The Queen's Consort (16 page)

             
He knew because he'd been ready to do anything at all to have her. And then to find that she was the Queen of Vandau, his enemy, and it was his duty to kill her....

             
A servant touched his arm. “Prince Ansel?”

             
“What?” he snarled, rounding on the man. The poor man shrank back and Ansel immediately regretted his temper. He'd been trained for years to never show emotion. It was a sign of weakness.

             
And, whatever else he was, he wasn't weak. He took a deep breath and faced the man. He didn't apologize—he didn't apologize to anyone, especially not a servant—but he did put on a show of patience while he waited for the man to speak.

             
The man watched him warily. “My prince,” he said, “the Queen is with her council. She requested that you join her.”

             
“Very good. Show me the way.”

             
The man practically ran across the hall. Ansel recognized the door before it opened to the chamber beyond. This was where he'd first spoken to Clairwyn, the room where Andromeda had rested in her casket.

             
That reminder was enough to drain away the rest of his anger. Unbidden, the girl's lovely face filled his memory. He had wronged that girl, and no apology could fix it. Or, for that matter, free him from his guilt.

             
Clairwyn, looking browbeaten but serene, sat at the head of a long table. She stood as he approached.

             
“My prince,” she said, “your presence is as timely as it is welcome.” But she didn't smile at him. “I have dismissed the council. These are my generals. General Perry, General Carpenter, this is Prince Ansel.”

             
Both men greeted him politely but neither would meet his eyes. They seemed uncomfortable. Ansel suspected that they would rather meet him on a gallows, with a nice thick noose around his neck, than speak to him in the Queen's home.

             
So he settled himself comfortably and regarded them with amusement. He didn't have to pretend. It amused the hells out of him to make them unhappy.

             
“Um, yes, my Queen,” Perry said, still not looking at Ansel. “Perhaps we should continue this conversation some other time.”

             
She gave him a steely look. “The Prince is my consort.”

             
There was that word again. It made his muscles bunch and his hands curl into fists, but she used it as if it was a good thing.

             
Her voice continued, quiet but firm. “As such, he should know all of my plans.”

             
Perry squirmed. Carpenter looked like he wanted to throw up.

             
Ansel grinned at them. “Come on,” he urged. “'Fess up. I want to know everything that's going on around here.”

             
Perry and Carpenter shared a look but stayed silent.

             
Clairwyn sighed. “I shall sum up the conversation for you, my prince. My generals disagree with my plan to gather an army and march to Hilltop.”

             
“March to Hilltop?” he questioned her. “For training, right? Then you will send your troops down river to fortify your garrisons at Southern Reach.”

             
“No. My army will march to Hilltop and then continue west.”

             
Ansel bolted to his feet. The consternation on the faces of her generals should have been funny, but his own shock drowned out any amusement he might have felt. Why in all the hells would she march west?

             
She waited quietly, obviously expecting him to comment.

             
What was he supposed to say? That it was madness? That it was pointless?

             
He paced the room. He'd had similar conversations with his father when Beaumont proposed some mad and reckless plan. At times, he'd been able to talk his father around to sanity. Perhaps he could prevail here.

             
Clairwyn's face was still serene. She was still waiting.

             
He'd have to be very diplomatic, very cautious.

             
And then reality hit him. If Clairwyn raised an army, stripped the countryside of the men who could defend it, and marched them north and east, away from the ports, it would make Beaumont's invasion easier. He would take Southern Reach and overrun the country before Clairwyn could bring her forces to the battle.

             
Ansel danced on the horns of a dilemma. If he dissuaded her from her mad plan, Beaumont's army would have a longer, more difficult fight to conquer the country. But a fight might force the king to the negotiating table, and Clairwyn might live.

             
He stared at her. He still didn't know what to do. His goals were clouded, his way unclear for the first time in his life. All he knew was that he madly, desperately, wanted the woman before him to live.

             
But first she had to trust him. He glanced at her generals. Their angst no longer amused him. He would need every ally he could gather if he was to save her.

             
He stopped pacing to stand in front of her. “Your intention is to ride north? To Hilltop? And then go west?”

             
“It is, my prince.”

             
He paced the length of the chamber again, his mind still whirling. “You have raised an army,” he said carefully. “It would be best to use it for defense, my Queen, as I'm sure your generals have told you.” A glance in their direction proved him right.

