I selected a biscuit. “Oh, he can stay angry at me. And I am rather afraid he will.” It was a plea, and she must have recognized it. Dearest Baroness, how do I handle your son? “I should beg your pardon, for you were attacked as well.”
“Oh, well. What can one do? I must confess I barely woke, even when Perseval cursed and dragged me out of bed. I cursed him back roundly for disturbing me, too.” She laughed, her ruby ear-drops swinging. I had to admit that there was nothing Perseval d’Arcenne denied his Baroness, for all his harshness. “I think you have the right of it. If it were up to Perseval and Tristan we would all be endlessly doing our wretched duty without respite. Tis something in the d’Arcennes, I think. Bones from the Mountains and a sense of noble obligation to match.”
“I am not practiced at this at all, Sílvie. I belong at Court with my books and nothing more pressing than which skirt to wear and which gossip not to repeat.” And Lisele to watch for. “I shall get us all murdered and d’Orlaans will triumph…” I bent my head, dabbed at my eyes with a linen napkin. It was terrible manners to weep so, but I could not stop myself. “And I ruined the lovely dress you had made for me,” I finished mournfully. The indigo would likely never be the same.
“The dress matters not a whit.” She selected a biscuit of her own. “Of all those in the world, in Arquitaine, the Aryx chose you.”
We were not truly speaking of the Aryx, were we? No, we were not. “What good is it if I have not wits enough to play these games? No. They are not games, they are deadly serious, and I—”
“Vianne, have another biscuit. You are merely frightening yourself.” She pressed the biscuit on me, and more chai.
I managed half the crunchy, delicate pastry before my stomach closed. “I am frightened.” It did not sound so terrible a secret when I let the air carry it. “I only leap from one crisis to the next. And what if Tristan decides…” Even my newfound hardiness could not carry me further.
“One moment.” The Baroness rose, laying aside her cup and saucer. She crossed her sitting room, her skirts soughing sweetly, and opened the drawer on her small desk covered with letters and two inkstands, a rack of charmed quill pens bobbing their feathered fringes at her. She drew out a sheaf of papers, rolled and tied with a crimson velvet ribbon. “I would show you summat.” She pulled out the dainty rosewood chair next to me and settled down with a sigh of silk. “Tristan wrote these.” She shuffled through them, laying the ribbon aside. “Does that look familiar? It should; you dropped it at a fête. He sent it home and asked me to keep it for him.”
“A hair ribbon?” It seemed so unlike the practical, levelheaded Tristan I knew that I picked up the velvet, smoothed it in my fingers. If it was one of mine, I would have worn it with my red satin, the one cut so low I was always half afraid my breasts would spill out, though I was laced so tight they never did. “I would have worn this with the red satin. It was too tight, I thought I was going to expire halfway through the pavane.”
“Suffering for fashion; and Perseval wonders why I do not wish to visit Court. Ah. Here we are.” She finished ruffling the pages. “Listen. I watched the d’mselle again today, Mami, and I have to ask: how does one approach a woman? Do not laugh. I leave flowers for her, follow her from one end of the Court to the other, and yet she never notices. I take it back, you will laugh at me, ma Mére, you warned me, did you not?” Sílvie’s smile was proud and tender in equal measure. “He did not know quite what to do. I wrote back to ask him what you liked, and he replied, books! So I told him to send you a package of books, and he replied that he could not without casting suspicion on himself.” Her sudden laughter rang in the sunshine falling through the windows. “I promptly wrote back demanding if that was not exactly what he wanted, your suspicion.”
I had to laugh as well. The thought of Tristan penning frantic missives to his mother about an oblivious woman was highly amusing. Curiosity overcame good manners. “What else did he write?”
Her mischievous grin shouted that pricking my curiosity had been her intent. “Well, here, see for yourself. As long as you eat, child. You have not gained a red copper since you came here. Have a bread-and-cress, and read this one. No, wait, this one’s better.”
