The Queen's Consort (32 page)

             
Their
children. The slight swell of her stomach had grown to an obvious fullness. All of Courchevel knew that their Prince Ansel had been the Queen's consort. They celebrated her pregnancy as a sign of future peace and prosperity.

             
Ansel himself saw her pregnancy as a chance to reconnect with her. He waited through the cold Courchevel winter, counting the days until he would see her again.

             
His brother, Devlin, rode with him. Although Devlin was young in years, he was uncomfortably wise.

             
Now he leaned toward the fire, trying to warm his hands. “Don’t get your hopes up, brother,” he cautioned him.

             
Ansel scowled at him. “You don’t know her,” he said stubbornly. “She’s very sweet. She’ll forgive me.”

             
“Hmm.” Devlin pulled his ragged blanket more tightly around his shoulders. “You killed her sister. You tried to kill her and her babies.”

             
“
Our
babies.”

             
“Does that make it better?”

             
Ansel scowled.

             
“I don’t know much about women—”

             
“You know
nothing
about this woman.”

             
“—but that doesn’t seem like the kind of thing any woman will forgive.”

             
Ansel waved him away. He couldn’t bear to hear any more. Clairwyn had been absolutely devoted to her family. He knew she loved those unborn children fiercely and remembered how happy she’d been just thinking about them.

             
His heart ached. He’d killed her sister. He’d wanted Clairwyn’s own life and had actively worked against her. It was a lot to ask of her.

             
But he had to try. 

Thirty-Five

             
At dawn on the fifth of April Ansel waited impatiently for the gates of Haverton to open for him. He was the first to pass through and rode unchallenged past long-faced and somber guards. Even for such an early hour the streets seemed strangely quiet.

             
Ansel had polished and patched his battered armor but he knew how shabby he looked. Renshaw, too, was scarred and leaner from long, hard months in pursuit of outlaws.

             
He rode past shrouded doorways and dark-clothed citizens. Why the silence? The Queen would have her children today. It should be a day of rejoicing.

             
Perhaps the end of her confinement worried her people. Perhaps they kept watch, waiting for the result.

             
He smiled to himself. He knew how this story ended. He'd imagined it a thousand times. He'd dreamed of it every night since Clairwyn had left him.

             
The twins needed him. Clairwyn needed him. The birth of his children would bring them together again. He prayed it would be so.

             
Ansel pushed aside his doubt and spurred Renshaw to a canter. The streets were nearly empty. He didn't have to worry about running down a child in his haste to reach Clairwyn's side.

             
He would be there to comfort her during her labor. Highland tradition allowed the father to be at the mother's side during the birthing. It scared him but thrilled him, too.

             
The Guard waited for him at the entrance to the royal residence. They, too, stood silent. The courtyard was filled with quiet people. All of them held candles.

             
Ansel swung down from the saddle. What the hell was going on here?

             
Tristam hurried down the stairs to meet him. “Well met, my prince,” he said in a low voice. “She asked for you.”

             
Gratitude and relief soared through Ansel. “Lead on,” he said.

             
Tristam nodded. “This way.” He didn't turn toward the Queen's chamber. He led Ansel toward the center of the palace. “The birthing chamber,” he said. “A royal birth is well-attended.”

             
“What is happening?” Ansel demanded harshly.

             
“The Queen delivered a boy and a girl shortly after midnight.”

             
Ansel's heart fell. He'd staked so much on being there for Clairwyn. He'd looked forward to being the first to hold his children. Anger, fresh and hot, surged through him. He'd been robbed again. First of Clairwyn, now of this.

             
Tristam paused with his hand on a huge, ornately carved door. “The Queen—” he struggled to get his emotion under control. “It was a hard birthing,” he finally said. “The Queen is failing.”

             
Ansel shoved his way past Tristam. Of course birthing was hard for ordinary women. But not for Clairwyn. She was too strong, too powerful.             

             
He'd never, in all his imaginings, considered that she might not survive.

             
There were a lot of people in the room but the only sound was the creak of the wooden floor under Ansel's boots. There were two bassinets, one pink, one blue, arranged before a massive, shrouded bed.

             
A still form lay on the bed.

             
He paused at the bassinets. His children, wide-eyed but as silent as the others present, lay swaddled inside. They were so small, far smaller than he'd imagined.

             
The pink bundle had green eyes and pink rosebud lips, and his heart tightened. The blue bundle had a shock of dark hair and eyes so blue they looked black. He examined the children, his hand hovering over them. They seemed so tiny, so frail, that he feared to touch them.

             
Then he turned to the bed. Tristam and Roger stopped him.

             
“Well met, my lord,” Roger muttered, tugging at Ansel's armor. “And not a minute too soon.”

             
Tristam stripped Ansel of his sword and gauntlets, then helped Roger strip off his breastplate. They worked quickly, then stepped back and let Ansel move to the Queen's bedside.

             
He reached out a shaking hand and pulled back the curtain.

             
Clairwyn’s dark lashes rested on her porcelain cheek. She was too pale, too still. She looked like a broken doll.

             
He eased down beside her and folded her in his arms. He'd endured this separation because he'd been so sure they would be reunited. That hope had sustained him through the long, dark nights without her.

             
She didn't stir, didn't wake, as he gathered her close and held her against his aching heart. Once before he'd thought her dead. Remembered anguish seared through him now, closing his throat and clouding his brain with despair.

             
He could not lose her again.

