The Queen's Tower: Of Duty and Silver, #1

By J.S. Mawdsley

After 17 years locked in a tower for a crime she swears she didn't commit, Queen Merewyn might finally be released. She hopes that a visit by Nina, the queen of a neighboring country, will give her a chance for freedom, and a chance to help her son, Crown Prince Maxen, negotiate the treacherous waters of court politics. Nina's court sorceress, Daryna, however, resents the fact that Nina is focused on Merewyn's troubles, rather than concentrating on getting help from Merewyn's husband, King Ethelred, in modernizing their country. Meanwhile, Merewyn's jailer and old friend, Duke Brandon, rushes to prepare his castle for the royal visit, knowing this may be his last chance to get the king and queen to reconcile. 

Initially excited when Ethelred finally allows her to attend the festivities, Merewyn begins to worry that some of the guests are plotting against her. Still locked in her tower, she prepares for the grand welcome feast and her first night of freedom in years, but every day brings ominous hints of a sinister conspiracy that might include the visitors, the church, her husband, and possibly even her beloved son.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J.S. Mawdsley
• Release date: Jan 22, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393975953

J.S. Mawdsley

We’re a husband and wife novel writing team and have been since about a month after our marriage in 2007. He’s a teacher of education law. She’s a Librarian. Being able to write together so happily once made a friend remark that we are as mythical as unicorns. J.S. Mawdsley live in Ohio, where they share their house with half a dozen dying houseplants, and their yard with a neighborhood cat named Eugene, a mother deer and her fawn, affectionately known as the Countess and Cherubino, and a couple of blue jays, Henry and Eleanor. 

Book preview

Prologue

315 M.E.

Cathedral Square had never held so many souls at one time, though soon there would be three fewer. Merewyn, Queen of Myrcia, sat on a raised dais next to her husband, King Ethelred, as they watched the three ringleaders of the recent riots being escorted to the gallows. The two men and a woman looked like solid respectable citizens, not criminals. They might be dressed in stained rags, rather than the fine clothes they arrived wearing to the capital, but they still held themselves as if they were attending a royal salon.

It is not too late, whispered Fransis, the captain general. You could still grant them a pardon. Exile them if you don’t want them to return to Leornian, but you don’t have to kill them.

You will forgive me if I pay as little heed to your words as you did mine, Ethelred answered.

Caedmon Aldred, one of the court hillichmagnars, now stepped in front of the prisoners to offer a final prayer for their souls. Ethelred had at first balked at this part of the ceremony, believing that having an angel of Earstien bless the prisoners would make it look as if they were being honored, rather than disgraced, but it could be difficult to argue with an angel, and Caedmon got what he wanted.

Caedmon said his final words and stepped aside so that the hangman might come forward. The condemned men and woman stood atop trapdoors, all connected to a single lever the hangman would push, and they would fall as one, hopefully snapping their necks in an instant.

The queen shifted in her chair, uncomfortable in the baleful gaze of thousands of people. They stood on wagons and statues and climbed the scaffolding of the unfinished cathedral in order to gain a better vantage point. Many had been in this square before for this same purpose. Executions were common enough, and typically the mood was raucous and festive, with vendors wandering through the crowd selling sausages, meat pies, and cider, as if it were a holiday.

Today, however, was as different as a funeral from a wedding, the atmosphere solemn and reverent. No one seemed to think that what they witnessed was a cause for celebration. The subjects assembled here in the presence of their king saw and understood. If they were starving, their king would just as likely kill them as feed them.

In the beginning, the trouble in Leornian had barely seemed worth the king’s notice. A few market stalls were overturned, and there were petitions to the duke about the price of food. Ethelred could have stepped in, but he had declared it a local problem. Soon the whole market square was in flames and shops were being vandalized as the people starved. The Duke of Leornian sent a plea for help through his son, Brandon Dryhten, who had been Ethelred’s best friend since childhood, but Ethelred had still hesitated. Finally, when one of the duke’s squires was murdered in the street, Ethelred had not merely acted, but overreacted.

He called on the head of his army, Captain General Fransis Sigor, who also happened to be his cousin and another of his old schoolfriends, to take the army to Leornian and quell the riots. And not simply quell, but annihilate. Kill them all, Ethelred had ordered Fransis. Any person who disrupts the peace, put him to the sword. Bring their leaders to Formacaster, and I will string them up by their thumbs in the square!

