She was pinned between him and the wall. The bed was comfortably wide for one, inconveniently small for two. She eased herself out, tucking the sheet and quilt down so no chill draught might rouse him. Reaching the foot of the bed, Failla took care not to trip over his boots and breeches. She hurried to the door, her stomach tight with apprehension. As she eased the door handle, no treacherous squeak from the hinges betrayed her. The pork fat had done its work.
It had been worth ruining her silken reticule for the sake of stealing a scrap of rind from the suckling pig served last night. But she must burn the ribbon-tied purse before some maid wondered at the grease stains. She didn't want someone carrying even such inconsequential gossip to the duchess's women.
There was scant chance Duke Garnot would notice his gift's absence. If he did, would he imagine she'd sold it for the few silver pennies it would bring her? He never showed any sign of knowing that she turned as many of his favours as she could into coin. But he had always made it clear that she need not expect him to support her once their dalliance was done. Duchess Tadira begrudged the lifelong pensions paid to respectable retainers. She wouldn't countenance the grant of a copper cut-piece to keep her husband's discarded whore from beggary.
Failla closed the door carefully and let the tapestry hiding the dressing room fall across it. Moving more purposefully, no longer feeling as if she were walking on eggshells, she hurried to the second room opening discreetly off the grand chamber. Once she'd used the chamber pot tucked beneath the washstand, she had her excuse for leaving Duke Garnot's bed.
Returning to the high-ceilinged chamber dominated by the canopied bed where dukes were begotten and born, she began reading the documents discarded on top of the map chest. Duke Garnot wouldn't recall exactly how he'd left them. Not after she'd answered his summons wearing only a flimsy bodice and lace petticoats beneath her cloak, complaining prettily that she'd just been undressing, assuming he'd talk late into the night with his advisors. All the same, she replaced each sheet as precisely as she could.
Some letters were in the duke's angular hand, others in less well-tutored script. This mercenary captain was boasting that he could bring enough individual bands together to field a company of three hundred mounted hand-tallies. In any such group of five, Failla knew, one or two would be more servant and squire to the experienced warriors. Those youths would be grooming horses and polishing armour rather than killing men. So in practice that probably meant somewhere between a thousand and twelve hundred fighting men. She set the letter down and found another from some warmonger offering to broker deals with archers and crossbowmen, promising contingents one hundred strong. There was no indication that Garnot was planning to reply to him, but Failla committed every detail to memory regardless.
A sketch map of the countryside around the market town of Ashgil offered notes beside each manor house within three days' walk. She recognised the handwriting of Duke Garnot's reeve. So those noble lords who'd failed to pay their shield levy at Spring Equinox would find themselves housing and feeding whatever mercenaries Duke Garnot hired this summer.
What was he planning? Ashgil was well inside Carluse, thirty leagues from the closest border, so there was no clue there. Duke Garnot's most enduring quarrels were with Duke Ferdain of Marlier away to the south and with Duke Moncan of Sharlac northwards beyond the Great West Road. But Duke Ferdain had concentrated on making all the coin he could out of the river trade down the Rel this past year.
Duke Moncan hadn't set foot outside Sharlac castle since his army's incursion into Carluse the year before last. After that campaign had ended in the bloody battle outside Losand where the Duke of Sharlac's son and heir Jaras had died, Garnot had been content to let the old Jackal lick his wounds in peace.
If only Veblen were still here. Failla clenched her bare toes in the thick wool of the Dalasorian carpet. Duke Garnot had always discussed his plans with his bastard son. Neither ever realised how much she learned, lingering to pick up her music from the harpsichord or gathering up her shoes before she slipped away. It hadn't occurred to them that she might still be listening outside the doors she closed behind her.
Veblen had seen her stripped to chemise and stockings often enough to discreetly desire her. Encouraging his humble hopes with artless charm, Failla had often discovered still more details of Duke Garnot's plans. Besides, she'd been looking ahead to the inevitable day when Garnot discarded her. It would have been no great hardship to let Veblen love her then.
