The Blade That Cut the Mouse's Tail [Medieval fantasy, political intrigue]

Mouse stood outside the offices of the constable, waiting to catch sight of Ulrich. She had risen with the sun, to say nothing of her inability to sleep, and come at once to find the Captain, lest she miss her chance. She wrung her hands anxiously together she watched for the door to open.

At last, some minutes or hours later, Mouse could not tell, Ulrich emerged. His face looked weary, as though he, too, had hardly slept.

"Captain," Mouse called, approaching him with little hesitation. "I wondered if I might not have a word with you?" She dropped her voice. "It is quite urgent."

Ulrich looked at her with solemn hazel eyes, reading the desperation in her voice.

"Certainly," he said, and together they walked down the hall, toward the back of the judiciary.

There were few places in Kriftel these days that one could expect even the smallest degree of privacy, but the narrow hall that ran behind the judiciary leading to a clandestine garderobe, was one of those few. The light was scant here, the small passageway illuminated by a single brazier, but at least they would not be overheard.

"I believe—" Mouse began. Speak now, she told herself, or you may never find the courage. "I believe that Her Majesty is being poisoned."

The shock registered on Ulrich's stoic face as a flicker of his hazel eyes, a widening of his pupils.

"Poisoned?" he repeated in a low, sharp whisper.

Mouse nodded.

"I am nearly certain of it." She thought back to the evening before, to the horror she felt when she looked down to see the dark web of hair between her fingers. "She is unwell, in the least," she said. "Her hair has been falling out in clumps, and her eyes, her eyes—" She shook her head.

The Captain brow drew together, a furrow of concern.

"What else?"

Mouse bit her lip.

"She was difficult to rouse this morning," she said, "and the maid said that she was talking in her sleep all night, babbling some nonsense."

The Captain nodded slowly.

"Ulrich," Mouse said, looking up at him, "Captain. I'm sorry."

"Sorry?" Ulrich blinked at her. "For what?"

For being afraid. For being a fool.

Mouse shook her head.

"I do not know."

The two stood quietly, each given to their own ruminations, until the Captain spoke again.

"Have you told the apothecary?" he asked.

"Not yet," Mouse said. "I wanted to speak with you first, especially given what happened to—" She swallowed. "Given what happened before."

Ulrich eyes flicked away, and Mouse felt a sudden stab of guilt for bringing up so painful a memory. But when his gaze returned, there was no reproval in his eyes.

"Good," he said.

He did not trust the apothecary, Mouse realized. He had been skeptical ever since the court's physicians had failed Osgar.

"There is a physician in Hallovie," Mouse said, "a surgeon. I believe him to be quite competent. In fact, he is responsible for saving Sir Hugo when he was on death's door."

The Captain gave a decisive nod of his head.

"Send for him," he said. "And please," he held Mouse with a firm gaze, "speak to no one of this. If you hear anything, if you see anything that in any way rouses your suspicions—"

Mouse nodded.

"I shall come to you."

Mouse parted from the Captain

It was strange, she thought. There might be some perverse justice in the Empress being dealt so similar a hand as Osgar??? and yet it was the last thing in the world that either the Captain or Mouse herself would want. Wicked as the woman had always been to Mouse, she did not deserve to die any more than the Empire deserved to be without its ruler.

Mouse chewed her lip. She might have told Ulrich about the poison that had gone missing from her rooms, but she somehow could not bring herself to. The implications were too sinister, her guilt too great. Fear had taken governance of her actions and made her a coward.

She walked back the way she had come, past the constable's offices, past the petitioners' hall, until she remembered something she carried in her pocket. It was the writ that she was meant to deliver to the chancery.

She slid her hand into the folds of her skirt and felt the parchment, supple against her fingers. She could deliver now; the chancery was not far, and it would cause her no delay. Or she could wait.

The table of the breakfast room was crowded with towers of spiced cakes, minced meat, and carafes of sweet summer wine. The entire Feast, reflected Mouse, was a spectacle beyond measure; a revel, yes, but a monstrous expense. The drain that it placed on the crown's purse meant that any surplus income the tradesmen saw, the armorers, the bakers, the millers, would like amount to little more than nothing, taken back in taxes the following year. But then again, what was it to be noble if not to excise discretion and dance upon waste and spoil and extravagance?

Leopold bounced gaily on Mouse's lap, the sticky fingers of one hand clutching at her sleeve while the other shoved a honeyed dreg cake into his mouth. The champion's breakfast would be the last before the end of the tourney. A joust would take place later that day and a reenactment of the Battle of the Belltower the next, and all that remained after was ceremony.

