Lady Hotspur

by Tessa Gratton

  “Why?”

  The cool voice infuriated her, but Hal pressed her mouth shut, seething a moment. Celeda’s lifted eyebrows declared her limited patience, and she folded her hands together atop the shiny lacquer of her fancy desk. The Blood and the Sea was an understated reminder of her power, and Celeda mirrored that restraint in her presentation: she wore a plain dark red robe with a black mantle circling her long neck and spread out over her shoulders, back, and chest. Her hair—as dark as Hal’s, but lately showing some gray in delicate threads—was bound up in a plain but elegant roll. Garnets pinched her earlobes, and a thin line of black had been applied to her lashes.

  Hal groaned in frustration. “The March is taken by Innis Lear! Banna Mora is a hostage!”

  “Ah, it is good to know what sort of crisis my heir will rouse herself for.”

  Such delicate condemnation stole Hal’s breath away.

  Celeda gestured to one of the thin chairs tucked against the wall of mirrors. “Have you eaten today?”

  “Mother!” Hal stormed close enough to slap her hands on the desk. Abovax frowned at her, but Hal leaned toward her mother. “What are we going to do?”

  “Hotspur leaves as soon as her company is ready, to retake the March.”

  “I want to go with her.”

  “No.”

  “I am good at soldiering, Mother, let me do something I’m good at!”

  “Your presence in the field is not necessary—I don’t believe Innis Lear intends to retain what they’ve taken, and soldiers under the Wolf of Aremoria will be enough. Vindomata will come from the east with men from Mercia for backup.”

  Hal stared, still leaning over the desk. “They don’t intend to keep it, because there’s been no message from Solas Lear? You think they’d have declared war some other way?”

  “There has been no war between Lear and Aremoria in generations, and we have been the strongest of allies since Morimaros’s reign. They would not break it now—this is Glennadoer flexing his muscles, or he wanted Mora for some purpose of his own.”

  “What purpose?”

  Again, Celeda gestured toward a chair. Hal clenched her teeth and went to it, grabbing it by the back. She swung it around to sit backward, recalled she wore a dress, righted the chair, and sat hard. “What purpose?” she asked again.

  “Work it out for me.” Celeda’s eyes, a lighter brown than her daughter’s, held evenly upon Hal.

  Fine, Hal could break this situation into its parts, if that would prove something to her mother. She said, “It … depends. If Glennadoer acted on his own he might want Mora for alliance, or he might be doing it against Solas, not against us. But he’s married to her sister—his son is the heir to their crown. It doesn’t make sense he’s causing her problems.”

  “A father might wish his son, who is heir to a crown, to marry well.”

  Hal’s eyes bulged. “You’ve got to be joking. But then why wouldn’t they offer for her? With a messenger or a letter? Besides, it’s not a good match. She’s already Learish, it would be like marrying anyone from his island. She’s not a prince anymore, and is … in an awkward position with the Aremore throne. If Rowan Lear and Banna Mora married it would be condemning of … well, of you.”

  “Especially when I have more than one eligible daughter of my own,” Celeda said in a way that should have been amused but certainly was not.

  “You don’t think it’s for marriage then?”

  Celeda shrugged one shoulder. “If it is, I think it has little to do with alliance or lack thereof with Aremoria. Innis Lear is the sort of place more concerned with their own power and bloodlines than those outside its borders.”

  “And Mora’s bloodline is …” Hal crossed her arms around her stomach.

  “Better than ours,” her mother said, and this time she was darkly amused. “Thanks to the recklessness of Morimaros the Great.”

  The prince, wise for once, chose not to disagree. Hal licked her lips, thinking. “Then maybe this is a game, or a test? A reminder of their strength after the rebellion. Their challenge to a new queen?”

  Celeda smiled grimly. “That, my daughter, is exactly the sort of behavior to expect from a queen of Innis Lear. Especially after that performance at my tournament last summer.”

  “How will you answer then? If they’ve taken Mora hostage, how will you respond? Pay ransom, or send a force to steal her back?”

  “It will be some days before a ransom could be begged.”

  “But you already know what you will do.”

