The Hedgewitch Queen

“Tell me.”

“You did not know, of course.” Risaine stopped at a fire in front of a low-thatched shelter. I gratefully lowered myself to the rude bench she indicated. Broken sunlight came through the branches far above, dappling the entire village. At the very periphery, a thin blur swirled through the air — protections and camouflage, laid with skill and care. “I did not know either, when I came here. We live noble lives indeed, secure in our knowledge of Court sorcery, secure in our right to take what we see fit, whenever the mood strikes us. The very gods gifted us with Arquitaine, and tis only right we do as we see fit.”

I almost drew breath to protest, thought better of it when I saw her expression shift. Her mouth turned down, her sharp face softening. The breeze fingered white curls, lovingly. “Then I was blown here by an ill wind.” She lowered herself next to me with a sigh. “These people fed us, clothed and sheltered us. And we learned. The King’s payments for the wonders of his Citte and his Palais; his payments to foreign powers — where did you think they came from? And what do you think happens to those who cannot pay for his pleasures? A choice between starving to death or being beaten to death by a tax farmer; all the peasantry living in dire fear of d’Orlaans’s Guard.”

And the Aryx slept through this. I watched the village. A mongrel dog trotted past, head held high but its tail crooked as if broken. The huts huddled close to ancient trees, bandits fading in and out between light and dappled shade, dressed in their green and brown.

I gathered my thoughts, arranged them logically. “D’Orlaans was responsible for collecting taxes,” I summed up, “and the King was not overcaring of how he did it.”

Risaine nodded. “So it was.”

“It seems nothing is true now,” I said. “I saw…” What had I seen? The Duc had committed bloody fratricide, to be sure. But had the King been any better? For this place to hold such misery could not have merely taken a month.

“You saw a bloody coup.” Risaine’s back was straight as a priest’s staff. She rubbed her fingers against her blue overdress as if there were something foul on them. “Tis a wonder it did not happen sooner. There were stories, of course, of the Court and the fetes and festivals, merrily singing while the rest of Arquitaine groaned. Tis whispered the King was more a boylover than interested in his Damarsene wife, and the empty-headed daughter counted proof of it.”

Protest rose in me. Lisele had not been empty-headed. But she had been spoiled, I could admit as much. And, much as I loved her, Lisele had not been overgifted with wits. Twas why I so often set myself to flushing out little intrigues meant to take advantage of her.

What if Lisele had lived, and not I? Another woman of gentle birth confined to her rank might not have survived the successive shocks I had already endured. To think of my Princesse forced to face such things pained me.

Would she have been strong enough to bear them?

Risaine’s sharp eyes were on me. This hedgewitch’s gaze missed next to nothing, and asked for — or granted — precious little quarter. “You hold the Seal. The fate of every soul in this village weighs on you now. Yet you could take the throne from d’Orlaans and continue on your merry way, taxing the poorfolk to pay for your pleasures. The Blessed, it seems, would not care enough to stop you.”

I closed my eyes against the hideous thought. In the darkness behind my lids, I heard a child’s laughter. The teaching-rhyme marked out its even cadence, the priestess’s voice helping along a stumbler. Someone called out, and a woman’s voice lifted in a light lilting peasant song about Baron di Wintrefelle and the Citrine War, in the time of Archimvault the Tall.

Truth is never pleasingly spiced. I swallowed bitterness, felt the Aryx’s hum against my chest. Even though it was a gift of the Blessed, the Seal might not care for the agony of peasants.

It was merely a tool, for all its power. A tool that could slumber. And the Blessed? Perhaps they had larger concerns. At least the harvests did not fail under their care — but a single glance at this small village made me painfully aware that even that was no guarantee for common folk.

Yet Arquitaine was a rich land — what need was there for this?

“You must have wanted to show me this very much,” I said finally, when I could bear to speak.

“I never thought to have a chance to avenge myself on Henri di Tirecian-Trimestin and his foul brother. The Blessed have heard my prayers.” She did not say it piously.

“What did he do to you?” I thought of the King’s carefully curled hair and his silk and velvet, the endless banquets and Court protocol. Tristan had been rumored as the King’s catamite, early in his Court career, but I saw no evidence of that. Still, there were others — though the King was also rumored not to mind a woman’s bed when the mood struck him, either.

There were precious few of either sex who would refuse a King.

“Oh, not much. Sired a bastard and banished me from Court when the swelling began to show, so I would not damage the negotiations for his cow of a Damarsene bride. I believed a King’s promise of love, and paid for it like any fool. I was no more than another silly little Court chit to him. And my son…” She laughed, shook her head as if freeing an unpleasant thought from its confines. “No matter. I have my nephew, strong in my old age. He should have been hunting and hawking with the nobles, at the King’s table. Instead, he is a bandit and I am a hedgewitch bandit-woman, binding broken bones and salving wounded peasant hearts.” I heard a rustle of cloth and opened my eyes to find her standing before me, her hands folded. She looked thoughtful, her sharp gray eyes staring across the village’s quiet bustle. “My best revenge is this — I have shown you Henri was too self-centered to be a proper sovereign. He allowed d’Orlaans far too much power and asked no questions. He sired a princess unfit for the throne on his foreign wife, threw away a good Arquitaine heir because freeing us from the chains of paying tribute would require he bestir himself to war or diplomacy.”

I had never heard the dead Queen referred to as a “cow of a Damarsene.” It would have been highly impolitic to say that in Lisele’s part of the Court, since her mother had died in childbirth, and my Princesse often felt the lack. “My thanks for the truth, m’dama.” My voice was barely audible above the village’s tapestry of sound.

She turned to me, her fingers clenched tight against each other. Now I could see the echo of old-fashioned manners in her gestures, and I knew why she stood thus. “Truth is the best revenge, child, and I have had much time to think on the wrongs done, not merely to me, but to others. I shall tell you this further; whatever crimes Henri di Tirecian-Trimestin committed in the name of kingship, his Left Hand committed more. Take care who you keep close to you, Vianne. Tis more important than you think.”

That pricked me. “You mean d’Arcenne.” I almost said Tristan, caught myself just in time.

“Sharp tools are necessary for a sovereign. I simply warn you that you do not cut yourself.” But the spasm of distaste before she smoothed her features spoke much louder than the prettily-phrased warning.

Does she hate him because he reminds her of the King, or does she hate him for his part of the King’s injustice? Tristan would not have lent himself to this misery, would he? And he is too young to be part of her misery. I nodded slowly. Twould not be useful to argue thus with her. “My thanks.”

“Of course.” Risaine dropped her hands to her sides, loosening them with a shake. “I have other patients to physick. I think you are well enough to sit for a bit.”

I agreed, and she left me under the shifting shade of branches. I sat, listening to the song of movement all about me, and thought long and hard. The motion and noise, subtle as it was, reminded me of the bustle of Court. There was always movement in the Palais, the sense of other breathing lives. I thought best with that quiet music enfolding me.

Where was her son now? Had the conspiracy reached even into the Shirlstrienne — or was there a darker reason for her to hate the King?

I found my hand at the Aryx, one thumb stroking the curve of a metal serpent through thin fabric. I ceased with an effort. The Seal purred, a subtle vibration against my skin.

It troubled me.

I watched the small village from my perch. Every thin, haunted face accused me. I could not help but wonder how many of the Court banquets I had been excruciatingly bored through, or had eaten at with good grace, had been bought with a peasant’s blood.