Her heart clenched.
“It is of Wodell,” she stated.
“It is for True,” he returned. “And you know it.”
She did.
Their army would follow True to certain death if he asked it.
And they had.
However, they knew who truly asked it.
“Carrington seeks to bolster against our son?” she asked.
He straightened in his chair. “I will not have my son take my reign as Gallienus suffered.”
“I will not have my husband pit himself against my son,” she retorted.
“You speak to your king,” he bit.
“You speak to your wife and the mother of your son and, I’ll remind you, Your Grace, your queen.”
“Carrington said you’d have words against this,” he muttered.
“For once, Carrington was correct,” she snapped.
At that, his head twitched.
And then he rose.
She stood straight and still and stared at him.
“You’d do well to remember who you are and who I am,” he stated softly.
Mercy made no reply.
“You know, the streets ring with excitement for his wedding,” he shared unnecessarily, for she did know.
Unlike her husband, she knew everything.
“I was wed in this very city, to you, not some Firenz hussy, and shops did not put signs in their windows to say they would be closed,” he went on bitterly. “Pubs did not put signs in their windows to say they’d be celebrating with free leaf cakes and sparkles. There are people already camping outside the steps of the temple to catch a glimpse of their prince and his new princess and the ceremony isn’t for weeks.”
“You can learn from this, my husband,” she told him carefully.
“I can, indeed,” he spat. “They adore him. They worship him. And I returned home from weeks away, raised my standard above the castle, and not a flower fell at the castle gates.”
They hadn’t.
But if he’d announced that Mar-el were allowing ships laden with wool through the seas instead of there being murmurs of increased taxes upon his return, they would have.
“And you make of this that you need to raise an army?” she queried.
“I make of this that I’d do well to do as Carrington advises. Protect my rule,” he replied.
They held each other’s gazes.
It was Mercy who broke the silence.
“You do this, you make me choose.”
“Choose wisely,” he advised.
She stared her husband in his eyes.
And she answered, “I will.”
With that, she swept from the room.
She then located her secretary, or one of them, the one who was in charge of her correspondence.
And she ordered the royal summonses.
She then found her other secretary, the one keeping track of the wedding plans.
And she ordered rose and cedar incense.
She then called for the royal seamstresses.
For they were making a different wedding gown.
59
The Worth
Queen Silence
The Corridor, Cord Cottage, The Arbor
WODELL
I carried the tray bearing the tea service myself, for the servants had again gone missing.
Or, not missing, precisely.
I knew where they were.
I was just ignoring it.
(Or trying to do so.)
An endeavor destined to fail, I realized, when I walked into the drawing room and saw my father standing, gazing out the window.
“The tea is ready,” I called false brightly.
He turned and scowled at me, continuing to do so as he watched me set the service down on the table between the two leather chesterfields that were positioned perpendicular to the fire.
I’d always loved Cord Cottage, especially the drawing room.
And particularly the fireplace.
The dark, shining wood above it had carvings of ancient Dellish soldiers at war with Firenze (something Mars had smiled most amusedly at when he saw it). The stone columns that held these protruding friezes up with their carved-stone panels at the sides. The recessed fireplace with its heavy irons that heated the room so well.
When we’d arrived, I’d remembered something I had forgotten.
This being, I had, at one point in my life, when I was much, much younger, daydreamed about marrying a wealthy shepherd or arborist and moving here, away from Bower Manor (and my father).
And now I was here, with a king as husband.
And I was not away from my father.
“You’ve been gone ages. Did you actually make the tea?” he demanded crossly.
“I’m enjoying doing some domesticated things, Father,” I lied.
Well, it wasn’t truly a lie. There was something relaxing about making tea, letting your mind blank as you waited for the kettle to boil, watching the water brown as it ran through the strainer.
Accomplishing something, even something as small as making tea.
It was something.
I’d never really done that, I realized, after the servants Father had employed to look after us at the cottage found other things to occupy their time, so it was up to me to do a few things for myself.
Tril had told me repeatedly to get the maids in hand.
And she’d be furious if she knew I did not call on them to make tea (fortunately, right then she was in the village, finding some material to make a gown for me for True and Farah’s wedding, as well as visiting some friends).
And I really should do that. I’d have a whole palace to manage when we returned to Firenze.
But at that juncture, I just…couldn’t.
“I understand why you’re ignoring that,” Father stated, jerking his head haughtily to the window. “But you really shouldn’t, even if he seems to vastly enjoy it.”
I heard the noise drifting in through the closed window.
Speaking of domesticated things, my husband had taken to chopping wood.
We needed a good deal of it to heat the cottage.
That said, we had a groom who took care of the horses, the stables and manly things around the house, like fire starting and wood stocking.
