The Queen's Secret Page 3

  “Well, he is my husband, and the King of Montrice.”

  “In name only, according to you, at least.” Cal pulls away from me, frowning.

  “Cal, we need him on our side.”

  “Our side?” Now it’s Cal’s turn to sound bitter. “Earlier you talked about him as ‘we.’”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Last week the people ‘loved us,’ you said. Whose side are you on, Shadow? I mean, Lilac. Her Majesty Queen Lilac.”

  I turn to him, alarmed at this shift in tone. “I have to be on Hansen’s side,” I tell him. “He could be a powerful ally if we let him.”

  “We again?”

  “You and me. Us.”

  “Is there an us?” Cal growls.

  “I know this isn’t ideal.”

  “The furthest thing from it,” he says, so sharp he’s almost spitting his words.

  “But it’s the only way for us to be together,” I remind him. “If you no longer want to . . .”

  Cal sighs and gazes at the wall.

  “I want you,” he says softly. “I’ve always wanted you.”

  I reach for his hand and take it in mine. “You have me. Here. Right now. It’s just us.”

  He pulls his hand away. “I wish that were true.” Cal lies back onto the bed, exhausted, staring at the red canopy above. I lie next to him. We’re together, but something is separating us. A nagging mistrust that won’t go away, no matter what I say.

  “We can’t go back to the way things were,” I say softly, almost a whisper. “But we can make this new life work.”

  Cal says nothing. I kiss his cheek and then roll toward him so I can kiss him some more. At first he just lies there, unmoving. But I am persistent, and at last he turns toward me, and when his mouth meets mine, strong and urgent, there are no more arguments between us.

  Chapter Three

  Lilac

  In the morning when I wake, Cal is gone. When my ladies flutter in to pull back the canopy curtains around my bed and open the shutters across the windows, it looks as though I spent another night alone in my big bed. The key to the Queen’s Secret is back in its hiding place, and there’s no trace of Cal. It is as if he were never here. It is both a relief and a sadness.

  I drink a little ginger tea from the jug my ladies carry in, and nibble on a piece of toasted bread. Every day it seems to take longer and longer to brush back my hair and pick out the day’s wig. They help me dress as well, because it takes at least two ladies to lift an embroidered gown over my head—wool at this time of year, trimmed with mink—and arrange it over my linen shift. I miss the days when I could wear my hair loose. I miss the days when getting dressed meant slithering into a simple gown, eager to bound out the door. Or dressing like the assassin I was trained to be, ready to clamber onto a horse or fight any opponent.

  I miss Cal already. I never know when I will see him next. I wish that one day I could wake up with someone I love by my side, rather than have him slip away at dawn to avoid detection.

  “Perhaps Your Majesty would prefer some honey with your tea?”

  “Or perhaps some elderberry jam for your bread?”

  “Or perhaps—”

  “Nothing.” I wave them away.

  Down in the courtyard, far below my window, I can hear bustle and shouting. When I peer out, I’m surprised to see all the ranks of soldiers, most of whom look incredibly young, marching up and down in new boots.

  “What’s going on?” I ask Lady Marguerite. She’s slight and fair, with a face that’s always worried—certainly not the prettiest of the ladies-in-waiting. But although she’s the youngest of the group, she’s the most astute, the most political. She always seems to know more than the others about what’s going on in other parts of the castle.

  “Your Majesty,” she says, “I believe the men are training to march north. To the border with Stavin, and also to our own northern lands where . . .”

  She trails off, and I nod. Around me, nobody likes to talk about what happened in Stur.

  “They seem so young,” I say. Most of the recruits look like farm lads, pulled from working the harvest. They have ruddy faces and broad shoulders, but they’re sure to be more adept at handling a pitchfork than a sword.

  “Many soldiers are required for the two missions,” Lady Marguerite says. “And we must maintain a strong guard here, of course, to protect Your Majesties.”

  “It’s a fine day for marching about,” one of the other ladies says. “Isn’t it?”

