Our passage slowed on the choked Road between Chauvignienne and Chetenerault, impatience bursting from me at almost every stop, halting only to water our glaze-eyed horses.
One must be careful with charmed beasts; after a while their submission becomes complete and they will run until their hearts burst. It falls to the rider to conserve their strength, to ask just short of the ultimate from them. It falls to a lieutenant to ask just short of the ultimate from his peloton, and the captain from his lieutenants. We had to arrive quickly, yes—but also with enough strength to fight.
Though the question of whether we would be given a chance to fight or be simply mown down as we sought to come to Vianne’s aid was an open one.
It takes three weeks or so in good weather to ride from Arcenne to Orlaans—for yes, that is where we were bound. The Field d’Or is very near the city given to the younger sibling of the Heir to the Throne of Arquitaine, Timrothe d’Orlaans’s pride and the fount of his power, from which he rode to Court and engaged in his dances of intrigue, duel, and debauchery.
Vianne—and the men I had commanded as well as the ones I commanded now—were riding into the jaws of a dragon.
It took us six days.
Chapter Twenty-One
Night, soft and prickling as the straw-yellow wine of Anjerou. Full of the rustling crispness of harvest season, a chill sparking in the blood of every creature. Sleek fat coneys gleaning the leavings, market-squares a-chaos in every town we rode through, peasants begging us for news as we passed with haggard faces and globes of witchlight spelled in relays among the men to light our way. From Tourleon to the outskirts of Orlaans we rode against the tide, but word of our passage seemed to have spread like wildfire. I did not know whom to thank for that—perhaps my father, or merely the chain of rumor written on air that tugs on every peasant ear. In any case, the refugees sought to scatter as we passed, some cursing, shaken fists, children crying in fear. Our pace quickened, though the horses were almost reduced to bone. Arran hung his head at every stop, barely flicking an ear as I muttered to him, apologizing for this treatment and yet, never ceasing to demand.
In the distance, Orlaans lit with torches and witchfire, and the faint carillon of its towers pealing to mark the watch wafted to us on the breeze. We breasted a short rise, as a bloody, not-quite-full harvest moon heaved its bloated self over the horizon, and the Field d’Or glittered below us. Torch and witchlight, smoke from the cookfires, horses neighing in greeting and our own mounts too exhausted to reply. None of them lame or stumbled, one of the hedgewitches riding double with a Guard, the twain belted together so the peasant could sleep without fear of falling.
“Halt! Who goes there?” they challenged through the moonlit dimness, and I found myself forced to use my voice.
“In the Queen’s name!” My shout, gravel from a long-abused and dust-scorched throat, surprised even me.
But what surprised me more was the answering bellow from fifty scarecrow-gaunt young noblemen, witchlights fizzing and sparking into being as they answered. “For the Queen’s honor!”
Perhaps twas enough of an answer. In any event, there was some to-ing and fro-ing. Our horses stamped, the hedgewitches waking and tending to them automatically, several of the Guard dismounting to save their mounts’ strength. Hands rested on rapiers, and there was precious little talk. We were too tired, too nerve-strung. And too conscious of the crossbows leveled at us, not to mention the size of the breathing animal that an army becomes while it sleeps.
“Dear gods.” A familiar voice, shaking me from my torpor as I forced myself to perch, spine straight and knees tight, on Arran’s bony back. “As I live and breathe, Tristan!”
It was Adersahl di Parmecy et Villeroche, in the familiar crimson-sashed uniform of a Guard—black doublet, white shirt underneath, black breeches, boots that had seen hard use and fresh polish. I finally dismounted, and he approached at the head of a dragoon of hard-faced lowlanders, their pikes held high and their mustaches waxed—though none so fine as Adersahl’s.
He was freshly shaven, except for said mustache, and looked as fit as hard drilling can make a man. I offered my hand and we clasped forearms. To his credit, he did not flinch at my appearance. “You look terrible,” he muttered in my ear, and relief threatened to unloose my knees.
“Where is she?” I rasped. “Is she safe? Is she well?”
