“But you already know it,” she said to him. “Several witnesses have told you about Denmark Vesey.”
“Ah, but we know about him because of excellent investigative work. How do you know?”
“I know that he's innocent of any ill intent,” she said.
A man handed the King a paper. “Ah, here it is,” the King said. “Your name is Margaret Smith, yes? Married to an accused slave thief. And you're here in Camelot to meddle in our ancient practice of servitude. Well, tonight we've seen where leniency takes us. Do you know how many slaves told us about plans to kill entire White families in their sleep? And now I find that there's a White woman intimately involved with the conspirators.”
With sick dread, Margaret saw herself playing the leading role in some nasty futures in the King's heartfire. She hadn't bargained on this. She should have probed into her own future before coming to the King with wild-sounding stories about Blacks giving up their names voluntarily, for safekeeping, and then getting them back suddenly. “You must admit it sounds like a fable,” the King explained kindly.
“Your Majesty,” said Margaret, “I know that there are those who urge you to punish this revolt with brutality. You may think this is necessary to make your subjects feel secure in their homes, but Your Majesty, extravagant measures like the one Mr. Calhoun proposes will only bring greater danger down upon you.”
“It's hard to imagine a more heinous danger than our servants turning their knives on us,” said Calhoun.
“What about war? What about bloody, terrible war, that kills or injures or spiritually maims a generation of young men?”
“War?” asked the King. “Punishing revolt will lead to war?”
“The rhetoric surrounding the issue of whether the western territories of Appalachee will be slave or free is already out of hand. A wholesale slaughter of innocent Black men and women will outrage and unify the people of the United States and Appalachee, and stiffen their resolve that slavery will have no place among them.”
“Enough of this,” said the King. “All you have succeeded in proving to me is that you are part of a conspiracy that must include at least one of the servants in the palace. How else could you know what John Calhoun's proposal is? As for the rest, when I need advice from an abolitionist woman on affairs of state, you're the very person I'll call upon.”
“Your Majesty,” said Calhoun, “it's obvious this woman knows far more about the conspiracy than she's letting on. It would be a mistake to let her leave so easily.”
“What I know is that there is no conspiracy,” said Margaret. “By all means, arrest me, if you're prepared to bear the outcry that would follow.”
“If we hang one slave in three, no one will be asking around about you.” said Calhoun. “Now arrest her!”
This last order was flung at the soldiers standing at the door. At once they strode in and took Margaret by the arms.
“She'll confess soon enough,” said Calhoun. “In treason cases, they always do.”
“I don't like knowing about things like that,” said the King.
“Neither do I,” said another man's voice. It took a moment for them to realize that it wasn't one of the King's advisers who spoke.
Instead, it was a tall man dressed like a workingman on holiday– clothes that were meant to be somewhat dressy, but succeeded only in looking vaguely pathetic and ill-fitting. And beside him, a half-Black boy two-thirds grown.
“How did you get in here!” cried several men at once. But the stranger answered not a word. He walked up to Margaret and kissed her gently on the lips. Then he looked steadily into the gaze of one of the soldiers holding her by the arm. Shuddering, he let go of her and backed away. So did the other soldier.
“Well, Margaret,” said the man, “it looks like I can't leave you alone for a few minutes.”
“Who are you?” asked the King. “Her foreign-policy adviser?”
“I'm her husband, Alvin Smith.”
“It was thoughtful of you to show up just as we've arrested your wife. No doubt you're part of the conspiracy as well. As for this Black boy– it's not proper to bring your slave into the presence of the King, especially one too young to have been reliably trained.”
“I came here to try to keep you from making the mistake that will eventually take you off your throne,” said Margaret. “If you don't heed the warning, then I at least am blameless.”
“Let's get her out of here,” said Calhoun. “We've got hours of work ahead of us, and it's obvious she needs to be interrogated as a member of the conspiracy. Her husband, too, and this child.”
Margaret and Alvin looked at each other and laughed. Arthur, on the other hand, was too busy gazing at the magnificence of the council room to care much about what was going on. He didn't really notice the King until now, when Alvin pointed him out. «There you are, Arthur Stuart. That's the man you were named for. The King of England, in exile in the Crown Colonies. Behold the majesty of the crownЉd head.»
“Nice to meet you, sir,” said Arthur Stuart to the King.
Calhoun's outrage reached a new level. “You dare to mock the King in this fashion? Not to mention naming a Black child after him in the first place.”
“Since you've already got me hanged in your mind,” said Alvin, “what harm will it do if I compound the crime?”
“Compound nothing, Alvin,” Margaret said to him. “He's been warned that if he takes retribution against this revolt that didn't even happen, killing slaves without reference to guilt or innocence, it will lead to war.”
“I have no fear of war,” said Arthur Stuart. “That's when kings get to show their mettle.”
“You're thinking of chess,” said Margaret. “In war, everyone has their chance to bleed.” She turned to Alvin. “My message was delivered. It's out of my hands. And your brother needs you.”
Alvin nodded. He turned to the company surrounding him. “Gentlemen, you may return to your deliberations. I ran down here from New England this afternoon and I have no more time to spend with you. Good evening.”
Alvin took Arthur by one hand and Margaret by the other. “Make way please,” he said.
The men blocking his path didn't move.
And then, suddenly, they did. Or rather, their feet did, sliding right out from under them. Alvin took another stride toward the door.
The King drew a sword. So did the other men, though they had to get them from the wall where they hung during the meeting. And two guards by the door drew pistols.
“Really, Your Majesty,” said Alvin, “the essence of courtesy is that one must allow one's guests to leave.”
Before he finished talking, he already reached out to change the iron in the swords and the pistols. To their horror, the armed men found their weapons dissolving and dribbling into pools of cold wet iron on the floor. They dropped their weapons and recoiled.
“What are you, sir!” cried the King.
“Isn't it obvious?” said Calhoun. “It's the devil, the devil's dam, and their bastard son!”
“Hey,” protested Arthur Stuart. “I may be a bastard, but I'm not their bastard.”
“Sorry we have to be on our way so quickly,” said Alvin. “Have a nice future, Your Majesty.” With that, Alvin reached down, pulled the lockset out of the massive door, and then pushed gently on it, making it fall away from its dissolving hinges and land with a crash on the floor outside the council room. They walked away unmolested.
The stink of Calvin's dead body filled the attic when Margaret led Alvin and Arthur into the place. Alvin went at once to the corpse and knelt by it, weeping. “Calvin, I came as fast as I could.”
“You want to cry,” said Denmark, “cry for the dead.”
“I already explained to him about holding Calvin's heartfire in the box,” Margaret said.