The Queen's Gambit (27 page)

Halting just out of reach, the cloaked man felt his heart pounding.

“Is it done?” the Gantese asked. His voice was a harsh, ruined whisper. “Is it satisfactory?”

“It's done,” the cloaked man replied. His own voice sounded steady and firm, surprising him. He drew in a sharp breath. “The king is dead.”

The Gantese's smile revealed a row of pointed teeth. “Then our
sorcerel
's work has pleased you.”

“Aye . . . and those I represent.”

A filthy hand was extended, and the cloaked man drew out a very heavy purse and surrendered it. He realized he was sweating. Inside, he felt a queer sort of illicit exhilaration. He'd done the forbidden, the unthinkable, and gotten away with it.

Somehow, he kept himself from smiling. “All gold Mandrian dreits, as agreed.”

The Gantese held the purse with both hands and bowed. “And the second payment?”

“You'll get it, when the time comes. Not before!” the cloaked man said sharply.

Without a word, the Gantese withdrew into the darkness. Breathing hard, the cloaked man turned around and hurried up the creaking, swaying steps faster and faster until he reached
the top. He burst through the doorway, then collected himself, realizing he did not want to be thought a coward. Squaring his heavy shoulders, he strolled to the door and put his hand on the latch.

No one stopped him. He let himself out and stood a moment on the filthy little street, drawing in great lungfuls of fetid air. The sewers in this part of town were disgraceful, he thought, wrinkling his nostrils. Something, no doubt an animal such as a rat or a dog, had obviously died close by. He glanced about but did not see a putrid, swollen corpse. Nor did he remember such a ripe stink when he arrived.

Whatever had dragged it forth, the stench drove him away, for who wanted to linger in such horrid squalor?

Pressing a corner of his cloak across his nose and mouth, Lervan hurried back the way he'd come.

It poured rain the day of Verence's funeral. Across the city, cathedral bells tolled his death knell. The procession wound through the streets while people knelt and wept for the good king who had ruled them so wisely. At the conclusion of the long funeral mass, Pheresa rose to her feet, encumbered by the heavy weight of her gold-embroidered gown, train, and cloak. Wearing a small diadem in her hair and carrying a small, gilded scroll of Writ, she placed her gloved hand on her husband's arm and walked slowly up the aisle while the priests chanted a recessional. As she left, she saw the Countess Lalieux, mistress to the king, heavily veiled and seated in a box pew in the company of her elderly husband. Pheresa's step never faltered, but she reminded herself to issue the lady's dismissal from court on the morrow.

There would be other changes, she thought, but now was not the time to think of them.

In the vestry they halted, waiting there while the great bell finished tolling the years of Verence's life. At last, quiet fell over the church.

The heavy doors were pushed open, letting in a gust of rain-dampened air. Outside it was still pouring. Water gushed from stone drain spouts, streamed down the steps, and swelled into a lake in the stone-paved square, where the royal coach was being maneuvered into place.

Out there, crammed into the square, stood the people of the city—common folk, shopkeepers, servants, and serfs. Soaked to the skin, they waited, grieving for the passing of their king and ready to greet the coming of their new queen.

Pheresa drew a deep breath, preparing herself. At her side, Lervan had been standing with bowed head, apparently praying. Now he lifted his head and shot her a small, private smile.

“I'm glad to see the end of this,” he murmured, his relief evident. “Such an endless stream of bleak duties. Now we can get on with our lives.”

“I thought you were fond of Verence.”

“Aye, my dear. But he is gone. Must we grieve and wear long faces forever? These past few days have tired you too much. Now you can take some much-needed leisure. Perhaps you would like to retire to Aversuel for a month or so.”

“Impossible,” she said.

Inside the nave, the recessional chant ended, and people rose to start filing out. It was time to go. She nodded to a cleric waiting at the door. He gestured to church servants, who went out into the rain and unfurled a canopy of stout cloth to shield her.

While the small pages struggled to take charge of Pheresa's heavy train, Lervan smiled at her with the crooked little quirk of his lips that she loved most of all.

“I'm thinking only of you,” he said. “A change of scenery will do wonders for your health.”

