Ambition and Alavidha (38 page)

“The trap has
been sprung,” he replied, “all we can do is to wait. Thankfully, I
believe we managed to identify almost if not all of Crispin’s
co-conspirators.”

Antoinette
noticed that he had not appended the title ‘Prince’ to Crispin’s
name.

“At least none
of the royal family are involved,” she agreed, trying to keep calm,
“at least not this time.”

Their eyes
met.

Peter Taviston
knew without any words being spoken that the Queen knew this had
been a possibility. Her kingdom had a nasty history of regicide
within the royal bloodline. He also was aware of the fact that
Antoinette had a desperate need to talk, to keep her mind off what
was happening out there in the corridors.

“Indeed Your
Majesty, you must be very relieved.”

He jumped.

The noise of
fighting was getting louder and he had distinguished that singular
sound of blade on blade that indicated that the fighting was
getting close. He placed his hand on the hilt of his own sword. He
would die trying to protect his queen.

“They’re
getting close,” whispered a worried Queen Antoinette but Peter
Taviston was still exuding a sea of unflappable calm and she felt
it.

“We have guards
enough,” he comforted her and placing a fatherly arm on her
shoulder. “Do not panic, all will be well.”

“I know, deep
down, but I need to worry, at least a little. What did I do wrong
Peter?”

“Nothing,”
Peter Taviston was adamant in his denial. “It is Crispin’s ambition
which is at the root of all this.”

“Crispin’s? Not
his father?”

“A bit of both
and a bit of the other but you mustn’t forget that it is Crispin
who is at the bottom of the events here today. This is
his
fault. When it is all over it will be him who must be called to
account.”

“Antoinette
loves him,” she said, biting her lip.

“Your daughter
thinks she does but deep down I think she has always had doubts.
She wouldn’t be your daughter otherwise. Crispin was never the
right man for her.”

“I shouldn’t
have let her marry him, I see that now, but she was so very
insistent.”

“Just like her
mother,” observed Peter Taviston, speaking in a detached
manner.

“Touché.”

The two
continued to listen at the door.

“It’s getting
quieter,” observed Peter Taviston.

“But who has
won? Him or us?”

Crown-Princess
Antoinette continued to weep.

* * * * *

It was a full
candlemark later when Lord Prince Marshall Pierre, Prince Xavier in
tow knocked on the door.

“That’s Prince
Pierre,” said Peter Taviston who knew the rap of old. His comment
was confirmed by Prince Pierre’s triumphant and cheery call.

“Let him
enter,” commanded Queen Antoinette, straightening her back.

* * * * *

There was a
rattling as the bolts were slid open.

Lord Prince
Marshall Pierre strode into the room, followed by Prince Xavier and
the Captain of the Royal Guard.

That the Queen
had been triumphant was obviously a fact but at what cost?

Crown-Princess
Antoinette had by now subsided into a red-eyed silence with only an
occasional hiccup. She sat staring at the three men.

“Your Majesty,”
Prince Pierre began, rising from his bow, “it is my pleasure to
report that the perpetrators of the heinous crime of rebellion
against your person are either in our custody or are dead. Prince
Crispin is among the number who have been taken into custody. He is
unhurt. Your orders?”

“Slap them all
into the dungeons,” she ordered in a clear, firm voice so that even
her daughter would be able to understand. “There must be
no
exceptions.”

“Yes Ma’am,”
Prince Pierre answered with a glint in his eye as he backed away,
“I’ll see to it at once.”

The coup was
over.

Prince
Crispin’s ambition was at an end.

* * * * *

Prince Crispin
had been so certain of success that he hadn’t even been wearing
full armour.

He did not lack
courage.

He led a group
consisting of his closest co-conspirators out of the dungeon levels
himself, fired with enthusiasm and confident that within a few
candlemarks he would be the real ruler of his mother-in-law’s
kingdom. Alas for his hopes, his group ran straight into a
detachment of fully armed and stern faced members of the Royal
Guard.

