Lady Hotspur

by Tessa Gratton

  Douglass obeys, but Vindomata uses her hand to hold him away. She stands and flicks her tongue against his mouth, drawing in a breath against his face. She turns, putting her bottom against him, and twists her neck to hold his gaze. The prince grasps her hips, pulls her closer, where he is eager.

  “Whisper in my ear, Douglass of Burgun,” Vindomata commands. “Whisper a vow that you will find upon the battlefield Hal Bolinbroke, and make certain to kill her.”

  His body shudders, but he clenches her close to him and puts his mouth against her jaw. His beard is soft, his lips harder, and he says, “Gladly.” His hands dig into her hips, and he kisses up to her ear. “I will call her out, and cut her down, or else die myself.”

  AT THE EDGE of the March an old woman’s dreams push her out of bed, and, fussing, she walks all day to the fane hill. Crumbling blue-gray rocks fall in ways that suggest once a building rested here, but there are no doorways nor a center; the once-walls spread in four directions, tumbling down the slope. Trees grow through the rocks, their strong roots making further mess of any former shape, and if narrow stairs once rose in that corner, now it is a bulky, jagged hedge of blackberries and wild roses. The old woman climbs inside where the earth is damp and carpeted thickly with flowers, so near they weave together and make a tapestry whose patterns the old woman can almost recognize. She walks across its ruffling colors to a mound of rocks. It smells of water here, and she is thirsty.

  The first rock is difficult to lift away, but not the second, nor the third, fourth, fifth, or sixth. Soon the mound is shorter, and the old woman can see a black mouth. It gasps, belching a puff of stale, dank air that lingers on the wind like the smell of sweet wine.

  AT THE RAIL of a war barge, Banna Mora hesitates. The wooden plank angles away from her, leading to the docks, and the road winds beyond, toward March Castle where Hotspur and Vindomata and all their destinies wait. It is not that which makes her pause. No, it is all of Aremoria.

  Before her.

  Aremoria, the land of her people, her land, and Mora knows this is why she exists.

  She knows it so completely, perhaps it is the only thing she knows. She is the great king who will reunite the two lands. One Innis Lear, and one Aremoria. The same.

  What will change within her the moment her foot touches this earth again? Nothing? Everything? After nearly two years Mora cannot recall the smell of her home.

  “It’s time,” her husband says.

  IT’S TIME. THE winds of Innis Lear whisper the words, the hemlock-tinged words, blowing them across Aremoria. Those who can hear, do.

  A SOLDIER SNORTS awake, jerking against the wheel of a supply wagon—

  Twin girls in a town nudged against the Diotan border gasp and stare at each other—

  The ostler at Tenne-Tiras thinks he hears his prince’s voice, spins—

  Ianta Oldcastle, where she leans upon a narrow balcony outside the rooms she’s been given as part of Hal’s council, hears it. Her eyes glint with tears of joy, and tears of anger, for why did she not hear such things years ago, when she was younger and ready? Why now, when her heart is—

  (The wizard hears it, too, but this is not for him, not his answer.)

  One for Innis Lear

  one for Aremoria.

  LADY HOTSPUR SLAMS into her bedchamber on the second level of March Castle, aiming for her trunk of clothes. Tight in her grip is a violently abused letter, and her mouth presses a flat line. She hits one knee to the floor and tosses the letter aside to better use both hands for flinging open the trunk. Atop is an overdress, which she shoves in the back corner to get at the trousers beneath. Standing, she strips off the gown she’s wearing, elbows and curls tangling; Hotspur growls; something rips.

  “Not coming,” she spits to herself as she throws the gown away and begins snatching at the ties of her plain bodice. “Not coming!”

  “Shall I help with the ties?” Connley, her husband, asks tentatively from the center of the bed, where he kneels atop the blankets, surrounded by holy bones. When she stormed in, he froze with surprise.

  Hotspur whirls, fingers stilling. She stares at him, cheeks aflame, then shakes her head and jerks the ties free. She shimmies out of the bodice and strips off the underdress, leaving her bare to the waist. Her underwear is leggings wrapped to her thighs and short linen braes. And of course she still wears her green leather slippers. “You’re staring, Connley,” she bites out.

