I’m excited to share the first chapter of The Throne of Ash with readers

Chapter 1

The clothing’s far too tight and restrictive. I wonder how my sister, Queen Cecily, can even sit on the Throne of Ash in such rigid fabric. Her waist is cinched so tightly, my hands, covered in gloves but roughened by time with brushes and canvas, could encircle it.

For now, I hold my gloved hands before me, trying to do as my mother ordered me. The Queen Mother, Lady Grace, has never loved me as she does my sister. I’ve never loved her with the same ferocity either. My father, Prince Edmund, has been the guiding light throughout my life. But, soon, my mother’s interference will be a thing of the past. As will my sister’s. All I need do is stand here, beside my sister, and the hideous Throne of Ash, with its dragon and key symbolism depicted all over it and wait for Queen Cecily to determine on her Consort during this Choosing Day. Then, if all is as it should be, in less than a year I’ll be free of the need to ever don such restrictive clothes and shoes again. Then, I can fulfil my dreams and ambitions, and never step foot in the royal court throughout my lifetime.

‘Stand still,’ my sister, Queen Cecily, urges me, from her position within the grey Throne of Ash. The sound’s a barked whisper. Her lips don’t move, and neither does her face. She’s protected behind the Queen’s Face of white lead powder, dark eyebrows and vivid red lips, all painted onto her face by her women of the inner bedchamber. Aside from her family, it’s only those few people who are able to see her without the Queen’s Face. Her defining and singular feature is her unusual grey eyes which crown the mask worn by every queen since time immemorial.

It’s a strange ritual. There are few here today who didn’t know my sister when she was younger. They’ll recall her looks easily enough. But now she’s the queen of the kingdom of Ash she must wear the Queen’s Face.

‘Apologies, your grace,’ I mutter, attempting to alleviate the tension in my shoulders from wearing such heavy and rich fabrics. The dress bells around my waist so I can’t even see the hideous shoes into which I’ve been forced to thrust my feet. I miss my boots and their dependability of flat soul and heel. I must stand throughout the selection process this Choosing Day. Already I fear teetering on my heels. My sister has assured me, in the privacy of her apartment, as I watched her attendants mark her as the queen, I’d survive the ordeal easily. But she doesn’t know me as perhaps she thinks. I’d sooner have no shoes at all than these tiny things with delicate heels. They provide no support.

The royal court has been a hubbub of activity for weeks, if not months. Every noble House, from the highest to the lowest, has sent their most eligible male relatives to be presented before the queen. Every great lady has ensured she’s seen promenading with her male offerings whenever Queen Cecily has been about her courtly business.

I’ve seen many men bowing low over objects allegedly dropped by the matriarch of their House to show off their pleasing backsides in tight hose. Not, my sister has chuckled to me in lighter moments, that a fine flank is to be necessarily desired. Those special women of my sister’s inner chambers have done little but speak of the men as specimens to be picked over. I can’t say I like it.

‘The younger the better,’ my sister informed me, as though she knows of such things. In those words, I’ve heard merely my mother’s repeated statements. ‘The younger men will be more virile, although, alas, they’re often unproven.’ Which is, of course, another issue. Not only have the men been on display for weeks, but for those who’ve already been Consorts to other noble women, their offspring have also been exhibited, from the youngest mewing babe, to the brightest young women, themselves about to enter their first Consort arrangement to produce an heir.

I’ve eyed the swirling mass of ornamented males with barely concealed distaste. The brightest plumes, most flattering of hose or largest of vibrant yellow codpieces can’t truly show the nature of any of these potential Consorts. That’s in the hands of the Royal Genealogist, Lady Barbara, who has meticulous records detailing every child born to the Houses running backwards for centuries. Some would say the records stretch all the way to the Dark Ages of our people.

My mother won’t allow my sister to make an inopportune decision based on attraction or passion. This must be a cold-hearted business transaction. Indeed, it’s almost an open secret the queen will choose her Consort from the powerful House of Trade, over which Lady Matilda rules. Lady Matilda has many males to offer as potential Consorts, and my sister’s favourite fruit falls under her control.

