The Historian’s Novel

Amelia could feel a single bead of sweat form on her brow, travel alongside her nose, and splatter against the floor a million miles away. The Marquess of Rutherford’s accusations, seemed to drain the world of its colour. She hadn’t ever thought he might call her out for holding such a small item.

Was there that much of a difference in how a hand looked when it held something, and when it did not?

“I doubt whatever the girl has is of any importance,” the Duke of Winchester said.

“All the same, rules exist for a reason,” said the Marquess with an enigmatic smile, “Think of my request as asking her to prove she’s come in good faith. I’ve heard tales of artifacts capable of recording sound. Who knows what she might hold?

The duke gestured for a knight to go check. “Your hand, Miss Strightsworth,” the knight said, and Amelia felt her grip tighten on the piece of onion as she lifted her quavering fist.

It had been a mistake to bring it. The stakes were much different from when she had tricked her father by crying. Then, the only consequence of getting caught would have been disappointing one man. Now, because of her actions, she would surely be judged as a deceitful person. Which the Marquess could capitalize upon by expressing any other claim she might make ought to be viewed with great doubt.

Closing her eyes shut, unwilling to watch. Amelia turned her fist, and opened her hand. Allowing the knight to see her betrayal of their trust.

“A bonbon?” said the knight, and Amelia took a peek to see the woman pinch and hold up a green sugar drop candy which she sniffed, “Bizarre… Smells like alcohol. No hold on… Shoot, I should totally know this…”

“It’s vanilla extract,” Grace said, and the knight snapped her fingers in an ‘I knew it’ fashion. “We were cooking earlier, Amelia tripped and her hand went into the bowl. She’s been worried about how noticeable the smell is ever since.”

The princess poked Amelia’s side, “Were you trying to hide the scent? That’s silly, you should have asked me for perfume.”

The Duke of Winchester slapped his thigh, and gave a big bellied chuckle. “Well, Marquess,” he said, addressing the other as the knight placed the candy onto his hand, “unless you’ve got any particular allergies, I think we can get on with this hearing.”

Amelia wondered if her imagination had taken control, when her grandfather sent her a smile she couldn’t make heads or tales of. “Embarrassing as it is,” the duke added, popping the candy into his mouth “There is no crime in… having a fondness for mints.”

Stunned, Amelia wondered where her piece of onion had gone. She was left flabbergasted, until out of the corner of her eyes, she happened to see Grace nudging away with her foot, a very small pebble. Right before Havoc placed a hand on her head, to stop her from getting a better look at the transfigured object.

Amelia took in the fact her father and Grace were working together to make sure her gaff went unnoticed. It shocked her grateful. To the point if a chance presented itself where tears might be useful, she probably wouldn’t even need the help of an onion.

But why was Grace carrying around candy? Even Amelia didn’t carry sweets in her pockets. Did the princess have a sweet tooth worse than her own?

“Now then!” said the Duke of Winchester with great force as he resumed reading from the case details, “According to this, the only person who saw what occurred in any capacity between Amelia Strightsworth and Gregory Rutherford was — ah, makes sense now — Amelia’s handmaiden… Which, leaves us at a bit of an impasse, what with her being a commoner whose account can’t be trusted.”

His words frustrated Amelia, for she hadn’t taken into account such a factor.

Had she, she would have pressed for Thompson’s mage to arrive earlier, instead of in two weeks more time. Ideally, it wouldn’t be Grace the handmaiden who couldn’t speak due to status, but Grace, the princess, whose words would have held far more weight.

“Bah, enough reading,” the Duke of Winchester said, throwing his papers away, “Lord Strightsworth,” he said, addressing Havoc, “do you swear every word you’ve said is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”

“Or so help me I’ll kill the next man who tries touching my daughter,” answered Havoc.

“Eh, good enough. And you, Marquess?”

“Not a lie have I, or will I tell.”

“Amazing, two truth tellers” said the duke, his words positively dripping with how little he thought of the concept, “Then I would have the most honorable Marquess of Rutherford explain his side of the story first.”

A request which didn’t seem fair at all to Amelia. Since the Marquess hadn’t been present. And with his son absent, it didn’t seem likely a cross-examination of facts without anyone to cross examine would result in anything beneficial.

Had she really imagined the duke’s smile? It saddened Amelia, knowing she was the reason for why her grandfather would stray from being impartial.

