The Queen's Gambit (33 page)

The church knight parried the blow, and sparks flew between their blades. Back and forth they fought, furious and well matched. Talmor was the stronger man, but his opponent was seasoned and wily. He used tricks that nearly caught Talmor unawares, and when Talmor thought he had the man pinned, the knave eluded him. Like all church knights, he knew how to fight dirty, and he grew more and more ruthless.
With each blow of his sword, he grunted out a line of Writ, calling on Thod and Saint Qanselm to strengthen his arms.

Then Talmor, retreating to give himself room, tripped over a tree root and fell sprawling. The Qanselmite yelled in triumph and charged him, sword blade flashing in the moonlight. Talmor was ready for him, however, and as he lunged, Talmor twisted his blade and sent the church knight's weapon flying from his hands. The sword landed in the shadows, gone from sight, and with a terrible oath the man pulled his dagger.

By now Talmor was up and ready. Still swearing, the man crouched low on the balls of his feet, swinging his dagger from side to side like a peasant fighter.

Honor required Talmor to sheathe his sword and use his own dagger, but just as he moved to do so, the knight leaped at him. Talmor twisted on his back foot, risking losing his balance, and swung his sword up in time for his opponent to impale himself on it.

Beneath the shifting tree canopy, moonlight shone down, and Talmor recognized the man at last.

A terrible gargling noise came from Sir Brillon's throat. He sagged, his weight pulling down Talmor's sword. Talmor drew his weapon back, and Sir Brillon collapsed on the ground, thrashing a little.

Talmor knelt beside him and pressed his hand to the man's shoulder. “You fool,” he said quietly. “You should have never challenged me.”

Sir Brillon shuddered beneath his hand. He reached up and gripped Talmor's wrist as though to push him away. His fingers were bloody and slick. “She was to be a saint,” he said through a groan.

“She is a woman,” Talmor said, “and a queen.”

“Could have saved her,” Sir Brillon whispered. He gagged and choked a moment, then his fingers dropped from Talmor's wrist.

Standing up, Talmor cleaned his weapon, then hurried to Pheresa's side. He gathered her in his arms, propping her gently against his knee, and touched his fingers to her throat.
Her pulse beat strongly, and something tight and anxious inside him relaxed.

“Majesty,” he said urgently, pushing her hair back from her brow. How soft and fragrant her tresses were. He lifted a curl to his lips and kissed it, then ruthlessly brought himself back under control. “Majesty, wake up.”

She stirred, moaning a little, then stiffened and tried to pummel him with her fists. He gripped her hands, holding them harmlessly against his chest. “Majesty, 'tis Talmor. You're safe now.”

Her eyes opened, and her face looked pale and ghostly in the dimming moonlight. “Talmor,” she whispered. “I thought—”

“Forgive me,” he said, soothing her. “Everything took longer than I intended. If you're not hurt, let us go from here quickly.”

She looked around, then lifted her hand to her temple as though still dazed. “He followed me, came out of nowhere. I thought he—”

“Sir Brillon is dead,” Talmor said grimly. “The queen need not fear him again.”

In silence she dropped her hand and gazed across the clearing where Sir Brillon lay. Helping her to stand, Talmor steadied her as they walked slowly to the horses. He helped her to mount Sir Brillon's horse and shortened the stirrups for her.

“ 'Tis queer, riding astride like a man,” she said, then fell silent again while Talmor smiled to himself in the darkness.

“Shall I lead your majesty's horse?” he asked.

“Nay, sir!” she said sharply, sounding more like herself. “I've been well rattled this night, but I'm not yet helpless. You—”

“Soft,” he said suddenly, hearing a noise. “Someone's coming.”

She gasped, but made no other sound. Talmor climbed quickly into his own saddle and drew his sword. A party of men tramped past a short distance away, but did not notice them. When they were gone, Talmor let out his pent-up breath and only then noticed that the queen was weeping.

