The Queen's Consort (22 page)

             
“They will be born in the spring. Very lucky.” But, again, her words sounded strained to Ansel.

             
Clairwyn bounced off the bed and flung herself into his arms. “Oh, I'm so excited! Twins! A boy and a girl!”

             
Ansel sucked in a deep breath. “We must make arrangements,” he said, his mind whirling.

             
“Yes, yes, yes,” she agreed. “What do you think of names? I like Melinda, for your mother, and Travis, for my father.”

             
“To send you back, of course.” He raised his voice and spoke right over her. “Do you want to return to Renshaw?”

             
Clairwyn stared at him blankly.

             
“Tradition says the future kings and queens of Vandau should be born in Haverton,” Gladnys said. “It would be better to not remind the flatlanders that their Queen is not one of their villagers.”

             
“Haverton it is, then,” Ansel declared.

             
“I can't go back,” Clairwyn said.

             
“I'll go with you,” Ansel said, talking right over her. “Your generals and your army will be glad to be rid of me, I'm sure.” They would return to the original plan and fortify the borders. Beaumont could throw his army against them if he wished—Ansel was defending his family now. Somehow he would find a way to defeat Beaumont.

             
His mind gnawed at possibilities. Beaumont had tried to assassinate Clairwyn; perhaps Ansel could turn the tables on him. Patricide, though distasteful, would solve a lot of problems.

             
Clairwyn was still talking, still arguing with him.

             
If Beaumont died then Elric would be king of Courchevel. Ansel's half-brother lacked Beaumont's intelligence and cunning but also lacked Beaumont's evil streak. And Elric was devoted to his family, to his wife and children and even, to a much lesser degree, to Ansel himself.

             
Perhaps Elric could be reasoned with. Perhaps he would even be grateful to Ansel for putting him on the throne. If Clairwyn was safe, Ansel would gladly bow down and promise fealty to Elric.

             
Of course, he had already bowed down and promised fealty to Beaumont….

             
A soft palm smacked him briskly, snapping him out of his troubled thoughts. “Ansel,” Clairwyn said, “I am not going into hiding. Our plans remain unchanged.” Her face softened. “If anything, it is more important than ever that our plans succeed.”

             
“A Queen traveling with her army was unprecedented,” he said. He rubbed his cheek, more surprised than hurt. “A
pregnant
Queen must consider more than her own desires.”

             
“It is more than my desire,” she said, “it is my destiny. I've seen it, Ansel, in the Pool of Tears. Just as you saw our children. This must happen.”

             
He argued, he begged, he pleaded, he pouted and sulked. But she remained intractably resolute. Finally, reluctantly, he had to give in.

             
“But,” he insisted, “you will ride in the carriage from now on.”

             
With a smile, she agreed to his request. “With one caveat, my prince.”

             
“Of course,” he griped. “Why would you listen to reason—and agree to one, tiny, reasonable request—without a caveat?”

             
“Hush, now. Rest easy. You know that we Highlanders are practically born in a saddle. I myself was born on the road twelve miles outside the walls of Haverton. My father delivered me, then promptly fainted.”

             
Ansel refused to be distracted. “What is your caveat?”

             
“Only this—that I will go by carriage when I can. I will ride when I must.”             

             
It was the best offer he was going to get and, reluctantly, he agreed to it. “Shall we return to your army?” he asked. He had his own plans. If he moved quickly, a well-timed message to Beaumont would get the ball rolling.

Twenty-Three

              Ansel’s plan required that Clairwyn’s generals trust him but it was impossible to meet with them without her. Perhaps he could use her presence to his advantage.

             
He summoned her generals and seated them around a big, square map of the land that lay between the Castle in the Clouds and the Courchevel border. Sayer, representing the Highlanders, slouched in as well. He grinned at Ansel’s scowl and took a chair.

             
“The Queen’s intent is to invade Courchevel and strike Beaumont in his own lands. I have tried to dissuade her,” Ansel smiled ruefully, “but she is determined.”

             
Her generals nodded.

“You will be defeated long before you reach Kingsford,” Ansel continued bluntly. “Beaumont's army will strike from night and from ambush, harrying your flanks. His purpose will be to inflict casualties, incite fear, and decimate your morale.”

              General Perry sighed in agreement. “Beaumont knows that our troops are inexperienced farm boys.”

             
Ansel nodded. “Your aggression, my Queen, probably took Beaumont by surprise. And the unprecedented speed of your army means that he will not have time to gather his entire force and meet you at the border. For a short time, a few months at most, you will have the advantage of numbers.”

             
Clairwyn studied the map. “I am not a tactician,” she said. “I know that Beaumont's forces are better trained. But the advantage must always lie with the larger force.”

