Queens of Fennbirn

by Kendare Blake

  THE FESTIVAL OF MIDSUMMER

  Queen Elsabet presided over the Midsummer festivities from a high seat in the courtyard. It was her one concession to the Black Council, to keep up and away from the raucous, celebrating crowds, but even though it had been only one, she wished she had fought harder. She did not want to be seen so high, so aloof. She wanted to mix with her subjects in times of peace.

  “Wake up!”

  Both Elsabet and Bess startled at Rosamund’s voice. She was barking at one of the queensguard stationed just behind them.

  “I was awake, Commander,” the soldier said, and the sound they heard next was Rosamund cuffing the girl on the back of the head.

  “Not awake enough. Rotate out if you can’t be alert. On today of all days, when the queen is surrounded by strangers.” Teeth bared and grinding, Rosamund stepped into view, and Elsabet and Bess startled for a new reason. Her head of queensguard had gold and silver ribbons braided into her hair.

  “Rosamund!” Bess exclaimed. “You look lovely!”

  “Thank you!” Rosamund preened as her mood quickly shifted. “Though never as lovely as you, Bess.”

  Bess laughed, equally beautiful in a dress of deep green. Sometimes Elsabet thought she should find some new, less beautiful friends. Standing beside Bess and Rosamund constantly was certainly not doing her any favors.

  “You must have your eye on someone this Midsummer.” Bess scanned the crowd for anyone who might be watching Rosamund with particular interest, but nearly everyone was. Rosamund was never without admirers. “Is it serious this time? Could it be a husband? Or a blade-woman?”

  “I won’t settle until my service to the queen has ended. I can’t imagine looking after these soft soldiers and my own little ones besides.” She sighed. “Though I do sometimes yearn for soft little fingers curling round my own. And for the pain of childbirth!”

  Elsabet laughed. “Only the war-gifted.”

  “I wish I were war-gifted,” said Bess, “so I wouldn’t fear it so.”

  Rosamund chuckled and half turned to the soldier she had admonished for dozing. “Did you think I was in jest? Rotate out! And keep yourself off my detail for the rest of the month.”

  “Yes, Commander.”

  Elsabet gave the girl a sympathetic smile as she bowed and watched her tromp sadly down the steps. “You know they would favor you more if you tried a softer touch, Rosamund.”

  “They would. And also if I bribed them with luxuries, like Sonia Beaulin. Beaulin thinks it a popularity contest, but I don’t need to win their favor. These are your private queensguard. They are no mere army soldier; they are the best of the best! I expect so, and I will treat them accordingly.”

  “Even on a festival day, when I am in no danger?”

  “To a queensguard soldier there is always danger. And as for festivals, I keep careful accounting of service. That girl served this Midsummer so she will not have to serve again next year, nor ever for two high festivals in a row.” Rosamund straightened. “I am not unreasonable. And I don’t appreciate your questions before the soldiers.”

  Bess’s eyes widened, but Elsabet only laughed. “A queen may question what she will. But I am sorry, my friend. I should have known better.”

  She turned her attention back to the celebration, where the naturalists in attendance had begun to assemble their portion of the feast—the finest portion: gift-caught fish and a lovely roasted boar surrounded by apples so bright they appeared to be polished. Gilbert was directing which dishes would come to her in which order, his arms waving.

  But the queen’s gaze did not linger on Gilbert for long. She was looking for someone.

  Bess leaned in close. “Who are you searching for?” It could not be the king-consort. He had not left her sight line all day, after entering ceremoniously on her arm and promptly leaving her seemingly to court every pretty girl in attendance. The sight of him filled Elsabet with rage and shame. So she had resolved to ignore him.

  “I am looking for someone I invited.”

  “Personally?” asked Rosamund.

  “The painter. Jonathan Denton.” But she did not see him. Perhaps he had only been polite when he had accepted her invitation. Perhaps she had frightened him away. Honestly, she did not know why she cared. She cleared her throat and glanced at her friends to see if they had noticed. But instead, both Bess and Rosamund were scowling down at the crowd.

