The Queen's Consort (26 page)

Twenty-Eight

              A small advance team of Highlanders slipped through the lightly forested hills. They were excellent at stealth and they captured the camp scouts with hardly a murmur. The camp had not expected or prepared to be attacked.

             
Ansel gave Sayer an hour's head start and then started boldly down the road, his colors waving overhead.

             
He was spotted from a mile away and a group of grey-haired men in soldier's garb came forward to meet him.

             
Ansel recognized the leader as one of his brother's men-at-arms. “Well met, Mason,” he greeted him. 

             
“Prince Ansel.” Mason leaned on his staff. The wily old fox was probably feigning weakness. “We heard that you ride with the Queen now.”

             
“Her army is at my command.” It was a crucial difference, one that would resonate with the old sergeant. As Ansel spoke, plans formed in his mind. “I intend to overthrow Beaumont and rule in his stead.”

             
“And the Queen?”

             
“I intend to rule her, too.” That was something this man could understand.

             
Mason looked thoughtful. “Yer brother Elric might have some’at to say about that.”

             
“Elric is dead, fallen at Moth's Crossing.” Ansel took his brother's banner from inside his surcoat and tossed it to Mason.

             
The older man caught it. Slowly he unfurled the banner and fingered the material.

             
Ansel waited. Mason was clever. He would decide what would happen next.

             
Mason looked up, surveying the Highlanders behind Ansel. “I don't suppose I'm lookin' at all the men ye brought with ye, am I?”

             
Ansel shook his head.

             
“Ye always were a canny bastard.” Mason’s fingers closed around his master's colors. “Ah always warned Elric about ye. He didn't respect ye enough.”

             
Ansel's horse shifted impatiently under him.

             
“Ah figure,” Mason said slowly, “that if anyone can take on ol' Beaumont it'd be you, Master Ansel. But the boys in yonder camp won't win any wars for ye.”

             
“I already have an army. I intend to send those boys home.”

             
Mason looked at him sharply. “Not gonna use them to soak up crossbow bolts, are ye? That was Elric's intention.”

             
“No.” Ansel set his jaw knowing that, more recently than he wanted to admit, he would have used those boys for the same purpose. “They're more valuable behind their plows.”

             
“Aye.” Mason studied him. “Ah've served a long time, my prince. I think I've got one more campaign left in me. I'd like to serve with you.”

             
Swallowing past the lump in his throat, Ansel nodded. “I'd be honored to have you beside me, Mason.”

             
“I know.” Mason grinned. “Let's get back to camp. We'll give these boys their ticket home. They're gonna be thrilled.” He spit off to the side. “Not one of 'em as I'd have stand next to me, anyway. Damn farmers.”

             
Mason turned on his heel and gestured at the men with him. They relaxed, obviously relieved to not have to throw down against the Highlanders.

             
As Ansel followed them back to camp it became clear why they didn't want a fight. In addition to being woefully undertrained, the reluctant soldiers had no armor. Most of them didn't even have real swords. They were “armed” with wooden practice swords.

             
Worse, the recruits were scrawny, hollow-eyed, and undernourished. The Highlanders traveled light, but they generously shared what food they had. The Courchevel conscripts fell on the travel bread and dried meat as if they hadn't had a square meal in weeks.

             
Or, possibly, ever. The condition of the men shamed Ansel. Even the normally loud and combative Highlanders were subdued. They'd been looking for a fight against a worthy adversary; they had no desire to slaughter half-starved serfs.

With their usual mercurial temperaments, the Highlanders went from murderous to friendly in a heartbeat. Ansel even came across a pair of soldiers teaching a group of recruits how to cheat at cards.

              “It's only wrong if you get caught,” one of the Highlanders said cheekily when Ansel rebuked him.

             
There was no point in pursuing the argument. “Just be ready to ride in the morning,” Ansel said.

             
The young man shrugged indifferently. He was always ready to ride.

             
Sayer had set some of his men to more constructive use, building shelters against the night. “We don't need much, my prince,” Sayer said cheerfully. “We're used to much worse weather than these mild nights.”

             
Ansel grunted in response. Even after the day's hard ride he felt restless and irritable. And he worried about Clairwyn. What was she doing? Was she safe?

             
Of course she was safe. Tristam was with her. But who would watch over her while she slept?

             
Sayer raised a knowing brow. “You shouldn't worry about her. She'll be fine.”

             
“I know.”

             
“Here,” Sayer said magnanimously, offering him a flask. “Have a swig of this.” 

             
The brew the Highlanders preferred was notorious, and Ansel hesitated.

             
“Come on. It'll bring you dreams.” Sayer grew serious. “It can make things more clear.”

             
“What things?”

             
Sayer shrugged. “Whatever troubles you, my prince.” He offered the flask again.

             
Reluctantly, Ansel took a swig. He wasn't sure that clarity would help him. He knew what his troubles were; he just didn't know how to get out of them without doing murder.

             
Sayer watched him closely, as if he expected the vile brew to act instantly. “Rest now, my prince,” the Highlander said.