  The speaker may be a dull woman who only ever trots out platitudes, but on this occasion, she’s quite right. I can’t spend another day sitting indoors. It’s fine outside, despite the chill of late autumn. Who knows how soon the snows of winter will fall?

  “Ladies,” I say, standing up. “I’ve decided that I need some fresh air.”

  “You wish to promenade around the courtyard?” Lady Marguerite sounds alarmed.

  “Tell the Guild master I wish to train this morning. Outside,” I correct her. “Please convey my request to the assassins’ quarters and tell them I will be ready soon.”

  “But the courtyard is so crowded,” one of the other ladies protests. “All these country oafs! You don’t wish to be on display, Your Majesty.”

  Actually, I do. But I’m not telling them that. It’s not a bad thing for the people of Mont—the people inside the castle, at least—to see me in fighting mode, and remember that I’m more than some ornamental prize Hansen has won from Renovia. I’m a trained Guild member, and anyone who seeks to harm me will find a fighter, not a spoiled pet. In the Guild we learn how to fight, track, and live by our wits, as well as to understand the natural world—its rhythms, its hidden messages. Being a member of the Guild means staying active in mind and body. I’m not going to rot in this castle while dark magic swirls through the kingdom, implicating me in its evil.

  While one lady hurries away to find me a Guild trainer for an impromptu session, the others deal with peeling back the layers of my clothing and fetching more suitable garments from the heavy oak chest under the window. It’s a relief to replace the flowing yards of embroidered wool with hide leggings and a tunic. My ladies wrap leather protectors around my forearms and help me lace my favorite deerskin boots. I feel a crackle of pleasure, a happy anticipation about being outside again and moving freely.

  “Are you sure?” my ladies keep asking me. What they mean is, are you sure about appearing this way in public, dressed as a fighter rather than the queen? I ignore such concerns. How can I explain to them that the only time I feel alive is when I’m not acting like the queen?

  There’s so much I can’t say to them. They’re not my friends, or even my allies. At least one of them, I suspect, is paid by the Duke of Auvigne to relay information.

  “If His Majesty should visit?” Lady Marguerite says, lifting my jerkin from the chest. It’s not really a question. She’s formulating a plan about what Hansen should be told.

  “The king knows full well that I train every afternoon with a Guild member. He will be pleased that I am getting fresh air, instead of cowering up here like a ninny.”

  Firstly, I don’t think for a moment that Hansen will visit me. He’s too busy cowering in his own chambers. And the longer I sit here, the more my fevered imagination will start conjuring unhelpful scenarios. What is Hansen being told—and by whom? Does he believe this story of the lilac frost in Stur? Does he think I might actually be involved in the black magic there? What if he’s persuaded to renounce me and annul our marriage? This could throw our countries into war. But what if he feels he has no choice, because Stavin threatens to invade unless these alleged dark forces are dispatched, along with me? Montrice could be facing down another war, even if he stands by me and this sham marriage of ours.

  A breathless lady of the bedchamber returns, wheezing that a Guild member awai
ts me downstairs. I wave away the loden-green cloak someone is trying to fasten around my neck.

  “It is true,” Lady Marguerite says to the others, “that His Majesty wants our queen to be happy and fit. If she is to bear royal children, she must not be weak or in ill health.”

  Royal children. If I’m honest—with myself and no one else—that is the thing that has scared me most since my engagement to Hansen. And I can’t discuss it with Cal, although he is well aware that the throne demands an heir. What if Hansen insists that we consummate our marriage? I cannot refuse him, as much as I would want to.

  I am married to the king, and yet I have chosen to follow my heart. Oh, Cal. The path has never been a straightforward one for us, and time makes everything more complicated. I need to get outside. Training will do me good.

  Down in the courtyard, it’s noisy in an invigorating way, with the trainees on drill, the stable boys leading horses in and out of the blacksmith’s yard, and fencing practice for the best men of the guard at the eastern end. This is more like it. Even with the queen’s guard around me, there’s still enough room for my work. And in this gear I don’t draw much attention. I don’t look like the queen. I don’t look that different, in fact, from my trainer today, a Guild member I’ve never met before. She’s a young woman, slight and tense as a wild cat. She bounds up and gives a deep, awkward bow rather than a curtsy.

