The Quickening

by Fiona McIntosh

  ‘I was cornered into agreeing to take a dawn ride with him today.’

  He did stop the stroking now and he sat up, wincing at the pain the sudden movement brought to his healing ribs. ‘This was not the plan.’

  She hurried on. ‘There was no way out. I had to agree or risk offence and you had cautioned me to be friendly … flirtatious, you even said.’

  Wyl ran his hands through his hair repeatedly as he considered this new twist. It was not her fault and he told her as much, although she could sense his despair.

  ‘I’ll keep it short and we’ll have an escort — I shall see to that. Perhaps I can steer the conversation to neutral territory.’

  She hated that he smirked at her last remark. ‘It’s no good, Valentyna. He will ask the question this morning. He wants time alone with you, without his courtiers and advisors about him, and now he has achieved it. Never, ever underestimate him — it will be your undoing.’

  She nodded, not knowing what else to say or do. Valentyna sat up and leaned against his broad warm body.

  ‘I wish you had taken my virginity last night, Romen. Then we could just tell the truth and be done.’

  He smiled as one would to a child. ‘Things are so black and white for you, aren’t they? It would not be over for him. It would be just the beginning of the horror, not the end. Admitting such a betrayal would mean choosing war for your realm. He would put the full might of the Morgravian Legion towards destroying you and right now he would achieve it. No, you are the reigning monarch of the realm he covets and as pure as this King would want you. You are perfect in his eyes, especially now that he has seen you. No one in the Great Hall last night could mistake what he was thinking. He wishes to own you. That’s why I stopped, Valentyna. I want you so much and yet I cannot have you like that. I must love you from afar.’

  ‘Not for ever, though. Say it isn’t so.’

  ‘I can’t. We are walking along a cliff edge right now and the only thing that matters is your safety and your realm remaining intact. Our love is secondary to that. You know this. You know your father would expect you to think of Briavel.’

  ‘Then he would encourage me to marry Celimus.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Wyl admitted. ‘But knowing what you do of him now, perhaps not. Anyway, we must worry about this morning. You’d better get yourself readied whilst I think.’

  ‘Perhaps I could say I am unwell?’

  ‘No. You must attend. And I must come up with an idea which prevents you having to say yes to his inevitable proposal of marriage.’

  THIRTY-NINE

  HE WAS FLATTERED BY her genuine admiration of the stallion he rode this morning. It was a thoroughbred from the most famous of studs in Grenadyn, a country renowned for horse-breeding.

  ‘He’s even more beautiful close up,’ she said, unable to stop touching the magnificent beast whose flesh twitched and shivered, eager to be moving again. ‘How old is he?’

  ‘Two years,’ Celimus said, in turn marvelling at how much more desirable this woman looked in her plain riding garb. She had taken his breath away last night but this morning she was even more alluring. ‘You don’t suffer from vanity, do you, Valentyna?’ he commented.

  She glanced towards the four men who escorted them; they stood too far away to hear this conversation. The King had wasted no time becoming intimate.

  ‘I have no time for it.’

  ‘It is most unusual. I don’t believe I know another woman who cares less about her appearance.’

  ‘Is that a compliment, my lord?’ She laughed, hoping to make light of the topic.

  ‘Of the highest sort, truly,’ he assured and there was no condescension in his tone this time. ‘The women at the court of Morgravia fuss and fiddle with their hair, they talk earnestly about silks and colours, their only conversation centres around newest acquisitions or how they look and whom they might marry or marry their kin to. They bore me. But you … you would rather talk about horses than gossip with other women, I sense.’

  She wanted to accuse him of being hypocritical. He possessed enough vanity for her entire court. Instead she explained why she lacked conceit in her appearance. ‘It’s true. I have no interest in clothes or colouring my face, my lord. I wear fine garments only when occasion demands it, such as last eve. Otherwise I am happiest in what you see and even happier sitting on my horse … shall we?’ she said, eager to move on; she did not want to pursue this particular conversation.

  ‘Perhaps when one is as young, intelligent and handsome as you, Valentyna, it is easy to ignore the tendency towards narcissism.’ She smiled at his words but it put a chill through her when he added. ‘You will be refreshing when you are my Queen at court in Morgravia.’

