been when her father told her. "I thought his lordship disliked him."
"Father opposes some of his policies," Prunaprismia corrects, twitching her skirts away from a lump of something unidentifiable in the street. The slushy walk before them seems endless; she is beginning to regret not taking a carriage. But the point is to be seen, after all, and if she rides between houses she might as well just send the servants out to deliver the poor baskets rather than going herself. "I don't think he dislikes Miraz personally," she continues, drawing her cloak a little closer. "They do agree about a great many things. It's mostly this question of isolation they argue over. And Father thinks I may be able to temper the Lord Protector's decision on that score. If we were wed."
"Would he listen to you, do you think?"
Prunaprismia sighs. "I don't know," she says wistfully. "Perhaps. He couldn't listen any less than Master Ciconid, certainly." That was a disaster. She's never been so grateful to have a betrothal negotiation fail. "Father says he wishes to meet me before going forward," she confides. "I think it's a good sign. If he were only interested in my dowry and my womb he wouldn't care."
"Then I suppose the question is whether he wants a biddable wife or not."
Biddable. Prunaprismia represses a shudder. "If he does, he shall be disappointed," she says firmly. "I have no intention of hiding my opinions. There is too much good to be done."
"Starting now?" Raisa suggests, nodding toward one of the homes ahead.
"Quite." She takes one of the baskets from the laden servants following them, while Raisa scurries ahead to knock.
The door opens promptly - of course, they've been seen coming. Though not an especially tall woman, Prunaprismia still has to stoop going in. It takes a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim, slightly smoky interior. The family is lined up like soldiers for inspection, anxious looks on their faces and the two little girls pink-cheeked from a hasty scrubbing. She holds out the basket. "To bring you cheer in this season," which was what she always says when she brings around baskets for the poor, yet every year they respond as if she's said something novel.
"Thankee, milady," the man says, accepting it from her with an awkward bobbing bow, while his wife curtsies so deeply her knees creak. She nudges her children, hissing softly, and thus prompted they both dip curtsies of their own.
Prunaprismia smiles at them, holding her hand out to Raisa. The maid lays a small pouch in her palm, full of little sweets. She shakes out two honey drops, distributing one to each child, and is rewarded with beaming smiles from both. It makes them look considerably younger, banishing the pinched look their features are already learning to settle into. Such a little thing - and no reason they shouldn't have a treat more often, except that coin is so precious. A family like this probably handles only a few small coins in a year, making or bartering for most of what they need instead. And yet there are things they need which only coin will gain - like brick or dressed stone to rebuild the smoky, ill-drawing chimney.
She wishes them joy of the season and takes her leave before it can become uncomfortable for them, having the lady of the manor in their tiny home. There are a dozen other stops to make before they're done, although the baskets go only to the most desperately poor. Prunaprismia sighs. Raisa, who knows her well, pats her arm. "You do all you can, my lady."
"Not enough," Prunaprismia answers. They have this conversation nearly every time they distribute alms. "If we could bring more money into the manor..."
"There's only so much to go around," Raisa says.
"Archenland has money," Prunaprismia replies. "Ymar has money. Calormen is swimming in it. Let them send some to us. Foreign gold is still gold."
"Yes, my lady," says Raisa.
Prunaprismia laughs. "I know. I kick an open door."
"Yes, my lady," the maid says in a very different tone.
"If I married Lord Miraz..." If she marries him, and he listens to her, she could show him how people struggled. She doubts he sees it himself; charity is women's calling. He has probably never seen the inside of his tenants' homes, never looked seriously at a village that wasn't on fire from an attack. Would they fight so much amongst themselves if there was more money to go around? "I think, if he is tolerable at all, I will consent," Prunaprismia says. Speaking it aloud gives it a frightening weight. She tries not to shiver.
Raisa hands over the next basket, pressing her hand comfortingly. "It will all be well, my lady."
"Of course it will," she answers, shaking off her reverie and holding her head high. "Now, is it this hut or the next?"
