"No, my lady."
"Do you care to guess?"
"I am no good at guessing games, my lady."
"I do not think you would have guessed anyway, but I would have been most impressed if you had. Sir Gerard, I call it gardening."
The man appeared perplexed and she had to laugh. It was the same reaction others had provided when she had baptised the task.
"Think of it as plucking the weeds from the garden of peace and paradise, God's mortal dwelling. Each weed that is removed is a root of heresy gone from our great land. At times some roots are larger and tougher than others, but they are all removed in the end."
Removed and their ashes scattered in the Pit of the Forsaken Soul. There was no need for any grave marker, nor biography of names for those who dwelled within. Situated on a hill where no crops grew or animals cared to pasture. A deep well where no water was drawn from. A place of pilgrimage for parents who wished to deter their children from wickedness. How did the saying go? Say your prayers or you'll be down the Pit.
"It may tickle Father Conwell's fancy to dabble in a bit of gardening with me over the coming days. In this garden," she said as she pointed over her shoulder to the clean landscape visible through the window. "The rain seems to attract the weeds. One day of the heavens opening and they sprout from each crack and crevice imaginable. However, in God's garden, the heat appears to inflame the mind, thus allowing the weeds to spread and mutate like a cancer. The frustration one may feel over tossing and turning in bed, unable to sleep due to the heat may bring about restlessness. Discomfort, and the sort. Though, I would say, none of these are excuses for some of the abominable things written."
"There never is an excuse, my lady."
"And yet, I do wonder, and would care for your opinion on this matter, if I may?"
Sir Gerard bowed his head in consent.
"If the weed sprouts upwards, outwards, and say, produces a flower, is the flower a weed too? Some weeds almost look like flowers, which may lead to deception, though I would say the flowers represent an opportunity for retribution, re-education, reform. If a child is born to a couple of heretics, does it make the child a heretic themselves?"
"If they are part of the spreading root-"
"Yes! Exactly." She was growing excited, breathless even as she felt the heat flood from her core to her chest, then to her cheeks. "So they are if they are part of the root. The root which spreads and weaves its way beneath buildings and around other healthy plants. Poisoning and making it terribly difficult to remove. But, say, if they are the flower of the weed? Tell me, is there a chance for salvation?"
"Then..." He hesitated as she gasped. Sir Gerard, always the man of glowing courtesy, had the concern etched upon his face . "Are you quite well?"
The rhythm of her heart was a near hum and she felt the urge to retrieve the whip and lash herself, and then him, then herself again. Whipping to and thro as a sign of adoration for their God and the work they were doing for him. Pleasing him, itching to receive his approval.
"Believe me, Sir, I am more than well."
But she was terribly wicked, for there was that strange throbbing between her legs again, in the locale she knew she was not permitted to touch save to wash herself. It was a sin to do so and a sin to long to do so. Had the whip not been a gift she would have retrieved it from the stand, stripped herself and proclaimed her repentance, as the eight tails kissed the already-marred skin of her back.
"Salvation for the little buds. They deserve our kindness, our welcoming homes and hearts as we instruct them on the path to a good, honest, and true way of living."
He gave a firm nod and she was elated that there was another in confirmed agreement. There were plenty who followed this ideology, this righteous state of mind, but Constance, as always, required affirmation. Sir Gerard could be another she could call upon when she was in a position of power. A name she could suggest to her husband when considering ideal candidates for offices at court.
It was impossible to consider which role may suit him best for she felt the growing pressure down below. Years of restraint and training in discipline had permitted her to remain composed in the most challenging of environments. This was to be no exception.
"If I may ask, my lady, what of the children who are beyond repair?"
She chuckled. There was a gush of fluid in her under garments. "They go in the Pit."
The moist state of her undergarments was a matter of shame, for it was a great sin to allow oneself a personal release. The satisfaction derived from plucking heretics from the kingdom related directly to the soul and as such, no other part of the body should be involved. Her own worn whip would waltz across her back this evening for this.
"There is no other place for them, my lady."
She nodded and attempted not to dwell on the situation down below. "Of course. We hasten their journey to hell, to free the good and righteous of their presence. Though of course, the method used to free the soul from the cage of the mortal body can enjoy some variation. What is an hour, or a few, or a day, or a few, compared to the months and years they would spend in the company of the mortal holy waiting to expire naturally?"
Her gaze slid to the lines of shelves across the left wall. Volumes, many of which were fairly recent publications rested upon the expanse. Gifts from authors whose works she had authorised and provided valuable criticism for.
"Do you read, Sir?"
The nod he gave did not appear entirely convincing. "Not half as much as I should, my lady. My duties typically keep me from reading anything aside from the core Holy Text."
"Would you read more often if I encouraged you to borrow some of my books? I have hundreds and the collection is always growing."
"If it would please you, my lady."
"That is the answer of a man who is only consenting for fear of angering me. Though I am quite certain, Sir, that there are works which can appeal to all. One need only discover the 'golden tome'."
