Chương 86: Book 2, Chapter 25: The Order of the What

The King lowered his sword to Warren's shoulders, first the left, then the right.

"Lord Warren Righton of Albion, I name you a knight of the Holy Kingdom of Arcadia." Warren lowered his head.

"I accept this honor, Your Majesty." The sword moved to Clara. The blade was cool on her shoulder, even through the fabric of her dress.

"Clara Casewell, I name you a knight of the Holy Kingdom of Arcadia." Iris clapped enthusiastically, and the others followed. Clara didn't react, her mind still spinning from the implications of all this.

"Dame Casewell, you should close your mouth before it hits the floor," said the King. Dame Casewell? A knight of Arcadia? I…

"… Forgive my discourtesy, Your Majesty," she finally said.

"Not to worry, you reacted just as they said you would. Most delightful. Now, do you accept?" Clara copied Warren and lowered her head. Part of her wanted her to say no. The part that knew good things came with a price. She pushed that away.

"I accept this honor, Your Majesty."

"Rise, both of you, as knights of the Order of the…" The King paused.

"The… what was it again? I hope somebody wrote it down."

"The Order of the Gavel, Your Majesty," said Warren smoothly.

"The Gavel!" The King nodded, satisfied, as he sat back down and handed off the sword.

"Odd little name. I suggested the Order of the Harp—arguments are more spirited with background music, you see—but I was very firmly told that this would be more fitting. And the insignia is stranger still." He gestured, and an attendant hurried forward with a piece of parchment, turning it for the room to see: a golden gavel crossed with a quill.

"Is this really what you wanted, Lord Warren? Personally, I think it's missing something. Maybe a wolf holding the gavel?" King Diarmuid looked around the room, but no one reacted.

"That was a jest. Wolves are only for royal orders and the occasional bastard." Laughter again, thinner this time. Clara barely heard it. The Order of the Gavel. She stared at the parchment. It was a crude drawing, a doodle probably made in a rush. The gavel didn't have the right proportions, and there was a smudge where the ink dragged before it set. But it was also so much more. It represented a whole profession, a whole universe of legal procedure and tradition.

And it wouldn't have existed here if Clara hadn't brought it to life. That was the part that made her heart pound. She'd arrived here with nothing, in this world of nobles and magic and kings who wound up toy peacocks for fun, and she'd turned her conviction into something real, one impossible case at a time. This was her mark on this world. And it came with significant standing to boot—not as much as a proper title of nobility, but prestigious all the same.

There'd be no more sneering bank tellers, no more 'just a servant'. When she spoke to the Members of Parliament to spearhead her reforms, she would do so not as a former maid but as Dame Clara Casewell, a knight of the realm. She looked at Warren, and he replied with a pleased smirk. You orchestrated this, didn't you?

"We are honored beyond words, Your Majesty," said Warren.

"Yes, you are," agreed the King.

"You can go sign the paperwork after we're done here—they'll need to enroll you in the official books as Sir Righton and Dame Casewell. Though now that I've said them, are you sure that you want your second names for the titles instead of the first names? I know you requested it, but doesn't it sound strange?"

"I admit it is unconventional for knights, Your Majesty, and I thank you for humoring me. It simply seemed the most fitting option in this case."

"Grand, I suppose you'll still mostly be called Lord Warren until you become Duke Albion, so it won't matter much for you, regardless. We'd want to feast tomorrow, so you two can regale me and the Queen with some more of those entertaining tales. Mm, yes, Yveline would doubtless enjoy that." Clara coughed.

"Er… Your Majesty, I mean no disrespect, but Her Holiness and the Grand Inquisitor have instructed me to enter seclusion at Mont Sainte-Michelle starting tomorrow." Silence. The King frowned, which Bel and Pedro seemed to find terribly amusing.

"Ah, of course! Well, if Her Holiness says so, then that must be right!" The laughter that followed had a different pitch.

