Edmund wanted to cry. “But-how? I mean-won’t they stop us?”
Master Pye shook his head. “You worry about moving four wagons over muddy roads. I’ll worry about getting you out of the city.” He waved them out in dismissal.
In the dungeons, the Queen sat in near perfect darkness. She had one window, high in the wall of her cell, and it allowed in some light during the day. She had a bed, and wall hangings and clean linen, and excellent food.
And very careful guards. She didn’t know any of them, despite their red surcoats. But they were cautious and courteous.
It might have been restful, except that de Rohan came every day to examine her. He brought a dozen monks and other creatures, and they filled her cell while he asked her, unblushing, to tell her the dates her courses had run, the names of her lovers, the date on which she had lost her virginity, and a thousand other little humiliations.
She ignored him, and eventually, each day, he went away.
It was easier to ignore him because she was, already and perpetually, under attack. His voice wasn’t even a pinprick compared to the assault of her real enemy, and the black serpent-that’s how she had begun to think of Ash, her foe-never ceased to press against the walls of her memory palace. There were no overt attacks.
Just a constant, deadly pressure on her mind.
He was insidious, too. Twice, defending the sanctity of her memory palace, Desiderata found false memories trying to leach through her walls. The memory of lying with Gaston D’Eu was laughable-her new enemy clearly had no notion of how a woman perceived the act of love. But the memory of giving Blanche a letter-a sealed letter-was almost tangible, and terrifyingly like a genuine memory.
And he gloated. That’s the reason she knew his name. Ash. So… fitting.
She began to grow scared. Desiderata was not easily made afraid, but here, in the constant darkness, with no sun and no friend, no Diota, no guardsman she could trust, without even a dog or a cat, she was oppressed by a power far beyond her own.
After a day of near defeat-by which time she had begun, like a mad person, to doubt her own thoughts-she turned to prayer. And not simple prayer, but sung prayer.
She sang. And while she sang, having practised this, she began to weave herself some protections, spending carefully some hoarded ops. She was shocked-almost shocked out of her palace-to find how little ops she had.
But she worked. She stayed on her knees for most of Good Friday, allowing the pale light of the rainy spring sun to fall on her face, replenishing what little power she could muster, making ops into potentia and then to praxis.
Singing hymns of praise to the Virgin, and all the while, holding back the night in the fortress of her mind.
The sun went down.
Why do you do this to me? she asked the blackness outside her memory palace.
The blackness made no answer. It was not even green-just black.
Slowly, she worked. And with her will along, she reinforced her hope. To Desiderata, the loss of hope would be the loss of everything.
But she had doubts, and they were like stealthy miners working under the walls of her fortress.
Why has the King deserted me?
Why does he believe them?
Why did he rape his sister?
Who is this man to whom I am married?
Did I ever know him at all?
Why is my palace built atop this evil thing?
The last question seemed to bear the weight of many meanings.
The guards changed outside her door. She heard the stamp of feet, the whisper of sandals, and knew that de Rohan was back with his minions. She kept her head bowed, her now-lank hair hanging over her face. She continued to sing-her six hundred and seventieth Ave Maria. As she completed it, she went straight into her favourite Benedictus.
And in her mind, she placed another small, carefully wrought brick of power in the growing citadel she was creating.
Her perception of the world was imprecise. She had very little awareness to spare for de Rohan, but she noted that he was alone, except for two guardsmen.
He began to speak.
She paid him no heed.
He went on, and on, hectoring, bullying.
She managed another brick. It glowed in soft gold, and she loved it, cherished it and the work she was doing, like fine embroidery done in potentia.
She felt his hand on her neck.
“Stand away from the Queen, my lord,” said the guard.
She was shocked-so shocked that in a single beat of her heart she almost let it all slide away. The pressure pushed in-she lost an outer room of her memory and Occitan and her childhood slipped away.
But she could hear.
“You may leave now,” de Rohan said. “I am safe enough with her. I am protected against her witchcraft.”
The guard did not move. “Orders,” he said. “Step away from the Queen, my lord.”
“I order you out,” de Rohan said. “There, nothing easier.”
His hand on her neck tightened slightly. His other hand at her head was possessive-and horrible.
She drove her elbow into his thigh and rolled onto the floor-simultaneously using all her power to fight the rising tide of attack in her head.
De Rohan was unprepared for her physical resistance and stumbled. The guard caught his elbow-and moved him across the room while he was off balance. “Stay away from the Queen’s person,” said the guard. He had almost no inflection in his voice. Just a man doing his job.
“I order you to let go of me and to leave me to this. Do you understand me?” de Rohan asked. “Do you know who I am?”
The guardsman rattled his spear against the bars on the door.
“Eh, Corporal. This gentleman is ordering me to leave the room,” he said.
De Rohan frowned.
The corporal addressed was in a long mail coat over a clean jack and his scarlet surcoat fitted well. “He cannot leave, my lord.” His accent was northern.
De Rohan smiled and tilted his head. “Very well, then,” he said. “I will leave, and I will inform the King that you obstructed my investigations.” He drew himself up. He was a big man-as big as his distant cousin de Vrailly.
The corporal nodded. “You’ll do what you think’s best, of course,” he said.
“He meant her harm,” the first guard said. “Had his hand on her throat.”
The corporal frowned.
“You’re a fool,” de Rohan said. He walked out of the cell and went quickly up the steps, past the guardroom and up into the palace.
“Not as big a fool as some,” muttered the corporal.
“What do we do if they come to kill her?” asked the guard.
“Grow wings and fly,” said the corporal, a little pettishly.
Desiderata heard the entire exchange. She was so deep in the defences of her mind that she wasn’t sure she had it right, but she shook off the looming shadows.
“You saved my life,” she breathed.
The guardsman was just leaving the cell. He smiled at her.
“We’re here for you, your grace,” he said.
It was almost as shocking as de Rohan’s touch. “Who sent you?” she asked.
The corporal made a sign. The guardsman gave a wry smile. He pointed at the walls and then at his ear.
“Best get back to praying, your grace,” he said.
De Rohan was beside himself with anger. He turned to his senior officer Ser Eustace De l’Isle d’Adam.
“Where are they?” he asked.
L’Isle d’Adam shook his head. “No one can tell me,” he said.