TheKingsViper

by Janine Ashbless

  “Then what do we do?”

  “We go a day or so upriver, to where it flows faster and the access is steep. And we swim it. You can swim, can’t you?”

  “I’m a daughter of Venn,” she said with a tired laugh. “Of course I can.”

  “Good. Well, with luck we won’t be drowned or broken on the rocks or shot by a patrol—and we will be home.”

  Eloise rolled her eyes and ran her fingers through her hair. “And you make it sound so easy!”

  “Nothing’s easy. But we have a chance now.”

  She sagged a little.

  “Tonight though,” Severin added, eyeing her, “we will stay in an inn. There’s no casual fieldwork round here anyway, so close to the city. Tonight…hot food and clean sheets. A private room. And we’ll pay for someone to launder your clothes. Would you like that?”

  It was Eloise’s turn to shake her head. “We haven’t got any money.”

  “We’ve got the farmer’s money. He wasn’t entirely lying about being on his way to market.”

  “Oh.”

  “For one night. To strengthen us for the crossing. And what lies beyond.”

  It was odd, she thought, that it almost sounded as if he were being sentimental. She searched his face and saw the skin around his eyes crinkle in the tiniest and most wary of smiles. It was his attempt at conciliation, she realized.

  “You don’t have to take me back,” she blurted, the words spilling out. “You don’t have to, you know. You could just choose to go live somewhere else, and everyone would believe we were dead.”

  Severin’s expression grew grave again and he looked past her, out toward Ystria. “Would you really have me do that to your father?” he asked. “Leave him grieving, with no heir?”

  “If it meant you were safe…”

  She expected him to get angry, insulted by her urging to cowardice and betrayal, but he only shook his head a little, and his lip twitched unhappily. “And where would I go, do you think? How would I make a living?”

  “Anywhere. You’re smart enough to come up with something. You’d thrive.”

  “And what would happen to you?”

  Eloise took a deep breath, riding a wave of dizziness. “You could take me with you.”

  A faint line appeared between his black brows, but his gaze stayed on the horizon, never meeting hers. “And would you like that?” he asked, his voice soft and somehow dangerous.

  And this was it. This was the thing that must not be spoken. When she uttered the next word it would be treason, she knew. And not just treason—an admission so intimate that she felt dizzy. Could she do it, she asked herself? Could she throw herself on the mercy of this merciless man? Her throat dried up. She felt sick with dread, and at the last moment her courage failed her. “I wouldn’t be unwilling.” she whispered, cursing the weakness of her words.

  His face betrayed no emotion, no change. Only after a long moment, he dipped his chin. “The thought had crossed my mind,” he said softly, and for a heartbeat she was filled with astonishment. “But,” he added, his voice gravelly with weariness, “I am the King’s man. And I will remain his, to my death.”

  A long, keen-edged pang slid through Eloise’s chest, as if she had lost something precious. She waited for the pain to ease, but it seemed to burn deeper and deeper. For a long moment they were silent.

  “Sev?”

  “Hm?”

  “Would you kill me?”

  He turned a look of incomprehension upon her. “What?”

  “If you thought you had to, I mean.” Her mouth had gone dry. “If we were captured by Mendean soldiers, say, and they knew who I was, would you have to kill me then? For the sake of Arnauld’s honor? Would that be your duty too?”

  The frown dropped from his face, which became a mask from which his eyes looked out, burning. He didn’t answer for a long time, but she waited stubbornly. Finally he said in a strained, distant voice, “If it came to that, we’d die together.” Then he turned away, picked up the pack and set off down the road.

  Eloise bit her lip, feeling the tears swell at the back of her eyes. Her chin trembled. She had to shut her eyes for a while, swallowing hard, before she could bring herself to follow him toward the town.

  * * * * *

  Rounay was a chaotic, busy, cluttered place. There were groups of soldiers on almost every street, some patrolling, some clearly off-duty, and the two travelers did their best to keep their heads down and avoid both. They went to the livestock market to sell the horse—Eloise was sorry to see it go, but Severin told her they had little more use for it now and it would cost them too much to stable it—and asked about to discover the name of a decent inn.

