The Queen's Gambit (13 page)

Lervan shrugged. “Lord cardinal, I am a young man, and young men must have their pleasures.”

“It is necessary that you win the hand of Lady Pheresa du Lindier,” Theloi said sharply.

“Oh?” Lervan asked in quick interest. “Isn't she the one who—”

“Yes.”

“Has she any beauty?”

“Yes.”

Lervan smiled, his good humor restored. “Then that's very well. With the greatest delight, I shall woo her daily, if that's what you wish.”

Theloi sighed and stroked his gray goatee a moment with a thin hand. “You do not seem to understand, my lord.”

Lervan's smile widened. “Do not understand what, lord cardinal? The lady was betrothed to Prince Gavril, my cousin. I suppose that makes her a cousin of mine also.”

Father Fornel cleared his throat. “Actually, no,” he began pedantically. “The relation exists on the other side of the—”

“That will do,” Theloi said sharply, and Fornel fell silent.

“And because she would have been the bride of the next king, and because she's the niece of the present king, she's Princess of the Realm, is she not? And that is why I should win her hand, especially since I'm to be the next Heir to the Realm.”

Theloi was staring at him as though uncertain of what he saw. Lervan sent him a wide grin.

“It's very simple, isn't it, lord cardinal? Beneath all the intrigue and politics, things usually are.”

“Nothing is simple,” Theloi snapped. “The lady is your greatest rival for the throne.”

“What?” Lervan laughed. “Impossible!”

Sir Maltric bent close to Lervan's ear. “A female can inherit the throne and rule in her own right, my lord.”

Lervan twisted his head to gaze up at his protector. “I know, but really! It's so absurd. How could she lead men to war?”

“Her marechals would serve for her.”

Lervan laughed again and shook his head.

“Pay heed,” Theloi said coldly. “If you are to be advised by me, you had better learn not to argue.”

Lervan forced himself to sober. “Forgive me, lord cardinal. I confess, I had not considered the lady as a claimant.”

“She is, and a very determined one,” Theloi said grimly. “She has thus far evaded my attempts to remove her from court. She has the king's favor, and she is highly popular with the people. I have hoped that her popularity would fade, but since her return to court she is cheered whenever she rides in public or visits the town.”

“But if we are to be rivals,” Lervan asked, beginning to feel puzzled, “of what merit is my wooing her? Should I not be better served in charming his majesty?”

“You will naturally bring yourself to his majesty's notice,” Theloi said with exaggerated patience. “But we must think of all contingencies. If you fail—”

“Lervan de Waite does not fail!”

Theloi glared at him with those predatory eyes. “If you fail,” he said coldly, “marriage to Lady Pheresa will bring you
as close to the throne as is possible. And if you succeed in being named the king's heir, he will no doubt be pleased to see you wed to her. Either way, she is to be a key player in your strategy.”

Lervan slapped his knees and rose to his feet. “Well, then, I must get started on my assignments without delay. Who will introduce me to the lady, that my conquest may begin?”

“I warn you, my lord,” Theloi said in a voice that forced Lervan to pay attention. “You may feel as though it is your right to charm and flirt with all the ladies at court, and their maidservants besides, but you will refrain. You are to concentrate your charming wiles on Lady Pheresa alone.”

Lervan frowned. “But I—”

“She alone. The lady is intelligent and sensitive. She has high morals and will not abase herself with a known ruffian and libertine. Take care you do not botch this.”

“She sounds like a spinster with a squint,” Lervan replied. “Those with high morals usually are the plain ones.”

An ominous silence fell over the room. Catching Sir Maltric giving him a warning shake of the head, Lervan realized that perhaps his remark had been offensive. Any nobleman would have laughed at his joke, but these church officials had no sense of humor.

He bowed at once to the cardinal. “I beg your eminence's pardon if I spoke too freely.”

“Your tongue will be your undoing,” Theloi told him. “Take care, my lord! This is a serious matter. A great deal of effort and preparation has already been expended on your behalf. But it can be undone in minutes if you blunder.”

Feeling chastened, Lervan endured a few more minutes of instruction and admonition before he was finally allowed to depart. He left the cardinal with a surge of relief, glad to escape.

“Great Thod, Maltric,” he said, easing a finger between his neck and the edge of his tunic as they walked back down the corridor. “I feel like I'm a schoolboy again, with lectures heaped on my head from all sides.”

