The Cinder Crown

Prologue

Heavy, cold rain hammered down onto the black carriage as it slowed to a halt. The driver jumped from the wet perch, landing heavily and almost slipping in the soft, wet mud of the road. He darted around to attend to the four black horses, making an exaggerated show of checking their tack, as if there had been a problem. As he did so, the two outriders drew up next to him on their tall black horses, their breath forming gossamer clouds in the damp night air.

The two outriders were dressed in dark-hooded coats, their colour indiscernible in the low light. The men’s faces were drawn and nervous, hidden in the deep shadows of their hoods. Each man had a long, curved sabre at his side, and a pair of short carbines hanging from the saddle of his mount. They scanned the narrow woodland pass nervously, ahead and behind the coach, waiting.

Two similarly dressed men were sitting on the undecorated black coach. One was crouched on the roof, amid the luggage. He carried a long hunting rifle, his eyes constantly searching the tree line on the far side of the soaked mud road. The other man was wounded, slumped heavily on the driver’s perch; his hood drawn back, his eyes blinking away the cold rain, his young face pale and in a grimace of obvious pain. His left hand crossed over his chest and clutched at the wound in his right shoulder. His breathing was laboured and hard.

After a moment or so of observation, the roof-mounted man tapped twice on the carriage with the butt of his rifle. At the signal, the nearside door of the carriage opened and three black-hooded figures slipped out, dropping lightly to the ground and disappearing silently into the gloom of the dark broadleaf forest. The three, two men and a boy, crouched low in the tree line and watched in silence as the driver re-boarded his perch. With an over-loud ‘Hee-ya’ and a sharp crack of his whip, he drove the carriage onwards into the biting teeth of the cold autumn rain, the two outriders following closely behind. They disappeared noisily into the gloom of the night.

It is a gamble. Wolf knew it would be. It was too late now to think that they would have escaped undetected, and even more than hopeful to think that they would be ignored in the turmoil engulfing the city. The recent brief ambush had proved just that. Poor Heinrich had paid for this knowledge with his life, and young Ernst might yet pay the same price if his wound wasn’t soon tended. Two lives lost already; how many more? Yet if the men in the carriage were not followed by the hunters then all would be lost. I have to hope that they’ll be attacked again, he thought guiltily. I have to protect the children. He watched the carriage – his carriage, his guards, his friends – rumble out of sight. I just hope it’s enough.

Water ran down his face and dripped from his nose as he turned to his companions. Grunn was his best, his most loyal man. The old warrior, large and strong still despite his age, nodded grimly and hefted the long rifle he held in both hands. Wolf returned the smile and then turned to look at the boy. He was already eight, unbelievable to Wolf, but in the dark, his face forced into a stern, brave expression, the boy looked much younger. Wolf still remembered the moment his first wife had told him he had a son, the initial moment he held him, that shock of fine black hair on the baby’s head, the pride and love of a father. Wolf’s stomach knotted with fear for his only boy and the danger they were all in – the danger he had put his family in. But what choice did he have? He had to try; he had to get one of the children out.

Little Lea was too young to risk on this journey – too loud, too precious. Besides, as she would be seen as less of a threat anyway, there had been no point risking her. He knew all of this, but Wolf still ached with guilt and fear for leaving his sweet little girl. He swallowed nervously at the thought. He had done what he could. He would have to trust Johanna to protect her until he came back. And then there was always Maria, watching over her. She would be safe. She had to be.

They waited a minute or two under the dripping canopy. There was no sign of movement on the road, nothing in the trees. Perhaps we have left them behind. Perhaps this was all unnecessary and we could have taken the coach through the forest. It was a gamble – made now and too late to unmake.

Grunn tapped Wolf on the shoulder. With a flick of his head he indicated the shadowy gloom of the deeper forest. Wolf nodded in acknowledgement, hefted the short, heavy carbine he’d chosen onto his shoulder, next to his pack, and the three plunged into the forest.

Even deep amongst the broadleaves, the rain was pervasive, the heavy downpour hammering noisily on their oiled cloaks. The ground was slippery with clinging mud, and rotting, matted undergrowth that filled the air with the musty stench of decay. Still despite the discomfort, the weather would at least provide additional cover from hunters: they would be harder to see and harder for the hounds to track, at least that was what Wolf prayed.

They trudged onward, travelling for hours, deeper and deeper into the forest. Wolf glanced over to his son. Wolf was already tired himself, his legs aching, his face sore from the cold and whipping punishment of the trees, and by now the boy was barely keeping up. Poor little Wolfgang. He deserves better. For a moment he considered carrying his son, but he knew that would just serve to exhaust him more quickly. The poor boy would have to go on, as quickly as he could.

