Naamah's Kiss - Jacqueline Carey [97]
"Blossom, your highness."
The filly pricked her ears.
"A bit pedestrian." Thierry shrugged. "Call her whatever you like, my lady. Her official name's only for the pedigree records."
"Blossom." When I said her name, the filly's head swung back toward me, ears pricked. I smiled. "Blossom's fine. She already knows it." I handed the reins back to the groom, then cupped the filly's velvety muzzle in my hands, blowing softly into her nostrils. She snuffed. For a moment, I was able to forget all my concerns and block out the rest of the world. I could sense her thoughts, curious and unafraid. "Hello, Blossom."
"Do bear-witches speak to animals?" a sweet, light voice inquired.
Jehanne.
I stiffened, then turned slowly. A new contingent of riders had entered the courtyard. Lianne Tremaine, the King's Poet, was among them. I couldn't read the intent on her sharp, curious face. The Queen was mounted on a pretty white mare. At the sight of her, another flush of heat washed over my skin. Her blue-grey eyes sparkled with what could be playfulness or malice. If Jehanne meant to humiliate me, I thought, she would do it now.
"We do," I made myself say. "It doesn't mean they speak back to us."
She laughed. "Fairly said!" Her gaze settled on Raphael. "My lord de Mereliot, since his majesty has pressing business elsewhere and his highness has elected to escort Lady Moirin, mayhap you would do me the kindness of serving as my escort today?"
Raphael bowed in the saddle, his voice both wry and sincere. "Your majesty, nothing would give me greater pleasure."
Jehanne smiled sweetly at him. "Oh, good."
I breathed a silent sigh of relief. It seemed I was reprieved, at least for the moment.
The hunt resembled no form of hunting I'd ever experienced. It took place in a vast meadow—a portion, Thierry informed me, of the royal hunting preserves. There were servants to attend the lords and ladies, servants to set up silk pavilions on the outskirts of the meadows where we would enjoy a luncheon. Servants to handle the sleek coursing hounds in their braces, servants to scout ahead and beat the brush for prey.
The feel of Blossom's soft mouth beneath my reins, her gentle, willing gait beneath me, made me glad. The fresh, crisp air and the melancholy of the autumn grasses we trampled filled me with poignant pleasure.
Still, I was miserable.
Jehanne.
Raphael.
They rode side by side, conversing with heads inclined toward one another in a manner that spoke of long familiarity. Sunlight glinted on her silver-gilt coronet, picked out the bright streaks of gold in his tawny locks. They looked well together. I remembered her hair spread across the pillow, his curtaining my face. I was jealous of them both.
"Tell me you're not going to moon over him all day," Prince Thierry said abruptly to me.
"I'm sorry." I gave him a guilty glance. "Was I?"
"Yes." He rode a handsome bay, his carriage upright. Ahead of us, Raphael leaned close and said somewhat and Jehanne's laughter rose. Thierry's mouth made a hard line. "She's in a good mood."
And well she should be, I thought. Aloud, I asked, "Why do you dislike her so?"
He bent a wry look at me. "Aside from the fact that I love and respect my father and Jehanne is a cuckolding bitch?"
"There is that," I admitted. "But is it not the D'Angeline way?"
One of the prince's companions chuckled. "Tell the truth, Thierry. The whole truth."
He flushed. "Go to hell!"
The young man who had spoken nudged his mount and jogged alongside us. He had blue-black hair tied in myriad braids that fell in a cascade. "His highness dissembles," he said affably. "He had designs on Jehanne himself. Only at fifteen, when his father found her the cure for his grief, Thierry was too young to be admitted to the Night Court. Isn't it so?"
Thierry shoved at him. "Goddamned Shahrizai!"
"Love to you, too, cousin." The other blew him a kiss, then winked