The Hedgewitch Queen (34 page)

I pointed the Messenger to a chair. “Sit, an it please you.” I motioned the Guards away. “You may leave him with us. I will be safe enough.”

The Guards for once did not glance at Tristan, simply obeyed me. I picked up the parchment from d’Orlaans and smoothed it on the table. “Your name,
sieur
?”

“Divris.” The Messenger’s throat worked. “Divris di Tatancourt.” His cheeks were pale, and from the way he sweated and glanced at Tristan, I guessed he was uncertain of his survival.

Still, he is alive. The killspell was meant for him, too.
“Get him some wine, Tris, to bolster him.”

“As you like.” Tristan crossed the room to the sideboard, but kept the man in sight. His hand strayed near his rapier’s hilt more than I liked, but he seemed in control of his temper, at least.

“Di Tatancourt.” I mused over his name, threading it through my memory. “Your younger brother was in the King’s Guard, on duty the day Princesse Lisele di Tirecian-Trimestin was murdered.”

Di Tatancourt’s gaze flicked toward Tristan, flinched away. “The tale is that the Captain of the King’s Guard caused the Princesse and her ladies to be slaughtered in a rebellion against the King. After he slew the King himself.”

I arched an eyebrow. “Tristan was with me that day,
chivalier
. I myself witnessed Garonne di Narborre and his men moving from body to body in the Princesse’s quarters, making certain Lisele and her ladies were slain.” The memory rose, taunting me. I closed it away with an effort. “You have seen me use the Great Seal of Arquitaine. Do you doubt me?”

He shook his head, running his fingers back through his thick dark hair. “No, Your Majesty.” Quietly, but with great force. “I do not doubt you. I know a plot when I see one. And I have been asking inconvenient questions of the manner of my brother’s death.”

Hence, the killspell. Two birds netted in one snare.
I swallowed bile. “I wish I could have saved him,
sieur
. I truly do. He was courting Lady Arioste.”
And not having any luck with it, I might add, for she was after bigger prey. Or at least, prey with deeper pockets, for she had expensive tastes.

Di Tatancourt’s mouth twitched, amusement and bitter memory combining. “Aye. That he was.”

Tristan handed him a cup of wine, his other hand resting a-swordhilt. “Here,
chivalier
. Drink, and be welcome.”

The door banged open, and I whirled, my hip striking the table. Baron Perseval d’Arcenne strode into the room, and I found where my Consort had gained his cold fury from.

“A killspell!” the Baron raged. “Does Timrothe d’Orlaans never tire of seeking to murder my son?” His blue eyes flamed, and my mouth was dry.

Well, d’Orlaans killed the King, blamed Tristan for it, is still seeking to kill him and turn me against my Consort. It is enough to unsettle even Jiserah.

“Baron,” I said, calmly enough, “I present to you to Messenger Divris di Tatancourt, sent to die because he was asking inconvenient questions about his brother’s death. His brother was assigned to guard Princesse Lisele’s door the day I left Court. Would you be so kind as to draft a reply to Timrothe d’Orlaan’s recent missive?” My fingers found the parchment, held it up. “I wish to inform the Duc d’Orlaans that he is stripped of his titles and styles forthwith, and that he shall remand himself to my justice immediately. I wish a proclamation drafted, and diplomatic letters sent to Navarrin.” It seemed someone else was speaking through me, someone with a voice as crisp and clean as new steel. “And I wish to know
exactly
where Garonne di Narborre is, or as near as we may,” I added, as an afterthought.

The Baron’s jaw set. “As you wish, my liege.” He took the parchment from me. “I will have a proclamation and the letters drafted in a matter of hours.”

“Good.” I looked at Tristan. “Fetch me a scribe, as well. There are other letters to write.”

“D’Orlaans will know his killspell failed.” Tristan folded his arms, but his tone was not combative.

He will.
“He will only know it did not kill anyone, not a whit else. It is the more imperative we move quickly. I will hold a Session this afternoon, Baron, of all members of my Council that are here. We may fill the vacancies later.”

The Baron nodded. The crackling anger in his tone had smoothed. “I will send a scribe and gather the Council. Is there aught else, my liege?”

“Not at this moment. My thanks.”

He turned on his heel, nodding to his son, and was gone just as swiftly as he’d entered.

Tristan took a long gulp of wine, perhaps to bolster himself.