  Valentyna did not reply, pretending she had not heard his final comment as she busied herself remounting her horse and settling herself in the saddle. ‘Come,’ she said, ‘we can take a canter along the line of the orchards — I believe I promised you would see them.’

  Celimus smiled to himself at her evasiveness. The more distance Valentyna tried to put between them, the more fascinated he became with her. She was such a surprise. He had anticipated so much less. His only thought until yesterday was to possess her realm. Now he wanted to possess her as well. He let her go ahead, enjoying watching her ride. She held her seat well and rode her beast strongly, like a man, and yet she was very in tune with the animal. From this vantage he could also admire her neat behind, which he was very sure now he was going to enjoy soon enough.

  The sudden thought of feeling himself against, between, within her, aroused him instantly and he had to shake his head free of the notion of taking her here and now — throwing her down and ripping off those riding breeches, pushing in from behind. He took a deep breath and kicked his horse into a gallop. She laughed indulgently at his challenge.

  ‘Apparently, you can ride the pants off me, your majesty?’ he called and she saw the arch of his eyebrows, heard the challenge in his voice.

  This particular soft-natured horse she was riding was no match for the proud stallion but she gave friendly chase all the same, ensuring her escort kept in close range.

  Their time was almost up. It was nearing third bell — mid morning — and when Valentyna felt she need not linger any further she politely suggested they return to the palace so she could prepare for the tourney. She felt she had adeptly avoided all potential for intimacy, often deliberately straying towards the escort and querying her men as though she did not know how to respond to some of the King’s questions. This brought the others into the conversation and kept her safe.

  She knew Celimus understood what she was doing but she did not care. Right now Valentyna clung to her memories of the previous night, embracing Romen, feeling his bare skin against herself and his mouth on hers, his hands roaming her body … it was what helped her get through these past hours. The thought of holding him again tonight drove her on to get through what she knew would be a trying day.

  A serious error in judgement snapped her mind back to reality. Valentyna had strolled from the party to pick some apples for the horses and when she turned back at the sound of the King’s voice she realised they were alone.

  ‘I’ve told the escort to walk the horses over to there,’ he said, pointing, ‘that we would join them in a couple of minutes for the ride back.’

  She prayed the fright did not show on her face. She turned to pick another apple. ‘Thank you. I’ll just get this last one. I’m sure your horse will appreciate the ripest.’

  ‘I’m sure he would,’ Celimus agreed, stepping closer — too close she felt. ‘As I do too,’ he said.

  Valentyna tensed. She knew exactly what he meant in that clever retort but she made a lame attempt at deflecting his innuendo. ‘Oh, well you’re welcome to have it. I’m sorry, I didn’t think to offer,’ she said, holding out the apple.

  ‘I meant you,’ he admitted, direct now. ‘You are ripe for the picking, Valentyna, and I want no one else to taste you f
irst,’ he said slowly, firmly, so she could not mistake his intent this time. ‘You know why I am here and I am glad I came. I have seen for myself what a perfect Queen you will make beside me, presiding over Morgravia and Briavel.’

  ‘My lord, perhaps we should discuss this —’

  ‘Right now, I prefer. Just us. I want you to be my Queen. Will you marry me, Valentyna?’

  He was shocked when she laughed. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I will marry you, Celimus, but you must win me first,’ she added in a gently mocking voice. She had no idea whether she could pull this off but Romen had counselled her on how and when to spring this last trap if it was needed.

  ‘Win you?’ Celimus said, his surprise evident in his tone.

  ‘Yes, my lord.’ Her voice was crisp and confident and she was grateful for it in this dangerous charade she had put into play. ‘I don’t know how it’s done in Morgravia but in Briavel our men must earn the right to their chosen woman.’

  ‘Is that so?’ he said, more playfully now, entering into the spirit of her suddenly flirtatious manner.

  ‘It is.’ She gathered the apples into a linen and tied them. ‘At this afternoon’s tourney, you will fight for me,’ she said loftily and then giggled, deliberately stumbling and falling against him so her breast, seemingly accidentally, touched his arm. She hated the sensation.

