she said gently, but her eyes raked my face. “And I have people who report to me everything that happens in my palace. Did you know that, Roger?”
“N-no, Your Grace.” I had guessed that she had spies, but not that they would report on lowly laundresses. Maggie? Joan? No, it would have been one of the other apprentices, whose sleep I had disturbed night after night. What else had I said? Lord Robert lounged in a chair, his expression somewhere between disapproval and amusement.
“Ordinarily, of course, I would not find it interesting that a laundress—even a boy laundress—called out the name of a ship foundered by wreckers. It was a public event, after all, and word spreads. But you have called out other things, too, Roger. ‘Soulvine Moor.’ ‘Hygryll.’ ‘Lord Digby.’”
Lord Robert looked up sharply from his wine. The amusement disappeared.
“What do you know of Lord Digby, Roger?”
Old Mrs. Humphries, sitting under a tree by a river in the country of the Dead, prattling of her childhood. I said desperately, “Your Grace, I know only that he once rode through the village of Stonegreen and gave a gold coin to a child.”
Robin said, “Bruce Digby never gave anything to anyone.”
“Lord William Digby!” In my agitation I scarcely knew what I said. All sweetness had vanished from the queen’s face. She had so many faces, this queen; she was changeable as weather. Now neither firelight nor candlelight brought warmth to her chill marble.
She said, “The grandfather? And how could you know that, Roger? He died long before you were born.”
“The child told me! When she was an old lady! It was a family story!”
“And is Soulvine Moor, too, a family story?”
I could only gaze at her in despair.
“I think, Roger, that it was not Lord William Digby whose name you called out, but that of Lord Bruce. And—”
“No, no, it was not! ”
“You dare to interrupt me? And I think that calling out ‘Soulvine Moor’ and ‘ Frances Ormund ’ was not by happenchance, either. Nor was calling out ‘my lady Frahyll.’”
I remembered Lady Frahyll. Another talkative old woman, another country faire with Hartah’s booth. But that town had boasted a manor house, and the lord’s mother had recently died. A harmless, babbling old dame, too old and too dead to preserve the distinctions of rank. She had told me happily about the people of the countryside, and I had saved myself a beating from Hartah.
“Frahyll is not a common name,” the queen said. “It bears the tortured syllables of southern names, names from the Unclaimed Lands or even from Soulvine Moor. Names like ‘Hygryll.’ Like ‘Hartah.’ You call out ‘Hartah’ often, Roger. Is he, too, dead?”
I was mute with terror.
“Roger, can you cross over to the country of the Dead?”
Lord Robert said impatiently, “That is impossible. I have told you and told you, Caro—crossing over is a superstition. A belief among the ignorant country folk, who still believe that spitting at frogs at midnight causes thunderstorms.”
The queen ignored him. Her gaze, black flecked with submerged silver, never left mine. Terror held me mute. She could torture me, burn me for a witch. . . .
“Think carefully, Roger, before you answer me. I will have the truth, and there are ways of obtaining it. They are not pleasant ways. I don’t want to have to use them on you but—”
“For sweet sake, Caro, he’s just a boy!”
“—but I will if necessary. I am not a cruel woman, Roger. I am a woman who wants to rule my country well. Who faces obstacles to my rule, obstacles you cannot begin to imagine. Who will do whatever is necessary to rule well, for the greater good and for the sake of my daughter, who must rule after me. Do you understand me?”
“Y-yes.”
“Then I will ask you one more time. Answer truthfully, and answer with full awareness of the consequences. You are not stupid. I can see that you are not stupid. Roger, can you
“N-no, Your Grace.” I had guessed that she had spies, but not that they would report on lowly laundresses. Maggie? Joan? No, it would have been one of the other apprentices, whose sleep I had disturbed night after night. What else had I said? Lord Robert lounged in a chair, his expression somewhere between disapproval and amusement.
“Ordinarily, of course, I would not find it interesting that a laundress—even a boy laundress—called out the name of a ship foundered by wreckers. It was a public event, after all, and word spreads. But you have called out other things, too, Roger. ‘Soulvine Moor.’ ‘Hygryll.’ ‘Lord Digby.’”
Lord Robert looked up sharply from his wine. The amusement disappeared.
“What do you know of Lord Digby, Roger?”
Old Mrs. Humphries, sitting under a tree by a river in the country of the Dead, prattling of her childhood. I said desperately, “Your Grace, I know only that he once rode through the village of Stonegreen and gave a gold coin to a child.”
Robin said, “Bruce Digby never gave anything to anyone.”
“Lord William Digby!” In my agitation I scarcely knew what I said. All sweetness had vanished from the queen’s face. She had so many faces, this queen; she was changeable as weather. Now neither firelight nor candlelight brought warmth to her chill marble.
She said, “The grandfather? And how could you know that, Roger? He died long before you were born.”
“The child told me! When she was an old lady! It was a family story!”
“And is Soulvine Moor, too, a family story?”
I could only gaze at her in despair.
“I think, Roger, that it was not Lord William Digby whose name you called out, but that of Lord Bruce. And—”
“No, no, it was not! ”
“You dare to interrupt me? And I think that calling out ‘Soulvine Moor’ and ‘ Frances Ormund ’ was not by happenchance, either. Nor was calling out ‘my lady Frahyll.’”
I remembered Lady Frahyll. Another talkative old woman, another country faire with Hartah’s booth. But that town had boasted a manor house, and the lord’s mother had recently died. A harmless, babbling old dame, too old and too dead to preserve the distinctions of rank. She had told me happily about the people of the countryside, and I had saved myself a beating from Hartah.
“Frahyll is not a common name,” the queen said. “It bears the tortured syllables of southern names, names from the Unclaimed Lands or even from Soulvine Moor. Names like ‘Hygryll.’ Like ‘Hartah.’ You call out ‘Hartah’ often, Roger. Is he, too, dead?”
I was mute with terror.
“Roger, can you cross over to the country of the Dead?”
Lord Robert said impatiently, “That is impossible. I have told you and told you, Caro—crossing over is a superstition. A belief among the ignorant country folk, who still believe that spitting at frogs at midnight causes thunderstorms.”
The queen ignored him. Her gaze, black flecked with submerged silver, never left mine. Terror held me mute. She could torture me, burn me for a witch. . . .
“Think carefully, Roger, before you answer me. I will have the truth, and there are ways of obtaining it. They are not pleasant ways. I don’t want to have to use them on you but—”
“For sweet sake, Caro, he’s just a boy!”
“—but I will if necessary. I am not a cruel woman, Roger. I am a woman who wants to rule my country well. Who faces obstacles to my rule, obstacles you cannot begin to imagine. Who will do whatever is necessary to rule well, for the greater good and for the sake of my daughter, who must rule after me. Do you understand me?”
“Y-yes.”
“Then I will ask you one more time. Answer truthfully, and answer with full awareness of the consequences. You are not stupid. I can see that you are not stupid. Roger, can you
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