But Veblen had died in the battle before Losand. Tears prickled Failla's eyes. Duke Garnot had told Duchess Tadira he'd got the better of that exchange. A man would sacrifice a swordwing for the sake of moving a marsh hawk nearer to the white raven, all the closer to winning the game. Duchess Tadira agreed that a bastard son was no loss, even one as loyal and able as Veblen. Not compared with the firstborn of the Sharlac ducal blood.
Failla drew a deep breath to curb her threatening tears. Duke Garnot disliked seeing her with reddened eyes. Unless he was the one making her weep, relieving his frustrations with cutting words and cruel lovemaking.
She looked down, smoothing her gossamer shift. If her hips were rounder, ripeness came to all women. Her waist was still slender, her breasts beneath the translucent silk full but not yet sagging. She had put so much effort into making sure of that, made so many sacrifices. But she had barely been out of girlhood when Garnot's gaze had found her. How long before his eye strayed towards some younger harlot?
She'd used to dread that day. Now it couldn't come soon enough. As long as she had hoarded enough gold and silver to get far away from Carluse. Just as long as no one discovered her secret before she had a chance to run.
She resolutely turned her thoughts to more immediate concerns. Could she slip upstairs before the duke woke? Would her cousin Vrist be working in the stable yard, to see the curtain in one of the empty rooms twisted around as if by some careless maid? Could she find time to write down her latest discoveries?
"Failla?" Duke Garnot's deep voice carried clearly through the closed door and the muffling tapestry covering it.
She set down the paper with trembling hands and hurried back.
"My lord?" She smiled, coquettish, expecting him to throw aside the quilt to hitch up his nightshirt and lie back against the pillows. Would he want her to ride his morning readiness or kneel between his feet to take him in her mouth?
Garnot sat up instead, a crease between his heavy brows as he swung his feet to the floor. "Duchess Tadira arrives before noon."
He was clearly none too pleased, but Failla knew better than to agree.
"The town will rejoice to see her."
Garnot grunted. "You're ready to travel, sweetness?"
"Of course." She ducked her head biddably before glancing up through her long lashes. "Though I will miss you."
"I'll miss you, poppet." He laughed, lazily pleased. "Give me a kiss."
Sitting on his knee, she teased his lips with her tongue. As his arm tightened around her waist, his other hand cupped her breast, his thumb teasing her nipple. Faintly on the far side of the castle, the clock struck the second hour of the day.
"It's later than I thought." Duke Garnot stood up, more than a head and a half taller than Failla even in his bare feet. "I want you out of here by mid-morning."
"Of course, my lord--" A knock on the door interrupted Failla's answer.
It was Lenter, the duke's valet. As always, he took no more notice of Failla than he did of the chair by the window. "Your Grace, I'm ready to shave you."
"Do we know when they're arriving?" Duke Garnot left the room. "Will everything be ready?"
"The maids are busy with the final preparations," Lenter assured him.
The closing door and the fall of the tapestry cut off whatever else the valet said. Failla bit her lip. Who was coming? Duchess Tadira had her own wing of the castle, and the servants there who scorned Failla so would have everything arranged as their mistress liked. Duke Gar
not wouldn't concern himself with that.
Failla looked up at the painted ceiling where Halcarion, goddess of love and luck, bathed with her maidens. It was long past time the moon maiden granted her some good fortune. She'd have no chance to slip upstairs to the duke's guest apartments if the maids of all work were already sweeping and dusting and making up the beds with fresh linens. Come to that, if Garnot wanted her gone by mid-morning, she had better hurry back to her own room.
She stepped into her petticoats and tied them loosely at her waist before donning her cloak over her chemise. Anyone who saw her would ignore her just as Lenter had. As soon as Duchess Tadira was expected, Failla became as invisible as a shadow from some children's tale of the Eldritch Kin. That suited her. Slipping bare feet into kidskin shoes, she stuffed her stockings into the silken reticule and folded that inside the bodice that Duke Garnot had so enjoyed unlacing last night.
If she found a chance to write a message, could she slip it to someone she trusted once she was outside the castle gates? That would depend who Horsemaster Corrad chose to escort her.
