The Queen_s Bastard ic-1

by C. E. Murphy

  But then, memory did not stretch so far back, and a babe still wet with birthing blood should not recall a narrow, regal face and titian curls spilling over pale skin. That was a recollection Belinda kept close to her heart, and had never spoken of to her father. It seemed impossible that he could not know, but perhaps it was even more improbable that she could.

  “I do. And I wonder if there are any who might know you.”

  “In the Aulunian court? A few, perhaps. More who would claim to,” Belinda began, but Robert lifted his hand again, stopping her words.

  “In Gallin. In the regent’s court at Lutetia.” Robert brushed his hand over his eyes. “It is a risk.” The words were low, spoken more to himself than to Belinda. “The straits are not so wide, but the godly gulf is deep. And ten years might be ten decades in this place.”

  “My lord?”

  Robert’s gaze snapped up again and he shook his head. “Forgive an old man’s ramblings.”

  Belinda snorted, loud and undignified. Robert looked chagrined, then laughed, bringing his hands together in a solid clap. “Which is it you’ll claim? Not old, or not rambling?”

  “Not either, my lord,” Belinda said, smiling. “Your every word falls like a precious gem on my listening ears. I have not been placed somewhere so high as a regent’s court, Robert, and you have not come to see me yourself in a long time. D-” She broke off, remembering abruptly that her childhood memories were supposed to be asleep. Dmitri had not given her his name, in the Khazarian north. She ought not know him or his name. “-the man who came to me in Khazar-”

  “It was nicely done with the count,” Robert interrupted. “What did you slip him to bring on that conveniently bad summer cold? The symptoms were unexpected.”

  Belinda held her mouth in a long moue, hiding a fluttering heartbeat behind a wry examination of her father before she lowered her gaze with a smile. “That would be telling, sir, and a lady never tells.”

  But only because there was no answer that would satisfy. The one she wanted to offer was arsenic, but uncertainty lay beneath it. She hadn’t let herself linger on Gregori’s death; it had been achieved, and that was all that mattered. For the second time that evening she remembered the alien emotion pounding through her. In Khazar she had trusted it must be her own; at the Magalian pub she had been certain that the emotion she’d known belonged to those around her. It tasted of witchery.

  No. Belinda clamped down on a shudder, unwilling to release her control even-especially-in her father’s presence. She would not show fear, would not give in to the power of childhood stories. Illness was brought on by arsenic, not wishes, no matter the desire she’d held in her heart to bring Gregori low, for Lorraine and for the bruises Belinda herself carried from his hand. Pretty, bitter Ilyana was superstitious and jealous, her accusations of witchcraft the creation of a small, frightened mind. It could not be otherwise.

  Prickles of cold washed over Belinda’s skin in spite of the fire’s heat, and she set the discomfiting thoughts aside as her father laughed again. “A lady never does,” he mocked her. “A gentleman never tells.”

  “You know far fewer ladies than I do, then, sir,” Belinda said drily. “Not that I would wish to malign the reputations of any of the fine women I know.” She thought, briefly, of Ana, swinging her around on the table, and let herself smile. The stolen afternoon and evening had been worth Robert’s anger, which seemed to have fled quickly enough once she was back in…custody? she wondered. It was not a term she was accustomed to using for herself. “The man who came to me in Khazar said time was of importance. What’s stirring in Gallin?”

  Robert’s expression blackened for a few seconds. “If time is so much of an essence, and you are aware of that, what excuse do you have for dallying away your day today?”

  Belinda exhaled a quiet long breath. “Even the queen takes holidays, my lord. If one day is so desperate a difference, you ought have sent me to Gallin straight away rather than coming here as we always do.”

  Robert steepled his fingers and pressed his lips against them, frowning at her. “Yes,” he said abruptly, eventually. “Yes, you have the right of it there. Damn you, anyway. Who taught you cleverness?”

  “My nurse, my lord.” Belinda lowered her eyes demurely, remembering the staid old woman, then peeked up with an arched eyebrow, not bothering to hide her amusement. Robert guffawed and came to his feet, catching Belinda’s hands in his own. He pulled her to standing and into a rough hug.

  “My lass. There’s my girl. Outwitting the old man. Soon enough there’ll be no place for me.”

  “Robert,” Belinda began, but he shook his head and put her back from himself, holding her shoulders.

  “Not yet. This old dragon has a few flames left in him yet. There is rumour of insurrection from Gallin, Belinda.”

  “Who? Against Sandalia? Or the boy? Javier?”

  “He’s your age, lass, not such a boy at all. Twenty-two years old and holding back from claiming the throne out of respect for his mother, that’s what they say.”

  “Or out of a fear he’ll never see another day that belongs to his own self and isn’t owed to another.”

  Robert’s eyes darkened again, this time with thought. “That may be some of it, too. No, no. Sandalia visits with her brother Rodrigo in Essandia, and my people warn that their cloistered discussions say she chafes at her boundaries and eyes Lanyarch and Aulun. You named the threads that link her to Aulun’s throne yourself. Sandalia may think a pretender’s crown would look well upon her head. You will not let that happen.”

