by Karen Nilsen
"There is?"
I fingered the whiskey bottle again but pushed it away before I could pour anymore. It was ludicrous, offering paternal advice to a man I had just blackmailed. Why had Chenoa asked me? "Your mother is concerned about you making a suitable marriage."
"My mother worries too much." Peregrine propped his boots on the desk crosspiece and stared at the ceiling, bored. "I run this House, I can find a suitable wife. Did she ask you to talk to me?"
"The Long Marsh chit is far from suitable for a man in your position."
His boots abruptly hit the floor. "I beg your pardon? Selwyn is betrothed to Safire’s sister Dagmar, is he not?"
"That's different. Selwyn isn't aiming for a career at court. Besides, I snagged all the decent Long Marsh lands in that betrothal agreement. There's nothing left but swamp and fallow fields for Safire's dowry."
"She doesn't need one."
"After a year of marriage and your firstborn son, that dowry and her name will be all that you value, and she has neither."
He shuffled a few papers around. "I appreciate the advice, sir, but it's really none of your affair."
"Of course. I only spoke of it because your mother asked me to." So he really was set on the wench, so set he had dismissed her pitiful dowry without a thought. Interesting. I expected such reckless behavior from Merius, but not from Peregrine. He had always struck me as the coldly practical sort, the sort who would choose a wife based on her name and dowry. It was a bit of information that might prove useful later, should I suddenly find that wench on my hands.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
It was later that evening, and I was at the table in my study at Landers Hall, going over Selwyn's ledger for the last month. His notations were neat and orderly, his figures generally correct, but some of his abbreviations were confusing. What did "2 bush. red ap." mean? Two bushels of red apples, perhaps? But what did we need apples for? There should still be several bushels worth wrapped in rags in the cellar from last harvest. And if he had meant apples, what was a household item doing in our ledger of tenants' rents? In lieu of coin, tenants could pay with livestock, maybe grain, but not apples. I tugged on the bell pull. One of the house footmen, Baldwin by name, appeared a few moments later, his breath heavy and his livery askew. I shook my head. Selwyn's mother Talia had taken over hiring the household servants after Arilea's death, and the difference was jarring. Arilea may have been a battle axe, but at least she had known how to choose and handle her inferiors.
"Find Selwyn and tell him I want to see him," I said, "and be quick about it. Also, bring me some bread and cheese."
"Yes, sir." With a rude bob of his head that fell far short of the traditional bow, he was out the door before I could reprimand him.
I returned to the ledger, counting down the row of figures under my breath. That doesn't add up . . . Selwyn entered the chamber with a quiet knock.
"You summoned me, sir?"
"Yes, could you explain this notation?" I pointed at the line.
He took a glance at it. "I think, ah, yes, I believe that's two bushels of red apples."
"It isn't a question of belief. It's your own writing. Is it apples or isn't it?" I lowered my spectacles.
He stepped away hastily. "It is, most certainly. Two bushels of red apples, sir."
"Why would you note apples on this ledger? That's a household account."
"Because the Declans rounded off their rent with apples, sir. Those were the last two bushels."
"We don't accept payments of apples."
He put his hands behind his back. "Ah, Whitten accepted it, sir. I merely made the notation."
"Ahh." I took off my spectacles. "And did you question him about it?"
"It was such a small amount . . . well, I didn't feel it was necessary."
"It is a small amount but not a small mistake. Accept two bushels of the Declans' apples this year, and next year, they'll bring us twenty. It's a bad precedent. We deal only in coin, grain and livestock in a pinch, but no apples. Keep an eye on Whitten and don't let it happen again."
"Yes, sir."
Baldwin reappeared at that moment carrying a tray with bread and cheese and a knife. "A gentleman to see you, sir," he announced.
"This late? Who is it?"
"Sir Avernal of Long Marsh."
I groaned inwardly. "Already?"
"What, sir?"
"Show him up." I cut a hunk of cheese, tore off some bread, and jammed it all in my mouth.
"What does he want?" Selwyn said.
Couldn’t the fool see I had just taken a bite? “Damned silly ass,” I mumbled.
