The Quickening

by Fiona McIntosh

‘I do. I’ve decided it’s the one good thing which might come out of this hateful marriage. Celimus won’t have my love but he can have my body. He will give me something far more precious than he takes.’

  Wyl grimaced as the fresh ache from his side joined with the pain of the picture in his mind of Celimus in bed with Valentyna, siring a child upon her.

  Valentyna filled the difficult pause. ‘I came here to apologise for my heavy-handed tactics earlier. Even as a little princess I bossed everyone around,’ she said, trying to lighten the mood swirling about them. ‘I know I cannot permit or deny you anything, Ylena. I just don’t want you to forfeit your life in order to save me from Celimus.’

  ‘I don’t think I can save you from the marriage, but I can give you more time to get used to the idea,’ Wyl said, the resignation in his comment agonising in its truthfulness.

  ‘But you can’t guarantee that you will escape.’

  ‘There are no guarantees in life, your highness. I have lost too much in too short a time to care any more.’

  ‘But I don’t want to lose you as well,’ the Queen said, her tone just short of begging.

  ‘You won’t.’

  ‘What exactly is your plan?’ Valentyna said. ‘No, wait, let’s have some warmed milk sent up and we might lace it with some liquor to help you sleep and forget your pains.’

  Wyl nodded. Valentyna looked outside and called to Stewyt who had been positioned for the night outside the door and sent him on his errand.

  ‘So, now tell me everything,’ she said, curling up next to Ylena on the deep sofa near the fire.

  She was unbearably close but Wyl would have sooner slashed his own throat than ask her to sit apart from him. If this was all he could have, it would have to be enough.

  ‘I shall go to Felrawthy, present myself before King Celimus — ensuring that King Cailech is in attendance — and beg Morgravia’s indulgence.’

  ‘But what is your aim? I can’t see the point if I have to marry him anyway.’

  ‘Well, amongst other things, to get the Legionnaires redeployed from Briavel’s border. Their presence is making your people very nervous and rightly so.’

  ‘But you said it was only a ploy.’

  ‘I am assuming that, your highness. I can’t truly speak for Celimus’s unpredictable whims. I would rather make sure of it by seeing the physical movement of the Legion.’

  ‘And you think he’ll do it?’ the Queen asked, amazed.

  ‘Yes. I’ll tell him that you are nervous, that you feel inhibited and threatened — which is, of course, his intention — but I’ll play you as the innocent. I’ll assure him that your personal preparations are well advanced and I’ll give him a token of your loyalty to him and the truth of your claims.’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘Me.’

  ‘So he can kill you!’ Valentyna exclaimed, exasperated again.

  ‘He won’t do that in front of Cailech, your highness. But he will be appeased. He will realise that for you to relinquish me, you have been duly intimidated. The plan is perfect in its simplicity. My presence will confirm not only how committed you are to peace and the marriage, but also that you appear scared of him. So scared that you have gladly turned over his enemy who had run to you for protection.’

  ‘And how does that save you, Ylena?’

  ‘It doesn’t, but please, your majesty, let me worry about saving myself. I have a few tricks of my own.’

  ‘Oh, you’re so frustrating!’ Valentyna replied. ‘You sound like Wyl and Romen rolled into one.’ Then she stopped, shocked at what she had said without thinking.

  ‘Do I? How odd,’ Wyl replied.

  They stared at each other, the candlelight and flames from the fire combining in a soft glow across their beautiful faces. They were so close, Wyl realised. Too near. Close enough to kiss. A madness came over him and smothered his judgement. It was the move of a lunatic and he knew it, but still he leaned across the few inches separating his mouth from the Queen’s and placed Ylena’s lips to Valentyna’s.

  The Queen reacted as if burned by a spitting coal from the fireplace. She leapt to her feet, wiping frantically at her mouth. ‘Ylena!’ she spluttered, shock and anger combined on her face. It was hideous for Wyl to watch.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ was all he could say. ‘I beg your forgiveness, your highness.’