Leaving the ducal chamber, she ignored the grand central staircase in favour of the servants' stairs. No one could tell Duchess Tadira that the duke's whore didn't know her place. There was no one around to see her crossing the inner ward's lawns and she slipped through a side door into the range of buildings that divided the main castle bailey. Everyone would be hurrying to get everything just right, so they could change into clean livery before the duchess arrived. Saedrin save anyone whom Tadira saw with dust on the black quartering of their surcoat or a dirty smudge on the white.
As she ran up the back stairs to the empty garrets, she could hear the scrape of tables and benches being shifted in the great hall below.
Someone had brought hot water to the washstand in her small room this morning. Failla was surprised into a smile. Tepid now, it still meant she could wash. Whoever had done her that kindness had also left a plate of buttered bread and a glass of milk. She ate and drank and made a rapid but thorough toilette, brushing out her long dark hair before plaiting it into a practical braid. Refreshed, she found a clean chemise of stout linen rather than seductive silk and drew on woollen stockings. Buttoning a cornflower-blue riding dress over thick flannel petticoats, she pulled on black boots.
There was still no sound of anyone else in the attics. She glanced at the hearth. No one had lit a fire, so she would have no way of burning a letter if someone surprised her with it still half-written. But if Duke Garnot was recruiting mercenaries for some summer campaign, she must send a warning to her uncle. Once she was riding with her escort outside the castle, she wouldn't have a chance to exchange more than a few words with anyone. It might be days before she could get a letter safely away from wherever she was being sent.
Before her doubts got the better of her, she opened the drawer of her modest dressing table and took out paper, pen and ink. Hesitating over the cipher that her priestly uncle had drilled into her when she'd last visited the shrine in the town, she blotted the page several times. There was nothing she could do about that. She folded the paper hastily and tucked it inside her bodice. It would be safe there. Duke Garnot would have dismissed her from his thoughts as soon as he'd dismissed her from his presence and no one else would dare lay a finger on their duke's doxy.
Picking up her gloves, she took a heavy cloak from a peg and was about to leave the room when she remembered the reticule. She tucked the beribboned trifle into her cloak's inner pocket. Ignoring the bustle in the great hall, she walked briskly across the cobbled outer ward to the stable yard, where she looked around for Horsemaster Corrad. He wouldn't incur the duchess's wrath if he was seen talking to her. Tadira had no interest in Garnot's prized and pure-bred horses beyond the gold and silver they brought into the ducal coffers.
"You'll be riding Ash, and young Parlin's going with you." Corrad walked out of the harness room. He didn't look pleased. "You're going to Thymir Manor. Go easy, and Parlin is to rest the horses overnight before he comes back. Greater Moon's dark and Lesser Moon's all but gone, so I don't want him riding after sunset."
Failla nodded. "Of course."
As Parlin led out the horses, she stepped onto the mounting block. Once astride, she took her time settling her skirts and petticoats comfortably. No one could wonder at that, if she was going to be in the saddle all day. She looked discreetly around the yard but to her frustration, there was no sign of her young cousin Vrist.
Parlin scrambled gracelessly into his own saddle and Corrad handed him the leading rein of the mule loaded with Failla's leather-bound chests.
"Go easy," he warned Parlin sternly.
Failla gathered up her reins. Corrad wasn't just fussing about his precious horses. Thymir Manor was too far for anyone to visit and return to the castle inside a single day, so she need not worry about Duke Garnot turning up unexpectedly. If he wanted her within easy reach, there were several other closer houses he could have sent her to. Did that mean the duke expected to be spending all his time with these mysterious visitors? Who were they and what did they want?
Her uncle would want to know. He needed to know. She bit her lip as the grey mare's hooves drummed on the wooden bridge spanning the ditch that separated the castle from Carluse Town. Did Duke Garnot suspect that his secrets were slipping through his fingers? Was that why she was being sent so far away?
Or did he just want to be certain that no one else could leave the castle and visit her without a noticeable absence? Could Duchess Tadira have persuaded Duke Garnot that his pampered mistress would just lie back and open her knees to his own son? When he had seen for himself how Failla dealt with the youth's puppyish infatuation?
