Freyza was giddy with possibility when he got the news, albeit terrible. Isabella had suffered a terrible and fateful accident and had passed as a result thereof. Immediately a number of servants had been arrested and hung — but Freyza, along with many other courtiers, were under the impression that it was not a needless act of cruelty from below, but rather a cutthroat strategy from above.
There was no real justice being served in Massouron, he began to understand. The fact that there was no real justice, however, did not mean that there was no petty justice. In fact, there was plenty of that to go around.
The servants had been those much-hated lads and lasses who made fools out of their fellows and were alleged to spit in the ale of the nobles, for one. Nobody mourned their loss. For another, it became clear nearly immediately as the little corpse of the seventeen-year-old Isabella was shipped back to the war-torn Baradran Kingdom, that King Henri had already spoken the magic words.
Write to Katherine.
That, too, was petty justice, at least for Freyza. When the news undoubtedly trickled down, and it was Bayezid to tell him the fine new announcement, he could not imagine feeling more elated and jumped right out of the state of unshaven and unbathed frustration.
As for Katherine, she was acutely aware of the fact that it was no longer Queen Louise in the saddle the way it was the first time she arrived, but rather King Henri who ran the show. This begged for a different strategy, that would suit the rowdy king’s desire for excitement and madness enough, and somehow disturbed the interests of the Massouric peerage very little.
She did not write when she was coming, and was granted passage through Bourrac with a dozen naval ships that all arrived intermittently. None of them were outfitted in a way to betray Katherine’s presence, and instead of a blue-torched royal carriage, she was shipped out of Bourrac in a carriage that belonged to the Massouric royal courier. It stopped a town before Souchon.
Katherine remained there for a night, setting up a camp with her retinue just outside of town, and in the morning, she dressed in her riding clothes, complete with a pair of riding boots, the likes of which rarely worn by women. From this point forward, she wished to be alone. Having her retinue with her would cause too much attention, and though she was dressed finely, on her own in the rather unremarkable trek to Massouron, there would likely be little attention to draw.
It was the first time she had been alone in the world since she had ascended — years ago at that point. She was excited as well. What she thought to pull off, would make the kind of impression that would be carved into the mind’s eyes of hundreds of courtiers and likely go down in history. Henri would be smitten in an instant. His boredom-induced cruelty would likely never surface again, and Louise, though seething at the manipulation that she could see right through, would have to simply deal with the consequences of having let Katherine go earlier. No longer was she a timid young queen awaiting the approval of her peers, a doe to be shot by a hunter. The roles had reversed: now, she carried the bow.
Though it was likely too on the nose for the more delicately tuned courtiers, she chose literally to carry a crossbow. She was lucky that her target was a far less delicately strung instrument.
As had been discussed with Katherine’s shadowmen, which had never left Massouron — in fact, had never even left Souchon Palace — the guards by the palace gates were expecting her, and looked up with a sort of perverted fascination with the foreign queen’s endeavour.
She neared them on her horse, which trotted along elegantly albeit slowly. ‘Gentlemen,’ she began, scraping her throat at her disuse of Massouric. ‘As long as I’ve seen this wondrous gate, I’ve noticed six eyes on me. I imagine not much comes through here?’
There were three of them. Two rather burly figures, and one sinewy type that was half a head taller than either of them. It was him that they looked towards when Katherine began to await the answer, or at least the opening of the gate.
He bowed, and the others followed. ‘Your Majesty…’ he said. ‘We were simply awed. Our sincere apologies.’
Katherine huffed and waved it off as the gate opened. ‘Well, if things go my way, you’ll have to bear seeing me every day. Often in riding gear as I am now. For the continuation of your employment, I’d advise you to lose the gaping mouths and bulging eyes, or at least learn to work despite it. No reason to be awed. I imagine you’ve seen hunters before.’
Her face appeared austere and cold as she gazed down, perhaps with some disdain, upon the guards.
‘Indeed, Your Majesty,’ he said simply, and the guilty look in his eye told her enough to pick up the pace of her horse’s steps.
