Once In a Blue Moon Read online

  “Yes,” said Christof, “I do. But I am a Prince of Redhart, and ready to do whatever is best for my country. I’m giving up something I love, so why shouldn’t you?”

  “Hush, boy,” growled King William, and Prince Christof immediately fell silent.

  The King looked as though he wanted to say something else, but he didn’t. No one was surprised. The King had always been cool to his son, ever since Christof killed his mother being born. And even if Christof had made himself into a popular warrior figure, the King had never warmed to Christof’s particular brand of cold intelligence. No one was surprised that the King gave all the affection he had to Catherine. As a result, the two children had never been close, though they had occasionally combined forces against a common enemy: their father.

  Catherine turned her glare on the Prime Minister. “You! Pool . . . This was never my father’s idea. He’s never given a damn about the border, or trade routes, before. You talked him into this! The arranged marriage was all your idea, wasn’t it?”

  “King and Parliament stand together on this,” said the Prime Minister quite calmly. “We have always been able to make the hard decisions, to do what is necessary, to preserve the security of Redhart. Now it’s your turn, Princess Catherine. But . . . the arranged marriage really wasn’t my idea. I can’t take the credit. The idea came from your brother, Prince Christof.”

  Catherine looked at Christof speechlessly. He smiled easily at her. “What can I say, Sister? Some ideas are just too obvious to be overlooked.”

  “I know why you made yourself part of the negotiating team,” said Catherine, and her voice was quiet and ugly and vicious. “I know why you did this. With me gone from the Court, Little Brother, you’ll finally have the uninterrupted access to Father that you’ve always wanted. Access to the throne! You’ve always hated it that Father preferred me as his heir!”

  Christof just smiled maddeningly at her.

  “Enough!” said the King. “I approved of the border skirmishes for years, because they were a good training ground for our young fighting men. But events have progressed beyond that. The situation must be settled! Before it spills over into something worse. You will leave Redhart for the Forest Kingdom first thing tomorrow morning, Catherine. And you will be married to Prince Richard before the end of the year. Is that clear?”

  Catherine lost her temper completely. Yelling and screaming at the top of her voice, cursing everyone before and around her with the foulest of language, and offering to duel anyone who thought they could force her into this farce of a marriage of convenience. She called her father an old fool, playing at politics he didn’t understand. Called the Prime Minister a backstabbing politician, determined to prove himself more powerful than the King. Called Christof a ball-less little turd who would sacrifice anyone to get his unworthy backside on the throne. And called Malcolm a coward, to his face, for not fighting for her.

  Nobody answered. No one said anything. Half the Court were embarrassed by her outburst, and the other half were quite clearly enjoying every moment. Some of them had notepads out and were jotting down the details, so they could dine out on them afterwards. Malcolm wouldn’t look at her; he merely stared at the floor before the throne with dead, defeated eyes. The King was cold, the Prime Minister was remote, and Christof was still smiling. And even as she raged and swore and shook her fist, Catherine knew it was all for nothing. The decision had been made. She only shouted and swore because . . . she had to do something.

  Eventually she just ran out of energy. She broke off abruptly, staring about her with wild eyes, like a deer brought to bay at the end of a hunt. Shaking, and shuddering. Malcolm turned to her and offered her a clean handkerchief from his sleeve. Catherine looked at it for a long moment, as though she didn’t recognise what it was, or what it was for. And then she put a hand to her face and felt the tears there. She took the handkerchief from him and scrubbed her face clean with a numb thoroughness. When she was done, she gave Malcolm his handkerchief back. And then, only then, she looked at the King.

  “Do we even know what this Prince Richard looks like?” she said.

  “Of course,” said the King. “Do you really think we’d marry you to a stranger? They sent us an official portrait.”

