Shadow of Albion
ഀഀ![[cover]](covers/soa.gif)
ഀഀShadow of Albion [?]
ഀby Andre Norton and Rosemary Edghill
ഀTor Books (April 1999, February 2000)
ഀISBN:
AUTHOR'S FOREWORD: A REGENCY THAT NEVER WAS
ഀഀഀ ഀഀThe "If Theory" of history is that oftentimes in world history distinct and radical changes rest upon a single event or person. From that particular point two worlds then come into existence, one in which the matter goes one way and one wherein it goes the other.
ഀഀഀThe point of divergence here is the affair of the Duke of Monmouth in the days of Charles II. The majority of the English people at that time were bitterly opposed to the return of a Catholic ruler. Unfortunately, Charles II had not been able to produce a living heir by his Portuguese wife, though he had a number of illegitimate children by various mistresses, upon whom he settled dukedoms and other major honors.
ഀഀഀCharles' brother and heir presumptive, James, was a Catholic and was narrow-mindedly determined to return England to the Catholic fold. James was a severe, arrogant man, unlike Charles, who had all the Stuart charm in rare abundance.
ഀഀഀThere has always been a rumor that the Duke of Monmouth, the eldest known of Charles' by-blows, is actually legitimate -- that Charles, while in exile, did marry Mistress Waters, the Duke's mother.ഀMonmouth had much of his father's charm and was strongly Protestant in his religious views. In the real world, following Charles' death MONMOUTH led an uprising against his uncle, King James II, failed, and was beheaded.
ഀഀഀIn this "If-World," Charles II, during his protracted dying, realizes that James' inheritance of the throne would mean trouble for all, and finally admits to a selected body of his strongest council that the rumor was true, that he had in fact made a marriage (there was no Royal Marriage Act in those days!) with Mistress Waters and thus the Duke of Monmouth was the legitimate heir of his body. Thus, upon Charles II's death, the Duke of Monmouth is crowned Charles III.
ഀഀഀThe new king has difficulties with a diehard group of strong Catholic lords, and with James, his uncle, who believes the throne of England should be his. This will have a bearing on the events of later years -- even centuries -- but immediate events are similar to those in the real world. The strongly Whig-Protestant English fight against France. The Duke of Marlborough comes to center stage as a military leader -- he is also a bosom friend of the Duke of Clarence, the late king's illegitimate second son and Charles III's half-brother. (The Stuarts continue their merry custom of producing bastards and granting them titles so the highest grades of the English peerage are frequently expanded.)
ഀഀഀAfter the reign of three more Stuart kings (Charles IV, James II, and Charles V) we reach the 1800's, and a world like -- and unlike -- our own. The English government is strongly Whig and the King depends on that party for backing. Without the weak and unpopular Hanovers on the throne, political relations with the American colonies have never degenerated into warfare; in 1805 America is simply the westernmost of England's possessions. Its citizens are English citizens with full representation in Parliament. It is governed (similarly to Ireland) by a Lord Protector; in 1805 the Lord Protector of America is Thomas Jefferson, the Earl of Monticello. Like Irish titles, American titles are considered "second class" titles, but many of the nobility holds both English and American titles and America is a popular destination for land-hungry younger sons. The ties between the mother country and her vast colony are becoming thinner with time, and political theorists predict that someday America will govern itself practically free of any strong supervision from the motherland.
ഀഀഀOne major divergence from history as we know it in this alternate 1805 is that the Louisiana Purchase does not take place, and the thirteen colonies' western expansion is halted in the vicinity of Kentucky (or, as it is known in this world, Transylvania).
ഀഀഀThe French Revolution of 1789 -- which occurs in both worlds -- is a shock to both England and her New World colony. There were suggestions in our world at the time that England intervene, which she does not do in either world. In 1795 Napoleon Bonaparte begins his climb to power and France's ambitions became imperial. England goes to war once more. Though plagued by civil and religious unrest at home, it is Britain's funding that keeps the Triple Alliance -- England, Prussia, and Russia -- in the field against Napoleon. The simmering discontent at home might break out into full-fledged civil war, however, were England suddenly left without an heir.ഀJust as in the Real World, many European nations considered making a "separate peace" with Napoleon. A key player in this political arena is Denmark, which, as a member of the Baltic League, vacillates between neutrality and a pro-French position. A French-allied Denmark would cause Russia to withdraw from the Triple Alliance.
