The Queen's Bastard

by C. E. Murphy

“You’re mad.” He sat back on his stool so hard it creaked and one leg bowed out dramatically. “Do you know what a crusade is, lovey?”

  It would hardly do to show surprise that a base-born Lutetian had any especial grasp of crusading, though interest piqued in Belinda’s breast, flickering her eyebrows upward. “Naw. What is it?”

  “It’s a lot of people thinkin’ like you do getting together and riding off to some foreign land to correct their religious beliefs.” The bulky man raked a hand through sandy hair, signaling for another tankard. Half a dozen people reached to pay for it. Satisfaction glinted in his eyes as he lifted it to them all in thanks.

  “So I don’t see what’s so wrong with that,” Belinda snapped. “Someone’s gotta save the heathens, don’t they now?”

  “Mebbe, mebbe. But it’s the noble houses leading ’em, lovey, and it’s the likes of you and me who die for ’em.”

  Belinda put all her suspicion into a squint. “How d’you know so much?”

  “My granfa three hundred years back went to the Holy Lands.”

  Belinda snorted. “And my grandmother was the Aulunian consort. You’re full of shit.”

  “She coulda been, with the way that bastard went through women.” Raucous laughter split the air. Belinda leaned forward to pound on the table.

  “That’s what I’m sayin’! All them wives and divorces and what have you, and leavin’ the Church behind! It ain’t right! Don’t the regent have a right to Aulun, better’n that red-headed harlot they got on the throne? How long’s the Reformation bitch sat on the throne, anyways?”

  “What’s the point in changin’ out one woman for another?” the man demanded. “God didn’ give any of them teats so they could think, neither.”

  “But the regent is a godly woman,” Belinda protested. “The son’s been raised in the true church. I’ve got no call against you, mister, women don’t belong on thrones but for holdin’ ’em for their sons. But that woman, Lorrene?”

  “Lorraine,” someone said. Belinda waved a hand at the man in thanks before hitting the table again.

  “Lorraine. She’s got no get and no chance of it now, as long in the tooth as she is. Does she think she’ll live forever? We got a duty! Think of all them souls being damned to hell because the regent won’t act!”

  A rumble of discontent swept through the men and women gathered around her. Her debate partner snorted and drank from his tankard, watching her with hazel eyes less bleary from drink than she expected. Others refused to meet her gaze, letting theirs slide uncomfortably away from her even as they exchanged little nods to one another. “It ain’t right,” someone agreed.

  “Mebbe not,” someone else said, “but I’m not lookin’ to die for it.”

  Belinda’s drinking partner leaned forward, crooking a finger at her. She folded her arms under her breasts and leaned on the table, watching his gaze drop to her bosom before he lifted it to her face. “You’re trouble, lass,” he told her in a smelly growl. “There’s them that agrees with you, but it ain’t good for your health to be spouting off like you’re doin’, you understand me?”

  “No one cares what I say,” Belinda said, infusing it with all the bitterness she could. “A woman without two coins to rub together. No one cares.”

  The man smiled, lecherous and foul with beer. “Can’t do a damned thing about the womanhood, but the coin, now. Might have a few to spare for a woman as eager in bed as she is about politics.”

  He was, Belinda thought later, considerably less coarse than she’d expected.

  BELINDA PRIMROSE

  23 August 1587 Lutetia, Gallin

  The priest’s fingertips touched her tongue. For a gleeful instant Belinda let herself wonder what he would do if she caught his finger in her mouth and suckled it as she gazed up at him through long eyelashes. Then again, what she’d heard of Ecumenic priests suggested it would be a gesture wasted, as she had a woman’s curves and not a boy’s narrow hips. She swallowed the sweetened bread, sipped the wine—better wine than she expected—and kept her eyes lowered. A fit of giggles in the magnificently silent cathedral would not do at all.

  The grey flagstones beneath her knees were worn in smooth hollows from centuries of parishioners taking the blood and body of the Lord as she had just done for the first time. Belinda had more faith in her queen than in the God she’d never seen, but worshipping in an Ecumenical church made the hairs on her arms rise in discomfort. She had never played a role so close to her own and at the same time so diametrically different.

