They had met when the queen was on a pilgrimage to Iberia. Bellamus had already garnered a considerable reputation as a man who could deal with the Anakim and had thus been summoned to assist the royal train as it passed near the blurred Anakim border. The queen had been on foot, as ever the least elaborately decorated of her handmaidens, who sweated and flapped at themselves with fans as they trotted along behind her. Bellamus ignored the royal men-at-arms who gestured to him as he approached, riding straight past them and to the queen, at that moment in stern conversation with a handmaiden. He dismounted and offered a bow, receiving an indifferent glance in response. “You are safe to cross, Majesty. The band that lives here is nomadic and our scouts report they are some days away.”
She narrowed her eyes, assessing him from dust-caked boots to unshaven face. “You are not Iberian, sir,” she said, as though he had tried to deceive her. “Your Saxon is excellent.” She waved off the guards in front who had turned towards Bellamus, furious at being ignored.
“My mother was Saxon, Majesty,” he said, hands finding his pockets and smiling breezily at her. “I am from Safinim but Saxon was the language we spoke in my house as I grew up.”
So unflustered was Bellamus, so cool in the face of such vaunted royalty, that the queen made a slight exclamation. It was an “Ah” of disbelief, accompanied by a look of astonishment. Then her eyes narrowed a little and she smiled. “Your mother was Saxon? Is she dead?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know, Majesty,” said Bellamus. “I have not seen her these past eighteen years.”
“Family feud?”
“I had a feud, and I left to preserve my family.”
The queen tilted her head back, exposing her neck a little, then glanced at her handmaiden. “I am going to quiz Master …?”
“Bellamus.”
“Bellamus, here.” The handmaiden curtseyed and shuffled back through the retinue, the queen gesturing that Bellamus should fall into step beside her. Dutifully, he took the bridle of his horse and led it down the road with her. “What was your feud?”
He glanced at her, assessing her reaction to his words. “I was accused of taking a white stag from some neighbouring forests, which regrettably belonged to a prince.”
She snorted. “And did you?”
“Certainly not,” said Bellamus. “I shot it and lost it.”
“So, not a glorious cause.”
“Venison is always a glorious cause,” said Bellamus. Then he shrugged. “I have no regrets. Had I not tried to take that stag, I would not be walking down this sunny road, talking to a queen.”
The compliment bounced off the queen. “And I hear that road has led you to know more about the Anakim than any man in the land.”
“I’m flattered you’ve heard my reputation.”
She looked ahead, wearing a slight frown. “Just recently.”
“The Anakim fascinate me. As a naïve runaway, I reached the Alps and took a job keeping an eye on the Anakim there for the local villages. My first day cost me two fingers, but I still went back. Have you ever seen one, Majesty?”
“Never. I am kept well away from such dangers.”
Bellamus gave her a sympathetic face. “What’s life without a little danger?”
She surveyed him from the corner of a narrowed eye. “Exactly, Master Bellamus.”
“I have a spare sword and a spare horse. I promise life won’t be boring.”
For the first time, she looked at him directly, rather than out of the corner of her eye. “I don’t ride.”
“Well, our standards aren’t high,” confessed Bellamus.
That drew her laugh like a magpie’s rattle. “Perhaps you would accompany us? I daresay we will need further protection and the road is long and dull … Much like my retinue,” she added under her breath.
Bellamus shrugged. “I am your servant, Majesty.”
The road was indeed long, and in between stops to pay homage to each church or shrine or sacred relic, the queen delighted to interrogate Bellamus, who was rather surprised to find that he enjoyed himself. Over the following weeks, he entertained her; at first on the road, then after dark in the sturdy tent that was pitched for her. In each other’s arms, they were both less guarded. “A man with no name must have a valuable trade. Mine is the Anakim,” Bellamus said.
“There is no place that trade is more valuable than Albion. My husband fears them with his every waking breath. A man like you could rise far in my country.” After the queen had said that, Bellamus knew he had given too much away. For the first time, something other than relaxed humour crossed his face and he could see that she had noticed it. Perhaps she had liked it. On her departure, Queen Aramilla left him a letter, suggesting he cross the channel and come seek his fortune in Albion. It was a greater opportunity than Bellamus would find in Iberia and he took the chance, bringing his loyal band north. From that day forth, the queen’s invisible hand had helped guide his rise.
Queen Aramilla usually had months to act on his behalf: time during which she could ensure her favour for the upstart went unnoticed. If she were to intervene on his behalf now, it would have to be fast. They could not afford the subtlety with which she usually worked.
The queen sent word that night, carried by one of the few handmaidens that Bellamus recognised: one of the young, pretty women who rarely left Aramilla’s side at court. He was to meet the queen at a