"In that case, I wish you good fortune. I expect you'll have a most boring time, so you will. Perhaps I should have Ciarán escort you there—not like that boy has any duties to attend to, Goddess save him." Clara glanced at Prince Ciarán. He'd been standing farther from the dais than any of the other assembled nobles, and, for all the King's good humor, this was already the second time in one brief audience that His Majesty's jests had taken a swing at the Second Prince.

He does it with so much panache that it could almost pass for unintentional. But despite everything else that was going through her mind right now—and there was a lot —Clara didn't miss the King's derisive undertone. Ciarán was unmoving on the surface, but there was a bleakness to his posture now. Dame Rowena, standing next to him, gave him a sympathetic glance. That poor boy. No wonder he acts out.

"With that business concluded," said the King, "I think it's about time I retired back to my workshop. Sir Righton, Dame Casewell, you have my congratulations. Duke, Duchess, everyone—I shall have invitations sent out for a feast soon." He smiled at Bel.

"Meaning I expect certain someones to stay in the city." The King stood, and the chamberlain's voice rang out, "His Majesty King Diarmuid, sovereign of the Holy Kingdom of Arcadia by the Grace of the Goddess!" Every head in the hall lowered while the King's footsteps receded through a door behind the throne, followed by the soft clockwork whir of the peacock in a servant's arms. Only when the doors had closed did everyone straighten.

Ciarán left immediately after that, without even bothering to say goodbye to Duke von Rhenia or Bel, which was probably some sort of faux pas. Still, Clara couldn't begrudge the boy after what had just happened. She took a heavy breath, knowing that her life had just changed. I can't believe it. Me. A knight. A whole Order of the Gavel. It was Iris who came running to her first.

"Clara! I wish you could have seen your baffled look when the King knighted you. I must say, I am not one to agree with Lord Warren very often, but this was a most marvelous idea. I always knew you were meant to rise above the chaff." Clara chuckled softly.

"Lady Iris, perhaps you could take this as a lesson that a person's rank at birth does not correlate with their merit?"

"Oh ho ho! I see you haven't lost your sense of humor."

"Congratulations, Dame Casewell." Duke von Rhenia approached from behind his daughter, placing a hand on the girl's shoulder.

"If I heard you correctly, you are to enter seclusion at Mont Sainte-Michelle tomorrow. If that is so, how would you like to spend the night at the von Rhenia estate? As our guest, of course. I believe Iris would enjoy your company, and we have certain things to discuss." The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. Iris's eyes brightened, and she took Clara's hands.

"Oh my, it seems everyone is full of exceptional ideas today, even Papa. Yes, Clara shall come with us. We will give her the guest room nearest to mine, as is appropriate for a knight of the realm." Clara was ushered into a side room to sign her official knighthood documents. She wanted to talk to Warren, but the palace staff had taken him somewhere else for his own formalities, so she'd have to leave that for next time. Which is probably weeks from now, come to think of it.

The notion of seclusion left her preemptively lonely, but at least she'd have company for tonight. With all procedures attended to, Clara boarded the von Rhenia convoy heading to the estate. They arrived in the late afternoon, and Clara spent the evening in Iris's and Emma's company, drinking tea, eating biscuits, and brushing each other's hair.

Iris wanted to call everyone in the manor to celebrate the knighthood, but Clara refused—first because it would've been awkward to gloat to people who worked with Stella and didn't even particularly like her, and second because she just didn't want to celebrate, the memory of that night in Westwick still fresh. And so, Clara suggested to Iris that they should start planning the party for her seventeenth birthday instead, which was now less than two months away.

Iris excitedly agreed, and they spent their time discussing potential venues and a guest list while Iris tried different variations of the outfits she had purchased in Istantinople. By the time they'd settled on a plan, Clara thought it sounded more like a royal wedding than a teenager's birthday party. In a way, that fits Iris to a tee. Good luck, Emma. After Iris went to sleep, Clara retired to her assigned guest room. And now, over an hour after that, she still hadn't really settled in.

