The Hedgewitch Queen

by Lilith Saintcrow

  This must be a nightmare. I eased back along the hall. All the doors were locked except the one I had come through. That room had a window—but twas painted shut, for it did not budge when I tugged at it.

  I turned back to the room, searching for anything that would help. I could not break the window, and I was on the second floor. And where exactly would I go?

  Dear gods, anywhere but here. This is madness. There must be somewhere—

  I heard footsteps and dropped down to sit on the bed, my hands clasped together, my braid disheveled and pushed forward over my shoulder, my skirts spread prettily as if I was on a divan at Court. The last bit was habitual, my busy fingers accomplishing it without any direction from the rest of me.

  A courteous knock at the door. I had to try twice before I could say “Enter, an it please you” in anything resembling a normal voice.

  The door opened and revealed Tristan d’Arcenne.

  He had bathed, and his face looked both better—because he was relieved—and worse, because it was now apparent he had been very badly beaten. His hair was combed back damp, and he had no red sash. He wore a white linen shirt, a black leather doublet, and a pair of breeches. The siang-stone signet glinted on his left ring finger. He had not worn it yesterday—someone must have brought it to him. His sword was in its accustomed place, his boots freshly brushed, and his gloves thrust through his belt.

  I felt even more rumpled. “Captain.” I tilted my head just as I had seen Lisele often do.

  Oh, but the thought of Lisele sent another arrow through my already-torn heart. My eyes prickled hotly.

  “Duchesse.” Equally formal. “You heard.”

  I shrugged. “I thought to come find you. Or to see if I had been left.” I sounded wistful insted of polished, so I pulled my shoulders back, giving myself a sharp mental slap.

  I was Duchesse di Rocancheil et Vintmorecy, and I had to act so.

  “You did not leave me to the donjon, I would not repay your kindness by leaving you here.” He examined me, and I saw he had a fall of cloth over one arm. I glanced at it, then up at him. He shrugged, blue eyes darkening. The swelling around his one eye had gone down quite a bit. “Well. One of the Guard—Tinan di Rocham. He is a slight boy, and we may belt in a pair of his breeches for you. You cannot ride in that dress. This will be more comfortable. And a group of men traveling will raise little suspicion, while a group of men traveling with a young noblewoman may cause comment.” A high flag of color stood out along his cheekbones, a novel occurrence.

  I glanced again at the clothes he carried. “Tis true. I shall only be trouble to you.”

  He dismissed the notion with a single gesture, his signet glinting. “Your father and mother both have bloodlines tangling with the royal tree. Did you not ever wonder why you were brought to Court?”

  “My father told me twas my mother’s dying wish. I am a noblewoman of Arquitaine, and tis good enough for me. Lisele…” Grief rose again, and my eyes began to fill. I gazed at the floor, seeking to swallow the rock lodged in my throat.

  The Captain swept the door shut behind him. “Gods,” he said quietly, but with great force. He strode across the room, tossed the clothes on the bed beside me, and went to his knees, taking my cold hands in his. It was highly improper, but I could not move, I seemed nailed in place. “Vianne, you must listen. Whether you will or no, you have the last drop of untainted royal blood in Arquitaine. Lisele and Henri are both dead—you are what is left. It is your duty to free us from the Duc d’Orlaans.” His eyes were burning now, and I found it increasingly difficult to breathe. “He killed your Princesse,” the Captain continued, pitilessly. “Would you leave her death unavenged?”

  It was a sharp pinch in a sensitive place. I started, and stared down at him. What does this matter to you? I have nothing you want, Captain. And I realized twas not true just as he spoke again. I did have something he wanted, and it rested on a chain around my throat.

  “The Aryx has accepted you as its holder. And furthermore, I need you.” A pause, while he struggled with the words. “An army will need a rallying point. If I am to somehow enlist the help of the King of Navarrin, he is a distant cousin of yours and your pretty face will put a debt on him. I ask you for duty, and for honor, Vianne. Please.”