His heart turned over inside him, but she pulled herself straight and gathered her reins. Clearly, she wanted no comfort.

“Is this all we have?” she asked in an unsteady voice.

“Nay,” he replied gently. “Unless they've come to harm, my men are with your attendants. We're to join them on the road.”

Pheresa nodded with a sigh. “I fear for my people,” she said, gazing past him in the direction of the palace. “Every scream and outcry pierces my heart. I fear for my consort.”

Jealousy curled sour and angry in the pit of Talmor's stomach. “We have but one way to defy these invaders now,” he said quietly, “and that is to keep your majesty from their clutches. Don't you realize that someone at Savroix surely advised them on the perfect time to strike? Do you not wonder that your majesty's army has been sent out of range? 'Tis but part of a daring plot.”

“But if I leave, then I give them everything,” she said angrily.

He felt tired, and forced himself to find the patience to go through this argument one more time. “Everything but the queen.”

She sighed. “Betrayal . . . 'tis unbearable to think about.”

“Then think about your majesty's countermove.”

She said nothing, and in silence they turned their horses northward.

In Pheresa's opinion, Sir Talmor's selection of Vurdal as their destination was a master stroke. Thod bless him for his cleverness, she thought, for he knew that were she united with part of her army, she would find herself surrounded by trustworthy allies. Vurdal was a garrison town in central Mandria not far from where the Charva River curved to divide the upper and lower halves of the realm. The countryside was flat and featureless, with practice fields and parade grounds for training purposes on three sides of the village. Normally, Vurdal would have been swollen with knights in training, the air alive with the clash of arms and trumpets signaling for maneuvers. But the garrison stood at one-third its usual force, the rest having been ordered to the coast less than a month before.

Pheresa sighed. Talmor had done his best. Until their arrival last week, neither of them had known Vurdal's forces had been reassigned. During the journey, she'd clung to hope by assuring herself that once she reached Vurdal, she would have not only refuge, but an army to lead to Savroix's rescue. Instead, she'd found cruel disappointment.

Exhausted from strain and hard riding, her womb filled with pains she tried to conceal during the journey, Pheresa could do nothing but put herself and her small, bedraggled party into the hands of the garrison commander.

Considerably startled, for he'd had no advance notice of her majesty's arrival, the commander had hastily installed her in the best rooms available—his own—and summoned the garrison physician to attend her. She had been ordered to bed for several days of rest.

Feeling herself at the end of her strength, Pheresa sank gratefully into exhausted slumber, but within two days her health improved enough for her to feel anxious for news.

She sent forth letters and messages, and summoned the commander daily for reports regarding what had befallen Savroix.

She imagined her beautiful palace lying in smoking ruins, its wealth and treasures plundered, its art destroyed by barbarian hands. During these days when she had nothing to do save fret, she regretted not going to Scice as her father had recommended. From there, she could have returned to Savroix quickly. Here at Vurdal, she was too far away.

As a distraction, her attendants—including her court physician, two lackeys, Lady Carolie, Oola, and the Countess Adema de Muliere—sought her supervision in inventorying what they'd managed to save. The countess guarded many of the queen's jewels, sewn to her petticoats and hidden in the seams of various articles of clothing. There were two chests of royal clothing, some of it mismatched and quite unsuitable, the queen's lute, her favorite pillows, a case of literature scrolls, her writing implements, a flask of perfume, and a strongbox of money. It was better than nothing, Pheresa kept telling herself, but it was not very much.

At last a letter arrived from Lord Salba. The chancellor informed her that the palace still stood, thanks to the efforts of her consort husband. She cried aloud when she read these opening lines of good news, laughing in her relief, feeling tremendous pride in her husband.

But then she read the rest of the letter, and her laughter
turned to a frown, then a scowl, then horror. Lervan, despite his promise to defend Savroix to the last man, had instead surrendered the palace to avert its total destruction. He had given it up during the first onslaught. Pheresa doubted she'd ridden even a quarter league away that night before the seat of her government lay in the hands of the enemy.