I consider all this as I watch with eyes trying not to focus on the expensive yellow, green and white silk and satin clothing, on the priceless jewels worn at neck, ear and crotch, the dazzling symbolic embroidery on sleeves and cuffs. This should be the most personal decision a woman can ever make. In the royal court, it’s anything but that. It’s a wonder the men are clothed and not simply brought before Queen Cecily, naked as the day they were born. A disappointment to their sweat-stained, labouring mothers, but having a potential use in many years’ time.

I eye the women who would rise high should their male relative be chosen as the Consort, and become the father of the future queen. Not,of course, that any father will have much contact with the new princess. It is not the way it works.

The aged Lady Blanche with her son who is older than me, are attired in the yellow and greens of the House of Spice. The colours symbolise abundance and youthfulness, with a curled lion as their heraldic animal. The bright colours clash with his bleached moustache of vibrant red. I know, for I’ve heard it spoken about enough, many doubt she’s truly the man’s mother. She’s old indeed to be mother to a son so young. She either took a great risk, or was simply so desperate she’s taken another woman’s son and passes him off as her own. It wouldn’t be the first time. The Royal Genealogist, Lady Barbara, will know the truth of those rumours, even if Lady Blanche is firm in her denials.

My mother has cautioned my sister to avoid Lady Blanche’s offering, whether he’s a true son or not. The two daughters he’s already fathered are indeed odd looking creatures. They’re too skinny with dull eyes. My mother worries they have no wits. She’s states it’s the problem with the mother having a child so old. In that way she confirms, despite the rumours, the man is indeed Lady Blanche’s son. It seems cruel to me the grandchildren suffer.

My mother would never have dreamed of having a child when so old, but then my mother had two daughters when young. And unlike every other House here, and thanks to the coddling of my father by his mother, Queen Isabella, my mother has kept him faithfully at her side. My father is no Consort but her life-long partner.

I hunger to enjoy the same intimacy with the man I adore. With him at my side, I’ll cast aside the veneer of the royal court, and live my life as my father has done with my mother. Or rather, as he did before the deaths of his sisters allowed his daughter to be proclaimed queen on the death of our grandmother.

I’ll unite with my lover through love and not with any great desire for his blood line, although it’s impeccable, if from one of the lesser Houses. I’m not such a fool as to have allowed my heart to entirely rule my head. I’ve been careful. Lady Mary, my most trusted lady of the bedchamber, has made discreet enquiries with the Royal Genealogist. I don’t risk my life when I allow him to share my bed. His father and father’s father, have only ever produced a single child, and many of them girls, not boys. It’s too much of a risk to choose a man who might provide multiple children at one birthing. Such births are more likely to result in the deaths of child and mother. A terrible waste of a highborn woman’s life.

Next, I cast my eyes over Lady Agnes of the House of Sugar. She wears so much bright yellow embroidery it’s as though she’s the sun herself. It depicts the House’s bull emblem against the expensive black of her gown. The man she puts forward to be Consort stands arrogantly. He’d do better to be more obsequious, but someone’s filled his head with tales of how beautiful he is. He thinks it’s all that matters. He bends low towards my sister, sweeping a great feathered hat from his head to reveal bountiful dark curls covering his head. His legs are bowed and no amount of clever tailoring with bulbous hose has entirely obscured that. He has no previous offspring with him either. Lady Agnes has erred in bringing this man. He has little to offer the queen as a Consort aside from bringing the powerful and very wealthy, House of Sugar into closer connection with the ruling House of Ash.

Perhaps Lady Agnes knows this. Maybe, she’s prepared to take the chance on proposing the less attractive of her male relatives for the queen, because the allure of the union is so tempting, a fine figure isn’t required. If this is her thinking, I know my sister won’t fall for her tricks. My sister expects her children to be beautiful as she is. She won’t wish a daughter who looks as though she spends all her time in the saddle, not even in exchange for being so closely allied with one of the wealthiest Houses.

