The Hedgewitch Queen (7 page)

My temper almost snapped. Why on earth did he ask
me
? He had never danced with anyone else; surely he should have remembered the occasions! “No. At Lisele’s Coming-of-Age, and at the Festival of Skyreturn. Both times you caused quite a bit of comment. Though I wondered why, since neither were
memorable
occasions.” The last was an unjustified cut, and I was briefly ashamed to hear myself utter an insult so far beneath me.

“You remembered.” He swept the door open.

I wish I did not.
“I hold grudges,” I shot after him.

“Tis not what gossip says of you.” With that parting sally, he closed himself out of the room.

I strangled the desire to run to the door, wrench it open, and scream something nasty after him. I looked about for something to throw, but there was nothing, and neither action was fit for a Duchesse. So I settled for hissing at the door in exasperation and carried the clothes into the watercloset.

Yet I must admit the annoyance was a tonic, and the anger made my fingers cease their trembling.

I
had a momentary difficulty with the doublet’s laces. The doublet was of leather and far too large, but it hid the curve of breasts and hips. I plaited my hair and found a ribbon in the bag I had filched.

I wondered if I should cut my hair to pass for a boy. One of the men could lend me a kerchief or hat to hide it, perhaps.

I struggled back into my garden-boots and dropped the Aryx down my shirt, cursing to myself as my hand brushed my emerald ear-drops. I had forgotten them completely, and now I looked at them with fresh eyes, as the survivor of a shipwreck might gaze on something that had once been a ship’s pride.

Scallops of silver, delicately whorled, filigreed around large emeralds burning dark green like hedgewitchery itself, smaller chiming bits of silver and similarly caged, tiny uncut emeralds depending from the larger gems. They were a prize, the finest work Amercio Tavanche of the royal jewelers did four years ago, and dedicated to me by the
artiste
. I usually preferred to patronize bookbinders and scholars, but Tavanche hailed from my home province and had presented himself—and been laughed almost into tears by no few of the ladies, since he’d tripped and landed face-first during his presentation.

Fortunately, I had some little weight with the royal jewelers, and had introduced Tavanche to the head artisan of their workshop. The ear-drops had excited no little marvel at their presentation at Court during the annual Salonne, and their gifting to me handled far more adroitly by Tavanche than his presentation had been. I wore them habitually—Arioste would say I had no other jewels, but this was not true. I merely liked these overmuch.

I weighed them in my palm for a moment, and slipped them into my pocket.

The dress I bundled up and decided to carry downstairs with my servant-girl’s bag. I hoped Arioste’s maid had survived the carnage in Lisele’s rooms. I could not remember her body, and did not want to think too deeply lest I do so. My own maid, the shy but occasionally tart-tongued Meridia, had been granted a week’s leave to visit her ailing mother, and right glad of it I was. At least away from the Palais she was safe enough, though at the time it had annoyed me to put up with the clumsy fingers of other ladyservants.

This time, I had to take a deep breath before leaving the safety of the room. I heard the murmur of voices again, and set off down the hall. Each step was more difficult than the last.

Panic beat under my ribs as I reached the stairs, and I stood irresolute atop the flight. Men’s voices resounded below. Without the protection of a woman’s skirts, what could I expect from them?

The problem was larger than that, though. Without Lisele’s protection, how could I manage in the world? I had never been on my own, safely trammeled by childhood and later by the rules of Court protocol and etiquette. I knew what was expected each day of Court, when to sit and when to stand, who was of the sword and who was of the robe, who was of the lower order; and I knew each arcane bit of manners for the festivals, feasts, and fêtes.

I was not such a fool to think this was knowledge prized outside the Palais.

I could not depend on Tristan d’Arcenne, that much was certain. He wanted his revenge and a biddable Queen Pretender; I was only a hedgewitch with an accident of royal blood.

The Aryx warmed, hard metal against my skin. I lifted my chin.
Duchesse Vianne di Rocancheil et Vintmorecy. Walk so, and speak thusly, and never forget you are of noble birth.
I heard again Comtesse Rochburre’s voice as she taught a gaggle of noble girls how to behave at Court, and imagined I was sweeping in procession down the stairs into the Great Ballroom at Lisele’s side, the train of ladies behind us in their silk and velvet and jewels. After a moment’s thought, I pulled the Aryx from its hiding and settled it against my chest. Let Jierre di Yspres feast his eyes on
that
, and we would have no more talk of leaving me to the Duc’s mercy.

