The Lost Queen

Prologue “Look good, Ma,” Siward admired his pretty, petite mother in all her finery. “Just like those fancy aristos at the palace.” “I’ve told you not to call me Ma a thousand times. It’s common. I’m your Mother. Or Ma-mere. Or Mater. Not Ma.” She smoothed her hair, glancing into the nearest mirror as she preened. Shifting her eyes from her own image, she allowed them to slide over her sons. Slovenly, they slouched about, completely oblivious to the contrast between their own appearance and that of their mother. “It wouldn’t hurt you to dress up a little,” she commented, surveying her husband. Even at something over fifty, hard physical labor and clean living had kept him trim and muscular so that his dress suit fit over his shoulders the way a suit should. Cassee Smith made it look expensive. He wore his dress sword and poniard on his sash, and unlike most of the men they would join tonight, he not only knew how to use them, he knew how to use them well. He had been a handsome youth, and he had matured into a handsome man, the silvering of his hair only distinguishing him. Marge` lowered her eyes, knowing that none of the men his age would be able to match him tonight, and that few of the younger men would manage it either. For a moment, she saw the military hero she had married so long ago. Her husband might be a blacksmith, but dressed the way he was in this moment, he could stand beside any aristo in the city and look as if he belonged. She knew he could dance as gracefully, and speak as well as any man who would be at tonight’s ball. Unfortunately— “I admit I’m grateful to Vere for staying behind to finish polishing those blades for Councilor Jiden,” he commented now, “but it isn’t right. She ought to be there, tonight. I’ll hate to lose her help at the forge, but there’s no denying she’d be an excellent catch for any young man in the city, right up to the aristos, with her money.” “What do you mean, her money?” Marge` protested. “That’s our money. To pay us for taking the little bastard in.” “Now,” Cassee reminded her, “she isn’t a bastard, she’s an orphan, you know that. The money—and the jewels--rightfully belong to her. They’ll have to go to her when she turns eighteen this coming year. We gave our word of honor. Those stones belong to her. By rights, she should be wearing them tonight.” He turned away. “I’ll get the carriage, shall I?” He let himself out, leaving his wife clutching the cluster of diamonds sparkling above her cleavage and hating his cold rectitude. He would be unyielding, she knew, no matter how little he cared for the girl. He had given his word. He would hold to it. Well, she hadn’t given her word, she thought quite viciously. She had intended to have the jewels the moment she had seen them and she had been willing to do whatever it took to get them. Now she would do whatever it took to keep them. “He means that, you know,” Liard commented. “And how much of that money is left, humm?” Siward twitted her. “Going to have to do something about that,” Liard offered slyly. “And fairly soon,” Siward added. Marge` grimaced. The much-maligned Vere had, all unknowingly, paid for the rich gown Marge` wore and she knew, once the girl understood how much of her money had been used to support them all, the worm Marge` had trodden upon would turn on her, with a vengeance. Liard was right, she thought fleetingly. Something would have to be done, soon. Her fingers closed spasmodically about the diamonds. She didn’t care what Cassee said, he wasn’t taking these jewels. No one was taking them away from her. No one. She thought malevolently of the adoptive daughter she’d sworn to love and cherish, the girl child she’d coaxed so assiduously and so successfully to get, in the hope of stealing her dowry and acquiring a useful slave. The girl labored long and hard, making plain things, as well as beautiful, working over the bellows, swinging a hammer, skillful, strong, and, in Marge`’s eyes, wholly unfeminine. Incomprehensibly, she liked to read and to study, and more inexplicably, she liked to work the forge. Not even Cassee’s abuse, thinly disguised as teaching, discouraged her. Dressed in boys’ hand-me-downs; she’d rather work over a finely crafted sword or dagger with an inlaid hilt or fashion a lacy, filigree chain than attend a party and flirt with boys. The sound of the carriage disrupted her reverie, and Marge` frowned. “Better think of something pretty quick,” Siward advised her. He was right. She’d better think of something, quickly, before the girl turned eighteen and Cassee insisted upon giving her the coin and the jewels Marge` had come to consider her own. Maybe, she thought, she’d have a word with Freddie. The son of a king ought to know some way the pestilent girl could be gotten rid of—not that she’d let him know that was what she wanted. No, she’d be more subtle than that. But Freddy. . . her sons were the confidants of a prince! That ought to be worth something.