"What do you expect me to do?"
"I expect you to marry him and bear his children." Henryk looked pained at being made to spell it out. "Nothing more and nothing less, and it is not just what I expect of you-the Clan proposes and the Clan disposes. But you can do this the easy way, if you like. Go through the ceremony, then Dr. ven Hjalmar will sort you out. You don't need to worry about bedding the imbecile, if that thought upsets you: the doctor has made a sufficient study of artificial insemination. You'll be pregnant, but you'll have the best antenatal care we can provide, and in an emergency the doctor will get you to a hospital on the other side within half an hour. The well-being of your child will be a matter of state security. Once you are mother to a child in the line of succession, a certain piece of paper can be discreetly buried. Two or more children would be better, but I shall leave that as a matter for you and your doctor to decide upon-your age, after all, is an issue."
"Um." Miriam swallowed her distaste. Spitting would send entirely the wrong message, she thought, her head spinning. And besides, she'd been angry about this for weeks already, to the point where the indignation and fury had lost their immediate edge. It wasn't simply the thought of pregnancy-although she hadn't enjoyed her one and only experience of it more than ten years ago-but the idea of compulsion. The idea that you could be compelled to bear a child was deeply repugnant. She'd never been one for getting too exercised over the abortion debate, but Henryk's bald-faced orders brought it into tight focus. You will be pregnant. Huh. And how'd you like it if I told you that you were going to be anally probed by aliens? "And what's your position on this?" she asked, hoping to distract herself.
"My position?" Henryk seemed puzzled. "I don't have a position, my dear. I just want you to have a happy and fruitful marriage to the second heir to the throne-and to keep out of trouble. Which, thankfully, won't be a problem for a while once you're pregnant, and afterwards…" He looked at her penetratingly. "I think you'd make a very good mother," he said, "once you come to terms with your situation."
Not if you and everybody blackmail me into it, she thought. I don't take well to being forced. "Is that the only option you see for me?"
"Truthfully, yes. It's that or, well, we're not unreasonable. You'd just go to sleep one night in your bed and not wake up in the morning. Case completed."
Miriam stared at him despite the roaring in her ears. Everything was gray for a while; finally some atavistic reflex buried deep in her spine remembered she needed to breathe, and she
inhaled explosively. "Okay," she said. "I just want to make sure that I've got it straight. I go through with this-marry the imbecile, get pregnant, bear at least one child. Or I tell you to fuck off, and you kill me. Is that the whole picture?"
"No." Henryk regarded her thoughtfully for a while. "I wish it were. Unfortunately, your history suggests that you don't take well to being coerced. So additional pressure is needed. Either you go through with this, or we withdraw your mother's medication. If you don't cooperate, you will be responsible for her death. Because we need an heir to the royal blood who is one of us much more badly than we need you, or her, or indeed anyone else. Do you understand now?"
Miriam was halfway out of her chair before she knew it, and Henryk's hands were raised protectively across his face. She managed to regain her control a split second short of striking him. That would be a mistake, she realized coldly, through a haze of outrage. She wanted to hurt him, so badly that it was almost a physical need. "You fucking bastard," she spat in hochsprache. Henryk turned white. Olga had taught her those words: bastard was worse than cunt in English, much worse.
"If you were a man I'd demand satisfaction for that." Henryk backhanded her across the face almost contemptuously. Miriam staggered backward until she fell across the window seat. Henryk leaned over her: "You are an adult-it's time you behaved like one, not a spoiled brat," he spat at her, quivering with rage. She licked her lips, tasting blood. "You have a family. You have responsibilities! This foolish pursuit of independence will hurt them-worse, it may kill them-if you continue to indulge it. You disgust me!"
He was breathing deeply, his hands twisted around the head of his cane. Miriam felt sticky dampness on her lip: her nose was bleeding. After a moment Henryk took a step back, breathing heavily.
"I hate you," she said quietly. "I'm not going to forget this."
"I don't expect you to." He straightened up, adjusting his short cape. "I'd be disappointed in you if you did. But I'm doing this for everyone's good. Once the Queen Mother placed her youngest grandson in play… well, one day you'll know enough to admit I was right, although I don't ever expect you to thank me for it." He glanced at the window. "You have enough time to get ready. A coach will be waiting for you at nine. It's up to you whether you go willingly, or in leg irons."
"Did Angbard approve this scheme?" she demanded. Would he really sacrifice Mom? His half-sister?
Henryk nodded. His cheek twitched. "It wasn't his idea, and he doesn't like it, but he believes it is essential to bring you to heel. And he agreed that this was the one threat that you would take seriously. Good day." He turned and strode toward the door, leaving her to gape after him, slack-jawed with helpless fury.
Translated Transcript Begins
Conspirator #1 : "I am most unhappy about this latest development, Sudtmann."
Conspirator #2 : "As am I, your royal highness, as am I."
(Metallic clink.)
Conspirator #3 : (Unintelligible.) "-deeply worrying?"
Conspirator #1 : "Not really. More wine, now." (Pause.) "That's better."
(Pause.)
Conspirator #2 : "Your highness?"
Conspirator #1 : (Sighs.) "It may be better to be feared than to be loved, but there is a price attached to maintaining a bloody reputation. And it seems the bill must still be honored whether the debtor be prince or pauper."
Conspirator #3 : "Sir? I don't, do not-"
Conspirator #1 : "He's weak. To be backed into the stocks like a goat! This is the plan of the tinkers, mark my word: the poison she-snake in our bosom intends to get an heir to the throne in her grasp soon enough. And he cannot gainsay her!"
Conspirator #2 : "Sir? Your brother, surely he is unsuitable-"
Conspirator #1 : "Yes, but any whelp of his would be another matter! And the libels continue apace."
Conspirator #4 : "The libels play into our hands, sire. For the bloodier they be, the more feared you become. And fear is currency to the wise prince."
Conspirator #1 : "Yes, but it wins me nothing should my accession not meet with the approval of the court of landholders. And the court of landholders is increasingly in the grip of the tinkers. A tithe of their rent would repay a quarter of the promissory notes my father and his father before him took from the west, but does he-"
(Pause.)
(Noises.)
(Unintelligible.) "-regularity of bowels."
Conspirator #2 : "I'll see to it, sir."
Conspirator #3 : "A pessary of rowan. There are other subtleties to consider."
Conspirator #4 : "It will be suspicious. And remember, two may keep a secret-if one of them is dead."
Conspirator #1 : "Enough skulking!"
Conspirator #2 : "Sir?"