  “Your name?” I ask her. She can’t be any older than seventeen, with thick auburn hair tied back from a heart-shaped face.

  “Rhema, Your Majesty,” she replies. Her eyes are dark and there’s a glint in them that appeals to me. She’s come ready to fight, and she’s not intimidated by working with the queen.

  “You’re new here?”

  “It’s my third week, ma’am. I’m an apprentice assassin. From the mountains.”

  “I’m rusty,” I tell her, twirling a spear to warm up my hands. Strange that Cal has never mentioned that one of the new assassins is a young woman. He’s told me all about training them, and about sending several of the less able back home. Nothing about a red-headed girl from the mountains.

  “Do you want me to go easy on you, ma’am?” Her voice is neutral, but I can see the disdain in her expression. She reminds me of the old me, of Shadow. I would have seen a grand lady like Queen Lilac as an amateur, too coddled to be a real fighter.

  “No,” I say, trying not to snap. I’m only two years older than her! I’m still twirling the spear when she leaps at me, feet high in the air. So impressed am I with the height she reaches that I’m a moment late with the spear block, and end up flat on my backside on the cold cobbles.

  “Sorry,” I hear her say, and she grips one of my hands to haul me back onto my feet. With my other hand I clasp the spear, and in a flash take out her legs; now she’s on her back.

  I clamber up, dusting grit and straw off my hands. Rhema grins.

  “Well played,” she says, and we face off again, both prepared this time. I have to admit, she has impressive agility and an admirable range of fighting skills. She’s even better than my last Guild trainer, and he was excellent. She’s more nimble than I was in my prime, but I’ve always had sharp instincts that allow me to anticipate my opponent. These are acts of imagination rather than violence—that’s what my aunts used to tell me. A good fighter lives on her instincts, and fights on her nerves.

  In the background, I’m conscious of a familiar voice. Cal is with the new soldiers in the courtyard now, barking commands at them. When I first hear him, I lose my concentration and end up with one arm twisted behind my back, Rhema breathing down my neck.

  Hearing his voice gives me a twinge that’s half pleasure, half panic. It’s always strange to encounter him in a public place, where we have to be circumspect, and I have to remind myself not to smile or even look at him for a moment longer than necessary.

  “Again, ma’am?” Rhema seems to burst with energy. She assumes a crouching pose, ready to pounce, and I hold up my hand.

  “Just give me a moment,” I say, pretending to be winded. Really, I just want to listen to Cal as he puts the lumbering recruits through their paces. He’s shouting at them to drop to the ground and then spring back up, and I’m guessing that the dropping is taking too long, and the springing back is more like a slow climb.

  “Will you hurry up!” he bellows, and I struggle to suppress a smile. “If this was a real battle, you’d be dead by now, lying facedown in a ditch with a spear through your guts and an arrow in your eye!”

  Crows caw and swoop overhead, and the men under Cal’s ferocious watch grumble. I wish I could find a way to speak to him at the end of my training, but I can’t just wander over. I’m the queen, and I have my circle of guards who must shuffle everywhere with me. All I can do here is fight, getting out some of my frustration at being cooped up inside for too long.

  “Right—again, please,” I tell Rhema, and she swings at me before I have my staff in position. But I react in time, whacking at her own weapon so hard she spins away and almost falls onto a bale of hay. It’s not just frustration that I need to get out of my system: It’s pent-up aggression. A swipe with a fighting stick is a smack for the Small Council; a kick to the chest is a blow against the rumor-mongers spreading despicable stories about me and my supposed dark magic. I wish some of them were here in the courtyard so I could practice on them. I wouldn’t be rusty or out of breath anymore.

  By the end of my session, my face burns with the heat of strenuous activity, and I know my arms and legs will be stiff tomorrow. This is what I’ve missed—the brisk fresh air, the breeze on my face, the freedom to jump and run. My new Guild trainer bows and thanks me for a good session.

  “Impressive, ma’am,” Rhema says, and it doesn’t feel like flattery when she follows up with criticism. “With more work, your reaction times will improve, and your arm reach will be more extended.”