The next figure to absorb my attention is Lady Katherine of the House of Salt. She’s a young woman only a few years older than my sister. She’s taken control of her vast and powerful family at a very young age. It followed the death of her mother on the foreground of the Tower of Ash with a less-than sharp sword to remove her treasonous head. Lady Katherine’s mother meddled in matters that weren’t her concern.

Now, Lady Katherine must tread carefully. Queen Cecily hasn’t long since allowed the House to be restored to the vast majority of its wealth and resources. In doing so, Queen Cecily relinquished her hold on seventy percent of the proceeds from their lucrative trading in salt.

Lady Katherine brings forth a young man to become the next Consort. It’s obvious he’s her full brother. They carry themselves in the same way, and the similarity of their build is impossible to ignore. He is attractive. He has long limbs, bright eyes, and bows his head respectfully when he feels the queen’s attention. He’s dressed with understatement but intent in mind. His clothing, as members of the House of Salt should be, is a mixture of cloth of gold, silver and deep blue. The panther emblem of the House of Salt is picked out in gold and silver embroidered designs running along his kirtle and the tight sleeves of his jerkin.

Charles would be a fine man with to be my sister’s Consort. Members of the House of Salt are pleasant to look upon, while being bright enough to believe they could influence the decision as to who would rule after my grandmother’s death. They overstepped and earned themselves four years of virtual exile from the court, or rather, the survivors did. However, my sister was raised with Lady Katherine and her sister, Lady Joan, before all that happened. They shared time in the royal nursery, and enjoyed the same tutors to instruct them in reading, writing and reckoning. I know it’s pained my sister to punish Lady Katherine, My sister took a great risk in allowing Lady Joan to remain as Chancellor. I also understand my sister already enjoys Charles’ company.

But it could be problematic if my sister’s first Consort is from the House of Salt. Queen Cecily can’t show favouritism. The royal court is riven with jealousies. To commit the next queen to rule to a lifelong alliance with an ambitious House could cause ructions. No, as attractive as Charles is, I believe my sister will be forced to choose another. For the time being. Only when her heir is born and the future is settled, could she decide on him for her next Consort. It’s always better to have more than one possible heir. Life can be most precarious for the royal women of the royal court.

I realise it’s most unusual for the three siblings to share the same mother and father. Usually, even a repeat Consort is cast aside when a son is born. Sons are the responsibility of the birth father, not their mother. But then, the House of Salt was once powerful enough to rewrite the rules. Now, they must be warier. They’re entirely reliant on my sister’s good will towards them.

I risk glancing sideways at my sister. She sits in regal splendour surveying the suggestions brought for her. With her Queen’s Face and bright, rigid clothing, festooned with imagery of our royal house, her very person proclaims her royal position. It’s as though she’s immobile, only her head able to bob around with free will above her planket, and her long, thin fingers, although they’re encased in fine leather gloves. She wears regal purple on her robe, but her planket and head covering are of purest white, her hair loose below her hood. The flaming royal dragon, the golden royal key and licking flames are depicted on her clothing. My sister’s hair being on display is so unique I’m sure the members of the court will be discussing it. It’s a rare sight to see any woman’s hair, let alone the queen’s. It signifies her virginity as nothing else could. The prize of being my sister’s first Consort is a rich one. My sister has thought carefully about her appearance this day. But then, she always does.

There’s a dark robed figure at my sister’s side, whispering softly to her. A further three servants stand beside her, waiting to do her bidding. The three gradually paler shades to signify their order. These women are skilled with pen and ink and the ingrained knowledge of the genealogies of the mighty Houses. The black reveals their wisdom. In this moment, these four women led by Lady Barbara, are the most important within the Queen’s Hall aside from the queen. Even more important than me, the embodiment of the royal roaring lion – as every queen’s heir is depicted.

I listen to the soft conversation. My sister has already had the House genealogies explained to her by Lady Barbara. Now Queen Cecily asks casual questions about the men brought before her. She checks if her memory is correct, and how many children they’ve already fathered, if any, and what sex those children were.

