A Christmas Masque – Part Three
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A bearer of bad news
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It was chilly in the Queen's private closet at Cair Paravel. 'Blood month' (roughly equivalent to our November) was upon them. There was an air of gloom over the land for the weather was dank and the festivities of midwinter still distant. Lord Harry Leaven (latest scion of a distinguished family) was nervous despite having the Queen's favour. Few like to be a bearer of bad news, especially not to an absolute ruler. "I regret to inform you, Majesty, that the witch girl is dead."
"What?" Alfreda said sharply, knocking over her glass. A pool of ruby red wine flooded the small tabletop.
"Allow me to…"
"Leave it. What's this about the girl?"
"She's dead, Majesty, after an escape attempt."
"What happened?"
"One of the guards – an older man – became too fond of her. He allowed himself to be bewitched and she took his keys."
"And then?"
"She was seen escaping; there was a tussle and a reckless blow struck. There was no intent to seriously harm, but her skull was fatally cracked."
"Damn!" The Queen got to her feet and began to pace angrily. "She was to stand public trial – when the time was right."
"There is still her written testimony, Majesty," Leaven suggested.
"That's something at least; although who can independently testify that it's her hand?" The Queen slapped her palms together agitatedly, as she thought. "She must be buried – privately."
"She already has been, Majesty. The guards thought it best."
"I'm relieved to hear that the guards do actually think," Alfreda said tartly. "Tell them to stay put and don't treat them too harshly. I still need their silence and there's another job they can do for me."
"Yes, Majesty," Leaven agreed.
"I want the boy Henry – and his nurse, Judith - moved there, immediately. It's time that matters were brought to a head. Go on the morrow."
"Yes indeed, ma'am."
"Leave me now, for I've a letter to write. I fear that I'm in for a most unpleasant meeting."
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Yet more news
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The messenger had refused to reveal his identity and seemed reluctant to remove hat and cloak. He handed over a sealed paper (that bore no impress) and insisted it was of the greatest importance to the Queen. The mysterious nature of his errand generated a little curiosity amongst some few but other servants assumed he was a timewaster. The man took a corner seat in the Buttery, still huddled in his outer garments, waiting for eight hours without complaint. Finally the Usher came to fetch him at dusk. He was taken to the Queen's private chamber and left to wait alone without the customary guards.
"Your Majesty," said the man, when she eventually swept into the chamber. The red sun glowed angrily and gave the room a curious tinge. The visitor duly removed his hat and made his bow.
Alfreda looked at the unruly blonde hair lowered towards her. "I remember you."
"I'm my Lord Catigern's servant, ma'am. Well, I was."
"This epistle from my sister," Alfreda began, waving the letter, "is most extraordinary."
"Yes, Majesty," Jed said nervously.
"You know its content?"
"I do, Majesty."
"She is safe?"
"Yes, Majesty."
"Where is she?"
"There's an old cottage, five miles away. It's abandoned."
"And the child is safe?"
"Yes, Majesty, he's safe and with his mother."
"You are the natural father I understand…"
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Family affairs
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"My love," Alfreda had said, "prepare yourself for a shock; little Henry is alive and well."
First was the relief then came the storm. "I could kill Freddy for this," Sophia Malfeasance raged later, with vehemence uncommon to her. Perhaps she might have done, when the news first broke. Certainly she'd found some satisfaction in tearing out a handful of the Queen's hair until she was prised off her sister.
"I'm as angry as you," Joseph Malfeasance agreed, "But your sister thought it was the best way to protect Henry."
"To protect Henry!" Sophia was scornful. "She thought it was the best way to keep Selina and that man's hands off the crown."
"It was a little of both, perhaps?"
"Freddy is callous and highhanded; she should have taken us into her confidence."
"Henry was beset with enemies – I had doubts about the girl and I knew that Catigern's creatures were watching him," Queen Alfreda had explained. "That maid of yours – Abigail… Hazeldene… is it? She is in his pay."
"What you don't do, Freddy," Sophia had shouted, "Is decide that your nephew's abduction is a good time to sort your own problems out."
