‘A guest,’ Wyl replied. ‘I am handling some correspondence for the King between realms.’ The lie came quickly.
‘No messenger I know of is accommodated as a guest of Celimus,’ Helyn probed.
‘No messenger you know of is a special courier to Briavel,’ Wyl said evenly, wondering at the audacity of his own invention. He could thank Romen for that.
‘Indeed,’ she said, eyebrows raised, curiosity piqued. ‘Briavel? This can only be about the marriage.’
‘Press me no further, Lady Helyn. I am sworn to secrecy,’ he added theatrically but hoping she might take the hint.
His words achieved the opposite, fuelling her need to discover more. This time her eyes narrowed. ‘You don’t look like a simple courier.’
‘I am not and never will be simple, madam,’ Wyl replied and laughed coquettishly, drawing on the mannerism Faryl had used to such effect at the Forbidden Fruit.
‘I’ll get to the bottom of you yet, Leyen of Rittylworth,’ Helyn said, enjoying the intrigue.
‘Which reminds me, Lady Helyn, what did you mean earlier when you spoke of my home village?’
She looked at him sideways, sober now. ‘Have you family there still?’
‘No,’ he said carefully.
‘You are fortunate then, and little wonder you have not heard that the place was torched.’
Wyl felt his chest constrict. ‘Torched,’ he repeated in a small voice, the sight of naked women suddenly forgotten. ‘By whom?’
‘They say bandits, but I have never heard of bandits who could be bothered torching a village. Ransacking it maybe, but they would not waste the time damaging it. To what end? You burn a village to teach its inhabitants a lesson, in my opinion.’
An attendant squatted by them with a tray of multi-coloured layers. Wyl looked confused.
‘Oh dear, child, wherever have you been hiding yourself? These are soap leaves, my girl. Take a few. Each is scented differently.’
‘Thank you,’ Wyl said, feeling like a dullard. In the men’s pavilion they used soap paste, nothing so dainty as these leaves. In truth, part of his confusion came from shock at the news.
‘I know only the dusty road, Lady Helyn, and am used to washing myself in a tin tub dragged up the inn’s stairs. Forgive me my ignorance. But tell me, what of the monastery at Rittylworth?’
Lady Helyn sighed as she began soaping herself. Wyl looked away, embarrassed, locking instead on to the sight of an attractive pair of breasts on the other side of the pool.
‘Well, that was the worst part of it, Leyen — and why any fool would know this was not the work of bandits. The monks were killed and not mercifully either. Everyone in the monastery was murdered.’
Wyl must have paled because his new friend reached out to steady him. ‘I am so sorry to give you this news. You must have known many there.’
‘Yes… yes, I did. You say everyone was murdered?’
‘Mmm, it’s true. My husband deals with many merchants. One who passes through Rittylworth regularly said he had recognised the body of the senior monk, Brother Jakub. He had been nailed to a cross and burned. Any visitors at the monastery were killed too… dreadful business.’
Lady Bench continued talking but Wyl had stopped listening. The horror was too much for him to bear. Ylena, dead? Her lovely face swam before him but he could not make it smile no matter how hard he tried. His memory of her now was sombre — her laughter had gone from the moment she had witnessed her husband’s death and been committed to sorrow. Perhaps she had welcomed death, he wondered. His entire family was dead now then, including himself in a way.
He agreed with Lady Bench — the killers were no bandits. Only a sadist would do such a thing. A sadist with power. Celimus — who else? But how could the King possibly have known where Romen had taken Ylena? He had covered their tracks too well. Wyl’s whole being fought back the urge to make his way to the King’s rooms immediately and, come what may, kill him.
Then another horrific thought came. Had Elspyth perished too?
‘When did this occur?’ he demanded.
‘Pardon me?’ Lady Bench said, turning back towards Wyl from engaging someone passing by in a polite salutation. ‘Oh… I would guess at about three days ago.’ She waded off with her friend, throwing a wink back to Wyl as though she had latched on to some juicy gossip. ‘Won’t be long,’ she mouthed.
Wyl was relieved she had given him a few moments alone. His mind felt dazed.
