On a Sea of Fleur de Lys
A Dragon Age; Origins fan fiction by xahra99
Written for the femgenficathon for the prompt: Children say that people are hanged sometimes for speaking the truth.-Joan of Arc (circa 1412-1431), 15th-century French visionary, warrior, saint and martyr.
"In the spring," Arnaud de Veslin said."We shall be ready in the spring."
Leliana crouched with her ear against the cold stained-glass of the Chantry window and listened to the men talk. They were always men, these conspirators, and arrogant men at that.
Women, she thought, are far too clever to plot against the queen.
As plots went this one was barely worth mentioning. No doubt even the conspirators themselves did not consider it a plot.
Remy de Verchiel coughed on the other side of the window. "We simply have the queen's best interests at heart," he said.
In the privacy of the small Chantry, Leliana rolled her eyes. Men like de Veslin always had the queen's best interests at heart. They were equally convinced that whoever they chose as her husband would be easy to manipulate and loyal only to themselves. She needs a husband, they would say, in private rooms and the back bars of inns and in quiet corners of the gardens like this one. Someone who will guide her. Someone who will listen.
Leliana privately disagreed. She thought the queen did an excellent job all by herself, but nobody listened to her.
That would change. Leliana would make sure of that.
"How goes the candidate?" de Veslin asked.
"He is biddable," replied the duc d'Ghislain from the other side of the glass. He had a distinctive deep voice that Leliana recognized immediately. She raised her eyebrows. The duke was a member of the Privy Council, the queen's closest circle of advisors. Leliana was sure that he would not be for much longer. She had learned during her short time at court that Queen Celeste did not like to be manipulated.
"He is stupid," said Arnaud de Veslin. "But he has acquired a veneer of culture that the queen should find appealing."
Leliana doubted it. Queen Celeste I of Orlais spoke a dozen languages. She frequently held her own in debates with the learned philosophers of three countries. She would not be fooled by any polish, no matter how elegant.
"He is biddable?
"He is grateful," corrected Verchiel.
There was a pause. Leliana waited for more. Doves cooed in the bare rafters above her head. Leliana tucked up the fur hem of her court skirts high so that the hem did not brush the pigeon droppings on the floor. Her breath steamed in the cold air.
"It is a long play, said the only man who had not spoken, "He is, after all, not royal." His voice was even, unaccented, and it took Leliana a few seconds to puzzle out his identity. Simon Montblanc, she realized, even as her memory provided his profession: cartographer and diplomat.
Arnaud sighed. "True. But he is, of course," he said, sounding smug, "most pleasing to the eye. And his family will be very grateful. Very grateful indeed."
"She will not marry a man who is not of royal blood," said Montblanc.
The duc d'Ghislain sniffed. "Then she shall have precious few partners," he said. "Even King Cailan of Ferelden married the daughter of his seneschal. We could tout the match as an opportunity for stability with a family of good Orlesian lineage."
"It is worth a try," Montblanc agreed. "But I do not say that it will work."
The doves cooed and twittered above Leliana's head. A pair began to fight, showering dead twigs and grey feathers (as well as other things too disgusting to mention) down from the ceiling. Despite Leliana's best efforts, a good portion of the mess came to rest in her hair. She sighed. The disruption did not interfere with her powers of recollection. Leliana could remember every word the conspirators had uttered. Her memory worked effortlessly, recalling every detail of the conversation as accurately as she would have recalled the words of a song.
That was what it meant to be an Orlesian bard.
Leliana held her breath and waited for the men to mention a name. Please, she begged silently. The name of the conspirators' prospective candidate would be something of real importance to tell Marjolaine. Marjolaine would, of course, tell Queen Celeste, but this time Leliana would make sure that her own name was mentioned.
"What is that noise?" somebody-she thought it was Montblanc-said.
Leliana held her breath.
She had known that the men used the path near the small chantry as a meeting place for some days now. The chantry had not been used since before Celeste's grandfather's time. It was usually deserted. Leliana had been visiting the place for days now, hoping that they would show up. She could not afford to break cover. She would be shamed before the courts, and doubtless Arnaud de Veslin would find a way to blame his conspiracy upon her, too, if he was discovered.
"What noise?" de Veslin said suspiciously.
"In the chantry," said the duc d'Ghislain. She imagined him raising his chin and gesturing to the door with a flick of his white lace cuffs. "Montblanc, go check."