  “Well, let’s fight again in a day or two,” I say before she can come up with any more helpful advice. Rhema nods. She’s red-cheeked as well, I’m pleased to see. She may be fit, and a little younger than me, but I can still hold my own.

  The new soldiers have been dismissed and are loitering in the courtyard, some bent double or crouching on the cobblestones. Cal is conferring with one of the officers, pointing to the unfortunate recruits.

  One of my own guards hands me a flagon so I can take a drink, and I pretend to be standing around because of exhaustion. It’s such a long time until I’ll see Cal again tonight. Sometimes I long to speak to him during the day or share a meal with him. Just be in his presence rather than waiting until my ladies have gone to bed and I’m half asleep.

  Rhema wanders away toward the stables, unlacing the leather guards wrapped around her forearms. But she stops for a moment and glances over at Cal. She grins at him and he notices: He smiles right back. The sight of this small exchange, nothing more than a moment, unsettles me. Cal’s smile is broad and true. He must respect Rhema. He must like her.

  So why has he never mentioned her to me?

  Rhema strolls over to Cal and slaps him on the shoulder. Now they are smiling and leaning toward each other to exchange a few words like the colleagues they are. But my heart is speeding; I have to swallow back bile in my throat. She can touch Cal in public; I can’t. Jealousy wrenches at my stomach. She is so young and so pretty and surely reminds him of me when we first met. When we first fell in love.

  “Return!” I bark at my guards, and march back toward the main door of the hall keep. Their smiles are like red clouds blotting out the brightness of the day.

  Chapter Four

  Caledon

  Lilac was out there in the courtyard, Cal knew, but he couldn’t see her. He was alerted to her presence by the stomping of her personal royal guards, ringing their queen to protect her from the eyes of common soldiers. Such was the racket in the yard, he couldn’t even hear the clacking of staf
fs when Lilac took on one of the Guild fighters. All he could hear was the grunting and huffing of this sad band of new recruits, country lads who resent being dragged away from the harvest. Most are terrified at the prospect of marching north. The stories from Stur grow wilder by the day.

  Just this morning Cal overheard one youth telling another that when lightning flashed there, it revealed a picture of the queen’s face—her mouth twisted as though she were cackling like a witch. He dragged the stupid oaf out of the line himself, shoving him toward the captain of the guard for punishment. Gossip was one thing. Sedition was another.

  Rhema, one of his latest recruits, was Lilac’s trainer today. Cal only realized this when he saw Rhema walking away from the queen’s guards, red-faced and looking pleased with herself. She’s a smart young woman, Rhema, and never happier than when she’s in action. Cal likes her work ethic as well as her skills as a fighter, and he also likes that she’s always respectful and attentive to Jander. Some of the apprentice assassins have too much swagger and see meek, quiet Jander as nothing more than a boy and a stable hand. They have no idea of his history and his knowledge. They have no idea what he has witnessed and survived.

  They have no idea of the curse on his head, placed by King Phras so many centuries ago, condemning Jander to an eternal life, trapped in a boy’s body.

  The ranks in the courtyard clear for a moment, and Cal glimpses Lilac disappearing into the royal apartments, flanked by her personal guard. Maybe she hasn’t seen him out here. It’s chaos—marching, shouting, training. Recruits are leaping from the battlements onto bales of hay, practicing the best ways to fall and roll. Some dolt has managed to shoot an arrow into a commanding officer’s shoulder, and the braying and bellowing from that part of the courtyard is as loud as cattle stampeding across a field.

  Wandering in an oblivious way through all this dirt and racket is the Chief Scribe, a plump and pale elderly man, scattering linseeds for the crows. The birds waddle and leap toward him, eager for the food. More swoop down from their perches on the walls, or from the narrow ledge of the chapel’s small window. The scribe’s blue robe scrapes the dirty stones of the yard, and a bag of seed embroidered with a pattern of delicate feathers swings from his girdle. Why he’s feeding the birds now rather than at a quieter time in the courtyard, Cal doesn’t know.