             
Perry edged closer. “Very true, my Queen, if we faced Beaumont in open battle or if we defended a fortified position. While we are on the move through strange country that Beaumont’s men know well, the advantage is with him.”

             
“Then let us use his tactics,” Clairwyn said. “Let us lure him in and attack from ambush. Small victories will give my soldiers the confidence they need.”

             
The Generals looked at each other. Ansel studied Clairwyn, waiting to hear her plan.

             
“Ansel,” she said, “if you were leading Beaumont's army, where would you attack?”

             
“Moth's Crossing,” he said without hesitation. He pointed to it at the map.

             
“That's still Highlander territory.” Sayer scowled.

             
“It is,” Ansel acknowledged. “But the far side of the river is all cliff face and lightly fortified.”

             
Sayer nodded jerkily. “That shall be corrected.”

             
“After we pass through,” Clairwyn said.

             
“The bridge over the river is vulnerable, too,” Ansel said.

             
“As long as we control the dam above it,” Sayer said, “we control the flow of water under the bridge.”

             
Ansel grinned at him.

             
“You would destroy the dam.” Sayer rolled his eyes.

             
“I would. And that would destroy the bridge and wash out the roads below it.”

             
Sayer looked ready to fight the battle immediately.

             
“Hold.” Clairwyn raised her hand. “They know our tactics. Ansel is right. They will attack at Moth's Crossing and we will be waiting for them.”

             
Ansel pursed his lips.

             
“We will need an attractive target to lure them in,” she continued. “Sayer, signal the supply boats. Tell them to be there in ten days. We will send one squadron—a mere two hundred soldiers—to guard it.”

             
Sayer looked pained but didn't argue.

             
“That will attract their attention,” Ansel admitted. “If they can destroy or steal your supplies it would be a hard blow to you. An army marches on its stomach.”

             
Perry desperately wanted to argue. Losing those supplies would be a substantial blow.

             
“In addition,” Clairwyn continued, “we have to lure Beaumont's forces to
our
side of the river. That way they will be compelled to keep the bridge intact until they can return themselves.” She pursed her lips. “The scourge I will release cannot touch water. I need the bridge intact.”

             
“Ahh.” Perry didn't look happy.

             
Clairwyn smiled. “And, to make the target even more enticing, I myself will go.”

             
A chorus of furious voices objected.

             
She waved them away. “It must be me. I am owed three favors of great power. But only I can wield the magic.”

             
Her council still had no faith in a woman's magic. Ansel, though, had developed a grudging respect for her power. But he couldn't let her go without him. How could he convince her to let him go, too?

             
As he pondered the problem she turned to him. “Ansel,” she said, “would your presence deter Beaumont's troops?”             

             
Everyone turned to look at him. “They would still attack.” It pained him to admit the truth. “As far as my father is concerned, I would be just another casualty.” Although the troops, no doubt, would spare him if they could.

             
She placed her hand on his sleeve. “Then, if you agree, I would like to have you with me.”

             
Perry turned green. He would have spoken but couldn't seem to force words past his lips. He opened his mouth but only a gagging noise came out.

             
Ansel placed his hand over hers. “I will go with you.” If the Queen was captured and her army destroyed at Moth’s Crossing then, surely, she would be his. He could probably wrangle a dukedom—possible Haverton itself—from his grateful father.

             
If by some miracle her army prevailed then he would still be at her side. As long as he kept her safe he had nothing to lose.

             
Sayer and Perry were dismissed to make the arrangements and Ansel slipped off on a mission of his own. That night he sent a message to Beaumont. “Moth's Crossing in ten days,” it read. “Supplies, two hundred soldiers. The Queen will be there with me.”

             
Ansel leaned back in his chair. Beaumont would still prefer to take her alive. He would want her as a figurehead for her people. Ansel would wield the real power from behind the throne.

             
Clairwyn would hate it.

             
He hardened his heart. This was a way for him to have everything he wanted. Somehow, eventually, she would come to see that he’d done it all for her.

Twenty-Four

             
The plans were made and a forward squadron of two hundred soldiers marched to Moth’s Crossing. The Queen and all of her Guard went with them. Although she had argued and ordered, the Guard had flat-out refused to be left behind.

             
The soldiers arrived foot-sore and weary from their brisk march. Although they wore infantry uniforms, every “soldier” was a Highlander who was more used to the saddle than to hoofing it on their own feet.

             
On their side of the river was a grassy meadow that rolled gently all the way to the water. The young men quickly pitched their tents and made themselves comfortable. The ships would arrive the next morning and the soldiers had all of the afternoon ahead of them.

