lea (![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
angevin2.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thisengland2010-08-26 08:52 pm
angevin2.livejournal.com) wrote in thisengland2010-08-26 08:52 pm
Entry tags:
[FICATHON] Gimmors and Devices, part 3/4
Part I
Part II
IV. Rebels and Kings
Time's glory is to calm contending kings,
To unmask falsehood and bring truth to light. -- The Rape of Lucrece, Lines 990-91.
Three months after the supposed Richard II had claimed his majority ("Truly?" the Duke of Gloucester had murmured. "I had not thought you would be twenty-one for a year, let alone twenty-two") , stripped the Dukes of Lancaster, York and Gloucester of their authority and turned their positions over to his favorites, Anne of Bohemia hied herself to Pleshey—without so much as a lady-in-waiting or an escort to trouble her--to ask Eleanor one vital question: "Nell, why did you build such a thing?"
Eleanor—fresh from her laboratory when the Queen arrived and looking more than a little crumpled and grease-stained—stared at her, bewildered. Pushing her protective goggles up onto her fair head with one be-gloved hand, she answered as best she could. "Build what, Your Majesty?"
Anne sighed. "Not 'Your Majesty.' I come here today not as a queen but as a friend. And I beg you to speak to me—preferably in your laboratory."
"Haven't you heard?" Eleanor said with a flash of spitefulness. "My laboratory does not exist."
"Yes," said Anne. "I had heard that. Doubtless you are wearing a butcher's apron, cambric gloves, safety goggles and grease on your nose as a fashion statement." She gave Eleanor a patient glance. "You didn't have to rush out to meet me in that state, you know."
"To tell you the truth," Eleanor confessed, "I'd all but forgotten what I was wearing. So much has gone wrong of late. I'm trying to fix it."
"I understand," Anne replied, then looked upward. "The laboratory, Nell?"
"I don't know that that would be a good idea—"
"Yes, it would," said a voice so close behind Eleanor that she jumped. "She needs to speak to both of us." And Martha gave Anne a delighted smile. "Besides, I've long since wanted to meet her."
Anne gazed at a dark-haired girl with Richard's eyes and Richard's face as a boy. Eleanor gave Martha a decidedly exasperated look and then sighed.
"Laboratory," she said. "Now."
***
It took less time to explain than Eleanor had expected. Martha's presence lent credence to much of what she was saying.
When she was done, Anne gave her a look that was an odd admixture of anger, hurt and confusion. "You had to know that this was a bad idea."
"Oh, yes," sid Eleanor. "But what would you have had me do? The king commanded it. And no manner of persuasion could make him countermand that order. He would not listen. And—forgive me, Anne—but as the daughter of a man who was slain in secret by a king and on the very weakest of evidence, I dared not disobey."
"Did you really think he would hurt you?"
"He made it clear that he distrusted all delays," Eleanor said with a sigh. "Even those that were caused by lack of materials or expense or the simple fact that none of this had been done before. I feared that he would begin to blame Thomas for all this...and the displeasure of a king can be fatal."
"And all that beside," Martha added, "you wanted to see if you could do it—and you wanted this all the more because the king didn't expect you to succeed."
"Yes," Eleanor admitted. "That, too." She forced herself to look Anne in the eye. "What will you do now?"
Anne's gaze was pure steel. "Your gimmor is running the country now."
"Say rather, Henry Green and his minions are running it," Eleanor snapped. "Never did I give such instructions to Rhisiart as he is giving now. I can only conclude that Green has altered Rhisiart's programming somehow...though in what ways I won't know until I can examine his brain."
"I hardly think that any of that is important when the true king is...missing."
"I doubt if he is dead," said Martha. "It would be practical, yes. But Green loves power too much. To have the power of life and death over a king while secretly ruling the country through his poppet—that'd be a rare snoutful for such as he."
Anne stared at Martha in wonderment. "You truly can think."
"Aye, and mull matters over, and form opinions, and even change my mind," Martha replied. "I was designed to think like a human, and not a machine, after all. And so was my brother."
"I think she's right," Eleanor said. "Richard is likely alive—though not in the best of shape. We need to free him—and we need to free Rhisiart's mind."
"And quickly," said Anne with a sigh, motioning Eleanor to seat herself on the laboratory's workbench. "You are fair buried here in the country; you know not how bad things are growing. Poverty and famine are spreading over the land; in Essex, Surrey, Kent and Middlesex, I have counted over seventeen thousand poor and homeless Jewels and plate I've sold to buy food and clothing for them, and still their numbers increase each day. And what does your creation do? He gives orders to build a feast-hall for ten thousand! He wastes his substance in purchasing plumed Spanish hats and Polish shoes with pointed toes so long that they must be bound to his knees with pearl-studded chains of gold! And when he travels anywhere, he must have four hundred archers in attendance!"
"Considering the temper of starving people, that last might be wise," Eleanor said, thinking that the queen herself looked ill from worry; she was pale, and her eyes were sunken deep in her face. Then an ugly notion occurred to her, and would not be banished. "Anne? Out of curiosity, how is your own health these days?"
"Poorish," Anne said. "I seem to have no strength. And even when I eat, I'm generally ill afterwards. But that isn't important--"
"Yes," said Eleanor, "I rather think it is. Green has never liked you or your influence on the king—yes, I know the king is not a human at the moment, but he was designed to learn and to adapt. I wonder if Green thinks that you could persuade Rhisiart to disapprove of current policy. If you could, then all of his machinations, including kidnapping the king would be for naught."
"But I can't," Anne replied. "I don't know how! And," she added in a lower voice, " I speak as one who's bedded the creature."
"Really?" Eleanor considered this for a moment before blushing and asking, "Er...how was he?"
"Nell!"
"Could you have kept from asking?"
Anne laughed ruefully. "No, I suppose not. He was...kind. Not at all interested in the proceedings but quite determined that I enjoy myself. There are many mortal men who are not so considerate...and even more who would not assume that a virtuous woman could enjoy being wanton for a change.
"But it was not his style of seduction that told me that this was not Richard. When I began to fall asleep that night, my head on his chest, I heard no heartbeat. And I felt something humming in the chest beneath my fingertips. I could not imagine what this was, but it didn't seem inclined to harm me."
"Unlike Green," Eleanor said grimly. "Who, I think, has found at least one poisoner other than the Franciscan Mafeo."
"You think he would kill me."
"I do."
"But why?"
"Because the commons love you and you could be a rallying point for rebellion," said Martha. "Because your death would remove one more person who could influence the king. Because your death would break Richard's soul in two and make him amenable to almost anything. Because both Richards care for you—and this I know, for was I not an early model of my brother? Because Green hates you. Most of all..because he can."
"You think it likely, then, " Anne said, taking a deep breath, "that the poisoning has already begun."
Martha nodded.
"Anne," Eleanor said, "let me send for a doctor. A gifted one, not affiliated with the palace. I could send for Na Floreta Çanoga of Aragon, if Queen Sibila will spare her. Or Na Bellaire and Na Pla of Lérida--"
"It would take too long to send to Aragon," Anne said with a sigh. "And even supposing that Green has not suborned anyone who dwells so far away, I must still return to the palace where my poisoner dwells. So how can I escape?"
A wicked thought suggested itself to Eleanor then. "Perhaps—in a coffin." Swiftly she explained what she meant.
When she was done, the laboratory rang with Anne's laughter.
***
It was just as well that Eleanor had something to focus on, for all across England, things were growing steadily worse.
At the suggestion of Tresilian (who was, in Green's opinion, a lawyer most excellent at smelling out bases for undreamt-of taxes), the brasshead ordered the land filled with blank charters—a form of tax that compelled any who received one to sign and seal it, agreeing to pay the king what amount the king should request in the future. Given the mounting famine and the king's extravagance, no one believed that these demands would be small...or even reasonable.
And the charters were everywhere. It would have been bad enough if such demands had been made solely of those who possessed some wealth; the demand would have been unjust, but it most likely would not have ruined the rich. But the king's favorites (who had now added a hanger-on called Scroop to their group) felt that any man who owned anything—be it a merchant's shop, a hardscrabble farm, a peddler's cart or one ancient donkey—could and should be given such a charter, as well as any wealthy widow...and was it not fortunate that all widows according to proverb, were rich? Moreover, any who grumbled at the blank charters,whispered that the king's new councilmen were unjust, sang satirical songs or even whistled a tune that had had unflattering words grafted onto it, were immediately adjudged by the favorites' servants and flatterers to be dangerous and hardened traitors, and were clapped in prison to await hanging.
And if the property of traitors was confiscated by the state, and therefore splashed into the purses of king, councilmen and constables alike—well. Surely that was but a coincidence.
And to top it all off, the brasshead had agreed to divide the realm into four parts, making Green, Bagot, Bushy and the undeserving Scroop wealthy beyond dreams of avarice.
Green knew he should have been satisfied...and yet there were still several distinct problems.
The first was Anne of Bohemia, who was at her manor in Sheen, reportedly ill. Of course, this was all to the good...but Green could not help but recall that where sick people were, doctors were likely to follow, and he did not relish the notion that the queen might be given an antidote to the poison he'd so lovingly crafted.
The second problem was John of Gaunt's son, Henry Bolingbroke, who was now the Duke of Hereford. It was, Green admitted, marginally possible that Bolingbroke didn't know what a threat he was—that he hadn't heard the whispers of princes and peasants alike that the royal duke was both canny and honorable. However, for his money, there was no such thing as an unambitious noble...or, for that matter, an unambitious human being. Any man said to lack ambition was clearly a liar, dead or both.
The third was Thomas of Woodstock, Duke of Gloucester—who, like Anne, was in the country and well-guarded, and who, like Bolingbroke, was too canny and too popular for safety. He had not done much that was threatening, but by staying in his manor far from the palace, he was out of Green's reach. Even worse, the supposed king kept asking for Gloucester, even inviting him back to court without Green's knowledge. The fact that the brasshead had done this, despite the fact it was supposed to be wholly his creature now, was more than a little disturbing.
He had tried several other operations on it to compel it to behave as if it hated Green's enemies, whether they were around or not. None had worked. When his foes were present, the brasshead was fine. When they were not—it could not behave as if it hated them. It didn't seem to know how to sustain such behavior when there was nothing to react to.
An I do nothing, Green thought grimly, the brasshead will summon Gloucester back from the country, beg his pardon—yes, even for attempted murder—and invite him onto the Council again. It may even strip us of our lands and power to do right by Gloucester.
This wasn't to be borne.
All he could do was remind the brasshead over and over that it was angry, even outraged. Indeed, he'd been doing so this past half hour while it lamented that its dear uncle would not return from the country at its request. But he could only delay so long before they had to go meet with the rest of the council,. There was no more time.
He could only hope that what he'd said had taken.
He was almost certain it hadn't.
The conversation in the Great Hall some ten minutes later went even worse than he'd expected.
"Our uncle will not come, then?" the brasshead said in a bewildered voice, just as if it hadn't said this hundred times already.
"That was his answer, flat and resolute," Green replied in a testy voice.
"Was ever subject so audacious?" the brasshead said. The words were right—but the tone was plaintive, like a child who had been hurt but didn't know why.
"Can Your Grace bear these wrongs?" Bagot asked, helpfully feeding the brasshead a line.
I've told thee the answer to this a hundred times, Green thought at the brasshead. Now, answer as I have taught thee, thou thing of no bowels!
"I bear them as a mother bears seeing her child dismembered by conqueror or tyrant," the brasshead said. "I tell you, Bagot, his churlish taunts have left such scars within my heart that the wounds are still filled with gall and festering—and nothing will soothe those scars until I see his blood poured out before mine eyes."
The words would have been more convincing if the brasshead had not followed them with a glance at Green that said more plainly than words, Did I do it right this time?
"Send soldiers to his manor, then, and fetch him here," Green said, ignoring the imploring glance as best he could.
"I dare not," the brasshead replied. "He's too well-loved to be treated thus; the whole realm would rise in rebellion."
Oh, so you have learned that lesson, Green thought bitterly.
Tresilian saved the situation. "I know a trick that would fetch him from his manor at Pleshey without the need for soldiers."
