The Hedgewitch Queen

“So does Tristan. He could court the Duchesse di Rocancheil, but the Queen of Arquitaine is an entirely different tale.”

You jest too much. I stared at Jierre, who leaned forward earnestly. My heart thundered as if I would faint, like any well-bred d’mselle in a silly courtsong. Or is he mocking me? Both are equally likely. I searched for a response that would not lead the conversation into even more dangerous waters. Now that I knew he would not help me, I would be forced to find what I could in another direction. The di Rocham boy. Or di Parmecy et Villeroche — he seemed, perhaps, easily led? I did not know enough about them to begin setting my snares. “Captain d’Arcenne does not seem the courting type.” What would Comtesse Rochburre say? A bright pain pierced my chest. The numbness, my friend, was wearing away, and the truth of the horrors I had seen sinking in. I half-wished we were still riding through Arquitaine, so I could have something other than these memories to torment me.

“Do you not care for him, then?” Di Yspres leaned even further forward, intent. Was it cruelty in his bright dark gaze? “Because, d’mselle—”

“Please. Do not mock me, Chivalier di Yspres, I beg of you. If you will not aid me, leave me be.” My voice broke on the last syllable, and a knock sounded at the door. Rescued, and not a moment too soon. I closed my eyes, sinking into the pillows.

There was a pause, and three more knocks. Di Yspres unlocked the door, and booted feet tramped. Sudden fear turned the taste of the Feversbane on my tongue to copper.

“Good morn to you, Jierre.” Twas Luc di Chatillon’s light, merry voice, and I slumped into the pillows, wishing mightily for anodyne sleep. “How does the Queen?”

“Well enough. How does the Guard?” There was the sound of men greeting one another — the slaps on the shoulder, the creaking of leather.

“Well enough as well.” Di Chatillon gave forth another merry laugh. “Much easier, now that we know she’ll live. We were fair worried.”

“No less than d’Arcenne,” Adersahl di Parmecy et Villeroche said. “May we speak to her?”

It was no use. I could not feign stupor at this point, and it would be unconscionable to waste such an opportunity for setting my wits to discovering which of them would aid me. The three of them clustered near the door, and I pulled my hand back under the covers, slipping the ear-drops back into the small pocket sewn into my shift.

“Take care not to tire her. The physicker says she will be fit to travel soon if we do not ride too hard.”

Luc di Chatillon’s blond head dipped. He approached the bed, Adersahl trailing him. The older man smoothed his fine mustache nervously.

“Good morn to you, Your Majesty.” Di Chatillon’s hazel eyes danced. They did not wear the red sash of the Guard here, but Court was evident in the bow he swept me, his hat’s feather almost brushing the floor. “And a bright Blessed dawning. Glad to see you hale.”

“My thanks for your concern.” I felt real gratefulness, so I smiled as prettily as possible.

He grinned in return. For a first sally, it held promise.

“D’mselle.” Adersahl di Parmecy took my hand, which I had freed from the quilt. He bent over it, his black mustache tickling as it brushed my knuckles. “We feared for you.”

“No need for fear.” I took my hand back after he straightened. “But I thank you for it.” And I will see if you or your partner are easily led. A horse and some time is all I need. That, and to take this metal from my throat.

“What news is there?” the lieutenant asked di Chatillon, drawing him away.

“None. Town is quiet, forest is quiet, and di Narborre is hunting to the south. We have some time.” The blond man’s grin faded a little. “Is the…is d’mselle di Rocancheil truly well?”

We shall not be accusing me of vapors now. “I am well enough.” I tried to sound as firm as Countess Rocheburre. “I could ride today, were it required.” All three men halted and gazed at me, perhaps astonished. I felt a completely reprehensible desire to laugh, suppressed it. “Truly. I do not wish the Guard in any deeper danger. The sooner you reach Arcenne, the safer you are.”

Luc di Chatillon glanced at Jierre, one sandy eyebrow raised. Had Court not taught him to veil such speaking glances? He most patently did not believe me.

Di Parmecy smoothed his magnificent mustache. It seemed a nervous movement, as if he stroked a small furry animal to calm himself. “D’mselle…the fever was very dire. Very dire indeed.”

I could have said that if I died, they could have taken the Aryx and been free of the burden of caring for me. They must have read such a thought in my expression, for di Chatillon looked grave and the eldest man kept at his mustache. An uncomfortable silence ruled the room, and my Court training rose up inside me, demanding something graceful and witty.

I had little left of grace or wit about me. Still, I should put them at their ease; twas never too early to cultivate an acquaintance for a plan, or to frustrate intrigue. Yet I searched for aught to say that did not sound ungrateful or transparent.

Luc di Chatillon finally broke the quiet. “You look very sad, d’mselle.”

“I feel a little wan,” I admitted diplomatically. My wits were not what they could be. “Your pardon.”

“Oh, no. You were ill, d’mselle, and still you thought only of our safety. We are glad to serve you.”

“Do not tire her,” di Yspres interrupted. “D’mselle, they wished to see you well. Tristan should return soon.”

“We caught him in the square, watching the people. He looked grim,” di Parmecy offered, his mustache twitching.

“When does he not?” Luc laughed again, the rafters ringing. “He is your staunchest chivalier, d’mselle. He would not hear of another Guard taking a turn at watching over you.”

My voice sounded strange even to myself. “D’Arcenne does his duty, tis well known.”

The three men exchanged looks I had little trouble deciphering, much about them made plain in just that moment. To separate them and work them against the Captain’s will would not be easy.

I doubt I am up to the challenge at this moment. I cursed my weakness and closed my eyes, sinking again into the pillows. “Your pardon, sieurs. I am not myself. Mayhap I am more ill than I thought.”

“You seem to be.” The lieutenant, kindly enough, but with a shadow of mistrust. Could he see what I planned? Of course, I had all but given him a map of my intentions. “We shall withdraw, to give you lee to rest.”

Someone — I peeked through my lashes to see Luc di Chatillon — touched my hand where it lay against the coverlet. “Aye, Your Majesty. If we tire you, the Captain might flog us. He worries like an old woman for you.”

“Leave the Captain to his business,” Adersahl snapped. “You talk too much, Luc.”

The first glimmers of a plan became evident. So, di Chatillon laughs and does not think before he speaks, and di Parmecy et Villeroche is not so easily led as I thought. Perhaps the boy, di Rocham. Wait, Vianne. Your moment will come.

“Aye to that.” The lieutenant ushered them away. “Now we shall leave you to rest, d’mselle, but I will return soon.” He swept the other two out, giving me a significant stare as they all swept their hats and gave me Court-fair bows. I waved a hand gracefully, and when the door closed behind them, I sighed.

Now. Test your strength.

I pushed myself up on my hands, looking about with interest. There was a pile of gear in one corner — I thought I recognized a pair of saddlebags belonging to the Captain. There was also a set of clothes laid over the back of a chair — a smaller linen shirt, a pair of breeches, and the leather vest I had worn from the riverside boardinghouse.

So they had brought me fresh clothes. Thank the Blessed. Which would one thank for laundry? Perhaps Jiserah; all things of the home were her purview. Certainly not Alisaar the Lovely — she was concerned only with love and artifice. The Huntress most emphatically would not care either.

Thinking on the gods led me to the Aryx. Why had it not moved to save Lisele’s life? There were stories — old ones, aye, but still considered good — of the will of the gods striking through their serpents to protect their