I settled myself down in my chair, forcing calm. “Now,
Chivalier
di Tatancourt. Tell me of Court, and of d’Orlaans. You are a Messenger, so you will know what is of import.”

He nodded, and took a swallow of wine. His cheeks were still flour-pale, and he trembled just the slightest bit. “My thanks, Your Majesty.”

“No thanks necessary,” my new, brittle voice told him.
Who am I? Who have I become?
I no longer knew. “Now, we shall start with the Court. Tell me, what is the latest gossip?”

Tristan opened the door, and I leaned on his arm, stepping inside his sitting room. “Gods above. Another day like that, and I may save everyone the trouble by retiring to a convent.”

He laughed, then kicked the door shut and took me in his arms, resting his chin atop my head. I fell into the safety of his body, sliding my arms around him. He moved slightly, restless, and I felt his readiness, a hardness against my lower belly. He looked almost giddy with relief. “I seem to always be thanking you for saving my life,
demiange
.”

That made me shiver. “Do not name me so—it might attract the attention of one.”

“Which would not be a bad thing—you seem to need more protection than I can provide.” He buried his face in my hair, inhaling deeply. “My darling Vianne. Do you have any idea how utterly magnificent you are?”

“I thought Lord Siguerre was going to pop when I told him to hold his tongue, and that I shall have no war before spring. He is a disagreeable old stoneshell turtle.” I could have picked many another term for the man, but none were fit for a noblewoman’s mouth.

“He is tactics-wise, and organized. And he holds the adjoining province. Enough of business.” He kissed my forehead, my cheeks, then crushed me to him again. “I wish to hold you.”

“You could comb my hair.” I laughed, a weary chuckle, as his fingers fumbled with the pearls the Baroness had insisted I wear. He swore good-naturedly, and the pearls finally came free. He threaded his fingers in my hair, kissed me deeply. I turned to water against him. He picked me up and twirled me once, then twirled me again as if he could not help himself. Yet a thought struck me, and I had to voice it. “Tristan, why did your father say Navarrin is no true ally? I thought you always planned on seeking help from Navarrin.”

He groaned. “Must you always speak of business, Vianne? I am beginning to think you torment me for sport.”

“Oh, never that.” I traced the line of his jaw with one fingertip. I knew of the first flush of love and hoped it would not fade too soon, and also hoped that we would be friends after the sweetness had passed. “I do not seek to torment you. I would never be so unkind.”

“I know you would not.” He changed between one moment and the next, his face gone serious, his mouth a thin line. He cupped my face in his hand, the pearls his mother had pressed upon me smooth and hard against my cheek. “What are you thinking,
m’chri
, my beloved? Your eyes are dark, and that is a sign of trouble.”

I am merely curious and unsettled. Something does not seem aright to me.
“I am thinking of Navarrin and how I wish my curiosity satisfied. And how do you know my eyes go dark when there is trouble?”

“I have watched you enough to tell, and I shall satisfy any curiosities you care to voice to me. What else?” His thumb stroked my cheek.

I blushed at the entendre. “I am only uneasy.” I would have looked down, but he did not let me. “Truly, Tristan.”

“What of,
m’chri
?”

Of everything. Of all this madness.
“Merely…I thought when I reached Arcenne this would be over. I thought I could give the Aryx up to someone and—I do not know. Go about with…something. My life. I thought I would be free, d’Orlaans would fall, this would make everything right again.” The truth rose to my lips and would not be denied. I could not produce more than a whisper. “I suppose I thought it would bring my Lisele back.”

Tristan kissed my forehead again. He was silent.

“I do not wish this burden.” As if telling him a terrible secret. “I thought Court was so awful, I hated it there. Yet I wish to go back. At least there, I…I do not know.”
At least it was familiar. And I am still terrified of you wasting yourself for your duty to a dead King, Tristan. I cannot stand to lose you.

But though I could admit to much, I could not say that to a nobleman. A noble’s honor would make him stubborn as a Scythandrian horse, and Tristan d’Arcenne had more than his share of prickly d’Arquitaine pride. To speak to him of danger would merely make him rash.

He rested his forehead against mine, closed his eyes. “I am sorry. I was too late.”

“You did what you could.” I tried to smile, but it felt unnatural. A mask. “I do not mean to hurt you.”

