Lady Hotspur

by Tessa Gratton

  Laughter brought the prince back to herself: Vatta’s laughter, and that of the rest of the young people.

  They laughed at Hal, who must have missed something while staring at Hotspur.

  Vatta said, “I do believe you’re madly in love, at least, sister.”

  Hal embraced the teasing, allowing it to bolster her story.

  “It will make it harder,” Vatta continued, “when you marry Charm of Kurake Queen.”

  “Perhaps, little sister,” Hal said, “when he meets you, he will fall madly in love with you, and you with him, and then you both will know what it is like. Aremoria will gain the alliance, and I will keep a queen for my own heart.”

  Too perfect a story, perhaps, but Hal liked the balance of it.

  AN ASSASSIN TRIED to murder the queen the morning of the first zenith after midsummer, and nearly succeeded, except Abovax saw the glint of steel at the last moment and cried out, giving Celeda enough warning to dodge and take the man out herself with a grappling move she’d learned from a general in the Third Kingdom. (The general with whom, it turned out, she had a third daughter, a brown nine-year-old bastard named Tigirsenna who’d been sent for and would arrive in Aremoria soon.)

  The only silver lining to the attempt on Celedrix’s life, aside from her survival, was that it could not be blamed on Banna Mora. Hal answered the danger by making a speech before the court in the full regalia of a knight: she shone in mail and her Aremore-orange tabard, and over her head a personal banner hung, which was the usual lion-and-bluebell arms of Bolinbroke, but on a field of that same blunt orange, outlined in purple.

  “If you would murder our queen,” she declared, “best do the same to me, for as I live I will take up my mother’s ring and use every mode and method of our beloved country’s strength to hunt you down and remove your head.”

  Hotspur stood at her left shoulder, just as proud, but grim and ferocious.

  That week a blessing appeared, scrawled with orange paint across the external wall of the Lionis Cathedral:

  May the Lion Prince protect us.

  “Fuck me,” Hal muttered as she stared at it. Hotspur clapped her hand onto Hal’s shoulder, laughing.

  It was working. That was a good thing.

  “I’m the prince of Lionis, not the Lion Prince,” Hal insisted that night, exceedingly drunk in the Quick Sunrise, Ianta Oldcastle’s favorite haunt. It was the least fine of the taverns in which the prince drank, for the Sunrise existed too near the river to be approved of by nobility.

  “Subtle distinction,” Ianta drawled.

  “It’s not subtle.” Hal stumbled on the word three times before managing to hit the right sounds without slurring.

  Ianta snorted and waved for Nova to pour more sack. “Where is Hotspur?”

  “She doesn’t—she doesn’t like it when I’m in this mood.”

  “What mood?”

  Hal shook her head, then flattened her hands on the table to steady herself. “Drunk, Ianta. Obviously!”

  “Is that a mood, or a state?”

  “Or an act?” Nova murmured. Her blond hair curled shaggy around her face, and she presented herself most often as a boy, except when flirting with Hal.

  Hal stomped her boot on the balcony floor, doing her best to rattle the table. “It is all those things, drunkenness. An act to create a state, because of a mood.”

  “Fascinating.” Ianta knocked her knuckles against Hal’s forehead like one might greet a door.

  “Just like death,” Hal said, shoving at Ianta’s hand. “An act, a state, a mood! Death never stands still, it can be made, it can be caused, it can be enacted, and therefore is an act. One can be alive or dead, and if dead one is in the state of being so. And as for a mood—oh, alas.” Hal put her face in her own hands.

  Nova folded her arms. “I don’t see how it can be a mood. How can you feel dead, for if you know what death feels like, you must have been in the state of death, from which one does not recover.”

  “It is a mood,” Hal said, muffled by flesh. “My mood has been death for fully a year.”

  The prince knew she was ridiculous but could not push through weary, cottony drunkenness to care. Alcohol could poison a person. Likely not a pleasant way to go, despite how pleasant drinking could be. This floor might give out and all of them crash down through shards of floorboard, crushing those below, every one of them dead of puncturing beams, head wounds, slow bleeds.

  The sky could fall.

  Hal laughed at herself.

  Hotspur was unsympathetic to Hal’s raging hangover the next day.

