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“The first week of July, and no later.”
Broderick read the lord chancellor’s letter again, hoping there might be some loophole in there to exploit. But he couldn’t see one. Apparently his lordship was putting his foot down and insisting that the Gemot meet and settle the question of succession once and for all. He was willing to give Broderick a few days to prepare for the vote, but there could be no more open-ended delays.
Broderick crumpled the letter and threw it across his office. The chancellor, the Earl of Ardenford, was Rohesia’s uncle, of course. And if he was now insisting on a final vote, then the queen’s party was sure they would win.
But that wasn’t the worst news he got that morning. Not even an hour later, Colonel Rath arrived with Ned Slorcus and two other scouts with a truly terrifying report. It seemed the Sigor forces had finally left Stansted, and were moving much faster than anyone could have expected. They were headed southeast, straight for Formacaster, and they apparently were bringing big siege engines on barges. Those would be courtesy of the Duke of Newshire, blast him. Combined with the Trahernshire and Keelshire troops northeast of the city near the Summer Palace, this was a serious threat.
It wouldn’t be enough to ride out with a few knights and trick the divided enemy into doing something stupid. The Sigors had enough troops to mount a real siege of the capital now. He could hardly ask the Gemot to support his rule when he clearly didn’t control any part of the country beyond the city gates. It wouldn’t matter that the privy council had condemned private armies all those weeks ago. Once an army got large enough and had enough nobles leading it, that army became the national army, even if it didn’t technically have a king at its head.
Everything would have been different if he’d known exactly where Lukas was, and whether he had an army assembled yet. But the last message from his old friend had arrived four days ago, and it contained nothing more definite than, “Things looking propitious.” Broderick knew Lukas had to be very careful, lest his messages go astray, but he did think a little less mystery would have been nice.
Rath’s men said the new Sigor army was marching in the name of “King Edwin” and spoke openly of putting Broderick on trial for the attempted assassination of the king. No doubt they’d heard about it straight from Caedmon Aldred, who had probably relished the opportunity to make Broderick look as awful as possible.
“How many people know about this right now?” he asked the colonel.
“Just us, sir,” Rath answered. “But it’ll be all over the marketplace tomorrow, I’m sure.”
If he couldn’t stop bad news from getting out, he could at least shape how it was told. With the help of his two squires, Rath, and the scouts, he quickly drafted letters to every major nobleman who was still in the city. He informed them each individually of the threat to Formacaster and, in his capacity as captain general, he asked that they supply troops for the city’s defense.
Then all he could do was wait. Muriel came by with the chorister-in-chief of the cathedral to discuss the music for the royal wedding, but Broderick barely heard a word they said. For all he knew, his daughter-to-be might be planning to walk down the aisle to the tune of “The Fair Maid of Brawley,” and if she had been, he wouldn’t have cared.
In the early afternoon, replies started trickling in, and very few of them had any good news. His staunchest supporters, like Baron Corbin and Baron Ercenwald, pledged troops immediately. But a disturbing number of nobles claimed they were unable to do anything at the moment.
Most ominous of all was the note from Duchess Flora, who said that she would “require some time to gather any significant number of men.” Which was a blatant falsehood, of course. Flora had several hundred soldiers camped southeast of town in the Crown Lands. Maybe more than that by now. She might as well have written, “Sorry, Broderick, dear, but you’re on your own.”
The lowest point came that evening, when he and Muriel had the Bishops of Formacaster and Leornian, as well as their wives, up to Muriel’s apartment for supper. It had been intended as an informal discussion of the wedding and coronation, as well as a way of building support among the clergy in general. But the Bishop of Formacaster dropped a metaphorical turd during the very first course, when he suggested that perhaps they might consider putting off the wedding for a while.
“I’ve never thought it’s good for young people to rush into these things,” he said.
Muriel’s jaw quivered and her nostrils flared. “And why not, may I ask?”
The bishop blushed and said, “Oh, you know. Things are so unsettled politically right now.”
All Broderick could think was, “He knows. He’s heard about the troops west of the city, and he’s trying to stall for time.”
But over dessert, a miracle happened. William Aitken arrived, apologizing profusely for the interruption, and took Broderick next door into his own apartments, where a man in mud-splattered clothing was waiting. He was a messenger from Lukas, and Broderick tore the letter from his hands in his eagerness to read it.
