Once In a Blue Moon (11 page)

“No,” said Catherine immediately. “It can’t be. I’d have heard . . . something . . .”

They looked at each other for a long moment, with wide, frightened eyes, and then they both started back across the gardens, heading for Castle Midnight. And the terrible decision that lay waiting for them.

•   •   •

I
t didn’t take them long to reach the massive stone Keep that provided the only main access to the Castle, a great looming structure with arrow-slit windows and a heavy portcullis—a blunt stone edifice designed solely to keep out the enemy. But that was long ago, and it had been centuries since the Keep had seen a sword drawn in anger, so now the huge stone walls were covered from top to bottom with endless intricate carvings, etched deep into the old, discoloured stone. Saints and sinners, heroes and villains, dragons and unicorns and mermaids. After so long a time at peace, the Keep had become a work of art. But the old arrow-slit windows still remained, the great iron portcullis stood ready to slam down at a moment’s notice, and the Keep was always, always, guarded. By men in armour who looked like they knew how to use the swords and axes at their sides. Malcolm stopped briefly to talk with the guards, but none of them had heard anything of war, or even recent Forest incursions into the disputed territories.

Catherine and Malcolm passed through the Keep and on into the Castle proper, each of them holding the other’s hand tightly now, for mutual reassurance. They moved quickly through the entrance halls and chambers, and hurried along the wide stone corridors, heading for the Court by the most direct route. They passed through oversized halls and galleries, built long ago on a larger than human scale, since Castle Midnight had been designed to impress, rather than for the comfort of its inhabitants. But down the long years, most of the heavy stone walls had been covered and decorated with all kinds of portraits and paintings. To take the edge off. There were passable portraits of important people, great scenes of important events and battles, and marvellous views from locations all across Redhart. Statues stood proudly in every nook and cranny, some painted and some not, depending on which era they were from. Representing great personages, Romantic ideals, and forgotten gods and goddesses from pagan times, who might actually have been visitors to Castle Midnight, back in those days when the Unreal was strong. There were glorious hanging tapestries, thick rugs and carpets of quite marvellous design and workmanship, some of them in urgent need of repair. Because while no comfort was too great or too expensive for King William’s Castle, money was short. The border skirmishes had been going on for years, increasingly expensive in funds as well as lives.

The very latest innovation was the yellow-flamed gas lighting that was absolutely everywhere now, inside the Castle. Marsh gas, from the massive swamps to the south of the Castle. An almost inexhaustible supply, apparently, though most people tended to pick up on the word
almost
. The gas was mostly pumped through hollowed-out candelabra, bright butter-yellow flames popping out where the wicks should have been. The flickering lights also hissed and glowed through stylised face masks, or gargoyle heads, the flames jutting from eyes and mouths. Catherine had been genuinely scared by them when she was a child. Though she would rather have died than admit that to anyone, even then. She didn’t much care for the gaping faces now, and made a point of ignoring the things as she stalked past them.

Malcolm knew. He’d always known, but never said anything. Because sometimes love is keeping other people’s secrets as privately as your own.

Some of the statues lurking in the Castle’s inner corridors were stranger and more outlandish than others. There were those who said these statues had been alive, back when Castle Midnight had been more Unreal, and that they’d been known to stomp loudly up and down the corridors. Given the monstrous shapes and attributes of some of the statues, everyone fervently hoped that they would remain just statues. There had been a serious movement, a few years back, to have all the more worrying statues smashed and destroyed, just in case, but King William put a stop to that. Because, he said, they were part of Castle Midnight’s heritage. And because they might be needed someday. The courtiers and politicians had looked at one another and chosen to say nothing. Most people preferred not to remember when the Castle had been home to so many manifestations of the Unreal, with ghosts and monsters and abominations walking openly abroad. Rooms that devoured their inhabitants, and doors that suddenly led to strange new worlds. That was all part of the past now, thanks to King William’s legendary grandparents, Good King Viktor and Queen Catriona, who together put down a rebellion by the Unreal, took away its power, and put the Wild Magic to sleep. For the good of all.