Youngleaf, 903: Second Year of the Reign of Queen Jadis
It was good to have an investigation. The mess was deathly silent and oppressive; the entire castle alternating between grim and furious. Nikothea had been removed from duty, of course, and her partner as well, after he'd lost his temper with a possible witness they were questioning. There'd been some talk of standing down the entire squad, but the Commander had argued that keeping them busy was best. Not that the three of them weren't in a fine temper also; they just had it under tighter wraps. And realistically, they couldn't afford to stand down too many lawkeepers right now. It was not only Niko's closest friends who were in a temper; her entire clan was at the edge of violence, and the anger spilled into the other White Clans as well.
Paukhep and her squadmates had been set to the investigation mostly to keep them away from the restive gathers - a futile gesture if ever there was one, since one of the main points of congregation was outside Nikothea's home, and they all visited her regularly. But at least they weren't on duty when they threaded their way through grumbling knots of people to duck into their squadmate's home. Niko herself hadn't left her son's bedside except to sleep, and precious little of that by the look of her. Her mate was in a taking, equally worried for his mate and his son.
So the investigation was welcome; a clear task to focus on and clear procedures to follow. And it kept them among the Lakeside clans. Paukhep had never thought she would find it a relief to be among the Lion-bent Frankists, but she did not envy the squads send among the White clans to keep anger from breaking into riot. Not in the slightest. The thought of arresting one of their own - or raising a weapon to them, worse still - did not bear thinking about. Indeed, Paukhep was uncertain she would be able to, when it came to it. The Frankists had gone too far this time, perhaps they ought to be taught a sharp lesson.
But no, that wasn't fair. Not all of the Frankists were brutal knaves, as the surprising offer from those woodsmen and their augur friend proved. The anger in Hekaios's face and voice had not been feigned; she would stake her position on it. He was just as angry at the assault as they were, and just as eager to catch the blackguard.
She was a little less certain of his friends; Lydus was so quiet he was hard to know anything about, and the augur, Phaia, was just hard to understand, full stop. Hekaios said it came of being so wise, though Paukhep had never had any trouble understanding the clans' wisewomen. But then, there were very few augurs amongst the Colorless clans. Stormrun had a handful, but like all of the Black clans they lived in the Northern Uplands, well east of the Wyvernsrust Hills that were as far as Paukhep had ever traveled before the Queen had made her palace here. Perhaps being able to read the future just by star-gazing made one particularly hard to understand. If only they'd read this attach in the stars, or could find the culprit there!
"It doesn't work like that, I think," Hekaios said when she asked, but he'd taken her to Phaia anyway.
"The stars dance the reflection of the world," Phaia told her, "not our petty lives. They dance your queen and your clans' coming, for that has changed all, but they cannot answer our tiny questions."
"A child's life is tiny?" Paukhep demanded, marching up to Phaia with clenched fists. Hekaios tugged at her arm, trying to calm her, but the augur only blinked at her calmly.
"Few mortals ever rearrange the balance of the world enough to be seen by the stars."
Paukhep had to be content with that, although she was still unhappy with the easy way the augur dismissed people's lives. Instead she flung herself into investigating by purely mundane methods, examining the site of the attack and searching for witnesses.
Hekaios was as good as his word, going with her to speak with those who were reluctant to trust the queen's servants, and even finding two witnesses himself. One of those had seen the assault itself; most had only seen the child before or after. The eyewitness confirmed what Paukhep had begun to suspect: that the attacker was a woodsman. And if he wasn't also the one behind the vandalism, Paukhep would eat her boots.
Hearing that one of his own people was behind it sent Hekaios nearly incandescent with rage. "We'll find him," he promised Paukhep over and over, while they rattled from one tiny stead to another searching for news. "He won't be allowed to get away with this... monstrous atrocity."
Paukhep winced a little, but said something about his choice of words, though the Frankists called her people 'monsters' often enough to sting. Instead she said, "Just remember he needs to be alive to get a trial."
