She repeated the words in her mind as she gazed down onto Werryl Bridge and its endless stream of activity. It was definitely the same handkerchief. The squares had been embroidered by her mother and were treasured by Valentyna, so the recipients of these items were held in equally high esteem… but Romen had died in a brothel in Briavel! Ylena’s only contact with Romen had been between Pearlis and Rittylworth, she calculated. Then they had parted and, according to her information, had not seen each other again before he died. Valentyna had given Romen the handkerchief long after he had left Morgravia and the Razors, and he had lived the rest of the numbered days of his life in Briavel.
A new thought struck the Queen. Perhaps that hateful woman, Hildyth, had stolen it from him. But why take a square of meaningless linen? And even if she did steal it from Romen at the Forbidden Fruit, how could Ylena now have it in her possession?
Wyl, Romen, Ylena and Hildyth — what did they have in common? Why was she even linking them in her mind? Wyl and Ylena were related, that one was obvious. Romen and Wyl had fought together in vain to save her father and had certainly saved her. Romen had rescued Ylena, keeping a promise to her dead brother Wyl. And Hildyth? Hildyth was connected only to the man Valentyna had loved, through death — a blade in the heart.
But no. There was another link, was there not? She shook her head in a futile attempt at denial but it whispered through her raging thoughts. A shining, clear notion which travelled brightly through the maelstrom of her mind and landed as sharply and painfully as an arrow. A notion which had been voiced by two separate people she trusted: Fynch subtly, and Elspyth more insistently.
Fynch had claimed that he believed Wyl and Romen were of one mind. As she thought of this she was immediately reminded of Knave and the talk of magic that swirled about the dog. Valentyna recalled Fynch’s confusion when Wyl’s cantankerous dog had taken so easily to Romen, and how Romen had called out the dog’s name in Stoneheart having never met Knave before. Even more baffling for Fynch was how playfully Knave had greeted the stranger. The Queen remembered Fynch describing Wyl’s eyes changing colour at the witch-burning — more talk of magic which she had ignored. And then along came Elspyth with similar murmurings. She had urged Valentyna to accept the notion of reincarnation, all but confirming that she too believed Wyl somehow resonated within Romen, and that the Queen’s beloved might well be spiritually present in a new person — a woman even. Wyl… Romen… Ylena.
Valentyna startled herself by being sick, turning just in time to avoid soiling her clothes. She crumpled to the floor of the balcony, upending the crockery on the tray, and gave way to deep, dry sobs. Nothing made sense any more.
She remained curled on the balcony until the cold and the smell of herself brought her back to the present and the one stark reality she could not escape. Marriage to Celimus. Today was the all-important fitting for her gown. She must attend to her toilet, tolerate the seamstresses’ chatter and annoying pins and requests, before she would be free to call a hasty meeting with Crys. The time between now and when the King of Morgravia would legally bed her could be counted on her fingers.
Valentyna collected her shattered wits, put all thoughts of reincarnation and magic to the back of her mind, and steeled herself for her regal duties in the coming days.
Forging a peace was all she would permit herself to focus upon.
She had a war to dissuade and a wedding to prepare for. She would do as Ylena Thirsk had suggested and write a letter of appeasement to King Celimus using Ylena as her barter. She might as well, now that Ylena had made her sacrifice.
Crys had risen later than Valentyna but read his letter before he dressed. Wyl suggested two options for him to consider. The first was that he try and catch up with Elspyth, whom Wyl felt was on a foolhardy mission but added that he did not believe she was in any immediate danger. Both he and Crys felt protective towards Elspyth and it was only right that, with so few allies, they all look out for one another. Failing this, he suggested Crys should put on a disguise and infiltrate Pearlis, particularly the Legion. He was to spread the word of Celimus’s betrayal of Jeryb and his family. Wyl listed a few names of reliable men whom Crys should single out to receive this information. He was to tell them about the treatment of Ylena and Alyd as well. Take the head of your brother, he urged, give them proof. Crys was to be patient, though, not do anything rash and to encourage a similar conservativeness by any angry Legionnaires. Wyl asked him to lie low amongst the Legion until Wyl somehow got word to him. He reinforced that Crys was not to even hint at the truth should the Queen ask questions about Ylena. His secret was to be maintained. He signed off, wishing Crys luck and that they would meet again soon. He added a note to Crys to remember the password for he could not promise he would return as Ylena.
