Florentyna smiled thinking about her romantic forebears. When the vision of the wolf came to mind again, she told herself she’d imagined it; of course she had, for when she tentatively leaned over the pool she saw only her dark hair, sensibly pulled back and plaited behind the familiar oval face. She wore no earrings, no necklace, no bracelets or finery, no colour on her cheeks or lips. For a queen she was singularly unadorned. Even her gowns were neat, practical — although like her famous ancestor, Valentyna, she really preferred riding gear — and she had convinced herself she looked best in neutral hues. She left all the frippery to Darcelle. Her sister was the beautiful one — which Florentyna had been told so often as they grew up. Darcelle was the one with the gregarious personality and plenty of suitors; the one who really cared about the family’s jewellery and gold vaults, the latest fashions, the best silks.
Everyone knew this. Even the king.
Their father had loved them both deeply, but had admitted that he was glad she was the one who would wear the crown. He thought he’d been saying this privately to Chancellor Reynard, but Florentyna had been in the solar, just outside his main salon.
She’d been permitted in by the king’s secretary, who knew he could leave the princess while he ran an errand.
‘Does his majesty know you’re coming?’ he’d asked kindly.
‘I want to surprise him,’ she had replied in a conspiratorial tone. ‘He doesn’t know Darcelle and I are back from our trip to Argorn yet and I have a special gift for him.’
‘Oh, then if you don’t mind waiting, your highness,’ he’d murmured, ‘I’m sure the chancellor won’t be long with your father. Welcome home, highness.’
‘I’m happy to wait, Kilryck,’ she had assured him, giving him a smile as he’d left.
However, the door had been open and she could hear the two men. She hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. Their voices carried. As she heard her name spoken she frowned, moved closer to listen.
‘… Darcelle has it all,’ her father’s deep voice said. ‘Looks, personality, desire to be loved. She will be fine. She will be rich and happy as long as everyone dotes on her and looks after her. And in this she is fortunate too, for her elder sister indulges her. Darcelle will not have to inherit a crown to wear one.’
Reynard had always held a soft spot for Florentyna and she mentally hugged him for his sharp reply. ‘And you think Florentyna will?’
‘It’s not like that, Reynard,’ her father admonished. ‘But you know as well as I that my elder daughter is a plainer, more serious girl and genuinely more suited to rule. She’s sensible and intelligent, well read and took her studies seriously. She’s done everything right. A sovereign can’t expect to be loved as Darcelle is … a sovereign must earn the love that comes with mutual respect. You hear me wrong if you think I criticise Florentyna. She makes me proud and, if not for her intensely romantic nature, I think she’s perfect to rule after I’m gone.’
‘And yet your praise sounds somehow damning,’ Reynard had said sadly. He could get away with it, although her father would tolerate no-one else chastising him so. She heard Reynard continue. ‘Your majesty, forgive me, but Florentyna is poorer emotionally for your attitude. The only reason you think your elder daughter is plainer is because Queen Saria has made her so over the past decade. She was an absolutely beautiful child, as I’m sure you recall, and while that beauty doesn’t necessarily follow into adulthood, I think you’re only seeing the Florentyna she has been shaped to be rather than the one you knew. The beautiful girl with the wide smile and ready affection is still there. It’s just been …’ She heard a pause as Reynard searched for the right word. ‘Well, damn it, my king, it’s been all but coerced out of her.’
She heard her father sigh then, heard his soft footsteps and she knew he’d be walking over to the window to look out beyond Stoneheart’s huge bailey. ‘They’ve had a difficult relationship, it’s true.’
‘Except Queen Saria was the adult in that relationship, sire. She came into your daughter’s life when Florentyna was just nine and possessed loving memories of her own mother. Your new wife, dare I say, majesty, was not a good friend to the child at a time when Florentyna most needed one to guide her out of mourning and back into life. Florentyna has remained grief-stricken and I have to say it — isolated.’ The king must have swung around and glared, because Reynard suddenly sounded defensive. ‘You know it’s true. Oh, she hides it well, because she knows her place, her role, and because she knows you demand it of her. She’s been groomed as second heir since her first breath. But look at her dress and lack of adornment. Her mother has been dead more than a decade, but you wouldn’t know it. One could be forgiven for thinking Florentyna’s mother died a few moons back.’