Brandon had tried to protest. He had told Ethelred that a violent military campaign against his own people would make things worse, not better. But Fransis and Merewyn had exchanged a brief but meaningful look, and Merewyn knew Fransis—the best man in Myrcia—had no intention of starting a massacre.

When he arrived in Leornian, Fransis had assessed the situation and promptly opened the army’s own grain reserves to feed the people. The riots ended immediately once bellies were full, and the three people at the forefront of the disturbance agreed to return to Formacaster with Fransis to explain their plight to the king and beg his mercy, because Fransis encouraged them to believe that Ethelred would be merciful.

Fransis had known the king all his life, but Merewyn could have told him this would be a mistake. When the army marched into Formacaster, the crowds cheered Fransis like a great war hero of old. Ethelred’s jealousy of his handsome, charming cousin blossomed under the adulation, so that when Fransis finally appeared before the king at Wealdan Castle, Ethelred felt obligated to stand firm and execute the leaders of the riots.

All the court had been shocked to find that one of these leaders was a respectable woman of business, a high-ranking member of the Brewers’ Guild, in fact. When Ethelred pronounced sentence, a ripple of discontentment had spread around the throne room and the great Palm Court. Fransis had tried again to make his cousin see reason, but that had only inflamed the king’s envy further. Ethelred stammered out that no matter what promises Fransis might have made them, the leaders would hang. The time for mercy, he had said, was now past.

So, here they were, surrounded by all Formacaster on a warm early autumn morning watching the hangman tighten the nooses around the necks of the three leaders. Merewyn sat in silence next to That Man, as she preferred to think of her husband. Two guards stood lazily at the back corners of the dais. Brandon stood just off Ethelred’s left shoulder, while Fransis took up station off Merewyn’s right.

Please, Ethelred, Fransis repeated. Don’t do this.

The king has already given you his answer, said Prince Edgar, Ethelred’s younger brother. He stood between the two thrones, his hands resting on the backs of them. He had long been the fourth member of their tightly-knit little fraternity. Merewyn wondered if their friendships would ever be the same after this. Personally, she wanted to slap Edgar, or at least tell him to stop hovering over her like an overfed vulture.

For Leornian! the condemned woman cried. This caused the first real disturbance in the crowd, and the call was swiftly taken up by others. The guards on the dais and the soldiers off to the sides peered this way and that, trying to determine where the cries were coming from, which surely explained why none of them saw the young nobleman standing to the left of the dais unsheathe his sword and jump toward That Man.

Merewyn recoiled, not wanting to be stabbed by mistake. Ethelred, unsurprisingly, froze solid. Fransis, however, saw the threat to his king and pulled his own sword. He parried the young assassin’s blade to the side and then drove a short dagger deep into the attacker’s chest. The young man collapsed in a fountain of blood as Ethelred continued to cower in his chair. Merewyn sat mesmerized, staring at the dark stain seeping across the rough boards of the dais, until a flash of red sparks caught her eye.

At first she thought someone had started a fire, but then she saw another young man floating in the air a few feet off the ground, his body parallel with the cobblestones beneath. The flames and sparks surrounded his rigid figure as faint, strangled noises squeaked from his throat.

Caedmon appeared before the dais, having traveled the forty feet from the gallows in less than a second. We need ropes or shackles, he said. My spells will not hold him the entire trip to the castle.

One of Ethelred’s guards, who really ought to have been stationed decidedly closer to the royal family, hurried forward with a length of rope taken from his sword belt, the sword still uselessly tucked in its sheath. Once Caedmon lowered the body to the ground and the sparks faded, the guard bound the man, as Caedmon scanned the crowd for other threats. Merewyn, however, returned her gaze to the dead man before Ethelred. Fransis had rolled him over, Brandon now at his side, and they inspected the assassin’s weapons.

I know him, Brandon said, and then looked at the other man, who lay twitching under the guard’s harsh treatment. I know him, too. They are my father’s squires.

Leornian’s squires? Ethelred asked. But why would they want to kill me? I am executing those responsible for the crimes committed against their duke and his city.

