Her only comfort was the friendship of Wilhelm, and even if I knew that such friendship was to tempt fate, it would have taken a heart of stone to deny her the only joy she had in the world. Her burning belief in the rebellion, and her desire to escape her uncle’s tyranny, were poor comfort—and whatever we shared, it was underscored, always, by ambition. We kept each other to the difficult path we had chosen, and we lent each other strength, not comfort. And so, as Miriel’s resolve to be cold to him failed, I could not bring myself to remind her of her duty as harshly as I had before.
As Miriel feared that the King’s love waned in the face of regret, it was Wilhelm who could comfort her. It was Wilhelm who kept the King steady by singing Miriel’s praises to the court, and Wilhelm who provided her with updates on the King. When she read his letters, I could see the tension melt out of her shoulders. More than I could, it was Wilhelm who could convince Miriel that even if the first flush of love faded, even as the King was forced to defend his choices every day, his heart yet belonged to Miriel. And, more than I, it was Wilhelm who could plot with Miriel on how best to turn the King’s mind to the rebellion, even as she struggled to keep his affections.
“You cannot truly doubt him,” I said to Miriel one night, as she undressed. “Wilhelm is right—the King loves you still, he defied Guy de la Marque for you today without pause.”
There had been an explosive Council meeting before dinner, where de la Marque had accused the Duke of using Miriel to seduce the King, so that the Celys family might rise above their station. At such a chillingly accurate accusation, the Duke had only laughed and entertained the Councilors by recounting how surprised he had been to learn of the King’s infatuation with Miriel. With the King laughing, as well, de la Marque’s supporters had chosen to sit silently rather than come to de la Marque’s defense. Even the truth, it seemed, would not sway the King from Miriel.
“And he is honorable,” Miriel said, biting her lip. “He gave his word in front of all the court. If I keep faith with him, then he will keep faith with me. And then…” She trailed off and looked down. I knew what then: then she would spend the rest of her life walking the same fine line of enchanting the court and holding the heart of a man she did not love, forever wondering what might have been if she had given up her ambitions for Wilhelm. That her uncle would have had her killed would be of no consequence to her heart; she would spend each day imagining the ways she and Wilhelm might have escaped, or persuaded the King to let them marry.
Miriel’s thoughts must have run nearly parallel to my own, for she said, “At least I will be free.” Her maidservant would not understand, but I did. This was Miriel’s great gamble, the goal she had had before she discovered the rebellion: become Queen, and she was free of her uncle forever. Becoming a Queen was the only way that Miriel could ever have a fighting chance against those factions that tried to use her as a pawn.
Miriel and I had both reckoned that this was the only way to keep her above the fray, and Miriel knew now that this was her chance to help the rebellion as well. In the aftermath of an attempt on our lives, our horror fresh and our instinct high, we had banded together and reckoned the bargain worth making. It had seemed a better deal then than it did now, living each day with the constant wear of vigilance and uncertainty.
And so, when Miriel asked me to arrange a meeting between her and Wilhelm, alone, I did not deny her request as I should have done. It was the week before the wedding, and Miriel had endured countless hours of being fitted for elaborate gowns that would overwhelm her tiny frame, being stuck with pins and criticized by the Dowager Queen—who oversaw the preparations—for her lack of figure. When she was not being pulled about like a doll, she must endure countless lectures from the Duke regarding his views on any number of subjects. Miriel had just returned from one of these.
“Another lecture. So that I will know what to say if the King decides to speak of grain shortages on our wedding night,” she said acidly. I stifled a laugh, but I frowned at her face. I could see her exhaustion, and it was a mirror of my own. It required twice as much vigilance and three times as much sneakiness to keep watch over Miriel now. With so many people watching her, I must be careful that no one noticed me. I, too, was worn down with work and worry.