Despite all appearances, Katherine’s heart was hammering in her chest, and the bow was burning on her back. There were a few scenarios that she had thought of beforehand. If Henri was, as the least convenient option foretold, out on a hunt, she would somehow have to shoot the precise animal that Henri was planning to. If that was impossible, there was a small chance she would have to shoot someone in his retinue for his attention.
It was not unlikely, but highly undesirable to her. Far more desirable was the prospect that he was simply watching his knights practise, where just shooting a target would be sufficient for his attention.
Either way, the amount of precision asked to complete this nearly mythical impression of her weighed on her heavily. She was fine with a bow and arrow, certainly more suited to it than the sword, and though she was hardly trained as a child, she had been taught by Sir Henry over the course of their years of their affair. Shooting from horseback was hardly her speciality, though, and perhaps even more worryingly, she was hardly stable on a horse with two hands on the reins.
The winding path that led her through the forest were quiet at first. She stopped here and there to listen intently for sounds of others or horses, but to no avail. She trotted forth, beginning to feel her cheeks burn up from the nerves. Perhaps she should not have come there. Perhaps Henri was indeed a doomed prospect.
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Even she had to admit: the uncertainty was somehow delightful, one of the few things in her life that she had any semblance of control over. And if she got back in with Henri, that would set her up for a life filled with pleasure and drunkenness, and none of that humiliation she had felt in parliament.
She had reached the edge of that damned forest before even seeing a single soul, animal or otherwise. The gardens stretched out before her, gaping almost in a horrifically open manner, and only a gardener looked up, his light blue doublet sun-bleached on the back from standing bent-over days on end. Katherine felt all of her plans fall through, and yet had no way out — how would she return to camp with this glorious tale still in its pen? Was camp even still made, or had they packed up in anticipation of her grand entrance?
There was nothing to do but to continue.
The notion of the plan’s silliness began creeping up on her, but she was not the self-conscious type, and managed not to scare herself to abandon it altogether. In fact, as she rode her horse through the manicured garden, she felt compelled to giggle at the ridiculousness of it all. As the hooves trudged through the flowerbeds especially, she could not contain her excitement about the reports that the chroniclers would give of this very day.
She had never expected to hear horseshoes on marble, but that was precisely the clanky noise that followed her up the gentle stairs up to the main entrance, which was closed with a pair of guards alongside it.
Katherine leaned over to one, and drew a lilac blossom from the floral arrangement that was woven in between her braids.
‘I’ve come to see my fiancé,’ she cooed as nonchalantly as she could, then handed him the blossom. ‘This is for the gardener over there. That and my apology.’
‘Your Majesty?’ he asked, surprised to recognise her by her voice. ‘I am afraid we cannot let a horse into the palace.’
‘I’m afraid I cannot wait here,’ Katherine countered sharply. ‘So I suppose that puts us at an impasse.’
She sat back up again and scraped her throat, then declared: ‘You will let me in. I am the Queen of Ilworth and Otterdon Island, and before long, I shall be the Queen of Massouron. Besides, I happen to be armed.’
Wordlessly, they opened the doors for her, and she passed through into the great hall, which was lit up in torchlight and very crowded with courtiers. The familiar air of the scented oils in their candles put Katherine at ease — she was back in Souchon Palace. Those eating had stopped lifting their spoons, and everyone stared in a newfound silence as their eye fell on the woman on her horse, wearing heraldic dress and a wreath of flowers on her head.
She briefly scanned for Henri, but upon realising he was nowhere to be found, took a turn into the hallways. The explanation would come later.
He had to be somewhere. Katherine sincerely hoped he would not be up or down a flight of stairs, given she was already surprised to see this horse, a jennet with a glossy deep brown coat and a luscious black mane, ascend any steps at all. Whenever a door was opened, she lowered herself briefly to check for familiar company.
‘Lady Katherine!’ hollered Theo behind her. ‘My lady!’
Katherine turned her head but did not halt the slow walking of her horse. ‘Theo,’ she said, ‘Just who I was looking for. Does Henri happen to be around?’
‘You have a crossbow,’ Theo said dryly.
‘I do,’ she said. ‘But I’m plain shite when shooting from a horse, so you needn’t worry. And Henri is, where precisely…?’