  Tigirsenna of Celeda Queen arrived alongside the first harvest, when Aremoria remained hot as hearth fires in the afternoon, but the nights cooled with rapid promise, and soon the tips of maple and oak leaves dipped themselves in gold and scarlet. The girl was nearly ten, nearly as tall as Hal, and filled with nearly more energy than any five young men. Her eyes were a shade lighter than the warm brown of her skin, her thick black hair roped tightly and set with lapis beads, and she bounced on her toes constantly while demanding answers of her older sisters in accented but fluent Aremore. Hal liked her, and liked how she distracted the palace from Hal for a bit. Royal bastards were good for that. The queen engaged in her own gossip campaign to remind Lionis that in the Third Kingdom, the get of a queen was legitimate the moment the queen declared it so, and what Aremore would wish to be less civilized than the Mother of All Mothers? Hal approved of that, too, and added her own agreeable opinions whenever possible.

  In fact, she had thought—again and again—that the worst impediment to making Hotspur her consort was the necessity of children. But if Aremoria could follow the traditions of that centuries-strong Third Kingdom, and the queen’s womb being the only proof of legitimacy needed, Hal could keep Hotspur and just get some good-looking man to put a baby in her as fast as possible.

  Fortunately for all, Tigir exuded artless charm and was only as well behaved as an eager pup, but for occasional bouts of frustrated cussing in one of the lower forms of her native tongue. Hal insisted upon being taught such delightful words, and they made a game of it together, bonding irreversibly, as sisters should. Even Hotspur adored Tigir, and spied right off that Tigir’s carriage and skinny, lithe arms suggested she’d been studying swordwork for a couple of years already. Tigir proudly showed off her skills with the Sun and Moon blades of the Third Kingdom, and that was how she and Hotspur became friends.

  Hal emerged from the small library within the palace walls one morning, having shared spiced milk with both her sisters as they interviewed a potential history and philosophy tutor for Tigir, who might second as instructor for Hal in her Third Kingdom vocabulary. The prince felt good, a thin book of Ispanian poetry in her hand and a smile upon her face.

  She had slowly developed a court of her own, a true prince’s court, with webs and layers of support, and everyone saw Hotspur as belonging to Hal—not only her first advisor and personal commander, but her partner and lover, the foundation of being a true consort. Maybe Hal could make it real—not only a story, not only a charming mythology, but real. Maybe she and Hotspur could sail to Innis Lear as princes to negotiate Mora’s return, and wouldn’t that be a strong trick? A political triumph? It would certainly put to bed rumors and speculation regarding that cursed prophecy. If the world saw Hotspur and thought, the prince’s consort, then Hal had won. The wolf had given herself to the lion, and that would be the chosen end.

  Hal strove to not think about earth saints, or the strange yearning she sometimes felt toward that vision of Morimaros in the heart of Stone Water Castle, as if magic had touched her once and she could not help wishing for its touch again. She drank and gossiped and danced and argued, and she no longer secretly attended star chapels or tilted her head up to the stars for a moment—only a moment. Hotspur had been right about that, her mother had been right about that.

  As Hal turned to stride happily down the palace corridor, she saw Hotspur in battle regalia, her
hood down against her shoulders and that fiery hair coming out of its braids with crackling energy. Hotspur was furious, but Hal hadn’t seen her for an entire seven days, since she led her soldiers out for training exercises and to meet up with Sir Corio de Or to help with winter preparations at the coastal Fort Ferbrovax.

  “Hotspur!” Hal threw out her arms to greet her lover, grinning, for surely that ferocious expression could have nothing to do with herself.

  But Hotspur jutted a finger out hard against Hal’s chest. “Stop, you idiot,” she growled. “You are ruining me!”

  Panic drowned the prince in cold water and she grabbed Hotspur’s shoulders, hissing for quiet as she pulled them aside to the wall. Three maids clustered nearby, staring, and behind Hal the library door remained open so that any could hear.

  “I don’t care if someone hears,” Hotspur snapped. “Isn’t your game for show? Don’t you want the public to gossip about the lion prince and her wolf?”

  “Not bad gossip,” Hal said, low and quick. “What are you so angry about? I haven’t even seen you in days.”

