The Queen's Bastard (45 page)

He could not have made a better dress if his plan had been to forbid her any chance of stealing Sandalia’s keys in the bare moments they would be that close to each other. Moving quickly enough, subtly enough, to pick the queen’s pocket was unlikely even if she’d been graced with the chance to wear one of Eliza’s gowns; doing it in the rigid contraption she now wore would be an impossibility.

She would have to risk the poisoned darts and damaging Sandalia’s desk. It lacked any degree of delicacy, but perhaps there was someone she could hang for it, some servant who could be made out as a spy. An Aulunian spy, no less, though the idea brought on a laugh so breathless it could be called a giggle, escaped her. Pierre, disapproving of levity, turned a ferocious glare on her, and Belinda subsided, nibbling her croissant and sipping at the wine. Her heartbeat was too quick, and stillness kept slipping away from her, even when she ought to have held it close and let it help her forget the discomfort of too-tight corsets. It had seen her through a day and a half of Pierre’s ministrations; to find it deserting her now was an irritation.

“The bells will ring the hour in some ten minutes.” Pierre’s voice cut through her reverie and Belinda shook herself, looking up. Her wine was finished, the croissant gone, and the napkin Pierre had offered was caught in her fingertips. She cast her thoughts back, recalling finishing the food and asking for the napkin, but it was a hazy memory, as if breathing shallowly had fogged her mind. She would be glad indeed to shed the dress, even if it made her regal.

“Thank you,” she said yet again, and took the dressmaker’s hand to let him help her rise; without it she feared she may well have been doomed to an afternoon of uncomfortable lounging, unable to rise or sit without some drastic change of state.

Breathing seemed to come more easily again once she stood; movement appeared to be the trigger, the changes of pressure tricking her into thinking she could draw more breath. She curtsied to Pierre, a small thing—the most she dared, and probably more than his station could ever aspire to—and left her chambers in a slow, stately glide that had far more to do with being unable to move more quickly than any particular need for the dramatically slow pace.

The corridors were empty, servants working to prepare a dinner feast and courtiers already in attendance in the audience hall. After five weeks of being watched, Belinda was finally alone in the palace, and completely unable to make use of that private time. Even if she dared slip through shadows to search Sandalia’s chambers again, there was no way to do it in the dress she wore. Better to follow what plan she had, and make her careful way to the audience hall to accept the gift Sandalia had in mind for her.

It was as well she was a woman, and not a man come to be knighted. Bad enough to have the chamber hall doors swung open slowly in front of her, ponderously, with the rush of wind they made heralding her arrival even before a crier could shout out her name. Not since childhood, not since she’d bowed for the first time before the queen of Aulun, had Belinda felt the weight of so many gazes upon her.

Then, they had been tolerant, disinterested, amused. Now they judged, and not kindly: she was their prince’s intended, she was backwater and without connections, and she was loathed by many for those things alone.

That she was also, this one day, beautiful, softened some hearts toward her and hardened others. Even uncalled for, the witchpower stretched out, tasting emotion and bringing it back to her in powerful waves. She was prepared for that, braced for it; the stillness held a cool calm centre against which admiration and dislike and envy broke and fell around her. Out of the cacophony she could pick out individuals whom she knew well: Marius, a bastion of regret, his pain a lonely note in the mass of broader sentiment. Sacha, full of smoldering rage tempered by a sense of intent that Belinda couldn’t define.

Sandalia, nearly as cool as Belinda herself, as if she, too, had drawn stillness around her and did only what she must. Viktor, unexpectedly, his hunger and lust pounding through Belinda’s control to bring the faintest heat to her cheeks. Akilina, whose easy laughter felt spiked, as if she had a delicious secret no one else shared. And Javier, whose pride in Belinda’s appearance was softened by a heart-filling joy that Belinda could not, or dared not, name.

Below it all she felt a rumbling anger so thick and murky it seemed familiar; a human predilection toward violence, perhaps, the thin line that kept a group from being a mob near to being crossed over. She was not loved here, though with the thought her gaze skittered back to Javier. She was not loved here, save, perhaps, by one. Her slow footsteps measured the length of the hall with ear-shattering sound, no voices raised in murmurs to discuss her, even after she’d passed.

She curtsied before Sandalia, dropping straight down and inclining her head; there would be no forward bow from the waist to deepen her obsequiescence, not in that dress. For the second time she thought it was as well she wasn’t a man coming to be knighted; the prospect of kneeling in the gown she’d been sewn into was absurd to the point of bringing a smile to her heart, though she didn’t dare let one curve her mouth. She held the pose an achingly long time, the breath gone from her body before Sandalia finally murmured, “You may rise.”

