The Council gathered once more in the great hall.
Outside, the autumn wind drove shreds of mist past the windows, torch flames flickered, and heavy tapestries rustled like the whisper of old intrigues. Beatrice was the last to enter.
She walked unhurriedly, carrying before her only a thin scroll tied with a scarlet ribbon. The voices in the hall fell silent. Even the most confident lords unconsciously straightened a little. Theodore sat in his chair, lost in thought. His gaze slid over Beatrice quickly, almost imperceptibly, but in the depths of his eyes flashed something like hidden pride.
Beatrice approached the table, sat down, and unrolled the scroll.
From the first minutes of the session, everything went according to plan. The lords murmured to each other, officials fussed with scrolls and tablets. Beatrice listened to their reports silently, not interrupting. When her turn came, she stood up.
Before her lay neatly bound scrolls, registers compiled by people she trusted.
Her voice sounded clear:
– Over the past three months, the treasury has received additional levies from the southern provinces, thanks to the revision of tax rates. However... – Beatrice lifted one of the scrolls, – ...only sixty percent of the expected sum reached the main treasury. The rest settled in private coffers.
She paused, allowing the words to settle in the air.
The lords exchanged glances.
– The responsible officials have already been named. The names have been sent to the Chancellery for review.
A light murmur passed through the hall.
Theodore leaned slightly forward, listening closely.
– Furthermore, – Beatrice continued, – substitutions have been discovered in the scrolls concerning bread distribution. Supplies were written off to non-existent villages. Money was going... where the treasury never sent it.
She looked up.
– Meanwhile, real settlements suffered from lack of grain, – she placed a second stack of documents on the table. – Fake accounts. Forged signatures. And everywhere, the same surnames.
She did not raise her voice. But every word hit like a hammer.
Treasurer Morgan flushed and began to stammer excuses:
– It's an unfortunate mistake! Some lines got mixed up in the accounts!
The Chancellor tried to buy time, demanding "further study."
Marianna sat silently, fingers interlaced, her gaze growing colder with every minute.
Beatrice listened to all the excuses in silence, only occasionally asking clarifying questions that pushed the officials into even greater confusion. One of the senior lords, Count de Savre, stood—his voice deceptively polite:
– Your Majesty, may I ask a question...
– Speak, – Beatrice permitted.
De Savre leaned forward.
– And isn't it just a little too convenient that, while checking others' pockets, you are in no hurry to look into your own? He spoke politely. But the blow was precise.
Beatrice listened calmly.
– Who spreads such rumors? – she asked evenly.
– Rumors don't come from nowhere, – de Savre replied. – People sense when they are being used.
The murmurs in the hall grew louder.
Someone muttered about "show trials," someone recalled, "Yesterday, that scribe was as poor as a church mouse, now he wears a lined doublet."
Theodore tensed, his gaze drifting over Beatrice. He didn't interfere, letting her act.
– Your Majesty, – de Savre drawled, – no one disputes your concern for the treasury. But tell us... why do your investigations only affect 'insignificant' people? Why do your 'favorites' bathe in rewards, while old families are humiliated at the slightest excuse?
– Living off the fat of the land, – someone from the junior lords quietly chimed in.
Beatrice met his gaze calmly.
– Facts do not choose whom to expose.
The lord bowed his head in feigned submission.
– Or perhaps the facts are selected? – Regnald interjected slyly from the other end of the table, leaning lazily on his elbow. – Perhaps the accusations are needed only to draw attention away from your own mistakes?
A short wave of tension swept through the hall.
– They say, – Regnald continued softly, – that the Queen's favorites squander the treasury's funds left and right. Feasting at the public's expense. And that all the audits are just a convenient pretext to remove the unwanted.
He smiled like a man telling a funny story over dinner. But everyone in the hall heard: this was no longer a whisper. This was a blow.
When Regnald's accusations and poisonous insinuations settled in the air, everyone started arguing again. Some tried to shift blame to others, some shouted about their own truth.
Theodore motioned with his fingers to summon one of his adjutants.
He silently handed her a small folded note. For a moment, Beatrice hesitated. Then, unhurriedly, she opened the note, shielding it with her hand from prying eyes. The handwriting was even, confident, with characteristic angular curls. Just one line:
"Regnald's hunting trail leads to the southern grain warehouses. You should have noticed, the lists from last autumn."
Only the gist. And instant understanding pierced her. Regnald. His lavish hunts in the southern estates. Revels with the money that should have saved the settlements from hunger. Beatrice slowly curled the parchment into her fist. And only then did she raise her eyes to Regnald. In her gaze there was a calm, merciless resolve.
– An interesting accusation, – she said evenly. – But if you took the trouble to check the reports and archives, my lords, you would notice something strange, – she took a few steps forward, – a remarkable coincidence: all the write-offs, all the shortages, all the missing grain stores are, in one way or another, connected to the fiefs under the patronage of some of the houses present here.
Beatrice unfurled the scroll so that the parchment shimmered above the table. Her gaze fell directly on Regnald.
– And if we're talking about "feasting at the public's expense," my lord, perhaps you would explain to the Council why, in the grain expenditure scrolls, expenses for maintaining your personal hunts suddenly appear?
Regnald smiled even wider. But his fingers clenched so hard that his knuckles turned white.
Marianna, sitting in the depths of the hall, didn't change her expression. But her hand gripped the armrest convulsively.
When Beatrice finished her final report and the hall had already begun to fill with heavy, nervous anticipation, one of the senior lords, Duke de Vignier, rose from his seat.
His movements were slow, lazy, like a well-fed cat.
A condescending smirk played on his lips.
– Your Majesty, – he said, bowing his head just barely, as if doing her a favor, – all this is, of course, impressive. The numbers, the accusations, the pompous speeches about duty... – He shook his head slightly, like an adult coaxing a stubborn child. – But I'm afraid you've forgotten one simple thing. – He took a step forward, leaning on a heavy cane inlaid with silver. There was no fear in his voice. Only lazy, open contempt. – Without us, the old houses, your throne is just a chair in an empty hall. Without us, your word is an empty sound.
He smiled wider.
– You're here only because you pleased the king. Bore him an heir. Fulfilled your bodily duty, if I may say so.
Someone in the hall drew in a loud breath. Theodore tensed.