  “What’s wrong? Who’s not coming?” He climbs off the bed and bends to retrieve the ruined letter.

  Hotspur tenses, ashamed of what he’s about to read.

  “Daughter,” he murmurs, and his shoulders tense as he reads the entire thing.

  “I will go to her, and demand she reconsider,” Hotspur insists. “This is ridiculous.” She stomps to the trunk and gets her binder, then thrusts it at her husband.

  Silently, he helps her position it and tie it well enough to flatten her breasts, but restrict no movement. Next goes a fresh shirt and the dark green tunic, and finally she sits on the edge of their mattress to allow him to remove her stockings so they may be replaced by riding trousers. When her legs are naked, Conn pushes between them, hands on the insides of her thighs, just over her knees. His fingers indent her flesh, and he tilts his face to look at her. “I believe these dreams of hers. You have magic in your bones, Isarna. I’ve said it before. You understand it fundamentally.”

  “The dreams aren’t the part that matter—I don’t care about that. My father is my father, and maybe magic has—has contaminated me since birth.”

  “Magic isn’t a disease.”

  Hotspur growls dismissively and shoves at his hands, trying to close her knees. “She can’t just not come. She can’t abandon us.”

  Connley is stronger than he looks, and she’s not truly trying to get away. “Isarna, what are your dreams about?”

  Her lashes flutter. Her left shoulder jerks in a shrug.

  “Isarna.” This time her name is punctuated by digging fingers.

  (Isarna, whispers a faraway oak tree.)

  Hotspur hisses through her teeth. “Stop.”

  Fast as a mouse, Connley lets go her thighs and grabs her hips, pulling her off the mattress and into his lap. He wraps his arms around her waist, holding his own elbows to lock her tight.

  Arms braced awkwardly out, Hotspur stares down at him, torn between offense and arousal. He meets her stare openly, his wide brown-green eyes unashamed. Slowly her arms lower and she puts her hands into his curly brown hair. She makes fists, hard enough his eyes water. “I’ll bloody your nose if you make me.”

  “Then bloody it.” He pulls his head from her fists until she must rip hair from his scalp or release him.

  With a cry of frustration, she lets go, flinging herself backward. Her shoulders land on the mattress; her arms cross over her face.

  Conn breathes deeply for a moment, then gently slides his hands up her ribs and tugs her upright again. “I know you dream: you murmur and sweat and cry out in your sleep. Is it like you to dream badly over war? I’d not have believed so.”

  Hotspur speaks with her hands against her eyes. “I am not afraid of war.”

  “What are you afraid of?”

  “Choice. Failure. Regret? Star roads opening and swallowing the world. What if everything breaks? I’m afraid of that. And, One for Innis Lear, one for Aremoria.”

  “Do you know what it means? Certainly? Or are you simply afraid that you do?”

  She lowers her hands. “I don’t know. But in my dreams I’m so afraid. I dream of wolves and lions and roads made out of lightning. I take my sword and stab it through my own guts! I choose one thing and lose everything else. Why are choices like that?”

  “They’re not, always. You won’t lose me, no matter what you choose.”

  “What if I lose myself?” The Wolf of Aremoria breathes softly, lashes fluttering with emotion.

  Her husband says, “Aremoria knows what you are. If you hold on to Are
moria, you hold on to yourself.”

  “I’m not sure that means anything,” she replies, wryly amused.

  “I know what you are, then. Hold on to me.”

  Almost against her will, Hotspur leans her forehead against his.

  THE PROBLEM WITH prophecies is this: one for Innis Lear, one for Aremoria is as simple as it gets, and yet, is that one the same one as the first? Or are they two individual ones? One person? One queen? One magic, sky, sun? A one to be shared, a one to be won? A one to die or claim or love or lose?

  Faith, the Poison Prince would say, and the Witch of the White Forest pull a clarifying card, while the Star-Seer shrug and admit that without knowing the sky the moment the prophecy first was offered, untangling it is impossible. Lady Hotspur would groan and Hal Bolinbroke applaud, laughing, and perhaps comment that one is always a poor number of anything. Banna Mora would counter that one is all anybody needs, if that one is courageous.

