C. Murphy - The Queen_s Bastard

Belinda, uncaring of her dignity, of her lifetime of trained untouchability, uncaring of anything but the bewildering, consuming ache that rattled her bones and took her breath, gathered her skirts, dipped a clumsy curtsey, and fled.

5 December 1587 Lutetia “That’s her. That’s the witch who did Lord Gregori to death.” The girl standing in Sandalia’s private chambers might be pretty, did hate not so contort her features. She is young, perhaps nineteen, with blond hair so thick and heavy she could be dangled from it. Her hands are clenched in her skirts, making wrinkles of plain working fabric, and she’s terribly afraid of her surroundings. “I don’t care that she’s all tarted up and dressed as a lady. That’s Rosa.”

She speaks Khazarian, a tongue that Sandalia has only in smatterings. Sandalia looks to her translator, who repeats the girl’s words back in Gallic. Sandalia nods slowly, and doesn’t laugh: the wretched creature is using hate to push away fear, and Sandalia is not one inclined to believe accusations of witchcraft from the frightened. “Why do you think she’s a witch?” She lets the translator do her work and keeps her focus on the girl whose face tightens with rage and, unless Sandalia is greatly mistaken, envy.

“Lord Gregori was strong and fit, my lady. A fever came on him too fast to be natural, not in the summer. Winter’s the time for sicknesses like that. It came on him when she came-”

Sandalia lifts a hand as the translator speaks, and the girl breaks off. “When-Rosa-arrived in Gregori’s household? That was when he became ill?”

The servant curls her lip reluctantly. “No, not till she went to his bed.”

Sandalia once more refuses a smile, and nods for the girl to continue. “She went at him without stopping for three days, and on the fourth he was dead. Then she ran, like the craven devil’s creature that she is. Why would she run, if she hadn’t done him to death?”

Sandalia knows enough not to argue that question with the girl, either. Instead, she murmurs, “Why, indeed,” which is translated to the serving girl’s obvious delight. “You’re certain it’s the same woman,” Sandalia says one final time, and the girl tosses her head with a sniff.

“Sure as the sky is blue.” There’s such a sparkle of laughter in the translator’s voice that Sandalia suspects the servant said something far more crude, and that diplomacy has won out over accuracy.

“Thank you, Ilana. We shall-”

“Ilyana.” The girl doesn’t seem to realise she’s correcting a queen, and Sandalia’s elevated eyebrow has no effect. After a moment she amends herself, mostly because there’s no sense in antagonizing the unpleasant young woman, and goes on: “Ilyana. We shall call on you again when we require your testimony, and in the interim you’ll be expected to remain within the walls of the cottage we have provided for you.”

Ilyana doesn’t understand enough to know she’s being placed under arrest. Her expression lights up as the translation is made, and she ducks a curtsey. The cottage is no doubt a far finer home than she’s ever known, and as a guest, involuntary or not, of a queen, she will be waited on as if she were the lady and not the servant. It will be a rude shock to her to return to the life she once had, if she’s lucky enough to be allowed to do so. She’s allowed to go to the door unescorted, and beyond it, two guards, one Khazarian and one Gallic, will bring her to Sandalia’s cottage. Only when the girl is gone does Sandalia turn to the translator, eyebrow lifted again in curiosity.

“Do you believe her, Lady Akilina?”

Akilina stands with animal grace, lithe even beneath the weight of petticoats. She wears a shade of coppery gold that should look terrible on her, but somehow enhances the angles of her beauty. “I believe she’s a nasty little girl who wanted Gregori’s bed for herself, but she’s as certain as my guardsman that Your Majesty’s Beatrice and their Rosa are one and the same. Viktor,” and the heaviness of a Khazarian accent weights the name, though her Gallic is usually exquisite, “tells me that Rosa wore a blade beneath her chemise, under her corsets. A small knife.” She holds up a hand, giving the knife its length in demonstration. “Your Majesty could ask Javier…”

“No.” Sandalia’s reply is slow, thoughtful. “Better to see where his heart lies in the heat of the moment, I think. We’ll discover the blade in another way. How,” she adds absently, “did you get that little wretch here so quickly? It’s a month’s journey to Khazan even in summer.”

“Viktor told me about her when he told me he was certain Beatrice and Rosa were the same woman. I sent a pigeon,” Akilina says carelessly, “and the journey is a month if you travel in comfort. It can be made more quickly if you truly desire it to be done.” She shrugs, coquettish thing, and throws a smile toward Sandalia. “And Ilyana’s comfort wasn’t my concern.” Her smile fades, leaving her features beautiful but sharp; this is a woman honed to a blade, Sandalia thinks. “Did anyone come to you asking for Gregori’s death?”

Sandalia finds caution stirring in her belly, cool and slow, at the question. She knows Akilina was Gregori’s lover-that much gossip has spread to Gallic ears, especially with Akilina leading this Khazarian envoy into Lutetia. “Did you believe his death to be unnatural?” she asks slowly, not avoiding the question, but feeling it relevant. Akilina shakes her head in the negative and Sandalia nods, unsurprised. “No one that I know of asked Gallin for a Khazarian count’s death. I’ll ask my men,” she says, meaning her spies and assassins, and Akilina nods her understanding as Sandalia finishes, “but I think I might have been told, if we were to play that particular sort of diplomacy. You knew him,” she says delicately, playing on a different kind of diplomacy. “Who might have wanted him dead?”

Akilina laughs, not the sound of genuine cheer Sandalia’s come to expect from her, but a bitter thing, edged. “Haven’t you heard the stories about Baba Yaga, Your Majesty? Almost anyone would point to me first. Akilina Pankejeff, the witch who eats lives. But Gregori’s death would only have served me if he’d married me first, and he was no more likely to do that than marry the imperatrix.”

She jerks her eyes to Sandalia’s as the words come down heavily between them, their portent unexpected and undeniable. Astonishment curls one corner of Sandalia’s mouth. “Irina?”

“Widowed this past decade,” Akilina gives back, thinking it out as she speaks. “Only a girl for an heir, but the child is strong and intelligent. Irina is as canny as Your Majesty or the Titian Bitch; she wouldn’t have a suitor murdered unless…”

“Unless he thought he could pressure her into taking his hand,” Sandalia murmurs. “Which he would only do…”

“If she had a secret.” Sandalia speaks the final words as certainty; as only a woman with secrets of her own could do. She is a queen, and to speak so is not indiscreet; all men, and all women, too, have secret things hidden in their hearts. Akilina’s gaze is forthright and almost sympathetic to that truth, and for a moment they are not queen and countess, but simply women standing against the tide of a world made by men, struggling with more difficulties because of their gender than even the men who try to tear them down could know. “Can you learn it?”

“Does it matter?” Akilina is aware, as Ilyana was not, when she takes a stance contrary to a regent’s, but she doesn’t back down from it. “Gregori’s dead and Irina’s secrets are a thousand miles away, but Beatrice Irvine’s are here, under ou-Your Majesty’s nose. Set me on her, your majesty, and we may find the answers to the Khazarian questions as well.”