"With Henry lost, I knew that Catigern would hasten on with his own schemes," her sister ploughed on regardless.
"It was cruel, Freddy, cruel" Sophia told her. "You should have confided in us."
"I needed your reaction to be genuine; I'm truly sorry though."
"No, you're not; you just want your plan to work!"
"It will work," Alfreda said, with an odd smile. "You know that I've always been… totally certain… of a course of action. It will work."
"Sometimes I think that you're the real witch!" Sophia spat back and threw herself upon her sibling.
"That's the way of Queens and Kings," Joseph said ruefully.
"Well, it's not right – and now we just wait for her to produce our son!" Sophia complained.
"We'll have him back over Christmas; she promised."
"Huh! Her promises are like pie crust – easily broken."
"That's not true, Sophia."
"Well, maybe not, but I'm furious with her."
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A thread is unpicked
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"Hullo! Master Downe!" the stranger stopped his horse and waved. The red sky was clear and it was presumably a good night for shepherds. It would soon be Christmas and the weather had not yet turned.
The Squire struggled to see who hailed him, so well swaddled was he in a floppy hat with the collar of his coat upturned. Downe was a little self-conscious about being seen out in a lonely place; he had a tryst that he wanted to keep private. "Hullo, there!" Downes shouted out in reply, jogging his horse along. The fellow was well dressed and likely to be a fellow conspirator.
"I've been looking for you," said the other man, pushing back his hat, knocking the feathers aside.
"Why, Lord Harry Leaven! What brings you to see me?"
"In truth, we've been looking for you."
"We?" Downe questioned, nervously.
"Out you come men," Leaven called and, from cover, there emerged ten mounted guards. They were well armoured with the royal device on their shields. Each had a lance levelled ominously at Downe.
"What is this, Leaven?" the squire demanded; his voice a little too highly pitched.
"This is an arrest, for high treason."
"Nonsense – this is an outrage," the accused man blustered.
"Serjeant Throstlenest told us where to find you," Leaven said, incidentally. "Well, he's no longer a serjeant of course. Still, he has a nice bit of silver in his purse."
"What rubbish has he told you?"
"Hand over your sword," Leaven said, looking at the gilt toy at Downe's side. "You will appear before the Queen, in secret session, to answer for your conduct."
"Tried in secret session – that another outrage!"
"Oh, you'll be put on public trial, later," Harry Leaven reassured him. "In fact my father would doubtless enjoy prosecuting you. He'll probably put away his fishing rods and come out of retirement especially. Before the formalities though, there's a whole nasty, little nest of adders that needs dealing with."
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The whole begins to unravel
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"What's wrong? Is the place on fire! Sir Lambert Parkin complained, getting out of his bed and shedding his bag-like nightcap. The air was cold, for great castles like Cair Paravel are rich in stone but woefully lacking in heating. Parkin pushed his feet into a pair of flat, silken Calormene slippers and went to the door in his nightshirt. A normally elegant man, he looked a tad foolish with his hair stood up in 'steps and stairs' and his skinny, hairy calves poking out beneath the hem of the shirt. He opened the door. "What's the confounded racket about?" he demanded of the three men outside.
"Sir Lambert Parkin; you are to come with me please," said Lupin, Captain of the Castle Guard, impassively. He was well into his fifties, past the traditional age of retirement for the Guard, but there was a dearth of successors.
"Is there trouble – fire – flood – invasion?" Parkin blurted.
"You're arrested for High Treason," Lupin said with some relish. He neither liked nor disliked Lambert Parkin but thoroughly enjoyed the drama of it all. He looked forward to telling Mrs Lupin later, in great detail. He secretly hoped that the prisoner might try and bolt so that he could be captured. "You will be tried in secret session before the Queen."
"This is absurd! I have never heard of such an outrage!"
"Come along now, sir," Lupin said. "Tom, fetch the gentleman's coat, he's going to need it."