All here know it’s the involvement of the father that determines the sex of the child. The mother holds the child safe within her womb, unknowing if it’s a much wanted daughter, or an easily dismissed male child. Then both son and father will be returned to the Consort’s family. It’s unusual for an initial failure to produce a child to be given another chance. The birth of a daughter takes priority over all else.

My mother, Lady Grace, also attends upon my sister. She stands to the right of the hideous Throne of Ash and all it represents. The Queen Mother’s deeply involved in who my sister will decide upon for her Consort. It’s ironic. My mother is unique in enjoying a lifelong commitment to her partner. Now, she argues with my sister as to what order she should align with the noble Houses, and their men. She doesn’t even suggest my sister enjoys the same relationship she does with my father. Some might call her a hypocrite, but it’s the way of the royal court and the queens of Ash.

A Consort is chosen. His worth is determined by the child who results from the brief union. Then, another Consort is chosen to temporarily win the regard of the queen. Only in such a way can the ambitious rivalries of the royal Houses be contained. No one noble House can ever be in the ascendant aside from the ruling House of Ash. The history of our kingdom has shown warring families do nothing but weaken and risk our enemies overwhelming the kingdom. It’s revealed kings can’t rule the kingdom of Ash. They lack judicious thought, and think only of their desires.

No one person, aside from the queen, makes the decisions within our kingdom. No one person but the queen is entirely in control of every aspect of the court of Ash. She sits upon the Throne of Ash as matriarch over all, and as a dragon mother to every single person.

Abruptly, I catch sight of a figure being forced through the crowd by Lady Alice of the lesser House of Fish. Momentarily, my breath falters, as I absorb the too-familiar face, the gentle curved cheeks and the pleasing aspect of his perfectly proportioned limbs. My face freezes. I wish I wore the Queen’s Face for Harry shouldn’t be here. He’s mine. I’ve forged an agreement with Lady Alice, with Harry’s agreement, and he wasn’t to be presented today. Lady Alice was to bring another of her male relatives. She’s hardly lacking in them. It was all agreed.

Immediately, I notice my sister’s attention switch to his tall frame. It would be impossible to miss him, clothed as he is in rich azure and matching mellow yellow. His hose make a play of his long thighs, his jerkin emphasising the cord of muscle on his chest. His yellow codpiece certainly draws the eye to what lies beneath.

At my gasp, my sister turns away from examining him, and whispers once more.

‘Well, where has she found him?’ desire rippling through her voice, and contentment she’ll have the first choice out of all these men.

My mouth’s too dry. I can’t speak. I can’t blink. I know my face reflects my fury. Harry can’t look at me. He must bow his long body, revealing the shock of blond hair at the nape of his neck but Lady Alice can look at me and she does so triumphantly.

Lady Alice has never been an attractive woman. Now, white-haired, she walks with the aid of a stick and refuses to tame the downy soft hair marring her chin. In fact, I suspect she’s proud of the sign of her advanced years. Her jerkin’s of rich azure, her headdress the mellow yellow of her House’s colours. I see little silver embroidered fishes depicted all along her sleeves. Where others would display the animal symbol of their House, gifted to them by the queen, she proclaims her monopoly proudly. There’s no royal fish. There’s no royal beast for the lesser House of Fish.

Lady Alice has been playing the Consort game for her entire life. She’s long been the matriarch of the House of Fish. They’ve been lowly and cast down for some time, which accounts for her hatred of the House of Salt. She blames Lady Katherine for her close call with the executioner’s block after Queen Isabella died. Since then, she’s made great use of her other female relatives to slowly insinuate herself back into the ebb of flow of the politics of the royal court. My sister has allowed it to happen, despite concerns being raised.

One of Lady Alice’s daughter’s sits in the Privy Council, advising the queen on matters of state. Three other daughters, and two of her nieces, are ladies in their own rights, representing areas of the kingdom in the queen’s parliament. All have been working slowly, quietly in the background, doing nothing to anger the queen or bring themselves fully to her attention.