  “How I act depends on many things, Calepia. How swiftly Hotspur retakes the March. The phrasing of the ransom request. If they even make such a request. It is possible Mora is less a hostage and more a willing Errigal lady returning to her family.”

  “You have to sue for her return, Mother—show her you want her back. She’ll come home.”

  Celeda remained silent.

  “Don’t you want her home?” Hal paused to regain her ground. “Banna Mora chose us, this place, over Lear. She gave everything of herself to Aremoria.”

  “And we took it away from her.”

  “She’s not your enemy,” Hal said, absolutely certain.

  “She is perceived to be so, by many. And constantly rumors rise and fall about her loyalties, about what she would do if given a chance to retake the throne. Perhaps it is better for her to be on Innis Lear.”

  “No!” Hal stood. “It makes you look weak to fear her like that.”

  “It made me look weak to allow her to attend my court, to keep the March.”

  “That was the right thing to do. She is not Rovassos, and you are not Rovassos, swayed by temper! Mora is a good woman, a strong knight, and she was a brilliant heir. You look stronger to have her as an ally.”

  Again, Celeda remained quiet, unblinking.

  Hal glanced almost desperately toward Abovax. The commander grunted. He said, “When Banna Mora is here, you reflect poorly, Prince.”

  “I …” Hal gaped at her mother. She could think of no response.

  “The true heart of the matter, daughter, is that I do not know if Banna Mora is my ally.”

  “Treating her like no friend at all will certainly make her an enemy. You must show her loyalty if you would have hers.”

  Celeda shook her head. “You are naive. Queens do not perform loyalty, it is owed to them. And either a queen has it, or she does not. Do you recall Rovassos performing friendship, loyalty? With his charm and favors? Those things came into conflict frequently and he had no core integrity. He did not know how to trust anyone. That is what lost him his head. I do know how to trust, but I am careful with that trust.”

  “I trust her,” Hal said softly. She went around the desk and to her knees beside her surprised mother. The queen turned slightly in her chair, hands falling to her lap. Hal said, “I trust Banna Mora, Mother. Your Majesty. Do you … trust me?”

  Celeda’s lips trembled slightly, her hesitation telling Hal the answer. “I want to,” Celeda replied, just as softly. “I love you.”

  Hal lowered from her knees to slump back on her heels, head bowed.

  “Why are you giving in to the characterization of the lion of the Innis Lear prophecy?” Celeda asked.

  Her head snapped up. “What?”

  Celeda did not move; her eyes looked through Hal, toward some future or chance invisible to her daughter. “Breaking, daughter. You have been dubbed the lion, and instead of it making you bright and brave, you act as though you are breaking, just like in the prophecy. Giving credence to the entire thing.”

  “You don’t … it’s a … you don’t believe in destiny or that we need the approval of spirits and stars.”

  “Oh, but we need the approval of Aremoria, Calepia Bolinbroke. Aremoria is its people, and sometimes its people consider spirits and superstition! How do you think we shed old religions? How have the kings of Aremoria made themselves into the ultimate authority?”

  “Stories,” Hal whispered.
<
br />   “Extremely good stories. I’d have said legends, for when you say stories it sounds like a children’s pastime, and this is no game.”

  “I know that!” the prince climbed to her feet, awkward in her anger as she looked down at her royal mother.

  Do you? the queen’s eyes wondered.

  Hal said, licking her lips, “I know it matters, Mother—less the prophecy itself and more what people believe it means.”

  “It means what you, or what I, or what the Aremore people say it means!” Celedrix rarely lost her temper, and the snap was quiet, but plucked like a tense thread of anger. “And you have said nothing about this prophecy! You neither embraced it, nor denied it, nor made it a great joke! You should have found a way to make it your tool rather than ignore it, and if you cannot see that, you have learned nothing this year.”

  Hal swallowed. “I thought confronting it would give it more power.”

  “Perhaps, but it would be power under your control. Not under Banna Mora’s, or any ally she makes on Innis Lear.”

  “Mora won’t use it against us. She won’t act against us.”

  The queen sighed. “Everyone changes. Over time, and through trauma. You must see how allowing this prophecy to ring throughout Aremoria uncontrolled is a terrible plan. Find a way to use it, Calepia. If you already had, perhaps Mora would still be at our sides. Why can’t you be better at this?”