It was vital that they made the most of the night. If – no rather, when – the carriage was attacked again, their plan would be discovered and the woods would quickly fill with hunters. They needed to be as deep as possible; as far from danger, and as close to home as they could be. Their lives depended on it. Taking the road would have got Wolf to his estates in a day from here. On foot through the wood, however, it might take two nights, with the daylight hours used for rest. This way might be longer, but it would be safer – or at least that was the gamble.

They pressed on; the boy pushing bravely onwards, battling his discomfort without complaint. Wolf was proud of his son – he was no milk-soft dandy like many of the court boys. Wolf had always taken great pride in his son’s courage. One day, if we survive the night, he will make a good lord, and this will be a story he tells his grandchildren. It was a happy thought at least.

The River Elben was narrow where they finally reached it; the first key milestone of their journey. At this point, the river was little more than a tributary – constricted and fast flowing. Yet the ancient sawing of erosion had cut a rocky rent through the forest floor. The low rumbling sound of the rain-swollen river echoed off the walls, filling the otherwise silent night air.

Grunn had approached the cleft cautiously at first. He paused for a moment, peering into the wet, leaf-filled chasm carefully, before taking a standing leap across. He landed lightly, despite being burdened with a rifle, pack and sword. Wolf and the boy also approached cautiously. Wolf could see that his son was too tired to make the jump – the night was wearing on and the moon would be low in the sky, but it was still too early to rest. Silently, he gestured for the boy to remove his pack, which Wolf tossed over to be caught by Grunn. Wolf then lifted the boy and, carrying him close to the edge, passed him across to Grunn’s waiting hands. His heart hammered in his chest until the boy was safely over. Carefully, Wolf removed his own pack and tossed that over, followed by his carbine and then the long rapier in its silver-banded leather sheath that had hung at his belt. Taking a step or two back, he darted forward and leapt across the river.

Wolf landed badly, his leg tangled in the undergrowth, his ankle twisting and sending a red-hot, searing pain up his leg. He crashed noisily to the ground, his mouth filling with earth and rotting leaves, his arms splaying out painfully. He bit down on his lip to suppress the urge to curse. Then Grunn was there to help him to his feet, little Wolf standing nervously behind him. Gingerly, he put his weight down on the injured leg. Pain ran up it. He bit his lip again. Damn it! It didn’t matter: pain or no pain, they had no choice but to go on, for his son. Wolf knew he had to swallow the discomfort, but he also knew the injury would slow them down.

The wound did slow them. Even fighting against the pain, Wolf could no longer move as swiftly as he had before. Eventually, they were forced to stop for a rest. Without a speaking, Grunn drew his sword and hacked a branch from a nearby tree. Wolf winced nervously at every thud of the heavy sabre against the wood. Once cut, Grunn hacked the branch to make a crude crutch for his lord, passing it across with a grim smile. With his crutch they were able to travel more quickly, though not as fast as before the jump. Tired and exhausted they pushed on, the hope of success increasing with every mile.

The dawn was breaking now, the faint morning light gradually filtering through the trees like liquid gold, lifting the gloom. The land fell away towards a steep wooded valley and the old forest ford across the wide low Swatinen River, which marked the second key milestone of the journey. Even the icy rain had stopped, and a fine mist was forming in the cold morning air. Despite the pain, Wolf smiled when he saw the shallow bubbling waters.

‘Jaegers!’ Grunn hissed suddenly. He grabbed at Wolf’s arm and pulled him down into the leaf litter. He grabbed the boy and pulled him down also.

Wolf froze. He followed Grunn’s gaze and saw men moving through the trees to their left; a quick look revealed more behind. Rifles slung on their shoulders, their feathered shakos marked them out as the elite light infantry. In an instant, all hope was gone, replaced by a cold, hollow despair.

‘I’ll hold them off. You make for the river.’ Grunn’s whispered voice was calm as he lifted his rifle from his shoulder and slipped a percussion cap into the mechanism.

Wolf looked at his friend sadly. He then looked across at the approaching soldiers. He could see five or six at least – to stay was suicide. I have no choice. I have to leave. I have to save Wolfgang.

‘Thank you, my friend,’ he whispered, patting the old man on his shoulder.

Grunn smiled his grim smile. ‘Go, my Lord. Save the boy. I will catch you up.’

Ignoring the lie for the sake of them both, Wolf turned and grabbed his son’s arm. ‘We run, now.’ The boy nodded in agreement.

