Flashman and the Throne of Swords

Chapter 24

by Technomad

Things went on for a while, much as they had. I was as nervous as an apprentice burglar, but managed to keep it to myself. The rest of us were also on edge, but we kept up appearances well; to see us, you'd think that Westeros was profoundly at peace and under the rule of a wise, benevolent king. The civil war raged on, but from what information we could gather, no one side had the uppermost hand.

We, as neutrals (very well-armed and formidable neutrals) were able to send ships to and from Home, and one day, a package came for me and Elspeth. Elspeth fell on Godey's Lady's Book (1) with a squeal of joy, and was soon lost in its pages, while I looked through back issues of the Times, wishing bitterly that I'd been there to read them when they came out. I'd have preferred the Pink 'Un, (2) but the fools back Home hadn't thought to pack any of those along. In any case, the games and races they'd have covered would have been long since over by the time I saw them.

We'd also had a job-lot of books transliterated into the Westerosi alphabet, to hopefully begin the task of civilising the Westerosi. Judging from my experience of the locals, they would be about as difficult to civilise to our standards as the Apache, and probably far less grateful for our efforts. In my experience, most foreigners, be they Indians, black Africans, or Americans (white or red), were quite content with their own ways, and resented efforts from us to make them more like us. Even when such changes (such as getting rid of suttee in India; I still could boil with rage when I remembered the times I'd had to witness that) would have been greatly to their benefit. (3)

As it happened, not long after we'd received these things, we were honoured by a visit from none other than the acting Hand of the King, Tyrion Lannister. He came strolling on in, with Bronn and several of his wild mountain clansmen trailing him, and greeted me warmly.

"Ser Harry! It's been too long! How have you…and the lovely Lady Flashman…been?" We clasped hands, and Tyrion bowed to Elspeth, who was standing nearby. She gave him a big smile that made me think that, dwarf or no dwarf, she'd have been in the bushes with him given half an opportunity. Luckily, we were constrained enough by our embassy life that opportunities for her to put yet another pair of horns on my head were all but nonexistent.

"I've been well, my lord. We just got a big shipment of publications from our home country." I gestured to the pile of Westerosi-alphabet books. "We took the liberty of transcribing some of our literature…stories, poetry, things like that." We'd been careful about including stuff that was too informative about how we did things. If things did come to blows between us and the Seven Kingdoms, our edge in technology might well carry the day for us. For a second, I thought about Stannis Baratheon, off on Dragonstone. Was he secretly trading with folk from our world who'd have no scruples about slipping him the latest wrinkles in armaments and other things? I could have strangled those Frogs who'd apparently been selling him rifle-muskets and Minie balls. Particularly since it was far from impossible that some of those Minie balls would be coming in my direction.

Rumour had it that Stannis was planning an all-out assault on Kings Landing. While we were ostensibly neutral, I could easily foresee us being drawn into the fighting, either on orders from Home (Joffrey, for all his faults, was the ruler we were backing, after all) or merely because we were in Stannis' line of fire. I misdoubted greatly that Stannis would refrain from attacking one part of the Red Keep just because it constituted our embassy. Westerosi customs had not evolved as far as granting foreign realms' subjects caught up in a local war neutral status.

As I ruminated, Tyrion was paging through the stack of books. "Hmmm…these look interesting. May I borrow them?" He held up several books, and I noticed that one of them was a transcription into Westerosi characters of Tennyson's Idylls of the King. Another was a complete edition of the stories and poems of Edgar Allan Poe, and I wondered who'd thought that he'd be a good thing to include. While I agreed that few poets could approach Poe for wringing beauty out of language, his subject matter…brrr!

However, we had had those commissioned specifically to begin infecting Westeros with a yen for our civilisation, so I nodded. "Please, my lord, be our guest. We had those made up for your people." Tyrion gave me a quizzy look, as though he were trying to fathom why we would do such a thing, but being still very uninformed about our record on our own world, he couldn't puzzle it out. And I had no intention of enlightening him.

Once the books were in his possession, Tyrion smiled. He truly did love books. Me, I'm fine with a book when the weather's bad, but I've never been the scholar Tyrion was. He sat down and I offered him some Arbor Gold.

He sipped, clearly savoring the ambrosial stuff. "Ah, Ser Harry, your people's wines are nice, but give me Arbor Gold or Red any day!" I had to agree with him on that. I knew that Westerosi wines were selling for incredible prices on the London and Paris markets, and vintners in France were tearing their hair out trying to figure out what made them so good.