“Please,” Miriel said, “I must see Wilhelm.” Seeing the exhaustion in her eyes, I did not even argue. I sent a page running to give a note to another page, to take a note to one of Wilhelm’s servants. By now, the matter of a clandestine meeting was hardly difficult for me.
The meeting was all wrong from the start. A servant with any sense would have invented some pretext to haul Miriel away, but I, bone-weary myself, did not heed my own instincts. No matter how many times I chided myself for my stupidity in the days that followed, at the time I only stood and watched them. They stood a few feet apart, awkwardly, but anyone could have seen that they yearned toward each other. The artful show that Miriel put on, the way she could convince the watching court that the air fairly crackled between her and Garad, was not necessary here. They were head over heels in love, and yet their conversation was a marvel of stilted formality.
“Is he still determined, then?” Miriel asked, and Wilhelm nodded. When Jacces’ letters resumed, Garad had been quite as enraged as Miriel had feared, and she had begged Wilhelm to put aside his habitual caution and speak for leniency. Apparently, he did not have Miriel’s silver tongue.
“I told him that his legacy would be enough to crush Jacces and his philosophy,” he said helplessly. “And he told me that the rebellion is a rot at the heart of Heddred, and he must root it out before it spreads.”
“A rot!” Miriel curled her hands into fists.
“We have to be patient,” Wilhelm advised her, and I raised my eyebrows. As well as tell Miriel to grow wings and fly. Indeed, she flared up.
“How can I be patient?” she demanded. “There’s no time to be patient if he’s going to send my uncle. You must do something!”
“What can we do?” he asked practically, and she nearly sneered at him, beloved though he was to her. She drew herself up.
“I made myself from nothing into a queen in waiting,” she asserted. “I can set my will to this, too. And you are no less intelligent than I.”
“Perhaps you could tell him that you do not want your wedding overshadowed by bloodshed,” he suggested, and she shook her head violently.
“I cannot say anything until I have a crown on my head and I am carrying his heir,” she said flatly. He winced at the thought, but she did not stop. She went on, her little scowl the only sign of her determination and her own pain. “Until then, it only you we can trust to speak for them.” He shook his head, but she held out her hands, pleading. “I know that you have lived your life in the shadow of the throne, but please, surely you can risk this for the rebellion? If not, for love of me?”
“For love of you, I must speak of a rebellion the King despises so that you can have a clear path to his bed,” Wilhelm said bitterly, and Miriel hesitated, then nodded.
“I should hope that you would not hesitate to ask the same of me,” she said softly. “I do not ask anything of you that I do not ask of myself, every day. Just as you must give me up, so I must give you up, so that I can advise the King and guide Heddred to a better future.”
“You seem happy enough about it,” he shot back, and she went as pale as if he had slapped her. Neither of them could bear the other’s pain; and, more the pity, they could only take their hurt out on each other.
“I am not happy,” Miriel said fiercely. “I am not, I swear it. On my honor, Wilhelm, I gave you up because we would never have been allowed to marry—my uncle would have killed me for it. I thought my love for you was nothing but infatuation, I swear I thought that it would fade, for us both. And now that the King wants me, there is no way out for us.”
“There is,” he said urgently. “You fear his love is slipping away, Miriel—then let it go. We will go away together, anywhere. We can
help the rebellion. Anything you wish.” For a moment, she was going to say yes. I saw it in her eyes. She was torn, but at last she shook her head, resolute. It was too great a change, she was too uncertain.
“Neither of us would survive it. Your family and mine would be shamed, your friend would be shamed. And is there any better way to help the rebellion than to have the King’s heart, and turn him slowly to the rebellion? I would know all of his plans, I could have given them information no one else would know. Can you think of any place better for me to be?”
She waited until, slowly, he shook his head.
“You said this cause was your own,” Miriel reminded him. “Should the good of the Kingdom mean less to us than our own happiness?” Again, defeated, he shook his head. “Then you know what we must do,” she said, and he nodded.
