And Brutus. What would he say when he saw her this way? Her face battered, her shoulders slumped with years of degradation…how could she face him? By the gods, once she’d been so powerful, so beautiful. He’d loved her, lusted for her. And now…to come before him in this state…
Jane realised Weyland was staring at her, and by the satisfaction apparent in his eyes she knew he understood her humiliation.
“You will go before the king, before magnificent Charles, before resurgent Brutus, and you will give him three messages.”
He waited, and after a moment Jane dipped her head stiffly in acceptance.
“Good. First you may offer Brutus my hearty congratulations on regaining the throne. He must be very pleased. You will say this to him.”
Jane jerked her head in assent again.
“Second, you shall tell him this: Do not think to attempt to locate the bands, fool, for I have Noah, and I will do to her what I have done to she who stands before you should you try to find your damned kingship bands. Do you understand?”
Again Jane gave a single jerk of her head.
“He is not to attempt to find those bands, for then I will slaughter Noah—not kill her, you understand, but steep her in such misery and humiliation and degradation, that she will wish herself dead. I will do to her what I have done to you. Do you understand?”
“Yes! I understand.”
“There is a third message. Tell the fool this also: If you go near the forests, king, if you so much as eye a single tree, or step within its shade, I will make sure that Noah suffers for an eternity. If he stays away from both the bands of Troy, and the forests, then I will keep Noah well.”
Jane glanced at Noah. He knows. He knows about the Stag God—
Silence! Noah all but shouted in her mind. Not here!
A slow grin lifted the corners of Weyland’s mouth, and he looked between Jane and Noah. “This is going to be a most pleasant day,” he said. “I do wish I could be a fly on the audience chamber’s walls. Or do you think Brutus shall receive you in his privy, Jane? It’s the only proper place for you, don’t you think?”
Jane hung her head, and her swollen eye stung miserably as a tear squeezed its way out. Then she flinched as Weyland leaned over the table and wiped it away.
“Remember all I have said, Jane. Oh, and enjoy the day. You don’t get out much.”
Fifteen
Whitehall Palace, London
Jane walked up Idol Lane. She had neatened herself as much as possible—although the state of her face (swollen, bruised, scabbed, black-eyed) meant that she was a sorry sight indeed.
A youth passing glanced at her, and then hurried on, not quite managing to stifle his snigger and Jane coloured as she turned down Little Tower Street and then eventually down an alley running parallel with Cheapside.
Oh gods, that once she had walked this way when she had been beautiful and powerful, and all who had passed her had bowed in respect.
Now, here she walked, a bedraggled, humiliated prostitute, off to visit Brutus.
A king.
How would he regard her? With pity? Revulsion? Surely not with respect.
A sudden, horrible thought occurred to Jane. Were Ecub and Erith there as well? Would they smile in satisfaction, and send cruel barbs her way?
Jane forced herself to think of Noah to take her mind away from how Ecub and Erith, not to mention Brutus, might treat her. She’d meant what she said to Noah the previous night; Ariadne should not have been able to pull Noah to her side with the power that she used. Noah was not a trained Mistress of the Labyrinth, so that meant only one thing.
She must have it bred within her. Gods, how had that come about?
Jane crossed into the square about St Paul’s and, without a glance at the cathedral, walked down towards Ludgate and Fleet Street. She felt numb. Jane’s one remaining piece of pride had been in her ability to deny or grant Noah powers as Mistress of the Labyrinth as she, Jane, chose. If you want me to teach you the craft of the Mistress of the Labyrinth, then do this, or be that, or grant me this wish.
Now even that was taken away from her.
Even Noah didn’t need her any more. Sooner or later Noah was going to realise that she barely needed to snap her fingers to assume the powers of Mistress.
But why? Why? And how long had Noah been carrying this potential? Had she, even as Cornelia, been harbouring the power of the labyrinth?
How? How?
Jane was walking past Charing Cross and her steps slowed. It was now but a short walk to her total mortification. She made the effort to straighten her spine, square her shoulders and bring her emotions under some kind of control.
Finally managing to attain some semblance of calm, Jane walked to the gates of Whitehall Palace. There was a crowd gathered composed of curiosity seekers and supplicants, and Jane had to shove her way through so that she could speak to the guards.
And how was she going to argue her way past them? Impress them with her regal bearing, her pride, her damned, cursed power?
“I am Jane Orr,” she said as she finally managed to stand before them. “I have come to present my respects to His Majesty, King Charles.”
The four guards looked her up and down, glanced among themselves, and then, incredibly, one of them shrugged and opened the gate enough for her to slip through.
“Follow me,” said another and, stupefied (had Weyland arranged this?), Jane trailed a pace or two behind the guard as he led her into the palace.
Tears threatened again as she walked as softly as she was able through the palace. Never had she felt so shabby, so unworthy, as she did in this royal building. Everywhere was gilt, or marble, or rich, dark carved wood dressed with silk and velvet.
Everyone she passed stopped and stared, their eyes round, their mouths open.
Aghast.
Jane stiffened more with each step, her head held unnaturally high, her eyes focussed straight ahead, wondering if some of those exquisitely clothed courtiers were even now sending for the servants, to wash and scrub the path where Jane had trod.
What manner of king, they would be thinking, would want this in his presence?
The guard led her into grander and grander apartments, until they reached a series of massive rooms that opened each into the other. It was, Jane realised, the end of her journey. Here the final approach to the king, through the series of waiting and audience rooms, where, in each succeeding chamber, the hopeful supplicant would be vetted by increasingly senior members of the king’s household, to be judged and either allowed to continue on the pilgrimage to the royal person, or to be cast aside, and asked to leave the palace forthwith.
Here even more people stared at her: those waiting, or those already told their application to be received by the king had been unsuccessful. Here they stood or sat, watching as a tattered, thin, beaten prostitute was shown through chamber after chamber without any examination.
Why oh why, Jane thought, couldn’t the guard have brought me to Charles via some unknown way, some servants’ passage?
Then Jane realised that Charles had wanted this, had wanted her to suffer the ultimate humiliation.
He’d wanted her to endure this open shame, this public crucifixion.
He’d wanted her paraded through his palace as…what? Triumph on his part? Malice? Punishment? Entertainment?
As the guard brought Jane to a halt outside the final doorway leading to the king’s private audience room, the royal parlour, Jane briefly closed her eyes. It had come to this, all the promises and ambitions and power of three thousand years before.
Hatred, revenge, humiliation.
“You may enter,” said the richly dressed man whom the guard had addressed. The man, probably the palace chamberlain, lifted an eyebrow at her, and pointedly stepped back…then pulled a snowy handkerchief from his coat pocket and held it to his nose.
The doors swung open, and Jane, hating herself more than she thought humanly possible, entered.
King Charles’ private audience room was smaller than Jane had initially expected.
It was also dimmer, and she had to stop a few paces inside the doors and blink, trying to refocus her vision.
There were only a few lamps burning which, combined with the fact that the heavy drapes at the windows had been pulled closed, meant the room was as dark as twilight.
The chamber gradually came into focus. Its walls were hung with green damask silk, matching the drapes at the windows. The domed ceiling was ivory, and richly gilded. The accoutrements of power were everywhere: the gold glinting from ceiling and chairs and table tops; the richness of the Oriental carpets on the solid mahogany floors; the oil portraits of King Charles I and his queen, Henrietta Maria, as well as the current Charles’ grandfather, James I; the all-pervading sense of power in the room.