For by now, you see, I had decided I had little wish to be left so.

I came down the stairs slowly, one at a time, pausing between each as if waiting for the train of a dress to catch pace with me. By the time I was halfway, they noticed me; three steps after they were rising; when I reached the bottom of the stairs they had all removed their feathered hats. I stood on the last step and surveyed the room with the cool haughtiness of a Court lady. My gaze moved unhurried from one man to the next, and most dropped their eyes immediately. The ones that did not looked down after only a few moments.

My looks are nothing special, as the ladies of the Court reminded me so very often. But a good posture and the right expression can make any woman regal.

Of course, my Lisele had called me beautiful, but I always laughed. I knew my place. Had not I been taught it often enough?

“Good morn to you,
sieurs
.” I addressed them clearly, as if I were administering the beginning of a dance. Tristan d’Arcenne stood by the fireplace, blue eyes bright with something I could not decipher. Relief that I was playing the rôle for his troupe? Perhaps. “I have you to thank for my escape from the Palais, and I hear I have you to thank for the relief of traveling to safety.”

A few of them colored, and Jierre di Yspres, in his place next to Tristan, stiffened—a movement I caught easily at the corner of my gaze.

Good.

There was a slight cough, and one of them—a slight young lad barely past his first shave—stepped forward. He had dark hair and the angular features of a mountain noble. “Tinan di Rocham, Your Majesty.” He clutched his red-feathered hat in both hands. He looked absolutely mortified, but proud at the same time. We were of a size—I am not too tall for a woman, and he was slight and young—and it was his clothes I wore.

“My thanks for the camouflage,
chivalier
.”
Now let us see what comes of it.

His cheeks turned crimson, his hand darted down. His sword whispered from its sheath.

The rest of them tensed to a man, and that was gratifying. But Tinan di Rocham simply reversed the blade and stepped forward until he could drop to one knee at the foot of the stairs. “I owe you my service. Accept my oath,
d’mselle
.” He all but stuttered over the words. “I mean, Your Majesty. If I may be so bold.”

My stomach turned on itself.

But their Captain expected somewhat of me, and were I to cut the young lad now his shame would be overwhelming. So I smiled and nodded gravely, reached down to touch two fingers of my free hand to the hilt. “I accept your oath,
Chivalier
Tinan di Rocham. My thanks.” I sounded serious, though lunatic laughter had to be sternly repressed.

He rose, returned the weapon to its sheath, and bowed again, a Court bow that was a little jerky but surprisingly polished otherwise. “A pleasure to be in your service, Your Majesty.”

Oh, gods. Do not let him address me as such.
“Tis merely Vianne di Rocancheil,
chivalier
. I thank you.” Faintly improper—had we been at Court, he would have addressed me as Duchesse. But I smiled prettily, giving him the compliment. It was surely not too soon to begin gathering allies.

I suspected I would need them, and shame filled me again. Cold calculation of this level was somewhat new, and I disliked it. I especially disliked that it seemed so natural.

He blushed even harder, and a murmur ran through them all.

A stocky, black-haired man with an amazing mustache—it drooped past his chin and was waxed in the Navarre style—came forward, and repeated the process. “Adersahl di Parmecy et Villeroche, Your Majesty.” He had a clear carrying baritone of surprising profundity. “I owe you my service,
d’mselle
. Accept my oath.”

I repeated my acceptance. When he was finished, another came forth, and another, until each of them had knelt before me. I thought some of them might even mean it. Jierre di Yspres was last of all but one, and he gazed at the Aryx as he knelt before me, his swordhilt proffered. “Forgive me, Your Majesty. I owe you my service. Accept my oath, an it please you.”

I studied him for a long moment, watched color rise in his cheeks and die away. “Very well.” I touched his swordhilt. “I accept your oath,
chivalier
.”

He rose, slowly. Standing on the bottom step made us almost eye to eye, and I refused to look up at him, forcing him to stoop a little. My mouth had turned dry as summer road-dust. “I shall forgive you, if you forgive me the trouble I have no doubt caused you.”

He mumbled something and looked stunned. The dress hanging over my other arm rustled a bit, and I wondered how ridiculous I looked carrying it.

But I had more to endure. Captain d’Arcenne was suddenly before me, and his sword rang free. He sank to one knee again, surprisingly fluid for one so battered. “I owe you my service, Vianne di Rocancheil. Accept my oath.”

