Richard had an afternoon to himself in the port town of Bourrac before the ship was ready to take the Ilworthian retinue to the motherland. Many of the advisers still had hangovers from Henry’s coronation despite not having attended the ball: Richard certainly had had a splitting headache since hearing of the incident.
The precise incident had been harmless to Queen Katherine or her rule, but the tone had been set: King Henry would rule as an triggerhappy chieftain, more like the kings of famous comedic plays rather than his ancestral line of conniving yet dependable Chavanets. Furthermore, if one of Henry’s marriage prospects could be ruined for good in an evening, under the eyes of guards, knights and the king himself, who was to say that the next prospect to get her face smashed in was not Katherine? It was a ridiculous assumption given her high status, but Camelia had also not been a country lass. Even if it were to be the scandal of the generation, harm could be done.
They were in some ways lucky to be bound for Ilworth regardless. Laws needed to be passed, audiences needed to be heard, and there was a confrontation that needed to be avoided. The moment they heard word that the exiled government of the Baradran Kingdom was on its way to Massouron, there was a grand shift in tone. How they would respond to Queen Katherine’s De Serra bastard daughter, a de facto member of the dynasty that overthrew the ruling Baradran family, was unpredictably nerve wracking and therefore was preferably avoided.
Bourrac was a town built on a peninsula with a rocky cliff to three sides out of four. The other side was a large, fortified city wall that hailed from the times were Massouron and Ilworth quickly oscillated between togetherness as an empire and mortal enemies. Aside from the gnarly history of it all, the town was quaint and historical, reminding him somewhat of the ancient cities in the north of Ilworth and on Otterdon Island. The peninsula had a peak upon which a castle had been built, and the street leading up to it wrapped around the hill, making for a dizzyingly inconsistent view of the city and landscape depending on one’s exact location. In the market, shielded by the canvas tops of the tents, it was even more disorienting.
Richard had walked down from the castle in order to get to the rocky coast, to think more clearly in the spring air than he could in the stuffy indoors. Richard was lucky with his appearance: when in less prestigious gear, he had the look of a travelling salesman before he did a nobleman even of the humble distinction that he had. The moment he had set foot outside of the castle, the people treated him accordingly.
Despite the potent sunlight on his skin, the early morning still had much of the previous night’s chill remaining, causing Richard’s breath to trail behind him in steam. His nose was stuffy and his head was still pounding. Life at court was decidedly not for him, he thought, and brought him much less than life in the guild. Alas, he had not finished his mission yet.
On the clearest of days, the island of Ilworth could be seen from the coast of Bourrac, but today was not one of such days. He looked out over the landscape and saw only unruly blue water and agriculture in the distance, behind the ends of the city.
He looked down at the cobbles that had been arranged into steps with unfamiliarity that set him apart from the local bumpkins and attracted the eyes of the merchants at the market. To shield him against the cold and the prying eyes, Richard pulled the hood of his cloak over his head.
Whether he was working or free, he was not sure anymore. With each knickknack he thought to bring back home to his wife, as a souvenir to his bizarre royal adventure, there was a gnawing thought that followed it. They were selling wax and wooden dolls of Queen Katherine, the former Queen Louise, and heretical goddesses whose religion had not yet been snuffed out fully despite the ringing church bells that coexisted with them. Despite having no real interest in them, having no daughter of his own, he lingered on them.
There was a sort of crudeness to the dolls, outfitted in poorly fitting scraps of dyed linen, with twine for hair, and overrouged faces. Their crowns were fashioned out of metal wire. That notwithstanding, they looked rather sweet. Getting to know Harcourt in particular had changed his life for the better: the times they had shared in that short period already had granted him a close friend he would likely never forget. Dorothy and De Vere were dear to him as well. The care with which they treated Katherine of course had a practical use for the continuation of the monarchy, but if Katherine were to abdicate, likely Harcourt’s daughter would succeed her. It seemed that a personal capacity of care grew between the advisers and the queen. Perhaps, the kindly painted face begged the question, the care was all warranted?
