“To what end?” Rosamund asked. “To make her unpopular?”
“To undermine her. I do not know, truly, what their aims are. But I fear for the queen’s reputation and the recklessness of those whom I suspect.”
“Out with it, then. Whom do you suspect?”
Catherine’s delicate features pinched together. Her complexion was just a bit too tan to ever show a flush, but had she been only a little lighter, Rosamund was sure her whole face would have appeared bright red. “I am using measured words,” she said, speaking slowly as if Rosamund were hard of understanding, “because I am not sure. But if I am right, then I am also sure that there is no limit to how far these people will go.”
“What people?” Bess leaned forward and grasped Catherine by the hands. When Catherine still hesitated, Rosamund slammed her fist down, rattling the cups.
“What people? Enough games. We came to you. You know we can be trusted.”
Catherine drained her whiskey and set the empty cup aside. “Last night, two of my spies were in the king-consort’s party of an evening.”
Bess’s eyes widened. “Your spies lay with the king-consort?”
“Many of my spies have lain with the king-consort,” Catherine said. “I keep many comely spies.”
“Unimportant,” said Rosamund. “What did they see?”
“They retired with him in an inn, seemingly for the night. Once there, he proceeded to get them more and more intoxicated on ale until they fell asleep. One of them awoke when he crept from the room, and followed him.”
“Where did he go?”
“Not far. Another room. The girl was able to spy inside and able to listen. According to her, what was taking place inside the room was unmistakable.” Catherine paused so the three of them could trade sour expressions. “She waited, hidden, until nearly dawn, when the king-consort and his paramour left. The woman was dressed commonly, but my girl swears that beneath the common serving clothes was none other than Francesca Arron.”
Bess sank back in her chair. “A member of her own Black Council.”
Rosamund sank back as well and ran her hand roughly across her face. “And a foolish member at that. Francesca Arron will lose her head for this and for what? A good-looking boy?”
Bess’s eyes widened. “Rosamund, you don’t think that Elsabet will have her executed?”
“Francesca is a member of her own Black Council, as you said. The queen cannot let it stand.”
“Unless it could be kept secret—quiet—if perhaps Francesca would beg forgiveness and swear to stay away from the king-consort—”
“You are both missing the point!” Catherine Howe pushed away from the table, and every candle flared. “If Francesca Arron is involved, it is not about one good-looking boy! She is only using him to further her own ends!”
“And what would those be?” Bess asked.
“I do not know,” Catherine replied gravely.
“It doesn’t matter.” Rosamund poured whiskey up to the rim of her cup. “Elsabet is the Queen Crowned, and there is nothing Francesca Arron or anyone else can do about that. And whatever her plans may have been, we have found her out. We’ll go to Elsabet. Surround her with loyalists. You and I, Bess and Gilbert. And I will be ready to arrest Francesca as soon as our queen gives the order.”
Catherine looked at Rosamund curiously. “You are Elsabet’s friend. Are you not afraid?”
Rosamund bared her teeth and snorted. “What is there to fear? She’s the queen. It’s not as if they can kill her.”
THE VOLROY
Francesca Arron waited in the shadows of the Volroy until the painter finally emerged from his audience with the queen. It was late, near dusk, and his serene face was lit by candles and torches. It was clear to anyone watching how besotted he was with her. How pleased he was that she was pleased with him. He was so transparent and unguarded. A poisoner ought to have a more natural ability for subterfuge.
“Young master Denton.”
The boy looked up and smiled, a dazzling smile in a mediocre face, beneath hair as dark as soiled straw. “Mistress Arron.”
“I thought that was you,” she said, and stepped out. “I was almost unsure. You have spent so much time at the castle of late that you seem practically a different person. If not for the pigment stains and oils beneath your fingernails, I might have missed you completely.”
Jonathan glanced at his fingers and hid them behind his hip. “Is there something I can do for you, mistress?”
“Perhaps you could escort me to my carriage. It is late, and we are both leaving. . . .”
“Of course.” He bowed and waited for her to walk a half step ahead.
“All this time you are spending with our queen cannot leave you much time for painting.”
“But that is why I’m here. To update the queen on my progress.”
“And what of the night spent in her chamber?” She laughed lightly at the look upon his face. “Word travels quickly.” Francesca squared her shoulders and tossed her light blond braid. Her strides were long when she walked, and he was a bit winded by the time they neared the gates and the waiting carriages. It was a wonder he could keep pace with Elsabet, whose legs and strides were even longer.
“Well then, good evening, Jonathan. I imagine I will be seeing much more of you, now that the queen has decided to keep you as a new pet.”
“A new pet?”
She watched carefully for a flash of malice in his eyes, but she could detect none. So perhaps he was more skilled at concealment than she had given him credit for.
“Of course. Ruling is such a strain upon the queen’s person. She often seeks diversion. I hope you had not thought it something more.”
Jonathan’s smile faltered. “Are you trying to say you would prefer I spent less time here?”
“Not I,” she said. “Were it up to me, Queen Elsabet could take her meals with you in her lap. But some question your suitability as a queen’s companion.”
“Mistress Arron,” he said with surprising vigor, “I am glad to know you’re not among them. No doubt you are happy that Elsabet is keeping company with another of the poisoner gift.” He drew himself up and straightened his shoulders. Francesca stifled a laugh.
“Who are you?” she asked. “A Denton? What great thing has the Denton house ever done for the island? For the poisoners? If you hope to make a place for that name within the capital, your hopes will be dashed.” She stepped close and dragged her fingernail gently along his temple and the side of his jaw. “Arrons sit upon the Black Council. Arrons hold the political favor of the queen. And do not forget it.”
Then she turned, unaffected by the shade of red he turned. Or the way his eyes bulged in impotent fury.
“You speak of it as though it is a permanent appointment,” he said. “But members of the Black Council can be replaced. Perhaps the queen will be moved to have more poisoners in her circle now that she fears the tonic she takes for her health may have been unduly tainted.”
She froze but as always was unshakable. Instead, she stared at the boy, stared and stared until he lost his nerve and turned away, cursing, and she watched him go, ascertaining just what to do with Jonathan Denton. Whether he could be bought. Whether he could be threatened.
INDRID DOWN