“Nabban? Nothing but trouble most of the time,” Simon said. “Seems like if they’re not stabbing each other in the street, they’re complaining about not being allowed to stab each other.”
“Yes, Archbishop, we are aware of the problems,” Miriamele said with a stern look at her husband. “The king and I have spent much time discussing the current situation, especially the conflict between Duke Saluceris and his brother Drusis. Does the Sacred Father have something to say on the subject?”
“Oh, much and much, Your Majesties. He is fearful for the state of the duchy, but even more, he is fearful for the state of Mother Church and all Osten Ard.”
“Please explain,” said Miriamele, and reached out her hand to Simon, ostensibly in the loving gesture of a royal wife, but really with the intention of giving his knuckles a hard squeeze if he didn’t stick to the course they had planned. “We are eager to hear what His Sacredness has to say.”
“There is nothing to hear from me, Majesties. Lector Vidian has sent a formal envoy to you. He will arrive sometime in the next sennight, I am told.” The archbishop looked a bit sheepish at this. “I was informed so that I might prepare to welcome him. I do not want to tread on the privilege of His Sacredness, but I believe it is in everyone’s interest for me to tell you of this matter first, before the formal delivery of the Sancellan’s request.”
“And are you going to tell us what this request is?” Simon asked. “Or are we to play guessing games, like children at Aedonmansa trying to win a sweet? Ouch!” The king scowled. “You hurt my hand, woman.”
“Many apologies, husband. I was distracted by an irritating noise.” She smiled as sweetly as she could, then turned her smile on the archbishop. “Forgive us, Your Eminence, for the interruption. Please continue.”
Between Simon’s muttering and the seriousness of the matters discussed, it was all Archbishop Gervis could do to keep his hands away from his mouth. He pulled a ring of prayer beads from his pocket and began to tell them, one after another, around and around. “Here is the root of the matter, Majesties,” he said. “In Tiyagaris month, the duke’s brother Drusis is to marry Lady Turia, niece of Count Dallo Ingadaris.”
“Oh,” said Miriamele, genuinely surprised. “Little Turia! I thought he meant to marry the older sister. Surely Turia is not old enough to be married.”
“She will have twelve years that month, Majesty, which both custom and Mother Church accept. It is not the bride’s age that concerns His Sacredness, but the idea that the wedding will strengthen Drusis because he will become Count Dallo’s son, and that it may be the occasion of even more serious fighting between the supporters of the Benidrivine and Ingadarine Houses.”
“I know a little something about this,” Simon said abruptly. “First, making Drusis his son-in-law won’t change anything old Dallo’s doing, because he’s already backing him against his brother, the lawful duke.” He held up his hand when the archbishop would have replied. “And—and, the lector himself, the Sacred Father, is a member of the Clavean family as I recall, who have long been allied to Dallo and the Ingadarines. So why his sudden concern?” The king turned to the queen. “You thought I was not paying attention during all those council meetings, didn’t you?” The only thing missing was a childlike, “Ha!” of triumph.
Miriamele had no cheerful reply to that, so instead she turned to the archbishop. “You were about to say something, Eminence.”
The beads were making a furious circuit through his fingers now. “Yes, well, the king is quite right, of course. But that is part of the problem. You see, His Sacredness is in an awkward position. Ordinarily, especially with the Sancellan Mahistrevis and the Sancellan Aedonitis such close neighbors, he would have intervened long before, when this conflict was first beginning. And do not misunderstand, Your Majesties—His Sacredness has called for peace many times in the last year, tasking all parties with the disruptions and unhappiness caused by their fighting. But things are getting worse in Nabban—just a short time ago the death of some Ingadarines led to rioting in the street, and Duchess Canthia, the Duke’s wife, was caught in it. She survived without harm, thanks to our merciful God, but it was a near thing.”
“Well, I agree that we can’t have these bullyboy Kingfishers and Stormbirds rioting in the streets,” Simon said. “But what can be done?”
“The High King and High Queen can come to the wedding,” said Gervis so hurriedly that it almost seemed he tried to gasp it out with insufficient breath. “That is what the Lector’s messenger will request. His Sacredness will work with Duke Saluceris and the other parties so that during your visit, all will be brought to the table together. With Your Majesties’ presence to demonstrate the importance of concord, agreements can be reached that will protect the peace.” He took a deep breath, then slipped his hand and the beads it held into a pocket of his robe. “That is what the Holy Father will ask. I did not wish you to be surprised.”
Miriamele was, in fact, surprised, and for a moment she could think of nothing to say. A trip to Nabban was a daunting thought with so much else already swirling around the High Throne.
“Why can’t the lector of Mother Church do this himself?” Simon asked. “What good is having a lector if he can’t tell people to stop fighting? Isn’t that what our faith teaches us, that the Lector is the father of the world’s family? Well, that’s what a father does—stops the family fighting. The good God knows I’ve had to do it enough times myself. Only the Lord knows how many times I’ve had to give Morgan a talking-to when he flouted his mother or grandmother.”
And only the Lord knows how little good it ever did, thought Miriamele.
“But you see,” Gervis said, “you already spoke the difficult truth at the heart of it, Majesty, when you pointed out that His Sacredness comes from a house allied with the Ingadarines. Without the help of Count Dallo, the Holy Father would never have been elected by the escritors to the Sacred Chair. Nabban is a city—an entire nation—whose history has been written by the great family houses. ‘Words are less than blood,’ is one of their oldest expressions. Duke Saluceris and his supporters . . . well, they do not trust His Sacredness to be fair to both sides.” The beads came out again after only moments in his pocket. “It will take someone from outside to make peace.”
“But I myself am related to the Ingadarines,” Miriamele pointed out.
Archbishop Gervis shook his head. “Your rulings on matters pertaining to Nabban have always been fair, Majesties, and it is known that despite your Ingadaris blood, you also have an attachment to the Benidrivines . . .”
“Because without Duke Saluceris, the whole country will turn to shit,” said the king, and didn’t seem to notice the archbishop nearly drop his beads. “He is the closest thing Nabban has to a man who puts what is best for the people ahead of his own desires.”
This time Miriamele did smile a little, although she was not entirely pleased with her husband’s contributions. Gervis clutched his beads in both hands, as if they were a floating spar and he was lost at sea. “Yes, I’m sure your Majesty is correct,” the archbishop said through a wince. “But I am certain you and the queen will need to discuss this matter in private, so I will take my leave. The Holy Father’s legate is already on his way.”
“Do you know who it is?” Miriamele asked.
“Escritor Auxis, I am told.” It was clear that the archbishop was pining for the security of St. Sutrin’s. “He is a good man, godly and fair-minded.”
“I’m sure,” said Miriamele. “Thank you for sharing your concerns with us, Your Eminence, another of your many services to the High Throne.”
When Gervis had departed, Simon turned to her and said, “Well, a lot of nonsense, isn’t it? The Nabbanai are always squabbling. Rachel the Dragon used to say that the Hernystiri liked hunting best, the Erkynlanders liked fishing, but the Nabbanai preferred arguing to all other sport.”
Miriamele gathered her dress and rose from her chair. “I don’t think the Mistress of Chambermaids, however much she may have meant to you, is the best guide to the strife of nations.”
“By all the bloody saints, what have I done now?” Simon called after her. “You are angry again, Miri, aren’t you? Miri?”
29th Day of Yuven, Founding Year 1201
My dear Lord Tiamak,