“Oh, aye, well enough. Let us tend to your peloton; they look ready to drop. How did you come to be here?”
“Six days ago we were in Arcenne.” I coughed, clearing the dust from my throat. “See to them, Adersahl; they are good men and well worth it. And tell me where to find my Queen.”
“Six days?” He sounded baffled, a thing I had rarely heard. “But she only sent for you three—”
“I do not care.” Why could he not grasp that essential fact? Behind him, the pikesmen eyed us with no little trepidation. “Where is she?”
“Abed, Captain, and we are loath to disturb her. Tis late. We’ll see to your comfort—such as it is. You’ve arrived just in time.” Adersahl was pale, and his smile, now that I looked more closely, was more stretched-thin than I liked. “Tomorrow she treats with d’Orlaans. It is well you’ve arrived.”
I swallowed a venomous curse, made a sign to my lieutenants, and we followed him into the encampment.
* * *
To wake in the middle of an unfriendly army camp after a ride such as that is to truly understand discomfort.
In the moment before I lunged upright, the camp-cot almost collapsing under me—they are not made for violent movement—I thought I heard a muffled cry, or the sound of a blade drawn from its sheath. Cold sweat greased me, and I found myself with every bone aching, in a rude tent that barely kept the chill of a late harvest-season morning outside its flapping door and thin walls.
I was alone.
The wind moaned. Clashing metal, woodsmoke, nothing amiss. The sound was any army’s rising-song, made up of cursing, the sizzle of cooking, horses stamping and speaking in their own fashion, and the regimented cries and clashes of drill. One two three, get your arms up, you maggots; polearms come forward; march in time; swing it like you mean it, one two three—death doesn’t wait for chai-time, you saufe-tets, move! Move! Move!
The tent was small, no carpet but bare-beaten ground, my saddle and saddlebags on a rickety frame, my swordbelt and the cot. I rubbed sleep from my eyes, yawned, and pulled the doorflap aside to behold the familiarity of an Arquitaine army going about its dawn-waking business. My neck was stiff as bridge stanchions, my back a solid bar of muscle-locked pain, my legs numb. The rest of me did not bear mentioning. Suffice to say no part of my body was happy with the abuse it had endured.
But I forgot it all.
There was another tent, indigo-dyed and beautifully draped, its lines taut and its breadth proclaiming importance. Silver fleurs-di-lisse etched over its deep midnight, and the sight whipped bile into the back of my throat. Royal, certainly—the fleurs were the emblem of the Angoulême—but it was also too small to be a commander’s tent. It was meant for a King’s Consort, and by the Blessed, d’Orlaans had gone too far in forcing my Queen to sleep in its embrace.
Who else could it be for?
One of the flaps was pulled aside, and a nobleman emerged. It was Jierre, and he swept a bow as he retreated. Some things can be told at a distance—and I could tell, just by watching, that di Yspres was amused, a sally leaving his lips as the feather of his hat swept near the ground.
So. Is it thus? Every part of me turned scalding-cold.
My lieutenant straightened, returning his hat to its wonted, jaunty angle, and let the flap fall in heavy folds of costly fabric. Inside would be braziers to take the morning chill away, and soft rugs.
“Captain!” Tinan di Rocham cried, and I almost flinched. For Jierre di Yspres’s head came up, and the di Rocham boy, obviously hailing him, darted out of a lane of beaten earth between faceless rows of other tents.
An
d Jierre is Captain now, is he. Well. My hands were fists.
I retreated into the shelter of my own thin cloth walls. Stared about me, unseeing, waves of hot and cold alternating through me as if I had taken the ague. Vianne had shaken thus, when she was fevered during the long ride from the Citté.
She needs you. Jierre is too dull an instrument for what she must accomplish.
So she needed me, yes.
But what if she preferred… somewhat else?
It was then, staring at my worn saddle and feeling the itch of road-dust all over me, that I understood who I had robbed, and of what.