  “What’s the matter?”

  Bess blinked and forced a smile. “Don’t think on it, Elsabet. No doubt he is just . . . in his cups.”

  Elsabet looked into the crowd. It did not take her long to find him. William. He had one arm around a pretty blond girl and his other around a brown-haired beauty, his fingers pulling the shoulder of her gown nearly down to her breast. In his cups, indeed. It was early evening; he had probably had eight glasses of festival wine and none of it adequately watered. Whatever the excuse, there he was: laughing, kissing their necks, and gifting them the rings off his fingers.

  “Everyone can see this, can hear this,” Elsabet murmured as her cheeks grew hot.

  “I could send a blade,” Rosamund said, taking a swallow of wine against her own vow of festival sobriety. “Just to nick him.”

  “Ignore it,” said Bess. “Pretend you don’t see. Or don’t care.”

  But it was too late for that. Already the whispers spread outward, until nearly every pair of eyes in the courtyard was darting between the king-consort and the queen. And what would they see? A weak queen who accepts her husband’s infidelity, right under her nose?

  Elsabet stood up suddenly. So suddenly that the girls in William’s arms shuddered and tried to get away. But they were not her targets. The queen waited as the festival grew quiet. The musicians halted and servers froze half-leaned across banquet tables.

  “William. My king-consort.” She stopped. Waited for him to bow, as he should. As he must. “I tire of these festivities. Will you come now and preside over Midsummer, as is your sacred duty?”

  “I will,” he said, and began to make his way up to her. But when he leaned close for a kiss, she brushed him aside and stalked through the already muttering crowd. When she came face-to-face with the girls William had abandoned, she lost control of her temper and roared for them to get out of her way, unable to stand one more moment of their quivering, remorseful lips.

  “Queen Elsabet,” said Rosamund. “Where may we escort you?”

  Elsabet grasped her arm. Already the anger and jealousy were leaving her, and without them, she could not quite remember where she had meant to go.

  And then she spotted him. Alone with a piece of bread in his forever paint-stained fingers, in the same clothes he had worn when she sat for her portrait. “There,” she said, and went to him at once.

  “Jonathan Denton,” she said when he bowed. “Will you come with me to my chamber? I would have your update on the progress of my Midsummer portrait.”

  “I should not have done that.”

  Elsabet paced across the floor of her chamber. Her private chamber, where she and Jonathan were very alone.

  “Did you see their eyes? Hear their whispers? They fear me. They think me volatile.”

  “They revere you. Fear and reverence can appear much the same.”

  Elsabet shook her head and did not pause her long, upset strides. “You are good to say that. But this is not the first time they have seen me lash out at that—that—!” She growled and threw up her hands. “And I shouted at those girls. As if it was their fault.

  “And now, what will they say of you, Jonathan? Here, alone in the queen’s chamber?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Let them say what they like. I am happy to be of whatever use to my queen as I can.”

  “No. I shouldn’t have put you in this position. I will make sure they know. That we were here discussing the portrait and nothing more!” She gestured vaguely toward his body. “I am not the kind of queen who takes revenge for infidelity by compelling some poor y
oung man to . . . to . . .”

  He chuckled. “It is all right, my queen.”

  She sighed and walked to her dressing table for a goblet of Gilbert’s tonic, left over from that morning. The sight of William with his hands all over someone else had given her a headache.

  “Is the wine no good?” Jonathan asked when she grimaced at the tonic’s bitterness.

  “It is not wine at all but a healing draught. I am well,” she said before he could inquire, “but I sometimes get headaches.”

  Jonathan stepped toward her, sniffing the air. “May I?” he asked, and held out his hand. “I am a poisoner, as you know, and have a natural curiosity about the healing arts.”

  “Oh! Of course.”

