The Born Queen - J. Gregory Keyes [104]
But Berimund was attired in equally outlandish pants and a robelike coat.
“Interesting,” he repeated, grinning. “I sense an understatement.”
“I’m not familiar with the fashion, that’s all.”
“It’s a recent one. My father has an interest in the ancient times, and his scholars have determined that our mountain tribes are more like our revered ancestors than we folk of the cities. We have therefore adopted some aspects of their dress.”
“I see. I had no idea the mountain tribesmen wore Safnian silk shirts.”
“Well, there have been a few adaptations, I’ll allow.”
“When I first came to Eslen, the men were favoring floppy woolen caps like the ones the Cresson brothers wore at the battle of Ravenmark Wold. It seems silly now.”
“I wouldn’t make that comparison,” Berimund said stiffly. “Or call our fashions silly. Is it a bad thing to remember the virtues of our forefathers?”
“Not at all,” Muriele said. “I wish you and your father were more reminded of them, as a matter of fact, since your forefathers helped in originating the ancient covenant of embassy.”
Berimund actually seemed to wince slightly, but he didn’t reply.
“Shall we go to the hunt?” he asked instead.
The horses were clad in similarly strange harness, and her mount was provided with a quiver of arrows and a spear with a broad leaf-shaped head.
So caparisoned, she and Berimund and six of his retainers rode out of Hauhhaim through Gildgards, a tidy neighborhood with so many gardens that it seemed almost like countryside. She asked Berimund about it.
“The merchant guilds are given land within the walls for farming,” he explained. “In good times, they sell their surplus and profit from it. When Kaithbaurg comes under siege, their produce reverts to the king. Anyway, it makes the city more pleasant, don’t you think?”
Muriele agreed, and not much later they passed through the Gildgards gate and into a countryside of vast barley fields and small villages. After perhaps a bell, their path took them into the lowlands around the river and finally into Thiuzanswalthu, Marcomir’s hunting preserve, a vast, parklike evergreen wood. Soon they came upon a bustling camp sprawled out around a large tent. A group of horsemen and horsewomen were mustering like a small army, and they were all dressed much as Berimund and she were.
Berimund dismounted, took the reins of her horse, and led her over to the group.
Marcomir was a bit of a shock. She had met him once when she was fourteen and he had come to the Lierish court. At that time he had been in his fifties, but she still had been struck by the physical power that seemed to animate him, and she’d been a bit infatuated, taking every excuse to hover around while he was visiting.
Even now, she had a clear image of him in her mind.
That image was no longer accurate, however. Time had so shrunken and bent the monarch that she didn’t recognize him until she was introduced. The color had been bleached from him. If she didn’t know better, she would think him an albino. He trembled constantly.
But when she met his gaze, she glimpsed that old strength. It had been drained from his body and fermented, distilled, bittered there behind his eyes. As those pale orbs fastened on her, she felt as small as a barleycorn, and less significant.
“Father,” Berimund said. “I introduce to you Muriele Dare, queen of Crotheny, queen mother to Empress Anne I.”
Marcomir continued to stare at her.
“I’ve invited her to hunt with us.”
“What do you want here, witch?” the old man asked. His speaking broke the spell; his watery, quavering voice could not match his gaze. “Have you come here to murder me? Is that your intention?”
Muriele sat straighter but did not see any reason to answer such a question.
“Father!” Berimund said. “Do not be so ill-mannered. This lady