My dear fellow,
I’m risking a few more details, since it occurs to me that you’d better start preparing for my arrival. My usual booth at the Hawk’s Nest, of course, and a bottle of the best Rodvin. And maybe a new girl or two. Plus, you might arrange a little welcome for some friends I’m bringing with me. Three thousand of my own fellows—levies and mercenaries both. Eight hundred more from the Duke of Haydonshire (I’ve assured him you’re good for their pay). And twelve hundred, courtesy of my esteemed cousin, King Galt, who sends his regards and reminds you that you still owe him a drink.
We’re three days out, I believe. Four if the weather turns to shit.
Yours,
Lukas
Broderick almost couldn’t contain his glee, and he had to wait a minute or two before he could compose himself and go back to Muriel’s dinner party. He walked right up to the Bishop of Formacaster and said, “Your grace, I wonder if you will be seeing the lord chancellor anytime soon.”
“Why, yes. As it happens, my wife is having him over for cards tomorrow. Why?”
“Because you can tell him I want the Gemot recalled. And I want it ready in two days.”
As he had expected, the news was all over Formacaster by the next morning. The queen’s supporters, like the chancellor, were caught by surprise, and seemed (from what Rath’s agents said) to be completely confounded as to the reason for Broderick’s sudden change of heart. Many of them sensed a trap, but they didn’t know Lukas was coming, so they couldn’t begin to guess what was going to happen.
On Saturday morning, the banners hung again in the festival hall, and the nobles—far fewer now than before—filed in and took their seats. Some of the Sigor nobles wanted to begin by discussing who had tried to kill Edwin Sigor, but that was a pointless, infantile attempt at distraction. The main argument began when the Earl of Grieffenberg got up and mentioned the rumors of a large army of Sigor supporters west of the city.
Broderick let the discussion go on for a few minutes. A Keelshire baron mentioned the stories of an army camp northeast of the city, too, and asked if the captain general was planning to force the city to endure a siege, or if he would negotiate with the attackers.
“I see no point in negotiating,” Broderick said. “I intend to defend this city, because I am the rightful king.”
Outraged gasps came from the remaining clusters of Sigor supporters. “How dare you say that!” cried a baron from Wislicshire.
Broderick stood up and smiled. “Give me a moment, and I will show you exactly how I dare.” He left the hall at a jog and went straight to the library. A few whispered words later, he had Finster’s Book in his hands, and he returned with it under his arm. On the way, he passed a serving girl who, seeing what he was doing, tripped and dropped an entire tray of wineglasses.
Back in the hall, he carried the book up to the chancellor’s lectern, where he slammed it down with a reverberating crash.
“There it is,” he said, turning to take in the stunned faces of the assembled nobles. “Now I dare any of you to move it. I know the spell. I have the book. Right now Duke Lukas of Severn is approaching the city with a force of five thousand men to serve under my command.” Gasps of astonishment at that. “I am the rightful king, and everyone here knows it. You can make it official later. Right now, what I want to know is who will help me and Lukas defend this city.”
Dozens of nobles leapt to their feet, calling out that they would support him. He basked in their cheers, but all the same, he noticed that at least half of the Gemot was still firmly seated, refusing to help. No, probably more than half. Cowardly bastards were going to wait to see how the battle turned out before pledging their support. Duchess Flora, sadly enough, was among their number, and Lady Jorunn’s support was tepid at best.
“My student, Evika, and I will defend the castle if it is attacked,” the hillichmagnar said. “But I think it would be best if we waited for word from the Freagast before doing more.”
As the meeting broke up, and the Duke of Haydonshire led the way to the council chamber to start planning their defense of Formacaster, Duchess Flora stopped Broderick and pulled him into a side parlor.
“I’m sorry I didn’t stand with the others,” she said. “But I’m still not sure what to do.”
“Support your king,” he said.
“Yes, well that’s the whole question, isn’t it? Broderick, darling, I want a straight answer from you. I want you to look me in the eye and say it. Did you order that assassination attempt on poor Edwin?”
He held her gaze with his most sincere look—not quite a smile, but a look of complete, satisfied self-confidence. “I promise you I did not. To the best of my knowledge, the Immani did it. So will you help me?”
Flora looked away, shaking her head. “I’m not sure. I don’t know, my dear. I just don’t know.”