Dropping the crutch, Wolf and the boy half ran, half slid down the wet slope. Behind them they heard the crack of gunfire in the distance and the answer in kind from Grunn.

A cry of pain filled the air – a man had been hit. For a moment, Wolf feared that it had been Grunn, but it was too distant and he heard Grunn’s distinctive rifle snapping off another shot.

Filthy with mulch, they reached the tree line at the edge of the old ford. Carbine in hand, Wolf scanned the river bank for signs of enemies on the far bank. Behind them came the sounds of more shots, the sounds of shouting men. There’s no time to hesitate.

‘Come on,’ Wolf hissed. He grabbed his son’s arm again and pulled him out into the open. Heads down, they ran towards the ford, slowing slightly as they reached the freezing water and the slippery, smooth rocks underfoot. They pushed on, ice-cold water lapping at their boots, wetting their trousers and the hems of their coats.

‘Halt!’

The voice was commanding. Wolf looked up suddenly; from the tree line ahead, more Jaegers emerged, melting out of the forest. They wore dark-blue coats and red trousers and tall cylindrical shakos feathered in black that marked them as the elite hunter regiment. Their long rifles pointed at the two fugitives in the middle of the river.

‘Put down your weapons.’ The officer stepped forward from his men. Like them he wore the blue and red uniform, but no cap, only a powdered wig. His face was smooth, a small, trim, blond moustache crossing his pale upper lip.

‘Are you asking us to surrender to you?’ Wolf held his carbine steady, pointed at the man. ‘Are we to be taken into military custody?’

‘No.’ The officer gave a sly smile. ‘But I want to offer you something better than being shot down in a river.’

Wolf’s heart was pounding and he gripped his son’s hand tightly. ‘Will you let the boy go?’

‘Where is the girl?’ The officer demanded, ignoring the question.

‘There is no girl. I have no girl,’ Wolf replied. Little Lea, how I hate to deny you. The image of his sweet daughter’s smile flashed before his eyes.

‘Don’t lie to me, sir!’ The officer carefully placed his rifle onto the ground. ‘Did you bring the girl with you or not?’

‘There is no girl. She’s not here.’

‘Very good, sir.’ The officer shrugged and made an open gesture with his hands. ‘Now, please put down the gun and we can be civilised about things.’

‘Will you let the boy go?’

‘They say you are a very fine swordsman, sir. I should like to try myself against you.’ He drew his rapier and flourished it widely in the air. ‘It would be quite a contest, I am sure. Would you do me the honour?’

‘And if I win, will you let the boy and I go?’ asked Wolf, hopeful that the young man’s bravado might offer them a chance.

‘Good God no,’ the officer laughed. ‘I have my orders and so do my men. I merely think it would be a shame to shoot you down without seeing if you are as good as I hear.’

‘I will not be your entertainment!’ Wolf snarled. ‘If you give me assurances that the boy will not be harmed then yes, I will face you with sword.’

The officer grinned. He leaned over to the nearest soldier and whispered into his ear. The man nodded and smiled in return. Without speaking, the officer removed his blue jacket, folded it and placed it carefully onto the ground. Rapier in hand, he walked calmly to the ford and stepped into the cold waters.

‘Sir?’ he said, his expression shark-like.

Wolf’s heart was hammering in his chest. This was it, his only hope of saving his son. He turned and handed his carbine to the boy. ‘Be brave, son,’ he said, forcing a smile. Wolfgang nodded in return. Wolf could see the terror on his son’s face; tears were pricking at his eyes, but the boy blinked them back bravely. ‘Good boy,’ Wolf said, mussing the boy’s short, black hair.

Wolf turned and took a few more strides towards the officer. He drew his long rapier from its sheath. ‘On your honour, sir? The boy will not be harmed?’

The officer grinned again. ‘No, I did not agree to that.’

Wolf snarled. ‘Then I will not fight you.’

‘Oh, you will,’ replied the officer cheerfully. He raised a hand and flicked his fingers.

The crack of the shot rang out across the river. His blood running cold, Wolf turned just in time to see his son’s body crumple lifelessly into the cold waters. ‘No!’ His scream was feral. Wolf turned to run towards his fallen son.

‘Defend yourself, sir!’

The officer was running towards him, splashing through the shallow waters, his sword held high, ready to swing down towards Wolf’s back. Instinctively, Wolf raised his own sword to parry the blow; he turned the officer’s strike and lashed out blindly with his free hand, knocking his attacker back. His vision turned red with rage and hate. Wolf struck out wildly with his sword – one blow, two, three – hacking at the officer as if he had a sabre rather than a rapier. The unexpected blows were all parried by the officer as he gradually backed away, slipping on river pebbles.