  Another thrill of desire passed through him. ‘I shall fight for your hand, my lady,’ he said, playing along. ‘Who must I duel with?’

  ‘The people will love it!’ She laughed again. ‘You will cross swords with the Queen’s Champion.’

  ‘Who is?’

  She arched her eyebrows, faking high mystery. ‘Ah, a stranger in black who never shows his face,’ she said, full of intrigue.

  Celimus smirked, only just realising she had walked them back to where the group was now standing. ‘And if I vanquish your Champion, your hand is mine … is this right?’

  Valentyna swallowed. Dangerous now. ‘Yes, sire.’

  ‘Bring him on,’ Celimus replied sweeping his hand through the air.

  Watching his confident flourish, Valentyna wished Romen had never suggested this ploy. It was not a game to be playing with this man. She could see as much in the dark and greedy gaze of Celimus.

  Wyl felt it was the royal tournament all over again. Despite the lack of grandeur, so evident in Morgravia, this homespun version in the King’s honour prompted a similar sense of destiny within him. He felt distracted and nervous about facing Celimus again — not because he was afraid of him. No, he was more afraid at what he himself might do in the heat of the moment, especially as Valentyna had now laid down very firm rules about this contest between the King and the Queen’s Champion.

  ‘Romen, whatever our personal grudges are against this man such feelings must not come in the way of what we are trying to achieve here.’ He said nothing and she did not appreciate the grim set of that mouth she loved so much. ‘Let us be very clear,’ she continued, ‘we are aiming to send him on his way to buy us time. That’s what you said.’

  Again, no response as he inspected his sword. They were in a little-used outbuilding and she was circling him, half frightened, half angry with him. Fynch, trapped between them both, held on to Knave and watched carefully. He too was worried. He did not like the turn of events. Together with Romen they had been hiding in the stone outbuilding, close to the tourney field, since daybreak and the tension had gradually mounted until the Queen had returned from her ride and told them what had unfolded. If Romen had been relatively incommunicative all morning, he now plummeted into a frigid silence.

  His expression had grown dark and distant, his normally glittering grey eyes looked depthless. All humour had vanished from a countenance which usually oozed it.

  Valentyna accepted that Romen was disturbed, distressed, demented even at how things had turned out. She too hated that Celimus had contrived to speak with her unattended but they had foreseen this, had plotted for it, and although the plan bordered on childish in its simplicity, there was certainly nothing childish about the grave set of Romen’s features. Something sinister was lurking. What did he have in mind?

  ‘Romen!’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, finally responding but not looking at her.

  ‘I want your promise here and now.’

  ‘What am I to promise, my Queen?’

  She kept walking around him, not sure if she was deliberately trying to annoy him. Trying to get him to look at her, shout at her, do something other than calmly tend to his sword. Although calm is really not the word, is it? she thought. He is going somewhere I cannot reach. He is deliberately making himself remote from me.

  ‘First, you will not do anything stupid like die out there today. Give me your promise.’

  ‘I cannot promise that, your majesty.’

  ‘Yes you can!’ she snapped, her voice cracking with the effort. ‘For I will order no killing.’

  Fynch was trembling but Knave leaned his considerable and steadying weight against the boy.

  ‘Then I promise not to die today,’ Wyl said softly.

  ‘Why don’t I believe you?’

  He looked up at her with such grief in his eyes that she had to turn away.

  ‘What else must I promise, your majesty?’

  She composed herself and adopted her regal voice now, commanding: ‘I order that you will not so much as draw blood from the King during this contest. Humiliate all you wish, Romen, but no Morgravian blood will be spilled on Briavel’s soil.’ He stared at her and her resolve hardened. ‘Do you understand?’ she enunciated.

  ‘I understand and I give you my promise.’

  Again she felt a flicker of disbelief. He was lying. She was sure of it. ‘Then I shall see you on the field.’

  He stood, bowed and turned away but she stepped towards him and not caring that Fynch was present, she put her arms around Romen’s neck and kissed him softly on his pursed mouth.

