The Queen's Gambit (11 page)

“If I may speak bluntly, your ladyship has taken up a great deal of my time, only to state the obvious. I wish I had the leisure to counsel you in statecraft, but, alas, more pressing matters call me. Perhaps you might reconsider your bargaining position before you approach me again.”

She nearly strangled with fury. Her hands clenched knuckle white in her lap. She could have argued or refuted his insulting remarks. Instead, she continued what she had come to say: “There have been occasional murmurs about your past,
my lord. Not even rumors, mind, just murmurs. A whisper or two, seldom uttered, nearly forgotten, of how a young man, the youngest son of an impoverished noble, with no personal fortune, no land of his own, came so quickly to the notice of the king. There are the lingering questions of how your lordship came to own so fine a house, such large estates, in less than two decades of service to his majesty.”

His face went wooden. His dark eyes were suddenly cold and wary.

“That shipping investment you made before the trade agreement with the Saelutian Isles,” she went on, well aware that at last she had his full attention. “A bold financial move on your part, was it not? And so many noblemen lost money in the scheme, while you prospered. It seemed remarkable at the time.

“Your fine house and estates, purchased cheaply from a baron accused of treason. Who laid the accusations against him? Who found the proof of his misdeeds and profited from them?”

He didn't protest. He didn't shout or try to evade. He didn't deny. With his eyes burning like coals in his set face, he whispered, “It's easy to twist the truth into false rumor. Envious, less talented, and mediocre men will always cry foul when someone prospers more than they. Your rumors, my lady, are twenty years old. Buried, forgotten. How come you by them?”

She shrugged and did not answer.

“Old slanders,” he said angrily. “The king was satisfied that I—”

“Oh, I do not accuse you,” she said guilelessly, opening her brown eyes wide. “Indeed, my lord. If the king and my father both believe you were innocent of any wrongdoing, then I do not dispute their judgment.”

“You would bring it all back, would you? You would try!”

“No,” she said sharply, leaning forward. “But when the king dies—and please Thod that shall be many years hence—your enemies will revive the rumor. Let us speculate about the future monarch. If it is someone new to court, someone who
does not recognize your invaluable service to the crown, then how simple a matter for your enemies to poison the royal ear against you. You could be ousted from office. Or worse might happen.”

He lifted his chin. “I am not unprepared for contingencies.”

“No doubt. But your prudence and preparation will only be seen as further proof of lining your pockets while in office.”

“It's a lie!”

“Yes, my lord,” she said calmly, pleased to see him on the defensive. Had he remained sleek and unperturbed, she would have had no chance. “You are efficient, trustworthy, and capable. Thanks to you, my uncle's treasury is fat and well managed. But we both know there exist people who are threatened by efficiency and honesty. There are malicious, inept, dishonest fools who would rather tear down what is decent and good than change what is wrong in themselves.”

She looked right at him. “Were I someday queen, my lord, I would have no other than you as minister of finance. Can you say that about anyone else who might ascend the throne?”

He said nothing. His face was pale, his eyes ablaze, and he was clenching the arms of his chair. Watching him, Pheresa felt her spirits sink. He had misunderstood her. That had been the main risk she faced today. If he thought she was trying to coerce him or blackmail him, then he would resent her and turn on her like a cornered animal. She held back additional assurances, knowing that to say more would only cause harm. If he could not work out what she meant for himself, then he was not the man she believed him to be.

Finally, he loosed a great sigh and said in a cold, brittle voice, “It seems your ladyship is correct in saying people underestimate you. I have done so myself, and for that I beg your pardon.”

She inclined her head graciously, her heart jerking, her mouth dry. Outwardly, she remained composed and still.

“Your ladyship asks me to trust you. I trust no one.”

Somehow she managed to find her voice. “I understand, my lord.”

“I never have.”

“Of course.”

“Your ladyship is seeking tremendous power. Until a few minutes ago, I would have said you have no idea of what that means. Now I must reevaluate.”

“I am trying to prove myself,” she told him. “Were I the fool—the timid mouse—that some people believe me to be, I would be dead and buried in Nether.”

He nodded.

“I want to be queen,” she said. “You want to remain minister of finance. Surely we can find common ground in these desires?”