"Tell us what it is, then!" Green commanded. "For without some plan to help us, we're all doomed."
"'Tis simple enow," Tresilian said. "Since the Duke is still in the country, we'll send some friends down to Pleshey today dressed as masquers. And tonight, claiming that some neighbors sent them to cheer him and his family, they will offer to perform and gladden his heart—and who would refuse that? And when the dance and revels are done, and any witnesses gone, they'll cut off the Duke from the rest of the herd, stuff him into a costume that enshrouds him and cover his face with a mask, and steal him from the house."
"What if he cries out?" That was Scroop—who, in Green's opinion, was none too bright.
Tresilian nearly sprained his eyes, he rolled them so hard. "What do you think that masquers' drums are for, Master Scroop? And even if anyone hears cries for help, a masquer may play at any scene—even one of wailing captives."
"And afterwards," Green said, thinking matters out as he spoke, "we'll turn him over to the governor of Calais—he's newly arrived, and he's brought a deal of soldiers with him. We can send Gloucester back to Calais, and there will be no risk; neither the commons nor his brothers will know where he's gone."
And once he was on shipboard...well. There were so many accidents that could befall a man at sea.
No need to say that out loud, of course.
The brasshead nodded. "Yes. I like well that notion, Green. Tonight, you and I will be among the masquers--"
Green just barely kept himself from gasping, "WHAT?" He didn't object to killing...but to be so blatantly involved in a conspiracy to kill one of Edward III's sons and to speak of it so openly very nearly made him ill.
"—while you, my Lord Tresilian, make proclamations against mine uncles York and Lancaster, accusing them of treason...and once the proclamations have been made in public at least once, arrest, imprison and condemn them. And if the commons rebel, I'll—I'll send to the King of France for help, and he can have Guynes and Calais back for his efforts." The brasshead smiled charmingly. "What say you to that?"
It sounded like a disaster in the making to Green. Yet it was his own idea, his and Tresilian's. He had no excuse to refuse.
At least he could ensure that he'd be well paid for this idiocy.
"I think that it sounds most rare, Your Majesty," he said, favoring the brasshead with a bright and meaningless smile. "And now, was there not some talk of dividing the realm?"
***
"I'm glad you came today," Anne said that afternoon when Eleanor arrived at Sheen bearing a large rectangular canvas-covered box with her. Eleanor had had to open it wide before the queen's servants would let her bring it in, and only the fact that it was stuffed to the brim with sugared almonds, gingerbread, marchpane, honey wafers, candied orange peel and pynades stuffed with raspberries and blackberries had made the canvas box remotely acceptable.
Anne couldn't blame them. It was a battlefield coffin—lightweight, alchemically waterproofed and easy to transport. And no one wanted to be too close to a coffin, even if it was filled with cakes and comfits.
Which had bought them some privacy. Thank God. She would be glad to escape from this manor and this room. She'd been trapped here for five months. Even scientific miracles, it seemed, took time...although it probably would have been easier if Eleanor hadn't had to take time away from her science to give birth to her daughter Philippa three weeks before.
"I would have been here earlier," Eleanor said, kneeling beside the coffin and unpacking all the food that the servants would believe was cursed and would devour anyway because the country was starving. "But growing your corpse took longer than I expected."
"I was beginning to run out of illnesses that no one wants to get too close to," Anne replied. "I went from lung-flux to smallpox to madness induced by brain fever—that one was easy, I only had to lie in bed and writhe about and mutter about odd things like oysters being infested with demons. I don't know what I would have done at the end of the week if you hadn't arrived. There aren't many people who survive the Black Pest."
"I'm sorry," said Eleanor, looking apologetic. "The tank in which she grew…well, it wasn't hard to build; even Bacon built one, once upon a time. But it took an ocean's worth of power...both to feed her and to maintain her as she grew. Especially as she grew past babyhood. The tank would keep breaking down at the worst times. Well, she's done now." She removed the last few honey cakes, then studied the naked body beneath all the sweetmeats. "What think you? Will she pass muster with those who do know you?"
Anne stared down at what might have been a younger and thinner version of herself. "It's like looking at a somewhat younger ghost. You're sure she can't come back to life?"
"She never lived," Eleanor said patiently. "You can't restore life to something that never had it. But just to be on the safe side, I used light refracted through a ruby to cut into her brain. It took some delicate work, as I had to go in through the nostrils without leaving a single cut on her skin, but of course Martha helped me there. God might be able to wake her now—but no revivifier could."
"I'm glad." Anne gazed down at her twin that had never awoken. "I wouldn't want her to be enslaved by the likes of Green."
"Nor would I," Eleanor said with a heartfelt sigh. "Though if it weren't for the likes of Green, I'd not have minded if someone revivified her."
"If not for Green and his minions," Anne pointed out, "she would not need to exist at all. Now, do you need help getting her up on the bed?"
Eleanor blushed. "I'm afraid so."
"No need to be afraid. The Queen, after all, is dead. I'm simply an ordinary grass widow from Germany whose husband abandoned me for wine, frolics and song. Very commonplace. It happens every day." She picked up her twin's feet, then frowned. "Once we get her upon the bed, I think we should try to find a nightdress for her. It's November, after all, when the damp seeps into your bones."
Eleanor nodded fiercely. "Are you ready?" she asked. "Heave!"
It took five or six "heaves" before the twin was on the bed and at least ten minutes thereafter before she was properly dressed. Then, together, the young women rolled her under the covers.
"What now?" said Anne.
"We ride back to Pleshey," said Eleanor. "I think you would be better off dressed as a footman or a guard."
"You think that I'd make a convincing man?" Anne's lips twitched in amusement.
"I think you'll make a ridiculous one," Eleanor retorted, beginning to repack the coffin. "You're far too short for the average run of men, and it will be hard to conceal your breasts in any case. But I'm hoping that anyone who sees you will only notice the servant's clothing, think, "Oh. Funny-looking young man" and forget about you."
"And what about you?" Anne said, mentally conceding that Eleanor had a point. "I can't think that my doctors will be eager to let you leave after you've been exposed to pestilence."
"I'm not even supposed to be in your room. I'm supposed to be down in the chapel, praying for you. I had to sneak out of there in a hurry because one of your footmen confiscated the box and left it near the kitchen." She glanced ruefully at the figure half-buried beneath the bedcovers. "I don't think that he or the cook would have handled finding her amidst the marchpane very well."
"So you're being pious and sad and offering up your prayers to keep me from dying."
"Well—that's not far off what I did do," Eleanor admitted, closing the box. "If you consider work the same as prayer, that is. Wait here. I have to take the box downstairs."
And she did, eventually depositing it beneath the staircase. "It looks like a place where a servant lad or lass might conceal something," she said after she'd returned upstairs. "Especially a treasure trove of sweets."
"Why," Anne said, "are you so determined to get everything done in such a hurry?"
Eleanor grimaced. "I'm not sure. It's just—it's been too long since the king's minions made an attempt on Thomas's life and liberty. Especially Green. I can't believe he's suddenly turned peaceful and decided that Thomas is no threat to his ambitions. It's not his way."
She glanced uneasily at Anne. "And last night I had a terrible dream. Thomas was riding in the woods when he was surrounded by an angry lion leading a pack of ravening wolves. They were ready to pounce and devour him, but then a flock of foolish sheep raced toward lion and wolves, desperate to save Thomas. And then the lion killed both sheep and Thomas, and roared of his heroic triumph."
Anne heard all this with a sinking heart. "Dreams have been warnings before."
"Thomas," Eleanor said, anguished, "does not believe in dreams."
"Are you armed?"
"With a shortsword beneath my cloak, a dagger strapped to my thigh, and the tools of a good Baconian. And you?"
"I have a dagger at the ready"--Anne touched one hand to her leg—and bows and quivers a-plenty in the armory. Help me find some clothes that will pass muster, and quickly!" Anne tossed a long loose shirt onto her back and rummaged about for braies and hose. "For the instant I am dressed and armed, we ride for Pleshey."
***
They arrived at Pleshey almost at the same moment as the masquers and soldiers, all visible from a distance, were positioning themselves.
"I should have known better," Eleanor muttered. "All my experimenting and discoveries have done naught but imperil my husband and children.
"They also saved your best friend's life," Anne replied. "If not for you and Martha, I'd not be here tonight; for, forget it not, she diagnosed the nature of the poison I'd been fed and concocted an antidote long before you grew a body to place in the grave Green had opened and left yawning behind me. And belike they saved Richard and the nation two years of torment at Green's hands before your brasshead's mind was stolen and he was forced to be what God—or you—never intended. You've worked wonders, Nell. 'Tis not your fault that my husband trusted—aye, and loved--a fallen angel and his minions."
Eleanor reached for the other woman's hand and squeezed it. "Thank you."
Anne gazed at the masquers. "There's something wrong with the way the masquers look and move. Have you a spyglass with you?"
Eleanor reached for her horse's saddlebags, opened one, felt about inside, then pulled a small spygass from the bag and passed it to Anne.
Anne lifted the spyglass to her eye. "I cannot tell—their faces are all covered with animal masks."
"There's more to the way people look than faces," Eleanor said. "Watch them a bit."
Anne was silent for a while as she stared through the spyglass. Then, "They're nearly all of the same size!" she burst out. "The same height, the same long and spindly limbs, the same way of moving...save for two. Both are tall, but one moves hesitantly, drawing away from the other masquers and then drawing close. And the other is his very shadow, gazing up at him over and over again—and whispering, I'll wager—just an instant before the hesitant one draws near his fellows again."
"Someone," Eleanor murmured, "does not want to be here. And the others?"
"They move like the world's most perfect dancers, each making the same movement or gesture or step with equal grace." Anne removed the spyglass from her eye and turned to Eleanor with a troubled expression. "The sameness of their motion is...disturbing. It's like watching the dead dance. Of course, the masks don't help."
Eleanor went white. "Oh, this is obscene."
"What's wrong?"
"Stiff, immobile faces on bodies that do move perfectly with none of the small clumsinesses most people possess? Does this not remind you of Martha?"
"Brassheads!"
"Yes," Eleanor said steadily. "Brassheads. Probably built by Green himself. I doubt not that he's one of the two not moving properly."
"I don't understand. What's obscene about this? At least he couldn't get human beings to agree to this—"
"A brasshead," Eleanor said, her eyes blazing with the conviction of the true believer, "is not to be used to harm a human being in any way. It's a standard part of their programming, and has been, by custom and law, since the time of Bacon's students. And yet these brassheads have come to Pleshey to do harm—to kill or to turn my husband over to the soldiers to be killed, I know not which. This shouldn't be possible." Her voice reverberated with horror, as if she had seen a man clubbing his wife to death using a screaming baby.
Anne gaped in the direction of the masquers...and then closed her eyes. "I know who the hesitant one is," she said softly. "Your Rhisiart. Or whatever remains of the brasshead who once bore that name."
There was a shocked silence.
"Yes," Eleanor said at last. "Green would have brought him. For a thousand devilish reasons, he would have." She turned to Anne. "We have to save him, as well as Thomas and the children."
At that moment, the drawbridge to Pleshey was let down and the masquers strolled inside.
"Calm yourself," Anne whispered to Eleanor. "Their forces are divided now."
"I doubt if we can kill them all, even so."
"We may not need to." Anne motioned to her friend to dismount. "Follow me, and bring whatever you have in your saddlebag."
Which, they discovered when they got somewhat closer to the castle, was very nearly everything. Eleanor had skimped on changes of clothing, but she had not taken any chances when packing scientific equipment. Tools, nuts, bolts, screws, copper piping, steel bases, a few jars of canned lightning, string, wire, sulphur, phosphorus...oh yes, there were plenty of things to work with. Anne couldn't imagine what Eleanor would do with any of them, though.
"We don't have much cover here," Eleanor said with a sigh, staring at the castle and tower standing tall on a high man-made hill and flanked by two castle yards. "Well, I'll have to do the best I can. Can you spare me some of your arrows?"
"You can have them all! Just hurry!"
