Sure enough, the pot-boy had left his little skiff tied by the kitchens. She stepped in, loosed it from its mooring, and set the oars in their hole-pins, remembering afternoons on the river with her father. As silently and quickly as she could, she rowed across the moat, praying to St. Jude to aid her. He must have heard, for she gained the farther shore without a single cry from the grange. She set the oars back in the skiff and shoved it away into the moat; people would think it had simply pulled loose from its pier during the storm.
She could have shouted with triumph, but reminded herself that she was still far from free. Off she went into the rain, welcoming the drubbing it gave her, blessing the mud that squelched beneath her boots, off into the dimness of the weather until she came into the shelter of the deer park, tall trees gathering close to hide her. There she let herself rest for a few minutes, let the shivering of close escape take her, then remembered that she should feel victorious, for she was free, and no matter what dangers she faced, they could not be worse than King Drustan and his puling son.
Off into the wood she went, the rain only the occasional drop striking through the leaves, off to hide herself in the deepest forest she could find, and remember all her father had ever tried to teach her about hunting and fishing.
The footman poured mulled wine into the goblets, bowed to Alisande, and backed out of the room. She watched him go, frowning and toying with her standing cup. “I do not know if this Latrurian conceit pleases me entirely. A subject should be able to bow and turn about so that he can see the door through which he goes.”
“It is a mark of respect, my dear,” Mama reminded her.
“Respect? If King Drustan had done it to me, it would mean only that he did not trust me behind his back!”
“Wise of him,” Papa said.
“Indeed.” Alisande’s lips thinned. “But are my subjects not to trust me? No, I think I shall return to my father’s protocol. I never asked for this, after all.”
“Odd that your noblemen should feel the need for more elaborate ceremony,” Papa said.
“They have begun it only because Queen Petronille insisted they behave so to her—but she was reared much closer to Latruria than I. No, I think I shall insist on northern ways.”
“She has played havoc even with your domestic arrangements,” Mama sighed.
“What greater havoc could she play than beguiling my husband and your son away from us?” Alisande demanded, then softened. “Though I cannot fault the poor dame, when she has lost a son of her own!”
“I cannot believe she had anything to do with his murder,” Mama stated.
Papa nodded. “By the guards’ report, she stayed in her chamber from the finishing of our conference till the horrible news of the tragedy came, and she quarreled with King Drustan for the first hour of that time.”
“Only the first?” Alisande caught the discrepancy immediately. “Did they finish their dispute so quickly?”
“I doubt that it ever ends,” Papa said with irony, “but King Drustan did stalk out in wrath, to walk abroad for most of the second hour.”
“Surely that would not have been time enough for him to murder his son and come back!”
“I should think not,” Papa agreed, “and the guards have inquired, and assure me that he did not pass through the gatehouse or the postern in that time. Wherever he stalked, it was inside the castle.”
“Prince John was in his chamber all the while,” Mama sat a little straighter, her whole body expressing disapproval. “We have a witness to the fact.”
Alisande glanced at her, caught the message of her body language, and did not ask for particulars. “And Prince Brion?”
“So far as I can tell,” Mama answered, “he went out wenching with his brother, but was too much imbued with the ideals of chivalry to patronize a prostitute.”
“But perhaps not too chivalrous to stab his brother in the back?” Alisande shook her head. “It is far too unlikely. Did no one see him at the Inn of the Courier Snail?”
“None I have talked to saw him there,” Papa told her. “I can only think that he went to a different inn.”
“Or came in disguise with a dirk,” Mama said, troubled. “I think he loves Rosamund, but will not admit it. Still, Gaheris treated her most rudely, and Brion might think of killing Gaheris as defending Rosamund’s virtue.”
“He might have been right to have thought so,” Alisande said grimly. “Did no one see the stabbing?”
“None,” Papa said. “The assassin struck from behind, and none saw the blow itself. We only know that a Bretanglian guarded Gaheris’ back as long as he could. Minutes after that soldier fell, Gaheris died.”
“Brion, in a soldier’s garb?” Alisande shrugged. “If they were to disguise themselves as commoners, it would have been the habit he would have preferred. Still, I cannot believe he would have fought to protect his brother one minute and stabbed him in the back the next.”
“It is hard to believe,” Papa said noncommittally. “Still, on the face of it, none of Gaheris’ family struck the fatal blow.”
“Nor did Rosamund,” Mama said, “for she, too, was in her chamber all that time. None actually saw her sleeping, but none saw her come out, either.”
“I think we must assume that if any of the family were involved at all, it was by hiring the assassin,” Alisande said, “and Matthew’s Man Who Went Out the Window is still the most likely to have been the actual killer, no matter his denial.”
“What murderer would boast of his deed to the queen’s husband?” Mama agreed.
“Or her Lord Wizard,” Papa seconded.
There was a knock at the door. There were several knocks, then a storm.
Alisande rose and turned to face the portal, calling, “Enter!”
The door opened; the guards stepped in, and between them came a man in stout broadcloth leggins, tunic, and cloak, still coated with dust, his face lined with fatigue. “Your Majesty!” He sank to one knee and almost fell.
A guard caught him.
“Rise,” Alisande commanded, and the guard helped the courier to his feet. “What news?” the queen demanded.
The man’s words fairly tumbled over each other in his urgency. “The war is done, Your Majesty!”
“Done?” Alisande stared. “It has scarcely begun!”
“The king met the queen in the field, with an army six times her number,” the messenger told her. “Prince Brion ambushed Earl Marshal on his way to the battlefield, but the marshal struck him down, vanquished his men, and took the princess sword.”
“He let Prince Brion live, though?” Alisande demanded.
“He did, though unhorsed—and before the marshal’s men had ridden from sight, a knight in blue armor came riding out of the mists and slew the prince. Earl Marshal carried his body to the battleground, but someone stole it away during the fighting.”
“Stole a dead body?” Alisande stared. “Why?”
The spy shook his head. “Your Majesty can imagine the reason far better than I.”
“I can indeed.” Alisande’s face darkened. “We shall soon hear rumors that the prince was not slain, but lives, and gathers an army in the hinterland to free his mother and claim the throne. Queen Petronille is imprisoned, is she not?”
“She might as well be,” the spy told her. “The king has sent her to Castle Durif, where she will have a score of servitors and every luxury but freedom.”