ഀഀഀIn the Real World, England sent fleets to Denmark in 1801 and 1806 to keep French sympathies at bay. In our world, the widowed King Henry IX of England hopes to accomplish the same thing by betrothing his only son, James Charles Henry David Robert Stuart, Prince of Wales and Duke of Gloucester, to Princess Stephanie Julianna, granddaughter of the weak and vicious King Christian VII, whose eldest son, Prince Frederick, is currently his Regent. This marriage, to one of the few Protestant royal houses in Europe, will link Denmark firmly with the Allied cause.
ഀഀഀAnd our story begins . . . .
ഀഀഀ--Andre Norton
ഀഀChapter 1: A Lady Bought With Magic (Wiltshire, April 1805)
ഀഀഀThe house had always been called Mooncoign, though it had passed through several families before becoming King Charles III's gift to the first Marchioness of Roxbury over a century ago. The Roxburys had reigned at Mooncoign for longer than living memory ran, and to those within their domain, it seemed they always would.
ഀഀഀEven in that bygone generation there had been no one left who could say how the house had come to be so named -- or if there were, they deemed it wiser, in a climate of uncertain political and theological tolerance, to keep the knowledge to themselves. For while Charles II, that merry monarch, had often said that the witches of England should be left in peace, the temper of his son, the once-Earl of Monmouth, was a chancier -- and far more Protestant -- thing.
ഀഀഀBut the time of both merry father and ambitious son was long past now. It was an early afternoon in April, a morning of no particular note in the calendars of alchemists and philosophers: a day much like any other day on the Wiltshire downs for every inhabitant of the great house save one.
ഀഀഀ
"You ought to have called me earlier. Her Ladyship's condition is very grave. In fact--" he hesitated, choosing how best to break the hateful news.
ഀഀഀ"Speak louder, Dr. Falconer; I cannot quite hear you." The mocking young voice was hoarse with coughing and breathless with its owner's affliction, but it still held arresting power.
ഀഀഀDr. Falconer straightened from his colloquy with Lady Roxbury's formidably-correct dresser and returned to the ornately-caparisoned bed of state. Pulling back the bedcurtains with one well-manicured hand, he gazed down at the bed's occupant. His patient stared back with brilliant unflinching eyes.
ഀഀഀSarah, Marchioness of Roxbury, had never been a beauty -- her eyes (quite her best feature) were grey, her hair was silk-straight rather than fashionably curled (and light brown rather than guinea-gold or raven-black or any of the other unlikely hues so beloved of the romanciers), and she was tall and slender -- but she had always carried herself with the arrogance and style of the Conynghams. Now, however, even the animal vitality that had lent her passable plainness an aura of glamour was gone: the Marchioness of Roxbury looked exactly like what she was. A plain woman, and a dying one.
ഀഀഀ"As bad as that, is it?" she whispered. "You had best tell me, you know; Knoyle is a treasure with hair, but she will only cry."
ഀഀഀ
She had been rescued by the Vicomte Saint-Lazarre and, though her crew had deserted to the house to repair their soaked toilettes, Lady Roxbury had remained to fight the engagement to an English triumph. She had ignored a steadily-worsening cough to mastermind the entertainment of her guests all the following week; the cost of that mock sea-battle was something she had not counted until today.
ഀഀഀ
Lady Roxbury's mouth tightened and the teasing light vanished from her eyes. She had suspected as much; only a fool would not, once the blood began to appear on her lawn kerchiefs.
ഀഀഀThere was a strangled sob from Knoyle.
ഀഀഀ"Hush your howling," Lady Roxbury rasped hoarsely. "Anyone would think you were to be turned out without a character! It was only a chill," she said to Dr. Falconer, hating the note of pleading she heard in her voice.
