The Queen's Consort (5 page)

             
Both riders crashed to the ground. Ansel counted stars until the world stopped swirling around him, then looked up into a large, dark eye. The gray had circled around to stand next to him.

             
Ansel was going to find that trainer and, possibly, kiss him. He used Renshaw's harness to half-climb, half-crawl to his feet. Roger rushed up to him, his mouth moving rapidly. Ansel couldn't hear a word the other man said. A huge gong was ringing in his ears.

             
He pried off his dented helm and Roger's words became clear. “Beautiful hit, m'lord,” the man-at-arms chuckled. “But next time you should catch his lance on your shield.”

             
“Yes.”

             
“Very good.” Roger bustled around him. “Your surcoat is near ruined but, luckily, your shield is in great shape.”

             
“Yes.”

             
“Here's your sword, m'lord.”

             
It took Ansel two swipes to grab it. Finally he lifted the comforting weight and focused on it.

             
“Are you all right, m'lord?” Roger grabbed him by the shoulders. “I'll call the match if you can't continue—”

             
“No.” Ansel's mind cleared and he willed his brain to focus. “Just point me toward Goddard.”

             
“Very good, m'lord.” Roger steered him around. Ansel was pleased to see that Goddard looked shaken, too, and had a bloody nose to boot.

             
The sight of Goddard's blood cheered him immensely. He lifted the sword—there was only one sword now—and strode forward.

             
Roger trotted at his side. “Eleven more minutes, m'lord. And don't kill him, if you will. Best to keep the Queen happy.” He dove away as Goddard moved forward to engage.

             
Can't kill the bastard.
It was very disappointing. Ansel didn't much care about keeping the Queen happy, but it was very hard to kill an armored man. He might get a lucky shot in, though, so he waded into the battle with enthusiasm.

             
Sadly, Goddard seemed to share Ansel's bloodlust. The two men stood toe-to-toe, trading great, skull-cracking blows that battered their shields.

             
The roar of the crowd made it through the fog in Ansel's head. He and Goddard were putting on quite a show for the vultures. Well, he hadn't been raised on a battlefield to be entertainment for a bunch of pansies. He was done making nice.

             
Ansel feinted left with his shield and then threw it at Goddard's knees. It wasn't a pretty move, or particularly gallant, but it knocked his opponent off his feet. Ansel double-handed his sword and swung for the kill.

             
Goddard saw death falling toward him and rolled hard, coming to his feet. He dropped his own sword and lunged. The two men hit the ground locked together, both grappling for an exposed eye or throat.

             
A great bell sounded. Ansel didn't realize, at first, that the sound was coming from outside his skull. If Goddard heard it, he ignored it.

             
The bell sounded again. For long moments neither man heeded the summons. Ansel pushed his thumb into Goddard's ear. Goddard recoiled and Ansel grabbed his arm, twisting it up and back as far as his opponent's armor would allow.

             
A dozen hands grabbed him, forcing him back. More soldiers grabbed Goddard, dragging the fighters apart and pulling them to their feet. Bloodied and winded, they glared at each other.

             
Goddard spit a great wad of blood and possibly a few teeth at Ansel's boot. “Were you born in a gutter?”

             
“No.” Ansel wiped at a cut over his eye. “But I learned to fight in one.”

             
Suddenly Goddard grinned and, strangely, Ansel found himself grinning back. The restraining army fell away and the men reached across the distance between them and grasped hands.

             
“Someday you're going to have to show me that left sneak,” Ansel said, pressing a hand to his ribs.

             
“Only if you show me that feint to the knees,” Goddard said ruefully. “I won't be able to kick a peasant for a week.”

             
“You've never kicked a peasant in your life.” The crowd around them parted for the Queen. It seemed as if everyone in the stands was now in the arena, including the Queen and her Guard.

             
The Guard eyed him warily as she walked up to Ansel and Goddard. “Your Grace, Your Majesty. You have both acquitted yourselves impressively.”

             
Goddard spit out some more blood discretely, to the side, then grinned at her. She rolled her eyes at him.

             
Then she turned to Ansel and his world shrank until he stood alone with her. Slim, straight, and unafraid, she stood close enough for him to touch. He towered over her and studied the long lashes over the dark pools of her eyes, the soft line of her cheek where it touched the curve of her lips....

