Royal Assassin (UK)

by Robin Hobb

  ‘Does Molly speak of it … of me? To you. I must know. Please.’ I battered at their si­lence and ex­changed looks. ‘Does she truly wish me to leave her alone? Have I be­come so des­pised of her? Have I not done all you de­man­ded of me? I have waited, Pa­tience. I have avoided her, I have taken care not to cause talk. But when is an end to it? Or is this your plan? To keep us apart un­til we for­get each other? It can­not work. I am not a babe, and this is not some bauble you hide from me, to dis­tract me with other toys. This is Molly. And she is my heart and I will not let her go.’

  ‘I am afraid you must.’ Pa­tience said the words heav­ily.

  ‘Why? Has she chosen an­other?’

  Pa­tience bat­ted my words away as if they were flies. ‘No. She is not fickle, not that one. She is smart and di­li­gent and full of wit and spirit. I can see how you lost your heart to her. But she also has pride. She has come to see what you re­fuse. That you come, each of you, from places so far apart that there can be no meet­ing in the middle. Even were Shrewd to con­sent to a mar­riage, which I very much doubt, how would you live? You can­not leave the keep, to go down to Buck­keep Town and work in a candle shop. You know you can­not. And what status would she en­joy if you kept her here? Des­pite her good­ness, people who did not know her well would see only the dif­fer­ences in your rank. She would be seen as a low ap­pet­ite you had in­dulged. “Oh, the Bas­tard, he had an eye for his step-mother’s maid. I fancy he caught her around the corner one time too many, and now he has to pay the piper.” You know the kind of talk I mean.’

  I did. ‘I don’t care what folk would say.’

  ‘Per­haps you could en­dure it. But what of Molly? What of your chil­dren?’

  I was si­lent. Pa­tience looked down at her hands idle in her lap. ‘You are young, FitzChiv­alry.’ She spoke very quietly, very sooth­ingly. ‘I know you do not be­lieve it now. But, you may meet an­other. One closer to your sta­tion. And she may also. Maybe she de­serves that chance of hap­pi­ness. Per­haps you should draw back. Give your­self a year or so. And if your heart has not changed by then, well …’

  ‘My heart will not change.’

  ‘Nor will hers, I fear.’ Pa­tience spoke bluntly. ‘She cared for you, Fitz. Not know­ing who you really were, she gave her heart to you. She has said as much. I do not wish to be­tray her con­fid­ences to me, but if you do as she asks and leave her alone, she can never tell you her­self. So I will speak, and hope you hold me harm­less for the pain I must give you. She knows this can never be. She does not want to be a ser­vant mar­ry­ing a noble. She does not want her chil­dren to be the daugh­ters and sons of a keep ser­vant. So she saves the little I am able to pay her. She buys, her wax and her scents, and works still at her trade, as best as she is able. She means to save enough, some­how, to be­gin again, with her own chand­lery. It will not be soon. But that is her goal.’ Pa­tience paused. ‘She sees no place in that life for you.’

  I sat a long time, think­ing. Neither Lacey nor Pa­tience spoke. Lacey moved slowly through our still­ness, brew­ing tea. She pushed a cup of it into my hand. I lif­ted my eyes and tried to smile at her. I set the tea care­fully aside. ‘Did you know, from the be­gin­ning, that it would come to this’ I asked.

  ‘I feared it,’ Pa­tience said simply. ‘But I also knew there was noth­ing I could do about it. Nor can you.’

  I sat still, not even think­ing. Un­der the old hut, in a scratched out hol­low, Nighteyes was doz­ing with his nose over a bone. I touched him softly, not even wak­ing him. His calm breath­ing was an an­chor. I stead­ied my­self against him.

  ‘Fitz? What will you do?

  Tears stung my eyes. I blinked, and it passed. ‘What I am told,’ I said heav­ily. ‘When have I ever done oth­er­wise?’

  Pa­tience was si­lent as I got slowly to my feet. The wound on my neck was throb­bing. I sud­denly wanted only to sleep. She nod­ded to me as I ex­cused my­self. At the door I paused. ‘Why I came this even­ing. Be­sides to see you. Queen Kettricken will be restor­ing the Queen’s Garden. The one on top of the tower. She men­tioned she would like to know how the garden was ori­gin­ally ar­ranged. In Queen Con­stance’s time. I thought per­haps you could re­call it for her.’

  Pa­tience hes­it­ated. ‘I do re­call it. Very well.’ She was quiet for a mo­ment, then brightened. ‘I will draw it out for you, and ex­plain it. Then you could go to the Queen.’

  I met her eyes. ‘I think you should go to her. I think it would please her very much.’

  ‘Fitz, I have never been good with people.’ Her voice faltered. ‘I am sure she would find me odd. Bor­ing. I could not –’ Her voice stuttered to a halt.