To Sir Lambert's surprise he went neither straight to the Queen nor the usual cells. Instead he was taken to an unused section in the north part of the castle, due for renovation. He was shown into an improvised cell with plastered over window slits. A man huddled by the far wall looked up. "Lambert, so they've got you too?"
"Shut up you fool!" He immediately recognised Cedric Downe from his days at court and knew him to be another conspirator.
"They know everything," the squire said miserably.
"You're an idiot," Lambert snapped.
"Come along, sir," said Tom. He picked up a reasonably long length of chain that was bolted to the wall. "Let's just get this on you; we'd hate to lose you before Her Majesty has chance to have a chat."
A week later a well armed group of horsemen picked their way through the rocky trails of the northern wilds. The route wasn't particularly safe but such a warlike company was unlikely to be preyed on by petty bandits. It was a known road for Dwarfish peddlers and one such acted as their guide. "Look at that," said the Corporal to his Serjeant, gesturing at a wolf's skull upon a pole.
"It's a warning; to four legged wolves and two legged wolves," their guide replied philosophically. They rode on in hope of encountering a Dwarf from Slitanhus. Riding openly in numbers had seemed wiser than venturing covertly; Dwarfs are brave and respect strength more than they respect a spy. The Captain of the Northern Garrison bore a letter in his pocket; it had arrived several days earlier by pigeon.
It was late on the second day when they found what they sought. An expertly flung axe whistled past the Captain's head and lodged in a nearby tree stump. "Halt, who goes there?" came the cry.
"My name is Captain Farthing, of the Narnian Northern Garrison!"
A Dwarf swaggered out and stood, hands cockily on his hips and said, "What bring the Narnian Queen's soldiers so far from their toy box?"
"I'll ignore the insult; there's no time to answer it. Tell me this: are you of the Clan Slitanhus?" It's most uncommon for a Dwarf to deny his clan and ancestry so the spokesman was compelled to admit to it. "Then I have a message for your chief."
"What business do the sons of Adam have with us?" Corbel, the Dwarf, breathed belligerence.
"We should have no business; which is rather the point. I have a letter from Queen Alfreda herself to his honour, the Chief of Clan Slitanhus. Will you take it?"
"If I take it, will you leave these lands?"
"Readily!"
"Very well then," Corbel agreed, going to take the proffered letter.
"It's of the utmost urgency," Farthing stressed.
"It will be dealt with – immediately."
"I think you'll find that it's in all our interests," and – with that – the Captain wheeled his horse about. "Farewell and don't delay!"
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Betrayed!
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Catigern rode through the night; seventy soldiers in his wake. He alternated between fury, despair, betrayal and a sense of hopelessness. All had been well that morning when he'd approached Catigern Tower, looking forward to seeing wife and child. He'd decided against sending word ahead, wanting to surprise her. He was many days later than anticipated but surely she'd understand that matters were at a critical juncture?
"Good morning, Stokes," he'd said, leaping from his horse in the stableyard. "Feared you'd seen the last of me?"
"Erm…good morning, my Lord."
"Cheer up, old frosty face, it's a lovely day," Catigern said brightly.
"Yes…yes, indeed, my Lord."
Lord Catigern's good humour lasted until he entered the house proper. "My Lord; it's a relief to see you," said the steward. He'd served the family all of his long life and knew that the next few minutes were likely to be amongst the most difficult.
"There's something wrong, Costard? My wife is unwell? I was unavoidably detained." Catigern strode through the vestibule into the great hall, the steward trailing behind.
"Not exactly my Lord; she's gone."
Catigern flung his riding gauntlents onto the dining table. "What do you mean gone? You mean dead?" he said with ashen face.
"No, Lord, I mean she has gone. She's disappeared." The servant busied himself trying to quickly light more candles.
"Would you please desist? This is preposterous; she can't have disappeared."
"She has my Lord - nineteen days ago - she left you this note." Costard handed over the sealed letter, his hand not quite steady.
The abandoned husband ripped the missive open to scan the page. "Gone!" he said in amazement, "Gone!"
"I fear so my Lord."
"Nineteen days you say? What time of day did she leave?"