I had forgotten what it was, to converse with another woman so. She made me laugh, and roundly scolded me into eating while I read some of Tristan’s old letters, choice passages escaping aloud. It was deliciously wicked. For a moment I was back at Court, and she a little wickeder and certainly sharper than my Lisele, and good company to boot.
We were laughing heartily, our heads close together as we conferred like myrmyra birds, when there was a courteous tap at the door.
Sílvie dexterously swept the letters under the table and into her lap as I clapped my hand over my mouth, tears of merriment making my sight waver.
Tristan glanced over the room. “Vianne? You said to call for you when Divris di Tatancourt—good gods, are you well?” The soft edge of duel-hunger was gone from his tone; he sounded concerned.
I blinked away merry tears and nodded. “Well enough, indeed.” My voice did not tremble, though I had difficulty keeping another spate of laughter caged. I rose slowly, another small chuckle escaping me as I saw his face wander into perplexity.
Sílvie patted my hand, the letters kept out of sight in her lap. “Tomorrow. Lunch again. We shall speak more on this.”
“Oh, indeed we shall.” My mouth wanted to twitch. The letters were amusing indeed; though I felt a bit guilty reading a son’s private musings to his mother. It was a welcome shock to find just how closely Tristan had watched me at Court.
Yet the Baroness had just steadied the world under my feet. And I had eaten, my stomach calming and accepting lunch with good grace. “My thanks, Sílvie. Tomorrow cannot come soon enough.”
She waved her fingers, unable to speak for suppressed laughter. It set me to grinning foolishly as well, my heart light as a maying breeze.
Tristan held the door with a slight bow as I swept past. Luc di Chatillon saluted me and I nodded in return.
“What mischief are you twain planning?” my Consort asked incuriously, as we set off down the hall. “Do you feel better, then?”
“Much.” Yet I sobered. The holiday was past, now twas time for the disagreeable. My hands took care of my skirts so I could match his longer stride, but he tarried a little. “Where is di Yspres?”
“Possibly afraid to face you.” He looked somber, his mouth a straight line. “Tinan woke for a short time; Bryony says there is no doubt he will recover.”
“Thank the gods for that.” Fervent relief threatened to weaken my knees. “Why is your lieutenant afraid to face me? I asked di Montfort to bring him.”
Tristan shrugged. There was a shadow in his blue eyes. “They fear your displeasure, or being thrown from the Guard. Perhaps.”
Oh, perhaps. I sighed. He did not move to take my hand as he usually did. This new distance between us was painful. “You are angry, again. At me.”
Did he pale slightly? His left hand dropped to his rapier, touched the hilt. “The Pruzian could have killed you. You must take more care with yourself.”
“He was chained and beaten, Tristan. Against my orders, I might add.” Irritation made my tone much sharper than it needed to be. “I require information from him. I need to know precisely who hired him and precisely who their targets were.”
“Why?”
How can you not know? Or do you think me empty-headed, caviling merely to be obstinate? “Because if the Duc has stooped to sending assassins after me as well as after you, it means he has reexamined his willingness to let me come back to Court so he can bed me as he pleases and get a filthy brat to carry on his line. It will mean the game has changed, and I must learn the new state of the draught-board so I may play with a clear head.” I stopped in the hall, my own irritation bouncing off the stone and rustling against a tapestry with the Arcenne mountain-pard worked in scarlet against a black field. “If his target was merely
you and your father, what dance was the third trio intended for? You see, it is a riddle, and I dislike this manner of riddle.” And I will not be responsible for more death if I can possibly help it. You do not seem to understand that, no matter how much I love you. And oh, gods help me, but I do love you more than you may ever know.
The realization was sweet and bitter in equal portion.
“Ah.” Tristan nodded. “That quick mind of yours. I beg your pardon, Vianne.”
I nodded. My ear-drops swung against my cheeks. “I understand there are things you must do that are…unfit for a lady’s sensibilities. But I cannot afford to be overly a lady if I am the Queen. I do understand, Tris. I simply wish you would trust me to know what is best once in a great while as well.” I took a deep breath, my eyes moving over his face. “And your being Left Hand does not mean I should not know what you do in my name.”
