Marie Brennan - In Ashes Lie

Even allowing for Soame’s tendency to exaggeration, it was appalling news. “Are we disabled?”

“You may be.” Soame fished around the coach floor and produced a small jug from behind his feet. Antony accepted a swig, expecting wine, and choked on aqua vitae. “Depends on whether they know you helped write the Solemn Protestation. ”

Which was to say, another damnable ordinance. Word of it had reached them in prison, of course: no one involved with the Protestation could ever hold public office or a seat in Parliament again. “They don’t have the slightest shred of authority backing it,” Antony said. Anger warmed his body against the icy air. “To call the Commons a free and representative body, after what they did to us—”

“Not to mention they can barely manage a quorum most days,” Soame agreed. “Hell, even Vane isn’t attending, and he’s been the Independents’ leader for how long now? Some men are afraid to show their faces; others stay away in protest. The Lords muster six on a good day. It’s a farce.”

“I’m not laughing,” Antony said, more sharply than Soame deserved. “So tell me, then—what reply is planned?”

His friend blinked owlishly above the furred edge of his cloak. “Reply?”

“What protest? You cannot tell me the people are taking this in silence.”

“Oh, they’re not. I’ve seen a few petitions—not that the Commons or the General Council will even receive them—and enough argumentative pamphlets to paper over St. Paul’s. Publishing is the latest fashion, you know.”

Indeed. What was well and good for men in prison, though, was hardly enough for men who had their freedom. “What action ?” Antony demanded in frustration.

The bitter humor faded from Soame’s face. “None that I’ve seen.”

None? It was inconceivable. “But the London Presbyterians hate the Army.”

“And preach against them at every opportunity. More words. It’s all words, Antony, from the Thames to the City wall.”

He shook his head, curling fingers numb with cold into fists at his sides. “Then I will change that.”

“How? Man, there’s artillery at Blackfriars, and soldiers quartered three doors down from your house. The Army lets people talk, but anyone who moves will be crushed like an ant.”

“Are you telling me the citizens of London are afraid to defend their liberty?”

“I’m telling you they’re tired, ” Soame answered bluntly. “Six years of unrest, civil war from one end of the land to the other—trade is decaying, we’ve had three bad harvests in a row, and there’s ice on the Thames already. They’re minded to hold on to what they have, rather than risk losing the rest.”

And so by their indifference, they will lose that rest. Except that Antony knew, even as he thought it, that he was wrong. The Army would make a mockery of their liberties, gut Parliament, force the King to the indignity of trial, and otherwise destroy half of the things the war had supposedly been fought to defend, but the average man could still expect to work at his trade and go home to his family at night. And so long as he had that, it was possible to overlook the things he had lost.

Those lost things mattered. But if pamphlets and preachers could not move men to action, what could? When would the people of London stand up?

The coach had rattled down the frosted streets while he and Soame argued, over the Fleet ditch, through Ludgate, and across the City to his home. Now it rolled to a stop, and a moment later the coachman opened the door for him. Soame reached over before Antony could move and gripped his arm. “I understand,” his fellow alderman and erstwhile member of Parliament said, quietly serious. “But I think they mean this trial to frighten the King into real concessions. Once that is done, we will have sanity again.”

“I hope you are right,” Antony replied. “But I will not trust only to hope.”

Then he descended from the carriage and turned to face his house. Kate stood in the door, well-muffled in a cloak, but she threw its edges wide to envelop him in a tight embrace. “Welcome home,” she said into his shoulder, “and merry Christmas.”

THE ONYX HALL, LONDON: January 9, 1649

“Six trumpeters,” Antony said through his teeth, “and two troops of horse to keep Dendy safe while he read the proclamation. The Act they passed three days ago was no bluff.” He spat the word out, contemptuous of its pretended authority. Acts were things passed by King, Lords, and Commons—not Commons in the absence of Lords or King.

Not Commons against the King.

“So they will do it,” Lune murmured, warming her hands at the fire. “They will put him on trial.”

“They will play at it, like mummers. This so-called High Court of Justice is nothing more than a pack of rogues and self-interested knaves. None of their original Chief Justices would have anything to do with it—a tiny show of principles and reason. The Commons has no jurisdiction to try the King.”

No one did. Lune knew little of the common law of England, but she knew that much. A sovereign monarch was authority. Mortals derived it from the Almighty; fae based it in the very realm itself, which answered only to its rightful master. Neither source allowed for subjects to declare their own preeminence, then use it against those set to rule them.

She recognized the touch of hypocrisy in her own thoughts. Invidiana had not designated Lune her heir and passed the crown to her; the change of Queens was born of rebellion. An accidental one, in some ways—Lune had not meant to claim the throne—and one could argue the illegitimacy of Invidiana’s own power. But in a very real sense, Lune was more guilty of treason than the fae now imprisoned beneath the Tower.

Perhaps that made her, of all people, qualified to recognize it in others.

Turning from the fire, she lowered herself into a chair. Antony needed no permission to sit, but he stood by choice, caged fury driving him to pace before he checked himself into stillness. This anger had burned brightly in him ever since Hipley confirmed his suspicion: there had been troublemakers at St. Albans, particularly around Edmund Ludlow, who argued for the purge. Lune had no messages from Cerenel since he fulfilled her final command, discovering Vidar’s presence in Fife, but it was easy enough to imagine what Nicneven had commanded her Lord of Shadows to do. Charles was humiliated; now he must be deposed.

Lune wondered how long it had been since Antony slept a full night through. But she could not reassure him into resting; there was no reassurance to be had. “Jurisdiction or not, they will do it,” she said. “I think you are right: this is no bluff. And they will find him guilty.”

“No, they will not.” Antony ground the words out. “We will stop them.”

“How?” She could not but pity the frustration that raged in him. “We have tried to move the people of London, to no avail. Their fear is too great, and their exhaustion.”

“Then we’ll try something else!” he shouted, whirling on her as if on an enemy. “You’re a faerie, God damn it; use your arts!”

The oath hit her like a blow to the gut, driving the wind from her lungs, the light from her eyes. The fire flickered low, and a tremor rocked the walls. Only a faint one; it was but a single word, and spoken in blasphemous anger, not prayer.

But it shook her to the bone.

When Lune’s vision cleared, she saw Antony’s white face mere inches away. He had her by the shoulders, steadying her. The iron wound throbbed under his hand. Then the door slammed open and a pair of attendants rushed in, wild and ready to fight off some assailant. Finding only the Prince, they faltered.