Page 50 of The Court of Venus

“Shame, that.”

The clarity of the memory convinced me. Their emotions, too—they were both terrified, but there was no undercurrent of guilt beneath the fear. The blue-eyed boy offered his memory, too, and his was remarkably similar. And there was something else: He was newly married. He showed me his wife’s sweet face as he trembled.

They were innocent. Both of them. Just youths trading gossip too loudly in a palace already on edge. Meanwhile, the executioner readjusted his grip on the longsword, and the entire court was waiting for me to decide.

Roland must have known what I intended to do moments before I did it, because his eyes widened.

“Innocent,” I whispered.

“Speak up, please, Mistress Mortlake,” Wyatt said.

I cleared my throat. “There was no treason committed. Neither of these men is guilty. Neither boasted of intimacy with the queen. I saw a memory of the incident itself, and both of them recalled it the same way. I believe their accounts are true.”

Shock traveled through the court. The king’s hand stalled as he raised a cut of meat to his lips.

“Choose anyway, Wyatt,” the king said. “The Moonborn must be mistaken.” He resumed eating.

Roland shook his head, opening his mouth to protest. But Wyatt was already pointing to the blue-eyed boy.

The guards slammed him onto his knees, and the executioner lined his sword up with his neck.

“No! Please, don’t! Stop!” I reached forward, caught air.

It took two swings. There was no need for the block. And in the stillness that followed, I thought, How will I survive here?

You must, Bianca. You must.

The traitors’ heads were made into centerpieces, the swan carted away. The king’s hounds sprawled at his feet, gnawing on leftover bones. A tipsy King Richard then paraded Oliver and Roland up and down the tables, families swarming and pecking around Oliver again. Was he oathed? Would he swear fealty? Even Fulke Roet pulled him aside, and they spoke for a while, heads bent, before Oliver extricated himself.

If such attention was the prize of this tournament, I didn’t want it. I was finished, I had failed, and a sliver of Moon hung over my head, as dismal as I felt.

The garden paths fed me into the king’s hedge maze. I’d always found it to be a good place for quiet tears. I seared the dead boy into my memory and promised myself this: One day, I would wrench the court’s gaze toward all its needless loss.

The Moon, ever so slowly, drifted behind clouds. And behind me, gravel stirred.

It was Roland. Breathing hard from dancing, hair wild. “That was madness,” he hissed.

“Did you know?”

“I knew nothing. Wyatt told me nothing.”

“Was yours truly guilty?”

He laughed bitterly. “Yes. Very much so. Stealing correspondence was the least of it. He longed to kill the king, too. Wanted to wrap his hands around Richard’s throat and drain the life from him. I thought about saving him, just so he could play out his little fantasy. But then Fulke would inherit.”

I only wrung the trumpet sleeves of my gown.

He ducked his head, caught my eyes. “We have a bargain now, you and I, that goes beyond the tournament. You won’t be sent off in a cart in the morning. You’ll remain at court as my guest. You were so antagonistic at first, but see, Mouse? This is why you shouldn’t lead with knives.” If it was an attempt to coax out a small smile, it worked. He glanced further down, to my sleeves. “And stop that with your hands, or you’ll tear your gown.”

My fingers stilled. “While you were resting these past few days, I had ample time to think.”

He gestured back to the garden path, to the feast. I followed behind him. Over his shoulder, he asked, “And what did you think about?”

“Kitty Seton.”

I’d surprised him. He swung around. “Kitty? What has Kitty got to do with anything?”

I told him the Guildfords had mentioned her name, and how observant she was, how shrewd. I’d been watching her, and I wanted her memories of Hal’s inquiry.