His eye fell on a small alleyway perpendicular to the main market, closed off by the surfaces of the market stalls before him. One of the Katherine dolls stood out to him. Considering they all were quite different from each other in the way their hair was attached, their faces painted, what they were wearing, some were more accurate-looking than others, even if the craftspeople behind them likely had no clue what the queen actually looked like. One of them was particularly apt, wearing a raggedy red dress, her hair knotted, her face somehow with an air of mischief.
‘I’ll have that one,’ he said to the merchant, hoping he spoke a word of Ilworthian given his Massouric stretched to greetings and famous foodstuffs only.
He nodded. ‘I saw you looking behind me,’ he said as he took the doll from its stand roughly. ‘If you want to pass, feel free. That’ll be fifteen deniers.’
Richard did not know whether that was a good price — trying to count it back to its silver value, it seemed like he was getting a steal. Though, he knew his conversion was likely not as precise as Dorothy or Freyza’s would have been. ‘Fine,’ he said.
‘You have a little girl, sir?’ the merchant asked while Richard rattled his purse in pursuance of the correct coins. ‘She likes the consort queen?’
He could not bring himself to lie. ‘Not my daughter, but I think I know a girl who will find her quite endearing. A redhead herself.’
The merchant’s eyes flared when he received the coins. ‘I’d like you to step aside so I can pass through behind you,’ Richard added.
Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author's preferred platform and support their work!
He knew it was a strange token, but it was oddly collectable to him. At council meetings, Katherine was nearly almost late or fully absent, instead sleeping in or riding out, and he knew that the first time he would place this wooden doll on her chair instead, propped up with pillows, it would bring some much-needed levity. When the jape had grown old, he might give it to Katherine or her daughter, or keep it as a memory of his time in her service.
He was let through at once, and slipped into the alley. The houses to either side had no windows that faced the alley, and though the sun was potently shining, whole swaths of it were shrouded in darkness. Richard had to watch his step not to stand on bottles of ointment and potions that were being sold from blankets on the ground.
From his dealings with the innkeepers in his guild, he knew exactly what one could find at the back end of most markets. Counterfeit gemstones, exotic liquors, forbidden literature, occasionally the directions to an underground brothel — there had been many times he had found rudimentary maps that would lead to a house of pleasure while he sat in an alehouse.
He did not cherish the idea of scanning this criminals’ den, but now he had already let his curiosity get the better of him, he decided in favour of it. The faces of the salespeople were like those of bugs that lived in cellars, light-eyed from lack of sunlight, squished and deeply wrinkled. Their arms were shaped like cones and sturdy like sausages, their sleeves rolled up to make a spectacle of their sunspots.
Not the exotic animal pieces, nor the bottles of mumia, nor the excessively dyed fur that was being sold as if Massouron’s wolves were brilliant pink startled Richard. The end of the alley became visible, the extension of which was the sea. On a good day, the furthest extension of it was Ilworth. Just below, at the height of the horizon, he saw something shimmer. It was clearly not jewellery or weaponry, and as he shuffled forward, his breath quickened when he realised precisely what he was looking at.
His insignia.
Like the real ones were, these were fashioned into cloak pins. Brass instead of gold was the most likely, and from the looks of them, cast into a mould and not expertly carved like the ones given out by the crown. Their intricate lattice design was indistinguishable from his own, and the heraldic animals of the Courtenay house, the hind and the cockatrice, were copied with precise detail.
It was preposterous. These insignias carried an amount of unrivalled power just from the fact that they were unable to be copied, and therefore any man carrying them was part of Queen Katherine’s inner circle. In Souchon Palace court, those wearing the insignia were rarely asked for their paperwork. In Ilworth, the symbol was regarded so highly that it was rare for a man bearing it to pay for his meal or stay at an inn, for anticipation of royal reward. It was hard for Richard not to look dumbfounded or utterly discouraged.
Immediately, his mind shot to William and his polished cloak pin. Where else could the original pin have exited the hand of a trusted adviser? In his mind swirled images of the administrator bringing his cloak pin to some crook to be copied, or worse, writing down its exact specifications so it could be copied across the continent.
