Free The Table of Less Valued Knights by Marie Phillips

mould.
    ‘There we go!’ said Deborah. ‘Oh, wait.’ She reached out and pulled something away from Martha’s armpit. ‘Spider! What a big one! Hairy, too.’
    Deborah ejected the arachnid out of the window.
    ‘Perfect,’ she said, turning back to Martha. ‘You look exactly like your father just died.’

Fourteen
    Once Deborah had pinned up her heavy red hair, Martha joined Sir John outside her bedchamber and he led her to the throne room, which had been co-opted by the Regency Council as a meeting space during her father’s illness.
    Most of the room was taken up with a long wooden table piled high with papers, along both sides of which were seated richly dressed elderly men, whom Martha recognised from around the castle. So many of the men had ear trumpets they looked like a brass band.
    ‘The King is dead! Long live the Queen!’ the men chorused.
    ‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ said Martha.
    There were two empty seats at the table. Sir John made his way towards one of them, so Martha headed towards the other.
    ‘Not there, Your Majesty,’ said Sir John. ‘There.’
    He pointed to the dais at the far end of the room. Of course. There was the throne, ornate in gold leaf and red velvet. This was where she belonged now. Stacked up next to it, and detracting from its grandeur in a way that, at that moment, Martha found reassuring, was a teetering pile of papers and scrolls. Next to it was another pile of papers, and next to that, another one. Next to that one was another pile of papers, and next to that pile of papers was a pile of papers.
    Martha picked her way up the steps to the dais and looked at the throne.
Am I really going to sit here
? She turned and sat down. There was a huge puff of dust. She arranged the folds of hermother’s dress, which swamped her skinny frame, and surveyed the room. There were a lot of bald pates.
    ‘Are we waiting for someone?’ she said, looking at the vacant seat.
    ‘Pardon me?’ said Sir John. ‘Oh, no. That chair belongs to the Crone.’
    ‘Where is she?’
    ‘To be honest, we’re not sure. She hasn’t been to a meeting since Christmas. We’re keeping her chair free in case she decides to come back. She never contributed much anyway, we just felt we needed a woman, for balance. But we have a new woman now, don’t we?’ He raised his voice. ‘A very warm welcome to Queen Martha on behalf of all the members of the Regency Council!’
    ‘Speech!’ cried one of the men.
    The others took up the call. ‘Speech! Speech! Speech!’
    Martha cleared her throat.
    ‘It is an honour –’ she began.
    ‘Sir John!’ interrupted the first man.
    ‘Sir John! Sir John! Sir John!’ chorused the others.
    ‘Oh, well, if you insist,’ said Sir John. He climbed up onto his chair. ‘Your Majesty, my lords, bishops, gentlemen, and,
in absentia
, the Crone. It is the dawning of a new era for our nation. We have new hands on the reins. New boots urging the Horse of State on, from walk to trot to canter to gallop. It is a good horse. A noble horse. Glossy of coat and frisky of tail. A hacker. A jumper. Strong enough for a warrior, gentle enough for a child. Perky ears. Excellent teeth. Huge brown eyes. And a foaming, stinking lather of honest sweat. A great horse can make a great rider of any man, or, to a lesser extent, woman, if he, or if necessary she, trusts in the horse. But the rider must also guide the horse, guide it with wisdom, empathy, compassion, and the occasional application of spurs. One beloved rider has fallen at the fence of life today, but another has risen from the paddock.Queen Martha, we entrust you with this sacred saddle. Good luck, and giddy up.’
    The men whooped and cheered, banging their fists on the table, aside from one fellow at the end of the table closest to Martha, so lined and wrinkled that he looked like a crumpled handkerchief recently pulled out of the bottom of a boot. He said loudly to his neighbour over the applause, ‘I didn’t catch