The Queen's Consort (12 page)

             
Ansel rolled his eyes on the outside this time.

             
Maribeth gave him a chilly smile, then turned back to Clairwyn. “Applications to the Universities are up, too, my Queen. We take the best students for our programs, regardless of their ability to pay.” She raised her voice a little. “Male or female, of course.”

             
“Of course.” He let the sarcasm drip from his voice.

             
“In fact,” Maribeth said smugly, “Fifty-five percent of the top scoring students on the entry exams are women.”

             
Ansel resisted the urge to smack the smugness off her face. “Were all the questions about childbearing and kissing boo-boos?” he sneered.

             
“My prince,” Clairwyn interjected, struggling to hide a smile, “perhaps we could let Maribeth continue.”

             
“Or perhaps we could toss her in the moat,” he muttered. But he schooled his features. “Of course, my Queen,” he said more clearly.

             
“Very good. Maribeth?”

             
Maribeth took a deep, calming breath and focused on Clairwyn. Ansel let his thoughts drift. In Courchevel, noble boys were well-trained for war but otherwise had a very indifferent education. He'd fought beside knights who were barely literate, and most girls couldn't read or write at all. The thought of teaching a girl math or science was ludicrous.

             
He almost scoffed at the notion of universal education, but then caught himself. His mind whirled at the possibilities presented by an educated work force. Not merely brute labor but able to calculate and plan.... No wonder Vandau was thriving.

             
And it explained why Beaumont was so determined to conquer it. He wanted to plunder the riches of Vandau, of course, but he also didn't want these revolutionary ideas to spread. Educated serfs would endanger the status quo. And educated women? Ansel shuddered at the idea.

             
While Ansel was lost in his thoughts Clairwyn and Maribeth finished their conversation. Maribeth curtsied and Clairwyn nodded at her. “Keep up the good work,” she said, and moved on.

             
Ansel lingered for a moment. “When were all these changes instituted?” he asked Maribeth.

             
“We've always been a relatively free society, compared to Courchevel,” she said. “But the changes started happening a lot faster when the Queen's father married a Highland girl forty years ago.”

             
“I see.”

             
Maribeth smiled. “Highland women have been equal partners with their men for as long as recorded history.”

             
“True.” But it was also unfortunate and inconvenient. He strode after his own Highland woman.

             
The next table reminded Ansel of a demented scavenger hunt with a pile of green berries, strips of bark, and a stack of dark, rigid fabric. Two men and a woman stood behind the table, obviously eager to present their findings to the Queen. With a sinking feeling, he waited to be amazed.

             
Clairwyn scooped up some berries. “I used to gather these as a girl,” she said with a smile.

             
“Indeed, my Queen,” one of the men said. “Rainberries grow well on the high slopes near Renshaw, home of your mother's family.”

             
Sadness touched her features. 

             
The man saw it and wisely hastened on. He introduced himself and his colleagues but Ansel didn't bother to commit their names to memory.

             
“The Highlanders have long used the juice of these berries to waterproof and fireproof their clothes and tents.”

             
Clairwyn nodded. She knew.

             
Ansel felt his eyes widen. He'd had no idea. Fireproof
and
waterproof? Pretty amazing.

             
The woman lifted a strip of bark. “This tree grows well in the southern marshes,” she said. “We've been farming it for decades because the wood grows fast, straight, and strong.”

             
The man edged forward. Obviously he didn't want a woman to steal the show. Ansel understood how he felt.

             
“The bark is stripped,” the man said quickly, “before the wood is processed. As you can see, it peels away cleanly in long, fibrous strands.”

             
“One of our students was a shepherd's daughter,” the woman cut in, “and she figured out how to weave this bark and linen into this fabric.” She held up a piece about a meter square.

             
“Fascinating.” Clairwyn rubbed the fabric between her fingers. “It feels like very stiff cloth.”

             
“And it works just like cloth, too, only better.” The man again. “While it is a little thicker and heavier than the fabric we once used for tents—”

             
“'Once used'?” Ansel interrupted. “As in, you can make tents out of this stuff?”

             
The man grinned. “That's right, my prince. We figured out how to make tents out of tree bark. And it's far stronger than the fabric we once used.” He clamped the test square upright on the table. “My prince? Your sword?”

             
Ansel pulled out his sword.

             
The woman shouldered the man out of the way. “Of course, regular tent fabric is easily cut by a sword thrust. Prince Ansel, please try to cut this square.”

             
Ansel lunged forward, fully expecting to pierce the fabric. The fabric bowed but didn't split. “Very impressive,” he said, annoyed. “I think that may have blunted my sword tip.”

             
“Now test the edges,” the woman urged. Ansel didn't like to dull a good blade, but he hacked at the exposed edges of the square. He did succeed in making a cut, but the fabric caught the blade and wrenched it out of his hand.

             
He glanced at Clairwyn. She looked as surprised as he felt.

             
“And now, my Queen, a crossbow bolt.”

