She was prepared to go on if not for the lift of her uncle's hand, the man's face having kept an impossible calm. "Has your father considered the consequences?"
Prince Tristian hesitated to speak. With his head bowed, large fists clenched at his knees, it appeared she'd been the target of his scathing, narrowed gaze. She knew the look of shame, the look of the mighty who were deduced to that of scum, their first true taste of the world others lived daily. The prince was bathed in it.
"The king expresses his deepest remorse for what has been done, and it is his hope the relations between the Sirista and crown may persist as they have in the past."
"But how can it?" asked her uncle. "When the crown's successor has muddled the line with a heretic?"
The prince swallowed visibly. "It is our hope—"
"To your left, look at what you have given up."
Abysmal gold landed on her, the prince's mouth taut, his entire body having gone stiff. She met his gaze with one completely relaxed despite her burning bitterness. It came as quite the surprise that she was not drowning in fury. Instead it was disgust towards the man she was to—no, would have married.
"He can always attempt to convert the whore, Father," she stated without shifting her eyes from the prince. "It will be quite the job, but it may win back God's favour."
"Remember your tongue and the Holy Text. There is no place within this kingdom for those born of darkness." To Tristian, whose gaze had turned to that of curiosity as he looked upon her, he said, "The Sirista was promised a holy and royal marriage, but the king has openly expressed what he thinks of the church by sending the likes of you to my home with this news and a pitiful attempt at reconciliation. You would elope with that of evil and think to sit before me, before my niece?"
The prince's attention swung back to that of her uncle's, teeth gnashing. "Would you have preferred letter?"
"I'd have preferred honour!"
Tristian sat back, silenced.
Father Conwell settled at once, tucking his hands back into his sleeves as he looked between her and the prince. "How often has this man starred in your prayers, young Constance?"
She tipped her head slightly for they both knew the answer. "You ask an impossible question, Father. For as long as I can remember I have prayed for the health of the prince and this union. I do not recall the day I made my promise, but I recall the promise for it was carried in my soul over the years. I prayed constantly to God for my marriage, the prince, and the strength and stability of the kingdom. We know now that the future dwells within the womb of a heretic, misplaced by a prince we thought to be of our faith."
She slid a glance at Tristian. "Now I see he is as bad as she, or worse, for a heathen at least has the conviction to stay true to their false faith. He dabbles between the two. God help him, Father."
Conwell nodded, ceding her words. "And the chapel that was to be built in your name upon this marriage, is to be no more. The preparations at large are to be no more. All this, the crown knows, yet still it thinks this watered down porridge of an apology can amount to that of a broken vow?"
It was clear to see the prince was no proficient man in matters of politics when stripped of those who whispered the words into his puppet mind, for he merely looked away.
An action which was not acceptable for her uncle. "The crown will pay its due."
A muscle in the male's jaw twitched. "I cannot be wed to two. I'm afraid the holy-royal marriage is no longer possible."
Father Conwell shook his head in negation. "As I've always said, the crown sits on heads stuffed with hay."
Tristian's deference sharpened to an abjecting glare. "What other way is there? For I would do anything if it saves my soul."
The priest's laugh was rusted and cruel, and she could not help joining in. "Your soul is beyond saving, but there is hope yet for the Hanson name, the unity between the Sirista and crown. Though Redthorn's heir has proven detrimental to the kingdom, there remains another to whom which my niece may wed."
The name was known to her, as was the fact he never seemed to make the attempt to dress for the occasion as his brother did.
"Prince Rhenan?" she questioned. A brute. The boy she regarded as nothing more than a shaggy dog when she had seen him once or twice as a girl. She would wed him regardless and would never disobey her uncle, though it did not sit as well with her as her previous betrothed had.
"Naturally I shall wed who you deem fit, providing, of course, he is of good faith, though you would choose no other." She shared a pointed look with her uncle, for she wondered, truly, whether this Rhenan had much faith in him. She seemed to recall the young man being absent when she did visit court under the guise that he was travelling around the land on crown business, though a small element of doubt had beset her. Sleeping in, recovering from a night of carousing, or perhaps reclining between the thighs of some whore.
The Father, steepling his fingers and laying upon her a glance she couldn't quite decipher, said only, "His blood is royal."
It would seem this simple declaration was enough to finally bring the prince beside her to his wits. From the corner of her eyes, she saw him rise to that dwarfing height, and when he spoke, his voice was a barely constrained hiss. "My brother is no fitting replacement! Certainly not for one such as Lady Constance. She would be better off wedding a peasant of the faith!"
Blue eyes stared at the heated man steadily, his decision made the moment he'd uttered it. All proceeding, such as the prince's mini tantrum, was deemed most irrelevant, and by the coming on frown, irksome. "A crown prince who has ruined the ties much awaited for nigh of two centuries has no relevant tongue in my presence. You will relay my words to your father as messenger only, and I do wonder if you are even worthy of that task."
The grind of his teeth could practically be heard, the clenching of his fist secondary to it.
