woman to whom King Danube had offered the city of Palmaris. Baroness, governess. What other title might she choose? What other title might King Danube bestow upon her? Jilseponie hadn't been at the dock when the River Palace, the royal barge, and its fifteen escort warships had left the city. She hadn't shown herself to the royal entourage at all since the final meeting in St. Precious.
Constance was glad of that.
In truth, Constance admired the woman-her fire, her efforts-and she could not deny the value of Jilseponie's actions in the war and in the even more dangerous aftermath of the war. In truth, Constance recognized that, had the situation been different, she and Jilseponie might have become the best of friends. But that was a private truth Constance would not admit to anyone but herself.
For the situation was different; Constance had not missed the looks King Danube had bestowed on Jilseponie.
Beautiful and heroic Jilseponie. A woman who had, in the eyes of the majority of the kingdom, raised herself above her commoner birth to a position of nobility. Nobility of deed and not blood.
And how King Danube had stared at her, fawned over her with a sparkle in his tired eyes that Constance had not seen in years. He would make no move toward Jilseponie yet-not with her husband, Elbryan, barely cold in the ground. But Constance didn't doubt the length of Danube's memory or the magnetism of his charms. Not at all.
When she looked atJilseponie, then, was she seeing the next Vivian? The next queen of Honce-the-Bear?
The thought made her clench her jaw and chew her lower lip. Yes, she admired the woman, even liked the woman, and, yes, Constance had understood for some time now that while she might share Danube's bed, he would not take her as his wife. But, still, to have the door-through which she understood she could never walk-so obviously closed before her, offended her. She was in her mid-thirties now, a decade older than Jilseponie, and she was starting to show her age, with wrinkles about her eyeseyes losing the luster of youth-and a body that was just beginning to lose the war against gravity. Measured against Jilseponie's smooth skin and sparkling blue eyes, her strong muscles and the spring in her youthful stride, Constance understood that she would lose.
Thus she had taken Danube the previous night, and the night before that, seducing him shamelessly, even coaxing him with drink so that he would not ignore her obvious advances. Thus she would take him again this night on the ship, and every night all the way to Ursal, and every night after that.
Until she became great with his child.
Constance hated her actions, her deception, for Danube believed that she was taking the herbs-as per the arrangement with every courtesanthat would prevent pregnancy. She hated more the thought of serving Queen Jilseponie. How many years had she worked by Danube's side, easing him through crises, serving as his best adviser? How many years had she stood by him against all his enemies, and quiedy reinforced his better qualities to his allies? To Constance's thinking, she had been serving as queen ever since Vivian had died, in every capacity except that of the King's constant bed partner and the mother of his children.
Now she meant to remedy that situation. He wouldn't marry her, likely, but he would sire her children; and in the absence of another wife, he might grant one of them the status of heir to the throne. Yes, she could get that concession from him. His other bastard children-and there were two at least-were grown now and had never been trained for the crown, had never been as sons to Danube; and he held little love for his lone sibling, his brother, Midalis, a man he had not seen in years. Constance believed with aH her heart that he would come to love their child and would train the child, boy or girl, as he had not trained the others and could not train Midalis, to serve as heir to the throne of Honce-the-Bear.
Constance recognized the unlikelihood that she would ever be queen, but she realized that she would be more than pleased with the title of queen mother.
Still, she wished it could be different, wished that she could inspire an honest love in Danube. She had hoped that the situation in Palmaris, the greatest crisis in Danube's reign, would provide opportunity for her to raise her station through deed; and indeed, by Danube's own accounting, she had performed admirably over the weeks of trial. But how her efforts paled against those ofJilseponie! As her fading beauty paled beside that woman's luster!
'It is, perhaps, time to relax,' came the voice of Abbot Je'howith behind her, startling her. When she glanced at him and followed his gaze to the taffrail, she understood the source of his comment, for she was unintentionally clutching the railing so tighdy that all blood had gone from her knuckles.
'The trials are behind us,' Constance agreed, letting go of the rail and self-consciously hiding her hands within the folds of her thick woolen cloak.
'Most, perhaps,' said old Je'howith, his expression pensive. 'For the Crown and court, at least, though I fear that I've many trials ahead of me.' The old man walked up beside Constance, gripping the rail and staring out, as she had been, at the receding shapes of Palmaris' dock.
Constance eyed him curiously; never had she and Je'howith been on good terms, though neither had they been openly hostile toward each other, as was the case between the elderly abbot and Duke Kalas.
'They are so young and idealistic,' the abbot continued, and he glanced over at Constance. 'The young Abellican brothers, I mean, who take the downfall of Father Abbot Markwart as a signal that it is their time to step to the forefront of the Abellican Church. They believe they have seen the truth; though the truth, you and I both understand in our wisdom of experience, is never as simple as that. They will overreach, and pity the Church if we older abbots and masters cannot tame the fire of youth.'
Constance's expression turned even more curious and skeptical; she wondered why old Je'howith was confiding in her, and she trusted him not at all. Was he, perhaps, using her ear to get his seemingly sincere feelings whispered to King Danube? Was he seeking an unspoken alliance with the King by using the mouth of an unwitting third party? Though, of course, Constance Pemblebury was hardly that!
'The young brothers now leading St. Precious are nearly my own age,' she reminded Je'howith; and it was true that Braumin, Marlboro Viscenti, and Francis were all near their thirtieth birthdays.
'But how many of their years have been spent within the sheltered confines of an outland abbey?' Je'howith asked. 'The other houses of the Abellican Church are not as St. Honce, you see. Even great St.-MereAbelle, with its seven hundred brothers, is a secluded place, a place of few viewpoints and little understanding of anything that is not Abellican. We of St. Honce have the advantage of the city of Ursal about us, and of the wisdom of the King and his noble court.'
Constance's expression betrayed her skepticism, particularly given the recent battles between Church and Crown. If Je'howith meant to call her on that point, though, he did not do so immediately and lost the opportunity as another voice piped in.
'Farewell, Palmaris,' King Danube said with a chuckle, 'and good luck to you, my friend Duke Kalas! For your task, I know, is the most wretched by far!' He walked up to Constance and Je'howith, his smile wide and sincere, for it was no secret among them that King Danube was glad indeed to be sailing for home.
'My King,' said Je'howith, dipping a bow.
'Ah, so you remember? ' Danube replied slyly. Behind the old abbot, Constance smiled widely, barely suppressing a laugh.
'Never did I forget,' the abbot insisted seriously.
Danube looked at him doubtfully.
'Can you doubt the influence of the Father Abbot? ' Je'howith asked, and Constance did not miss the fact that a bit of the cocksureness seemed to dissipate from King Danube's serene face.
'Will the new father abbot prove so influential, I wonder?' Danube retorted, his voice thick with implication. He narrowed his eyes as he spoke, and Constance understood him to be signaling the influential abbot of St. Honce in no uncertain terms that he had tolerated about all that he would from the troublesome Abellican Church.
'A gender man, whomever it might prove to be,' Abbot Je'howith replied calmly. 'And fear not for Duke Kalas, my King. The Duke of Wester-Honce, the Baron of Palmaris, will find the brothers of St. Precious accommodating.'
'Somehow I doubt that,' said Danube.
'At the least, they will come to understand that they are not enemies but allies in the war to reclaim the souls of Palmaris,' Je'howith went on.
'For Church or for Crown? ' Constance asked.
Je'howith glanced back at her, and, surprisingly, he appeared wounded by her attitude. What was he about?