"My lord," Montblanc said quietly. The stained glass window was thick and wavy, patterned in royal blue and gold with the fleur de lys pattern of Orlais's ruler. It was difficult to be sure, but Leliana thought she saw Montblanc bow. She had thought that he would protest at being ordered like a servant, but he did not complain. But then, Montblanc was the only one of the conspirators who was not of noble birth.
Leliana heard his footsteps crunch on the gravel path that ran around the chantry. She considered a myriad of options. The bards of Orlesia were legends. Heroes of song and drama, every one of them, able to pick a lock with nothing but a filed hairpin and a witty quip. None more deadly with sword, arrow, bow or bare hands, they would best any swordsman in combat and leave him thanking them for the privilege.
Perhaps even a swordsman as skilled as Simon Montblanc was reputed to be.
But a fight would draw attention to herself, and next time the name would be different, and the meeting place too. Leliana had no intention of betraying herself to these foolish, bored men.
She slithered from the window and flattened herself under a pew as the heavy door creaked open.
"Hello?" called Montblanc.
As if anybody would reply, Leliana thought scornfully. She had taken care to tread on the carpets rather than leaving her narrow footprints on the dust on the ground where they might be easily seen. Montblanc had no way of knowing she was there.
Leliana felt rather than saw his gaze rake across the Chantry's empty seats. The rows of pews blocked her from his sight. Cobwebs hung thickly upon the votive candle racks. The pigeons squawked and bickered in the loft overhead.
Do not come closer, she prayed
He didn't. A few seconds later she heard him leave, closing the heavy door carefully behind him. His footsteps crunched up the gravel path. As Leliana resumed her place in the shadows beneath the stained glass window, she heard Montblanc blowing on his hands to warm them as he rejoined the group.
"Just pigeons," he said.
The duc d'Ghislain laughed. "That's the price of remote assignations," he said. "Pigeons, and this damned cold."
"And you'd know all about remote assignations, would you?" teased Verchiel. The identity of the duc d'Ghislain's pretty mistress was common knowledge at court.
Arnaud de Veslin was not amused. "Gentlemen," he said, and coughed. The nobles scuttled to attention like small boys who had been reprimanded by a tutor.
"So it is to be Montespan, then? Not Lys?" asked Verchiel.
"Edmund de Montespan," Arnaud said. "Yes."
"I hope this plan works better than the last," Montblanc said cheerfully. Leliana heard a collective chuckle. The chuckle was followed by an irritated retort from de Veslin. "How was I to know the queen did not favor blondes?"
"I doubt that the queen selects potential suitors by the color of their hair. No. That one was too stupid, and that was why he failed," Montblanc said. "The Queen likes clever men."
"She will marry eventually," Arnaud de Veslin said. "She will have to. She knows as well as we do that Orlais cannot be left without heirs. Montespan has done some military service. The queen has a weakness for pretty soldier boys. Edmund de Montespan is as good as any other. She must choose a noble man. Why not him?"
"You know as well as I do that she already has a lover," Verchiel pointed out with a drawl. His comment was met with a chorus of derision. Rumors of Celeste's affair with her teacher Leonard Vasare had circled the Val Royeaux court for years.
"She will never-she can never-marry a commoner," said de Veslin. "The nobles would never stand for it."
"No," said Montblanc thoughtfully, "but there is nothing to prevent him from becoming her openly acknowledged consort."
"That might work were Celine a king. Her nobles-us-would-will- never accept a commoner on the throne," replied de Veslin.
"Mm. The common folk would love it," said Verchiel."They want her to be happy."
"It is not a queen's duty to be happy," Arnaud de Veslin said sternly. "She should be a figurehead."
Yes, thought Leliana. A beautiful figurehead, painted wood and wax, sailing whichever way the wind blows with you to pull her sails.
It is a pity for you that Celeste is not wood and wax. She is a woman. More, she is a queen.
From the opposite side of the stained glass window, de Veslin said obliviously to Verchiel, "Tell your eldest daughter to put in a good word for our man." Leliana saw his shadow turn to that of the duc d'Ghislain. "Yours too."
Emilie de Verchiel, Leliana thought, and Marie d'Ghislain. The poor girls probably had as little choice in the matter as did Montespan. But more names were useful, and the more useful Leliana was the greater her reward. She would remember the names.
"When do we meet again?" Verchiel asked.
Arnaud de Veslin considered. "The next rainy day. No doubt the queen will visit her library for amusement, just as she has done today. Midday, I think, just after the Chant."
