The Hedgewitch Queen (22 page)

Tristan shoved one hand back through his hair. It rumpled him most fetchingly. “Vianne—”

Answer me, Captain. Why is this so difficult?
“Is it?”

His words spilled out in a rush. “Tis true. You hold the Aryx, you must be wed in person. The law dates from the Angoulême’s time.”

Relief so intense it curdled my stomach made me sag against the pillow. I chose my next words carefully. “Good. I think tis time I made some decisions. Jierre said twas time for me to use my sharp wits to keep us all alive, and perhaps he is right.”
Come, Captain, perhaps I should do the leading in this pavane. You are not as graceful as is your wont today.

“Jierre is a fool.” Tristan dropped his head forward into his hands. “Vianne, I…”

It frightened me, seeing him thus, his shoulders bowed, holding his head as if he was mazed with grief. Did he not wish to take me to task, then? What game was he playing?

Perhaps there is no game.
I hardly dared credit it. Hesitant, I touched his shoulder, and he leaned into my hand. The bed creaked slightly.

He is accepting comfort, at least.
My throat was still sand-dry. “He’s a sharp-witted fool, to have chosen you for his Captain.”

“Mistake after mistake, I have been so
blind
.” His voice was muffled, choked. Was he weeping?

If he was, dear gods, how could I stand it? “Oh, no.” I pulled at his shirt, a tiny tug as if to make the fabric hang aright. “Tristan? Please.”

He tore away from my touch, bolting to his feet. Stood, shoulders hunched, staring at the fire, his broad back to me. The Aryx rang under my skin, distress and an electric pain spilling from warm metal into my bones.

Or perhaps mine was the pain, and I shared it with the Seal.

I watched, pulling my knees up under the blankets, a lump blocking my dry throat, all thoughts of intrigue fled. “Captain,” I whispered.
How do I make this right? I do not know, and yet I must.
“I need your strength. If you cease now, I do not…I do not know what I shall do.
Please
, Tristan.”

“How can you trust me?” The shout took us both by surprise. He rounded on me, his bootheel grinding sharply into the sweet-fairthwell Risaine scattered on her floor. His cheeks were wet, his blue eyes blazing. “I sent you to the Princesse, and almost caused your death. I was caught and you—
you
—had to come down into the donjons and fetch me like an errant child. And I have done nothing but make mistake after mistake. I almost cost you your life. That is not the worst. I am a
traitor
, Vianne!”

You hold yourself to such a fierce standard, Captain. It will break you, unless I hold you back somehow, like a horse that will run itself to death. I do not know how to rein you.

Yet rein him I must. For as little as I liked the idea of his casting me aside the instant I did not serve his revenge, I found I liked the sight of his grief and shame even less.

My hands turned to fists, and my heart gave a painful shiver inside me. “You saved my life,” I pointed out calmly enough. “If you had not sent me to Lisele, d’Orlaans would have the Aryx at this very moment. If you had not given me the keys, I could not have hidden in the North Tower…and if not for you, your lieutenant would have left me behind on the Mont. You have kept me safe so far, and I—” Tears rose to choke me.
Oh, Vianne, calm him. He is fearfully upset, and likely to do some damage to everything.
“
Please
, Tristan!”

I did not say what I wished to say.
I am frightened,
I longed to shout.
I am frightened, and I do not know what I have become. You are the only safe thing in this madness, even though you are more dangerous to me than you can possibly know.

He tipped his head back, his jaw working, his cheeks powder-white.

Come, Vianne. Tell him. Give him some hope, and stop being such a dimwitted frippet.

When I could speak over the tears seeking to force their way out, I found I knew what to say. There was only one possible avenue to take. “You are the Captain of my Guard. And my Left Hand—and future Consort. I need you.”

That managed to get his attention, at least. His chin came down, his jaw dropped slack, and he stared at me gape-mouthed, like a Festival fool.