  BANNA MORA

  Liresfane, early summer

  THE ARMY OF the March and Innis Lear arrived at Liresfane Valley the afternoon before the first day of the first month of the summer season. The sun shone in a deep blue sky striped with wispy white clouds, warm enough to roast soldiers in their armor. Sweat glistened upon brows and tracked down spines, and the Learish captains encouraged their soldiers to sing merry songs that kept pace regular and spirits bright.

  Mora led the waves of soldiers and horses from the fore, steel breastplate tarnished dark but pressed with a star for Innis Lear; her cape flowed golden for the March, and woven into her thick braids were copper and black ribbons and rubies from the north mountains of the island. She rode like a queen already, in the tones of fire and life. Her eyes swept the expansive field before her, the emerald and rich yellow grasses, edged to the distant south by smooth gray boulders and a curve of narrow river. Elegant trees still abloom with pink and fuchsia buds draped over the clear water, climbing a tor that marked the western swell of Liresfane and was capped by the crumbling ruins of a tower. To the southeast she saw the snapping pennants of Celedrix: orange triangles rippling like tongues of flame lined the hill that shielded the imposter queen’s camp from view. The crown-and-orange flags were joined by others, a rainbow of allies for the queen, but the valley was too wide across for the details to be seen.

  Gripping the reins in her left hand, Mora reached out with her right to her husband; the garnet cradled in the heart of the Blood and the Sea glinted. He accepted her hand, chin lifted.

  She recalled in a flash how she’d seen Rowan Lear two years ago, herself ruined by his father on a different battlefield in this very March, him gleaming gold and powerful as the sun set behind him—and upon her hopes, she’d thought at the time. His armor was the same as then, but polished and washed of blood. His eyes just as daring now, but beloved.

  Rowan signaled the halt and ordered his captain to spread word that this was where the royal pavilion would be built, where he and his glorious wife could rule the cradle of tomorrow’s victory.

  “I’ll see to everything,” he said more quietly to her, with a squeeze of her hand. “You hold here, looking bold and dangerous.”

  Mora laughed. “Rowan.” She did not let go his hand. He met her gaze, and she stared into those tiger-iron eyes of his, lost for a moment. A sweet touch of wind woke her, and she felt her body settle into the saddle, every ache and sore muscle—those from the long ride, those still plaguing her from giving birth. Sun put rays about her husband’s white-gold hair, blurring him as if he were created of nothing but light. The ring of mail, the creak of leather, the huffing horses and orders yelled, passing through the layers of army: all joined together into a song. Banna Mora thought she understood why Rowan frequently was pressed to sing, whether a ballad or a silly jig, a song of destiny or sadness or inexplicable joy. It was perfect belonging.

  The world was a song, and Mora a clarion note, a single pure voice pinning every layer of harmony and discord into place.

  “Mora?” Rowan prompted gently.

  “We are exactly where we are supposed to be, my love. Whatever has spiraled together in the past, whatever is to come, this is the center.”

  His smile was knowing and arrogant.

  Mora did not even mind. She pulled him toward her, so he nudged his mount too deeply and their knees crushed together, horses complaining. Mora put his first knuckle to her mouth and dug her teeth into it. More than a kiss: a command.

  She let him go, and Rowan turned his sleek white horse, opening his mouth to call an order.

  But he stopped, lips gaping, and Mora glanced sharply his way again.

  Rowan stared southwest, at the tor where the tower crumbled at the summit.

  “Mora,” he said, “that is the place. Not any small lookout tower, but the temple of Lear. Burned a thousand years ago to crack open the heart of the wizard who cracked Innis Lear and Aremoria in two. I know it from my dreams.”

  Mora reached again for him, grasping his wrist.

  “Liresfane,” he muttered, then laughed once, hard as a bark. “Lear’s fane—” He said another thing in the language of trees: chapel of magic, and Mora heard it: the sound was more ffffff than shhhh when the wind said chapel.

  “Control yourself, Rowan,” she demanded softly.

  He licked his lips and blew a long, narrow stream of breath. “It will be ours,” he said, voice stronger again. But his eyes lifted to the vault of daylight heavens. “One end of a road of starlight.”

  “Rowan.” Her fingers dug into his wrist.