“My lord Duke,” began the Marquess, “The two involved in this case are but children. And might I remind those present that both Amelia, and my son Gregory engaged in drinking wine together before the Baron’s ‘intervention’ occurred. Might I propose, it is far more likely my son was under a false impression of mutual consent? The drug he took from my alchemist’s warehouse was an item commissioned for the enhancement of pleasure, not rape. Is it that farfetched he had a mind to ease the first time of a young woman who he had correspondence with to be wed? A woman who followed him to a room containing a bed? Alone? A youthful dalliance is all this matter should have been. Ought it to have happened? No, of course not. But it did. Just as I’ve described it.”

The Duke of Winchester nodded, “Then you’re saying the Lord Strightsworth misunderstood the situation, presumed his daughter to be in danger, and took unjustified action.”

The Marquess of Rutherford raised both of his hands in bleak acceptance, “If only I could not understand his position. Had I a daughter, my own actions would most certainly have mirrored his own upon seeing such a scene. Of this, I have no doubt. However, compensation must follow regardless since a hypothetical is in the end, only hypothetical. And my son has suffered an irrevocable trauma at the hands of the Lord Strightsworth.”

“Certainly, if that is the truth then I would be in agreement,” said the duke, “have you any suggestion for what compensation might look like?”

Amelia’s leg began nervously bouncing. She placed a hand on it to stop. But she couldn’t stop the worry developing from what seemed to be a back-and-forth conversation hurrying forwards towards a predetermined destination.

Nor did she like how the Marquess made to move closer to where she was sitting.

“I’m partial to let this whole ordeal slide,” said the Marquess in a voice slathered with honey, “After all, it was my late wife who suggested the idea of marrying our children to bolster the Velvetican Kingdom. Even my son Gregory — who is unfortunately, not here — is willing to let bygones be bygones since he — and I’m rather embarrassed to say this — still loves the girl, despite what has happened.”

A chill ran down Amelia’s spine. For she saw how his eyes flickered over Grace while he talked. If the Marquess didn’t care for this trial, did his priority, even now, remain on securing the princess?

Why? Nobody could prove the Marquess of Rutherford had killed the kingdom’s late Queen, even if the kingdom’s long-lost princess did make an appearance. Did he think of Grace as an unfortunate blemish that had to be dealt with simply so he could keep thinking himself clean?

What a wretched man, that he would stoop to presenting himself as benevolent for such a selfish, personal vendetta. From how Amelia saw it, if the Marquess got what he wanted, then not only would she find herself married to her near-rapist, but Grace would most likely be killed, and the culprit would sail away for a foreign Kingdom while laughing.

“Of course…” continued the Marquess with a chuckle, “If the Lord Strightsworth wishes not for a union of peace and reconciliation between our two families, then a summary fine should be good enough.”

“Seems fair,” the duke said, nodding his head in agreement. “Have you any reply Lord Strightsworth? With circumstances being what they are… It would be hard for an investigation to result in something conclusive. All we really have as proof is the fact Gregory Rutherford is even now, injured.”

Amelia wished to refute. Her family had more than enough money, however she could already see the headlines if her father agreed.

‘Secrets of the Kingdom’s bloodthirsty dragon revealed; his unending hoard, able to buy the silence of even a noble?’

The idea of the Strightsworth name being dragged through the mud, appalled both Amelia, and her pride. She looked to her father, hoping he would be able to find a third choice.

“How about this,” Havoc said as he rolled his shoulders and stretched, “I slaughter everyone in this room… And pretend none of you ever existed?”

The duke’s knights slammed the butt of their spears against the ground in what was either a warning for Havoc, or a desperate call for their master to decide what should be done.

“That… That’s an outright threat!” the Marquess cried, turning as well to the duke, “I come here with good will, and this is what I must endure?”

The Duke of Winchester sighed, lifted his cane as if appreciating the fine details carved into its metal, then without warning, swung the blunt object down upon Havoc’s head like he was disciplining an out-of-control dog.

“Quit it, this isn’t a barrack,” he said, pulling back to rest the cane over his shoulder. “Explain why you disagree if you must, but do not embarrass yourself further with paltry threats of violence. Also, I’m charging you with a fine of a dozen good horses.”

Amelia wanted to thank the duke for remaining magnanimous instead of throwing the book of law down. Though she suspected his act of mercy might have something to do with Havoc technically being the man’s son in law.

Havoc laughed, as if realizing his error, “My apologies,” he said to the Marquess, “I’m a stranger to how a proper noble must talk, and sometimes… Sometimes my tongue gets confused.”

“Of course, you always were a bit of a dimwit,” the duke said sarcastically, returning to his chair which he leaned back in, giving the impression of an arrogant old man who had dealt with far worse behavior in his days, “Come on, let’s hear your side of it.”

