Runes and Red Sails (Queenmaker Book 1)
Ander Levisay
1
At the far end of the hall, in darkness broken only by a few shafts of faint candlelight, the King lay dying. Osred, King of Earnfold, was not an old man—he had seen only two score and six summers—but death was coming early to him.
A plague had swept up from the southern reaches of the Kingdom during the depth of winter and laid waste to the villages and towns in its path. With the coming of spring and the return of the sun, the pestilence had lifted, lingering only long enough to claim one last victim. The King was wracked by fits of coughing; he burned with fever, his breath labored and uneven. When he mustered the strength to speak, he raved like a madman.
Aelfhild watched from the rear of the hall with the rest of the servants. Her heart quickened with every spasm and gasp from the King, and each she was sure would be his last. But Osred clung doggedly to life as the evening wore on, just as he had for days.
There was nothing Aelfhild could do for her lord, and nothing anyone could do, so she stood amongst the useless and waited. Her fingers were aflutter, ceaselessly flattening and folding a crease in the front of her dress; her mother had never abided idleness and the dutiful daughter in Aelfhild feared that this impotent dawdling might qualify as such.
Forgive me, mother, she thought, and cast her eyes skyward.
There was a crick in her neck from peering over the rows of shoulders, for the vigil by the King’s deathbed was a well-attended event. Waiting in the hush of the darkened hall were an assortment of courtiers, advisors, retainers, and hangers-on, the constant crowd that followed in the wake of royalty. Most were of little import, there only to gawk and to carry gossip to those waiting outside the walls of the keep. Aelfhild had seen more compassion in the eyes of vultures.
The unmistakable hunched shape of Wictred, the King’s High Ward, swept by.
And there went the biggest vulture of all. Aelfhild had never trusted the man—he had a habit of toying with the greasy gold chains around his neck whenever he spoke which she found repulsive. A servant of the Gods should not, in her view, show so much wealth, not even one of so high a rank.
The High Ward craned upward to whisper in the ear of a minor courtier who was trying quite hard to look mournful. Aelfhild sighed and turned back to the King.
King Osred had been, as far as she was concerned, a fine king. He kept his hands to himself around the younger girls and had always seemed content to let the servants get on with the real work. Those who knew about such things said he had guarded the boundaries of his kingdom with a firm and fair hand, though Aelfhild could not say one way or the other. The streets of the city bustled with carts these days, sure, and there was more gold on evidence in the hall than she remembered from her youth. Candlelight glinted off jeweled throats and fingers, played across tapestries woven with silver thread and cloths dyed in costly hues.
The King’s one weakness had been—still was, she chided herself—his children. He had for years delayed choosing an heir, fearful of driving away one or the other of his offspring, and now was too feverish to speak coherently or even discern the faces of those closest to him.
The King’s sudden illness had taken everyone off guard, and now factions moved in the great city of Cynestead to take advantage of this new weakness.
Wictred crossed through Aelfhild’s view again. Even in the weakest of light his layered robes glinted, covered as they were in a magpie’s hoard of gems, baubles, feathers, and bones. The old man laid a claw on Ceolwen’s shoulder.
Aelfhild shuddered for her mistress.
Ceolwen was the oldest of the two Aethlings—heirs to the throne. She sat beside her father, bathing his brow and clasping his hand, as serene as she always took great care to be in public. For two days now she had not left the King, and Aelfhild had waited by her side as she had every day since childhood. Ceolwen’s eyes were sunken and ringed with darkness, care lines etched deep in her face. Her clothes and hair were disheveled, and Aelfhild imagined that she herself must look the same. Sleep had been in short supply of late.
The High Ward whispered his platitudes to the girl and swooped off.
The other Aethling, Osric, sat nearer the edge of the room, removed from the crowd of lookers-on. He was deep in council with two of his bondsmen. Osric had stayed close to his father since he fell ill, but kept his distance from Ceolwen—there was little love lost between the two half-siblings.
The Queen, Ceolwen’s mother, died bringing her daughter into the world; Aelfhild had only just herself arrived, and was raised alongside Ceolwen, part playmate and part pet. Aelfhild remembered a succession of royal consorts and lovers, but for his daughter’s sake the King had not taken another wife. A doting father’s kindness, though, proved to be the King’s error, for he had put off the question of succession, and now had neither the breath nor the time left to set matters straight.
Aelfhild tried not to retch. Now Wictred was by Osric’s side, on his face the rictus of a reassuring smile. She knew the old man would play both sides until a winner emerged. In her mind, there was no question that her mistress was the rightful heir, but the King had not formally chosen either child, and there were some in the court who preferred the idea of an illegitimate king to a legitimate queen. For years, nobles and courtiers had quietly been positioning themselves in one camp or the other, simpering and fawning and waiting.
Of all the things in the King’s court, she hated the endless scheming and backbiting the most. Emptying chamberpots was refreshing work by comparison.