"We can't be sure, sir. She insisted on being left alone with the child; said she was tired. Nobody saw her for about eight hours after breakfast."
"What of the child?"
"It is a boy, Lord – um – congratulations – we assumed that her Highness took him with her?"
"Is that rascally Doctor here?" Catigern asked, suddenly suspicious.
"Doctor Razmus? He is here indeed, Lord, would you see him now?"
"Yes – send for him. No – wait – first tell me this – what of Jed?"
"Your manservant? He was… last seen on the day that the Princess disappeared."
"Was he indeed? Tell me more!"
"Well, my Lord, he took a cart out that morning. He said he had private business to transact on your behalf."
"And he didn't return?"
"No, my Lord; we expected him back by dark."
"Fetch that confounded Doctor, I need to question him!"
Catigern rode furiously through the dark, his mind in turmoil. Selina had left him and taken the child which – she claimed – wasn't even his. In itself that was bad enough; further betrayal was all too possible. His great design, to take the throne of Narnia, was in peril. Just how much did she know, he wondered? Enough to condemn him: that was certain. Could the scheme still go ahead? After all, Christmas was just a few days away now. He daren't risk remaining at the Tower lest his wife had sought sanctuary at court. Crossing the country in daylight was almost as dangerous. He'd liked to have joined up with Squire Downe but it was too far to go to take the chance. "No," he decided, "the best bet is Lambert Parkin's estate". The knight shouldn't be there of course; he should be safely ensconced at Cair Paravel ready for the Christmas festivities. Parkin's aide-de-camp, Captain Bristle, would surely be readying himself to lead the platoon in the attack.
"In our great grandfather's time we'd have mustered more for a royal escort," Queen Alfreda was rueful as she stared down at the harbour.
"No doubt," her sister replied. Relations between the sisters were still distinctly frosty but Alfreda was determined to ignore it. The two women gazed at the busy scene below. Two great men o' war stood some way off. A third was awaiting a sufficient complement of men to depart. Small boats ferried men and supplies from the quayside.
"See – over there – in the distance - two barques and a sloop!"
"Mm… Will it suffice?" The question reluctantly left Selina's lips.
"It should – if the information is correct." The pair turned as they heard carts bumping along the cliff pathway behind them. Great bundles of wood and kindling were being taken to beacons that had been neglected for far too long.
"I hope you've got this right, Alfreda," Sophia said, turning away from her sibling.
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Alone
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"Saha – saha," Catigern gave tongue to the old hunting cry as he cruelly spurred his horse on. "Saha – faster!" The heavily armoured horsemen behind were left trailing. Catigern was fleeing for his life. Making for Lambert Parkin's estate had proved to be a hideous mistake.
Albert Spellbound had been the best rider in Catigern's platoon and rode one of the best horses accordingly. "Ride on," Catigern had told him, "Tell Captain Bristle to be ready for us." Spellbound hadn't delivered the message. They'd found his horse wandering by the path and wondered if he'd been thrown in the dark, on unfamiliar ground. A perfunctory search followed, "Leave it; we haven't time," Catigern ordered them. "We ride on," he decided: and so they did, into a trap.
The soldiers had only just crossed the boundary ditch when the quiet, pastoral scene became a killing ground. "Fire," was the command and there followed the chilling sound of arrows in flight. The first volley found the ranks of horsemen in front, riding four abreast. Their screams broke the stillness as their horses stumbled or fell. "Fire," – the command came again – and a second volley was released. Yet more soldiers toppled from their mounts, dead or injured. "Fire!"
"Turn back, turn back," Catigern screamed, desperately trying to bring his horse about. By instinct or chance he'd positioned himself in the centre of the group rather than its head. "Get out of my way, you fool," he snapped, slapping a soldier with the flat of his sword.
"Fire," shouted the unseen voice and more shafts whistled through the air.
"Flee – save yourselves – run," shouted voices all about him. All sense of discipline was lost – the human instinct for survival had taken over.
"Damn you: move," Catigern commanded, virtually knocking a guard from his horse.