             
She pursed her lips.

             
“You should go south to your port cities,” he continued. “Defend Southern Reach. What good can you accomplish, beside training, at Hilltop?”

             
“I intend to invade Courchevel and defeat Beaumont in his home.”

             
She spoke so calmly that it took him a moment to comprehend her words. He paced faster. He didn't want to argue with her, especially not in front of her men, but he had to change her mind. Beaumont would annihilate her army. At best, she would be taken prisoner.

             
And that option was unthinkable. Clairwyn, as Beaumont's prisoner? Ansel set his jaw. He'd kill her and then fall on his sword before he let that happen.

             
“My Queen,” General Perry said very cautiously, “the prince raises an interesting possibility. The Highlanders can defend the mountains. We can defend the ports.”

             
It was possible they could defend the ports but it was very unlikely. Ansel ran a hand through his hair. He didn't believe they could do anything but delay the inevitable, but defending the ports made more sense than throwing away their lives in a pointless campaign.

             
“We can defend the ports,” Clairwyn agreed. “But for how long? Our 'soldiers' are farmers. We need them in the fields. We cannot support them indefinitely in garrisons on the shore.”

             
General Perry chewed on his tongue and threw a helpless look at Ansel.

             
To hell with it. If nothing else, he owed her the truth in this.

             
“My Queen,” Ansel said, “you are right when you say that you cannot support a large army for long enough to successfully defend your ports. Sustaining our army has decimated our country.” It pained him to say it, but it was true.

             
She nodded in acknowledgement. She seemed to believe him when he agreed with her. That was a relief. Perhaps she would believe him now when he disagreed with her.

              “But you cannot defeat Beaumont in an open campaign. Your army of farmers, even with the Highland light cavalry and Urmai's archers, will still be outnumbered by Courchevel's professional soldiers.”

             
Perry and Carpenter watched him, confused but grateful that he was making their arguments for them.

             
“I appreciate your candor and your concern, my prince,” she said, “but we have no choice but to attack.”

             
She raised her hand as he started to protest, and he subsided. He could see that she'd already made up her mind.

             
“Your very presence here, my prince, and the attack on me in the public square, is proof that we cannot completely close our borders. Beaumont strikes where he will, when he will.” She rose and walked to him, placing her hands on his chest as she looked into his face. “We must strike back. Our only option is to cut the head off the beast.”

             
His heart twisted as he looked down into her smooth, untroubled face. She honestly believed she could defeat Beaumont.

             
“Be at ease, my prince.” She touched his cheek to reassure him.

             
She’d already made up her mind, he realized, and nothing he could say would sway her.

             
And she had no idea that Beaumont had used those very same words—“cut off the head of the beast”—when he sent Ansel to kill her.

Fifteen

              Stonevale, the Tomb of the Kings, was an easy morning's ride or an entire day's march. Ansel and Clairwyn rode out of Haverton at the head of the army, then rode ahead with her Guard to Stonevale.

             
The lowest point for miles around, Stonevale was a shallow lake studded with islands of huge, bare stones. It was a beautiful, otherworldly place. “My scientists tell me,” Clairwyn said, “that a mountain of ice once covered all of this land. As the water froze it pushed these huge stones from the Starlit Mountains, my home. When the ice melted it left these stones behind.”

             
“That's ridiculous,” Ansel scoffed. “It's much easier to believe that the gods used these rocks to play checkers.”

             
“I agree.” She laughed. “How could water move such massive boulders?”

             
Tristam stayed silent. His only concern was who might be hiding in those rocks and taking aim at the Queen.

             
Ansel had visited the jeweler, Mosard, before they left Haverton. He’d passed on another note for Beaumont, detailing the Queen’s plan to attack on his eastern front, and picked up her armor. He didn’t allow himself to dwell on how he was trying to protect her by betraying her trust in him.

             
“Your new armor suits you well,” he told her now.

             
She shrugged under it, sending a ripple through the links. They chimed like bells in the wind when she moved, and he found the sound very pleasing. To him, it sounded like safety.

             
“It is beautifully made,” she agreed, “and surprisingly light.”