  He gestured sharply, and a servant hurried forward bearing a large framed painting. He held it up before Catherine, so she could look it over. The painter had done a good enough job, but once again the image was so stylised and idealised and just plain perfect that it could have been anyone. Catherine put her fist right through the portrait and punched out the servant holding it. He hit the floor hard and didn’t move again. Quite possibly because he was afraid to. The torn and broken portrait lay on top of him. The King shot bolt upright to stand before his throne and glare at his daughter.

  “That is enough! Or I will have you dragged from this Court, put in chains, and locked in your rooms under house arrest until it’s time for you to leave!”

  “Quite right, Father.”

  “Shut up, Christof.”

  Catherine glared back at her father unflinchingly. “You really think you can make me go through with this farce of a marriage?”

  “When you’ve had time to think about this,” said the King, “calmly and sensibly . . . you will see where your honour and duty lie. And then you will marry Prince Richard of your own free will.”

  “You have no other choice,” said the Prime Minister.

  Catherine looked around the packed Court, like an animal seeing the bars of its cage for the first time. She said nothing.

  “It’s not as if you’ll be going alone,” said the King, after the silence had dragged on uncomfortably. “You will have friends and bodyguards to accompany and protect you. Lady Gertrude will be your companion, and the Sombre Warrior will be your protector.”

  Catherine looked across the Court, and sure enough there was Lady Gertrude, smiling and nodding at her. Gertrude was a calm, motherly, middle-aged Lady, with a sweet smile and an implacable iron will. She had helped raise Catherine when she was just a small child, after her mother died so unexpectedly. And Catherine had to admit that she did feel just that little bit better, knowing she wouldn’t be going into exile alone but would have at least one good friend and ally she could depend on.

  Lady Gertrude was wearing her usual black dress, to show she was still in mourning for her one true love, killed when they were both still teenagers. He’d gone off to fight in the border skirmishes, to make a name for himself, as so many young men had. To prove to Gertrude’s parents that he was worthy. He went, and he never came back. A lot of young men went looking for fame on the border and found only death. Gertrude’s sad story was the first thing most people thought of when they thought of her, because she never let anyone forget that her life had been ruined by the border skirmishes, by the senseless loss of her one true love. There’d never been anyone else.

  There was even a tragic, minor, and not particularly good popular song about it.

  Gertrude came forward to stand before Catherine. She smiled understandingly and put out her plump hands to take both of Catherine’s and squeeze them reassuringly. Catherine barely reacted.

  “Do you think I should go along with this, Lady Gertrude?”

  “To go into exile, to the Court of the Land that killed my dearest love?” said Gertrude in her warm, even voice. “Yes, my sweet. Because it’s necessary. It’s time for you to grow up, Catherine, my dear, and take on adult duties and responsibilities. You must have known this day would come. You couldn’t hope to remain a careless child forever.”

  Catherine nodded slowly and pulled her hands away from Gertrude. She looked at the King. “Aren’t you afraid I’ll run away, Father, first chance I get?”

  “Not if you give me your word of honour that you won’t,” said the King. “And you will do that, before I let you leave this Court.”

  Catherine turned away from them all, to look at the Sombre Warrior, standing alone, as always. He stoo
d at the very back of the Court, joined to no faction or party. Mainly because no one else wanted to be anywhere near him. Even standing perfectly still and silent, with his great sword safely sheathed on his hip, the Sombre Warrior was a brooding, dangerous presence.

  A huge, hulking figure, in battered and much-repaired chain mail, he stood calm and impassive, his whole face covered by a chalk white porcelain mask, held firmly in place by leather straps. He had lost his face in a border battle, hacked and burned away, years before. Apparently his remaining features were so hideous now that he never let anyone see them. He wore his full face mask in public, and a full steel helm in battle. The mask had only a few deft dark brushstrokes on it to suggest features. There was no gap for mouth or nose or ears, just two small holes for his dark, unblinking eyes.

  The Sombre Warrior hardly ever left his chambers, except to go out and kill the enemies of Redhart on the King’s orders. He had never had a lover. There had been women, and some men, who found the Sombre Warrior an attractive, tragic Romantic figure, and would have been happy to . . . comfort him, without ever wanting to see what was behind the mask. The Sombre Warrior said no to all of them. To his annoyance, this seemed to encourage his admirers rather than put them off. There was no accounting for Romance . . .

