Six Savage Thrones (Queens of Elben #2)

Chapter One Cecilia

CHAPTER ONE

Cecilia

Cecilia takes great delight in her needles, and has in her collection seven hundred and something of all kinds and lengths.

Gold, pewter, plain, jewelled, long, stubby.

Some add glitter to fabric; some turn the thread invisible for the channelling of messages between women.

And one, her favourite, bought at great cost (many thousand coins and the life of her lover) holds in its slender form a poison that will kill at the slightest touch of bare skin and leave no trace.

Yes, Cecilia loves needles very much, partly because she enjoys embroidery, but mostly because she enjoys death.

Cecilia is taking great care over a new piece when her confidante Lorena Consego arrives, striding into her room without even the most perfunctory knock.

The tapestry is intended for Lorena’s bedchamber – when finished it will cover the wall opposite her bed so that she can see it before she falls asleep and as soon as she wakes.

The woman in the piece is unmistakably Cecilia: each hair picked out with long threads of gold; the same pale body, constellation-freckled with beads, long-limbed and round-stomached.

“You are ruining the surprise,” Cecilia says.

Lorena’s hair is bound in two long, black plaits knotted tightly around her scalp, revealing skin so richly brown it makes Cecilia quite jealous.

There are fine wrinkles around her eyes and forehead that make her look a few years Cecilia’s elder, even though they are of an age.

“My apologies, Your Highness,” Lorena says, barely glancing at the cloth. Cecilia does not like that. She thought it would elicit a reaction from Lorena: either disapproval at the hint of bare leg on the portrait, or at the very least false gratitude.

“What is it?” she says, trying to keep the petulance from her voice.

“A letter from the bishop. I thought you would want it immediately.”

Cecilia does not like this either. Lorena knows her too well.

“Read it to me,” Cecilia says.

She selects a new needle – a thicker one, designed to give height – and loops deep pink thread into the tapestry, directly above the line of the gown.

A hint of nipple, standing erect and proud from the canvas.

Surely this will shock Lorena. She is tempted to lick it, but that is going too far, even for her.

Besides, it wouldn’t taste nice and she makes a point of not putting anything in her mouth that she doesn’t find pleasant.

Lorena has not seen the addition yet; she is too busy breaking the wax seal – the two horns of Cernunnos indicate the letter comes from a religious man. Bishop More is the only man of God who would ever write to Cecilia.

Lorena clears her throat.

“Your Highness, dear Cecilia,

“Your most recent missive gave me great joy, and I must admit made me smile – it is rare to hear so quickly from you. While I do not condone your interest in worldly gossip, it is difficult to resent it if it means our correspondence is more frequent.

“Your shock is understandable – while it has been several months since the death of the Boleyn traitor and the disappearance of the Seymour girl, the reverberations of their actions are still felt across your home country.

Your brother, I believe, takes it very hard.

As you know, he is a great romantic and the betrayal of two loves has been a heavy blow.

I can only be thankful that Lady Boleyn perceived her end was inevitable and made the choice to take her own life – in that at least she spared Henry the pain of executing her.

May she and her lover be tormented for eternity by the waelcyrge of hell.

To commit treason for the sake of a poor and, if I may say so, barely talented poet is unthinkable to me.

“But enough of my verbosity. I can picture your expression at this moment: you will be rolling your eyes. ‘Enough moralising, you tiresome old man!’”

Cecilia snorts. She lays her needle just so next to the others, then straightens, cracking her aching shoulders. She goes to the fireplace and throws another acelath rock into the cold flame. A chill gust blows around the room, leaving icy patterns on the marble walls as Lorena continues:

“The king has this very day returned from Capetia with Queen Parr.

I believe his discussions of an alliance between the two countries was fruitful – your brother could charm a fairy from its nest if he set his mind to it.

And I bear further news still. Indeed, this is news that may pertain directly to you, if you are so inclined.

I do not think that Lords Cromwell or Wolsey shall mind me sharing this with you (whichever of their servants are reading this letter – is it you, Oswald?

Or is it Nicholas this time? – I direct you to send it immediately to the Lady Cecilia, and if your masters take issue with the contents, I pray you direct them to me).

“My news is that the surviving traitor, the Lady Seymour, is rumoured to be travelling to Perfugi.

The king, as you can imagine, is keen to see her arraigned for her crimes.

As to her motives for coming to Perfugi – who knows?

But if you are the same girl I once knew, full of curiosity and spark, who caused me so much trouble before you married your late royal husband, I think you will be just as eager to find the Lady Seymour as your brother.

You must know that the reward and gratitude of the king would be great indeed should you manage to find her.