             
Clairwyn found the squadron captain in the middle of the camp. “My Queen.” The young man saluted briskly. “I'll have the men form up and practice their maneuvers,” he said.

             
“Oh, I don't know about that.” Clairwyn shaded her eyes and looked over the rowdy young Highlanders. “I've always believed that too much work makes for a very dull boy.”

             
“My Queen?” the captain had no idea what she was talking about.

             
“The river beyond the camp has shallow ledges and a gentle current. Warn the men to not go to deep, lest they be swept away.”

             
“I beg your pardon?”

             
She wheeled her horse toward her own tent. “I'm telling you, captain, to give these boys the rest of the day off.”

             
“Um. I mean yes, of course, my Queen.”

             
Clairwyn paused. “You have eight sergeants, do you not? Each in charge of twenty-five men?”

             
“Yes, my Queen.”

             
“Very good. Assemble those men and meet me at the command pavilion.”

             
Eight sergeants, the captain, Tristam, and Ansel met at the pavilion. A soldier passed out drinks and refreshments, saluted briskly, and retreated.

Clairwyn stood. “Gentlemen,” she said, “what I have to tell you is of the utmost importance. I ask you to listen carefully and obey completely. You won't understand now but, I promise, all will be clear on the morrow.”

              They listened attentively.

             
“One hour before sunset you must summon the men back to camp. Serve them dinner and let them drink their fill.”

             
The sergeants didn't like that.

             
“I am going to pour a circle of sand around the camp,” she continued. “It is vitally important that none of your men cross that line for any reason. You must impress this upon each of them.”

             
Bemused, they nodded assent.

             
“After dinner but before the sun sets every man must be safely inside their tents. They must not leave their tents, for any reason, on pain of death.”

             
A grizzled sergeant cleared his throat. “You would execute a man, my Queen, for leaving his tent?” His voice was carefully neutral.

             
“I will not.” Clairwyn faced them squarely. “I am going to release magical creatures this night. Those creatures will consume any that look upon them as well as anyone not protected by the circle.”

             
The sergeants very carefully did not look at each other. A million questions swamped Ansel’s brain but he knew better than to ask them.

             
“What if the wind rises and blows the sand away?” the captain asked.

             
Clairwyn shook her head. “It will not matter. The circle will hold until dawn even if someone walked behind me and shoveled the sand into the river.”

             
“And what if our men don't believe us?”

             
Clairwyn smiled sadly. “I have chosen Highlanders for this mission for this very reason. You were all raised knowing that the women of my clan have very powerful magic. You respect that. I hope you believe me now. When the fires burn bright and the screaming starts your men will believe, too.”

             
“We must set watchfires and patrol the perimeter,” Tristam said. “Your Guard will take that watch, my Queen. I will tell them that when the sun sets they must sit down and close their eyes. I will tell them that this order comes directly from you.” He straightened proudly. “Any man that disobeys deserves to die.”

             
“The temptation will be strong.” Clairwyn laid her hand on Tristam's arm. “Give them each blindfolds and tell them to cover their eyes. I would not lose one of my Guard.”

             
He hesitated but then nodded.

             
“And the danger will pass at dawn?” the captain asked.

             
“It will,” she assured him. “When the trumpet sounds it will be safe for all.”             

             
An hour before sunset Ansel followed the captain and sergeants as they made their rounds among their soldiers. There was some joking and incredulity but, to his surprise, the soldiers all seemed ready to obey their Queen without question.

             
“Are you seriously going to hide in your tent all night?” Ansel asked one young Highlander.

              “Are you kidding me, um, sir?” the young man replied. “Of course I am. All the women in her family are witches. If she says there's magic brewing and it'll kill you if you look at it, then every smart man will stay in his tent.”

             
The other men nodded.

             
“The way I figure,” another young man said, “is even if my tent catches fire I'll still be safer inside it than I would be outside of it.”

             
A murmur of assent rippled through the crowd. Ansel watched as the men cleared away the remains of their dinner, banked their fires and, one by one, retreated to their tents and firmly tied the flaps closed.

             
Ansel returned to the tent he shared with Clairwyn in time to see her emerge from it. She was dressed like a soldier. He had to grin at her.

             
“It was Tristam's idea,” she said, gesturing toward the garb. “He's convinced that everyone wants to kill me.”

             
“He's pretty damn close,” Ansel had to agree. “But if a dozen Guard follow you everywhere then your disguise won't save you.”

             
She raised her hands helplessly. “I told him that, too. So he put the Guard in regular uniforms as well. They pitched a fit.”

             
The image made Ansel grin.