  A horrible realization dawned. Tristan d’Arcenne, Captain of the King’s Guard, had danced with me and followed me at Court to keep watch—to see if I was any danger to Lisele. If I had shown any sign that could be interpreted as ambition, I might have been spied upon more assiduously. He had been relieved to see me as he lay trapped in the donjon—not for myself, but because I was useful.

  I was a way to serve the King, though the King was dead. As usual, I myself had very little value.

  All my value lay in how I was to be used.

  “Oh.” Fresh tears filled my eyes. I had been a fool. Thank the gods I had never said, or done, anything more foolish.

  He waited, examining my face. Anger washed through my whole body, a great hot spate of it. I had been shipped off to Court at nine years of age, needled and buffeted because I was not content to simply be an empty-headed featherbrain, watched constantly because I was Lisele’s friend, and taunted because I chose to work with herbs and practical spells instead of gaudy, violent Court sorcery. Now, even a rash of death and conspiracy did not free me. I would be forced to marry a man who had murdered the King—the King my half-uncle, who had only addressed me directly twice in my life—or compelled to become a figurehead for a rebellion and a civil war that could devastate Arquitaine.

  Yet in the midst of that anger was the vision of my Lisele, lying on her back on blue silk, her hair tangled and her chest full of blood. Make certain. I heard the terrible voice again. And the horrible crunching sounds as the Duc’s Guard obeyed, making certain the witnesses to murder would forever hold their peace.

  I licked my dry lips. “As you like, Captain d’Arcenne.” But do not think I will always be this easily manipulated. I watched relief and fresh worry cross his face. He really was very handsome, though it would do me little good to mark it. Fair face may hide a foul heart, I heard the Comtesse Rochburre’s voice intone piously from the mists of my childhood.

  She had often glanced at Arioste di Wintrefelle while she did so; the Comtesse worried for Arioste.

  I could have told her not to bother. Those with di Wintrefelle’s wits and charm seldom fail to land afoot. It is the rest of us who should worry, for they tend to trample wherever they do land.

  And now the vision of Arioste’s crumpled body rose up in vivid, horrifying detail. Dear gods. Had the Blessed received her? They must—Jiserah welcomed all, she was the Merciful.

  But still, I wondered, and the thought of her slumped, lifeless form—

  “What’s this?” His tone had taken an abrupt turn into something like concern. “Vianne?”

  Do not use my name so freely, sieur. “I must dress myself.” I sought to pull my hands from his. Much to my surprise, he allowed me. “There is little time. We may be tracked; the sooner we depart, the better.”

  “I cannot argue, but why are you suddenly so pliable? I distrust your meekness.”

  And well you should. He had sworn me service in the donjon of Palais D’Arquitaine, but I did not doubt he would just as easily kill me if it suited him—if I showed any sign of disloyalty. “I hate to be used, Captain. By Duc d’Orlaans or by Captain of the Guard, I hate to be used. I will accompany you and aid you however I may, because I owe it to Lisele.” I felt my throat closing with tears and denied them, feeling my eyes burn. “But do not think for a moment you can force me into anything…dishonorable. I will act as the holder of the Aryx, but I am not a Queen. Surely someone else can be found. There are royal bastards everywhere.”

  He shrugged. His cheeks were pale and the bruises stood out in livid relief. “I do not seek to use you, d’mselle. I would never stoop so low.”

  “You have need of me to avenge the King’s death, Captain.” I
scraped together every ounce of haughtiness I could muster. And I half-believed the King when he said you favoured me. Silly me. “For your duty. I have been doing my wretched duty all my life. I intend to continue in like manner. Now, I really must dress myself. I shall thank you to let me do so.”

  For some reason, his face suffused with anger and just as quickly smoothed. He made it to his feet and stalked away, his step almost soundless despite his boots. “There is hot water,” he said over his shoulder. “Bathe quickly, tis no telling when we’ll have another chance.”

  I stood shakily and gathered the garments. I have never been a clothier, but I thought they might fit me. Sometimes I had envied the freedom of breeches and men’s clothing, and now I would take no joy in it.

  He paused, his hand on the latch. “Duchesse?”

  I glanced over my shoulder. His back was rigid, as if he was at parade-ground drill.

  “Captain?” I answered cautiously.