Did I imagine it, or did he start as if I had pinched him? He paled even more. “I do what I must for your safety, Vianne.” Tight-spaced, the words were biting-bitter.
“I know,” I soothed.
“That is all I ever seek. You must know as much. All I seek is your safety, and I will do as I must.”
“I trust as much. I asked you to become my Consort, did I not?”
“You did.” He dropped his gaze, examining the hem of my skirt with much fascination. Was this the same man who had written about me with such agonized care, pleading with his mother to give him advice to catch my eye?
I should have noticed him at Court. It was unacceptable that a lady whose duty had been to catch intrigues had not noticed the chivalier at her window. “Tristan? May I ask you something?”
He shrugged. “We are late for your meeting with di Tatancourt.”
True enough. Rebuffed, I smoothed my skirts. “Then let us be on our way,” I said, and swept down the hall. Now I knew the way from Sílvie’s sitting room to the library, and I was not afraid to lead him, his step echoing mine. His silence was as thunderous as any I’ve ever heard.
At the door to my study, I paused. “Thank you, Consort.” Twas easier—and harder—than I liked to keep my tone level and cool. “Now, if you will be so kind as to farrat out wherever Jierre and Jai are hiding, and shepherd them into my presence before my Council Session.”
“Vianne—”
No. If we are to perform this dance, we shall perform it in measures that suit me. “Now, Tristan.” I held my ground. “Divris is to be trusted, and Arcenne is well guarded. Go, and the quicker you return the safer I am.”
He did not argue further, but his jaw set so hard I was surprised his teeth did not shatter. Well, if I wished him to hate me, I am going about it the right way.
I sighed.
Then I arranged my face, entered the study quietly, accepted the Messenger’s bow, and set myself to question Divris yet again about the Duc’s Court. He was a wondrous observant witness, and he knew far more than he thought he did—at least, when I questioned him, his answers illuminated much, even if he did not know quite what he had told me.
He did not need to know, I decided. I had not time to teach him, and twas not his place to hold such knowledge. I had much more to learn now, and the stakes were growing rapidly higher.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The Council Session ran late and led to two shouting matches—both of which I won by simply waiting until the men finished rattling their rapiers and then informing them all coolly that it was bad form to shout in front of a lady, and that I was, I would remind them, in case they had forgotten, the Queen.
And if they doubted the wisdom of my commands, or would seek to choose only those commands that suited their purposes, they were no better than d’Orlaans. If they insisted, they could hie themselves hence and field an army against me—or go to join the Duc, being of his stripe.
That handily put an end to discussion, though I disliked using such arguments.
It was after dark when I finally arrived at the Pruzian’s cell accompanied by Bryony to find Tristan, Jierre, and Jai di Montfort standing guard with Adersahl, who eyed them while he twirled his reborn mustache.
“D’mselle.” Adersahl greeted me with a low, sweeping bow. The others followed suit. Even Tristan.
“Your Majesty…” Jai di Montfort’s voice failed him as my glance rested on his lean dark face.
I must look forbidding. Well, if I do, I am grateful for it. I have had enough of men arguing, of late.
I stood with my hands clasped in my skirts, examining all three of them. “Bryony? Please attend the Pruzian. Adersahl, accompany him.”
A murmur of assent. Even Bryony’s frosty silence did not wound me. What did a peasant hedgewitch’s tender feelings matter, if Tristan was past his first flush of care for me?
Now we would see if we could remain friends, my Consort and I. I let the disobedients simmer a trifle longer, until even di Yspres flushed like a guilty boy caught stealing apples.
“Well,” I said finally. “Sieurs di Yspres and di Montfort. Tis pleasant to see you. I had expected you to obey my summons without needing to be fetched hence like schoolboy truants.”
Jierre blushed deeper. Jai di Montfort dropped his gaze to my feet.
“Now,” I continued. “I found the Pruzian damaged when I gave explicit orders he not be touched. This is most disappointing. Then to compound that error by refusing to obey my summons? Not fit behavior for the Queen’s Guard, is it?”
No answer but their hung-head silence. Boys being taken to task by a headmaster, deserving more than a sharp crack against the knuckles.
