Chapter Twenty-Five Cleves
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Cleves
There is an art to setting a trap. Cleves has laid many in her time. As a child, she became adept at understanding the way creatures moved through a forest or a marsh: boar; the smaller wild dragons of Ezzonid; soldiers; vicious fairies.
The patch of woodland she squats in now reminds her of those days. The air is humid, scented with mud and the tang of bear’s garlic. They are only a short ride from the outskirts of Cnothan Town, but no human has willingly come to this wood in many years, despite its rich offerings.
“I do not understand why you did not set your servants this task,” Johana says. He passes her another twist of rope, and she secures it to two tree trunks, creating a makeshift fence, a funnel.
“If my husband had sought anything other than living crones, I might have done.”
“So you risk my life instead. I am flattered.”
“I will remind you again that I did not insist upon your company, Johana. You could always journey to Gnottel Lodge and check on our prisoner.”
He has been by her side almost constantly since the moment she admitted her plan to overthrow Henry. She cannot deny that he has been helpful, but she can neither trust nor stomach it. She has been content with her own company for many years. She is too set in her ways to change now.
“From what my servants have told me of Cecilia’s behaviour, I think I would rather face the crones.”
They move to their next position, tracking a path between ferns and bluebells to a deep trench, freshly dug.
“Why does the king even wish for such vile creatures?” Johana says. He presses a handkerchief over his nose, so his voice is muffled.
“That I do not yet know.”
“But you think it wise to help him?”
She casts around for fallen branches, using them to cover the trench in greenery.
“I think it wise to show him that I am willing to do his bidding, no matter how dangerous,” she says.
Johana flicks a branch in her direction with his toe. “Do you fear that he suspects you?”
“He would be a fool not to.” She throws the branch over the trench, covering the last of it, and stands, out of breath.
“Of all his remaining queens, I stand the most to gain from taking back the goddess’s power, since I have never been in his favour.
And Cecilia’s ship was nigh on halfway between Cnothan and Plythe.
Of course he will be watching me closely. ”
“It is perhaps good fortune, then, that your brother has tied our two countries so closely together with this treaty. It offers you some protection, no?”
“Yes, my brother undoubtedly made the deal for my benefit.”
Johana sighs loudly. The sound clogs the woody air.
She glares at him. “Quiet, cousin; you will alert the crone to my plans.”
He pulls a face at her as they used to do when they were children, but when he speaks again he is quieter. “Can you truly blame Wilhelm for treating with Henry? He waited, cousin. We waited. When our butterflies told us the rumours, we waited for you. And you never sent us more than niceties.”
She stifles a laugh as she kneels, checking from every angle that the trench is concealed.
“What would have been the point? Ezzonid would never have moved against Elben. Even if you were a seafaring nation, you could have sent ship after ship against the bordweal and seen every one destroyed.”
“You are no simpleton. You know as well as I that there is more than one way to wage war, and many ways without need of weapons or warships. Is this not the war you wage now?”
He has a point there, but Cleves is not about to admit it.
“Well, I am the way I am, Johana. I have taken you into my confidence now, have I not?”
There is movement in the distance. A crack of branches breaking. They still. Johana swears beneath his breath. “If I die in this godforsaken place, I shall spit upon you, cousin.”
It has been a long time since she heard that phrase. It sounds uncouth in translation, but in its original Ezzonidian, it suggests a haunting, the malicious dance of ghosts.
“No one is going to die,” she says. Not today, at least, if she has set her trap right. In the days to come? Well. It does no good to dwell on that.
She peers through the undergrowth. “There you are,” she breathes.
The crone is statuesque. Even from this distance, she can see it is tall, its spindled front legs almost as long as her body.
The tusks that arc from beneath its jaws are russet with stale blood.
It has no fur, no scales, only spotted tufts of stiff hair.
She is too far away to see its eyes, which are sunken within its skull, but she knows with the knowledge of one who has been both hunter and prey that it watches her as she watches it.
“Stay here and do not move,” she whispers to Johana. He stares at her.
“You are using me as bait?”
“No. I am making it think that I am using you as bait.”
