“To the king.”
What little Cleves does know of Cecilia is that she is loyal to nothing but herself and her brother. Such loyalty fascinates Cleves. The way clever people can toss aside their cunning for the sake of something as fragile as love.
“When did the ship leave Perfugi?” She asks.
Clarice smirks. “It had not left by the time I set sail.”
“And you had something to do with this?”
“I may have reminded some of the Perfugian sailors of the dowager queen’s temper.”
Cleves laughs. “Excellent. You have bought us time to think.”
“I cannot muster more than my own ship in her defence,” Clarice says. “My people …”
“They have endured much already for our cause. Yes, I know,” Cleves says. It is inconvenient, but she can hardly blame the Feorwans for wishing to protect themselves.
“My ship is fast, but it is not a battleship. And Cecilia was seeking to commission one with cannons. I cannot take it alone.”
“Ah, then I must arrange for my fleet of handy warships to storm to the rescue,” Cleves says. Clarice scowls: the queens of Elben do not own warships, and they know it.
“If you will not help—”
“When did I say I would not help?”
“You have not said you will.”
Cleves cannot help but laugh again. “You are as impetuous as your mistress. I repeat: let me think.”
She considers the options as Clarice stomps over to the side table and pours themself yet another cup of wine, downing it while they glower out of the window, as if their gaze could reach across the sea and splinter Cecilia’s ship apart. The problem is that no matter which way she turns it, Cleves cannot think of a way to extract Seymour without implicating herself. Without a flotilla at her disposal, the only point to do it would be when they docked or were on the road to High Hall, but that leaves so many variables: for all Cleves knows, Henry is awarethat his sister is bringing his errant queen home and plans to be waiting for her on the shore. At that point, Cleves has little hope of retrieving her without being discovered. She has no intention of torching her security before she is ready: she is not Seymour, risking all for a woman who cannot return her love.
Clarice puts her goblet down with a crack, surges forward and kneels in front of Cleves. It is a jarring picture: this Feorwan is not used to supplication.
“If Seymour is going to be on that ship as we believe, then we must intercept it before it docks at Elben. My guess is that I have bought you a matter of weeks only. The winds of the Swegan Sea are in her favour. They will carry her quickly.”
Cleves takes Clarice’s hand. A pact. Doing as Clarice asks is the only course of action that will protect Cleves as well, but she can make it seem to Clarice that she does it out of affection for Seymour. To have this Feorwan in her debt is no small boon.
“Of course we will rescue her, Clarice.”
She stands, bringing Clarice to their feet with her.
“If you will excuse me for a moment, I must send a message to the other queens. They have been concerned for your mistress also,” she says. “When I return, we will discuss how to get you back to your ship without being noticed.”
As she reaches the door, Clarice says, “I heard something, before she was taken.”
Cleves turns, her hand resting on the handle. “What?”
“I was hidden nearby when Cecilia took her. Seymour was going to convince the Perfugian Hleaws to help you. They never opened their sanctuary to her, but there was a voice from inside that said something just before Cecilia’s doctrini attacked.”
“Do you remember what it said?”
“It was spoken in a strange language. It was not Perfugian.”
This makes sense to Cleves, even if it does not to Clarice. The Hleaws in Perfugi are refugees from Elben.
“Likely it was Old Elbenese,” she tells the Feorwan. “Can you remember any of the words?”
“I have memorised them as best I could.”
