The Right Side of History Snippet 1
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Prologue I
The room stank of fear.
Constance, Lady-in-Waiting to Queen Francoise of Alluvia, pulled her dress around her as the noise from beyond the walls grew louder. Night was falling, but the city outside was cast into sharp relief by towering infernos. The riots had become a revolution, crowds of rebels and thugs throwing lighted torches into the homes of the great and the good. She huddled closer to the rest of the royal companions as the queen stared at her husband. He’d once been a great man and a greater king. He’d chucked Constance’s chin and whispered promises of royal favours, if she wished to become his. Now, he seemed almost diminished. The kingdom was fading alongside its king.
It had all happened so quickly! Constance could barely keep track of each piece of news – bad news – before the next arrived. There had been fights over bread in the marketplace, of all things, fights that had turned into riots. The Royal Guard had arrived to break up the fighting, the City Guardsmen had turned on them and … Constance wasn’t sure what had happened next, but the king had lost control of his city. The castle gates had been slammed closed, wards snapped into place by royal magicians, but it hadn’t been enough to save everyone outside the walls. She’d heard a messenger screaming a warning about mansions going up in flames. The mob was running rampant, tearing through the aristocratic walls and hunting down the money-lenders and speculators. Constance had heard a tale of horror from the guards on the battlements, before the queen had cut them off. The money-lenders had been marched to the embankments and thrown to the rocks below. Their wives and daughters hadn’t been treated anything like so kindly.
She shivered, helplessly, as the shouting grew louder. The mob was calling for blood … royal blood. Constance herself was a very distant relative of the king – her family lands were on the other side of the country, near the border with Rose Red – but somehow she was sure it wasn’t enough to protect her. The bodyguards and chaperones her father had sent with her, when he’d allowed her to enter the queen’s service, were nowhere to be seen. She hoped they were safe, wherever they were. But she feared the worst.
“Got out there.” Queen Francoise voice cut through the stifling tension. “Order them to disperse.”
Constance winced and tried to hide it. The queen was a sharp-tongued woman, more of a man – Constance would never dare say aloud – than her husband. Two male children who’d survived to adulthood, as well as three daughters, had made her position unassailable. The king could hardly refuse to treat her with the respect she’d earned, even though he had no compunctions about taking mistresses and then discarding them. And yet … Constance could tell that the queen was making a mistake. Her husband was trapped between fire and water, unable to confront the crowd or lead his men into battle against the mob. All he could do was wait.
“If only Dater was here,” Queen Francoise snapped. Her favourite son, according to rumour, had been disbanding his army when the rioting had turned into full-scale rebellion. “He would teach them all a lesson.”
“Dater is a long way away,” the king said, mildly. “And I sent Hedrick out as soon as the trouble began.”
“You should have sent him to deal with the crowds,” Queen Francoise accused. “And now they’re at our door!”
The king turned away from his wife, his fists clenching with anger. Constance understood. A king could not be a king if he couldn’t exert authority, over his wife and children as much as his kingdom. Everyone knew it was just a matter of time before the Crown Prince, perhaps pushed by his mother, started to demand more power and authority than his father could reasonably give him. Dater was old enough to rule and young enough to make his mark, if he inherited the throne. He was certainly prominent enough to seem a viable replacement, if the king lost too much face to rule. It wouldn’t be the first time a king had ‘voluntarily’ surrendered his power and gone into exile.
Constance looked at the stone floor, trying not to attract attention. The king’s temper was starting to boil. She didn’t want to face his fury, not when no one would lift a hand in her defence. The assembled nobles feared the king too, feared what he might do if his back was pressed against the wall. Constance felt cold, wondering – deep inside – if it might be better if the king was … convinced to abdicate in favour of his son. Dater was a dashing young man, so handsome and bursting with energy that no one would dare to stand against him. Had he not been the hero of the wars? Had he not taking on a necromantic army and smashed it in an hour of furious combat? Had he not turned down the hand of Lady Emily herself, for the good of the kingdom? Constance’s heart fluttered at the thought. She was too lowly-born, for all the blue blood in her, to attract the prince … but she could dream.
She glanced up as Councillor Triune ran into the room. He was normally jovial and warm to everyone, even the lowliest maidservants, but now his jowled face was streaked with sweat and his hands were shaking. Constance knew she shouldn’t listen, as he hastily knelt before the king, but she couldn’t help herself. Knowledge was power in the court, particularly if one got it before anyone else. She had long since mastered the art of eavesdropping without making it obvious. She didn’t know why she bothered sometimes. As a young woman from the borderlands, she was rarely considered important enough to matter. The only thing that kept her from being sent home was the favour of the queen.
“Your Majesty!” Councillor Triune sounded as if he wanted to panic. “The sorcerers are dead!”
A rustle ran round the chamber. Constance swallowed, hard. The walls were strong, but the royal court didn’t have enough men to hold them after the Royal Guard had been slaughtered. Or deserted. Or joined the rebels. The stories just kept getting worse and worse. If the rebels turned their attention to the castle, they could get over the walls. The sorcerers were dead. It was only a matter of time before the wards fell.