ഀഀഀ"It has settled on the lungs." His voice was gentle, but her ladyship heard the death sentence in it. Dr. Falconer was no country horse-leech after all, but King Henry's own physician. His skill was pre-eminent; there were few he would have left Town for, but the Marchioness of Roxbury was one.
ഀഀഀ"I. . . see," she said. Each breath was a struggle. A greater struggle was to resist the feathery unsoundness in her throat and chest that brought the wracking spasms of bloody coughing. "Thank you for coming, Doctor," Lady Roxbury said. She held out one slender jeweled hand, and Dr. Falconer bent over it with courtly punctilio.
ഀഀഀ"Please consider yourself my guest for as long as you care to -- and assure my other guests I will be joining them soon," she said.
ഀഀഀDr. Falconer hesitated a moment before replying. "Of course, your ladyship. I shall carry out your wishes to the letter." He hesitated over her hand a moment longer, as if there were something he would say, then turned and left.
ഀഀഀLady Roxbury turned to her abigail.
ഀഀഀ"Knoyle." The one word was all she could manage; the tainted brittleness in her chest was rising into her throat, choking her. She reached out blindly, grabbing the abigail's broad warm hand with chill fingers of surprising strength.
ഀഀഀ"No one! Tell -- no one!" she gasped. Then the treacherous creature in her chest woke to willful life and spasm after spasm shook her slender body, until she lay weak and trembling beneath a coverlet starred with her life's blood.
ഀഀഀ
And then Mooncoign and the Marchionate, which was entailed upon the heirs of her body, male or female, would revert to the Crown, and someone not of her blood would walk Mooncoign's galleries of age-mellowed stone.
ഀഀഀIt is not fair! Though the side-curtains of the bed were closed, Lady Roxbury had ordered the curtains at the foot drawn back so that she could see the portrait over the fire. Within its frame of gilded plaster, the painted visage of Lady Roxbury's grandmother Panthea, the first Marchioness, gazed mischievously down at her descendent, magnificent in satin and lace.
ഀഀPanthea's bejeweled hands toyed with a key, a dagger, and a rose, in sly allusion to the Roxbury arms and their motto: 'I open every door.'
ഀഀഀOh, if there were only a door for this, away from the cruel weakness of her body and the knowledge of duties unfulfilled--!
ഀഀഀ"A visitor for you, my Lady." Knoyle's voice trembled -- as well it might, since she was acting against her mistress's express orders to admit no one.
ഀഀഀLady Roxbury struggled upright against her pillows, anger deepening the hectic color in her cheeks. "Who--" she began, before the inevitable spasm of coughing took her. As she clutched her handkerchief to her lips, she felt strong cool hands against her back, supporting her and pressing the worst of the pain away.
ഀഀഀ"Who dares?" she demanded at last, when the paroxysm passed.
ഀഀഀ"I dare," a voice said calmly. "As your ladyship knows, there is little I do not."
ഀഀഀLady Roxbury's eyes widened fractionally as she caught sight of her visitor for the first time.ഀDame Alecto Kennet had been a great beauty in her day, and was still a woman of commanding and formidable presence. In her time she had been actress and confidential agent, mistress to two Kings, and more. In later life she had chosen obscurity as the companion of the Dowager Duchess of Wessex, herself a woman who shunned the limelight. Even so, only the veriest of greenheads would hold Dame Alecto at naught.
ഀഀഀ"I had thought you in Bath with Her Grace of Wessex," Lady Roxbury managed to say. She lay back against the mounded lace-trimmed pillows, trembling with the effort of showing an untroubled countenance to her visitor.
ഀഀഀ"And so I might yet be, did you not need me more," Dame Alecto replied. She unpinned her wide, plume-trimmed scarlet bonnet and set it upon the bench at the foot of the bed next to a slightly-battered hatbox done up in coarse string. Her hair, titian in her youth, had faded almost to pink with age, but was still elaborately dressed beneath its rich lace cap. She studied Lady Roxbury intently through eyes that Time had washed to silver as she unclasped her wool traveling cape and laid it beside the bonnet.