There was a chorus of agreement. The four men said their goodbyes and departed. Leliana lay there until the sound of their muffled voices had died away, and then she waited for ten more minutes to be certain. When she could stand it no more she crept away from the window and brushed twigs and dust from the hem of her court skirt. She fixed her hair in the blue- and gold reflection of the stained glass window and tiptoed down the carpet.
Outside, the winter evening was fast shading to dusk. Leliana read the direction of the conspirators' tracks in the gravel of the path and the snow-flecked grass and chose for herself a more direct route, treading carefully over the frost-spangled meadows. The air was clear and sharp, with a hint of lingering warmth. The snow would thaw overnight. Leliana's tracks would be erased by morning.
She checked the hour as she passed a sundial. It was five in the afternoon. Leliana was late. She quickened her steps and walked on. Her slippers were damp with moisture by the time she entered the northern end of the ornamental gardens.
In summer, she would not have passed through the gardens unnoticed at such an hour. In summer, the gardens were illuminated by tiny candles that flickered in the dark like fireflies. The air would be heavy with the scent of perfume and cologne. The fountains would be sparking mirrors of bright water, and hedges and benches would be the scenes of a thousand illicit conquests. But it was winter. The gardens were dark; the fountains swathed in straw-filled bags against the cold. There were no flowery scents and no young lovers. Leliana walked alone.
She was surprised to find that she did not mind it. Court life could be a trial at times. The courtiers and their bards were like a flock of brightly-hued butterflies, and they never settled on one flower for long. All was gossip and fashion and intrigue. Sometimes Leliana preferred the dark.
She reached the blue flag of Val Royeaux and the gold harp banner of Queen Celeste hanging limp on their flagpoles at the centre of the garden, and walked quickly up the main avenue to the house. Circling the building, she entered through the servants' quarters. A few girls giggled, no doubt imagining that Leliana was returning from some illicit affair. Leliana ignored them.
Despite her precautions, she was almost immediately caught.
"Leliana! Where have you been?"
Leliana turned instinctively. The lady of Val Foret, her lover and her husband's favorite mistress tripped toward her down the corridor. They walked arm in arm, and their full skirts allowed little room for anybody else to pass. Leliana was trapped, and she knew it. Still, she smiled. "What, ladies?"
Blanche Val Foret tapped Leliana with her fan. "Leliana! Come, join us."
"We are bored," said Athenais, the courtesan.
"Maybe she will play us some little song," drawled the duc d'Celles, Blanche's lover.
Leliana bowed. "Madame," she said. "Monsieur. I am rather afraid I have no time."
The lady of Val Foret pouted. She was not used to being disappointed."Come now," she said. "What is more important in life than amusement?"
"That I do not dispute," Leliana said. "But I have someone waiting."
"Etienne," whispered the duc d'Celles to Blanche Val Foret, and they giggled.
Athenais looked Leliana up and down. Her eyes narrowed. "Ah, so it is the chevalier's gold coins that have purchased your gowns," she said."With Etienne in your thrall, you will soon be rich enough to be a queen."
Leliana frowned. Etienne was another plan of Marjolaine's; one that required considerably more effort that lurking in cold chantries. She was not usually rude to nobles, but she had never liked Athenais, and the duc's comment about a little song had annoyed her. Leliana did not write little songs. In addition, she was in the possession of a rather interesting piece of information, namely that Athenais had recently been given the title of duchess of Lydes by Blanche's grateful husband. Now she wielded that knowledge like a dagger. "And I am whore enough to be a duchess. What of it?"
Athenais went white. The duc d'Celles put his hand on his sword and Blanche Val Foret hid a smile beneath her fan.
Leliana felt somebody tap her shoulder. "Am I interrupting something?"
She turned and saw Marjolaine. Leliana's patron smiled sweetly and took her arm, steering her back down the corridor, away from the snickering woman and her insulted rival. The tassels attached to their trailing sleeves mingled, blue and purple shading to violet.
"That was not wise," Marjolaine said in a low voice as they rounded the corner. "You should not bait them so."
Leliana smiled. "I am a bard. It is my job."
"Even bards need protectors." Marjolaine said. She did not look displeased, although the crows' feet that were beginning to appear at the corners of her eyes betrayed some hidden tension.
Leliana raised Marjolaine's hand to her mouth and kissed her fingers. Marjolaine's skin was dry and cool beneath her lips. "And I have mine."
Marjolaine smiled, but she took her hand away. "I will not last forever. What news have you? Quickly now. The chevalier Etienne is waiting."
Leliana's hand went to her throat. "I did not release it was so late," she said faintly. "How do I look?"