  His wild eyes caught hers. For a moment pure understanding passed between them. They would win here tomorrow.

  Mora let go.

  With that, Rowan wheeled his horse around and called out his orders. As the army shifted around her, dividing and spilling free of regiments to make camp, Mora aligned her shoulders and pushed her heels down in the stirrups. She gazed toward the opposite hill. The incline Celedrix’s forces would charge down was steeper than this northern slope, and while Mora could pour a greater number onto the field at a time, the height would advantage the Aremore archers.

  Hotspur rode up and said, “Curse my mother for abandoning us.”

  “We still have nearly equal numbers, and better cause.”

  The knight grunted. Then she murmured, “It’s going to be good weather tomorrow. No bright sun. No rain, either.”

  Mora slid a glance to her friend. “I forgot you could do that.”

  “Aremoria did not.” Hotspur shifted her left hand to the hilt of her sword. She stared out at the roll of field and murmured, “Look, they’re coming to parley. Three. And … Mora, they’re bearing the standard of the Lady Knights.”

  PRINCE HAL

  Liresfane, early summer

  DEATH HAUNTED HAL’S every glance.

  In the center of an army, perhaps any rational person might be more aware of mortality than usual, but for Hal, usual itself held mortal thoughts in friendly company.

  (Celedrix’s charger bolts into Hal, knocks her down, and tramples her into a smear that shocks in the memories of onlookers as brightly as the orange of her gambeson.)

  (Hal’s boot catches on that edge of turf cut into the muddy field by a wagon wheel and she falls forward into the axle of that same wagon, jagged and jutting and awaiting repair. That one is a slower death; she gasps for air as blood fills her lungs, pain radiating and her fingers going numb. She’s too weak to pull free, but the hands of her friends grab at her, dragging her off the jagged wood. The wound sucks painfully; with a pop of air she’s free. There’s a hole straight through her, and even the stars can see inside her now.)

  (The canvas she’s trying to sleep beneath catches fire and her dreams labor under an onslaught of smoke: she’s dead of suffocation before the flames are noticed by the guards outside—they drag Charm to safety, though, that’s what matters.)

  (That soldier over there, glaring at her, is an assassin, and his blade appears in her chest, silently and with
out even a glint of moonlight as it flew from his hand. She dies of surprise more than blood loss.)

  (Celeda stops speaking midsentence, heart stopped, and slumps forward, dead.)

  (Celeda does not wake at dawn, no matter how vigorously she is shaken.)

  (Celeda is dead.)

  (Celeda is dead.)

  (Celeda is dead.)

  Hal had tucked a flask of Terestria’s tears into her bloodred jacket but tried not to imbibe too much. It was a personal dare, to feel the shudder of a death-dream and not take a sip for soothing.

  She shared a tent with her husband, though during the seven-day journey here to Liresfane—though it would have been merely four without the massive army—she rode in formation with her Lady Knights, and so Hal was surrounded by her friends.

  Still, the absences rang louder to the prince’s awareness than the rebuilding camaraderie.

  The Lady Knights rode together, camped together, built fires and hunted and scooped shit together. Hal did her share, and made Vatta, though they both ate with their mother and Mata Blunt, Prince Charm, the lords Westmore and Alsax, and their general of foot. Enough squires had been commissioned to the Lady Knights to be shared among them, but Hal and Vatta had royal aides of their own, one military and a palace girl to tend to their wardrobe and tent.

  Vatta asked Hal if this was how the rebellion had been, but of course it was not: that had been immediate and desperate, while this was a true campaign. The sort of summer war Aremoria excelled at, while all Hal remembered of their mother’s rebellion was exhaustion, panic, blood, Hotspur, and the ghost of Morimaros.

  The prince took pity on Vatta, though, and told her stories. Her sister was intelligent, which Hal had overlooked during her wastrel year, for a smart sibling could only have impeded her frivolity. Beyond that, Vatta was both gracious and vain, which made her struggle to get along with Ianta Oldcastle extremely entertaining to the rest of the knights. For Ianta did not allow vanity around her, weaving circular commentary that might or might not have been offensive to any princesses, but also Ianta was too old and too good at her job for Vatta to feel she could repay in kind.