If she had travelled quickly, Wyl calculated, then Elspyth would have certainly been at Rittylworth when the attackers came, and there was no hope for either of them. He could only pray to Shar that she had reached Ylena before the massacre and got her away to safety. And then, irrationally, he hoped that Elspyth had ignored his needs, had broken her promise and gone directly to her home. But he knew she would not have done that. Elspyth was steadfast and true; she would have kept her oath to him and walked straight into danger. He had failed both the women he had sworn to protect.
Lady Bench floated back. ‘My dear, you look very pale.’
‘I’m sorry. The news of Rittylworth has upset me.’
‘And I feel badly that I was the messenger of these painful tidings. Come, wash yourself and then you are to return home with me.’
Wyl wanted to be alone with his sorrowful thoughts, but he also did not want to be within Stoneheart.
‘It is spitting distance from the palace,’ she urged. ‘We will share a light meal and you can spend some quiet time in my gardens. It will be better for you than here. I shall leave you in peace if you wish — you can even stay the night.’
‘I am having supper with the King tonight,’ Wyl said distractedly.
‘Shar save us, girl! You are important.’
‘Not really,’ he said, wondering why he had blurted out that information. ‘I have nothing to wear.’
‘Well, I have plenty!’ Helyn said, suddenly galvanised. ‘I shall hear no argument. You are coming with me.’
Without further discussion Wyl found himself dried, dressed and in Lady Helyn’s carriage bound for her home. She was alone right now — her husband away and her only daughter staying with friends — so she was glad of the company.
Wyl had to admit it was good for him to be diverted in this way. His inclination was to jump on a horse and ride for Rittylworth, but his soldier’s mind told him there was little he could do. Whatever had happened would not change because of his arrival; the carnage would not become any less tragic. Besides, he had begun to convince himself that Elspyth had got to the monastery in time and that both women were together and on the run to Felrawthy. Jakub would not have allowed any harm to come to Ylena. At the first hint of trouble he would have hidden her in the secret grotto and hopefully got her to safety.
Lady Bench was right. Wyl did feel better for the solitude, and she was as good as her word and left him alone for a while. Her home was a splendid sandstone affair, its design and furnishings testament to her wealth and excellent taste. The gardens were no less magnificent and Wyl was pleased to spend some time wandering their scented paths, thinking over his current situation and how he might make the best of it. Wyl was not completely taken in by the attention he was receiving from Lady Helyn. He knew she was a pivotal and indeed powerful member of the nobility, and she had sensed the chance to be privy to the secret dealings of the King. She herself had mentioned to Wyl how Pearlis thrived on gossip and hearsay, and she was no different to other women — a bored, wealthy woman was always going to be fascinated by intrigue. Wyl appreciated, however, that Lady Bench was intelligent as well as wise, for she knew when not to push for the information she so desperately craved. When she finally joined him, they talked about every subject under the sun, bar the King’s marriage.
They sat sipping mint tea next to a pond filled with fat flame-coloured fish that occasionally broke through the water’s surface decoration of delicate water lilies. Nearby, an aviary of chittering canaries was a mass of
colour and movement. The garden was a sun trap and they were warm out there, with the help of some soft rugs, which Wyl did not need but politely accepted. ‘Now, Leyen,’ Lady Bench said, ‘we must find you an appropriate gown and cloak for your rendezvous with the King this evening.’
‘Lady Helyn, I hope you won’t take it as rude when I say we are not necessarily of a size. I am taller for a start,’ Wyl said, feeling clumsy. Despite his best efforts he believed he gave offence. No woman alive liked to hear that another was taller, slimmer, prettier… no matter how old they were.
‘And infinitely trimmer too,’ she said, laughing. She placed her glass on the small table beside her. ‘I was thinking of something from my daughter’s wardrobe. Shar knows, I lavish enough of my husband’s fortune on that girl’s back. She won’t even notice them missing, my dear. Only the other day I took delivery from Amos Rilk, Master Tailor of Briavel, of my daughter’s first formal ballgown — worth a small fortune in gold.’
‘You use a tailor from Briavel?’
‘None finer. They say he dresses the Queen.’
‘Then he is privileged indeed,’ Wyl replied, wishing he could dress Briavel’s Queen in Master Rilk’s place. He stifled a sad smile at the thought that he would actually prefer to undress her.