‘Stop, Reynard,’ her father said.
But Reynard didn’t stop. He obviously knew how hard he could push his king. ‘Meanwhile, your second queen was a role model to the cherubic baby. Darcelle was an infant and easily moulded and Queen Saria has lavished her attention and care on her. She has taught Darcelle brilliantly and look how the girl has blossomed, but Queen Saria has left Florentyna to essentially raise herself in all things feminine. It is fair to say, and we all know it, my king, that the queen dislikes Princess Florentyna. There’s no reason for it, other than that she loved her mother so deeply and resembles you and your forebears so keenly but she is a lonely, lonely young woman in a palace full of people.’
Florentyna had felt her cheeks burning with embarrassment, but mostly pain.
She did love her little sister, but she also knew Darcelle was easily impressed, deeply selfish and desperately keen to wear a crown. And while Darcelle made all the right noises toward her as a sister, Florentyna knew that Saria — even from a distance — still enjoyed enormous influence over Darcelle and poisoned her mind as often as she could against Florentyna.
Florentyna stared into the pool, stung by thoughts and memories. Even when her moonblood had arrived, with all of its strange ache and uncertainty, it wasn’t Saria who helped, but dear Reynard, for even Twillie had become too old and hadn’t been nearby. She’d sobbed in his arms that frightening night, claiming that she was dying. Reynard had carried her, stained and weeping to his rooms and summoned Keely, one of the gentlest, prettiest, most sweet-tempered servants in the palace. And Keely had been left with Florentyna to explain that she was now in a position to bring life into the world. Reynard had quickly appointed Keely as head maid to the princess and, with only a decade separating them, they had become firm friends.
Saria noticed that Florentyna was becoming far too confident and independent. She blamed Keely, having watched Florentyna beginning to blossom under the woman’s care. And when Reynard had been away with her father, the queen had cornered Keely and suggested she do a ‘tour’, as she had called it, to the leper colony on the Isle of Trey. This was another of Cailech’s innovations, encouraging his palace staff to show they were not above such things even though they were employed at Stoneheart and enjoyed many benefits as a result.
Keely was quickly pressed into service and even though she went quietly and indeed graciously, it was obvious to Florentyna that Reynard would not have permitted such a close aide to the royal family to be away for so long. Then Keely had become ill; not for a moment did Florentyna believe it to be leprosy, for the talk was simply that Keely was coughing a great deal, but that was irrelevant to Saria, who gleefully and instantly forbade Keely returning to Stoneheart. She was to remain on the island as, according to Saria, she had contracted the suppurating sores of the leper.
Florentyna’s blood boiled even now at the memory of it, but she’d been a child and helpless. Her father was distracted on his return and even Reynard would not involve himself in domestic spats despite his disapproval of what had occurred. So Florentyna’s life had again turned inward. Some had even begun calling her fey because of her reticence.
She smiled, allowing herself a rare moment of malicious joy as she recalled the moment whe
n she realised what her father’s death signified. It had nothing to do with wearing a crown, or ruling, or wealth or status. It wasn’t about being the most revered person in the empire or the most powerful. It was quite simply about being in a position to give one particular command.
The king’s death was unexpected and traumatic. Pearlis had slipped into shock as quietly as her father had slid from his horse two mornings previously in the bailey soon after mounting up. What had been dismissed as indigestion had been his heart weakening. The king had been immediately confined to his bed and his physics prodded, poked and generally shook their heads at his worsening condition while his breath became laboured and then shallow. His complexion had lost its grey pallor and turned waxy pale. The queen, accompanied by Darcelle, was called back from her sojourn to the famed spa at Tyntar, north of Pearlis, and was at her husband’s side that same night, cooing and soothing in a way that made Florentyna feel ill.