  ‘Queen Kettricken is very alone,’ I said quietly. ‘There are ladies around her, but I do not think she has real friends. Once, you were Queen-in-Wait­ing. Can­not you re­call what it was like?’

  ‘Very dif­fer­ent for her than it was for me, I should think.’

  ‘Prob­ably,’ I agreed. I turned to go. ‘For one thing, you had an at­tent­ive and lov­ing hus­band.’ Be­hind me Pa­tience made a small shocked sound. ‘And I do not think Prince Regal was as … clever then as he is now. And you had Lacey to sup­port you. Yes, Lady Pa­tience. I am sure it is very dif­fer­ent for her. Much harder.’

  ‘FitzChiv­alry!’

  ‘I paused at the door. ‘Yes, my lady?’

  ‘Turn about when I speak to you!’

  I turned slowly and she ac­tu­ally stamped the floor at me. ‘This ill be­comes you. You seek to shame me! Think you that I do not do my duty? That I do not know my duty?

  ‘My lady?’

  ‘I shall go to her, to­mor­row. And she will think me odd and awk­ward and flighty. She will be bored with me and wish I had never come. And then you shall apo­lo­gize to me for mak­ing me do it.’

  ‘I am sure you know best, my lady.’

  ‘Take your courtier’s man­ners and go. In­suf­fer­able boy.’ She stamped her foot again, then whirled and fled back into her bed­cham­ber. Lacey held the door for me as I left. Her lips were fol­ded in a flat line, her de­mean­our sub­dued.

  ‘Well?’ I asked her as I left, know­ing she had words left to say to me.

  ‘I was think­ing that you are very like your father,’ Lacey ob­served tartly. ‘Ex­cept not quite as stub­born. He did not give up as eas­ily as you have.’ She shut the door firmly be­hind me.

  I looked at the closed door for a while, then headed back to my room. I knew I had to change the dress­ing on my neck wound. I climbed the flight of stairs, my arm throb­bing at every step. I hal­ted on the land­ing. For a time I watched the candles burn­ing in their hold­ers. I climbed the next flight of stairs.

  I knocked stead­ily for sev­eral minutes. A yel­low candle light had been com­ing out the crack un­der her door, but as I knocked, it sud­denly winked out. I took out my knife and ex­per­i­mented, loudly, with the latch on her door. She’d changed it. There seemed to be a bar as well, a heav­ier one than the tip of my blade would lift. I gave it up and left.

  Down is al­ways easier than up. In fact, it can be too much easier, when one arm is already in­jured. I looked down at the waves break­ing like white lace on the rocks far away. Nighteyes had been right. The moon had man­aged to come out for a bit. The rope slipped a bit through my gloved hand and I grunted as my in­jured arm had to take my weight. Only a little more, I prom­ised my­self. I let my­self down an­other two steps.

  The ledge of Molly’s win­dow was nar­rower than I had hoped it would be. I kept the rope in a wrap around my arm as I perched there. My knife blade slipped eas­ily into the crack between the shut­ters; they were very poorly fit­ted. The up­per catch had yiel­ded and I was work­ing on the lower one when I heard her voice from in­side.

  ‘If you come in, I shall scream. The guards will come.’

  ‘Then you’d best put on tea for them,’ I replied grimly and went back
to wrig­gling at the lower catch.

  In a mo­ment, Molly snatched the shut­ters open. She stood framed in the win­dow, the dan­cing light of the fire on the hearth il­lu­min­at­ing her from be­hind. She was in her night­dress, but she hadn’t braided her hair back yet. It was loose and gleam­ing from brush­ing. She had thrown a shawl over her shoulders.

  ‘Go away,’ she told me fiercely. ‘Get out of here.’

  ‘I can’t,’ I panted. ‘I haven’t strength to climb back up, and the rope isn’t long enough to reach to the base of the wall.’

  ‘You can’t come in,’ she re­peated stub­bornly.

  ‘Very well.’ I seated my­self on the win­dowsill, one leg in­side the room, the other dangling out of the win­dow. Wind gus­ted past me, stir­ring her night robe and fan­ning the flames of the fire. I said noth­ing. After a mo­ment, she began to shiver.

  ‘What do you want?’ she de­man­ded an­grily.

  ‘You. I wanted to tell you that to­mor­row I am go­ing to the King to ask per­mis­sion to marry you.’ The words came out of my mouth with no plan­ning. I was sud­denly gid­dily aware that I could say and do any­thing. Any­thing at all.

  Molly stared a mo­ment. Her voice was low as she said, ‘I do not wish to marry you.’

  ‘I wasn’t go­ing to tell him that part.’ I found my­self grin­ning at her.

  ‘You are in­tol­er­able!’

  ‘Yes. And very cold. Please, at least let me come in out of the cold.’