             
Oh, dark gods, those lips. He'd stolen a kiss from his fiery dancing girl and it was branded in his memory. The woman before him was every bit as spirited as the girl, but sadness lingered in her now. And he had caused that sadness.

             
Ansel lifted his hand to cup her cheek but a warning flash in her eyes stopped him. Reality crashed on him like a wave—or like the spear one of her Guard thrust against his throat. His head cleared and he stepped back.

             
One blow of his gauntlet could have crushed her skull. Another opportunity to kill her, lost. But he didn't regret it. He wanted to see what she would do next.

             
She turned her head, the soft curve of her cheek taunting him. He burned to touch her.

             
“Bring the prince's men forward,” she ordered, and they elbowed their way through the crowd, grinning like loons and slapping him on the back.

             
Until they caught the Queen watching them, a tolerant smile playing across her lips, and fell silent. She lifted her hands. “Vow to me,” she said, “that you will never bear arms against Vandau again, and you may leave here as free men.”

             
Ansel's men eyed him, and he nodded stiffly. He didn't trust her and didn't really believe she would let them go. She wasn't
that
weak. But, if there was the slightest chance they would live, Ansel owed it to his men to give them that chance.

             
One by one, each of his men made their vows. And then, looking surprised but wary, they left the arena together.

             
The Queen turned back to Ansel. “And now, my prince,” she mused, “what am I to do with you?”

             
To his surprise, he felt a smile tug at his lips. “Queen Clairwyn the Beloved,” he said, dropping to one knee, “my fate is in your hands.”

             
The crowd drew back, breathless with shock. Even Clairwyn seemed taken aback by his gesture. That pleased him.

             
She tilted her head, her dark eyes huge in her lovely face. A wisp of hair strayed across her cheek and he fought the urge to smooth it back into place.
She is the enemy!

             
She sighed. “Rise, Prince Ansel.” She waited a beat while he obeyed, edging closer to her in the process. “You have proven yourself in combat. You are free to go or stay, as you will. I ask no vow of you.”

             
Ansel blinked. He couldn't possibly be hearing her correctly.

             
Clairwyn leaned forward and lowered her voice for his ears alone. “I do ask that you remain here, in this castle, as my guest until tomorrow.” Something subtle shifted in her expression as she spoke. She looked...haunted. Frightened, even.

             
He felt his own eyes narrow as that fierce protectiveness gripped him. His woman should never have cause to fear.

             
Whatever she saw in his face seemed to satisfy her. “Good. There is an important ceremony tonight. Only a select few will attend, and I want you to be there.”

             
He bowed in acknowledgement, keenly aware that he hadn't accepted—or declined—her invitation.

             
Delicate white teeth worried her lip and his gut clenched as if she'd hit him. He saw questions forming in her eyes but, before she could voice them, her Guard surrounded her and forced them apart again.

             
And, again, he lost his chance to kill her.

             
“Until tonight, my Queen,” he murmured, earning a harsh look from a tense Guard. Tonight her “select few” would not be enough to protect her.

             
He grinned and the Guardsman, reflexively, reached for his sword.

             
Ansel spread his hands, then rested them over his heart, over the Queen's crest. “I live and die for her, too,” he mocked the Guard.

Five

              Roger met Ansel in the chamber and helped him out of his battered armor. The man-at-arms looked at the dents in dismay.

             
“It's easier to bang out steel than it is to survive a sword to the guts,” Ansel said. Despite the battering he'd received he felt surprisingly good. And, of course, this wasn't his first, or worst, fight.

             
Everything had been thought of, everything provided for him. Two buckets of cold water completed Ansel's toilette. He wasn't even surprised to find a tunic, breeches and boots waiting for him. The fabric was plain and unadorned but finely made from expensive fabrics.

             
“You'll do, m'lord,” Roger said at last. He straightened and looked Ansel in the eye. “I am to attend you, or not, as you wish. You are free to go where you will but you should be warned: not everyone in this castle would mourn your death.”

             
“Would you, Roger?” Ansel asked with humor.

             
“I would, sir,” was the sober answer. “I served the Queen's own father, gods rest his soul, and both his sons in turn. And I saw them all dead and buried.” He paused and cleared his throat. “I hate to see a good man die.”

             
Ansel looked at the floor.

             
Roger cleared his throat self-consciously. “Will you be needing me then, m'lord?”