Wolf thrust at the man’s belly and the officer brought up his blade in defence, but at the last moment Wolf raised his thrust to the man’s face. The officer flinched back instinctively, but too slowly to prevent the blade tearing into his cheek and ripping into his ear. With a sharp grunt of pain the officer danced back, struggling to stay upright on the uncertain riverbed surface.

Blood dripping from his cheek and ruined ear, the officer paused, breathing heavily. ‘I’ll kill you for that, sir,’ he snarled.

Wolf stayed silent. I’ll give him no more entertainment. He looked at the wounded soldier; he was three, maybe four paces away. On land Wolf would have rushed him, but here, with the water slowing his movements and the unstable ground, that would mean a quick death. I fight for Wolfgang.

Breathing hard, the officer stared at Wolf. His face was set in a grimace of anger and pain. ‘I could just have you shot, you know.’

Wolf shrugged. Do it for all I care. He remained silent, his jaw locked, his expression grim.

‘Argh!’ The officer darted forward again, his feet splashing heavily in the water. The officer’s attack was a clumsy thrust to the throat. Wolf parried it easily and his return struck the man in the breast, ripping his wet, white shirt and tearing into the flesh underneath. The man groaned painfully, pulling back.

The swords met again, and again. The clatter of the blades as they hit echoed across the river. Wolf was tired from his night of travel, but his fury kept him focussed. The officer was wounded and was slowing. Back and forth, thrust, parry, thrust, parry. Again Wolf thrust at the man, and again it was parried. Then the officer tried his riposte, lunging his blade towards Wolf’s face. Wolf ducked, allowing the blade to slide past harmlessly. He stepped deftly to one side before slamming his hand and the hilt of his sword into the officer’s face. The blow connected, knocking the man from his feet and sending him splashing heavily into the water.

Almost blind with grief and rage, Wolf saw his chance. He lifted the sword up and brought it swinging round to stab into the officer’s throat. He saw the look of terror in the man’s pale-blue eyes, the realisation that he’d lost and was going to die here. At the last moment, the man desperately threw up his left arm in an attempt to deflect the blow. The sword sliced through his fingers, stopping only as it bit into the man’s palm. The officer screamed. Wolf wrenched the sword back, ready to thrust again, to finish the hateful man.

The sound of the gunshot reached his ears at the same time as the bullet ripped though Wolf’s shoulder. The force and sudden pain knocked Wolf back into reality from his world of rage and revenge. Blood filled his mouth. The second shot ripped through his stomach and dropped him to the ground, his arms smashing against the hard, stony riverbed. The sudden cold of the water in his face momentarily overpowered the pain wracking his body.

Wolf drew himself to his elbows. He could feel his strength failing as the blood ebbed from his body. My son! Desperation and panic were clouding his mind now. Painfully pulling up his head from the freezing water, he looked across at the dark shape of his son lying motionless, crimson streams diffusing from his body like streamers into the lazy, wallowing river.

Slowly, agonisingly, he dragged himself towards the boy. He was aware of shouting, screaming voices. His hearing muffled as his ears filled with a deafening, whistling, roaring noise. The pain became his only sensation as he crawled to reach his son. That was the only thing that mattered now, here, at the end.

At last he reached the boy. His strength had almost gone. Wolf’s body was leaden now, a dead weight. Water lapped into his mouth, choking him, as he stretched out his hand and felt his son’s soft, wet hair. My son!

Wolf’s vision was darkening; colour drained from the world, leaving only a dull, dusk-like monochrome. Was it evening already? No, it had been morning. He inched forward a little and cradled the boy’s head against his arm and wrist; it was limp and lifeless. ‘I’m sorry,’ he breathed to the boy. It was a gamble, he thought. A failed gamble.

It was almost dark now: his eyes were closing and he had no strength to keep them open. He was so tired; all he wanted was to sleep. Lea. The thought of the small, happy girl-child, her sweet smile, her long hair, golden like her mother’s had been. She was all that was left now. Lea, my little girl, be safe.

Then, there was only darkness.

Chapter 1

Shadows flickered and danced on the bare stone walls of the cell. The large, cold room was lit by a small, fire in the stone hearth, augmented by the greasy, white light of an oil lamp. Despite this, the cell was dark. The air was damp and musty, and a faint stench of sewage wafted from the slops bucket in the corner.

