by Karen Nilsen
“Peregrine, have you seen Whitten at all? I need to find him.”
“You‘re not the only one.”
“Are you looking for him too?”
“I’ve been waiting for him all night. We were supposed to meet here.”
“What for?”
“None of your affair.” He chuckled bitterly and drained his tankard a second time, afterwards reaching for mine. He quaffed that as well. I gaped at him, too shocked to stop him. The man who had never lowered himself to drink ale around his comrades was now doing so in vast quantities. Whatever I had pictured happening when I came in here, it was not seeing Peregrine of Bara stinking drunk.
“You damned Landers, all of you--you can’t have everything, you know,” he said finally, staring in the bottom of his empty tankard.
“Really? And what do we have, Peregrine?”
“Your father is a sneak and a liar.” He looked at me, as if he hoped I would punch him so he could punch me back and start a brawl.
“So, what else is new?”
“If some man slurred my father like that, you can bet I’d punch him.”
“It’s not a slur when it’s true.”
“Oh, you’re so clever,” he mocked. “You’re just gutless--you’re afraid to punch me because you know I’ll punch back.”
“I have bigger fish to fry tonight than some drunk merchant.” I started to stand.
“Sit down--I’ll tell you where Whitten is.”
I remained standing. “Where?”
“Tupping the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. The sot doesn’t even know what to do with her--that marriage is goddamned travesty, and your father’s responsible for it.”
He was talking about Safire. Without thinking, I reached across the table and grabbed him by his cloak collar. “So I don’t have the guts to punch you?” I hissed at his startled face. “What’s this?” I slammed my fist into his jaw.
He hit back, his aim wild with drink but his knuckles as hard as ever. He clipped my ear, my head ringing like the bells on holy day. I swore and shoved him back in the corner.
“You two better stop it right now,” Jasper the innkeeper roared from the bar. “I’ll throw you out on your arses like I did when you were fourteen. Your father don’t want you brawling like a common drunk, Sir Merius.”
We both sank down on our benches, glowering at each other across the table. “I’m surprised you defend your father, Merius,” Peregrine said after a long moment, luckily misinterpreting the reason for my anger. “Even you have to see what a waste it is, Safire married to Whitten. She could have been mine, damn it. I offered to pay her father’s debts to the Landers, everything, and your father wouldn’t hear of it. He likely has some secret plot--he always does. In the mean time, the finest field in this province is being plowed and seeded by a feckless drunkard.”
I blinked, ran my tongue over the inside of my teeth, forced myself to ignore his vulgarity, though if he used one more insulting term to refer to Safire . . . “I didn’t realize you’d made an offer for her.”
“Several. The last one in particular was very generous, considering her poor dowry. Your father wouldn’t accept any of them. Instead he married her to Whitten when she was out of her mind. I don’t understand it.”
“If her dowry’s so poor, what do you want her for?” I asked. “Peregrine, you’ve never been the sort to marry just because you wanted a good tumble. You could take a mistress for that.”
He barked a laugh. “Safire--be a mistress? You obviously don’t know her. She’s too proud and impractical for that kind of arrangement. No, the only way to pluck her is to marry her.”
“But there’s plenty of willing women, beautiful women you could take for mistresses or wives. Why her?”
“Merius, you dolt,” he slurred, too drunk now to care what he said, “haven’t you ever wanted a particular woman to the point of distraction? There’s no rhyme or reason to it--you just want her. You’d do anything to claim her for yours. Now, take that lust and multiply it ten times, and you’ll have the barest inkling of what I feel when I see Safire. Her skin is paler, smoother to the touch than the finest SerVerin ivory. She smells sweet like cedar on fire, and she holds herself so high, the unearthly wench, though her father was but a sparrow nobleman with debts piled to the roof. You know, these sparrow noblemen--they bring their daughters to me like fruit on a platter, their last treasure to sell before the creditors call. In all these years, this endless parade of daughters, Safire is the only one I’ve ever wanted to buy. She’ll wish she’d let me buy her by that time that drunken fool finishes with her.”