“How do you not
know
?” I tried again. “If there is one man in Arquitaine I can trust, Tristan d’Arcenne, tis you.” I held his gaze, willing him to
understand
. My heart twisted afresh.
Give him strength. If he feels aught for you at all, use it to help him!
“I need you,” I whispered. “Please, do not leave me adrift.”

Tristan laughed bitterly. “What makes you think I would leave you, Vianne? Leave the only woman I have ever—” Maddeningly, he shut his mouth so quickly I was amazed his teeth did not take a piece of his tongue. But his cheeks were no longer so pale, and he was no longer shoulder-slumped and desperate. Instead, his fists clenched at his sides and his gaze blazing, he looked far more like the man I knew.

Or thought I knew, enough to save him from himself. At least, for the moment.

I smoothed the blanket over my knees, as if it were a silken skirt.
I do not think you are the kind to give an empty promise.
My heart throbbed painfully.
Do not let me embarrass myself, gods, please.
“Is it that you do not wish to be my Consort?”

It seemed to be exactly the right thing
and
the wrong thing to say. It broke him free of his silence—but it also drove him to a fury.

“You—you—” His fists shook, but I felt a curious comfort. He would not harm me just now. Of that much, I was certain. “How can you trust me?”

If he was this angry, at least he was not sunk in dangerous apathy. A furious Tristan d’Arcenne was a formidable ally, while an apathetic one was no use to anyone, least of all himself.

And this conversation, however it ended, would strengthen my hand in the coming time, when I set myself to doing what I must.

Now for the soothing—but not until you rough his waters a tiny bit more.
“I can understand,” I continued softly, smoothing the blanket. “I am only the di Rocancheil oddling. Tis miraculous that the Aryx has not fried me for insolence. You perhaps do not prefer a Court dame more suited to peasant magics and dry books?”

“Will you shut up?” he snarled. “You are the most infuriating woman I have
ever known!
”

Well, that, at least, is something.
“Do you wish to be my Left Hand and Consort, or not?” The Aryx rang softly under my words.

“I would give everything I own and sell my soul in the bargain to do so,” he said through gritted teeth. “I
cannot
, Vianne. The game of politics would require you to appear free. And I am—”

“I care
nothing
for the game of politics,” I cried, dropping my pretense of calm. “If the Aryx wishes me to be Queen of Arquitaine, very well. If you wish to be my Consort, very well. If you do not—very well. But I
will not be forced any further
, Tristan!”

While I had almost certainly uttered words I would regret—for if I held the Seal I must care for the game of politics deeply enough that I was not hoodwinked—the last part was, at least, unvarnished truth. I was free of fever and on the mend, my wits had returned, and I was prepared to do my wretched duty once again. Another baton was ruling the musicians and the dance had changed, but I was required to follow the steps as prettily as possible, and not blunder.

But I would dance in my own fashion, and I would do all I could to take charge of the tune. My first step was wresting the lead from the Captain of the Guard, and his reaction was such I could hardly believe my good luck.

He did care for me. Perhaps it was only that we had traveled together, and that I represented his revenge. But he
did
care, and he did not think clearly at the moment.

He stared at me for a long moment, jaw working, eyes blazing. Then he gifted me with a single nod. “I would be honored to do aught you asked, Vianne.” Clenched teeth, clenched jaw, clenched hands. “You are the Queen, and I shall redeem myself in your service.”

Let us hope those are not empty words.
“Then
I
shall decide how to dispose of myself.” My pulse hammered thinly in my throat and wrists. “So we must find a temple, and contract you as my Consort as soon as possible. We must also leave this place. They have been kind to us; we cannot bring di Narborre upon them.”
I trust Risaine’s skill more than I would trust mine, but tis a chance I do not wish to hazard.

My decisiveness calmed him. His shoulders relaxed fractionally, and his tone became more businesslike. “You are not hale enough for the kind of hard riding we must do to reach Arcenne quickly. It would kill you, Vianne.”