The wide, gloomy room had been sparsely furnished. A small, straw-filled cot lay against one wall, the thin, worn pillow and tattered blanket placed neatly. A tall, ornate wardrobe and chest of drawers painted a pale pink and decorated with exquisite gilding stood to against one wall, incongruous to their surroundings, down here in the depths of the Ratten-Haus. An richly carved table and desk wallowed on the other side on which were placed papers and books, a pen resting next to a jar of ink and half a worn candle held in an old brass dish. The carved wooden chair, that matched the desk, was set in the middle of the room, next to an expensive-looking, colourful Eastern rug, opposite a battered, tatty velvet sofa on which the lady was sitting.

The lady looked up at him as he entered the room. Her face was drawn, with sharp, narrow features. Her hair, once blond, turning now to a silvery grey, had been neatly brushed and carefully put up into a tight bun. Her dress was of burgundy silk, unfashionably high-necked and lined with expensive lace that was yellowing slightly with age. She was striking, that much was certain, and handsome still, clearly. She wore little in the way of ornament, perhaps reflecting the more frugal fashions more common in her earlier years, or perhaps such portable wealth had been traded with her gaolers in exchange for the meagre comforts that now surrounded her. She wore only a gold ring on her wedding finger and a small jewelled crucifix on a silver chain around her neck.

The lady stood, clearly noting his collar and crucifix, and a smile forced itself across her face. Her bearing was stiff and haughty, but Father Joachim Grenmann could sense the sadness and loss behind those eyes.

‘Please do come in, Father,’ she said in a voice devoid of emotion. ‘I would be glad of your company.’

‘Thank you,’ replied the priest. He turned and dismissed the grotesque gaoler who had brought him here. ‘That will be all, Albert. The Lady Rhodopis and I are not to be disturbed.’

‘Y’honour,’ grunted the man with a leer. ‘As you command.’ The gaoler’s suggestive wink before leaving the room made the priest shiver with disgust.

Father Grenmann closed the heavy wooden door, dampening the noise of voices, cries and the occasional scream from outside. He walked the three or four steps to where the chair had been placed.

‘Please do take a seat, Father.’ Lady Rhodopis gestured to the chair. ‘I am afraid that I cannot offer you much in the way of comforts. As you can see, my circumstances have been very much reduced.’

‘Thank you, my lady.’ The priest smoothed out his dark blue cloak and sat down on the hard chair, which creaked under his weight. ‘It is a true sadness to see you brought to this.’

‘Is it?’ snapped the woman suddenly, a look of anger flashing across her face. She took a deep breath and returned to a calmer demeanour. ‘My apologies. In this place tempers fray easily. I meant no disrespect, Father.’

‘No offence was taken. I understand absolutely,’ replied the priest. Although anger is the reaction that I was expecting, he thought.

‘May I offer you a glass of wine?’ Lady Rhodopis asked politely. ‘It is not a good vintage, but my options are limited to what my benefactors can provide.’

‘That would be delightful,’ replied the priest with a smile.

He watched the woman stand and walk to the table where she poured deep red wine into two small glasses. She returned and, smiling, passed one to the priest.

‘In fact, it is on the subject of your benefactors that I am here,’ Joachim continued, taking the drink with a nod of thanks.

‘Such as they are. My benefactors have been kind but anonymous. If you are looking for information on them, I’m afraid that I cannot provide it.’ Lady Rhodopis looked at her glass with a sigh. ‘To the king’s health,’ she said, a half-smirk of irony crossing her face briefly before she sipped her wine. She grimaced slightly as she drank.

‘To the king,’ Joachim repeated. He tasted his wine. The red was heavy and sour with tannins, making his mouth feel dry, but it was certainly strong. He held the glass gently in one hand. ‘It is not information about them that I seek; rather, I have come to inform you.’

‘Your meaning?’ asked the lady as she took another sip of the wine.

‘Your benefactor is the queen, my lady.’

Lady Rhodopis’s mouth opened in shock and she lowered her glass slowly. ‘The queen? But it is the king and the aschenputtel who put me here.’

Joachim smiled. He had hoped that this would be her reaction; it would make his work easier. ‘Indeed, it was the king’s decision. But the queen feels that you have been harshly treated and wants to help you. I am her priest, Father Joachim Grenmann.’

‘Why?’ snapped Lady Rhodopis angrily. ‘Why does she care for me? Have I been experienced royal justice – my family robbed of its wealth and status, me condemned to die, my name and reputation dragged through the dirt – just so that the aschenputtel can take revenge for my years of protection of her?’ She took another deep breath, her face angry and embarrassed. ‘My apologies. That was unseemly.’

