All The Queen's Ladies [NaNoWriMo Project]

The Butterfly and the Wasp

Now that they are sitting, the sisters get down to business. For Mariam this is plaiting the strands of colour trailing from her sleeves and admiring the decoration; for Cara, it is hurling accusations.

"Lady Branwen, you have dishonoured our brother."

"I have?"

"Don't play the innocent with me, girl. You know exactly what you've done."

"Let us assume that I need you to enlighten me."

"You have set him aside, in public, in front of no less a person that the queen, and for a boy of no name, of nothing." Set him aside? She doesn't remember making any declaration on her marriage. But apparently she has. "It is an insult," Cara continues. "An insult to a family that took you in despite the tales of your character, despite the many other suitable girls who were put forwards for my brother's hand, despite your lord birth..."

"My low birth?" This is...not a new one, exactly, because she knows that the Harwoods are the descendants of a landed knight of no real fame or fortune, but she is still not so low as a good three-quarters of the kingdom, if not more. She would still have been a lady. She is still highborn.

To Cara, that means nothing. Low is low. She is so angry at this question that she jumps to her feet, her dress quivering like a flame. "Who are the Harwoods?" Branwen opens her mouth to give her lineage, which she knows will frustrate her even further, but Cara sees this coming and just talks over her. "Nobody's sons. Nobody's daughters. A crumbling seat that was given to you because everybody of any true worth had the sense to refuse it. I cautioned Mother against marrying you to Ranulph-"

"You were eighteen, sister," Mariam says mildly. "You were still wishing Sir Rowland would give you a rose and begging father for a tourney."

Cara's cart of anger momentarily loses a wheel; she stops, rounds on her sister. "And you were still sucking your thumb, what would you know?" Mariam retreats, but the interruption has reminded Cara where she is, and that people might be listening. Which what is no doubt purposefully designed to look like extreme effort, she reins herself in and smooths her hands over her belly, her flat, maiden's belly. Her nose goes up, almost like Gweon's sits naturally. The fire in her eyes turns to ice. "I always knew you were going to be a mistake," she continues, jabbing her finger towards her heart. It stops a thumbs-width short, as if she cannot even bring herself to touch her. "Smile if you want. You won't be smiling soon. I have always thought of you as an ambitious, subtle, cunning little witch, with no breeding, no affection for anybody but yourself, and no respect for your betters. I have always thought it, and Mariam has always thought it" - leave me out of this, says her little sister's face - "and now, finally, you have shown your true colours to the kingdom and all those beyond. All of them."

"Lady Clare says ambitious as if it is a terrible vice," Alice comments, to her skirts.

"Too much ambition is treason." Carlotte, remonstrating softly from her corner.

She is glad of the interlude. It has given her time to arrange her face and gather her thoughts together - chief among them is the thought that somebody should have slapped Cara a long time ago, and that if she remains in her presence much longer she may decide that it is better she do it late than nobody, ever. But Ranulph would not appreciate it. Somehow he loves his sisters dearly. So for his sake she discards the tempting image of Cara's face slapped red raw and tries to keep her voice calm, infuriatingly reasonable.

"So you have what you want," she says. "And I thought you weren't here to gloat. Why so angry, if I have proved you so right?"

"You have made my brother a laughing stock, a cuckold!"