"What was that, sir? Is it something to do with Dagmar?"
I gulped, fighting for air. "None of your affair," I snapped finally. "Now, balance this last page again before you go to bed. Some of the figures are off."
"But I . . ."
I thrust the ledger at him. "Here. Leave. Now."
"Yes, sir. Good night."
When Avernal entered the chamber a few minutes later, his usual bluster had been replaced by a wan anxiety. He answered to my invitation to sit down with a quiet no and remained upright, shifting from one foot to the other. His clothes hung on his portly frame, and it seemed that what muscles he had left from an active youth hunting with the king had all turned to flab overnight.
"If you won't sit down, will you at least have some bread? A little brandy, maybe?" I said finally, more to break the silence than anything else.
"No, thank you. I apologize for disturbing you so late, but it really couldn't wait another minute."
"What is it? Something with the betrothal?"
"No, that's fine," he said absently. "It's nothing to do with Dagmar or Selwyn. It's my other daughter, Safire. It seems," he cleared his throat. "It seems your son Merius seduced her."
I crossed my arms and leaned back in the chair, watching him. "That's a heavy charge to lay on a young man. What proof have you of this, Avernal?"
"Dagmar wrote me a letter from court, and Safire admitted it this afternoon. I confiscated a letter Merius sent her, if you want proof beyond my word."
I continued to watch him, not saying anything until he finally broke down, clasping the edge of the table and leaning towards me, his face drawn. "You have to know I would do nothing to upset Dagmar and Selwyn's betrothal, Mordric. Believe me, I wouldn't come to you if I didn't think it was true."
"No, I believe you." I stood, went over to the window, and examined my reflection against the dark glass. "Young ladies rarely admit to being compromised--the risk to their reputations is too great. Young men, on the other hand, are all too ready to compromise them." If I could convince Avernal that Merius was a rake who seduced young ladies often, then he wouldn’t want Merius for his son-in-law despite Merius’s considerable inheritance. As the father of a debauched daughter, Avernal was in a position to demand Merius marry Safire, a position I wanted him to forget as soon as possible.
"I'm certain Merius didn't mean for it . . ."
"Oh, he meant for it. I know my son." I turned from the window, my arms still crossed.
"But Mordric, one lapse is not indicative of man's entire character. I mean, as long as he marries her, there's no real harm done."
"That's true, but considering he left yesterday for Marenna for five months, a marriage may be difficult to arrange."
"He could marry her when he returns . . ."
"What if she's with child?"
Avernal blanched. "I don't know."
"Exactly. We can't know for another few months or so, and then everyone else knows too. It could be disastrous for both our Houses if this gets out."
"What do you think I should do?"
"Is there anyone else interested in marrying her?"
He nodded. "Yes, there's been interest. But she's so damned stubborn . . ."
"She's not in a position to be stubborn at the moment, Avernal."
"I know, but she's of a strong mind. Always has been."
"
Impress on her the fact she's ruined herself . . ."
"Believe me, I have."
"Well, keep doing it. By law, she has to marry whomever you tell her to marry."
"But who'll take her, like this?" He sank into an armchair, running his hands through his sparse hair.
"She's a comely girl, what little I've seen of her. Surely some man will have her."
"Some man, certainly," he scoffed. "A dock rat, maybe, when I'd hoped she would marry Bara."
"Peregrine?"
He nodded. "He's been buzzing after her for a couple of years now, but she'll have none of him, the minx. To be honest, I don't know why he's still coming, she's insulted him so many times."
"He doesn't give up easily. He may still have her."
"Who, him? He's too proud to take another man's leavings."
"Why does he need to know?"
His mouth opened as if he was about to speak and stayed that way for several seconds. "But, Mordric, he‘ll know . . . he‘s young, but he‘s no fool. Besides, Safire will likely inform him herself to spite me."
"I suppose, though he may be more amenable than you think."
"But what if he's not, and she is with child? What then?"
I shrugged. I had hoped not to play this card, but there seemed little choice. Damn Merius. "She could always marry Whitten, if it comes to that."
Avernal's shoulders sagged in obvious relief. "Thank you. She's a good girl, really, just heedless. Marriage will calm her spirits, I'm certain of it."
