The Queen's Gambit (3 page)

“The situation is very clear,” Theloi replied impatiently. “You are to go to Batoine at once and await examination by church counsel. Although Sir Brillon has done his best these past few weeks to see you unsullied by excessive contact with common folk, it is imperative that you now be isolated and kept in purity for—”

“You forget, lord cardinal,” she broke in hastily, “that I am not free to journey elsewhere. There is the funeral.”

Theloi waved this aside. “A mere detail. Your absence can be put down to illness.”

“My responsibility is to be present,” she said firmly. “Gavril was my betrothed, and I must attend him in this final ceremony.”

Theloi frowned. “Do not pretend grief you do not feel, my lady. It has been noted that you avoided the prayer vigils on the journey and would not go near the wagon bearing his highness's coffin.”

Her hands clenched tight at her sides. Desperately she
stared at Theloi and let the hot, bitter tears swell in her eyes. They rolled down her cheeks, and her throat worked against a surge of feelings.

“You understand nothing,” she said, her voice raw with all that she had kept under tight control since leaving Nether. “Nothing! I loved him and then—and then—” She choked and pressed her hands to her lips to hold back the rest. Oh, yes, she thought bitterly. She had loved Gavril until the day he came to visit her as she lay ill and dying in her encasement, when for the first time he dropped his charming mask and ceased to pretend he cared. That day she gazed up into his dark blue eyes, ablaze with his resentment of her, and saw the truth. He wanted her to die and release him from the obligation of trying to rescue her. He prayed for her death, so that he could abandon his quest and go home.

She'd pledged herself to a man who'd never cared for her. And in doing so, she'd turned her back on another who was honest, true, and noble of heart. Faldain had saved her life, not Gavril. Faldain had offered her his heart and hand with simple honesty at the Harvest Ball, and she'd rejected him because she wanted to be queen. She hadn't known then that she could have been queen of Nether instead.

And now, Gavril was dead. She'd sought a second chance with Faldain, offering herself freely to him with all her gratitude and newfound hope. She'd gone to him with all Mandria momentarily in her hands as dowry, and he hadn't wanted her.

What was wrong with her, she wondered bitterly, that no man would love her? Lifting her tear-streaked face, she met Cardinal Theloi's gaze through her blurred one.

“A woman's tears,” he said coldly, “are her most effective weapon.”

“The king will not understand if I am absent,” she whispered. And all the while she was thinking that during the funeral she would have a chance to speak to the king and beg him to keep her at court. He had refused to see her of late, but he had refused to see anyone. At the funeral she would be at his side and she would make her plea then. “Lord cardinal,” she said now, “I was bound to Gavril. I must perform this last
public duty for him, even if you truly mean to cloister me thereafter.”

“Ah, yes, your remarkable sense of duty,” Theloi said thoughtfully. “You have become renowned for it. Despite your tears, I think you love duty more than you ever loved your prince.”

Stung, she opened her mouth to protest, but he gestured for silence.

“Very well,” he said, “attend the funeral. The populace will not be allowed to get close to you. Sir Brillon will stay at your side to ensure you are not soiled by too much proximity with lesser beings.”

She did not like the idea of Sir Brillon's zealous escort, yet even he could not prevent her from conversing with the king during the ceremony. Filled with relief, she barely kept herself from smiling. “Thank you.”

“The funeral will be held tomorrow. It is only a short delay,” Theloi said. “As soon as your duty ends, you will leave for Batoine. That, I promise you.”

Determined never to set foot within the nuncery's walls, Pheresa gave him the slightest possible inclination of her head. “May I now withdraw, lord cardinal? I grow chilled in these damp clothes, and I wish to rest before the rigors of tomorrow.”

Theloi held out his hand to her, but Pheresa could not force herself to kiss his ring as she should have. Annoyance flashed in his eyes as he lowered his hand to his side. At once she knew she had erred in offending him, but she did not care. He had offended her more, she reminded herself, and turned and hurried out with Sir Brillon on her heels.