Gods, did not you already do this?
I inclined my head gracefully, touched the hilt. My neck ached with tension, and I hoped my stomach would not start loudly demanding breakfast to embarrass me. “I accept your oath, Captain d’Arcenne. My thanks.”

I did not ask him to call me simply Vianne.

He did not call me
Your Majesty
.

We were perhaps even.

He rose, swept me a bow, and took charge of the occasion. “Breakfast,
d’mselle
? You had no dinner last night, and you must be hungry.” He also took the dress from me and handed it away, and I did not ask whether twas to be hidden or burned.

It mattered little, though the cloth could be sold. If they left me without protection, I would need rather more wits than I suspected I possessed, not to mention some money, to survive.

I set my chin stubbornly, though I was famished. “I will not be a burden, Captain. Are we pressed for time?”

“Not so pressed we cannot spare a few moments.” Jierre di Yspres was thin and dark, having the lean saturnine face of the south of Arquitaine. Most of the surviving Guard were younger sons of noble families. It was sad to see only these had survived—or remained loyal.

I was soon seated at table with a bowl of porridge and a round red apple, as well as a steaming cup of chai. I concentrated on eating neatly and quickly, Court manners keeping my smallest finger crooked at the correct angle and my spine straight, my ears and eyes wide open to catch every nuance.

Our refuge was a small stone house. I heard the rumble of carts passing by, and the clip-clop of hooves. Sunlight fell in golden bars through wavering glass windows. There was no fire in the grate, and I wondered how all of them had slept. Later I learned each Guard had a bedroll rolled into a compact cylinder and attached to the back of his saddle.

I further wondered whose house this was and looked for any sign of the owner, but there was none.

Observe,
Levontus of Tiberia had written in his most famous treatise,
and many questions will answer themselves. Always, observe.
Tis far more pithy in Tiberian, which is a language boiled down to its essence, but it is far from the worst advice for making one’s way in a dangerous world.

Some of the Guard readied the horses, others sipped at cups of chai, a few went upstairs and I thought perhaps they stood watch. Jierre and Tristan spread out a map at the table and began to confer in low tones.

“Tis a hard choice,” Jierre began. “The garrisons or the forest.”

The Captain studied the map, a vertical line between his charcoal eyebrows. I took a scalding gulp of chai.

At the Palais, judging by the fall of sunlight, Lisele would just be waking. Her morning chocolat would arrive on its little silver tray, and I would brush her hair. Lady Arioste would sing softly, plucking at her gittern, and Comtesse Rochburre would watch us all with her magisterial eye, ready to chastise for any impropriety. I would steal a scone from Lisele’s tray and perch in the window seat to eat. There would be morning jokes and laughter, chatter from the younger girls, and of a while they would ask me to tell a riddle or a tale.
A wholesome tale,
Comtesse Rochburre would inevitably interject, and Lisele would laugh, tossing her dark hair. Arioste would make a sharp comment, and I would ignore it, though Lisele’s eyes would flash…

I finished the porridge, but found I could not eat the apple. I set it upon the table and stared at the bloom of red and yellow on its firm skin as I sipped. I was still staring, smelling the dust of the North Tower, when I heard my name.

“—Vianne?”

The room had emptied without my notice; only d’Arcenne and I remained.

I blinked back hot swelling water. Swallowed, hard, and raised my face to his. Some explanation seemed necessary. I grasped for one. “I ate apples. Yesterday. In the North Tower.”

He nodded, rolling up the map and tucking the mapweight in a small pouch at his belt. “I thought it likely, by your look. Do you need the privy before we start?”

“I should,” I said thinly, and made it to my feet. It was passing strange to move without the weight of skirts around my legs. I had almost reached the stairs when he spoke again.

“Vianne?”

Do not use my name so freely.
But I could not say it, could I. Not while depending on his good graces for my continued survival.

I half-turned, my hand on the stair’s railing. “Leave me alone.” I said it so quietly he may not have heard.

“You look…” He paused, searching for the word.

I supplied it for him, setting my foot firmly on the first stair. “The word you seek is
ridiculous
,
sieur
. I am wearing a Guard’s uniform and my garden-boots, and I will mayhap be forced to shear myself to pass as a boy.” I took another step. This one was not half so difficult, and I thought perchance they might grow easier if I simply focused solely on the one before me. Levontus of Tiberia had some very severe thoughts on the question of how far into the future one should plan. Diodoria Siclonus, of course, disagreed with him.