  ‘Just a few hours, my love, and he’ll be gone.’

  The look in his eyes did not suggest he believed her. Romen untwined himself from the Queen of Briavel and bowed once again before she departed.

  FORTY

  LIRYK WAS IMPRESSED BY how many Briavellians had made the journey into Werryl to witness the tourney and to lay eyes on this handsome King who pursued their Queen. The excited presence provided an instantly festive atmosphere long lacking since the passing of King Valor. This would do the realm a whole lot of good, he decided, happy that his security around the Queen and her royal guest was impenetrable. Every attendee had been searched, including all Legionnaires. None minded, good-naturedly submitting to the security measures.

  The afternoon had so far provided plenty of entertainment. Valentyna had suggested some highly amusing contests, not usually found in tourneys, including the ‘greased log warriors’ which pitched Briavellian Guards against Morgravian Legionnaires and yielded much hysteria as soldier after soldier was dumped unceremoniously into the palace moat as they slid off the rolling oiled logs.

  Mayor Belten had agreed to sit on a precarious bench — part of a cunning contraption put together by a team of carpenters hired by the palace — overhanging the same water. For some coppers, contestants could throw wooden balls from a distance and try to hit the exact spot — a secret — which would release a catch and drop the hapless mayor into the water. All proceeds would be distributed as alms to the poor and a sizeable amount was collected before Mayor Belten found himself drenched.

  Laughter, cheers and fun was on the menu alongside sizzling meat on trenchers and some of the best southern ale Briavel produced. King Celimus was very much the centre of the attention and the Briavellians, despite long memories, seemed determined to give this monarch a chance to impress them, to woo their Queen and win them all the peace and harmony they so desperately desired.

  Valentyna had found her easy smile again and insisted on taking some turns at the special horse races. Neither Liryk nor Krell could persuade h
er otherwise and Briavellians went wild with cheers when they saw their Queen appear in riding garb, lining up amongst blushing soldiers to compete.

  ‘She has it all, you know,’ Liryk whispered to a sombre Krell.

  ‘Indeed, my friend. Our Queen is all and much more. She has the touch of silk beneath which is a bedrock of steel. She’s better than a man for she can wield her womanly wiles … far more potent.’

  The old soldier nodded thoughtfully.

  They watched, holding their breath, as their monarch leaned down precariously from her mount to grab the colours of Briavel in every contest she raced in. This, of course, won uproarious applause from her people, particularly as she gladly raced against soldiers from the Morgravian Legion. The King declined to enter this particular competition, acknowledging that the Queen was a far more accomplished competitor than he. More appreciation from the people of Briavel for his gallantry.

  ‘She’s magnificent,’ Celimus breathed to Jessom standing close. ‘I will make her mine,’ he added as he smiled and waved for the cheering crowd.

  Celimus did, however, display his skills in archery, wrestling and jousting, amongst a myriad of other contests in which he outwitted and outskilled every one of his opponents. He took his applause and Jessom smiled benevolently on. Things seemed to be progressing perfectly, the King’s Counsel believed. Celimus would be in excellent spirits at having won so many ribbons, each presented by the Queen. And on each occasion he had pressed his lips to her hand.

  The master of the ceremony finally took to the stage and called for hush. It took quite a while to silence the happy, ebullient crowd. Not everyone could hear him but those closest gladly passed on the gist of what he was saying in hurried whispers.

  ‘Good folk of Briavel,’ he began, ‘let us give thanks that our own realm and Morgravia have, at last, come together to do mock battle in festivity and not the real stuff of war.’ He paused whilst a loud and heartfelt cheer erupted from the audience. ‘We welcome our friends — and I don’t use that word lightly — from Morgravia who come in peace amongst us and we especially venerate today Morgravia’s sovereign who pays us a great honour by making this journey into our realm.’ He waited again until the appreciation had died down. ‘I think it goes without saying that the illustrious King Celimus has more than winning mere ribbons in mind for this visit.’ People chuckled knowingly. ‘And I think we all wish him only success in his bid to win the hand of our own precious Queen Valentyna. Let peace and prosperity reign through both realms.’