“Shut your mouth,” Sonia snapped.
“I won’t have you lying to them. If they do this, they should know what it is they are doing. They are deposing a Queen Crowned.” She waited. A small ripple of doubt passed through them, but it amounted to only a shuffling of feet and some hard, nervous swallows. Not that she had really expected more. She had truly just wanted them to know.
“Give up your sword, Rosamund, and come quietly. I’ll put you in the very best of the cells, you have my word.”
Rosamund stepped forward.
“You can’t win.” Sonia’s eyes glittered. She drew her sword. “There is no point in trying. No point in fighting. The cause is lost. Already the soldiers have eliminated the Howes. They say Catherine and the rest of them burned up in a fire of their own making. And as for your house . . .”
Rosamund thought of Antere House. Her brothers, laughing in the kitchen, the wives planning some grand hunt. Her mother, old now and unwell, but still ruler of them all. And the girls. The sweet, wild girls who slept with their wooden swords in their arms like dolls and covered her face with kisses when she returned from the Volroy after a long day.
“You should not have told me about my house, Sonia.”
“Why not?”
“Because now there is no one for me to protect by surrendering.”
Rosamund drew her sword with a bellow and brought it arcing down directly at Sonia’s head, so fast that the other warrior could not fully block it, and the blade glanced down along her arm, finding its way through her armor and drawing blood. Those who saw Rosamund fight always said it was a wonder she could move so fast, with her bulk and size. They said watching her was like watching a dance of red and silver.
Rosamund’s sword clashed again with Sonia’s, and she pressed up close as the other warrior glanced at the wide-eyed soldiers. “None of them will intervene. None have the stomach to face me outside of training. How many do you think are secretly hoping that I will win?”
Sonia growled and shoved her away. They met and clashed and fell back again, and it was clear whose war gift was the stronger. Sonia panted, soft from so long sitting on the Black Council. Rosamund’s sword was light as a dagger in her hand.
“Stand down!” Sonia shouted, and threw three fast knives, guiding them with her gift. But Rosamund knocked them all away. Then she picked them up and sent them back, her own gift too strong to be deflected, so that Sonia had to dodge and duck.
“Sonia Beaulin, in your fine black cape and fancy, shining boots. Dressed up in a warrior’s clothes with no war gift to speak of.”
Teeth bared, Sonia charged, slashing and striking with all her might. Together they stumbled into a table. They knocked up against the watching, astonished soldiers. She sliced into Rosamund’s shoulder, and Rosamund fell across the long table and rolled, but came up on one knee and laughed when she saw Sonia panting.
“Weak,” Rosamund said. “Pampered, Black Council pet.”
Sonia leaped, and Rosamund blocked and kicked. Sonia spit blood onto the wood floor.
“You’re too small for this, Beaulin. Why don’t you send the rest of my army in here to finish what you can barely start?”
Sonia wiped her mouth on her sleeve. “You are truly mad,” she said. “Your whole family is dead. They tell me your mother was stabbed in her bed.”
“My mother would never die in bed.” Rosamund bellowed and charged her again, metal on metal like a song in her ears and Sonia’s frustration turning to fear like a song in her heart. Sonia pushed back with her gift; Rosamund felt it, like a hammer against her chest. But Rosamund’s gift pushed back harder.
“Guards!” Sonia shouted, and they stepped forward like cautious dogs to surround Rosamund and Sonia in the center of the room.
“They won’t follow you,” Rosamund said, her smile full of red teeth, “unless you do it yourself.”
“They already follow me,” Sonia growled.
Rosamund fought as bravely as she could, for as long as she could. She cut down three, then four of her trusted soldiers. She ran them through. She knocked them back and sent them flying. But every one she dispatched was replaced by two, and the swords began to land. Blood ran down her arms, her legs; it spread across the floor. When Rosamund had gone down to one knee, Sonia finally came to finish her, and by then, there were too many knives in Rosamund’s back to know which one it was.