Eleanor worked swiftly. The first thing she crafted was a metal ball of brass about the size of Anne's head which was covered with dials and mirrors, shrouded in skinsilk that had been brushed with phosphorus, and implanted with a pocket phonograph. The second was a remote to control it. The third looked like a cross between a miniature cannon and a crossbow made of copper, though Anne had never imagined a bow that could fire three bundles of arrows in three different directions at once.
"Now we are ready," she said. "Lie down flat on the ground, Anne. This is going to be a target...at least, until it gets close enough to do what it's designed to do. And I don't want to use the repeating crossbow before its time."
Anne obediently lay down flat on the ground—but kept her head turned to one side so that she could see what was going on. She had no intention of missing this.
Lying down beside her, Eleanor clutched the remote fiercely in one hand as the fingers of the other danced over the keys. "For science!" she growled as the phosphorescent ball lifted itself majestically into the air.
Anne stared at it. "How?"
"A combination of canned lightning and an internal steam engine, of course," Eleanor whispered back. "Now, quiet. I don't want them to hear."
Anne still didn't see what good a ball would do, even if it was floating in mid-air, but then—as if Eleanor had read her mind—the ball turned toward her.
She nearly shrieked. For the ball's skinsilk covering was a mask-like face—empty sockets that nevertheless occasionally glittered with silver, rosy pink skin (which was somehow worse than if it had been dead white, nostrils instead of a nose and slack reddish lips that were just barely open, as if they were about to speak.
"What is that horror?" she whispered as Eleanor twisted a dial on her remote and made the thing drift across the meadow to the shrubbery near the motte where most of the soldiers were trying to conceal themselves.
"You'll see," Eleanor whispered. "At least...I hope you will."
This was not precisely reassuring.
As the ball drew near the shrubbery, an arrow flew at it.
Eleanor punched two buttons, and the ball moved deftly to one side.
"Hold!" snarled an angry voice that clearly belonged to the commander. "Don't waste your arrows on a will o' the wisp!"
For a moment, there was silence. Then a young man—probably the archer—said in a strangled voice, "My lord...will o' the wisps do not dodge arrows. Only things that live do that."
"Or that have lived," said the ball in Anne's voice.
Anne gaped at Eleanor, who gave her an impish grin. "Pocket phonographs are such useful things, are they not?"
"It speaks!" This soldier sounded far more frightened than either the commander or the archer had been.
"It's a trick!" snapped the commander—who, Anne had to admit, she would have quite liked if he'd only been on their side.
"No," said the ball. "In life...I was Anne, Queen of England."
"Lies!"
The archer spoke up again. "My lord, I did hear when at the local pub this day..." The rest of the sentence trailed off into unintelligible mutterings, but Anne was certain that the young man was whispering of her many illnesses. Why not? They'd been been common knowledge for months now.
"I heard nothing of her death," the commander said, sounding considerably less certain than he had.
Eleanor's fingers moved over the remote and the ball spoke. "I did perish when that appeared in the sky this eve." And the ball appeared to nod at the night sky.
And now there was a strained silence, for strange sights had been seen in the skies that year, and tonight was no exception. A bright sphere of blue -white light blazed in the sky, surrounded by a pale white halo. It looked like an enormous wheel, endlessly turning, and it was no surprise that many folk had dubbed it the Wheel of Fate. Anne thought it an eerie sight herself, for all that Eleanor had told her that England had simply been blessed this year by a series of fireball meteors.
"Why come you here?" asked the archer. "Er...Your Majesty."
"I do come here because you threaten my closest friend and her family," the mask-shrouded ball said. "I cannot countenance that! I forbid you to harm her or any of her household!"
There were murmurings at this that perhaps it would be best to give the queen what she asked for. The commander, however, was not having any.
"We are here at the king's command."
"Nay," said the masked head in a sorrowful voice. "The king gave not that command, nor knows it has been given."
The commander's voice rang out in challenge. "And if we do attack the castle or seize her husband and children? What then? What dire punishment have you in store for us?"
Eleanor fiddled with the buttons on the remote, and when the masked head spoke again, its voice was still recognizably Anne's, but slower and deeper, and filled with sepulchral echoes. "Do you think that I would punish you for harming an innocent, her husband or her babes? I am but sent to warn thee. An you do obey these false commands, the very vengeance of God shall fall."
"Destroy it," said the commander. "We've heard enough blather."
"But sir--" protested the archer.
"Do it!"
But before the masked head could become a target once again, it shot straight up into the night sky toward the fiery wheel, its mask glowing with an odd, greenish-white phosphorescence. "Remember," it wailed. "Remember, you were warned..."
And then it dove behind the castle.
"A mark to the first man who hits it!" shouted the commander.
"My lord," said the archer, "it's gone. We cannot strike what is not there."
"Follow it, then!"
And a few men did follow it...though, Anne noticed, with quite a bit of nervousness and not a scrap of enthusiasm. A few minutes later, they returned. "'Tis gone, sir. We saw no trace of it, nor heard its voice."
"It can't be gone! Search again."
Another search followed. They too found nothing. As a third group made ready to search, something moved in the shadows near the castle. Slowly, slowly, so slowly that it was almost painful, the masked head approached Anne and Eleanor as it floated bare inches above the earth, clinging to the shadows.
"They're looking for it at man-height or above," Eleanor whispered as she removed the mask, stuffed it back in her toolbag and then put the floating ball in there as well. "It had a human-like face spoke with a human voice and floated at a height level with human eyes, you see, so they're thinking of it as human-sized or more. By this time tomorrow, half the men in this company will believe they saw the pale shade of Anne of Bohemia, crowned and robed like a queen. And the other half will swear that they saw an angel mount up to the sky on wings of fire."
Anne thought about this. It made sense, but she wasn't sure it would be quite as effective as the copper crossbow.
But as she watched, she saw groups of men slipping away in groups of two, three or four. It was clear that most of them had no liking for any assignment that asked them to harm the Duke of Gloucester or his family and that they were choosing to take the floating head as a sign from God. Soon, less than a quarter of the original soldiers—including the stubborn commander, who cursed the air blue with his words about deserters—remained.
"Now do we use the crossbow?"
From inside the castle came a hideous sound—that of metal being torn and twisted. A moment later, a leg of brass and copper came flying from one of the castle windows.
"That for your brassheads, Henry Green!" A woman cried out, her tone exultant. "And that! And that! And that!" Each "that" was punctuated by the sound of shattering crystal and shrieking metal.
Anne turned bewildered eyes toward Eleanor. "Who--?"
"Who else?" Eleanor asked, a wicked glint in her eyes. "Martha."
Of course. A brasshead could not cause harm to come to a human—but another brasshead was fair game.
"Take a look through your spyglass," Eleanor said. "Do you see anyone wincing?"
Anne peered through the glass. "Aye. Just one. And one other staring at the sounds as if they make no sense to him."
"Green and Rhisiart." Eleanor glanced at Anne. "Let's get them both."
They could not make straight for the shrubbery; that would have meant cutting across the meadow in front of the castle's hill, which would have left them with no cover at all. Instead, they went back the way they'd come and circled around, approaching the shrubbery from the back. It was a slower way...but the only safe way.
As they drew near the bushes where the remnants of the army were concealed—and there were only twenty at most, counting the commander, Green and Rhisiart—they could hear Green and the commander arguing.
"It's no good," the commander said, as if he'd said all this before and would stoically say it again. "Your brassheads are smashed, the men have fled, and something claiming to be the Queen—I do not say that it was Good Queen Anne's spirit, but it vanished swiftly enow—has told us now that God's wrath will fall upon us if we do not stop. You say it was a brasshead. Mayhap it was...but my men and I can't find it, and one thing I do know about contrivances made of metal is that they don't melt away into air."
"We are here," Green said between clenched teeth, "at the king's command."
"So you say," replied the commander, sounding distinctly unimpressed. "But that lad by your side—if he is the king--hasn't given a single command while I've been standing here."
Green turned to Rhisiart. "My liege," he said in the most obsequious tone that he could manage while so furious, "this common knotty-pated fool does dare to question your authority!"
"Isn't he the one with the authority?" Rhisiart replied in a bewildered tone. "I thought that he was a hardened soldier, and that this was to be a battlefield. And why do you mock him for being of common blood when your own father was a plain man from Northamptonshire ere my grandfather made him a knight?"
"My liege," Green repeated, this time in a dangerous tone.
"O, leave me be!" Rhisiart buried his face in his hands. "And call me not 'my liege' or 'Your Majesty' or 'my prince,' for indeed such titles belong to those who rule, and what to do I rule, cruel Green? England? Not so. For if I rule England, thou rulest me, and what manner of king cannot rule himself? Nay, do not even call me 'Richard of Bordeaux,' for the name sounds as hollow in mine ears as the wooden clappers of a leper. I have worn so many winters out, and know not now what name to call myself! O! that I were a mockery king of snow!"
"I call you Rhisiart," said Eleanor, stepping forward, copper crossbow in hand. "Do you remember me?"
Rhisiart stared at her, a lost expression sweeping across his face. Beside him, Green was as still as death. "Not well," he said at last. "But I do dimly recall some shadow of a time before I knew myself to be a king, before the only instructions in my mind were his." He glanced at Green and shuddered.
"Your Majesty," Green said, smiling, "how could you possibly know this raggle-taggle beggar maid? Belike she has bewitched you, or cursed you with a fever, or sent a lying spirit in the guise of your wife--"
"Thou?" Anne said in a voice that dripped icy scorn as she pushed through the bushes' branches to face Green. "Thou, of all people, accusing others of lying? A snake could accuse a hot kettle of hissing and be more convincing." She drew her sword and dagger. "And I have had a bellyful of your lies."
"Don't kill him," Eleanor said. "I need him alive."
Anne turned a smoldering glare on her friend. "Do not expect me to spare him."
"Who spoke of sparing him?" Eleanor replied, glancing at Rhisiart sadly for a moment and then gazing at Green with eyes that were chips of glacier ice . "Hurt him as much as you like. I need him alive—not intact."
The chill rage in her voice startled Green, and he took a step backward.
That was a mistake. Anne advanced on him like a hunter advancing on a wounded wild boar—with a watchful eye and a cautious step, but without a moment of hesitation, doubt or fear.
She drove her dagger hilt-deep into his shoulder. "That," she said, yanking it free as Green moaned and his blood spurted, "is for that poor wretch you've enslaved. And this"-- she stabbed the dagger into his inner thigh--"is what you have done to the country. And this"--she drove the sword into his stomach--"is for all the ways that you've hurt my husband and me."
"Husband?" said the commander, sounding confused. To his eyes, Anne resembled a young footman.
No one paid him the slightest bit of attention.
Eleanor studied Green's hemorrhaging body. "Speaking as a student of anatomy, I don't believe that he'll survive that."
"Good."
"It might make finding Richard a trifle more difficult..."
"I think not. Green had a limited number of manors, after all. I know he never would have trusted anyone save himself to hold Richard captive. And he never shipped Richard off to Calais or Guynes; my husband has too many allies there. No, he kept Richard close. I doubt if he did range so far as Northumberland, let alone Scotland or Wales. We'll find him, and that right soon." Anne gazed down at the dying man. "Do you mind?"
"Not particularly," Eleanor admitted. "I wasn't looking forward to questioning him. Bushy and Bagot might object, but I can't think of anyone else who would."
"Tresilian, perhaps."
Eleanor brushed that suggestion off with a dismissive wave of her hand. "I'm fairly sure that you could claim that it's a royal prerogative to execute traitors. God knows, that excuse has been used before."
"Royal?" said the commander weakly.
"Yes," said Eleanor. "I realize that we're not looking our best at the moment, but then I doubt if many people do look their best after a battle." She frowned. "I realize that you have orders, but could you please just call out to the castle and tell my husband—truthfully, mind you—that you've changed your mind and you're not going to kidnap or kill him?"
It was a mad request. Men simply did not abandon battle at the request of bedraggled women who claimed to be the Duchess of Gloucester and the Queen of England.
On the other hand, it had been a mad night.
"I thought the queen was dead," the commander said, sounding grievously uncertain of this.
"Oh, she is," said Eleanor cheerfully. "The queen's lying quite dead at Sheen this very minute. And she's also here, very much alive. And no brassheads or revivifiers involved, either."
