The Queen's Gambit by Deborah Chester Read Free Book Online

from her face and listened to Sir Brillon arguing with the equerry.
    â€œThe king said that I am to see Lady Pheresa safely back to Savroix,” the equerry said firmly.
    â€œBut she is to leave for Batoine at once,” Sir Brillon protested. “I have my orders.”
    â€œSo do I, sir knight. Would you refuse the king’s express command?”
    Red-faced with frustration, Sir Brillon retreated. Peering at him through the window, Pheresa felt safe at last. If nothing else, she had gained herself a few days’ respite. She knew Theloi would not abandon his plan to remove her from court, but now she had time to plan also. Watching Sir Brillon stride angrily away, she allowed herself a smile and turned around, to find herself face-to-face with her mother.
    Princess Dianthelle, her legendary beauty undimmed by the years, sat there in gray velvet and ermine, diamonds glittering at her throat and on her slender fingers. She stared at Pheresa with acute displeasure.
    â€œYou fool,” she said in a voice that cut. “Batoine was the perfect solution for you. Now you’ve botched everything.”

Chapter Three

    The northwest coast of Mandria could be bleak and damp in the spring. This morn, the skies looked black with the ominous promise of storms coming in from seaward, and the waves crashing onto the rocks below Durl Hold were rough and violent.
    Sir Talmor, adjutant to the chevard of Durl, kicked his reluctant horse down the treacherous little trail snaking along the cliffs. The fortress of Durl Hold, ancient and still strong despite centuries of being blasted by sea and wind, stood at the top. Overlooking the ocean, the stout walls blended so perfectly with the stone they rose straight and sheer as part of the unassailable cliffs themselves. But despite its strength, the fortress was small and inconvenient. Its keep was tiny, and the accommodations primitive and cramped. The chevards of Durl had abandoned it long ago and built a larger, more modern hold at the base of the cliffs, snugged into a protected spot of high ground between beach and the hills rising eastward. With the fortress available for emergency protection against armed attack, less attention—and coinage—was spent onbuilding stout walls to guard the new hold. Resembling a small palace, the rambling stone edifice was added onto by each succeeding chevard, so that parts of it remained in a state of perpetual construction. Low garden walls surrounded it, and its turrets were designed to capture the view rather than to serve as lookout points.
    There had been a time, in the past, when the fortress had often been necessary. But Mandria’s coast was secure. Sentries grew bored on duty in the fortress, watching prosperous merchant ships sailing by on the horizon. Only in the autumn was there any excitement, when raging storms swept in hapless ships to founder and break on the rocks. Salvaging the wreckage gave the village fishermen an extra bit of prosperity to tide them over during the bleak winter months when the sea was an icy monster full of tempests and treacherous currents.
    But it was springtide now, with buds swelling the tips of the gnarled little trees that clung precariously to the hillside and cliffs. The sea hollies looked fresh in new green and displayed sprays of delicate white blossoms. Here and there, sundrops growing among the rock crevices poked up their tiny heads in glorious color.
    The currents running past the headland had shifted, and the fishing boats had been venturing daily farther and farther into the taming sea. Come sunset, they returned with swollen nets, for in the spring the codni and brill migrated into these coastal waters. At night, laughter could be heard in the village. The folk went to and fro about their business with smiles and quick steps.
    But no smiles or laughter today, Sir Talmor thought. No fishing boats out plying the nets today, with death waiting for any man who dared defy Lord