by Rachel Ford
No, Faustus wouldn’t suspect. He didn’t look at Tryg and see the man she loved. He didn’t see a rival. He saw a servant – a loyal servant, perhaps, but one he’d hired. And that was not much of a step up in her husband’s mind that a purchased vase or a pet tiger.
She bristled at the idea and remembered the indignities Trygve had suffered in his first days at court. She wondered if she should have stayed, or if she should have insisted that he come with her.
But the Northman had signaled that it was alright. And she trusted him to be the best judge of that.
So Cassia rode in silence, her heart heavy and her mind sorrowful, until at length the palace appeared on the horizon. And those windows, glowing with a pale, empty light, the polished marble, gleaming in the night lights, did nothing to lift her spirits.
Chapter Fifty-Four
The emperor caught the side of the carriage as they disembarked, and for a moment remained fixed in place, swaying a little side to side. Then, he was righted again.
It had been a long night for Trygve, and he tried not to let the fact write itself across his features. But he’d have sworn, had he had to endure another ribald jest about the bride’s soon-to-be-lost virginity, or hear Faustus opine about what a damned lucky man Iulius was, he might have committed a murder.
Fortunately, about halfway through the trip, the emperor declared he’d never seen a more beautiful, blushing bride. And then, he’d gone completely silent and pensive. And so the rest of the trip had passed, sparing the Northman the unpleasant necessity of regicide.
Now, though, the emperor found his tongue again. He said with some energy, “Well, that was a damned fine party.”
“It certainly was, my lord,” Trygve said. He nearly meant it. By southern standards, it was an excellent feast. By northern, it was solid, with liquor that never stopped flowing, food that never ended, and a general air of merriment that would have been hard to deny.
“Damned fine party,” the other man repeated, heading for the palace. Trygve trailed behind, keeping a respectful distance, but not so far that he’d be out of reach should the emperor need assistance. He wasn’t quite sure Faustus was up to the trek back to his rooms on his own.
A few servants rushed out to ask after their emperor’s needs and were summarily dismissed. They continued to the imperial quarters.
Faustus, the Northman thought again, had drank more than his delicate southern head was meant to handle. Sleep would do him good.
But it was not to his own chambers that Faustus’ feet moved. He set his path for Empress Cassia’s rooms. With a hushing motion and a conspiratorial grin to his bodyguard, Faustus knocked in a quiet, deferential way.
This worried Trygve. He knew more than enough about Faustus to know that his treatment of her was nothing like a husband’s should be. He’d seen him raise his hand to her – a gesture that, if he’d had his way, would have left the other man without the use of that hand for a long time.
But to seek her out in her rooms late at night with a servant’s knock, heavy in his cups?
An unnamable fear crept into his breast. And yet, he told himself, in all his time here, he had never seen Faustus disrespect Cassia’s decision to close her bed to him. He didn’t like it – that much was obvious – but he’d never tried to coerce her. He might be too drunk to walk in a straight line. But Faustus was not too drunk to know right from wrong.
No, this was to be some silly manner of joke, some prank or ridiculous ploy to win her back. It had to be.
And yet, there was something so ravenous in the gleam of Faustus’ eyes – had been, every time he mentioned Octavia – that Trygve’s worries would not entirely abate.
In a minute, the door opened. Cassia came into view, saying, “Yes?” But her tone changed at the sight of her visitors, and her eyes widened with fear. She held the door only half open.
At the same moment, a hungry grin appeared on her husband’s face. The Northman felt his stomach drop. Faustus shoved the door open with enough force to almost knock Cassia off her feet. He caught her and began at once to kiss her.
“Faustus,” she cried out in protest. “Stop!”
He did not stop, though. Forcing her against a wall, he kissed her with a franticness that increased in direct proportion to her struggles.
“My lord,” Trygve said, hovering in the doorway. “The lady said stop.”