Idly, Tyrion opened a book. His eyes went very wide. "Seven preserve us! Your scribes are incredible!" It took me a second to figure out what he was talking about, then I twigged. He'd never seen printed matter before. Sometimes I forgot just how backward, in many ways, Westeros was. China had had printing for centuries before we Europeans had figured it out, and even India had had it for a very long time. (4)

All books in Westeros were hand-copied, and generally there were only a few copies in existence of any given book; the holy books of the Faith of the Seven were about the only exceptions to that rule. I wondered what the Faith, or Stannis' tame witch, would do if given printing presses and paper to play with. I knew (thanks to Arnold and his religious fixations) that the existence of the printing press had allowed Luther's reforms to catch on and spark the Reformation, where previous attempts, such as those of Wyclif (5) had fizzled.

"Those books were produced on a machine, m'lord. It's called a printing press. A printer can produce hundreds of good copies of a single page in a day." Tyrion stared at me as though I'd grown a second head. Then his eyes narrowed.

"Could you see to it that such a machine is imported here?" he asked. "We can pay, you know."

I did know. Some little while previous, Tyrion had ordered, in the name of the government (at least Joffrey's faction), a huge iron chain, long enough to stretch clear across the harbour. The last word I had from Home was that the chain was almost ready, and would be sent by the next ship big enough to carry it; it was quite a load for some of the smaller ships. I stole a glance at Elspeth. She looked very interested in what was going on, although to someone who didn't know her as well as I did, she was the very picture of cream-and-white British innocence.

For all her pride in her boughten nobility, Elspeth's every inch her father's daughter as regards money-making. Part of her enthusiasm for coming to Westeros, I suspected, was her interest in finding new ways to add to her ever-bulging coffers. "Mony a mickle mak's a muckle," she would say, in her native tongue, when she'd found some way to get more cash into her hands. Of course, it flowed right out again; dressmakers, milliners, and other such folk charge the earth for their services. Our townhouse in Berkeley Square and Gandamack Lodge were also very dear to run.

"I can't see why not, m'lord," I answered Tyrion's question. "We can also see to it that papermakers from our world come here. Paper's far dearer here than in our world. We've methods you've yet to discover. Or, if you prefer, you can buy from us."

"No, I'd rather import some of your wonderful craftsmen. I've much to do, so I'd best be on my way. A pleasure, as always, Ser Harry…Lady Flashman." This last was accompanied by a smile at Elspeth that told me that those two were of one mind. Elspeth was smiling back at Tyrion, too. Of course, that could mean much or nothing. Elspeth, bless her, is one of the vainest creatures I've ever seen.

When I looked up Edmund Blackadder, the commercial attache was delighted. "Another product to sell here! Sir Harry, I'd best be on my toes, lest you steal my job out from under me!"

"No fear of that, Blackadder, old man. You're far better at this than I'd ever be." Which was the truth. I've been involved in commercial ventures over the years, but it's not my strongest suit, and I knew that real businessmen would eat me alive.

A few days later, we were reminded yet again of what a barbarous country Westeros was. Dick Burton, Elspeth, and I were on our way to the throne room for a routine audience, when all of a sudden we heard a shrill scream. To my ears, it sounded very like a young woman.

"Come! We've got to see what's happening!" Suiting action to words, Dick set off at a dead run for the throne room, with Elspeth and me panting along behind him. I was still able to keep up, but twinges here and there told me that I wasn't as young as I had been once.

When we got in, the sight that greeted us rooted us to the floor with sheer shock. Crouched in the middle of the floor, vainly trying to preserve her modesty with her hands, Sansa Stark crouched, the rags of what had been a very nice gown all around her. From up on the first step up to the Iron Throne, that maniac Joffrey was waving a whip. As we watched, he brought it down, lashing Sansa. I could see a bleeding welt start up on her white skin, as she cowered, screaming "Mercy, your grace! Mercy!"

I was utterly gobsmacked. I had seen some awful behavior by monarchs in my time, hadn't I just? Compared to Theodore of Abyssinia (6) and his slaughter of the city of Gondour, or Ranavalona of Madagascar and the awful executions she would order up for any or no reason, (7) this was nothing much. Even so, I've seldom or never been more utterly outraged. I'm not above whipping the odd trollop, but this was well over the limit. I knew little of Lady Sansa, but I'd bet St. Paul's to a pub that she'd done nothing whatsoever to earn such treatment. And in public, to boot! Even in the lowest dives in London this would have been over the top!