  Hotspur set her jaw. She jerked free of Hal’s grip. “When I left, when I gathered my soldiers before the garrison to ride out, one of my sergeants said, ‘How can we leave without your kiss goodbye?’ because you weren’t there, and last time I rode out, you—Hal, it was impertinent and appalling.”

  Hal grimaced to hide her true feelings of triumph and adoration. “It was a tease, because he loves you, he wants you to be happy and feels comfortable. Not insubordinate.”

  “Hal, I know what it was. And I dealt with it mildly and efficiently—but then I thought about it, I’ve had a week to think about it, and as I did I became angrier and angrier!” Her voice rose again.

  “Why?” The prince kept hers low, as if to teach Hotspur some guile by example.

  “I see what you’re doing. I’ve heard the gossip and rumors, and while I watched my men enact their orders, my plans, I realized this is your plan. You’re commanding an army, and I’m one of your fucking soldiers. You’re playing me, too.”

  “I don’t lie to you, Hotspur,” Hal said as earnestly as possible. It was even true.

  “But in this moment you’re more upset that someone might see us argue than that we are arguing at all!”

  “I’m not worried about arguing with you because I know we can push through it. We’re strong together! Why should I be worried?”

  “Push through it like we’re pushing through Mora’s kidnapping by a foreign government?” Hotspur yelled.

  “Getting Mora back is the plan!” This time Hal yelled, too. Then she stepped closer to Hotspur, reining herself down. “Not all the plan, but a large part of it.”

  “You’re stronger already, Hal, you should push your mother again to bring Mora home. Right now. Let’s go right now. Prove to me this is your agenda.”

  “Prove to you? You should believe my words alone.”

  “I like action,” Hotspur bit out. “Action matters more than words.”

  “Action,” Hal muttered, eyes moving over Hotspur’s flushed expression, her hairline damp with sweat, her pink lips, her jutting chin, the line of her pulse beneath her seashell ear—invisible, but Hal knew exactly where to find it. She wrapped her hand there, against Hotspur’s neck, and pushed back.

  Hotspur’s eyes widened and she let herself be shoved against the wall. The tapestry billowed with their sudden movement, and Hotspur’s errant curls stuck to the green wool.

  Hal kissed her, hand still hard on Hotspur’s throat, trapped between them. Her aggression, her command, was clear. The knight didn’t stand a chance of disobeying, and suddenly threw her hands up into Hal’s hair, dragging them even closer, lifting herself up so Hal had to let go of her throat to take her waist and help as Hotspur climbed Hal to wrap her legs around the prince.

  Right there in the corridor they kissed. Hal pinned Hotspur, completely aflame and only distantly concerned that although anyone obviously witnessing had fled or hidden, this was extremely public. Hotspur seemed disinclined to care at all. She ground herself into Hal, squeezing with arms and legs, and Hal knew she’d have bruises from the press of chain mail but used her entire body to prop armor-heavy Hotspur, to serve Hotspur, kissing and biting. She relished the tear against her scalp, and relished the soft moan that grew inside her lover.

  And the prince of Lionis gasped in triumph and awe when Hotspur came just outside the Queen’s Library, her back arched and mail shirt shivering like the sound of wind through autumn leaves. Hal held her, breathing hard, as Hotspur dropped her head onto Hal’s shoulder. She hung there, limp but for the squeeze of her thighs around Hal’s hips and the tremble of her arms.

  Hal laughed, a panting, dizzy laugh, soft and low.

  When Hotspur opened her eyes the fury remained, but she kissed Hal again and shoved her away, then kept shoving until Hal dashed in front of her on wobbly legs, all the way back to the prince’s bedchamber.

  BANNA MORA

  The White Forest of Innis Lear, late summer

  THE WHITE FOREST of Innis Lear grew from the heart of the island, thick and ancient and full of shadows. It began a mile north of Queen’s Keep, extending up like an outstretched hand toward Dondubhan Castle and the Tarinnish in the north, reaching toward the eastern coast through Errigal lands, and in the west just creeping into the Taria dukedom and its capital Astora City, the largest city on Innis Lear.

  Though sometimes called the Royal Forest, for these days its entirety was held in the queen’s name by the Earl Hartfare, most folk preferred the older name.

  The oaks guarding the southern border were massive trees, and between them was a road, dirt packed and narrow, but clearly marked by midnight blue flags bearing the Child Star emblem.