The commander stared at her for a minute, and then turned to Rhisiart. "Er...Your Majesty--"
"Do not call me that!" Rhisiart exclaimed. "I beg of you, do not!"
The commander decided that obedience was best. "Who is this woman?" he asked, nodding toward Eleanor. "And who's the one dressed like a footman?"
Rhisiart looked bewildered. "Why, this is my maman. And the other is my twin brother's wife, Anne."
The commander gaped at him. "Your twin."
Rhisiart nodded.
The commander turned to the archer who had noticed the floating head dodging arrows. "Marshal," he said, "go tell the castle that we surrender."
"Without a fight?"
The commander closed his eyes. "So far tonight two women have summoned either a ghost or an angel, demoralized ninety per cent of my troops, recaptured the mind and will of a king and slain a tyrant. Now, they may not be the Duchess of Gloucester or the Queen of England, but at this point I think that they've proven that they can be anyone they want. And if we oppose them, I do believe that they'll make mountains float next."
He knelt down in the icy mud before them. "My ladies, we surrender to you and to the inhabitants of the castle. Is that satisfactory?"
"It is," said Anne, motioning Marshal the archer to bear his message to the dwellers of Pleshey Castle. Then she glanced at Eleanor. "What next?"
"Well," Eleanor sighed, "after Thomas lets us in to Pleshey and we get cleaned up, the first thing I need to do is find out what Green did to Rhisiart. Because knowing that could help us find Richard. And once Rhisiart is functional again, we need to make for Hereford."
"Why Hereford?" Anne asked in bewilderment. "Henry Bolingbroke is no ally of Green and his ilk."
"I know," Eleanor said. "But it's likely that we'll have larger armies to deal with soon. And we have a lot of ground to cover looking for Richard, and not much time to do so. Which means we'll need Henry. Because not only is Henry a good soldier—and stubborn enough to stand against his father, if it comes to that—but more importantly, he knows how to pilot a hot-air balloon."
***
The Brasshead War—which also became known as the War of the Twins-- lasted about eighteen months...roughly sixteen months after Richard of Bordeaux's escape from the Ghost Tower of Green's castle in Warwickshire.
Anne, unknowingly, had changed the nature of his captivity by stabbing Green. Even after one of Green's few human servants found his three-days-dead corpse—a Dominican chaplain with standing orders to revivify, for Green had no intention of remaining in Hell if he could possibly avoid it...well, there was a reason that people were revivified immediately after death and not days, weeks or months afterward. And while some men had come most of the way back after delayed revivification, most who had risked it had found themselves sadly changed.
And so it was with Green. Though his revivification was technically a success, his post-death self lacked much of his old intelligence and memory. He could scarcely remember who Bushy and Bagot were, much less all of his old machinations to control the country. Though he could not tell what he had lost, he knew that he had lost something vital, and it maddened him.
Nor could he be said to enjoy a healthy body once he came back what had to be called life. He was living—his heart beat, his blood flowed in his veins. But the mark of death remained on him—his eyes very slightly deflated, his skin lightly greasy with the first stage of putrescence. He was an abomination, a mockery of everything that a revivified person could be. By the time he was captured again, trial and executed for treason—at the command of Henry Bolingbroke, who was acting in the name of his cousin Richard—Green's second and permanent death was a relief.
Thanks to Green's conviction that brassheads made the best gaolers and soldiers, Richard very nearly died. Green had not anticipating losing any of his masked brassheads during the attempt on Pleshey, much less dying himself; indeed, he had not thought of the assault lasting more than a night. The fact that he had sent virtually all of the brassheads who knew where Richard was and that he had to be fed seemed irrelevant. Surely, Richard could fast for one night.
After four days and four nights with no food and no water, Richard faced up to two grim facts:
1) No one—inside or outside the castle--knew where he was except for Green and his monsters. The monsters hadn't been around for several days. And Green, oddly, didn't seem in a hurry to come back and gloat.
2) There seemed to be absolutely no way out of here. He was in a cell with no windows, a wall with a one-way mirror, and a locked door. His bed was a pile of straw, and he had one tunic to his name. And one stinking privy hole.
Nothing to work with. Nothing at all.
Except...
Richard gazed at the straw pallet and the privy hole and began to smile.
***
Stuffing straw into an overfilled and gassy privy hole, using part of his tunic as a wick, and then lighting the wick on fire wasn't even remotely heroic, and Richard didn't think that the best balladeer in Europe could have done a thing with the tale, but nevertheless it worked. It blew a hole in the floor, which enabled him to drop down from his cell into a (mercifully) empty and open one—not without injuries, but you couldn't have everything—and from the open door to the stairs.
Had this been a normal castle, the explosion would have caused all sorts of comment and commotion. But the few remaining brassheads were only geared to attend their instructions, nothing more, nothing less. So no servants came flying to see what had caused the explosion; no guards raced toward Richard's cell at the first sign of trouble. The brassheads did not even note that the explosion had taken place.
However, the fact that there were no human servants also meant that there was no food and no clothing for Richard to steal. And, by the time that he had freed himself (and was bitterly aware that he could have done so much earlier if he'd just thought of the method), it was January—a bitter, vicious, iron-cold January.
That Richard survived at all was due to the kindness of common folk: a monk here, a farmer there, a fishwife somewhere else. Oh, there were those who were cruel and selfish, but most were kind, helping him when he was hungry or ailing...and always, always warning him away from those who swore they were defending the realm in the name of King Richard or collecting food for his soldiers.
"There isn't even a real King Richard," one old grandmother confided to him. "The thing they call King Richard is just a poppet. King Henry in't perfect by any means, but he's human and alive."
That was the first time that Richard heard of Henry Bolingbroke referred to as "King Henry." At first it outraged him—how dare his cousin try to steal his throne! But as time wore on, he learned that Henry was searching for his lost cousin, who was presumed dead by everyone but Henry, Eleanor of Gloucester and Richard's wife.
It was reassuring. Someone was looking. Someone cared.
In March, he heard of a meeting between the acting king and his council that would be held the following month in Westminster.
And by the day of the meeting, he was there.
***
The meeting, in Richard's opinion, was odd. He'd never seen his uncles try to persuade a brasshead to abdicate before. Nor had he ever seen a brasshead—and one clad in cloth-of-gold, yet!--so stubbornly refusing.
"I will not abdicate the throne. The throne is not mine to surrender." The brasshead gazed about the room in what looked like desperate appeal. "I will not forswear a crown that is not mine and that I had no right to wear in the first place. The king wanted me to exist so that someone else would reign for him when he was ill or tired—no more. I was never meant to take over. That was Green's idea!"
"You still do swear, Rhisiart, that you know not where Richard of Bordeaux may be?" That was John of Gaunt.
"I do so swear. I don't know where he is."
"Nor his body?
"So far as I know, he lives. I have heard of nothing that persuades me to the contrary."
York spoke up then. "You will agree that it would be better for the ship of state to have a captain."
The brasshead—Rhisiart—nodded. "A good leader is always better than no leader. Of course...no leader maybe better than a bad one."
"But since no one can find Richard..."
It went around and around like a millstone in a mill. At last John of Gaunt spoke up. "I ask you, Hereford, to answer as if you were not my son. Do you covet the throne?"
Henry's answer rang out. "I do." He glanced at his father. "Now, let me answer the questions you should have asked. "Do I think that makes me unusual? No. Do I think that my cousin the king is dead? No. Do I wish for harm to come to my cousin that I may take his throne? No! Do I think he made mistakes? Yes, and grave ones. Do I think that he should lay aside his crown and scepter because of his errors and Henry Green's betrayal? I do not!"
He gazed solemnly about the room. "And were he here this instant, I would tell him so."
The words seemed to shout themelves. "But I am here!"
And Richard stepped forward, a wretched, ragged figure in homespun.
For a moment, there was silence...and then a perfect babble of voices. Before anyone could summon the guards, however,, Anne stepped forward, gripped his bearded chin in her hand and gazed up at him. After a few moments, she beamed. "It is you! Where have you been?"
And after that, there was no help for it. He had to explain about his captivity...and about his wanderings up and down the country since.
"I wasn't a good king," he said softly. "I know that now. The greatest wrong I did was in telling Eleanor of Gloucester that I wanted her to craft a gimmor who would rule for me when ruling was troublesome or tedious. I pressed her on this, though she told me time and again it was unwise. And I made many demands of Rhisiart"--and Rhisiart looked up, astounded that Richard had noticed him. "Too many, in fact.
"Henry has done a good job." This he had to admit grudgingly. . "And I suppose I should turn the government over to him, for he's proven that he can do it.. But I think that if having a gimmor rule for you when ruling is inconvenient is wrong, then how can abdicating to avoid shame and failure and the anger of others be right?
"So I cannot abdicate," he said in a heavy tone. "I cannot be irresponsible again. So I do propose this: that Anne and I rule jointly—for you know she cares for the commons and would not advise me to do anything ill—and that, if we have no children, that Bolingbroke be deemed our heir. He has at least proven to be a good ruler in my absence. I think that would be just."
And, after some debate, his uncles agreed. But at a cost.
"The brasshead," York said firmly. "It has to be destroyed. It is not safe. What happened once could happen again. It is not the creature's fault...but it cannot continue to exist."
To everyone's surprise, Rhisiart agreed. "I am a threat. And though I don't wish to bring harm to you, I could do so just by continuing to exist..." Its voice trailed off. "I—I would not want to do that."
As the room fell silent, Eleanor—who had no business being there, Richard knew, but who had contrived to be here anyway—spoke up. "If...if he has to be destroyed, then let me do it. He's my responsibility."
Gaunt and York nodded. As little as possible.
Richard turned away.
So he didn't see Anne slip off to speak to Eleanor and Rhisiart before they left. Nor did he see Eleanor's face momentarily light with an impish grin.
***
Richard didn't see Eleanor again until Christmastime, when she brought a surprise to the palace. A rather large surprise, in fact. And one that she insisted on giving to Anne and himself in private.
"Why, what have you brought?" Richard asked...and still feeling a bit awkward. It could not have been easy for her, destroying her creation.
"Not what," Eleanor said with a smile. "Who." She glanced at Anne. "This is from both of us, you might say. Anne's been working with me for months to make sure that the gift is absolutely perfect." She turned and beckoned to a figure standing in the shadows just outside the bedchamber.
The man standing there was familiar—and yet he wasn't. Something in his features that said he was a cousin. Yet at the same time, he bore a striking resemblance to a former favorite who had been dark-haired and dark-eyed.
He bowed, and gave Richard and Anne a smile that was both wry and sincere. "A pleasure to meet you...again."
Richard almost jumped. The voice, too, was a blend—partly his favorite's and partly the voice of someone who shouldn't be here at all.
"Rhisiart?" he said with a whisper. "How did you escape?"
"Rhisiart?" the man said, looking amused and then favoring Richard with a look that said "I'm lying to you, so pay attention." "Rhisiart was destroyed. Completely. You wouldn't want another threat like that around. It wouldn't be right."
"Then who are you?" Richard asked, barely breathing.
The man gave him a mischievous smile. "Anne says to call me Robbie."
FIN
notes are here
Part II
IV. Rebels and Kings
Time's glory is to calm contending kings,
To unmask falsehood and bring truth to light. -- The Rape of Lucrece, Lines 990-91.
Three months after the supposed Richard II had claimed his majority ("Truly?" the Duke of Gloucester had murmured. "I had not thought you would be twenty-one for a year, let alone twenty-two") , stripped the Dukes of Lancaster, York and Gloucester of their authority and turned their positions over to his favorites, Anne of Bohemia hied herself to Pleshey—without so much as a lady-in-waiting or an escort to trouble her--to ask Eleanor one vital question: "Nell, why did you build such a thing?"
Eleanor—fresh from her laboratory when the Queen arrived and looking more than a little crumpled and grease-stained—stared at her, bewildered. Pushing her protective goggles up onto her fair head with one be-gloved hand, she answered as best she could. "Build what, Your Majesty?"
Anne sighed. "Not 'Your Majesty.' I come here today not as a queen but as a friend. And I beg you to speak to me—preferably in your laboratory."
"Haven't you heard?" Eleanor said with a flash of spitefulness. "My laboratory does not exist."