‘Have you met her majesty?’ Helyn enquired innocently.
‘Yes.’
‘And?’
‘She is very…’ He wanted to say easy to love, wonderful to kiss, but he did not ‘…statuesque. Rilk would surely be in raptures hanging his fabrics from her shoulders.’
‘Hmm, I hear she is an extraordinary beauty.’
‘She is. But Valentyna,’ he saw Helyn’s eyes widen in surprise at his casual use of the monarch’s name ‘…er, I mean, the Queen, is not a vain woman from what I can gather. In truth, I have seen her more comfortable in riding breeches than a gown, with her hair falling down around her face rather than exquisitely braided.’
‘You have mingled with her at formal occasions then … as well as less formal ones?’
‘A couple.’
‘As her guest, no doubt,’ Helyn said, unable to hide the irony in her voice.
‘Lady Helyn, forgive me. I have mentioned that much of my work between the monarchs is covert. I am not permitted to discuss it.’
‘I understand. My apologies. I don’t mean to pry but, as you can tell, we Morgravians are all very excited about this marriage.’
‘Are you?’
‘Of course! Aren’t you? We all want peace. Valentyna will bring it by marrying Celimus. Perhaps she may also temper his wayward pursuits. And if you ever repeat that, Leyen, I shall publicly denounce you!’
Wyl laughed in spite of his churning emotions, and made the gesture of locking his lips with a key.
‘I’ve been away on other business so must catch up on the latest news. How far have the plans for the wedding ceremony progressed?’
‘I believe it will happen soon,’ Helyn replied. ‘Certainly the nobility is pressing through its own channels for a wedding by spring’s end.’
‘Spring’s end,’ Wyl murmured. Only weeks in which to save Valentyna.
‘So tonight, no doubt, you will receive another message from Celimus for his beautiful Valentyna?’
‘No doubt.’ Wyl grimaced.
‘He is very clever to use a woman for this role. Who would ever suspect? Now, let us choose something from my daughter’s wardrobe to put him in a good mood.’
This was the last thing Wyl felt like doing. His mind was fraying just thinking about Rittylworth, but Faryl’s essence kept him strong.
Lady Bench led Wyl to a dressing chamber, chatting along the way about the type of woman Celimus usually favoured. Wyl allowed her to ramble.
‘I think olive green is your colour, my dear, with that lovely hair. Which reminds me, have they given you a maid?’
Wyl shook his head.
‘Right, I’ll send over one of my girls, with some flowers to dress your hair. Fresh gardenias from my glasshouse. I hope you don’t find their perfume overwhelming?’
‘No. But your generosity is, Lady Helyn.’
‘Don’t mention it. I want to cheer you after your news, and who knows, I may be responsible for helping you into the King’s bed if we make you look as gorgeous as it’s obvious you can be.’
She winked at her friend as a co-conspirator, then immediately apologised, alarmed by the look of horror on Leyen’s face. ‘Oh, my dear, just a little joke from a silly woman with nothing else to occupy her mind.’
TWELVE
WYL LOOKED AT HIMSELF in the mirror after Lady Helyn’s maid had departed. He hardly recognised this person as the Faryl he had known since he had taken over her grooming. Before him stood a tall, striking woman. Her polished hair was swept up into an intricate design behind her head and interwoven with tiny delicate gardenias. He would require no perfume tonight as the fragrant flowers more than compensated.
Helyn had decided against the olive green in the end and chosen a soft cream gown. It was simplicity itself, draping elegantly from his broad square shoulders, softening the long muscular arms. The maid had carefully smoothed and creamed his lightly browned skin until it too shone and then, to Wyl’s fascination, she had dusted it softly with a gold powder. The effect was to make his skin shimmer as he moved — it was a stunning addition for any woman looking to impress a man. For Wyl it was a wondrous insight into the female arts of allurement.
Helyn had also sent one of her own items of jewellery: a small ruby now hung at his throat like a drop of blood. No other adornment was required after a dab of soft kohl at his eyes to deepen their dark intensity and a smudge of tawny colour on his lips. Wyl despised the taste and the gluey texture, but he knew Leyen looked superb and dared not wipe his mouth clean. The maid had trimmed and buffed his nails until they too shone mirror-like. He was complete.