“You’re mad,” I said, feeling slightly unreal as I did every time I wore my court mask. “I’ll grant you that Safire’s beautiful, but the few times I’ve seen her at Landers Hall since my return, she’s blistered me with her tongue. She’s far from an ideal wife for a man like you.”
Peregrine shrugged. “She just needs a strong hand. You know yourself--the best horses are often the ones with the most spirit before they’re broken.”
My whole body felt unreal now, a marionette with strings to be pulled by the real me. If I allowed myself to be here and fully present, I’d draw my sword on him, which I dimly knew would be disastrous. So I kept myself far away as the marionette Merius said, “And just how would you break her, Peregrine? Beat her?”
He shrugged again, obviously growing impatient with the conversation. “I’d beat her if I thought it would work--most wives need a beating at one point or another. Honestly, though, I don’t think Safire would take well to that kind of treatment. She’s too high strung and stubborn, too pretty to mark up anyway. No, there are more interesting ways of handling disobedience than beating.”
“More interesting ways? Like what?”
He grinned. “Merius, you really are an ignorant ass. When you marry a woman, you own her. It’s your responsibility to train her, and you’ll have no one but yourself to fault if she remains unruly. You know how I’d train Safire? I’d lock her away for awhile. I’d be the only one with the key, the only one she ever saw. I’d bring her meals, her amusements, her baths even. And if she used that wicked tongue, as I’m sure she would, I’d simply forget to bring her the book or extra blanket she asked for, even forget to bring her a few meals if she really disobeyed. I’d make her dependent on my whim for all her needs, and despite her stubborn pride, she’d soon realize how generous I could be if she made the effort to please me. Imogene,” he yelled suddenly, banging his tankard on the table. “Imogene, you’re slow as shank’s pony.”
I took the opportunity to breathe. My lungs burned--my whole body felt frostbitten, inside and out, the tingling pain settling in my gut. Light-headed, my already over-active imagination hummed along, showing me picture after sickening picture of Peregrine with Safire. These images were worse, far worse than anything Whitten had done to her. Whitten was a weak fool who had likely taken Safire in her fit because she wasn’t able to fight back. If she had never had that fit, Whitten never would have had the guts to touch her. Peregrine, though . . . I shook my head, my hand over my eyes to block the light so I wouldn’t see anything but darkness, anything to block the unthinkable images parading my mind. Her bearing Whitten’s child now seemed a small concern compared to what Peregrine might do. Thank God the annulment between her and Whitten hadn’t been formally announced yet. Once Peregrine knew about the annulment, I wagered he would be as swift to snatch her up as a merciless hawk with his prey. And what recourse would she have, alone with no coin and a cuckoo child growing inside her?
I had left her tonight hell bent to kill her ravisher and then flee as a fugitive from justice. Fleeing had seemed easier than handling the reality of another man’s child in her womb. However, if I left her now and a man like Peregrine took her, I could never live with myself. I had left her once already to go on the campaign, and she had been hurt and bruised by my callous family in my absence. My witch, my lovely, sweet, spirited witch, with her heal
ing hands and spooky sketches and fiery temper. She was not quite of this world, and she needed someone more practical than her to help her navigate through it. I was far from practical at times, but at least I had inherited a touch of my father’s cunning. We would need it, with hawks like Peregrine already circling.
“What’s the matter, Landers?” Peregrine scoffed. “Did my punch addle you so much that it struck you dumb? You’re an odd one sometimes, you know--there’s been gossip after council about your trances. You‘d best watch your mind wandering if you expect to keep your position.”
“I’m not the one in my cups and obsessing over another man’s wife and her SerVerin ivory skin. Why don’t you take one of your smuggled ivory statues to bed? That’s as close as you’ll ever get to touching her,” I finished with more of a snarl than I had intended.