The guards lost
no time. They were absolutely loyal to their queen and these men
wanted her dead. This was enough for them. Out of the group of
rebels led by Prince Crispin he was the only one to survive the
first few candledrips of the fight. Margrave Malcolm Smith, Daniel
Ross’s friend was one of the first to fall on to the blood-slippery
stone floor. Kellen Edward Tanon collapsed right in front of a
panicking Crispin, his throat severed by the judicious stroke of
one of the Leftenants of the Guard. His blood splattered all over
Crispin.

The Ducal House
of Smith and the Kellenage of Tanon were not the only noble and
gentle houses to lose sons to Prince Crispin’s ambition. The Ducal
House of Graham also lost a son, one Count Paul, aged just
eighteen. Thane Andrew Stewart, brother to Peter Taviston’s ‘spy in
the enemy’s camp’ also fell although Kenneth managed to engineer
his other brother Malcolm’s escape from the carnage. The van Aldin
Kellenage lost its son and heir. There were many others.

When Queen
Antoinette was told about the cost in lives however, she considered
that despite the casualties and deaths, that they had got off
lightly. Only seventeen of the Royal Guard had been killed and
twenty-eight injured. The list of rebel losses was much longer.

Princes Pierre
and Xavier had taken Queen Antoinette’s orders to mean that she
wanted the rebellion utterly destroyed with no chance of a
resurgence. Both believed that for rebellious nobles death was the
better option; to the military mind much tidier.

The Queen could
not afford to be lenient with the survivors either. Her continuance
as a ruler depended on her remaining strong. She was a woman in a
man’s world. On the planet the Kingdom of Murdoch was the most
chauvinistic country of them all, except perhaps for the Nadlians
of the Larg.

She knew she
had to be strong and implacable. She wished to leave her throne to
her daughter who would in turn be succeeded by her grandson. The
other members of the large royal family had been loyal this time
but might not necessarily remain so in the future, especially if
she and her line showed any signs of weakness.

She threw a
pitying glance at her daughter. The Queen knew what she must
do.

* * * * *

Crown-Princess
Antoinette grew so distraught over the following days that her
mother began to think she might be losing her mind. She cried for a
day and a half but a body can only weep like this for so long and
at last her sobs subsided and she lapsed into an exhausted
sleep.

When she opened
her eyes Queen Antoinette was sitting at her bedside.

“Mother?” she
whispered.

“It’s all over
darling. The coup failed.”

Antoinette took
a deep breath. She felt sick. She had loved her husband, she had
thought he loved her and all this time he had been planning the
overthrow of her mother! To kill her! And probably her too,
eventually.

In that
instant, her grief turned to anger and it was not the anger of a
woman scorned, it was the dispassionate anger of a future Queen.
She sat up. She lifted her chin; a determined lift and met her
mother’s gaze with one similarly unflinching.

“Tell me the
worst Mother,” she said, “I need to know it all.”

* * * * *

The trial of
Prince Crispin was a very public affair. Queen Antoinette presided
and by her side sat her daughter. The defendant was a Prince of the
Blood and although there was a jury, made up of five Dukes of the
Realm, it would be up to the Queen to pass sentence. For sentence
would be passed, everyone knew it. Crispin was guilty of treason
and this was a crime punishable by death.

Crispin did not
speak. He was a broken man.

He knew all his
charm would cut no ice with the steely-eyed, implacable dukes and
the Queen, he snuck frequent furtive glances in her direction,
looked cool to the point of indifference which was almost
worse.

He could expect
no mercy there.

He kept his
eyes glued to the statue-like figure of his wife. He hadn’t seen
her since the evening before the abortive coup. All his begging and
pleading and aye, demands for an interview had fallen on deaf
ears.

Crown-Princess
Antoinette never wanted to speak to Crispin again.

She turned her
head away and looked instead at the five Dukes who made up the
jury.