"Yes," said Anne. "I had heard that. Doubtless you are wearing a butcher's apron, cambric gloves, safety goggles and grease on your nose as a fashion statement." She gave Eleanor a patient glance. "You didn't have to rush out to meet me in that state, you know."
"To tell you the truth," Eleanor confessed, "I'd all but forgotten what I was wearing. So much has gone wrong of late. I'm trying to fix it."
"I understand," Anne replied, then looked upward. "The laboratory, Nell?"
"I don't know that that would be a good idea—"
"Yes, it would," said a voice so close behind Eleanor that she jumped. "She needs to speak to both of us." And Martha gave Anne a delighted smile. "Besides, I've long since wanted to meet her."
Anne gazed at a dark-haired girl with Richard's eyes and Richard's face as a boy. Eleanor gave Martha a decidedly exasperated look and then sighed.
"Laboratory," she said. "Now."
***
It took less time to explain than Eleanor had expected. Martha's presence lent credence to much of what she was saying.
When she was done, Anne gave her a look that was an odd admixture of anger, hurt and confusion. "You had to know that this was a bad idea."
"Oh, yes," sid Eleanor. "But what would you have had me do? The king commanded it. And no manner of persuasion could make him countermand that order. He would not listen. And—forgive me, Anne—but as the daughter of a man who was slain in secret by a king and on the very weakest of evidence, I dared not disobey."
"Did you really think he would hurt you?"
"He made it clear that he distrusted all delays," Eleanor said with a sigh. "Even those that were caused by lack of materials or expense or the simple fact that none of this had been done before. I feared that he would begin to blame Thomas for all this...and the displeasure of a king can be fatal."
"And all that beside," Martha added, "you wanted to see if you could do it—and you wanted this all the more because the king didn't expect you to succeed."
"Yes," Eleanor admitted. "That, too." She forced herself to look Anne in the eye. "What will you do now?"
Anne's gaze was pure steel. "Your gimmor is running the country now."
"Say rather, Henry Green and his minions are running it," Eleanor snapped. "Never did I give such instructions to Rhisiart as he is giving now. I can only conclude that Green has altered Rhisiart's programming somehow...though in what ways I won't know until I can examine his brain."
"I hardly think that any of that is important when the true king is...missing."
"I doubt if he is dead," said Martha. "It would be practical, yes. But Green loves power too much. To have the power of life and death over a king while secretly ruling the country through his poppet—that'd be a rare snoutful for such as he."
Anne stared at Martha in wonderment. "You truly can think."
"Aye, and mull matters over, and form opinions, and even change my mind," Martha replied. "I was designed to think like a human, and not a machine, after all. And so was my brother."
"I think she's right," Eleanor said. "Richard is likely alive—though not in the best of shape. We need to free him—and we need to free Rhisiart's mind."
"And quickly," said Anne with a sigh, motioning Eleanor to seat herself on the laboratory's workbench. "You are fair buried here in the country; you know not how bad things are growing. Poverty and famine are spreading over the land; in Essex, Surrey, Kent and Middlesex, I have counted over seventeen thousand poor and homeless Jewels and plate I've sold to buy food and clothing for them, and still their numbers increase each day. And what does your creation do? He gives orders to build a feast-hall for ten thousand! He wastes his substance in purchasing plumed Spanish hats and Polish shoes with pointed toes so long that they must be bound to his knees with pearl-studded chains of gold! And when he travels anywhere, he must have four hundred archers in attendance!"
"Considering the temper of starving people, that last might be wise," Eleanor said, thinking that the queen herself looked ill from worry; she was pale, and her eyes were sunken deep in her face. Then an ugly notion occurred to her, and would not be banished. "Anne? Out of curiosity, how is your own health these days?"
"Poorish," Anne said. "I seem to have no strength. And even when I eat, I'm generally ill afterwards. But that isn't important--"
"Yes," said Eleanor, "I rather think it is. Green has never liked you or your influence on the king—yes, I know the king is not a human at the moment, but he was designed to learn and to adapt. I wonder if Green thinks that you could persuade Rhisiart to disapprove of current policy. If you could, then all of his machinations, including kidnapping the king would be for naught."
"But I can't," Anne replied. "I don't know how! And," she added in a lower voice, " I speak as one who's bedded the creature."
"Really?" Eleanor considered this for a moment before blushing and asking, "Er...how was he?"
"Nell!"
"Could you have kept from asking?"
Anne laughed ruefully. "No, I suppose not. He was...kind. Not at all interested in the proceedings but quite determined that I enjoy myself. There are many mortal men who are not so considerate...and even more who would not assume that a virtuous woman could enjoy being wanton for a change.
"But it was not his style of seduction that told me that this was not Richard. When I began to fall asleep that night, my head on his chest, I heard no heartbeat. And I felt something humming in the chest beneath my fingertips. I could not imagine what this was, but it didn't seem inclined to harm me."
"Unlike Green," Eleanor said grimly. "Who, I think, has found at least one poisoner other than the Franciscan Mafeo."
"You think he would kill me."
"I do."
"But why?"
"Because the commons love you and you could be a rallying point for rebellion," said Martha. "Because your death would remove one more person who could influence the king. Because your death would break Richard's soul in two and make him amenable to almost anything. Because both Richards care for you—and this I know, for was I not an early model of my brother? Because Green hates you. Most of all..because he can."
"You think it likely, then, " Anne said, taking a deep breath, "that the poisoning has already begun."
Martha nodded.
"Anne," Eleanor said, "let me send for a doctor. A gifted one, not affiliated with the palace. I could send for Na Floreta Çanoga of Aragon, if Queen Sibila will spare her. Or Na Bellaire and Na Pla of Lérida--"
"It would take too long to send to Aragon," Anne said with a sigh. "And even supposing that Green has not suborned anyone who dwells so far away, I must still return to the palace where my poisoner dwells. So how can I escape?"
A wicked thought suggested itself to Eleanor then. "Perhaps—in a coffin." Swiftly she explained what she meant.
When she was done, the laboratory rang with Anne's laughter.
***
It was just as well that Eleanor had something to focus on, for all across England, things were growing steadily worse.
At the suggestion of Tresilian (who was, in Green's opinion, a lawyer most excellent at smelling out bases for undreamt-of taxes), the brasshead ordered the land filled with blank charters—a form of tax that compelled any who received one to sign and seal it, agreeing to pay the king what amount the king should request in the future. Given the mounting famine and the king's extravagance, no one believed that these demands would be small...or even reasonable.
And the charters were everywhere. It would have been bad enough if such demands had been made solely of those who possessed some wealth; the demand would have been unjust, but it most likely would not have ruined the rich. But the king's favorites (who had now added a hanger-on called Scroop to their group) felt that any man who owned anything—be it a merchant's shop, a hardscrabble farm, a peddler's cart or one ancient donkey—could and should be given such a charter, as well as any wealthy widow...and was it not fortunate that all widows according to proverb, were rich? Moreover, any who grumbled at the blank charters,whispered that the king's new councilmen were unjust, sang satirical songs or even whistled a tune that had had unflattering words grafted onto it, were immediately adjudged by the favorites' servants and flatterers to be dangerous and hardened traitors, and were clapped in prison to await hanging.
And if the property of traitors was confiscated by the state, and therefore splashed into the purses of king, councilmen and constables alike—well. Surely that was but a coincidence.
And to top it all off, the brasshead had agreed to divide the realm into four parts, making Green, Bagot, Bushy and the undeserving Scroop wealthy beyond dreams of avarice.
Green knew he should have been satisfied...and yet there were still several distinct problems.
The first was Anne of Bohemia, who was at her manor in Sheen, reportedly ill. Of course, this was all to the good...but Green could not help but recall that where sick people were, doctors were likely to follow, and he did not relish the notion that the queen might be given an antidote to the poison he'd so lovingly crafted.
The second problem was John of Gaunt's son, Henry Bolingbroke, who was now the Duke of Hereford. It was, Green admitted, marginally possible that Bolingbroke didn't know what a threat he was—that he hadn't heard the whispers of princes and peasants alike that the royal duke was both canny and honorable. However, for his money, there was no such thing as an unambitious noble...or, for that matter, an unambitious human being. Any man said to lack ambition was clearly a liar, dead or both.
The third was Thomas of Woodstock, Duke of Gloucester—who, like Anne, was in the country and well-guarded, and who, like Bolingbroke, was too canny and too popular for safety. He had not done much that was threatening, but by staying in his manor far from the palace, he was out of Green's reach. Even worse, the supposed king kept asking for Gloucester, even inviting him back to court without Green's knowledge. The fact that the brasshead had done this, despite the fact it was supposed to be wholly his creature now, was more than a little disturbing.
He had tried several other operations on it to compel it to behave as if it hated Green's enemies, whether they were around or not. None had worked. When his foes were present, the brasshead was fine. When they were not—it could not behave as if it hated them. It didn't seem to know how to sustain such behavior when there was nothing to react to.
An I do nothing, Green thought grimly, the brasshead will summon Gloucester back from the country, beg his pardon—yes, even for attempted murder—and invite him onto the Council again. It may even strip us of our lands and power to do right by Gloucester.
This wasn't to be borne.
All he could do was remind the brasshead over and over that it was angry, even outraged. Indeed, he'd been doing so this past half hour while it lamented that its dear uncle would not return from the country at its request. But he could only delay so long before they had to go meet with the rest of the council,. There was no more time.
He could only hope that what he'd said had taken.
He was almost certain it hadn't.
The conversation in the Great Hall some ten minutes later went even worse than he'd expected.
"Our uncle will not come, then?" the brasshead said in a bewildered voice, just as if it hadn't said this hundred times already.
"That was his answer, flat and resolute," Green replied in a testy voice.
"Was ever subject so audacious?" the brasshead said. The words were right—but the tone was plaintive, like a child who had been hurt but didn't know why.
"Can Your Grace bear these wrongs?" Bagot asked, helpfully feeding the brasshead a line.
I've told thee the answer to this a hundred times, Green thought at the brasshead. Now, answer as I have taught thee, thou thing of no bowels!
"I bear them as a mother bears seeing her child dismembered by conqueror or tyrant," the brasshead said. "I tell you, Bagot, his churlish taunts have left such scars within my heart that the wounds are still filled with gall and festering—and nothing will soothe those scars until I see his blood poured out before mine eyes."
The words would have been more convincing if the brasshead had not followed them with a glance at Green that said more plainly than words, Did I do it right this time?
"Send soldiers to his manor, then, and fetch him here," Green said, ignoring the imploring glance as best he could.
"I dare not," the brasshead replied. "He's too well-loved to be treated thus; the whole realm would rise in rebellion."
Oh, so you have learned that lesson, Green thought bitterly.
Tresilian saved the situation. "I know a trick that would fetch him from his manor at Pleshey without the need for soldiers."
"Tell us what it is, then!" Green commanded. "For without some plan to help us, we're all doomed."
"'Tis simple enow," Tresilian said. "Since the Duke is still in the country, we'll send some friends down to Pleshey today dressed as masquers. And tonight, claiming that some neighbors sent them to cheer him and his family, they will offer to perform and gladden his heart—and who would refuse that? And when the dance and revels are done, and any witnesses gone, they'll cut off the Duke from the rest of the herd, stuff him into a costume that enshrouds him and cover his face with a mask, and steal him from the house."
"What if he cries out?" That was Scroop—who, in Green's opinion, was none too bright.
Tresilian nearly sprained his eyes, he rolled them so hard. "What do you think that masquers' drums are for, Master Scroop? And even if anyone hears cries for help, a masquer may play at any scene—even one of wailing captives."
"And afterwards," Green said, thinking matters out as he spoke, "we'll turn him over to the governor of Calais—he's newly arrived, and he's brought a deal of soldiers with him. We can send Gloucester back to Calais, and there will be no risk; neither the commons nor his brothers will know where he's gone."
And once he was on shipboard...well. There were so many accidents that could befall a man at sea.
No need to say that out loud, of course.
The brasshead nodded. "Yes. I like well that notion, Green. Tonight, you and I will be among the masquers--"
Green just barely kept himself from gasping, "WHAT?" He didn't object to killing...but to be so blatantly involved in a conspiracy to kill one of Edward III's sons and to speak of it so openly very nearly made him ill.