When I inquired after it, Mars said it kept him fit.
I did not think this was why he did it.
I allowed my eyes to glance out the window.
Yes, there were our servant girls, all three of them, admiring the King of Firenze as he chopped wood at the same time they were babbling at Kyril who stood near.
I had noted these past few days, these girls didn’t care whose attention they caught, including any one of the hundreds of handsome, brawny Firenz warriors camped around the wood.
But if given the choice, they clearly wished to have their skirts tossed by a king.
It was ludicrous.
Mars.
Chopping wood.
For an audience!
It was more ludicrous Mars allowed it.
I sat on the edge of a chesterfield and turned my attention to pouring tea.
“Come, Father, before it gets cold,” I urged.
“You should come,” he replied, moving my way. “Home,” he finished. “At least for dinner. If that barbarian wishes to sit at our table, he is my daughter’s husband, I’ll allow it. But seeing as he enjoys attention so very much, letting you spend time in your home with your mother and father, it will give him the time to have as much attention as he likes without the distraction of his wife.”
I miraculously kept my hand from shaking as I offered him his cup and saucer after he’d seated himself across from me, and I did this murmuring, “I wish you wouldn’t call Mars a barbarian.”
“He’s shirtless outside, Silence,” he declared.
“Chopping wood is onerous work. Even the men at Bower Manor take off their shirts when they do it.”
“Not when I’m home.
”
This was, thinking back, correct.
“And not,” he continued, “now as I know they’re doing it.”
“His people do not wear very many clothes,” I reminded him.
“And the man crossed the Dellish border some time ago, daughter,” he reminded me. “We put up with his idiosyncrasies when we were in his country. He’s in ours and should show some respect.”
I finished pouring my own cup and sat back with it, sighing.
“And it’s chilly out there,” Father continued. “Even chopping wood.”
I could not imagine my father ever chopped wood, thus he would not know the effort it would take or how that might fight back a chill.
But he was not wrong about the cold.
After a short warm spell, the nip had set in.
At first, this was delightful, cuddling with Mars in our tent as we journeyed here.
And then it continued to be delightful, cuddling with Mars in front of the fire, or in bed before we slept, after we arrived here.
Then it became less delightful.
We cuddled, and Mars kissed me and embraced me and did things to me with his mouth and his fingers that were extraordinary.
Once he gave me a climax, however, he’d then hold me, this lasting less and less time, before, eventually, he began to sigh heavily, as if he was annoyed, and if it was in the night, he would turn away from me, but if it was in the morning, he would get out of bed and leave me.
Marriage, I was finding, was not a’tall easy.
Marriage to Mars, I was finding, was like being in a carriage with the shades drawn on a ride on a very bumpy road when you could not see the dips until you felt them.
“If I were you, I’d get on giving him a child,” my father declared.
I blinked at him.
“A son, if you can manage it, so you wouldn’t have the bother of needing to give him another,” he continued. “I heard those Nadirii can magic the sex of a child in the womb. You can ask one of your new friends to cast a spell. Then you can leave him with it and come home.”
Leave?
My husband?
With “it?”
That “it” being my child?
I did not get into that.
I got into something he might understand.
“Father, I am queen.”
“His mother still lives. She can supervise the palace in your stead. She knows how. She’s been doing it for years.”
I put my cup in its saucer and lied, “I think I’m getting a headache.”
“This does not surprise me,” he muttered.
I looked out the window.
Mars was no longer chopping.
He had the ax resting on its head, he was leaning a hand into the end, and he was chatting.
To our servants.
There were servant boys everywhere at Catrame Palace.
Did I see him chat to any of them?
No.
Not once!
Before I looked away, I saw Kyril peer through the window at me and he did this frowning.
Lamentably, my husband saw him do it and he looked over his (bare!) shoulder at me.
Then, without even dipping his chin to acknowledge he had my attention, he turned back to a servant girl and resumed chatting.
Her name was Pegeen.
And she was very comely.
In fact, all the girls my father had employed were young.
And very comely.
“Silence,” my father called my focus, unfortunately for him.
For I’d had enough.
Of him.
Of Mars.
Of marriage.
Of prophecies.
Of beasts.
Of bloody Kyril frowning.
I wanted a fire, a rug, a cup of tea, a book, my wee Piccola, my own company…
And peace.
I set my cup down and stood.
My father looked up at me.
“I’m sorry if you feel this is rude, but much has happened, and in this time where I can unwind before it all starts up again, I’m going to find my book and do just that.”
“You shouldn’t read if you have a headache,” my father advised.
“And you should stand when a queen stands,” I returned.
My father stared up at me in shock.
“And not question what she wishes to do with her time,” I carried on.