"Bring her here the day after tomorrow, and we'll discuss it further. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've had a long evening, and I have a long day before me. Good night."
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The mustiness of my long-abandoned chamber had begun to retreat from the maids' hastily kindled fire when I entered it a half-hour later. It had been a damp spring, and the faint odor of mildew still hung in the air with the chill of long vacancy. I prepared for bed, my thoughts ordering themselves for tomorrow. In the morning, I had to finish going over Selwyn's ledger. Then I had to examine the stables and meet with Ebner, the stable master--we were gaining a reputation for fine horses. If Silver could foal another Trident for the king and start a fashion for Landers horses at court, that reputation would be set. Unless Whitten had anything to do with it.
I pulled off my left boot with unnecessary force and lobbed it at the wardrobe. That sotted dolt. Every time he got in his cups (and that occurred more and more these days), he lost what little sense he possessed and made mistakes, some disastrous. Like selling Trident to Peregrine when I had promised Silver's new colt to His Majesty. That could have been a grave political mishap--Houses had fallen for less. Merius had saved the situation by assuring the king that although Trident would have met his expectations, the next colt would be even finer, a steed more befitting the royal bum. The old fool had believed him, too. I snorted. If Merius was impetuous, at least he was as quick-thinking as he was quick-acting. Battle would take some of the impetuosity out of him. Too bad I couldn't send Whitten to war to grow brains.
I unfastened the frogs on my doublet and hung it in the wardrobe. It was chilly without it, and I rubbed my arms as I glanced over at the fire. I had put more wood on the embers when I had entered the chamber, and now the flames roared in the grate, leaving long, black streaks down the back of the fireplace. It should have been warmer, with the size of the fire--it had felt warmer earlier. Likely one of the maids had left a window open, and now the wind was drafting in. None of the drapes stirred, however, and when I checked the window latches, every one was locked and secure.
I threw another chunk of wood on the fire. The flames sputtered and flared with a rain of popping sparks, yet the closer I stood, the colder I felt. I rubbed my hands together, and they were numb, the skin taut with the chill. This was ridiculous--old men huddled by the fireside and shivered. I retreated to the bed and crawled under the covers.
I closed my eyes, watching the patterns of light on the back of my eyelids. Odd thoughts flitted in and out of my mind as I fell into a deeper doze, my awareness narrowed to a sense of darkness and exhaustion. Then I heard the click of the chamber door. I blinked as a cloaked woman tiptoed in, pulling the door to behind her.
"What the hell?" I muttered and tried to sit up. However, I found I couldn't move--my body was numb with cold.
The woman had gone over to the wardrobe and opened it. She leaned over, the cloak sliding off her hair. A mass of blond waves cascaded down her back, the fire light catching strands ranging from rich gold to the pale hue of pine shavings. I knew then. I had run my hands over that hair enough to know.
She rifled through the bottom drawer of the wardrobe, where I kept spare coin, my razor, a wooden box containing old letters, my spurs from the king's guard, and a few other mementoes. She pulled out a flimsy piece of silk I had stuffed in the drawer and forgotten long ago. Clutching the silk in one thin, white hand, she shrugged the cloak from her shoulders. It slipped to the floor and disappeared in the shadows. I lay frozen on the bed as she turned to face me.
She wore nothing, her pale skin shining like moonlight, though the curtains were drawn shut and there was no moon. She had been thirty-two when she died, still untouched by the ravages of age, damn her. My eyes ran up that coldly perfect body. Only one faint scar marred the surface of her skin, just over her right hip. She had snatched my dagger and cut herself there when I told her of my women at court. It had been a ploy to get attention, nothing more--she had been skilled at those. I hesitated at the neck, and then, cursing myself, I finally looked at her face. Her full lips, dark blue, curved in a mocking smile, and her eyes glinted, sharp as blades.
"You dead bitch. Get out of here."
Her smile widened, and she shook out the bit of silk. It was a summer shift, the material so fine I could still see the outline of her body after she lifted her arms and slithered into it like a serpent reclaiming its skin.