As he stared at his reflection Wyl hoped that the King would not take an unprofessional liking to what he saw. He was relying on his own knowledge that Celimus had always tended towards flaxen-haired beauties whose fairness made his own swarthiness all the more dramatic. Wyl also knew that the King preferred weaker women, ones he could dominate, which was why he must allow Faryl’s strong personality to shine. Such preferences made Valentyna a poor choice for Celimus — she neither suited his taste for golden-haired women nor did her feisty, regal style lend itself to his domineering manner.
Wyl realised, though, that it was not Valentyna whom Celimus loved but the riches she brought and the peace their union would achieve. The whole region would grow wealthier still, and Celimus’s heir would rule over two great realms. Wyl grimaced at the thought of Celimus siring an heir upon Valentyna. Then it occurred to him that perhaps the King’s ambitious eyes looked even further afield. With peace achieved in the southern realms, the new power could deal with the people of the Razors and their upstart Mountain King.
Spring’s end. The thought nagged repeatedly.
There was a soft knock at the door, which turned out to be Jorn.
‘Too late,’ Wyl said, ‘I’ve already chosen. Do you approve?’ he added.
‘My lady,’ Jorn said, blushing, ‘what could there be to disapprove of?’
‘Well spoken, Jorn. Come in. You’ve been busy, I gather?’
‘Yes, my lady,’ he replied, stepping carefully into the chamber and leaving the door ajar.
‘Close it, would you,’ Wyl said.
The lad did so, clearly uncomfortable.
‘Jorn, let me put your mind at rest. We have a mutual acquaintance.’ This won the lad’s attention. ‘I am a friend of Romen Koreldy.’
The young man’s eyes lit up. Wyl was pleased Romen had made a good impression.
‘I am honoured, then, to know you. He is someone I admire.’
Guilt raged through Wyl. The truth would not work here, however. ‘Tell me, how are you getting on?’
‘Did he ask you to enquire after me?’ Jorn said, his eag
erness heartbreaking.
‘Yes, in a way.’
‘And the Lady Ylena? Tell me she is well, Madam Leyen.’
‘In truth I have not seen Ylena in a long time. I —’
Jorn cut across his words. ‘Because I have worried myself sick over the recent news that Rittylworth has been ransacked, knowing she had gone there.’
Wyl felt a twist in the pit of his stomach as the missing piece of the jigsaw slotted into place. It was Jorn who had told them; innocent, eager Jorn who had unwittingly led Celimus to Ylena like a cat to cream. He felt sick at the thought of kind and wise Brother Jakub, the young lad Pil, all those monks murdered so cruelly in the pursuit of the Thirsk line. A vision of Ylena lying broken and dead hit his thoughts like a clap of thunder. No, she is alive, he told himself.
He took a steadying breath, working hard not to betray his fear. He could not blame the boy. ‘Jorn, did you know specifically where Koreldy was headed when he left Stoneheart?’
‘Not really, madam. He mentioned something about the northwest and possibly Rittylworth, but he wasn’t sure at that time as I recall.’
Wyl remembered wanting to bite out his own tongue when that slip had occurred. It was a pity the lad had such a good memory. ‘And did you mention this to anyone?’ he asked casually, busying himself fussing with his hair so as not to arouse suspicion in Jorn.
‘I… um… I might have, yes. I think Chancellor Jessom was making some enquiries.’
‘Ah, yes. I know Jessom,’ Wyl said in a tight tone.
‘Is everything all right?’
‘Of course,’ Wyl reassured, forcing himself to keep his voice even. ‘In fact I promised Koreldy that I would visit the Lady Ylena the next time I passed through this region.’
‘She is not at Argorn, then?’ Jorn asked sadly.
Wyl recalled how Ylena had promised the page that she would send for him once she returned to her family home. He shook his head. ‘I can’t be sure, Jorn.’ Anything to keep the truth from getting out.
‘Oh.’ The lad looked deflated, then his eyes lit again. ‘You might care to try the Duchy of Felrawthy then, madam. My lady married into the Donal family and she might well be visiting them in the far north.’
The Quickening Page 68