Crossing his arms behind his back, Havoc paced to the entrance doors, stopped, then turned slowly around. “Shall I begin with how his son showed up unannounced?” he asked, creeping slowly towards the Marquess as he talked, “Or should I have my aid, who manages my estate in my absence, recount how Gregory Strightsworth pulled status to allow himself in? Practically forcing my daughter, who is well known for enjoying a solitary lifestyle to play the role of a host? Only to invite her away from any servants on the premise they would need secrecy to discuss matters of state?”

By the time he reached the Marquess, Havoc’s voice had become little more than a growl. “At least explain why I found my daughter’s body bruised bloody.”

“My son said Amelia fell after she’d taken a nasty fall on the stairs!” the Marquess protested, as the duke’s knights forced their way between the two men to block Havoc from stepping any further. “He had a healing potion on him, blame yourself for misunderstanding before he could use it!”

Havoc, leaning over the four knights who pushed back on his chest with all of their strength, tensed. The veins on his necks straining as he breathed and gnashed his teeth like an animal barely capable of holding himself back.

“Handmaiden, confess!” Havoc suddenly shouted, stepping in Grace’s direction to the great relief of the knights, “When you made to visit my daughter, to ensure her needs were being met as a dutiful servant, what did you encounter?”

“I saw my lady in the room’s corner, unresponsive to both sight and sound!”

The Marquess interjected, “What is this really?” he asked, holding his arms wide as if hoping someone might agree with him forthwith, “You say she is here to comfort your daughter, but her place is not to act as a witness!”

Amelia wanted to yell in Grace’s defence. But she couldn’t. Not when Grace sent a sly wink to let her know everything was alright. She felt out of the loop. More and more, it seemed Grace and Havoc had made arrangements. But they were both so good at acting she couldn’t even find the tail end to their play.

“He’s not wrong,” the duke said to Havoc. “Feels like we’ve been over this already.”

“Pshaw, keep her words off the record for all I care,” Havoc said, and the scribe let loose a low sigh before beginning to scribble, “All I want,” he said, back at the duke, “Is to hold over your head the fact the only person truly able to defend Ophelia’s daughter in this hearing is being gagged… by your will.”

Amelia gasped. Havoc had brought her mother’s name into the conflict and thrown it directly in the duke’s face. Who, judging from the creases on his brow, and his moustache which twitched in irksome annoyance, severely resented him for it.

“Father, I think that’s enough —” Amelia started to say, but Havoc was already patting the princess on the shoulder to encourage her. “Go on, tell the room Grace. After calling for my help, when we entered my office to save her, what state was Amelia in?”

“Hallucinating. Crying. Her clothes were ripped like a beast had torn through them…” Grace said, pretending to think before she directly addressed the duke. “Oh, and she was calling out for her mother to save her.”

The Duke of Winchester’s head, downcast and tired, turned like a gear-cog to affix on the Marquess of Rutherford.

“She is a commoner!” The Marquess said loudly, “Her words have no bearing!”

“And is that your only complaint with her speaking?” shouted back Havoc.

“Yes!” Screamed the Marquess, his voice trying so hard to match Havoc’s in volume it cracked.

“Then we don’t have an agreement,” the duke sighed, his posture looking to catch up with his age. “And… The only evidence I can use in this case, resides with the Marquess, in the condition of his son…”

Worried the Duke of Winchester was about to award a judgment against them, Amelia thought deeply on what she could do. Before catching the fact, that her father was staring directly at the Marquess, with the widest smile she had ever seen on his face.

“No takebacks,” said Havoc, as he ran a tongue over his teeth in a way even Amelia found scary.

“What?” said the Marquess.

“I said, no takebacks.” Havoc repeated, in a whisper just loud enough to express his glee. Clapping his hands together loudly to make it known he had more to say, Havoc addressed the duke. “You heard him, didn’t you? The Marquess made clear his position he agrees with you on the fact my daughter’s handmaiden cannot speak, because of her rank.”

“He did.” The duke said, “What about it?”

“Well, that’s outdated news!” Havoc barked, his dagger like teeth now on full display, like the maw of a dragon who knew a feast would soon come, “For once our king accepts the demand I sent him this morning, this handmaiden right here, will soon have her own title!”

“You claim to already know the decision of a king before it is made?” the Marquess spat; a dutiful subject defending his liege. Although now doubt lined his words.

“Shut up! Both of you!” Bellowed the Duke of Winchester, with enough magic empowering his voice Amelia felt a gush of hot air rush past. “Continue,” he growled at Havoc, “I know not why you would bring the king into this squabble, but I would have you tell me this instant.”

