I see past all that. He’s a cunning operator. He seeks me out in my apartments on some pretext—to reassure me that the captain of the guard is doing all he can, and so on. But we both know why he’s here.
Because I’ve started playing his game. If it’s too dangerous for me to leave my chambers right now, if I’m such a precious flower that I must be protected at all times, then I can act the part. I will pretend to be so shattered that I can do nothing more than languish. Such a delicate flower cannot be summoned to the king’s bed.
When I heard he was on his way, limping along the long gallery, I had my ladies arrange me on the bed, as though I were an invalid who’s too weak to sit up. At the last moment, Lady Marguerite draped a damp cloth across my forehead, for added dramatic effect. When Lord Burley clunked into the room, panting like someone who’d just climbed a mountain, he was forced to sit on a stool next to my bed and grasp my limp hand.
“It’s so awful,” I say, and sigh. “Since the death of Father Juniper, I feel terribly sad. And worse than that, I feel scared. Truly scared for my life, and for that of His Majesty the King. I can barely eat or drink. Today I’ve had nothing but a spoonful of honey.”
“Your Majesty, you must keep your strength up,” he says in his wise-old-man voice. I don’t think I’m fooling him, but that’s all right. He can look at me reclining here, shaking with feminine terror, and know that I’m taking a stand, however short-lived it must be. It’s about time he realizes I’m from Renovia, where monarchs hold the power, not Montrice, where interfering courtiers have muscled their way into high office. If I can’t be a useful member of the Guild, on a mission or fighting an enemy, then I’m not going to be some decorative item in Castle Mont, to be moved around—or locked away—as the Small Council sees fit.
And if there’s any possible way I can solidify my position as ruler here without sharing Hansen’s bed and bearing Hansen’s child, then I need time to devise a solution. I will not be hurried by a gang of old men.
So for now I must lie on my bed and play sick.
“You have seen the Chief Physician, I hope?” he asks.
“Oh yes”—I utter another theatrical sigh—“Martyn believes that peace and quiet is what I need at present, without any excitement or disturbance. After poor Father Juniper’s murder, my nerves are shattered.”
“Quite.” Lord Burley nods and looks solemn. I assume he understands what I mean by “excitement.” There’s no way I can visit Hansen’s chamber to start producing royal heirs, not in this—admittedly fake—state of nervous collapse.
“Bed rest and quiet, that’s all I ask.” I had no idea I was so good at playing a weak woman.
There’s a knock at the door, and Lady Marguerite slips in, curtsying low to Lord Burley.
“I’m so sorry to interrupt, ma’am,” she says. “But the physician has given us strict instructions to limit all visits to a few minutes. He is deeply concerned for Your Majesty’s well-being and future . . . health.”
I have trained her well.
Lord Burley is the one sighing now, sounding more grumpy than wheezy. He mutters something about my future health being of utmost importance to the two kingdoms and then creaks his way out of the room. I give a few pathetic coughs before the door closes. The only bad thing about this ruse, of course, is that I have to give up training and can’t be spotted shooting at anything from my window. But this is a small price to pay for a reprieve from my “duty.”
I wait long enough for Lord Burley to have stumbled his way to another part of the castle. The guards outside the door have strict instructions not to admit anyone apart from my ladies: I am sleeping now and not to be disturbed. The shutters have been closed across the window, and the only light in the room is from tapers and the flames twisting in the fireplace. The burning wood cracks and settles. I slip my feet into fur-lined slippers and wait in an armchair by the fire.
Earlier in the day, when Martyn visited me, he told me about an old woman named Varya. She often comes to the castle to bring herbs and