The king glanced at his queen, then at the barred window looking over the courtyard and the city beyond. The bars weren’t that strong. If the rebels captured a catapult, or one of the new-fangled cannon, they could put a shot right through the window. Constance took no interest in military affairs, but even she knew that walls couldn’t be held forever. And then … she tried not to think about it. The rebels wanted blood. Her blood.
No, she corrected herself. It was unlikely any of the mob knew who she was. They want the king’s blood.
An idea flashed through her mind. She could leave the chamber, perhaps on the pretence of going to the toilet, and swap clothes with a maid. She could pretend to be a maid. No one would know, if she was dressed as a maid … the rebels would ignore her, allowing her to walk out and then … and then what? She didn’t know the city, beyond the inner walls. She couldn’t hope to walk home. She had only the faintest idea of the way!
“We have a plan,” Councillor Triune babbled. “The troops will create a diversion. The rest of us will get into carriages and flee to the army camp. And then …”
“Excellent,” the queen said. “Dater will purge the city with fire and blood.”
The plan didn’t seem a very good idea to Constance, but no one bothered to ask her opinion. It was just taken for granted she’d be accompanying the queen, along with the remainder of her ladies. Councillor Triune’s men urged them down the stairs, into the rear courtyard, as troops ran forward to rally at the forward gates. They’d always struck Constance as fops, when they hadn’t been trying to court her in their clumsy manner, but … they were going to die in defence of their king. She wished she’d been kinder to the last knight who’d tried to court her. He’d been so dreadfully earnest she’d laughed in his face.
She winced at the noise as they scrambled into the royal carriages. It was hardly her first time in a coach, but … she wished she was on horseback. An eager horse and a clear road … it was all she asked. The littlest princess asked for a horse for herself as she was bundled into another carriage with her nanny, her mother ignoring her cries as the door slammed firmly closed. Constance was tempted to suggest the princess was given a horse, that she was given a horse, but she didn’t dare. Councillor Triune fussed around, snapping orders to the guards as the sound of fighting grew louder. His face was too grim for her to risk speaking her mind. If he got the royal family out, his future would be assured. He was hardly going to alter the plan on her say-so.
“Get in,” the queen snapped. “Now!”
Constance heard someone – Councillor Triune, perhaps – give the command to open the rear gates as she scrambled into the carriage. The regal vehicle lurched as the door was banged closed, then started to move. Constance found a seat and sat down, trying not to look at the queen. The expression on her face promised death and destruction – and social exclusion, perhaps, for the one who disturb her. Constance tried not to shiver openly. Law and order was breaking down everywhere. She didn’t want to think about what might happen if the Crown Prince couldn’t regain control of the city. How many of the dressmakers and jewellers and others she’d patronised were about to die?
“They’ll pay for this,” the queen said, more to herself than the rest of the passengers. It had the air of a blood oath, a promise that could not be broken. “They’ll pay in …”
The shouting grew louder. The carriage lurched again, then crashed to a halt. Constance reached for the window to pull back the blinds, the queen slapped her hand hard enough to hurt before she could touch the fabric. The carriage was quivering, as if someone was beating their fists against it … Constance started back as the door shook, then came free. A grim-faced man stared at her, his gaze swiftly turning into a leer. Behind him, the city burned.
“Look,” he shouted. “We’ve captured the royal whores!”
His hand snapped hold of Constance’s wrist before she could pull back and yanked her forward. She tumbled out of the carriage, hitting the paving stone before she could catch herself. Pain shot through her as strong arms yanked her to her feet, holding her so firmly she couldn’t pull free. The queen was dragged out too, to hoots and hollers from the rabble. Her eyes were wide with fear. Constance struggled against her captor, but she couldn’t break free. He was just too strong.
She felt horror, numb horror, sinking into her as she looked past the carriage. The king’s carriage was ahead of her, the king himself being manhandled away by a group of men in red shirts. They were on the embankment, too close to the river to escape … she wondered, suddenly, if that had been deliberate. She couldn’t see Councillor Triune anywhere. The king’s man had vanished …
A commanding voice cut through the crowd. “Take the whores to the Final Prison!”
Constance shuddered as her captor started to push her forward. She’d heard all the stories about the Final Prison, about how it was the last port of call for men sentenced to death. If someone went in a prisoner, they didn’t come out again. Panic gave her strength: she stamped on her captor’s foot as hard as she could, then ran to the embankment. The river had dwindled over the last few months, as summer had started to bite, but if she could get into the water she could swim down to the distant lands beyond the walls. They wouldn’t expect her to be able to swim. Countrywomen learnt as a matter of course, but cityfolk regarded the idea of women swimming as perverse. It was …
“Stop,” someone shouted. “Now!”
Constance jumped … and realised, too late, that she’d misjudged. The river had shrunk too far. She was plummeting towards jagged rocks and the remains of sunken ships, not waters that might hide her long enough to let her escape. She thought, suddenly, of her parents. Would they ever know what had happened to her?
In truth, she feared they would never know.