It was quite by chance I met Harry. It was only by my own workings I was able to spend time with him. I’ve depicted him in inks and colours, finding in him the perfect muse for my artistic projects.

I’ve cultivated Lady Alice of the House of Fish carefully, eager to secure Harry for myself.

It’s not been an easy process. I’ve been forced to give away much more than I wanted to, and all in the name of love.

‘I don’t know, your grace,’ I murmur to the queen, feeling my heart contract. I understand my sister well. Much better than she does me. I know Harry will have earned her attention. But my mother knows of my arrangement. Surely my mother will convince my sister otherwise.

Yet, I hear Queen Cecily beckon for the dark-garbed Royal Genealogist to tell her all about the family.

‘Treason doesn’t run through them all, does it?’ she asks, a little flippantly, eyes remaining on Harry.

‘No, your grace, but their loyalty is sometimes suspect.’ The Royal Genealogist snaps her fingers, and one of her attendants hurries forward, the one who wears black that’s almost grey. She’s the lowest of the genealogist’s assistants. She flicks through the huge volume to find the desired page detailing the genealogy of the House of Fish.

‘He wouldn’t be suitable,’ my mother interjects. In that moment, I feel some regard for her. I also notice my father bumbling upright from his seat, far to the left of the Throne of Ash. His face is as affable as ever, but the very fact he attempts to intervene suggests he knows my sister as well as I do. He has knowledge of my plans. He’s supported me in my future endeavours.

My sister offers him an interested incline of her head, questioning his attempt to interfere.

I feel faint. The pain from my aching feet evaporates. I think not of my poor toes, but of Harry and the feel of his body beneath my paint-roughened hands. I know my sister will take him from me. She’s always wanted what I desire. As the heir, and then the queen, she’s has precedence. I can’t allow this. Not again. Not now.

All eyes have turned to survey the man who’s caught my sister’s assessing gaze. I’m grateful they watch him, and not me.

I fear I’ll fall, and instinctively grip the back of the hideous Throne of Ash without realising. I’ve never touched it before. I shudder at the sensation of the smooth wood beneath my gloved hands. Even in my dismay, I’m conscious of what lies within the hollowed-out structure. I already felt sickened but now bile rises in my throat. I swallow hastily. My sister eyes me aghast. I shouldn’t be laying my hand on the Throne of Ash. I should be rigid, as all others are. But I see everything unfurling before me. All my dreams. All my desires will come to naught. I spring my hands free, grateful I wear my gloves and haven’t truly touched the much celebrated, and iconic wood.

Abruptly, the Royal Genealogist begins to speak. I hardly hear the words. Harry stands now, proudly, confidently, the hand of Lady Alice on his arm, gripping him so tightly he winces.

There’s no sound, nothing aside from my heart beating too loudly in my ears.

And then there’s a new hum, a susurration as another figure sweeps into the Queen’s Hall, a man escorted by a woman garlanded in clothing as ostentatious as the queen’s. She’s accompanied by perhaps the most attractive man I’ve ever seen, wearing rich reds and deepest, darkest blacks beneath a head of black hair extending to his shoulders.

I hear my sister’s gasp at the sight of him. The silence has distracted her away from listening to the Royal Genealogist. Slowly, I allow myself to relax and take a deep quivering breath. I steady myself.

I’ve never before been grateful to see Lady Jane of the House of Seacoal. But she’s brought before my sister the very man who’s provided her with not one, but four vibrant daughters, in varying ages from still being held in the arms of her nurse, to a young girl not far from entering the arena for a Consort.

My sister has always hungered for him. There are few who haven’t. Lady Jane now offers him freely on the stage for Choosing Day.

I know my sister will have him.

I take a shuddering breath and attempt to calm the beating of my heart. I shuttle sideways, desperate to be away from the horrible Throne of Ash. My sister no longer notes me but I see the Queen Mother shoot me a look filled with venom. I turn to my father, as well, and he beams brightly, content the moment of crisis is gone.

All other eyes are fashioned on my sister and the man who’s swept a deep bow. He stands poised, presenting himself as though an object for sale, which he is. While I’m grateful Harry’s no longer the focus of my sister’s attention, this new development is most unusual.

