The Hedgewitch Queen h-1

by Lilith Saintcrow

  I studied him for a long moment, watched color rise in his cheeks and die away. “Very well.” I touched his swordhilt. “I accept your oath, chivalier.”

  He rose, slowly. Standing on the bottom step made us almost eye to eye, and I refused to look up at him, forcing him to stoop a little. My mouth had turned dry as summer road-dust. “I shall forgive you, if you forgive me the trouble I have no doubt caused you.”

  He mumbled something and looked stunned. The dress hanging over my other arm rustled a bit, and I wondered how ridiculous I looked carrying it.

  But I had more to endure. Captain d’Arcenne was suddenly before me, and his sword rang free. He sank to one knee again, surprisingly fluid for one so battered. “I owe you my service, Vianne di Rocancheil. Accept my oath.”

  Gods, did not you already do this? I inclined my head gracefully, touched the hilt. My neck ached with tension, and I hoped my stomach would not start loudly demanding breakfast to embarrass me. “I accept your oath, Captain d’Arcenne. My thanks.”

  I did not ask him to call me simply Vianne.

  He did not call me Your Majesty.

  We were perhaps even.

  He rose, swept me a bow, and took charge of the occasion. “Breakfast, d’mselle? You had no dinner last night, and you must be hungry.” He also took the dress from me and handed it away, and I did not ask whether twas to be hidden or burned.

  It mattered little, though the cloth could be sold. If they left me without protection, I would need rather more wits than I suspected I possessed, not to mention some money, to survive.

  I set my chin stubbornly, though I was famished. “I will not be a burden, Captain. Are we pressed for time?”

  “Not so pressed we cannot spare a few moments.” Jierre di Yspres was thin and dark, having the lean saturnine face of the south of Arquitaine. Most of the surviving Guard were younger sons of noble families. It was sad to see only these had survived — or remained loyal.

  I was soon seated at table with a bowl of porridge and a round red apple, as well as a steaming cup of chai. I concentrated on eating neatly and quickly, Court manners keeping my smallest finger crooked at the correct angle and my spine straight, my ears and eyes wide open to catch every nuance.

  Our refuge was a small stone house. I heard the rumble of carts passing by, and the clip-clop of hooves. Sunlight fell in golden bars through wavering glass windows. There was no fire in the grate, and I wondered how all of them had slept. Later I learned each Guard had a bedroll rolled into a compact cylinder and attached to the back of his saddle.

  I further wondered whose house this was and looked for any sign of the owner, but there was none.

  Observe, Levontus of Tiberia had written in his most famous treatise, and many questions will answer themselves. Always, observe. Tis far more pithy in Tiberian, which is a language boiled down to its essence, but it is far from the worst advice for making one’s way in a dangerous world.

  Some of the Guard readied the horses, others sipped at cups of chai, a few went upstairs and I thought perhaps they stood watch. Jierre and Tristan spread out a map at the table and began to confer in low tones.

  “Tis a hard choice,” Jierre began. “The garrisons or the forest.”

  The Captain studied the map, a vertical line between his charcoal eyebrows. I took a scalding gulp of chai.

  At the Palais, judging by the fall of sunlight, Lisele would just be waking. Her morning chocolat would arrive on its little silver tray, and I would brush her hair. Lady Arioste would sing softly, plucking at her gittern, and Comtesse Rochburre would watch us all with her magisterial eye, ready to chastise for any impropriety. I would steal a scone from Lisele’s tray and perch in the window seat to eat. There would be morning jokes and laughter, chatter from the younger girls, and of a while they would ask me to tell a riddle or a tale. A wholesome tale, Comtesse Rochburre would inevitably interject, and Lisele would laugh, tossing her dark hair. Arioste would make a sharp comment, and I would ignore it, though Lisele’s eyes would flash…

  I finished the porridge, but found I could not eat the apple. I set it upon the table and stared at the bloom of red and yellow on its firm skin as I sipped. I was still staring, smelling the dust of the North Tower, when I heard my name.

  “—Vianne?”

  The room had emptied without my notice; only d’Arcenne and I remained.