"You don't mind a few broken bones, do you?" She didn't think he was entirely jesting. But then he grew strangely sober, glancing thoughtfully at her now and again.
"What is it?"
He didn't want to answer at first, but finally yielded to her pressing. "Some of us were wondering if there would be a trial. Jadis won't just execute him?"
"The queen," Paukhep answered, stressing the title, "believes in a fair law for all Narnians."
Hekaios was silent long enough she thought the subject closed. "It's just-" he began abruptly. Stopped again. Turned to face her squarely. "Regicide's an ugly thing, Paukhep," he said quietly. "You're all right, and your squadmates from what I can see, but this queen of yours, she killed our prince in cold blood, with your clansmen hooting and cheering her on. How can we trust her, after that?"
Paukhep wasn't a scholar or a politician. What she knew was that the old kings of Narnia - the Frankist line - were cruel and cold, at least toward anyone they didn't favor. The Colorless clans, outcasts, feared, had to scrabble for a living, never welcome in the heartlands where the kings held sway, living on the borders and in the wilds to the north of Narnia. The queen promised to return them to their home, to make them equals, no longer second class citizens in their own land, and she had. Did it matter if the prince died for justice to be served? He had killed them, betrayed his charge and the trust of those he should have protected but instead shunned.
"It wasn't ... maybe I'm not the one you should talk to," she said, hesitant. "I could introduce you to some people? Or Ostgerg, even, he loves to talk about-" Paukhep waved a hand vaguely. "- philosophy... stuff."
"Stuff?" Hekaios teased. "Honestly, I'm no philosopher myself. But we all want to know where we stand, and what else this Jadis is going to do."
"Why not ask her majesty, then?" Hekaios gave her another of those sidelong looks, this one touched with amazement. "What?" she demanded, when the staring became uncomfortable.
"Ask her how?" he exclaimed. "Just march up to her and say, 'Pardon me, I'd like to know your plans for Narnia-'"
"Don't be ridiculous." Paukhep glared at him. Maybe the Frankists had a right to be anxious, but they didn't have to be nasty about it. "You request an audience, of course."
"And she'd be so eager to see us," Hekaios retorted. Paused, studied her face, and repeated with less sarcasm, "She'd be willing to see us?"
"I don't see why not," Paukhep said. "Her majesty is a great believer in equality."
"I'd have to talk to the others," Hekaios mused, "but... you - would you arrange it? If they agreed?"
"I can pass the message," she assured him. "I'm sure the queen will see you."
"I hope so," Hekaios replied. "It... it isn't right, what this fellow's been doing to you. But we've had our share of troubles too, since Jadis came. It can't go on."
"We'll catch the troublemakers," Paukhep said stoutly, "and then it will all be well. You'll see."
Woodhush, 2296: Fourth year of the regency of Lord Protector Miraz
Prunaprismia expects a formal public meeting with Miraz, but he surprises her. Although both of them have a fair-sized retinue present, no other nobles are there, except her father, naturally. They exchange very carefully formal greetings, and she thinks this will be a long meeting indeed. But then he bows, saying, "It is a mild day; will you walk outside with me?" and offers his arm. Even more surprising, he waves off his servants.
She lays her hand on the offered arm delicately, motioning her own retinue to remain. Lord Scythley follows them outside, but seems content to take a seat in the winter sunlight. It doesn't escape her notice that the entire garden is visible from that vantage; he isn't entirely willing to leave her with only Raisa for a chaperone. Miraz leads her onto the paths, with Raisa trailing behind them, far enough apart that they might imagine themselves alone.
They stroll the crushed-stone pathways, exchanging meaningless pleasantries about the beauty of the winter-cloaked garden - artfully arranged to show greenery and even some color here and there - and the types of flowers that slumber in each of the tidily covered beds. Prunaprismia racks her brain for some topic that might draw him out, because flowers tell her nothing about his mind. "I was sorry to miss the court festivities for Diadi Nata," she says, grabbing at the first pleasantry that does not involve plants.