"I am quite certain, Father, that Prince Tristian will be in possession of the soundest mind of his line of descendants. After all, he has done a risky dance with a house built upon not only heretical, but incesteous foundations." She turned to the prince and offered him a look which she prayed would convey an element of smugness, for truly he had damned whatever the heretic spawned. "I once read an item from a highly regarded physician who specialised in the qualities of the retarded. Over three quarters he found were descended from families who mingled among the same tree. Of that percentage, around twenty per cent were born to brother and sister. I was first terribly vexed by those who could not walk, or were born without limbs, but I suppose the most terrifying were those who could not speak, nor see, nor chew without assistance. Perhaps it is best, Your Highness, if you prepare yourself for the worst—"
"Could not speak?" he gleaned from the sequence of her words. For the first time since his sitting with them, he condoned a face of magnified interest as opposed to the unsightly display of remorse.
"Some could not form words at all and babbled like infants. Others might know only a few. For instance, a favoured food, or might speak as though their mouth was full of stones or something restrictive. A few stammered and the doctor presumed that their tongues or cords within the neck which produce sound were deformed. With some he believed it to be an affliction of the brain."
There was a look of total dread cast upon the prince now, but Father Conwell proved bemused by the topic as he rose to his feet. "I do believe all of the disappointment this male could possibly offer has been presented. If you would, my niece, show him to his carriage. And Prince Tristian, I expect word from the king before he dares host one of his belligerent parties in light of the rearranged union."
It was not a common sight, to witness one not utterly and completely hanging on the Father's every last word, but just then, she witnessed the anomaly for herself as Prince Tristian seemed to suddenly discredit and dismiss all of which her uncle spoke; instead, his attention was reserved for her alone.
He too rose. "Lady Constance," he said expectantly, in such a
way that suggested he wished to do more than have escort, but also a private word. To the Father, he gave a brief nod of the head.
She came to her feet and clasped her hands before her in a manner that suggested she was quite ready for business to conclude, despite his wish to speak with her. Did he wish to express his apologies? To grovel and beg for he knew it was more than just a political matter, but one that concerned his eternal soul?
"Your Highness?" she enquired once alone in the chapel's far yawning halls.
"I envy your resolve," he began. "For I've never had much of it myself." Was that bitterness in the prince's voice? Regret? "But not to misuse this time I have on further apology, I will go on and state the meaning of this: despite all that has occurred, the wrong that has been done onto you, I would request your assistance in a most personal matter."
Her tongue tickled with the words she wished to convey, that if this concerned his soul there was really little she could do but advise him penance. She pursed her lips and rubbed her hands together. "You ask a favour of me. The worldly sort, or something more holy?"
He frowned first, then had the temerity to narrow his eyes down at her. "I do not ask you anything. I request. As you are one of impeccable standing, I merely request in a more kindly fashion than might I that of a servant." He expelled a chuff through his nose, as though dismissing the demeanor altogether.
She hummed a short sound of interest and nodded. Hands parted briefly then closed again, as if acting as an invitation that he was welcome to speak. The words of grandeur, proclaiming that she was of a higher status to him had been spoken by men of all ranks within their society. Rarely, save in the case of her uncle or other high ranking members of the Sirista, did it make much difference who uttered the words. They all looked up to her. "Then take the opportunity to request, while you are here, before me."
Against the odds, he inclined his head and murmured a low thanks before carrying on. "While I understand the err of my deed and have been tasked with shouldering its ramifications, I find myself not fearing for my soul at all, but that of the heathen I am set to marry." He halted to pin her with a look she gandered not many were allowed to see on such a royal profile as his: desperation. "I know it is wrong of me to request this of the very female I've wronged, but upon much prayer and reflection, I know none better suited; I want her soul saved. Princess Astrid's. I want the vile stain of her past scrubbed clean of her and I want her to be suitable of the title as my wife. You can carry out such a task, yes?"
"You speak as though you question my integrity," she stated as she beckoned him to follow down the corridor and towards her study. "This is a discussion best held in private. You must know that while I can certainly mend her broken soul, as her husband you will need to do just as much. Under my supervision and instruction. Straying from it," she stated as she tugged at the pouch secured to her belt, "may make matters worse for you both."
He seemed willing and compliant enough. Eager, no less, as he followed her off to the study. "In this, I will not question, for your wisdom and holiness does rival my own divine right." There was a stifling pause, where his lids lowered as though in memory of something long past, his eyes cast astray. "Though I do ask you this, for I've wondered, is it sinful of me, Lady Constance... is it sinful that I may actually care for this girl?"
It was something beyond lust that caused him to break his promise to the Sirista, to his kingdom, to her, to God. Affection and care was what had caused him to stray. A desire to protect, a desire to secure her eternal safety. More care for her than he had for his original vow. More care for her than he did anyone else it seemed.
"Why her? Out of all your whores, why that girl?"
The question only served to cloud his gaze further, and his voice became a muddled garb, the words even less comprehensible. "She was actually there."
She allowed her level expression to alter into one of utter confusion. Her brows furrowed and her upper lip curled. For a moment she wondered if there were some women who might have been figures of his imagination and thus were not actually there. If that was the case, and there was a suspicion that the prince may be mad as well as sinful, a council would have to be called immediately.