Oh, the shame of it was like poison burning a hole through her, a hole that could never heal. She
knew
she should have stayed there and defied the enemy. Savroix would not have been surrendered had she remained in charge. Nay, even if the palace had fallen in defeat 'twould have been better than this ignoble end.
Given
to the barbarians, the gates opened willingly,
by Lervan's order.

And she had trusted him to do what was right and honorable in her absence. Standing here in her borrowed quarters at Vurdal, she ate the bitter seed of self-blame. Savroix had been her responsibility, and in her first true test as a monarch she had failed.

And would being taken prisoner have been a nobler act?

The thought only made her angrier.

Yes, she told herself, easy enough now to think of what she should have done. Hindsight was always so certain and never knew the confusion of the moment, the urgency, the need to make instant decisions without benefit of experience or knowledge. Well, she could be honest with herself now, honest enough to admit that she'd known Lervan to be a boaster and weak of character where it most mattered. And yet, like a fool, she'd blinded herself to his faults, forgiven them, overlooked them, perhaps even ignored them, because she wanted to pander to his vanity and ego by giving him something to be proud of, some way to achieve glory for himself. She'd fallen under his spell too many times, trusting him because she wanted to depend on him, because she needed someone who would not fail her. She'd bestowed the gift of responsibility on him, because she wanted him to admire her.

As though, she thought bitterly, admiration could ever be bought.

Savroix lay in the hands of a Vvord king called Mux, a
pale-skinned man with orange eyes and a child's scalp hanging from his neck for a talisman. The very thought of it made Pheresa grind her teeth together. She longed to race back to Savroix and confront her fool of a husband, but as yet she could not without placing herself in the enemy's hands.

On the following day more news came, informing her that most of her council and perhaps half of her courtiers had escaped. The rest remained at Savroix with Lervan, who reputedly was feasting with the enemy, offering them the honors of full Mandrian hospitality. Pheresa burned with the shame of it.

Lervan has betrayed me in the past, has betrayed our marriage,
she thought miserably.
Why shouldn't he now betray our kingdom?

Bowing her head, she wept.

In the following days, as the autumn season grew colder, she received no reply to her appeals from King Faldain of Nether. She told herself it was too soon to expect an answer. Nether was far away, a dangerous land for travelers. The courier might have been waylaid, killed, or even become lost. But if her letters got through, she was convinced Faldain would advise her well, and she said so to Talmor repeatedly, drawing comfort from saying it aloud. Her protector, in his quiet way, replied little, watching her pace and fret to no avail. She told Talmor that there could be no doubt of Faldain's courage or battle experience. And his honor was inviolate.

“He sounds like a paragon of perfection,” Talmor replied.

“You believe none of what I say, but I speak the truth about him,” she said, wrapped in memories of her good friend. “He will come to me.”

“This king of a foreign land, does he obey your majesty's summons like a dog called to heel?”

Flushing in annoyance, she let Talmor's impertinence pass, and said stoutly, “Never has Faldain failed me. He will not fail me now.”

But while she waited for Faldain's response, she received more news from Savroix, all of it bad.

The official report: King Mux had left Savroix, taking his
army horde with him. Duc Lervan was being hailed by the townspeople as their savior and praised as the consummate diplomat.

Lord Meaclan's report: Duc Lervan had ordered the treasury room broken open so that he could bestow
half its contents
—including crown jewels, gold plate, and coins—on Mux. Only then had the barbarian king departed, leaving the palace soiled and looted, the very throne room defiled.

Pheresa crumpled Meaclan's letter in her hands, so intensely angry at that moment she could not breathe. Her ears were roaring. “The fool,” she muttered aloud. “The stupid, stupid fool!”

Oola, who was tidying the room, paused in her work to look at Pheresa in concern. “Majesty?”

