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In the third week of Lawrence’s captivity, they took him out of the stable and threw him in the back of a dung cart. They chained him there, in the filth, and didn’t bother with any sort of covering. He was totally open to the elements, suffering through two thunderstorms during the long, slow ride west. Obviously he was going to Formacaster, but it seemed to take forever. Once, the breeze shifted, and over the persistent smell of shit, he caught a whiff of what he thought might be a river. The Trahern, maybe? But it turned out to only be in his fevered imagination. The cart rolled on and on, and he wondered if they were going to drive him around until he died.
He fell asleep and woke in the early morning, with the glass-topped towers of Wealdan Castle looming over him. Soldiers unchained him from the cart and bustled him into the stables, where he was doused with water and pushed into a brass tub.
One of the officers handed him a razor. “You can shave your beard with that, if you like,” he said. “Or you can slit your throat. It doesn’t really matter to me. If you shave, though, you’ll be taken right over to wait on the king’s justice.”
Suicide might be preferable to whatever they had planned next for him. He gave it some serious consideration for a few minutes. But he didn’t want to be remembered as a coward. Let the Gramirens kill him if they wished. He wasn’t going to do the job for them.
Servants came in and laid out clothes for him. The trousers were too tight; the tunic was too short. It didn’t matter, really, but he felt awkward and uncomfortable. No doubt that was intentional.
His guards took him across the stable yard and up the front steps of the castle. The Palm Court was full of knights and nobles and ladies. All the lords of the west and south—the ones who had sided with the Gramirens—were here. Lawrence had last seen some of them on the battlefield at Erstenwell.
They all surely knew who he was, but no one met his eye. Most people seemed to look straight past him, like he was already gone. It felt odd to be back in Wealdan Castle and be so completely ignored. The last time he had been here, he had been a member of the privy council and the brother of the queen. He had been a man of considerable importance. Now people edged out of the way whenever he came close. Perhaps he hadn’t scrubbed the dung off well enough. Or maybe it was the stench of failure that offended everyone.
He saw the Duke of Keelshire near one of the waterfalls, speaking with some of his retainers. His grace had been an ally before his city fell to the Gramirens. Perhaps he might be willing to help. Lawrence started toward him, but the minute the duke saw the earl approaching, he turned and walked the other way.
“Coward,” thought Lawrence bitterly.
The only person who spoke to him at all was the duke’s daughter, Hildred. She had been standing apart from her father’s group, in the shadow of a large fern. Now she came over to say “hello.”
“I hope you’re being treated well, my lord,” she said.
“As well as can be expected, I suppose,” he said stiffly.
“Is your family...well?” she asked.
He almost didn’t answer her. But if he didn’t talk to her, who was he going to talk to? “They are, as far as I know.”
He had never imagined that he would ever speak to Hildred again in his life. The girl had caused a scandal by seducing Princess Elwyn, and then she had tried to sell Edwin to the Gramirens. Edwin could have had her executed, but he’d decided to show mercy. If only the Gramiren king were similarly merciful. Lawrence wasn’t holding out much hope of that.
From one of the upper balconies, a fanfare rang out, and a herald announced that all those who sought the king’s justice could now approach the throne.
“That’s you, my lord,” said one of the guards.
Already the Palm Court was emptying toward the throne room. Ladies in their best jewels and knights in new surcoats jostled for position. But they all made room for Lawrence. Ahead, on a long dais, two enormous black and silver thrones had been set up. Those were new since the last time Lawrence had been here.
Broderick the Black and his queen, Muriel, sat watching the crowd arrive. The king had a serene, impassive look; a foreign observer who didn’t know the man would probably think him the model of sober virtue. Lawrence knew better. Broderick was a reptile.
The queen looked triumphant. She nodded and smiled to her special favorites in the audience. From time to time, she would turn and address a cheerful word or two with her daughter or her son, who sat on either side of the thrones on low, gilded camp chairs.
Lawrence’s guards herded him to one corner. The herald came out in the center of the floor and read out a list of Broderick’s stolen titles, then declared court in session.
From the opposite side of the room, guards parted the crowd and led Duke Hugh and Duchess Flora to the dais. Lawrence hadn’t seen either of them since the morning of the battle. Like him, they had been given new clothes that didn’t really fit. Duke Hugh wore his with dignity, though. He looked as imperturbable as usual. It was the look of a man who knew the worst might happen, but had the consolation of knowing it wasn’t his fault. Lawrence envied him.
