The Queen's Consort (15 page)

             
Clairwyn stood firm. “Thank you, Caine,” she said. “I am sorry to disturb you.”

             
He blinked rapidly, looking from her to Ansel and back again. “You do not wish for me to stay?” he blurted.

             
“No, thank you. Please leave your key with the Guard to lock up.”

             
Clearly torn, Caine wavered. But Clairwyn waited expectantly, and eventually Caine handed over his key and left.

             
“Leave the door open,” Clairwyn instructed her Guard as she led Ansel inside. “I know it's not supposed to lock without the key,” she said to him, “but I hate the thought of being trapped in here.”

             
The room was small, square, windowless, and packed with parchment. Dust hung heavily in the still air. Ansel didn't relish the thought of being locked in here, either.

             
He looked hopelessly around at the floor-to-ceiling stacks of books and scrolls. Cryptic symbols labeled the shelves. There was no apparent order and, seeming, no chance of finding the piece of paper he desperately wanted to see.

             
But Clairwyn didn't seem to share his doubts. “Let's see,” she said, perusing the shelves, “Your mother died when you were seven. You're twenty-nine now, so we're looking for this box, here.” She pulled out a large box and put it on the table in the center of the room.

             
Ansel lifted off the lid to reveal an orderly mash of pages, labeled with tabs. It still looked like a hopeless mess to him.

             
Clairwyn reached inside and found the first page. “Here’s the key,” she said, scanning the small, neat print. “All right. We're looking for the red tab.”

             
“All of the tabs are red.”

             
“They're in chronological order. You were young.” She shrugged. “Let's start at the beginning.”

             
He pulled out a sheaf of papers. “I can't read this.” His rising frustration echoed in his voice. “What language is it in?”

             
“It's in code. The symbol on the top tells us which code. This one is an eagle.” She glanced at him. “That's your code name. Your brother Elric is a lightning bolt. Beaumont is a lion.”

             
“Great.” Impatience made him short.

             
She crossed the room and found another box. “This has the codebreakers.” She dumped the box, apparently full of random parchment, empty ink bottles, and dull quills, on the table, then pried up a false bottom. “Ah-hah!” She lifted up a short piece of parchment with apparently random holes cut in it.

             
“Here. Lie the parchment down flat. Position the lantern directly over it. Then put the codebreaker over the lettering. You put the lettering together to read the words. It's not easy. Should I have it transcribed for you?”

             
“No.” He edged around her, impatient to read the report.

             
It wasn't easy to read the words. It wasn't easy to decode them, and it wasn't easy to see them. Ansel forced himself to be patient and piece the letters together.

             
The first reports were of his mother, Beaumont's second wife. Ansel knew that Beaumont's first wife had also died in a suspicious “accident.” He was his mother's only child, but he hadn't known of her numerous miscarriages and stillbirths.

             
“Your spy must have been very close to her,” Ansel mused.

             
“She was. You called her 'Nanny Pella.'”

             
He was appalled. Nanny Pella had practically raised him. She'd read him stories and tucked him in at night. “She was a traitor?”

             
“She loved you very much. She still does. She's Gladnys' sister.”

             
Ansel stared at her, his mind absolutely blank.

             
Gently, Clairwyn tapped his cheek. “My mother wouldn't let just anyone raise such an important enemy.”

             
“Nanny Pella could have strangled me in my crib.”

             
Clairwyn recoiled. “She'd never have done that. It was her job to watch over you.”

             
He'd figure that out some other time. Maybe. He turned back to the pages.

             
Nanny Pella's reports were brief. She’d noted when he went away for training. Ansel remembered that day clearly, remembered Nanny Pella's tears as he'd left.

             
She'd stayed on with his mother, helping Melinda through yet another difficult pregnancy that ended too early. She noted when Beaumont arrived and sent her away from Melinda's sickbed. The next morning Melinda was found at the bottom of the stairs.

             
Nanny Pella had left Falsafe Manor then and, apparently, delivered her final report in person. Ansel dreaded what he would learn but he forced himself to read on.

When Melinda was found, her face was livid and her eyes staring. Her body was contorted but none of her limbs were broken. She shouldn't have even been out of bed, much less at the top of that particular staircase in the middle of the night.

              “Beaumont poisoned her,” Nanny Pella wrote, “and carried her to the back stairs. He positioned her body to make it look as if she'd fallen, then left her there to be discovered the next morning.”

             
“Poison?” Ansel had always considered poison a woman's weapon.

