The Queen's Secret (The Queen's Secret #2) - Melissa de la Cruz Page 0,74
says in a low voice, as though the walls had ears and might be eavesdropping on our conversation, “that Lady Cecilia has been saying some rather . . . unhinged things, ma’am. Talking about the death of her horse and holding you, of all people, responsible. Saying that it is because of you that she is being exiled from Mont.”
I sigh. I’m tired of this castle chatter.
“I had nothing to do with the incident at the horse races. My horse was a gift from His Majesty the King, and he had no idea it was enchanted. And as for the banishment—even my own ladies are being sent away, and all at the king’s request. This is not my doing.”
“Of course, ma’am. Your true friends and supporters will never doubt you.”
I don’t reply. It’s warm by the fire, and I’ve lost the energy—fueled by rage and resentment—that kept me going for much of the day. I close my eyes and listen to Lady Marguerite’s soft movements about the room, along with the whinnies and stamps from the yard where the carriages wait, and the call of one guard to another across the battlements.
When I hear a piercing shriek from outside—a woman’s voice, I think; a woman screaming—I wake from my half doze and try to stand up. But I can’t. I’m immobile. My hands and feet are numb. When I open my mouth to speak, no sounds emerge.
I stare at Lady Marguerite and see two of her, three of her, her face so many moons in the sky.
I’ve been drugged.
Chapter Thirty-One
Caledon
Cal is in his room off the stables, piling sweet straw onto his wooden pallet, when he hears the scream. Then there’s another scream, and then men shouting, and women crying out.
He grabs his sword and rushes to the door. It’s dark but not late, and the yard is still busy. Braziers are lit and people are running in every direction—mostly guards, he realizes when his eyes adjust.
Jander materializes next to him, eyes wide.
“No idea,” he responds to Cal’s unspoken question. There’s no more screaming, just wailing, coming from the far side of the yard. Rhema marches toward them, a lit taper in her hands.
“There’s been an accident,” she says. “Lady Cecilia.”
Hansen’s mistress. She was supposed to leave today, Cal knows, with the other ladies of the court.
“She was spotted by guards staggering along the ramparts,” Rhema tells them while they hurry over. “When one tried to stop her, she tumbled to her death, over there.”
Kitchen servants kneel in a heap, obscuring the body. The courtyard fills with more guards, with servants and courtiers, and lights blaze at every window. The castle is in an uproar.
“Smashed,” says Rhema, in her usual unsentimental way. “Head split open. Nothing we can do.”
Jander sprints away from them, in a hurry to reach the body. Cal’s mood is grim. Another death in the castle, but a different kind. A discarded mistress, enraged and desperate.
“I don’t know what good he can do,” Rhema says, her hair bright as the flame she’s holding. “It’s a bit late for one of his poultices. He’s getting quite ghoulish, our Jander. Nothing like a dead body to get him running about.”
“Holt! Glad you’re still here.” The captain of the guard approaches, his jerkin unlaced. He lowers his voice. “My guard tells me the lady was talking about Her Majesty the Queen. Calling her—”
“What?” Cal demands.
“A, uh, witch.” The captain can barely say the word. “She told the guard that the queen had bewitched her horse, and that now she had poisoned the lady herself.”
“Poisoned?” says Rhema. “These people are crazy.”
“The guard reports the lady was frothing at the mouth. The froth was black.”
“All right,” Cal tells the captain, leaning toward him to keep their conversation private. “The last thing we need is more talk of witchcraft. We need to clear the yard.”
The captain starts shouting orders, and the onlookers—some curious, some alarmed, some wailing—are shepherded back toward the castle’s buildings. Rhema uses her taper as a weapon, pushing back a crowd of servants toward the kitchen and cellars.
Cal walks over to the body. Guards are pulling the weeping servants away, and Cal gets glimpses of the prone form, dressed in black. A dark wetness pools beneath the fair head. Two guards stand up on the battlements, peering down: That must be the spot where she fell, or jumped.
Two kitchen maids pass, supporting each other.
“The queen,” one says. “This is the queen’s doing.”