And I could not even blame the Blessed. I had done it without their help.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Young Siguerre was sharp-shaven, bright-eyed, and fresh as a dandille flower. Of course, he was ten years my junior, and the subtraction of those years make it easy to shake off even a ride through the underworld.
“Here,” he said, holding up a crimson sash. The weathering of our journey had been kind to him, erasing his usual pallor and the shadow of a double chin he had possessed before we started. He was lean and keen as a courser now. “I do not know where di Parmecy found these, but find them he did. At least we shall all match about the waist.”
I flicked the razor, a tingle of Court sorcery cleaning the blade. I would be haggard, no doubt, never pretty even at the best of times. But at least I would be fresh-scraped, and that gives a man a certain confidence. “Well. And enough for all?”
“Except the hedgewitches. Though I might recommend settling an annuity on both of them; I have never seen peasants behave so nobly.” A stubborn dark forelock fell over his eyes; he tossed it aside with a sharp movement that reminded me just how young he was.
Noble is rarely in the blood, chivalier. Why, look at me. “A fine idea.” If we survive the winter, I shall make certain of it. “Any further injuries?”
“No. The horses are at their feed with a vengeance, the hedgewitches standing by to make certain they do not sicken themselves. Other than di Crifort’s ankle and those cases of saddle-rash, we are none the worse for wear. They are feeding us, at least.” His eyebrows rose slightly. “Though I like not the looks that accompany the meal.”
“What is the army’s mood?”
“Mood?”
I strangled a brief flare of frustration. Jierre would have understood instantly. “D’Orlaans’s men. How do they seem to you? Willing to fight? Beaten already? Under orders to feed us before they slay us all, including our Queen? Their mood, chivalier. Have you observed it?”
“Ah.” He absorbed this. “I would say… confused. I have heard rumor among them—the coming of the Hedgewitch Queen has given them heart. No plague in her provinces, some say. Others reply, The King was crowned in the Ladytemple. Whispers of two Aryxes. One must be false, but which one? And the Damarsene.” Another pause. “If there is a pitched battle in the next week, Captain, I do not like our chances.”
I stowed the razor, wiped at my face with a silken flannel. He was slow, of course—but careful. Not much escaped the mouthful he set himself to chew.
I had not much time to teach him which bites were the most useful.
The rinsed flannel snapped, another bit of Court sorcery drying it in a moment. I could have finished this operation in my sleep. I took the sash, my hands remembering what to do with it, and looked up to find Tieris di Siguerre studying me.
“What happens now?” he asked, and I nodded as if the question was profound.
My swordbelt buckled itself on, the familiar weight of rapier and dagger comforting. At least now I was armed, and I intended to be so for the rest of this affair, however it ended.
“Now we attend the Queen.” My throat was dry, despite morning chai. I was growing to hate mince pies, but I needed the heavy fuel. And if d’Orlaans so much as twitches in her direction, my blade shall take the life of another royal.
“My father says she is a beauty.” Carefully, his tone light and nonchalant. “He says she has an effect on men.”
He does not know the half of it. “She is our Queen.”
“And you her Consort.”
“Is there a purpose to this conversation, Lieutenant?”
“Merely passing the time, sieur. You seem on-edge. More than usual, that is.”
I suppose I deserve that. “We are in the midst of an army loyal to a man who killed his own brother. Of course I am on-edge.” And my Vianne is in a tent a few paces from here, visited by Jierre early in the morn.
“We rode from Arcenne six days ago,” young Siguerre pointed out. “An army is of little consequence compared to that.”
I wish I had your faith. “Indeed. Go make everyone as presentable as possible. The Queen shall need us soon.”
“Aye.” He snapped me a salute and was gone into the morning glare. Fog hung over the army camp, the exhalation of morning and man-breath, hazed with cooking smoke.
I braced myself, put the shaving-mirror away, and sallied forth to see the woman I had married.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Fair blond Luc di Chatillon tilted his head as I approached. I caught a low murmur, which must have been answered from the other side of the flap. He straightened and greeted me with a smile that did not look forced. “Captain!”
