“It’s not forever,” he said, and turned to go.
Not forever. Just until she learned to rely on her council. And on Francesca in particular. Francesca ran her tongue across her teeth and sipped a cup of unsweetened May wine. Poisoning the queen, even nonlethally, was a very dangerous game. And she was relying on soft-hearted Gilbert Lermont to play so much of it. With one hand, Francesca held the queen’s gift down, as if underwater. And with the other, she aroused unrest and directed it toward the queen, by stoking Sonia Beaulin’s warrior jealousy and whispering about the excessive costs associated with the construction of the castle. But still Elsabet did not turn to her as head of council. Still, that designation stayed vacant. And Francesca was running out of hands.
Just as that thought crossed her mind, a new set of hands slipped around her waist from behind. She smiled as the king-consort nibbled on her earlobe.
“Here you are, my beauty,” he said. “What did that milksop want?”
“Never mind him.” She turned in his arms and kissed him. “But it was a good thing you were not seen. You should return to the Volroy soon, before she sends out riders to search for you.” Not that those riders would ever think to look at the Arron house, but she did not wish to press her luck. The king-consort had been spending more and more nights and afternoons. Too many. And even after long hours in her bed, he never seemed to want to leave.
“If I were free, I would never return to her,” William said, his eyes bitter and faraway. “Not to a woman who had the gall to shame me before the court. Who put me on bended knee and forced me to beg and wheedle my way back into her bed! As if that were anywhere I wanted to be.”
The loyalist in Francesca winced at the coldness of his words. He should not speak so of the queen. Not even a queen so foolish as this one. But outwardly, she smiled and touched his face.
“You should not seek to anger her. We need your charms to brighten the court.”
“My charms are what anger her in the first place. I am to give no girl the slightest bit of attention or Elsabet will breathe fire. That is over now, in any case. If I have you in my bed, I have no need of any others.”
“No.” Francesca gently but firmly slipped out of his grasp and stood, her back to him. “You have an even greater need of others. You must spread your attentions like you never have before, in order to keep all suspicion from falling onto us.”
“Of course.”
Francesca smiled. The king-consort was Elsabet’s weakest point. Let him flirt right under her nose. Let him drive her mad with it. He could be the distraction Francesca sought, and with the queen focused on keeping her husband in one place, she would be far too busy to interfere with Black Council business.
THE FESTIVAL OF MIDSUMMER
Queen Elsabet presided over the Midsummer festivities from a high seat in the courtyard. It was her one concession to the Black Council, to keep up and away from the raucous, celebrating crowds, but even though it had been only one, she wished she had fought harder. She did not want to be seen so high, so aloof. She wanted to mix with her subjects in times of peace.
“Wake up!”
Both Elsabet and Bess startled at Rosamund’s voice. She was barking at one of the queensguard stationed just behind them.
“I was awake, Commander,” the soldier said, and the sound they heard next was Rosamund cuffing the girl on the back of the head.
“Not awake enough. Rotate out if you can’t be alert. On today of all days, when the queen is surrounded by strangers.” Teeth bared and grinding, Rosamund stepped into view, and Elsabet and Bess startled for a new reason. Her head of queensguard had gold and silver ribbons braided into her hair.
“Rosamund!” Bess exclaimed. “You look lovely!”
“Thank you!” Rosamund preened as her mood quickly shifted. “Though never as lovely as you, Bess.”
Bess laughed, equally beautiful in a dress of deep green. Sometimes Elsabet thought she should find some new, less beautiful friends. Standing beside Bess and Rosamund constantly was certainly not doing her any favors.
“You must have your eye on someone this Midsummer.” Bess scanned the crowd for anyone who might be watching Rosamund with particular interest, but nearly everyone was. Rosamund was never without admirers. “Is it serious this time? Could it be a husband? Or a blade-woman?”
“I won’t settle until my service to the queen has ended. I can’t imagine looking after these soft soldiers and my own little ones besides.” She sighed. “Though I do sometimes yearn for soft little fingers curling round my own. And for the pain of childbirth!”
Elsabet laughed. “Only the war-gifted.”
“I wish I were war-gifted,” said Bess, “so I wouldn’t fear it so.”
Rosamund chuckled and half turned to the soldier she had admonished for dozing. “Did you think I was in jest? Rotate out! And keep yourself off my detail for the rest of the month.”
“Yes, Commander.”
Elsabet gave the girl a sympathetic smile as she bowed and watched her tromp sadly down the steps. “You know they would favor you more if you tried a softer touch, Rosamund.”
“They would. And also if I bribed them with luxuries, like Sonia Beaulin. Beaulin thinks it a popularity contest, but I don’t need to win their favor. These are your private queensguard. They are no mere army soldier; they are the best of the best! I expect so, and I will treat them accordingly.”
“Even on a festival day, when I am in no danger?”
“To a queensguard soldier there is always danger. And as for festivals, I keep careful accounting of service. That girl served this Midsummer so she will not have to serve again next year, nor ever for two high festivals in a row.” Rosamund straightened. “I am not unreasonable. And I don’t appreciate your questions before the soldiers.”
Bess’s eyes widened, but Elsabet only laughed. “A queen may question what she will. But I am sorry, my friend. I should have known better.”
She turned her attention back to the celebration, where the naturalists in attendance had begun to assemble their portion of the feast—the finest portion: gift-caught fish and a lovely roasted boar surrounded by apples so bright they appeared to be polished. Gilbert was directing which dishes would come to her in which order, his arms waving.
But the queen’s gaze did not linger on Gilbert for long. She was looking for someone.
Bess leaned in close. “Who are you searching for?” It could not be the king-consort. He had not left her sight line all day, after entering ceremoniously on her arm and promptly leaving her seemingly to court every pretty girl in attendance. The sight of him filled Elsabet with rage and shame. So she had resolved to ignore him.
“I am looking for someone I invited.”
“Personally?” asked Rosamund.
“The painter. Jonathan Denton.” But she did not see him. Perhaps he had only been polite when he had accepted her invitation. Perhaps she had frightened him away. Honestly, she did not know why she cared. She cleared her throat and glanced at her friends to see if they had noticed. But instead, both Bess and Rosamund were scowling down at the crowd.
“What’s the matter?”
Bess blinked and forced a smile. “Don’t think on it, Elsabet. No doubt he is just . . . in his cups.”
Elsabet looked into the crowd. It did not take her long to find him. William. He had one arm around a pretty blond girl and his other around a brown-haired beauty, his fingers pulling the shoulder of her gown nearly down to her breast. In his cups, indeed. It was early evening; he had probably had eight glasses of festival wine and none of it adequately watered. Whatever the excuse, there he was: laughing, kissing their necks, and gifting them the rings off his fingers.
“Everyone can see this, can hear this,” Elsabet murmured as her cheeks grew hot.
“I could send a blade,” Rosamund said, taking a swallow of wine against her own vow of festival sobriety. “Just to nick him.”