The Book of Words

by J. V. Jones

  Instinctively, she knew the exact moment when the solder would give. She pulled upon the hinge and the belt opened enough for her to slip it over her hips and step from it. ’Twas a foolish man who thought his valuables were safe just because he locked the door.

  Her legs were weak, threatening to give way beneath her. She stumbled to her bed, feeling triumphant and lighthearted. Where was Blayze? She wanted him now.

  Pouring herself a glass of red, she settled back to wait. The duke had done her a service by forcing the maiden’s belt upon her: she had been obliged to learn sorcery to escape from it. Her handmaiden Stasia had an aunt who had knowledge of such things. Of course, Catherine hid her real intent, saying she was interested in metals because her jewelry so often broke. A weak excuse, but who would dare contradict the duke’s daughter? Especially an old woman who was breaking ancient laws by practicing sorcery.

  At first the woman had told her she had no talent, that it was passed down in the blood and that the house of Bren had been gifted with real power, not magic. There was a little there, though. Probably from her mother’s side. Not much, just a trace, but sufficient to work with. So she had learned enough to weaken the solder and a few other tricks that were useful to know. The old crow had died a few months back and Catherine had found herself a little restless since. She missed the thrill of new knowledge and the danger of discovery.

  Running her hands down her thighs, she admired the smoothness of her body. Such long legs, such pale, unblemished skin. The only thing that marred the length was the small birthmark that rested just above her ankle. The sign of the hawk, borne by all men and women of the house of Bren. It marked her as her father’s daughter. An irrefutable sign of her lineage—and she wore it with pride.

  A triple knock upon the shutter. About time. She didn’t bother to cover her nakedness as she crossed over to the window, Unhooking the latch, she stood back and watched as the duke’s champion climbed through the gap.

  “Where have you been?” she demanded. Blayze reached out to kiss her, but she pulled away. There was ale on his breath.

  “Arranging a few things.” His eyes were upon her breasts. Catherine covered them with her hands.

  “What things?”

  “My fight with the yellow-haired stranger from out of town.” He walked over to the trestle table and poured himself a glass of wine. He stood for a moment, perfectly aware that he cut a fine figure in a new tunic and with glass in hand. “Everything went well. It’s on for next week.”

  “My father will be glad to hear it. He was hoping to entertain his guests with a spectacle.”

  “Then he’ll get one.” Blayze seemed rather pleased with himself. He sat on the bed and slapped his thigh, beckoning her to join him. Another time she might have held out, but the sorcery still ran hot in her blood. She came over and sat on his lap. He was strong and well muscled; a fighter, not a courtier.

  “So tell me about your challenger,” she said.

  “A loser. A fallen knight who’s been lucky in his choice of opponents. I can’t understand what all the fuss is about.”

  “So you’re sure to win?”

  “I nearly killed him where he stood. We met outside the palace by the three fountains,” said Blayze. “The man went for my throat.”

  Catherine thought for a moment. “You can’t afford to lose this fight,” she said.

  “No chance of that.”

  “But I’ve heard that all of Bren is talking about him.”

  Blayze pushed her away. “Then they’re talking about someone who’s not worthy of their breath.”

  Catherine moved toward him, offering her breasts to be kissed. He was angry, so he was rough, and that was the way she wanted it. Their lovemaking was fierce, a wrestling match of tumbles and holds. Blayze pinned her to the bed whilst his tongue traced the red marks left by the maiden’s belt. His saliva stung the still-tender flesh, but it made her desire him all the more.

  Later, when the candles guttered in the remains of the wax, and when they lay exhausted on the bed, Catherine sought out Blayze’s hand. She felt tender toward him. She would soon go on and marry someone else. A glorious future was hers, but Blayze had nothing except his title as duke’s champion. Such an honor, dependent solely upon physical prowess, was by its very nature purely transitory.

  “You will win, won’t you?” she said.

  Blayze was affectionate, kissing her wrists. “Of course I will, my love. There’s no need to worry.”