  Eloise stuck close to Severin. She found the market appealing, but after so many weeks on the road the press of people was a little overwhelming.

  As they were walking up a steep street in the direction suggested, Severin, who’d been looking through the gaps between the buildings for some time now, pulled aside down an alley and stepped out onto a bit of waste ground where piles of rubbish were smoldering among the weeds. It wasn’t the debris that interested him, however, but the view down over the open ground beyond, where many gray tents were lined up.

  “What are you doing?” Eloise asked, moving to his elbow.

  “Taking note. Doesn’t it seem to you that there are a surprising number of soldiers stationed here, just to guard a river-crossing?”

  Eloise swung away, nervous, and the breath caught in her throat with a hiccup. “Sev…”

  It was a good thing he’d kept his voice pitched low. There was a patrol-group of six guards between them and the road, and they were drawing weapons as they advanced.

  “Hey you! What are you looking at?”

  Severin moved swiftly to put himself between the soldiers and Eloise, but didn’t draw his knife. Their position was hopeless. She could see that. They were outnumbered and backed into a corner and had nowhere to run to, even if they did dodge away.

  “Just looking.”

  “And what are you finding so interesting to look at?” At a hand-signal the soldiers circled to surround him, and this one leveled his shortsword warningly at Severin’s chest.

  “Tents,” said Severin without hesitation. “I’m in the tent-making trade. You look like you could use a supplier.” It was plausible enough, in that his plain work-worn clothes made him look as if he could be a journeying craftsman.

  “I don’t think you’re from round here.” The soldiers were taking it in turn to speak and it was hard to see who was in charge. Though they hadn’t addressed her, a couple were looking at Eloise with unnerving interest. “Boscian, are you?”

  “Yes. Tros, Boscia.” Severin’s accent was subtly more foreign.

  “Thought so.” One of the soldiers stepped up behind Severin and wrapped an arm round his neck to lay the edge of a long military dagger against his throat. The motion was elaborately threatening. Severin arched his back, hands spread, head tilted away from the blade.

  “What’s a Boscian doing up here then?”

  “Looking for work.”

  Damn him, thought Eloise. He doesn’t look scared enough. His eyes had narrowed and every line of his body sang of tension, but a real tentmaker would be just about pissing his pants in this situation, surely.

  “Well, it’s your lucky fucking day, sunshine.” The one with the sword pointed at his chest grinned broadly. “You’ve just found yourself gainful employment. We’re in dire need of hole-diggers and shit-shovellers in the army right now. Consider yourself recruited.”

  “No—”

  Instantly a broad hand shoved one of his wrists up behind his back, hard enough to make him twist against the knife.

  “It’s the military levy, you fucking whoreson. There’s no ‘No’ about it.”

  “You can’t do that!” Eloise’s voice cut through the gruff sniggering. Instantly all eyes were on her and the noises got louder and uglier.

  “And who’
s this?”

  “My wife,” said Severin through gritted teeth.

  “You can’t take him,” she said desperately. “It’s against the law to conscript a man in his first year of marriage.”

  One of the soldiers, his bare head shaven down to a sandy stubble full of scars as if he’d repeatedly been hit over it, stepped up to her and Eloise shrank back. “You married him, did you?”

  “Yes, in Yeveaux, this Bull Festival.” She had no idea if her Mendean accent was convincing but she pushed on. “That’s not even six months. You can’t take him.”

  “Can’t?”

  “I’ll go to the bishop here. My uncle is an abbot in Yeveaux.”

  “Then what the fuck are you doing married to a Boscian tentmaker?” the soldier asked wonderingly, while his companions hooted. Eloise squared her shoulders frantically, her mind spinning.

  “He tumbled me in the hay-barn during on the first night of the festival. My family insisted he married me.”

  That made them all laugh.