“Even I cannot withstand the church's power if it becomes your enemy.”

“Cardinal Theloi is my enemy, for he favors another. He is not the entire church.”

Meaclan gave her an abrupt little nod. “Very well, my lady. It seems we need each other and must work together toward a common end.”

She smiled and rose to her feet to mask her sense of overwhelming relief. “Thank you, my lord.”

He stood also and bowed to her. “Your ladyship has given me much to think about.”

“My first priority is to remain at court. If I am removed, on any pretext, I shall never return,” she said urgently.

Meaclan raised his brows. “Really, my lady, I do not keep an army of protectors. I can support your claim to the throne, but I cannot prevent your abduction.”

She heard the faint tone of derision returning to his voice, and frowned. “You disbelieve the danger I face.”

“I do not dispute that your ladyship is worried. Perhaps I can persuade certain individuals that it is in the court's best interests for you to remain at Savroix. Let that be enough for now.”

Bitterness surged through her. He was offering his help, but only under coercion and less than willingly. Was grudging support as damning as no endorsement at all? She walked reluctantly to the door and glanced at him one final time in
appeal. Yet she could not find anything to say that would not sound like begging or repetition. She supposed, she thought with a sigh, that she should be grateful that she had managed to gain as much as she had.

“We shall talk again, in future,” Meaclan said as he ushered her to the door. “Now I must excuse myself for another appointment, which cannot be delayed longer.”

“Thank you for your courteous attention,” she said. “I appreciate all your efforts on my behalf.”

“Matters of state cannot be rushed.” Lord Meaclan bowed, his face still noncommittal. “Good day, my lady.”

The door opened, and Pheresa walked out into the antechamber. Sir Brillon stood there, cloaked and spurred as though ready for a journey. Her heart plunged to her slippers, and she stopped in her tracks. Her tiny dagger hung from a pretty chain and was concealed among the voluminous folds of her wide skirts; she gripped it now, as wary and tense as a forest animal who'd been cornered.

“Ah, there you are, m'lady,” Sir Brillon said. His black eyes stared at her with ill-concealed anger. “I've been sore pressed to find you, but—”

“Why are you here?” she asked coldly. “What do you want?”

He bowed. “I'm to take you riding in the park. The exercise will keep your health at its—”

“No,” she said, and added no courtesy to the refusal. She grew aware of Lord Meaclan standing at her shoulder, silently observing, and cast him a look of appeal. Perhaps now, she thought desperately, he would believe that she was truly in danger.

Sir Brillon stepped closer to her. “Come away, m'lady. This is no place for you. That dainty mare you particularly favor is saddled and ready.”

She gave the knight as haughty a glare as she could muster. “No, Sir Brillon. I do not go riding at this time of day. There is no mare that I favor. I keep no horses at court.”

“But—”

“You are mistaken,” she said sharply. “I did not summon
you. I have no need of your services, however kindly offered or intended. Good day, sir.”

Lord Meaclan said nothing.

Sir Brillon's eyes remained overbright and determined, but he managed a smile as he bowed. “As you wish, m'lady. I'll escort you back to the public rooms now. This is no place for your ladyship.”

Inwardly Pheresa fumed. She knew the best thing to do was to accept his escort back through Merchants Walk, but it felt as though the shackles had been placed on her wrists. His very presence was abhorrent to her. She hated the way he stared at her and watched her with an unwholesome intensity. She did not believe a Qanselmite knight should look at any woman the way Sir Brillon stared at her. Inside her clothing, her skin felt as though insects were crawling over it.

She shivered involuntarily and caught a flicker of satisfaction in his eyes. That angered her even more. He
wanted
to frighten her, she thought, and despised him.

“Very well, Sir Brillon,” she said after a long silence. Her attendants watched her, wide-eyed with curiosity. “You may escort me to the public rooms. There are new madrigals to be sung this afternoon, written in honor of Lady Lalieux's golden—”

Sir Brillon stiffened. “The king's mistress is no fit company for your ladyship.”

One of Pheresa's ladies gasped, and Pheresa herself grew very cold and still. She stared at Sir Brillon without immediately replying, and when he met her gaze his face flamed scarlet.

“Do you presume to tell me whom I may or may not see?” Pheresa asked very quietly.