  “But I do worry. What if this man lands a lucky blow?” She thought for a moment that she’d pushed too far. Blayze stood up and started getting dressed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you,”

  He turned toward her and said softly, “Catherine, do you really think I would leave something as important as this to chance?”

  The words thrilled her. “What have you planned?”

  “I can beat this lance blindfolded, but as you said, there’s always the chance of a lucky blow.” Blayze paused and Catherine nodded her encouragement. “So I had a quiet word with the landlady of the inn he’s staying at—though inn might be too generous a description.”

  “The woman runs a brothel?”

  Blayze nodded. “Aye, so she knows the value of the duke’s own coinage. Anyway, she’s going to poison his food. He’ll have slowed down quite considerably by the night of the contest.”

  Catherine stood up and put her arms around Blayze. Kissing him full on the lips, she used her tongue as a lure: she wanted him again. Men were always more interesting when they used their wits as well as their muscle.

  Eleven

  It was early morning in the cottage. Tarissa was busy stoking the fire and Magra was at the table peeling turnips. Rovas, silent and moody for some days now, had gone out an hour earlier, muttering that he wouldn’t be back before nightfall. Jack was glad; the place was more peaceful without him. It was nice just to sit and enjoy the pleasures of mulled holk while taking in the sounds and smells of the beginning of the day.

  Broth was slowly warming, its delicate fragrance competing with the cinnamon from the holk. Long-dried herbs hung from the rafters and the warmth from the fire sweetened their smell. Brushing and scraping, chopping and mixing; the sounds of the kitchen were a familiar comfort. The women had smiled at him earlier when he’d taken up a knife and started slicing onions. He didn’t see anything unusual about it; in the kitchens at Castle Harvell, a boy who was idle was asking for a beating.

  The sword that Rovas had given him stood resting against the pickling vat. As a baker’s boy he had always been strong; kneading enough dough to feed the castle each day soon put muscle on a man’s arms and chest, but using the longsword required new muscles and new strength. His back had to bear the considerable weight of the blade, and his flank the brunt of the thrust. Jack’s legs were aching, too. Rovas spent a lot of time explaining balance, not just centering the blade upon the body, but also balancing upper strength with lower. “When wielding a longsword a man’s in danger of becoming top heavy,” he would say. “You need muscle on your thighs to even out the weight.” So the smuggler had him running up hills and barrel rolling.

  Ever since Jack had defied him by taking a walk with Tarissa, Rovas had used their training sessions as a form of punishment. Practice had become dangerous. Rovas was remarkably skilled with the blade, light on his feet, firm with his grip, and always quick to thrust. Jack had no chance against him. Sitting here in the kitchen chopping pork bones for the broth, he only had to look down at his arms to see the full extent of Rovas’ hostility over the past three days. His arms were covered in cuts and bruises.

  He was getting better, though. Yesterday the smuggler had tried to make him look a fool by forcing him back against a tree. Jack had rallied his strength and somehow managed to land a decent blow. His blade grazed the length of Rovas’ sword and came to rest in the flesh of his wrist. The look of indignant surprise made the later thrashing worth it.

  Jack didn’t kn
ow what to make of this strange household that he found himself in. Tensions ran deep, yet he didn’t know what caused them, or why his presence seemed to aggravate them further. Magra was a dilemma. Proud and cold as the greatest courtier, he thought at first she was against him, but only minutes before they’d shared a joke about the onions and she’d patted his shoulder gently. He couldn’t pretend to know about such things—after all, what experience did he have of anything except baking and beatings—but he got the distinct impression that Magra was being nice to him merely to spite Rovas.

  One thing was certain: both Magra and Tarissa were afraid of the wide and usually jaunty smuggler. They laughed and teased him, but they each stepped carefully, as if frightened of waking a sleeping bear.