"They were somewhat perfunctory, I fear," Miraz replies. "It is difficult, with no lady to act as hostess."
"And the court still in mourning, I suppose," Prunaprismia reflects. The death of royalty requires a long mourning period, and the queen had only passed a few months ago, from one of the deadly summer fevers that sometimes plagued them. "It must be terrible for you, my lord, to lose so much of your family so young."
"The queen's death was a tragedy," he says. "I wish I could say my brother's passing was unexpected, but his illnesses had been growing steadily worse for some time."
Illnesses, Prunaprismia knows, is a polite way of referring to the many problems which had troubled the self-indulgent king: gout, sweet-piss, a great excess of bile, and all the other things which followed from daily excesses of food and drink. Some whispered of other sicknesses as well, ones a gently reared lady should pretend to know nothing of, though she helped brew the simples that dosed sufferers in her own keep. Politely, Prunaprismia says, "Still, you have my greatest sympathies."
"Thank you." He pats her hand where it rests on his arm, and leaves his hand covering hers. "It was peaceful in the end - a great blessing. He simply... slept."
"Santaria keep him," she says piously. Miraz bows his head briefly on the words.
They take another turn around the fountain, drained for the winter but pretty with pristine snow in its basin.
"The real tragedy," Miraz says, "is my nephew. To lose his parents so young... terrible."
"He is fortunate to have an uncle."
"I do what I can." He does not play at modesty well, she reflects in some amusement. "While his mother lived, it worked well enough. But he is still in the nursery, not yet ready to heed a father's advice. He needs a mother."
Prunaprismia studies him, admiring the fact that he'd managed that speech without a twitch. His expression is a portrait of loving regret. Still... "I hope you are more subtle in Council, Lord Miraz. My father has always spoken of you as a worthy opponent."
For just a moment he look stunned. Then a smile breaks over his face. "I would hope not to disappoint Lord Scythley," he says. "You must pardon me; I have not conversed much with ladies."
He's holding himself so stiffly she can feel the tension through his arm. With a start, Prunaprismia realizes he's nervous. It is strangely charming. "I shall forgive your inexperience, then," she says, squeezing his arm a little. "And yes. If we can come to an understanding between us... I should be glad to be a mother to little Caspian."
He glances back at Raisa, who is studiously pretending not to hear a word they're saying. All the same, he lowers his voice, leaning close. "And... to children of our own?" When she, startled by the intensity of his question, doesn't immediately answer, he continues, speaking more and more rapidly. "It is very necessary, you must realize. It will be long before Caspian can sire heirs of his own, and the next heirs are-"
"Stop," she says, laying a finger to his lips. "My lord... Miraz. Stop. I am eager for children."
A smile grows beneath her silencing finger. Catching her hand, he kisses it, his eyes burning into hers. Despite the weather, she suddenly feels too warm. He releases her hand, and she looks away, adjusting her cloak needlessly.
"You might consider befriending the Gallarids," Prunaprismia says without thinking, just to fill the air between them. "It will be long before anyone's heir is strong enough to be safe." Then she hears her own words, and swallows a gasp. She glances at him, trying to judge how he's taken this foray into politics and advice. She hadn't meant to go so far, so soon. "I-I mean..." she stammers, trailing for because there is no way to finish the thought. She will not retract her opinions, but what if he should want, as Raisa suggested, a biddable wife?
Oddly enough, he seems more relaxed. "Do you think so? I wonder if they would even hear me out."
Emboldened, Prunaprismia replies, "Lord Vargilian just wants his pride soothed. He sees you in company with new men, soldiers, and he worries. Blood is very important to him."
Miraz scratches his beard, thoughtful. "I thought Lord Scythley opposed Vargilian."
"Vehemently," she agrees. "How do you think I know so much about him?"
He chuckles, tucking her hand back into the crook of his arm. "Tell me more."