  He stuck his nose in the cup and inhaled deeply, then took a sip, swirling before swallowing. He was silent for a long moment, staring into the last of the liquid. Then he frowned. “Where did you say you got this?”

  “My foster brother, Gilbert Lermont. He has brought it to me for months. Why? Do you detect some interesting ingredient?”

  “No.”

  “Or, with your interest in healing, would you recommend a different treatment?”

  Jonathan looked at her. His eyes were troubled. “I would recommend that you stop taking this,” he said.

  Elsabet snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous. Gilbert assures me—”

  “At least let me take a sample.”

  He seemed so insistent, and she saw no harm, so she nodded. “Take whatever is left. I suppose, as a poisoner, you would know better than I.”

  “But with your gift of sight, surely you would know everything.”

  Her eyes widened, and so did his smile. “If only that were how it worked. Alas, I cannot even see whose bed my king-consort is falling into at night.”

  “He is a fool.”

  Elsabet cocked her head, and Jonathan lowered his eyes.

  “Begging your pardon. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “What’s said is said. Is that what all the people say? Do they think him a fool? Or me the fool for being wooed by his pretty face?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t hear much court gossip, with my nose inches from a canvas. The painting is coming along splendidly, by the way. I hope to be able to present it to you within a matter of weeks.”

  “Perhaps you could show me its progress.”

  “I would like that.” His eyes took on a curious slant. “So you really don’t hear all the gossip, then? I had heard that some oracles were able to hear the thoughts of others.”

  “Some can. The sight gift is varied and not well understood. We are so rare. Even with me on the throne, the sight-gifted will never be as prolific as the naturalists or the elementals. What good would we be? The Goddess knows how best to balance her gifts.” She motioned for him to take a seat and joined him, pouring some watered wine for them both to get the taste of Gilbert’s tonic out of their mouths. “Sometimes the sight gift comes as nothing more than seeing cold spots. Violence and places of bloodshed.”

  “I know of that. I have read of it. ‘Death leaves an impression as a cold stain upon the ground.’” His brow furrowed. “Is it like that for you?”

  “Not only that, but yes. I can tell you the near-precise location where every queen before me died, for what feels like four generations. The places where my sisters died may as well be splashed with blood.” She looked out her window. “How is your history? Do you know of Queen Elo, the fire breather, who burned a fleet of Selkan ships in Bardon Harbor?”

  “I do. They say she put an end to foreign invasion, and in impressive fashion.”

  Elsabet smiled. Invasions would come again as new kings sought to leave their marks through conquest. But she had seen none coming during her time.

  “I can hardly bear to look out into the harbor some days, depending on the wind,” she said softly. “The churning ghosts are still so thick.”

  Jonathan swallowed and followed her gaze as if he might catch a glimpse of them himself.

  “I don’t tell that to many people,” Elsabet said. “Bess knows. And sometimes I think Rosamund and Sonia—the war-gifted—can sense it. But I have never told them outright.”

  “Why not?” he asked, but then shook his head. “Forgive me. That was a foolish question. Seeing ghosts and scenting graves are shunned even in a fortune-teller. Of course they would be shunned in a queen.”

  “A queen is expected to yield grand prophecies. Not grow faint passing unmarked graveyards.”

  “Well. I find it a useful skill and would welcome you as a fellow traveler along unfamiliar roads.”

  He raised his cup to her, and Elsabet laughed.

  “Every time we meet, I mean to find out more about you and instead give away more of myself. Do you inspire such candid conversation in everyone you meet, Jonathan Denton?”

  “I’m sorry, my queen.”

  “Do not be sorry. Just do not become my enemy.”

  THE VOLROY

  Queen Elsabet and Bess walked along the rows of roses on the west side of the Volroy. To anyone watching, it would have looked like an idle errand: the queen accompanying her friend as she pruned. But those who knew her best knew that Bess was often the queen’s eyes and ears, when she could not be seen to be looking or listening herself.