She wanted to rest—it had been a long day—but she couldn't find it in herself to disturb the perfectly arranged canopied bed, guarded by luxurious velvet drapes. Instead of getting the sleep she badly needed, Clara sat by the writing desk off to the side, under the light of the gas lamp, gazing into the night through the tall window. It wasn't as if she had a problem with the room, which was easily one of the best suites she'd ever stayed in.

There was just something strange about sleeping somewhere she used to consider her workplace. When she'd first walked in, her eyes had gone straight to a smudge on the window glass and a slightly crooked painting above the desk, and she fixed them out of habit. Though technically, if she really thought about it, Clara herself had never cleaned this room—as a lady's maid, her job consisted solely of Iris-related duties. Even so, Stella certainly had, at some point. You're a guest now, Clara. A knight of Arcadia.

Dame Clara Casewell. Her cheeks flushed when she thought the words. This is gonna take some getting used to. And there was something else nagging at her, too. Duke von Rhenia apparently had something to discuss with her, but he'd decided to let Iris have the evening and talk to her at breakfast instead. It was kind of him to indulge his daughter, but it left Clara locked in a state of constant wondering about what, exactly, the duke wanted with her. Maybe Iris or Bel had already told him about her bill?

Or was there something about her knighthood that merited his attention? It could also be an update on Leofric's remaining conspirators, or a stern lecture about taking Iris to foreign countries without his permission. Or it could be related to her seclusion, and the Grand Inquisitor's warning about Mont Sainte-Michelle.

Three weeks in the custody of the Church was not how Clara wanted to spend her time right now, or ever, but at least Warren and Iris would be able to start planting the seeds of her bill at the Chamber of Lords. And after that— Two knocks at the door interrupted her train of thought. From how brisk they were, she knew who it was before the door even opened.

"Come in."

"Dame Casewell." Head Maid Priscilla stepped inside, carrying a silver tray with a teapot, a cup, and some biscuits.

"I saw your light was on, so I thought you might like something soothing in case you were having difficulty sleeping. I've prepared some chamomile." Clara was not surprised at the head maid's impeccable service.

"Thank you, Head Maid. Though I'd rather you avoid the honorifics for now. I've been a knight for all of three hours, and it feels weird to hear that from you of all people." Priscilla set the tray down.

"You'll have to grow accustomed to it. I'm afraid society does not wait for one's readiness." Clara sighed and took a sip of the tea, and noted it had the perfect amount of sugar, just how she liked it. How did Priscilla know?

"No, I suppose it doesn't." Priscilla glanced at Clara, then at the door, as if she wasn't sure what to do next. That's not like her.

"What's going on?" asked Clara. Priscilla hesitated. Then she softened her shoulders and finally spoke.

"His Grace told me what he could about the trial. I owe you my thanks for uncovering the truth about Ricardo's death." Clara's chest tightened, and she set the cup down.

"Head Maid, I appreciate the sentiment, but if I hadn't involved him—""Stop." The word cracked with all the old severity, and Priscilla lowered her head.

"My apologies, that was inappropriate of me. But I must say that the blame for his death belongs only to the man who killed him. And it was in part thanks to you that he was punished. For that, I am grateful. What do you think Ricardo would say if he saw you blaming yourself?"

"I… He wouldn't want that, I think."

"No, he wouldn't. And not just him. His cousin Marco asked me to pass on his gratitude." Oh. Clara couldn't help the welling behind her eyes. She told herself she'd accept it if they hated her, to the point where she hadn't even asked about Ricardo's family, but in truth, the thought of being blamed terrified her. I'm glad.

"Thank you. And how is his brother? Last I heard, Ricardo mentioned losing contact because of some trouble in the north. Is he…?" Priscilla nodded.

"Mateus is well. We have been corresponding. He's settled down from the Albion militia, working as a merchant in Dunvarrach now."

"I'm happy to hear that."

"So am I." Priscilla straightened, and just like that, the professionalism returned to her face.

"Breakfast will be served at nine. Shall I send someone to wake you and help you dress?" Clara tried to picture one of her former coworkers coming into her room to wake her, then helping her out of her nightgown and into her dress. She rejected the notion immediately. The thought made her so uncomfortable she'd probably have rejected it even if it wasn't someone she knew.