  I blinked back hot swelling water. Swallowed, hard, and raised my face to his. Some explanation seemed necessary. I grasped for one. “I ate apples. Yesterday. In the North Tower.”

  He nodded, rolling up the map and tucking the mapweight in a small pouch at his belt. “I thought it likely, by your look. Do you need the privy before we start?”

  “I should,” I said thinly, and made it to my feet. It was passing strange to move without the weight of skirts around my legs. I had almost reached the stairs when he spoke again.

  “Vianne?”

  Do not use my name so freely. But I could not say it, could I. Not while depending on his good graces for my continued survival.

  I half-turned, my hand on the stair’s railing. “Leave me alone.” I said it so quietly he may not have heard.

  “You look…” He paused, searching for the word.

  I supplied it for him, setting my foot firmly on the first stair. “The word you seek is ridiculous, sieur. I am wearing a Guard’s uniform and my garden-boots, and I will mayhap be forced to shear myself to pass as a boy.” I took another step. This one was not half so difficult, and I thought perchance they might grow easier if I simply focused solely on the one before me. Levontus of Tiberia had some very severe thoughts on the question of how far into the future one should plan. Diodoria Siclonus, of course, disagreed with him.

  I brought myself back to the present with an effort. Keep your wits, Vianne. “I know very well I am only the silly, gawky, hedgewitch provincial that lucked into Court because her grand-dam was lightskirted. I know very well what I look like, Captain d’Arcenne. Please do not remind me.”

  With that, I swept up the stairs and left him standing. Twas satisfying to have the last word for once.

  * * *

  I emerged blinking into morning sunshine, wishing for a kerchief to hide my braided hair, and found myself in a small stone bailey. Jierre di Yspres and a tall blond Guard were already mounted, but Tristan was engaged in a last-minute conference with the young, slim Tinan, who broke away to present me with his hat. It had a magnificent feather, but was a touch too big for me. However, when I coiled my braid atop my head, it fit a little better.

  “I suppose I look a fool.” I glanced at the youthful chivalier, to gauge how idiotic I seemed. He grinned and ran his hand through his shoulder-length dark hair.

  “Oh, no, d’mselle. You look, well. Very beautiful.”

  He uttered it in a tone of earnest reverence, and I was hard-pressed to swallow a laugh. I had tucked the Aryx inside my shirt, but I thought I could still see it reflected in his eyes.

  “My thanks for the compliment, chivalier,” I replied gracefully, offering my hand. He took it automatically and almost dropped it once he realized what he’d done. I covered for him as a lady could, moving forward, and we ended up ambling across the bailey as if on promenade. “I must say I disagree. In any case, it matters little. You are of Rocham?”

  He nodded, his chest rising with pride. “My father’s people are the riverfolk, but I favour my mother and she’s mountainfolk. Our House is on the bank in Rocham, white colonnades and a red roof. My mother hates the roof, she says tis not well-mannered, and my father says tis well-mannered enough to keep the rain out and she should not complain. Then my mother remarks something, usually under her breath, and my father usually smiles, and—”

  This time a thin, nervous laugh did escape me. It was not so amazing; he was very charming and I was exhausted, though I had slept so heavily. My laughter had the quality of a weary old cane being used for the last time. Hard on its heels the image of Lisele rose up,
still and bloody while I was breathing, and I sobered.

  Di Rocham saw this. “You look troubled, d’mselle.”

  And you are not, young man? We should all be troubled, the more the better. But while you think me distracted, let us gather some information. “Where are we?”

  “We are on the outskirts of the Citté, a house di Yspres bought some time ago. The Captain believes in planning for every possible contingency.”

  “If it pleases you”—Captain d’Arcenne’s tone cut through the morning hush—“we have wasted half the day, and must be setting out.”

  Tinan dropped my hand with a hurried bow and mounted his horse. He and Jierre trotted to the bailey entrance, and the tall blond Guard — his name was Jespre, I remembered, like the stone — followed, casting a sharp glance over his shoulder. I was left alone with Captain d’Arcenne.