             
“It is indeed. But you must wear it even if you chafe under the weight. If you take it off, Tristam will make you wear his breastplate.”

             
Her pleasant laugh complemented the gentle ring of her armor. “I am sure I could not stand in his armor, my prince, much less ride.”

             
“I am glad you realize it.” He resisted the temptation to drag her across his saddle bows for a kiss. Making love to her twice last night—and again this morning—felt like a distant memory now. He could never get enough of her.

             
A winding road led up the limestone cliffs on the western side of the lake. “Natural caves formed the basis for the Tombs of the Kings,” she said, swinging gracefully out of the saddle.

             
He followed her into the caves. “Tristam must have had a fit,” he chuckled, “making sure there was no one hiding in these caves waiting to pounce on you.”

             
“He sent a whole squadron of personally chosen soldiers to sweep the caves yesterday. They're the guys setting up camp now. And they went through the caves again this morning.”

             
“I'm starting to like Tristam.”

             
“He worries too much.”

             
Ansel shrugged. He knew, better than most, that Tristam's paranoia about Clairwyn's safety was entirely justified.

             
The kings and queens of Vandau were interred in stone sarcophagi within the network of caves. Their only vanity lay in the elaborately carved lids depicting the deceased lying in state.

             
Clairwyn's parents shared one sarcophagus. She walked around it, letting her fingers drift over the stone as she went. “We're too practical a people to bury our riches with our dead,” she said, “and so we have no need to guard their tombs. Anyone is welcome to visit.”

             
She moved to stand by a newer sarcophagus. Ansel realized it was Andromeda's, and he stayed back. He didn't want to remind Clairwyn why her sister now shared her parent's grave.

             
“Traditionally,” she said, “the cliffs are only for the rulers of Vandau. But children who died before marriage have been interred here, too, and I insisted that she should share their grave. She was their baby, their youngest, their favorite.” She smiled in fond memory, her fingers skimming the stone likeness of her sister’s face. “After they died, I tried my best to raise her as they would have.”

             
Ansel stayed silent. He'd never wanted Andromeda's death and he regretted that she lay here now.

             
Clairwyn walked a little further into the passage to another cavern. Marks on the wall and chips on the floor indicated that work had been done here recently.

             
She stopped and surveyed the space. A dim light filtered in, enough to clearly see the irregular walls. “If I am lucky,” she said, “I will be buried here, with my family.”

             
A frisson of alarm touched Ansel. “Why would you call that luck? In many, many years, you will rest here.”
And I will lie next to you.

             
In the faint light her eyes gleamed that eery silver. “I may die far from here,” she murmured. “And my body may be buried where I fall.”

             
Ansel didn't know how to respond.

             
She snapped out of her strange mood, her dark eyes sparkling with life. “It matters little where my body rests,” she said briskly. “My soul shall always be with my people. Come, Ansel, we have lingered long enough with the dead. My duty is with the living.”

             
Glad to leave, Ansel took her hand and drew her back into the daylight. He caught her horse and held the bridle while Clairwyn swung into the saddle, then vaulted lightly onto his own horse.

             
“Show-off,” she laughed.

             
He bowed theatrically. “I know how to impress a Highland girl.”

             
“Indeed you do, my prince.”

             
The midday sun beat down on them as they rode back to camp. Fires snapped and crackled and it looked as if an entire herd of steers was roasting over the flames. He’d been there when Clairwyn’s agent had purchased the herd—
purchased
, not appropriated—and sent it ahead to be a meal for her army.

             
Purchased. For fair market value. Not taken at swordpoint, as he himself had done, carelessly and without regret, when he had marched with Beaumont’s army.

             
He inhaled, savoring the scent of roasting beef. “Your army will eat well tonight,” he said.

             
“Let them. There will be privations soon enough.”

             
He knew that well enough. Perhaps those privations would convince her to stay behind and send her army forward without her. The thought buoyed him.

A group of soldiers stripped down and, as the steers turned on spits, they laughed and splashed in the warm, clear waters of the shallow lake.

              Clairwyn watched with envy. “I wish I could go swimming.”

             
“Can't you swim?” Most Highland girls could.

             
“Of course I can. But a Queen can't just jump in the water in front of her troops.”

             
“Ahh.” But she wanted to. Ansel's mind chewed on the idea.