His mouth was clamped in a tight line. Disapproval radiated from him, yet he seemed conscious of having erred. He backed away and gave her a jerky bow. “Nay,” he said stiffly. “But 'tis unseemly to—”

“If you are to escort me anywhere this day, Sir Brillon,” Pheresa said in a voice like iron, “you will escort me to the
side of Countess Lalieux. Otherwise, stand aside and let me pass.”

Sir Brillon scowled, but as he opened his mouth, Lord Meaclan spoke:

“Lady Pheresa, I hope I have not kept you too long,” he said smoothly. “ 'Twould be a pity to make you offend the countess with your tardiness. Her favor is an excellent advantage, and I would hate to see your ladyship lose it.”

Pheresa turned to him in relief, which she swiftly masked under Sir Brillon's baleful eye. “How kind you are, my lord,” she said with a radiant smile, and gave him her hand for a moment. “Good day.”

“Keep to your musical pursuits,” he said lightly, his dark eyes conveying a warning she understood most clearly. “And tomorrow, with your permission, I shall call on you for further discussion.”

She curtsied. “I shall be pleased to await you, my lord.”

With her hand still clutching her hidden dagger, she lifted her chin high and swept out, her attendants and Sir Brillon following. Down the ribbon of carpet leading along the gallery she went, a faint smile pinned to her lips, her thoughts spinning furiously inside her mind.

She had gained Meaclan's support, but as he had warned her, nothing could be accomplished quickly. In the meantime, she must do what she could to avoid the traps Sir Brillon kept setting for her. Go riding with him indeed, she thought with a spurt of renewed anger. Did he honestly think her such a fool? How easy to urge her to gallop to the king's wood, where she could be abducted easily out of sight of the palace. What would he try tomorrow, or the day after that? She quickened her pace, her heart thudding, and wished with all her might to be free of him. Yet he walked behind her like a shadow at her heels, ever watchful, ever vigilant, like a serpent coiled to strike at its prey.

Along the winding road from Aiesliun to Savroix lay countless leagues of fertile farmland, newly planted and starting to green. Well-kept hedges bordered the fields, and small but tidy villages were snugged in the gentle valleys where streams meandered beneath pale green willows. It was a sleepy, pleasant region, and made for pleasant traveling. Riding along at the lead of a small company of travelers, Lervan de Waite shifted lazily in his saddle and squinted up at the angle of sun overhead. About time for a rest, he thought.

“Jervis!” he called out. “Play us a tune.”

“Aye, my lord.”

The gentle strains of lute music filled the air. Smiling and humming along with the melody, Lervan rode onward.

He was lightly cloaked and fashionably garbed. His saddle, bridle, sword, and trappings were new. At four-and-twenty, he was long-shanked and beefy through the arms and shoulders. His light brown hair blew back from his face in the gentle breeze. He wore a bright green cap that sported a magnificent jadecock's feather, and beneath his mustache his red
lips were curved in a perpetual smile. On this fine spring day, life was as sweet as the skin of sun-warmed wine tied to his saddle. He was on his way to court, with every confidence that the whole world was about to be handed to him, and he intended to enjoy each moment to the fullest.

Father Fornel, a rather dour priest who'd been assigned the duty of schooling Lervan in all the things he needed to know before arriving at court, urged his donkey up alongside Lervan's bay courser. “A fine afternoon, my lord.”

“Aye. I wonder if there's any good hunting in these parts. Know you what game is to be found here?”

“No, my lord,” Fornel said austerely over the lute music. “I thought perhaps we might use this time to discuss the hierarchy of—”

“Not now.” Lervan shot him a winning smile. “It's almost midafternoon, and I think we need to stop soon to water the horses and stretch our legs.”

“There's little time now before we reach Savroix,” Fornel replied. “You need to know so many—”

“I'll pick it up soon enough,” Lervan said with confidence.

“I fear—”

The sound of girlish laughter from up ahead caught Lervan's attention. He straightened in the saddle and flung up his hand to silence the priest.

“Hear that?”

Fornel scowled. “Pay no heed, my lord. They're no concern of ours.”

But Lervan quickened his horse to a slow trot and rode ahead of the priest. He'd seen plenty of pretty girls on the journey thus far, and he was always eager to see more.