ഀഀഀLady Roxbury managed a bleak smile. "I shall soon need nothing at all," she said wryly, "or so my physicians tell me. I wonder who shall have Mooncoign when I am gone?"
ഀഀഀ"You would be better employed in wondering who will do that which you ought to have done, when you are not here to do it," Dame Alecto snapped. "Who will take your place, Lady Roxbury?"
ഀഀഀSuch plain speaking was not something her ladyship cared for at any time, and still less at a time like this. Ignoring the effort it cost her, she forced arch indifference into her voice as she replied.
ഀഀഀ"I dare say Wessex will find someone. But you have not come to tease me because my dying releases your mistress's grandson from his betrothal?"
ഀഀഀIt suddenly occurred to Lady Roxbury that, though Bath was a day's journey away, she had received her death-sentence from Dr. Falconer only hours before. Even if the doctor had talked, there was no way that the Dowager Duchess could have known of it and dispatched her henchwoman hither. Lady Roxbury struggled upright against her pillows, groping for the tasseled cord that would summon Knoyle to her.
ഀഀഀ"Your betrothal is a minor matter, beside the Great Work that you have left undone. Or do you forget who you truly hold these lands of, Lady Roxbury?" Dame Alecto's gaze was silver and ice; a formidable thing to face. But it was a formidable woman who faced it.
ഀഀഀ"I hold them of the King. I am Roxbury," the bed's occupant replied. But the bellpull slipped unrung from her pale jeweled fingers. Whatever was afoot, she would face it herself, and not spread gossip to the servants' hall.
ഀഀഀ"And have you sworn no other oath?" Dame Alecto demanded, still standing at the foot of the great bed as if she would summon Lady Roxbury from it.
ഀഀഀIt was on the tip of her ladyship's tongue to end this wearisome interview when sudden images rose up unbidden behind her eyes: Midsummer's Eve four years ago. She had been one-and-twenty, and Mooncoign's steward had summoned her from Town -- had brought her, over her protests, to the Sarcen Stones that lay at the edge of her land, to show her to the Oldest People, and to take her promise that Roxbury and Mooncoign would always do what must be done for the People and the Land.ഀShe came back to herself to meet Dame Alecto's gaze. There in the moonlight she had promised, but who would take care of her people and her land once she had gone? For the first time Lady Roxbury regretted her death as more than her own loss. It was a mystery no longer as to why Dame Alecto was here or how she had known to come. The Oldest People had avenues of information unknown to the human world -- but even they could not change the appointed time of one's dying.
ഀഀഀ"If you can tell me how I may fulfill that oath, I shall be indebted to you," Lady Roxbury said dryly.
ഀഀഀ"You must summon another to take your place," Dame Alecto answered.
ഀഀഀShe moved from the foot of the bed to its side, to fling back the heavy velvet coverlet and draw Lady Roxbury from her deathbed. She tottered and would have fallen without Dame Alecto's strong support. The room spun and reeled about Mooncoign's mistress, and the young Marchioness trembled as if in the grip of an arctic chill. The edges of her vision darkened and curled like the edges of a painting thrown upon a fire to burn. She barely noticed as Dame Alecto half-led, half-carried her to a chair before the fire and seated her in it, wrapping her in her heavy winter chamber-robe, its silk velvet folds still smelling faintly of cedar and lavender from its months in the clothes press.
ഀഀഀ"Mooncoign is not in my gift," Lady Roxbury protested. Dame Alecto had poured out a cup of the cordial that Dr. Falconer had left her; now Lady Roxbury held it to her lips and breathed in the strong scents of brandy and laudanum. She sipped at it and felt the pain in her chest recede.ഀ"Nevertheless, you may choose your successor -- if you dare. Look into the fire," Dame Alecto commanded, "and tell me what you see."
ഀഀഀGypsy foolishness, Lady Roxbury thought scornfully, but spellbound by the force of the older woman's personality, made no overt demurral. She stared obediently into the pale translucent flames on the hearth. At last she was warm, no, more than warm, hot, burning, a creature of fire--
ഀഀഀ'Creature of fire, this charge I lay--' There were others in the room, standing about them in a circle, chanting, their voices blending into the thin music of the flames--ഀ"Tell me what you see," Dame Alecto repeated.
