Two gentlemen dashed into the room, booted, cloaked, and spurred, on the way to the stables. They paused long enough for a cup of wine apiece, then continued on their way. One of the duke’s friends looked at me.
“You are not joining the pursuit?”
“My horse is a stout animal,” said I, “but not a racer.” Which referred not so much to the horse but to myself. I turned to the duchess. “Lady Broughton is no worse?”
“It was a dreadful shock,” said she. “I cannot speak to the state of her mind, but I think her body is unharmed.”
“I do not understand how Broughton can survive this,” said the duke. Somehow, he made his absurd lisp sound both grave and prophetic. “He will be accused of trying to make away with his wife in order to marry the Queen.”
“The attempt failed,” said one of the gentlemen.
“That does not matter,” said the duke. “What matters is that he will be accused.”
“He will be accused,” said I. “But he may not be guilty.”
The duke’s eyes flickered over the company, and apparently decided those within hearing were safe for this line of conversation. “There are easier ways of making away with one’s wife,” he said, “than having it done in front of half a dozen witnesses.”
“And a better way of arranging it,” said I, “than to leave behind a dagger that will point straight to you.”
The others had not heard of this development. While I was explaining about the carved jasper pommel, the sounds of the chase came from the front of the building, yips and shouts, as a pack of gentlemen raced off in pursuit of the assassin. They had come for the hunt, had been confined indoors to their frustration, and now launched themselves on this new hunt with all the joy and vigor they would have applied to the pursuit of a stag.
While those around the fireplace discussed Broughton’s future, I considered my own. Orlanda’s threat loomed in my thoughts, sharp as the promised knives, and I tried to work out how this failed assassination could possibly be a part of her plan. I was not involved in any way, save as a witness. I was neither a victim nor an actor. Perhaps this had nothing to do with Orlanda, and her own strike had yet to come.
Yet my being revolted against the idea of simply waiting for my doom to manifest itself. I would have protested were there any forum for protest, but there was no court competent to judge my situation, and no advocate to take my case. Therefore, I decided, I would act on my own.
An equerry arrived from the Queen asking Roundsilver and other members of the Great Council to attend her majesty, and the duke left the company while the party around the fireplace dispersed. I found myself with the duchess.
“I would like to thank you and his grace for allowing me to join you here,” said I.
She looked up at me. “People will be talking about this sad event for a long time,” she said. “But you sound as if you are preparing to leave. Are you going to pursue the assassin after all?”
“In my fashion,” said I. “I think I may be able to identify him if I ride to Selford.”
She looked off through the diamond-pane windows at the Yeoman Archers on the lawn, preparing to depart. She frowned.
“I wonder if that knowledge would be to anyone’s benefit?” she wondered.
I was surprised. “If your grace thinks I should not go,” I said, “I will remain here.”
“I cannot say whether your errand is for good or ill,” she said. “And I hardly think the Queen’s party will remain at the lodge, in any case. I’m sure the Council will recommend a return to Selford, but it will take the rest of the day to organize it, and her majesty will not leave till tomorrow.”
“Then if I may have your leave?”
She looked at me with some slight surprise, as if she were startled I asked her permission. “Of course. Try not to be captured by brigands or pirates on your journey.”
I smiled. “I will happily comply.”
“And, should you find the villain, think carefully what you do.”
This seemed curious advice, so I merely said that I would, bowed, and went to my room. I changed into boots, leather jerkin and trousers, and stuffed everything else in my saddlebags. I donned the overcoat I had carried since I left Ethlebight, and also brought a hooded cloak against rain.
I stopped by the kitchens and begged a pair of venison pies, which I put in my coat pockets. I filled my leather bottle with small beer, then I made my way to the stables, where the captain of the Yeoman Archers was just departing with his party of pursuers, all armed with swords and pistols.
Though I had no hopes of riding down the assassin, I intended to set a brisk pace, for I had twelve leagues to cover before nightfall, when the city gates would be closed against me. I knew not whether I could bribe my way past the guards, and I preferred not to have to test their honesty one way or another.
The Yeoman Archers spurred away. Perhaps I should remark that I never saw a man of the Yeoman Archers carrying a bow, as the corps was armed entirely with pikes, swords, and firelocks. Modern warfare may have made the bow obsolete, but so devoted to tradition was the palace that its guards remained Archers in name, and probably would remain Archers so long as the palace continued to stand.
As I was saddling my mount, Amalie appeared, with her maids, coachman, footmen, and baggage. She looked at me in surprise.
“Quillifer!” said she. “Are you also abandoning this ‘sad cockpit of ruined ambition’?”
“I am. And that is a quote from Bello, is it not?”
“I know not and I care not,” said she. “You may join me, if you can keep up.”
I debated with myself whether or not to accept her offer—I truly wanted to get to the city as soon as I could, and though a ride with Amalie would be diverting, there would almost certainly be delays.
Yet, I thought, if the assassin was in Selford tonight, he would probably still be there tomorrow.
Amalie ordered the carriage’s top lowered, so we might converse, which meant that she and her servants had to wrap warmly in furs against the cold day. Her four horses were matched and of the type called cremello, white with rose-pink noses and brilliant blue eyes. Not only were they a striking and beautiful quartet, they set a rattling pace, and my fears of being delayed soon faded. Indeed, my borrowed beast was hard put to keep up.
We wound our way through the Queen’s forest, splashed through puddles, and detoured around fallen limbs. Along the way, we passed the ruins of Broughton’s giants, the two great puppets brought low by the storm, a pointed symbol of Broughton’s aspirations.
It was not long before we encountered the first of the pursuers returning. They had galloped after their quarry as though he were a stag. Soon enough their horses were blown, and they were forced to return. You would think that this likelihood might have occurred, even to the nobility, well before they spurred off. Those who actually cared about their animals led them home on foot, and the rest rode lathered, staggering, pitiful beasts.
Once we were on the main road, I rode alongside the carriage in order to better talk with Amalie, but the wheels kept throwing up mud and debris, and I spurred ahead. Eventually Amalie had a groom call me back, and I joined her and her maidservants in the carriage, while my horse followed on a lead. Amalie had a bottle of wine opened, and I shared my meat pies. Our conversation was lively, for the maids remained excited by the morning’s developments, and during their tenure in the servants’ quarters had managed to absorb quite a number of rumors, for instance that the would-be assassin had been hired by the usurper Clayborne, the ambassador from Loretto, by Broughton, or by the Queen herself.