‘My lady, no, it was understandable.’ The priest took another sip of the wine. ‘The queen feels that you have been treated harshly and unfairly. She wants to help you. Believe me, she is no friend of the Lady Cordelia.’

‘Pah! Lady Cordelia. The very name is an insult!’ interrupted the woman. ‘A jumped-up servant, and a spoilt child.’

‘Nevertheless she is to become the princess royal this very day.’

‘A commoner on the throne?’ Lady Rhodopis drained her glass. ‘It is an insult to the kingdom.’

‘Yet she is from the noble house of Rhodopis and she has earned the love of our crown prince.’

‘She is a harlot, nothing more. I should have handed her to the king when her father died.’

‘Then all claims to her lands and titles would have passed to her uncle, and you would have been made dependent on his good will or become homeless.’ The priest smiled warmly. It was working: the lady’s rage was building, which would make her easier to manipulate later. ‘I can see why you kept her as a servant, even if it is not popular with the masses.’

‘Are you mocking me?’ snapped the lady angrily.

‘I have come to help you,’ replied the priest serenely. Mocking you? Hah, you have no idea how you are hated beyond these walls. ‘As I said, the queen has no love for the Lady Cordelia and seeks to discredit her. In exchange for your help, she is willing to improve your lot.’

‘How?’ demanded the woman, all traces of calmness forgotten. ‘How will my lot be improved?’

‘Depending on the information you provide, I can have you moved to a better cell. Perhaps in one of the Ratten-Haus’ towers where more aristocratic guests are kept, better food...’ He gestured upwards towards the ceiling.

Long ago the Ratten-Haus had been a palace, then briefly the town hall, whereupon it had acquired its name – a poor pun on Rathaus. Now it was simply a convenient place to hold criminals. The once ornate gardens now held gibbets, and the hall held the great court of justice. However, the old royal apartments were still well kept and reserved for the more high-born guests of the king’s justice.

‘A pardon!’ snapped the woman. ‘A pardon and a pension for myself and my daughters.’

‘I cannot offer that,’ replied the priest. ‘The king would not allow such a thing. The Lady Cordelia is very popular with the people, and the king… well... he is nervous of revolt. Lady Cordelia’s betrothal to the prince has done much to calm unrest throughout the kingdom.’

‘But why must I suffer?’

‘You are part of the myth now, my lady.’ The priest smiled warmly. ‘The Cinderella, the people call her, and you are the villain in the people’s story.’ He drained his glass before speaking again. ‘Well, you and your daughters.’

‘But we protected her.’

‘Not in their version. Rather, you are a thief and an abuser of the innocent girl. You are now the most hated person in the kingdom.’ He shrugged and opened his hands, the glass held between his finger and thumb. ‘You are a rather convenient figure for the king to use as a scapegoat. I’m afraid there is no way we can get you a pardon. Perhaps I can get you the sword instead of the rope?’ Would this lady accept that in exchange for her helping us? Some brief comfort and a noble death?

‘You would ask me agree to help in exchange for a different method of execution?’ the lady snapped.

‘Your name is tainted, my lady,’ said the priest with a grim smile.

‘Tainted? Why? When has it ever been a crime to employ a child as a domestic servant?’

‘My lady, to the people your crime was disinheriting a noble girl and abusing her as a servant, but the king deemed you guilty of treason.’

‘I committed no treason: I protected the child from his revenge. Yet I am hated.’ She curled her fingers into a tight fist. ‘And what of my beloved daughters? I have had no word since I was brought here.’

They are safe, my lady.’ The priest leaned over and placed his glass on the floor. ‘The prince himself has taken them as wards. For their protection he has betrothed them to good men.’

‘They are to be married?’ Lady Rhodopis stood up, a hand lifted to her mouth. ‘Without my approval?’

‘You are a condemned criminal, my lady. You have lost all rights and privileges. The girls would have been destitute and hated by the commoners. The prince has promised that they will be married and protected.’

Lady Rhodopis slumped back into her sofa, a hand raised to her forehead. ‘The aschenputtel is behind this, isn’t she? Her and that woman of hers, that godmother whore.’ Oh, how she hated that girl and her godmother.

‘My lady, such language,’ the priest said reproachfully. Excellent, he thought. She hates the girl as much as we thought, and the godmother too. Theodor’s information is accurate, as always. ‘Lady Cordelia may have been involved. I cannot comment. Nor can I theorise about the involvement of the Countess Engless. Suffice to say that the girls are to be married.’

