The Queen's Consort (3 page)

             
“Don't
you
get any ideas.” A second soldier elbowed the speaker in the ribs. “If you let him go over the side you'd better make sure that you hit the water first. The Queen wants them alive.”

             
At the mention of the Queen Ansel straightened and looked around. She wouldn't be here, he told himself. He couldn't expect to see her. And yet he craned his neck, hoping for a glimpse of her.

             
She was standing at the rail near the bow of her ship. A tall man stood next to her, his mouth moving. Ansel was too far to hear the words but the Queen didn’t seem to be enjoying the conversation.

             
Ansel studied her. She still wore Highland dress but this lavender gown was cut more modestly and had a full skirt. A thick braid of dark hair fell over her shoulder. The wind caught strands of her hair and whipped it across her ivory skin and full lips.

             
She'd been such a lovely girl, so mischievous and full of life. The woman was beautiful but weighed down by responsibility.

She should have let him take care of her.

              She raised her head and their eyes met. At her side, the man still harangued her. The guards around Ansel still quarreled. But Ansel was drawn to her with a compulsion he didn’t understand.

             
He took a step in her direction. A soldier clubbed him in the stomach, knocking his breath away and doubling him over. When he could finally straighten up, she was gone.

Three

             
The soldiers stopped quarreling and hustled their captives back down to the hold. The cell had been cleaned and had fresh straw, and the prisoners were pushed back inside.

             
A gimlet-eyed Guard arrived. He didn't say anything but he took a position outside the cell. The effect on the soldiers was immediate and their professionalism increased exponentially.

             
Ansel leaned back against the hull. The prisoners were shackled at their wrists and ankles. A dozen watchers, now on full alert, seemed like overkill. The prisoners had no chance of escape.

             
With the Queen so close they were not taking any chances. If he'd been in charge of her security, Ansel reflected, he might have nailed the prisoners to the floor.

             
He stretched his legs out in front of him, glad that a woman was in charge. She would be much easier for him to handle.

*****

              Three days on the open sea made them expert sailors. They felt the difference when the ship sailed into harbor and entered a river. As Ansel had suspected, they were going to Haverton Keep, the capital of Vandau.

             
The town had layers of defenses. The ship was stopped and searched well before the town walls. Perhaps the Queen didn't like sailing, either, because her carriage was rolled out miles away from the city proper.

             
To Ansel's surprise the prisoners were brought out, too, and pushed into a prison wagon. Pros: he could see everything around them. Cons: the assembled hordes could toss rotten fruit and hurl insults at him. The soldier in him ignored the occasional foul shower and grinned in delight.

             
He could see Haverton Keep in the distance. The polished walls of the Queen's seat rose starkly from the rolling hills and fields around it. He studied the towering city with a soldier's eye. There was no shantytown propped against the walls, no way for an invading army to sneak up. No, it was all cleared land. All of the roads led straight to the city, so there was no cover in the low stone walls and ditches that lined those roads.

             
Ansel's attention turned to the walls themselves. It was whispered that no human hand had built the walls of Haverton. Those whispers said that witchcraft had shaped the walls from the bedrock far below their feet. Ansel had scoffed at the whispers but now stared at the marvel before him.

             
The forbidding walls rose straight and smooth, commanding a view for miles in every direction. Although Haverton stood one hundred miles from any quarry, the seamless granite walls soared fifty feet high. Those walls surrounded the large city in a huge, perfect circle.

             
His men gaped at the sight. Cordy sidled up to him. “My lord.” Cordy waved his bound hands. “'Tis true, then? The walls are crafted from unbroken stone?”

             
“It cannot be so.” Ansel's eyes scanned the surface but he couldn't see a joint or a seam. “It must be some trick.”

             
The boy nodded and fell back. Ansel heard the word “witchcraft” muttered behind him. His men were afraid and it irked him. They knew they marched to their deaths; they had been brave enough until now.

             
The procession entered Haverton Keep and wound through the twisting streets of the city. Somber citizens lined the way, heads bowed in grief. The creak of the carriage wheels and the steady beat of the horses’ hooves echoed off the stone walls.

             
Ansel noted the thick wall as he rode through the massive, fortified gate. A wide road circled the inner wall, which appeared as smooth and seamless as the outer wall. Any invading force that breached the outer wall would be funneled into a death trap.

             
The roads within the city were deliberately twisted. If invaders forced the gate they would face a maze of streets, each hung with heavy chains to force the invaders to slow. And each window and roof could shelter defending archers.

             
The procession circled a public fountain. Ansel sighed. No doubt those huge, tiled roofs in the distance covered graineries. Any beseiging army had better come prepared for a long wait. And, of course, the invaders had to be ready to battle on two fronts as reinforcements arrived from the surrounding towns and mountains.

             
Haverton would have to be the last to fall. Invaders had to isolate this fortress, wear down its allies, and decimate the surrounding lands to even have a chance of taking it. Ansel started calculating odds, moving armies, and arranging timelines.

             
Of course, Ansel thought bitterly, cutting off the head of the beast would have been so much better than nipping at its flanks. Killing the Queen would have made taking Vandau easy.

             
The swaying carriage stopped in front of the massive gates of the Queen's castle. Soldiers swarmed the prisoners and shunted them to the side. No front door for them—no, it was down, through layers of security and along dark corridors, to a cold stone room.

             
They were told to strip out of their fouled clothes and bathe. Cordy and some of the younger men grumbled ineffectively. Two baths in a year was a lot for them. Again they were given clean clothes. Not the quality that Ansel would normally wear, of course, but far better than what his lowly footsoldiers generally wore.