“Too much is at stake, my lord,” Maltric replied.

“I know. I know. But must we all be so serious and glum about it? I thought court was a place to make merry, to dance and sing and drink and love.” He grinned. “Still, unless the lady has a face like a daub and wattle fence, it can't be too unpleasant, eh?”

Maltric's expression did not alter as he walked at Lervan's side. “I have no doubt that your lordship will enjoy himself very much.”

Ahead, Lervan had spied a pair of ladies in pretty gowns and ringlets. Pleased by their curtsies as he walked past, he stared boldly at them, enjoying their blushes and quick glances. When his gaze met the blonde one's, he winked, and she giggled behind her hand.

Smiling, Lervan walked on, then pulled a dreadful face in response to Maltric's frown. “Don't scold,” he said. “Am I not even to look at all that's offered to me?”

“I believe the cardinal would say no, my lord.”

Lervan sighed. “Then Thod help me, but I hope I fall in love with Lady Pheresa at first sight. Otherwise, I'm doomed to offend someone.”

Maltric stopped in his tracks and glared fiercely at his lord and master. “What ails you?” he whispered furiously. “Do you not see what's at stake? Do you not realize how close you are to having this entire realm placed in your hand? This is no time for joking, and no time to be a fool.”

“I am no fool! Never call me that again.”

“Then stop acting like—”

“Speak to me this way once more, Maltric, and I'll strip you of rank and knighthood,” Lervan said angrily. He saw his protector change color and leaned forward. “I am no longer a boy, to be scolded this way. If anyone forgets himself today, 'tis you!”

Sir Maltric's face was wooden. “My lord,” he said gruffly, “I beg your pardon. It's only that I don't want you to lose the greatest opportunity of your life.”

“I shan't lose,” Lervan said. “If I see the lady and love her, then she will be the light and radiance of my eye. If I hate her,
she'll never know it. But rule this land, I shall. That, I swear to you.”

“You can't swear something like that,” Maltric whispered, his eyes full of loyalty and ambition. “You don't know how this will turn out.”

“Ah, but I do,” Lervan said, his temper restored. “It was foretold to me.”

“Foretold!” Maltric echoed in astonishment. “By whom? And when?”

Lervan laughed and walked on, but he did not answer.

Sir Talmor shifted his aching hipbones on the hard bench outside Chancellor Salba's door and swallowed a sigh. He'd been waiting here for hours for his audience. When he'd ridden in yesterday, announcing that he brought urgent news from Durl Hold, he'd been permitted to report to an unnamed officer of the palace guards, who then told him to present himself to Lord Chancellor Salba first thing this morning. It was midday now, judging by the angle of the sun glimpsed through a narrow window and the rumbling hole in his belly. He'd eaten no breakfast, too nervous to swallow the hunk of crumbling bread and dried-up cheese remaining in Pears's saddlebag. Now it looked as though he could kick his heels here all day, starving and stiff from inactivity.

Thod's bones, but he'd never seen such a place as Savroix. The palace rambled in all directions, vast and beautiful to look at, chaotic and as busy as an anthill. Someone was always hurrying. Little pages wearing splendid livery ran here and there. Officials strode past. Courtiers lounged everywhere in groups, chattering and gossiping. The palace guards
stationed at Lord Salba's door were relieved, and as Talmor watched the procedure he wondered if he'd still be here when the next shift came on duty.

Well, he was rapidly losing patience. Today there was to be a jousting practice. He'd hoped to attend and bring himself to the notice of some baron or chevard who might hire him.

A corner of his mind felt intense shame at being obliged to sell himself as a hire-lance. It meant starting over from bottom. After all his hard work and efforts to succeed at Durl, he did not enjoy finding himself beggared, with naught in either purse or belly, and a look of worry in his eyes that could not always be hidden. With the exorbitant prices the inns in the town charged for a tiny, partitioned-off mousehole fitted with a chipped basin for washing and a mattress of bug-infested rusks atop a wood-and-rope frame—never mind the high cost of horse fodder—he, Pears, and Lutel were camping in a ditch like vagrants.

“Sir Talmor!”

The young clerk bawled out his name, and Talmor jumped to his feet. Someone in the room snickered, and Talmor felt the edges of his ears grow hot. He strode forward as a knight should, however, and ignored the stares boring into his back from those not yet called.

“You are Sir Talmor?”

“Aye.”

“The chancellor will see you now.”