Father Grenmann kept his expression neutral. Clearly Lady Rhodopis was trying to suppress her rage. Yet it was not surprise that she was enraged; she had no-doubt lived in constant fear for the first few years after her second husband had died, despite her loyal actions for the new king. In shame and fear she had be forced to withdraw from society, no-doubt had lost her friends and the respect of her peers, lost her good name, lost the chance to remarry. The family had been marked by association with her husband, and no one had wanted to risk being involved. On top of this she had known that they might come for her, the girl and her daughters at any time. And it was all because of her husband’s daughter. Yet she had dared not rid herself of the girl. She could not: she would have lost everything.

‘Whom are they marrying?’

‘Gentlemen on the prince’s holdings.’ The priest smiled warmly. ‘His steward on his northern estate, and a major in the infantry regiments. Both good men.’

‘They should be marrying nobility, not some middle-class peasants. We are from an old and noble house, even before I married her father.’ She chewed on her lower lip in obvious frustration. ‘This major, is he from a good family?’

‘A risen man, I believe.’ The priest clasped his hands together. ‘A brave man, intelligent and with good prospects – but alas, I believe from a low-born family. Gentry or minor Junker perhaps. The steward too achieved his rank through merit.’

‘That witch countess is behind all of this, you know,’ snarled Lady Rhodopis, slamming her hand down onto the sofa in fury. Despite everything she had done, it was all lost now. They had even taken her children’s futures. ‘She is the reason that I suffer so. Black magic and sorcery I don’t doubt. She is the devil’s whore.’

Grenmann could see that the thought of her children marrying such men filed her with rage. Their father had been a count, although he had died penniless; this lady’s own father had been a general. They should never have fallen so low. Frustration and anger clearly raged inside her; she wanted to hit someone, again and again, like she had the aschenputtel.

‘My lady, please.’ The priest’s face went solemn. ‘Such language is not seemly.’ He paused and smirked mischievously. ‘Although ironically, the people refer to the countess as Cinderella’s fairy godmother in the story. She too is much loved.’

‘Pah!’ snorted the woman. ‘Then they don’t know her, the wicked bully that she is. Making threats to a poor widow and her children.’

‘And yet the countess is another whose fate is bound to Lady Cordelia, and another who is less than loved by the queen.’

‘What do I care?’ Lady Rhodopis realised her hands were clenched tight, her fingernails digging deep into the flesh of her hand.

‘Well, perhaps you might be able to help me to find reason to reduce the, err…’ He cleared his throat and paused for a moment. ‘… reduce the people’s love for Lady Cordelia. The queen would be very grateful.’ The priest studied the woman. Almost there; she is close to trusting us, he thought.

‘Yes, she would have your headsman end my life, rather than your hangman. Some gratitude.’ The lady shifted uncomfortably in her chair, grimacing in anger.

‘My lady, we seek only information that might be used to raise doubt.’

Lady Rhodopis sat silently for a moment. Her angry face softened. After a long moment she spoke, her voice calm, a hint of a smile touching her lips. ‘Perhaps there is something. There was a boy, a year back, maybe more. I believe our new princess may be a lady when she marries, but a maid she certainly is not.’

‘Really?’ Father Grenmann leaned forward on his chair eagerly; this was better than he could have hoped. ‘This may be what we need. Evidence of such sin would inflame even the crown prince. It may be enough for me to help you. Although I will need his name.’ If it’s true, of course.

‘You do, and yet you shan’t have it,’ replied Lady Rhodopis, her mouth breaking into a snake-like grin. ‘At least not in exchange for a new cage and a sharp sword.’

‘I cannot get you a pardon.’ The priest shook his head rapidly. Damn this woman. ‘It cannot be so. The king would not allow it.’

‘Then I want to be broken out of here.’ The lady raised a finger and pointed it towards the priest. ‘I want to escape here. I want to be taken far away – Gaulia, Saxland, the far Etrusca Cities, I don’t care. I want money and some land, and a new name.’

‘You ask a lot for a name.’

‘But it’s worth it to you?’

The priest paused for a moment. It was too much, he knew that. The king had decreed that she would be executed for treason. He looked at the woman opposite him. She had to die, and yet...

‘Can the boy be found?’

The woman smiled. ‘Oh, yes. I can tell you his name and address, and dates of the encounters.’

‘And would he admit it?’ The priest studied her face, looking for any signs of deception. ‘This boy, would he testify?’