  A queen’s life depended on hers; that was as it had always been. But now, for the first time, it was not Lorraine’s length of days, but Sandalia de Costa’s, that she held in her hands. Sandalia had a viable claim to Aulun’s throne and a lifetime of preparation behind her: if the rumours Robert had heard were true, the time for waiting was over. Sandalia intended to make a play for Lorraine’s country, to take her throne and restore Aulun to Ecumenic rule.

  Belinda had spent a decade slipping through the lower ranks, taking lives and ruining reputations to protect the Aulunian queen. Robert’s whisper came back to her: This is how it must be. She would insinuate herself in court, make herself as close to Sandalia as she could, and seek out any hint of perfidy that might condemn Sandalia as an active, physical threat to Lorraine’s person. She sought written confirmation in the form of treaties or ambitious letters if it was to be found, or to become embroiled in a plot to set Sandalia on Aulun’s throne herself, if pen could not be pursuaded to parchment. For a rarity, she was not commanded to do murder, though Robert had left that dangling, neither condoning nor condemning it as a possibility. A queen might die at Belinda’s hands, that another might live.

  The priest bade her rise, and she did, murmuring thanks and crossing herself as easily as if she’d done it every night of her life. She stepped back, then turned, retreating to her seat, closer to the back of the cathedral than the front. Merchants and bankers sat here, the wealthy working class caught between nobility and poor. Belinda allowed herself a seat toward the front of that class, in keeping with the small wealth her persona commanded. More than one mother examined her critically, judging her clothes and bearing. More than one son caught her eye, judging her breasts and hips. Belinda took note of them without watching, her eyes fixed piously toward the front of the cathedral and the magnificently dressed priest who lectured there. Around her, women whispered the words of worship they had learned by rote; Belinda instead listened to his speech, delivered with passion. His voice carried up the cathedral walls, rolling to the back without effort.

  Ancient Parnan was not her strongest tongue, but she could do more than translate a sermon with it. The priest never faltered, his voice rising and falling until the lecture sounded almost like a song. Belinda drifted on it, listening less to the speaker than to the cathedral itself. Morning light slashed down through stained-glass windows, sending a multitude of colours over the congregation. It looked, Belinda thought, as if God had stretched out His hand and graced the believers with the light of faith. She turned her head and discovered bright patches of yellow speckling her shoulders, and thought perhaps He graced the less faithful as well. She smiled, turning her face back to the sermonizing priest, but not before meeting the gaze of a young man a few pews away. He offered a brief, hopeful smile that lit brown eyes, making him even more youthful than an unruly cascade of brown curls suggested. Belinda quelled the impulse to curl her fingers, as if snagging the man with her gaze put him in the palm of her hand. Marius Poulin, whose sturdy loyalty lent him friends of higher rank than the son of a merchant family might aspire to. She had studied him and half a dozen others from her gutter-rat station, hiding at the back of the cathedral to hear worship and watch the young men who might fall to her traps. Marius, handsome and good-hearted, was her first choice. Belinda let her eyes flicker back to his after a moment, and his smile brightened.

  It was simple to let him catch her after the service. She dawdled, adjusting her
shoe, and when she straightened he was there, offering a hand in support. “Marius Poulin. Forgive me my forwardness, but I haven’t seen you here before.”

  Belinda smiled. “Do you know all the congregation by sight, Marius Poulin?” If they were well-dressed, certainly, though he’d passed her by a dozen times in the past two weeks without ever seeing her as she crouched with the poor on the steps or inside, near the cathedral’s doors.

  “Close enough. For a large cathedral, it’s a very small church. May I be so bold as to escort you a little way, lady? And perhaps to beg your name? And to ask from whence you came?”

  “Too many questions.” Belinda laughed and slipped her arm through Marius’s. “You may escort me a little ways, but the rest I fear I must be judicious with. Lutetia,” she confided, “is such a very large city, and a woman cannot be sure of whom she may trust.” Her Gallic was more than flat; she endowed it with the burr of Lanyarch, the contentious, Ecumenic holdings in Aulun’s north.