I would only warn you that she may have with her a great beast: a black panther, which is large and dangerous.

Be sure that you do not fall foul of the creature, for I would never wish to see you harmed.

“Yours, in fondness,

“Bishop Thomas More of Pilvreen.”

Cecilia thrums her fingers on the mantelpiece. The cold fire makes her gown – thin silk, unlike the heavy articles worn in Elben – move like water.

“So she is alive after all,” Cecilia says.

Lorena passes the letter to her with a dipped curtsey.

“I wonder how she has survived for so long,” Lorena says.

“The Feorwans, I imagine,” Cecilia replies, examining More’s handwriting. “They helped her to escape Elben. They must have been helping her all this while.”

“Your brother will not like that.”

“No.”

This explains the tales she has heard of Elbenese raids upon the Feorwan Isles.

She rarely pays attention to matters of international politics, which are too broad and impersonal to hold her interest, but that she did find curious.

The Feorwan Isles have been under Elbenese rule for a century or more, and it is unlike her brother to exact punishment needlessly.

Now it makes sense – Henry is ensuring their loyalty.

Lorena edges closer to Cecilia. “Would you like me to rub your shoulders? You have been long at your work; your back must be aching.”

“Do not fuss over me,” Cecilia says, striding past Lorena and sitting back in front of the tapestry, tossing her hair over her shoulder. She throws Lorena her most scornful look. “You are being a mother. You know what I did to my mother.”

“Yes, Your Highness,” Lorena says.

“What did I do to my mother?”

Cecilia wants to hear her say it.

“You killed her, Your Highness.”

“I did. I killed her.”

Lorena bites her lip. If she says what Cecilia knows she wants to say – you were a baby, she would not resent you her life – Cecilia will drive the needle into Lorena’s arm.

There is a litany of pinprick scars across Lorena’s skin from many years of displeasing her queen.

Cecilia would rather like to see whether there is a point at which Lorena will break.

She has not found it yet. One day. One day, when she no longer desires her company, she will find that point.

Cecilia picks up her needle once more. Her shoulders are aching.

“You may rub me, I suppose,” she says.

Lorena stands behind her, studiously not looking at the tapestry. She begins to rub Cecilia’s shoulders, just the way Cecilia enjoys. Cecilia sighs, then she groans, knowing the sound will make Lorena uncomfortable.

“Would you like me to engage the doctrini?” Lorena says.

“Six.”

“So many for one woman?”

“Are you ignorant? Do you not recall what More said about the panther?”

Lorena increases the pressure on Cecilia’s shoulders.

“I am a little afraid for her,” she says.

“You know as well as I that people are far better weapons than swords. In my hands, at least.”

“And now I am very much afraid for her.”

Cecilia holds up a hand. Lorena stops and moves to one side so that she can be seen.

“You have not commented on your present,” Cecilia says, angling her head towards the tapestry. Lorena looks reluctantly, and Cecilia takes the opportunity to reach out and flick the embroidered nipple, watching Lorena’s reaction all the while. Nothing. Even worse – a flash of boredom.

“It is beautiful work as always, Your Highness. I am fortunate indeed to be the recipient of such generosity,” Lorena says.

Heat rises in Cecilia. “You are in my space,” she says. Lorena steps backwards and sinks to the floor. “Forgive me, Your Highness.”

Anyone else and Cecilia would have cut off their hands, or hobbled them.

But then Lorena has always known how to appeal to Cecilia’s softer instincts; has done ever since Cecilia met her on her first night on foreign soil, days before her wedding to the strange, ailing king of Capetia.

He had gifted Cecilia seven ladies-in-waiting, and Lorena with her purring accent, not quite Capetian, not quite Perfugian, had understood immediately how to wrestle with Cecilia’s wit.

Lorena, the widowed Duchess of Giralve, with her voice like steel and her posture like the ancient oak trees that line High Hall’s pathways.

Cecilia flicks her wrist, dismissing the woman. Lorena backs out, her eyes lowered. By the time she reaches the door, Cecilia has thought of another way to needle her.

“Send your brother to me,” she says.

The ploy works, no matter how hard Lorena tries to conceal it. In the little flash of her eyes, Cecilia reads hatred, disappointment, fear and resignation. But Lorena only says, “Of course, Your Highness,” before excusing herself.

Cecilia examines the tapestry. Days of work, and now when she looks at it, all she can see is Lorena’s boredom.

She selects the one knife in her collection of needles.

She punctures the tapestry in silence, first the face, then the nipple and the hint of bare leg.

It isn’t enough. Her stabs turn to slashes, until the whole piece is fluttering ribbons.

By the time the boy Florin slides into her room and bows, she has worked up an appetite.