  She did not give me per­mis­sion. But she did stand back from the win­dow. I jumped lightly in, ig­nor­ing the jolt to my arm. I closed and fastened the shut­ters. I walked across the room. I knelt by her hearth and built up the fire well with logs to chase the chill from the room. Then I stood, thaw­ing my hands at it. Molly said not a word. She stood sword straight, her arms crossed on her chest. I glanced over at her and smiled.

  She didn’t smile. ‘You should go.’

  I felt my own smile fade. ‘Molly, please, just talk to me. I thought, the last time we spoke, that we un­der­stood each other. Now you don’t speak to me, you turn away … I don’t know what changed, I don’t un­der­stand what is hap­pen­ing between us.’

  ‘Noth­ing.’ She sud­denly looked very fra­gile. ‘Noth­ing is hap­pen­ing between us. Noth­ing can hap­pen between us. FitzChiv­alry’ (and that name soun­ded so strange on her lips), ‘I’ve had time to think. If you had come to me, like this, a week ago, or a month ago, im­petu­ous and smil­ing, I know I would have been won over.’ She per­mit­ted her­self the ghost of a sad smile, as if she were re­mem­ber­ing the way a dead child had skipped on some long ago sum­mer day. ‘But you didn’t. You were cor­rect and prac­tical, and did all the right things, and, fool­ish as it may sound, that hurt me. I told my­self that if you loved me as deeply as you had de­clared you did, noth­ing, not walls, not man­ners or repu­ta­tion or pro­tocol, would get in the way of your see­ing me. That night, when you came, when we … but it changed noth­ing. You did not come back.’

  ‘But it was for your sake, for your repu­ta­tion …’ I began des­per­ately.

  ‘Hush. I told you it was fool­ish. But feel­ings do not have to be wise. Feel­ings just are. Your lov­ing me was not wise. Nor my caring for you. I’ve come to see that. And I’ve come to see that wis­dom must over­rule feel­ings.’ She sighed. ‘I was so angry when your uncle first spoke to me. So out­raged. He made me de­fi­ant, he gave me a steel re­solve to stay in spite of everything that stood between us. But I am not a stone. Even if I were, even a stone can be worn away by the con­stant cold drip of com­mon sense.’

  ‘My uncle? The prince?’ I was in­cred­u­lous at the be­trayal.

  She nod­ded slowly. ‘He wished me to keep his visit to my­self. Noth­ing, he said, could be gained by your know­ing of it. He needed to act in his fam­ily’s best in­terests. He said I should un­der­stand that. I did, but it made me angry. It was only over time that he made me see that it was in my own best in­terests as well.’ She paused and brushed a hand over her cheek. She was cry­ing. Si­lently, just the tears run­ning as she spoke.

  I walked across the room to her. Tent­at­ively, I took her into my arms. She didn’t res­ist me, and that sur­prised me. I held her care­fully, as if she were a but­ter­fly that might be crushed too eas­ily. She leaned her head for­ward, so that her fore­head barely res­ted on my shoulder, and spoke into my chest. ‘In a few more months, I will have saved enough that I can start out on my own again. Not open a busi­ness, but rent a room some­where, and find work to sus­tain me. And be­gin to start sav­ing for a shop. That’s what I in­tend to do. Lady Pa­tience is kind, and Lacey has be­come a real friend to me. But I do not like be­ing a ser­vant. And I will do it no longer than I have to.’ She stopped speak­ing and stood still in my arms. She was trem­bling lightly, as if from ex­haus­tion. She seemed to have run out of words.

  ‘What did my uncle say to you?’ I asked care­fully.

  ‘Oh.’ She swal­lowed, and moved her face lightly against me. I think she wiped tears on my shirt. ‘Only what I should have ex­pec­ted him to say. When first he came to me, he was cold and aloof. He thought me a … street whore, I sup­pose. He warned me sternly that the King would tol­er­ate no more scan­dals. He de­man­ded to know if I was with child. Of course, I was angry. I told him it was im­possible that I should be. That we had never …’ Molly paused and I could feel how shamed she had been that any­one could even ask such a ques­tion. ‘So then he told me that if that was so, it was good. He asked what I thought I de­served, as re­par­a­tion for your de­cep­tions.’

  The word was like a little knife twis­ted in my guts. The fury I felt was build­ing, but I forced my­self to keep si­lent that she might speak it all out.

  ‘I told him I ex­pec­ted noth­ing. That I had de­ceived my­self as much as you had de­ceived me. So then, he offered me money. To go away. And never speak of you. Or what had happened between us.’