The road curved and wound in this valley, no doubt to avoid a meandering stream bordered by well-grown connols and willows, but ahead Lervan saw a crossing. On his left stood a wooden footbridge, while the road itself forded the stream, which ran quick and shallow.

Flagstones had been laid across the ford to keep the footing solid for carts and wagons. Eyeing the mossy stones, Lervan deemed them too slippery for his horse and moved aside
to choose his own crossing. As his mount splashed into the shallow water, he heard more giggles, accompanied by a flash of scarlet and blue in the bushes on the opposite bank. Various garments lay strewn about on flat stones near the support pillars of the footbridge. Lervan smiled to himself. No doubt the village maidens of the area had been doing their laundry.

Ever ready to seize an opportunity, Lervan reined up and stared hard at the thick bushes, where much rustling and giggling were going on.

“Come out, fair maids!” he called with a broad smile. “Come out and greet a weary traveler!”

Fornel drew rein beside him and frowned. “My lord, we should press on.”

“Oh, be at peace, Father,” Lervan said with a shrug. “Sir Maltric, do you find anything amiss here?”

“Nay,” his protector replied, glancing about alertly. “We'll water horse and man alike.”

“Good.” Lervan grinned at the feminine faces peeping out at him now from the bushes. He gestured broadly. “Come forth and be hospitable!”

Giggling, three maidens emerged and picked their way back across the stream, with their skirts gathered high. The generous display of leg and thigh made Lervan pleasantly warm. Well interested, he ignored Fornel's frown and dismounted swiftly. His protector followed suit, while the others stayed on horseback.

One of the girls was homely beyond all hope, the second passable, and the third quite comely in face and form. Lervan smiled at her with all his considerable charm.

“Well, now,” he said, “what a merry welcome you three wenches give a man. What say we rest a bit—you from your labors and I from my travels—while we all share the wine that I carry?”

The girls giggled, but the pretty one answered him boldly enough: “Nay, good lord and sir, but we are bound to finish our work and return home soon.”

Lervan made a gesture, and his squire hurried to untie the wineskin and hand it to him. In turn he offered it to the girls.
“What say we quench our thirst at least? What harm is there in that?”

“Our mistress will know if we go home drunken,” the maid answered him.

He raised his brows innocently. “And what is your name, my dear?”

The girl hesitated only a moment. Her eyes were dark, a little slanted at the tips. His open admiration seemed to please her vanity. “I am Vea, good lord.”

“Well, Vea, it's not a drunken feast I crave, but merely a moment's rest. I have ridden a long way, and have much farther yet to go. I would like to walk a little and stretch my legs. Will you keep me company, Vea, for a few minutes? I would learn about the land hereabouts, and its people, and its customs.” His smile widened suggestively. “Especially its customs.”

“Vea, no!” whispered the ugly one in warning, but Vea's dark eyes remained on Lervan.

He went on smiling, studying the curve of her lovely cheekbones and the promising arch of her throat. She smiled back, ignoring her companion, and gave him a little nod.

“Of course I will walk with you, good lord and sir.”

Well pleased, he took her hand.

“My lord!” Fornel said in annoyance from behind him. “Remember that you are bound for Savroix, with no time for such—”

Lervan cast him a lazy look, but warning lay in his eyes, and Sir Maltric gripped the priest's shoulder. Fornel fell silent abruptly.

“There is ample time,” Lervan said, and returned his gaze to Vea. “Come, my dear.”

“Have care, sister!” called the ugly one. “Remember your Toman.”

Vea tossed her head without replying, and together they strolled away into the cool shade beneath the trees. Just out of sight of the others, she laughed, low and richly, and skipped ahead before she whirled about and faced him.

There was a laughing challenge in her face. “Are you
really going to Savroix?” she asked, her eyes shining with excitement.

“Oh, yes. The king has sent for me.”

Her mouth opened in awe. “Then truly you are an important lord.”

“Truly, I might be.” He smoothed back a lock of hair from her face and cupped his hand beneath the curve of her skull. “Come closer, little maid.”

She leaned against him, her breasts soft against his chest, but just as his lips tasted hers, she laughed and pulled away. He laughed, too, catching her easily and pinning her against a tree this time. She smiled up at him, her ripe lips curved and merry. This time she let him kiss her, and her mouth was like honey, soft and rich, before she pulled away again.