             
“Beaumont seems to prefer to use poison to kill women.” Clairwyn wouldn't look at him. “He seems to think it's kinder. Or something.” She shrugged, clearly uncomfortable.

             
“The report says that he married less than a week after my mother died.”

             
Clairwyn studied the woodgrain of the table.

             
He traced the words with his fingers. “I never questioned him,” he said. “I didn't want to know the answers. But I think I always knew. In my heart.”

             
“I'm sorry.”

             
He shook his head. “There's more?” he asked.

             
“More about you,” she agreed. “And your father, of course, and brothers.”

             
“Brother, you mean. Elric.”

             
Clairwyn shrank down again.

             
“I have other brothers.” It really didn't surprise him. Beaumont was a notorious womanizer. He'd consider more sons to be insurance policies. Hiding their existence from Ansel and Elric was just like him, too, the wily old bastard.

             
And it helped explain why his father had ordered Ansel on a suicide mission without any apparent regret. If Ansel had succeeded in killing Clairwyn, so much the better. If Ansel died in the attempt, it didn't matter much in Beaumont's grand schemes.

             
Ansel stared at Clairwyn. She was his. And Beaumont had sent him to kill her.

             
His father had sent him to die.

             
The turmoil in his chest clutched at his heart. He could barely breathe. All that he'd learned, all that he'd been taught and had believed, was a lie.

             
But, thank the gods, it wasn't too late for him. Thank the gods, he hadn't killed her.

             
He leaned back in his chair. With a deep breath and a conscious effort, he let go of some of the pain in his chest.

             
Clairwyn tilted her head. “Do you want to read more?” she asked.

             
“No.” He didn't need to read more. He knew everything he needed to know. And he had everything he needed. She was sitting right next to him.

             
More of the pain eased, allowing room for curiosity. “This is a pretty elaborate system,” he said, waving his hand to encompass the records room. “Is everything in code?”

             
“We have people who work all the time just to encrypt important documents.” She made a face. “Can you imagine how dull their job is? I pay them a lot of money to do it, but still.”

             
“And you keep these records forever?”

             
“We do. I don't know why. Perhaps I should have them unencrypted and put into the public record, or at least somewhere we can get at the information more easily.”

             
“Might be useful.” His mind was still whirling from what he'd read.

             
Her smile turned evil. “Maybe I'll make minimum-security prisoners do it as community service. Heh heh heh.”

             
“No, Clairwyn.” She'd succeeded in pulling him back to the here and now. “There might be state secrets in there. You can't trust them to just anybody.”

             
“You're right.” She pouted. “About everything. I'm going to get a bunch of transcriptionists in here.” She brightened. “Actually, a bunch of women have enlisted. These girls are bright and well-educated and want to help with the war effort. It's an excellent idea!”

             
She bounced to her tiptoes and kissed Ansel as if it had been his excellent idea. Bemused, he watched her bounce back. “I'll let my Generals know,” she said.

             
“Tomorrow is time enough,” he said, smiling despite himself. She constantly amazed him with her energy and enthusiasm. “They're still abed, Clairwyn, as you should be.”

             
Her shoulders slumped with disappointment. “But I don't want to go to sleep,” she pouted.

             
“I said you should go to bed,” he pointed out, “not that you should go to sleep.”

             
“My prince,” she said, eyes wide with feigned innocence, “whatever could you mean?”

             
He wrapped an arm around her and leaned down to whisper in her ear. “I hope you still have your dancing shoes, girl,” he said.

Fourteen

              Preparing for a campaign, Ansel knew, was far more work than the actual campaign itself. Squadrons of men left Haverton every day for the training fields around Hilltop. With them went wagons loaded down with—hopefully—everything they needed.

             
At the moment Clairwyn was closeted in a meeting with her advisers, and it looked to drone on for hours more. She'd given him a desperate “help please get me out of here now” look but Ansel had surveyed the room, approved the number of Guard and soldiers present, and given her a cheerful wave as he left.

             
Ansel stood on the walls and watched ragged lines of “soldiers” wander through Haverton's north gate on the road to Hilltop. You could give them a sword and a uniform, he knew, but you couldn't make a farmer into a fighting man overnight.

             
With that in mind he took the stairs down to the Guard barracks. With four of their men down, including their Captain, he wanted to make sure that Clairwyn would be adequately protected.

             
The barracks, as befitted their station, were spare but comfortable. The Guard had their own training yard and a separate stable. A group of young men—too young to be Guard—were practicing their formations. Ansel paused to watch approvingly. Only the best should be chosen for the Guard, and training had to start young.