The phrase was not entirely figurative, for she pointed towards the gilded leather-bound volume on the second case in, third shelf down. It was a work of unmistakable beauty, with the plentiful iconography of golden roses upon the spine causing the book to appear more of the shade than the scarlet background.
"Can you see where I am pointing? Please retrieve the book." She watched as the man crossed the room and followed the direction of her finger. "No, not that shelf, the one beneath. Yes, that's the one. Please bring it here."
Sir Gerard did as he was bid and handed the smooth volume to her. The pages, as finely gilded as the spine, glistened in the cascading sun as she flicked through to a random page.
After beckoning the knight closer, she commended studying the image. The finest illuminators in the land had worked tirelessly to bring the scene to life. A man stretched over a weak fire, suspended by his wrists and ankles, howled in agony as he was left to cook slowly.
"I was fascinated by this case quite some time ago. This was when I questioned whether the illiterate could prove a dangerous enemy to the church. The condemned was a lifelong shepherd, though never had he had the means to purchase his own flock. As a result, he became bitter, for he never was as good as the other shepherds around him or perhaps, he was a victim of bad luck, if that even exists. His crime was allowing his flock to graze on consecrated ground and to defecate on the steps of the temple."
She patted the corner of the illustration where a flock were heading down a winding country lane, backs turned and following the guidance of a shepherd illuminated by beams descending from the sky.
"They found the guidance of a better shepherd, for it is not the fault of the sheep, an animal without the ability to reason for falling into habits of their nature. The unsuitable and bitter herder is sentenced to die upon a spit, as the animal he led so badly is typically cooked." She chuckled softly. "Poetic, is it not?"
Sir Gerard's frowned and a scar trailing down the left side of his nose was thereby accentuated. She di
d wonder how much of a brute he was, for there was something of the trait in every soldier, even the most honourable ones. Regardless, he had a proficiency for the faith and was the most holy warrior she had ever met.
"And just, my lady."
She smiled. "And just."
The pages were thumbed through again until she found a cluster of pages of particular interest. 'FORNICATION WITH THE INTENTION OF BASTARDY' signalled the punishment for the crime that was set to follow.
"Prince Tristian is a known fornicator," she stated softly. It was a fact she had known for many years and the crown had done little to claim otherwise. Many women who had lain with him boasted of the most wonderful evening. That he was more beast than man and no other would satisfy them in the future. Word travelled across villages. So-and-so from over there spent a night with the crown prince. Constance had not sent men to spy on these women. Whispers were telling enough.
Sir Gerard bowed his head gravely. It was a wise and neutral move. To condemn the prince may have roused her disapproval, as might the opposite. It was sensible to consider one's words with care when the matter of royals and future husbands was concerned.
But their session came to an abrupt end at the sudden knock upon her study doors and the reveal that she had been summoned by her uncle.
*****
The accompanying guards led her through the corridors of Thornhall's citadel chapel she knew as well as any holy verse, but it was a near enough requirement that she traveled with a party due to her present and future status. She walked with her hands crossed before her, head held high with the black pearl-encrusted hood adding inches to her stature.
It was foolish to enjoy the swish of her skirts against the floorboards, or the way in which her bell sleeves draped in an effortless two-feet cascade. It was girlish to feel important through the tight neck of her gown and the silver-black holy sunstar which was secured around her throat.
She always felt this way in the company of her uncle, or whenever he summoned her. It would warrant a quick lashing for her misplaced pride. It could be remedied later.
"The Lady Constance, Father," a waiting steward announced.
It was time to make her entrance. Hands still crossed before her, she entered the study in two swift strides, only to stop in her path when she noticed that her uncle was not alone.
The prince, Tristian Hanson, stood before him, head bowed as was customary in the honourary presence of one such as her uncle. He dressed in his clothes denoting that of the rich and invincible, red threads and gold fibers, set leather trousers and lightwear boots positioned apart in a stance men who thought they were above the world were fond of taking. Dark curls were done back and captured in a band which left the thick mass to lay heavily down his back, revealing eyes that darted a glance toward her, though no sooner returned to the pendant at her uncle's neck.
That which was the sole destination one not of the Sirista was allowed to look upon unless bid otherwise, which clearly her uncle had not done.
Her expression remained firm. Surprise would hint that she was unprepared for whatever was to be said here. Never had her betrothed taken the initiative to visit her. They always met on the rare occasions she visited court, or if they both happened to attend the same service at a temple. Even then it was brief words. Formalities, curt and short. She would have it no other way.
The prince was given a fleeting look, then a nod, before she secured her cool gaze to her uncle.
He was the opposite of the prince. His height was a pike shorter, his features redolent of many years passed, from the grey rest of his hair upon his narrow head, to the lines which mapped his profile indefinitely. Like her, he wore the black gown of divinity, the jeweled hood lowered between his thin shoulders, hands hidden in his sleeves.
"Father," she said. "As always, it is a pleasure to be in your company. I did not expect us to have a visitor."
Her uncle's fog-blue gaze remained upon the prince, but the slight tug of his lips was acknowledgment enough. "The prince has finally deigned to make an appearance and has requested the both of our presence, so I do believe the matter to be of utmost importance. Please, sit. Both of you."