  Belinda closed her eyes, absorbing Robert’s orders along with the decade-old ritual that set them into place. This is how it shall go, Primrose. Heed me well.

  When he was done she opened her eyes again, all but swaying with the music of his words. “It’s a chess game you’re playing, my lord, one where the black queen is not yet even on the board. Why send me to Lutetia and not Isidro in Essandia?” She passed off the question with a wave of her hand even as she asked it. Passed off, too, the chiding, flat-mouthed glance her father gave her; she went to Lutetia because Sandalia was not there, and that gave Belinda space to insinuate herself in society before the queen’s return. “Does it matter to you how I become close enough to the throne to watch it and judge its actions?”

  “Has it ever?” Robert asked lightly enough. It had not; not from the night he’d murmured Belinda’s duty to her, and set her on du Roz. All she had known was the man’s death must be accomplished, and even at not quite twelve, that it should look like an accident seemed obvious. Robert had been astounded at the swiftness of her actions, and at the method of du Roz’s death. Belinda recalled with exquisite clarity the brief admiring expression on her father’s face as she’d swooned and trembled in a guard’s arms during the aftermath of sudden, dreadful death. No, if even then she had accepted her tasks and determined her own path to achieving them, Robert would not likely now commanded her walk a road of his choosing.

  “Find a way to shove Gallin from the parapets; that’s all we need,” he said, as though following her thoughts of du Roz. “Sandalia has never had Lorraine’s caution, and an ill-advised word spoken to an ear we can trust is what we need. Find that weakness, Primrose. Find that ambition, and exploit it. We cannot allow Aulun to fall into Ecumenic hands again.”

  Belinda widened her eyes in a mockery of innocence, a hand placed against her breastbone. “Why, my lord, do you say that you trust me so very much, then?”

  Sudden unexpected fondness deepened Robert’s eyes, and Belinda glanced away. “You are a good girl, loyal and true,” her father said, as if from a distance, “and I would trust no other beyond you.”

  Belinda stood, gathering her soiled skirts, and dipped a curtsey of unnecessary depth. “Then I’m away to Gallin in the morning, my lord, to prove your faith in me.”

  ANA DI MEO, COURTESAN

  17 July 1587 Aria Magli, Parna A door opens, almost soundless, breaching the space between r
ooms more thoroughly than a handful of spy holes can do. A man enters, long strides eating the space in small rooms. His voice, his question, is abrupt with unusual uncertainty: “And?”

  Ana taps a fingertip against the arm of her chair, a soft thump of flesh rather than the rat-tat of longer nails. She leans on the other elbow, one knuckle pressed over her lips as she watches Drake pace in front of the fire. In another man such action might speak of nervous energy. In Robert, it has more of the predator to it, heavy solid movements that threaten to back quarry into position for the kill. He is the only man who has ever refused to pay her in coin.

  He is the only man she can imagine permitting that refusal.

  “She is lonely, my lord.”

  Robert turns in astonishment. “That hardly matters.”

  Ana tilts her head, eyebrows drawn down. “On the contrary. Almost nothing else does matter. Women will do things to ease loneliness as men will do them to ease the pangs of love.”

  “Not Rosa.” Robert makes a sharp gesture, dismissive. “No more than I.” Silence falls before he makes another gesture, still sharp, now demanding. “What might she do?”

  “Besides ignore your summonings for hours on end?” Ana’s eyebrows arch with challenge. “Robert, emotion is not a predictable thing that follows step to reasonable step.”

  He arches an eyebrow back, and Ana laughs. “All right, maybe for you, my lord, but those of us who are merely human are made of weaker stuff.” She gets to her feet and comes forward to slip her arms around his waist, smiling up at him. “My lord Drake. Do you know that ‘drake’ means ‘dragon,’ Robert?”

  He frowns at her with good humour, the lines of his short-cropped beard making the expression all the more dramatic. “Aulunian isn’t your native tongue, Ana. How do you know that?”

  “Neither is Reinnish, Robert, and that’s where the word comes from. I do have some education.”

  “Yes.” He cups her cheek wonderingly, shaking his head. “The loveliest women, trained for bedding pleasure and stimulating conversation. I will never understand Aria Magli.”

  “Aulunian reserve,” Ana says, “will never understand the rest of Echon at all. Do you know there are people who believe you Aulunian are all knitted out of the fog that haunts your island? All so cool and pale and emotionless.”

  “And what do you believe?”

  Ana smiles. “That you’re unlike most Aulunian men I’ve met.”

  “Then I believe I’m flattered.” Robert shakes his head again. “But you’re not here to flatter me. Tell me how Rosa will jump.”

  Ana sighs and steps back, brushing her knuckles across her own mouth. It had been easy, in the moment, to believe that the young woman might have forgotten her duties to spend the night in the arms of another who shared similar duties. But then she’d drawn back, repulsed and panicked, and had fallen into a swoon. Ana keeps her eyes lowered until she’s certain her expression won’t betray the hurt she felt at Rosa’s rejection, until the pulse in her throat has slowed a little. It’s only a few seconds before she lifts her gaze to meet Robert’s eyes. “She is bound to you, Robert. She won’t betray you.”

