Chapter Eleven #2
“The middle of a dance is the best place to plot. And I’ve rather missed plotting,” he said.
“As have I.”
We both grinned as we marched forward, my hand resting over his. “Does Guildford suspect we were in his rooms?”
“I’m not sure. They haven’t met in days.”
“I may need to send my little spy out again,” he said. “The furry, white one.”
“Your spy?”
His mouth brushed my cheek as he leaned down to whisper. “The spy is quite handy. She’s better than all of mine put together.”
The music drew to a close, the last pluck of the lute hovering in the air.
Cecily hot with jealousy, Kitty Seton quietly seething.
I shut both of them out, because each time I felt Roland’s effect on others, my palms began to sweat and color flared in my cheeks.
The boundary between their minds and mine fraying, their lust for him tipping over into me.
Back at the table, I dug into cuts of meat and sweet pies.
Oliver groaned and rubbed circles over his stomach, offering me the rest of his plate.
Butter melted on my tongue, and I already wanted more before I’d swallowed.
Perhaps if I stayed here long enough, my capacity for greed would expand.
Perhaps I would never know satisfaction again.
Perhaps Ambrose, Saturn rest him, was right about courts favoring their ruling magician.
Roland’s court was desirous. Lunging for another serving, another goblet.
A hand on my waist for just a moment longer.
The grip I imagined at first was familiar and calloused, and then, the hands on me glistened with jewels. With the king’s signet ring.
My attention returned to the feast—to reason.
Wyatt Francis stood and cleared his throat, and after the chatter had faded, he invited all the competing magicians to gather.
The three of us remaining had all locked our beast in their cage.
Oliver, Roland, and I lined up, side by side, before the king.
Three boys carried a large object into the center of the gardens, setting it in the grass.
A heavy wooden block with a carved headrest. Then came the captain of the guard, Henry Tromblay, a devout Mars worshipper, his face thatched with scars.
Guards filed in after him, leading six defeated-looking, bedraggled men.
These men wore only linen undershirts and sagging breeches, no shoes.
Their faces were coated in grime, most of their beards overgrown and unkempt.
I understood, then. The block. Their desperate, pleading eyes. For dragging a longsword behind them all was an executioner dressed in black.
Everyone knew the longsword was kinder than the axe.
“Three of these men have committed egregious crimes against the kingdom of Alvion and His Majesty the King,” cried Wyatt Francis.
“The other three are innocent. It is your task, magicians, to determine who is who. It is essential to His Majesty that magicians work for the good of the realm, to implement justice, to oversee fairness and the law. The winner will be the one who makes their decision the fastest. They will proceed to the third and final round with the second-place finisher. The magician in third place will be eliminated.”
Roland, Oliver, and I exchanged glances, and a terrible, wretched horror passed through each of us.
The first two men were brought forward. One guilty, one innocent—but how to tell?
The men stood side by side as Wyatt Francis announced, “Here stands a traitor accused of the murder of the king’s messenger.
Not only that, but the accused delivered the stolen correspondence to Balthasar, court magician of Bastian. ”
Wyatt recited the litany of Roland’s titles, and he stepped forward first, cracking the knuckles on one hand as the other shook at his side, his mouth set in a hard line.
He surveyed the two men. Circled them, his hands clasped behind his back. He would be probing their minds, searching for tells, for depraved desires or bloodlust. At the table, the court stomped their feet and jeered.
It took several minutes for him to nod at the taller man and return to his seat. Roland’s eyes were glassy and fixed on his plate, as if he couldn’t bear to witness what was going to happen next.
“No,” his choice cried out, struggling in the captain’s grip. “No. He’s got it wrong!”
The man was pushed onto his knees regardless, protesting in vain, his arms held down by more guards as he flailed. “Have some dignity,” Tom Guildford said. The court reached for tarts and cakes and threw them at the condemned as his cheek was slammed to the block.
I closed my eyes as soon as I heard the whoosh through the air.
The head rolled and rolled, the eyes still wide open and the mouth parted mid-shout.
The courtiers clapped, raising their cups to Roland, who said nothing at all.
The courtiers’ attention swung back toward Wyatt, but I didn’t look away.