             
He rode with Clairwyn to her tent. “I need to speak to Tristam,” he told her.

             
“More security measures?”

             
“Something like that. I shall return shortly.”

             
“No need to hasten back, my prince,” she sighed. A half-dozen figures waited for her in the shade of a pavilion next to her tent. “My staff, no doubt, wishes to discuss the miles to tread and the ounces of mead my army will consume.”

             
Ansel smiled to himself as he left her. A long, boring meeting suited his plans perfectly. She would be well-guarded and, later, ready for distraction.

             
It took him all afternoon to implement his plan. Ansel found an isolated cove of shallow water surrounded by rocks. Tristam sent soldiers to scour the hillside, then moved her tent and set up screens to shield the Queen from view. Last of all, Ansel arranged a picnic feast and even succeeded in finding a bottle of good wine.

             
In late afternoon the rest of her troops arrived at Stonevale. They set up their tents, settled in, and fell on the roast cattle like a ravening horde.

             
Ansel waited, impatiently, until her staff meeting finally ended. Looking slightly wild-eyed, Clairwyn bolted from the pavilion. An aide hastened after her but changed his mind when she glared at him. She saw Ansel and a relieved smile wreathed her face.

             
“Ah,” she said to him, “would that I truly was just a simple Highland girl and not a Queen. I could have danced the day away with you, my prince, and not be burdened with all of these duties.”

             
“Very true.” He put his arm around her waist to steer her. “I would have hand-fed you honey and lotus blossoms and been your willing slave.”

             
“Are you not now?” she batted her eyelashes at him.

             
“I am,” he declared, “but we have lost years because of your betrayal.”

             
His tone was gentle but his words must have stung her. She frowned. “Do you truly believe I betrayed you?”

             
“No.” He didn't want to argue with her. He wanted this night to be perfect, to make up for what had come before—and what would soon come. “But, if you had stayed with me, I would have taken your cares away.”

             
She let him lead her but her brow furrowed. “You could not have done. What of my family? I would never have seen them again.”

             
As far as he was concerned, that would have been a good thing. He didn't want a meddlesome Highland family coming between them. “Hush, now,” he said instead. “I have a surprise for you.”

             
“Is it a good surprise?” There was a sad undertone in her voice. She'd had too many bad surprises of late.

             
“It is, my Queen,” he hastened to reassure her. He'd imagined an entirely different scene. He didn't want to make her sad.

             
Perhaps he could still salvage the evening. “Your troops make merry,” he said. “You are a very generous Queen.”

             
She glanced toward the camp. “Let them make merry while they can. There will be pain and grief soon enough.”

             
“There need not be.” Why was she so melancholy? “Not for them, my sweet, and not for you.”

             
Clairwyn paused and let him cradle her head against his shoulder. “I have been goaded into action, my prince. We are both pawns in a game.”

             
Her words unsettled him. “Tonight, my Queen, is only for us.” He swept her up into his arms and carried her past the screens to the secluded pool.

             
Everything was exactly as he'd planned. The sandy beach and gently moving water were still lit by the lingering evening light. Her tent, with the evening meal laid out, was softly illuminated with candles.

             
She smiled as he set her on her feet. “Are you sure it's safe?” she asked ironically.

             
“As safe as can be.” Ansel gave her a little bow and then a cheerful leer. “And, if you require assistance, I await your slightest need.”

             
“Thank you, my prince.” She turned to the tent.

             
“Have you a bathing costume?” he asked curiously. “What do you Highland girls wear when you go swimming?”

             
She glanced at him over her shoulder. “We don't need costumes, my prince,” she said. “We wear nothing at all.”

             
He hastened forward. “Then you will definitely need me, my Queen.” He reached her and she turned into his arms. “Where did my blushing girl go?” he wondered.

             
“I decided to leave her in Haverton. Soon there will be pain and grief for all. Why should I not enjoy this time with you?”

             
So many reasons for her not to trust him, so many reasons for her to send him away. Instead, she chose to believe. In him.

             
He closed his arms around her and closed his eyes, letting the scent and feel of her envelope him. If only he could leave his own doubts and fears behind, if only for tonight, and enjoy this time with her.

             
He knew that it couldn’t last. So he’d take everything he could and pray that the memories would be strong enough to last him forever.