To Be Queen by Christy English Page B

linen with his crest embroidered on it. At the door to my room, Papa kissed me, his lips lingering on my forehead as if to bless me, though he and I believed in no gods, and had no saints to succor us.
    I still felt his lips on my skin the next day, when I stood in the castle bailey and watched him ride away. Papa raised his gloved hand before urging his horse down the road that had no turning. I did not weep there in front of all our people, but watched him go dry-eyed. Petra wept for both of us.

    It was weeks before we heard the news. Petra and I sat in the garden of the keep among the flowers. The white stone of Ombrière rose around us but did not choke off the sunlight and air. Pear trees clung to the inner garden walls, their blossoms white against the vivid green of the leaves. Their bark was darkened by rain, as were the limbs of the fig trees that waved against the deep blue of the sky. Every few moments, some cool rainwater would shake loose from those leaves in the wind, and fall onto my sister’s embroidery. Since she did not mutter under her breath against the sprinkles that fell from the leaves above our heads, I knew that she embroidered simply to stay calm, as we waited for word from our father.
    Though I feared for Papa, I felt sheltered in his favorite keep among the flowering trees my grandmother had planted. It had rained that morning, but the sun had come out at noon, and my sister and I had emerged from the castle keep with it.
    Petra continued to work her needle while I read to her in Latin. She had little interest in words or books, but at eleven, she had begun to notice men, so that I had to keep a close watch on her. I made sure that she was observed at all times by every old crone I could find who was trustworthy. Still, I feared Petra might slip my nets and get herself with child before her marriage could be arranged. So far, my sister stayed obedient to me, though her eye wandered over every virile young man in sight.
    I was sitting in our grandmother’s flower garden, worrying over how to rein my sister in, when news came of my father’s death.
    The boy who brought word was pale with his task, gasping from the hard ride he had made. I learned later that he had traveled straight to Bordeaux from Spain, driving almost six horses into the ground. My father’s squire was barely fifteen, a boy named Guillaume.
    I held the letter in my hand, its old vellum as soft as a caress. I knew what it contained before I opened it, from the dark and frightened look on Guillaume’s face. He had brought this letter straight to me. I recognized the seal of wax from my father’s signet ring, still unbroken on the vellum in my hand.
    As I peered into his face, I saw that this boy acknowledged me as duchess, as had every man who had ridden with him. My mind was one large bruise; I could not even feel pleasure in the fact that my father’s people had come to me before the archbishop of Bordeaux, my father’s friend, in whose keeping I was supposed to be. A gray fog stole over my eyes, and over the contours of my mind, as I broke the seal. I read the Latin of that letter, words of condolence that seemed sincere. The priest from Compostela who had written of my father’s death had not had a hand in it.
    My father had died within the Church precincts after drinking bad water, and sickening from it.
    I could not feel the pain. Someone had killed him; I knew the term “bad water” was a euphemism for poison.
    Fear rose in my throat, unexpected and unlooked for. Grief I had anticipated, as well as tears, but neither came. I would have welcomed them. Instead, the gray fog over my mind turned black, and terror rose from the ground as if to smother me and mine, threatening to block out the sun for the rest of my life. My life, which would be short if I did not think clearly, as Papa had taught me.
    If I faltered, men would come. They would attack our keep. If my own barons could not