I chance a quick look at Harry, noting the puzzlement on his face, and the fury on Lady Alice’s. I’ll be having words with her after this, or rather when I have what I want, I’ll do so. These past few moments have assured me I’m pursuing the correct course of action. I can’t risk losing Harry. Never. The murmur of conversation has risen to a roar. I sense Lady Jane is up to something. She’s serene, immobile, apart from her eyes. She taunts my sister with them.

I swallow, and take a deep, calming breath. All isn’t as it seems. The Royal Genealogist speaks quietly to my sister, the original servant who knew about the House of Fish sent to the back of the line of three attendants. She’s the lesser of the Royal Genealogists, tasked with knowing the history of the lower noble Houses. And the most treasonous.

My sister’s hands are clenched tightly in her lap, I note, out of sight of all but those who attend her on the dais.

The queen stands in a smooth movement. I hear a little inhaled breath as she tenses her body in preparation for keeping upright with the weight of her elaborate clothing and jewels adorning her slight frame.

To either side, her personal body servants step close, ready to aid with the weight of her train.

I brace myself as well. This should only involve standing. My sister has made this altogether something else.

The queen sweeps down the three steps of the dais unaided, hands held together just below her breast. She doesn’t hesitate. She doesn’t falter. She doesn’t so much as waver. Her body servants hurry to either side, bending and holding the rich fabric so it’s displayed to its full extent. They’ll be sweating shortly, their arms and legs straining with the action. I pity them, as I do myself. I incline my head towards the Queen Mother and then step forward. Fire sweeps up my ankles as the fabric of the shoes bites into them. I hold every part of my legs tight, determined to appear as regal as my sister.

For a moment, I focus only on myself, and not my sister’s intentions in abandoning her position. When I’m once more conscious of what’s happening something’s already occurred.

My sister, despite the hiss from my mother, has abandoned all protocol. She stands too close to Lady Jane’s Consort. Not just close, either. My sister has her hand on his jerkin as though to test the implied strength of his chest on display.

Few know my sister as well as I, but I detect how her breathing hurries. If I could see her neck, her pulse would be erratic. She’s lucky it’s protected by the high cut of her planket.

My eyes narrow. I know something must be done or this lack of impropriety will ripple through the kingdom of Ash. All will know the Queen’s Face hides a true woman, with desires and wants – a full-blooded woman and not the facade of the Queen’s Face, the dragon mother, at all. The immobile and unchanging guardianship protecting this kingdom for not just decades, but centuries, will be seen for what it really is, the whims of a woman.

Some histories would have it said our line runs back to the Dark Times, an age without knowledge and light. An age of savagery before women took command, taming the dragon heat of discord and harnessing the dragon mother within the dreaded Throne of Ash. In such a way, my ancestors exerted their calming influence over the many peoples of our island nation. In the process, they banished hot-headed males to the role of merely aiding in the procreation of the next generation. There are many legends of the heated shadows of our past, before the dragon mother came to rule all from her place atop the Throne of Ash.

I sense the glare of the Queen Mother, the gloating expression on Lady Jane’s face, and the drumming pulse of my sister.

I do the only thing I can. The only thing to save my sister. I know she won’t thank me for it.

I fall forward, knocking into the servants straining under the weight of the queen’s elaborate robe and train.

She stumbles. I drop. And all is chaos. When I open my eyes, as though stunned from too much heat, and the tightness of my clothing, the first thing I encounter is the satisfied look on the Queen Mother’s face. And the hatred on Queen Cecily’s. She’ll never thank me. But my mother will.

As the thrum of conversation resumes, the terrible moment’s broken.

As usual, I’m held in dismay by the women of the royal court. I’m taken to be a fool. But it takes a wise woman to rescue the true fool. The Queen Mother perceives it. My sister would never accept she’s acted incorrectly, for she’s the queen of Ash. She’s fire and heat. She’s the dragon mother, but in this, I’ve saved her from humiliation.