  There were a few who’d tried to rip his mask off in public, for a dare or a bet or a laugh. The Sombre Warrior killed everyone who tried, and the King never allowed him to be punished, or even brought to trial, no matter how well connected the dead young men might have been, or who their grieving parents were. Everyone had left the mask strictly alone for some time now.

  No one knew his real name. He could have been any age, from any region, from any background. He was the only survivor of that fateful battle somewhere across the border. He came back more dead than alive, with a ruin of a face and most of his memory gone. The Sombre Warrior lived now only to fight the King’s battles.

  Catherine looked at him dubiously. The fact that the King was willing to send such an important and trusted figure with her showed how seriously he was taking this, but . . . Did this perhaps mean that the Sombre Warrior was now out of favour, and the King was sending him all the way to the Forest Land so he couldn’t talk about all those things he was supposed to have done on the King’s behalf?

  “What’s he going to protect me from?” she said sullenly to the King. “Wolves? Bears? Demons?”

  It was a sort of admission that she was going. That she had accepted it. The whole Court seemed to relax a little. The King sat down on his throne again and gave her his full and earnest attention. So Catherine jumped in before he could speak, just to make it clear she hadn’t in any way forgiven him.

  “I mean, the few remaining Werewolves are a spent force now that their leader’s run away. Everyone knows that. And none of the other brigands infesting the woods would dare attack a Royal carriage.”

  “Hunger and greed can make even the lowliest bandit brave,” said the Sombre Warrior. “I will be leading a well-armed force, six of the most experienced soldiers from your father’s army. I will not allow anything to stop you from reaching the Forest Castle, Princess. On my word and on my honour.”

  Catherine was quietly shocked, as were most of the Court. The Sombre Warrior didn’t normally speak in public. And no one had ever heard him say so much at one time before. His voice was deep and cold as it emerged from behind the porcelain mask, and slightly distorted. Catherine had to wonder how much of his mouth was left on that wasteland of a face behind the chalk white mask.

  And then everyone looked round sharply as General Staker pushed his way forward, to stand, almost but not quite defiantly, before King William. The General bowed, briefly and formally, and the King acknowledged him. As the King’s most prominent and experienced general, Staker had earned the right to be heard in Court, even if most people present didn’t want to hear what he had to say. Staker was an excellent strategist, a winner of battles, and was much admired by the populace. Mostly because they’d never met him. The worst that could be said (openly) about him was that he’d always been a little too ready to sacrifice his own troops to win a battle. But then, Staker had never given a damn about being popular. He just wanted to win.

  He looked more like a merchant than a soldier. Stocky rather than muscular, he dressed like a nouveau riche on the few occasions when he deigned to appear at Court, but he couldn’t quite carry it off. He had all of the arrogance but none of the style. He had a brilliant military mind, and had distinguished himself as a vicious and deadly fighter in the field. Staker liked to get his hands dirty and his sword bloody. He’d started off as a common foot soldier and rose rapidly through the ranks, mostly by surviving battles that so many others didn’t. The fighting ranks liked to think of him as one of their own, and Staker was always ready to take advantage of that. He was barely into his thirties, with a grim, impassive face, a shaven head, and a brusque, slightly forced charisma. He rarely raised his voice, but because he had a lot of political support from the more conservative factions in Court and Parliament—rather more than some people felt comfortable with—when Staker spoke in that grim, quiet monotone, people listened.

  He looked the King square in the eye. “You don’t have to do this, Sire. That section of borderland is ours by right. By ancient right. We don’t have to take it as a gift from the Forest, or give up our precious Royal blood to them. If they won’t give us what is ours, properly ours, then we should take it. It’s not too late. My army stands ready to—”

  He stopped talking immediately, as the King interrupted him. “I think you’ll find it’s my army, actually, General Staker. And I will determine how it is to be used. You have made your feelings on this matter very plain, on many occasions. Including in some very high-level meetings that I know for a fact you weren’t invited to. I will not go to war as long as there exists a better way. One that does not involve mass slaughter on both sides.”

