The Queen's Consort (13 page)

             
“But they will have more time for other things,” she said, “and less need to keep their children at work. So the children will get a better education.”

             
And come up with better methods of agriculture. It was a vicious circle, and Ansel felt like he was at the bottom of the wheel. These advances meant that Beaumont, when he conquered Vandau, would need fewer farmers to work the land to maintain the level of productivity the King's war machine required.

             
And it would make Vandau even more attractive to an ambitious King.

             
No wonder Ansel's head was spinning. He stared at Clairwyn. How could he explain to her that everything she did made her country even more ripe for exploitation? Beaumont would conquer her fields and enslave her people, and as for Clairwyn herself—

             
As far as Beaumont was concerned, a captured Queen was just another spoil of war. A luscious, beautiful Queen, as attractive as her country, would be a prize indeed.

             
Angst ripped at him, clawing at his guts. He wasn’t a man given to deep thoughts, and now he regretted that shortcoming. He couldn’t save Clairwyn’s army or her country. How could he save her? 

Twelve

             
After the presentations Clairwyn treated her researchers to lunch. She entertained them with her wit and sweetness while Ansel slouched moodily in his chair and picked at his food. She glanced at him a couple of times but he refused to take the hint. He didn’t care if these people didn’t like him, and he felt too torn up to even try to put on a show for them.

             
Finally lunch was over. As Clairwyn swept out of the room on his arm he came to a decision. “My Queen,” he said, handing her over to Tristam at the door, “there are a few things I wish to do in the city this afternoon.”

             
Her face lit up. “Excellent. The troops are drilling in the main square, and I said that I would attend. Will you accompany me that far?”

             
He felt a scowl forming on his face and glanced at Tristam.

The Captain looked deeply unhappy, too. “Will you not stay here?”
Tristam asked her.

             
“I will not,” she said, quietly but firmly, staring them both down.

             
Ansel’s guts tightened. “Then I will accompany you.”

             
A Queen should be obeyed, most of the time, but she shouldn’t look so smug over such little victories. Her expression drew a reluctant smile from him.

             
“Your carriage awaits,” Tristam said, his own expression daring her to argue over her mode of transport.

             
A wise Queen picked her battles. Ansel saw her struggle, then give in. “Thank you, Tristam,” she said.

             
The parade grounds were decked with banners and an impressive number of enthusiastic recruits. A week of drilling was not enough to make them look professional, and Ansel watched tolerantly as most of the recruits lined the square and a few more experienced squadrons took the field.

             
A band played as the men marched in formation. It was all very stirring, and it was all something he’d already seen a thousand times.

             
After a few moments he located Cordy’s squadron. Ansel eased away from Clairwyn’s side and caught Tristam’s eye. “I have business of my own to attend,” he said.

             
“Very good, sir. The Queen’s carriage is on the other side of the square. After the rally, she wishes to walk through the market with some of her girls.” Tristam’s exasperation was clear. “We leave in one hour.”

             
Ansel nodded. “If I’m not here,” he said with a flip smile, “don’t wait up for me.”

             
“I won’t sir,” Tristam assured him with a flat look.

             
Ansel left him and wove through the crowd, grateful for the anonymity that allowed him to move so freely. He slipped away from the press of people and made his way through the nearly-empty side streets.

             
He knew the way, roughly, and his excellent memory led him to the jeweler he’d lately directed Cordy to. The man had been planted here a decade ago as a sleeper spy for Beaumont.

             
A little bell chimed over the door as Ansel stepped over the threshold. The jeweler looked up from his work and blanched.

“Are you not pleased to see your prince, Mosard?” Ansel asked in his most ominous voice.

              “I’m very pleased to see you, my prince.” Mosard jumped to his feet, nearly upsetting his work tray. “I did not expect you, you see, and my business here is so good—” he waved helplessly, sadly, around his tidy shop.

             
“Relax, Mosard. I come with a commission for you.”

             
The man looked at him warily. “Of course, my prince. I live to serve the crown.”

             
“I’m glad to hear it.” Ansel strode across the room. He heard a scurrying on the other side of the paneled wall and realized that Mosard must have others working here. He had to make sure the workers didn’t overhear anything incriminating.

“The Queen was very pleased with the ring,” he said.

“I am glad, my prince.” Mosard wiped his hands nervously on his apron. “The piece was commissioned by Goddard, Duke of Answorth, for Princess Andromeda. After the princess’s untimely demise, he refused to pay for it.”

A shiver snaked down Ansel’s spine. He’d given Clairwyn a ring made for her dead sister. He wasn’t a superstitious man, but that had to be bad luck.

“It was a great deal of work, too,” the jeweler continued, aggrieved.

“Did Goddard see the piece?” Ansel asked.

“Not the finished product, my prince.”

Thank the
gods for that, at least. “I want you to create a chain mail shirt for the Queen,” he said loudly. “It must be beautiful, of course, delicate and light-weight. And it must turn a bolt or arrow.”

             
Mosard looked intrigued. “I am a jeweler, not an armorer. But to create a beautiful piece, light enough for a woman to wear comfortably but strong enough to protect her, is an interesting challenge.” His face cleared and he smiled broadly. “I accept, my prince.”

             
“I knew you would,” Ansel said with a smile that was more of a threat than a peace offering. “It must be done in one week.”

             
Mosard’s face fell and he squeaked in distress.

             
Ansel clapped him on the shoulder. “I know you can do it,” he said expansively. He lowered his voice. “And send this message to Beaumont. You know the proper channels.”

             
Mosard blanched but nodded.

             
“Very good,” Ansel said heartily. “And send the bill to the castle.”