I couldn’t. Not as a single tear gathered in the corner of Roland’s eye and rolled slowly down his face.
It hung there, shining on his cheekbone, as a new traitor and innocent were hauled in for Oliver, just as the beasts had been led into the tiltyard.
“One of these men has been accused of treason against the king by supporting the claim of his nephew, Fulke Roet, in illicit meetings and distributed pamphlets, rather than the son and true heir that will be borne by his new wife, Queen Cecily.”
Fulke shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his face wan in the moonlight.
Neither prisoner flinched as the food struck their face. Oliver did not observe them silently. Instead, he stroked his chin and asked both a simple question: “What is your opinion of the king? A full sentence, please.”
“I hold him in the highest esteem,” said the first.
“He is the most generous, the most regal lord, loved by all.”
Oliver immediately pointed to the second man.
Unlike the first traitor, he was very still, resigned to his fate.
He allowed the guards to position him, to lay his cheek against the wood, and then his head was swiftly parted from his body.
The courtiers cried out and gasped. Kitty Seton leaned over to whisper something into Cecily’s ear.
It was time. Wyatt appraised me from his position beside the king, beckoning me forward.
“Bianca Mortlake, your traitor,” he read, “was heard making lewd comments and boasting that he had known the queen intimately before her marriage to the king.”
The Guildfords all shouted in protest, rising from their seats, their cups sloshing wine onto the grass.
They were more boys than men, my two prisoners. Nearly my age. One was clean-shaven; the other had a fresh, scraggly beard. The hair rose on their arms as they stared at me. What stories had they been told, and what did they call me? Was I a mind-leech? A witch?
My voice was soft when I spoke. I felt as if I were kneeling, holding my hand out, trying to convince a frightened dog to sniff me. “Would you both please think of that moment Wyatt described, when you boasted of—” I bit my lip. “When you boasted. Can you remember it?”
The clean-shaven boy shook his head. His eyes were very blue. A natural shade, not Jupiter-blue. Still, I saw Prospero. “Neither of us said it. Neither of us even implied it!”
“Wyatt’s the one lying to you,” the other boy cried.
And the memory rose up from his mind, fragile as he held it out to me, as though I might drop it. “The queen visits often,” he observed from his post, watching Cecily flutter down the hall in her shift. “She was mighty different at Foxhall, the Guildford manor.”
“You knew her there?”
“I served as Tom Guildford’s page before I was brought to court. Ran all his errands. So I knew her a little.”
A look passed between them. The bearded boy smacked his companion’s shoulder. “Oh, she didn’t say much to me. But one of her maids had loose lips. She told me Cecily only had eyes for Prince Hal and swore that one day she’d have him.”
“Now she’s married to his father.”
“Shame, that.”
The clarity of the memory convinced me. Their emotions, too—they were both terrified, but there was no undercurrent of guilt beneath the fear.
The blue-eyed boy offered his memory, too, and his was remarkably similar.
And there was something else: He was newly married.
He showed me his wife’s sweet face as he trembled.
They were innocent. Both of them. Just youths trading gossip too loudly in a palace already on edge. Meanwhile, the executioner readjusted his grip on the longsword, and the entire court was waiting for me to decide.
Roland must have known what I intended to do moments before I did it, because his eyes widened.
“Innocent,” I whispered.
“Speak up, please, Mistress Mortlake,” Wyatt said.
I cleared my throat. “There was no treason committed. Neither of these men is guilty. Neither boasted of intimacy with the queen. I saw a memory of the incident itself, and both of them recalled it the same way. I believe their accounts are true.”
Shock traveled through the court. The king’s hand stalled as he raised a cut of meat to his lips.
“Choose anyway, Wyatt,” the king said. “The Moonborn must be mistaken.” He resumed eating.
Roland shook his head, opening his mouth to protest. But Wyatt was already pointing to the blue-eyed boy.
The guards slammed him onto his knees, and the executioner lined his sword up with his neck.
“No! Please, don’t! Stop!” I reached forward, caught air.
It took two swings. There was no need for the block. And in the stillness that followed, I thought, How will I survive here?
You must, Bianca. You must.