The study was precise mimicry of the side chamber within the citadel's local chapel, a room of low lighting, a wall of bookshelves and texts on every vacant strip of stonewall one could discern and half-melted candles partitioned along the length of a chestnut wooden desk bathed them in an orange glow.
The seats were the essence of humility. Hard, unforgiving wood in which the prince hesitated to approach.
She allowed herself to ponder whether this fear of something so insignificant as wooden seats may be the reason behind their infrequent meetings. The prince looked as though he needed to be told that they were merely chairs and God had been so thoughtful in creating chairs that would not bite.
All she could do was lead the way.
She moved in three swift motions. The step to approach the chair, the smoothing of her gown beneath her and the final settling against the wood.
One look was given her uncle with a furrowed brow, conveying her slight confusion at the irregular visitor, before she resumed her composed expression. Now they were left waiting.
Prince Tristian, with what looked to be a great cost, took the seat beside her and together they sat in a moment of silence.
Until the Father placed his finger to the black sunstar within his pendant and Prince Tristian lifted his gaze. Rather than appear honoured by the permission, the prince kept to the strident line of his mouth, his eyes hard and reserved.
"Please forgive my unexpected advent, Father." He looked to her. "Lady Constance. The nature of the news could not wait, nor was it light enough to send by raven."
Father Conwell gave in to a smile, for the priest had always expressed a fondness of this particular male. "You are welcome anytime, Prince Tristian. Such a devout man who honours the faith so piously, not to mention my niece and you will soon be unified as one soul, how could this be anything but a pleasure?"
A spark of pain filed through his gaze and his fists clenched tightly. "A benevolent Father."
"For all those deserving."
"I fear that will come to an end." The prince shifted a moment, then extended, "I thought my heart full of righteousness, Father. I thought myself strong and worthy of the Lady Constance, but it appears her purity has exceeded my own beyond redemption. So it is my news is bad."
Had it been not a few minutes before since she had stated plainly that he was a fornicator? He may have come to repent, to beg forgiveness from God, her uncle, and, as his future bride, herself. She would give it, for he was poisoned by the vice of man, dictated by the member which lay between his legs, but punishment and penance would of course be required.
"We are all aware of your habits, Your Highness," she commented briskly. "Habits I trust you have attempted to rectify on the approach to our union?"
It was as though she had not said a word. His eyes remained on her uncle's.
The expiring Father took note with subtle grace, nothing more than a brief glance her way before he took in the prince and his royal woes. "What is this news?"
"It concerns the wedding, the marriage, the contract."
"Ah, yes. Such a vital necessity in this kingdom of ours."
There was something to be commended in the way in which the prince stared into the murky blue eyes unwaveringly as he said, "It is no longer. The contract has been rendered void. The Lady Constance and I are not to wed on orders of the king himself."
There was a period where she was unsure of what she was hearing. It may have been one of those pranks, a cruel malformed joke on behalf of the king who appeared to have his mind wrapped in his own pleasure. Perhaps they were all victims of this.
On second thought, the meetings between herself and the prince were rare. Never did they meet to get to know one another as she believed was customary among couples soon to be wed. Instead they were names tied by signature
s, pieces of paper, promises, and a future that they were to spend together. For years she had prayed for his health, mentioned his name alongside hers in prayers. She had regarded him as part of her life even though he was rarely physically present.
"Sixteen years..." her voice remained steady and a softness seeped through the usual sharpness she spoke with. "Sixteen years this contract has been in place. A promise witnessed by God and court." She was too young to remember it, being only a tender two years at the time but she was certain he would. Enough had been told onto her about the day for her to envisage being there. "And your father has taken it upon himself to disregard that and the contract. Pray tell me, for whatever reason?"
Tristian remained bound to silence at the sound of her voice.
But Father Conwell notched his head. "Do answer her, for the question is good."
One ought be suspicious and wary of the even deliverance of her uncle's words, how he did not speak with conviction in light of the harrowing news, but a bland curiosity.
But it appeared the man beside her was oblivious or perhaps more imbecilic than his letters had suggested, for he said with regret but not fear, "The Princess Astrid of Thellemere has been declared pregnant and the child is my own. To rid of the possible turmoil between the two lands and to spare the sullying of the Hanson name, it was deemed imperative our union be seen as paramount to previous arrangements."
Thellemere was a dark and forsaken land. The royal family did little to hide their sickening ways of forming unions, and it seemed that each child born was begat from a man who was both brother and cousin, or uncle and brother, or whatever revolting combination suited them at the time. She knew he was a fornicator, but to think that he had dipped his wick in something so low, so beneath a common and pox-ridden prostitute who still had the gall to pray to God, sickened her core more so than the fact that an oath had been broken.
"God help you then. Not only are you a fornicator, an oathbreaker, but you disrespect the vows made before his sept, and furthermore, have conceived a bastard with a heathen born of two relatives." She quenched the desire to inform him that he would be fortunate if the child was born with ten fingers and toes and resembled half a human.
Bonds: A Cursed Six novel (The Cursed Six Book 1) Page 35