Coward, Rosamund thought as the blood filled her lungs, as she dragged herself through the fury until she saw the toes of Sonia’s fine, black boots. She had hardly any strength left, but she found enough to raise her dagger and stab Sonia through the foot. Sonia Beaulin screamed like a child and dropped to the ground.
And Rosamund Antere died with a smile on her face.
PRYNN
By the time he reached Prynn, Jonathan’s horse was nearly spent, even though it was a fine mount gifted to him from the queen’s stables. He supposed he had not been mindful and had ridden her too hard. He bent and patted her frothy neck. Rest and time in a good stable, with plenty of grain and cool water, and she would soon be back to herself. Fit enough to carry him . . . wherever he decided to disappear to.
Jonathan sighed. He did not know exactly what he had hoped his return to Prynn would be, but it was not this, creeping in under cover of dark, running, when everything inside him said to turn back and fight, turn back and protect Elsabet from whatever came. But what could he do? She was his queen, and he would obey.
The horse’s tired steps clipped and clopped along the road. When he turned the corner of the street that led to his family’s house, not one of the finest in Prynn but nor was it on beggars’ row, his mood lightened, thinking of his mother, and his father, his sister, and her two little ones.
Beneath him, his horse snorted and pulled up short. She smelled the wrongness and blood before he was close enough to see the broken-in door. Jonathan leaped from the saddle and ran inside, even though the silence warned him against hope.
He found his mother first, in the dining room, propped up in a chair. The blood that soaked the front of her dress was still warm. His father lay nearby on the floor.
Jonathan walked through the house in a daze. The night air was cold on his skin and blew through in a constant current. Their home had been cracked open and ruined. When he found his sister lying across the stairs, he drew her into his lap and wept, and when the creak sounded behind him, he could not remember if it was only a noise from the house at night or if it meant someone else was still inside.
THE VOLROY
They left Elsabet alone in her prison in the West Tower for one long day and a night. Long enough for her to pace herself exhausted and to scream herself hoarse. They brought food, and she dashed it against the walls. They sent maids to clean it, and she chased them back through the door. And all the while from her window, there appeared to be nothing amiss. No great assault by loyal queensguard on the Volroy. No uprising of her people gathered at the gates. Ships docked in the harbor and sailed away reloaded. Carriages passed in the streets. No one heard her shouting. No one missed her.
Finally, midmorning of the second day, the door opened, and Elsabet turned to see Francesca Arron standing inside. For a moment, she and the queen stared at each other. But it was Francesca who looked away first, to frown disapprovingly at the mess of food on the walls.
“That will rot,” she said. “It will begin to smell if you do not let the maids clean it up. It is already starting to.”
“They may clean it when I am free from here.”
Francesca sighed. “You are not doing anything to help yourself. Screaming at the servants. Throwing food like a spoiled child. What are the people to believe when they hear such things? You are making this all very easy for me.”
Elsabet narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean to do?”
“What I have already done. Imprisoned a dangerous queen, for her safety as well as the safety of the island.”
“The safety of the island
. I am its chosen! You cannot keep me here!” She wanted to slap Francesca Arron with all her strength. She wanted to choke her unconscious with her long, blond braid. “Where is Rosamund Antere?”
“Rosamund Antere?” Francesca asked. “Rosamund Antere is dead. So is Catherine Howe. And Bess, the maid. And your handsome friend Jonathan Denton.”
Elsabet’s mouth hung open. Rosamund and Jonathan dead? The words made no sense. “You lie.”
Francesca walked farther into the room, inspecting the trappings, the fine royal pieces that the queen’s chambers had been furnished with. She ran her hand across the dark wood table and touched the embroidered hanging on the wall. She even put her palm to the fire and inquired if it was hot enough or if it smoked.
“You lie, I said,” Elsabet hissed. “Get out!”