As Catherine and Malcolm finally drew near to the Court, they couldn’t help noticing that virtually all the corridors and passageways they passed through were packed with people—from servants to aristocrats and everyone in between, all of them chattering animatedly with one another. And all of them fell suddenly silent as the Princess and the Champion bore down on them. The conversation would of course start up again the moment the two of them were safely past and out of earshot. These people knew what was going on, even if Catherine and Malcolm didn’t. But no one would talk to them. In fact, people would look innocently at the two of them as they approached, and then back quickly away if they seemed to be getting too near. Some actually turned and ran rather than be pressed for information. Catherine was honestly baffled by such behaviour, being so universally beloved, but Malcolm thought he was beginning to understand. The Princess could throw a really quite remarkable temper tantrum, on the rare occasions when she couldn’t get her own way, with a tendency to smash anything she could get her hands on, and even assault people who didn’t back away fast enough.

He tried to slow down, so he could think things through in his usual slow and methodical way and work out what the hell was going on, but Catherine would have none of that. She was just too impatient, too desperate to know, and she hurried him ruthlessly on. That had always been her way, to meet her problems head-on.

•   •   •

W
hen the Princess and the Champion finally reached the Court, they were both astonished to discover that the huge double doors were firmly closed. The two of them had been hurrying along hand in hand, but Malcolm now made a point of quietly but firmly separating their hands as they approached the doors . . . and the guards standing at attention before the doors. The King knew all about the closeness of their relationship—everybody did—but it wouldn’t do to flaunt it in public. Some things just weren’t done. Catherine didn’t give a damn, but Malcolm understood propriety. He had tried to explain it to Catherine once, and she had called him a very rude word.

They stopped before the closed double doors. They weren’t usually closed when Court was in session. In fact, neither Catherine nor Malcolm could ever recall seeing such a thing before. And now, instead of the two usual ceremonial guards, there were a dozen heavily armed guards, all of whom looked like experienced fighting men. Malcolm recognised a few of them from past border skirmishes. He addressed them by name, but they just stared coldly back at him. The man in charge ignored him completely, addressing himself solely to Catherine.

“Princess, it is regrettably necessary that you remain here, outside the Court, while I send in a message to inform the King that you have arrived.”

“We were summoned here by the King,” Malcolm said quickly, as storm clouds gathered in Catherine’s face. “What is going on here?”

“I have my orders,” said the guard, still looking only at Catherine. And from the way he said it, Malcolm could tell there was absolutely nothing to be gained by pressing the point. Catherine opened her mouth to say something that would undoubtedly only have made matters worse, but Malcolm grabbed her upper arm and squeezed it hard enough to make her wince, then led her a suitable distance away from the doors. Which then opened just long enough to allow a single guard to enter, before quickly closing again. Catherine yanked her arm out of Malcolm’s grasp, glared at him, and then strode, scowling, up and down in front of the closed doors, rehearsing all the terrible things she was going to say to her father once she got inside.

Malcolm looked thoughtfully at the two huge statues, set on either side of the doors, of Good King Viktor and Queen Catriona. The facial likenesses were clear and detailed, but so idealised there was no way of knowing how accurate they were. Good people and wise rulers, everyone said, and a hard act to follow. Malcolm doubted they’d ever been kept waiting outside a closed door. They’d have just kicked the doors in and then walked all over anyone who got in their way. Catherine stopped pacing, to see what Malcolm was paying so much attention to.

“My great-grandparents,” she said. “You think they’ll ever put up statues to you and me? Doesn’t seem likely, does it? How can you hope to prove yourself when you’re brought up in the shadow of legends like those two? Makes me sick.”

“They were just people,” said Malcolm. “Doing their best in difficult times, no doubt. Read the real histories if you get a chance, not the official ones. And ignore the legends.”

“In this spooky old dump, history and legend are often the same thing,” said Catherine. “See that long couch over there? Do you think it would make a decent battering ram?”