  “Well,” said her soldier, clearly playing up to his friends, “I’m not sure I believe you, Freckles. I think we’ve just stumbled across a Boscian vagrant and a penny whore, off for a knee-trembler at the back of the livery stables.” His grin broadened and he reached out a finger, hooking down the front of her blouse, lifting a knife-tip to cut the cord that closed the neck of the garment. “Let’s have a look see if you’ve got virgin titties still…”

  From the corner of her eye she saw Severin lunge forward with a bark of rage, until brought short by the dagger at his throat.

  She saw her hand rise and slap the soldier’s face so hard that the spit flew from his lips. Heat burned across her breast, like the touch of a leaping ember.

  “How dare you!” she screeched, as from somewhere deep inside her all her noblewoman’s battered dignity finally found a way to erupt to the surface. “Is that how a Mendean guardsman acts? Is that how your mother taught you to treat a married woman?” She could hear her voice rising higher and higher and a distant part of her was stunned by the tone of outraged gentility. The voice seemed unstoppable, it just went on and on. “Aren’t you ashamed of yourselves?” she finished, emptying her lungs.

  Then she waited for him to hit her.

  The solder had fallen back in astonishment. It took a moment for him to react, the color flooding to his face. He took a sharp step toward her. But by then his companions were guffawing so hard that they could hardly stand straight. One punched the slapped soldier in the arm, pushing him aside.

  “He’s just shitting you, Freckles,” the puncher said, and then the first soldier laughed too, louder than the others. “He knows all the whores in this town! Take your husband back.”

  The other knife-man released Severin and shoved him hard at her. Eloise grabbed him round the neck as he caught her, and without pausing for thought reached up to kiss him full on the lips out of sheer gratitude. Then she buried her face in his shoulder. She felt Severin’s arms close round her in a fierce embrace, pulling her tight against him.

  “Good luck, Boscian,” said one of the soldiers. “With a tongue on her like that, you’re going to need it. She licks your dick, she’ll cut it to ribbons.” She heard them stomping away toward the street. Neither she nor Severin moved. Only when the sound of the press gang was no longer audible did she lift her head.

  “Clever,” said Severin. His voice was as dark and soft as the fur of sables. Eloise braced herself for the backlash, the cold sting of his disapproval. He would be angry—angry at the soldiers, angry with himself, angry with her for disgracing herself. It took her a while to work out that there was only warmth in his expression. She was struggling to know how to react when a tickling sensation between her breasts distracted her. When she looked down at herself she saw scarlet.

  “Oh!” she said as the burning sensation she’d barely registered suddenly made sense.

  “You’re hurt.” Severin’s hand went to her breast and she flinched, though not far because he still held her close in his other arm.

  “His knife… He caught me…”

  “Let me look.” He turned her jaw in his hand. “Head back. Let me see.”

  She knew she shouldn’t let him, but she didn’t want to look for herself. The glimpse of sodden red cloth had been more than she wanted to see, and it was so much easier to surrender to his care. She held herself, barely breathing, as he pulled the damp fabric away from her skin, baring her almost to the nipple. There was a stinging sensation. His fingers were gentle on the swell of her breast, probing. She trembled.

  “Shush. I’m not going to hurt you, Ella.”

  “I know.”

  She heard him exhale down his nose. “It’s only a nick,” he said. “Nothing to worry about. Hey—I’ve had worse accidents shaving.”

  She laughed, not because it was funny but because he had unwound enough to make a joke and she was lightheaded with relief. “Not there, I think!”

  “No.” Her giggle made him smile too. His hand deserted her breast but brushed her nipple in doing so, and she felt her areola tighten in response. “So…I tumbled you in the hayloft, did I?”

  Eloise felt herself color. That improvised detail had been a little too close to reality. “I had to say something.”

  “Well, I hope we both enjoyed it.”

  She caught her breath, making a muted helpless noise. But before either of them could dwell on his impropriety he moved on.