“I don’t know how I’ll bear it,” he said, his voice choked, “to see you marry him.”
“Or I—to do so,” Miriel responded, with a flash of wry humor. She sobered almost at once. “But I must find the strength.”
There was a pause; it would have been long enough for me to stand, make a noise, break the spell. But I did nothing, and as if in a dream, they moved towards each other. He bent his head and she stood up on the tips of her toes to meet his mouth. I averted my eyes courteously, and so I only heard only a gasp from Miriel and a cry from Wilhelm as the door to the cellar creaked open.
“Very interesting,” said Garad.
I turned my head sharply, and I was on my feet in a moment. He held a hand out to me, commanding, and I stopped. He was my monarch—but Miriel was my Lady. I could not bring myself to lift arms against this man, but, confident that he would not, could not, stop me, I walked slowly to her side, my hands out to show I meant him no harm. He followed me with his eyes.
“Your Grace,” Miriel whispered, and his eyes flashed.
“No,” he pronounced. “Do not speak.” His face was cold and hard. “I can hardly believe what I saw with my own eyes. Do you know, my mother warned me of this, and I argued with her. She told me that your low breeding would show, and I told her that you were the finest of the ladies at court. And now, I see that she was right.” His face twisted. “You have betrayed me.”
“Your Grace, the fault is mine alone,” Wilhelm said. Miriel’s face went blank; having exhorted him to take a risk for the rebellion, she was now forced to watch him try. “I have always admired the Lady, and I see now that while I believed she might feel the same, she was trying only to—“
“No. I will believe no pretty lies. I know what I saw.” Garad stared at Wilhelm with such hatred that even I shrank back. He might be shamed by Miriel, but the betrayal ran deeper with Wilhelm. Wilhelm, who had been his only friend in the long years of his illness. Garad’s eyes narrowed. “Now I know where your interests lie.”
“I know you will break off the betrothal,” Miriel said quickly, “and I swear to you that I will make no complaint—“
“Oh, I’m not going to break the betrothal.” He had gone cold. He snapped his fingers and I heard the tramp of guards. I thought later that I should have grabbed Miriel and run, and left Wilhelm to face the King alone. They would never have killed the heir to the throne. But instead, like a fool, I stood still, caught in the King’s gaze, obeying him as any subject should do, and in a moment, we were surrounded. “I’m going to destroy you,” Garad said softly. “Starting with the rebellion you hold so dear.”
Chapter 22
I remember very little of what happened next. There was crying, and shouting. I should have been in the fray, between my Lady and the guards, but the King was no fool, and he had prepared his men for this encounter. I was the first one to be hit, hard, in the back of the head. The world faded to black around me, and I knew no more.
I came to my senses alone, in a small, dim cell, the only light filtering in from a window barely as large as my hand, and the flickering torches out in the hall. I could smell the stink of a hundred prisoners who had gone before me and hear the cries and clanking chains of those in the other cells, and in that moment, I was overwhelmed with fear. Was I here awaiting execution? And where was Miriel?
I struggled to see reason. The King would never execute Miriel—she was half common blooded, but also half noble, and executing young noblewomen was something one just did not do. And if the King wanted me killed, he surely would have ordered it done at once, with no witnesses except his guards. How better to make an impact on Miriel? No, if I was still alive, it was because he thought he could use me further; I was to be an instrument of Miriel’s punishment. He wanted something of me yet. That sent a fresh wave of panic through me, and it only grew stronger when I heard voices in the hall. I curled into a little ball on the floor and squeezed my eyes shut as the voices came closer. When the key turned in the lock, I was sprawled just as I had woken up.
There were footsteps, then silence. I knew that they had surrounded me.
“Get up.” Garad’s voice. Cold. “Wake up, girl. I know you should be awake by now.” Someone nudged me with the toe of their boot. I considered the matter, decided that their next move would likely be to kick me, and reluctantly opened my eyes.
