The Queen's Consort (4 page)

Four

             
The next four days passed slowly but in relative comfort. The prisoners were kept under heavy, watchful security but were fed soldier's rations and slept on camp cots. For a dungeon it wasn't half-bad. Weak woman. This was obviously
her
doing. If Ansel had her
in his power, things would have been very different indeed.

             
“I've been on worse campaigns,” one of his men noted cheerfully.

             
All of his men were cheerful. They were sure that he would win his duel with Goddard, and they even dared hope for a future for themselves.

             
The Queen is soft
, they whispered, echoing Ansel's thoughts.
She won't send us to the gallows.

             
Ansel let them hope. It didn't hurt and it made the waiting more bearable.

*****

              Ansel watched from the small, barred window in their cell as the day of his duel dawned fair and bright. Around him his men blinked and yawned, then urged each other to wake.

             
“After you win, m'lord,” Cordy said cheekily, “the Queen will grant you a boon.”

             
“Yes.” A young soldier leered. “And after
that
, you can plead our case with her.”

             
Ansel rolled his eyes and sighed. Perhaps it was not too late to rule this bunch with an iron fist.

             
Cordy scratched himself. “I wouldn't mind a dozen years breaking rock in the mountains,” he said. “I've heard that, after their sentences, the Queen gives each man a small patch to farm.”

             
“Land of his own?” the old sergeant mocked. “Get your head outta the clouds, boy.”

             
Ansel turned. He'd never imagined that any of his warriors would wish for anything beyond the next campaign, the next battle, the next fight. But the boy's face was wistful.

             
Ansel sat down next to him. “You'd trade your sword for a plow, would you?”

             
The boy flushed. “My father was a serf to Lord Durnham.”

             
“Ahh.” That explained a great deal. Durnham was a cruel master and his serfs were treated little better than slaves. By his birth the boy would have been bound to the land—and his lord—for life. Joining the military had been his only escape.

             
“A little piece of land of my own would be heaven,” Cordy muttered to the floor. “I could have a family. Children, even.” He looked up, his eyes fierce. “And they'd be freeborn, too. Not serfs like me.”

             
Ansel nodded slowly, thoughtfully. In his country nobility owned the land and, for all practical purposes, owned the men and women who worked that land. In Vandau farmers owned their own land and worked it for their own benefit. Ansel had grown up believing that Vandau's land was simply more fertile than his own, and that was why they produced more crops and supported a healthier population.

             
Perhaps, though, the whip was less motivating than working for yourself and your family.

             
Ansel had never questioned the status quo before. It was a little unsettling now.

             
“Prince Ansel.” The voice at the door was not deferential but it wasn't mocking, either. “You're to prepare for your battle.”

             
Framed in the doorway was a gray-haired man-at-arms, slightly grizzled but still strong and upright. He glanced around the cell and sighed, obviously put-upon. “The Queen, in her wisdom and generosity—” he made it sound as if this might not be a good thing “—has decided that your men may watch from the stands.”

             
Ansel's men exchanged delighted smiles.

             
“I’m Roger,” the man-at-arms continued. “Come with me, sir, if you please.”

             
The order was pleasantly spoken but was still an order. Ansel left his men and followed Roger through the castle to a preparatory chamber. Ansel walked through one door, surveyed the stark room, and eyed the door on the far wall.

             
“Aye, sir,” Roger nodded. “That door does lead to the arena. But just look at what we have for you here.”

             
Ansel looked. Laid out before him was a suit of armor in black and silver. He'd never seen anything so magnificent. He ran his hands over it, admiring the craftmanship.

             
Roger helped him strap each piece in place. The suit fit Ansel so well that it might have been made for him. He immediately banished the thought as ridiculous. A suit like this would have taken weeks, or even months, to build. And yet he wondered—

             
Roger lifted the breastplate and buckled it into place. Over Ansel's heart and emblazoned on the matching shield was the Queen's coat-of-arms, a raven with an arrow clutched in its talons.

             
“I fight for her?” he asked, bemused.

             
The man-at-arms shrugged. “Your life belongs to her. You fight and die for her.” He adjusted a buckle, then stepped back, satisfied. “We all do.”

             
Ansel stared at him.

             
“That surcoat, sir, is as green as your eyes.”

             
Ansel's eyes widened further.

             
“'Tis a good color for you. As I'm sure the Queen knows.” Roger grinned. “And wait until you see this.” With a bow and a flourish, he offered Ansel a bejewelled scabbard. “Your sword, my prince.”

             
Ansel grasped the hilt and unsheathed the blade. The finely tempered steel caught the light and carved it into prisms that danced over the walls. He sliced the air, admiring the balance and beauty of the weapon.

             
The armor, the sword—they were gifts worthy of a king. Ansel had never hoped to have anything so regal.

             
Roger swept a velvet cape around Ansel's shoulders and fastened it with a silver pin. “The Queen's mark,” he said approvingly, tapping the raven on the pin.

             
“It suits her.”

             
“It does. And it suits you, sir.”

             
What the hell?