Dick and I were both paralysed. Elspeth, God bless her bonny brave soul, wasn't. Before we could do anything, she was standing in front of Sansa, shielding the poor little chit, and glaring at that homicidal little wretch Joffrey like she was about to set about him herself.

"Ye filthy shilpit coward! Why don't ye try that whip on me, ye yellow gobshite? Or are ye only brave wi' folk who cannae fight back, ye scabby wee nyaff?" As always, when she was really angry, she reverted to her native speech. I doubted that royal monster could understand half of it, but the sight of her facing him down took him well aback.

This was a side of Elspeth I had never seen before. For the first time in our marriage, I was a little frightened of her. Oh, I knew she was a cool hand…I still remembered how she'd stayed mum when that Malagassy soldier trod on her hand and broke a bone in it when we were escaping from Madagascar, but this was something utterly new. And utterly magnificent. Standing there, her blue eyes blazing and her chin stuck out in defiance, she wasn't just my bonny, silly wide-eyed Elspeth any more. She was Boadecia, leading her tribesmen to rebellion against Rome. (8) She was Lady Macbeth, urging her husband on to kill that useless waste of space, Duncan. She was Elizabeth, standing on the shore at Tilbury and casting defiance in the face of the Spanish Armada. She was Britannia embodied, and oh, I was so proud of her! She was a wife fit for a soldier…no, for a hero. Pity she'd been stuck with me instead.

Joffrey stared at her as though he'd never seen such a thing. And he might not've. From what I could piece together about his upbringing, that mother of his had made sure that he never heard the word "No," and never had to pay the piper for any of his nasty little tricks. He gripped the whip tightly, and for a second or two, I thought he'd take her up on her challenge.

My own hand was on the butt of my barker, and I was trembling with the strain of keeping myself under control. If that vicious little Caligula-in-embryo dared lay his hand, or his whip, on my Elspeth, thought I, I'd blow his brains out of his skull and be damned to the lot of 'em!

Just then, a familiar voice broke the tension: "What is going on here?" Backed by his tame swordsman, Bronn, and his mountain clansmen, Tyrion strode into the room. As he took in the scene in front of him, his face darkened with rage. "Your grace! The Lady Flashman is the wife of a foreign emissary, and the Lady Sansa is your affianced bride-to-be! How dare you treat them thus?"

Between Elspeth and his uncle, Joffrey visibly wilted. "I was punishing the Northern bitch! Her brother and that devil-wolf of his won a big victory over our forces!" Reflexively, I made a mental note. It might be time to get into communication with Robb Stark, if he was going to win this war. While I hadn't forgiven or forgotten the treatment his hell-b*tch of a mother had given me, I wasn't just Harry Flashman. I was a British envoy, with a job to do. It's hellish, sometimes, having duties.

Tyrion strode forward, grabbing the whip out of his nephew's hand and throwing it aside as though it was something utterly filthy. "So you think to alienate the only person who may be able to beg mercy for us, should we lose this war? You never cease to amaze me!" Then he looked to Elspeth. "Lady Flashman…could you please see to the Lady Sansa? I rather think she'd prefer your help at the moment."

Elspeth knelt by Sansa, giving Joffrey another death glare, and gently helped the girl try to reassemble her clothing. Even though Sansa was an absolute peach, I felt nothing, looking at her naked, but an overwhelming rage. I burned with anger at the barbarity of this benighted country, and the vicious rabid whelp it was cursed with for a king. Watching Elspeth soothing that abused little creature, I felt a swell of pride in her.

Elspeth looked up, sweeping the room with another blue-eyed glare. "Can one of you men…" loading the word "men" with utter contempt… "loan me one of your cloaks? This gown's no' salvageable." Bronn and Tyrion leaped forward, holding out their cloaks, and Elspeth gently wrapped poor Lady Sansa up so that she was at least decent. "Sir Richard? Wi' your permission, I'd like to take Lady Sansa back to our embassy an' have one of our sawbones gi'e her an examination? I'm no' sure but that some o' these whip-weals might g'ae bad on us."

Tyrion stepped forward. "Your kind heart does you great credit, Lady Flashman, but my men and I can escort her to the Tower of the Hand. We'll see that no harm comes to her." Elspeth gave him a quizzy look, and he said: "My honor as a Lannister on it." Whatever she saw in his eyes, she decided to trust him and relinquished Lady Sansa, who seemed to have gone off in a merciful swoon. Bronn scooped her up in his arms, cradling her as though she was his own daughter.