“I do not lie,” Francesca said gently. Her expression could change in the space of a moment. How had Elsabet ever thought she could be trusted on the council? “You are still upset. It was a monstrous thing, after all. I am not surprised if you don’t remember . . . giving the order.”
“What order?”
“The order to execute Catherine and your captain of the queensguard. You were so convinced of their treachery. And the soldiers could do nothing but obey. You are a queen of the sight gift, and their faith in you was absolute.” Francesca clapped her hands free of soot and smiled her prettiest smile. “Of course the people are aghast that you would order such brutal executions without reason or investigation.”
“No one will believe you,” Elsabet growled. “I did none of these things. Bring me Rosamund Antere! I don’t believe you that she is dead. If no one would stand against me, they would never dare stand against her.”
“She is dead, my queen. She and her entire house. A whole house dead, and the Howes met a similar fate. And the Dentons, poor poisoner folk. They were perhaps the most innocent in this, simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, caught up in a queen’s misguided wrath.”
Elsabet’s head spun with the falseness of the accusations. This could not be. None of it could stand that she, the queen, would be imprisoned in her own castle, her loyal friends murdered, her enemies left to rule in her place.
“You will not get away with this! I will see you on trial. I will see you hang.”
Francesca laughed. “You will have a difficult time seeing much of anything from up here in your tower.” She smiled cruelly. “Elsabet, queen you will remain, but you will never come down from here again.”
“What?”
“It is for your own safety as much as ours. I fear that, enraged as the people have become with you, they might tear you apart on sight.”
Elsabet clenched her fists to keep from crying. She would not cry in front of Francesca. She would spit in her eye. She would scratch her face. “You can’t keep me here, as a prisoner. I am your queen! I am the one who will bear the triplets!”
“Of course you are! I would not dream of keeping your king-consort from you. He will visit you regularly. When he is not with me.”
Elsabet’s face burned. “You are small and foolish indeed if you think I care about his fate after all this.”
“Do not forsake what friends you have. Or you will be very lonely here.”
“I will not be here. I will get out.”
The poisoner sighed and clasped her hands in front of her skirt. “It will be easier on everyone if you accept your loss.” She turned to leave, slipping out, and Elsabet charged the door and hammered against it with her hands and elbows.
“It will never be easy! I will never stop trying to get out of here, do you hear me? Never!”
Gilbert stared across the table at Catherine Howe’s empty seat as the Black Council met to take stock of the ruin that had befallen the crown and the capital. Without Catherine, and without Elsabet, without Rosamund outside the door, the council chamber felt so empty. Sonia Beaulin was still there, of course. And for some reason the king-consort. And Francesca Arron had seated herself at the head.
He wanted to speak against that. As the queen’s foster brother, the head of the Black Council should have fallen to him. But who could he speak to? He had let himself be surrounded by snakes.
“What is he doing here?” Gilbert asked, and gestured to the king-consort.
William smiled. “The kingdom is short on advisers, brother. You should count yourself lucky that I am here and ready to serve.”
“The kingdom is not a kingdom at all,” Gilbert said. “It is a queendom, and you will not forget it.”
“Of course none of us will forget it.” Francesca Arron cleared her throat. “Not even with the unfortunate madness that has taken over our queen.”
“So unfortunate,” Sonia echoed, and shifted her weight. She seemed to be having some discomfort, and Gilbert noticed she had walked into the room with a bad limp. Good Rosamund must have done that before she . . . He closed his eyes and shuddered.
“The people will not accept this,” Gilbert ventured. “And it is dangerous. They will want their queen, or they will want to kill her, and—”
“They will never want to kill her.” Francesca looked at him sharply. “The queen is sacred. The queen’s line is sacred, as it always has been. She will be kept and cared for, safe in her West Tower until the triplets come.”
“Some will question—”
“They question her. They have heard the rumors of her jealousy. They know she has been secretly seeking out those she thought were betraying her.”