The young page was still waiting outside in the passageway. Pheresa gave him a stern look, unwilling to forgive his part in Theloi's little trap.
I must be more careful,
she reminded herself.
I must take care not to get separated from others. I must watch my back. I must be vigilant for my own safety, for no one else is.

“My lady?” Sir Brillon said, reaching out to take her arm.

She drew away from him in distaste, angered once again
by his familiarity. “Keep your distance, sir!” she said sharply. “You are no courtier. You will walk behind me, as is fitting for your place.”

Sir Brillon's mouth compressed in a hard line. The scar across his face turned pink, but after a moment he bowed to her and stepped back.

Another enemy made,
Pheresa thought to herself. She did not care. If she did not succeed in obtaining the king's intervention tomorrow, she was doomed anyway.

The state funeral of Prince Gavril of Mandria began at midmorning beneath dark, gloomy skies. No rain fell, but a damp, chilly wind blew as though it meant to bring back winter instead of spring. Crowds lined the streets of Savroix-en-Charva, the men holding their caps, the women wearing black ribbons.

Solemn drumbeats thudded in slow unison, keeping cadence with the funeral march of the palace guards. At the head of the procession walked the banner bearers, carrying the flags of the king, Prince Gavril, and the church. Gavril's pennon was bundled and tied to its pole, while the others flew free. A groom in black livery led a magnificent horse brushed to a glossy sheen, its long mane woven with black ribbons that bounced and streamed out with every proud toss of the animal's head. The stirrups of Gavril's silver-adorned saddle were crossed over the seat, indicating death. Behind the horse, a coffin draped in blue-and-silver cloth was borne on the stalwart shoulders of six church knights.

Pheresa, still betrothed officially to the dead Heir to the
Realm until the close of the ceremonies, walked directly behind the coffin. As custom demanded, she walked barefoot and wore a plain black gown of sackcloth, very itchy and coarse woven. No jewels adorned her. She wore her golden hair uncovered, its glory tamed in a thick plait that hung down her back. She was permitted no cloak, and the unpleasant wind cut through her thin clothing. The stone pavement chilled her feet, which were already bruised from the long walk from the palace into the center of town.

Nothing, this day, was going as planned. She had intended to ride in the king's carriage, swathed in warm, somber furs, her hair confined in a snood, her face veiled from the curious. During the night, she had practiced what she intended to say to his majesty, knowing she must make her plea succinctly, couched in terms of condolence and respect. She knew better than to criticize the church for its plans for her; Verence obviously was in no mood to offend priestly officials while he sought mercy for Gavril's soul. But she wanted the king to understand how close he was to losing her as well as his son.

As yet, she'd had no opportunity to approach his majesty. The ancient service was being used, which meant this lengthy procession, a full mass, and the necessity of Pheresa walking behind the coffin as one symbolically tied to the dead.

In her ungloved hands she carried a naked broadsword by its blade. Its cold metal numbed her fingers, and she had to take great care not to cut herself for it was freshly honed to a sharp edge. It was old-fashioned and heavy, its weight making her arms tremble. She did not know how she could manage to carry it the whole distance, yet she must. Grimly she forced herself to walk erectly, with her usual poise, not stumbling or wincing when pebbles bruised her feet, not letting the heavy sword dip toward the ground. Gavril had never carried this weapon that King Verence gave him when he was invested into knighthood. Gavril had been ungrateful for the traditional gift, wanting a new weapon, not a venerable one.

Pheresa felt grateful she did not have to carry that evil, tainted weapon Gavril had acquired for himself. Tanengard
had driven him mad and consigned him to darkness. Good riddance to it, she thought.

As the procession wound into the city's heart, the crowd grew thicker. Although subdued this day, the noise was constant, with many folk wailing or sobbing at the sight of Gavril's coffin. It had been said that Gavril was unpopular with the common people, but there was no evidence of that now.