“There is too much to do,” she replied, striving to keep irritation from her voice. “I know your grace means well, but this is no time to be idle.”

“ 'Tis a perfect time. You need the rest. I do not like to see my lady wife looking so thin, pale, and worried.” His hand squeezed hers gently. His eyes held nothing but concern and affection.

Had she not known him to be still enthralled in the clutches of Lady Hedrina, Pheresa might have believed him. As it was, she felt a cold knot of resentment. Did he take her for an utter fool? Withdrawing her hand from his, she started for the doorway. “My duties do not permit me to go.”

“Duties . . . what duties?” he asked. “A round of stuffy meetings, your signature on documents . . . what of it? Is not your greater duty to our child?”

She stopped on the threshold and glared at him. “What mean you by that?”

He smiled at those waiting for them to come out and leaned close to her ear. “We're delaying the proceedings—”

“Speak plainly,” she retorted, taking no step forward. “You imply I am endangering the—”

“You work too hard. I mean no more than that,” he said soothingly. “You are under too much strain. This should be a tender time, a time for us and our family-to-be.”

Hope leaped inside her. Wondering if this meant he was ready to give up his infatuation with Lady Hedrina and return to her, Pheresa almost smiled at him. “Does your grace truly mean that?”

“Of course. I am willing to undertake your onerous duties while you go away for a short time.”

Angry disappointment swept her, and on its heels came alarm. She stared at him, feeling a peculiar coldness drain through her face and body.
Liar,
she thought savagely to herself.
What are you up to?

The answer to that question was obvious. Flooded with resentment, at that moment she felt such fury she wanted to strike him. Instead, she stood there, making everyone wait, while she battled to master her emotions.

“My dear, do not take me amiss. I—”

She would not look at him. “I think I understand your grace perfectly.”

“My dear—”

She walked away from him, out into the driving rain. The servants struggled to keep her dry with the canopy that was popping and jerking in the wind. Overhead, the bells began a
joyous ringing in her honor, and the palace guardsmen standing clustered at the foot of the steps lifted their swords in salute.

“Long live the queen!” they shouted.

A cheer went up from the people in the square. Pheresa lifted her hand to them, and Lervan did the same. He was smiling again, she noticed, obviously enjoying the adulation and attention. Tall, splendidly dressed, and hale, he grinned at her as though they hadn't just quarreled.

“They cheer you well, my dear. The people love you.”

She waved again to the crowd and allowed Sir Talmor to assist her into the coach. Lervan climbed in with her, shaking droplets of water from his cap and dabbing his face with his velvet sleeve. She sat facing him, wondering if he realized he had just plunged a dagger of suspicion and despair into her heart. Clearly he remained besotted with his mistress, and now he was trying to persuade Pheresa to leave Savroix so that he could bring Hedrina to the palace.

I must never trust him again,
she told herself sadly, and the coach rolled forward.

That night, Lervan returned to the palace just minutes before the huge gates were closed. He had dined in state with Pheresa before making his excuses and slipping away to Hedrina's charming little house to sup again. She had transformed the place into a bower of sensuality, where every pleasure was offered. Her wine was Saelutian, of the finest quality. Her boudoir was swathed with hangings of diaphanous silk gauze, muting the lamplight into a golden shimmer of soft radiance. Thick carpets covered the floor, and the settee where he lounged was draped with a magnificent lyng fur imported from Nether.

Hedrina, her thick black hair unbound and spilling down her back, met his arrival with lips glistened with honey to make her mouth taste sweet. She wore only a silk robe of the same intense blue as her eyes, and when she pressed herself
to him in a kiss of greeting, he could feel her naked, lush body beneath the thin cloth.

It had been a pity to leave early. He hated going. Every time he left her, it was as though he carried an ache inside him. She fascinated him as no other woman ever had. He thought of her constantly, dreamed of her, yearned to bring her here to the palace, where she belonged, where they could be together as much as they wished. He thought of Hedrina's honeyed mouth, her lush breasts, the silken perfection of her skin. Even now he could smell her perfume on him, and he longed to go back to her.

“May I take your grace's horse?”