But I must tread softly. If I pricked their pride just right, it would bolster their loyalty instead of deflating it. And I might well need them in the future. “Very well. I’ve decided your punishment.”
“Your Majesty—” Di Montfort, unable to contain himself.
“Hold your tongue, sieur.” Much to my gratified surprise, he did. “I am extremely disappointed, chivalieri. For the next two days, you will not wear the uniform of a Queen’s Guard, and you will leave your rapiers in the dormitory. You will carry only daggers. After that, you are readmitted into the Guard and all is forgiven.” I found a smile rising, banished it. Now was a time for severity. “The next time you disobey me and hide from me, I shall throw you out of the Guard with stripes. This is not a place for children; you are chivalieri sworn to the Queen of Arquitaine, and I expect you to behave as such.” I inclined my head slightly. “You are dismissed. Go to the Guard dormitory and do as I bid you, to the very last inch.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” Di Montfort was now pale. Di Yspres echoed the words. Did the lieutenant look relieved? They trooped past me, stopping only to sweep deep, respectful bows. I waved them away and faced Tristan.
Now for the next hurdle. Gods grant my strength holds.
“So.” The sound of their footsteps faded. He pitched his tone low enough that it would not carry, a skill learned at Court.
I copied his tone, speaking softly without losing enunciation. “You did not return, either.” I tried not to sound hurt, failed miserably.
“I feared your temper.” A bald admission, his hand resting on his rapier-hilt and his expression so grave my heart compressed within me.
“Fear my temper?” I shook my head. “And I have been fearing yours.”
“I would never harm you.” His eyes burned, almost luminous in the torchlit gloom.
“I fear the loss of your affection, chivalier, perhaps more than any harm you could do me.” The admission sent a frisson up my back, and I stepped nervously toward the cell’s barred iron door.
“You think it possible to lose my affection?” Yet his face eased.
I learned mistrust too thoroughly at Court. And everything that has happened since has not helped. “I think it possible I might, Tristan. And it frightens me.” I moved through the door before he could reply. It was childish of me, yes. But I did not wish to cross wits with him to this degree just yet.
I needed
my wit for other things.
Adersahl di Parmecy stood in a corner, his arms folded. The Pruzian was awake, flat on his back on a cot against one side of the narrow cell. His eyes glittered under tangled dark hair as Bryony gingerly took his pulse, then flattened his hand against the assassin’s chest and began to whisper his charm. I watched, the pleasant sensation of hedgewitch magic tingling over my skin. He had considerable skill, and I watched carefully to see if I could learn aught of what he did.
“He will live.” The hedgewitch’s grudging failed to wound me, though he looked as if he wished it did.
Still, my graciousness did not waver.
Well, perhaps it wavered slightly. “Thank you, Bryony.”
“Tis my duty.” Bryony gathered up his physicker’s implements, and left without so much as a good-bye. He had to press past Tristan, whose shoulders nearly filled the door.
“I need summat to perch upon—Adersahl?” I did not wish to loom over the wounded man.
The stocky Guard pointed out the low, three-legged stool near the door, which I fetched myself, overriding his protests. Then I set it by the cot and sank down, arranging my skirts. I am not so tall for a woman, so I was able to rest my hands on my knees properly, my back straight.
It was time. I met the man’s glittering, fevered glance. “B’joure,” I said, as if meeting him at Court. “I am Vianne di Rocancheil et Vintmorecy. Do you speak Arquitaine?”
He blinked. His gaze flicked over Tristan and Adersahl. Back to me.
“Oh dear.” I switched to Tiberian. “Tiberian? Do you speak Tiberian?”
He coughed. It was a low, thin sound. “Some,” he rasped. “Arq’taine.” His accent mangled the words—Pruzian is an unlovely tongue at best. It sounds like hacking with a heavy cold and chopping the words into little bits as you spit in the face of your conversational partner. “You. D’mselle.”
My eyebrows lifted. “You speak some Arquitane. That is very good.” I made my words slow and distinct. “What is your name?”