"Damn you too," the fellow said in reply. Catigern ignored the insolence; escape was all that mattered. There was a crush of horses trying to pass the narrow bridge so Catigern wheeled left and took the ditch at a leap. Moments later he was heading out into open country but he'd been spotted. The moon was bright and treacherous to those who'd rather be unseen.
"See – over there - I think that's him," someone shouted.
"Saha," cried Catigern, urging his horse on.
"That's surely Catigern– tallyho!" A group of horsemen hidden in the trees broke cover and began the chase. The erstwhile hunter had become the fox.
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Christmas Eve
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Christmas Eve dawned – a Christmas Eve like no other in living memory. Preparations carried on apace but whether celebrations or conflict would follow was anybody's guess. The castle servants helped unload farm carts filled with greenery and carried it inside to deck the halls. The last carts carrying provisions began to arrive shortly after dawn: pheasants, chickens, geese and fat turkeys filled the larders.
"Eels? To the cellars please – over there," said the Steward, ticking off an item on his slate. "What's that? Oh, sides of beef? They need hanging in the small cellar – follow that fellow there."
The courtyard was bustling and (unusually for Christmas) the number of guards had been doubled. They patrolled the walls and manned the gates looking uncommonly solemn and disinclined to chat. A troupe of tumblers – who were used to more enthusiasm – had tried to brighten the mood only to be pressed against a wall and searched thoroughly. "Really, this is most unnecessary" their leader protested.
"Nut Brown Ale: six eighteen-gallon barrels," said the brewer, dropping down from his cart to speak to the bottler.
"Hang on a second – Serjeant!"
"Yes, maister?"
"Would your lads check these casks… better to be safe than sorry," the bottler suggested.
Sir Hubert Caloman – courtier and royal intimate - had arrived the night before and been allocated his customary chamber. His man, Simeon Porringer, slept on a truckle bed in the adjoining dressing room. Royal tradition (like that of rural folk) was to fast during the daylight hours of Christmas Eve. That was one custom that Caloman was happy to break. "Sir Hubert will breakfast in his chamber at nine," Porringer had instructed an irritated cook. "He will have a small beefsteak – rare – with mushrooms and fried potatoes - a pint of pale ale – a half pint of milk for his digestion."
"Would he like anything else? A slab of buttered fruitcake or a flaming Christmas pudding perhaps?" the undercook asked tartly.
"That will suffice – Miss Pert," said Porringer with a wink. "Sir Hubert is a good friend of the Queen and would be delighted to make good report."
Sir Hubert emerged from his chamber before eleven, gorgeously attired in a red velvet tunic, black hose, curly toed shoes and his remaining locks teased into curls on his forehead. Porringer was a marvel with curling tongs. On the hour, precisely, he was shown into the Queen's presence. "Majesty," he said, making a stately bow.
"Sir Hubert; my friend," said Alfreda, taking his hands. "You look well."
In truth the gentleman did look wondrously slim, being tightly laced into his corset. "And you look radiant, ma'am."
"Isn't that what one says to a lady in a certain condition?"
"Ma'am; I had no such intention!"
"I know; I'm teasing you." The Queen sat down and waved to the chair opposite, "Pray be seated."
"How go the preparations, ma'am?"
"For Christmas or the coup? You had my letter, yes?"
"I fear that the coup is uppermost in my mind."
"I rather hope that it's stillborn. Sir Lambert Parkin and Cedric Downe are safely under lock and key."
"What a pretty pair! What of Catigern himself?"
"I had word that Catigern was routed, trying to join up with Parkin's troop. I don't know the number of casualties, but scores of his men were ambushed and killed."
"And Catigern?"
"He escaped in the confusion but was pursued; I'm hoping that he's been taken by now."
"Are there any other plotters?"
"That I know of: mercenaries - pirates to be precise. I warned you that tonight may be 'lively'? That's when they are supposed to sail right into the harbour, when our guard is down."
"That's why I'm here ma'am, to support you, whatever happens."
"You're a good man, Sir Hubert, and a brave one."