The woman shrugged. ‘I’m sure you have ways of persuading him.’ Joachim thought he detected a pang of guilt in her tone: she was sending the boy to torture. Yet it was better for the boy to receive that than the lady being executed herself no doubt.

The priest sighed and rose from his chair. ‘Perhaps I might be able to do something. I will need to talk with my mistress.’ Damn this woman, damn her – she asks too much. But it is vital that we do something.

‘Do so then.’ Lady Rhodopis nodded. ‘I will be here. Speak to your queen. But do not be too slow about it; I am on limited time here.’ She smiled in the gloomy light. ‘And I want revenge on the aschenputtel too.’

Chapter 2

The roar of the crowds was almost deafening. Even inside the carriage it was difficult to be heard over the cries and chanting of the people. Outside of the beautifully gilded, silk-lined coach, thousands of cheering people lined the processional route as it wound its way through to the Cathedral of the Holy Mother, the huge gothic building that dominated the eastern half of the city.

‘Sounds more like a battle than a wedding,’ said the Countess Maria sardonically. She lounged back on the plush, cushion-strewn seat, her magnificent dress rustling as she moved.

‘I think it’s amazing!’ Cordelia replied, her face lit with wonder. She was sitting straight backed, perched on the edge of her seat, although this was as much to do with the boning and skirts of her lavish wedding gown –its sumptuous layers of silk, the rich velvet and white pearls and silver filigree – as her excitement. ‘All of these people, they seem so happy. Is it really my wedding that makes them so happy?’

‘They love you. You are their princess,’ Maria said.

‘But the crowds – I’ve never heard of anything like this happening before.’

Maria shrugged then smiled. ‘It is amazing, isn’t it? The people see your wedding as their own dream come true: a seemingly common girl discovering herself to be noble and wealthy and then becoming betrothed to the crown prince.’ She smiled wistfully as she looked out of the rose-tinted glazing of the quarterlights. ‘Every woman and maid out there dreams of being in your position, and yet they love you for it. They think it was magic, and that you are going to be their magical princess.’

‘Magic?’

‘Yes.’ Maria smirked. ‘In their story it is your magical fairy godmother who freed you, dressed you and helped you to meet the prince.’

Cordelia looked across at the friend who had changed her life. She claimed to be her godmother, but Cordelia certainly could not picture Maria as a fairy godmother. The Countess Maria Engless lounged across one of the soft seats that lined each end of the carriage, casually eating rich red grapes from a delicate porcelain bowl. Despite the occasion of the wedding, and her role as maid of honour, Maria’s dress was midnight black, appropriate for a newly widowed woman. Yet in spite of this, the cut was flattering, hugging inappropriately her full, womanly figure, a riot of silks and velvets and trimmed with tear-shaped pearls. It was cut low, just on the edge of decency and social acceptance. Around the pale skin of her neck she wore an ornate necklace of black lacquered metal, edged with silver, from whose centre hung a single, striking blue sapphire. Her face was young and beautiful: pale, smooth skin, slightly freckled; a small mouth with a slight lift to her lips; dimpled cheeks and fine cheekbones; and deep brown eyes. Maria’s dark, almost black hair was long, plaited as she always wore it. It reached halfway down her back and today had been decorated with pins of silver, sapphire and black lacquer.

Cordelia could not tell how old Maria was. She looked as though she was in her mid-twenties, but she knew that she had been an adult when her father had died, which would mean that she was in her mid-thirties at least. Cordelia certainly could not picture her as a fairy godmother, but perhaps as a temptress – easily that, if she was to be a magical creature. It was not so much Maria’s looks that marked her out, but rather her combination of elegance, grace and a mischievous, suggestive, smile that turned men’s heads. She had an easy confidence that exuded sexuality, a ‘je ne sais quoi’ that even Cordelia found attractive.

For a moment Cordelia felt jealous of her friend: her looks, confidence and style. Cordelia was far from plain herself, she knew. From the portrait hanging in her father’s house she realised that she had her mother’s looks: pale skin, small, delicate features, blond hair with a hint of red and pale-blue eyes. Although not truly beautiful, she had been told by Maria that her childlike, innocent features engendered a desire to protect her, and that gentlemen desired. Indeed, she had received a lifetime of compliments from men, and even as a servant she had been courted. Yet compared to Maria, she felt ordinary. She looked again at her friend – against Maria and her combination of seductiveness and grace, anyone would seem ordinary. Yet it was Cordelia who was to marry the crown prince. She was being silly; she had no reason to be jealous of the woman who had saved her.

‘Really? So you are my fairy godmother?’ Cordelia joked, pushing her touch of jealousy to