Page 3 of The Favourite

“You must make a sacrifice for me now, Jane,” her sister said grimly. “You must revise your plans for your future. I am asking you to marry at once and give my child a father.” Jane’s eyes widened as Helen began to pant between her words, trying to lift her head off the pillow.

“Marry?” Jane uttered with horror.

Helen clutched at her bedsheets, a fine sheen of sweat showing on her face. “You must give my baby a father that can stand up to Uncle Phillip. A father that can outshine even a King. That way she will never pine for one who does not care for her, and no one can deny the legitimacy of your claim upon her.”

Jane was aghast. “But—but the King—” she faltered. “Will he not object?”

Helen made a noise of disgust. “He cares naught for daughters, Jane. If she had been a boy…” A wistful look entered her eye for a moment, but then it was gone. “But she is not a boy,” she said harshly. “He will not care the snap of his fingers for a bastard girl, and neither will he raise one to prevent Uncle Phillip from turning her into a pawn in his play for power!”

“Uncle,” Jane repeated hollowly. There was a horrible ring of truth to Helen’s words.

“Now he will see a royal bastard as a means to an end, mark my words,” her sister said fretfully. “No sooner am I lowered into the ground, then he will start his plotting and scheming. And how can I rest easy in my grave knowing my child is caught in his greedy grasp?”

Jane’s stomach lurched. “I had not—I had not planned for marriage,” she rasped desperately. “I had hoped—that is—I—”

“You intended to worship your Queen in faithful service until your end of days, I know,” Helen said, unable to keep the mockery entirely from her words. Jane flushed. “You wish to live your days as a vestal virgin, yet the one you serve is not a deity, Jane.”

“Neither is a husband a deity,” Jane replied tartly. “Yet wives are expected to wait on them hand and foot and take their word as law.”

“She’s not wrong, there,” Ayleth chimed in dourly. “And you cannot deny it, milady.”

Helen hissed out her breath before nodding slowly. “You are not wrong,” she conceded, “and I cannot say as I blame you, Sister. We were very young when we formed our opinions about such things.” She smiled bitterly and Jane knew they both thought momentarily of their weak, irresolute mother. “I did not wish to subjugate myself either. I vowed to take direction from no man, save a king.” She closed her eyes. “But even that did not serve in the end.”

Helen tightened her weak clasp on Jane’s fingers. “This will not be an easy path for you, Jane. I am selfish and self-serving, even in death,” she murmured. “You will admit, I am at least consistent in this, if nothing else.” A mirthless smile passed over her lips.

“You were not always thus,” Jane said with quiet conviction. “Growing up, we were the closest and best of sisters. It was not until our uncle came between us—”

“I know,” Helen interrupted her, closing her eyes as though against sudden pain. “Do I ask too much of you, Jane?” she asked raspily. “You see, you are the only one I trust, Sister. I turn to you now, as I did in the old days.”

Jane shut her own eyes a moment. Ah Helen, Helen. “It is not too much,” she heard herself say, though the words cost her dearly.

Her sister closed her eyes a moment and drew in a long, ragged breath. “You will do it, then?” Her dull eyes turned keen for just the veriest instant. Jane nodded and Helen groped for her hand again. “Let me hear you vow it,” she begged, “for I know you keep your word, Janey. You always did, no matter the consequences.”

“No matter what happens,” Jane promised, squeezing her sister’s limp fingers, “I will keep my vow to you, Sister. By hook or by crook.” She swallowed. “I will make haste to marry and then petition the King to take your daughter for my own.”

Her sister sighed and a pale smile touched her bloodless lips. “Then I can die at peace,” she said, and the horror of it was, that Jane believed she would.

2

The Winter Court at Aphrany

Alisander de Balon, Viscount Bardulf, frowned as he surveyed the Queen’s chambers and found it decidedly lacking. She was not present. And by she, he did not mean the Queen. He masked his annoyance by adopting an even more exaggerated form of his habitual languor. “Good morning, Your Majesty,” he greeted the Queen, executing an elegant bow before sauntering into the room.

“Ah, here you are Bardulf,” the Queen greeted him briskly. “You have kept us waiting for you an age this morning and I am ill-attended this day as it is.” She waved away a page boy hovering with a bowl of honeyed nuts. “No, no, not now.”

Alisander lifted a dark eyebrow and swung about to consider the gaggle of ladies in her midst. “Something is missing this morn,” he agreed, turning around in an unhurried circle to take in the Queen’s sitting room. “No, do not tell me what it is,” he said, flinging himself down into a chair. “I will use my razor-sharp wits to deduce what it might be.”

Several of the ladies in the Queen’s privy chamber tittered and the Queen tipped her head to one side, waiting to be amused.

“You have a new chair,” he said, his eye falling on a handsome carved piece set next to the window overlooking the garden.

“No,” the Queen answered promptly. “I have had that for a twelvemonth.”

He turned instead to the waiting pageboy and pointed a long finger his way. “This boy is a replacement to your usual attendant.”

“Not at all. Arthur has waited on me for three months now,” the Queen replied briskly. Arthur aimed a resentful glare in his direction.

“You have changed the way you arranged your hair this morning, my Queen.”