“It’s only engraved with the year. Who is it?”
“A long-ago child,” Francesca replied. “She was legion-cursed and put to death in the temple here when she was nine. The poor thing. There are few easy deaths for a poisoner. Fewer merciful options when poison is not one of them.” She handed her letter to a servant, along with her ink and pen, then sighed, staring at the grave. “They took off her head,” she said, and Gilbert winced. “The family had her buried here unburned, holding it like a basket on her chest.”
“Beheading is a cruel thing for a child,” he agreed. “But still far kinder than leaving her to grow into the curse and to run mad.”
“To be sure.” She rubbed a bit of ink between her fingers and then clapped her hands. At a flick of her wrist, a silver vial appeared in her palm. “I have made it stronger this time.”
“Stronger? Why?”
“Why? How can you ask why? You have been at the Black Council meetings. You have been at the court. She is still not listening to us. Still taking no guidance from her advisers.”
He clenched his fist on the vial. She could see that he wanted to throw it. But he would not. Much as Gilbert loved the queen, he knew that her free spirit occasionally went too wide of tradition. And besides, he would never go against Francesca. Not after she had used her poison craft to weaken his older sister so that his position on the council was secured.
“Is it safe?”
Francesca’s mouth fell open, her large blue eyes the picture of hurt. “How can you ask me that? Of course it is safe. A strong gift has made the queen too sure of herself. Too certain she knows what is best. With her gift muted, she will learn to rely on her friends. Really, it is for her own good.”
“It’s not even her fault. The Goddess gave her the sight to put her on the throne. And now we play with that like it is not a sacred thing. We could be leaving ourselves vulnerable to attack!”
Francesca clucked her tongue. “We still have your gift of sight.”
“My gift is not the same as the queen’s.”
“But it will do for now.” She pressed the vial harder into his palm and his hand down to his tied purse to hide it in.
“It’s not forever,” he said, and turned to go.
Not forever. Just until she learned to rely on her council. And on Francesca in particular. Francesca ran her tongue across her teeth and sipped a cup of unsweetened May wine. Poisoning the queen, even nonlethally, was a very dangerous game. And she was relying on soft-hearted Gilbert Lermont to play so much of it. With one hand, Francesca held the queen’s gift down, as if underwater. And with the other, she aroused unrest and directed it toward the queen, by stoking Sonia Beaulin’s warrior jealousy and whispering about the excessive costs associated with the construction of the castle. But still Elsabet did not turn to her as head of council. Still, that designation stayed vacant. And Francesca was running out of hands.
Just as that thought crossed her mind, a new set of hands slipped around her waist from behind. She smiled as the king-consort nibbled on her earlobe.
“Here you are, my beauty,” he said. “What did that milksop want?”
“Never mind him.” She turned in his arms and kissed him. “But it was a good thing you were not seen. You should return to the Volroy soon, before she sends out riders to search for you.” Not that those riders would ever think to look at the Arron house, but she did not wish to press her luck. The king-consort had been spending more and more nights and afternoons. Too many. And even after long hours in her bed, he never seemed to want to leave.
“If I were free, I would never return to her,” William said, his eyes bitter and faraway. “Not to a woman who had the gall to shame me before the court. Who put me on bended knee and forced me to beg and wheedle my way back into her bed! As if that were anywhere I wanted to be.”
The loyalist in Francesca winced at the coldness of his words. He should not speak so of the queen. Not even a queen so foolish as this one. But outwardly, she smiled and touched his face.
“You should not seek to anger her. We need your charms to brighten the court.”
“My charms are what anger her in the first place. I am to give no girl the slightest bit of attention or Elsabet will breathe fire. That is over now, in any case. If I have you in my bed, I have no need of any others.”
“No.” Francesca gently but firmly slipped out of his grasp and stood, her back to him. “You have an even greater need of others. You must spread your attentions like you never have before, in order to keep all suspicion from falling onto us.”
“Of course.”
Francesca smiled. The king-consort was Elsabet’s weakest point. Let him flirt right under her nose. Let him drive her mad with it. He could be the distraction Francesca sought, and with the queen focused on keeping her husband in one place, she would be far too busy to interfere with Black Council business.
THE FESTIVAL OF MIDSUMMER
Queen Elsabet presided over the Midsummer festivities from a high seat in the courtyard. It was her one concession to the Black Council, to keep up and away from the raucous, celebrating crowds, but even though it had been only one, she wished she had fought harder. She did not want to be seen so high, so aloof. She wanted to mix with her subjects in times of peace.
“Wake up!”
Both Elsabet and Bess startled at Rosamund’s voice. She was barking at one of the queensguard stationed just behind them.
“I was awake, Commander,” the soldier said, and the sound they heard next was Rosamund cuffing the girl on the back of the head.
“Not awake enough. Rotate out if you can’t be alert. On today of all days, when the queen is surrounded by strangers.” Teeth bared and grinding, Rosamund stepped into view, and Elsabet and Bess startled for a new reason. Her head of queensguard had gold and silver ribbons braided into her hair.
“Rosamund!” Bess exclaimed. “You look lovely!”
“Thank you!” Rosamund preened as her mood quickly shifted. “Though never as lovely as you, Bess.”
Bess laughed, equally beautiful in a dress of deep green. Sometimes Elsabet thought she should find some new, less beautiful friends. Standing beside Bess and Rosamund constantly was certainly not doing her any favors.
“You must have your eye on someone this Midsummer.” Bess scanned the crowd for anyone who might be watching Rosamund with particular interest, but nearly everyone was. Rosamund was never without admirers. “Is it serious this time? Could it be a husband? Or a blade-woman?”
“I won’t settle until my service to the queen has ended. I can’t imagine looking after these soft soldiers and my own little ones besides.” She sighed. “Though I do sometimes yearn for soft little fingers curling round my own. And for the pain of childbirth!”
Elsabet laughed. “Only the war-gifted.”
“I wish I were war-gifted,” said Bess, “so I wouldn’t fear it so.”
Rosamund chuckled and half turned to the soldier she had admonished for dozing. “Did you think I was in jest? Rotate out! And keep yourself off my detail for the rest of the month.”
“Yes, Commander.”
Elsabet gave the girl a sympathetic smile as she bowed and watched her tromp sadly down the steps. “You know they would favor you more if you tried a softer touch, Rosamund.”