Crys smiled grimly at the postscript. Any stranger could walk up to him in the future and claim to be Wyl. How frightening it must be for him, Crys thought, and turned his mind to departure. Frankly, he would be glad to be on the move again and doing something constructive towards the downfall of Celimus. Wyl was right. There were far cleverer, bloodless ways to avenge his family’s slaughter than trying to murder the King, which had been his first inclination.
He would leave today — this morning, in fact — and was sure the Queen would quietly sigh with relief.
Valentyna gritted her teeth and got through the gown-fitting. As she had expected, the seamstress and her assistants tittered around her for almost an hour. Sadly they did not poke her with a single pin, which might at least have given her an excuse to vent some of the frustration she was feeling. Somehow she found a fake smile when they stood beaming at the vision in the palest of cream gowns before them.
She had demanded simplicity. And simplicity she had been given, but Madam Eltor had surpassed herself on this occasion. She was used to Valentyna’s likes and dislikes, having designed gowns for the new Queen since she was old enough to attend formal engagements. She did not need to be told what Valentyna would look for in a wedding gown, but she knew that in this one she had presented something which somehow embraced the Queen of Briavel’s personality. It had long, clean lines in a fabric which fell so beautifully into its natural folds that it took even the designer’s breath away when she saw it hanging on the perfect body.
‘You’re a woman now,’ she had whispered to Valentyna whose eyebrows had raised slightly when she saw the neckline which plunged in a sharp V-shape from the furthest width of her shoulders. It revealed not only the shapely top of her arms but displayed the flawless creamy expanse of her chest, just meeting at its tip before any cleavage might show.
‘You will have to be sewn in, of course, my dear,’ Madam Eltor warned through the pins in her mouth. Having known the Queen since childhood, the dressmaker had long ago been excused from the necessity to constantly show deference by using Valentyna’s titles. ‘It’s the only way we’ll get this perfect fit across your bust.’
Valentyna nodded distractedly. ‘Finished now?’
‘No,’ came the reply. ‘Be still, child,’ and the Queen of Briavel could not hide the ghost of a grin at the reprimand which Madam Eltor had been giving for so many years now they had both lost count.
The gown’s only adornment was a tiny row of pearls sewn along the neckline and around the cuffs, which ended three-quarters of the way down Valentyna’s long arms.
‘I’ll wager all of Morgravia and Briavel will be wearing this new length and slim sleeve by summer’s close, your highness,’ one of the assistants commented eagerly.
Valentyna and Madam Eltor shared a glance in the mirror. They had been setting new fashion trends in Briavel for years even though Valentyna had no interest in dazzling people with her wardrobe.
‘Would you like to see it with the veil?’ Madam Eltor enquired, already knowing the answer.
‘Not today, Margyt,’ Valentyna begged. ‘Next time, I promise. Right now I have some urgent things to attend to and a realm to run.’ She gave the older woman
a beseeching grin.
The seamstress nodded as if in long-suffering pain. ‘Next time then,’ she said kindly, adding firmly: ‘Which, your highness, will be in four days. Be warned.’
Valentyna groaned. ‘Thank you, everyone,’ she said, wriggling hastily out of the dress.
‘Flowers?’ Madam Eltor asked.
The Queen sighed. ‘It is in hand. Your colleague, Madam Jen, has chosen open creamy-white roses and fairy’s breath for the posy and a wreath of white buds for my head,’ she answered. ‘I’d prefer lavender.’
‘It wouldn’t work,’ Madam Eltor commented, quite used to Valentyna’s contrariness. ‘The white buds will echo the pearls and enhance the Stone of Briavel, which I presume you’ll wear?’
