Countess Niebow

 The King stood behind the square altar in St. Anne’s Chapel.  There was a simple green cloth spread over the masonry block that served as an altar and a small bronze bowl, half-filled with water, had been set a little carelessly near one edge.  The seats intended for the Lords Martial and Theological were empty, all six, and the three intended for the Lords Thaumaturgical held only one occupant.  Lord Derby, who had been expecting to see Lord Vileburn sitting there, was a little startled to see his assistant Elizabeth instead.

“Derby,” said the King.  His voice was low but the chapel was tiny — when it was still in use barely twelve people could have gathered in there — and the acoustics caused his voice to resonate slightly.  “Thank-you for attending at short notice.”

“I am your servant, your Majesty,” said Derby bowing his head.  He knew the King well and had been a King’s Investigator for over a decade.  Had Lord Vileburn been present instead of Elizabeth he might have called the King John instead, but Elizabeth’s presence made him wonder how formal this occasion might be.  The King didn’t leave him wondering for long however.

“I have asked Elizabeth to be present as a Witness,” said the King.  “Please place your hands on the altar, Derby.”

This made it a state occasion in effect.  The Chapel of St. Anne was closed off and officially disused and most people could not gain access to it as it required a particular key that the King gave out only to trusted advisors.  Part of that trust was validated by the Witnessing: a magic imbued into the altar by the Lords Thaumaturgical several centuries ago that ensured the truth of what was said while it was being touched.  Lord Derby placed both hands on the altar, unbothered by the request.  He had done this many times in this place already.

“State your name, position, and reason for being here, please,” said the King.  Lord Derby noted the ‘please’, a nicety that wasn’t usually forthcoming.

“I am Lord Ernest Derby, King’s Investigator, and I am here at the request of King John II, Defender of the Faith, Monarch of the Seven Seas and Imperator Rex.”

The altar did absolutely nothing, and after a couple of seconds Elizabeth let out her breath.  She stood up and placed her hands on the altar.  “He speaks the truth,” she said, and again the altar did nothing.

Lord Derby removed his hands and found a handkerchief in a pocket to wipe them with.  “You know, your Majesty,” he said casually, “I’ll never forget that occasion when we had an actual traitor in our midst.”

“There have been several, Derby,” said the King with mild rebuke in his tone.  “But I know the one you mean.  It was… messy.”

Elizabeth returned to her seat but her face was contorted as someone who very much wants to know what’s being talked about and doesn’t feel that they have the right to ask.  She sat down, crossing her ankles and then her hands in her lap, and adjusted her face to one of placid disinterest.

“How well informed are you on the situation in Belgium?” asked the King while Derby put his handkerchief away.

“Moderately, your Majesty,” said Lord Derby.  “I was there a couple of months ago in a diplomatic capacity; you might recall that there was an incident with the murder of two women working in our Embassy there.”

“I recall,” said the King.  “A regrettable situation, made worse by you discerning the culprit before they could make good their escape.”

“Some might feel that knowing the full facts of the matter are important.”

“And others might feel that when ones hands are tied, getting the facts at the right moment is important.”

Elizabeth’s face twitched as again she heard enough to be of interest and too little to be of practical use.

“I believe you handled the situation with diplomatic finesse,” said Lord Derby.  Elizabeth scrutinized his face: was that a hint of a smile?  Lord Derby’s face was thin and generally friendly; his bright green eyes seemed to hint at a permanent good mood though she was sure that was impossible.  His moustache, a black, narrow line below his nose that ended in waxed points, reminded her of her favourite uncle from when she was still a child.

“I believe you left me no choice.  Nonetheless, are you aware of the current monarcho-political situation.”

“That the Belgian Throne is empty and it looks like the attempts to establish a republic are going to fail?  Yes, and I am in agreement with the Lords Martial in this regard: if the republic does not establish itself, there will be war.  Belgium’s neighbours would consume it in a heartbeat if they had the strength and they will not tolerate a restoration of the old royal family.  No other noble family there has the political capital or sufficient men under arms to make a bid for the throne either.  It looks like war, your Majesty.”  Lord Derby met the King’s gaze and they stared at one another for a couple of seconds.  Elizabeth, who was aware of Europe only peripherally — her research was primarily in demonology — frowned as she tried to understand the undercurrents of meaning.

“The Lords Martial are convinced of it,” said the King.  “At their behest, and with the support of the Lords Theological, I have been persuaded to grant a title: an elevation, if you will.  Catherine Niemow will be made Countess on Friday.”

Lord Derby placed both his hands back on the altar.  “I believe that is a mistake, your Majesty,” he said firmly.  Elizabeth controlled herself, though she’d wanted to gasp at Lord Derby’s audacity.  She suddenly realised that the King wasn’t speaking and when she looked at him, he was staring directly at her.  It still took her another moment to realise that Lord Derby’s hands were still on the altar.

“He speaks the truth, your Majesty,” she said.  Mentally she chided herself: the spell on the altar required that the truth be acknowledged when it was spoken or the speaker would find themselves unable to remove their hands.  Lord Derby pulled his hands away and hunted for his handkerchief again.

“I know he does,” said the King.  He rubbed his forehead as though feeling the onset of a headache.  “I agree with you, Ernest, I honestly do.  But essentially the Privy Council has given me instructions and I have to follow them.”

Lord Derby shrugged.  “I know,” he said.  “But you do expect the truth from me so there’s little else I can say.”

Elizabeth noted the gentle shift away from formality and wondered just how well the men knew each other, and if they’d forgotten she was there.

“I want you to minimise the problems this will cause,” said the King.  “That’s why you’re here today.  This will cause problems, and they will spread, and I want you to contain them as much as you are able.  And if you can bring me evidence, something to put before the Privy Council to show that they are wrong, do so with all haste.”

“Can you take a Countesship away after it’s been granted?” asked Elizabeth.  Both men looked over at her and she started.  “I’m sorry!  I was thinking out loud; I’m used to working alone, your Majesty and I didn’t think!  I’m so sorry!  Sorry!”

The King grinned.  “Talking to yourself is a habit all the Lords Thaumaturgical seem to develop,” he said. “Consider it a hazard of your chosen profession.  The answer to your question, though it will not be helpful, is yes.”