             
He watched the six youths wheel their horses and charge a line of stuffed dummies. One of the horses shied away, avoiding the dummies, while the others plowed through the line as their riders swung their swords.

             
“Jonas!” the instructor shouted in disgust, “get another horse from the stable. That one is strong enough for cart duty and pretty enough for parades, but he'll never make the Guard!”

             
“Yes, sir!” Jonas trotted to the gate.

             
Ansel opened it for him. “I need directions to the Captain's quarters, young man,” he said.

             
Jonas swung down, looking at him carefully. The boy already had the requisite gimlet-eyed glare down pat. “That way, sir,” he said neutrally, nodding toward a square, plain building. “I'll walk with you.”

             
Ansel nodded, approving the boy's caution and discretion. Both of them knew that the horse needed a few minutes' walk to cool down before he could be put away.

             
“Sir. You have business with the Captain?”

             
“I do.”

             
“T'would be well if it could wait,” the youth said, “the Captain was recently injured and is in a rare temper, what with the Queen leaving and all.”

             
Ansel grinned at him. “You'll make a fine Guard one day, Jonas. I look forward to working with you.” The boy blinked in surprise as Ansel turned and climbed the steps to the Captain's quarters. He pushed the door open without knocking.

             
Two men came to their feet as the door opened. “It's you,” grunted Tristam.

             
“It's good to see you, too, Captain.” Ansel strode further into the room. “But I am surprised to see you on your feet. You took quite a few hits yesterday.”

             
Tristam pulled a face. “It's that kinswoman of the Queen's doing. Gladnys, her name is.” He rubbed his side irritably. “She patched me up right as rain.”

             
“But itchy as a bear with fleas,” the other man said, amused.

             
“A body always itches as it heals.”

             
Ansel raised a curious brow.

             
“I don't know how she does it,” Tristam said, “and I don't ask. Don't want to know, to tell the truth. I'd rather face a dozen men with swords than that fey...woman, let me tell you.”

             
“I understand.” Ansel had seen Gladnys at work. “I wanted to go over the Queen's security with you.”

             
Tristam gestured at the other man. “Prince Ansel, Hugh is my second. If I'm knocked out of commission, he's to step up.”

             
Hugh gave Ansel a narrow look. It was starting to get on his nerves. “Very good,” Ansel said. “So: the travel plans for the Queen.”

             
“I have the outline on the table, sir,” Tristam said. “Hugh, take the attitude down a notch. The prince is on our side.”

             
“For now,” Hugh mumbled not quietly enough.

             
“He is right to suspect anyone. And everyone. But, since I am sleeping at the Queen's side, you can't protect her from me.” He gave Hugh a tight smile. “You can only help me protect her.”

             
Hugh's lips twitched but he didn't sneer. “Yes, sir.” He stared hard at Ansel. “I merely find it odd that you leave the Queen’s side,
sir
, when she is vulnerable. And then she is attacked by another of Beaumont’s assassins.”

             
Ansel’s mind had already travelled over that road but hearing it from Hugh’s lips raised his hackles. “I left the Queen with four Guard,” he snarled. “You call that vulnerable? I thought better of you.”

             
Hugh squared off. “When a dozen well-trained assassins attacked, the Queen stood in the market square with only two unarmed girls between her and an ugly death.”

             
Tristam shifted and Ansel wondered just what Hugh had been told. “Perhaps we should arm those girls,” Ansel said, “since the Guard failed her.”

             
Hugh bristled, his empty hand flexing as if he wished he held a sword.

             
Ansel smiled grimly, sending an open challenge to the other man.

ugh’sHu

              “All right, boys. I'd let you kill each other but, sadly, I need you both.” Tristam glared at them. “For now, at least.”

             
“When that changes,” Ansel said, “will you warn me?”

             
“I'll give you a five-minute head start,” Tristam promised. “Now, the Queen's tent is made out of that wood-linen blend. We have two dozen Guard and a dozen trainees who are old enough to make themselves useful. When we make camp the Queen's tent goes in the dead center, with a five-meter perimeter clear around it.”

             
Tristam continued, detailing all of the impressive precautions he'd put in place.

             
“And the Queen's new carriage?” Ansel asked.

             
“Will be ready to roll when we do,” the Captain assured him. “Its walls are made out of that wood/linen blend, too. So we don't have to worry about stray bolts.”

             
Ansel ground his teeth but didn't wince at the barb.

