The Mortality of Queens

3 A Coat of Bees

3 – A Coat of Bees

Arthur

Arthur's left leg will not move. It protests fiercely and, when he tries to reposition it, fresh agonies gallop up it to dissuade him. He hears the sea somewhere close but he dare not drag his eyes away from the nightmare figures that converge upon him. They rise from a sweep of sand dunes in twos and threes, sniffing the air rapaciously. They are a collection of diverse grotesques but, so raggedy is their dress and so disfiguring their injuries, Arthur can barely recognise what they might once have been. They carry rough weapons, spears and clubs, with which they poke and prod him until satisfied that he is alive. He may be alone in that regard. They mean to cure him of this condition. He is fearful, but he is also possessed of an unfathomable exhilaration and vindication quite at odds with the events unfolding. The creatures' leader lifts a barbaric club...

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Praise God, Arthur started awake just before the club lashed down. It was no sort of dream for an honest artist. A sigh tickled his breast and he found Amorrie there, in the 'v' of his nightgown, huddled into the hollow of his sternum. She slept, but her repose was fitful and disturbed. Her tiny body tensed as if at some imagined threat. He detected an unsought swell of tenderness for the raven-haired companion with whom he must share his life.

This unaccustomed benevolence was much due to the latter part of the evening he had enjoyed at the reception held by Lady Rochester and Lord Strathearn. His abandonment by Viscount Exeter, Arthur now told himself, was explained by the man's eagerness to see old acquaintances, especially the enchanting Isabella Stanton – Lord Lisle's daughter. With her, he was most solicitous, though she received his attentions coolly.

The news of Countess Alnwick's death and the swift departure of all Umbra, save the hidden Amorrie, had cast a pall on the evening but, as the wine continued to flow, there grew a determination not to let events in the Other Realm, and their deadly consequences, subdue their spirits.

'Damn it all, Tideswell,' Strathearn approached, trailing a nervous maid who splashed wine into Arthur's glass. 'If they cast our spirits low, then they have won, d'you see? We must not alter our behaviour – not one jot.'

It was the kind of peppery declamation that had made the young Lord the darling of those Tories who felt First Lord Pitt too reformist.

'Hermione and the rest of our brave Umbra will soon discover what fate has befallen Countess Alnwick's warrior and mete out due punishment. I dare say they'll inflict ten-fold casualties on those ravening hordes, just for ruining this party.' Strathearn's bumbling oratory was said to disguise the sharpness of his wits.

'I should say so too, milord,' Arthur was too thrilled that Strathearn had remembered his existence to think of correcting him about mislaying a mere name. 'Those Greynhym will be sorry they ever attacked the Borderer.'

'Da-de-da de-da, milord,' chanted the unseen Amorrie, from Arthur's pocket.

'Quite so. But it's a damn pity you scared off Hurting, Tideswell. I was relying on the man to keep things running smoothly here.'

Strathearn and his vivacious step-mother, Lady Rochester, rallied spirits and took the edge off the horror of the news. Soon fretful conjecture turned into plucky camaraderie. Gossip meandered to other matters: the fluctuating French situation, Pitt's Government's response to the rise in plague deaths, the wars in the Other Realm, and – much to Arthur's delight – the next edition of The Book of 500 and who might be elevated to fill the latest vacancies in its pages.

Arthur found himself in demand for his opinion on the illustrations in this year's edition and the artistic talents of the day. Who would fill Sir Joshua's shoes, now the great master was taken? Joseph Wright of Derby was most likely, Arthur told his enquirers, though he was 'no longer at his peak'.