“What kind of message would it send, Your Majesty, were the queen to collapse during dinner?” Ash said in a barely civil tone. “If tongues are wagging now, that would only make matters worse.”
“It’s your job to make sure that doesn’t happen,” Montaigne said.
“Never mind, healer,” the queen said. “The king is right, of course. I need to be there.” She propped up on her elbows and nodded to her ladies, who carried several dresses to the bedside for Marina to choose from.
Ordinarily, when the queen was indisposed, as she often was, Lady Estelle would step in as hostess. The king of Arden saw no reason to keep his mistresses hidden away. But Estelle was dead—killed for the crime of hosting an assassination attempt on the king. Wittingly or unwittingly. Hence the current crisis. The king needed to make show.
“I want my queen by my side at dinner,” the king said. “Why is that so difficult to understand?” He ripped a dress from the hands of one of the queen’s ladies and thrust it into Marina’s face. “Put this on. And drink a measure of rum, if that’s what it takes to put a little color in your cheeks. Our guests are already seated, and I don’t like to give them time to conspire together in my absence.”
The queen sat frozen in her bed, holding the dress up like a shield.
“I told you to get dressed, you stupid slut of Tamron. Are you deaf?”
“Your Majesty, please,” Lady Argincourt, one of the queen’s ladies, murmured, gesturing at the crowd of blackbirds in the room. “If you could give the queen a little privacy?”
“I want to see you downstairs in less than fifteen minutes,” Montaigne said. “Freeman, you will attend the queen in the dining room to handle anything that might arise. And find something other than that bloody healer brown to wear. Having a healer hover over her would also send the wrong message.”
“Of course, Your Majesty,” Ash said.
Signaling to his blackbird guard, the king strode from the room, leaving Ash with two questions: Would he at long last get close enough to the king to do some actual damage? And where could he possibly get hold of dinner clothes in the next fifteen minutes?
When he was sure the king was gone, Ash turned back to the queen. “No rum, Your Grace,” he said. “Not while your liver is still recovering from the poison. I suggest small beer or tea.”
“Tea suits me well, Master Freeman,” the queen said.
“Good,” Ash said. “And, finally—would any of you know where I could find some suitable clothes in a hurry?”
Fifteen minutes later, Ash was shadowing the queen into the state dining room. Somehow, Queen Marina’s ladies had managed to scrounge up some black breeches and a doublet in green velvet and leather that fit—more or less. Happily, he had a fine silver collar to go with.
It had been a long time since he’d worn anything resembling court garb. It felt like he was wearing a costume.
As soon as they crossed the threshold, Ash could tell that something was wrong. The tension in the room was as thick as day-old porridge and the room was lined with more blackbirds than was usual, even these days. The main course had been served, but most of the plates looked to be untouched. The women in the room were staring down at the table as if they hoped they could disappear.
All eyes were fixed on a tall muscular thane with a bristle of gray hair and a black eye patch. He stood at the end of the table nearest the door, surrounded by a handful of men-at-arms. He was the kind of hard-bitten soldier who looked out of place in civilian clothes. Next to him stood a much younger edition of the thane, maybe twelve or thirteen, this one in mudback brown.
As they walked in, the queen seemed to tap some hidden reservoir of strength. Her spine straightened, her chin rose, and she smiled brilliantly when the guests rose to greet her. She walked the length of the room with great dignity and took her place beside the king. Ash followed a few steps behind and stood against the wall behind the royal couple, staring at the barricade of blackbirds between him and the king.
No opportunity there, Ash thought.
Montaigne kissed Queen Marina’s hand, turned to the other guests, and said through gritted teeth, “I know you’ll join with me in toasting Her Majesty’s good health.”
This was met with a murmur of good wishes and a few raised glasses, but it didn’t change the mood in the room. It looked more like a standoff than a dinner party. Marin Karn, for instance, looked like he could chew rocks and spit out gravel.
“Sit down, Lord Matelon, and eat,” the king said. “This is the Saint’s Day. It is not the appropriate time to discuss the state of the war. We will take it up when the Thane Council meets.”
“You have not called a council in months, Your Majesty,” the eye-patched lord said. “Instead, you seize property and treasure from your loyal bannermen to fund this never-ending grudge match.”
A rumble rolled around the table, mingled protest and assent.