  “Why did you free me from the donjon? May I ask?”

  Because I am a stupid, silly, thoughtless girl. Because I thought you would make this nightmare fade, as the nurse’s voice makes a child’s night-fears leave. “I could not bear the thought of your beheading, Captain. I am known to have a weak stomach.”

  He nodded, and the set of his shoulders eased. “I danced with you at the Fête of Flowers, did I not?”

  My temper almost snapped. Why on earth did he ask me? He had never danced with anyone else; surely he should have remembered the occasions! “No. At Lisele’s Coming-of-Age, and at the Festival of Skyreturn. Both times you caused quite a bit of comment. Though I wondered why, since neither were memorable occasions.” The last was an unjustified cut, and I was briefly ashamed to hear myself utter an insult so far beneath me.

  “You remembered.” He swept the door open.

  I wish I did not. “I hold grudges,” I shot after him.

  “Tis not what gossip says of you.” With that parting sally, he closed himself out of the room.

  I strangled the desire to run to the door, wrench it open, and scream something nasty after him. I looked about for something to throw, but there was nothing, and neither action was fit for a Duchesse. So I settled for hissing at the door in exasperation and carried the clothes into the watercloset.

  Yet I must admit the annoyance was a tonic, and the anger made my fingers cease their trembling.

  Chapter Five

  I had a momentary difficulty with the doublet’s laces. The doublet was of leather and far too large, but it hid the curve of breasts and hips. I plaited my hair and found a ribbon in the bag I had filched.

  I wondered if I should cut my hair to pass for a boy. One of the men could lend me a kerchief or hat to hide it, perhaps.

  I struggled back into my garden-boots and dropped the Aryx down my shirt, cursing to myself as my hand brushed my emerald ear-drops. I had forgotten them completely, and now I looked at them with fresh eyes, as the survivor of a shipwreck might gaze on something that had once been a ship’s pride.

  Scallops of silver, delicately whorled, filigreed around large emeralds burning dark green like hedgewitchery itself, smaller chiming bits of silver and similarly caged, tiny uncut emeralds depending from the larger gems. They were a prize, the finest work Amercio Tavanche of the royal jewelers did four years ago, and dedicated to me by the artiste. I usually preferred to patronize bookbinders and scholars, but Tavanche hailed from my home province and had presented himself—and been laughed almost into tears by no few of the ladies, since he’d tripped and landed face-first during his presentation.

  Fortunately, I had some little weight with the royal jewelers, and had introduced Tavanche to the head artisan of their workshop. The ear-drops had excited no little marvel at their presentation at Court during the annual Salonne, and their gifting to me handled far more adroitly by Tavanche than his presentation had been. I wore them habitually—Arioste would say I had no other jewels, but this was not true. I merely liked these overmuch.

  I weighed them in my palm for a moment, and slipped them into my pocket.

  The dress I bundled up and decided to carry downstairs with my servant-girl’s bag. I hoped Arioste’s maid had survived the carnage in Lisele’s rooms. I could not remember her body, and did not want to think too deeply lest I do so. My own maid, the shy but occasionally tart-tongued Meridia, had been granted a week’s leave to visit her ailing mother, and right glad of it I was. At least away from the Palais she was safe enough, though at the time it had annoyed me to put up with the clumsy fingers of other ladyservants.

  This time, I had to take a deep breath before leaving the safety of the room. I heard the murmur of voices again, and set off down the hall. Each step was more difficult than the last.

  Panic beat under my ribs as I reached the stairs, and I stood irresolute atop the flight. Men’s voices resounded below. Without the protection of a woman’s skirts, what could I expect from them?

  The problem was larger than that, though. Without Lisele’s protection, how could I manage in the world? I had never been on my own, safely trammeled by childhood and later by the rules of Court protocol and etiquette. I knew what was expected each day of Court, when to sit and when to stand, who was of the sword and who was of the robe, who was of the lower order; and I knew each arcane bit of manners for the festivals, feasts, and fêtes.

  I was not such a fool to think this was knowledge prized outside the Palais.

