By Elizabeth Jane Shelton
Queen Majorie’s coronation ball had been meticulously planned down to the minute. Except for the kidnapping.
Marjorie was sprawled in the middle of the ballroom floor, her sapphire blue coronation gown puddled around her. The rest of her guests sat around the perimeter, held in place by the threat of circling black-cloaked figures.
What she wouldn’t give for a sword right now. But queens did not carry swords. Queens behaved politely and daintily. Queens wore constricting ballgowns and smiled even when in pain.
“Well?” snarled the leader of the invaders—a tall man with a scarlet sash tied around his waist—to one of his lackeys. “It’s been an hour. Why hasn’t the Vigilante arrived to rescue her?” All the intruders wore masks to conceal their features, but the man wasn’t intelligent enough to disguise his voice. Or the way he favored his left leg.
The lackey cowered. “I don’t know, sir,” he squeaked. “He’s never passed up the chance to rescue our victims before.”
“Perhaps he doesn’t like nobles.” The leader smirked at Marjorie. “Hear that? Maybe your kingdom’s precious little masked do-gooder thinks your life isn’t worth as much as a farmer’s.” He clenched a fist. “He better be here soon. That spy has thwarted my kingdom’s plans one too many times. I’d like to make him pay for it.”
His kingdom? As if the other hints weren’t obvious enough. “Prince Antoine of Birkonia! Stop this charade this instant! Is this because I refused your offer of marriage?”
“What? No! That is, I’m not—Blast!” Antoine tore off the mask. “What gave it away?”
Marjorie rolled her eyes—an undignified move for a queen, but dignity was scarce for any captive. “We’ve danced together, Antoine. You really thought I wouldn’t recognize you?”
Antoine pinched the bridge of his nose. “Perhaps.”
Antoine was dumber than the rocks that made up Marjorie’s castle. Could Marjorie trick Antoine into letting her go? She scanned the ballroom for a victim, and her eyes fell upon Lady Aguefort, who just last week said Marjorie’s nose was unfeminine.
“If you must know, the Vigilante doesn’t like me very much. Why not threaten Lady Aguefort instead? She’s a much more tempting damsel in distress.”
“What?” Lady Aguefort shrieked.
Antoine frowned. “Then what am I to do with you?”
Marjorie shrugged. “Why don’t you leave me right here? I can tell your soldiers about the time you ate that curry from Tetrar and spent the rest of the night shut up in the—”
“Enough!” Antoine roared, his face beet red. “Lock her in her room. I don’t want to listen to that mouth of hers.” He waved a hand, and another masked invader hauled Marjorie upright, dragging her toward the back of the room.
The moment the man shut Marjorie’s door, she sprang into action. She ran to her closet, quickly shedding layers before pulling on a pair of dark breeches, black leather armor, and a belt with slots for a sword and two daggers. She twisted her hair up and secured it under a tight cap, then tied on a well-fitting black mask that obscured everything but her eyes.
Marjorie swung silently out her bedroom window and onto the ledge. She made her way around the perimeter of the castle, stopping just before the ballroom windows to carefully climb the carved stones until she reached the pinnacle of the ballroom, an elegant skylight.
She tied a long rope to an outcropping near the window’s edge, took a deep breath, and swung into the window, crashing through the glass and rappelling directly down onto Antoine. She pinned him and whipped out her sword, placing it against his throat. “Nobody moves!” she said harshly, pitching her voice down behind her full-faced mask. “Drop your weapons, or your leader’s life is forfeit.”
“Do as he says,” Antoine whimpered, and the invaders’ weapons clattered to the ground.
“Maravans. Collect the weapons.” As they did so, Marjorie growled, “I hear you were looking for me.”
“I-I—”
“The only reason you aren’t dead is that killing you would start a war that Marava does not want. But if you ever set foot on Maravan soil again, your soldiers will receive your body back one piece at a time. Do you understand?”
Antoine sobbed. “Yes! Yes! Let me go, please!”
Marjorie pressed the sword closer for a moment before releasing Antoine. He scampered away. “Get out of my sight.”
As the ballroom doors clunked shut behind the invaders, first one, then another noble broke out in applause. Soon, the whole room was cheering.
But as soon as Majorie finished untying Lady Aguefort, the lady stood and stepped forward. “Vigilante! We need a ruler who will take action. Why don’t you lead us?”
A hush fell over the crowd. There was one murmur of agreement, then another.
Marjorie looked out over her subjects. She’d always believed that to be accepted as queen, she’d have to hide who she truly was. But her people loved the Vigilante. Could they accept her as both the regal queen and the capable spy?
Marjorie reached up and removed both mask and cap, letting her curly golden hair cascade around her shoulders. The crowd gasped; Lady Aguefort dropped in a dead faint. “You want the Vigilante to rule?” Marjorie raised an eyebrow. “Then by all means, let’s continue with my coronation ball.”
For a moment, all was silent. Then a lord stepped forward and bowed. “Your Majesty. May I have the honor of dancing with my Vigilante Queen?”
Marjorie sheathed her sword and curtsied in her breeches and boots. “Yes, you may.”
As the music started up and people tried—many failing—to recover from the shock of the night, the lord smiled. “Black becomes you, my lady. As does the sword.”
“Why, yes. I believe it does.”
The music began again, and Marjorie placed her hands on his shoulders, allowing herself to be whisked into a waltz.
Vigilante Queen. She could get used to that.
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Very nice!