She
may,
Belinda thought, but whether she
could
was entirely another question. Concentrated effort pushed into her legs helped her to straighten, so slowly she knew others would call it grace, so long as they didn’t see the tremble that suffused her body. She flickered her glance up once in thanks, then lowered it again, waiting for Sandalia’s words.

They came, soaring over her head to reach the back of the audience hall; Belinda was merely a tool in a showcase; none of this was for her. “Today we have the pleasure of granting a noble title to one who has done this court great service. We have lands in Brittany to our north that are ripe and wooded, well-made for hunting and, we are told, for planting. We regret that there are no living quarters yet on these lands, but we have arranged for a generous allowance so suitable quarters might be built.”

Delight sparked off Javier, boyish excitement at the prospect of overseeing the creation of a new retreat suitable for royalty. Sandalia, in marked contrast, remained wonderfully neutral; Belinda thought she herself could not do better. “We shall recommend artisans,” the queen went on, “and perhaps it will be our honour to visit when building is complete.

“We shall provide a stipend for five years,” she continued, “long enough that the fertile earth should begin to give its return, so our new friend might earn a living from her lands and provide to the crown some small measure of appreciation for the gifts we offer. All of these things and more we are delighted to give to one who has done us such service.

“But first,” she said, and her attention finally came to focus directly on Belinda. “First, we must attend to the matter of Belinda Primrose.”

The core of stillness within her turned to ice, utterly frozen, even as blood thundered in her ears, washing away all other sound. It brought back memory, memory so old that others said it couldn’t be at all: a battlefield, red-tinged and rushing, but what had once been comforting now only emphasized the words that she had carried with her since her birth.

It cannot be found out.

It carried fear into her, intense and sharp, a part of her that could never be cut away.
It cannot be found out.
Somewhere, extraordinarily distant to where she now stood, Javier’s voice tickled through the centre of her being, bewilderment lifting it high: “Mother?”

Outside herself, she could feel her expression turning to polite puzzlement, eyebrows crinkling as she glanced around herself, looking for the woman Sandalia had named. “Your Majesty?” The external performance would be flawless; that was the purpose of Belinda’s very existence, of the lifetime’s training in hard-won stillness that wouldn’t allow her body or face to betray herself, even when turmoil shattered her insides. It was helped, unexpectedly, by the prison of a gown she wore: Beatrice Irvine, who laughed too easily and let emotion come too quickly, was hindered by the constricting corsets and high throat, but Belinda Primrose felt at home within such constraints: she had been born to a carefully stifled life, and knew well how to work within it.

“Forgive me, my lord prince.” Akilina’s voice, silky smooth, laden with such insolent smugness that a cat would envy it. Witchpower rage lit up Belinda’s mind, golden ferocity that she thought must bleed from her eyes and nose and ears, so overwhelming was its heat. She did not, would not, let it fly free; her only hope lay in absolute innocence, and even a hint of anger now would be her undoing.

“There are things you must know about your intended.”

“Beatrice?” Javier’s voice cracked a second time and Belinda lifted her gaze to his, wide-eyed with incomprehension and a touch of fear.

“I do not know, my lord,” she whispered. “I do not understand.” Her pulse fluttered in her throat, such a gentle admission of girlish alarm and confusion that she almost regretted the gown’s choking collar.

“Do you deny, then, that you are called Belinda Primrose?” Sandalia’s question cracked out over the assembly, echoing against the chamber walls. No one within the hall spoke, their tension clawing at Belinda and telling her that to a man, they feared a word spoken would have them banished from the audience hall and they might miss the drama unfolding. A part of her wanted to laugh at the sheer eager hunger for theatrics; the larger part put away acknowledgment of the emotions that rose up behind her in favour of focusing on those immediately around her. Sacha had stepped forward, his fists clenched as he leaned toward Belinda, as though his very presence might crush her to the earth. Marius, too, had broken away from the crowd, making himself one of the little party surrounding Sandalia’s dais and standing subtly closer to Belinda than to her accusers. Only Eliza’s presence was marked in its absence. A sting of regret touched Belinda for that, though she had no idea what side the beautiful street woman might have come down on.

“I am Beatrice Irvine, Your Majesty,” Belinda protested. “Born in Lanyarch in 1565, daughter of—”

Sandalia cut her off with a sharp movement of her hand, and Belinda caught her breath, staying her words even as she cast another frightened glance toward Javier.

