Page 42 of The Court of Venus

From somewhere behind me, a gasp. My gaze swung to the tip of Tom’s lance, to where it was aimed.

It appeared as if Roland’s focus slipped, or he hesitated for only a moment, and Tom struck him in the crevice between his helmet and gorget. He flew back off his horse, landing in the dirt with a terrible thud. The entire court stood on their feet and cried out. Queen Cecily and King Richard both looked as if they might faint.

I searched Roland’s mind for pain and found only the gentle flicker of his humor. The desperate cries of the crowd, delighting him.

“Is he all right?” Bess asked.

“I don’t know,” I lied, standing to peer at the dirt where Roland was sprawled. Tom handed his horse to his squire and raced over, his expression shifting between forced concern and total confusion. He knelt beside Roland and wrenched off his helmet, revealing Roland’s face, the sweat-soaked strands framing his cheekbones.

I pushed down into the tiltyard, ignoring the disapproving glances of the courtiers, the protestations of Tom Guildford and the other privy councilors who didn’t want me near.

“Let me through.” I fell over Roland’s body. “We need to take off his breastplate.”

Wyatt Francis stepped forward to help, and together we unstrapped the heavy armor, maneuvering Roland through the interlocking metal plates. I tugged his chest toward me and pressed my cheek against his heart. It beat wildly, as if he were running. He made a point to moan tragically.

I sat back on my heels. As his friends lifted him into their arms, Roland’s head drooped. Only when everyone else was turned away did he toss me a wink.

Stretched out as a cat on a low wall in the gardens, our meeting spot, I waited for him. I could still hear the clash of steel from the tiltyard. The sun moved westward, and I’d chased its warmth twice by the time he arrived.

His white silk shirt was untucked from his breeches, his hair mussed. I weaved around his ankles, and as I felt myself being lifted off the ground, I dug my claws into his hands until he set me down, yowling loud enough for servants in the nearby scullery to hear. “Perhaps an uglier cat, one with fleas, would be more apt.”

I hissed, swatting him with my tail.

I transformed behind the hedge where I’d left my garments, pulling on each layer—shift, kirtle, gown, pinning the sleeves, then finally setting the coif and jeweled crescent hood over my hair. Several times, Roland offered to help, and whenever he did, I hissed again. He muttered that I was feral as he lay along the wall, tossing an arm over his eyes to shield himself from the sun. “It’s a fascinating detail of your transformations,” he called out.

“What is?”

“The lack of clothing.”

My face burned at the implication. When I emerged from behind the hedge, he spun his finger, asking me to turn.

His shadow fell over me. Softly, he brushed aside my veil, the loose hairs at my nape, his knuckles trailing over my spine. “This is difficult,” he said between his teeth.

The light touches skipped to the small of my back. “What is?”

“The clasp.” After several sighs of effort, my golden chain hung from my neck again.

A glance over my shoulder. “You’re tired.”

The mauve bags under his eyes immediately smoothed over. “After I left you last night, I was awake for hours, making the king more tolerable to look at. And now, I let Tom knock me off my horse. Forgive me. And remind me to never to ask for your favor again. You’re terrible luck.”

“And you’re a terrible loser. It’s a refined skill, to lose gracefully. Even if you’ve thrown the contest.”

His mouth twitched. “Good thing I’ve honed other skills.” I truly thought he’d begin listing them off when a servant carrying a bundle of laundry crossed our path, shooting us a curious look. Roland tugged me beneath the curtain of a willow. “You’ll have to put Charles’s guards to sleep. You can manage it, can’t you?”

“What if someone arrives and finds them on the floor?”

“We’ll drag them all into the apartments, of course.”

As we wound through the sunlit halls, he tucked my arm through his and nodded to all we passed, even the servants. Every door opened for him; the entire sweep of Redhall was his. He was unforgettable—a terrible quality for a spy. But as the heat whipped up mist in the fields, the bells began to ring in a steady chime, and the horses continued to thunder in the distance. The tournament would labor on all afternoon.

Two guards were stationed outside the family apartments. The only hiding place nearby was a long tapestry I hadn’t noticed. Oberon, the first magician of Alvion, woven with his long black beard and his sword crafted of moonlight, charging into battle. Roland wrenched the fabric away from the wall and pointed behind it, glancing over one shoulder as we slid into the dark.

At first, it smelled of mildew and rot, but then Roland stepped closer, and I breathed in roses and ink and sweat. My chin was tucked beneath his as he whispered our plan. “Understood?” he breathed.

I nodded. Then his mouth was against my ear: “How do you do it? I’ve wanted to know since we were children.”

“Well. Emotions are all connected.” My magic reached out, two invisible, grasping hands around the guards. Like a whisper in their ear. Like Roland’s mouth, inches from my own. “Picture a wheel that can be turned. Anger and sadness, for example, are deeply intertwined feelings, easy to twist into the other. That’s the first lesson Prospero taught me.” The guards began to yawn and stretch. “Boredom and nonchalance are similar, but boredom still seeks, I suppose. The mind wants to be entertained, to remain alert. Once I’ve taken that restlessness away, the mind has no alertness left. And it grows weary.” Their eyes rolled back, one guard collapsing on top of the other in a heap.