Nervously, Talmor followed the clerk through the tall door. To his surprise, a hallway lay on the other side of it. The clerk pointed, and Talmor walked forward alone.

At the opposite end stood another door, firmly closed, and another bench. No one was in sight to issue instructions. Talmor frowned, disliking not knowing the correct protocol, and hesitated only a moment. Giving his tunic and cloak a final twitch to be sure he looked his best, he straightened his shoulders and rapped on the door.

At a faint sound from within, he stepped inside a square chamber of spacious proportions. A large window admitted
light and fresh air. At a large desk, two men were conferring over a sheaf of papers and maps.

Talmor walked halfway to the desk, stopped, and drew himself to attention. “Sir Talmor of Durl, my lord, reporting as sent for.”

The discussion stopped in midsentence, and both men stared at him.

The chancellor was clearly the elder of the two, square of shoulder and heavyset, his beard streaked ginger blond, his brown eyes impatient beneath jutting brows. His tunic was pleated in tiny folds that made the silk shimmer, and he wore an important gold chain across his chest with the seal of his office dangling from it.

Now, he snapped the pen he was holding between his fingers and flung the pieces away. “Damne! Who the blazes are you? Who in Thod's name let you in here? How dare you interrupt?”

“Forgive me, Lord Salba,” Talmor said with outward calm while inside his heart sank. He had erred, and at this court mistakes were not readily forgiven. “I am Sir Talmor. I was told to report here this morning.”

“No one told you to burst in. Wait your turn, sir. Wait your turn!”

His gruffness reminded Talmor of Lord Pace. Shoving aside a pang of remembrance, Talmor drew on long years of experience with the irascible chevard and remained unruffled. “ 'Tis my turn, lord chancellor,” he said quietly.

Salba blinked, turned red, and opened his mouth, but the other man standing beside him laughed unexpectedly.

“Well said, sir!” he applauded.

Salba turned on him. “Well said?” he repeated incredulously. “Kedrien, are you mad? He bursts in like an upland peasant, not even applauded, and you compliment these ruffian manners?”

“He's assertive and confident,” Sir Kedrien replied. “He knows he's erred, but he's not groveling or cringing. What have you to say for yourself, Sir Talmor?”

Talmor faced him, seeing a stocky man of medium height
with a rugged face tanned from much time spent outdoors. He wore a rust-colored tunic beneath the distinctive green cloak of the palace guards, and the insignia of chevron stripes on the front of his tunic proclaimed his high rank.

Talmor bowed to him, not sure how to reply to the officer's ambiguous question. “Durl Hold is destroyed and its chevard dead, due to an attack from Vvordsman boat raiders. I—”

“You've already given that report,” Sir Kedrien broke in crisply. “Chancellor Salba has received official dispatches from Durl, saying that the attack was devastating but not disastrous. Repairs are under way to strength the defenses, and Lord Pace is expected to recover from his wounds.”

Talmor frowned. “The official report is untrue.”

“Bosh!” Lord Salba said with a growl, glaring at Talmor. He leaned forward, thumping his desk with a forefinger for emphasis. “I have Lord Pace's seal on the letter. You lack any credentials. Why should I listen to you?”

“Anyone can use a seal,” Talmor replied. “Does the handwriting match that of Lord Pace's previous reports?”

Sir Kedrien raised his brows, but Lord Salba's scowl deepened. “You ran away at first sight of the raiders and hope to cover your cowardice by reporting unfounded news.”

Stiffening, Talmor set his jaw, and said quietly, “No, my lord. 'Tis not the way of it.”

“And you insist on your tale, insist on it, despite an official report?” Salba asked.

Talmor met his brown eyes without flinching. “Aye, my lord. I was in the midst of the fighting. This”—he pointed to the gash, still healing, on his forehead—“came about when Lord Pace's hoard of saltpeter blew up part of the defense wall. I was knocked unconscious and had I not appeared dead, I would have been taken captive, along with many other knights, by these barbarians.”

“Hah! So you played dead to save yourself.”

Heat built up in Talmor's face. He struggled to hold his temper and glared at the chancellor. “No, my lord. I did not.”

“How many taken captive?” Sir Kedrien demanded.

Talmor told him, including numbers of knights and villagers.

“How much of the hold was destroyed?”