As far as Florentyna was concerned, Saria, a widow of a distant cousin on her mother’s side, had deliberately set about catching the king’s attention and had done so through slyness, cunning and manipulation. Saria was still relatively young at thirty-five summers, still capable of bearing a son. She had been all smiles and friendliness in the early days of their courtship, but once the banns had been called and the echoes of the wedding bells had stopped resounding, Florentyna saw a different and far more ugly side to the new queen she now bowed to.
At the king’s bedside, both she and the queen had locked gazes over the sick man. Florentyna remembered well that sudden shift of awareness as the pendulum of power seemed to swing from the queen’s side of the bed to hers. And she could all but smell Saria’s fear on the other side. Her father was still young by the standard of the day. No-one had counted on him having a weakness of the heart, least of all Saria.
And in that moment Florentyna had realised that Saria was petrified. Florentyna did not want her father to die, but she privately revelled in the uncertainty and terror reflected in the look her stepmother levelled at her as understanding dawned of how life might be about to change for both of them.
To Saria’s despair her husband had suddenly awoken from the stupor he’d drifted into in an unnaturally alert state; it was a bad sign. The king spoke briefly to each of his loved ones separately, and then in front of those gathered, he had taken a deep, sad-sounding breath and closed his eyes. Saria had begun to shriek immediately.
Here was Florentyna’s defining moment, as Reynard had later remarked. She stepped up to Saria when she could bear the woman’s histrionics no more and delivered a stinging smack across one cheek, ignoring Darcelle’s shriek of indignation.
‘Hold yourself together!’ she’d demanded of her elder. Saria was tall in her heels but Florentyna was taller … without them. She used that height now to intimidate the woman who had been the bane of her life for years. ‘Quiet yourself, woman! A hush for the dead, I beg you. Let my father’s soul travel to Shar in peace.’
Saria had whimpered and clasped a hand to her shocked face, covering the reddening cheek that bore the mark of Florentyna’s fingers. She had become mute, humiliated in front of her audience. Florentyna saw the woman glance at Darcelle but ignored both.
Into the difficult silence the chancellor spoke gravely. ‘The king is dead!’ he announced at a sombre nod from the head physician. ‘Long live Queen Florentyna!’
Florentyna had taken their low bows, working hard to control her breathing, to hold her own tears in for just a while longer. And when each had straightened she’d looked to her sister. ‘Master Burrage, would you please see to it that Princess Darcelle is taken to her chambers.’ She helped her weeping sister to her feet and kissed her head. ‘Go now, dear one. Grieve for our father in private. I will take care of everything and I will see you when I have made the necessary arrangements.’
Darcelle had looked at her with red, watering eyes before turning toward the woman she considered her mother. Florentyna had not given her sister a chance to speak. Until that moment Florentyna didn’t know she was going to do anything so swift or decisive, but there was an echo of insincerity in Darcelle’s tears that struck a false note.
‘And, Master Burrage?’
‘Yes, your majesty,’ he said, according her the title that had the still stunned Saria looking from courtier to courtier in bewilderment.
‘Would you please have someone escort the dowager to the chapel, where I’m sure she will want to grieve for my father.’ Florentyna turned to Saria. ‘I will have staff wait upon you in the chapel, where I presume you will keep the day and night vigil over your husband’s body. From there I will make arrangements for you to be moved to a quiet place for your mourning.’
Saria’s mouth moved but no words were formed.
Florentyna masked her sense of satisfaction by looking away as people began to react. ‘A quiet word, Chancellor Reynard,’ she said softly for his hearing and withdrew to the mantelpiece, as far from the deathbed as possible. She heard people moving behind her and when she glanced back as Reynard approached, she saw her sister and her stepmother being aided from the king’s bedchamber.
Reynard drew next to her, staring deeply into her dark green eyes, scattered with warm brown flecks. ‘Bravo, Queen Florentyna. I have never felt more proud,’ he whispered and bowed again.