"Ravishing," Marjolaine said, hardly sparing her a glance. "The names?"
Leliana sighed. She fiddled with her hair in a wide-framed mirror as they walked past. "The candidate is Edmund de Montespan," she said.
"Magnificent. And the conspirators?"
Leliana named them one by one. "Arnaud de Veslin-he is the leader. The duc d'Ghislain. Simon Montblanc. And Remy de Verchiel-he is the last. Their daughters, too- Marie d'Ghislain and Emilie de Verchiel."
Marjolaine raised her eyebrows. "Of course. The handmaidens. When do they present the boy?"
"In spring."
"It will take them that long to prepare him? The dear boy is more hopeless than I'd have thought."
Leliana tried to picture de Montespan, "He is very good looking," she said, "As I recall."
Marjolaine's perfectly plucked eyebrows climbed higher. "Really? I find him very fat and not as handsome as his portraits. It will take more than that to oust Vasare." She patted Leliana's shoulder. "You've done well, my darling."
Leliana basked in the praise. "I should go," she said reluctantly, although she did not want to leave Marjolaine so soon. "Etienne-"
Marjolaine nodded, "You should indeed," she said. "You will have to be fast to visit him before prayers."
"I'll be quick."
"Not too quick, I hope."
"We will miss prayers," Leliana's lips curled in a smile. "I'm sure of it."
Marjolaine raised a finger to her lips. "My, my. I thought that he was more devout. I am impressed. Keep him keen, Leliana. The chevalier spills more of worth in pillow talk than even he knows."
Leliana's smile grew. "I tell him that even the Maker would not make men miserable for taking a little pleasure out of the way," she said. "Certainly the good chevalier has mentioned the Maker's name more than once in our nighttime…conversations."
"Good. Now, come here. You have a smudge on your skirt," Marjolaine stepped closer, "and another on your bosom."
Leliana moved obediently closer. She felt Marjolaine's deft fingers brush over her skirt and then her breast. Her breath quickened as her mentor slipped in for a stolen kiss. It was a sweet, lingering kiss, and it went on for longer than Leliana had expected. There was a hint of sadness and regret in the clash of tongue and teeth. "Is something wrong?" she asked.
Marjolaine shook her head. "Don't get too attached to him," she said, laughing, although the crows' feet around her eyes did not go away.
Leliana echoed her sad smile. "I won't. I'll see you tonight?"
"Maybe. Have fun with Etienne."
"I will." She paused, not wanting to be too forward. "Mention my name to her ladyship. Let her know that it was my work that brought this plot to her attention."
Marjolaine smiled again. "Certainly," she said, "I will do that."
"Go, then, with the Maker's blessing."
Leliana curtseyed and made her way to Etienne's apartments. It had been long enough that she knew the route well, but not too long. The chevalier was seated impatiently on the side of his bed, waiting for her. He greeted her with a kiss and far-too eager hands. Leliana's body was already inflamed by Marjolaine's touch. She did not have to pretend, not this time.
"My lover," she said, and drew him to her.
It was much later at night when Leliana heard the knock on the door. Waking from drowsy sleep, she thought at first she had misheard. The knock came again, louder and sharper. Etienne snored on in the feather bed beside her.
Annoyed, Leliana struggled into a silk robe. She opened the door a crack and had it slammed back in her face. She blinked in torchlight. Outside the room, hand raised to knock, stood a whole company of the Queen's personal guard. Their faces were grim.
"Your name is Leliana," one of them said.
Leliana nodded without thinking. The guard grabbed her shoulders and yanked her, stumbling, outside the room. Leliana caught a glimpse of Etienne's pale startled face rising from the bed behind her as the guard slammed the door shut. "Whatever are you doing!?"
"Quiet!" the guard snapped.
Leliana had no intention of keeping quiet. "Why should I?" she asked "This is an outrage!" She could feel her voice rising in pitch and without thinking she modulated it. "Why have you come?"
The soldier cleared his throat. "Leliana," he said. "It is my duty to tell you that you have been officially accused of treason to the state. The evidence is," he shot her a grim look, "insurmountable. Please remain calm. We have orders to escort you immediately to a meeting with the Queen's Chancellor, who will inform you in more detail of the charges laid against you. Anything that you say may be used against you in your hearing."
"What? No! Etienne!" Leliana banged with her heels on the door, but the soldiers dragged her away. "You can't do this! I have done nothing!" She caught the eye of the closest guard. "Who is my accuser?"
The guard looked on her with pity. "Marjolaine," he said, and Leliana's world flew apart.