I have no intention of dying just yet. Before, I might have, just to spite the Duc. But now…I cannot die. I have accounts to settle.
I let out a short, sharp breath, the same sound I would make before a grand entrance at Lisele’s side, echoed by hers. The small sigh was our private signal, a Court lady’s battle call. “I will see what Risaine and I can do together, with the Aryx.”

As I suspected, he had an immediate objection. “Court sorcery runs too much risk, especially with di Narborre in Tierrce d’Estrienne.”

Court sorcery is not the only magic in the world.
“Then we shall try hedgewitchery. I will be fit to ride, Tristan. I promise.”

“Soon enough.” He approached me cautiously, as he would a wary animal. Lowered himself down on the bed again, sitting on the edge. He looked away, across the room, his back to me. His head dropped again. “I will not betray you, Vianne.”

“Of course not.”
What a curious choice of words.
Yet we were faced with so much black betrayal, I did not wonder he felt the need to swear it aloud. And, truth be told, I was more than a little unsettled, as if I had prepared myself for battle and met instead with a fête.

I had thought the Consort offer would be refused with some pretty words about duty; I had anticipated the conversation to take a completely different cast. This was…unexpected.

To say the least.

We sat in silence, listening to the crackling of the fire and voices outside.

I waited until I could stand it no longer. I touched his shoulder for the second time, cupping my hand over the curve under his shirt. Muscle stood out under the cloth; tension vibrated through him, infecting my own flesh.

He caught my wrist with a swift movement, and pulled my hand to his mouth. Pressed a rough kiss into my palm, his teeth pressing through soft lips. I did not flinch. “Vianne,” he murmured against my skin.

Then he kissed the inside of my wrist where the pulse beat. The Aryx rang, a thrill sharp as fire.

I had to swallow twice before I could speak with anything approaching a normal tone. “The King said you favoured me.”

“Of course.” His lips moved against my wrist. “Are you blind,
m’chri
?”

“I thought you hated me, after…”
After you ordered the peasants to be killed. And I do not understand your anger, Tristan. I do not understand your moods at all, for all I think I am making headway.

“Of course not. I have never hated you. That was my downfall.” He held my wrist to his mouth, his eyes closed, inhaling as if smelling my skin. For a few moments we stayed like that. It was as far from a courtsong as I had ever seen, but I felt light and happy, and for that moment it was enough.

T
wo days later I was allowed—with Risaine at my elbow, to bolster me—to see the bandit village.

I knew then why Tristan had argued so hard against it. For what I found in that village scored me deeply.

“See that?” Risaine said, ruffling a child’s hair. The girl played solemnly with a threadbare doll, her hollow-cheeked face devoured by her eyes. “Just barely escaped the plague, arrived a week ago with four other children led by a boy not past his twelfth year. Their village was ransacked by armed thugs looking to eke more of the harvest from the peasantry. Oh, and that man? His family, killed by d’Orlaans’s bullies half a year ago. That woman? Cannot stand to have a man touch her.” Risaine clicked her tongue sharply. “Not after the Guard at Rouenne finished with her six months ago. A wonder she’s alive.”

I absorbed this as I leaned on the older woman’s arm. Most of the “bandits” were thin, desperate-looking men with fierce faces and peasants’ weapons. The women seemed hard, but their gazes were nervous as hungry birds. In the lee of a rude hut one woman—wide-hipped and red-faced, with cornsilk hair braided about her head as the peasants of Sainte-Ecy did—sobbed as another held her, murmuring soothing nonsense words.

“What of her?” I asked quietly.

“Her daughter was killed by tax farmers last week, and she still cannot believe it. The tax men are the law.” Risaine drew me away. “Do you see this, Vianne? This is what the King brought us to.”