  “And I can trust that?”

  Ana snorts, all semblance of delicacy left behind as she turns away. “You can trust there’s not a much better judge of character than a whore. What are you afraid of with her?”

  Robert holds his tongue so long she finally looks over her shoulder. “It is my experience,” he says with the delicacy she’s abandoned, “that females are far more pragmatic than males. I did not mean to question you quite so…rudely.” The deference in his voice is astonishing, his gaze lowered and shoulders rolled as he tries to make himself smaller. They’ve been lovers on and off for sixteen years; it isn’t the first time Robert has questioned her judgment and abased himself at her snappish replies. It never ceases to amaze her. “It’s unlike her to abandon her duty as she did today. I must be certain of her loyalty.” His voice remains soft, apologetic.

  “No wonder your queen is so fond of you.” Ana comes back to him, touching his chin to make him lift his head. “I’d like to meet the mother who trained such deference to women into you.”

  Robert smiles, thin. “No,” he says, “you wouldn’t. Now there was a dragon.” More humour lights his eyes and he shakes his head. “I need you to do something for me, Ana.”

  “Will I get a lot of money for it?” Impishness prompts the question and she’s rewarded by Robert throwing his head back and laughing aloud.

  “Expenses. I won’t pay more than that, you know that.”

  “I do.” Ana holds her breath a moment before plunging into a question that’s plagued her for years: “Why is that, my lord?”

  Robert’s heavy eyebrows lift. “Because in my world, a woman chooses her lovers. A man might woo, but it is an honour to be chosen. To offer coin would be…a killing offense.”

  “That,” Ana says drolly, “is hardly the Aulun I’ve heard of. Perhaps you nobles are more genteel than the fog can bear news of. Maybe I should visit there, or even stay. That sounds much more pleasant than spreading my legs at the drop of a coin.”

  “Not all Aulunian men,” Robert murmurs, “dance on the whim of their queen.”

  “True. All right.” Ana claps her hands together, curious. “What do you need me to do, Robert?”

  “Follow Rosa to Lutetia.”

  Ana laughs as loudly as Robert did a moment earlier, her humour fading as Robert’s expression remains serious. “You can’t possibly mean that.”

  “Why not?”

  “What would I do there? Why would I follow her?”

  “You’re a resourceful woman, Ana. Come up with an excuse. An evening of dance and drink awoke an unbearable longing in your loins for the lass. A wealthy patron finally made good his debt and you can retire; whatever it takes.”

  “I thought you said you trusted her.”

  Robert nods. “I do. But this is…important. If she’s lonely, as you say-she’s used to playing the part of a poor woman, Ana. A worker, not a lady. I cannot risk the feel of silk against her thighs and wealthy men distracting her, and I must know from other sources if she is focused.”

  “I’m not going to Lutetia unless I can travel comfortably, Robert. Expenses will be dear, for this.” Ana speaks the Gallic language, but she’s never travelled beyond Aria Magli. This has been her home, her cage, and until a moment ago, she would have never imagined leaving. It surprises her how willing she is to consider it, but then, she has confidence in the financial incentives Robert will agree to. His crooked smile tells her she’s right to be certain of him.

  “I wouldn’t imagine anything less. You won’t leave for a week. I don’t want any chance of you meeting on the road.”

  “And if we meet in Lutetia?”

  Robert lifts her hand to kiss the inside of her wrist. His mouth is warm, making a shiver of desire ripple over her skin. He looks through his lashes, unfairly seductive, and offers a teasing grin. “Improvise.”

  BELINDA PRIMROSE

  12 August 1587 Lutetia, capital of Gallin “Ya think God gave ya teats ’cause he wanted ya ta think?” A barrel-chested Gallicman thrust his face into Belinda’s and exhaled breath laden with the stench of beer. She allowed herself the luxury of gagging, turning her head away to cough out the odor she’d inhaled. For a moment she thought of Viktor and his bad breath, and sent an apology to him, wherever he might be.

  It was the curse-well, one of many-of being a woman: there was nowhere for women to gather and talk in the way that men did, at least not women above a certain station. Belinda dared not play a part too close to the street, not when she ultimately needed to walk into the palace, but for her first days in Lutetia she saw no other choice.

  Chances were good it didn’t matter. She would shed her identity and create a new one within the Lutetian walls as many times as necessary. So long as she moved from one part of the city to another, she remained anonymous: as in all Echonian cities, th
e classes rarely mixed. This was her third tavern in as many nights, and there would be more before she was satisfied.

  Her costume was as much disguise as she needed. The corsets were thick and weighted, giving her the bulk of a larger woman. She went barefoot in the August heat, subtracting inches from the height a noblewoman would stand at, and wore her hair in a rat’s nest that approximated the smooth coifs of the upper class. It would take a week to comb out. Between all that and her breasts being shelved as high as they could be without popping out of her dress, she had reasonable confidence she would go unrecognized between tavern and a rich man’s church.

  “All I’m sayin’,” she gave back to the blowhard, in language as base as his own, “is that it seems like the only godly thing to do.”

  “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.”