"Ye'll see her right. Or you and I'll be havin' words, laddie!" With that, Elspeth turned and walked back to us, her back straight and her eyes ablaze in an utterly set face. As she passed the locals, they all bowed low to her, and I understood the impulse. Dick Burton gathered us with his eyes, and we turned and left, heading back to the embassy.

Once we were safe (or as safe as anybody in benighted Westeros could be) behind stout oak walls, with the Royal Marines on guard, Elspeth let herself relax. She threw herself into my arms, howling her heart out. I acted on instinct, holding her and crooning to her wordlessly until the reaction passed. I knew the feeling, all too well. In the middle of a fight, many men don't feel fear at all, but once it's over, they suddenly realise what they've done, and they collapse in a fit of the shakes. "Shh…shh…you were wonderful, Elspeth! You were incredible! I never knew you could do that!"

She looked up at me, her eyes full of tears. "Ah didnae ken that I could dae sic things maself, ma jo. But I saw yon shilpit gobshite whippin' yon helpless lassie…an' all of a sudden, I was so angry!" She dashed the tears from her eyes. "How dare he? How dare he?"

"He dares because he's a king. Ira regis mors est, (9) you know." I felt a chill go down my back, and turned…to see John Charity Spring standing right behind me! "I was there, you know. I'd been talking with some of the King's captains, seeing if I could settle up some debts I owe to the royal shipyards." Spring came forward, and much to my surprise, he went to one knee, taking Elspeth's hand and kissing it gently. "If I may say so, my lady, you're far fitter for a crown than anybody I've ever met!"

"Och, you!" As it always does, flattery had distracted Elspeth. "Ah'm just a simple Scots lass, who married the bravest, brawest, bonniest cavalier that ever forked a horse!" Spring and I exchanged glances, and I could see evil humor gleaming in his eyes. However, he was always one for the proprieties, and although he knew more than enough about my peccadilloes to puncture Elspeth's illusions, he'd never say a word about them to her.

A servant came in. "Beg pardon, my lords, my ladies, but the Hand of the King requests admittance." At Dick's nod, the servant went back out, coming back in with Tyrion and Bronn behind him.

"My lady…I wanted to thank you. That situation could have turned very nasty indeed." Dropping to one knee, he took Elspeth's hand and kissed it in his turn. "If we were having tournaments, you'd be far worthier as a Queen of Love and Beauty than anybody I know."

Elspeth blushed absolutely pink. Then she turned to me. "Harry, dear…can we go be alone for a while?" I knew that look in her eye, and cheerfully waved farewell to the crowd that had gathered.

Once we were safe in our own quarters, Elspeth set about me as though we'd been apart for a year. "Oh, Harry! I've seldom been more sharp-set!" she gasped. I buckled to, as befits a loving husband, and made sure she was well seen to.

When we were done, I was lying there, thinking: take me now, Lord, for I am surely worn out! Then I had another thought, and suddenly sat up, my eyes wide. Beside me, Elspeth slumbered, looking like Eve in the Garden of Eden. I envied her her innocence.

Elspeth had caused the King to lose a lot of face. It wasn't impossible for him to come up with the idea that assassinating my Elspeth would be a fine payment. I'd have to get Elspeth some trustworthy guards.

[1] Godey's Lady's Book was a fashion guide, very popular and widely read in the 1860s.

[2] The Sporting Times, often known as the Pink 'Un for the salmon-colored paper it was printed on.

[3] Suttee, the practice of requiring widows to immolate themselves on their dead husbands' funeral pyres, was an Indian custom that the British exerted great force to end. Flashman first witnessed the ritual in the Punjab, during the run-up to the First Sikh War. See Flashman and the Mountain of Light.

[4] Printing of books and other readable matter was first invented in China, and spread to India some while afterward. At the time Flashman was there, the art was unknown in Westeros.

[5] John Wyclif was a medieval religious reformer. He translated much of the Vulgate Bible into Middle English. His followers were forced underground after his death, becoming "Lollards."

[6] See Flashman on the March. Theodore of Abyssinia (present-day Ethiopia) was one of many mad, dangerous monarchs Flashman met and dealt with in his career.

[7] Ranavalona of Madagascar was another mad monarch. Flashman met her while shipwrecked in Madagascar. See Flashman's Lady.

[8] Boadecia was a queen of the Iceni people in first-century Britain. After mistreatment at the hands of corrupt Roman officials, she led her people and their allies on a rebellion that came close to sweeping the Romans out of Britain. She is a British heroine and has a statue facing Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament in London, depicting the queen and her daughters on a chariot.

[9] "The wrath of a king is death."