             
“Not just now.” Ansel told him. “I'll heed your warning, Roger, never fear. But I've things to do tonight.”

             
“Very good, sir.” Roger bowed stiffly and left the room.

             
Ansel waited but no Guard or soldier came from him. When he looked, he found that the corridor beyond the chamber was empty. He slipped through the castle until he reached the crowded main hall.

             
Dressed as he was, no one gave him a second look. He observed outlanders and men from the border, heard them praise the Queen. Yes, she was quite the diplomat. Her death would shake this country to its core.

             
Her quarters would be secure, hidden. How to find them? He strode boldly through her castle. Perhaps he'd follow a Guard, if he could locate one, or make his way to the kitchens. When she ordered something to eat or drink, he could deliver it. He grinned when he imagined her expression as he set the tray before her.

             
A Highland woman, as fey as any he'd ever seen, caught his eye. Her own eyes were glazed with the milky white of blindness, but she didn't seem to let that slow her down. “Bring that case, young man,” she instructed a servant. “I need it for the ceremony tonight.”

             
Aha. Ansel fell in behind her as the woman walked with sure steps through the castle. None challenged her, and none questioned her companions until she reached a stout set of iron-bound doors.

             
And here, at last, Ansel found the Guard. Luckily neither of the pair that stood before the doors had been in the service of the unfortunate Andromeda. They didn't recognize him.

             
They looked him over carefully, though, subjecting both Ansel and the servant to a thorough search. The old lady and her box got a free pass.

             
She waited patiently until the doors were opened for them. Ansel followed her as they passed through. The Guard had a small room before the Queen’s chambers and there was a plate set with a loaf of bread and a small knife.

He palmed the knife and walked into the Queen's chambers. It was a tower room, huge and round, and hung with tapestries. The windows were too narrow for a man, or even a slim woman, to pass through. A huge four-poster bed, hung with gauzy curtains, dominated the room.

              Clairwyn's dark head rested on this pillow each night. With an effort, Ansel didn't touch the silk that had touched her.

             
The Highland woman moved directly to a large bathtub set to the left of the bed. “The box, please,” she said, gesturing. “Put it on this table.”

             
The servant deposited the box as instructed, then bowed deeply and left the room. Silently Ansel moved to the woman's side as she opened the box.

             
He watched with interest as she lifted a fabric-wrapped bundle, but it only held bathing salts. Another bundle proved to be a white lace gown and robe. If Clairwyn was wearing it, the ensemble would have been very interesting indeed. Since she wasn't, Ansel couldn't care less.

             
The room was circular and the tapestries were hung from straight wooden dowels set into the walls. That left an intriguing gap, large enough to easily hide a man, between the fabric and the stone.

             
Ansel explored the gap and, as he'd expected, he found a trap door. With only one obvious exit and entrance into the room it was only prudent for the Queen to have an escape hatch.

             
“Madam.” A man's voice, seeming right next to him, sent Ansel's heart racing until he realized that it was on the other side of the tapestry. At the same time he realized that this Guard hadn't been one of the pair at the door. They must have changed the Guard since he’d entered the room.

             
“What is it?” the blind fey snapped.

             
“The Queen approaches,” the Guard said. “We must search the room.”

             
Ansel eased open the trapdoor to reveal a narrow staircase.

             
“I sent my man away,” the fey told the Guard. “I am alone here.”

             
“Nevertheless, we will search.”

             
“As you will.”

             
Ansel's nimble fingers searched the edge of the trapdoor for a latch. There would be some way for the Queen to lock this door behind her as she fled—

             
Bootsteps reached his ears. There were not many places to hide in the Queen's room. He had only a moment before a heavy hand snatched aside the tapestry that hid him.

             
Ansel crept down the stairs and, as quietly as he could, lowered the door. He tensed his muscles to keep the trapdoor ever-so-slightly ajar. If the door snapped closed and locked, he might be forced to find out where these stairs led.

             
And, he was sure, there were bound to be a large number of angry Guard wherever these stairs ended.

             
He heard the tapestry shift and listened as the Guard moved through the room. After a few more anxious moments he heard Clairwyn's voice.

             
“Aunt Gladnys.” She must be greeting the fey. “Your name is ironic. You rarely bring good news.”

             
“My parents knew it would be so. They must have enjoyed the irony.”