"I told you to get out of here. Your bed is in the graveyard with that hangdog Gaven."
She laughed and ran her hands over her chest and down her sides, pulling the silk tight against her flesh. Her laughter sliced through my brain. I swore and tried to leap from the bed, but my limbs were still paralyzed with cold. She began to walk around the bed. "Don't tell me I frighten you, Mordric."
"Stop it. I can't move, damn you."
"You are frightened."
"I'd strangle you if I could move. It's just so cold--why is it so goddamned cold?" I coughed.
"You've never felt it before, when I've been near. You must be getting soft in your dotage."
"You bitch."
She sighed. "Your insults lack imagination, love. Now, Merius . . . Merius has sensed me many times, though he didn't usually know it . . ."
"Leave him alone, Arilea."
She arched her neck and laughed, her hair shimmering. "Oh, you are amusing," she choked finally. "Here I am, dead, and there you are, petrified with fear in my presence, and you still think you can order me around."
"It's this hellish cold. I'm not afraid of you, demon."
"Let's see about that." She sat down on the bed beside me. The closer she moved, the colder the air became. My breath turned white. I coughed again, my lungs burning. Her fingers touched my face, and I jerked away. Her skin was so cold it seared.
"Shh," she whispered. "This is the one place we never denied each other."
"There's little you denied any man."
She slapped me, and I drew breath sharply, for it felt like a hundred wasps stinging my jaw. I had had frostbite before, but this was absurd.
"How dare you call me a whore, you and your dozen mistresses?"
"I never took a mistress, not until long after you tumbled my brother."
Her hand moved down my neck. "You still believe that?"
"Why wouldn't I? You told me yourself Merius might be his."
She smiled. "Not might be his. Merius is his."
"Lying viper. There's no way that sniv
eling ass Gaven sired him . . ."
Her laughter pealed. "I only wanted to test you, and I've found you as testy as ever. If you'd only believed me when I told you the truth, you wouldn't be torturing yourself right now."
"And what is the truth? You've told me Merius was mine, then you've told me in the same breath he was Gaven's. I don't think you know yourself."
"I told you the truth long ago, my love, but you weren't listening. That's unfortunate for you, isn't it?"
"I don't need the truth of a heartless bitch."
"Now we're back to bitch again. Don't you know any other words?"
"Not for you, I don't. And get your icy claws off me."
Her hand had slipped under the blanket, over my chest, and the chill from it spread down to my legs. I could barely breathe. "Succubus," I spat. "There's another word for you."
"You wish I was a succubus--those women at court don't know how to handle you." She lay down beside me, her hand still on my chest and her blue lips beside my ear. "Listen to me," she whispered.
"Go to hell. It might warm you up."
"Stubborn man. You can't go anywhere, you haven't anything better to do than talk to your dead wife, so listen.
"Well, spit it out."
The hairs rose on my arms as her voice lowered to a hiss. "Don't let Merius near that witch again. Ever."
"Witch?"
"The little redhead clairvoyant who's sunk her claws in him. If she comes in this house . . ."
"Clairvoyant--what nonsense are you blathering about now? Arilea?"
I awoke with a start. The fire had burned down to a dull glow of embers. Still half asleep, I flung my arm out, for an instant touching silk-fine strands of hair on the pillow beside mine. Then the feeling was gone, and all there was under my fingers was cool linen. I turned over on my side, my eyes closed again. It had been a dream. I always dreamed about her when I was in this bed, the bed we had shared and where she had borne our last dead child and then promptly died herself. The priest and the servants thought I should have burned the bed frame, but I never had been one to traffic in stupid superstition. It was a perfectly good bed.
I turned again, trying to find a decent position. My hand landed on silk, not linen. A brief chill shuddered through me, and my muscles locked for a moment. Then I slowly began to move again, feeling the thin cloth beneath my fingertips. It was definitely silk. I gathered the stuff in my hand and brought it my face. The scent of roses filled the air to the point of intoxication as I ran the silk from hand to hand, drawing it tight and twisting it into a rope. Too bad I didn't have her here--I could have slipped it around her slender snake neck and strangled the treacherous life out of her. That beautiful hellbound bitch.