Valentyna nodded. She had to admit the gown suited her with its sleek look and sharp lines. She was not one for the rounded, softer look which many of the court women preferred. The Queen liked the way her dressmaker had echoed her slightly masculine edge in the sharp plunge of the gown’s neckline, and the lack of affectation and adornment made her feel she could almost get away with wearing her riding boots beneath it. This made her smile inwardly. In spite of herself, her liking for the dress made the Queen wonder, if her people graciously accepted her tomboyishness without reading all manner of sinister connotations into it, why could she not accept Ylena Thirsk’s more masculine way? Because it doesn’t add up, she argued.
‘I beg your pardon, dear?’ Madam Eltor said, the wedding gown held reverently across her outstretched arms, ready to be placed into clean muslin for the journey back to her chambers in Werryl.
‘Nothing,’ Valentyna murmured, embarrassed that she must have spoken her last thought aloud. ‘Thank you, Margyt. I’ll see you soon.’ She saw the seamstress and her chittering assistants to the door and called for a page.
‘Find me Stewyt, please, Ross, and also summon the Duke of Felrawthy to a meeting in my solar. I will see him in an hour.’
The boy bowed and ran off on his errands. Valentyna hurriedly tied back her hair. She wished she could wear it just like this at her wedding — tied back and plaited. She pulled at the wisps she had not quite managed to incorporate into the main plait, then made a sound of disgust at their waywardness and left them alone. A soft knock heralded the page.
‘Stewyt, thank you for coming so quickly.’
‘Your majesty,’ he said, bowing low. ‘How may I help?’
Stewyt often unnerved her with his mature manner. Talking to him often felt like speaking to Krell or someone of similar age and ilk. She realised Stewyt would make a fine chancellor in years to come; he encompassed all the right qualities, from discretion to intense curiosity about everyone and everything. He was a superb listener and rarely needed anything repeated. As she was thinking these things about the youngster she realised he was staring at her, his expression deliberately open and patient.
She cleared her throat and her thoughts. ‘I wanted to talk to you about Lady Ylena.’
‘Yes, your highness. You received her note, I presume?’
‘I did, thank you. But you didn’t deliver it. I was given it with my breakfast tray.’
‘That’s right, your majesty. Lady Ylena did not want you disturbed last night. She told me the contents of the letters were of no immediate import and I was to ensure both were delivered this morning.’
‘Both letters?’
‘The other was for the Duke of Felrawthy,’ Stewyt qualified. ‘Is there something wrong, your majesty?’
‘No, not at all. I’ve been informed that Lady Ylena left the palace during the night. Did she seem upset when you saw her?’
Stewyt frowned. ‘No, your highness. She was very alert, as I recall, although perhaps somewhat intense if I might hazard that thought.’
Valentyna nodded, impressed as always by his composure. ‘Go on.’
‘Forgive me, your majesty, but I took the liberty of watching Lady Ylena.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes, I felt her manner was a trifle odd. She went to some trouble to impress upon me how tired she was and in need of sleep, yet throughout our conversation she struck me as being very much awake and caught up by a sense of urgency.’
‘And you were right, of course,’ Valentyna prompted.
‘Yes,’ the lad said, not meaning to sound smug. ‘I set off on my errand as requested but doubled back, just to see if my instincts were right. Chancellor Krell taught me to follow my instincts, your highness,’ he added. ‘I watched Lady Ylena hurry out of her chamber.’
‘She did mention in her letter to me that she intended departing last night,’ Valentyna replied, determined this lad should not think Ylena was up to any mischief. She could not have gossip of that kind doing the rounds and providing any future ammunition. ‘You recall, Stewyt, I asked you to keep her presence between ourselves, which is why I handpicked you as her page and Florrie as her maidservant.’
He nodded solemnly. ‘I have told no one of her presence, your highness.’
‘Did anything else occur which you think is worth mentioning?’
‘Well…’ The page sounded uncomfortable.
‘Yes?’
‘She…’ He stopped, and started again. ‘On her way past your portrait on the first landing, your highness, she paused… rather deliberately.’
‘And?’ Valentyna queried, not understanding the boy’s hesitation.
‘She touched it, your majesty. Touched your… er, your breast, your highness.’
