The Hedgewitch Queen

The rest of them tensed to a man, and that was gratifying. But Tinan di Rocham simply reversed the blade and stepped forward until he could drop to one knee at the foot of the stairs. “I owe you my service. Accept my oath, d’mselle.” He all but stuttered over the words. “I mean, Your Majesty. If I may be so bold.”

My stomach turned on itself.

But their Captain expected somewhat of me, and were I to cut the young lad now his shame would be overwhelming. So I smiled and nodded gravely, reached down to touch two fingers of my free hand to the hilt. “I accept your oath, Chivalier Tinan di Rocham. My thanks.” I sounded serious, though lunatic laughter had to be sternly repressed.

He rose, returned the weapon to its sheath, and bowed again, a Court bow that was a little jerky but surprisingly polished otherwise. “A pleasure to be in your service, Your Majesty.”

Oh, gods. Do not let him address me as such. “Tis merely Vianne di Rocancheil, chivalier. I thank you.” Faintly improper — had we been at Court, he would have addressed me as Duchesse. But I smiled prettily, giving him the compliment. It was surely not too soon to begin gathering allies.

I suspected I would need them, and shame filled me again. Cold calculation of this level was somewhat new, and I disliked it. I especially disliked that it seemed so natural.

He blushed even harder, and a murmur ran through them all.

A stocky, black-haired man with an amazing mustache — it drooped past his chin and was waxed in the Navarre style — came forward, and repeated the process. “Adersahl di Parmecy et Villeroche, Your Majesty.” He had a clear carrying baritone of surprising profundity. “I owe you my service, d’mselle. Accept my oath.”

I repeated my acceptance. When he was finished, another came forth, and another, until each of them had knelt before me. I thought some of them might even mean it. Jierre di Yspres was last of all but one, and he gazed at the Aryx as he knelt before me, his swordhilt proffered. “Forgive me, Your Majesty. I owe you my service. Accept my oath, an it please you.”

I studied him for a long moment, watched color rise in his cheeks and die away. “Very well.” I touched his swordhilt. “I accept your oath, chivalier.”

He rose, slowly. Standing on the bottom step made us almost eye to eye, and I refused to look up at him, forcing him to stoop a little. My mouth had turned dry as summer road-dust. “I shall forgive you, if you forgive me the trouble I have no doubt caused you.”

He mumbled something and looked stunned. The dress hanging over my other arm rustled a bit, and I wondered how ridiculous I looked carrying it.

But I had more to endure. Captain d’Arcenne was suddenly before me, and his sword rang free. He sank to one knee again, surprisingly fluid for one so battered. “I owe you my service, Vianne di Rocancheil. Accept my oath.”

Gods, did not you already do this? I inclined my head gracefully, touched the hilt. My neck ached with tension, and I hoped my stomach would not start loudly demanding breakfast to embarrass me. “I accept your oath, Captain d’Arcenne. My thanks.”

I did not ask him to call me simply Vianne.

He did not call me Your Majesty.

We were perhaps even.

He rose, swept me a bow, and took charge of the occasion. “Breakfast, d’mselle? You had no dinner last night, and you must be hungry.” He also took the dress from me and handed it away, and I did not ask whether twas to be hidden or burned.

It mattered little, though the cloth could be sold. If they left me without protection, I would need rather more wits than I suspected I possessed, not to mention some money, to survive.

I set my chin stubbornly, though I was famished. “I will not be a burden, Captain. Are we pressed for time?”

“Not so pressed we cannot spare a few moments.” Jierre di Yspres was thin and dark, having the lean saturnine face of the south of Arquitaine. Most of the surviving Guard were younger sons of noble families. It was sad to see only these had survived — or remained loyal.

I was soon seated at table with a bowl of porridge and a round red apple, as well as a steaming cup of chai. I concentrated on eating neatly and quickly, Court manners keeping my smallest finger crooked at the correct angle and my spine straight, my ears and eyes wide open to catch every nuance.

Our refuge was a small stone house. I heard the rumble of carts passing by, and the clip-clop of hooves. Sunlight fell in golden bars through wavering glass windows. There was no fire in the grate, and I wondered how all of them had slept. Later I learned each Guard had a bedroll rolled into a compact cylinder and attached to the back of his saddle.

I further wondered whose house this was and looked for any sign of the owner, but there was none.

Observe, Levontus of Tiberia had written in his most famous treatise, and many questions will answer themselves. Always, observe. Tis far more pithy in Tiberian, which is a language boiled down to its essence, but it is far from the worst advice for making one’s way in a dangerous world.

Some of the Guard readied the horses, others sipped at cups of chai, a few went upstairs and I thought perhaps they stood watch. Jierre and Tristan spread out a map at the table and began to confer in low tones.

“Tis a hard choice,” Jierre began. “The garrisons or the forest.”

The Captain studied the map, a vertical line between his charcoal eyebrows. I took a scalding gulp of chai.

At the Palais, judging by the fall of sunlight, Lisele would just be waking. Her morning chocolat would arrive on its little silver tray, and I would brush her hair. Lady Arioste would sing softly, plucking at her gittern, and Comtesse Rochburre would watch us all with her magisterial eye, ready to chastise for any impropriety. I would steal a scone from Lisele’s tray and perch in the window seat to eat. There would be morning jokes and laughter, chatter from the younger girls, and of a while they would ask me to tell a riddle or a tale. A wholesome tale, Comtesse Rochburre would inevitably interject, and Lisele would laugh, tossing her dark hair. Arioste would make a sharp comment, and I would ignore it, though Lisele’s eyes would flash…

I finished the porridge, but found I could not eat the apple. I set it upon the table and stared at the bloom of red and yellow on its firm skin as I sipped. I was still staring, smelling the dust of the North Tower, when I heard my name.

“—Vianne?”

The room had emptied without my notice; only d’Arcenne and I remained.

I blinked back hot swelling water. Swallowed, hard, and raised my face to his. Some explanation seemed necessary. I grasped for one. “I ate apples. Yesterday. In the North Tower.”

He nodded, rolling up the map and tucking the mapweight in a small pouch at his belt. “I thought it likely, by your look. Do you need the privy before we start?”

“I should,” I said thinly, and made it to my feet. It was passing strange to move without the weight of skirts around my legs. I had almost reached the stairs when he spoke again.

“Vianne?”

Do not use my name so freely. But I could not say it, could I. Not while depending on his good graces for my continued survival.

I half-turned, my hand on the stair’s railing. “Leave me alone.” I said it so quietly he may not have heard.

“You look…” He paused, searching for the word.

I supplied it for him, setting my foot firmly on the first stair. “The word you seek is ridiculous, sieur. I am wearing a Guard’s uniform and my garden-boots, and I will mayhap be forced to shear myself to pass as a boy.” I took another step. This one was not half so difficult, and I thought perchance they might grow easier if I simply focused solely on the one before me. Levontus of Tiberia had some very severe thoughts on the question of how far into the future one should plan. Diodoria Siclonus, of course, disagreed with him.

I brought myself back to the present with an effort. Keep your wits, Vianne. “I