The Queen's Consort (24 page)

Twenty-Six

             
Ansel was proud of Falsafe, the home of his mother's family. He'd had to battle several inconvenient cousins in order to claim it but he'd defeated them all. He’d turned the run-down manor and surrounding towns into an oasis in the foothills. His serfs were well-treated, one of his mother's legacies. Melinda had been a stalwart champion of the worker.

             
She'd been soft. Like Clairwyn.

             
At any rate, he'd honored his mother's memories by making sure that his serfs had sturdy homes and sufficient clothing and food, and they had rewarded him with one of the most profitable estates in the kingdom.

             
Now he could ride down from the Starlit Mountains with Clairwyn at his side and take pride in his neat and well-tended fields and orderly rows of houses. His people kept pigs and chickens and small gardens of their own. Some of them even had a cow or a horse.

             
Tristam drew rein at the edge of Ansel's estates. “With your permission,” he said perfunctorily, not really asking permission at all, “the prince and the Guard will secure the manor, my Queen.”

             
Ansel frowned a little at Tristam's high-handedness but couldn't fault the man's reasoning. “Very well,” he said. “The village there is Eastview. My steward lives there. The Queen can dine with him while she waits for us to return.”

             
Clairwyn rolled her eyes.

             
“Or,” he said, leaning across the space between them and lowering his voice, “I can tie you to a chair in his parlor. It's up to you.”

             
“I could use a bite to eat,” she declared.

             
“I thought you might.” He straightened in the saddle. “Look,” he said, indicating a small group on the road before them, “my people come to greet me. Cordy, come forward.”

             
Cordy, holding Ansel's flag, urged his horse alongside Ansel.

             
“Let's go.”

             
Ansel put his heels to his horse and cantered down the road. Unlike some in Courchevel, he'd taken care of his roads. They were another investment that paid for itself.

             
He neared the group on the road and slowed, surprised. His steward was there, as were several retired men-at-arms. But they were all battered and bruised, and the steward's arm was in a splint.

             
Anger surged through Ansel. He swung down from his horse and strode toward them. “What happened here?” he asked harshly.

             
“Greetings, my prince.” Steward bowed awkwardly. “Your brother, Elric, rode through here not two weeks ago. He ah, took a great deal of supplies, including livestock.”

             
“And our sons,” one of the other men said gruffly. “Every last one they could find.”

             
Ansel felt a muscle in his jaw twitch in fury. “And the secret storerooms?”

             
“They didn't find those, sir. And we hid the younger girls, too, sir, so they weren't raped or carried off.”

             
Impotent fury snarled through him. His brother had pillaged his lands as if Ansel was a conquered enemy. They'd never been close, but this was ridiculous.

             
“When I get to Kingsford,” he said, “I will have words with my father the king.”

             
“So long as you deliver them with a sword,” one of the men said. “Your brother’s men beat me, sir, and raped my wife.”

             
Ansel looked at him and saw the raw pain in the man's face. He hadn't been able to protect his woman, and that shamed him. For the first time Ansel could understand the man's anger. If someone hurt Clairwyn….

             
After a moment Ansel realized that Cordy and Tristam were standing just behind him. He cleared his throat. “’Tis well they did not burn the village,” he said.

             
“They plan to return,” Steward said.

             
Of course they did. No doubt Elric had anticipated victory at Moth’s Landing. He’d planned to return for everything his men hadn't killed or destroyed, and then they'd burn whatever was left of Ansel’s villages to the ground.

             
Ansel swung back into the saddle. “Gather all who live and retreat to Falsafe.”

             
“We've done that, sir.”

             
“Steward, the Queen rides behind me. Show her to your home. I shall return shortly.”

             
The walls of Falsafe now protected the battered survivors of Elric's visit. Instead of the joyous homecoming he'd envisioned, Ansel was confronted everywhere with bruised faces and battered survivors. These people depended on him, and he'd let them down.

             
Ansel rode across the cobbled yard and swung down to the ground. A too-young groom—too young to be pressed into Elric's army—caught the reins. “I'll take care of your horse, sir,” the boy said. “Welcome home, sir.”

             
Ansel grunted acknowledgement, then paused and turned back to the boy. “Well met, young man,” he said.

             
The boy flushed with joy at the brief greeting. With shame, Ansel noticed a fading bruise on the boy’s cheek. A gauntleted hand had knocked him aside, possibly as the boy had tried to protect his mother or sister.

             
Things weren’t supposed to work this way.

             
Ansel climbed the stone stairs to the manor's main door, which stood open to welcome its master home. The first thing he noticed was that the place seemed cleaner and smelled better than he remembered. The second thing he noticed was that almost everyone he could see was female, and they all wore fading bruises, bandages, or both.

             
His people lined both sides of the hall and bowed in greeting, waiting for him to start issuing orders. For a moment his voice caught in his throat. These were
his people
and they'd suffered because of their association with him.