He caught her chin in his hand and held her. “You tease me, my dear. 'Tis not fair behavior when I seek to claim you.”

She shivered in his hold. “You move quickly, m'lord. You are but a stranger here, and I am promised to Toman.”

He was fingering the curve of her bottom lip, studying it, reveling in the scent and proximity of her. She smelled of soil, grass, and soap. Her hands were work-reddened, and her wrists too thick and strong from hard work. In a few years she would coarsen and lose her teeth, but today she was lovely and his for the taking.

“When do you wed?” he murmured, nuzzling her temple while his hand wandered down her throat to her breast. He heard her jerk in a breath.

“After harvest. We were just 'trothed at Springfest. We—”

She broke off with a low moan as his caresses grew bolder. Lervan laughed, pressing her more insistently, but then she gasped and struggled against him.

“Don't, my dear,” he murmured against her lips. “You know what I'm about, and your Toman will welcome a bride who's no longer shy.”

“Hush, m'lord,” she said in a fierce whisper. “There's someone joined your friends on the road. I hear them talking.”

Lervan heard nothing but the pounding in his own blood. “Let them talk. I want—”

“Nay! We're too close. This way.”

She gave him a swift kiss and tugged at his hand, drawing him deeper into the woods. They splashed across the stream, her legs white and firm, then she dropped her skirts and they scrambled up the bank, she giggling breathlessly and he grabbing at her from behind. Just before they reached the top, he pulled her down and rolled with her beneath the soft fronds of a fragrant bush. There, surrounded by a curtain of green dappled with sunlight, they sported with merry abandon until both were spent and breathless.

He lay there, the world still reeling, momentarily lost to sense and reason. Bees hummed lazily above his head, drunk on the flowers as he was drunk, and all was sweet and perfect.

She stirred after a moment, but he stroked his hand up her lovely thigh and held her, content to pillow his head in the scent and softness of her. She fingered his hair and murmured something, the words too soft for him to catch.

“Again?” he said drowsily. “Give me a moment, my dear.”

She went on murmuring as though he had not spoken, and he smiled to himself.
When I am king,
he thought,
I shall make Vea my queen.

He envisioned her standing in the palace in a gown of rich velvet, jewels sprinkled in her hair and dangling from her ears. A strange lassitude stole over his limbs as though he were bound. He could barely move. His breathing grew slow and heavy. He did not sleep, but neither did he feel alert. Her voice grew louder and more rhythmic now. The words she spoke seemed to be a chant, but they made no sense to him. She would be lovely, he thought. Her beauty would charm the court, and every night she would be his alone to claim. He imagined her lying sprawled in the vast bed, spent and pliant. Her dark eyes would be clouded and soft. A tiny pulse would race in her throat, and he would kiss her there . . .

A bird called from the treetops, breaking his vision. He blinked and thought of Vea in her ragged dress and long tangled hair, dirt smudged on her cheek as it was now. The absurdity of pretending this peasant girl could be a queen made him snort with laughter.

Her fingers curled in his hair, and her chanting grew louder, almost angry.

He let his own fingers wander, so that now and then her chanting faltered as she jerked in her breath. He wished she would hush her nonsense, but it seemed too much trouble to speak or even to kiss her into silence.

Even in this day and age, he told himself lazily, there seemed to remain a few pockets of backwardness, deeply rural parts of Mandria where the old ways still prevailed. Silly old superstitions, older even than the ways before Reform. Perhaps she thought this spell or prayer she uttered would keep her belly from quickening with child. He did not care. Shifting his head, which felt as heavy as a stone, he nuzzled her breasts where her bodice gaped open.

She pushed his head away, uttering her strange words with more insistence.

“Lervan!” a voice called from far away. “My lord!”

That was Sir Maltric's voice. Lervan blinked, and some of his lassitude broke. Frowning, he lifted his head and seemed to come to himself. Shifting his gaze to hers, he saw how intense, almost violent, she looked. She kept chanting the words, hurling them at him now as though to force him in some way to her will.

He sat up, although she tried to hold him, and put his hand over her mouth. She wriggled furiously, but his strong arms held her easily.