The Queen's Secret (The Queen's Secret #2) - Melissa de la Cruz Page 0,46

never think of such a thing. He’s too wrapped up in his own horses, not to mention placing his own bets. I don’t think it would enter his head that I might like a horse to race on my behalf, or that it would be a political act to have a gift from the king decorated in the queen’s colors. We haven’t spoken a word to each other since the day I attended the Small Council, and then took to my bed. He must think I’m really ill, because he hasn’t bothered me once with his demands to begin a family, and beget a miniature Hansen or Lilac.

Another horse is led into the courtyard, this one as black as mine is snowy white. It’s a handsome beast, with powerful haunches and a long, proud face, but something about it unsettles me. The gleam of its hide reminds me of the obsidian found in the chapel, and the shining dark figure that materialized in my fire.

“That’s a fine animal as well,” I say. None of my ladies reply. Each one is quiet, gazing out the window. “Don’t you think? To whom does it belong?”

More silence, and a few uneasy glances exchanged. I have no idea what’s going on.

“Is it the king’s horse?” I persist. That would be a neat pairing; my white horse, his black horse, racing against each other. My ladies say nothing, but I see another groom approach with a tray of ribbons to decorate the bridle. Hansen’s colors are green, taken from the Montrician coat of arms with its three pine trees. He loves green, he told me once, because it reminds him of childhoods spent at the summer palace high in the mountains, and the rustle of the trees in the forest surrounding them.

The ribbons used on the black horse aren’t green: They’re black.

“So if it’s not the king’s horse, whose is it?” I ask. “Come now, ladies—I seem to be talking to myself.”

After a few more significant glances, Lady Marguerite clears her throat.

“I believe,” she says, “that the black horse belongs to Lady Cecilia. Cecilia Bedyne.”

Lady Marguerite looks back out the window, trying to avoid my eye. The others are all transfixed, it seems, by the activity below.

I know exactly who Lady Marguerite is talking about. Hansen told me he planned to cast off Lady Cecilia, to give her up as his mistress, so he and I could Do Our Duty. Now I know why he hasn’t come knocking at my door. The casting-off has yet to take place.

“The black ribbons,” she says. “They are her color.”

“A severe color for such a young woman,” I suggest. Something is seething within me, more than irritation. Not jealousy—of course, not that. How are we to give a public impression of unity when his mistress is so obvious to everyone at court? Why is he buying her a horse as fine as the one he gives the queen? I was wrong when I thought that Hansen had grown up and understood the political ramifications of our public behavior. He’s still a stupid boy, reluctant to give up his favorites, whatever he tells me.

“She thinks that black flatters her fair complexion,” blurts one of my younger ladies, Fiar. “She thinks it makes her look more pale and ethereal.”

I’ve seen Lady Cecilia: She’s certainly a beauty, and she’s certainly fair-skinned. She looks as though she’d never spent a day outdoors in her life. I wish her no ill, and in different circumstances I would be glad for her keeping Hansen distracted. But these are not normal times. The people of Montrice are looking for another reason to turn on me. Without Hansen’s support—in public, at least—I’m stranded and exposed.

“I had no idea that Lady Cecilia was so wealthy a woman,” I say, trying to keep my tone measured. “That horse is very fine—even more fine, I think, than my own. She is young, and her father is a gentleman, but not rich. How do you think she could possibly afford such an animal?”

Silence again, interrupted only by the crackle of the fire, and the noise of men shouting and hooves clopping in the courtyard.

“It’s possible,” says Lady Marguerite, sounding hesitant, “that the horse was a gift to Lady Cecilia, Your Majesty.”

“A gift?” They don’t even murmur in response. “Hmm.”

Of course that fine black horse is a gift from King Hansen to his favorite. Now I understand why the duke bought me a horse and tried to persuade me it was from