There used to be three of us, the bound squire hissed through gritted teeth. He was blond and acne marred his flushed face. But you refused to help until one of us died at the hands of the rioters. You should pay for his death as surely as those three should hang.

Ethelred gawped, and Brandon appeared genuinely heartsick and shaken, so Fransis finally stood and took charge of the situation. Gag the prisoner and take him to the castle dungeon. You! he snapped at the other guard. Find a litter and take this body away. I will make an announcement that the execution shall not be carried out today, and we will take the prisoners back—

No.

Everyone turned to look at Ethelred, who scowled up at Fransis from under his lowered brows. Do it! Ethelred shouted to the hangman, who pushed the lever, and the three bodies dropped.

MEREWYN LAY LIMPLY on her stomach, still shaking, while Fransis rolled away to grab a towel. She had missed him these past two months, missed his beautiful body as entirely as she had missed his clever conversation, neither of which she could hope for from her husband. Not that she wished to think about That Man while Fransis gently cleaned her naked body.

Her husband and her lover. That Man had come inches away from death today, and only Fransis’s quick action had saved him. But what if Fransis had done nothing? What if the King of Myrcia lay dead awaiting burial, instead of sitting by a fire downstairs, drinking mead? Everything would be different.

You saved him today, Merewyn said.

Fransis, lovely Fransis, kept his head lowered, his deep brown eyes averted as his hand traced down her back. He is my king. I acted on instinct.

Maxen would be king now, she whispered, envisioning her 3-year-old son being crowned. Do you think he would make better decisions than his father?

Fransis stretched out along her side, pressing his body to hers and kissing her cheek. He would be more likely to listen to you, which would mark an excellent change.

You were amazing, she said against his lips before she started kissing him.

We should get back to the feast.

There’s no rush. That Man was well on his way to complete drunkenness when we left and will not miss us. Besides, the Howards are in the room below having their own reunion.

Merewyn’s lady-in-waiting, Tegan Howard, was the wife of Fransis’s best general, Sir Swithin Howard, and they, too, had been apart for two months and wished to be alone. The Howards were very loyal to Merewyn and Fransis, and would never allow anyone past them, so this room atop the northwest tower of the castle was as safe a place as any to meet.

Besides, Merewyn added, I require more time with the great hero.

That’s ridiculous. I’m no hero. I merely happened to be standing close enough to help.

I’m not talking about today. You were a hero before that.

Fransis sighed and shook his head. All I did was give some hungry people a little food.

Which is something their king failed to do. She shifted onto her side to provide a better angle for her kiss, not hurrying it, but instead cataloging every individual sensation of their mouths caressing, the softness of his lips and warmth of his tongue. You’re infinitely more popular than he is now.

Are you speaking for yourself? He rolled her over onto her back and leaned against her side, kissing her neck and stroking her stomach, his hardness once again growing apparent against her thigh. She moaned. Yes, that’s certainly just your opinion.

The conversation ceased while they explored one another’s bodies as if checking that they hadn’t missed something earlier. Her breath quickened when Fransis’s hand slipped over her stomach and found its way between her welcoming thighs. With a rumbling groan that threatened to grow into something decidedly louder, she sank her teeth into his shoulder to keep from alerting the entire castle.

Later, once she caught her breath, could focus her mind beyond wordless sensation, she said, We do need to get back to the feast soon, so let us be serious for a moment.

I promise you I have been utterly in earnest this entire time.

She sighed deep in her throat as his lips brushed her ear, but she forced herself to squirm away and look him in the eye. Ethelred sent you to kill starving people because he can’t manage the grain reserves. But instead you opened the army’s stores and fed people who would be dead now, either by the sword or for want of food, without you. Do you not see what this means to the people in this kingdom?

Fransis propped himself up on his elbow. Ethelred has always put aside more reserves than the army needs. It would simply have rotted. Giving it to those people was the only decent and intelligent thing to do.

Ethelred didn’t make you captain general so you could be reasonable. He did it so you would follow his orders. He’s not happy, not that he will be able to show that publicly without making the people hate him all the more.

He made me captain general because you asked him to. Edgar’s never forgiven me. As the king’s brother, he had some right to expect the job.

It’s his own fault for completely lacking talent.