  The Queen appeared uncertain whether to flee or to slap the woman before her. Then she gathered her wits. ‘No,’ she said, holding up a hand. ‘I must have been giving off all the wrong signals. Forgive me, Ylena, I should not have come to your chamber tonight. All this talk of babies and changing into men…’ She laughed awkwardly and then that awful expression of disgust crossed her face again.

  Wyl stood, feeling sorry for both of them. ‘The apology is all mine, Valentyna. I really don’t know what came over me. I’ve been through a lot these few weeks and the emotions have got me all confused,’ he offered. It sounded lame even to his own ears but he pressed on, desperate to fill the vile and difficult silence that would surely prevail if he did not keep talking and backing her towards the door. ‘It’s been a very long two days for me, without much sleep, and I shall put it down to the raspberry leaf tea clouding my judgement, your highness.’

  ‘Yes,’ Valentyna stammered, none of her mortification dissipating. ‘I’ve heard it can make one hallucinate.’

  ‘You don’t even look the tiniest bit like Alyd,’ Wyl said, hating himself for the weak jest at the expense of his beloved sister and friend.

  There was a knock at the door and the Queen started, her hands wringing each other. ‘That will be the milk,’ she said and Wyl heard the slightly hysterical note in her voice. He lowered his head, ashamed of himself as never before. ‘I’ll leave you, Ylena,’ Valentyna managed with some grace.

  ‘No, I shall leave you, your highness,’ Wyl said cryptically, and bent to kiss her hand. He could feel her fingers pulling away with revulsion at the touch of his lips and could have wept at his own lack of control and stupidity of moments earlier. He would never forgive himself and she certainly would not.

  The Queen, flushed and agitated, pulled open the door and pushed past the same serving maid who had helped Wyl earlier.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said wearily to the girl as she placed the milk on a small side table. ‘Can you ask the page to bring me some parchment and then to deliver some letters, please?’

  There was nothing to pack, and nothing other than his memories to keep him here a minute longer. He lifted the letters from the desk and blew out the flickering candle, leaving behind the debris of his hurried toil — sealing wax, broken nibs, ink blotches, as well as various letters begun and screwed up on the floor where he had tossed them in frustration. He bent now to pick them up and threw them into the embers of the fire he had not bothered to tend. The paper sputtered and curled before catching and burning quickly in a brief eruption of flames. He watched until his difficult, awkward words of explanation to the woman he loved were nothing but blackened flakes — just like the fragile relationship he had clung to and now ruined.

  He cast a glance at the letter in his hand. After several attempts he had finally settled on being Wyl and the words were brief and to the point. There was nothing of Romen’s charm, Faryl’s cunning or Ylena’s courtesies, merely a simple apology for his unforgivable behaviour and a reiteration that he was making for Felrawthy. No honeyed farewell, no promise of return, no attempt at reconciling their awkward parting. He would be gone from her life once and for all. Wyl had taken care to wish her well for her upcoming marriage and had encouraged her to be brave and stoic in what she faced. To never forget who she was and to remember her promise to bring forth a babe who would rule both realms with care and affection. Wyl knew he was writing the truth of his thoughts. He could not save her this trial or the destiny of an unhappy life with Celimus, but he could let her know that he had listened to her soft words and wished her the joy of loving a child. He suspected that
part of the letter might make her cry, but for the rest he knew she would read it with only relief and gratitude that he had gone. ‘So be it,’ he muttered to himself as he strode across the room to the door.

  Stewyt was sitting outside. He was not caught napping and did not even appear tired. No need to rub the sleep from those alert eyes, Wyl thought.

  ‘Thank you, Stewyt, for waiting up,’ he said.

  ‘A pleasure, my lady. I am here to serve,’ the page said, sounding mature way beyond his years. ‘May I take those for you?’

  ‘Please,’ Wyl said.

  ‘I will personally deliver them immediately, my lady.’

  ‘No, Stewyt, I would prefer if you would arrange their delivery in the early hours of the morning. I don’t wish either recipient disturbed this night and there is nothing of such import that it cannot wait until tomorrow.’