Peregrine lunged at me, and I punched him in the face with glorious abandon, for once not constrained by the worry of Father lambasting me on the morrow. Tankards flew as we knocked the table aside. His fist landed on my jaw, so hard that I wondered dimly if he’d cracked it. I swore and hit him square in the eye, then dodged aside as he dove for me. He ran into a bench and stumbled. I kicked him to the floor, and he hollered something unintelligible and grabbed my leg. I fell on the hard boards, the wind knocked out of my chest, and then he was on me, his fist drawn back to hit me. In a moment of exquisite painful clarity, likely caused by my inability to draw breath, I felt another surge of rage, rage at Peregrine, rage at Whitten, rage at Father, rage that gave me the strength to grab Peregrine‘s descending fist and roll him on to the floor. Even though he was drunk, he got in several good hits, but I didn’t feel the pain anymore. He was a stronger fighter at hand-to-hand combat than I, but he lacked my advantage tonight. I pummeled him, blocking his hand when he reached for his dagger.
“You goddamned dishonorable cheat,” I yelled. Though I wore both my sword and dagger, I would never have dreamed of reaching for them in a fistfight like this.
He twisted his arm out of my grasp and went for his dagger a second time, even though I had as yet to reach for mine. “Oh, you’ve asked for it, you son of a bitch,” I growled. I grabbed his dagger before he could and cast it aside.
He caught the edge of my left cheekbone in a punch that made red stars explode in my head. I shook myself, disoriented for an instant, and he hit me again in the same place. I bellowed with pain, reaching for him. He tried to roll away from me. I lunged forward and gripped his shoulders. With as much strength as I could muster, I threw him against the overturned table. He hit the back of his head on the table edge, tried to get back up, and then fell back again with a groan. “Damn it,” he muttered.
Rough hands grabbed me and dragged me to my feet. “Your father’s going to hear about this,” Jasper said, he and his grim-faced son pushing me toward the door.
I felt the wild urge to laugh. “Go ahead, tell him.”
“He’ll make you a lot sorrier than I can--now get out. If I see you here again, I’ll call the magistrate, whether you be Landers or no. You’re banned from these grounds for the next year for brawling.”
I slowly walked to the stable, guided by the lantern light. That pain emerged as I walked, my whole face throbbing. He had gotten in more hard hits than I had realized--my fingers felt the long slash he’d left along my jaw with his seal ring, my nose oozed blood, and my left cheekbone hurt enough to be broken. Already, I could feel the soreness in my muscles, a soreness that came after a really good fistfight--I wagered tomorrow I‘d have bruises all over. Well, at least he‘d gotten his, the nasty merchant bastard. If he ever so much as glanced at Safire, I’d pummel him and knock him out again for good measure.
Shadowfoot neighed in greeting. I mounted him, exhausted suddenly. “Let’s go, boy, and see if Safire’ll fix me up.”
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Though it was well after two in the morning when I unlocked the door to our chamber, Safire was still awake. She had several candles lit and the fire burning, despite it being a mild night. We looked at each other as I entered and shut the door behind me with a quiet click. She wore a plain white shift, the cloth thin from many washings, so thin I could almost see through it. Her knees were drawn up under the hem, her slim arms clutched around them as she rocked back and forth on the bed. With her hair pulled back from her face, her eyes seemed enormous, with deep shadows under them from too little sleep and too many tears.
“Merius, your face,” she exclaimed then, unfolding and rising from the bed. “Oh, dear heart, what . . .”
“I got in a fight.”
She came over, stopping abruptly a few feet away. She held out her arms, hesitant, as if she didn’t quite know how I would respond. I grabbed her to me in a bear hug, inhaling the cedar sweetness of her hair. She began to sob against my shoulder, her tears soaking my shirt. “Shh, shh. It’s all right.”
“I didn’t know if you were coming back, and then when you came through the door, I couldn’t read your expression or your aura, and then I saw all the blood . . .”
“Shh, never mind that now. Is there really a lot of blood?” I glanced over her head at the mirror. There was a lot of blood, more than I had expected, mostly dried now. “Do you think you can mend it? My cheekbone feels pretty tender.”
She drew away, just far enough so I could see her face. Her eyes gleamed sharp through a haze of tears. “Heal it, you mean? I don’t know. Are you staying?”
