hree days after my midnight run-in with the king, the queen and her attendants received an invitation to go hawking with him.
The queen’s hand shook with relief as she wondered how on earth she was to breach the wall that had sprung up between them.
Dressed in scarlet and gold and green, our gay party mills eagerly in the courtyard. The horses stamp their feet, impatient to be on their way, their breath visible in the early morning air. I search among the crowd for the regent, but unless she has altered her appearance significantly, I do not see her. Not even when the horn is blown and we all mount up.
As I settle myself in my saddle, Beast approaches. “My lady, I do not think your girth strap is tight enough.”
“If you would be so kind as to tighten it, sir, I would be most appreciative.”
He comes closer and takes the leather strap in his hands. “What are you looking for?” he asks under his breath.
“The regent,” I mutter. “It makes me uneasy when I can’t see her.”
My saddle now secure enough to satisfy him, he flashes me a grin. “She isn’t coming. I heard the king tell the grooms when they were readying the horses.”
“Well, that is most welcome news. Although now I find myself wondering why.” What trap is she setting for us back at the palace? What new humiliation is she plotting for the queen? And other innocents. I have not been able to get the image of her sitting with my sisters out of my head.
* * *
While the others may be hunting for pheasant, I will be hunting for a mole. Three possibilities remain, two of whom are on today’s hunt. Symone has caught my eye due to the jewelry she wears. Her heavy gold cuff reminds me very much of my own garrote bracelet. Furthermore, she sports two rings, one on each hand, with stones large enough to conceal a hidden compartment. While nearly all of the ladies have fine jewelry, none wear any similar to this.
But she seldom leaves the others’ sides, and today may present a chance to speak with her alone.
The other attendant I have my hopes set on is Perrette. She is more athletic than the others and appears indifferent to the queen, which would be a good way to keep her true intentions hidden. She is also, I note as we ride, an excellent horsewoman.
The huntsman leads us through the woods surrounding the castle, and I give myself over to the pleasure of being out of doors with a hawk on my arm. It has been over a year since I have gone hawking, and along with hunting, it has always been my favorite sport.
When we reach the designated spot, the beaters move forward into the bush, thrashing their sticks and making noise. It does not take long. There is a deafening flapping of wings as a bevy of pheasant take flight. I release my hawk, admiring her as she soars into the air. She picks a target, and plummets back to the ground, intent on her prey.
But another hawk gets there first, Perrette’s. My falcon screeches in protest, but Perrette’s hawk hunkers over the pheasant, spreading its wings wide to defend its catch.
I whistle, but the frustrated hawk ignores me and climbs back into the sky. She circles once, twice, then a third time before something catches her notice and she plummets toward the ground again. Merde. Has Father Effram trained this bird? Keeping my eye on the spot where she disappeared into the trees, I steer my horse in that direction.
As my mount picks his way through the underbrush toward the stream, I spy my hawk on the bank, squatting over her prey and hissing at something.
Except, her prey is not a pheasant flushed from the underbrush, but a deer with its stomach lying open. Gored by a boar, perhaps. The overwhelming scent of it must have attracted my hawk. But when I am closer, I see it is no ragged gouge, but a clean slice to the creature’s belly.
A man did this. And not a poacher. If a poacher had been stupid enough to enter the king’s forest, he would not leave his prize behind. A chill breeze scuttles along my neck. I reach for the small crossbow concealed by my skirts.
That is when I feel a heartbeat somewhere behind me. I whistle once more to the hawk, but it is feasting and ignores me. Using my knees to guide the horse, I slowly turn it toward the direction of the heartbeat.
I cannot see anyone through the thick trees, but I can feel them, and the beating of their heart is growing louder as they draw near. Something deep inside me screams Trap! even as my mind insists I have interrupted a sloppy poacher before he could remove himself and his prey.
“I know you are there.” My voice is calm, conversational even, as if I am coaxing a lover who is playing hide-and-seek.
“Do you, now?” The voice that rumbles back is deep and carries a faint note of challenge.
“I do. And since I have found you out, I think it only fair you show yourself. Is that not how these games work?”
“Indeed, it is, my lady.” He steps out from behind a tree, and my worst suspicions solidify. He is dressed in good-quality riding leathers, a boiled leather tabard, and a fine cloak. His chain mail is black, as are his thick leather gauntlets. His woolen cloak is pulled low, shadowing his face. No peasant, then. While he bears no visible weapon except the long knife at his waist, he comes bearing the scent and feel of death. I tighten my grip on the concealed crossbow, slowly bring it up, and aim it directly at him.
“Is that, too, part of this game, my lady?”
“I know not. You are the one who has set the game in motion.”
He is not marqued, of course. It is only long years of habit that has me checking.
That is not true. I check because I am an eternal fool, hoping against hope that Mortain will still be able to reveal his will to me.
“It is not some game, my lady, merely a man beset by misfortune. My horse went lame, and I have become lost looking for the king’s palace at Plessis. Can you point me the way?”
“Is that why you gutted the deer? You were trying to divine the way to the king’s palace with its entrails?”
“A man grows hungry, my lady.”
“And yet I smell no cook fire.”
“I was out gathering wood when you arrived.”
“And yet your hands are empty.” I keep my voice light and teasing, but my hawk, having filled herself on the deer, has turned her attention to the tense undercurrent between the man and me. She shifts on her feet and spreads open her wings, letting out a screech. I tilt my head and smile. “My hawk does not like you.”
I should kill him. I should do it now and be done with it.
But some small part of me wishes to be absolutely certain before I release my bolt. Besides, a bolt will scream murder, and possibly lead to too many questions. There is a subtler way to achieve the same end. Keeping my eye and my aim firmly on the stranger, I slowly dismount so that I am standing on the ground, facing him. I give a sharp whistle, and the hawk launches herself to land neatly on my arm.