His mouth tilted up, a charmingly lopsided grin as his eyes came out, surprising me again with their blueness. “Come.” His arms tightened, he picked me up and half-dragged me over the stone floor. I let out a blurt of surprise, and he tossed me carefully on the bed, following me with a sigh. A moment’s worth of rearranging ended with my head on his shoulder, my hair beginning a tangle on the velvet coverlet. Lying down only made me more acutely aware of how weary I was.

“There.” Tristan scooped up my free hand, lacing his fingers with mine. “Better? Speak to me of what you will,
m’chri
. I do not even begrudge your perpetual obsession with dispatches.”

“I know you would prefer—,” I began.

“I do not think you do. Speak to me, Vianne. Weave me a tale.”

“But you must—” I bit my lip. It was not a thing a lady should say.

“You think I am dragged about by my breechclout, my liege? I am
occasionally
capable of chastity, am I not? You have no idea what it was like, sharing a saddle with you through half of Arquitaine. I thought I would die of frustration.”

Indeed?
“Really?”

“Do you know how lovely you are, dear one?” He raised my knuckles to his lips. “You could make Danshar himself forget his sword and think of bedplay. But tis your quick mind, I think, that makes you so alluring.”

“I do not recognize this picture you paint,” I laughed, and breathed into his shoulder, smelling leather and male and the indescribable that made
him
. “I rather wonder that you think to court me now.”

“Making up lost time. Now listen, Navarrin is a greedy marketwife, but she does not demand tribute payment from Arquitaine. Partly because the Santciago House of Navarrin is related to Tirecian-Trimestin by both blood and marriage, and also because the Passes Cirithe, not to mention the Thread Pass, are both too narrow to supply an army through without holding the mountain provinces. Besides, Arquitaine menaces Rus and Torkai to the east, acts as a buffer against Damarsene, Pruzia, and Polis, balances against Tiberia for trade interests. And more. So. Were Navarrin to come to our aid, their lines of supply would be stretched thin, and tis no inducement for them unless a weak Arquitaine will no longer hold back Rus and the Damarsene. The tribute payments to the Rus’Zar are bad enough, but Rus knows Arquitaine can field an army at need and come to the aid of any of the client-states, or the Principalities if necessary, and be richly rewarded. But north-and-eastward, closer to our borders than the Rus…that is what troubles me. There was news in that quarter having to do with the conspiracy, but I had not ferreted it all out yet, being too busy seeking the killer of the King’s line before he struck you down.” His tone was careful, almost overly so. I wondered why he chose his words with such delicacy.

“Hm.” I thought of old maps, straining my brain to think of dangers from the east. “Pruzia. And the Sea-Countries, and Haviroen in their mountains. But the Havi are traditionally neutral. Anyway, Pruzia. Oh, and the Damarsene.” A cool finger of dread touched my nape, remembering Adrien’s suspicions. That the two of them would worry over the same country for different reasons was thought-provoking, to say the least.

“Yes, Damar. Where most of the tribute goes, since the King’s Consort died so mysteriously.” Tristan’s lips touched my knuckles again. “Only now that the Aryx is awake, perhaps tribute will become a thing of the past.”

Enough of this.
I sighed, settling myself further at ease into his shoulder. “I am glad to have you, Tristan. I pray the Seal will choose someone else eventually.”

“I do not think it will. For good or for ill, you are the Queen.” His tone changed. Was he sad?

“I do not wish to be.”

“I know.” He stroked my shoulder. “My poor hedgewitch darling.”

“Tristan, do you think…” I touched his jaw, felt the roughness of stubble. “After you no longer find me so attractive, will we still be friends?”

“Is that what this is about?” He kissed my knuckles again. “Hmmm.”

Now I had offended him. I trailed my fingers over the plane of his cheek “Well?”

“I adore you, Vianne.” His tone had grown serious, but he sounded relieved. “You think me faithless?”

It scored me to the quick, that he could think so. “Of course not.” Who was loyal to me, if not him?

“Then do not trouble yourself with thinking I will suddenly lose my taste for you. Do you think a man who has watched over you for years, dragged you through half of Arquitaine on his saddle without touching you, and has gone grey worrying about the trouble you fling yourself into will tire of you after a few nights?” He laughed, stroking my hair, except his merriment was not pleasant. “You have such a low opinion of me after all.”