             
On the far side of the wall a bell sounded. “That's our signal,” Roger said, hastening to the door. “Now don't you go ruining that armor and surcoat with dents and punctures and blood,” he warned.

             
Ansel's brow shot up but he nodded in acknowledgement. “I shall do my utmost,” he replied. “It would be a shame to mar this suit.”

             
“It would indeed.” Roger chuckled and followed him through the door.

             
Ansel strode into the arena. The perfect accessory for this suit of armor would be a stallion. Preferably black—

             
A steel-gray warhorse waited for him. Ansel admired the stallion. The Queen was from the Highlands, and the Highlanders were known for their discriminating taste in horseflesh. The gray was as magnificent, in his own way, as the suit of armor.

             
Ansel grinned. “Since we fight for the Queen,” he said to the horse, “I shall name you ‘Renshaw’ for her home.”

             
“Very good, sir,” Roger said. He looked pleased.

             
Ansel climbed the mounting block. Roger held his stirrup as he swung into the saddle and gathered the reins. He turned the destrier toward the center or the arena.

             
Goddard rode forward to meet him. The noble's armor and horse were impressive, Ansel noted, but not as impressive as what he now possessed.

             
They met at the center and paused, nodding for the crowd. The gray pinned back his ears and slashed his teeth toward Goddard's chestnut. Ansel shared his horse's animosity, but smiled for the watching crowd. “Bastard pretender,” he greeted Goddard.

             
“Child killer,” Goddard replied. “You're brave enough when you're facing a defenseless girl. How will you fare when you face a man?”

             
“Don't flatter yourself.” Ansel heeled his gray toward the Queen's box. “Andromeda put up a better fight than you will.” He bowed to the Queen.

             
“Watch out for the odd crossbow bolt.” Goddard smiled grimly. “Never know when one could mistake its mark. Just ask Andromeda.” His smile broadened as Ansel's eyes darted toward the stands.

             
Damn.
The space between Ansel's shoulder blades itched. Even if it was an empty threat, it was enough to distract him.

             
Until he saw the Queen. She wore a long, appropriately modest gown of green velvet that emphasized the curve of her breasts and hips. Her hair had been swept up off her heart-shaped face and draped around her cheeks. She looked beautiful and feminine and utterly appealing.

             
She didn't seem happy to see him but she didn't seem unhappy, either. A surge of possessiveness lanced through him. Pleased or not, she belonged to him.

             
Her Guard surrounded the Queen but other men occupied her box, too. Ansel recognized Caine as well as other Vandau nobles. By their dress some of the men were Highland rogues, probably kin to the Queen. Some of the others were undoubtedly emissaries from the borders and outlands.

             
War was brewing between Vandau and Courchevel and these ambassadors were here to decide which side they would bet on.

             
The Queen gestured stood and the alert crowd fell quiet. “Prince Ansel,” she said, her voice carrying, “you stand accused and convicted of causing the death of the Princess Andromeda. You are sentenced to combat with the Duke of Answorth.”

             
The crowd shifted and muttered.

             
She ignored them. “You will battle until one of you is unable to continue, or until fifteen minutes have passed.”

             
“Not to the death, my Queen?” Ansel taunted her.
Weak woman.

             
Her jaw set and her eyes seemed to silver. He blinked and saw that her eyes were as dark as ever. A trick of the light, perhaps.

             
“No, my prince,” she said. “I will be most displeased if either of you die today. To that end—” she gestured and one of her Guard moved forward “—the arena is secure, is it not?”

             
The Guard nodded. “We confiscated two crossbows and a bunch of knives, my Queen. There will be no assassinations today.”

             
She arched a brow and fresh anger lanced through him. If she'd stayed with him he would have protected her and sheltered her from such concerns. She shouldn't have to worry about assassins.

             
Goddard shifted next to him and Ansel remembered the Duke's not-so-subtle threat. Perhaps she worried about
him.
He immediately dismissed the thought. Then again, she’d said that she would be “most displeased” if he died today.

             
Or perhaps she was worried about Goddard. Ansel mulled this unpleasant possibility as she dismissed the fighters to the lists. Renshaw trotted to Roger and the man-at-arms handed a jousting lance to Ansel.

             
Well, whether she was displeased or not, it would hardly be his fault if poor, dear Goddard got a lance through the heart on this pass.

             
Cheered, Ansel braced his lance and lifted his shield. The destrier's muscular body shifted and bunched beneath him. Ansel gloried in the horse's strength. His mount was as eager for the fight as he was himself.

             
The Queen lifted a green scarf, held it aloft for a moment, then released it.

             
As the slip of fabric fluttered toward the ground Ansel raked his spurs along Renshaw's flanks. The horse leaped forward as if launched from a canon, thundering forward with deadly intent. Ansel offered up thanks to the Highlanders for the gorgeous horse and to the unknown trainer who had taught it so well.

             
He leveled his lance and lifted his shield as Goddard raced toward him. At the last second Goddard's horse shied slightly away—either from a touch of the reins or because Renshaw was just as eager to attack as his rider—and both lances struck breastplates instead of shields.