             
Ansel tiptoed back to the tapestry. With great care he cut a tiny slit in the fabric and peered out.

             
“The women in our family have always been gifted,” Gladnys continued.

             
“Fat lot of good it's done them,” Clairwyn replied. She swirled her gown and sat in an upholstered chair, her profile toward Ansel. Her fingers tapped the fabric in a staccato rhythm.

             
Gladnys nodded. “Interring your sister wasn't easy, dear, for any of us.” She was still busy at the table, digging in her stupid box.

             
Clairwyn dropped her head to her hands and sighed. After a long moment she gestured and a servant moved forward quickly. “Find Prince Ansel,” she said. “I would speak with him.”

The servant bowed and left the room
.

             
Gladnys lifted a round cooking pot out of the box. How did such a small box hold so much?

             
Clairwyn sighed. “I must speak to Ansel. I should tell him that I don't blame him for my sister's death.”

             
“Or the deaths of your parents? And brothers?”

             
“Those were acts of war. Or so my advisors tell me.”

             
“Your advisors want you to act, dear.”

             
Clairwyn stood abruptly to pace the room. “I know they want action. I have taken some steps.”

             
“They want more.”

             
Clairwyn gestured broadly. “It has never felt right. Not until now.”

             
Ansel gritted his teeth. A woman shouldn't be burdened with these decisions. 'Twas a man's duty to make the hard choices for her.

             
“If all goes well,” the fey said, peering into her pot, “much will be decided tonight.”

             
“It
must
go well.”

             
“All of the signs say that you have extraordinary gifts, girl.”

             
Clairwyn rubbed her brow and continued to pace while the fey added ingredients to her pot. Disturbingly, it started to simmer as it sat on the table. It had no heat source that Ansel could see.

             
The blind fey stirred her pot. Green smoke began to twine from it toward the ceiling. The hair on Ansel’s neck stood up, but Clairwyn didn't seem alarmed by the sight.

             
“Ansel is important, isn't he?” Gladnys asked.

             
“He is crucial.”

             
The fey nodded. “I knew he was here for a reason. Tell me. When did you know?”

             
Clairwyn's smile lit up her face, seeming to banish all the cares that weighed her down. “It was the challenge,” she replied.

             
The challenge. Ansel scowled. He knew that it was traditional for Highland boys and girls to seek adventure in their sixteenth year. The girls were supposed to pad their dowries and the boys were supposed to establish themselves as men. The challenge took different forms depending on the youth or maid.

             
“For my sixteenth birthday,” Clairwyn continued, “I crossed the border into Courchevel. I was dancing at fairs—”

             
“More than one?” her aunt asked, amused.

             
Clairwyn shrugged. “It felt right at the time.” Her expression turned dreamy, as if the memories were a drug to her. “I was dancing, and I just felt so beautiful. So powerful. A crowd gathered and the coins rained down around me until my feet didn't touch the ground.”

             
She swirled gracefully and Ansel nearly leaped through the tapestry for her.

             
“And then he was there,” she continued. “I knew who he was, of course. So lordly, so arrogant in his bearing. So—”

             
“Handsome?” the fey prompted.

             
Clairwyn paused in her dance and Ansel’s breath caught in his chest as he waited for her answer.

             
“Not handsome, I'd say,” she said, and Ansel exhaled, disappointed. But she went on. “His face is too strong, too
alive
, to be called handsome. It's too weak a word for him.”

             
“Silly girl.”

             
Ansel didn't think Clairwyn was silly at all.

             
She started twirling again, tilting her head back so her hair swayed with her movement. “Even though I could stare into his green eyes all day and his lips make me swoon—”

             
“Swoon?”

             
Swoon?

             
Clairwyn laughed, and happiness transformed her features. She should laugh more often, every day, and she should smile all the time. She should always be as happy as she was now.

             
“Yes, swoon. I
am
a silly girl, at least where he is concerned. The crowd melted away until he stood alone. And I danced only for him.”

             
She whirled and the years melted away until she was the girl he remembered, the girl he'd coveted. The girl he still wanted.

             
“He tossed a bag of gold to Tristam, who nearly fainted.” She giggled.

             
Even Gladnys smiled. “I would have liked to see that.”

             
“You'd like to see anything, dear Aunt.”

             
“True.” The fey seemed undisturbed by the teasing.