  Stewyt nodded, then he hesitated, and Wyl saw him take in the change of clothes from gown to breeches. ‘Is there anything else I can do for you tonight, my lady? Perhaps I could send up some refreshment, have the fire stoked?’

  Wyl cut him off with a gently raised hand. ‘Nothing, thank you,’ he said, forcing a smile. He had no intention of letting the curious page know of his movements. ‘I am very tired and sleep calls.’

  ‘I shall see you’re not disturbed again then, my lady. Good night and sleep well.’ Stewyt gave a solemn bow and moved swiftly off into the shadows of the corridor to organise the despatch of the letters to their various destinations for delivery in a few hours.

  Wyl waited for what felt an interminable time, but he needed to be sure the inquisitive page did not see his departure. Eventually, he tiptoed from his chamber and made his way quietly down the various flights of stairs. At one landing he noticed a portrait of Valentyna he did not recall having seen before. In the low light of the sconces, the tall figure seemed to be pulling away from the wall, advancing on him. Her expression struck him as accusatory, the faint smile mocking him. If only she knew the truth, he thought, and regretted bitterly that he could not share it with her. He extended his hand towards the painting, wished he could reach high enough to touch her on the lips but only succeeded in touching her chest. It would do.

  ‘Farewell, my love,’ he whispered and then he was sprinting down the final flight of stairs and running towards a doorway he remembered from his time there as Romen. It took him through the scullery, where he saw one sleeping attendant who should have been stirring the porridge that simmered continually through the night. The young girl looked exhausted; her lips were parted and a light snore punctuated the silence as she slumped on the table. Wyl smiled. Oh, for a simple life with only a dressing-down from cook in the morning to worry about.

  He slipped out of the door into one of the many vegetable gardens, disturbing two cats gnawing on a struggling rat. One took off, the dying creature still in its jaws. The other shrieked at its loss of the night’s feast. Wyl ignored them, looked around to get his bearings, and made for the stables and his journey north.

  TWELVE

  VALENTYNA BROKE HER FAST early and privately on the balcony of her bedchamber. She had moved rooms not so long ago. At first, after learning of his murder, she had wanted to cling to the memory of Romen and remember every word, every smile, every touch they had shared together, so briefly, in her bedroom. These days, however, with an impending marriage she feared and the only man whom she had ever loved, save her father, now dead, she had decided she must bury those memories and put aside anything that prompted their return. Hence the move into the new quarters. Her new room had been her mother’s and it was fitting, Valentyna realised, that she should move into this chamber now with its soft colours and beautiful tapestries and rugs. It was from her mother that she had inherited her taste for simple, fine things. As did her mother before her, Valentyna far preferred a single exquisite rose to a roomful of garish, expensive ornaments. This chamber and its accompanying suite of rooms used natural light and space to achieve what Valentyna now realised was a place of calm. And calm was what she needed right now. She was still deeply upset from the previous night’s events and, although not hungry after her fitful sleep and fretful awakening, she had adhered to her father’s long-held advice that bad news and bad moods are best coped with on a full belly. Nevertheless, she had ordered only the lightest of meals, consisting of a small sugared roll, a single lightly boiled egg, a sliced pear and a pot of dark, strong tea.

  She had left the letter from Ylena unopened by the side of her tray until she had picked over the fruit and egg, neither of which she tasted, and had downed her first cup of tea. Valentyna suspected the letter would contain an outpouring of beautifully crafted yet cringing apologies and hated the thought of reading them, let alone facing the woman who had so misread her affections. She was sure her face still burned from the combined horror and embarrassment of Ylena’s error, although Valentyna was uncertain whether this intense discomfort was for herself or on behalf of Wyl’s sister. Both probably, she thought glumly.

  She poured a second cup of tea, this time with a slice of lemon instead of sweetening honey, and waited until she had sipped from its steaming contents before breaking the seal on the letter. It was a sharp surprise to discover that it was not even close to what she had imagined. A brief and succinct apology for what Ylena called her unforgivable behaviour was followed by an equally concise confirmation that she was already on her way to Felrawthy. She specifically asked not to be followed, and added that no one would be able to track her anyway. Valentyna, angry that Ylena had slipped away in the night, could not guess at what that comment meant, for her soldiers would be easily able to track down a noblewoman on horseback. Ylena urged the Queen to write immediately to Celimus with news that she was sending Wyl Thirsk’s sister as a token of her loyalty to the King of Morgravia.

