The king’s brother was—had been—famed as a collector of artworks: books of hours showing life through the seasons, portraits and religious paintings, golden sun disks, even mosaics in the style of the Ancients, assembled at his palace by the Livraise River a few days to the west, and at his home here in the city. He was also the man tasked with keeping Ferrieres safe, guarding the queen and the young prince during these intervals when the king was mad. There had been a document signed by the king. At a time when he wasn’t mad.

Thinking of the queen, and about guarding her, de Vaux looked that way again. More lights, now in the upper windows at the top of the road. People were stirring there, in the middle of a winter night. She’d be awake. He decided he would not, could not wait on this. There were things he needed to know. He gave orders, sent someone to the Châtelet for more men to come this way. He mounted up and headed the short distance to her home.

—

“He is dead, isn’t he,” said the queen of Ferrieres.

Not a question. Bianca di Rizzetto was in a deep-purple night robe, elegant even now. No jewellery, her still-golden hair down. She had a fur-lined cloak over the robe against the cold, even with fires lit. She was known for her perfumes, was not wearing a scent now. She’d have been asleep.

She was from Batiara to the south, from the wealthy water-shaped city of Seressa, and accordingly was not greatly loved here in Ferrieres. An old story with queens and princesses. They were needed for alliances and money; they were seldom popular among the people in the country they came to. The dead man’s wife was also from Batiara, in fact. A different city-state. There was money down there, and Ferrieres at war always needed money.

What could he say to this woman?

He knelt on the marble of the entrance hallway. It seemed proper. She had come down the wide stairs to meet him. Its own sign.

“He is, highness,” the provost said, simply. “It is a sorrow for me to say it, and a sorrow for Ferrieres.”And for you, he thought, but did not, could not, say.

“Are we in danger here now?” A proper question. He could not read her expression. She was good at hiding her thoughts. A necessary skill at court.

But…we?

“The prince is with you?” de Vaux asked, chilled.

“He is, provost. I like to bring him out of the palace at times. If we cannot go riding we can at least leave that terrible place.”

His anxiety only grew. The heir to the throne was here? Barely guarded?

“It might be wisest to return now, your grace. Until we—”

“Until we know who did this and what it is. I agree. Will you send for an escort?”