Cymru - Chapter 9

Warning: most boring chapter ever, including the prologue where nothing exciting happens. I hate Madog. I think I might kill him off. Sadly, he's boring but necessary for this, like a queue.

MADOG

The Audience Room was quiet, filled only with the near-silent ticking of a wall clock and Madog’s own breathing. The chair he sat on, an antique contraption of rosewood and badly-stuffed velvet, creaked every so often as he shifted his weight. Madog sat as still as he could. He liked silence.

After a while, a door at the back of the room swung open and Lord Iestyn stepped smartly through, looking nothing at all like a man who’d been woken at the ungodly hour of eight in the morning to speak with an underling. He was a tall, thin man, all cheekbones and nose and disdainful expression. His robes were dazzlingly ornamental. Madog bowed low, down on one knee; the official Rider-to-Liege mark of respect.

“Rise, Rider,” Lord Iestyn said curtly. Everything was done by the book with Iestyn. Madog stood and Lord Iestyn sat in the almost throne-like chair behind the large rosewood desk. “Be seated.”

“Thank you my Lord,” Madog said courteously. He sat. The chair creaked.

“So, Madog,” Lord Iestyn said, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the desk, fingers steepled. “To what do I owe this honour?”

“Saxonia,” Madog said bluntly. Lord Iestyn valued people who got to the point. “We’ve had increased raiding activity all along the border for the last two months, my lord. Unusually so. So far we’ve lost three villages and hundreds of lives, not to mention livestock and property.”

Lord Iestyn closed his eyes. Madog continued, grimly.

“In almost every instance the border warnings have come too late, my lord. At first I thought the Saxons were simply moving quicker, that they’d found some way to travel faster that we didn’t know about, but this is not the case.”

“Madog,” Lord Iestyn interrupted. “I know all of this. I’ve read the reports.”

“Yes, my lord,” said Madog. “So have I. Which is why I’m wondering what I should know.”

Iestyn’s gaze was piercing. Madog didn’t even blink.

“The reports show a pattern, my lord,” Madog said. “Every Saxon raid with a late warning happened at a time when either Trallwng or Casnewydd border guards were on patrol. Naturally, you’ll know this, too.”

“You’re out of line, Madog,” Lord Iestyn said sharply. Madog met his gaze.

“No, Sovereign,” he said, subtly emphasising the title. “I’m not.”

The change of title was simple, but tremendously effective. Lord Iestyn inhaled deeply, slowly straightening up in his seat and dropping his hands to his lap. It had completely undercut him; essentially, Madog had just pulled rank on him.

“Very well,” he said softly. “I’d hoped to avoid this before the Archwiliad; but I see that it is not to be.”

He stood, and walked to the large window overlooking the gardens below, hands behind his back. Madog stayed where he was, and stayed quiet.

“Around six months ago we had that group of dissenters in the city, if you remember,” Lord Iestyn began. “Preaching anarchy. We locked them up and thought nothing more of it. Two months later, however, I went on the official state visit to Casnewydd.”

Iestyn paused. The clock ticked. Madog waited.

“Flyn,” Iestyn spat the name with distaste, “approached me not long before I left. He’d had these dissenters too, except they’d employed certain interrogative techniques to find out more information.”

Iestyn turned, and looked at Madog.

“They were from Caerleuad. From Marged. They’d been sent to persuade the people to rise up against the Sovereigns.”

Madog stared at him. “Marged?”

“Yes,” Lord Iestyn said, slightly wry. “Those you least suspect, as they say. Flyn, however, had devised a counter-plan against it all. An overhaul of the system, to ensure that the Sovereigns could not be removed. He wants us to go to the Archwiliad and push for a motion to turn the Sovereigns into Regents under one Monarch.”

“Himself, I presume,” Madog stated, though the answer was obvious. Lord Iestyn nodded.

“Naturally,” he said. “Which sounds to me like an old-fashioned power play, and frankly I know Flyn too well. He’s more than capable and far more than willing to attempt it. He’s Old Family, you know, and he still believes in it.”

Madog winced. The Old Families were a part of the nation’s history that was generally avoided: breeding programs for people, sometimes unwillingly, that supposedly produced the best stock for leadership. It used to happen all along the border and in western parts of Saxonia, and most Old Family bloodlines had contained a mix of both Cymric and Saxon blood. Most border nobility were descended from them.

“What does he need?” Madog asked quietly.

“Five Sovereigns to agree to give him an audience,” Lord Iestyn said, “and as many as possible to vote afterwards. I told him I’d think about the proposition.”

“And then we started getting Saxon raiders,” Madog stated. “With impeccable timing, and in such numbers that having a stronger presence such as a King would be superbly beneficial.”

“Largely,” Lord Iestyn nodded. “Although I doubt that Flyn’s been sending us the Saxons in all fairness. As I understand it, they have their own power struggles to contend with at the moment, hence the increased activity.”

But nonetheless, it would help Flyn’s cause to point out that Cymru should also be uniting against a common threat; it would help sway anyone undecided.

“My lord,” Madog said, dreading the answer. “Will you vote for him?”

“I don’t know, Rider,” Lord Iestyn said wearily. “I was hoping the raids would die down, but… I don’t trust Flyn, but I certainly don’t trust Marged, either.”

Madog nodded, and stood as the clock chimed out the hour.

“I’ll have to go,” he said. “We’re expected at Tregwylan by noon.” He bowed again, down on one knee.

“Rise, Rider,” Lord Iestyn sighed, and Madog stood.

“My lord,” he murmured. He left the Audience Room quickly, and wondered uncomfortably about how this Archwiliad was going to unfold.