“Mother, what is this jape?” The prince’s voice was so low as to barely carry to Belinda, much less the breathless mass behind her. “Beatrice is—”

“A whore who’d do anything to get the Red Bitch off the Aulunian throne, Jav.” Sacha grated the words out, vicious delight in them. “Know how I know that? I—”

“—fucked her?” Javier interrupted sharply. A whisper ran through the gathering and subsided again, even as Sacha gave his prince, then Belinda, a startled look. Javier’s anger and his will rolled toward Sacha with undeniable power, demanding an answer; more, demanding the answer that Javier himself wanted. “Is that your tale, Sacha? You had the prince’s woman and she was willing to take you for hopes of getting her voice heard in the name of war? It’s an ugly ploy, brother,” he said, voice dropping to a whisper. “Could you do no better than that?”

Quick triumph bloomed and faded in Belinda’s breast as Javier stole the sting from Sacha’s truth; even Asselin could see that he’d lost, that any protest he made claiming exactly that had happened would only make him look the part of a bitter fool. He turned a look of hate on Belinda, who lifted her chin to regard him coolly, as a woman insulted.

“Cleverly done, my lord prince,” Akilina said without a hint of mocking. “If only Lord Asselin were the only one who knew of Lady Irvine’s past. Viktor.” Her voice thickened on the man’s name, rich sounds of the Khazarian language filling that single word even when her Gallic was typically barely accented.

The stiff-bearded guard stepped out of the ranks, gaze torn between Akilina and Belinda. Frustrated laughter ripped a thread free of Belinda’s internal control, witchpower striking through that weakness with only her half-formed intent behind it: he could not be allowed to speak. Javier’s will had moments earlier dominated Sacha; now Belinda strove to do the same to Viktor, seeking the familiar lines of passion and desire to conquer him with. She was his queen; he ought not have been able to betray her. The newness of her powers, the training at Javier’s hands instead of Robert’s—fury at her father, for forbidding her the knowledge she needed to save her own life, shot through the ties she had to Viktor, strengthening them. She was not Rosa. She was his heart’s desire, his loins’ desire. He could not, would not, betray her. She sent hints of promises toward him, the rewards to be reaped from remaining silent, even as she cursed the frailty in her that had allowed him an avenue to tell Akilina what he knew. He clearly had; there could be no other reason for him to be called forward.

Belinda should have killed him when she’d had the chance. Frailty indeed, a woman’s weakness, shared with her queen mother after all. She could let none of her anger show, only watch Viktor with wide eyes as she hammered loyalty into the sexual bond they shared.

“Beatrice?” Javier again, the strength of will that had sustained him now faltering. Belinda jerked her eyes to his, tearing her gaze from Viktor to the prince, and shook her head helplessly.

“I do not know this man, my lord.” Whispered words, desperate with confusion; she could not afford to slip. Akilina laughed, a soft warm sound that ripped through the chamber’s silent air.

“I watched them together, my lord. Watched Viktor go into an alcove and heard their sounds of passion. He called her Rosa, and she spoke Khazarian to him. Your pretense at mispronunciation was very good,” she added lightly, and repeated “
Nyet
” the way Belinda had, shortening the vowels to an
i.
“Viktor,” she said again, more heavily and in Khazarian, “tell them what you told me.”

Do not,
Belinda willed, and turned her frightened gaze back to the guardsman. He hesitated, hands balling into fists, then finally shook his head. “She is not my Rosa,” he said thickly. “How could she be, so far from Khazar?”

Relief jabbed Belinda in the stomach and witchpower flared along the connection she had built to influence Viktor. Raw desire, pure delight, absolute pleasure: the guardsman made a deep sound at the back of his throat, shuddering as Belinda’s unspoken thanks caught him on a primal level. Marius, closer to her, made a similar sound, his cheeks darkening as he realised the connection between himself and Viktor. Belinda felt the merchant man’s heart spasm, the unwelcome pleasure found in submission suddenly making his pulse race. Belinda swallowed against a certain wicked mirth, seeing that the thing tying both men together was both having bent to her will. Javier, thank God, remained unaffected, the temptation she’d had to top the prince unacted upon and now a barrier to linking him into the domineering witchpower that ate at her veins.

White anger pooled around Akilina, though none of it reflected in her countenance. Admiration slipped through Belinda’s control; the countess was as skilled at hiding emotion as Belinda herself. They might have been friends, if the world had been utterly other than what it was.

