All The Queen's Ladies [NaNoWriMo Project]

The Moon of Mercy

But all summers must end, and as emerald and sapphire turns to amber and garnet, messages start to arrive at the palace. Strange riders without sigils. There are even birds, though the form is archaic and unreliable, and the jerkins they bring are sewn in particular stitches, that only those who know what to look for will be able to imitate. Northern accents are heard around the queen, scant few, but in this place of friends and fellows they stand out. People do not like it. There are raised voices; the northmen leave, flushed and despairing. Their ambassador takes wing in the middle of the night and leaves his city dwelling empty and no note to excuse himself at court. Soon after him is a train of Lornwith men, armed, riding out under the queen's banner and waving up at those who have lined the walls to see them off. Masons are sent up after them, each one attached to a northern seat and with strict briefs to strengthen, add traps, defenses. Other men follow. The leaves begin to fall. Fealties are called in. Recruiting banners ride from castles west to east, sweeping up every able man they see along the way, and promising them glory and rich pickings and more than they have now. What common man could resist? What young lordling, what bitter bastard, hearing tales of knights of old, could decide to stay inside their cosy walls, hitting straw men with a wooden stick? No songs are written in practice yards.

By the end of the harvest - a strong one, a good sign for those who wish to see it - it is generally known that the kingdom is at war. It takes another few weeks for people to sort out the who and the where, and to feel relief that it is nowhere near them; their men may be taken, but their land is safe. The geese on the common, the water in the well, the fruit plucked from the boughs of trees going to sleep for the winter, all are and will remain in the hands of those they know. Better the tax collector you know than the one you don't, though they know that if things continue too long, the tax collectors will be gone too.

Queen Cerys frets. It has been seven generations since her family took the throne and those have, by and large, been peaceful ones, but she knows that in the high castles there are those who nurse grievances. Grudges have been passed down with the titles, stone and silverware. There are those who believe their claim to run stronger than her own. And war makes widows, widows who will complain, who will turn their men, who would wear her crown if the opportune moment to seize it comes. She is too gracious a woman to become paranoid, but she worries. Her complexion suffers. She is even beyond the help of her closest friend Lady Branwen; she closets herself away with her councillors and emerges only to eat, until one day she emerges with a declaration that she hopes will soothe her detractors and yet not usurp her own position.

The meat of it is this: that all highborn women have a moon's turn to present themselves before her and offer pleas for one man, that he may be kept from the war effort. It is the queen's right to refuse, and if she does so there are no appeals, nor any further pleas for that woman, so they must choose wisely and well.

The kingdom takes it well. The commoners, sensible of their place, sing the queen's praises: she is good, she is merciful, she is the most noble and gentle of women. There are highborns who grumble, but what else can a woman do, once she is past birthing age and her children no longer need her, but find her amusement in perceived faults and follies? When it comes to it they present themselves, just like the young wives and the sisters and the daughters. The queen sees each of them personally, greeting them from her throne, exchanging a few small words. For many it is the first time they have met her, and the impressions that they take away will carry across the kingdom and be passed down, so she makes them good. All who see her go away remembering her subtle jewels, her benevolent face, her willingness to listen. Perhaps they would wish her to have a little more steel too; well, she shows that to those whose requests she must deny. Her tone is soft and apologetic - if it were not so urgent, though it grieves me, all these little phrases that mean nothing and everything - but her judgement is quick and immoveable. If she must call on the master-of or any other of her councillors, two of whom always sit with her when she opens her halls, it is a brief whispered interlude, leaving them no time to try to sway her. It is not long before they give up trying.