  I regarded him. There I stood in sunlight, foolishly dressed in a man’s shirt and breeches and my garden-boots, which were good supple leather and waterproof but hardly dainty, and Tinan’s hat perched firmly atop my braid, covering my hair. I sought the first cut of the conversation, since the scholarly Juen Servanties of Navarre’s arid Erágon held it as a rule that to hold the offensive, in any verbal battle, was an advantage not to be thrown away. “Well. I suppose I am afoot, unless you have found me a horse.”

  “Buying a horse would attract attention, and stealing one would not be meet.” He indicated his mount. Now I could see it was a large gray warhorse, and I felt my throat dry again. I was used to placid mares and occasionally a sprightly gelding, not the massive beasts the Guard bred and trained. “This is Arran. Come and meet him, Vianne; he is honored to bear the Queen.”

  I folded my arms. “Please, Captain. Do not name me something I am not, I pray.”

  His tone turned brusque and cool. “You are more our Queen than d’Orlaans is a king. What did I do to earn the sharp edge of your tongue today?”

  The sharp edge is the only edge you shall receive, sieur. To think I believed the King’s jest. “Time is wasting, Captain. Am I to walk, and the rest of you can trot along in front of me? A pretty sight that will make.”

  He moved forward, caught me by the waist, and lifted me as if I weighed nothing. My foot found the stirrup and I was in the low saddle in a trice, my entire body protesting. I had spent more time yesterday a-horseback than I had in the entire month previous, and my knees and shoulders were deeply bruised. But I would gift myself to the Duc wrapped in Festival silk before I showed Captain d’Arcenne any weakness.

  I kicked free of the stirrups; the Captain swung up behind me. I held myself stiffly away from him as before. I did not know how long I could do so — but do so I would, for as long as was required. At least the saddle did not have a high back, which would force him to perch on the beast’s rump. It had to be uncomfortable.

  I found the thought of his discomfort pleased me.

  “You will wear yourself out,” he said in my ear as he twitched the reins.

  Arran had a smooth gait, thank the Blessed, and I felt a little more secure when we trotted out of the bailey and joined the others, taking our place near the middle of a loose file down the cobbled street. The thunder of wagon wheels and voices rose in a wave, breaking over us. We were on the quays of the River Airenne, which explained the arrangement of the small stone house. It had in all likelihood been a boarding house for riversailors at one time. Nobody took notice of us — we could have been any noble hunting party, bent on hawking or riding down prey in the copses and woods around the Citté.

  The Captain was taut and alert, almost starting every time a barge driver shouted or a riversailor cursed. He remained tense as we went along the river, making for the King’s woods, and a tide of beggars and human flotsam scattered in front of the Guard. They moved with an alacrity that bespoke familiarity with parties of noble-blooded hunters — for as the proverb says, Whips sting when a noble hunter is hurried.

  Jierre di Yspres led the file, and he turned onto the road that pierced the wood. The sound of the quays faded slowly behind us. The horses picked up their pace to a steady trot.

  I had thought I could lean away from the Captain all day, but I was simply too tired. By the time we reached the woods I had begun to sink. Besides, the saddle was too small, even if its back was low enough to perch on.

  “Ease yourself, Vianne,” he said in my ear. “We have a long way to go, and twill tire you. Best just to rest.”

  I did not believe he cared if I rested or not, but if I dropped dead of exhaustion it would slow him further and cost him his pretender to the throne. And there was little harm in it now, surely. The world had ended like a carriage overturning; we were merely wandering through the wreckage.

  So I sank back ever so slightly and watched the countryside of Arquitaine pass on either side. We had been riding for perhaps an hour when a low whistle trilled from somewhere behind us.

  As if by Court sorcery, the Guard faded back into the trees on either side of the road. The Captain took our horse to the side, behind a screen of sprawling lauryl bushes going wild. The horse stayed absolutely still, and I drew in a deep breath, held it until the world turned to a painted screen splotched with whirling colors.

  “They will not see us.” He sounded so sure, and I caught a whiff of Court sorcery, blending with the hedges to screen us from view. The charm was so slight it would escape notice, unless our pursuers were going slowly and using a showing-spell.

  I strained my ears, heard nothing.

  Then, hoofbeats.