  “From Northern Aulun, then,” Marius said. Belinda’s expression went cool and she pulled away very slightly.

  “Lanyarch.”

  Marius tightened his hand over Belinda’s at his elbow. “Lanyarch,” he echoed. “I apologize, lady. It’s difficult to know—”

  “Were I a sympathizer to the Reformation, would I attend worship here?” Ice slid through Belinda’s voice, her spine stiff with restrained indignation. “I have not chosen Gallin as a retreat entirely for the food, sir. If you will excuse me.” She shook off his hand and swept forward, her skirts gathered away from the cobblestone roads. A few quick steps put passersby between herself and him, and she heard him call out a quick, frustrated apology before cursing. Smiling, she let the crowd take her away, confident of a hook well set. The midweek worship would be early enough to see him again. If she were a good judge, he would be there, fretting at his lost chance and hoping for a new one.

  He was not. Nor was he at the following Sunday sermon. Belinda searched the cathedral pews, quick glances to the left and right. If Marius was there, being caught looking for him would undo her cool dismissal. But the staid and proper merchants hid him nowhere in their ranks. Other young men caught her eye, and she let her gaze soften; if she had to begin again, it would be easier if the first impression she left was not an unapproachable one.

  She didn’t like doubting herself; it wasn’t like her to be such a poor judge of character. She heard nothing of the sermon, but rather watched the priest with blind eyes, considering her own tactics and wondering where she had gone wrong. Perhaps she’d been too cold, too challenging. Perhaps he had less of the hunter in him than she’d anticipated. Or perhaps it was merely something as simple as his mother having higher sights set for the boy, though she would still expect him to attend church.

  Belinda exited the cathedral with the crowd, casting a judging eye at the morning sun. It was not yet noon and carried little of the day’s heat with it. She stepped out of the line of traffic to shake open a parasol, grateful for the reduction in glare the moment she set it over her shoulder. Certainly Marius’s mother would not forbid him worship entirely. She would try a final time, at the afternoon gathering, and accept disappointment and defeat if he were not there. She would find another mark, but it galled her. What gossip had told her of Marius Poulin had made him seem the perfect catch, and she was unaccustomed to having to try more than once to set her line.

  Arrogance, she admitted to herself, the thought bringing a small smile to her face. Arrogance served her well; it gave her the confidence to gain the attraction of nearly any man, from soldier to noble. Confidence made up for lack of beauty; few people understood that as thoroughly as she did. And beauty was its own handicap. It was safer to slip through courts and intrigues as a pretty woman rather than as a beautiful one. Beauty, like that with which her mother was bestowed, would be remembered where mere prettiness would not. Of course—Belinda found herself smiling again, and men smiled back at her—of course, Lorraine had power as well, which made even the most unattractive of women beautiful. But it, too, carried its price. Power meant a lifetime of political bargains. Lorraine’s choice was the power of solitude, her beauty aging and fading as she played one suitor against another, knowing none of them held love in his heart for her. Even desire was questionable, except desire for the throne she sat on. Not for the first time, Belinda wondered if Lorraine entirely trusted the feelings Robert Drake harbored for her. More, Belinda wondered if she should. He had never pursued her hand in marriage, choosing never to threaten her autonomy or power. If anything kept them together, it was that, Belinda thought. Robert was willing to accept a more subtle power, to let a woman sit above him. He was an unusual man, and for that Belinda felt a small, startling surge of pride.

  Her mood restored, she shook herself and began down the cathedral steps, still smiling. Confidence had failed her, this time. It was no doubt good for her to lose one once in a while. It reminded her that she was only human.

  “Mademoiselle?” The pleasant male tenor came from behind her. Belinda straightened, her smile turning pure with recognition before she schooled her features into calm curiosity and turned. Only human, perhaps, but not so poor a judge of character after all.

  “Marius Poulin.” She offered her hand, a delicate arch to her fingers, trusting he would curve his hand beneath hers. He did, bowing very slightly over her hand. As he came to full height again he lifted his eyebrows in question, the faintest pressure on her fingers. She inclined her head as slightly as he’d bowed, and he stepped forward, turning to tuck her hand into the crook of his arm. “I thought,” Belinda said, “that perhaps you had abandoned me.”