"That's the sum of the traitors is it?"
"That remains to be seen; it depends how truthful our reluctant guests in the cells have been. They'd been in touch with Black Dwarfs from the northern wastes but I have high hopes that complication has been averted."
Sir Hubert rubbed his nose with a cambric handkerchief. "Well, this is a Christmas I wouldn't have missed for all the Kavi in Calormen."
The Queen smiled, "As we are so full of news, let me tell you something about my nephew, Henry…"
The 'Venturer' approached Cair Paravel from the north, where it had been anchored beyond Narnian waters, for twenty four hours. Captain Carmez was on the bridge, as was his wont during raids. The deck was packed with men with cutlasses at their sides or holding boarding hooks. Not an unnecessary word was said for the mood was tense, as it always was before action. The mate circulated amongst them, clapping shoulders and whispering encouragement. His massive presence, usually so intimidating, was strangely heartening. "With Bellows on our side, we can't lose," was the general opinion.
"Lights sir," said the second mate softly.
"Take the wheel, Mister Bellows," Carmez ordered. He moved forward to better see. There was indeed light and, at first, he thought it might be Cair Paravel. Then he saw that a beacon had been lit and, in quick succession, one after another flared along the cliffs, stretching several miles.
"Beacons, Cap'n," Bellows growled.
"I see them; let's not panic. Hold your course."
The 'Venturer' followed the coastline south for several minutes. "Enemy ahead," cried a voice from above. "Men o' war – two of 'em – three of 'em!"
"Put her about, Mr Bellows," said the Captain calmly, suppressing his annoyance. "There'll be no landing party tonight."
"Aye, aye, Captain! Well, you heard the man!"
"Double the rum rations, purser," Carmez ordered and, with that, he stalked off the deck to drown his own sorrows below.
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On the fifth day of Christmas my true love sent to me…
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"We've got Lord Catigern, Majesty," said the messenger. He was unutterably filthy for he'd spent the past few days searching the countryside, high and low, for the traitor.
Alfreda, heavy eyed and wan, had ruefully left her bed to hear the news. On an ordinary day she'd have been up long since but Christmas was not a normal season. Twelve days of feasting, dancing and socialising were already taking a toll. "Where is he?"
"He'll be here within an hour or two – I went ahead."
"And how is he?"
"Tired, cold, scared and sullen," the lieutenant told her succinctly.
"Did he put up a fight?"
"No – he was alone – hiding in a hollow tree. We had to drag him out."
"Congratulations to all concerned," Alfreda praised. "Usher – see that Mrs Wansdyke finds a bath, bed and a meal for the lieutenant." She gave a satisfied smile, "Fetch Lord Harry Leaven immediately," she told her page. "This is turning out to be a good Christmas after all."
"Your sister is waiting for you, Highness," said Harry.
"Should I worry?" Princess Selina asked frankly.
"It's your husband, ma'am… He's been arrested and will be here imminently."
"Ah! Poor Erik," the lady said absently. Harry's lips tightened into a thin line but he made no retort.
"I suppose you think me foolish?" she said, looking at him sadly.
"I… it's not my business," the knight determined.
Selina went to the cot in the corner of her chamber and lifted her baby. He was asleep and barely stirred. "I may bring Robert?"
"Yes… I believe so, ma'am."
Harry had escorted Selina to Cair Paravel under cover of darkness. Jed had received money and been told to put up somewhere further afield, under a false name. Selina was allocated an obscure chamber and the servants warned not to enter due to illness. Meals were to be left outside her door as were the used pots. "You'd not want the sweating sickness," Mrs Wansdyke, the housekeeper, had warned them. "Lord Harry Leaven says it spreads like wildfire."
"How is my husband?" Selina asked Harry.
"Intact, as I understand it, but that's all I know."