“Go away!” Pheresa said angrily. “Go at once!”

Oola curtsied and hurried out, leaving only Sir Talmor present. Quietly, he stood near the door, leaning his powerful shoulders against the wall. His golden eyes watched her in concern.

Pheresa looked at him with despair. “Lervan is hailed as a hero. Well, he has bought his heroism at a very dear price. How could he have been so stupid?”

“What has his grace done now?”

She told him, withholding none of the sorry tale, and saw bleak contempt enter her protector's eyes. “Aye, all that,” she said angrily. “Does he not realize they will only return, again and again, for more gold?”

“Of course they will return. He has rewarded them well for their attack.”

Tears stung her eyes, and she averted her face, clenching her hands tightly so that her nails dug into her palms.
Queens do not cry,
she told herself angrily.

“We must return to Savroix immediately,” she said. “I fear there will be no quick remedy to hand for all that is awry.”

Talmor looked as though he would say something, but then he bowed. “I'll announce your majesty's order.”

But the following morning, while they were still preparing for departure, the garrison commander sought out Pheresa.
His weathered face looked grave beneath its fringe of gray hair.

“Your majesty,” he said, “I am informed by Marechal du Lindier that Duc Lervan has proclaimed himself King of Mandria.”

The scroll she'd been trying to read fell unheeded from her fingers. She felt numb with disbelief. She could not even speak.

Lady Carolie and Countess de Muliere rose to their feet. The countess dropped her needlework, and Lady Carolie's face went white. Sir Talmor, standing in his customary place behind Pheresa's chair, took an involuntary half step forward so that he brushed against the back of it. She hardly noticed their reactions. The room seemed to be shrinking around her. She was glad her companions were close by. Fearing she might swoon, she held herself furiously rigid until the moment of weakness passed.

Clearing his throat, the commander bowed. “Er, perhaps I'd better read what it says. These are not
my
words, majesty.”

“Please go on,” she said, her mouth so dry she could not swallow.

“Well, er, it says, ‘Because of the queen's cowardly desertion of her people and subsequent abdication of her throne, his grace, Duc Lervan, consort and prince, does hereby assume the throne and all sovereignty over the realm of Mandria—' ”

“Stop,” she said wearily. “Read no more of it.”

“I am sorry, your majesty.” The commander was a gruff, plain-spoken man, accustomed to bawling orders at trainees, and clumsy with courtly ways. He stared at her now in visible distress. “I am ordered to escort you back to Savroix at the earliest opportunity.”

It was as though she teetered on the brink of a precipice and could fall at any moment. The roaring in her ears grew louder. She felt a wave of heat sweep up through her, as though to burst her skull into pieces, then it ebbed again, leaving her cold and rigid in her chair.

“What,” she asked the commander in a voice like ice, “do you intend to do?”

He stiffened, slapping a hand to his sword hilt, while Sir Talmor watched him like a falcon. “I intend to serve my queen.”

His loyalty was a gift, made even sweeter because of the treachery she had just discovered. Her eyes blurred, and she struggled to keep her dignity. “The queen is grateful.”

He bowed. “This dispatch came in the royal courier pouch, but it bears no official seal. Therefore, I cannot be sure that it is a legal document, or that it hasn't been substituted for genuine orders by enemy hands.”

She frowned, thinking of the royal seal safely in her possession. She had that, and the ring of state, which was on her finger. She also had the charters, as well as the heir's crown, which Verence himself had placed on her brow when she was invested as Princess of the Realm. Those things, along with her personal jewels and two purses of money presently hidden in her chest of linens, were all she had in the world. Pheresa realized that until now she'd believed she was preserving such precious artifacts from loss or harm. But in fact, they might prove to be her most powerful legal weapons.

Never had she expected Lervan to depose her. She'd not seen the ambition in him, the hidden greed ready to take her trust and twist it into personal gain. Why had she been so blind?