Am I still to be addressed as such? “How fares the Queen?”
“Relieved, I am certain. You are well-come indeed.” He was always too cheerful by half, and the more unsteady the situation, the more his eyes twinkled. It was his shield, that good humor, and di Chatillon was not often seen without it.
The last time you greeted me, twas to clap me in chains. “How dire is it?”
That caused the smile to falter slightly. “Dire enough. D’Orlaans presses his suit, our d’mselle is ambivalent, and the army… well.”
“The Damarsene?”
“Still held at Diljonne. Reimelles holds, too. D’Orlaans has been pressing to see her for a full day now, but she pleads exhaustion from travel. There are other events afoot.”
No doubt. “Will she see me?” I did not like the supplicant tone I sported. Was she listening?
He reached for the flap, pulling it aside. “Of course. Pass, Captain. Thank the Blessed you’re here.”
“Aye to that.” I had not expected so warm a reception. Of course, I was prepared for a chill inside, but I nodded and passed him by.
Inside, twas dim and scented with incense. Braziers simmered, taking away the chill. A slight movement, and I found the Pruzian Knife before me, his half-ugly face set. He was in the costume of his native land, his dark quilted doublet side-slit and his dark shirt and breeches button-laced. His boots were of a kind not oft seen in Arquitaine, soft-soled for walking catfoot or stealing through windows. Hatless, with his hair oiled and clubbed, he was a figure of exotic disdain.
He examined me from top to toe, slowly insouciant, then stepped aside. The hangings in the tent fluttered lazily—to one side, a sable curtain hiding where she had slept. The rest was an open space, surprisingly airy for all its dimness, with glowrock globes on stands providing light that would not set the fabric afire.
At a map-table, her dark head bent and her supple back to me, Vianne. She reached for a winecup and took a long draught, a quill scratching as she wrote upon a sheet of thick linen paper. A candle in a filigreed glassglobe burned, shedding a circle of golden glow on the table.
“A moment, an it please you,” Vianne said softly, setting the winecup down with a click. She wore dark blue silk, and the same fleurs-di-lisse pattern was embroidered upon it with silverspun thread. I had to work to unclench my fists—had d’Orlaans commissioned the dress for her? Could she understand what an advantage she would give him by wearing it?
I could not help myself. “A pleasure to wait for you, m’chri.”
Did she stiffen? Perhaps. Silk rustled. A wooden rack to her left held an overdress, heavy sky-blue velvet worked with the flowers of the Angoulême. She would need someone to hold
it as it slipped over her shoulders; it was a robe of state, and this touch also bore d’Orlaans’s stamp.
The man wanted her. For pride, of course—Timrothe d’Orlaans ever had a taste for the chase. And for position; she was integral to his plans, and perhaps even more so now that he knew beyond a doubt that she held the Seal.
Had she met with her living half-uncle yet? Had they fenced with words? Vianne against him. My hands ached with the urge to close them around the Duc’s throat.
The quill dipped, she scratched something that might have been her signature or perhaps a hurried postscript. The paper ruffled as she blew upon it, a trace of hedgewitchery drying the ink, then her quick fingers folded it beautifully, something enclosed with the words jingling. A wafer of deep crimson sealing-wax, applied with a deft hand, and she passed her palm over the letter. The Aryx sparked, a faint pleasant thrill along my nerves, and the impress of the Seal would appear of itself on the wax.
She half-turned. Her profile was not nearly the hammerblow I expected. Instead of turning me to a faint-kneed schoolboy, it simply sent an ache all through my sore muscles and bruised bones.
“Fridrich.” Her expression was cool and remote.
“Ja?” Tense, keeping me well in his sight.
“Fetch me Tinan di Rocham. He is expecting this summons; tell him tis time.” Enunciating each word crisply, in case the foreigner had trouble deciphering them.
“Fralein.” A short bow, his heels touching—were he wearing a Pruzian nobleman’s boots, the click would have resounded. He gave me one more long, considering look, and Vianne actually smiled.
The Bandit King h-2 Page 14