“Much of it was burned, sir, and the damage to the wall makes it indefensible without extensive repairs. That, coupled with the gap in the seawall, means the force garrisoned there must use the old fortress atop the cliffs for the time being.” Talmor frowned. “Especially since it's likely the raiders will return for more plunder.”

“You were Lord Pace's adjutant,” Sir Kedrien said. His eyes were alert and neutral, his voice stern.

Talmor faced him at attention. “Aye, sir.”

“With the chevard gravely wounded—”

“He is dead, sir.”

The officer frowned, and Talmor warned himself not to interrupt again.

“With the chevard gravely wounded,” Sir Kedrien asked, “why did you not take command, as is your duty? Why have you come to Savroix?”

“The chevard is dead, sir,” Talmor said firmly. “I was wounded in head and side. By the time I regained my feet, the fortress commander had taken charge. He and Lady Alda are in league, to conceal the chevard's death until the strongroom is cleared of its gold.”

Chancellor Salba slammed a freckled hand on his desk. “What! Do you know what you are saying, sir knight?”

“I do, my lord. And I—I believe that when the gold is secured elsewhere, it will be reported that Lord Pace has died of his injuries and that the raiders have plundered his treasury.”

“And this is how you serve the lady wife of a valiant chevard, a man you pledged your honor and loyalty to,” Salba said in disgust. “Do you realize the force of these charges?”

Sir Kedrien frowned also. “Do you understand the penalty for false accusations?”

“Aye,” Talmor said. “But my accusations are not false.”

His heart was thudding in his chest. He would rather face a small horde of barbarian invaders than the prospect of being imprisoned and hanged for falsely accusing his superiors, but
he'd known the risk the moment he set forth for Savroix. Riding all that way, telling himself over and over during the journey that he must do his duty, was one thing. Standing here facing ruin now was quite another.

His mouth felt dry as dust. He swallowed hard and forced himself to say, “I came to report treason, my lord. Had I stayed and taken orders, I would have been an accomplice to this scheme to rob the crown. My liege oath was made to Lord Pace, and his death broke that commitment. Until I find a new position, I am sworn only to the king. That is why I came here.”

Silence fell over the room. Talmor stood stiffly, feeling sure his life was in the hands of these two men. The doubt in their frowning faces caused his courage to waver. Suddenly it seemed hard to breathe. What madness had he embarked on, he, an illegitimate son of a minor lord and a Saelutian enchantress; he, a landless knight, a hire-lance with nothing to his name but his weapons, armor, and immense ambition. Who would believe him? Why should they?

“And you stand by your report?” Sir Kedrien asked at last. “You swear to it, and will sign your name to it?”

“I do.” Talmor swallowed. “And I will.”

Salba scowled at him. “You cause a great deal of trouble for yourself, sir. Why not go away and hold your tongue? I can forget this conversation. Take hire at some hold far from here and be grateful for my mercy.”

Talmor said nothing.

“Would you rather face prison?” Sir Kedrien asked. “Lady Alda can accuse you in retaliation, you know. Have you family and friends to support you if you're tried?”

Talmor thought of his father, whom he would neither name nor send for. “There's no one to help me, sir.”

“Then you'd better think hard about this before you go further,” Salba said gruffly. “Very hard.”

How easy to accept his mercy and take this chance to flee, Talmor thought. But if he fled Savroix now, he would run forever, shamed by his own cowardice.

He had run away from Durl, to do right. He would not run away from Savroix, to do wrong.

Setting his jaw, Talmor lifted his gaze to theirs. “I do not withdraw my charges. They are true, and I stand by them.”

Salba thrust a parchment at him. “Then sign your accusation of treason, damne!”

Talmor did not think his knees would support him if he stepped forward to take the paper, but they did somehow. He stared at the writing, and for a moment the words blurred and ran together. There was thunder in his ears and from a long distance away, he heard Sir Kedrien say, “Sign at the mark, if you can write.”

Another insult. Talmor looked up sharply, some of his fear forgotten. “I am educated, sir.”

“Then sign the paper, damne!” Salba said impatiently. “Don't fondle the parchment all day.”

“If I may read what it says, my lord?”

Salba snorted, but Talmor read it from start to finish, making sure it conveyed the truth, complete and as he had stated matters. Dipping into the inkpot, he crossed out one line and rephrased it, ignoring the chancellor's squawk of protest. Then he signed his name with a styling that would have made his old tutor proud, finishing off with a flourish to hide the shakiness in his hand.