             
“Now,” Tristam said wearily, “if only we could get the Queen to agree to travel in the carriage.”

             
Ansel stared at him. Of course she would travel in the carriage.

             
“She insists that she will ride these first legs of the journey.”

             
“Yesterday,” Ansel said, “I would have agreed with her that horseback was safe enough. But she should have been safe within the very walls of Haverton, too, and yesterday proved that she is not.”

             
“The Queen is an excellent horsewoman,” Hugh noted. “Perhaps the increase in speed and mobility can partially offset losing the shelter of the carriage.”

             
“Not in my mind,” Tristam said. “If it were up to me, I'd wrap her in armor and tie her down in her coach.”

             
“If it were up to you, Tristam,” Ansel replied, “you'd lock her in her room behind your two dozen Guard.”

             
Tristam smiled at the thought.

             
“But we know that she will not agree to that.” Ansel paced the room. “She has agreed to extra security measures, but will chafe if they are too onerous.”

             
The Guard nodded.

             
“Let us compromise. She rides to Hilltop. The way there is mostly open fields and rolling hills. You send your scouts to cover the land within bowshot of the Queen. And, of course, you will stay alert and warn us of any situations that would lend themselves to ambush.”

             
“The prince knows the value of striking from ambush,” Hugh said, absolutely deadpan.

             
“And I know how effective it can be,” Ansel shot back.

             
Both Guard studied him. “Do you know of any planned attacks, my prince?” Hugh asked. “Forewarned is forearmed, you know.”

             
“I do know.” Ansel felt like tearing his own hair out. They didn't trust him. With an effort, he calmed himself. They didn't have to trust him to do their job well. “And, I swear on my life, I would tell you if I knew of any threat to the Queen.”

             
Hugh and Tristam regarded him blandly.

             
Ansel pushed his hands through his hair. “Very well. I admit that you have good reason for your mistrust. But know that I will do my part to protect her.”

             
“As will we. Sir.”

             
He nodded brusquely and brushed past them and out the door. At the bottom of the stairs Jonas was waiting.

             
“A horse, sir?” He offered the reins of his mount.

             
“Strong enough for the cart.” Ansel accepted the reins. “Pretty enough for a parade.” He swung into the saddle. “But not good enough for the Guard.”

             
Jonas leaned back and shrugged. “Most aren't good enough to serve the Queen,” he agreed, his eyes cold.

             
Ansel returned to the main house in a foul mood. They didn't think he was good enough for the Queen? He was a prince, by all the gods in all the pantheons in all the world. Their scorn wounded him.

He had tried to kill her, he admitted reluctantly. And he was the son of her enemy. In the eyes of her Guard those trifling details would make him a bad choice for her consort.

              Hey. Wait a minute. He drew up short and a servant nearly crashed into him. He ignored the man.

             
He wasn't Clairwyn's husband. Nobody was talking about making him king. They hadn't even mentioned bestowing a title on him. He was just her consort.

             
What was a consort, anyway? He started walking again, heading for her chambers. Was this a permanent position? What were the terms? Could she just discard him at will?

             
Did consort mean “lover” and nothing more?

             
By the time Ansel reached her chambers he'd worked himself up into a towering rage. No wonder her Guard didn't respect him. Apparently he ranked below “dancing girl” in the Queen's household.

             
At least, he mused, a dancing girl would have had a clearly defined position in the household hierarchy. Here, it seemed to him, he was roughly equal to “boy toy.”

             
He brushed past the Guard and into Clairwyn's chambers. She wasn't there.

             
With an effort, Ansel swallowed enough of his anger to ask the Guard at the door where she was.

             
“I don't know,” the Guard said, looking at some point over Ansel's right shoulder. “Sir.”

             
Ansel's temper ratcheted up a notch. He strode toward the public portions of the residence. Was he supposed to go running all over this stupid gigantic castle searching for her?

             
Is she supposed to keep you apprised of her whereabouts at all times?
a sane voice in his head asked.

             
Yes, his temper snapped. His dancing girl would have done as much.

             
Well, he thought, cooling down a little, if that girl was Clairwyn she probably wouldn't have. In fact, as he remembered clearly, she'd stolen his gold and left him. A reluctant smile curved his lips. That dancing girl had cost him dearly, both in coin and in heartache. 

             
And she unbalanced him still.

             
Ansel frowned. He'd searched for her because he'd wanted her, because her flight embarrassed him, and because he feared for her safety. A beautiful girl was a commodity in Courchevel and he well knew what men would do to possess her.