Valentyna felt a new thrill of alarm. ‘Did she say anything?’
‘She murmured a farewell to you, your highness. In all truth, I would say that she was trying to reach your face but wasn’t tall enough.’
‘I see. Thank you, Stewyt.’ The Queen dismissed the page, following him out of her chamber and heading to her solar to meet with Crys Donal.
He was waiting for her. ‘Good morning, your majesty,’ he said and bowed.
‘Crys, you look readied for travel,’ she said, noting the cloak, as she walked towards him and surprised him with a brief kiss. She felt as if he was all that was left of her allies.
He blushed. ‘Yes, your highness, I’ve decided to leave. I think it’s only right, what with your troubles with the Legion and so on. I know I’m a thorn in your side and I agree with Ylena that I can probably be more use back in Morgravia being a thorn in the King’s side.’ He grinned but it looked hollow.
‘You’ve spoken with Ylena about this?’ the Queen asked, surprised.
‘No. She sent me a letter which I received this morning. She suggested I should infiltrate the Legion and start spreading news of the slaughter at Tenterdyn and anything else which might help turn the army against their King, your majesty.’
‘Is that her plan?’
Crys shook his head. ‘I don’t know what her plan is, your highness.’
Valentyna sat down in her favourite window seat with her back to her guest so he did not have to look her in the eye. ‘Crys, since when did the Duke of Felrawthy — any Duke of Morgravia for that matter — take orders from a young noblewoman of little rank?’
There was a difficult pause, as she had anticipated, and then an equally awkward laugh. ‘Your majesty, Ylena Thirsk is no ordinary noblewoman. The surname alone tells you the stock she comes from.’
He was going to say more but she cut him off. ‘The fact that she is the daughter of the famous Fergys Thirsk and sister to the seemingly revered Wyl Thirsk does not necessarily make her a military strategist though, does it? I would have thought a woman like Ylena would have a head filled with how to embroider beautifully, fine table manners and how to make polite conversation with strangers whilst making an elegant tour of a room.’
‘Just like you, your highness,’ Crys said, immediately regretting his gentle sarcasm as Valentyna turned to fix him with a stare.
‘Forgive me, your majesty, I meant no insult. I admire you tremendously for the dazzling way you balance being a beautiful woman and the ruler of a r
ealm. It’s not easy, your highness, and anyone with half a brain can see that such skill requires both a feminine and masculine side.’
Valentyna dug deep and found a smile to show no offence had been taken — it was obvious that Crys was genuine in his praise, although just as obvious that he was protecting Ylena or at the very least working hard to keep something secret for her. ‘I don’t know, Crys, I just got the impression that Ylena would be this gentle, totally pampered young woman.’
‘Which she was, I’m sure, your highness. But plenty has happened to change that, and they do say blood will out.’
‘They do indeed,’ Valentyna said cryptically. ‘If you’ll forgive me digging into a painful subject — her relationship with Alyd, did you know much about it?’
‘Only that they were madly in love. His letters were filled with his adoration of both Thirsks. They were his family during his time in the south. What’s troubling you, your highness?’
She struggled. Could she tell him? She needed to share it with someone and Crys was as reliable as any of her own counsel. ‘You don’t think she had leanings towards women, do you?’
The duke looked shocked. ‘Ylena? No! Whatever gave you that idea?’
Valentyna made a face. ‘Oh, just something that happened last night between us. I don’t really want to talk about it.’
‘Except we are,’ he said, grinning, understanding dawning about what must have occurred. He felt so sorry for Wyl, and that would explain why he had fled in the night. ‘No, Ylena used to write to us as well, your highness, and this was a girl who was intensely in love with Alyd. It was all she could do to talk about anything other than him, their marriage and children. They were planning a large brood.’
‘So they wanted babies immediately?’
‘Oh yes, even Alyd said they would begin a family as soon as they could.’ He laughed. ‘They even married before we expected — couldn’t wait for us.’
Valentyna shook her head, baffled, recalling Ylena’s confusion when she had mentioned pregnancy. It was as if the young woman did not know what she was talking about.
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