Faustus didn’t bother to look up. Cassia was begging him to stop, and he was groping and kissing, biting and squeezing, her with a force that was painful to behold. Trygve could see welts forming on the Empress’ arms and legs as Faustus traced his lecherous paws up her body, grabbing and crushing her. “You’re my wife,” he said in between frenzied breaths. “And I’ll take you if I want you.”
His fears now articulated, Trygve stepped in and seized the other man by the shoulder. “The Empress said to stop,” he said, and pulled the southerner off of her.
Cassia stumbled to the ground, and Faustus’ eyes flashed as he caught his own balance. Trygve signaled for the empress to leave and focused his attention now on the emperor.
“I’ll have you gutted and your entrails feeding the pigs,” Faustus spat, “for laying a hand on me.”
“You pay me to protect you, my lord,” Trygve declared resolutely. “I am protecting you from dishonoring yourself. The lady said no.”
The emperor’s expression darkened at the words, and he swung a hand at the Northman’s face so hard he nearly lost his balance. Trygve didn’t flinch or deflect the backhand. Better, he thought, that he absorbed Faustus’ rage this way than he, or anyone else, suffer it another.
“Get out of here,” the emperor commanded. Trygve hesitated, and he repeated, “Or I’ll call the guard.”
Cassia, who had retreated to the furthest end of the room, entreated, “Please don’t. Don’t leave me.”
There was a challenge in Faustus’ eyes, though, and it only increased with these words. He seemed almost to want the Northman to stay, to try him. So Trygve turned, and as he did so he saw the fleeting glimpse of a grin paint itself across the other man’s features.
In a minute, Faustus’ footsteps sounded, heading in the direction of the empress. Cassia began again to entreat them both – her husband, to leave her be; and the Northman, not to leave her.
Trygve tried to ignore the agony those words, and the fear in them, caused his soul. He had reached the door now, which had, in their terrible manner of entrance, remained open. He closed it. If Faustus was going to call for the guard, he wanted to ensure that no guard could hear.
Then he turned back to the pair. The emperor’s back was to him, and he was again struggling with Cassia. There was a terror in her eyes that shot through him like a red-hot arrow tip. He could have killed Faustus for it.
But he had something that would be easier to explain at hand. Fumbling in his waist pouch, he drew out the scorpion’s sting – the one he had collected in the arena, an eon ago, when his life had been as simple as living or dying.
He reached them in an instant, but not quick enough for his own liking. Every moment of Cass’s pain was an eternity to him. There was one aspect of Faustus’ unbroken focus that worked to his advantage, though; and that was that the emperor didn’t even turn as he approached.
The stinger pierced his neck between the shoulder blades. Faustus’ body stiffened, he stumbled backward, and then he collapsed.
So did Cassia, but this time Trygve was there to catch her. Stuffing his trophy and makeshift weapon back into storage, he took her now with both hands. She was trembling and seemed almost unable to stand under her own power. He guided her to a seat. “Are you…alright?” His voice was thick and filled with emotion. He wanted to hold her, to squeeze her to him and promise that he’d keep her safe no matter what, no matter who meant to harm her.
But he couldn’t do that. Of course he couldn’t. She needed a friend now, she needed loyalty. Not – well, whatever madness swirled in his breast.
She nodded. She seemed, in his hands, very frail, very frightened. Again, he thought of murdering Faustus. He was distracted from these happy thoughts by her voice, sounding as fragile as she looked and felt. “How did you…what did you do?”
“It’s a paralyzing agent,” he answered. He focused on business, and his thoughts began to collect. “From one of your sand scorpions. He won’t wake up until tomorrow sometime, but it won’t kill him, or hurt him.”
Whether she was relieved or disappointed, he couldn’t say. “You risked your life for me,” she said in a moment. “If he realizes…”
“He won’t,” Trygve said. “It acts almost immediately. I will tell him that he passed out. It wouldn’t be the first time.”
She nodded. Some color began to come back into her cheeks, and her thoughts, too, seemed to be collecting. She glanced at his arms, still holding her steady, and then into his eyes. “Thank you, Trygve Bjarneson.”
He felt himself unsteady at the warmth in her tone. He drew away his hands. “Of course, Cass. Are you alright?”
She smiled, and it was a sad look. “I am.”
“Should I call someone? Your maid? One of your servants?”
“No. I am fine.”
He nodded and stood. “I will return him to his own chambers then.”
“How? Won’t the guard be alarmed?”
He scoffed. “It’s not the first time I’ve had to carry him back. They’ll think he’s passed out again from drink.”
“You have thought of everything,” she said appreciatively. “I am in your debt.”
“I’ve thought of nothing, my lady. I’m working it out as I go.” She smiled again at his words, and impulsively he took her hand to squeeze it. “But I’ll be back to check on you when it’s done.”
He was as good as his word. Discarding the emperor with no ceremony and less regard for his comfort – a heap of trash, dumped haphazardly onto the bed – Trygve left the imperial chambers. He’d encountered only one guardsman, who smiled a greeting at him and offered a subtle shake of the head. Another rough night, eh? it seemed to say. Trygve had played along.
But now he headed back for Cassia’s rooms. She had made a brave show of things, but she’d suffered a terrible ordeal. He knew the fear and anger he’d felt at seeing her so abused. He could only imagine her own.
She was waiting for him. “I wasn’t sure if you would come back,” she said.
“Of course I would,” he answered, closing the door behind him. “I will stay as long as you want me to.”
She considered the words, then asked, “Why?”
“Because…I do not think now is a time for you to be alone.”
Again, she smiled, and again it was a troubled smile. “I have been alone for a very long time, Northman.”
He understood. He knew the feeling only too well. “Sometimes,” he said in a minute, “it is not good to be alone.”
“No,” she agreed. “Sometimes it is not. Come. Will you sit by me?”
He did, and for a moment they sat in awkward silence. She was scrutinizing him with a curiosity that made him positively uncomfortable, as if he feared she might bore into his soul. As if she might see the real Trygve Bjarneson, not the man who had happened to find her in her moment of need. As if she might see the flaws and imperfections, the weaknesses and follies, of which he was made up. As if she might see through this new leaf he’d turned, and find the monster he’d been, the man who had very nearly become a murderer. The man who had only minutes before felt like murder; who, when he looked at the welts on her body, still contemplated it.
She was more relaxed, now, though. There was still a palpable tension in her shoulders, a fear in her eyes, that hurt him to see. But the terror had gone. “Are you alright?” he asked again. “Really alright? Is there anything I can do?”
Her smile, this time, was tender. “You risked your life for me, Trygve. What more can be done?”
He wasn’t sure how to respond. “I just…I can’t stand to see you in pain,” he said in a moment. It was a less guarded and rawer statement than he’d meant to make. But it was the truth.
She regarded him a moment longer, and then raised a hand to his cheek. Softly, tenderly, she caressed him. His skin burned under her touch, and he watched her with a confusion of emotions, with competing interests of desire and solicitude coursing through his blood.
He wanted her. All-Father, he wanted her. He’d wanted her almost since they’d met. But she had only just escaped her husband. He could not think like that now – if he could ever think like that.
“Cass,” he said in a minute, “what are you doing?”
She was leaning in to kiss him, her lips very close to his own. She paused. “Do you want me to stop?”
He blinked at the question. Of course he didn’t want her to stop. He wanted her to touch him, to love him, to make him hers. But sense told him she must stop. “I…Cassia, you’re afraid. And upset. After – after what happened. You –”
“I want you,” she said. “And I think you want me.”
Again, he was dumbfounded.
“Don’t you?”
“I…that is…of course. But…”
“But?” She was tracing his lips with her fingertips, her eyes holding his.
Words were not easy in the moment. Still, there was something that needed to be said, a clearing of the air between them that had to happen. “If…if you think that’s why I’ve come, that I would presume on that,” he said, “it’s not. I’d never expect – anything. I’d do anything for you, Cass. Anything. But I’d never…that is, I’m a Northman, not a southerner. My honor demands nothing less than what I did.”
She heard his words, and then kissed him, slowly, with a fire that made him moan. “I know that you are a man of honor,” she said when she finished. “I would not have let you back if I thought otherwise.” She held his gaze and moved closer to him across the divan. Her body pressed against his, and he tried to ignore the aching he felt for her. She moved as though to kiss him again, but he stopped her.
“Are you…sure?” he asked. “After – after everything?” His body burned for her, his heart yearned for her touch, her love, her caresses; but she had just been through hell. He didn’t want to take advantage of the moment, of her fear or any feeling of powerlessness.
“Very,” she said with a smile. “Unless you are opposed.”
“No,” he answered, “no, I just…I…” He lost himself in her gaze, and the words followed his thoughts, into the void.
In a moment, he had wrapped her in his arms, kissing her with all the tender longing he’d tried to ignore these months of their acquaintance. For a few minutes, they remained on the divan in this fashion, exploring each other with touches, with kisses.
There was fire in her lovemaking, but now and again, fear. A tenseness, a flicker of apprehension would course through her body or cross her face at an unexpected touch or a sudden move.
He went slowly, letting her set the pace, backing off when she seemed unsure. Finally, she pulled him to her and whispered in his own language, “Take me, Trygve.”
And he did.
They spent the night in the throes of passion, loving and re-loving each other while the emperor lay passed out in an apartment away. He fell asleep in her arms and woke the next morning to find that she still held him.
They made love again, and then he said, “I should go. He’ll be awake soon.” There was no need to elucidate on the object he had in mind.
She nodded, and a shade of sadness crossed her face. “I wish you could stay.”
“So do I.” He watched her smile, trying to push away the sorrow. He saw the early morning sunlight casting her tanned body in its warmth, the gentle kiss of pink and golden light on her bronzed skin. He saw, too, the bruises on her arms and legs where Faustus had mauled her the night before. And, impulsively, he said what he was thinking. “I love you, Cassia.”
It had been the wrong thing to say. It was
true. But, perhaps, that was the problem. He did love her. He’d loved her for a long time now, in silence and in shadow. But saying it out loud made it real and made her aware of it. It complicated their relationship; it injected reality into the heady passion of lovemaking.
She hadn’t been surprised, exactly, by the revelation, but she’d grown quiet and sad. He had dressed quickly and took his leave. She bid him farewell, but there was an unmistakable distance between them.
He couldn’t blame her for not loving him in return. He couldn’t blame her for wanting only a physical relationship. She was in a loveless, abusive marriage. The complication of emotional entanglement would only make her situation, married to the monster she called husband, worse.
He couldn’t blame her for last night and this morning, either. He’d wanted it at least as badly as she had, and she had made him no promises, no commitments. She wasn’t free to make them anyway. He knew that going in.
Still, a few hours of passion, though he wouldn’t have traded them for the world, didn’t come close to satisfying the feelings of his heart. And yet, they were foolishness. He had learned that clearly enough.
And now – now, he must steel himself to act with deference to a man jealousy alone, in the best of circumstances, would have made an enemy. But in the moment? He had wanted to kill before, but never with as much justice as in the present case. Faustus was abusive, a would-be rapist. He was a coward and the worst kind of drunk: the kind who would hide his worst crimes under the cover of alcohol. He deserved the ignominious death the law – at least, Northern law – prescribed for such men.
And yet, he was emperor. And so Trygve must do what he said, must pretend to honor him, and must try to placate him now.
Chapter Fifty-Five
Faustus rose with a headache, which he soon turned into a headache for everyone else. He claimed not to remember what had happened the night before, but Trygve didn’t believe that – not for a moment. He asked too carefully about the details of what had transpired the night before to ask in innocence.