Amelia wanted to know as well. Because it almost sounded as if her father knew who Grace really was. Which ought to have been impossible.

Only instead of explaining, Havoc extended his hand towards Amelia.

She took it, allowing her father to guide her to her feet. After which, to Amelia’s shock, he promptly sat down on the chair she’d been using. Like a brute, with his legs splayed wide and a hunch to his back.

“Undignified to the end,” the Marquess said with derision. “Care you even a wit for how a noble should act?”

“Not anymore,” Havoc replied, his lips pursed, his rosy cheeks smug. “Now… Surely, some of you ought to have heard how our king wanted to reward me for my most recent expeditions, hmm? Anyone?”

The duke tepidly nodded, “Yes, you caused a bit of a panic in court when your achievements were read out. Successfully taking such a vast amount of land with so few casualties… I will admit, is impressive.”

“Then you must have already heard of the amount of resistance I encountered. Temporary forts, mining operations, weapon production facilities, you name it, we found it…” Havoc, in a pained voice showed the duke two trembling arms, “Oh the tragedies I saw,” he bemoaned, “They were enough to make a man want to wash his hands of it all and… retire.”

Amelia snuck a glance at Grace, hoping to find confirmation her friend might know where her father was going with all this. She found her own puzzlement reflected in the princess’s expression.

Wherever her father was going, only he knew.

At least, The Duke of Winchester seemed able to guess what Havoc meant. For, he slapped a hand over his face and gave a great groan. “Of course, of course, you would deal with this like that. Wouldn’t you, you simple minded buffoon.”

“Quite,” Havoc said, “Also, I lied,” he added, retrieving from his coat a piece of parchment, “for I’ve already received the king’s answer to my letter of resignation. Anyone interested in taking a gander?”

Grace lifted a hand. Amelia snatched at her arm, pulling it down and away. Allowing one of the duke’s knights to instead have the honor of reading the king’s statement.

“Hear ye, hear ye,” the knight read, “From this moment henceforth, the right honorable Baron of Strightsworth, on the condition he remains in the Velvetican Kingdom under an advisory capacity shall… shall relinquish his title, in exchange for the privilege of granting his merits of war to his daughter. Who will be referred to henceforth as the right honorable Viscountess Strightsworth, and be granted the dues such a position deserves, along with the right to appoint one lady-in-waiting a life peerage at the rank of Baroness for assistance in fulfilling her new duties.”

Grace squealed in delight, and gave Amelia a great big hug even as the newly appointed Viscountess felt her mind flutter away like a leaf on the wind.

For Havoc, her father, had blackmailed the king with leaving his position, right after having proven their Western neighbors very much wanted to give invasion a go! Amelia grappled with joy, knowing it also meant her father was making a promise to stay in their kingdom!

“A joke?” asked Havoc, as the knight handed over the royal missive for verification, “Hey Duke, any chance I forged the king’s mark?”

“You have not.” The duke stated, after taking a full minute to check the mark over.

“In that case,” Havoc proclaimed, “I would wager the details of this trial have changed! As now we are dealing with not the words of a young misses’ handmaiden, but proper evidence submitted by the representative of a full-blooded noble. A Viscountess at that! Who I think has more than a right to demand justice be overseen by a court of a far higher order than your own status allows governance for!”

“You don’t mean…” said Grace in a small voice, which made Amelia feel rather stupid. For she had yet to catch up.

Not wanting to remain in the dark forever, Amelia began scrounging the archives of her mind, flipping through every book she had read and remembered until finally, a possibility which shone golden sprung to the tip of her tongue. For she had recalled the gladiator Stanton’s role in the Historian’s novel. And how he had once defended the princess’s honour in a very particular manner.

Had her father gone mad? Or could this development be considered barbaric genius?

Deciding it was now or never to put herself centre-stage on the platform her father had made just for her, Amelia placed a hand over her heart, breathed in deeply, and removed a white glove. A glove which she flung, directly at the Marquess. Letting all her hatred for the man flood into her words.

“Until now I have remained silent, in the hope common decency might prevail. Seeing the system appears ready to fail me, as I imagine it has for all of Gregory’s victims, I intend to defend my honor through trial by combat! Let us allow God to decide who is at fault in this matter!”

“And what of your proposed terms?” Grace asked, reminding Amelia she still needed to say those.

“A duel. Good and simple. Either by hand-to-hand combat or a melee with weapons. No magic to keep it fair. My second is to be my father. Who I relinquish responsibly as the primary too.”