And many murmured about Pheresa as she passed them:

“She drank from the Chalice.”

“Never did.”

“Aye! Heard it told from me wife's brother, who went to fight them heathens.”

“Oh, sweet Tomias be praised! Look at her face, her hands. Do you see holy light?”

“She's beautiful.”

“Step forward, Junie, you and your brother both, and look at the good lady with her heart all broke.”

“He died for her. That's the one he died for.”

“They say she found the Chalice herself and tried to redeem the prince with it, but he would not be saved.”

“That's her! Look! Look! The Lady of the Miracle.”

“Ooh! She's clothed ever so plain. Where are her jewels and the fine clothes a princess should wear?”

“Why'd Thod put a miracle on her and not his highness? 'Tain't right.”

“Hush! She'll throw a curse on you. She's the Lady of the Miracle, and you give her respect.”

“My lady! Bless my child that his leg may heal!”

A woman thrust her young boy to the forefront of the crowd and tried to run up to Pheresa, but Sir Brillon was suddenly there, his dagger in his hand as he pushed them back. Others surged toward her, calling out supplications, but the guards dealt with them swiftly.

The procession went on, and Pheresa walked with it, refusing to look back at the sobbing woman, who still called out pleas for mercy.

Tears of pity stung Pheresa's eyes. She wanted to tell that
woman, and all of them, that she was no saint with special powers. It was cruel and impious of the church to spread rumors about her that raised such false hopes in these simple folk. Yet there would be time enough later, she assured herself, when she was safely Verence's heir and beyond the church's reach, to dispel the rumors. Besides, if she failed today to save herself, the rumors about her would not matter.

The procession turned to follow a bend in the street. Ahead, she could see the cathedral spires rising tall to a leaden sky. Behind her rolled the king's carriage. She was not supposed to look back, but she'd seen Verence riding bleak and stone-faced beneath his crown. Listening to the grinding noise of the wheels on the pavement behind her, she told herself there might be a chance to speak to him when he alighted from his conveyance at the cathedral steps.

“My lady,” Sir Brillon said softly, coming up beside her so quietly she did not hear him until he spoke. “Take heart. 'Tis almost over. You'll be gone from here soon.”

She considered his words a threat, not comfort. Feeling the net closing ever tighter about her, she frowned in intense frustration and was tempted to run immediately to the king's side.

That impulse faded in a rush of common sense. No matter how tempting, so foolish an action would only fail. She swallowed hard, concentrating on holding the heavy sword properly, and ignored Sir Brillon.

He said nothing more, much to her relief, and dropped back to her heels. She kept walking, her lips tightening in anger. How she hated him and wished him far away.

She had hated Gavril, too, before it was all over. Hated him for his madness, his arrogant stupidity, and resentment of her. He'd blamed their betrayal by the Netherans, their imprisonment as hostages, and the execution of their armed escort all on her. Conceited and spoiled, Gavril had been unwilling to accept responsibility for his own foolhardy mistakes. Had her fate been left up to him, she'd be damned now, as he was, her soul lost forever and her body a rotting vessel vulnerable to Gantese command.

The horror of it all swept over her anew, driving chills
through her body. She stumbled and nearly sank to her knees. A sigh went up from the crowd. Somehow she righted herself and continued on.

“My lady,” Sir Brillon said anxiously, “allow me the honor of taking the sword.”

“Nay,” she said, striving to keep her fatigue from her voice.

“ 'Tis too heavy for you, and gladly will I carry it in your stead.”

“I will fulfill my duty, sir.”

“Your duty now is to be preserved in chaste sanctity—”

She glared at him. “Get back from me, sir. Gavril's sword is for me to carry, not you.”

Sir Brillon's black eyes bored into her. His gloved hand reached out as though to take the sword despite her command, but Pheresa stepped away from him and walked on. She kept her head high, but her heart was hammering. He had only to seize her and say she was swooning, and the officials would probably let him carry her away without protest.

