The Hedgewitch Queen (39 page)

He did not argue further, but his jaw set so hard I was surprised his teeth did not shatter.
Well, if I wished him to hate me, I am going about it the right way.

I sighed.

Then I arranged my face, entered the study quietly, accepted the Messenger’s bow, and set myself to question Divris yet again about the Duc’s Court. He was a wondrous observant witness, and he knew far more than he thought he did—at least, when I questioned him, his answers illuminated much, even if he did not know quite what he had told me.

He did not need to know, I decided. I had not time to teach him, and twas not his place to hold such knowledge. I had much more to learn now, and the stakes were growing rapidly higher.

T
he Council Session ran late and led to two shouting matches—both of which I won by simply waiting until the men finished rattling their rapiers and then informing them all coolly that it was bad form to shout in front of a lady, and that I was, I would remind them,
in case
they had forgotten, the Queen.

And if they doubted the wisdom of my commands, or would seek to choose only those commands that suited their purposes, they were no better than d’Orlaans. If they insisted, they could hie themselves hence and field an army against me—or go to join the Duc, being of his stripe.

That handily put an end to discussion, though I disliked using such arguments.

It was after dark when I finally arrived at the Pruzian’s cell accompanied by Bryony to find Tristan, Jierre, and Jai di Montfort standing guard with Adersahl, who eyed them while he twirled his reborn mustache.

“
D’mselle
.” Adersahl greeted me with a low, sweeping bow. The others followed suit. Even Tristan.

“Your Majesty…” Jai di Montfort’s voice failed him as my glance rested on his lean dark face.

I must look forbidding. Well, if I do, I am grateful for it. I have had enough of men arguing, of late.

I stood with my hands clasped in my skirts, examining all three of them. “Bryony? Please attend the Pruzian. Adersahl, accompany him.”

A murmur of assent. Even Bryony’s frosty silence did not wound me. What did a peasant hedgewitch’s tender feelings matter, if Tristan was past his first flush of care for me?

Now we would see if we could remain friends, my Consort and I. I let the disobedients simmer a trifle longer, until even di Yspres flushed like a guilty boy caught stealing apples.

“Well,” I said finally. “
Sieurs
di Yspres and di Montfort. Tis pleasant to see you. I had expected you to obey my summons without needing to be fetched hence like schoolboy truants.”

Jierre blushed deeper. Jai di Montfort dropped his gaze to my feet.

“Now,” I continued. “I found the Pruzian damaged when I gave explicit orders he
not
be touched. This is
most
disappointing. Then to compound that error by refusing to obey my summons? Not fit behavior for the Queen’s Guard, is it?”

No answer but their hung-head silence. Boys being taken to task by a headmaster, deserving more than a sharp crack against the knuckles.

But I must tread softly. If I pricked their pride
just
right, it would bolster their loyalty instead of deflating it. And I might well need them in the future. “Very well. I’ve decided your punishment.”

“Your Majesty—” Di Montfort, unable to contain himself.

“Hold your tongue,
sieur
.” Much to my gratified surprise, he did. “I am extremely disappointed,
chivalieri
. For the next two days, you will not wear the uniform of a Queen’s Guard, and you will leave your rapiers in the dormitory. You will carry only daggers. After that, you are readmitted into the Guard and all is forgiven.” I found a smile rising, banished it. Now was a time for severity. “The next time you disobey me and hide from me, I shall throw you out of the Guard with stripes. This is not a place for children; you are
chivalieri
sworn to the Queen of Arquitaine, and I expect you to behave as such.” I inclined my head slightly. “You are dismissed. Go to the Guard dormitory and do as I bid you, to the very last inch.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Di Montfort was now pale. Di Yspres echoed the words. Did the lieutenant look relieved? They trooped past me, stopping only to sweep deep, respectful bows. I waved them away and faced Tristan.

Now for the next hurdle. Gods grant my strength holds.

“So.” The sound of their footsteps faded. He pitched his tone low enough that it would not carry, a skill learned at Court.

I copied his tone, speaking softly without losing enunciation. “You did not return, either.” I tried not to sound hurt, failed miserably.

“I feared your temper.” A bald admission, his hand resting on his rapier-hilt and his expression so grave my heart compressed within me.

“Fear
my
temper?” I shook my head. “And I have been fearing yours.”

“I would never harm you.” His eyes burned, almost luminous in the torchlit gloom.