             
“Very good, my prince.” Mosard nodded.

             
Ansel gave the jeweler one more hard look to remind him of his duty, then left the shop. The show in the square must have ended because the streets were now full of people going about their own business. An echo of horns and drums marked the dispersal of the parade troops.

He walked swiftly toward the market. He still had time to return to the carriage and ride back with Clairwyn. The coded note he’d given Mosard had details of her troop levels, but it wasn’t a betrayal of her. No, not at all. If he could convince Beaumont that he was still a faithful son, perhaps he could convince his father to spare her.

              Ansel’s stomach twisted. And, if she was spared, perhaps she would be given to a faithful son. Like him.

             
Preoccupied with his thoughts, he turned into the market square. Except for vendors and a few lingering shoppers, the place was almost empty except for Cordy, who had clearly waited for him and greeted him now with a wave and a smile.

             
And that was why the screams and clash of steel reached him so clearly.

             
Ansel heard the commotion and knew, with sickening surety, that Clairwyn was in danger. Without a clear thought he turned and sprinted toward the noise.

             
Angry shouts and the clash of steal led him to a corner of the market square. Four Guard had accompanied Clairwyn to the market. Surely four Guard would be enough to protect her.

             
Four Guard was an impressive fighting force, but they were outnumbered three to one. Two were already on the ground and, as Ansel watched in horror, a third Guard fell. Tristam stood alone, fighting a desperate battle against a half-dozen attackers.

             
Clairwyn was behind him. Her two maids pressed her into the corner, shielding her with their own bodies. He felt a surge of affection for the girls.

             
Ansel plowed through the gathered crowd. An angry mob of men, armed with whatever improvised weapons they could grab, engaged five astonished swordsmen. That left one attacker for Tristam to face.

             
A woman's magic was no proof against a man's sharp steel. Ansel knew it and Tristam did, too. That alone explained why the Captain of the Guard was still on his feet, still held his sword up, still parried and blocked the assassin's attack.

             
Tristam bled from a dozen wounds. His light armor was soaked with blood. But still he refused to fall.

             
Ansel entered the fray, hacking through assassins. He would reach Tristam, he would kill that attacker, he would save Clairwyn—

             
Across the crowd, over the heads of the fighters, Tristam's eyes met Ansel's. The older man seemed to be trying to say something. He was sad, but mostly he was sorry.

             
Like an oak toppling, Tristam collapsed on his side.

             
The attacker leapt forward, shoved the girls aside, and snatched Clairwyn. He whirled around, his sword pressed against the slim, delicate column of her throat.

             
The crowd went silent. Ansel's swords dropped from his nerveless fingers. Frozen with terror, he scanned Clairwyn's precious face.

             
Clairwyn looked…annoyed.

             
“For the state of Courchevel,” the assassin cried, “and for the good King Beaumont, I condemn this witch to death!”

             
The crowd gasped in horror.

             
Clairwyn sighed, then wrapped her fingers around her attacker's bare wrist. “For the state of Vandau and the Queen who serves her country,” she said, “I can't let you do that.”

             
Her attacker screamed and dropped his sword. He thrust Clairwyn away from him so hard that she half-fell against the wall.

             
The man’s skin flamed red and erupted in blisters. He thrashed wildly, like a man on fire, tearing at his own clothing. He crashed into his astonished men and the affliction spread to them. Their exposed skin blistered and peeled and their eyes went wide in their florid faces.

             
Appalled, the crowd drew back.

             
Clairwyn bent over Tristam, speaking quietly to him.

             
The attackers fell to the ground, writhing in agony. Their flesh blackened and flaked off and, thankfully, their shrill cries grew weak. After another moment all that was left of them was charred bone and scraps of fabric.

             
Ansel vaulted over the corpses and pulled Clairwyn into his arms. He held her, then pushed her to arm's lengths to look at her, to show his addled brain that she truly was unharmed. “You are well?” he gasped.

             
“I am fine. But, Ansel, I have little skill in healing. My Guard, Tristam, the men who fought to save me—”

             
Ansel swung around, surveying the carnage and assessing the damage. Four Guard, gravely injured, if not dead already. A dozen casualties among the crowd, most of them relatively minor wounds.

             
The crowd had already closed in around them, binding wounds, making transports for the injured Guard. Keeping an arm around Clairwyn, Ansel retrieved his swords.

             
He saw a familiar face in the crowd. “Cordy,” he barked, “on the other side of the Queen. Kill any who come within reach of your sword.”

             
Cordy took up position, glaring fiercely, making Ansel proud.

             
“The rest of you—lead on. We return the Queen to safety. Bring her Guard behind us.”

             
The crowd was made up of farmers, merchants, and traders. Most likely, none of them had any useful military training. But, to Ansel's gratitude, they leaped smartly to obey his orders.

             
The trotted quickly through the streets. Clairwyn kept talking, possibly arguing, probably complaining about his high-handedness, but he didn't pay any attention. He kept his arm around her, propelling her along, and kept his eyes peeled for anyone who needed killing.

             
Ansel seethed with anger over the pointless assassination attempt. The fool. If not for the assassin's speech, his stupid, pointless rant about Beaumont, Clairwyn would be dead. Ansel sent up a silent prayer to any gods who were listening, thanking them for sending a fool to kill her.

             
Then again, Ansel himself had been sent to kill her. Ah, well, as long as Beaumont only sent fools to kill her, Clairwyn was going to live forever.

             
The thought lifted Ansel's spirits a bit but he didn't lower his guard. A cart clattered out of an alley and he nearly decapitated the poor donkey. At the last second he checked himself and spared the startled beast.