Tell them I am Queen now - a short story

 

Tell them I am Queen now - a short story

 

The old king, Aethelrod, wasn't stirring. He sat on the throne in faded tattered ermine. His gaze was distant, a smile flickered through his beard like a zephyr through a field of sun-bleached wheat.

His advisors and holy men, (crooks and shamen according to his subjects) waited around in silence. Their eyes sought things around the room to look at, avoiding each other’s gaze. 

The distant sound of siege engines ground through the stained glass windows, scattering old mosaics like onyx and ivory game pieces.

Several panes sheared off, hunting scenes of younger days lay splintered in the dust.

The king sighed deeply at the sight, his youth now long passed in ignominy.

A throat was cleared, a gravelly harrumph; for most of his court were bent old men who dreamed of warm fires and simmering broths and woollen blankets for their knees.

But there was only silence.

The old king had never been wrong in his life, in his reign, not once. No, not ever. He looked at the marble hearths that dotted the room and wondered where his pageboys had gone. 

Fires flickered outside too, burning buildings, burning animals, burning people.

Most of his generals were dead. Most of the army too. For the king was a mighty strategist and despite the obvious setbacks believed he was a conduit. A direct line to the almighty.

Old king Aethelrod tilted his head with milky eyes listening to the whispers in his head, listening for the answers. Soon he would have solutions. Soon he would have a strategy.

The courtiers feared another nap, another afternoon of slow-tick paralysis. They collectively held their breath.

With a groan on golden hinges, the old king’s daughter Genevive - though everyone called her Jenna - pushed the chambers doors apart and strode through the sycophantic gathering and stood before her father.

    “We hold the south gate. The attack has been repelled,” she said.

She was small like a hawk. Two and twenty summers. There was blood on her metal breast plate, her hair sheared at the sides and plaited according to her tribe, had numerous blade cuts and her leather belt held compact implements of war. Her gloves were matted with blood.

    “You didn’t curtsey, child,” said the King. Irked at not being called ‘Your majesty,’

The courtiers exchanged sly glances; they were enjoying this new distraction.

    “I felt my message was more urgent,” replied Jenna.

She would not bow, she would not scrape; she was her father’s daughter.

    “Curtsey,” snapped a priest.

He held a perfumed kerchief as he spoke; she stank of mud and sweat and exposed intestines. She smelled like a slaughterhouse.

The old king ran a blackened tongue along his blue and swollen lips,

    “Curtsey,” he growled.

Jenna did a tight little bob, her dipping frame despite its size exuding grim authority.

    “My son, your brother, Ricard?”

    “Dead,” replied Jenna.

    “Wounds front or back?” asked the king, a catch had crept through the reedy timbre.

    “There was little left to tell,” she replied.

    “Valiantly?” whispered the King. 

Everyone leaned in to hear the word.

    “I hope so,” she replied. With a heavy sigh she continued, “His armour was too big for him,”

She stepped closer, mounting the golden dias,

    “We must evacuate. You and the Queen. I have secured a barge and a loyal detail. They wait at the jetty near the south gate. Ready men, fully armed. We have little time,”

She calculated the sun was three quarters in the sky. A night time attack couldn’t be ruled out.

    “The Queen is dead,” said king Aethelrod.

His face showed no emotion.

An explosion outside vibrated through the dense stone floor. Two flambeaus leapt from the mountings, spilling guttering candle wax across the ornate floor,

    “We must leave now,” said Jenna.

    “Aren’t you upset about your mother?” asked king Aethelrod.

    “We parted ways many years ago. We are losing the opportunity every second that passes,”

Jenna almost said ‘father’, she almost said ‘your majesty’.

    “By her own hand, imagine that?” said king Aethelrod.

He began to hum a tune. An old one. One he’d sing in his younger days.

    “Now,” snapped Jenna.

    “I don’t know how. Now. Know, child, I am confused. How could you NOT know?”

    “Please, father - let’s go,”

She called him father for the odds were now stacked against a bloodless escape. The earth around them shook. Pictures fell. Courtiers stumbled. The siege engines were now secure at the castle’s outer walls.

They had little time.

Jenna tapped the heel of her soiled riding boot. It was an urgent tattoo. She blew a random stray hair from her eyes, her bottom lip had a deep cut. It began to bleed again adding to her ferocity.

    “Oh my poor Queen, my poor wee lamb, Lizbeth,” said king Aethelrod. He dabbed a solitary tear from his eye.

Another explosion. A piece of the vaulted painted ceiling crashed down near the chamber’s doors. This way and that, hither and thither, the courtiers reminded Jenna of spooked sheep. Too scared to run, too loyal to remain.

The south gate would surely have been overrun now. 

    “We have to go now,” said Jenna

But she knew the situation was hopeless,

    “I shall stay. Stay here. We shall all remain. The almighty has spoken!” intoned king Aethelrod.

He held a jewelled hand aloft, motioning for silence. His great head tilted back, communing with the heavens. 

    “We shall talk, talk to them, listen to their grievances,” said king Aethelrod.

Murmurs of agreement slipped from the huddled court.

Jenna thought about the infanta, Theda, hiding in the stables with her ladies in waiting. Jenna knew there’d be little mercy shown. Not now, the battle turned.

A decision had to be made.

    “The time for talking has passed,” said Jenna, releasing her bow from its sheath along her back. A quiver of deadly arrows were mounted to its frame. 

In one fluid moment, she nooked one and fired.

The arrow sliced the old king’s beard, pinning his startled head to the throne. 

Three more arrows struck the king, the heart, the eye, the lung. 

Death was almost instantaneous.

The courtiers stood frozen.

Jenna replaced the bow and sprang up the dias. From her belt she took a double-edged axe and removed her father’s head from the shoulders.

She turned and tossed the head to the archbishop. He dropped it twice, staining his gold and purple stole in royal blood.

    “Take that to the south gate, Bishop. Give them what they want.”

The bishop known as Clemens was famous for his stutter, he was working up a response when Jenna said,

    “The south gate now, Bishop,”

    “And w….what…t do I say?” said Clement.

He feared for his life.

Jenna heaved king Aethelrod’s torso from the richly embroidered throne,

    “Tell them I am queen now.”

(My homage to George R R Martin and Bernard Cornwell)