“They would. And also if I bribed them with luxuries, like Sonia Beaulin. Beaulin thinks it a popularity contest, but I don’t need to win their favor. These are your private queensguard. They are no mere army soldier; they are the best of the best! I expect so, and I will treat them accordingly.”
“Even on a festival day, when I am in no danger?”
“To a queensguard soldier there is always danger. And as for festivals, I keep careful accounting of service. That girl served this Midsummer so she will not have to serve again next year, nor ever for two high festivals in a row.” Rosamund straightened. “I am not unreasonable. And I don’t appreciate your questions before the soldiers.”
Bess’s eyes widened, but Elsabet only laughed. “A queen may question what she will. But I am sorry, my friend. I should have known better.”
She turned her attention back to the celebration, where the naturalists in attendance had begun to assemble their portion of the feast—the finest portion: gift-caught fish and a lovely roasted boar surrounded by apples so bright they appeared to be polished. Gilbert was directing which dishes would come to her in which order, his arms waving.
But the queen’s gaze did not linger on Gilbert for long. She was looking for someone.
Bess leaned in close. “Who are you searching for?” It could not be the king-consort. He had not left her sight line all day, after entering ceremoniously on her arm and promptly leaving her seemingly to court every pretty girl in attendance. The sight of him filled Elsabet with rage and shame. So she had resolved to ignore him.
“I am looking for someone I invited.”
“Personally?” asked Rosamund.
“The painter. Jonathan Denton.” But she did not see him. Perhaps he had only been polite when he had accepted her invitation. Perhaps she had frightened him away. Honestly, she did not know why she cared. She cleared her throat and glanced at her friends to see if they had noticed. But instead, both Bess and Rosamund were scowling down at the crowd.
“What’s the matter?”
Bess blinked and forced a smile. “Don’t think on it, Elsabet. No doubt he is just . . . in his cups.”
Elsabet looked into the crowd. It did not take her long to find him. William. He had one arm around a pretty blond girl and his other around a brown-haired beauty, his fingers pulling the shoulder of her gown nearly down to her breast. In his cups, indeed. It was early evening; he had probably had eight glasses of festival wine and none of it adequately watered. Whatever the excuse, there he was: laughing, kissing their necks, and gifting them the rings off his fingers.
“Everyone can see this, can hear this,” Elsabet murmured as her cheeks grew hot.
“I could send a blade,” Rosamund said, taking a swallow of wine against her own vow of festival sobriety. “Just to nick him.”
“Ignore it,” said Bess. “Pretend you don’t see. Or don’t care.”
But it was too late for that. Already the whispers spread outward, until nearly every pair of eyes in the courtyard was darting between the king-consort and the queen. And what would they see? A weak queen who accepts her husband’s infidelity, right under her nose?
Elsabet stood up suddenly. So suddenly that the girls in William’s arms shuddered and tried to get away. But they were not her targets. The queen waited as the festival grew quiet. The musicians halted and servers froze half-leaned across banquet tables.
“William. My king-consort.” She stopped. Waited for him to bow, as he should. As he must. “I tire of these festivities. Will you come now and preside over Midsummer, as is your sacred duty?”
“I will,” he said, and began to make his way up to her. But when he leaned close for a kiss, she brushed him aside and stalked through the already muttering crowd. When she came face-to-face with the girls William had abandoned, she lost control of her temper and roared for them to get out of her way, unable to stand one more moment of their quivering, remorseful lips.
“Queen Elsabet,” said Rosamund. “Where may we escort you?”
Elsabet grasped her arm. Already the anger and jealousy were leaving her, and without them, she could not quite remember where she had meant to go.
And then she spotted him. Alone with a piece of bread in his forever paint-stained fingers, in the same clothes he had worn when she sat for her portrait. “There,” she said, and went to him at once.
“Jonathan Denton,” she said when he bowed. “Will you come with me to my chamber? I would have your update on the progress of my Midsummer portrait.”
“I should not have done that.”
Elsabet paced across the floor of her chamber. Her private chamber, where she and Jonathan were very alone.
“Did you see their eyes? Hear their whispers? They fear me. They think me volatile.”
“They revere you. Fear and reverence can appear much the same.”
Elsabet shook her head and did not pause her long, upset strides. “You are good to say that. But this is not the first time they have seen me lash out at that—that—!” She growled and threw up her hands. “And I shouted at those girls. As if it was their fault.
“And now, what will they say of you, Jonathan? Here, alone in the queen’s chamber?”
He raised his eyebrows. “Let them say what they like. I am happy to be of whatever use to my queen as I can.”
“No. I shouldn’t have put you in this position. I will make sure they know. That we were here discussing the portrait and nothing more!” She gestured vaguely toward his body. “I am not the kind of queen who takes revenge for infidelity by compelling some poor young man to . . . to . . .”
He chuckled. “It is all right, my queen.”
She sighed and walked to her dressing table for a goblet of Gilbert’s tonic, left over from that morning. The sight of William with his hands all over someone else had given her a headache.
“Is the wine no good?” Jonathan asked when she grimaced at the tonic’s bitterness.
“It is not wine at all but a healing draught. I am well,” she said before he could inquire, “but I sometimes get headaches.”
Jonathan stepped toward her, sniffing the air. “May I?” he asked, and held out his hand. “I am a poisoner, as you know, and have a natural curiosity about the healing arts.”
“Oh! Of course.”
He stuck his nose in the cup and inhaled deeply, then took a sip, swirling before swallowing. He was silent for a long moment, staring into the last of the liquid. Then he frowned. “Where did you say you got this?”
“My foster brother, Gilbert Lermont. He has brought it to me for months. Why? Do you detect some interesting ingredient?”
“No.”
“Or, with your interest in healing, would you recommend a different treatment?”
Jonathan looked at her. His eyes were troubled. “I would recommend that you stop taking this,” he said.
Elsabet snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous. Gilbert assures me—”
“At least let me take a sample.”
He seemed so insistent, and she saw no harm, so she nodded. “Take whatever is left. I suppose, as a poisoner, you would know better than I.”
“But with your gift of sight, surely you would know everything.”