  “Not at all. I’ve spent the past ten days cloistered in my garret, beating my brow and rending my breast, searching for a way to undo what damage my careless words had done to our burgeoning relationship.” His eyes lit with hope and humour, making Belinda smile. Perhaps Lutetia was good for her; smiling seemed to come almost as easily here as it did in Aria Magli. The silence and stillness within her retreated a little. Not far enough to leave her in danger of exposing herself, but enough that it took less conscious effort to act as the women around her did.

  “Relationship,” she echoed, letting amusement warm her voice. She could see appreciation in his eyes, in the way his pupils dilated, black swallowing brown. A touch of red came to his cheeks and she almost laughed; he was an innocent. The laughter faded in an instant. Innocence made him easily used, and easily damaged. Marius Poulin would not forget the woman he escorted on his arm, not until the day he died. If his Heaven were a kind place, he would leave her memory behind when he entered through its gates. Belinda knew too well that first love found with her was a dredge that never lost its bitter flavour.

  “Do we have a relationship, Marius Poulin?” Belinda asked, trusting her own instincts, long and well trained, to have not let the silence between them grow too deep or distressing. “And dare I ask—” She hesitated, wondering how far decency would let her play before she actually shocked the boy. Far enough, she decided: her part was that of a widow, after all, not a virgin with no teeth. “—what sort of relationship you have with women whose names you do not know?”

  Color scarred his cheekbones again, but he smiled, making Belinda’s smile return. Innocent enough to be embarrassed, but not undone by her flirting. He would do very nicely, if his friendships reached as high as rumour said they did. “Not the sort I would discuss with a lady,” he confessed. “Perhaps you might tell me your name, that I might pursue a relationship of a more delicate nature with you.”

  Curiosity stung Belinda, making her tilt her chin up to consider the line of his jaw. He was only a little taller than she was; tall enough, but not imposing. He would follow men larger both in stature and in spirit, never doubting his own place as second or third in command. He would be well loved among the lower ranks for generosity of heart and for his faith in following those with authority over him. She had known men like him, essentially
gentle of nature and true of soul, always followers, lacking the certain spark that made them bold and fearless in the eyes of others. Men like Marius were too predictable to be dangerous, but without them it seemed to Belinda that the world might cease to function. She had judged him correctly in his inability to resist the temptation she provided; she knew him well enough, already, to guide him where she needed him to be. There was strength in his jaw, pink still lightly touching his cheekbones. Belinda smiled once more, pleased with the young man at her side. He would do admirably.

  “Tell me,” she asked, a note of teasing command in her voice, “do you truly not know my name?”

  He glanced at her, eyes widening with startlement before his smile broadened. “A gentleman wouldn’t confess to knowing it if he did, Lady Beatrice.”

  Belinda had not heard the name spoken aloud before, not by someone of comparative rank to her assumed persona. In Marius’s light tenor it settled around her like a cloak. Hairs rose on her arms very briefly, as if cool silk slid over soft skin. She felt the chill settle into her bones, airy and temporary, reshaping her from the inside out again. Belinda Primrose was left behind in the naming, a new woman born in her place. She breathed in, and found laughter would come more easily to Beatrice than to Belinda; she must take care to ward against it becoming dangerously easy. Beatrice must marry well, to guard her small fortune and have children that would support her in her later years; she had terribly little to do with the woman she had been made from.

  Wearing the garb of Beatrice’s life like a new skin that caressed her body, Belinda smiled up at Marius, letting delight, so easily mistaken for adoration, widen her eyes. “And if you know it, as you do, what, then, are you, if not a gentleman?” She felt the laughter bubbling up inside her and for a disconcerting few seconds found herself unable to release it, her own nature quelling it with more ferocity than the newly worn Beatrice had strength to support it. Marius, beaming at her, didn’t see the internal struggle that Belinda fought with herself, denying a decade of stillness to let a noblewoman’s laughter rise to the surface and froth over.