             
Ansel did feel tired. He didn't resist as Sayer led him to a bedroll near the fire. The Highlander was probably going to slit his throat as soon as he closed his eyes, but he didn't really have the energy to care.

              Strange dreams came almost as soon as Ansel's head hit the blanket. He dreamed that he could see Clairwyn in her tent. She had something in her hands, and she was talking to Gladnys.

             
“He cannot know,” the fey insisted.

             
“Lying by omission is still lying.” Clairwyn's eyes flashed silver and she seemed to look straight at him.

             
He reached out, trying to touch her.

             
“He suffers,” Clairwyn said. “I would ease his pain.”

             
“Telling him will not help him,” Gladnys said. “It will only add fuel to the fires that burn him.”

             
“Tell me, Aunt. When the time comes, will he choose me and our children?” She twisted the thing she held. What was it?

             
Agitated, Gladnys strode the length of the tent. “I have told you. The signs are not clear. But everything depends on his choosing you, Clairwyn. You must do everything you can to influence him.”

             
“What more can I do?” Her voice was sad. “If loving him is not enough, then what else can I offer?”

             
“Damn.” The fey ran her hands through her hair. “If only I could see him more clearly.”

             
“You can't see him at all.”

             
“Very funny.” The fey paced the tent with precise strides. “His heart is torn, Clairwyn. He must be made whole. And he must be wholly yours.”

             
Clairwyn opened her hands and Ansel saw that she held his shirt. She pressed it to her face and he realized that she was crying. She shouldn't cry, not over him, she should never be sad—

             
He woke up abruptly. Sayer sat on the other side of the fire, watching him. “Strange dreams, my friend?” he asked. “I did warn you.”

             
The camp was quiet. Ansel could hear the crackle of this fire but the rest of the night was still. “You didn't warn me,” he said, his voice dry as dirt. “You made it sound like a good thing.”

             
Shrugging, Sayer stirred the coals with a stick. “There are some things that are beyond our control.”

             
“Like women?” Ansel sighed.

             
“Exactly. Especially Highland women. And Clairwyn, of course, is in a class by herself.”

             
Silently, Ansel agreed.

             
“I remember her as a girl,” Sayer said. “Always beautiful, of course. Always laughing. Until her parents died. Losing them was hard on her.”

             
Ansel stayed silent.

             
“And then to lose her brothers, too, so quickly.” The fire reflected in Sayer's eyes and cast a sinister glow over his features. “She stopped laughing then. Stopped smiling. Until you.”

             
Me?

             
“Her enemy. Tried to kill her, even. Did succeed in killing the sister she adored. I thought for sure she'd stake you.”

             
“She's too nice. I figured she'd hang me.”

             
Sayer shrugged. “She doesn't like hanging. She told me once that a swinging corpse upset her. I suspect that's why we haven't executed a criminal since she came to the throne.”

             
She was soft. Kind. Unfit to rule in the real world, the world of men.

             
“And I was sure she'd pick me at the choosing,” Sayer continued. “It might not have been the best match for the kingdom, what with us both being Highlanders, but of her suitors she liked me best. Until you showed up.”

             
“It was pure coincidence.”

             
Sayer snorted. “Don't be stupid.” He eyed Ansel. “Everything happens for a reason. You were there because you were meant to be.”

             
Ansel considered the possibilities.

             
“I love her, you know,” Sayer mused. “I'm not in love with her, but I do love her. And I want what's best for her. And the kingdom, too, of course.”

             
Jealousy surged through him but Ansel controlled himself and nodded.

             
“I'm not sure that you are what's best for her, my prince.” Sayer took another swig. “But that's not for me to decide. Or you, for that matter.” He chuckled.

             
Ansel didn't see the humor in it.

             
Sayer sobered. “Many of our people have the gift of sight, my prince. My Aunt Gladnys has it and I suspect Clairwyn does, too. She knows what she wants and what she must do.” He tipped the flask at Ansel. “You and I are just along for the ride.”

             
“I am not a pawn.”

             
“Don't kid yourself,” Sayer scoffed. “That's how these Highland women work, my friend. They let their men think that they're in charge, and the men don't realize that they're doing exactly what their women want them to do.”

             
It took Ansel a moment to work his way through that. Perhaps the alcohol had addled his brain as well as loosened the Highlander's tongue. “Clairwyn is not using me.”

             
Sayer shook his head pityingly. “Did you never wonder why she chose you as her consort?”

             
“Of course I have.”

             
“And what did you conclude, my prince?”

             
“I haven't come up with any good reason for her to pick me,” he had to admit.

             
Sayer snorted. “And you won't see it. Until it's too late.” He stared into the fire, considering. “Or, of course, she tells you why she did it. And I bet that you're not going to like what you hear.”

             
Ansel didn't like what he was hearing now. The stars said he had about an hour before the sun rose. Too early to rouse the men, perhaps, but not too early to stoke the fires and get their spartan breakfast going.