The next day, Elsabet tried to pay attention to what Gilbert was saying. It was some matter of coin, which normally she was quite involved in, much to the rest of the Black Council’s chagrin. She gathered that the previous queen was rather hands-off when it came to the day-to-day ruling, preferring instead to focus on the grander, broader strokes of war raids and quests. When Elsabet came into the crown, she thought that the Black Council would welcome her interest. But instead they seemed to resent it. Even the young members she appointed herself: Sonia Beaulin and Francesca Arron. Not Catherine Howe, though. Kind, level-headed Catherine Howe could probably not be resentful of anything.
Today, though, the council could have its way. All through the morning session, Elsabet’s answers had been clipped and passionless. Her eyes flitted across papers presented to her without seeing them. She was distracted, and the reason was clear to everyone in the room.
Her king-consort had been seated at a table with a dark-haired beauty for the last hour. Except he was not quite sitting. He was leaning so far across toward her that he was less at the table than he was mounting it.
“Elsie.”
Elsabet blinked. Gilbert called her that only in private. How many times had she ignored him, she wondered, to get him to resort to it before the court?
“Yes, Gilbert.”
“Are you with us?”
“Of course.” She motioned with her hand. “Go on.” She ignored their doubtful expressions and refocused. It was not a complicated matter; she could catch up on what she had missed. Or she could if her ears were not filled with her king-consort’s laughter, a sound made all the louder by the fact that he was clearly trying to muffle it.
Elsabet turned and stared at William. At her movement, the rest of the court froze. All but the king-consort and the girl whose dark curls were twirled around his fingers. The room went so silent that when Elsabet spoke, it rang through the air like a shout.
“What is so funny?”
William’s and the girl’s laughter cut off abruptly, and they broke apart. His hand slid back to his side of the table like a guilty snake. “Darling?” he asked, and Elsabet smiled broadly.
“What is so funny? You have been quite merry there in your little corner. Will you not share the joke with us?”
“Ah . . .” William’s mouth hung agape. “We were discussing the state of fashion. How . . . how many layers and ties and time it takes to get one properly dressed.”
Properly dressed. Or quickly undressed.
“Of course.” Elsabet forced a laugh. In the court, a few scared or sympathetic folk joined in. “A very funny subject indeed.”
For a moment, it seemed that Elsabet would return to the matter of coin. She sat there for several long, slow breaths, her hands clenching and unclenching in her lap as she tried to master herself. But in the end, she could not. She stood and pushed away from the Black Council table, her long legs sweeping her quickly down the aisle.
“Queen Elsabet! Elsie!” Gilbert sputtered, and shuffled papers, hastening to follow her.
“That is all for today,” Elsabet announced as she left. “I thank you for your attendance.”
As soon as she quit the room, Bess was at her side without needing to be summoned, as was Rosamund Antere, who swung her spear in a broad circle to pave the queen’s way.
“Bess, my gloves, if you please. And a carriage.”
“Ready the queen’s carriage!” Rosamund bellowed, and ten queensguard soldiers jumped to do her bidding.
“No,” Elsabet called out. “I have changed my mind. Not the carriage. A horse. And horses for the commander and Bess.”
“Elsabet.” Gilbert caught up to her and took her by the elbow. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine, Gilbert. I am just going to take some air at the river market.”
He frowned. The Black Council did not like the queen frequenting the markets like a commoner. But that is precisely why she did it: to be like her people, to be out among them. To mix with them and hear their troubles firsthand. And today, it would give her distance from William and his girl, so let the council grumble. She could never seem to please them anyway.
Sonia Beaulin appeared at the door and lifted her chin. “The river market?” She sniffed and turned her gaze on Rosamund. “You shouldn’t take the queen there with such a small detail of soldiers.”
“I know the layout well, Beaulin,” Rosamund replied. “A small detail is plenty of protection.”
“Forgive me if I do not trust the judgment of an Antere.”
Rosamund stepped forward. So did Sonia, though Rosamund towered over her by a head.
“Enough, enough.” Gilbert pressed them apart. “You are like dogs, you two. Snarling and snapping and your hackles always up. We ought to have appointed a naturalist to the Black Council so they could bring you to heel.”
“Thank you, Gilbert,” the queen said, and began to walk before anyone else could pose an objection. “I will not be gone overlong.”
After the queen had left, her party following in her shadow, Sonia returned to the throne room and made her way to her friend, the poisoner Francesca Arron.
“That is the first time she has spoken against his behavior in public,” she said. Then she snorted. “Look at him. How dejected his handsome face looks. He won’t be able to muster the nerve to climb into a strange bed tonight.”
“Perhaps tomorrow,” Francesca replied. But she was not even looking at the king-consort. She was looking at the gathered people, watching them whisper. Registering the surprise on their faces at their usually composed queen’s small outburst. No doubt Francesca would be devising a way to use that gossip to her advantage. Arrons were always like that. “Have the girl banished from attending court for a season,” Francesca said. “And make sure you are seen doing it. The queen will appreciate that favor.”