  I could not depend on Tristan d’Arcenne, that much was certain. He wanted his revenge and a biddable Queen Pretender; I was only a hedgewitch with an accident of royal blood.

  The Aryx warmed, hard metal against my skin. I lifted my chin. Duchesse Vianne di Rocancheil et Vintmorecy. Walk so, and speak thusly, and never forget you are of noble birth. I heard again Comtesse Rochburre’s voice as she taught a gaggle of noble girls how to behave at Court, and imagined I was sweeping in procession down the stairs into the Great Ballroom at Lisele’s side, the train of ladies behind us in their silk and velvet and jewels. After a moment’s thought, I pulled the Aryx from its hiding and settled it against my chest. Let Jierre di Yspres feast his eyes on that, and we would have no more talk of leaving me to the Duc’s mercy.

  For by now, you see, I had decided I had little wish to be left so.

  I came down the stairs slowly, one at a time, pausing between each as if waiting for the train of a dress to catch pace with me. By the time I was halfway, they noticed me; three steps after they were rising; when I reached the bottom of the stairs they had all removed their feathered hats. I stood on the last step and surveyed the room with the cool haughtiness of a Court lady. My gaze moved unhurried from one man to the next, and most dropped their eyes immediately. The ones that did not looked down after only a few moments.

  My looks are nothing special, as the ladies of the Court reminded me so very often. But a good posture and the right expression can make any woman regal.

  Of course, my Lisele had called me beautiful, but I always laughed. I knew my place. Had not I been taught it often enough?

  “Good morn to you, sieurs.” I addressed them clearly, as if I were administering the beginning of a dance. Tristan d’Arcenne stood by the fireplace, blue eyes bright with something I could not decipher. Relief that I was playing the rôle for his troupe? Perhaps. “I have you to thank for my escape from the Palais, and I hear I have you to thank for the relief of traveling to safety.”

  A few of them colored, and Jierre di Yspres, in his place next to Tristan, stiffened—a movement I caught easily at the corner of my gaze.

  Good.

  There was a slight cough, and one of them—a slight young lad barely past his first shave—stepped forward. He had dark hair and the angular features of a mountain noble. “Tinan di Rocham, Your Majesty.” He clutched his red-feathered hat in both hands. He looked absolutely mortified, but proud at the same time. We were of a size—I am not too tall for a woman, and he was slight and young—and it was his clothes I
wore.

  “My thanks for the camouflage, chivalier.” Now let us see what comes of it.

  His cheeks turned crimson, his hand darted down. His sword whispered from its sheath.

  The rest of them tensed to a man, and that was gratifying. But Tinan di Rocham simply reversed the blade and stepped forward until he could drop to one knee at the foot of the stairs. “I owe you my service. Accept my oath, d’mselle.” He all but stuttered over the words. “I mean, Your Majesty. If I may be so bold.”

  My stomach turned on itself.

  But their Captain expected somewhat of me, and were I to cut the young lad now his shame would be overwhelming. So I smiled and nodded gravely, reached down to touch two fingers of my free hand to the hilt. “I accept your oath, Chivalier Tinan di Rocham. My thanks.” I sounded serious, though lunatic laughter had to be sternly repressed.

  He rose, returned the weapon to its sheath, and bowed again, a Court bow that was a little jerky but surprisingly polished otherwise. “A pleasure to be in your service, Your Majesty.”

  Oh, gods. Do not let him address me as such. “Tis merely Vianne di Rocancheil, chivalier. I thank you.” Faintly improper—had we been at Court, he would have addressed me as Duchesse. But I smiled prettily, giving him the compliment. It was surely not too soon to begin gathering allies.

  I suspected I would need them, and shame filled me again. Cold calculation of this level was somewhat new, and I disliked it. I especially disliked that it seemed so natural.

  He blushed even harder, and a murmur ran through them all.

  A stocky, black-haired man with an amazing mustache—it drooped past his chin and was waxed in the Navarre style—came forward, and repeated the process. “Adersahl di Parmecy et Villeroche, Your Majesty.” He had a clear carrying baritone of surprising profundity. “I owe you my service, d’mselle. Accept my oath.”