"I can manage by myself."

"As you wish, Dame Casewell." Priscilla curtsied and withdrew, closing the door softly behind her. As morning light spilled through the tall windows of the von Rhenia estate, Clara stood before the guest room's mirror and held up the sky-blue linen dress she'd used regularly during the trip back from Istantinople. It was comfortable, weather-appropriate, and surely nobody would expect anything too formal for breakfast. And yet, something inside her told her it wasn't the right choice.

She sighed and stored it back in her trunk, then pulled out the only one of Madame Silka's outfits she hadn't tried yet. Cut from rich gray silk woven with delicate silver embroidery, the dress featured a fitted bodice with frills along the collar and short, puffy sleeves. An ivory ribbon looped down the front, ending in a bow where the bodice met the floor-length, billowing skirt. This has to be too much for breakfast, right? Then again, I'm a guest at a duke's mansion…

She put it on, which took longer than it should have, thanks to her adamant refusal to have anyone dress her. Then she completed it with the burgundy lace Iris had given her all that time ago, and looked at herself again. Okay, fine, I look good. And the second she thought that, a triumphant 'oh ho ho' echoed through her mind in Iris's voice. Clara smiled at the mirror, wondering what her parents would've made of this.

Which makes for a more impressive daughter: one who's a knight and wears fancy dresses, or one who got into law school? Her mother would have taken pictures. Several of them, from every imaginable angle, without asking for permission—she'd mastered the art of skirting right up to the line of annoying Clara without actually crossing it, and she made full use of that skill whenever the occasion justified it.

As for Clara's father, he'd have been proud, but would've deflected his emotions with some sort of silly comment, like asking if her knighthood came with a government pension. Wait, does it? She chuckled at her own thoughts, then went down for breakfast. A long table had been set in the main dining hall, lined with fresh bread, cheeses, cured meats, fruit, and even a jar of lemonade. Nearest to the entrance were Iris and Conrad, sitting across from each other.

And at the head sat Duke von Rhenia, with Duchess Adelheid at his side pouring herself tea. Clara immediately wondered why the duchess was serving herself, but a quick scan of the room confirmed there were no servants present, only the five of them. They probably asked for privacy, which definitely makes me even more curious about what they want to talk about.

"Clara!" Iris looked her up and down and gave an approving nod.

"Excellent choice. I've been looking forward to seeing you in that dress. Has knighthood awakened your dormant sense of style?" Clara curtsied.

"Good morning, Lady Iris, Your Graces, Lord Conrad. I hope I haven't kept you waiting long."

"As a matter of fact, I have been quite bore—""Dame Casewell," said the duke, cutting through Iris's words.

"I hope you've had a comfortable night."

"House von Rhenia's hospitality was impeccable, as expected," said Clara.

"Thank you for receiving me."

"It gladdens me to hear that," said Adelheid.

"Please, sit. I wanted to offer my congratulations on your knighthood once again. The King rarely gives honorary knighthoods to those who haven't spilled blood for Arcadia. Maximilian and I are very pleased." Clara took the seat next to Iris, across from the duchess.

"From what I gathered, that was mostly Righton's doing." And I didn't even get to thank him for it. Next time. Duke von Rhenia shook his head.

"Lord Warren may have suggested it, but your work did the convincing. If you hadn't accumulated such an impressive record, nothing could have persuaded the King. Do not be fooled by His Majesty's unconventional mannerisms. He always does what he does for a reason, and if he granted you a knighthood, it means he was convinced there was a benefit to the Crown in doing so."

"In that case, thank you for the compliment, Your Graces."

"Now, let us get down to the matter I wanted to talk to you about. I—""Wait," Iris interrupted.

"Before that, Papa, Mama, there is something Clara must tell you first." She turned to Clara.

"Go ahead, tell them what you told me aboard the Esperança. About your past." The duke's sharp gaze moved to Clara. A little warning would've been nice, Lady Iris.