             
“Bunch of whiny babies,” Tristam said, arriving in a soldier's dress. The rest of the Guard tagged along.

             
“A uniform is not what makes you a Guard.” Clairwyn smiled at her unhappy protectors.

             
“And they've all got blindfolds, my Queen,” Tristam said.

             
“Excellent. The sand is bagged and readied?”

             
“It is.”

             
As the sun sank in the west the strange party circled around the camp. The Guard took turns lifting the heavy sacks. They cut a corner in the sack and let a thick stream of sand pour out onto the ground.

             
Clairwyn walked behind them on the inside of the circle, singing softly to herself. They completed the circle moments before the sun set. She filled a hand with sand and tossed it into the wind. The air caught it and sent the fine grains over the camp. “I have sealed the tents of the soldiers,” she said. “To force their way out, or for anyone to force their way in, they will have to use an axe.”

             
Or a sharp sword,
Ansel thought.

             
“I would wish you to your shelters,” she said to the Guard.

             
Tristam shook his head stubbornly. “If the enemy is watching it would look suspicious.”

             
“Very well,” she conceded. “Take your posts, then. Stoke the fires and then, for love of me, put on your blindfold. Fear neither sword nor arrow on this night. Nothing will cross this line.”

             
Ansel rolled his eyes but he made sure she didn't see. Her men were going to be slaughtered like lambs tonight. His only goal was to make sure that he and Clairwyn weren't slaughtered along with them.

             
Tristam gestured and his men fanned out to their assigned posts. Tristam himself and three Guard followed Ansel and Clairwyn back to the tent at the center of the camp.

             
Ansel looked up. He’d insisted that his own flag fly next to the Queen’s over her tent. Anyone for miles around would know he was there. If Beaumont’s troops watched, they would know better than to attack him and Clairwyn.

Tristam stopped at the entry of the tent, ready to take up his own post outside.

              “No, Tristam,” Clairywn said firmly. “You and your men must stay inside this night.” She stared him down and, finally, the captain shrugged in defeat.

             
He entered the tent and stationed himself and his three men at each corner.

             
Clairwyn tied the tent flap closed. “None will leave this tent,” she said, “until dawn. Swear it to me.”

             
The men made their reluctant vows. She walked to the center of the tent and arranged a crystal bowl on the floor. She lifted a pitcher of water and poured it into the bowl, then knelt next to it.

             
Curious, Ansel crouched beside her.

             
She lifted her hand over the bowl and let a pinch of sand fall into the water. To Ansel's surprise the clear water turned an ugly, muddy brown. The water started to swirl around the bowl as if it was stirred hard.

             
Clairwyn took a deep breath and lifted her head to meet his gaze. “It troubles me greatly to do this,” she said, “but I will do it. I must.”

             
She splayed her fingers and plunged her hand into the water.

             
At once a clear circle appeared around her hand as the vortex swirled even faster. She removed her hand and leaned back on her heels.

             
“It is begun,” she breathed.

             
The words had barely left her mouth before an inhuman scream rent the air. Tristam leaped to his feet. At a sharp glance from Clairwyn, he slowly returned to his spot.

             
Another scream, high and shrill, was quickly silenced. It was replaced by another and another, until it seemed as if walls of terror pressed hard against them from every side.

             
Tristam eyed the entryway as if he hoped someone would try to break through it. Being attacked by an army would be easier on the nerves than listening to this.

             
“I should have made the men pack their ears with cotton,” Clairwyn fretted as the horrible racket rose another notch. “It will drive them mad.”

             
“What is happening?” Ansel demanded.

             
“I have unleashed a scourge,” she said sadly, looking at the swirling water, “and nothing but the sun itself can stop it.”

             
As they waited the screams seemed to recede into the distance and finally, after what felt like hours, the sounds faded to an intermittent wail of despair. Obviously exhausted, Clairwyn curled into a cushion and slept while the men kept watch.

             
Shortly before dawn the cries stopped completely. “How will we know when it's safe to go out?” Tristam whispered to Ansel.

             
Clairwyn stirred and opened her eyes. She sat up and glanced at the crystal bowl. The water was clear and still. “It's safe,” she said.

             
Tristam leaped for the tent flap. Seconds later the horn sounded reveille.

             
“He seemed eager to leave,” Clairwyn said, smiling slightly at Ansel.

             
“I think we all are.” Ansel kept her behind him as he stepped outside. He fully expected her camp to be a smoking ruin. He anticipated that Beaumont's elite troops, the King's Corps, would be arrayed in lines and waiting for them.

             
Instead, Clairwyn's exhausted soldiers staggered from their tents, grumbling about their sleepless night.