  Her mother’s disappointment was like tiny, icy knives. “I didn’t have a mother to teach me to be better,” Hal said. “I had Banna Mora, and Lady Ianta. I am the one who was here.”

  “I know.”

  This time, Celeda’s voice was tender. There was sorrow in the queen’s eyes, and she held out her hand. Hal took it. Celeda’s skin was cool and dry, paler than Hal’s, the curve of her neck elegant, and Hal felt ungainly, calloused and strange.

  Hal knelt again, and touched her cheek to her mother’s knuckles.

  “Learn from me, Hal,” Celeda said. The nickname was a breath of relief, though still strange on her mother’s tongue. “I know you can do this. You are my daughter, and you have survived much. You can rise above your past, and your struggles. This incursion from Innis Lear is a call to any of our enemies who would take advantage of a weakened Aremoria. And we are weakened, Hal, because of my rebellion. Because I took a crown instead of inheriting it. Though I am a better king than Rovassos, my line is not secure—and won’t be until you are married and bear a child or two—”

  “Saints, Mother.” Hal made fists against her lap.

  “Echarmet cannot be here until next year because he serves in the Mother of All Mothers’ army, as their princes are expected to serve. But he will help you, and I know him well. You will be friends, if you can be open to such. Make it to your marriage, Hal, and all will be well. It will not matter what Banna Mora does; we will have the strength of the Third Kingdom behind Aremoria, and the promise of a stable succession.”

  If she was trying to comfort Hal, her mother’s words played to the opposite effect. How could a country be stable if its leader was heartbroken? And surely she would be so if forced to give herself to this prince. Hal already belonged to Hotspur.

  She thought of the prophecy, and wondered if she could use it, but not exactly as her mother said.

  “If …” Hal did not move from her supplication. “If I can make myself into a better version of the lion prince, and prove the Wolf of Aremoria is mine—that she will choose the end for me—would that be enough?”

  Celeda turned her hand to cup Hal’s cheek. “Perhaps.”

  Hal shivered, a seed of doubt in herself planting deep, even as she thought this was a chance to carve space for herself and Hotspur, just as Ianta had tried to do, in the halls of power. “Thank you.”

  “You may go,” the queen said gently.

  THE OUTER YARD of the palace garrison teemed with soldiers, attendants, and horses as Hotspur readied her troops. Hal moved through easily, mostly ignored since she wore none of her armor nor signals of status. She’d straightened her gown, at least, before coming out here, but hadn’t allowed herself time to get her sword or have anything fancy woven into her braid. She had her Bolinbroke ring, and the ring inherited from her father; nothing else.

  She spied Hotspur standing with Sennos atop a wagon already half loaded with canvas and pegs and rope for setting camp. Hal made her way nearer, stopping ten paces out to yell, “Lady Hotspur!” in a clear voice that rang out over the clatter and harried conversation.

  Hotspur’s head lifted from her consultation with Sennos, and she smiled. “Prince Hal!”

  Hal held out her hand as she walked to the wagon. “Come down for a proper farewell.”

  The Wolf of Aremoria hopped down on her own, landing smoothly. She straightened and took Hal’s hand, bowing over it as she ought to her prince.

  But Hal pulled her close without warning, and kissed her. Hal took Hotspur’s face in her hands and held her firmly as Hotspur stiffened in surprise. The kiss was tender, though, and thorough. There could be no mistaking it.

  When she let them part, it was only a breath, and Hal murmured, “I wish I was going with you.”

  “Hal,” Hotspur said hotly, “all my soldiers are watching!”

  Hurriedly, Hal whispered, “If I were a man, as you said before, wouldn’t they cheer? Wouldn’t they thrill at the prince’s favor? Speculate on our connection, on the alliance apparent between Perseria and Bolinbroke? Your nearness to the crown? So make them cheer, Hotspur! You are beloved of their prince.”

  Hotspur’s hands, which had settled tensely against Hal’s hips, clenched tight. The knight leaned away just enough to meet Hal’s gaze: there was fear, speculation, wonder in Hotspur’s wildflower blue eyes. For a moment, she did nothing, and all around them the soldiers waited, just as tense as her hands had been.