"So were the others. Naturally she was there as you impregnated her." She looked to her desk and saw the fine piece of craftsmanship that was intended to be a gift to him upon their union. "Let me ask you something else. Her back. Describe it to me."
The prince withdrew from his daze to give her his own confounded look. "Her back?"
"Yes. I presume you saw it when you, well, gave her means to conceive. I doubt you impregnated her the righteous way."
At least he had the good grace to look away, even if it was in obvious ire. "It was small, smooth, curves in all the places a woman should have them—"
She held up a hand to silence him. "Yes, thank you." The heretic's body would come under due inspection when they began their work. With a sigh she inclined her head towards the displayed whip. "It will not look like that much longer. We will lacerate the flesh to whatever degree is appropriate. We will need provisions of salt, also. You will arrange this."
His mouth parted over the beginning portions of the lesson, his eyes resting upon the whip as though it were his first time ever beholding one. Or perhaps he'd never seen one of such standard as the one hoisted upon the display. Then his confusion returned as he looked to her. "Salt? Does that not...immortalise injuries? I would not have my wife defaced permanently."
"Well you would not have your wife possess a clean and pure soul. You may imagine the injuries she will endure for all eternity, yes? This pales in comparison. I will use this whip and you will rub the salt into the body that tempted you. Let her screams punish you both."
He was quiet for a long time, staring into her eyes as he seemed to wage a war within himself. When the time came that he finally spoke, it was not in confirmation of the salt, rather he wondered, "Does this cleansing atone the child as well?"
"If it is done well and properly. If the child dies in the process then it was impure and there was no hope for it." She tried her best to hide the growing smirk, though turned away to pace towards the desk when she found she could not. "I doubt you want her shaved?"
"I'm sure you know the answer to that." He glanced once more at the whip, saying somberly, "But I suppose the state of her soul leaves me no other choice."
She turned and glanced over her shoulder, quite surprised at his answer. "You will personally shave her bald?"
He just about choked on his tongue. "Of course not! I was referring to the more.. Brutal proposal."
"You care more about her hair than you do your own child?"
His narrowed gaze strained. He turned up his nose to the question, presenting instead, "Earlier you spoke of books you'd read on incestuous breedings, the defects that come of it. Some including a dysfunctioning tongue. Retarded, you called it." His gaze flattened, unreadable. "You will lend the crown this publication for a time. I would like to know the possible shortcomings of this child."
"You should go to see the children yourself. They are kept in a priory not too far from here. They would be delighted to be visited by the crown prince."
Truly, she may as well have dismounted the whip and struck him with it for the sheer look of horror to succumb to him. After a moment, disbelieving expression still very much intact, he shook his head. "The book will do just fine, thank you."
She paced to the appropriate shelf where all her texts on science were housed. It was easily found, a sapphire volume with a cover decorated with etchings of roses, perhaps more fitting to a horticultural guide. She flicked to a random page and presented the work to the prince.
An illustration of a girl smiled up at him and she appeared like any other child. Luscious ombre ringlets pinned atop her head with the clear blue eyes many lost following the conclusion of childhood.
Hettie was one of the more lively children who greeted me most kindly. She sat upo
n my lap and spoke animatedly about the birds she loved to watch. Most knowledgeable was this young lady on her feathered friends. Following my meal, she offered to dance for me, and despite the clumsiness that any child may exhibit, Hettie was quite excellent. She was insistent that I join her for a jig, though my full stomach made the prospect most uninviting. I may have obliged if this was prior to my supper. The girl then turned vicious, teeth baring like a rabid beast and attempted to clasp my cheek and nose. Three men had to restrain her and a sedative was administered. A strong dosage was required to ensure a full loss of consciousness, so strong that she suffered what I believe was an attack of the heart. She passed away soon after and upon a close inspection of the cadaver I found that she had a heart full of holes and a brain swollen and oozing blood. Her parents, I was informed, were first cousins.
"It's an interesting read," she said.
It would seem the prince agreed, for he closed the volume solemnly and seemed to take it prisoner in his hold. "I will return it in perfect condition when I have finished," was all he said.
"You will also arrange a chamber for the three of us to make use of. It must be away from the noise and degeneracy of your father's court. Can you arrange this?"
"I'm far more receptive of enquiries than I am of declaratives. Though, as I find suiting, I will indeed arrange for a more reserved location to perform what I've no doubt will be an extensive purification process. And the salt you speak of..." He exhaled a long, accepting sigh. "I will see it provided. And truly, I thank you for this, for you will be saving the future queen of Redthorn's soul."
23
~ TRISTIAN ~
He did not ride straight for the castle as had been his original plans, rather the prince lingered on in Thornhall's citadel following the uncomfortable encounter with the Father and Lady Constance. Just then, he wished to visit the city's bank to discuss multiple matters and records on file. Though, upon considering the midday light and citizens pouring through the paths, he'd thought better of visiting right away, but instead instructed his horsemen to find a suitable inn to remain the rest of the day.
Bonds: A Cursed Six novel (The Cursed Six Book 1) Page 36
