It occurred to de Vaux, rather belatedly, that he himself might be at risk now. He had chosen to believe that Barthelmy had fled Orane the night of the assassination, and had most likely been killed by Barratin.

Neither, it seemed, was true.

That was reflected in the queen’s first question. The dukes deferred to her, as was likely wise in her current mood.

“This assassin? You have him now?”

“He is dead in the Châtelet, your grace,” de Vaux said. “He confessed to what we needed to know, after strict questioning. His body will be on Gallows Hill in the morning. If you approve.”

Everyone knew what “strict questioning” meant.

“It took you,” said the queen, “a very long time to find him.”

What he’d feared. Not how he’d wanted this to begin.

“We were led to believe he’d left Orane and been killed by—”

“Yes. I know. You thought the Duke de Barratin had him killed. You were wrong?”

“We were, your grace. But we found him. And he has talked to us.”

“After trying to have you killed, as well?”

“Yes, your grace.”

“Why?” She was visibly, vividly angry.

“Because of, it appears, my accusing the duke of being behind the assassination.”

“Behind? In front of! Responsible for!”

“Yes, your grace. You are correct.”

Her expression changed. There were torches and lamps and lanterns. He could see it. “You are all right, provost?”

“By Jad’s grace, and the alertness of my serjeants, the arrow missed. A horse was struck and died.”

“They killed a horse?” The queen loved riding and hunting. Always had, from girlhood in Batiara, before she was deemed old enough to be an important piece in the marriage game and was sent away to marry a king in a foreign land.

“It was poisoned, the arrow,” said de Vaux. “So were the others in his sheath when the archer was captured.”

She nodded. “And he talked to your men?”

“He did. He named Barthelmy. Whom we found trying to escape the city.”

“Good,” said the queen. “Uncles, have you questions?”

“Not yet,” said the Duke de Regnault. He was paying close attention, however. He had risen in stature, was the general view, since the assassination.

Barille, his brother, just shook his head when the queen glanced at him. He was the more reluctant figure here. Would rather have been in his own château, away from Orane, away from all this, attending to pleasures. Everyone knew it. He was here, though. Had to give him that.

The queen said, “This filth, Barthelmy, he was a tonsured cleric?”

“Your grace!” exclaimed Hutin Peyre, the high cleric of Orane. “It is our belief that—”

A royal hand was thrust sharply upwards, stopping him mid-speech.

“Your time will come, high cleric,” said the queen.

Peyre, a man of the south but long in Orane, was wise enough to fall silent.