"—while you, my Lord Tresilian, make proclamations against mine uncles York and Lancaster, accusing them of treason...and once the proclamations have been made in public at least once, arrest, imprison and condemn them. And if the commons rebel, I'll—I'll send to the King of France for help, and he can have Guynes and Calais back for his efforts." The brasshead smiled charmingly. "What say you to that?"
It sounded like a disaster in the making to Green. Yet it was his own idea, his and Tresilian's. He had no excuse to refuse.
At least he could ensure that he'd be well paid for this idiocy.
"I think that it sounds most rare, Your Majesty," he said, favoring the brasshead with a bright and meaningless smile. "And now, was there not some talk of dividing the realm?"
***
"I'm glad you came today," Anne said that afternoon when Eleanor arrived at Sheen bearing a large rectangular canvas-covered box with her. Eleanor had had to open it wide before the queen's servants would let her bring it in, and only the fact that it was stuffed to the brim with sugared almonds, gingerbread, marchpane, honey wafers, candied orange peel and pynades stuffed with raspberries and blackberries had made the canvas box remotely acceptable.
Anne couldn't blame them. It was a battlefield coffin—lightweight, alchemically waterproofed and easy to transport. And no one wanted to be too close to a coffin, even if it was filled with cakes and comfits.
Which had bought them some privacy. Thank God. She would be glad to escape from this manor and this room. She'd been trapped here for five months. Even scientific miracles, it seemed, took time...although it probably would have been easier if Eleanor hadn't had to take time away from her science to give birth to her daughter Philippa three weeks before.
"I would have been here earlier," Eleanor said, kneeling beside the coffin and unpacking all the food that the servants would believe was cursed and would devour anyway because the country was starving. "But growing your corpse took longer than I expected."
"I was beginning to run out of illnesses that no one wants to get too close to," Anne replied. "I went from lung-flux to smallpox to madness induced by brain fever—that one was easy, I only had to lie in bed and writhe about and mutter about odd things like oysters being infested with demons. I don't know what I would have done at the end of the week if you hadn't arrived. There aren't many people who survive the Black Pest."
"I'm sorry," said Eleanor, looking apologetic. "The tank in which she grew…well, it wasn't hard to build; even Bacon built one, once upon a time. But it took an ocean's worth of power...both to feed her and to maintain her as she grew. Especially as she grew past babyhood. The tank would keep breaking down at the worst times. Well, she's done now." She removed the last few honey cakes, then studied the naked body beneath all the sweetmeats. "What think you? Will she pass muster with those who do know you?"
Anne stared down at what might have been a younger and thinner version of herself. "It's like looking at a somewhat younger ghost. You're sure she can't come back to life?"
"She never lived," Eleanor said patiently. "You can't restore life to something that never had it. But just to be on the safe side, I used light refracted through a ruby to cut into her brain. It took some delicate work, as I had to go in through the nostrils without leaving a single cut on her skin, but of course Martha helped me there. God might be able to wake her now—but no revivifier could."
"I'm glad." Anne gazed down at her twin that had never awoken. "I wouldn't want her to be enslaved by the likes of Green."
"Nor would I," Eleanor said with a heartfelt sigh. "Though if it weren't for the likes of Green, I'd not have minded if someone revivified her."
"If not for Green and his minions," Anne pointed out, "she would not need to exist at all. Now, do you need help getting her up on the bed?"
Eleanor blushed. "I'm afraid so."
"No need to be afraid. The Queen, after all, is dead. I'm simply an ordinary grass widow from Germany whose husband abandoned me for wine, frolics and song. Very commonplace. It happens every day." She picked up her twin's feet, then frowned. "Once we get her upon the bed, I think we should try to find a nightdress for her. It's November, after all, when the damp seeps into your bones."
Eleanor nodded fiercely. "Are you ready?" she asked. "Heave!"
It took five or six "heaves" before the twin was on the bed and at least ten minutes thereafter before she was properly dressed. Then, together, the young women rolled her under the covers.
"What now?" said Anne.
"We ride back to Pleshey," said Eleanor. "I think you would be better off dressed as a footman or a guard."
"You think that I'd make a convincing man?" Anne's lips twitched in amusement.
"I think you'll make a ridiculous one," Eleanor retorted, beginning to repack the coffin. "You're far too short for the average run of men, and it will be hard to conceal your breasts in any case. But I'm hoping that anyone who sees you will only notice the servant's clothing, think, "Oh. Funny-looking young man" and forget about you."
"And what about you?" Anne said, mentally conceding that Eleanor had a point. "I can't think that my doctors will be eager to let you leave after you've been exposed to pestilence."
"I'm not even supposed to be in your room. I'm supposed to be down in the chapel, praying for you. I had to sneak out of there in a hurry because one of your footmen confiscated the box and left it near the kitchen." She glanced ruefully at the figure half-buried beneath the bedcovers. "I don't think that he or the cook would have handled finding her amidst the marchpane very well."
"So you're being pious and sad and offering up your prayers to keep me from dying."
"Well—that's not far off what I did do," Eleanor admitted, closing the box. "If you consider work the same as prayer, that is. Wait here. I have to take the box downstairs."
And she did, eventually depositing it beneath the staircase. "It looks like a place where a servant lad or lass might conceal something," she said after she'd returned upstairs. "Especially a treasure trove of sweets."
"Why," Anne said, "are you so determined to get everything done in such a hurry?"
Eleanor grimaced. "I'm not sure. It's just—it's been too long since the king's minions made an attempt on Thomas's life and liberty. Especially Green. I can't believe he's suddenly turned peaceful and decided that Thomas is no threat to his ambitions. It's not his way."
She glanced uneasily at Anne. "And last night I had a terrible dream. Thomas was riding in the woods when he was surrounded by an angry lion leading a pack of ravening wolves. They were ready to pounce and devour him, but then a flock of foolish sheep raced toward lion and wolves, desperate to save Thomas. And then the lion killed both sheep and Thomas, and roared of his heroic triumph."
Anne heard all this with a sinking heart. "Dreams have been warnings before."
"Thomas," Eleanor said, anguished, "does not believe in dreams."
"Are you armed?"
"With a shortsword beneath my cloak, a dagger strapped to my thigh, and the tools of a good Baconian. And you?"
"I have a dagger at the ready"--Anne touched one hand to her leg—and bows and quivers a-plenty in the armory. Help me find some clothes that will pass muster, and quickly!" Anne tossed a long loose shirt onto her back and rummaged about for braies and hose. "For the instant I am dressed and armed, we ride for Pleshey."
***
They arrived at Pleshey almost at the same moment as the masquers and soldiers, all visible from a distance, were positioning themselves.
"I should have known better," Eleanor muttered. "All my experimenting and discoveries have done naught but imperil my husband and children.
"They also saved your best friend's life," Anne replied. "If not for you and Martha, I'd not be here tonight; for, forget it not, she diagnosed the nature of the poison I'd been fed and concocted an antidote long before you grew a body to place in the grave Green had opened and left yawning behind me. And belike they saved Richard and the nation two years of torment at Green's hands before your brasshead's mind was stolen and he was forced to be what God—or you—never intended. You've worked wonders, Nell. 'Tis not your fault that my husband trusted—aye, and loved--a fallen angel and his minions."
Eleanor reached for the other woman's hand and squeezed it. "Thank you."
Anne gazed at the masquers. "There's something wrong with the way the masquers look and move. Have you a spyglass with you?"
Eleanor reached for her horse's saddlebags, opened one, felt about inside, then pulled a small spygass from the bag and passed it to Anne.
Anne lifted the spyglass to her eye. "I cannot tell—their faces are all covered with animal masks."
"There's more to the way people look than faces," Eleanor said. "Watch them a bit."
Anne was silent for a while as she stared through the spyglass. Then, "They're nearly all of the same size!" she burst out. "The same height, the same long and spindly limbs, the same way of moving...save for two. Both are tall, but one moves hesitantly, drawing away from the other masquers and then drawing close. And the other is his very shadow, gazing up at him over and over again—and whispering, I'll wager—just an instant before the hesitant one draws near his fellows again."
"Someone," Eleanor murmured, "does not want to be here. And the others?"
"They move like the world's most perfect dancers, each making the same movement or gesture or step with equal grace." Anne removed the spyglass from her eye and turned to Eleanor with a troubled expression. "The sameness of their motion is...disturbing. It's like watching the dead dance. Of course, the masks don't help."
Eleanor went white. "Oh, this is obscene."
"What's wrong?"
"Stiff, immobile faces on bodies that do move perfectly with none of the small clumsinesses most people possess? Does this not remind you of Martha?"
"Brassheads!"
"Yes," Eleanor said steadily. "Brassheads. Probably built by Green himself. I doubt not that he's one of the two not moving properly."
"I don't understand. What's obscene about this? At least he couldn't get human beings to agree to this—"
"A brasshead," Eleanor said, her eyes blazing with the conviction of the true believer, "is not to be used to harm a human being in any way. It's a standard part of their programming, and has been, by custom and law, since the time of Bacon's students. And yet these brassheads have come to Pleshey to do harm—to kill or to turn my husband over to the soldiers to be killed, I know not which. This shouldn't be possible." Her voice reverberated with horror, as if she had seen a man clubbing his wife to death using a screaming baby.
Anne gaped in the direction of the masquers...and then closed her eyes. "I know who the hesitant one is," she said softly. "Your Rhisiart. Or whatever remains of the brasshead who once bore that name."
There was a shocked silence.
"Yes," Eleanor said at last. "Green would have brought him. For a thousand devilish reasons, he would have." She turned to Anne. "We have to save him, as well as Thomas and the children."
At that moment, the drawbridge to Pleshey was let down and the masquers strolled inside.
"Calm yourself," Anne whispered to Eleanor. "Their forces are divided now."
"I doubt if we can kill them all, even so."
"We may not need to." Anne motioned to her friend to dismount. "Follow me, and bring whatever you have in your saddlebag."
Which, they discovered when they got somewhat closer to the castle, was very nearly everything. Eleanor had skimped on changes of clothing, but she had not taken any chances when packing scientific equipment. Tools, nuts, bolts, screws, copper piping, steel bases, a few jars of canned lightning, string, wire, sulphur, phosphorus...oh yes, there were plenty of things to work with. Anne couldn't imagine what Eleanor would do with any of them, though.
"We don't have much cover here," Eleanor said with a sigh, staring at the castle and tower standing tall on a high man-made hill and flanked by two castle yards. "Well, I'll have to do the best I can. Can you spare me some of your arrows?"
"You can have them all! Just hurry!"
Eleanor worked swiftly. The first thing she crafted was a metal ball of brass about the size of Anne's head which was covered with dials and mirrors, shrouded in skinsilk that had been brushed with phosphorus, and implanted with a pocket phonograph. The second was a remote to control it. The third looked like a cross between a miniature cannon and a crossbow made of copper, though Anne had never imagined a bow that could fire three bundles of arrows in three different directions at once.
"Now we are ready," she said. "Lie down flat on the ground, Anne. This is going to be a target...at least, until it gets close enough to do what it's designed to do. And I don't want to use the repeating crossbow before its time."
Anne obediently lay down flat on the ground—but kept her head turned to one side so that she could see what was going on. She had no intention of missing this.
Lying down beside her, Eleanor clutched the remote fiercely in one hand as the fingers of the other danced over the keys. "For science!" she growled as the phosphorescent ball lifted itself majestically into the air.
Anne stared at it. "How?"
"A combination of canned lightning and an internal steam engine, of course," Eleanor whispered back. "Now, quiet. I don't want them to hear."
Anne still didn't see what good a ball would do, even if it was floating in mid-air, but then—as if Eleanor had read her mind—the ball turned toward her.
She nearly shrieked. For the ball's skinsilk covering was a mask-like face—empty sockets that nevertheless occasionally glittered with silver, rosy pink skin (which was somehow worse than if it had been dead white, nostrils instead of a nose and slack reddish lips that were just barely open, as if they were about to speak.
"What is that horror?" she whispered as Eleanor twisted a dial on her remote and made the thing drift across the meadow to the shrubbery near the motte where most of the soldiers were trying to conceal themselves.