  “And how did you know that stuff about Mendean law? I didn’t know any of that.”

  She couldn’t answer—not while he was holding her like that, so close that she was almost off balance as she looked up into his face, so tight that she could feel the warmth of his hard body through their clothes. Like a lover holding his beloved. Her legs were beginning to feel oddly weak. She put one hand on his breastbone and pushed gently, to let him know he should let her go.

  His embrace didn’t slacken.

  She felt like she was melting against him, growing softer as he grew harder—and the full implications of that were not yet clear to her, but clamoring for her attention.

  “Well, why should you?” she said to gain time. “What practical value could it possibly be to you?”

  He arched a brow, waiting.

  “Edith told me,” she admitted then, sadly. “My womanservant Edith was Mendean, the wife of one of their noblemen. She was brought to Venn, oh…years ago. In Henrick’s time. As a hostage. Her baby son was with her, but he died. They made her my wet-nurse. She never got to go home.”

  That broke his grip, as she knew it would. The light in his eyes became shadowed and his grip slackened. “Then I owe her,” he said softly. “And maybe for both of our lives.”

  Eloise could only nod.

  “Let’s find that inn,” he sighed, taking her elbow and starting back toward the street.

  She felt bereft. Her body churned with heat. “We need to buy garlic,” she said, bunching the cloth of her slashed blouse over her breasts. “To clean the cut. Garlic and fresh thyme.”

  “We’ll get some brandy on it and it’ll be fine. That’s the soldier’s remedy.”

  “For my first battle-wound?”

  He cast her a hard glance. “And it had better be your last.”

  * * * * *

  The taproom of the inn was crowded to the lintels. Severin paid for a large mess of stew and bread from the woman by the fire, but turned to find Eloise flattened against the bar, being loomed over by a large man in a drover’s apron. Damn the girl—she had just that air of vulnerability that drew the wrong sort of man. Severin dumped the bread in the bowl—the stew was hot enough to use as a weapon if necessary, he judged—and pulled Eloise bodily out from under the man’s shadow.

  “Hoi!” said the man, slow on the uptake.

  “What did you call my wife?” Severin demanded, locking gazes.

  The drover stared. “Your wife?”

  “That’s right.”

  W
ith a mumble the bigger man lowered his gaze and turned away.

  “You need to keep close,” Severin admonished, towing her through the crowd toward the rear tables.

  “I told him I wasn’t interested!”

  “Then you need to work on your technique.”

  He found a single seat at the end of a bench by dint of urging the occupants to budge up. Offering it to his “wife” in this company would look ludicrous, so he sat down and pulled her onto his thigh. No harm in reinforcing the charade, he told himself, attending studiously to the bowl of food and ignoring the look of surprise that flitted over Eloise’s face.

  She played along as soon as she recovered. They ate from the bowl together, grateful for the warm meaty broth and the chewy bread. Severin’s appetite was not all it could have been, though. Eloise’s rear end was soft and pleasant in his lap, the warmth of her body soaking quickly through her skirts and his trousers to merge with his. His cock responded. In moments he had a most inopportune hard-on. A month ago—a few weeks even—this would have seemed a disaster. Now it was only hugely uncomfortable and frustrating, and yet not uncomfortable enough for him to wish it to cease. His standards of behavior had slipped, he recognized; it was getting more and more difficult for him to keep his hands off her. Right now, he knew, his cock was pressing into her. He wondered, as she shifted her weight on him, whether she had noticed—and if she had, did she know what it meant?

  Mithras and all the saints in Heaven. He felt a wave of dizziness as he pictured himself pushing her face down over the tavern table and lifting her skirts over her back so that he could plunge his stiff cock between her rounded cheeks. In his mind’s eye the crowd vanished and the taproom enfolded them alone, warm and shadowy. He imagined the sheen of the lantern light on her skin, the satin-softness under his hands, the tight warm slipperiness of his mark. He imagined her cries of shock and pleasure as he plowed her so hard that the table shook.