Greg Keyes - The Born Queen

“Truth?” Roger asked mildly.

“I have done what I thought best. What the saints wished of me.”

“So you have,” Roger replied. “And that clearly is neither here nor there as concerns the truth.” “Then you have come to, to…” His eyes were watery, and he was trembling.

Roger rolled his eyes. “I don’t care about you, or this poor bastard’s wife, or whether every person you’ve hanged was innocent. The fact that you’re an ignorant butcher is the reason I’m here, but not for any of the reasons you fear.”

“Then why, for pity’s sake?”

“Wait, and I promise you will see.”

A bell later, his promise was kept.

They came from the south, as Harriot reckoned. There were around half a hundred of them, most in the dark orange tabards of the Royal Light Horse, riding boldly out of the forest and up to the gates of the castle. As they drew nearer, he saw that ten of them wore the full lord’s plate of knights. There was a single unarmored fellow appareled in the Vitellian manner, complete with broad-brimmed hat. Next to him was the most singular of the riders, a slight figure in a breastplate, with short red hair. At first he thought the person a page or squire, but then, to his delight, he realized who it actually was. I was right, he thought, trying not to feel smug.

“It appears Queen Anne herself has come to pay you a visit,” he told the sacritor.

“Heresy,” the sacritor muttered. “There is no Queen Anne.”

“The Comven crowned her,” Harriot pointed out.

“The Church does not recognize her authority,” Praecum countered.

“I’ll enjoy hearing you tell her that,” Harriot replied. “You and your fifteen men.”

“Up there,” a clear feminine voice shouted. “Is one of you the sacritor of this attish?”

“I am,” Praecum replied.

From his vantage, Harriot couldn’t make out much about her features, but even so he felt a wintry chill, and her eyes seemed somehow dark.

“M—Majesty,” the sacritor said. “If you wait but a moment, I can offer you the humble hospitality of my poor attish.”

“No,” the woman replied. “Wait where you are. Send someone down to show us the way up.”

Praecum nodded nervously at one of his men, then began rubbing his hands nervously.

“That was a quick change of mind,” Harriot observed.

“As you said, we’re outnumbered.”

“Not if the saints are on our side,” Harriot replied.

“Do you mock me?”

“Not at all.”

The sacritor shook his head. “What can she want here?”

“You haven’t heard about Plinse, Nurthwys, and Saeham?”

“Towns in Newland. What about them?”

“You’ve really no better ear for news than that?”

“I have been quite occupied here, sir.”

“So it appears.”

“What do you mean?”

Harriot heard clattering on the stairs.

“I think you’ll find out in a moment,” he remarked. “Here they come.”

Harriot had never met Anne Dare, but he knew quite a bit about her. She was seventeen, the youngest daughter of the late William II. Reports by Praefec Hespero and others described her as selfish and willful, intelligent but uninterested in using her intelligence, least of all for politics, for which she had no inclination whatsoever. She had vanished from sight around a year earlier, only to turn up at the Coven Saint Dare, where she was being trained in the arts of the Dark Lady.

Now it seemed she took a great deal of interest in politics. Perhaps it was the slaughter of her sisters and father that had spurred it, or the numerous attempts on her own life. Perhaps it was something the sisters of Saint Cer had done to her.

Whatever the case, this was not the girl he had read about.

He hadn’t expected freckles, although he knew she was fair-skinned and red-haired, and those things usually went together. Her nose was large and arched enough that if it were a bit bigger, one might call it a beak, but somehow it fit pleasantly below her sea-green eyes, and though she wasn’t classically beautiful like her mother, there was an appeal about her.

She focused her gaze on Praecum. She didn’t say anything, but the young man at her side placed his hand on the hilt of his rapier.

“Her Majesty, Anne I of Crotheny,” he said.

Praecum hesitated, then went down on his knee, followed by his men. Harriot followed suit.

“Rise,” Anne said. Her gaze wandered over the tortured souls on the rooftop.

“Release these people,” she said. “See that they are treated for their sufferings.”

Several of her men broke away from her group and began to do that.

“Majesty—”

“Sacritor,” Anne said. “These people are my subjects. Mine. My subjects are not detained, tortured, or murdered without my consent. I do not remember you asking my consent.”

“Majesty, my instructions come from z’Irbina and the Fratrex Prismo, as you must know.”

“Z’Irbina is in Vitellio,” she replied. “This is Hornladh, in the Empire of Crotheny, and I am its empress.” “Surely, Majesty, the holy Church is above temporal rulers.”

“Not in Crotheny,” she said. “Not according to my father, not according to me.”

The sacritor lowered his head. “I am a servant of the Church, Majesty.”

“That’s immaterial to me. You are accused of torture, murder, and treason. We will try you tomorrow.” “As you tried the sacritors of Plinse, Nurthwys, and Saeham?”

Her gaze switched to him, and he felt another, deeper chill. There was still something of a girl in there, but there was something else, too, something very dangerous.

“Who are you?” she demanded.

“Sir Roger Harriot,” he replied. “Knight of the Church, in service to His Grace Supernnirus Abullo.” “I see. Sent by z’Irbina to aid in this butchery?”

“No, Majesty,” he replied. “That’s not my business here.”

“What is your business, then?”

“I and forty-nine other knights of the Church were called to aid His Majesty Robert in keeping the peace.”

“Yes,” Anne said. “I remember now. We were wondering what happened to you.”

“We got word that things had changed in Eslen.”

“And so they did,” Anne replied. “The usurper is fled, and I have taken the throne my father meant me to have.” She smiled thinly. “Did you think you would be unwelcome?”

“That occurred to my liege,” Harriot admitted.

“Have your companions returned to z’Irbina, then?”

“No, Majesty. We have been waiting.”

“For what?”

“For you.”

Her eyebrows lifted, but she didn’t say anything.

“You’re an unusual queen,” Harriot went on. “You personally led the invasion of Eslen castle. Since taking the crown, you have managed a number of these visits to interfere with the resacaratum. We thought that given your pattern, our friend Praecum here would eventually prove irresistible.” “Well, you were right about that,” Anne said. “So this was all a trap, then.”

“Yes, Majesty. And now you are surrounded. I urge you to surrender to my custody, and I promise you will not be harmed.”

“Not until I’ve been convicted of shinecraft, you mean?”

“That I cannot speak to.”

Praecum had regained a little color. “You were serious, Sir Harriot! The saints are with us. Forty-nine knights—”

“Each with a guard of ten, all mounted,” Harriot finished.

“That makes…” Praecum’s lips moved silently. “Five hundred.”

“Yes,” Harriot replied.

Anne smiled. “How convenient that I brought two thousand, then.”

Harriot felt his heart all but stop in his chest.

“Majesty?”

“This was indeed a trap, Sir Harriot,” she said. Something tightened around her eyes, and then she reached forward so that the heel of her hand came against his forehead.