Mouse watched as the servant came to refill the Empress's wine chalice. Every drop that passed from carafe to cup was suspect.

The woman had indeed been difficult to rouse that morning, but had rather quickly seemed to return to herself, at least enough to abuse and humiliate poor Elspeth, the granddaughter of the archduke of Rumein, who had been elected for the privilege of dressing Her Majesty that morning. Elspeth had been reduced to a whimpering puddle of tears by the time the dressing ceremony had finished, but it was a small price to pay, thought Mouse, for the assurance that the Empress had not yet been poisoned past the point of natural contradiction.

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She sat now, staring out at her guests, a look of cold detachment in her dark eyes.

"Leopold, how many times have I told you that you are too old to be sitting on people's laps?"

Sir Conrad frowned down at little boy, who reached his hand into the plate of cakes, ignoring the reprimand.

"You spoil him." The remark was directed at Mouse.

"Nonsense." She replied, stroking the boy's hair affectionately. "Children deserve to be indulged."

"Ah, but if you are the basis upon which he forms his opinion of women, I fear he will be impossible for anyone else to please."

Mouse felt a blush creep onto her cheek.

"Tell me a story," Leopold said, tugging at her sleeve.

Mouse smiled.

"What story should you like to hear?"

"The one about the horse!"

"Ah, you mean the one about the Fool Knight. Very well. Far away and long ago," Mouse began, "there was a man known as the Fool Knight. He rode on a patchwork horse stuffed with straw and jousted not with a lance but with a flower. Everywhere the Fool Knight went, he sang a jaunty song, and every time he was knocked from his horse, he laughed and laughed, for to him, life was merry and everything was a game."

The little boy bounced with excitement as Mouse retold the tale. What color was the patchwork horse, he wanted to know, and who made him? What did he eat, and how fast could he run? Was he better than father's horse? Was he better than Uncle Wulfric's?

Mouse had grown a particular fondness for Leopold. He was a gentle and mild-mannered boy but still full of mirthful spirit and curiosity. From time to time, she noticed Sir Conrad watching them both, a tender smile tugging at his lips.

"If there is nothing you pressing you must attend to," said the knight by and by, "I wonder if I might not take a few moments of your time."

"That depends," said Mouse. "Are you going to scold me for letting Leopold sit on my lap?"

Sir Conrad laughed.

"No," he said. "I assure you it is nothing of the sort. Only I have been received some, shall we say, encouragement on a certain matter, and I find myself in want of your thoughts."

Mouse looked at him curiously, trying to parse out the meaning hidden in his words.

"Certainly," she said. "I am yours."

A smile teased at the knight's lips.

"I don't wonder," he said.

Sunlight mottled the green as Mouse and Sir Conrad walked side by side across the bowling lawn. The morning, which had been mild, had turned into yet another warm afternoon, the sound of laughter and music filling the air as water flowed freely from the cisterns.

They walked past the rose garden where young men chased their ladies through the wending pathways toward the hedge maze.

"It is a fine day," observed Sir Conrad, "and I am pleased to find myself in such fine company." He gave Mouse a brief smile, which she returned.

"As I am sure you well know by now," he said, "I came to Kriftel with a certain proposition in mind." He glanced down at Mouse. "And though I am given to feel optimistic on the subject, it is important to me that you know that no arrangement will be entered into without your consent."

Mouse felt her stomach twist with nerves. She had not been prepared for such a conversation.

"With that in mind," said the knight. "I would like to make you some assurances." He stopped and looked down at Mouse, who could not make herself equal to meeting his eye. "As my wife," he said, "you would want for nothing. Anything within my power to give would be yours. You would be treated with the respect that your title demands and given the authority that I know you to be capable of. Your words would carry weight, and your opinions would always be given the utmost consideration. You would be my equal in all things." At last, Mouse forced herself to look up at him. "I would protect you, Maudeleine," he said.

The lump in Mouse's throat had doubled in size, and she could not bring herself to speak.

"Perhaps I should take your silence as refusal," Sir Conrad suggested.

But Mouse quickly shook her head.

"No," she said.

A wash of relief swept over the knight's face.

"Then might I take some hope from it?"

Mouse looked away. She knew she could not love Sir Conrad; her heart already belonged to someone else. But she could respect him. And maybe that was enough. She gave a short nod of her head.

When she found the courage to look at the knight again, she found him beaming, his pale blue eyes were alight with mirth, his expression softened by something like genuine affection. For a moment, Mouse feared, that he might try to kiss her, but fortunately, no such attempt was made.