“He lies,” a woman’s voice said in Khazarian, and the white of Akilina’s anger cooled. Belinda turned toward the new speaker as did the gathered throng, and among them she was the only one to know despair. Rationality gave way for an instant beneath a child’s furious protest: this woman, this piece of nothing from a remote Khazarian estate, could not be there. Ilyana could not be in Lutetia, her thick blond hair dressed as a wealthy woman’s might be, her clothes far finer than any servant might dream of wearing. She simply
could not be there.

And yet she was, and all the anger and betrayed feelings in the world wouldn’t undo that. Hate thickened the girl’s voice, audible even if the words were foreign to most of the Lutetian court’s ears: “She’s probably got his cock locked in a box somewhere and will only give it back when he’s cleared her name. Too bad for her she don’t got the same hold on me. The bitch is a witch, Your Majesty. She did my lord to death and she’s got Viktor under her spell. Probably your prince, too, the poor bastard. Her name’s Rosa and I’ll swear it on my grave.”

Akilina translated, soft-spoken words loud enough for the first rows of courtiers to hear; ripples spread back through the congregation as the speech was handed from one listener to another. Belinda allowed growing horror and confusion to part her lips and wrinkle her eyebrows, tears stinging at her eyes as she turned away from Ilyana’s accusations to listen to Akilina’s translation of them. She took one tiny step forward, reaching toward Sandalia and Javier with shaking hands as she shook her head in denial. “I don’t know this woman, your highnesses. My name is Beatrice Irvine, and I don’t understand why this is being done. Surely I’m not a threat to a woman like her ladyship the countess.” She let herself laugh, rough sound of distress. “Even I know I’m not the best match for his highness, and that if treaties required it I would easily be set aside in favour of someone like Countess Akilina. I can think of no other reason why—”

“Must we play this all the way to the end, Belinda?” Akilina interrupted so gently Belinda overrode her for several words. It was the use of her name that stopped her, chills creeping over her skin and making her grateful once more for the all-encompassing gown: barely more than her fingertips and face were visible to give away any changes in complexion that she might be unable to control. However Akilina had found her out, the thoroughness with which she had done so devastated everything that Belinda had ever been. Her name on the other woman’s lips struck away her last chances at anonymity; even if she survived the next few minutes, Belinda Primrose would be forever associated with Beatrice Irvine, and neither would ever be able to hide again.

But she drew herself up, dragging all the self-respect and command that poor Beatrice had left to her and met Akilina’s eyes. “We must.” The quaver in her voice belonged to Beatrice, whose fright and anger went nowhere near the depths of Belinda’s fury. “I don’t know who Belinda is, or why you seek to destroy my reputation, but if you insist on playing this farce I’ll see it to the end, my lady. I see no other choice.”

Marius cried out, a warning that came an instant too late. Belinda whirled, less grace or power in the movement than she might have wished, her clothing hampering her. Ilyana, forgotten as Belinda made her pleas to throne and countess, leapt forward with her hands clawed, scratching and scraping at Belinda’s eyes. Belinda flung her hands up, green silk gown tearing with a shriek as dreadful as the sound that ripped from Ilyana’s throat. They collapsed to the floor, Ilyana’s weight bearing Belinda down, Belinda’s arms crossed in front of her face. She could fight back, even constrained by the gown, but Beatrice didn’t have Belinda’s taught skills, and to cower was far better than to out herself by competence beyond that which she should have.

Another sound, terrible and pained, erupted from Ilyana’s throat, and her body went rigid above Belinda’s. Whimpering, half crying in the shock and fear that her persona felt, Belinda dared lower her arms a few inches, then screamed outright as Ilyana coughed blood and bile, blue gaze accusing even as it turned glassy. Her body jerked, then slumped heavily against Belinda’s chest, blood drooling down her chin. Belinda screamed again, scrambling backward to get out from under Ilyana’s weight, and knocked into Javier’s shins. She looked up, gasping for breath, to see his unsheathed sword dripping blood on Sandalia’s pristine carpets, and his gaze locked on Marius who stood on Ilyana’s other side, his own blade still buried in the dead girl’s back.

Marius let go his blade as if it burned him, lifting his hands against a sudden shuffle of guardsmen. “Forgive me, my prince. I forgot whose presence I was in.”

“Away.” Javier’s abrupt word was to the guards, not his childhood friend. “I can hardly fault you, Marius, when your impulse was the same as my own.” Each quiet word was infused with apology, the most a prince could offer, and the silence that rang between the two of them made Belinda’s heart ache and pound and ache again, until spots of blackness came into her vision. Marius bowed finally, so deep it might have been mockery could she not, through waves of dizziness, feel profound sorrow and respect from the young man, and a lonesome forgiveness that would break the heart of the man he bowed to, could he but feel it.