ഀഀഀThe fire shimmered before Lady Roxbury's eyes, and to her feverish mind the flames became a portal, a window, the curtains a stage upon which fire-phantoms capered--
ഀഀഀThe tumbrel lurched and swayed, moving slowly through the streets of Paris. All about the cart the MOBILE surged, jeering and catcalling, come to see the Marquise de Rochberr brought low at last. Sarah gazed out at them icily, as if she wore silks and jewels instead of a filthy calico shift; as if her head were elegantly dressed with feathers and lace instead of shorn nakedly bare--
ഀഀഀ"We can do nothing for her, whose pride was greater even than yours. Look again," Dame Alecto commanded.
ഀഀഀWhite Bird Dancing, a warrior of the Cree, gazed down at the paleskin village from which her father had stolen her as a babe. Around her a dozen of her brother warriors lay concealed, awaiting the signal that would commence the raid--
ഀഀഀ"That one has the spirit that we need, but we cannot reach her -- nor do I think she would help us if we could. Again."
ഀഀഀThe deck of a ship, the wooden railing salt-harsh and slick beneath her hands. She was Sarah Cunningham of Maryland, and in a few moments the ship that bore her would dock in Bristol Harbor. There was no one she could turn to, no one who could help her--
ഀഀഀ"That one," said Dame Alecto decisively, and the fire-pictures dissolved, leaving Lady Roxbury blinking dizzily, the jumbled memories of half-a-hundred Sarahs inhabiting all the worlds of What Might Be capering through her brain.
ഀഀഀ"What have you done to me?" she demanded at last. "You have bewitched me! Pictures in the fire -- I do not have time for such shabby hoaxes!" That other Sarah's life lay like a shadow in her brain; the unimaginable childhood in an independent America that was not a Protectorate of the Crown; the self so like Sarah's own and the temperament so different.
ഀഀഀ"As much a hoax as the oath you swore among the stones," Dame Alecto said imperturbably. "You must summon this other Sarah to you, Lady Roxbury. She rides not to fortune, but to Death, do we not interfere -- and so we may take her without breaking the Great Law. You, child, will take her death, and she--"
ഀഀഀ"Will have my life? Her? That Puritan churchmouse?" Lady Roxbury demanded indignantly. She gasped for air, choking on the struggle and then surrendering to another spasm of coughing. It seemed to her that she could feel her life ebbing with every wracking spasm -- and with her life, all the things that she might have done, ought to have done; the things that needed desperately to be done . . . .
ഀഀഀ"That child? She will never do what I might have done!" Lady Roxbury cried breathlessly. ഀ"She will do all that you could have -- and more. She will save England -- if you have the courage to bring her to us," Dame Alecto said.
ഀഀഀLady Roxbury lay back against the ornate brocade of the chair. Behind her closed eyes the room seemed to spin; she could feel Grandmere Panthea's painted gaze upon her, and felt the weakness pulling her on a blood-dimmed tide toward an eternal starlit ocean. Eternal peace, eternal rest, but not yet, not yet--
ഀഀഀShe raised her head proudly.
ഀഀഀ"Say what you want of my life, Madame, but never say I lacked courage!" It was madness to follow this madwoman, but fate had left her no choice. She was Roxbury; her death would leave no promises unkept.
ഀഀഀDame Alecto nodded approvingly. "You must go at once, and alone. Take your fastest chaise and drive like Jehu to that place where you swore your oath. You must reach it by sunset. Can you find it again?"
ഀഀഀLady Roxbury was a notable whipster, audacious to the point of suicide. Her cattle were prime blood-and-bone, the best to be had -- by money or favor -- in all of Europe. Yet such a race with the sun as Dame Alecto proposed was a wager even she would have hesitated to accept. Miles of narrow country lanes separated her from the Sarcen Stones, and the day was far advanced.
ഀഀഀ"I could -- did I have the strength to hold the ribbons." The admission of weakness was made with bitter reluctance. "If that is what you wish, Madame, then you have come too late."
