All The Queen's Ladies [NaNoWriMo Project]

Storm Breaker

This is the Commoner's Hall, where people of all strata can come and sit audience when Cerys speaks. The ceiling is high, so that her voice echoes, and there is a wide gallery up above so that as many people can fit as possible. It is empty. The rushes laid on the floor are clean and fresh, untainted by boots or slippers, and the low rustle of whispers and movement is absent. The end result is that, even though the area around the dais is crowded, even though she can hear the echoes of what was being shouted before she opened the door, the room feels like a void, as if nothing in it is real. She could almost be alone.

She hasn't realised that she's faltered until Gweon nudges her gently in the back. She gives him a grateful look and starts to move forwards, but the First Secretary's appears sharply in her path so that she runs into it and has to stop. He scowls at her. She bites her lip to stop herself from scowling back. She doesn't need to look to know that Gweon is doing so anyway. The First Secretary has a habit of interfering with his plans, and in private he calls him names that would turn your ears blue. She wills him not to repeat any of them now.

"We've got her!" Lord Treasurer sounds like he is announcing the capture of a

fugitive, not the arrival of the queen's closest friend.

The arm drops and someone, probably Master Edward, mutters for her to approach. But it seems she must do this with an escort; the Lord Treasurer and the First Secretary flank her, with the master-of trailing behind, as if she might try to escape. The idea almost makes her laugh. She could knock him to the ground easily, if she wanted to.

And of course there is Gweon, walking by her right side and a pace back.

As they advance she gets a better look at the scene around the canopy. It is exactly as Millie described it, yet not; she has got the sense of the people, but not how they actually look. She spoke of the hovering councillors and their confusion, but not the way their eyes are flitting around, trying to follow a situation that is outside all of their remits. She said the ladies were there, but not how their skirts shake with indignation or fear or anger, how Elsbet has lowered her eloquent eyes, how Carlotte is sticking close by Lady Pallina with her sleeves pulled across her like a stiff brocade shield, Alice's narrow worry, Eliyne's glittering look and how she keeps setting and arranging her rings to show off amber, topaz, garnet tokens, as if she is flaunting her past conquests. At a time like this! The stones keep reflecting the light. Scattered around her like a pride of lionesses, the other ladies radiate nervousness. So, from her position below the dais, does Mariam; she is wearing a long fluted train, primrose in colour, and it seems to be trembling. Her younger legal sister is averting her gaze. And next to her...next to her is Cara.

Lady Cara Clare, anyway. This is no private visitation, no intimate lunch with a close friend. This is an audience with the queen and her council and all her ladies; the kingdom's decision-makers, and she has dressed appropriately. There is no part of her that doesn't shine in some way. Gold dangles from her ears and winds around the lines starting to appear on her neck. Tiny diamonds spill down her skirts. None of Eliyne's ostentatious jewels here; the rings on her fingers are slim bands, her bracelets solid cuffs stamped with rooks and castles. Even her hair, a rich chestnut brown like Ranulph's, seems to have been dusted with golden powder. At the sound of the Lord Treasurer's voice she has turned, too dignified to grin, but her triumph clear on her face, and her cheeks and eyes are brushed with it too. The message is clear. We are the Clares, and we are your wealth.

And Millie had mentioned the queen. Cerys sits on the throne under a lively ochre-and-gold canopy, laced into one of her stiffest jewelled bodices with flame-tinged sleeves exploding from her elbows; her face is set, her cheeks flushed, and her hair tumbles over her shoulders in shiny braids. She looks like Alina, Mogganie, Lusanne, Shanon, all those women of legend who reach out and take hold of their own lives for the better or the worse of those around them; she, generations later, when the kingdom is one and joined and there aren't princes or outlaws behind every tree, is what we have in their stead. And here's someone Millie didn't mention. Nicolas Wrainby stands by her shoulder, where her consort would stand, his pretty lips and eyes troubled, his hands flitting up to check his acorn crown. His hand rests on the back of the throne, inches from the queen's shoulder. She seems insensible of him. Her hands are clasped tightly over her knees; it looks like she has a lap full of fire. Her eyes trace her right to the front, where, though she normally wouldn't, she kneels. Everybody else is watching her. She can almost hear them holding their breath...