The King bears the blame for this?
“How so?” I found myself gazing upon a collection of ragged children taking a lesson from a rail-thin woman dressed in a dark priestess’s cloak, her hair cropped close to mark her as one of Kimyan’s elect. She was training them in arithmetic, counting on her fingers, a teaching-rhyme I remembered from my own nursery-school days. One bloat-bellied boy had a bandage wrapped about his left hand; he cradled it as his dark eyes followed the priestess’s chanting. “Gods.” My stomach churned. “Tell me.”

“You did not know, of course.” Risaine stopped at a fire in front of a low-thatched shelter. I gratefully lowered myself to the rude bench she indicated. Broken sunlight came through the branches far above, dappling the entire village. At the very periphery, a thin blur swirled through the air—protections and camouflage, laid with skill and care. “I did not know either, when I came here. We live noble lives indeed, secure in our knowledge of Court sorcery, secure in our right to take what we see fit, whenever the mood strikes us. The very gods gifted us with Arquitaine, and tis only right we do as we see fit.”

I almost drew breath to protest, thought better of it when I saw her expression shift. Her mouth turned down, her sharp face softening. The breeze fingered white curls, lovingly. “Then I was blown here by an ill wind.” She lowered herself next to me with a sigh. “These people fed us, clothed and sheltered us. And we learned. The King’s payments for the wonders of his Citté and his Palais; his payments to foreign powers—where did you think they came from? And what do you think happens to those who cannot pay for his pleasures? A choice between starving to death or being beaten to death by a tax farmer; all the peasantry living in dire fear of d’Orlaans’s Guard.”

And the Aryx slept through this.
I watched the village. A mongrel dog trotted past, head held high but its tail crooked as if broken. The huts huddled close to ancient trees, bandits fading in and out between light and dappled shade, dressed in their green and brown.

I gathered my thoughts, arranged them logically. “D’Orlaans was responsible for collecting taxes,” I summed up, “and the King was not overcaring of how he did it.”

Risaine nodded. “So it was.”

“It seems nothing is true now,” I said. “I saw…” What had I seen? The Duc had committed bloody fratricide, to be sure. But had the King been any better? For this place to hold such misery could not have merely taken a month.

“You saw a bloody coup.” Risaine’s back was straight as a priest’s staff. She rubbed her fingers against her blue overdress as if there were something foul on them. “Tis a wonder it did not happen sooner. There were stories, of course, of the Court and the fêtes and festivals, merrily singing while the rest of Arquitaine groaned. Tis whispered the King was more a boylover than interested in his Damarsene wife, and the empty-headed daughter counted proof of it.”

Protest rose in me. Lisele had not been empty-headed. But she had been spoiled, I could admit as much. And, much as I loved her, Lisele had not been overgifted with wits. Twas why I so often set myself to flushing out little intrigues meant to take advantage of her.

What if Lisele had lived, and not I?
Another woman of gentle birth confined to her rank might not have survived the successive shocks I had already endured. To think of my Princesse forced to face such things pained me.

Would she have been strong enough to bear them?

Risaine’s sharp eyes were on me. This hedgewitch’s gaze missed next to nothing, and asked for—or granted—precious little quarter. “You hold the Seal. The fate of every soul in this village weighs on you now. Yet you could take the throne from d’Orlaans and continue on your merry way, taxing the poorfolk to pay for your pleasures. The Blessed, it seems, would not care enough to stop you.”

I closed my eyes against the hideous thought. In the darkness behind my lids, I heard a child’s laughter. The teaching-rhyme marked out its even cadence, the priestess’s voice helping along a stumbler. Someone called out, and a woman’s voice lifted in a light lilting peasant song about Baron di Wintrefelle and the Citrine War, in the time of Archimvault the Tall.

Truth is never pleasingly spiced.
I swallowed bitterness, felt the Aryx’s hum against my chest. Even though it was a gift of the Blessed, the Seal might not care for the agony of peasants.

It was merely a tool, for all its power. A tool that could slumber. And the Blessed? Perhaps they had larger concerns. At least the harvests did not fail under their care—but a single glance at this small village made me painfully aware that even that was no guarantee for common folk.