ഀഀഀ"Would you have listened had I come earlier?" Dame Alecto said.
ഀഀഀLady Roxbury did not answer, but she knew Dame Alecto's accusation was just; until Dr. Falconer's visit this morning she had still believed, deep in her heart, that some special providence would allow her to escape her death sentence. She watched as Dame Alecto turned away and undid the strings of the hatbox she had brought with her. From among its contents Dame Alecto selected a small silver flask. It glittered in the pale afternoon sunlight.
ഀഀഀ"This will give you your health again for sufficient time to do what must be done. There is a price, as for all such tampering; the drink will consume all the hours left to you and distill them into this brief span. When it is over, there will be nothing left. Do you understand?"ഀ"Give it to me." Lady Roxbury's voice was steady as she held out her hand. She closed her fingers about the flask's fluted body, and seemed to feel the power of what it contained burning against her palm. She closed her eyes again, fighting the veils of darkness that danced across her sight.
ഀഀഀ"I will leave you, now. And I trust your ladyship will pass a pleasant afternoon." Alecto Kennet's voice was neutral.
ഀഀഀLady Roxbury did not answer. From behind closed eyes she listened to the sounds of fabric upon fabric as Dame Alecto donned cloak and cape. After a moment Lady Roxbury heard the door to her room open, then close, as the woman took her leave. Whatever came next, Dame Alecto had no part in it.
ഀഀഀShe does not care for me at all. The unexpected revelation gave Lady Roxbury momentary pause. The Marchioness of Roxbury was not one used to considering the feelings of others, and never had been in all the brief quarter-century of her life. But soon she would be Roxbury no longer, and the title would pass, not to her child, nor even to the Crown, but to a stranger snatched from Might-Have-Been -- or so Dame Alecto said.
ഀഀഀAnd I am fool enough to believe her. ഀTo believe -- or simply to snatch at anything that offered escape.
ഀഀഀLady Roxbury lifted the brandy decanter from the side table and splashed a half-inch of dark amber liquid into the glass in her hand. Before she could change her mind, she uncapped the flask and upended it, discharging its contents into her glass.
ഀഀഀThe fluid was dark and syrupy. It swirled slowly through the brandy, turning the liquor blood-red and faintly iridescent. With only a moment's hesitation, Lady Roxbury raised the glass and gulped its contents down.
ഀഀഀIt was as though she had drunk the flames of the hearth. A hot bright fire beat through her blood, driving out the heavy giddiness and fever-chill of her illness. She gasped at the strangeness of it, and then drew a deep breath for the first time in a fortnight. Her chest was clear. Her lungs were whole.
ഀഀഀ"The drink will consume all the hours left to you and distill them into this brief span. When it is over, there will be nothing left."
ഀഀഀLady Roxbury got to her feet, and the half-expected dizziness did not come. So this much, at least, of Dame Alecto's promise was true. She wondered if all the rest was. She glanced out the window and measured the progress of the sun.
ഀഀഀIf it IS true, you will never know.
ഀഀഀLady Roxbury's lips curved in a reckless smile. To bring that other Sarah to Mooncoign, she must reach the Sarcen Stones by sunset. If this was her fate, so be it -- and she wished Dame Alecto much joy of her successor.
ഀഀഀ"Knoyle!" she shouted, jerking vigorously at the bellpull.
ഀഀഀIn an instant the abigail appeared, fear and astonishment vying for pride of place upon her face.ഀ"I wish to go out," the Marchioness of Roxbury said to her maid. "Lay out my driving dress -- and tell Risolm to harness the match bays to my phaeton and bring it around. Well?" she added, as Knoyle stood there goggling.
ഀഀഀThe abigail dropped a stupefied curtsy and fled. Lady Roxbury shrugged off the now-too-warm chamber robe and let it fall to the floor in a puddle of fur and velvet. She turned back to the fire, and for a moment she seemed to see that other Sarah's face within the flames: plain and young, unadorned by paint and jewel . . . .
ഀഀഀ"Milk-toast-miss!" Lady Roxbury jeered, turning away.
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