The pair resumed their quiet walk along the garden path, Mouse trying all the while not to look at the knight. She had thought that her fate was sealed, that she was doomed to wed the deplorable man she despised above all others. But here was hope, real hope. And though it may not be the life she would choose for herself, though Conrad might not be the man she would choose, she could find nothing within him to fault.

They rounded the labyrinth and headed back toward the keep, an easy smile ever on the knight's lips. But when they came to the step, Mouse stopped him.

"Wait," she said, reaching for his tunic. She plucked off a beetle and held it out to him. "It is an ink beetle," she said as the creature crawled up her finger and over her knuckle. "Make a wish, it is good luck."

Sir Conrad smiled at her, a warm light in his eyes.

"Keep your beetle," he said. "I am already a lucky man."

The had begun its slow descent across the sky, closer now to the peaks of the western mountains that to the forests east.

Sir Conrad held the south end of the list, the haunches of his undressed blood bay glossy and sleek in the afternoon sun. He took the horse in a slow turn along the fenceline, the tiny hands of children reaching out to try and touch his stallion's tail.

Leopold pushed himself up onto his toes, bringing his chin up over the railing so that he might see the tiltyard below.

On the other end of the list was Sir Axel, the Black Knight of Himmelbjerg. He sat astride his sable destrier, one of the largest horses Mouse had ever seen. It was a terrifying thing, dressed in black caparisons and a darkened chanfron that made it look like something the devil himself might ride.

It was the last joust of the tournament, the final contest before the next day's melee. Sir Conrad had the advantage of winning all his previous bouts with hardly a single point lost. It was funny to think that he had come with such little in the way of expectations and managed to succeed so spectacularly. It was almost as though he had been destined to win, touched by fortune. But his opponent was his equal in nearly every measure. Sir Axel of Himmelbjerg was one of the most well-known knights in all of Aros. He rode like thunder, Mouse thought, with force and terrifying presence. To meet him on the field was to know fear.

The two knights, summoned by the herald, took their places at either end of the list. Their first respects went to the ladies before they bowed to one another.

Targes were fitted into place, helms were lowered, and on the herald's command, they rode.

The two horses raced down the list, ears pinned back as their hooves tore at the earth. Sir Conrad was quick, Raith moving like the wind, a cloud of dust behind him, but Sir Axel was his match. Two blows landed: one on the white peak of Himmelbjerg and the other on Sir Conrad's right shoulder.

The knights circled back around for their second pass.

Raith charged forward, kicking out his back legs. Sir Conrad lurched with the unexpected movement but managed to couch his lance just in time. His blow landed but glanced off Sir Axel's shield without breaking, while Sir Axel's splintered again on his shoulder.

The knights came around again for their third pass. Mouse could scarcely watch. Her heart was hammering inside of her chest. She watched Sir Conrad, willing him with all her might to win.

The horses charged forward, thundering down the list. Sir Conrad couched his lance quickly, leaning forward in his saddle. The earth thrummed. Mouse's heartbeat was in her ears.

A shower of splinters scattered across the field. Sir Conrad had landed his blow on Sir Axel's shield. Mouse's heart leapt, and for a brief moment, she felt a spark of joy, of relief. But then, the whole world shifted.

Sir Axel's lance had likewise broken, but not on his opponent's shield. It had pierced his armor and now stuck out from his chest like an angry thorn.

Mouse brought a hand to her mouth to stifle a strangled cry.

Raith's cadence slowed as the knight slumped forward in his saddle. The reins dropped from his hands. And before his squire could reach him, his body slid to the side and he fell to the ground with a thud.

No.

Squires and marshals rushed to the knight's side, where he lay, limp and unmoving, a small dark puddle beginning to pool beneath him. A sob choked its way out of Mouse's throat, tears of terror clouding her vision.

No.

She saw him then, the blond-haired little boy standing on his toes, peering over the rail at the tiltyard below. Mouse reached out and grabbed Leopold by the arm, pulling him toward her. She took him by the shoulders and spun him around to face her.

"Look at me," she said as he tried to twist away. "Look at me Leopold!" She held his face in her hands, her fingers trembling. "Do you remember the story I told you, the one about the Fool Knight?" The little boy blinked at her. "That's all this is." Mouse tried to force a smile to her lips, but her face was contorted in agony and pain. "It's just a game." She pulled Leopold to her chest, her tears soaking his hair as she clutched him tightly. "It's just a silly, silly game."