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Jed's world had been turned upside down that month. He'd gone from trusted aide to a potential King to fugitive from a vengeful lord. He'd been the illicit lover of his mistress and then father of her only child. He was tossed about on tides greater than himself and he was duly fearful. Temporarily alone, he'd found lodgings in a farmhouse three miles away, under a false name. The mass of blonde curls had gone; his hair cropped and slicked back with goose grease. He spent his days lurking about the vicus around Cair Paravel hoping for sight or news of Princess Selina. A stranger would normally have attracted a great deal of attention but, given the Christmas season, there were many unfamiliar faces. He tried questioning the more garrulous castle servants about important visitors but nobody seemed to know that Selina was even staying there.
With the coup seemingly averted, security was stepped down as the twelve days of Christmas progressed. So much so that Jed was able to enter the castle courtyard on three busy occasions in the vain hope of seeing his lover. He was present therefore when the escort arrived with their prisoner, Catigern. Few details of the aborted coup had been officially revealed. There could be no trials until Catigern had been captured. Given the season, nothing would be done publically until the New Year. Nevertheless a considerable amount of information had leaked out. Most people about Cair Paravel knew exactly who had been involved in the conspiracy and even what their individual roles were. So it was, when Catigern arrived, that a sizeable and hostile crowd gathered. Boos rang out across the courtyard.
"There he is!"
"There's the traitor!"
"Doesn't look like a king does he?" shouted one loud mouthed farmer.
"He looks more like a scarecrow," was the retort.
"Step back, step back," the Captain said, dismounting. "Get the prisoner down." A guard cut the cord that bound Catigern's hands to the reins of his elderly, placid mount. He slipped clumsily to the cobbles and struggled to straighten himself. Sleeping rough had left him weak and hungry.
"Poor old beggar," someone said loudly, with some slight degree of sympathy.
Jed pressed forward, interested to see his former master, which proved to be his mistake. Catigern chose at that moment to look up and gaze straight into the eyes of his former servant. Jed! The man who'd taken his wife and child away from him! Jed! The catalyst for the ultimate unravelling of his great design! With an unexpected burst of energy Catigern leapt towards Jed, his hands out to grab him by the throat. Jed, taken unawares, backed off, struggling to find his feet on the frosty cobbles. "Here; pack that in," the Serjeant said, clamping his arms about Catigern. Jed meanwhile had lost his footing and fell backwards. His arms flailed in the air and his head hit the side of a cart with a sickening crunch and bounced back up. They tried to revive him but it was soon clear that he was dead.
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The prophecy
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"Poor fellow," Sir Hubert said yet again. He shook his head and took a drink of spiced wine.
"Poor Selina," Alfreda said (yet again). "She's in a decent bedchamber with baby Robert. Doctor Lancet has given her a powder so she might sleep. He can dance attendance upon her until she's feeling more like herself." It was ten o'clock at night and the evening's planned festivities had been cancelled. It was something of a relief to the pair.
"Catigern has been interrogated?"
"Provisionally; he isn't up to lengthy questioning at the moment. He needs sleep and regular food. Matthew, Lord Leaven, will prosecute and get it all out of him at trial. He's positively Edmundian in his knowledge of the law."
"Princess Sophia will be pleased to be reunited with young Henry."
"She'll be delighted – I hope she'll start forgiving me then! I've already sent for him."
"If only your brother Robin had not tragically…. Well… Let's not repine. You can do more for Sophia now and Little Henry will be the heir; until you marry, that is."
With an odd smile Alfreda replied, "I'll never marry, my friend."
"Nonsense, ma'am," Hubert said heartily.
"I can see, you know. I will never marry."
"But…"
"There are no buts; it's a fact. I can see it." Alfred paused. "I'll tell you something else, in confidence. You can never repeat this…"
"On my honour," Hubert promised.
"I regret this, but I'm certain, that Henry will never take the throne. Baby Robert will live his whole life in anticipation of being king; a blighted life."
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THE END
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Glossary
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Blood Month: From Blotmonao (Anglo-Saxon) a month cattle might be slaughtered for winter
Kavi: a bitter form of coffee
Leaven: for more on the origins of the family please see my short story "A poor knight of Narnia"
Maister: dialect variant of 'master'
Vicus: a settlement about a Roman fort [Latin]