“I fear the loss of your affection,
chivalier
, perhaps more than any harm you could do me.” The admission sent a frisson up my back, and I stepped nervously toward the cell’s barred iron door.

“You think it possible to lose my affection?” Yet his face eased.

I learned mistrust too thoroughly at Court. And everything that has happened since has not helped.
“I think it possible I might, Tristan. And it frightens me.” I moved through the door before he could reply. It was childish of me, yes. But I did not wish to cross wits with him to this degree just yet.

I needed my wit for other things.

Adersahl di Parmecy stood in a corner, his arms folded. The Pruzian was awake, flat on his back on a cot against one side of the narrow cell. His eyes glittered under tangled dark hair as Bryony gingerly took his pulse, then flattened his hand against the assassin’s chest and began to whisper his charm. I watched, the pleasant sensation of hedgewitch magic tingling over my skin. He had considerable skill, and I watched carefully to see if I could learn aught of what he did.

“He will live.” The hedgewitch’s grudging failed to wound me, though he looked as if he wished it did.

Still, my graciousness did not waver.

Well, perhaps it wavered slightly. “Thank you, Bryony.”

“Tis my duty.” Bryony gathered up his physicker’s implements, and left without so much as a good-bye. He had to press past Tristan, whose shoulders nearly filled the door.

“I need summat to perch upon—Adersahl?” I did not wish to loom over the wounded man.

The stocky Guard pointed out the low, three-legged stool near the door, which I fetched myself, overriding his protests. Then I set it by the cot and sank down, arranging my skirts. I am not so tall for a woman, so I was able to rest my hands on my knees properly, my back straight.

It was time. I met the man’s glittering, fevered glance. “
B’joure
,” I said, as if meeting him at Court. “I am Vianne di Rocancheil et Vintmorecy. Do you speak Arquitaine?”

He blinked. His gaze flicked over Tristan and Adersahl. Back to me.

“Oh dear.” I switched to Tiberian. “Tiberian? Do you speak Tiberian?”

He coughed. It was a low, thin sound. “Some,” he rasped. “Arq’taine.” His accent mangled the words—Pruzian is an unlovely tongue at best. It sounds like hacking with a heavy cold and chopping the words into little bits as you spit in the face of your conversational partner. “You.
D’mselle
.”

My eyebrows lifted. “You speak some Arquitane. That is very good.” I made my words slow and distinct. “What is your name?”

He had a strong jaw, stubbled with charcoal hair; the swelling on his face had gone down. “Fridrich.” His lips shaped the word oddly, and he smelled of illness and pain. “Fridrich van Harkke.”

“Tis a pleasure,
sieur
.” I offered him my hand, dropped it back in my lap when he made no move. “I am very sorry they mistreated you. It will not happen again.”
Or I will be forsworn, and I will do much more than give the Guard a verbal spanking.
“I wish to ask you questions. Surely you understand?”

“Hired. Word is bond.” He shook his head painfully, his hair rasping on the pillow. “No name of
aufsbar
.”

“
Aufsbar
?” It was my turn to mangle a word, my mouth would not shape the harsh sounds.

“Client,” he supplied, his eyelids drooping still further.

“Surely you can tell me who your targets were? Please?” I reached up and gently pushed the tangled dark hair from his face. I tried not to touch his bruised skin. Sickness, like a fruit laid too long in a dark corner, an unhealthy reek. “If that is an affair of honor too, I am afraid we shall have to keep you in the donjon. It will not be comfortable, but you will not be mistreated.”

His eyes glittered, glittered. Watching me as a wounded snake might watch a bird hopping just out of range.

I sighed, and laid my hand against his chest where Bryony had. Fever-heat blurred through the cloth doublet they had given him.

The charm rose, simple and undeniable in its rightness, the Aryx lending its strength to the healing with no demur. When I opened my eyes and took my hand away, the faint green glimmers of hedgewitchery still clung to my fingers. “As you like. But hear me. If you tell us who your targets were, I offer you your freedom, Fridrich van Harkke. You may leave Arcenne as soon as you are well enough, and we shall give you a horse and supplies too. You may go home, or whither you will.”

That seemed to strike him as terribly amusing. He gave a dry whistling laugh. “Was not meant to kill. Bring back the prettybit—you. Kill blue-eyed Baron and his son. Was our job. You were not meant to be harmed,
fralein
. Only
brought
.”