  Another thing certain was that he had to stay here. Now more than ever. Tarissa had lied when she said Rovas had given so much, yet asked for so little in return. Expecting her to kill a man for him was currency of the highest tender. What kind of man would do such a thing to a girl who was as good as his daughter? Leaving was out of the question. If he left now, Tarissa would never be free of Rovas. They would become accomplices in murder, bound together by shared secrets, fear, and guilt.

  Jack glanced quickly at her. Tarissa was putting the bellows to the fire. Her sleeves were rolled up and the muscles on her arms pushed against her skin. Her face was illuminated by the flames. The golden light suited her. She looked young and strong and self-possessed. Jack’s hands curled up to a fist. How could Rovas have expected her to kill someone? How could he have forced this honest and hardworking girl into acting as his assassin?

  Jack felt hatred swell in his stomach. It suited him to let it build. Rovas lived to control the women in this cottage. He wanted to have the power of life and death over them. He wanted to make Tarissa his partner in crime.

  Tarissa put down the bellows and smiled Jack’s way. “I’ve blown a gale on that fire,” she said, “and it still looks fit to die.” She had ash on her nose and in her hair. A single curl fell across her cheek and she blew it away like a feather. She was so straightforward, no airs or graces. Nothing hidden.

  Jack found it hard to return her smile, but he did. And as his lips stretched then curved, there was no question in his mind that he would have to kill the Halcus captain. He couldn’t let Rovas corrupt and then blackmail this spirited girl before him.

  Magra stood up. The spell of hate and vows was broken. “I’m going to take a walk to Lark’s Farm,” she said. “It’s about time we had some fresh eggs.”

  This was a surprise. Jack and Tarissa exchanged looks. She was as baffled as he. There was no explanation other than that Magra wanted to leave them alone. She knew Rovas would be gone all day. Putting on a cloak of scarlet wool, she fastened it at her throat. Jack saw for the first time what she must have looked like twenty years earlier: a breathtaking beauty. Taller and more slender than her daughter, Magra’s bearing was as much a part of her attraction as her finely chiseled face.

  Tarissa noticed he was looking at her mother. She smiled, and he saw that she was proud. There was so much Jack wanted to know. Why had they fled from the kingdoms? How had they come to be here? And why did deep lines of bitterness mark the beauty of Magra’s face?

  Before she left, she threw a look at her daughter, an uneasy mix of warning and resignation.

  As soon as the door was closed Jack walked over to Tarissa. He couldn’t help himself, he wanted to be close to her. She didn’t move away. Meeting his gaze, she said, “What are you going to do now, Jack?” Her words were taunting, but her eyes sparkled an invitation.

  Jack was overwhelmed by her closeness. He had a sudden mad desire to take her in his arms.

  Tarissa smiled slowly. “Another kiss, perhaps. Or are you going to surprise me?”

  Jack knew a challenge when he heard one. He stepped forward. Drawing his hands around her waist, he lifted her into his arms. Tarissa’s seductive smile was gone in an instant. She screamed and giggled and then punched him. He told her she had a good punch, for a girl. And she hit him even more. Finally he let her go.

  Like two children with no supervision, they ran around the kitchen fighting and laughing and breaking odd pieces of pottery. Everything was funny: the broth, the fire, the half-peeled turnips. The novelty of being alone together in the cottage was so overwhelming that it left them lightheaded.

  Tarissa wrestled free of him. “You smell of onions,” she said.

  “Thank you,” replied Jack. “I made a special effort.”

  She kicked his shin and dashed away with the speed of a hare. He chased her around the kitchen, dredging up the rushes with every step. Tarissa had never looked more splendid: color in her cheeks, hair wild and curling, and breasts heaving. Jack felt a little ashamed of noticing such things, and he tried not to, but they drew his eye and engaged his thoughts—constantly.

  She caught him at it again and laughed out loud. Jack, hearing amusement not derision, laughed with her. Her eyes sparkled. He was enchanted by her confidence and the sheer earthiness of her. She was no great unapproachable lady. He felt no awkwardness around her. She may have been brought up in a different country, but she lived in his world. It was a world where kitchens were the only rooms that counted, where friends gathered around the fire, and where hard work was shared as readily as tall tales at supper.