The gruff voice of a stableboy brought Lervan's thoughts back to the present. He dismounted, tossing the reins to the boy, and strode inside the chapel wing of the palace. Sir Maltric followed grimly on his heels. Waves of silent disapproval flowed from the old protector. Lervan ignored him. Long ago he had discovered that he would never satisfy or please the man's rigid standards, nor need he try. Pleasing himself was what mattered, and Lervan had become a master at it.

Admitted at once to Cardinal Theloi's apartments, he tossed his cap aside, bowed to the cardinal, and kissed his ring before taking a chair and thrusting out his long legs with a sigh.

“Thod's teeth, but what a day,” he said, and perked up as a servant brought wine. He admired the cardinal's cellar, which was almost as good as Lady Hedrina's.

Theloi, his narrow face looking weary at this late hour, sat in a massive carved chair and watched Lervan with glittering green eyes.

“Was your grace's evening a pleasant one?”

“Indeed, yes,” Lervan said with satisfaction. “Has your eminence ever eaten spiced grapes? What a delicacy of—”

“I did not make this appointment with your grace to discuss food,” Theloi said coldly. “Have you approached the queen yet about withdrawing to Aversuel?”

“Aye. She won't agree to it.”

A little silence stretched between them, while Theloi's eyes grew even colder. “Does your grace care to go on?”

Lervan drained his cup with a smack of his lips and leaned back in his chair. He was growing sleepy now. A long day of ceremony and ritual at the funeral, a fine supper, a great deal of exercise in Hedrina's bed, and a generous quantity of wine was enough to tire out the best of men. He hoped Theloi was not going to make this a long, tiresome discussion.

“I put it to the queen that she looked tired and ill, that she needed rest, and that she should think of the child she carries.”

“Exactly the approach I suggested,” Theloi said with a nod of approval. “Go on.”

“None of it swayed her. Damne, the woman is astonishingly stubborn. How she can look so soft and womanly and be as hard-hearted and clutch-fisted as a usurer is beyond me. She will not retire to Aversuel to have the baby. She will not allow me to lighten her burden by taking on any of her royal duties. She will not increase my allowance, saying we must keep the coffers full in case of war. She will not agree to receive Lady Hedrina at court. In short, your eminence, she is impossible!”

Theloi leaned forward. “Did you suggest taking on her duties?”

“Aye, of course I did.”

“That was foolish.”

“Foolish or not, it seems a reasonable suggestion. Why shouldn't I share the throne? Am I not kingly material? I am no less highborn, of no less renowned lineage than she. Am I to stand behind her like a lackey all my life, bowing and scraping to her?”

“Your grace had best curb such annoyance and exercise patience,” Theloi said in warning.

“So you have told me before. I
have
been patient with her, but I do not like the way she speaks to me now, or looks at me. I am not her lapdog, and I will not be forced to attend her constantly, as she seems to wish.”

“You are her majesty's consort. To serve her is your duty.”

Lervan frowned. “I was promised more, and we both know it.”

“It will take time.”

“Aye, so you keep saying. But when is she to understand how much she owes me? Were it not for me, she would still be waiting for that throne she loves so much. Waiting years for a robust king to age and linger.”

Theloi shot to his feet. “Quiet! Has your grace lost all wit and sense? Say nothing of that, not even here.”

Lervan glanced around. The room was empty. Even Sir Maltric stood outside the door, which was too thick for their voices to be overheard. Shrugging, Lervan toyed with his empty wine cup. “Where can it be safely discussed, if not here?”

“It must not be mentioned, ever,” Theloi said with a gesture.

Lervan frowned. “Then it becomes buried in secrecy and time, lost eventually from memory, forgotten, and denied. I will not accept that, not between us. I carried the bribe to those—”

“Hush!”

“And you supplied the gold. We are guilty together, and we are yoked together,” Lervan said fiercely. “Thanks to you, I have committed treason with an enemy I never thought I could accept as ally. Thanks to you, I have risked my life. You promised me a share of the throne for that, eminence.”

“And you will get it. But it takes time. The queen is nervous and unsure at present, imagining plots and enemies around her. Eventually—”