  She was hav­ing trouble speak­ing. Her voice kept get­ting higher and tighter on each phrase. She fought for a semb­lance of calm I knew she didn’t feel. ‘He offered me enough to open a chand­lery. I was angry. I told him I could not be paid to stop lov­ing someone. That if the of­fer of money could make me love, or not love, then I was truly a whore. He grew very angry, but he left.’ She gave a sud­den shud­der­ing sob, then held her­self still. I moved my hands lightly over her shoulders, feel­ing the ten­sion there. I stroked her hair, softer than any horse’s mane, and sleeker. She had fallen si­lent.

  ‘Regal makes mis­chief,’ I heard my­self say. ‘He seeks to in­jure me by driv­ing you away. To shame me by hurt­ing you.’ I shook my head to my­self, won­der­ing at my stu­pid­ity. ‘I should have fore­seen this. All I thought was that he might whis­per against you, or ar­range for phys­ical harm to be­fall you. But Burrich is right. The man has no mor­als, is bound by no rules.’

  ‘He was cold, at first. But never coarsely rude. He came only as the King’s mes­sen­ger, he said, and came him­self to save scan­dal, that no more should know of it than needed to. He sought to avoid talk, not make it. Later, after we had talked a few times, he said he re­gret­ted to see me cornered so, and that he would tell the King it was not of my de­vis­ing. He even bought candles of me, and ar­ranged for oth­ers to know what I had to sell. I be­lieve he is try­ing to help, FitzChiv­alry. Or so he sees it.’

  To hear her de­fend Regal cut me deeper than any in­sult or re­buke she could level at me. My fin­gers tangled in her soft hair and I un­wound them care­fully. Regal. All the weeks I had gone alone, avoid­ing her, not speak­ing to her lest it cause scan­dal. Leav­ing her alone, so that Regal could come in my stead. Not court­ing her, no, but win­ning her with his prac­tised charm and stud­ied words. Chop­ping away at her im­age of me while I was not there to con­tra­dict any­thing he said. Mak­ing him­self out to be her ally, while I was lef
t voice­less to be­come the un­think­ing cal­low youth, the thought­less vil­lain. I bit my tongue be­fore I spoke any more ill of him to her. It would only sound like a shal­low angry boy strik­ing back at one who sought to deny his will.

  ‘Have you ever spoken of Regal’s vis­its to Pa­tience or Lacey? What did they say of him?’

  She shook her head, and the move­ment loosed the fra­grance of her hair. ‘He cau­tioned me not to speak of it. “Wo­men talk” he said, and I know that is true. I should not even have spoken of it to you. He said that Pa­tience and Lacey would re­spect me more if it seemed I had reached this de­cision on my own. He said, also … that you would not let me go … if you thought the de­cision came from him. That you must be­lieve that I turned away from you on my own.’

  ‘He knows me that well,’ I con­ceded to her.

  ‘I should not have told you,’ she mur­mured. She pushed a little away from me, to look up into my eyes. ‘I don’t know why I did.’

  Her eyes and her hair were the col­ours of a forest. ‘Per­haps you did not want me to let you go?’ I ven­tured.

  ‘You must,’ she said. ‘We both know there is no fu­ture for us.’

  For an in­stant, all was still­ness. The fire crackled softly to it­self. Neither of us moved. But some­how, I stepped to an­other place, where I was achingly aware of every scent and touch of her. Her eyes and the herb scents of her skin and hair were one with the warmth and sup­ple­ness of her body un­der the soft wool­len night robe. I ex­per­i­enced her as if she were a new hue sud­denly re­vealed to my eyes. All con­cerns, even all thoughts, were sus­pen­ded in that sud­den aware­ness. I know I trembled, for she put her hands on my shoulders and clasped them, to steady me. Warmth flowed through me from her hands. I looked down into her eyes and wondered at what I saw there.

  She kissed me.

  That simple act, of of­fer­ing up her mouth to mine, was like the open­ing of a floodgate. What fol­lowed was a seam­less con­tinu­ation of her kiss. We did not pause to con­sider wis­dom or mor­al­ity, we did not hes­it­ate at all. The per­mis­sion we gave each other was ab­so­lute. We ven­tured to­gether into that new­ness, and I can­not ima­gine a deeper join­ing than our shared amazement brought us. We both came whole to that night, un­fettered by ex­pect­a­tions or memor­ies of oth­ers. I had no more right to her than she had to me. But I gave and I took and I swear I shall never re­gret it. The memory of that night’s sweet awk­ward­ness is the truest pos­ses­sion of my soul. My trem­bling fin­gers jumbled the rib­bon at the neck clos­ure of her night­gown into a hope­less knot. Molly seemed wise and sure as she touched me, only to be­tray her sur­prise with her sharply in-drawn breath when I re­spon­ded. It did not mat­ter. Our ig­nor­ance yiel­ded to a know­ing older than both of us. I strove to be both gentle and strong, but found my­self amazed at her strength and gen­tle­ness.