  “Once a war is started, it can be very hard to stop,” said the Sombre Warrior, and once again everyone turned to look at him. “We would have to invade and take control of the whole Forest Kingdom. Even the Demon Prince and his demon army couldn’t manage that.”

  “You speak of legends!” said Staker quietly but forcefully. “I speak of peace with honour! What purpose is there in peace if we have to spit on our honour to get it? We can win this war!”

  The Sombre Warrior regarded him thoughtfully from behind his porcelain mask. “How many dead innocents is your honour worth, General? Or should that be, how much is your pride worth?”

  The whole Court began babbling loudly, talking over one another and arguing a hundred different positions all at once. They were having a great time. This was turning out to be one hell of a session. Not only was the Sombre Warrior actually having a conversation with someone, in public, but he was going head-to-head with General Staker and had all but called him a damned fool to his face. Some of the younger and more volatile elements were trying to nerve one another up to shout Duel! Duel! Duel! at them.

  “There is an old saying,” the Prime Minister said loudly, “that war is far too important to be left to the generals.”

  Staker looked coldly down his nose at him. “Equally old saying: never trust a politician. They’ve always got their own agenda. Or somebody else’s.”

  “Enough!” roared the King. His voice cut through the babble and silenced it in a moment, as he exploded off his throne to stand before it again. He glared impartially around him, until everyone bowed their head or bent their knee to him, including General Staker and the Sombre Warrior. Catherine didn’t, but then, nobody expected her to. And Prince Christof didn’t bow either. The Prime Minister studied him thoughtfully. He’d noticed Prince Christof not bowing to his father, even if no one else had.

  “The decision has been made,” said King William forcefully. “The marriage will take place. Catherine, you will leave here first thing in the morning, with your party. After you’ve signed an agreement o
f your own free will, vowing to abide by my will in this matter.”

  Almost blind with unshed tears, Catherine turned her back on him and strode out of the Court without waiting to be excused. Everyone gave her plenty of room and looked after her in silence. Many of the faces were sympathetic, but not enough to defy the King and say anything. Malcolm Barrett, King’s Champion, stepped forward to address the King in a calm, empty voice.

  “Do I have your permission to leave this Court and go after her, Sire? To say goodbye?”

  “Of course you do,” said the King. “I am sorry, Malcolm. You’ve always been a good right arm to me. I wish I could do more for you.”

  “I think you’ve done enough, Sire,” said Malcolm.

  He bowed briefly and left the Court. He too was followed by mostly sympathetic faces, but he was too preoccupied to notice. The King watched him all the way, till the doors closed behind him; there was honest regret in the King’s face, for everyone to see. He hadn’t had the heart to tell Malcolm that he’d known all about the unofficial engagement with his daughter, but that it could never have come to anything. He couldn’t allow his daughter to marry someone who wasn’t of Royal stock. No matter how loyal a Champion he was.

  The Prime Minister was still watching Prince Christof unobtrusively, expecting to see him look triumphant now that he was finally getting what he wanted. One step closer to the throne. But Christof seemed honestly sad as he looked after Malcolm. The Prime Minister hadn’t known they were that close. He decided he was going to have to think about that.

  • • •

  Malcolm didn’t have to go far to find Catherine. He found her standing with her face to a wall, in a nearby empty corridor, crying like she would never stop. He went up to her, and then hesitated, not sure whether to touch her. But she turned abruptly and threw herself into his arms, burying her face in his shoulder. Holding on to him like a drowning woman. She felt surprisingly small and helpless in his arms. He held her carefully, patting her back and smoothing her long hair. He didn’t say anything, because . . . what was there to say? Eventually Catherine spoke to him, her voice muffled against his shoulder.