  Then Hotspur kissed Hal laughingly, wrapped her arms around the prince’s loosely bound waist, and dragged her close. Hotspur hugged her, kissed her, and smiled all the while. When she pushed away, it was with a gasp, and Hal was breathless, too.

  The Wolf of Aremoria spread her arms, one hand clasping Hal’s. “I can’t lose with a send-off like that,” she declared. It was not quite a yell, but others heard. And Hotspur bowed again over Hal’s hand, still with their gazes locked. “My prince,” she said.

  “Go with all the blessings of Aremoria,” Hal said, sweeping her attention from Hotspur to everyone. “Take back the March in my name, and Banna Mora’s name, under the crown! Then come home to me, triumphant.”

  “So it shall be done,” Hotspur promised, still merry. She threw her fist into the air. “For Aremoria!”

  And the garrison exploded in answering cheers.

  BANNA MORA

  Innis Lear, spring

  ROWAN LEAR SANG to Mora the entire journey across the sea to Innis Lear.

  She curled up on those same furs and blankets from his campaign tent. The Learish barge was cramped, for it had been built to carry trade goods and sailors, not a royal army. Mora’s injuries kept her supine, fighting the roll of waves beneath the ship, unable to fall asleep, but too worn and sick for waking.

  And so the prince of Lear sang. At first, sitting with his back to the wall, he chose faster songs from Aremoria, with ridiculous rhymes and subjects far too raunchy for royal lips. As his energy waned, he murmured old folk songs with the sort of looping refrains best suited to harvest work and prayer. Sometimes he tossed in a song in Learish, with whispered wind-words, that Mora understood to be more spell than prayer, and those soothed her, though she’d never admit it. Finally, Rowan drifted into lullabies and gentle love songs, his voice soft and low, filling Mora’s ears with light.

  They made port in the late afternoon and Owyn Glennadoer rode out with half the force he’d taken to the March toward the Summer Seat, where the queen resided this time of year, and where her sister—Glennadoer’s wife—lived, too. Rowan led the rest overland to Queen’s Keep and Mora was settled in a larg
e room where she slept nearly an entire night and day upon the soft bed.

  Queen’s Keep had been the seat of the Earls Errigal a hundred years ago, until Elia the Dreamer made those earls into dukes, shifting their seat north to the once-Connley lands. Mora’s own family were Errigals, though her line flowed from Sin Errigal’s second husband, making Mora very removed from the ducal chain but closer to the throne of Lear itself—Sin’s second husband had been a grandchild of Elia.

  Mora barely remembered the Keep, having visited rarely. Connley Castle had been her home then, or the Summer Seat or Dondubhan if they were following the queen. Still early in her recovery, Mora hardly left the rooms assigned her, resting at first in the massive wooden bed, then graduating to the heavy chairs beside the hearth. Her meals were brought to her, and she bathed every day. Tight braiding was out of the question so long as her skull and scalp remained tender, and thus she allowed her stiff curls free to flare out. But one woman—Trin, a sturdy milk-skinned brunette whose family had long served the Keep—was brilliant with ribbons and managed to softly wind them into the front of Mora’s hair so the dazzle of curls was held out of her face.

  As her bruises healed and her hip strengthened, as the knot on her head lessened and her nausea reduced, Mora luxuriated in the attention the women gave her skin and hair in the form of spicy-smelling oil, silk, and the finest linen. Trin brought piles and piles of dresses, skirts, over-gowns, aprons, shifts, and jewelry out from storage. Mora would be back in leather and trousers and heavy boots soon enough, so enjoyed the silk slippers and layered gowns while she could.

  Mora began to explore the Keep, from the spindly lookout tower to the thick black stone wall that cupped its base. Built into the craggy rocks of this small, lone mountain on Innis Lear’s southeastern foot, the Keep was a marriage of ancient black rocks and pristine limewashed walls, hung with not only the midnight blue banners of Lear, but iron stars and silver sunburst pennants. The air outside smelled of smoke and the tang of iron thanks to the rows of chimneys lined along the slope of the mountain where iron wizards smelted and hammered and crafted the finest, strongest weapons the world had ever seen.