  The second half of the single sheet was softer in its intentions if not in its words, and reminded Valentyna of things her father might say. Unlike her father, though, the words felt as though they were written by someone not used to being openly affectionate and yet who cared deeply for her wellbeing. Frankly, Valentyna thought, drumming her fingers on her seat, Ylena just did not know her well enough to write with such tender, albeit awkward familiarity.

  Tears stung her eyes and she snatched them away. She had not intended to cry but weep she did, hating herself for these last days of such hysterical behaviour. From Wyl’s description of his sister all that time ago, she had expected Ylena Thirsk to be a gentle, fragile sort of character. Despite hearing how she had overcome such enormous trauma, Valentyna had still been stunned by the confident and direct woman who had presented herself at the court of Briavel.

  She put down the letter, picked up her cup and let the steam from the tea warm her face which felt chill from sitting outside on this still brisk spring morning. It struck Valentyna that Ylena had behaved in a fairly masculine fashion throughout her short time at Werryl. This had occurred to her well before the kiss, even before the supper; it had begun to resonate in Valentyna’s perceptive mind as early as their stroll together in the gardens. Ylena showed all the poise and upbringing of a noblewoman but she appeared to think like a man, even acted like a man at times. Valentyna prided herself on being an adept judge of character, but Ylena’s disposition was not easy to explain yet niggly enough to notice — at least so it seemed to the Queen. At first she had thought she was imagining it, but during supper Ylena had taken over the conversation and led the discussion on Celimus and Cailech as though they were sitting in a war room. She had heard her father conversing with his soldiers for too many years not to recognise the similarity of the situation, but most young noblewomen would feel uncomfortable talking of such matters let alone taking charge of them.

  That aside, she wondered about Ylena’s uncanny habit of pacing while she was thinking? That had rocked Valentyna only marginally less than the wretched kiss. The likeness to Romen was too painful to bear. Valentyna remembered how she had had to look aw
ay and how shallow her breathing had become watching Ylena. And then the worst part — that terrible incident in Ylena’s chamber. Valentyna blamed herself for its occurrence. Ylena had lost so much — both parents, her brother, her new husband, the family friend, Gueryn le Gant, whom she was so close to. Then she had learned of the tragedy at Felrawthy. The emotions had all boiled over, presumably, and she had sought affection from someone who seemed to be offering it. Valentyna made an involuntary sound of disgust remembering the kiss. And yet the explanation sounded too neat and tidy, as though she were contriving every excuse to explain the curiosity that was Ylena Thirsk.

  Far more likely, the practical voice in Valentyna’s head suggested, the girl had a liking for women. But even that did not make sense, the Queen silently argued. A woman who wanted to lie with other women surely did not have a male childhood sweetheart, or marry that person as soon as they were both old enough. When Wyl Thirsk told herself and Valor about the death of Alyd that night at supper, he had also described the great love between Alyd and his Ylena.

  She closed her eyes with frustration. And then the nagging thought, which had called from the edges of her mind almost since Ylena’s arrival, filtered to the surface of her consciousness and set a new and chilling problem before her. Ylena’s handkerchief — the one she had handed Valentyna when she had wept in the garden. It struck her now with the force of a blow. It was the same linen that she herself had given to Romen! How could Ylena possibly own it?

  This revelation caught the Queen so off guard she put the cup down, stood and leaned against the balcony railing. Was she imagining things? No! It was her own handkerchief. She had even mentioned it to Elspyth at Aleda’s funeral. Elspyth had been weeping for Aleda and Valentyna had put an arm around her petite companion and handed her a beautiful square of embroidered linen. She closed her eyes to remember the words she had shared with her friend: I gave Romen an identical kerchief, she had whispered. You keep this. Now both my best friends own one.