  Banna Mora rode across the threshold, leaving behind bold sunlight in favor of cool green dapples and the gray glint of morning dew. She breathed deeply, grateful to be entirely free of aches, pain, and nausea; she was healthy and strong, in leather armor and an open brown jacket. She and Rowan Lear were on their way north to Connley Castle, following behind Sin Errigal who had wished to return for the birth of her newest great-niece or -nephew. The old duke would travel slowly by wagon, turning the full-day’s journey into at least three, and Rowan had persuaded Mora to this diversion.

  Birds trilled and the air lived with drifting seeds and spears of sheer white sunlight cutting through from the thick canopy. A brook gurgled nearby, slipping around rocks that gleamed like iron and silver.

  Rowan sang.

  A rambling riddle-song at first; his voice broke pleasantly around Mora, and she relaxed in the saddle. This borrowed horse shivered with energy, but obeyed her slightest motion. When they left the forest behind again, Mora promised her a solid run.

  A shower of water and nuts plopped down around Mora as the tree above her shivered. She gasped and lifted an arm to block the tiny, sharp seeds.

  Rowan said something in the language of trees. Hiss hiss whisper Banna Mora hiss, it sounded like to her. Then, “I’ve asked it to behave.”

  Mora frowned back at the tree, then spread her glare to encompass the entire forest. “Why shouldn’t it behave?”

  “You haven’t even said hello.” There was teasing in his voice, and Mora narrowed her eyes at him.

  Unlike her, Rowan was not dressed for battle or formality. His blue robe hung open off his shoulders, over an undyed linen shirt and plain black pants. Even his boots slumped, worn and well loved. His sword rested flat across his mount’s rump, attached to the saddle just like his pack and rolled blanket. All that white-gold hair had begun the morning braided in loops, but it was so fine wisps trailed free.

  Though Mora wished to think he appeared nothing like a prince, she couldn’t lie to herself: he was exactly what a prince of Innis Lear should be. She sighed heavily. “Teach me to say hello.”

  Surprise filled his face, swiftly replaced by arrogant humor.

  They rode in silence for a few momen
ts, then he said, “Say this,” and followed it with a short phrase of puffed air and whispers.

  Mora did her best.

  A breeze blew back at her, making the leaves above dance.

  “What did I say?”

  “Hello, as you asked.”

  She repeated the word. Hello.

  Rowan smiled. “It more specifically means something like, ‘I ask that you welcome me,’ but ‘hello’ suffices.”

  “Does it.”

  His smile took a turn toward sublime.

  Mora nudged her horse faster, and it shot immediately forward. Behind her, Rowan’s laughter echoed.

  For hours she rode ahead, alone, and after the first two she paused at a fork in the path. One way shifted slightly west, the other continued due north. No sign nor marker indicated which was the proper path. Mora supposed she’d have to wait for Rowan and might as well dismount to stretch and relieve her bladder.

  But she’d only just tensed to swing her leg over when the wind blew, spinning around her in sunwise circles, then sped off down the western way. The thin, leaning trees shook their leaves, and curling, dead leaves from last year tumbled along the ground.

  The northern path waited quiet and still. Puffs of seeds hung in the air, caught in hazy peace.

  Though the contrary nature of her mood—her personality—urged her to turn into the quiet north, to deny the wind, Mora was neither a fool nor spiteful, and so she let the wind pull her west.

  Hello, Mora said, and again, Hello. Practicing.

  Hello, the wind replied after her third attempt.

  She gasped, and the wind gasped back, mimicking her noise exactly.

  Because she was alone, or at least without human company, Mora let herself smile just a little bit.

  The horse trotted happily, and Mora patted her neck, so at ease that she put tiny braids into the horse’s rough flaxen mane. The breeze stuck with her, humming, if wind could be said to hum, and Mora supposed on Innis Lear it might. She warmed sufficiently that sweat gathered in the small of her back and she shrugged out of her jacket, laying it over her horse’s withers. Then Mora stretched, touching the lined braids on her own head. Trin had spent three hours last night weaving Mora’s hair back from her forehead and temples. They felt slightly crooked to Mora’s exploring fingers, but Trin would get better with practice. The ends were loose in a flare at the back of her skull.