Perhaps fortunately, the great double doors finally opened, falling soundlessly back on concealed counterweights. Catherine plunged straight forward into the Court, with Malcolm right behind and hurrying to catch up. As they entered the vast hall of the Court of Redhart, they discovered immediately that it was packed full of Lords and Ladies, courtiers and politicians, all of them dressed in their most formal attire. And every single one of them had been talking, loudly and animatedly, when the doors opened . . . only to fall silent the moment Catherine and Malcolm made their delayed entrance. The only sound in the Court now was the soft slapping of two sets of boots on the waxed and polished floor as the Princess and the Champion headed straight for King William on his throne.

He was looking right at them, and not in a good way. Malcolm felt sudden chills run up and down his spine. In all the years he’d served his King, he’d never known William to look at him in such a way. The courtiers and the politicians fell back, to the left and to the right, opening up a broad empty aisle for Catherine and Malcolm to walk down, funnelling them straight to the throne—just in case they’d been thinking of going somewhere else. Malcolm tried to read the expressions on the faces around him but couldn’t. Whatever had happened at Court, or was about to happen, it was important enough to have stamped the same fixed expression on all their faces. Most of those present wouldn’t even meet his eyes. Malcolm looked back at the King. His face was cold and set and determined, and completely unreadable. King William was wearing his most ornate and ceremonial robes, but badly, with little or no style. He was a large and blocky man, well into middle age, with iron grey hair, and his crown always looked subtly too big for him. The years of strain and endless responsibilities had taken a toll on him, but he was still a vigorous and overpowering presence. He’d always been the brute force type: everything forward and trust in Fate. But he could be subtle, and even crafty, when the occasion demanded.

He was still mostly remembered for beating a traitor to death with his bare hands, right there in the Court, in front of everyone. Because the man had been his friend . . . for so many years.

Malcolm could feel his own frown deepening, until it was actually painful. The more he saw, the less sense things made. What the hell were all these people doing here? Nothing of note had been planned for today’s session. As far as he knew. It finally occurred to Malcolm that he must have been quite deliberately kept in the dark about all this. Because whatever it was that had been decided, everyone knew he wasn’t going to approve of it. His unarmoured back began to crawl in anticipation of arrows from hidden archers. He hadn’t done anything wrong that he was aware of, nothing to justify sudden execution without trial . . . No, that wasn’t it. The looks around him were fascinated, not accusing. He glared about him and a great many people fell back, to give him even more room. Malcolm might not have the Princess’ fiery temper, but he was, after all, the King’s Champion and a decorated border fighter, and no one present doubted that he could be extremely dangerous if provoked.

Even if he didn’t have his sword with him. It had never occurred to him that he’d need it today.

The more he studied the packed Court, the more it baffled him. Everyone was dressed up in their very best, in a riot of blazing, glorious colours, like so many parrots and peacocks. Long, swinging robes and elegant gowns, even some highly decorated sets of ceremonial armour that must surely have been pulled out from the back of some very old and neglected closets. Set faces and staring eyes everywhere he looked, as if the crowd was waiting for a Tourney to begin and first blood to be spilled. Malcolm slowed as he finally approached the King on his throne, and he slowed Catherine too, with a hidden subtle pressure on her arm. Whatever was happening here, it was important. You just didn’t get this many notable people gathered together in one place unless it was for something really significant. Like a coronation, or a declaration of war. Malcolm’s thoughts raced back over the last few days, but he hadn’t heard anything. Had things really got so far out of hand with the Forest Kingdom, and he’d missed it because he was so wrapped up with Catherine? He looked at the Princess, who was still glowering angrily about her, but she was clearly just as much in the dark as he was.

They stopped before the throne, a surprisingly understated piece of furniture, given the Castle’s usual overpowering style, supposedly designed personally by Good King Viktor to replace the original. Which, like everything else, had been built to impress, but Viktor liked his comfort. King William sat very still, looking down on his daughter and his Champion. In Redhart the King ruled, though he was, always, very firmly advised by the elected Parliament. The King nearly always went along, because he trusted the judgement of his Prime Minister. If either man were ever to openly defy the other, there would be civil war. So everyone was always very careful to get along. The Prime Minister himself, Gregory Pool, was standing right beside the throne, his face as cold and set as the King’s. Catherine’s scowl deepened. For both of them to be here, so publicly close together, it had to mean that whatever important and significant thing had been decided, they were both in complete agreement about it.