With all her willpower, she ignored her weary, trembling arms and forced herself to keep going. The procession was entering the square now. She had only a short distance to go.

Sir Brillon kept pace with her. “My lady, I think only of your welfare. The cardinal knew this would be too great a strain—”

She felt as though she were being boiled. He had the manners of a lout and deserved to be treated as one. “You offend me, sir,” she said in a low, furious voice. “You interrupt my prayers. You defile these final moments with my betrothed. Leave me be.”

Sir Brillon's face turned crimson, then white. He said nothing more, to her relief, and fell back a pace. She felt a twinge of guilt for her lie, but only a twinge. If she must play a hypocrite's part in order to get rid of him, then so be it. She did not mourn Gavril. Had he lived, she would never have married him. But today, the dead Gavril served her better than the live one ever had.

The avenue widened into a spacious square that served the
cathedral. Ringed on three sides by stone buildings carved in both plain and ornate architectural styles, the square featured a statue of King Verence's grandfather on horseback, holding an upraised sword. As the funeral procession entered, a flock of plump white padegins rose from the paving stones with a loud flapping of wings and wheeled about in the air. Their soft, cooing cries sounded mournful against the solemn drumbeats.

The bearers of flags and coffin halted at the steps of the great cathedral. The groom leading the beautiful black horse vanished with the animal, his part in the ceremony done. Wishing she, too, could slip away, Pheresa stood where she was supposed to. Her sore feet ached with cold. Her hands felt stiff and cramped from holding the heavy sword so carefully for so long. A splatter or two of rain fell on her head and shoulders. She glanced up, but although the skies had darkened ominously, the rain still held off. The wind felt sharp and cruel, and she shivered in her sackcloth gown. It was as though Gavril's spirit haunted the day, his anger and petulance reaching forth from Beyond.

She shook off such depressing thoughts and watched crimson carpet being swiftly unrolled down the cathedral steps. Church officials in gold-embroidered robes and mitres appeared in the doorway, and a priest with a yellow sash and a harried expression approached Pheresa.

“The ceremony inside has been explained to you, my lady?” he asked her.

“Yes.”

Sir Brillon stepped forward. “I request she be relieved of it. She is overwearied and much disheartened by the strain of the day. Let another perform the ritual for her inside.”

“No!” Pheresa said. “I wish to continue as I have been instructed.”

“Very good, my lady,” the priest said sternly.

“I think only of the lady's welfare,” Sir Brillon persisted. “She will not think of it for herself.”

“Are you her protector, sir?”

“Yes.”

“No, he is not!” Pheresa said. “And I am quite well.”

The priest frowned. Behind them, the king had arrived, and the carriages bringing the courtiers were now pulling up inside the square. Knights, country barons, and chevards on horseback began to dismount in some disorder. The prominent citizens of Savroix-en-Charva filed in behind them on foot. Squires and heralds moved discreetly about, trying to marshal everyone into correct order.

“Let us remember that this is a solemn occasion, sir knight,” the priest said to Sir Brillon. “Not a place for courtly niceties and flirtations.”

Sir Brillon turned scarlet at the rebuke. He belonged to the Order of Saint Qanselm, a sect of particularly fierce fighters who took vows of celibacy and poverty. They were known to be zealots in whatever cause they embraced, and Sir Brillon was no exception.

His black eyes narrowed with fury as he gripped the hilt of his sword. “How dare you—”

“Good sir,” Pheresa said sharply, swift to take advantage of his blunder, “you have disturbed my prayers, and now you seek quarrel with one of the priesthood. Have you lost your senses?”

She stared at him in severe disapproval, much aware of the king's presence nearby. Others were turning to observe the disturbance, and Sir Brillon reluctantly inclined his head. “If my lady will grant me pardon. My intentions have been misunderstood.”