             
When the prisoners were presentable the group had their hands bound tightly behind their backs by a Guard. Then they were ushered out the door and up. Up, not down to the dungeons. Were they walking to the gallows? Was the Queen so eager for their heads that she couldn't wait until dawn?

             
At last they reached a large, airy chamber. A tight knot of robed men stood against the wall. Andromeda's coffin was in the center of the room and the Queen, still wearing a simple Highland dress, knelt beside it.

             
A knot of Guard pushed the prisoners in and pressed them to their knees as the Queen rose and turned toward them. Tearmarks tracked her face and her eyes were red from weeping. Ansel barely kept the sneer off his face.
The weakness of woman.

             
“Grief is not weakness, my prince,” she said, and he wondered if she truly was a witch.

             
One of the robed men strode forward. “Enough of this, my Queen,” he said. He must be Jerrod Caine, her chief adviser, to address her so boldly. “You have heard the Guard's testimony,” he continued. “You know what you must do.”

             
“What I must do,” she said slowly, thoughtfully, still watching Ansel.

             
“Are we here for you to pass judgement on us?” Ansel didn't try to keep his contempt out of his voice.

             
“The courage of the condemned,” Caine sneered back, “will not save you.”

             
The Queen raised her hand, cutting off Ansel's retort. “You entered the carriage and tore Andromeda's gown. To what purpose?”

             
Ahh. The silly woman thought he'd lower himself to rape? Ansel bristled at the insult. “It was a vain attempt to help the girl,” he said tightly. “But it was too little, too late.”

             
“A quick death for her, at least.” The Queen's voice was so low that Ansel had to strain to hear her. “What more can any of us hope for?”

             
He agreed, his mind swirling with plans of how best to use the short time he had left.

             
“So,” the Queen said more strongly, “why did you attack Andromeda?”

             
The naked pain in her face made him pause but then, almost against his will, he spoke the truth. “We never meant for the girl to die. We attacked
your
carriage.”

             
“There,” Caine said triumphantly. “He confesses all.
You
, my Queen, were his target!”

             
For the interminable time between one heartbeat and the next, Ansel and the Queen stared at each other. Andromeda's fair beauty was doll-like and faded in comparison to the nobility in the Queen's countenance. Here, Ansel thought grudgingly, was a woman he could respect.

             
A richly attired gentleman stepped into the room. “And,” the fop said, “since Andromeda was promised to me, my Queen, you owe me a bride.”

             
The Queen's gaze snapped up. Ansel scowled at the interruption. From his dress, the interloper was obviously a courier. His puffy sleeves and pointy shoes were not made for a fight, and his highly decorated codpiece made Ansel wince on behalf of his entire gender.

             
“Goddard,” the Queen said icily, her hand on the coffin, “your grief is touching. Andromeda said she loved you and vowed that she would have no other. For that reason alone did I agree to your union with my sister.”

             
Ansel knew that Goddard, Duke of Answich, was a powerful and ambitious man. And, obviously, the bastard wanted Ansel's woman.
Oh, for a sword and a free hand to swing it—

             
“Very well.” Goddard strode toward the prisoners. “Then I claim the aggrieved's privilege, the right to kill the men who murdered my princess.” He reached for his sword.

             
“Stay your hand.” The Queen spoke but her voice sounded strange. She went rigid for a long moment, her eyes staring sightlessly. Ansel's muscles tensed and the room fell silent until, just as abruptly, her body relaxed. Her head fell forward and she leaned on the coffin as if for support.

             
“My Queen?” Goddard stretched his hand toward her.

             
She straightened and glared, and his hand fell away. “You shall have your chance for justice, Goddard.” Her voice was strong. “But not against a bound and helpless foe. In four days' time we will entomb my sister. On that day Prince Ansel will face you in single combat.” 

             
“Ansel—?” Goddard paused, then wiped his surprised face clean of emotion.

             
Ansel grinned. His reputation as a soldier and a warrior was hard-earned and justified. The pompous oaf was right to be afraid.

             
But the pompous oaf recovered quickly. “As you wish, my Queen. I look forward to it.” He glanced at Ansel and smiled, a slight twist of the lips. He bowed from the waist in mock courtesy then straightened, his eyes bold and cunning.

             
Caine spoke again. “We have captured the prince?” he asked eagerly. “The son of King Beaumont of Courchevel?”

             
“Only the younger son.” Ansel shook his head in mock sympathy. “I'm not
quite
the prize my brother is.” Which explained why he'd been sent on a suicide mission. He shoved that thought away. It was unworthy of him. A soldier did as he was ordered. And Ansel was a soldier first, a prince second and, apparently, a son last of all.

             
“Aah.” His face thoughtful, Caine edged closer to the Queen. “Perhaps Ansel and Goddard will kill each other and rid you of two problems at once.” He spoke loudly enough for both men to hear.

             
“Perhaps.” The Queen's eyes seemed to flicker like mirrors as she stared at Ansel, binding him as tightly as the ropes around him. Her eyes seared him and he felt laid bare before her, as if she could see his every thought.

             
She blinked first and turned away. “Go now,” she said, kneeling again by the coffin. “All of you. I wish to be alone.”

             
Ansel watched her for as long as he could as the soldiers lifted him to his feet and half-dragged him away. He saw Goddard, his hand on her shoulder, lean down to whisper in her ear.

             
Four days. Four days to wait. And then Goddard would die hard.