“Of course I’m staying, sweet.”
“With the way you stormed out of here so sudden, yelling that you didn’t want me to touch you with my witch hands, I had to ask.”
“Safire, you can’t blame me for being upset.”
“You’re upset? I’ve sat here locked in for hours, not knowing where you went, what you were doing, if you‘d be back. My talents told me you were still alive, but that’s about it. For all I knew, you’d killed Whitten and fled on the first ship, never to return.”
“Then you should--” I broke off, realizing that I was about to say Then you should have told me about the baby as soon as you knew. All that would do is land us in another argument, an exhausting proposition at this moment. I took a deep breath. “So we’re both upset--what do we do now? I’m too tired for arguing. Can we put it off till tomorrow?”
She sighed. “Sit down then.”
I perched on the edge of the bed and watched as she brought over the basin, water lurching over the sides and splashing on the floor. She then soaked a washrag before she gingerly scrubbed my face with it. The water was cool and soothing, and I closed my eyes, already feeling the tingle of her healing touch through the rag.
“So, you got in a fight, but not with Whitten. Someone else, someone you‘ve hated a long time and wanted to fight,” she said.
“How do you know that?”
“I just do, Merius. That’s what happens when you’re a witch--you just know things sometimes.”
“I told you, I’m not going to argue tonight.”
“I wasn’t arguing, just stating a fact of my life.” She wrung the rag out in the basin, and the water turned pinkish.
I decided it was probably best to ignore her tone--we were both tired, and her touch was gentle enough even if her words held an edge. “I fought Peregrine, if you must know.”
“Peregrine?” The rag stopped for a moment as she absorbed this.
“Did you know that he made several offers for you to Father while I was away?”
“I knew he made at least one--I didn’t realize it was several. He’s been making offers for me for years, so many I‘ve lost count. Truly, there was so much going on that he was but a minor annoyance in the midst of it, the swine.”
“If he talks to you, even so much as looks at you ever again, I want you to tell me immediately.”
“Why, what did he say?”
“Never mind that. You’re not the only one who lies and keeps secrets to protect someone, evidently.”
“Damn it, Merius.” She threw
the rag in the basin and put her hands to her face. “I told you as soon as I could. There’s a difference between knowing something and being able to tell it, especially when you know it’s going to hurt the listener to hear it. I love you so,” she choked, “and you’ve been hurt so much already. That made it even harder.”
“Sweetheart, please.” I stepped towards her. Her shoulders shook, the muscles in her arms so tense that her frail bones looked on the verge of snapping.
"Dear God," she said. "What are we going to do?"
"We're going to marry tomorrow, as we planned."
"But . . ." She raised her head, staring at me. "But . . ."
"But what?"
"But that's why I told you tonight before you married me, a ruined woman with a cuckoo’s child. When you left tonight, I didn’t know if you still wanted me for your wife or even your mistress . . ."
"Mistress? Safire, what kind of man do you think I am?”
“Merius, I didn’t mean it like that. I just . . . well, things have changed, and--”
“Just listen for a moment. I want to be very clear about this. We need to marry tomorrow, as soon as possible, and then leave Cormalen for awhile, until well after you've had the baby."
"But you don't have to . . ."
"If anyone besides you and me knows the truth about this baby, it could invalidate the annulment. The king would never have granted it if he’d known Whitten sired a child on you, especially if it's a son."
She began to shake her head, her hand going to her mouth. "To everyone," I continued, reaching for her hand, "there has to be no doubt this baby is mine. Otherwise, they'll take you back to Whitten, to that house."
Tears streamed down her face, and she choked, her fingers tight around mine. "Merius, this is too much of a sacrifice for you . . ."
I put my finger to her mouth. "Shh--I‘ll be the judge of that." I traced the outline of her lips. "My lovely night witch," I whispered. "Sweet and wild as a wood rose in May. When I think of that sot daring to touch you . . ."
"Don't think of it, Merius," she said shakily. "Don't think. Please. We're fine here, together--we'll be fine."