He sighed and swaggered forward. ‘What’s that you got there?’ he asked the merchant, pointing at a few of the emblems.
‘Those who know, know,’ he said solemnly.
Touché. He was going to have to play another way. ‘Are these authentic?’ Richard asked.
The merchant plucked one from the stand and handed it to Richard. ‘See for yourself.’
Richard examined it closely and cursed the fact he had come down here on his way to the coast. It appeared perfect, but he was a man who had only served Katherine for a few months, and therefore had not had time to inspect his cloak pin to the degree necessary for such an assessment. As much as he dreaded it, he needed to take it back to Harcourt.
‘How much?’ he asked.
The merchant looked him up and down. ‘For you? Three livres. Two pounds of your country’s coins.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ he asked. ‘You can get cloak pins for as little as one livre.’
He shrugged. ‘Then it appears you do not know what you ought to know…’
Richard bit his tongue and sought his purse again. He swore he would remember this merchant’s face.
----------------------------------------
When he returned, it was the middle of the day, and the castle had started heating up just a little. Next morning, they were due to leave, but until then, there seemed to be a thaw in the Ilworthians. Harcourt and William were playing chess, Constance strummed her lute, Grace was reading, Henry was outside practising archery, and on the chaise longue by the fireplace sat Walter and Katherine, the latter knitting a pair of gloves in delicate white wool.
Richard was fuming at the idyllic scene, given that he was convinced one of those present was hiding a grave secret. ‘Cuthbert,’ he said as he entered the hall, ‘We should talk.’
He looked up from his game and scoffed at Richard’s gloomy face. ‘Something happened out there?’ he asked.
Richard ground his teeth and looked around. ‘In fact, probably something that warrants royal presence. Lady Katherine…’
Katherine looked up from her knitting. ‘Must I?’ she asked.
‘No, you mustn’t, but you ought to,’ Richard clarified, ‘my lady…’
Harcourt got up: ‘Lady Katherine, this means that you must.’
Hesitantly, Katherine got up and dropped her knitting to Walter’s side. A bit of amusement followed recognising that she looked just as dishevelled and poorly dressed as the doll Richard had purchased.
‘I’m sorry,’ Richard said, then quickly eyed William. ‘Matter of national security. I’d like nothing more right now than to kick back as well.’
They did not have access to a cabinet or chancery, so instead Harcourt led them to an outside terrace that overlooked the city. The wind was blowing through the trees that shielded the sitting area from sunlight and produced a high-pitched whisper through its branches.
Before either of them could ask what the matter was, Richard took the purchased pin out of his pocket and delicately placed it on the palm of his hand. Harcourt and Katherine both looked at it intently.
‘Your… cloak pin?’ Harcourt wondered.
There was a certain madness in Richard’s eyes. ‘No,’ he barked. ‘Purchased this morning on the market, Cuthbert. It’s a copy.’
Harcourt took it from Richard’s hand and examined it closely, unclasping his own pin from his cloak and comparing the two. The difference between them was that Richard’s version was still unscratched, and Harcourt’s had seen over two decades of service.
‘But how can that be?’ he asked. ‘Down to the finest line…’
‘I saw that William’s pin is well-polished,’ he said. ‘Perhaps too polished. I imagine when they took a mould of the pin, the mould took all of the dirt with it… Asking me, you’ll hear that it was likely William’s doing.’
Harcourt looked at Katherine, who appeared deep in thought. It was no secret that Harcourt and William were far from friends, and so the secretary of state decided to keep quiet at least until Katherine had given her thoughts.
Eventually, she sighed. ‘We should probably change the official insignia,’ she said. ‘Overleigh, I’d like your pin for a second.’
‘We should arrest Lord William,’ Richard added for emphasis.
‘Overleigh?’ Katherine asked.
Harcourt handed Katherine his pin, and she immediately rubbed it against the fabric of her dress, getting the fibres into all of the angles and crevices, and triumphantly raised it to their eyesight, as spotless as William’s. ‘We’re not arresting a man because he values his cloak pin, gentlemen. Now if you'll excuse me, I'll get back to my knitting. Change the pin. Discontinue its use until this is snuffed out.’