  They stopped for a moment and Tarissa offered her hand to be kissed. Jack’s heart was beating fast. Her hands were sturdy; the nails were short and not as clean as they should be. The palms were crisscrossed with tiny scars from practicing with the sword, and six perfectly formed and totally irresistible calluses graced her fingers. Bypassing the smooth white skin on the top of her hand, he kissed the calluses instead. Tarissa couldn’t stop giggling, so he kissed them all again.

  She was a delight to be with. Gone was the scared girl of three nights back, gone was the haughty woman he’d first kissed. Rovas had made a fatal mistake: by trying to keep them apart he had drawn them closer. Three days of being unable to talk or hardly look at each other had driven them to this. They were strangers before, now they were united in intrigue.

  Tarissa giggled as he kissed her calluses one more time. She begged him to stop, and when he wouldn’t, she pulled at his hair and bit his earlobe.

  Gradually, the biting turned into something softer, and wetter. Jack had to physically stop himself from crushing her. Her tongue traced the journey from ear to mouth. Her breasts were within reach and nothing, nothing, could prevent him from caressing them. A small murmur of encouragement thrilled him more than any touch. Tarissa became the older woman again, guiding, teaching, sure of herself in every way.

  Jack moved his hand upward, needing to feel skin rather than fabric. Tarissa pulled away. “We’re moving too quickly,” she said, unable to look him straight in the face.

  At that moment all that Grift had ever told him about women seemed true. They were false, heartless, and confusing enough to drive a man wild. Why was there nothing in his life that was simple and straightforward? His past, his future, his abilities, and now this failed attempt at lovemaking. More frustrated than angry, he pushed his hair back and sighed. “What did I do wrong?”

  She surprised him by smiling gently. “You have such beautiful hair.” Leaning forward, she pushed back the strands that he’d missed. “I’m sorry, Jack. Your excitement was infectious. It carried me to a place where I wasn’t ready to be.” She held out her hand and he took it.

  How could he hate her? The passion drained from his body, leaving a residue of tenderness. “Then I’m sorry, too.” He smiled as he spoke. Grift had told him many times that women were notorious for having a man apologize when he’d done nothing wrong. Jack didn’t mind, though. The one thing Grift had forgotten to tell him was that it was all worth it.

  “Rovas is making us act like lovesick fools,” said Tarissa, “yet we hardly know each other. You say you lived at Castle Harvell, but I don’t know what you did there, or why you left, o
r who your family are.”

  There it was, the question he’d dreaded all his life, its asking always inevitable. Family was what counted. It defined who a person was and where he had come from. Ultimately a man was judged by it. So what did that make him? With a mother commonly thought to be a whore and a father who didn’t exist, he had nothing to boast about. And a lot to be ashamed of.

  Now was not the time to talk of family. Jack made an effort to keep the mood light. He stood up, pulling Tarissa with him, and said, “You mean I forgot to tell you I was an apprentice baker?”

  “A baker?” Tarissa was delighted.

  Jack steered her in the direction of the table. “Yes, a baker. I think it’s about time I impressed you with my skills.” He sat her down by the large, trestled work-top and began to pull out flour and water and fat. Next he went over to the fire and placed the baking stone in the center of the flame.

  “What are you going to make?” asked Tarissa, elbows on the table, engrossed in what he was doing.

  He rubbed his chin for a moment and then smiled. “Something sweet, I think.” Jack worked quickly, adding everything he could find to the dough: dried fruit and peel, honey, cinnamon. After a while he looked up. Tarissa was watching him with quiet intent. “Come and help me knead the dough,” he said. She shook her head. Jack was not about to be put off so easily. He stopped what he was doing and reached across the table. “Give me your hands.” The moment she held them out, he took hold of them and rubbed the dough from his fingers onto hers. “Looks like you might as well do some kneading now,” he said. “A little more dough will make no difference.”