  They came down the road at a gallop, and at their head rode thin, hungry Garonne di Narborre, angular and intent in a blue doublet. They wore the embroidered surcoats of King’s Messengers though any fool could see they were not, for they wore swords. The surcoats held black braid meaning a King had died, and gold braid meaning a new King had been crowned.

  But the Duc does not have the Aryx. At the coronation, he will have to produce it. Ah, that is why they gallop.

  I touched the hard warm pulsing of the Aryx, pushed under my shirt as an afterthought. It gave a double beat, and I felt an odd shifting inside my head. I was only a hedgewitch, not a well-practiced Court sorcerer like di Narborre, who was rumored to have dueled more than one man with Court sorcery and killed him. The King had been angered after one particular duel, but had not done anything except put Garonne in the Duc’s service instead of his own, since the Duc was such a Court sorcerer himself.

  Now I wondered what more there was to the tale of di Narborre and murder, and what else the King might have done that rumor spoke not of.

  The women of the Court were sometimes cutthroat ambitious, and the dancing for station never ceased. Some of the ladies even played Court men against each other, for privilege and position. I had been drawn into more than one game and usually acquitted myself well. Not only that, but twas my duty to catch intrigues meant to trip my Princesse, and I did a fair job of it.

  There had been a particular affair involving my Princesse, the Lady Courceline Maritine, a batch of silly love letters, and a Duc’s Guard named Arrebourne. The letters could have forced a scandal, and Lady Maritine was merely misled instead of overambitious, but it had still taken much thought and care to retrieve the letters from Arrebourne’s clutches. Of course, there had been an odd thing or two about that affair, and now I wondered who Arrebourne had been reporting to. I had consigned that question to the realm of mystery and Kimyan’s Riddles long ago, and been well rid of it. But now…had there been a deeper intrigue I had saved Lisele from, all unknowing?

  I took in another deep, jagged breath, and the Captain’s hand clapped over my mouth.

  My temper snapped. How dare he? I forgot myself entirely, and I suppose only the shocks of the previous day could have made me do what I did next.

  I bit the Captain of the King’s Guard. I sank my teeth in and worried like a trained terrier.

  His arms tightened, silently. He whispered, a breath of air brushing my cheek.
“Do you truly wish to be dragged back to the Duc, wedded and bedded in less than a night? Being d’Orlaans’s Consort might make you wish you had stayed in the North Tower, Duchesse.”

  I sank my teeth in harder, past caring. How dare he? I had gone straight to the King instead of planning to blackmail the Captain, though twould not have mattered an hour later what I had seen and whyfor. I had even rescued him from the donjon, by the Blessed. And he accused me?

  How could I have thought he fancied me?

  The Duc’s Guard passed us by, and Captain d’Arcenne took his hand from my mouth. I had not broken the skin, but I had come close, and on his bruised hand besides. “Now, what was that, Vianne?” Very softly.

  “What did you think I was about to do?” I whispered back fiercely, turning my head, suddenly very aware of his arm around my waist holding the reins. “Scream for rescue from the Duc’s hired murderers? They killed my Princesse, Captain, and I am afraid they will do the same to me — or worse, if I can believe your warnings. And yet you think — you think I would—” I was almost too furious to speak, though I whisper-hissed.“You swear me obedience, you give me your oath, and then you act thus? Some Captain you are, no more loyal than—”

  “Careful, d’mselle.” The same quiet tone, even and without temper. “Be careful what you brand me as.”

  I subsided into silent seething, so furious tiny red speckles danced a pavane before my eyes, but long years of Court training made me loosen my limbs, seeking control. A lady should be languid even in anger, I heard the Comtesse Rochburre say in her low, adamant tone. If you are angry, you cannot plan your revenge.

  I schooled my face and my trembling hands, and forced my shoulders down. A fine tremor ran all through me. “I should have left you in that donjon,” I muttered, unwilling to let him have the final word.

  “Your pardon, d’mselle.” The low conversational tone was gone. Did he now sound surprised? I was past caring. “I have no doubt of your loyalty — I simply thought the sight of di Narborre would be a shock to you.”

  Speak softly, Vianne. You need this man’s protection. “You thought aright. But if I cried out at every shock I would not have lasted long at Court.”