But Fransis shook his head. This situation cannot continue indefinitely. No amount of life-long friendship and familial ties will sustain us in our current positions. Ethelred and Edgar will not be able to sit quietly by forever as my popularity with the people and the court expands. People are already taking sides and approaching me. He sighed. Only Brandon loves us all equally.

So what will you do? she asked, running her fingertips over his hip.

That is the question, isn’t it?

Have you spoken to Robertson yet?

The dean of the cathedral? Why would I talk to him?

Trust me, she said. You really should.

He frowned, but for only a moment. Right now, I don’t care about Robertson, or anyone else. Remind me tomorrow. Then he rolled gently on top of her and pushed inside once more.

Chapter 1

SEVENTEEN YEARS LATER

For the one-hundred-and-thirty-second time that morning, Queen Merewyn circumnavigated her tower room. Every creaking floorboard was familiar to her, every long shadow across the dark, time-worn furniture. The dust hung in the sunbeams, and the logs in the fire crackled and crumbled, exactly as they always had. She sometimes had the feeling that she had been in these chambers for no time at all—that she was living the same day over and over again.

But no. Today would be different. She stopped at the leaded-glass windows, drumming her fingers on the frame and trying to see beyond a narrow strip of weather-stained gatehouse and white gravel drive. The carriage had arrived twenty minutes ago. No, more like thirty now. Where was he?

She forced herself to stand up straight and step back from the window. After checking yet again that her hair was properly in place, she started pacing again, circumnavigating.

Was that even the right word? The most apt? No, it came from the Immani, meaning to sail around. The proper term would be...circumambulating? What a ghastly word. No, it would never serve. Circling, perhaps? Rounding? Lapping? Fringing?

For half a second, she thought she heard the door unlocking, and she spun around. In the sudden motion, she rammed her hip into the corner of a little side table. She bit her lip to stifle her moan and rubbed the injury. There would be a terrible bruise there tomorrow, but she forced herself to straighten up, take a deep breath, and keep moving, walking the pain away. It would never do to let her boy see her limping. He would think she was getting old.

She blinked back a few tiny tears. That would never do, either, to let him think she had been crying. He would imagine that was all she did up here—weep for the past and for everything that might have been.

No, no, no, she said to herself. Maxen is coming to see you, and you will be happy for him.

Earstien, where had the boy gotten to? He’d been at the castle half an hour or more now. Obviously he had to speak to Brandon. It was only common courtesy to greet one’s host. But how long did that take? Did he not understand that his mother was waiting for him?

She took a deep breath and smoothed her dress. It was new, and she reminded herself she must thank Brandon for the gift. The chocolaty shade suited her perfectly. Not every jailer would take such care. Or at least she assumed they did not. Merewyn had no other jailer to whom she could compare Brandon, but she doubted anyone else would choose prisoner garb so as to match chestnut hair.

My hair! She could swear she felt it coming loose now.

She slalomed through the two skinny pillars in front of the window alcove, clutching fistfuls of the dress, and scurried up the little curved stairs jutting from the wall. She did not stop running until she flung herself down before the mirror. Haley had twisted her hair into an intricate yet loose bun at the crown of her head. A few wispy curls trickled down over her temples as though they had simply come free, rather than being strategically planned and meticulously colored. Merewyn patted her coif and breathed deeply again. Still perfection. Now if she could only do something about her puffy, tired eyes.

Mother?

Oh, no. How could this happen? She should have never run up here to check her hair. Why had she doubted Haley? She should have been downstairs to greet her son. Stupid, silly, foolish old woman, she muttered.

I’m coming, darling!

She flew across the flagstones of her bedroom as quickly as her thin slippers could safely take her. Shifting the silver bird hanging from the chain around her neck back to kilter, she took a long breath. Then she descended the stairs to the only other room in her tower apartment with all the poise and grace that befitted a queen.

It had been nearly a year since she had seen Maxen. Surely it must be her maternal eye, but she could swear he had grown more handsome. Wasn’t his jaw stronger now than she remembered? Weren’t his shoulders wider? He was certainly wearing his hair longer now, and he had on a silver half-cape and a flat, baggy little felt cap with a blue silk tassel. Was that the fashion now?