“Surely this isn’t allowed,” the Marquess said, his eyes wide.

“Are there any explicit rules stating I can’t?” Amelia asked the Duke of Winchester.

“It’s more of an… unspoken rule that the secondary of a duel’s instigator can’t switch in before the initial bout,” said the duke, who stroked his beard in deep contemplation, “But hey, there’s a first time for everything. What say you, Lord Rutherford?”

The cold, focused gaze of the Marquess unnerved Amelia slightly when it found her from across the room.

“I say, best of three.”

“B-best of three?” Amelia parroted, ashamed her surprise had caused her to stutter. Not because it was rude, but because the Marquess honed in on her gaff like a shark drawn to blood.

“Poor little girl,” said the Marquess of Rutherford, smiling condescendingly at her, “Did you not know? You might have thrown the glove, but as the challenged I reserve the right to dictate the terms. And I want no restrictions for one of the fights. I’ll give you a chance to back out. Do you still accept?”

Amelia hesitated. Even if her father won, where could she find two more renowned fighters in time to match those the Marquess could muster?”

“Isn’t this pretty good?” Grace asked from behind Amelia in a close whisper, “Sounds to me like we only need to find one more person. Aren’t the odds in your favor?”

Amelia reckoned the princess was right. Just like always. Since, knowing her father would win, no matter who he faced, to win a best of three she needed only one more person who could pull off a win.

And Amelia had a good idea of who to recruit.

“I accept… your terms, lord Rutherford,” Amelia said.

The Marquess of Rutherford scowled.

The Duke of Winchester nodded sagely and tapped the edge of his cane on his desk like a gavel.

“Then I hereby suspend the distributing of fault and reparations for this case until the winner of the duel emerges triumphant. Messengers will be sent to your abodes once arrangements — which I will take charge of — are finished. You are all dismissed.”

**

Just like that, Amelia found herself back outside the hearing room, where she found time to reflect on what on earth had just happened.

“Does this mean I need to change how I address you?” Grace asked, while hanging onto her arm.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Amelia said, “Keep calling me by my name in private, and only bother with ‘lady’ when dealing with nobles should they…”

Amelia hushed without finishing her sentence. The Marquess of Rutherford had stepped out from the hearing room, and his sights were upon her. Refusing to grant him the satisfaction of seeing her cower, Amelia held her chin firm.

“You will live to regret this,” The Marquess of Rutherford said under his breath, before parting; his attendants filing behind him to leave as a group in a bizarre, subordinate silence.

Perhaps the reason for his rapid departure lay in how the Duke of Winchester, as well as Amelia’s father soon made an appearance.

“Child,” said the Duke of Winchester to Amelia, “Had you let this fall by the wayside, then it could have been settled safely. The Marquess… he is not the sort of man who lets grudges go. I hope you know his offer was a compromise, and you have spat upon it.”

“T-there was no guarantee he wouldn’t have held a grudge r-regardless,” Amelia stammered, now able to see in the daylight flooded hall, just how similar the Duke of Winchester’s eyes resembled those of her mother.

The duke sighed, as if trying to convince her any further was a waste of his time.

Amelia hated it. She hated knowing her grandfather would willfully admonish her for wanting to defend the Strightsworth name instead of accepting a compromise. The very name Ophelia Winchester had taken upon herself after having married her father.

“T-this was a m-m-atter of pride!” Amelia said, making sure the duke could hear her as he left, even if her voice broke, “A pride my mother t-taught me to have!” she added, “I know you hate me, but is there a need to drag the Strightsworth name t-through the mud? This pride of mine is w-willing to accept any punishment you might have for having hurt your daughter, but please, l-let this duel proceed fairly!”

His aids already beginning to murmur, the duke halted, striking the floor loud enough with his walking stick to quiet the rabble.

“You… I thought something was off,” he said, turning on his heels with his teeth clenched, and a burning fury to his tone.

Amelia nervously swallowed. Prepared to accept the terrifying heat which began seeping off from the elderly man as divine penitence. Knowing even if she might soon be reduced to cinders… At least… At least Thompson Brown would be able to finish her work and have the princess discovered.

“I’m s-sorry,” she said, beginning to cry, as the wave of hot air bore down upon her like an all-encompassing cloud.

“Not you,” said the Duke of Winchester as he passed her, and continued towards Havoc. His cane now hitting the ground hard enough to create sparks which erupted around him as an inferno of malice.

“Explain yourself!” the Duke of Winchester ordered Havoc, as his knights drew their weapons, “Why is my grand-child behaving as if Ophelia’s death is her fault!”