* * * * *

As expected,
the five dukes declared him s guilty as charged.

Crispin faced
the Queen as she rose to pronounce on his fate.

As he had
expected, he was to be executed.

Queen
Antoinette however did give mercy. He was to be permitted to take
his own life

* * * * *

Crispin sat
alone in his prison cell. It was not one of the worst cells in the
dungeon level. As a Royal Prince he was being allowed to spend his
last days in relative comfort but tomorrow morning the sentence
would be carried out.

Up until now he
hadn’t really believed Queen Antoinette would actually sign the
death warrant. He had thought she would commute the execution into
life incarceration. He was a prince! To execute him could only lead
to a lot of unpleasantness by his father. Surely his father would
want to avenge his death?

For some reason
these thoughts didn’t make him feel any better. He would be dead.
He wouldn’t be here to see it.

The headsman’s
block.

What a fate for
his father’s favourite son. But could he go through with it? Would
his courage fail him at the end? Crispin couldn’t bear to think
about people watching him, a blabbering and screaming wreck, being
dragged on to the scaffold.

But the
alternative? Death by poison of the knife. It was his choice.
Poison, no, he couldn’t bear that. It was such an undignified was
to die. A coward’s way out.

So it would be
the knife.

It shouldn’t be
too bad.

A thoughtful
guard had provided smaha ointment. The cut when it severed his
wrist wouldn’t hurt.

He took a deep
breath.

Now was as good
a time as any.

With hands that
shook he poured a glass of wine from the earthenware bottle and
took a large swallow, savouring the taste. It was a fine
vintage.

Slowly, he
opened the jar of ointment and smeared the jar’s contents lavishly
over both of his wrists.

He was all
concentration now. The ointment was working fast. It he didn’t make
the cut now his hands might get too numb to hold the knife.
Gripping the knife with his right hand he brought the blade down on
to his left wrist, severing the artery with one slash.

He watched his
bright life-blood pump out but he didn’t retain his vision for
long. He had cut deep and his heart was beating strong. His head
thumped on to the table.

Prince Crispin
of Leithe was dead and with his death died, had he but known it,
his father’s ultimate ambition to become Master and Emperor of the
Planet.

* * * * *

Some days after
Crispin’s death Queen Antoinette was in conference with her closest
advisors. Queen Antoinette was not in the habit of procrastinating
when there was something that needed to be done.

“I will change
the law,” she declared.

“Putting aside
eight hundred years of tradition?” queried Peter Taviston. “Is that
wise?”

“This is a
special circumstance but I cannot agree to circumvent the law even
for my only daughter, especially for her. The law does need to be
changed. Those of noble and gentle birth will in the future be able
to apply to Conclave if they wish to marry again and the death of a
spouse shall no longer be a bar to happiness. Divorce I will still
not countenance which should keep the Archbishop happy.”

“I’m for it,”
said Peter Taviston. “When your daughter ascends the throne she
will need a husband by her side. She is not as strong as you. You
are right Your Majesty. The law must be changed.”

“Which noble
boy do you have in mind for a replacement husband Your Majesty?”
asked Duke Raoul van Buren.

She cleared her
throat. Her choice was a controversial one.

“There are a
few candidates,” she began, looking at the list in front of her,
“three from ducal houses, three from out-kingdom and no less than
seven who are gently born.”

“Let’s keep to
a home grown specimen this time,” advised William, Duke of
Duchesne.

I agree,” said
Lord Prince Marshall Pierre.

The others were
of the same mind.

“We can cross
the three islanders off the list then,” agreed Queen Antoinette
with satisfaction, “but the three noble candidates present their
own problems. Count Peter Graham is cousin to Paul, one of
Crispin’s coterie. I don’t think my daughter would accept him and
both Counts Brian Brentwood and Xavier Charleson are younger than
her, Xavier by four years. The difference is too great.”

“I agree with
that too Your Majesty,” said William Duchesne, “the other
candidates?”