Evidalle sighed. ‘Are you just about done, Lady Greatcoat?’ He removed his fingers from the laces on the front of Lady Cestina’s wedding dress. ‘Forgive me, my love, but I fear that the Greatcoat’s caterwauling is making me lose my enthusiasm for our little -performance.’
Her reply was oddly plaintive. ‘You mustn’t stop now, my dear.’
All eyes turned to stare in surprise at the young bride. Beneath the tears and smudged maschiera paints, Lady Cestina’s expression had changed; the mask of fear and sorrow had been replaced by what looked suspiciously like a self-satisfied grin. Eyes bright with mischief, she added, ‘We’re just getting to the best part.’
Very slowly, like a dancer taking her first few steps onto the stage, Lady Cestina walked over and extended a hand to caress the chin of her deeply confused would-be rescuer.
‘My valiant Greatcoat, I must apologise. You see, I’m afraid this really is a wedding play . . . only you were never meant to perform the part of the daring hero. You’re here to play the villain.’
CHAPTER TWO
The Reluctant Jury
‘This man had your husband killed!’ Chalmers cried out, still straining against the grip of the guardsmen holding her. ‘His troops surround your parents’ keep even as your sister languishes in a cage below this very deck. Would you betray your own family for—?’
Lady Cestina gripped the Greatcoat’s jaw with her hand, pressing her fingernails into the flesh. ‘My family betrayed me – they refused to even listen to my plans; instead they fawn and cower before that old crone Duchess Ossia! The bitch trades away the future of our Duchy to that foolish child in Aramor – but she will never be crowned Queen, not as long as those of us with noble breeding stand up for our freedoms.’
Evidalle took this as his cue to address the assembled nobles. ‘Lords and Daminas, Viscounts and Viscountesses, we have brought you here not only to witness our wedding, but to unite with us in a far greater purpose.’
The scraping of chair legs against the polished oak deck drew attention to a man of middle years with streaks of grey in his dark hair rising to his feet. ‘You intend to take Duchess Ossia’s throne for yourself?’
‘I intend something far grander than that, Lord Braimond. I would see us put an end to the reign of the Dukes once and for all!’
The musicians stopped playing as astonishment spread across the wedding barge, the guests erupting in furious whispers.
‘Hear me out,’ Evidalle said, raising his hands for quiet. ‘We have a chance, right now, while those who have held us beneath their thumb for too long struggle to restore order to the country. Castle Aramor is in ruins, the Dukes of Hervor, Orison and Luth are dead, their thrones sitting empty – so let us ensure they remain so. Let us become once and for all masters of our own domains, free from interference by the Crown, free from the petty, intrusive demands of weak and ageing Dukes who understand nothing of our lives and needs.’ He strode over to where his guards held Chalmers and wrapped a hand around her neck. ‘And above all, free from the tyranny of those who would seek to impose their laws on our lands.’
Lord Braimond shook his head in disbelief. ‘Have you lost your mind? You would set us at war with the Greatcoats: the very men and women who not three months ago fought and killed a God!’
‘Theatrics,’ Evidalle countered, his eyes still on Chalmers. ‘Stories. The Trattari are flesh and blood, just like this one. The Bardatti turn their petty exploits into legends to instil fear in us – well, we too can turn such tales to our benefit. I spread the story of a delicately nurtured girl, stripped of her rights and soon to be ravaged by the big bad nobleman, and sure enough, one of the Trattari comes running right into my little trap.’
Lady Rochlan set down her wine goblet and rose from her chair, signalling with a shake of her head for her Knight to remain where he was. ‘What purpose has this ploy of yours served, Evidalle? You cannot expect us to believe that this rather shabby Greatcoat you have captured was your intended prize.’
‘My venture was a fishing expedition, I admit,’ Evidalle said, keeping his hand around Chalmers’ neck. ‘I would have preferred to have reeled in a nice big trout, perhaps even their so-called First Cantor, or the one who once claimed to be the Saint of Swords – but see how easily my lure has taken this little catfish? She will do just fine for a start.’
Chalmers, struggling to speak, wheezed, ‘The start of what?’
The Margrave leaned in closer. ‘War, my little minnow. When word of what I have begun here spreads, nobles across the country will set their own traps. The would-be Queen and her puppet Dukes won’t be able to protect their precious Greatcoats, and they will soon see that the only laws we will abide on our lands are the ones we choose for ourselves.’
He turned his gaze back to his guests. ‘Who will join me in the fight to free our country? Who will be the first to drive their dagger into the Trattari’s heart before we send her body floating along the river that it may find its way to Duchess Ossia’s doorstep?’
‘You—’ Chalmers started coughing.
Evidalle lightened his grip. ‘What’s that?’
‘You forgot something,’ Chalmers spat, ‘you repulsive man-child – you damned, damnable dung-eating worm—’
Several of the guardsmen raised their weapons to strike, but the Margrave shook his head and they stayed their hands. The smile he gave Chalmers was almost generous. ‘Go on, then. You’re bordering on poetry now. What final devastating curse would you utter for me?’
Chalmers tried to draw breath, but Evidalle had begun squeezing again.
‘The Greatcoats are coming.’
Evidalle stared at Chalmers – who looked surprised herself, for she was too busy being choked to have spoken. The Margrave spun around and started peering into the crowd of faces.
‘Show yourself,’ he demanded. ‘Who dares to say those words in my presence?’
No one answered. No one moved.
The Greatcoats are coming.
The words hung in the air like an incantation meant to conjure up swordsmen from thin air. The guards and guests had started looking around themselves, as if at any moment the sounds of horses’ hooves might echo along the wedding barge’s highly polished oak planking. The Knights kept their hands on the hilts of their swords, awaiting an invasion that never came.
Finally Evidalle broke the silence with a dismissive snort. ‘By the Saints dead and living, just look at all of you! Does the mere mention of their names steal the air from your lungs? Greatcoats? You fear a paltry few disgraced magistrates who march to the tune of the bastard child of a dead King?’
‘It’s not only the Greatcoats,’ Lady Rochlan pointed out. ‘Many of us have had to deal with their juries even after the magistrates themselves have left our lands. You play a dangerous game, Margrave.’