Flora’s dress was made of fine material, but the design was shapeless and frumpy. She had a streak of white in her hair, too. She looked her age. In fact, she nearly looked like a madwoman or a vagrant. It didn’t help that she kept casting furious glances around her, as if desperately trying to find a way to escape.
The herald read a list of charges against them—grossly inflated, of course. It would have been enough to call them traitors. But the Gramirens had insisted on accusing them of everything from bribery to murder, as well. Flora was even charged with adultery, which proved to be a mistake. A few people looked at Lawrence when that charge was read, but most looked at Broderick, who had been Flora’s paramour for years. There was even some laughter. The king’s face reddened slightly, and he scowled at the lord chancellor, who had been the one to draw up the charges.
But this minor embarrassment was not allowed to delay the proceedings. The herald asked the Byrnes if they were willing to kneel and be reconciled to the king’s justice. Hugh shrugged slightly and knelt. Flora took longer, glaring at the king and queen for a few moments, and then easing herself slowly down to her knees.
Muriel laughed. “Yes, I suppose at your age, Flora, the joints are a bit stiff, aren’t they?”
“I judge you both guilty,” said Broderick the Black. “But in the interests of peace, I have been persuaded to pardon you.” Some murmuring ran through the crowd. “There are three conditions.” He waved a hand toward his wife.
“The first and greatest condition,” said Muriel, “is that you agree to marry your son Andras to our daughter, Donella.”
“Agreed,” said Hugh, with another tiny shrug.
“Fine,” said Flora. “You can do what you like, so there’s no point in objecting.”
To her right, Princess Donella beamed. She wiped her eyes—was she actually crying tears of joy? Lawrence found it tasteless. The girl could at least have made an effort not to look so thrilled about the humiliation of her future in-laws.
Lawrence knew damned well that Donella and Andras were in love. And he knew equally well that Elwyn hated the idea of marrying Andras. But royal marriages weren’t about love. They were about which noble families were in the ascendant, and which were in decline. He had fought hard to promote a good, politically advantageous marriage for Elwyn, and the stupid girl had thrown it all away. If only she had agreed to go ahead and do it.
“The second condition,” Muriel went on, “is that you surrender some of your estates to the crown and to some of our loyal nobles. Don’t worry; we won’t leave you destitute. But it’s only fair to spread the wealth around a bit, don’t you think?”
Hugh and Flora nodded. What else could they possibly do?
“And finally,” said the queen, with a particularly vindictive grin, “my last condition is a very personal one: that you, Duchess Flora, will never again be permitted to dye your hair.”
There was widespread laughter at this—starting in the throne room and spreading back through the crowd to echo around the Palm Court. People nudged their neighbors and asked, “Did she really say that?”
Poor Flora quivered with rage and humiliation, but again, she could only nod her head. Her shoulders hunched, and when the guards led her and her husband away, she looked as if she had aged ten years.
Now it was Lawrence’s turn. The guards led him up to the thrones, and just like the Byrnes, he was obliged to kneel. He didn’t lower his gaze, though. He kept staring right into Broderick’s eyes so the man knew Lawrence wasn’t truly beaten.
“Do you have anything to say for yourself before I pass sentence?” asked the usurper.
“I was trying to serve the rightful king.”
“You were trying to gain wealth and power for yourself,” said Broderick. “It would have been better for us all if you and your family had stayed in exile.”
Muriel spoke up. “My brother Arthur—the Bishop of Leornian, as you know—always likes to say that it’s through our failures that Earstien teaches us. If that is true, you must be the worst student in Myrcia.”
The usurper, like many in the chamber, chuckled at this. “It’s true,” he said. “I beat you at Formacaster. I beat you at Leornian. I beat you at Keelweard. And now I’ve beaten you at Erstenwell. Honestly, Lawrence, when a man finds out he’s no good at something, he should probably stop doing it.”
“You’ll have to kill me,” he said.
“Very well,” said Broderick. “I sentence you to death.”
There was a hush around the room. A few of the more obnoxious, obsequious courtiers tried to clap, but they stopped when no one joined in. “This is it,” thought Lawrence. “This is how it all ends.”
Then the queen cleared her throat. “Yes, a sentence of death is most just, my dear. But if I may, I think that some...postponement might be in order. I think that our dear Lawrence might still be of some use.”
She and Broderick looked at each other. The king raised an eyebrow. The queen smiled. Lawrence had a bad feeling that whatever they planned was going to be worse than an execution.