Well, that’s comforting. At least the game has not changed to that high a degree.
“Thank you,
sieur
van Harrke. You shall be visited every day by the physicker, and I shall visit as well. When you are hale enough, you shall be set free outside the town’s walls.”

He closed his eyes, blowing out a sigh. He obviously did not think much of my promises.

I did not blame him.

There was only one thing left to say. “Your friends.” My voice was soft. “I am sorry for them.”
I would not have more death, not even yours. I cannot prevent it, but I would not have it.

“Know the risk.
Das miez’weizs
,” he rasped. His breathing deepened into the steady harsh rhythm of sleep.

I made it to my feet a little less than gracefully, backed away from the cot for a few steps before turning to the door. Tristan offered me his hand. “Did you learn aught of interest?” His eyes rested on the assassin, and he made no attempt to disguise his loathing.

Far more than I thought possible.
“I did.”
I learned the Duc wishes me unharmed, that I was to be brought. Presumably there were plans to take me from Arcenne, which makes it even more imperative to know precisely where di Narborre is. I have also learned a little of this man, and I think he may be amenable to further usefulness.

After all, returning to the Duc is not a choice he can make. Not comfortably, at least.

Adersahl followed us out, locked the door. I saw the shadows under his eyes.
I should set another Guard, but who can I trust?
“Adersahl? Who may I trust to watch him, and not slip a knife between his ribs?”

Adersahl considered this, glancing at Tristan, who manfully restrained from commenting. “Jespre di Vidancourt. Levelheaded, not given to impulsiveness.”

“I shall have him sent down. Thank you.” He had been on guard for far too long, down here in this dank hole. “No—it strikes me, Tristan and I shall stay here. Go tell Jespre to hie himself here, and you take some rest.”

He swept me a bow with alacrity. “Now there is a happy thought. My thanks, Your Majesty.”

“Oh, do not flatter.” I offered him my hand, which he kissed. “Thank you, Adersahl. I am glad of you.”

He grinned, twirled his mustache, and left. Which left me alone with Tristan outside the Pruzian’s cell. He leaned against the wall, his entire posture languid and easy. But his jaw was too tight, and his left hand clenched on his swordhilt.

I peered through the door. The Pruzian lay in torch-dappled shadow, and I wondered if I could see a gleam of eyes. I wondered also if he needed more than just a thin blanket against the chill damp. “You
are
angry.” I stated the obvious once again.

“Why do you say that,
m’chri
?” But his fingers tapped his swordhilt.

“Because I would be a poor Consort indeed if I could not tell.”

He sighed, deeply, an aggrieved sound. “I am not angered at you.”

“Who else
would
you be angry at?”
Speak to me. Let us not allow silence between us, my darling.

“The
vilhain
that sent Pruzian Knives to collect you, perhaps? The
vilhain
who killed my King? Or perhaps the
saufe-tet
that chased us through Arquitaine and nearly cost you your life?” He shook his dark head, the gray at his temple flashed. “But I could not ever be angry at
you
. Why do you not understand?”

I slanted him a glance that might have been ironically amused if I was not so unsettled. If he decided to stride into the room right this moment and kill the Pruzian, I would not be able to stop him. He had the rapier, and enough volcanic fury to do it. All I had was the Aryx, the thin protection of custom—and my own wits. What I saw in him frightened me, for his eyes all but glowed as he observed me, narrowly. His mouth was a thin line and his fingers tapped at his swordhilt, a meditative rhythm.

I lowered myself from my tiptoes and faced him. The torches hissed.

His hand fell away from the hilt. “Your eyes are dark again,
m’chri
.”

I shrugged, my shoulders moving under silk.
Oh, Tristan. I do not know what to do.

He peeled himself away from the wall, approached me slowly. Cupped my face in his hands, his gaze moving slowly over my cheeks, my mouth, resting on my eyes. “I have done many things for the throne of Arquitaine,” he murmured. “I have acted as Henri’s Left Hand; I have done things you cannot imagine. For all your sharp mind and political acumen, you are still the same very sweet young girl who let a Princesse win at riddlesharp and could not believe a man would court her by leaving books. I have betrayed and lied where I had to, and done things no honorable man would stoop to.”

You are still my only defense, m’cher.
“I care little what you did for the King, Tristan. I care what you do
now
.”