  “You need better spies than me,” Bess said quietly. “It is too well known I am of your household. No one speaks when I’m nearby.”

  “But who else could I trust? Only you and Rosamund.” Perhaps Jonathan Denton, one day. But she did not say so out loud.

  “Catherine Howe is loyal. And I am sure her household has very good spies.” Bess clipped a rose and teased the petals back and forth beneath Elsabet’s nose. “There was one rumor that was too loud to be hidden.”

  “What?”

  “That Jonathan Denton is the queen’s new lover.”

  Elsabet laughed. “New? As if there have been others.” She had known that was what people would think. What she did not foresee was how much the idea would please her. “Poor Jonathan. He will have no peace.”

  “Poor Jonathan?” Bess smiled. “Is he coming back to the Volroy soon?”

  “I think so.” She prodded Bess in the hip when she laughed. “To show me my painting.”

  They walked together around the castle, and two servants stepped up and bowed.

  “What’s this?” she asked, and they held out a long, formal cape, soft and shining black. Threads of silver had been sewn into the collar.

  “A gift for you, from the king-consort,” one of the boys said.

  Bess ran her fingers along the collar, thumb rubbing the silver. “It is very fine.”

  “He sends me gifts instead of returning to my bed. He sends me gifts with one hand while the other is inside some other woman’s bodice.” Her anger returned quickly. Her words took shape inside her head until she could see them, hear them, and she clenched her fists together and tore the cape along the seam.

  “Take it! Get it away from me!”

  The servants bowed their heads and ran, mumbling apologies.

  “Elsabet.” Bess put her hand on the queen’s arm.

  “Forgive me, Bess. I need no spies to know what the people are saying about me. And what new things they will say about me now, following this outburst.” She took a breath. “But I would know where my king-consort is spending so much of his time. Would you and Rosamund be kind enough to find out for me?”

  Jonathan met Elsabet on the top floor of the West Tower as she spoke with her master builders about the progress of the construction. It was a hive of careful, deliberate activity as always, the air full of moving ropes and brick and stone. The clumsy poisoner boy nearly tripped twice and almost had his head taken off by a swinging board. Elsabet could barely contain her laughter as she watched him from the corner of her eye.

  “This is coming along nicely,” he said when he reached her, and bowed. He ran his hand along one of the interior walls, up the arch of the doorway to sq
ueeze the keystone with his fingertips. The door led to a large chamber with several windows. “Will this be yours?”

  “You could say the West Tower will be all mine. All of the queen’s apartments contained within.” She peered with him into the new space, still dusty from construction. “But no. My personal chambers are a floor below. Already complete. Perhaps I’ll give these to my king-consort. Or perhaps not. I’d rather not hear him creeping past my floor on his way to . . . somewhere or other.”

  “In any case, the king-consort’s rooms should be beneath the queen’s.”

  Elsabet smiled. “What have you brought me?”

  At the question, Jonathan ran back into the hall and returned with the covered canvas. He studied the light quickly before placing the easel to catch the soft afternoon sun. Then he uncovered the portrait.

  Elsabet could hardly take it all in. It was as if he had taken Midsummer and made it tiny, such was the exactness of his rendering. The food piled high on the banquet table looked good enough to eat. And she even remembered seeing those exact familiar-dogs, brown-and-white with curling tails, a pair of them seated with great composure to one side, awaiting scraps.

  The Volroy rose up in the background, a dark, majestic giant, even as the black stones were kissed with summer light.

  “You have placed me down among them, not high up on a dais,” Elsabet said.

  “I thought you would prefer that. It—it suited the composition.”

  She nodded. It was the most accurate representation she had ever seen of herself. No great beauty. He had not embellished or softened her features. Yet somehow he had captured the air of her, the spirit. He made her eyes warm and sparkling, her expression confident and capable. She was, in his eyes, a handsome queen.

  “The Volroy is unfinished, as you can see. I wanted to await your instruction, on how it should be depicted.”