Then he dropped his forearm from the hearth, resuming his usual adolescent slouch, and she realized he looked much the same as ever. The cape was pretentious. The flat cap was completely wrong for the shape of his face. Not that it mattered to her in the least how her boy stood or how handsome he was; he was here.

He met her halfway across the floor and kissed her cheek. How are you, mother? Sorry I haven’t been sooner.

He opened every visit to her with these same words. She had insisted time and again that he should feel no guilt for not visiting his prisoner mother more regularly, yet he felt it all the same.

Do not let any perceived duty to me plague your sleep.

But I do. He smiled and she could have been peering in her mirror again.

Fransis had once said that her smile was the first thing he had loved about her. He had said that her barely parted lips, turned slightly up at the corners, made her look as if she had just thought of something amusing and was wondering whether or not to share it. Did the girls at court think the same thing about Maxen?

The smile faltered. She had been staring at her son too long. She was embarrassing him.

Never mind, never mind. Sit. She bustled him to the table and into the chair closest to the fire. Wine? She poured and offered the glass to him. He took it so greedily that he nearly slopped it on his sleeve. Silly boy.

With a dramatic flourish, she uncovered the little bowl of pistachios, and he reacted with mock surprise, just like he always did. My favorite! Then he cracked open half a dozen in rapid succession and stuffed them into his mouth, alternating with quick gulps of wine. Merewyn tactfully averted her eyes; this was hardly the moment to chide him over his table manners.

She avoided the obvious question: Why are you here? Or, more precisely, Why are you here with only three days’ notice, after staying away for eleven months?

Now, she said. I must be told all the news. Because, surely, there must be news. Or have things in the capital become so frightfully dull that you had to come all the way out to Leornian for amusement?

He snorted in his wine. Formacaster isn’t worth talking about in comparison to Leornian.

Odd—she could distinctly remember him saying that Leornian was damp and cold, full of preosts and professors and other equally boring people. Had that been last year, or five years ago? It was hard to keep it all straight sometimes.

What was occurring out there in the wider world of the city? What was going on beyond the thick walls and her narrow windows? Beyond the reach of the spell that kept her confined to this apartment?

If only she had a window that faced south, directly over Addle Street, she could have seen it all: knights in their armor, urchins in rags, beggars and brewers and butchers. Silk merchants in vivid purples and reds. Messengers from distant lands; mummers and minstrels playing for the passing crowds. Sometimes on the great feast days, she could hear the sounds of music and cheering. But she could never see what happened out there, outside the castle. In the first years, it had tormented her to think that ordinary life carried on, and ordinary people were strolling freely back and forth, just twenty yards from where she slept.

Not that events in Leornian had any effect on her. The city might as well be in the Void for all she had to do with it, and somehow that made hearing about Leornian all the harder. But she still longed to know.

Before she could ask, however, Maxen blurted out, I had to be the one to tell you! The Queen of Loshadnarod and the crown prince are coming! There will be a feast and a joust, and maybe even a melee. Isn’t that wonderful?

Merewyn set down her own wineglass hard. "Nina is coming? Are you serious?

Maxen’s expression brightened again. And the whole court will be meeting them here at the Bocburg, because my...because everyone at court thinks it will be more polite to meet them halfway.

So this was your father’s idea?

She never called That Man the king. She didn’t even like thinking of him as Maxen’s father or my husband. It was a point of principle with her.

Mother, you don’t seem quite as excited as I had thought you would be.

Is this absolutely certain?

Yes! Well, I mean, it’s fairly certain. He opened a couple pistachios and chewed them thoughtfully.

‘Fairly certain.’ I see. She took a sip of wine to cover her disappointment. If Queen Nina wanted to visit Myrcia before winter set in and made travel along the Upper Trahern nearly impossible, then she would have to leave soon. It didn’t bode well that the arrangements were still unsettled.

Half to herself, Merewyn said, Why here? And why now, exactly?

Obviously to ask father to release you!

It was tempting, so very tempting, to think that might be true. But the Loshadnarodski royals could have visited anytime in the last seventeen years. What had changed to bring them now? Did they have something they wanted from Myrcia? Surely they had an agenda of their own—an agenda that had nothing to do with her.

Do you think Nina is really coming to plead my case?