             
Reluctantly he eased away from her limp body and pushed aside the curtain. “Where is Gladnys?” he demanded. Surely the fey was near.

             
Someone hushed him.

             
“Where is she?” His voice was louder, more insistent. If shouting would wake Clairwyn then he'd yell the damn walls down.

             
A sob turned his head. Nanny Pella stood next to him. “Gladnys is resting,” she said. “She was here all night.

             
“Rouse her,” he ordered. “Fetch her here.”

             
Nanny Pella broke down completely and ran out of the room.

             
Ansel snarled in helpless fury. He waved at the rest of the crowd. “You've seen my children born,” he said. “Now get the hell out.” Everyone obeyed him.

             
After a moment the door opened again and Gladnys, looking tired and grumpy, walked through.

             
“Witch,” he said by way of greeting.

             
Gladnys rolled her eyes. “What do you want?”

             
He didn't like her tone but now was not the time to argue. “Before the Queen left me—” he forced the words out with grim determination “—she said that I was the source of her power.”

             
“This is true.”

             
“Of course it is.” He glowered at the fey. He didn't need her to confirm it. “I want you to use me now. Save her.”

             
She sighed heavily. “I cannot.”

             
“You can.” Panic swirled through him, rising like the tide, threatening to choke him. “You must.”

             
She shook her head. “I cannot save her. If there is any chance, it lies with you.” Shoulders slumped, Gladnys left them alone.

             
Ansel felt as if he'd been flayed raw. Clairwyn's heart still beat, but so faintly he could barely see the flutter of her pulse.

             
As he had once before, he arranged her on the bed. He swept her hair back over her shoulder and placed her hands over her empty belly. Heartsick, he stepped back to look at her.

             
A small voice lifted an insistent wail. As if in sympathy, the second infant took up the cry.

             
Helpless, Ansel leaned over one bassinet, then the other. By his own order he was alone with his children, and he had no idea what to do.

             
The tiny faces twisted. How could something so little make so much noise? Ansel turned from one to the other, frantic. What should he do?

             
The volume increased. He glanced at the door hopefully. Where was Nanny Pella? Where was Gladnys? Surely some female would hear, would come, would know what to do.

             
No one came to his rescue.

             
Gingerly Ansel reached into the blue bassinet. The boy, surely, would be sturdier than his sister. Less likely to break.

             
His hands engulfed the child's body. Shaking with terror, he lifted the boy.

             
The child unscrewed his eyes, looked at his father, and screamed like a banshee.

             
This was not good. A baby needed its mother.

             
Ansel carefully put the child next to Clairwyn. The baby rolled out of its blanket, exposing pale pink skin and strangely long and skinny arms and legs.

             
The boy would need custom armor.

             
Ansel rolled his eyes at himself.
Of course
his son would have custom armor. And the boy would have his father to help him with those puny arms.

             
With more confidence Ansel fetched the pink bundle. Although his daughter was smaller than her brother she was, if anything, even louder than the boy. Ansel grinned at her. She was her mother's daughter.

             
He placed the little girl on her mother's other side.

             
“You've got a little round tummy,” he said to her. “Not like your mommy at all. Except, of course, when you and your brother were growing inside her.”

             
The babies quieted. It almost seemed as if they were listening to him.

             
He stroked a careful fingertip over her head. “And you've got the start of your mother's hair. I wish I'd thought to bring a ribbon for you.”

             
The thought made him frown. He should have brought a gift. Or something.

             
He shook it off. “Never mind. I'll get you plenty of ribbons. And pretty pink dresses. And a pony, too. Every wild Highland girl should have a pony.”

             
Hmm. He could get a white pony for her, maybe dye it pink to match her dresses.

             
“And I'll teach you to ride. None of that silly sidesaddle stuff for my little Highland girl. You'll wear breeches and boots, like your mommy.”

             
The little girl caught his finger in her hand.

             
“Oh, so strong. I'm going to have to start your brother's training young. Can't have you beating the stuffing out of him, my little princess.”

             
“Maybe Courchevel men would benefit from the occasional beating.”

             
Ansel blinked. Clairwyn smiled gently at him, her eyes dark and soft with no hint of silver.

             
“Maybe,” he agreed. Something felt wrong with his voice. It sounded too deep and thick to his ears.

             
“Your son is hungry.” She adjusted her position and lifted the child to her breast.

             
Ansel leaned over, fascinated, to watch. “He's rooting like a little suckling pig.”

             
“He is a greedy little man.”

             
“Just like his father. Don't let him take it all. My girl here needs some, too.”

             
“She'll be fine.”

             
Ansel reached out to cup Clairwyn's face. “And us?”

             
“I don't know. You did try to kill me.”

             
“Every couple has their troubles.”

             
She leaned back and her eyes drifted closed, but she still held the child to her breast.

             
“You're going to need me around.” Ansel settled in to argue his case. “Look at how scrawny that boy is. Who will teach him to hold a sword properly?”

             
A smile touched her lips.

             
“And who is going to dye the girl's pony pink for her?”

             
Clairwyn's eyes opened. “Pink?”

             
“Pink,” Ansel said firmly. “Every little girl should have a pink pony.”

             
“I didn't have a pink pony.”

             
“Exactly! You didn't have me around then. That's why you need to keep me now.”

             
She sighed. “The prophecy said you'd kill me.”

             
“And I already did. We've gotten past that.” He paused, sensing that he wasn't winning this fight. “I bet the rest of the prophecy said that we'd live happily ever after.”