             
Instead of striding past them and bellowing orders Ansel walked down the line, greeting each person. He was surprised to find that he could put names to most of the faces; for the past decade he'd spent more time away than he had at home.

             
“This is Tristam, Captain of the Queen's Guard,” he told his people. “The Queen will rest here tonight.”

             
A disconcerted mumble greeted this announcement.

             
He raised his hand. “Do not worry about hospitality. The Guard is here to secure the manor. Help them in any way you can.”

             
Cordy sidled up next to him. “It doesn't look like your people have been eating too well,” he noted.

             
“I know.” Ansel scrubbed his hands over his face. “And it will break their hearts if they can't host the Queen properly. Cordy, ride back to the army. Get enough food and wine for a feast. Let my people save face in front of the Queen.”

             
Cordy grinned. “Yes, sir,” he said.

*****

              Clairwyn was graciousness embodied. It shouldn't have surprised him. He watched, bemused, as she deftly charmed her way right into his people's hearts.

             
She raved about everything and acted as if there was no place else she'd rather be. She loved the food, the grounds, and appreciated the hospitality.

             
“She's so beautiful, sir,” Ansel's housekeeper sighed, “that ye want to hate her. But she's just too nice. Ye gotta love her.”

             
“I know.” He did know. After all, he'd been sent to kill her. Instead, she was going to sleep in his bed tonight.

             
That idea warmed him nicely.

             
His staff had discretely prepared the lady's chamber as well as the master's. He appreciated their sensitivity but had no intention of using a second bed. As soon as he decently could, he ushered her upstairs.

             
He closed the door and surveyed the room. His people had outdone themselves. Fresh linens draped the bed, a fire warmed the grate, fresh candles—probably the last in the manor—stood ready, and a bottle of wine awaited them.

             
Clairwyn strode into the room. Despite all her earlier compliments, she didn’t seem to notice any of the special touches now. “Ansel,” she said, “your steward told me that dozens of young men from your villages were pressed into service.”

             
“I'm sure it's true,” he answered, the words bitter on his tongue. “My brother, Elric, took all the young men he could lay his hands on. His men absconded with food stores and livestock, too.”

             
“Hmm.” She was so easy to read. He wasn't going to have to ask her to help his people.

             
She made up her mind. “Ansel, would you object if I left a few squadrons here to protect your people? And I'll have Sayer send for more supplies to keep them until the harvest.” She looked at him anxiously.

             
“I have no objection. I would not let my pride stand in the way of my peoples' safety and prosperity.”

             
“I knew you wouldn't.” But she still sounded relieved. She looked around the suite, at the massive bed and masculine furniture. “So this is your room?” she asked, her eyes suspiciously wide and innocent.

             
“It is.” He felt the words rumble from his chest.

             
She met his gaze in the mirror. “I don't suppose a mere dancing girl would have stayed in the master's room. She would have slept with the rest of your harem, no doubt.”

             
“No doubt. Unless, of course,
you
were that dancing girl. Then you would have spent every night right here, with me.”

             
“Such an honor,” she teased.

             
“Long delayed. You should have been here years ago.”

             
“I'm here now.” 

             
“Better late than never,” he said, reaching for her. His hands curled around her and rested possessively over her belly. His woman and his children, safe in his home. What more could a man ask for? 

*****

              “Clairwyn,” he asked later, “what is your purpose with this war? Do you want to rule Courchevel?”

             
She shook her head. “I don't want to, but Beaumont has forced my hand. I have to unseat him.”

             
Ansel stroked the curve of her hip. “Beaumont has provoked you into a war he does not believe you can win. His troops are better trained and you are attacking them at home. You have Urmain archers and the Highlanders, but the rest of your army consists of farm boys who barely know how to hold a sword.”

             
“Perhaps they won't have to.” She rested her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes.

             
“The magic that you used at Moth's Crossing can only be used once?”

             
“Yes. But I have other magic. And I'll use it if I have to.”

             
He stayed awake long after she fell asleep. Beaumont's heir, Elric, was probably dead at Moth's Crossing. That made Ansel next in line for the throne.

             
If Clairwyn died her army would fall apart. Beaumont would pick them off easily and pursue the survivors all the way back to Haverton, which would also fall to him. He would remake free Vandau in the image of Courchevel, doing away with many of their freedoms.

             
No more education for women. No more research into increasing food production. Beaumont would strip the country of its men and resources and march onward to oppress and enslave more countries, more people.

             
Ansel felt scraped raw inside. Before he met Clairwyn his duty had always been clear. He'd always known what he had to do and had never worried about his path.

             
Beaumont's goals had been his goals. And he'd never once questioned them.

             
Until he'd been sent to kill this woman, the woman in his arms. He'd certainly been prepared to kill her. Perhaps, once, he could have done it. Before he'd looked into her eyes, before he'd realized that she was everything to him.

             
She might have died by his hand.