She had made very sure that Duke Garnot's men had seen her swiftly make her excuses and withdraw when Lord Ricart had contrived an unexpected visit to find her walking in the gardens between the outer walls and the sheer cliff of the crag the castle stood on. When the boy had sent her a handsomely bound book of Tormalin poems, she had taken it straight to Duke Garnot, carefully torn between amusement at such a ridiculous gesture and faint indignation that the callow youth imagined any man could ever usurp the duke's place in her heart.
No, it would be Lord Ricart whom Duke Garnot trusted least. After all, he was the one who had always taught his son that his rank entitled him to take whatever he wanted from those who owed him their fealty, body and breath. Meanwhile, Duchess Tadira would be determined that no shadow of scandal should come anywhere near the youth before she had safely negotiated a marriage to advance Lord Ricart's chances of being crowned High King.
Failla glanced idly from side to side as she let Parlin and the mule go ahead of her. They rode slowly down the long slope of Carluse Town's main street, windows here and there hung with black and white pennants to show their loyalty when Duchess Tadira passed by.
Most of the townsfolk were too busy with their own concerns to look at her. A few men indulged themselves, their expressions as lustful as if she rode clad in nothing more than her own hair. A couple of women leaving the alley that led to Saedrin's shrine spared her a glance of scathing condemnation.
She couldn't see anyone she could trust. Should she stop and tell Parlin she wanted to leave some token nailed to the door of the shrine? Not without everyone pausing to watch and wonder what favour she might be beseeching Saedrin to send her. There'd be more than one who'd carry the tale to the castle, to Duchess Tadira, for the sake of a few coppers.
Even if she did such an unexpected thing, there was scant chance she'd be able to talk to her uncle. Priest or not, he'd be in his house at this hour of the morning, teaching the sons of those merchants who hoped to see a university ring sealing their letters one day. Failla wouldn't dare interrupt him, not least in case someone found him teaching less than absolute loyalty to Duke Garnot. If Uncle Ernout fell under suspicion, what would become of the gold and silver he kept hidden for her among the dusty rows of funeral urns lining the rear of the shrine?<
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Failla rode on, her expression serene, showing none of the frustration twisting her stomach. She felt the letter she'd written crackle beneath her stays. How long would it be before the news that she'd left Carluse Castle reached someone like Master Findrin or Master Mausel? And it would be longer still before they found out where she'd been sent. The blacksmith and the baker were both resourceful men, though. One of them would find an excuse to send someone to her, to discover what she had learned since she'd last communicated with them.
She studied Parlin's back as they rode out through the town gate and onto the high road. He should be long gone from Thymir Manor before anyone she could give the letter to might arrive. Failla smiled as she settled comfortably in her saddle. A night to herself was a treat she intended to savour. It was only a shame Thymir Manor was so far from the farm near Dromin.
But with Duchess Tadira returning to the castle, if Duke Garnot was busy with these mysterious guests, it could be days before he sent someone to reclaim her for his bed. Could she risk the journey? No, she decided, regretful tears momentarily blurring her vision. If she wasn't found at Thymir, she'd be punished. If she was discovered anywhere near Dromin, how could she possibly keep her secret?
She would use the tedium of the journey to go over everything she had read that morning, she decided resolutely, to be quite certain she had every detail fixed in her mind. If she couldn't send that letter safely onwards, she would burn it at the manor. Along with the grease-stained purse.
The road from Carluse towards Thymir wasn't one of the dukedom's better highways, but heavy rain after the Spring Festival had been followed by bright days and strong winds, so the mud had dried to a decent enough footing for their horses. As the morning wore on, Parlin exchanged brief greetings with folk labouring in the fields, glad of an excuse for a moment's pause. Farmwives bustling around their vegetable gardens dismissed him with a curt farewell. The villages were quiet, everyone occupied within doors barring the occasional maid sweeping dust across a threshold, much to the mule's indignation.
Irons in the Fire Page 14