"You'll see," Eleanor whispered. "At least...I hope you will."
This was not precisely reassuring.
As the ball drew near the shrubbery, an arrow flew at it.
Eleanor punched two buttons, and the ball moved deftly to one side.
"Hold!" snarled an angry voice that clearly belonged to the commander. "Don't waste your arrows on a will o' the wisp!"
For a moment, there was silence. Then a young man—probably the archer—said in a strangled voice, "My lord...will o' the wisps do not dodge arrows. Only things that live do that."
"Or that have lived," said the ball in Anne's voice.
Anne gaped at Eleanor, who gave her an impish grin. "Pocket phonographs are such useful things, are they not?"
"It speaks!" This soldier sounded far more frightened than either the commander or the archer had been.
"It's a trick!" snapped the commander—who, Anne had to admit, she would have quite liked if he'd only been on their side.
"No," said the ball. "In life...I was Anne, Queen of England."
"Lies!"
The archer spoke up again. "My lord, I did hear when at the local pub this day..." The rest of the sentence trailed off into unintelligible mutterings, but Anne was certain that the young man was whispering of her many illnesses. Why not? They'd been been common knowledge for months now.
"I heard nothing of her death," the commander said, sounding considerably less certain than he had.
Eleanor's fingers moved over the remote and the ball spoke. "I did perish when that appeared in the sky this eve." And the ball appeared to nod at the night sky.
And now there was a strained silence, for strange sights had been seen in the skies that year, and tonight was no exception. A bright sphere of blue -white light blazed in the sky, surrounded by a pale white halo. It looked like an enormous wheel, endlessly turning, and it was no surprise that many folk had dubbed it the Wheel of Fate. Anne thought it an eerie sight herself, for all that Eleanor had told her that England had simply been blessed this year by a series of fireball meteors.
"Why come you here?" asked the archer. "Er...Your Majesty."
"I do come here because you threaten my closest friend and her family," the mask-shrouded ball said. "I cannot countenance that! I forbid you to harm her or any of her household!"
There were murmurings at this that perhaps it would be best to give the queen what she asked for. The commander, however, was not having any.
"We are here at the king's command."
"Nay," said the masked head in a sorrowful voice. "The king gave not that command, nor knows it has been given."
The commander's voice rang out in challenge. "And if we do attack the castle or seize her husband and children? What then? What dire punishment have you in store for us?"
Eleanor fiddled with the buttons on the remote, and when the masked head spoke again, its voice was still recognizably Anne's, but slower and deeper, and filled with sepulchral echoes. "Do you think that I would punish you for harming an innocent, her husband or her babes? I am but sent to warn thee. An you do obey these false commands, the very vengeance of God shall fall."
"Destroy it," said the commander. "We've heard enough blather."
"But sir--" protested the archer.
"Do it!"
But before the masked head could become a target once again, it shot straight up into the night sky toward the fiery wheel, its mask glowing with an odd, greenish-white phosphorescence. "Remember," it wailed. "Remember, you were warned..."
And then it dove behind the castle.
"A mark to the first man who hits it!" shouted the commander.
"My lord," said the archer, "it's gone. We cannot strike what is not there."
"Follow it, then!"
And a few men did follow it...though, Anne noticed, with quite a bit of nervousness and not a scrap of enthusiasm. A few minutes later, they returned. "'Tis gone, sir. We saw no trace of it, nor heard its voice."
"It can't be gone! Search again."
Another search followed. They too found nothing. As a third group made ready to search, something moved in the shadows near the castle. Slowly, slowly, so slowly that it was almost painful, the masked head approached Anne and Eleanor as it floated bare inches above the earth, clinging to the shadows.
"They're looking for it at man-height or above," Eleanor whispered as she removed the mask, stuffed it back in her toolbag and then put the floating ball in there as well. "It had a human-like face spoke with a human voice and floated at a height level with human eyes, you see, so they're thinking of it as human-sized or more. By this time tomorrow, half the men in this company will believe they saw the pale shade of Anne of Bohemia, crowned and robed like a queen. And the other half will swear that they saw an angel mount up to the sky on wings of fire."
Anne thought about this. It made sense, but she wasn't sure it would be quite as effective as the copper crossbow.
But as she watched, she saw groups of men slipping away in groups of two, three or four. It was clear that most of them had no liking for any assignment that asked them to harm the Duke of Gloucester or his family and that they were choosing to take the floating head as a sign from God. Soon, less than a quarter of the original soldiers—including the stubborn commander, who cursed the air blue with his words about deserters—remained.
"Now do we use the crossbow?"
From inside the castle came a hideous sound—that of metal being torn and twisted. A moment later, a leg of brass and copper came flying from one of the castle windows.
"That for your brassheads, Henry Green!" A woman cried out, her tone exultant. "And that! And that! And that!" Each "that" was punctuated by the sound of shattering crystal and shrieking metal.
Anne turned bewildered eyes toward Eleanor. "Who--?"
"Who else?" Eleanor asked, a wicked glint in her eyes. "Martha."
Of course. A brasshead could not cause harm to come to a human—but another brasshead was fair game.
"Take a look through your spyglass," Eleanor said. "Do you see anyone wincing?"
Anne peered through the glass. "Aye. Just one. And one other staring at the sounds as if they make no sense to him."
"Green and Rhisiart." Eleanor glanced at Anne. "Let's get them both."
They could not make straight for the shrubbery; that would have meant cutting across the meadow in front of the castle's hill, which would have left them with no cover at all. Instead, they went back the way they'd come and circled around, approaching the shrubbery from the back. It was a slower way...but the only safe way.
As they drew near the bushes where the remnants of the army were concealed—and there were only twenty at most, counting the commander, Green and Rhisiart—they could hear Green and the commander arguing.
"It's no good," the commander said, as if he'd said all this before and would stoically say it again. "Your brassheads are smashed, the men have fled, and something claiming to be the Queen—I do not say that it was Good Queen Anne's spirit, but it vanished swiftly enow—has told us now that God's wrath will fall upon us if we do not stop. You say it was a brasshead. Mayhap it was...but my men and I can't find it, and one thing I do know about contrivances made of metal is that they don't melt away into air."
"We are here," Green said between clenched teeth, "at the king's command."
"So you say," replied the commander, sounding distinctly unimpressed. "But that lad by your side—if he is the king--hasn't given a single command while I've been standing here."
Green turned to Rhisiart. "My liege," he said in the most obsequious tone that he could manage while so furious, "this common knotty-pated fool does dare to question your authority!"
"Isn't he the one with the authority?" Rhisiart replied in a bewildered tone. "I thought that he was a hardened soldier, and that this was to be a battlefield. And why do you mock him for being of common blood when your own father was a plain man from Northamptonshire ere my grandfather made him a knight?"
"My liege," Green repeated, this time in a dangerous tone.
"O, leave me be!" Rhisiart buried his face in his hands. "And call me not 'my liege' or 'Your Majesty' or 'my prince,' for indeed such titles belong to those who rule, and what to do I rule, cruel Green? England? Not so. For if I rule England, thou rulest me, and what manner of king cannot rule himself? Nay, do not even call me 'Richard of Bordeaux,' for the name sounds as hollow in mine ears as the wooden clappers of a leper. I have worn so many winters out, and know not now what name to call myself! O! that I were a mockery king of snow!"
"I call you Rhisiart," said Eleanor, stepping forward, copper crossbow in hand. "Do you remember me?"
Rhisiart stared at her, a lost expression sweeping across his face. Beside him, Green was as still as death. "Not well," he said at last. "But I do dimly recall some shadow of a time before I knew myself to be a king, before the only instructions in my mind were his." He glanced at Green and shuddered.
"Your Majesty," Green said, smiling, "how could you possibly know this raggle-taggle beggar maid? Belike she has bewitched you, or cursed you with a fever, or sent a lying spirit in the guise of your wife--"
"Thou?" Anne said in a voice that dripped icy scorn as she pushed through the bushes' branches to face Green. "Thou, of all people, accusing others of lying? A snake could accuse a hot kettle of hissing and be more convincing." She drew her sword and dagger. "And I have had a bellyful of your lies."
"Don't kill him," Eleanor said. "I need him alive."
Anne turned a smoldering glare on her friend. "Do not expect me to spare him."
"Who spoke of sparing him?" Eleanor replied, glancing at Rhisiart sadly for a moment and then gazing at Green with eyes that were chips of glacier ice . "Hurt him as much as you like. I need him alive—not intact."
The chill rage in her voice startled Green, and he took a step backward.
That was a mistake. Anne advanced on him like a hunter advancing on a wounded wild boar—with a watchful eye and a cautious step, but without a moment of hesitation, doubt or fear.
She drove her dagger hilt-deep into his shoulder. "That," she said, yanking it free as Green moaned and his blood spurted, "is for that poor wretch you've enslaved. And this"-- she stabbed the dagger into his inner thigh--"is what you have done to the country. And this"--she drove the sword into his stomach--"is for all the ways that you've hurt my husband and me."
"Husband?" said the commander, sounding confused. To his eyes, Anne resembled a young footman.
No one paid him the slightest bit of attention.
Eleanor studied Green's hemorrhaging body. "Speaking as a student of anatomy, I don't believe that he'll survive that."
"Good."
"It might make finding Richard a trifle more difficult..."
"I think not. Green had a limited number of manors, after all. I know he never would have trusted anyone save himself to hold Richard captive. And he never shipped Richard off to Calais or Guynes; my husband has too many allies there. No, he kept Richard close. I doubt if he did range so far as Northumberland, let alone Scotland or Wales. We'll find him, and that right soon." Anne gazed down at the dying man. "Do you mind?"
"Not particularly," Eleanor admitted. "I wasn't looking forward to questioning him. Bushy and Bagot might object, but I can't think of anyone else who would."
"Tresilian, perhaps."
Eleanor brushed that suggestion off with a dismissive wave of her hand. "I'm fairly sure that you could claim that it's a royal prerogative to execute traitors. God knows, that excuse has been used before."
"Royal?" said the commander weakly.
"Yes," said Eleanor. "I realize that we're not looking our best at the moment, but then I doubt if many people do look their best after a battle." She frowned. "I realize that you have orders, but could you please just call out to the castle and tell my husband—truthfully, mind you—that you've changed your mind and you're not going to kidnap or kill him?"
It was a mad request. Men simply did not abandon battle at the request of bedraggled women who claimed to be the Duchess of Gloucester and the Queen of England.
On the other hand, it had been a mad night.
"I thought the queen was dead," the commander said, sounding grievously uncertain of this.
"Oh, she is," said Eleanor cheerfully. "The queen's lying quite dead at Sheen this very minute. And she's also here, very much alive. And no brassheads or revivifiers involved, either."
The commander stared at her for a minute, and then turned to Rhisiart. "Er...Your Majesty--"
"Do not call me that!" Rhisiart exclaimed. "I beg of you, do not!"
The commander decided that obedience was best. "Who is this woman?" he asked, nodding toward Eleanor. "And who's the one dressed like a footman?"
Rhisiart looked bewildered. "Why, this is my maman. And the other is my twin brother's wife, Anne."
The commander gaped at him. "Your twin."
Rhisiart nodded.
The commander turned to the archer who had noticed the floating head dodging arrows. "Marshal," he said, "go tell the castle that we surrender."
"Without a fight?"
The commander closed his eyes. "So far tonight two women have summoned either a ghost or an angel, demoralized ninety per cent of my troops, recaptured the mind and will of a king and slain a tyrant. Now, they may not be the Duchess of Gloucester or the Queen of England, but at this point I think that they've proven that they can be anyone they want. And if we oppose them, I do believe that they'll make mountains float next."
He knelt down in the icy mud before them. "My ladies, we surrender to you and to the inhabitants of the castle. Is that satisfactory?"
"It is," said Anne, motioning Marshal the archer to bear his message to the dwellers of Pleshey Castle. Then she glanced at Eleanor. "What next?"
"Well," Eleanor sighed, "after Thomas lets us in to Pleshey and we get cleaned up, the first thing I need to do is find out what Green did to Rhisiart. Because knowing that could help us find Richard. And once Rhisiart is functional again, we need to make for Hereford."
