before quickly closing again. Catherine yanked her arm out of Malcolm’s grasp, glared at him, and then strode, scowling, up and down in front of the closed doors, rehearsing all the terrible things she was going to say to her father once she got inside.
Malcolm looked thoughtfully at the two huge statues, set on either side of the doors, of Good King Viktor and Queen Catriona. The facial likenesses were clear and detailed, but so idealised there was no way of knowing how accurate they were. Good people and wise rulers, everyone said, and a hard act to follow. Malcolm doubted they’d ever been kept waiting outside a closed door. They’d have just kicked the doors in and then walked all over anyone who got in their way. Catherine stopped pacing, to see what Malcolm was paying so much attention to.
“My great-grandparents,” she said. “You think they’ll ever put up statues to you and me? Doesn’t seem likely, does it? How can you hope to prove yourself when you’re brought up in the shadow of legends like those two? Makes me sick.”
“They were just people,” said Malcolm. “Doing their best in difficult times, no doubt. Read the real histories if you get a chance, not the official ones. And ignore the legends.”
“In this spooky old dump, history and legend are often the same thing,” said Catherine. “See that long couch over there? Do you think it would make a decent battering ram?”
Perhaps fortunately, the great double doors finally opened, falling soundlessly back on concealed counterweights. Catherine plunged straight forward into the Court, with Malcolm right behind and hurrying to catch up. As they entered the vast hall of the Court of Redhart, they discovered immediately that it was packed full of Lords and Ladies, courtiers and politicians, all of them dressed in their most formal attire. And every single one of them had been talking, loudly and animatedly, when the doors opened . . . only to fall silent the moment Catherine and Malcolm made their delayed entrance. The only sound in the Court now was the soft slapping of two sets of boots on the waxed and polished floor as the Princess and the Champion headed straight for King William on his throne.
He was looking right at them, and not in a good way. Malcolm felt sudden chills run up and down his spine. In all the years he’d served his King, he’d never known William to look at him in such a way. The courtiers and the politicians fell back, to the left and to the right, opening up a broad empty aisle for Catherine and Malcolm to walk down, funnelling them straight to the throne—just in case they’d been thinking of going somewhere else. Malcolm tried to read the expressions on the faces around him but couldn’t. Whatever had happened at Court, or was about to happen, it was important enough to have stamped the same fixed expression on all their faces. Most of those present wouldn’t even meet his eyes. Malcolm looked back at the King. His face was cold and set and determined, and completely unreadable. King William was wearing his most ornate and ceremonial robes, but badly, with little or no style. He was a large and blocky man, well into middle age, with iron grey hair, and his crown always looked subtly too big for him. The years of strain and endless responsibilities had taken a toll on him, but he was still a vigorous and overpowering presence. He’d always been the brute force type: everything forward and trust in Fate. But he could be subtle, and even crafty, when the occasion demanded.
He was still mostly remembered for beating a traitor to death with his bare hands, right there in the Court, in front of everyone. Because the man had been his friend . . . for so many years.
Malcolm could feel his own frown deepening, until it was actually painful. The more he saw, the less sense things made. What the hell were all these people doing here? Nothing of note had been planned for today’s session. As far as he knew. It
Malcolm looked thoughtfully at the two huge statues, set on either side of the doors, of Good King Viktor and Queen Catriona. The facial likenesses were clear and detailed, but so idealised there was no way of knowing how accurate they were. Good people and wise rulers, everyone said, and a hard act to follow. Malcolm doubted they’d ever been kept waiting outside a closed door. They’d have just kicked the doors in and then walked all over anyone who got in their way. Catherine stopped pacing, to see what Malcolm was paying so much attention to.
“My great-grandparents,” she said. “You think they’ll ever put up statues to you and me? Doesn’t seem likely, does it? How can you hope to prove yourself when you’re brought up in the shadow of legends like those two? Makes me sick.”
“They were just people,” said Malcolm. “Doing their best in difficult times, no doubt. Read the real histories if you get a chance, not the official ones. And ignore the legends.”
“In this spooky old dump, history and legend are often the same thing,” said Catherine. “See that long couch over there? Do you think it would make a decent battering ram?”
Perhaps fortunately, the great double doors finally opened, falling soundlessly back on concealed counterweights. Catherine plunged straight forward into the Court, with Malcolm right behind and hurrying to catch up. As they entered the vast hall of the Court of Redhart, they discovered immediately that it was packed full of Lords and Ladies, courtiers and politicians, all of them dressed in their most formal attire. And every single one of them had been talking, loudly and animatedly, when the doors opened . . . only to fall silent the moment Catherine and Malcolm made their delayed entrance. The only sound in the Court now was the soft slapping of two sets of boots on the waxed and polished floor as the Princess and the Champion headed straight for King William on his throne.
He was looking right at them, and not in a good way. Malcolm felt sudden chills run up and down his spine. In all the years he’d served his King, he’d never known William to look at him in such a way. The courtiers and the politicians fell back, to the left and to the right, opening up a broad empty aisle for Catherine and Malcolm to walk down, funnelling them straight to the throne—just in case they’d been thinking of going somewhere else. Malcolm tried to read the expressions on the faces around him but couldn’t. Whatever had happened at Court, or was about to happen, it was important enough to have stamped the same fixed expression on all their faces. Most of those present wouldn’t even meet his eyes. Malcolm looked back at the King. His face was cold and set and determined, and completely unreadable. King William was wearing his most ornate and ceremonial robes, but badly, with little or no style. He was a large and blocky man, well into middle age, with iron grey hair, and his crown always looked subtly too big for him. The years of strain and endless responsibilities had taken a toll on him, but he was still a vigorous and overpowering presence. He’d always been the brute force type: everything forward and trust in Fate. But he could be subtle, and even crafty, when the occasion demanded.
He was still mostly remembered for beating a traitor to death with his bare hands, right there in the Court, in front of everyone. Because the man had been his friend . . . for so many years.
Malcolm could feel his own frown deepening, until it was actually painful. The more he saw, the less sense things made. What the hell were all these people doing here? Nothing of note had been planned for today’s session. As far as he knew. It
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