He slouched a bit lower in his chair. Of course she will, won’t she? I mean, for years you’ve been telling me that story about how you gave her that pin when she was a little girl and you both said you would always be friends.

Long ago, Merewyn had made a great impression on the Loshadnarodski queen, entirely by accident. In the first year of Merewyn’s imprisonment, the only person to send a word of support was Queen Nina. And Nina had written five more times since then. Merewyn could remember every letter, almost word-for-word. They were censored by That Man’s agents, and Merewyn wasn’t allowed to keep copies. But she remembered them, all the same.

Nina was a grown woman and ruling monarch now; if she still cared even an iota about Merewyn, being in the same city could change everything. But only if Merewyn could find some method of turning the visit to her advantage, despite these utterly impenetrable walls. Perhaps she could coach Maxen to act as her intermediary with Nina. He was, after all, her only true ally in the world.

Merewyn took a deep breath, and asked calmly, When will she be here?

I don’t know, exactly. The first week of October, probably. He heaved a sigh and crossed his arms. These things get decided without me, mother.

There was a petulance in his voice that she had hoped he would outgrow. She poured herself a little more wine and said, Surely, darling, these things are decided by the council.

Frowning, he tugged at the braided fringe of his half-cape. I don’t usually go to council meetings anymore. No one listens to me.

She filled his wineglass again. Darling, as I have often said, the key is confidence and—

"And preparation. Yes, I know. But it doesn’t matter how confident and prepared I am, because father and Uncle Edgar and everyone else listen to...to...him. Maxen pounded his fist on the table, almost upsetting his glass. They listen to Broderick. Not to me. To Broderick."

He is the captain general. He is twelve years older than you and an accomplished soldier. You know I’ve often thought that you should cultivate a friendship with—

So people can gossip about how I don’t measure up to him? Did you know he’s started a fencing club in Formacaster? Everyone wants to be a member. It’s all any of the fellows at court talk about anymore. And then.... Maxen gave a sour look. "And then he actually sent me a personal invitation to join, if you can believe it."

Merewyn took a good look at her son. Maxen had a slim build, but then again, his father had been slim at twenty, as well. According to the rumors that Haley passed along, That Man was starting to spread.

You ought to join the club. Fencing is excellent exercise. It also sounds like an opportunity to mingle with the men who will one day serve you. Never underestimate the benefits of popularity.

Oh, trust me. I don’t.

Poor Maxen—he had inherited her desire for popularity, but his father’s inability to attain it.

"Darling, I would like to offer you some advice that I hope you will take to heart. You are the crown prince. You make fashion. If you can’t join Broderick’s au courant, as the Brigantians say, fencing club, then see to it that no one wishes to fence anymore. Perhaps you could start a rage for music that will make everyone in Formacaster forget about fencing."

Mother, have you forgotten that I’m not musical?

No, darling, I haven’t. You needn’t be. You need only to surround yourself with those who are. The important factor is to choose an endeavor at which Broderick cannot meet you.

Maxen’s face reddened, and his eyes had a brittle, desperate look. Merewyn recognized it as the expression he used to wear right before he started throwing toys.

He gulped down some wine. I’ve been thinking, he said, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. I’ve been thinking I should do something with the Loshadnarodski crown prince. When they’re all visiting here, he and I should...oh, I don’t know...sponsor a tournament or go hunting or something.

An excellent idea, said Merewyn, honestly impressed that he had thought of this on his own.

Her son’s lip quivered. Not that it would matter. Broderick will show up, and of course Vadik will like him better.

Ah, that was more like Maxen: pettiness combined with self-loathing.

Then draw Broderick in from the beginning. Bring him over to your side and make him a friend and confidant. He would be a powerful ally.

I’d sooner trust a snake.

He is your brother, darling.

He’s not my brother. He’s my father’s bastard! Maxen sat up, fists clenched at the edge of the table. You’re always taking his side.

Maxen, she said sharply. This is unworthy of you. Broderick may be captain general, and he may be popular now. But the mob is fickle in their affections, and you are your father’s true heir.

Am I? he snapped, leaning over the table. "Am I really? Because every once in a while, I hear a rumor about you and our dear, late Cousin Fransis, and honestly, if it were true,