"Why Hereford?" Anne asked in bewilderment. "Henry Bolingbroke is no ally of Green and his ilk."
"I know," Eleanor said. "But it's likely that we'll have larger armies to deal with soon. And we have a lot of ground to cover looking for Richard, and not much time to do so. Which means we'll need Henry. Because not only is Henry a good soldier—and stubborn enough to stand against his father, if it comes to that—but more importantly, he knows how to pilot a hot-air balloon."
***
The Brasshead War—which also became known as the War of the Twins-- lasted about eighteen months...roughly sixteen months after Richard of Bordeaux's escape from the Ghost Tower of Green's castle in Warwickshire.
Anne, unknowingly, had changed the nature of his captivity by stabbing Green. Even after one of Green's few human servants found his three-days-dead corpse—a Dominican chaplain with standing orders to revivify, for Green had no intention of remaining in Hell if he could possibly avoid it...well, there was a reason that people were revivified immediately after death and not days, weeks or months afterward. And while some men had come most of the way back after delayed revivification, most who had risked it had found themselves sadly changed.
And so it was with Green. Though his revivification was technically a success, his post-death self lacked much of his old intelligence and memory. He could scarcely remember who Bushy and Bagot were, much less all of his old machinations to control the country. Though he could not tell what he had lost, he knew that he had lost something vital, and it maddened him.
Nor could he be said to enjoy a healthy body once he came back what had to be called life. He was living—his heart beat, his blood flowed in his veins. But the mark of death remained on him—his eyes very slightly deflated, his skin lightly greasy with the first stage of putrescence. He was an abomination, a mockery of everything that a revivified person could be. By the time he was captured again, trial and executed for treason—at the command of Henry Bolingbroke, who was acting in the name of his cousin Richard—Green's second and permanent death was a relief.
Thanks to Green's conviction that brassheads made the best gaolers and soldiers, Richard very nearly died. Green had not anticipating losing any of his masked brassheads during the attempt on Pleshey, much less dying himself; indeed, he had not thought of the assault lasting more than a night. The fact that he had sent virtually all of the brassheads who knew where Richard was and that he had to be fed seemed irrelevant. Surely, Richard could fast for one night.
After four days and four nights with no food and no water, Richard faced up to two grim facts:
1) No one—inside or outside the castle--knew where he was except for Green and his monsters. The monsters hadn't been around for several days. And Green, oddly, didn't seem in a hurry to come back and gloat.
2) There seemed to be absolutely no way out of here. He was in a cell with no windows, a wall with a one-way mirror, and a locked door. His bed was a pile of straw, and he had one tunic to his name. And one stinking privy hole.
Nothing to work with. Nothing at all.
Except...
Richard gazed at the straw pallet and the privy hole and began to smile.
***
Stuffing straw into an overfilled and gassy privy hole, using part of his tunic as a wick, and then lighting the wick on fire wasn't even remotely heroic, and Richard didn't think that the best balladeer in Europe could have done a thing with the tale, but nevertheless it worked. It blew a hole in the floor, which enabled him to drop down from his cell into a (mercifully) empty and open one—not without injuries, but you couldn't have everything—and from the open door to the stairs.
Had this been a normal castle, the explosion would have caused all sorts of comment and commotion. But the few remaining brassheads were only geared to attend their instructions, nothing more, nothing less. So no servants came flying to see what had caused the explosion; no guards raced toward Richard's cell at the first sign of trouble. The brassheads did not even note that the explosion had taken place.
However, the fact that there were no human servants also meant that there was no food and no clothing for Richard to steal. And, by the time that he had freed himself (and was bitterly aware that he could have done so much earlier if he'd just thought of the method), it was January—a bitter, vicious, iron-cold January.
That Richard survived at all was due to the kindness of common folk: a monk here, a farmer there, a fishwife somewhere else. Oh, there were those who were cruel and selfish, but most were kind, helping him when he was hungry or ailing...and always, always warning him away from those who swore they were defending the realm in the name of King Richard or collecting food for his soldiers.
"There isn't even a real King Richard," one old grandmother confided to him. "The thing they call King Richard is just a poppet. King Henry in't perfect by any means, but he's human and alive."
That was the first time that Richard heard of Henry Bolingbroke referred to as "King Henry." At first it outraged him—how dare his cousin try to steal his throne! But as time wore on, he learned that Henry was searching for his lost cousin, who was presumed dead by everyone but Henry, Eleanor of Gloucester and Richard's wife.
It was reassuring. Someone was looking. Someone cared.
In March, he heard of a meeting between the acting king and his council that would be held the following month in Westminster.
And by the day of the meeting, he was there.
***
The meeting, in Richard's opinion, was odd. He'd never seen his uncles try to persuade a brasshead to abdicate before. Nor had he ever seen a brasshead—and one clad in cloth-of-gold, yet!--so stubbornly refusing.
"I will not abdicate the throne. The throne is not mine to surrender." The brasshead gazed about the room in what looked like desperate appeal. "I will not forswear a crown that is not mine and that I had no right to wear in the first place. The king wanted me to exist so that someone else would reign for him when he was ill or tired—no more. I was never meant to take over. That was Green's idea!"
"You still do swear, Rhisiart, that you know not where Richard of Bordeaux may be?" That was John of Gaunt.
"I do so swear. I don't know where he is."
"Nor his body?
"So far as I know, he lives. I have heard of nothing that persuades me to the contrary."
York spoke up then. "You will agree that it would be better for the ship of state to have a captain."
The brasshead—Rhisiart—nodded. "A good leader is always better than no leader. Of course...no leader maybe better than a bad one."
"But since no one can find Richard..."
It went around and around like a millstone in a mill. At last John of Gaunt spoke up. "I ask you, Hereford, to answer as if you were not my son. Do you covet the throne?"
Henry's answer rang out. "I do." He glanced at his father. "Now, let me answer the questions you should have asked. "Do I think that makes me unusual? No. Do I think that my cousin the king is dead? No. Do I wish for harm to come to my cousin that I may take his throne? No! Do I think he made mistakes? Yes, and grave ones. Do I think that he should lay aside his crown and scepter because of his errors and Henry Green's betrayal? I do not!"
He gazed solemnly about the room. "And were he here this instant, I would tell him so."
The words seemed to shout themelves. "But I am here!"
And Richard stepped forward, a wretched, ragged figure in homespun.
For a moment, there was silence...and then a perfect babble of voices. Before anyone could summon the guards, however,, Anne stepped forward, gripped his bearded chin in her hand and gazed up at him. After a few moments, she beamed. "It is you! Where have you been?"
And after that, there was no help for it. He had to explain about his captivity...and about his wanderings up and down the country since.
"I wasn't a good king," he said softly. "I know that now. The greatest wrong I did was in telling Eleanor of Gloucester that I wanted her to craft a gimmor who would rule for me when ruling was troublesome or tedious. I pressed her on this, though she told me time and again it was unwise. And I made many demands of Rhisiart"--and Rhisiart looked up, astounded that Richard had noticed him. "Too many, in fact.
"Henry has done a good job." This he had to admit grudgingly. . "And I suppose I should turn the government over to him, for he's proven that he can do it.. But I think that if having a gimmor rule for you when ruling is inconvenient is wrong, then how can abdicating to avoid shame and failure and the anger of others be right?
"So I cannot abdicate," he said in a heavy tone. "I cannot be irresponsible again. So I do propose this: that Anne and I rule jointly—for you know she cares for the commons and would not advise me to do anything ill—and that, if we have no children, that Bolingbroke be deemed our heir. He has at least proven to be a good ruler in my absence. I think that would be just."
And, after some debate, his uncles agreed. But at a cost.
"The brasshead," York said firmly. "It has to be destroyed. It is not safe. What happened once could happen again. It is not the creature's fault...but it cannot continue to exist."
To everyone's surprise, Rhisiart agreed. "I am a threat. And though I don't wish to bring harm to you, I could do so just by continuing to exist..." Its voice trailed off. "I—I would not want to do that."
As the room fell silent, Eleanor—who had no business being there, Richard knew, but who had contrived to be here anyway—spoke up. "If...if he has to be destroyed, then let me do it. He's my responsibility."
Gaunt and York nodded. As little as possible.
Richard turned away.
So he didn't see Anne slip off to speak to Eleanor and Rhisiart before they left. Nor did he see Eleanor's face momentarily light with an impish grin.
***
Richard didn't see Eleanor again until Christmastime, when she brought a surprise to the palace. A rather large surprise, in fact. And one that she insisted on giving to Anne and himself in private.
"Why, what have you brought?" Richard asked...and still feeling a bit awkward. It could not have been easy for her, destroying her creation.
"Not what," Eleanor said with a smile. "Who." She glanced at Anne. "This is from both of us, you might say. Anne's been working with me for months to make sure that the gift is absolutely perfect." She turned and beckoned to a figure standing in the shadows just outside the bedchamber.
The man standing there was familiar—and yet he wasn't. Something in his features that said he was a cousin. Yet at the same time, he bore a striking resemblance to a former favorite who had been dark-haired and dark-eyed.
He bowed, and gave Richard and Anne a smile that was both wry and sincere. "A pleasure to meet you...again."
Richard almost jumped. The voice, too, was a blend—partly his favorite's and partly the voice of someone who shouldn't be here at all.
"Rhisiart?" he said with a whisper. "How did you escape?"
"Rhisiart?" the man said, looking amused and then favoring Richard with a look that said "I'm lying to you, so pay attention." "Rhisiart was destroyed. Completely. You wouldn't want another threat like that around. It wouldn't be right."
"Then who are you?" Richard asked, barely breathing.
The man gave him a mischievous smile. "Anne says to call me Robbie."
FIN
notes are here
no subject
I never in a million years dreamed that my fantastically stupid prompt would inspire something this marvellous. Because it really, really is. And the ENDING, OH, MY GOODNESS. JUST THIS ONCE, EVERYBODY LIVES.
(Who, incidentally, does remind me of Magrat from Lords and Ladies in the best possible way.)
There is just NOT ENOUGH SQUEE IN THE WORLD for this fic. I want this to be a novel SO BADLY.
Thank you so, SO MUCH!!
no subject
(Anonymous) 2010-08-28 07:40 pm (UTC)(link)I'm expanding it, because you're right, it does need to be a novel. And there are some scenes that need to be added, and I want there to be more Richard, and more Bolingbroke, and John of Gaunt, and Thomas's reaction to being rescued by his young wife, and something about Original Robbie earlier in the book to show more of who he was, and why Robbie-Rhisiart at the end is someone that Richard can accept emotionally as part of his life and...and...and...
You get the idea.
I'm very flattered that Anne reminds you of Magrat! Because Magrat rocketh.
And the ENDING, OH, MY GOODNESS. JUST THIS ONCE, EVERYBODY LIVES.
Yes! (Except for Green, but he's in a state where he'd rather NOT be living.)
And you're very very welcome!
no subject
no subject
(Anonymous) 2010-08-30 09:16 am (UTC)(link)no subject
no subject
(Anonymous) 2010-08-28 07:42 pm (UTC)(link)no subject
But I love how you manage to give Richard II a happy ending - unprecedented!
no subject
(Anonymous) 2010-08-30 05:40 am (UTC)(link)I'm glad you love Richard getting a happy ending. I do too. I thought since it was an AU, maybe matters could end well for a change. Things obviously aren't going to be perfect for him (especially not with his uncles still around, and you know John of Gaunt will resent his son being the king's heir) but he's gained wisdom, kept his throne, kept his Anne, and acquired, if not a man he loves, a man-shaped being who understands and likes him.
Eleanor and her friendship with Anne were a LOT of fun to write.
And I'm very glad you enjoyed it!
no subject
no subject
(Anonymous) 2010-08-30 05:41 am (UTC)(link)no subject
The whole thing was superlative -- style, pace, emotional content, the marvellous structuring of it all.
I am in awe. All I can say is that I am so very, very glad I got to read it, and thank you for sharing your work!
no subject
(Anonymous) 2010-09-01 08:45 am (UTC)(link)And I'm so very very glad that you enjoyed it!
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject