by Emma Newman
She considered lying to him, the angry, shadowy part of herself hoping it would fill him with despair to think he couldn’t even trust his own wife. But she couldn’t do that to Catherine, not now she knew how she felt about the cause. She couldn’t destroy any more lives. “No,” she said.
“So you exploited her better nature and betrayed her trust. I thought more of you.”
Margritte curled her toes inside her shoes, focusing her anger into the movement to keep it from her face. It hurt because he was right. “You know my husband didn’t try to kill her. All I want is for you to clear his name in front of the Court. It’s not too much to ask. I shouldn’t even have to, in fact. If you were as decent as Catherine seems to have deluded herself into believing, you would have done so already.”
William’s laugh was bitter. “You want me to clear your family’s name when you’ve sunk to this? Kidnapping a Duke, destroying his possessions—including his wedding ring—locking him in a box with no food, no water for God knows how long, beating him, tying him to a chair? Do you even know where the moral high ground is any more?”
Margritte took a moment to breathe in as a burst of panic threatened to take her. “If you don’t do this, I will invite the Patroons to Oxenford and cast a Truth Charm on you in their presence. You will be forced to confess—”
“They wouldn’t come!” William laughed again. “You did all this to threaten me with that? What fantasy world do you live in? If they answered your demand they would be sanctioning this barbaric behaviour. The Patroons would close rank and force you to release me.”
She stood, trying to think of something to say, something to frighten him, but she was too afraid herself. So she turned her back, thrust the key into the wall and went back out into the larger room, controlling herself until the door closed behind her.
Margritte went to one of the long wooden benches and sat, wondering if she was actually going to be sick. She slid the key up her sleeve, freeing her hands so she could weep into them. She should have gone abroad until the madness of her grief had passed. Instead she’d sucked Rupert into the maelstrom with her, and the entire city. All of her suspicions about Ekstrand and Iris were only that; there was no proof.
“Maggie?”
Her spirits sank further as she heard Rupert coming towards her. She hurriedly wiped away the tears.
“What did he say?” His hand was on her shoulder. Really, the man was insufferable!
“Nothing.” She stood to break the contact but he was boxing her in against the bench. “I…it’s harder than I thought it would be.”
He nodded. “I thought so. You knew him before. That’s bound to make it tough.”
She had to find a way to untangle the mess she’d made without making Rupert angry. He could destroy them all, including her son. “Perhaps we need to take a different approach.”
He nodded. “I couldn’t agree more.”
Rupert went towards the box, flicked his yo-yo at one of the sides and a door opened again. She hurried after him, fearful.
“Morning.”
William watched him warily, the cockiness gone. Rupert was trying to make him feel disoriented; it was evening in Oxford.
“Good morning.”
“So, I take it Margritte has explained what she wants from you?”
William nodded slowly. His lip had split and Margritte tried not to look at it. Rupert hadn’t mentioned any violence. Had he provoked the Arbiter? Were they trying to frighten him?
“I refuse. This is no way to treat a Duke. I won’t be coerced into anything.”
“But that’s what happens to you all the time, isn’t it?” Rupert turned the chair around and straddled it, resting his arms on the back. “Your Patroons and patrons tell you what to do all the fucking time. Shit, I really hope you were coerced into killing Bartholomew, for your sake. Otherwise you wanted to kill him to take the throne. You don’t want me to think that’s true, do you?”
“I have no interest in what you think I may or may not have done. It’s none of your business.”
Rupert chuckled and fired a grin at Margritte who had retreated to a corner after the door closed behind her. “I like him. Cool under pressure, like all of the Irises. And—” he turned back to face William “—like all of the Irises in Oxenford, you’re also in a box of my making. Now listen to me, Dukey-boy, there are two ways we can do this. One is like gentlemen, I’ll even put on a posh voice so you feel at home. We can have tea and crumpets, laugh about who’s just been rogered up the arse by who, and then you can sign a statement that clears Bartholomew’s name and read it out in Convocation and in the Londinium Court. We could do that right now, and you’ll be home in time for tea.”
“No.”
“All right, well, the second option is that I leave you in this box for a few days. I’ll break up the sensory deprivation with periods of unpredictable loud noise that will only start when you fall asleep. After a week or so with no rest, no food, no fucking toilet, let’s face it, you’re going to be much more willing to meet Margritte’s very reasonable request.”
William looked at Margritte. “You want him to do this in your name?”
“I think I’m being one generous motherfucker.” Rupert didn’t let her reply. “I could torture you in ways your family haven’t even discovered yet. And the longer you go on being an asshole about all this, the more likely that’s going to happen.”
“What have you offered him to make him do this?” William asked her and Rupert punched him so hard his chair fell back, taking William with it.
Rupert shoved the table to one side and grabbed William’s lapels. “Listen to me, you misogynistic little shit. It may come as news to you but men can decide to help a woman because they think her argument is correct, not because she has different genitalia and has offered to do something with them. Don’t insult my intelligence by making out that I’m incapable of making decisions without thinking about sex. That’s fucking offensive, to me and to Margritte.”
William coughed and blood splattered over Rupert’s jumper. “There’s more to this than Bartholomew.”
“Yes, there is, but it isn’t any promises of sex. Your patron is working with Ekstrand. I want you to tell me what he wants you to do and why.”
There was a look of genuine confusion on William’s face. “I have no idea why you think Ekstrand has anything to do with me.”
“You helped him get the Master of Ceremonies back to Aquae Sulis.”
“I helped an Arbiter get into a party, that’s all. I made the people there think I did more to protect the identity of the person who really did help to rescue him. Now, will you please untie me or let me sit upright at least? I apologise for my remark, Margritte, but, for reasons I’m sure I don’t have to explain, I’m feeling rather bad-tempered.”
She waited for Rupert to meet with his request but he did nothing so she went behind William’s back and untied his hands. Rupert frowned as she did so, but said nothing.
“This has gone far enough,” she said, helping William to his feet. “Rupert, whilst I appreciate your sentiments, punching a man when you declare yourself to be above male stereotypes is hardly a way to prove the point.” She righted William’s chair and helped him to sit down. “I can’t bear this to go on a moment longer. I was…and still am devastated by what you did, William, but all I wanted was to correct the injustice committed against my husband. I’ve gone about it the wrong way. How can I watch you be beaten and terrorised into doing what I want in Bartholomew’s name? If he were to see me now and what damage I’ve wrought, he would be just as disgusted with me as I am of myself.”
“Maggie, he—”
She held up a hand. “I’m sorry, Rupert, but this has to stop and I have to apologise to the Irises. I take full responsibility for my actions.”
“So you’re going to let him go back and sit on Bartholomew’s throne and—”
“He sits on his own throne now. Nothing will bring Bartholomew back to
me. I see no reason to carry on infecting everything and everyone around me with the madness of my grief.”
William reached out and rested a hand on her arm. “I beg your forgiveness, Madam. I know your husband was a decent man. I was led to believe he wasn’t and, like you, I acted swiftly in anger and filled with the desire to take revenge. I swear to you that I only discovered his innocence after the deed was done. It’s something I’ll regret for the rest of my life.”
Margritte’s legs wobbled beneath her, so she knelt on the floor in front of him, the black satin of her skirts disappearing against the black floor. “Who did it?”
“The Roses. When Thorn attacked Cathy he disguised himself to look like a minor Rosa, whom Cornelius White killed. He told me it was because he discovered he’d been hired by Bartholomew to kill Cathy. An Arbiter backed up the story and together I found their false evidence irrefutable. Lord Iris supported me but gave me no opportunity to calm down or uncover their lies. Once I learned of what they did, I killed Cornelius and banished Amelia to Mundanus. I’m so sorry.”
The hard stone of rage-filled grief that had sat in Margritte’s chest for so long burst and she couldn’t help but sob. Bartholomew had been nothing more than a cog in a political machine, one that was pulled out to make something else break. No wonder William hadn’t said anything; his own patron was part of the reason he’d rushed into challenging Bartholomew. Admitting he’d been tricked would reveal that Lord Iris had also been duped by the Roses—a family already broken—and William’s life would be forfeit. They were all victims, in their own way, and the thought fuelled her grief. What else could William have done, believing Bartholomew had attempted to kill his wife? She’d done the same as him: acted without knowing all the facts, driven by passion and rage.
“I accept your apology,” she said as the worst of the rush of emotion subsided. “And I offer you mine. I’ll see that this is put right and I’ll answer for my rash act.”
“Now just wait a bloody minute,” Rupert said. “The Irises won’t just accept an apology, they’ll want blood!”
“So be it,” she said. She wasn’t afraid to admit she’d made a mistake.
“Don’t give me that noble bullshit! And anyway, he’s my prisoner and I’m not letting him go until I’m certain he’s not—”
A Way opened behind William, making her jump to her feet in surprise, William too. The gargoyle that she’d seen in the film of the Moot leaped through, looking left and right with urgency as it took the room in. “I’m here to get you out!” it yelled.
“I don’t need to be rescued,” William said. “It’s all—”
“Not you! Him!” The gargoyle pointed at Rupert. “All of you, actually, if you don’t want to die.”
“I can’t trust you, you’re one of Ekstrand’s—” Rupert began, readying his yo-yo.
“Dante’s sister is about to kill everyone in this building,” the gargoyle cut in. “Your Arbiters are dead. Now let’s get out of here before you are too!” When Rupert hesitated, the gargoyle leaped onto the table. “Open a Way into Oxford, you idiot! We can’t go the way I came, they’re all dead in the Cloister already.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you,” Rupert said to it and then looked at Margritte, but she knew where she was going and it wasn’t with either of them. She thrust the key into the nearest part of the wall and turned it to the left, opening a Way to her room. She reached for William’s hand, he took it and she pulled him through, leaving Rupert to determine his own fate.
26
Cathy parked the car half a mile down the road from the gates to the asylum. She and Carter walked on to the entrance in the deepening twilight, silent for the first time in their journey. She’d talked so much on the drive from London that her throat felt sore. Excited by his change in status, Carter had bombarded her with questions and between them they’d drawn up a list of rights to announce to the staff once they got home.
She was grateful for something to keep her mind busy. Now she was just walking along a road her thoughts were tugged back to Will. The steward reported that he and his men had reached the hotel but never left and he’d ended up carrying out a rather hasty clean-up by Charming the staff on duty to believe that the group had paid and left to avoid any difficult enquiries.
There was nothing she could do to help, as Nathaniel had so forcefully said, so she had to keep her mind on the things she could change. She looked at Carter, who looked back and smiled. “Are you ready for this?”
“Yes, your Grace. Are you?”
She grinned. “Hell, yes.”
They reached the gates and Carter had a quick look first. “We should walk along the boundary and approach across the grass over there, your Grace. It minimises the chance of us being seen before I cut the phone line.”
She nodded and followed him in, noticing the orchids growing at the boundary between the trees and the lawn. She wondered if they had something to do with the disorientation she’d experienced on her earlier visit. Not that it mattered now; they weren’t going to leave by the driveway.
Carter guided her along the best route, pointed out a place for her to hide whilst he cut the phone line, and then beckoned her over to the house. Lights were on inside, on both floors, and she saw the curtains being closed by the orderlies.
When they reached the front door and she held her finger above the bell, the doubts flooded in. Would the Patroons send people to stop what she was doing? Will would probably be furious when he got back…could she—
“Stop it,” she whispered to herself, to the frightened child inside her still fearful of getting a beating for putting a foot wrong in a dance lesson. “This is the right thing to do.”
She pressed the doorbell and listened to it clang inside. With one last glance at Carter, who seemed rather excited, she tried to prepare for what lay ahead.
Will let himself be pulled through into a room that smelt of freshly baked bread. As Margritte closed the Way behind them he noticed a painting over the fireplace with black silk draped over it, and the same drapes over the sprite lamps in the room, creating a dour atmosphere. There was fresh bread and butter, along with a glass of milk on a tray. His stomach rumbled.
“Please, sit,” Margritte said and busied herself with buttering some bread after handing him the glass of milk.
He drank it all without pausing for breath, the cold glass soothing his throbbing lip. He took the plate she offered him, and the handkerchief. When he ran it around his mouth it came away red. He noticed the time on a grandfather clock in the corner. “Is it really morning?”
“No, he was just trying to disorient you. You were in there for about four hours. I’m sorry they hurt you.” She went to the window, still sniffing. “Do you have any idea what that gargoyle was talking about?”
“No.”
“I’ll do everything I can to put this right, William. It got out of hand.”
He nodded. “I know. We both will.”
“We need to go to the Hebdomadal Council,” she said after a few moments. “They’ll be debating what to do next. We need to go there together and explain it’s all…resolved between us.” She turned to face him. “I am right in saying that, aren’t I?”
“Yes.” He stood, aching all over, his legs and arms trembling with fatigue and the residue of adrenalin that had rampaged through his body. “I forgive you, if you’ll forgive me. I did far, far worse, of course, but they were both acts of passion, and both have far-reaching consequences. I’ll make sure my family know my feelings on the matter.”
She nodded. “And Bartholomew’s reputation?”
“I will discuss the matter with my patron in person,” he said. “If a way can be found to tell the truth without damaging Lord Iris’ standing, then I’ll do so. I hope, in the meantime, the knowledge that those behind this foul business have been punished will give you some peace.”
Margritte’s eyes were still reddened and shining with tears. “It will,” she finally repl
ied. “Are you able to walk? They’ll be meeting at the Sheldonian. It’s not far from here.”
“I thought that was a theatre.”
“It is, but it’s also one of the main university meeting venues.”
“And the city is run by a council?”
She pulled a shawl from a nearby chair and wrapped it around her shoulders. “Yes. It’s very different to Londinium. When all of this is over, I would be delighted to explain it to you.” She paused. “If I have the opportunity.”
He went to her side and offered his arm. “I’ll see to it that you do.”
Cathy recognised the man who answered the door, but now she was dressed like a Duchess he didn’t realise they’d already met. He was one of the orderlies and a big man, but not as huge as Carter—a fact he seemed to evaluate after they both stared at each other for a few moments. Cathy could almost smell the testosterone.
“My name is Catherine Reticulata-Iris and I’m the Duchess of Londinium,” she said, channelling a memory of her mother at her most frightening. “I’m here to speak to the manager.”
It had the desired effect. “Come in,” the man said and, as he went to a room down the hallway, Cathy exchanged a grin with Carter.
Soon after, the manager darted out, a short man with a paunch and receding hairline. A napkin was still tucked into his collar. “Your Grace?” He hurried over, tugging the napkin free and dabbing at his mouth as he walked.
“I’m here to speak to all the residents and all of the staff, yourself included. Is there a place I could address everyone?”
“This is…most irregular…We’re serving dinner and—”
“Perfect. I assume everyone dines in the large hall at the end of the hallway?” He nodded, dumb with shock. “If you’d be so kind as to round everyone up? There’s a good fellow.”
Like her mother, like her father, like Dame bloody Iris, Cathy didn’t ask for what she wanted. Instead she stated what he needed to do as if he’d already agreed. He could obey, as the social cues dictated, or he could refuse and risk embarrassment and confrontation. She held her breath, watching to see which way he would go.