She did not smile but a felt a spike of pleasure thrill through her all the same. ‘My sister is to be kept apart from our stepmother for the time being. And the dowager, as she is now to be formally addressed, is to be kept under invisible guard. I do not give her permission to leave the palace yet. She is to be kept at the side of my father’s body until she has fulfilled her vigil as is required … on her knees, as is also required.’
He’d nodded and she had seen his fierce pride in her actions.
Reynard had then touched a finger to his lips momentarily. ‘I’m not certain, your majesty, that the dowager is aware of Morgravia’s custom that a wife who outlives her husband must go into mourning for eighteen moons,’ he’d whispered.
‘No, I suspect not. So Chancellor Reynard, will you make immediate arrangements for her to be removed to Rittylworth Monastery, where she can begin her official mourning as soon as she completes her vigil.’
She remembered how Reynard had permitted himself a tiny smile. ‘I will make those arrangements.’
‘See to it our most reliable guards escort the dowager to her new abode, won’t you, Reynard? Select a team who will remain at Rittylworth as her guard but also our eyes. She is dangerous; I have no doubt about that.’
‘You are wise, Queen Florentyna. The dowager will be gone from the palace by tomorrow night.’
Florentyna emerged from her memories at the snap of a twig behind her. ‘Is that you, Felyx?’ she asked without turning.
‘Yes, your majesty.’
‘I’m fine. Just a few moments longer, please.’
She heard him retreat and shifted her thoughts to the present. Saria was now unhappily, but securely, entrenched at Rittylworth Monastery. She had nearly completed the period of mourning and Florentyna knew that as soon as she could, the dowager would rush east into Briavel, back to the stronghold of her family’s lands at Tamar, northeast of its capital. And from there, Florentyna had no doubt, her vicious stepmother would be out of her black robes and plotting. Not for a heartbeat did Florentyna imagine that Saria would allow her to rule easily. Observers had confirmed that Saria believed a crown had been stolen from her, was even whispering that Florentyna had the healthy king poisoned. It was such abhorrent talk and yet Florentyna knew not to be surprised by it.
‘Above all, my queen,’ Reynard had advised, ‘keep Darcelle close and keep her happy. If Saria is going to make any sort of move against you, she will use Darcelle as her secret weapon.’
Not long after, the strange little man called Fynch had appeared and Reynard had granted him an audience with Florentyna.
‘Saria is the least of your concerns, your ma
jesty,’ Fynch had said calmly, as though reading her mind, his bright eyes fixing her to the chair in the solar, where she’d greeted him.
She recalled that conversation now.
‘You are saying that the empire is under threat from a foe we don’t know about and can’t see,’ she’d repeated, working to keep an even tone in her voice.
‘That’s my belief,’ he’d said softly. ‘I have waited for the signs.’
‘Signs?’
‘Majesty, I am a man with strong spiritual beliefs. I pay attention to … well, shall I call them nuances within the invisible world surrounding our own.’ She’d flashed a glance at Reynard. Fynch had seen it but didn’t appear to react at her obvious cynicism, and had deliberately turned it back upon her. ‘Isn’t it true, your majesty, that you believe strongly in the ethereal?’
‘My beliefs are not —’
‘Your beliefs are everything. You must lead your people and they will follow. Cailech and Valentyna believed in the spiritual world, feared and admired it, paid homage to it … in their own way.’
‘What do you know of my forebears, Master Fynch?’ she’d bristled.
‘Like you, my queen, I am a student of history. And I have lived more than most.’
There was something cryptic in his words.
Just when she’d thought he’d finished, he added, ‘If you believe that magic exists, your majesty — and I suspect that you do — then you must also believe it can be put to the work of good or to evil. I believe that an evil magic is loose again.’ He shrugged, as if to say he had nothing more to offer.
‘Why should we trust this information, Master Fynch?’ she’d asked, feeling the weight of his scrutiny.
‘Simply because I can speak only the truth to you, your majesty. If I was interested in mischief-making I’m sure there are far more dramatic and indeed easier ways to win your attention. I know it is difficult to place your trust in a stranger but — and this will be even more difficult for you to accept — I am no stranger to Stoneheart or to your family.’
The Scrivener's Tale Page 18