“So Elsabet ordered the execution of Catherine Howe, whom she branded a traitor, and her own head of queensguard? What reason did she have to execute the Dentons? The house of her new favorite?”
Francesca pursed her lips. “The same reason she had to kill the maid. She saw the maid sneaking from the Denton boy’s apartments and ordered the Denton boy killed when he fled.”
Gilbert stared at her. “This is your plan? Your explanation? Your punishment of the queen, and for what? What great crime had she committed?” He narrowed his eyes at William. “That she sought to possess an unworthy consort?” He turned to Sonia. “That she did not appoint you Commander of Queensguard?” He glared at Francesca. “That she did not do as she was told?”
He pushed his chair back and stood. “I’ll have no part in this,” he said, and walked out. It was not long before he heard Francesca’s soft, catlike footsteps behind him in the corridor.
“We both know you will return,” she said. “When you have had enough of sorrow and come back to your senses.” She placed gentle fingers on his shoulder and touched his face. “It is over. Elsabet lost. But the island still has need of you, Gilbert. And she will like it if you stay nearby.”
“How could you do this?”
“I had no choice.”
“No choice?”
“All I wanted was for her to listen. To be a good queen and rule properly, through my—our—advice. But what could I do after she sent her spies for me? Let myself be cornered? Let myself be hanged? I told you before: there are few merciful ways to put a poisoner to death. And so I fought instead.” She patted his forearm and turned to go.
“Did you poison me, too?” he called after her. “Did you mute my gift as well as hers, without my knowing? Is that why I foresaw none of this?”
Francesca paused as if trying to decide whether to lie. Then she sighed.
“No, Gilbert, I did not poison you. In fact, I choose to think it was a sign from the Goddess that she sent you no warning. Perhaps this is”—she cocked her head—“what she meant to happen.”
THE WEST TOWER
The maid set down the tray of bread and boiled eggs. She poured the water and a steaming cup of tea. “There you are, Queen Elsabet,” she said as if the queen were a child. She set the cloth on Elsabet’s lap and even tucked her hair behind her ear. “You’re looking very pretty today. After you break your fast, we’ll brush your hair and put on a new gown.”
She began to hum, and Elsabet looked up at
her as she ate. She had no appetite, but if she did not eat, then they would make her, and she lacked the energy to fight.
“You look a little bit like her,” she said, and the maid barely looked up.
“Like who?”
“Like Bess.” She did not, though, not really. Bess had been beautiful. Far more beautiful than this mouse of a girl, who had likely been chosen to serve due to her slowness of mind and lack of guile than for any true merit.
“Let’s not speak of them now, my queen. You know how upset you get.”
“Have they had the burnings yet?” Elsabet went on. “For the Dentons? Will they bring them here and burn them in the capital as I asked?”
“Queen Elsabet—”
“Tell me!”
The maid jumped and looked at her with wide eyes. Elsabet quickly smiled and sweetened her voice.
“Please. Tell me.”
“I think the Dentons were all burned together in Prynn,” she said. “That’s what they say.”
“They.” Elsabet chuckled. “Always ‘they.’”
There was a knock at the door, and the maid left eagerly to answer it. When she returned, she brought Gilbert hovering behind her.
“Here is Master Lermont to cheer you.”
The maid left them alone, and Gilbert came and embraced her, kissing her on both cheeks. “Terrorizing her as usual, I see.”
“I will never stop.”
“It was not her fault.”
“It was everyone’s fault, Gilbert. Mine. Yours. You know it’s true. That’s why you keep coming back after I heap abuses on you. Out of guilt.”
“Out of love, Elsie. Mainly out of love.”
“What use have I for love in prison?” Elsabet took a last bite of egg and wiped her mouth. Then she gestured for him to sit. “What have you brought for me? What is that under your arm?”
Gilbert grinned and took her by the hand. He led her to her bedroom and began to unroll the package he carried, unfurling it so it lay across her coverlet.
Queens of Fennbirn Page 15