She does not wait to hear his protestations, slipping away towards the east of the wood where the undergrowth is thicker and the trees change from beech to oak.
She finds a particular tree that has obliging roots and low branches, and hefts herself up to a crook.
She settles herself there, kneeling so that she can spring up easily, and searches once more for the crone.
To his credit, Johana has done as she directed.
He remains beside the covered trench, although his crouch is stiff with terror.
The crone continues to watch him, and it is so still that for a moment she wonders if it is a living creature or a statue.
Then it turns, just its head, to rest its gaze on her, and she knows that she has calculated correctly.
Since her first year of marriage, she has studied the crones’ behaviour, for they have plagued the woodlands of her territories all this time.
They are derided as the most abominable of beasts, but she knows something about the power that comes from being labelled unattractive.
The way it can be used as a camouflage. The crones, above all else, are intelligent.
They can smell a trick, catch a deception. So she has given them one.
Cleves holds her breath as the crone slips closer to Johana. For such an ungainly beast, it can move with impressive stealth, using its long front legs to test a spot, almost as a human would use their hands.
Johana edges back against a tree trunk. He is muttering something that she cannot hear, although she would lay money on it being a string of Ezzonidian curses.
Her heart thumps faster, louder. Has she misjudged?
If the crone falls into the trench, she will not be able to truss it up for delivery to High Hall. Her plan will come to naught.
“Be clever, but not too clever,” she whispers. It is an entreaty, a prayer.
And it works.
As the crone’s cloven hoof descends upon the unsupported branch that covers the trench, the creature seems to transform.
From stealth, it erupts into movement, so quickly that Cleves almost throws herself backwards and ruins everything.
It springs sideways on powerful back legs, charging towards the tree where she crouches.
Cleves bares her teeth in victory.
The crone reaches the bottom of the tree. She can see its eyes now; black pebbles in a rat’s head. And in those eyes she realises her miscalculation. She is too high for the crone to reach her with its head, but not with those long forelegs.
She tugs on the rope next to her at the same moment as the beast reaches up and scrapes one of those cloven hooves across her stomach.
A dozen ropes, concealed in the thick undergrowth, spring up around the crone. It is hoisted into the air, legs tangled and tusks tossing furiously. The net holds despite its struggle.
“Frizun!” Cleves curses, climbing down gingerly.
“You are hurt?” Johana says, stumbling through ferns towards her.
“Not seriously,” she says. Her gown and the many layers of clothing beneath it makes it impossible for her to see the spot where the crone touched her. No blood seeps through, and the fabric is intact, yet her stomach is agony.
They look up at the still-struggling crone. It is only from this vantage point that she sees its teets, shrivelled and milk-dry. Now she thinks on it, it is strange that no one has ever come across a crone with young, or a crone freshly born.
“Will your net hold?” Johana says.
“The rope is made of twisted maegencord,” she says. Vines from Alpich used in shipbuilding and the hoisting of rocks.
Johana nods. He looks at her sidelong. “Just out of curiosity, how would you have explained my death to our family?”
“It would not have come to that.”
He wants her to apologise. She did not ask for his presence here, and if he is going to hold his help over her head, then she does not want it. She is through with men and their desire for gratitude.
Johana smiles sadly.
“Those soldiers, cousin. That night. You were so open and easy before.”
Cleves spreads her arms wide. “Do you not find me convivial, Johana?”
“Convivial, yes. But I miss the earnest girl I once knew. This woman before me is all smiles and smoke. You are like that castle you have holed yourself up inside.”
“Come, Johana. You have been at a royal court for as long as I. You know how we must be.”
“It is not court that has done this to you.”
Cleves turns away from him. She must test the strength of the maegencord before fetching her servants to cage the beast.
“They did not hurt you, hiwi,” he says, using the Ezzonid endearment for a family member. Cleves does not reply. No, they did not hurt her body. That is true. She was spared that at least.
“People are always hurt in a war,” she says quietly. “No one truly escapes unscathed.”
Above their heads, the crone sends up a cry; a keening call of fury that sends the woodland birds spiralling into the sky.