He moved to the edge of his seat, saying conciliatorily, “Silence, I can imagine, a new bride, infatuated with her husband, finding it difficult to adjust to his culture’s mores of faithlessness and serial dalliances—”
“Stop speaking,” I hissed.
This time, he blinked in shock.
“My marriage is not your concern, you will not speak of it again. My husband is not your concern either. He is also not a barbarian. If you refer to him that way again, Father, we will no longer enjoy these visits. If you truly wish to spend time with me before all is said and done and I return to my new home, endeavor to make that time agreeable. Do not endeavor to drive distance between my husband and myself. I can assure you, if you pit the home and hearth you gave me at Bower Manor against the grandeur and serenity my husband offered at Catrame Palace, you…will…lose.”
He stood, sharing, “You might be Queen of Firenze, but you are still Countess of the Arbor and my daughter.”
“There’s but one of those titles that has meaning.”
He recoiled in insult.
I glared up at him.
“It seems I have bad timing, no?”
I started when I heard my husband’s deep voice.
He was leaning a shoulder against the doorjamb, deceptively casually.
He’d donned his shirt, thank the gods.
He’d also donned an expression of benign inquiry.
But his eyes flamed so he did not fool me.
And those eyes were aimed at my father.
“I believe I’ll take my leave,” Father muttered furiously.
“I would too,” Mars said.
Father cast him a scorching look, but no one could beat my husband with the scorch.
He then looked to me. “I will accept your apology at Bower Manor when you’re ready to offer it.”
“I will send word to the servants there to be sure to sweep away the cobwebs while you’re waiting for that,” I returned.
His face hardened, before, without a backward glance, he stormed from the room.
I heard the front door slam and then I whirled on my husband.
“You will be sacking Pegeen,” I demanded.
His brows went up.
“Sorry?” he asked.
“The maid. The fair one. You’ll be sacking her. Today. I want her out of this house by supper.”
“It is not my place to manage servants.”
“You have no problem flirting with them.”
I felt the room begin to heat and it was not the excellent irons under the fire that made it do so.
“If my wife is at issue with the company I keep, I would suggest she keep me company.”
“I have no interest in chopping wood.”
“Neither do I,” Mars returned smoothly. “However, it is a better use of my time than taking my mood out on my men, or, say, shaking some sense into my wife, no?”
Shaking some sense into me?
What sense did I need?
And…
His mood?
“And how are you in a mood?” I asked.
“I don’t know, Silence, perhaps it’s because I don’t have a spouse seeing to my needs,” he answered.
“By watching you chop wood?” I queried incredulously.
“Fuck no,” he bit, his temper snapping. “You are not daft, don’t pretend to be.”
“What on earth are you talking about?” I demanded.
“Maybe you are daft,” he muttered.
I reared back as if he struck a blow.
“Daft?”
“Daft,”
he clipped.
And again.
I’d had enough.
More than enough.
It was time to have this out.
And be done with it.
“You know, I know,” I whispered.
“It seems to me you do not know much, so please. Tell me. What is it you know, wife?”
“I know I have to share.”
His head jerked. “Share?”
“That is the way and I know it is the way. I know it’s something I’ll have to endure. And I promise, I’ll find it in me to do just that. For you. For our marriage. But even if it’s not your custom, I just ask, and please, I beg of you, regardless that it is how you are, who you are, what you expect of our marriage, of me, I beg of you to grant this. That you go about doing the things you need to do, but don’t make me participate and don’t make me watch.”
His manner was entirely changed when he asked quietly, “Watch what?”
“Pegeen?”
“The maid?”
“Yes.”
“Silence, piccolina, you’re making no sense.”
“When you do the things to her that you do to me.”
That did not get me fire.
At that, in but an instant, he straightened from the jamb only for his body to go statue still.
And his face seemed made of stone.
Thus, his voice was gravelly when he asked, “Are you accusing me of infidelity?”
“It is your way, I know—”
“It is whose way?”
“Yours.”
That got me fire, and it appeared, alarmingly, that he’d grown inches.
In all directions.
Indeed, it felt the very air was aflame when he asked, “Mine?”
“Firenze!” I cried wildly. “You told me, after the first time, the first time you made me…” I shook my head. “That when we brought others to our bed, we would choose carefully. I know it’s not infidelity to you. I understand how it is in Firenze. But it is not,” I pressed my hand to my chest and leaned toward him, “my way. I do not wish to share you. I do not wish to see you with other women. I want no other man but you.”
“Silence—”
“And I heard, I listened, it was important to you, so it was important to me, and so I listened to every word of the piercing ceremony, Mars. And it was about vowing to give you my ear and my thoughts and my words, but not my body. And thus, you wear the chain and I know I have your ear and your thoughts and your words, but I have to share your body.”
The Plan Commences Page 36