Yet Arquitaine was a rich land—what need was there for
this
?

“You must have wanted to show me this very much,” I said finally, when I could bear to speak.

“I never thought to have a chance to avenge myself on Henri di Tirecian-Trimestin and his foul brother. The Blessed have heard my prayers.” She did not say it piously.

“What did he do to you?” I thought of the King’s carefully curled hair and his silk and velvet, the endless banquets and Court protocol. Tristan had been rumored as the King’s catamite, early in his Court career, but I saw no evidence of that. Still, there were others—though the King was also rumored not to mind a woman’s bed when the mood struck him, either.

There were precious few of either sex who would refuse a King.

“Oh, not much. Sired a bastard and banished me from Court when the swelling began to show, so I would not damage the negotiations for his cow of a Damarsene bride. I believed a King’s promise of love, and paid for it like any fool. I was no more than another silly little Court chit to him. And my son…” She laughed, shook her head as if freeing an unpleasant thought from its confines. “No matter. I have my nephew, strong in my old age. He should have been hunting and hawking with the nobles, at the King’s table. Instead, he is a bandit and I am a hedgewitch bandit-woman, binding broken bones and salving wounded peasant hearts.” I heard a rustle of cloth and opened my eyes to find her standing before me, her hands folded. She looked thoughtful, her sharp gray eyes staring across the village’s quiet bustle. “My best revenge is this—I have shown you Henri was too self-centered to be a proper sovereign. He allowed d’Orlaans far too much power and asked no questions. He sired a princess unfit for the throne on his foreign wife, threw away a good Arquitaine heir because freeing us from the chains of paying tribute would require he bestir himself to war or diplomacy.”

I had never heard the dead Queen referred to as a “cow of a Damarsene.” It would have been highly impolitic to say that in Lisele’s part of the Court, since her mother had died in childbirth, and my Princesse often felt the lack. “My thanks for the truth,
m’dama
.” My voice was barely audible above the village’s tapestry of sound.

She turned to me, her fingers clenched tight against each other. Now I could see the echo of old-fashioned manners in her gestures, and I knew why she stood thus. “Truth is the best revenge, child, and I have had much time to think on the wrongs done, not merely to me, but to others. I shall tell you this further; whatever crimes Henri di Tirecian-Trimestin committed in the name of kingship, his Left Hand committed more. Take care who you keep close to you, Vianne. Tis more important than you think.”

That pricked me. “You mean d’Arcenne.” I almost said
Tristan
, caught myself just in time.

“Sharp tools are necessary for a sovereign. I simply warn you that you do not cut yourself.” But the spasm of distaste before she smoothed her features spoke much louder than the prettily-phrased warning.

Does she hate him because he reminds her of the King, or does she hate him for his part of the King’s injustice? Tristan would not have lent himself to this misery, would he? And he is too young to be part of
her
misery.
I nodded slowly. Twould not be useful to argue thus with her. “My thanks.”

“Of course.” Risaine dropped her hands to her sides, loosening them with a shake. “I have other patients to physick. I think you are well enough to sit for a bit.”

I agreed, and she left me under the shifting shade of branches. I sat, listening to the song of movement all about me, and thought long and hard. The motion and noise, subtle as it was, reminded me of the bustle of Court. There was always movement in the Palais, the sense of other breathing lives. I thought best with that quiet music enfolding me.

Where was her son now? Had the conspiracy reached even into the Shirlstrienne—or was there a darker reason for her to hate the King?

I found my hand at the Aryx, one thumb stroking the curve of a metal serpent through thin fabric. I ceased with an effort. The Seal purred, a subtle vibration against my skin.

It troubled me.

I watched the small village from my perch. Every thin, haunted face accused me. I could not help but wonder how many of the Court banquets I had been excruciatingly bored through, or had eaten at with good grace, had been bought with a peasant’s blood.