“Yes, your Grace?” Pleasantries were ridiculous, but I had no idea what else I might do. He scowled at me, and crouched at my side.
“Tell me of Miriel’s involvement in the rebellion.” It was a sharp order, and his guards shifted so that I might hear the clank of their weapons. I felt fear begin to tighten my muscles, and tried to remember the lessons Temar had taught me: focus only on what I would say, not on what I did not want to say; slow my heartbeat; push away fear. And, unluckily for Garad, I had been practicing my response to this question for months. If I had planned to use it on the Duke, well, no matter. I stared up at Garad and delivered the lie as best I could.
“Oh, Miriel, is not involved, your Grace. She only has sympathies.”
“How can she have sympathies, when she knows they mean to destroy me?” he demanded. Then his face hardened. “Of course…I know now that she does not love me. Did she ever love me at all?” Wary of contradicting whatever silver-tongued lies Miriel had been employing since I saw her last, I ignored that question entirely.
“Your Grace, you know my Lady—she has ever been kind to her servants. She sympathizes with the common people, who wish to have a say in their kingdom, as any noble might have.”
“That is madness!” the King exploded. He stood and whirled, began to pace. “What do commoners know of ruling? How should they rule my kingdom?” I kept silent, watching him pace, until he rounded on me. “What of her passing information to the rebels, then?”
I froze, considering. Then I remembered what Mirel had said in the basement. If that was all the King knew… I tried to think what Miriel would do. “Oh! What she said!” I laughed outright, in his face, trying to mimic Miriel’s innocent expression. “Oh, your Grace—Miriel has no mind for that sort of thing. She said it, but I assure you, she could never manage it.” He sat back on his heels, surprised by my apparent mirth.
“She couldn’t?” This was where the true test of my skill began. He still loved Miriel, and he desperately wanted to believe me that Miriel could not deceive him, but he was not stupid—if he set his mind to it, he would quickly begin to doubt. So I must fix his mind on something else: me.
“Of course not,” I said scornfully. The guards bristled at my tone, and Garad narrowed his eyes. “Surely you can’t be so blind as to—“ The kick came from behind me, and even expecting it, I cried out.
“You forget to whom you speak,” the King pronounced. “And whatever you claim, I know what I saw. I will give you one more chance: tell me of Miriel’s involvement in the rebellion.”
“There is no involvement,” I insisted. “Can you truly believe that she would undermine her own uncle’s work?”
“It is not his work any longer. He has been removed from command until I can determine his loyalty to me.” I had a thought of the Duke�
��s shame in the eyes of the court, and his cold anger, and I was seized by fear. If the King did not hurt Miriel, the Duke surely would.
“Where is Miriel?” I asked. “Please, your Grace—“
“Miriel is somewhere you cannot find her,” the King pronounced. The corners of his mouth curved slightly. “She will not have your aid. I want her to be as blind as I have been, all this time.”
“Your Grace, please—“
“No. And no more chances. You can rot in here until you feel like telling me what I want to know. Or until I kill you to teach Miriel a lesson.” In a moment, they were gone, and a key turned in the lock. The guard grinned at me through the bars as he pocketed the key and walked after the King, whistling.
Trapped. And Miriel in danger. I knew that I had seen the glint of doubt in the King’s eyes, and I could only doubt that I had bought Miriel even a little extra time. But there was no time for me to focus on that now. As I had lain, curled on my side, I had felt the contour of my packet of lock picks, still in their pocked in my tunic. Now, trembling with excitement and disbelief, I checked for each of my weapons. Every one of them was there. Whatever the King knew, no one had checked me for weapons. I had everything; it was better than I could have dreamed.
Caution kept me still. Always have a plan. Have two plans. Before action, planning, and for planning, I needed an objective. Freeing Miriel was one my goal, but freeing her to what? If the Duke had lost command, he would be angrier than I had ever seen him. Miriel could not be released to him, but where else could she go? Who else was her ally?
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