             
Ansel pulled Clairwyn well out of the line of fire and scowled at the group. “You would lift a crossbow in the presence of the Queen?” He'd wrecked one blade but he still had the other one.

             
They recoiled. “No, sir,” one of the men stuttered. “Of course not. Sir.”

             
“At ease, my prince.” Tristam clapped him on the shoulder. “I've got the crossbow. And I'll shoot anyone who needs it, I promise.”

             
Ansel stayed between the Captain of the Guard and Clairwyn, even when she tried to slip around him.

             
“I count on you, Tristam,” she said.

             
“Very good, my Queen.” Tristam retreated about five paces and loaded the crossbow. He lifted it and fired at the square.

             
He lowered the bow and Ansel let Clairwyn move forward to look at the fabric. The bolt had pierced the fabric. But, again, the fibers had closed around it and stopped the bolt from going all the way through.

             
“Amazing!” Clairwyn examined the fabric.

             
Ansel felt a little queasy.

             
“When we apply the rainberry the fabric becomes practically inflammable and impervious to water, too!”

             
Whoa. That was amazing. Why didn't Courchevel have this stuff?

             
Because we spend our money fighting, not investing in research or our people.
Ansel pushed that traitorous thought away. But it wouldn't stay away. It kept nagging at him. Maybe the way they'd always done things wasn't the best way to do things.

             
Beaumont would never change, but he wouldn't live forever. Ansel's brother would be king someday. But Elric was, if anything, a poorly-made copy of their father. Beaumont was smart and ruthless and selfish; Elric had low cunning and viciousness. No, it wasn't a prescription for change.

             
Ansel ran his hand through his hair. One more table, one more presentation, one more marvel to endure. It couldn't possibly be worse than this miracle fabric.

             
He followed Clairwyn to the third table. “What wonders do you have here?” she asked brightly.

             
They had a very large plant in a pot and a baby goat. Ansel started to relax.

             
Caine gestured grandly. “Ahh, my Queen,” he said, “we have saved the best for last.”

             
“Truly?” She seemed delighted. “Amaze me.”

             
Ansel barely stifled a groan.

             
The man and woman at the table beamed as if they had a secret they couldn't wait to share. “My Queen,” the woman said, “you know that our plant breeding experiments and test gardens have produced marvelous results.”

             
“I've read the reports.”

             
“Of course.” The woman plucked a red fruit from the vine and offered it to Clairwyn. Ansel recognized the fruit from the trays he'd shared with her.

             
Clairwyn took the fruit and nibbled on it. “One of your many successes,” she said.

             
The woman gestured at the viney plant twining across the table. “With your permission, my Queen, we would like to name it the 'Andromeda Vine.'”

             
Clairwyn paused. “Tell me why it deserves such a name,” she finally said, and Ansel exhaled. He hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath.

             
“Yes, my Queen. The flower and fruit are edible, and the leaves and vines are excellent livestock fodder.” The man offered a leaf to the goat, who ate it eagerly.

             
“The vines grow very rapidly and set an impressive quantity of fruit.”

             
Clairwyn shrugged.

             
The woman forged on. “The roots enrich the soil as the plants mature. Our first attempt to grow it on a commercial scale has met with extraordinary success, my Queen. We planted it with summer wheat and the test fields have twice the wheat yields of the control fields.”

             
“This is so?” Clairwyn murmured. She glanced at Caine, who nodded.

             
“I have overseen the experiment myself, my Queen. We have three test fields, outside the walls of Haverton, and the results are consistent.”

             
“Consistently amazing,” the researcher said.

             
“That's astonishing.” Clairwyn still didn't seem convinced.

             
“It is, my Queen. In addition to twice the wheat, there will be a hundred bushels of fruit per acre, as well as the vines and leaves themselves.”

             
Clairwyn examined the vine and the fruit in her hand, still disbelieving.

             
“You have the same skeptical expression as the farmers on the tour, my Queen.” Caine laughed. “We passed out seeds to them and promised to pay them for any losses they suffer next season.”

             
“We are ready to launch this next season?”

             
Ansel's mind whirled. Vandau was going to
double
their wheat harvest next year? He had to get this information to his father somehow.

             
A thought bloomed in his mind. “Wait,” he said. “You're not keeping this for your own fields, Clairwyn? You’re giving this to everyone?”

             
“Of course. Why would I keep it for myself?”

             
“So that you can benefit exclusively from this extraordinary development. You paid for it, after all.”

             
She tilted her head. “The people paid for it,” she said gently, “with the taxes they pay. It belongs to them.”

             
Apparently Clairwyn needed a lecture in leadership from Beaumont. Then again, by the time Beaumont was in a position to lecture her, Clairwyn wouldn't be a leader.

             
She smiled. “No, Ansel. The farmers will go back to their fields with bags of seeds. If everyone is richer then we all will benefit.”

             
Clairwyn turned back to the presenters. “You may name this fruit after my sister. It is a fitting tribute to her.”

             
Ansel still couldn't wrap his mind around all of this. “If your fields produce more, then you will need less farmland,” he argued, “and your farmers will have less work.”