He ran to catch up with her. He looked good: his shoulder was no longer bandaged and he walked gracefully again. ‘Lady Louise will wish to see you about this,’ he said. ‘You’re leaving a trail of dirt and confusion, my lady.’
‘And where is Henri?’ she insisted. ‘He will wish to see you about this: hindering the goddess of the hunt in her quest to see the great King of Massouron.’
He sighed. ‘Between us two, Katherine, does this mean that you did not succeed the pursuit of a more… apt suitor for your hand? I thought this would not be very hard at all. Alas, we meet again.’
She scoffed. ‘Don’t kid me, Theo. And where are your manners?’
Theo scraped his throat. ‘I welcome you to Souchon Palace, lady Katherine. King Henri is in the library. I wish I could have welcomed you as a distinguished guest rather than a cat returning to the house in which it lost its last life.’
Katherine felt herself tense up at Theo’s words, but once she turned again, and spurred her horse to stop, he was already on his way back to the main hall. ‘I am not here to be bludgeoned to death like an unwanted cat,’ she hollered after him fiercely. ‘I am here to bludgeon to death anything and anyone in my way. Do not fear for me.’
‘Haven’t you Henri to surprise with… all of this?’ Theo asked. ‘I’d make it quick before he leaves and surprises you with it instead. We should talk if you choose to stay — talk about who will take the next arrow or bullet for you.’
‘Fine,’ she said and turned to face away from him. ‘Have it your way. All I wanted was directions.’
She knew the way to the library, that large beating heart of Souchon Palace where one was usually all alone, for all the bookish types had fled Souchon when Henri made it a hub of libertines and rakes, and all the rest could not read, but which connected one wing of the palace with the next. It was a shortcut through its halls that barely anyone knew. It was a secret in plain sight.
She rode through the rest of the hall and took a left turn underneath an archway that opened up into the cavernous marble library with its blue-painted walls, ancient tapestries, and shelves upon shelves of ancient, historic, rare and legendary titles, all of which were collecting dust. On the carpet, her horse’s loud hooves were muffled, and before she knew it, she was eye to eye with him.
He stood bent over a large, oval table, upon which a large map was spread, with a motley collection of items sprawled on top: chess pieces, cups, carved wood figurines. Henri did not stand there alone, instead he had gathered a dozen of elder men that all immediately cowered or jumped at Katherine’s presence. She did not recognise a single one of them.
‘Gentlemen,’ she began, smiling widely. She had decided to leave the crossbow on her back, as one of the men had already drawn their sword, ‘I’ve been told my presence was requested by His Majesty the King.’
‘Katherine…’ began Henri, and great happiness surged through her. ‘My God. Uh… you’re all dismissed. Leave us a moment.’
Katherine looked down as the men, many of whom in livery collars and coronets, left Henri’s side. As they exited through where Katherine had entered.
He watched them go, granting her a view that she had missed so much: his perfectly noble face’s profile, with its sloping nose and prominent brow. Once they were out of earshot, Henri picked up a carved figurine that had stood on Ilworth on the map, and brought it to Souchon Palace.
‘Now that is an entrance,’ he gloated.
Her crossbow sat unused on the cord that held it over her shoulder. She smiled shyly. ‘I was hoping you’d be out so I could startle you a little more,’ she admitted, eyes downcast.
Henri snickered and took his hat from the top of his head, holding it up. ‘What a shame that element of surprise was taken from you. I suppose you’ll have to surprise me with that crossbow again someday, perhaps on some early hungover morning one day soon. I’ll tell you which lovers I don’t mind losing, and we can even add an element of fate into it. I’m just wondering —’ he waved the bonnet around, flopping from side to side — ‘if your aim is any good.’
Katherine did not skip a beat, took the cord from her shoulder, pulled back the string of the crossbow, and shot it in an instant, sending a rapid arrow through the sky with a force she would otherwise never be able to put behind it, if not for the power of the crossbow.
She panted as it hit the hat and cast it out of Henri’s hands, to be embedded in between two spines of dusty books, where the velvet lay limp and impaled like a rabbit’s corpse in a hunting range.
‘Oh, how I missed you indeed!’ Henri said, and clapped his hands. ‘My bloodthirsty, unhinged Ilworthian missus!’